Work Text:
“First shift of the day?”
The inkling next to you smiles wearily, despite nearly shouting to be heard over the whup-whup-whup of the rotor blades. You nod.
She turns to look out the grimy helicopter window. Someone has scratched their initials into the glass. “Looks like it might be fog today. Make sure to stick together so you don’t lose track of one another.” After a moment of pensive silence, she speaks again. “Rain, too. Gonna be a rough one.”
You don’t feel like shouting, so you just nod a second time, licking your lips. You’ve dealt with fog before. The other inklings next to you don’t seem worried, trading tableturf cards with each other out of ziploc sandwich bags. Maybe you should have brought your own.
“We’re here.” Grizz’s voice crackles over the radio as the chopper circles the worksite, a grim, rusty little islet that looks like the remains of an old oil rig. The fog is already beginning to creep in, making everything blue and hazy. “Get to work.”
The foghorn blasts almost as soon as you touch down, salmonids pouring out of the greasy surf, slick with mucus and pus-yellow seafoam. You and your team mow them down as they snap their jagged teeth inches from your face, up to your ankles in ink and slime and burst eggs. As you work, the seawater is slowly rising, the fog growing thicker. The shore has been swallowed, crowding you elbow to elbow with your crew. The snaggled teeth of a giant salmonid graze your arm one too many times for comfort. “Get back to the basket!” you shout at your teammates, the first raindrops beginning to drum against your hard hat, freezing water soaking into the collar of your work shirt.
As the first wave finally abates, rain begins to fall more steadily, washing away your ink. You’re gathered at the basket, two of your exhausted teammates joining you as you all try to cover whatever ground you can. One of them looks close to tears.
“I wanna go back,” he sniffles. “This isn’t fun.”
“It’ll be okay. Just hang in there,” you try to reassure him, a leaden weight sitting in your gut. Where was that other inkling, the one you’d spoken to on the copter? You squint through the fog and sheets of rain for a sign of her orange uniform.
She’s there, standing on the edge of the stage, looking out at the water. You open your mouth to shout at her to get over to the rest of the team, but before you can make a sound, a deafening crack of thunder rips through the air. The foghorn sounds as the entire structure shudders, heaved by the tide like a massive creature struggling to shake itself from slumber.
Salmonids begin to surge forth from the water again, scrabbling at the rusty platform as it sways. They seem frenzied by the storm, shrieking and laughing at they slide into one another or are crushed beneath the bulk of their brethren. This run is already doomed. The golden eggs are washed away before you can grab them. All you can do is hold your position.
In the chaos you can’t see your teammates; you can barely hear them over the thunder and wind and the wailing of the salmon. Rain stings your cheeks, adrenaline keeping you from noticing the chill soaking into your skin. You can’t feel your hands on the trigger of your battered, borrowed splattershot. A particularly large wave lifts the platform and drops it, slamming it back into the water, scattering the salmonids. In your panic, you drop your gun and cling to the netting of the basket. Waves lash at the pilings, swells rolling over the rig as it rocks in the surf.
It’s then that the wind carries the faint cries of your teammates, two of their life rings caught on a scrap of old netting strung between fence posts, but it’s all you can do to cling to the basket. You squeeze your eyes shut, your fingers numb. Even if you were a coward, even if you wanted to abandon them, the gusting wind would knock you off course as you tried to leap back to the helicopter.
Filthy seawater rolls over the top of the platform, dragging at your legs, and you feel your fingers start to slip. One hand comes free, and you desperately claw for purchase, only for the other to slip moments after. You flail in the ink and slime as the rig tips and you begin sliding towards the raging water, dark green and foamy, the roar of the storm in your ears.
You scream.
A cold hand catches you by the wrist.
You open your eyes. It’s the girl you spoke to on the helicopter. She wordlessly looks towards your helpless teammates, now within your reach. You grab them, tucking their life preservers close to your chest as she pulls you back to your feet, free from the freezing ocean.
“Go,” she tells you. The clouds have broken above her, watery light shining through her face. In your delirium, you could swear she was glowing. “The storm’s calming down, but it won’t stay like this.”
You don’t waste a moment, leaping through the drizzle back into the helicopter. As your teammates shiver and wrap themselves in the cheap Grizzco towels, you strain for any sign of the inkling who helped you.
“What are you looking for?” one of the other inklings asks.
“That girl, the one who saved me…”
He frowns, tucking his knees up to his chest. “There wasn’t anybody else. It was just the three of us.”
You look again, but as the copter chugs back to the mainland, the island is swallowed by the fog.