Chapter Text
Her alarm clock informs her that it’s 4:45 in the morning, early even by her standards. She cracks the blinds open only to grimace at the layer of frost glittering coldly under the streetlights. She debates wearing her boots instead of her sneakers, but discards the idea. The grip is decent enough. She’ll just have to watch her footing.
Her fingers are numb to the point of unfeeling when she interlocks them, stretching her arms over her head. Stepping from the nest she’s made of her blankets is borderline torture when the heating in her place is more of a suggestion than anything comfortable. She grits her teeth through the rest of her routine. Clean up, tie back her tentacles, get changed - long pants this time, gods know she’s not wearing shorts in this weather - water bottle, phone, keys, sneakers, and she’s out the door.
Even going down the stairs of the fire escape is perilous. The metal steps are slick with frost and she’s half-convinced that if she touches the railing with her bare hands they’ll freeze on the spot. Promising day ahead of her. Her playlist isn’t even yielding anything she’s in the mood to listen to.
A gentle synth beat starts before Marie’s voice kicks in, all pretty and apathetic. Her thumb automatically hammers on the skip button, but she’s burned through the six she gets for the hour. Just her luck. She doesn’t want to think about Marie, or the stupid hitch in her voice that she does such a shit job of hiding, or how disappointed she’ll be when someone inevitably snitches on what Astra’s doing that night.
Feels like sinking in eternity, she sings, off-beat from the pounding of Astra’s feet against the pavement. Drifting where your heart will have me drift.
Marie wrote it after Callie went missing the first time. She never bothered to ask what it really was about.
She makes it to the boardwalk ten minutes later than her usual thirty-five and blames the frost for forcing her to be cautious. The sky isn’t showing signs of sunrise like it would have a month and a half ago, still cold and devoid of starlight. She hated that about the city when she first moved. She couldn’t stand the countryside, but at least when she looked out her window at night it wasn’t the searingly bright skyline of Inkopolis under an uncaring black sheet.
She pauses to catch her breath, feeling the chill in her lungs. It’s hard to breathe in this type of weather. The air between her teeth puffs out white, little clouds that drift in the direction of the ocean. There’s a handful of gulls that haven’t migrated south yet, sitting fat and heavy on the rusted chains that keep pedestrians from taking a swim. They’re usually not out this early. Must be waiting for the dock workers to roll in.
Her phone rings in her back pocket and the gulls squawk, flying off. Ink Me Up. Her brow furrows and she tugs it out to check the caller I.D. The grainy candid photo of Marie she uses as a contact icon flashes on her screen, confirming it’s her. Awfully uncharacteristic of her to wake up at- what is it, five-thirty? Either she’s being petty, or the DJ got out again and she’ll have to cut her three-week vacation in half.
Not that she was using it. She swipes to answer, holding the phone to her ear. “Is everything alright?”
“Funny of you to say that. I was going to ask the exact same thing.”
She doesn’t sound very pressed, which rules out the latter option. “It’s not like you to voluntarily wake up before nine.”
“It’s not like you to bump around the back-end of Inkopolis either, but here we are.”
She rolls her eyes, restraining a groan. “Don’t tell me you got up early just to lecture me.”
“Too bad. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
She can hear music in the background, light and indistinct. She’s only been in Marie’s apartment once but she can picture it easily, the marble countertops and dark wood accents, all clean angles. She felt like she was lowering the property value just by being there.
“I decided to wake myself up early to catch you before you do anything stupid again,” Marie continues. “I have no idea how you do this on purpose, by the way. You really might be a monster.”
She sighs. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a monster because I try to keep a healthy lifestyle. Maybe if you didn’t have a minimum of six cups of coffee a day you’d see the value in it.”
“You’re really not in the position to tell me about your healthy lifestyle. Underground fight clubs aren’t healthy.”
“It’s not a fight club, it’s just-”
“A fight club, Four,” she cuts in. “It’s absolutely a fight club. You literally cannot convince me otherwise.”
“Fine,” she snaps. “So what?”
Silence on the other end. She recognises the music as one of the Hightide Era songs that didn’t make it into the Turf playlist, the piano echoing in the background.
“You’re just so-” Marie makes a weird noise. It sounds a bit like a scream, if she had her face shoved into a pillow. “Fuck, even One isn’t this dense sometimes! Even she knows that running off to chill with the DJ isn’t a great choice, but you’re just here saying that fight clubs are fine! It’s all fine! No self-awareness at all!”
“Don’t rub it in,” she mutters.
“I told you! I literally have to! It will not get through your thick head otherwise! Did you sell half your brain for your X Ranks or something?”
She’s not as dense as Marie’s suggesting, but saying otherwise would imply that she knows what she’s doing is dangerous but has decided it’s worth the risk. Telling her the truth is a non-option. She’d never be able to so much as breathe without Marie watching her like a hawk.
“Look, it doesn’t matter anymore. Three ditched, remember? I can’t do anything without a teammate. I’ll just come in for patrol next week like a good squid, okay?”
She leans against a streetlight and rubs her eyes, the stone digging into her hip. Still another few miles to go. Waking up too early threw her off. She’s too irritable, too clumsy with her wording.
“Nope. No way. That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“That you did it in the first place?”
She scowls. “Didn’t we already have this conversation?”
“You ran away before I could finish.”
She considers hanging up. Better yet, tossing her phone over the chains and into the ocean. Marie might call her back if she doesn’t burn all available means of communication.
“Well, make it quick. I still have the rest of my run to get through.”
“You’re running? At quarter to six?”
“Uh, yeah. Woke up early.”
“Ugh, you might actually be beyond saving.”
“Alright,” she says, holding her phone away from her ear. “I’m hanging up.”
“You better stick that phone right back to your ear or I will march into the Lobby and drag you out by the tentacles.”
Astra sighs, but says nothing. Might be better to let Marie get her point across. It’ll get her off her case, at the very least.
“I seriously don’t get how you can be so nonchalant about this. I get that injuries happen, but the least you could do is act… I don’t know, a little more serious? Maybe take care of yourself?”
“I really don’t have time to just sit around and do nothing.”
“Yeah, which brings me to my other point. Why did you do it?”
“I told you. Same as Three. I needed cash,” she says, shrugging. There’s no one around, but it helps sell the lie. “Not all of us are idols with TV gigs and a new release.”
“If it was just cash you would’ve let me help you.”
She’s wrong, but Astra isn’t going to bother correcting her. She already owes her parents a house. Her brother still needs those new sneakers. All the tests her dad is in for. Prosthetic fittings. The prosthetics themselves, and the physical therapy that comes with it.
Her Tetras.
If she could just fix her Tetras then she’d be able to get her rank back where it belongs. Make X in Clams. Gods know the publicity from being the youngest Inkling with quad X ranks would be nice. Maybe she’ll be able to pick up a sponsor. Start modelling again. Hear a spare word of praise from her mother.
The traitor in her wants to break, to finally spill the truth to Marie and take whatever she offers, but the rest of her is starving and wary of oweing something to someone else. She can’t imagine what an idol like her would want in return, but it’ll be far bigger in scale than whatever her family is demanding. She’ll stick to what’s safe, for once.
“It’s fine. Look, I just have to pick up a bit in Ranked and I’ll be set. I’m rusty on my current weapon.”
“Is this because of your Tetras?”
She curses under her breath. So much for just letting Marie get her point across. She should really learn to keep her mouth shut. You’re a shit liar, Four! You can’t hide from me!
“Uh… Not strictly.”
“I was wondering why you were running the Replicas lately. You know, I literally offered to get Sheldon in to repair them for you. He’s an NSS associate. He would’ve done it for free.”
Astra winces. “I said I’d handle it. Besides, he would’ve just told me off for letting them break in the first place.”
“You’d deserve it.”
You deserve to lose, something whispers, soft and venomous. She does. She really does.
“I really don’t get why you’re so bad at accepting help. If you lost a leg you’d make up an excuse for why you could still walk on it.”
“I-” she stops. Cruel of her to bring up the loss of that particular limb. If she were more of the paranoid type she’d be convinced Marie tapped her phone. “You might not get it ‘cause you’re Miss Moneybags, but there’s a thing called dignity I’d like to preserve.”
“Three is worse off than you and still lets Gramps help him. You’re just plain weird.”
“Yeah, ‘cause Three’s such a good example,” she mutters. “Can you make your point now? I’d like to get back to running. My legs are starting to go numb.”
“My point is that there’s an obvious pattern to what you’re doing, and it freaks me out. You have a problem, but whenever anybody offers you help you refuse and decide to solve it the hard way, which causes you even more grief. If you’re hurt you always act like it’s no biggie and you’ll be fine, but you obviously aren’t. You just…” Marie sighs. She can picture her pinching the bridge of her nose, her face warmly illuminated by the lamplight in her bedroom. “Honestly, I have to agree with Three at this point. You’re totally doing this on purpose.”
“But-”
“I’m not letting you get away from this so easily.”
“What do you want me to do?” she scowls. The music in the background has changed to something jazzy. She never knew Marie liked that stuff. She’s learning a lot of new things about her, including just how vicious she can be.
“What I really want is for you to stop, but I’ll settle for you admitting it. It’s the first step to helping yourself, you know.”
She’s certain she saw the same quote on an addiction pamphlet Callie had hidden in her purse. “So you want me to admit that I’m some type of masochist.”
“I never said that. I just said you should realize that you’re seriously hurting yourself.”
She opens her mouth, but there’s nothing to say. Marie is operating on the uncharitable assumption that she lacks all self-awareness, when that couldn’t be further from the truth. She knows what she’s doing. There’s just no good reason to stop.
“We’re all really worried about you. Me, Agent One, Gramps, Eight… Even Three’s worried, even if he doesn’t seem like he is. I know I’m giving you a tough time, but-”
She hangs up, leaving nothing but the sound of the waves and the cry of the gulls.
Webmaster tuffghost has entered the chatroom.
tuffghost: you haven’t given up yet, have you.
Webmaster ad_astra has entered the chatroom.
ad_astra: can’t you just piss off for good?
tuffghost: i’ll take that as a yes.
ad_astra: i’m not saying anything to you after you ditched
tuffghost: i told you up front i would
ad_astra: you didn’t
tuffghost: don’t make me go through our chat history to prove it
tuffghost: i distinctly remember saying that if shit went south i would bounce
tuffghost: honestly, i should’ve left you after you punched me in the face. why i stuck around is beyond me
ad_astra: whatever reason you have, you can keep it to yourself
tuffghost: i will
tuffghost: and i wouldn’t put it past you to pull some dumb shit tonight and end up back in the ring again
ad_astra: i told you, if you’re out, i’m out. this was a team sport, remember?
tuffghost: right, because you’ve given me so many reasons to take you at face value
tuffghost: i don’t trust you.
tuffghost: for all i know you’ve roped in some other unfortunate sucker to watch you eat shit
ad_astra: can it, asshole.
ad_astra: i get you don’t trust me. i have nothing to say to you either
tuffghost: right
Webmaster ad_astra has left the chatroom.
tuffghost: i’ll be coming to watch, for the record
tuffghost: and i can’t believe i’m saying this, but eight had the right idea. i’ll be recording it too
Webmaster tuffghost has left the chatroom.
She steps into the arena and the crowd roars, the glare of the lights beating overhead like an artificial midday sun. Ringo follows suit on the opposite end, a dark silhouette at distance. It’s impossible to catch her eyes, and her goggles do a phenomenal job of rendering her into yet another impersonal enemy to face.
She’s thankful there’s such a clean distinction between her silent rival and the girl that begged her to be left alone. She didn’t even look that much older than Astra.
“WE’VE GOT A WEIRD MATCH UP-FRONT FOR Y’ALL TONIGHT, INKOPOLIS! LITTLE-MISS-SPLASHDOWN HERE DECIDED TO EXPLOIT A BIT OF A LOOPHOLE IN OUR RULEBOOK TO KEEP HER AND RINGO UP AND KICKING AFTER THEIR TEAMMATES DIPPED. FOUR’S A BIT OF A DIRTY FIGHTER, BUT THAT’S WHY SHE’S GOTTA BE MY FAVOURITE!”
Ringo boos and makes a gesture at the announcer that she struggles to see, but elicits laughter from the crowd. She takes well to the act. It really was cruel of Astra to worm her way in a space she managed to find some foothold in, after everything.
“HEY, LOOK, I WON’T PRETEND NOT TO PLAY FAVOURITES! UNBIASED REPORTING IS FOR JOURNALISTS, AND I NEVER GOT THAT DEGREE!”
More laughter. Astra gives a mock-salute, twisting her head to scan the crowd. If Jude is one of them then she can’t tell, the violent blue-teal of his tentacles disappearing into stark shadow.
It’s for the best.
“THIS’LL BE ONE HELL OF A SHOW FOR THE FIRST ROUND OF FINALS! WE’VE GOT A LITTLE BIT OF A RIVALRY BETWEEN E80BAD AND-” A pause. Astra doesn’t need to look to know that the announcer’s squinting at a sheet. She decided to wear her natural ink colour in, instead of parroting Jude’s artificial teal. “WHAT IS THAT? FFBF00? WELL, WHATEVER! THAT’S STILL THE FOUR I KNOW AND LOVE! THIS MAY TURN OUT TO BE THE SINGLE MOST INTENSE MATCH OF THE PERIOD! SHAME THEY HAVE TO GO FIRST.”
The crowd quiets in anticipation, and the silence feels like a blade swinging just over her head. She takes a breath and bends her knees, poised to jump. Inhale for seven. One, two, three-
“READY!”
Four, five, six-
“ SET!”
Seven-
“GO!”
The air leaves her lips. She launches up into the air, the arena shrinking beneath her. For a moment she’s nothing but the chill of the night and the wind in her ears before she hurtles back down like a comet approaching the event horizon, impact aiming right to where Ringo has just stepped out of spawn.
The Splashdown comes down in an instant. Ringo flies back against the fence, the buckles of her armour ringing against the steel. She clings a hand around the links and her Dynamo scrapes the ground as she swings underhand but Astra jumps again, muscles tensing and releasing. Ringo scrambles for cover when she falls back to earth with her fist held to the ground, gold ink splattering against all surrounding surfaces.
“TALK ABOUT LITTLE MISS SPLASHDOWN! WE’VE ALREADY SEEN TWO SPECIALS IN PLAY AND WE’RE FORTY SECONDS INTO THE MATCH!”
She rises to her feet, exhaling. Ringo launches out from cover, Dynamo held overhead like a blade. Astra dodges as the blow makes contact with the ground, landing so heavy the concrete chips beneath the metal. She fires in the spare time it takes Ringo to haul the roller back over her shoulder before she swings it around in an arc, the chassis a gleaming golden blur that misses Astra’s face by a spare inch. She rolls to escape the paint but it flings far enough to land on her shoes, forcing her to dodge again instead of shooting.
She should be winning the matchup, but Ringo chews up all theory she’d absorbed over the years and spits it out between her teeth. Every time Astra thinks she’s got the drop on her she reacts with a speed so sharp it feels borderline unnatural, a side-effect of a lifetime of military training. The seven months of field work she has under her belt just can’t compare.
She rolls down a Splat Bomb at her feet, anticipating the detonation. Ringo tanks through the explosion like a freight train instead of her intended retreat. The swing comes out quick, no time to roll, crashing against Astra’s shoulder and sending her off her feet.
She rolls across the concrete floor, shredding her raw. Her shoulder aches more than anything else, a sharp pain that’s reminiscent of being stabbed with something blunt. It’s the same one she injured in her fight with the Samurai. It’d been long enough that she figured it had fully healed, but the damage must’ve ran deeper than she thought.
Maybe Marie was right. She really is stupid, letting her wounds fester on purpose. She deserves this, too.
Ringo’s roller hits the ground like the clap of thunder . She pushes herself up to her feet, gritting her beak through the shriek of pain in her shoulder. No time to let herself mope. She darts to the side while Ringo picks up her roller and unleashes fire, whittling at her. She’s already taken enough damage to splat someone twice over in a normal fight. Another good few hits should-
Ringo flicks. No time to move. The ink crashes into her with the force of a wave during monsoon season and nearly knocks her back down. It stings and bites into her fresh wounds, invasive, like disinfectant in a cut. She rolls, avoiding the second blow, coming up behind her. Ringo twists to catch her and Astra counters with an impulse kick to her midsection, but a hand grabs her ankle and tugs.
Her head meets metal for a brief moment and the arena topples beneath her feet. She must’ve scraped the crate on the way down. The light overhead breaks and swims like sunlight underwater, drilling in her eyes. She wants so badly to screw them shut, give herself one moment of relief before she has to pick herself up again.
She did this to herself. She deserves to- she doesn’t know. Lose? Stop? Both? They’re practically synonymous. Stopping would mean she’d lose more than a third-place ribbon and a month’s worth of rent in cash, but it would be so nice.
“So much for one last fight, huh?”
Ringo’s shadow blots out the lights, tall and dark. Overhead, her Dynamo glitters viciously. There’s a streak of blue marring the metal. Since when was she bleeding?
“I’m not down yet,” she says and smiles, baring her teeth.
It’s only the two of them, but the fight drags out like the day in the height of summer. It’s almost a matter of attrition. Her fourth time in a match against Ringo and she’s used to her discipline, the sharp edge of her reflexes, but she can’t catch her by surprise either. Ringo will flick but for all her strength it’ll still give Astra ample time to dance out of the way. Then she’ll try some manoeuver to trip her up and Ringo will toss down a Sprinkler or swing her roller around in a way that forces her to stop her firing and move, and they’re back at square one again.
She really does miss her Tetras.
Ringo hasn’t used her special, though, and there’s no real indication to what it could be - no tells in her playstyle or team comp to give Astra a hint. Nonregulation weapons mean anyone could slap together whatever kit they want. Hell, she might’ve broken the limiter like she had. The military didn’t play according to standard Turf regulations.
Ringo plants her heel into the ground and swings her roller in a heavy arc. Astra dodges forward, ducking under the swing, but the dodge was mistimed and it catches her in the arm, wrenching her shoulder back. She bites her lips to keep herself from shrieking and her teeth draw blood, dribbling hot down her chin. Then she pushes through - too close for Ringo to react - ducking beneath her arms and pelting her with all the fire she can.
She’ll be happy if she never has to face another Dynamo player again in her life.
Ringo flicks, spraying the floor in pink, and she rolls out of her reach. She’s sure the audience is bored of this by now, the back-and-forth with no clear outcome. Another flick, far-reaching, that manages to chip at her when she dodges. She knows she is. She’s tired, and if she didn’t have so much on the line she’d drop her Dualies to the ground and let Ringo swing at her until the world went dark.
But she’d just have to get up again, like she always does.
Ringo brings her roller around in a circle and her tentacles blaze as her ink hits the ground. She registers the danger late. Can’t react quick enough. Ringo turns octo, but-
Astra dives to the side, avoiding the lash of the Kraken’s tentacle. The special was banned a good year or so ago, but she remembers enough about fighting it to know that you don’t - just run the hell out of there and pray that it ends before it gets to you. She runs for the crate without thinking and surges over the side, scrambling against the metal. The whole structure shudders as Ringo slams against it, a leviathan wailing at the hull of a ship.
She has to make it to the grates. Ringo can’t touch her up there. She can just wait out the special until it’s possible for ink to touch her skin again. Take a breather. Reconsider her offer for one last honourable fight. A sucker grazes her leg just as she makes it up the pillar, rolling to the safety of the grates.
But Ringo follows, surging up the pillar. Astra inches her way to the intersection of the grating, wary of the extended reach of her tentacles, but Ringo charges through and a tentacles wraps around her leg as she falls, bringing Astra back to earth.
She lands hard. Her Dualies fall from reach, hands jerking from the shock of the impact against metal. Ringo’s tentacle is latched firmly to her leg and she feels all too much like a fish caught in a net - screw Ayu’s suckers being uncomfortable when Ringo’s feel like they’re about to rip her skin clean off. She rolls off the crate and takes Astra with her, slamming her against the hard ground.
Her head makes solid contact and sends a jolt through her jaw that rattles through her body. Immediately she feels something pooling where her head hit the ground, hot and sickly. Not like she has much time to fret over it. She kicks and tries to free her leg, but it may as well be chained. Struggling does nothing, only speeds up the drowning process. Another swing of Ringo’s tentacles sends her hurtling back against the crate and she barely has the sense to shield her head with her arms.
She can’t breathe. Her head is a rock that’s plummeted straight to the end of the ocean and she can barely see through the glare of the light. All she can do is claw blindly, beat her fists and thrash until she hits something that makes it stop. So much for waiting for the special to end when Ringo probably had the foresight to modify that as well. Stupid of her to assume otherwise. Stupid of her to-
Her hand meets something soft and without hesitation she digs in and rakes her nails across. Ringo shrieks, and all at once the tentacles constricting her release. Astra wastes no time freeing herself, scrambling to the crate. She finds one of her Dualies on top, the other knocked away to the base of the pillar. Ringo is only just getting up when she recovers both. She’s satisfied to see that she’s swaying on her feet.
Blood drips down her forehead and cheek. Her goggles are askew, but her eyes are still hidden. She can’t assess the damage she did. Enough to mark her. Now they’re both bleeding, back on even ground again. Eye for an eye.
Their fight is practically routine. Flick, roll, shoot, dodge. Astra throws an Autobomb that Ringo manages to strafe around and she answers with a heavy swing that isn’t dissimilar to the Samurai’s, sending an arc of ink flying between them. Astra rolls away, but the lag of the exhaust leaves her vulnerable to another flick.
Jump. Swing. Dodge. She’s out of ink, and the triggers click hollowly beneath her fingers when she tries to shoot. Flick. Dodge. So is Ringo, her roller devoid of ink. She lands a hit against Astra but it barely does damage, the soft core of the Dynamo glancing harmlessly off her skin. Dodge. Shoot. Run. Run. Run.
She dips down into her ink but the movement feels mechanical. She’s worn down, a cliffside that’s been battered into submission by the waves. Her head feels too light. Her stomach is too empty. She ate lunch, but it was nothing more than her usual bottled tea and a few slivers of dried fruit. Necessary sacrifices. Never enough.
Ringo slams down her Dynamo. Astra dodges. She’s so sick of the jerk of the exhaust, the give of the triggers. She swears Ringo is taking a little longer to wind up a hit, too. Her blood drips on the ground as she hauls her roller overhead. Astra doesn’t even need to dodge the next swing. It misses by almost a full metre, and the quiver in Ringo’s shoulders is blatant. Matches usually don’t go on this long. It’s a matter of endurance at this point, to see who’ll be the first to screw up bad enough to get splatted.
Ringo was the one that earnestly worked for this spot, the one that begged to be able to live her life. It would be an insult for her to lose when Astra was the one who never really wanted to win. You deserve to lose.
So she gets in Ringo’s face - close, so she has no excuse to miss - and the swing knocks her clean off her feet, swamping her in magenta ink. And then she gets up and does it again, rolling around Ringo’s swing just enough that it catches her in the head. The metal of the chassis is a cold kiss across her cheek that nearly feels refreshing. Her body is a ragdoll with a weight sewn to the end of it and she flies across the arena, only coming to a stop when she meets the curve of the wall.
She opens her mouth and her tongue floods with the salty sting of blood. Ringo’s goggles are cracked. She barely remembers damaging them. Must be something of a habit at this point. She tries to move but her limbs refuse to respond, her body another member of a long list of traitors. Not that she can blame it, when she gave up so long ago she can barely remember if she was ever really trying.
There’s the dust of the road, the squeal of the tires- or is that the crowd? The ringing in her ears is so loud it’s practically indistinguishable. Her feet beat against the ground, rhythmically, like a pattern played on a drum. The metal of the bumper on her calves. Ringo is standing over her but hasn’t finished her off yet.
“What the hell are you doing?” she hisses, barely audible over the roar of the crowd. “Don’t tell me you’re letting me have this.”
Run, her mother says, all dust and judgement.
“I’m out,” she manages. The words struggle to even make it past her teeth. Blood on her lips, like a handful of coins. Rust. The swingset in her front yard after the rain. “Just finish it.”
Five miles left. She can’t breathe anymore, but her mother honks the horn to keep her legs moving. It’s impossible to read Ringo’s expression behind her shades. Impersonal enemy. In her ear, Marie screams for a retreat. “You can’t be serious.”
Run. “Just do it.”
Ringo raises her roller up one last time. The crowd howls.
Behind her, her mother steps on the gas.
“I can’t believe you actually let yourself lose.”
She stares up at Jude from her spot on the couch, barely registering his presence. She’s mostly caught up in gauging her reflection in his glasses - they’re oversized enough to give her a good view. There’s a cut on her face that spans from her ear to the bridge of her nose. Someone brought her an ice pack at some point, along with an obligatory clap on the back. Sucks to lose. At least you got this far! Hey, do I know you from somewhere?
She presses the ice to her cheek, then the back of her head, then her lip. Honestly, they should just bring her a bucket. “Weren’t you the one who told me I deserved it?”
“I didn’t think you’d take that to heart.”
“You know me,” she rolls her eyes. “Always throwing. Can you leave now? I wanna bleed in peace.”
“No.”
She tries to scowl but winces. Even that hurts like hell. “Why do you even care? Are you just so delighted by the fact that I ate shit that you have to stick around?”
“I’m supposed to escort you back home,” he says, bored. “Two’s orders. Besides, I brought company.”
She blinks. Ayu manages to break through the crowd only to stop short, their eyes bulging like warts when they take in Astra’s face. “You’re worse than I think.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she waves a hand dismissively. “Insult to injury.”
“You’re-” their eyes flick across her face, flinching when they catch the blood smeared across her cheek. “This is my fault.”
“Here we go,” Jude mutters.
“Come on, don’t go blaming yourself for this.” Astra presses the ice pack to the side of her head, leaning into it. Maybe if she mashes it over her entire face she’ll heal pretty. “I told you, this was my idea.”
“I was the one who knew first,” they murmur. “If I did something more maybe you would’ve-”
She kicks them - a gentle tap on the shin that shocks them from their self-pitying. “Seriously, stop. Besides, you almost did stop me. I just…”
“Decided to be an idiot?” Jude supplies.
“Y’know, maybe if you didn’t ditch I wouldn’t have ended up this bad.”
“It is my fault for assuming I could stop you when you have an idea in your head.”
“See?” she says, flashing Ayu a cheeky grin. She must’ve split her lip at some point. She can feel the cut reopen, and judging by their expression it’s started to bleed again. “You can just blame Jude instead.”
Their eyes dart to the side, avoiding her face. “I can blame all of us.”
“That’s the spirit.”
She leans her head back against the couch. The lights are the type that are both dim and bright at the same time, enough to intensify her headache to the point that it feels like a vise tightened around her head.
“Are you finally going to admit this was on purpose?” Jude says quietly. It’s hard to hear him over the chatter of the other participants in the room. Her ice pack is mostly melted. She briefly considers throwing it at him.
But she doesn’t, and instead sighs. “Maybe you were right.”
“I’m sure I was right about a lot of things. You’ll have to specify.”
“About me losing on purpose and fucking up and…” she waves a hand. “Stuff.”
“This has gotta be a first for you.”
Astra just glares. She swears there’s a wry tilt to his lips. “Whatever. Rub it in all you want.”
“Was losing this on purpose too?”
She sighs. “I really did need the money, and at first I did wanna win, but then I… started feeling bad for the other guy?”
Jude just stares.
“What?” She scowls. “You don’t think I can be a good person every now and again?”
“Bullshit. You wouldn’t-”
Ayu jabs him in the side with their elbow, sharp and quick. He flinches, scowling. “The fuck was that for?”
“Shut up. She’s way better than you.”
“Right, because you’re the paragon of morality,” he sneers. “Look, you’re the one who got scooped up by a millionaire. Why don’t you just help her out?”
They narrow their eyes. “Para- what did you call me?”
Astra sighs, moving the bag to shield her eyes from the light. Jude wasn’t exactly wrong in his assessment, but it’s not like she was lying either. She felt bad for Ringo, but not as much as she just wanted to lose. To lay down on the road and ignore her mother barking at her from the driver’s seat, press her face into the hot gravel and wait for the rev of the engine as she hammers down on the gas.
She’s ten. It’s August and the heat has hit record temperatures, but it’s the weekend. She runs on the weekends. Her mother says it’s her routine, and straying from it would mean she’s undisciplined. An undisciplined athlete always fails. She’s run three miles but has five left to go. All she can think about beyond the echo of her footsteps in her head is the water bottle she knows is in the cupholder on the passenger’s side, but she can’t stop until her mother tells her she can. If she stops she knows her mother won’t, and she’s run past enough roadkill to know what’ll happen. She’ll be like her dad. Her dad is the whole reason she has to run.
She’s sixteen. Her- friends? Co-workers? are arguing in front of her, but she can‘t be bothered to listen. The ice pack has lost its chill and has become more of an empty consolatory gesture. She wishes Ringo had gone for her legs instead. Maybe she could finally do away with the stupid idea that she’d become some top-level athlete to outdo her dad and lift her family out of the gutter. The gutter they dug themselves into, all for her.
A shadow falls over her. The bickering has stopped. She cracks open an eye to see Ringo staring back. Her goggles are pushed over her forehead, exposing her eyes. Three exacting lines are carved through her left brow, caked over with dried blood.
“You done already?” Astra manages. She really isn’t in the mood for conversation.
“I got stuck in third. Like I figured.”
“Great. I’m happy for you.” She tries to smile. She can feel blood leaking down her chin. “Really.”
“Right,” she says, thoroughly unconvinced. “I bet that’s why you threw.”
“Hey, look, I didn’t-” Ringo shoots her a glare. She shuts her mouth. “Whatever. Think of it as an apology, okay?”
“Kind of a shit apology.”
She’d roll her eyes, except even that hurts. “C’mon, you won, didn’t you? You don’t have to act all pissed about it.”
“Sure, I won, but you cheated me out of a good fight.” Ringo rolls a shoulder and winces, just a bit. “I would’ve sucked up a loss if you actually fought in the last half, but all of a sudden you just decided to throw yourself at me.”
Jude has his mouth firmly shut but she can feel his glare through his glasses. His judgement is colder than the ice pack at this point.
“What can I say?” She shrugs. “I got sloppy. It happens.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Astra groans. “Of course you turned out to be the honourable type.”
“I’m not honourable. I just like fighting,” she says with a grin, but it isn’t hostile. More cheeky. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles. She never had the chance to notice that before. “You owe me a rematch.”
“I…” she starts, but stops when she catches Ayu’s eyes. They shake their head, slow and firm. “Have decided to retire from my career as an underground fighter.”
“Not cut out for it?” she prompts.
“Clearly. If you want a rematch you’ll have to suffer through Ranked.”
That seems to satisfy Ayu, their shoulders slumping with relief. She owes them that much for putting them through all this, only to yell at them when they try to stop it. She really is a godawful friend.
Ringo groans. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“I’m dead serious.” She grins. “Look, you’ll get through the ranks quick enough if you’re really good. They boosted me straight from C- to B.”
“You realize that being stuck with a bunch of thirteen year-olds isn’t tempting in the slightest.”
“Suit yourself,” Astra shrugs.
“Yeah, well, maybe I will. You said it pays, right?”
“Not well.”
Ringo mutters something under her breath, but she struggles to catch it. She’ll just let it go. Bygones, and all that.
“Why’re you on about a rematch, anyways?” Astra says, eyeing her. “Wasn’t the whole point of this for me to leave you alone?”
“It was, but then after you pulled that stunt back there I thought… You must be a pretty shitty agent if you just tossed away the chance to get at me. Maybe you really are being sincere.”
That really might be the first and only time anyone has ever said that to her. She’s almost touched. “I’m a shit agent for a lot of other reasons, too.”
If Jude laughs, she doesn’t bother to look.
“Good,” Ringo says, firmly. “I prefer that to a good one.”
Then she leaves, her broad form parting through the crowd like a knife through paper. Astra cranes her neck to watch but Jude steps in her line of vision, a scowl on his lips.
“Don’t tell me you’re all touchy-feely with her now. I’m pretty sure she gave you another concussion back there.”
“I’m not,” she says, shooing him away. “Shut up.”
Ayu looks at the crowd, then back. “Do you know her?”
She could say. It’s not like it’d come as a surprise to either of them, considering Ringo’s refurbished armour wasn’t exactly subtle, and it’d be good intel. Sure, she defected, but Marie still keeps Marina and Ayu’s dossiers on close standby, just in case. It is what good agents do.
But Astra’s a bad one, and opts to do what she always does: lie. “I dunno. Just a rival. Do you?”
Ayu scowls. “Just because she’s a octo doesn’t mean I know her.”
“Great,” Jude interrupts. “Now you have a buddy to beat the shit out of. Can we leave? TO’s giving us a dirty look.”
None of the organizers are in sight, but she concedes. The sooner she gets home the less she’ll have to endure their prodding about throwing and sabotage and all the stuff that makes her head ache.
She tries to stand but her legs give out underneath her. The bruises are practically black, courtesy of Ringo’s suckers. Even putting weight on them sends heat flaring through her nerves. She ditched the ice pack at some point, since the water was barely cold enough to be refreshing. She stands again but her head swims, the floor tilting beneath her soles.
Then a hand grabs her arm and steadies her, corpse-pale and thin. Jude has a deceptively strong grip for how sickly he seems on an off-glance. Ironically, she’s the one about to keel over.
“Come on,” he glares at Ayu, motioning with his head. “Get her other arm.”
“Right, right.” They scurry to her other side, looping her arm over their shoulders, taking her weight. They’re also surprisingly steady. She can feel the flex of muscle under her arm as they readjust.
“I don’t-” she jerks her arm to break free, but Jude digs his nails in.
“Need help?” he finishes. “We’re acting under orders. Two said I could use lethal force if I have to.”
She stares. “Is that your type of joke?”
“No.” He tugs, carrying her forward. “Now come on.”
“You still have to do our project,” Ayu adds, matching their steps with hers. Their cheeks are practically blue. She elects to ignore it.
“Seriously?” she groans, rolling her eyes. Barely halfway out the door and they’re already extorting her. “I thought you forgot.”
“No way,” they grin.
“I have a concussion, remember? I’m not supposed to be thinking.”
“Not like you do that anyway,” Jude mutters, but there’s little bite to it. On her other side Ayu laughs, right in her ear.
For once, she lets herself be carried.
Marie is waiting outside the cabin that morning. On a normal day Astra would be relieved that she wouldn’t have to wait, but the look on Marie’s face warns of danger, like an alert on her phone spreading word of the impending tropical storm.
“Look, so-”
Marie leaves without a word, wrenching open the cabin door and sends a look over her shoulder, all silent and sharp. Astra sighs. No choice but to follow and take her punishment with grace. Maybe it’ll earn her a few brownie points when Marie inevitably sticks her in a second snowglobe. They might let her take a few breaths of fresh air every now and then.
She deserves this. She’s able to accept that.
She shuts the door behind her and slips off her sneakers. Marie pulls out a chair at the kitchen table and she sits, settling awkwardly on the old wicker.
“What do you want to eat?”
Astra blinks. She expected admonishment, not hospitality. Never kindness.
“Uh, I’m… good?” she winces, trailing off at Marie’s glare. “Thanks…?”
“You are having breakfast. If you don’t tell me what you want you’ll be eating whatever I feel like cooking.”
Knowing what Marie’s tried to shove down her throat before, it’ll be nothing short of a holiday feast. She may as well play to the bare minimum. Keep herself safe. “Toast and tea?”
Marie mutters something under her breath, wrenching open a cabinet. “What type?”
“Spiced apple?”
“You like fruit tea? Seriously?” Marie scowls, but takes the box out regardless. “Weirdo.”
Astra wisely keeps her mouth shut. Marie has an unfortunate habit of reminding her of her mother sometimes. Usually when she gets into her strict way of acting, all criticism and wanting no excuse.
She keeps her eyes firmly trained on the table, listening to Marie hammer down on the toaster’s handle, then the sizzle of something frying that is distinctly not toast. It smells like eggs, and the saltiness of salmon. If she wasn’t so intent on lying to herself she’d admit that it smells incredible. Her stomach rumbles involuntarily. She can feel Marie’s stare. The cut on her cheek is shoddily bandaged, gauze held loosely in place with medical tape. It was all she could do.
When was the last time she had anything like that for breakfast? Not since she moved out, and it sure as hell isn’t anything her mother would approve of her eating at home. Her dad used to cook on his good days, but those grew scarce as the years went on.
She stopped eating breakfast recently, anyway. She feels sick if she eats too early in the morning. She’d pull out her phone to check the time, but she gets the impression that if she makes one slight move Marie will chuck the pan at her head.
Then the toaster dings, and the frying stops shortly after. Marie sets down a plate in front of her alongside a steaming mug, the string of a teabag looped around the handle so it doesn’t slip. She eyes the plate, making sure none of the trepidation reaches her eyes. There’s the promised slice of toast, but Marie took the liberty of adding fried eggs and salmon to the dish, arranged in the shape of a frown.
The mug is one she bought Marie for her birthday over the summer, with Second-Best Boss! printed on the front. She felt self-conscious about buying her a shitty gag gift when she was probably swamped with plenty of nicer things from her fans, but the chipped paint and stained ceramic implies regular use.
“I’m not gonna plead for forgiveness or anything,” she says.
“Eat.”
Marie’s glare holds no room for argument. She nibbles at a piece of toast, feeling wary.
“I’m serious, though.” Her eyes dart to the side. “I’m- I’m not grovelling. No way.”
“You disobeyed orders.”
At least she’s talking. “I’m on leave.”
Marie crosses her arms over the table. The sleeves of her haori snag on the wood, but she doesn’t seem to care. “You’re still an agent, which means you’re still expected to listen when your superiors tell you to do things.”
“I do a lot of reckless shit,” she shrugs, tearing a slice of toast in half. “You should be used to it by now.”
“You know,” she sighs. “I really should.”
It stings more than she expected. She was anticipating more resistance, for Marie to say something like no, Four, because you’re a good agent and I’ve always expected more from you than this.
But she knows she’s a bad agent, and an even worse soldier. Marie’s learned to expect little of her save for that she should keep the First-Aid kit in a spot that’s easier to reach than its previous place up in the bedroom closet.
For once, no one wants anything more from her. It would feel freeing if Marie’s glare wasn’t a formless sort of suffocation.
“It was just me this time,” she says, eyes trained on her plate. “Three wasn’t involved. I didn’t endanger anyone else.”
“You endangered yourself.”
“Small potatoes,” she mutters, then withers from the flinty look Marie shoots her.
“You can barely walk and you have a cut on your face the length of Hammerhead. You could’ve permanently injured yourself. Where would you be, then?”
She gulps down a mouthful of tea to prevent herself from speaking. She’s ten, silently hoping that her mother’s foot will slip on the gas pedal. It’s scalding to the point where the flavour is overtaken by the burn.
“I don’t get why you’re so on my case about danger and all that when it’s no different from what I do on the field.”
Marie’s mouth tightens into a thin line. Hard neutral. “It is different, though. There are safety precautions we put in place, and you’re under supervision the whole time.”
“Oh, great! It’s fine if I infiltrate a foreign army base if you’re watching me! At least you’ll be able to memorize how I die, right?”
“Quit it,” Marie snaps. The heat can’t distract from the sharp note of worry in her voice, the way her brow furrows. “Even in the kettles you always do stuff that puts you in danger. Three didn’t go down half as often as you did, and you should be better than him!”
Astra scowls. “So this is about Three all of a sudden, huh?”
“Gods, Four, don’t start,” Marie groans, rubbing her eyes.
“Look, I get that you wished he was the one to rescue Callie instead of the high school dropout you fished off the streets, but unfortunately you’re stuck with me.”
“I have no idea how you manage to be wrong so often,” Marie mutters into her hands. “It’s like you have a talent for it.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Astra stares.
“Just…” she sighs, dropping her hands. “Please shut up and quit feeling sorry for yourself. The point isn’t to compare you to Three or whatever you think it is. It’s that you keep hurting yourself on purpose.”
“It’s not-”
Marie holds up a hand. “It’s totally on purpose, Four. You’re not subtle in the least. We all get it. Hell, even Eight sees it, and they couldn’t pour water out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel. I just don’t get why.”
Astra lowers her gaze to the table, searching for anything to look at that isn’t the slate-grey of Marie’s concern. There’s a pile of board games under the coffee table in the living room, but they’re time-weathered to the point that the edges have to be bound together with duct tape. She recognises Minnow Trap. She used to play that with her dad.
“It’s not like the fight club thing was for fun,” she murmurs.
“You needed money for your Tetras, even though you refused help when I offered.”
“It’s not just that, it’s…” She stops, testing the words on her tongue. She could lie like usual, play into Marie’s idea of her as someone who’s taken one too many hits to the head and decided to refuse help on the basis of pride. It’s the safe option; far safer than whatever the consequences of the truth would be.
But she followed Marie into the kettles because she thought it would be dangerous. This time isn’t any different.
“I have rent and bills to pay on top of that, but that just increased and-” she swallows. “I uh- have to send cash back to my parents to help cover their rent as well, but now my dad is in the hospital and I have to pay for the stay and on top of everything else cause our insurance doesn’t cover it, and then I-”
“Woah, woah, what kinda parents make their kid pay their bills?”
She makes the mistake of looking up. Marie's expression is nothing short of horrified. It’s exactly what she was afraid of.
“I have to.” She stares at her plate. It’s probably completely cooled by now. Marie went to all that effort to force her to eat something substantial for once, and she let it go to waste anyway. “My parents funneled all their money into my coaching when I was younger. I have to pay it back on the double now that I’m able.”
Marie’s eyes might as well be falling out of her head. “Do you actually like Turf, or is it just because of your parents?”
Astra shrinks back. “Don’t ask. Please, just don’t.”
“I can’t just sit back and forget it after you told me all that,” Marie says, an unbearable twist in her voice. “You should’ve said something way earlier, you know. I could’ve helped.”
Her concern feels like torture. She’d go back to the ring in a heartbeat if it meant not having to endure the strain in Marie’s tone for one more second.
“You’re my boss,” she murmurs. “I’ll just have to pay you back.”
“But I’m also your friend,” she says firmly, leaving no room for argument. “That’s what friends do. They help each other out.”
“But-”
“Nope,” she cuts off. “After this we’re gonna go down to Ammo Knights and I’m going to get you a new pair of Tetras and, this is crucial, you are not going to pay me back for it. Then you’ll be able to get your ranks up and earn cash without getting beaten to death for it. Understood?”
“I can pay you back for it eventually,” she tests. “I just have to sort out some things.”
“Were you listening at all?” Marie groans. “Didn’t you call me ‘ Miss Moneybags’ yesterday? I can afford it. Shit, I could afford to empty Sheldon’s inventory for you if I wanted. Just let me do you a favour for once.”
There’s nothing she could say. If she opens her mouth nothing would come out, all words dying on her tongue.
“One and I can help you look for a cheaper apartment too, while you’re at it. That’ll free up more options for you.”
Astra blinks. “That’s not my Tetras, though.”
“We’ll do it anyway. Seriously, One loves apartment-hunting. If you asked her to tag along she’d probably kiss you,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s really not a big deal. Besides, I never properly thanked you for rescuing her all those times, did I?”
“You got me that Goo Tuber.” Marie made such a big deal about it only to act all offended when Astra told her it was a bad weapon. She almost smiles.
She snorts. “Right, but that was a joke. I’m being serious.”
Astra stares into her tea. It’s gone lukewarm, and the reflection of her face is exhausted and water-thin. The cut on her cheek seems to overtake her, leaving her nothing but her injuries. “I don’t get why you’re going to all that trouble, though. I kinda expected you to kick me from the NSS after all the shit I pulled.”
“Really?”
“I insulted you on multiple occasions, disobeyed direct orders, coerced a fellow agent into helping me, then got myself hurt.” She shrugs. “I’m a liability.”
“Because I’m your friend,” she says. Her tone is too kind for someone like Astra, all her sharper edges bevelled down. She almost wants to break down and cry, the same way she used to skin her knee on purpose when she was little just so someone would help. “I really hope you’ll be able to accept that, one day.”
This isn’t routine. Marie’s not supposed to make her eat even after she refuses, plow aside all the half-assed lies and jokes and make her admit the things she thought she wouldn’t even be able to articulate. She’s deviated from her morning run, skipped past the boardwalk and the sound of the wheels against gravel, the beat of the sun on her scalp.
And she slows, and stops.