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Four holds right on her controller, her whole body swaying with the motion as if it’ll make it work better, and her car in the racing game she’s playing swerves obligingly. It slams into Three’s car, sending it flying off the road into a bottomless pit, and Four cackles at the sight, pulling her feet up onto a cross-legged position on the couch and leaning forward with renewed intent. Three, to Four’s right on the couch, doesn’t make a sound, and her face stays impassive, but her tentacles light up like fireworks. She rolls her shoulders as her car is pulled back onto the track, and as soon as it lands she squeezes the accelerator button so hard her thumb turns white.
Eight, to Four’s left, watches the game with a small, indulgent smile. The console is new, bought with Eight’s first paycheck from her new day job at Ammo Knights, and it only came with two controllers, so they’ve been rotating. Three and Four keep trying to give her their turns, saying that she bought it, she should get to play, but she refuses every time. She’s curled up in the corner of the couch, the cushions near her made into a little nest, one wedged between her body and arm to give it support. Her neck doesn’t have anything holding it up, though, and the strain of keeping it up is starting to drag her attention away from the game. Her tentacles squirm a little in discomfort, but she’s not quite uncomfortable enough to move yet.
Normally, there would be a little coffee table in front of the couch. Last week, though, Eight was working on a prototype Rainmaker design on the dining room table, one which used Octarian technology to reduce its weight so it could be even stronger but still light enough for a person to carry. She got up to stretch and accidentally knocked the power cord out of its outlet, the weight-reduction technology failed, and the table broke in half under the weight of the suddenly thousand-pound cannon. So when Three came over today they moved the coffee table to where the dining table used to be, and they ate the dinner she cooked sitting on the floor around it. It’s covered in dirty dishes now, bowls and forks and cooling food sitting on serving plates, but none of them really want to clean it up right now, and the sink is already full of pots anyway, so they didn’t bother and left the table there. With no coffee table, Three’s glass of water instead sits on the floor in front of the couch, precariously close to her foot, but it’s stayed upright for now.
For a girl who lives mostly off of instant noodles and greasy takeout, Three is a surprisingly adept cook when she wants to be, and Four’s promise to do the dishes later was an excellent motivator. She pulled out all the stops. She made flatbread dough from scratch, the flour creeping up her arms as she kneaded it, and baked it in a preheated cast iron pan in the oven so it puffed up. She steamed a whole fish; then carefully carved it up without breaking its flesh so Four wouldn’t have to see its clouded-over eyes. (Eight carved them out with a single sharp claw and ate them while Four was in the bathroom.) She reduced down stock to make a luscious sauce, she sautéed leafy greens with garlic and ginger, she roasted hot peppers over the open gas flame until they were black, then peeled off the skin. It wasn’t really a cohesive meal, not something where all the elements came together to make a greater whole, but it was plates and plates of delicious food. That was enough to more than sate her friends, which was all she really wanted.
All the cooking made the apartment overwarm, so they opened the window to let the cool evening air flow in. There’s a radio on the windowsill, playing some groovy, upbeat song with a gentle beat and lyrics that are a perhaps little too clever but which sound nice if you don’t focus on what the words mean. The open window means the song sounds a little bit distant, but it’s just background noise, filling in the gaps in laughter so the night stays easy and the air stays light.
So the night goes on, with Three and Four dueling it out, cheering whenever they bash each other’s car and pull ahead again, even as their laser focus on their dance means they both fall further and further behind the AI. Eight massages her neck with a grimace, trying to loosen it up, without much success. The lingering smells from the food are swept out the window by the breeze, the sun starts to creep below the horizon, turning the sky a brilliant pink, and the evening creeps ever onward. There’s a building sense of quiet in the room, as the evening seems to draw to a close. Three will have to go soon if she wants to catch the train home before it's dark, and this is her second game in a row, she’ll give her controller to Eight, next, and that’ll be the perfect time to call it a night. Perhaps that’s why they’re getting a little too competitive, a little too wrapped up in the game, because they want to cling on to this moment and this is the way they know how.
As they head into the final lap, both hunched forward, their shoulders set and their eyes narrowed, ready to give everything they can, with even Eight tensing up a little in anticipation of the last hurrah of the night, the song on the radio fades out, its sappy lyrics falling away into the night like wisps of smoke.
And then, a staticky electronic noise rings out from the radio, and then drums, and then Callie and Marie’s voices, and the Calamari Inkantation in all its brilliance fills the room.
It hits Three and Four and Eight with all the subtlety of a hyperbomb. They tense up, each of them, for a moment, and then just – relax. All the tension of the night is gone, the goodbyes sitting heavy under their tongues dissolved away. It’s just the song and the three of them. What else would there be?
Four leans back, back, back, melts into the couch cushions. Her eyes relax a little, seem to unfocus. Her hands are still active, though, flying across the controller with as much dexterity as ever, each button press precise and calculated. Her lips pull up in a slight smile, not the beaming grins she hands out like candy but something smaller, more secretive, but no less genuine.
Eight drops her head, no longer holding it up in an uncomfortable position. But this isn’t any better, just bad in a different way, with a different part of her neck unsupported, and she can’t see like this. She still doesn’t want to rearrange the pillows, so she goes for the most expedient solution, which is to scooch up close to Four and nestle into her. Four’s shoulder seems to fit Eight’s neck like a puzzle piece, their heads slotting comfortably together, touching but not putting uncomfortable pressure. If she wiggles just right she can massage the sore muscle in her neck like this, oh-so-gently so there’s no pain, just a soft feeling of relief and a rush of endorphins that make her tentacles slump.
Three falls back into the couch along with Four, but she doesn’t sink deep into it. Instead, she hits the back cushions at an angle and starts to tilt slowly, slowly to the left. She could sit back up, of course, adjust how she’s sitting slightly, but she doesn’t see the point. Her eyes are locked on the television, on her car, screaming down the track, and so she lets herself fall until her head bumps ungracefully into Four’s side. And once it’s there, well, it’s easiest to just keep going, to slip in front of Four and keep going down, all the way into her lap.
And with Three right there, her tentacles all sprawled out, it’s so easy for Eight to just absentmindedly grab one, to start kneading into it as she watches the race. Her fingers are strong but gentle, and where they massage the tentacle it lights up, not into the sharp, stabbing lights of earlier in the night but into low, gentle patterns which spread across Three’s whole mantle. Three makes a low, breathy noise at the contact, and settles a little closer into Four, stretches out her legs and hangs them over the end of the couch, lying all on her back now with her head tilted to the side to see the screen.
Four brings her hands a little further down, so her knuckles just brush against Three’s wrist. As they both keep tapping away at their controllers, their hands seem to dance together, sometimes pressing a little into each other as they lean into certain buttons, sometimes pulling apart but staying close enough to feel each other’s heat.
And Three begins to hum. Her voice is low and rich and it plays the harmony of the Inkantation, filling it out. The tinny sound coming from the radio, from the open window and bad speakers, cradles into Three’s smooth, slightly sleepy voice, and the contrast makes it feel all the more real.
Three and Four’s cars race past the AI. They have chance after chance to knock into each other, but they never take them. They cut turns close to the edge, where even a slight bump from the other could drop them off the track, but those bumps never come.
They finish in second and first place, respectively. Their characters whoop and cheer as the scores come up. Eight smiles a little wider and nuzzles into Four’s shoulder in congratulations, or maybe just to get more comfortable now that she doesn’t have to keep looking at the screen, and her tentacles start to worm into Four’s own, sharing an embrace of their own. Three tilts her head back, looks up at Four. Their eyes meet and seem to sparkle with joy, Three in acknowledgement of Four’s victory, Four just happy to be here. As the Inkantation slowly fades away, the room falls silent, left with just Three’s gentle hum and the evening breeze.
The next song comes on. A pulsing, raging metal song with a screaming vocalist. Three’s eyes seem to focus again, to narrow a little.
And then they shoot open wide and she jerks like she’s been shot, shoots up and practically leaps off the couch and across the room. She knocks over her glass of water and it pours over Four’s feet. Three slams into the back wall, next to the television, her eyes wide and manic. Eight, too, screeches, leaps back like she’s been burned, folds herself into the corner of the couch, flattens her tentacles against her neck.
There’s a moment’s pause, and then Eight bursts into tears. She starts babbling, says she is so sorry, that she did not mean to, that she does not know what she was thinking. Three starts frantically signing that she doesn’t know what came over her, that she’s sorry she’s such a freak, that she shouldn’t have, that she’ll just go and she understands if –
With a sheepish smile on her face, Four says “You guys too, huh?”
They both still.
Four twitches a little, licks her lips. But still, she says “I heard that song when I was fighting DJ Octavio. Callie and Marie sang it for me.” She presses her toes into the carpet, looks down. “And ever since, it’s felt like home.”
Nobody says anything.
Four looks back up. In a slightly desperate voice, she says “It got into me, y’know? And I - I don’t think it ever let go.”
Another pause. Not even the sound of breathing.
Four looks down again. Her shoulders slump “Sorry, that’s. It was nice –”
“Sometimes it feels like my whole life was a dream until I heard that song,” Eight says. “I got my memories back, I fought for them, but they did not – they do not feel like me.” She sucks in a breath. “And I know they were, I know that all the things I want and think did not all come from the Metro, but I had a family and a girlfriend and a purpose and I do not care about them anymore, not even in a ‘oh I wonder what they are up to these days’ way.” Her tentacles arch up, agitated. “And I know that is not all because of – of the song because Marina – but I don’t know what is that and what is the Metro and what I actually chose for myself along the way.”
Eight breaks off into sharp, fast breathing. She grabs a pillow and squeezes it tight.
Three slides down the wall until she’s sitting. The light from the television plays across her face, muting however her tentacles are lighting up.
“You don’t have to,” Four says.
“I keep it in my headphones,” Three signs. “I try not to use it. I,” and she looks away, “think I’d get addicted.” She looks back. “I heard it first, I guess, the same time you did, Eight.”
She smiles, her breathing a little steadier now. “I remember. You – what is the word – ‘thrashed’ us.”
“I don’t think I would have, though,” Three says. “I mean now, obviously, I would.”
Four snorts at the self-compliment.
Three rolls her eyes. “We all know it. But you’re the one with the natural talent, Four. I was really just a snotty kid back then. The Octarians I fought were just bad at their jobs, terribly organized, and the Great Octoweapons were a hundred years out of date. Fighting you guys, elites, should have gone terribly. And it did, at first.”
“I would not say terribly,” Eight says.
“I was losing.”
Eight tilts her head, conceding the point. “But then they sang.”
“I was tired and half dead and the respawn point was nearly out of power. I’d been fighting for hours. And then I was fine, and you guys were collapsing, and I just kinda won.”
“It certainly felt more dramatic on the receiving end,” Eight says.
“Oh, dramatic, sure. Just… inevitable.”
Eight nods.
Three sighs again, sits up straight. “Anyway, look. I’m sorry. I’m used enough to the Inkantation that I should know how to brace myself for it. I shouldn’t have done… all that.”
“Three,” Eight and Four both say. They look at each other. “You go,” they both say, but Eight says it faster.
“Fine,” Four says. “I’m sorry for anything I did that made you uncomfortable, even if it wasn’t my fault, because you deserve to feel safe around me. But nothing you did made me feel uncomfortable, so you don’t have to feel sorry about anything.”
Three’s breath hitches a little.
“I am sorry as well,” Eight says. “I hope that – I understand that I overstepped my boundaries, and it will not happen again. But I… also did not feel uncomfortable.”
Three looks back and forth between the two of them, Four still in the middle of the couch, Eight in the corner. Finally, she haltingly signs “I didn’t mind it.” She moves as if to add more, but seems to decide against it.
“Well,” Four says, “great!”
Three laughs, and then keeps laughing. It’s the first time either of the other two agents have heard her laugh. It’s a soft, relieved giggle, light and bubbly, not what they would have expected. But it suits her.
Four beams at her, a wide grin that’d make Callie proud. “Now I don’t really want to end the night on,” she waves her hands, “all that. So,” and she pats the couch next to her, “get over here, loser.”
Three grins back, wider than they’ve ever seen her. She gets up and walks over, picks back up the cup she overturned, and sits down next to Four. Her brows furrow, then, and she looks around for the controller she put down. When she finds it, she leans over Four and holds it out to Eight. “I think it’s your turn,” she says.
“I suppose it is,” Eight says, and takes the controller with a smile.
Three starts to lean back to her corner. But then Four says “Oh no you don’t,” grabs her in a hug and slides all the way to the left of the couch, right up to Eight, pulling Three along with the motion. She pushes Three down, then, right into her lap, straightens out Three’s tentacles so she’s not squishing them and lays them gently over Eight’s lap. Three and Eight both blush a vibrant blue, which Four cheerfully ignores.
“It’s cold in here,” Four says, “because someone just had to open the window, so now you have to keep me warm.” But she’s careful to not scooch all the way up to Eight, to leave her arm unnaturally high up over Three, so both of them can get out if they want to.
Eight scooches the last few inches towards Four. Three, blushing even harder, grabs Four’s elbow and gently pulls it down.
In an hour or so, they’ll end up falling asleep like that. It’ll end up causing huge problems, because they never do close the window, and it snows in the middle of the night, and they wake up freezing cold. (Oh no, they’ll have to cuddle up close to keep warm.) Three doesn’t have a change of clothes, since she wasn’t planning to spend the night, and has to use Four’s toothbrush. (Oh no, they’ll have to keep spares around for next time.) Four forgets to put away the food and doesn’t get to eat any more of those delicious peppers. (Oh no, Three will just have to come over again, and again, and again, so Four can eat as many as she wants.)
But right now, they’re tangled up on Four’s ratty couch, playing with Eight’s irresponsible game console purchase, with Three’s mantle lighting up the room as the last of the sun creeps under the horizon, and it is enough.