Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

From the very moment that girl sat down on the train for the first time, he knew something terrible would happen to her.

Eight gasped as her head hit the ground. She scrambled to right herself and grab her gun before the enemy closed in, but she was too late.

Always too late. Always one step behind, always not quite strong enough. She was a soldier for god’s sake, what was wrong with her?

And she was going to lose.

Perhaps it was foolish to get attached. He’d seen it time and time again.

Her blurry vision cleared, as her beloved Agent 3 pinned her down and pressed a gun to her temple. 

The muzzle was hot, and the ink that leaked from it stung her skin. Still, she locked eyes with Agent 3 and raised her own gun to her head.

“Come on,” she pleaded, her voice shaking. “You don’t want this.”

Agent 3’s eyes- normally lazily half-lidded and such a lovely shade of orange- were shot through with teal, open as wide as they would go. She hardly blinked as the ink smeared over her face leaked into her right eye. She bared her fangs, focusing only on the one below her.

Click.

Thousands upon thousands just like sweet little Eight, with bright eyes full of stars and dreams, taking the metro to their demise.

“Sango, please.” Eight’s breath hitched, and her vision blurred once again, though she couldn’t tell if it was courtesy of her pounding head, or the tears welling up in her eyes.

The two were still, matching each other’s heavy breathing, enclosed tightly within the same world. The next move would kill the other. There was no room for escape. 

And yet every conversation sparked warmth in his chest. Each chime of the train had him sitting up straighter to see who would enter.

Agent 3’s trembling finger hovered over the trigger. Her other hand, which had been squeezing Eight’s wrist tight enough to bruise, slowly released its tension and moved up almost gently to hold her hand.

“I can’t kill you, Sango,” Eight whispered, and Agent 3 set her jaw.

Eight didn’t want to die.

She hadn’t even gotten to live.

And every time the doors opened to a dark, empty station, his heart would feel familiarly hollow.

BANG!

It had been a week and one day since number 10008- no- since Eight rode the train. The last time he had spoken to her, she’d been going on about the Promised Land with hope alight in her eyes. 

It was safe to say she was gone. Just like number 10007. And 10006. And 10005. And so on.

He sighed, crossing his arms. It was quiet. He was used to the quiet. It was typically filled with dull phone conversations and snoring from other passengers, until that horrible telephone’s newest test subject would come along and make everything bright.

Despite his sleek suit and his tough carapace, Iso Padre was a very soft man. He mourned Eight just as he mourned the other thousands of victims that came before her.

She’d been shy at first. Most were. Poor girl barely spoke any Inklish and couldn’t remember her own name. But she was kind, and she was brave, and she was so, so determined.

Her eyes had been set on the future. She would reach the Promised Land and she would step into the light and she would be free from the dark stations and the screeches against the tracks and the ever lurking dread that hung in the air.

Iso Padre thought she might actually make it.

Iso Padre was wrong.

He checked his watch, but to no avail. The battery had been broken for a while, and the time was stuck at eight o’clock.

The train slowly came to a stop at central station, the old wheels letting out several squeaks in protest. The doors swung open, and nobody came in.

Iso Padre stared at the old station, humming pensively.

Then there was a flicker of light. A spark of pink so brief anyone could have missed it.

He blinked, wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing, then suddenly felt so strongly he had to disembark. He quickly gathered his briefcase, grabbing his scattered toys with each of his arms and stuffing them in.

He got out onto the platform just as the doors closed, huffing and puffing like he’d just run a marathon. He was too old for these sorts of things. He adjusted his shades, watching the train go as it rattled down the tracks.

It had been a while since he’d gotten off at any station. He practically lived in that train car, watching people come and go, searching for a destination he’d never find. He couldn’t even remember when he’d first gotten on. Twenty something years ago…at the very least.

He looked up, spotting thousands of sparkling little lights clinging to the ceiling- tiny souls of those who had died down there.

I’m sure you know what they say: a ghost can only be seen by the one who killed them. And that’s true, though Iso Padre was certainly no murderer. He couldn’t hurt a minnow. He’d simply…always had a keen eye for those sorts of things.

Iso Padre looked around the station for the source of his unease, finding nothing unless you counted the souls or the shattered blender nearby. Where was that janitor Eight had mentioned?

Another flash sparked in the corner of his eye, and he whirled around. On the other side of the platform, there was something on the tracks. It glowed a gentle pink, slowly pulsing like a heartbeat.

Iso Padre set his briefcase down on a nearby bench (nobody would be around to steal it) and carefully approached to see what it was. Just as he peered over the yellow line, the light flitted away as though it were afraid, down into the pitch black tunnel.

Not fearing a thing, he hopped over the edge onto the tracks. Those tracks had been under maintenance forever. No train would be coming down them.

And just as he got down, the light hovered in place, bathing the darkness around in its pink glow.

He hurried down the tunnel after it, but just as he got close, it flickered and slipped farther away. It turned corners and phased through walls, but always left a glow for him to follow.

And whenever he felt he could not go on, the light would wait for him, pulsing almost curiously.

It drifted along aimlessly, until it came to a stop at a wall of graffiti. It began to shine even brighter, as it slowly took shape into something else.

Iso Padre let out a long breath, taking slow strides towards it, holding his hands out. He recognized what it was immediately as it hovered above his cupped claws. 

The tiny ghost took form as a translucent octopus fry, tragically small and fragile and weak. It still glowed a gentle pink, and its eyes were shut.

“Oh goodness.” Iso Padre’s whiskers drooped, and he felt he could cry. “You poor thing. What happened to you?”

The ghost did not reply. It could not reply, at least, not in this state. Without a memory to its name, or a name to its shell, it was simply an empty husk, waiting for a purpose, until it would eventually fade away.

Iso Padre tilted his head, examining the little thing for any feature he might recognize. There was a certain tug at his heart telling him he knew this one.

The ghost let out a tiny sigh, but he somehow felt it on the tips of his claws. Now that was unusual. 

He’d always been able to see the faint flickers of ghosts in the metro, but never had he been able to feel anything beyond a shiver.

“There’s something special about you, isn’t there?” He gently lifted a hand and gave it a little pat on the head, but his fingertip passed right through. “Just who were you?”

He stared at it some more, and wondered about the latest test subject stolen away from him…the one who seemed to vow she would never die.

It couldn’t be…could it?

“Eight?”

Acht tapped their fingers against the floor and lightly bounced their leg, giving some of their own music a listen and trying not to cringe. They ignored the Mem Cakes peeking out of their jacket pocket, lurking tauntingly in the corner of their eye.

#11 above. They weren’t too fond of that one, but a friend had claimed to like it so much, and they were suddenly seeing it in a new light. Or rather, hearing it in a new light.

“Acht!” yelled a familiar voice.

“Mm?” Acht pulled their headphones down as a big ol’ isopod came running. They always thought it was funny how he ran on two legs instead of skittering on all eight, but it appeared the old guy was too distressed to bother joking with. “What’s wrong?”

“Look!” Iso Padre held out two of his hands, showing them a whole lotta nothing cupped between his claws. “I found a ghost.”

“A ghost?” Acht playfully raised an eyebrow and tried to smile. “Dang, old dude. You finally snapped? I didn’t think you were the type.”

“I didn’t kill her!” the man retorted. “But I think I know who she is- was.”

Acht focused on the space where he seemed to be miming to hold something, and then they saw it. The tiniest, briefest flicker of pink, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. “Shit, I think I saw it a little bit. And you say you know who it is?”

Iso Padre nodded. “This is Eight.”

Their jaw went slack, and their hands went still, no longer tapping to the beat of the song dripping out from their headphones. After a long silence, they finally had enough sense to hit the pause button. “Eight…died?”

It explained a lot, like why they hadn’t seen her in a week or why they were playing the song she liked to make up for her absence.

But…she couldn’t be dead! She still had so much to do! Acht had sat through hours of the girl talking and talking all about her dreams. She was going to visit Inkopolis and go to all the cool Inkling concerts, and ask that inkling girl she always went on about to dance, and she was going to look at the sky every night, and wear something, anything other than a military uniform, and she was going to make new memories so she wouldn’t have to worry about the ones she’d lost.

But now she was dead. So she wouldn’t be doing any of that.

“Yes. But I think we can bring her back.”

“What??” Acht exclaimed. There were two concerning things about that sentence: bring her back and we. But they focused on the most outlandish one. “Iso, you know how Kamabo does things. There’s no retrieving her body.”

“She wasn’t blended,” Iso Padre said, and his eyes were sparkling behind his shades. “The blender is broken, and the blades are clean.”

Acht bit their lip, looking up at the ceiling in thought. “And she’s a ghost, so she wasn’t sanitized…so she died some other way, and her body’s probably somewhere.”

“I’m not sure where her body is, or how she died, but I trust you’ll help me find out?” He gave them a hopeful look they knew they wouldn’t be able to say no to. “My body’s not what it used to be.”

“Neither is mine. Sanitization’s a bitch.” They slowly heaved themselves up, unplugging their headphones from their laptop. “How far out is she?”

Iso Padre tilted his head, squinting at the ghost in his hands (which Acht still couldn’t fully see, by the way). “I’d say all her memories are gone. Even if we found her body, she wouldn’t be able to reconnect with it.”

“Shit. Are her eyes open?”

“No.”

“Shit.” They paced back and forth, lightly tugging at the binder strap poking out from under their shirt. “Then at this point, she doesn’t even know who she is.”

“I am aware. We’ll likely have to track down her Mem Cakes.”

Acht bent over, examining the tiny light that was flickering like a morse code. “Think we could remind her? Just tell her the basics?”

Iso Padre hummed, then shook his head. “It’s too risky. We each have different impressions of her than she might have of herself. She could come back wrong.” He handed them his briefcase, which he’d been holding in one of his other arms. “She lent me some of her Mem Cakes. There should be one in there that looks like her.”

Acht took the case from him, nearly stumbling over due to the unexpected weight. They crouched down and cracked it open in one fluid motion, wincing as dozens of Mem Cakes and toys popped out. “Geez, old guy! Why do you have so many of these?”

“It saved her from having to carry them around. Plus, I like looking at them. I can almost imagine the memories compressed into them.”

Acht flicked the tiny cakes around with their fingertip, until they found one shaped like a tiny pink octopus. It reminded them instantly of Eight, so they assumed it was the right one. They slowly plinked it out of the pile, and handed it to Iso Padre, who finally looked up from the tiny ghost he cradled.

Iso Padre held the Mem Cake up to his cupped hands. “Please eat this, young squire.” 

Acht, for a moment, found him a bit crazy, what with him focusing on something only he could see, but they knew better. Losing Eight forever would break four hearts at once. Acht’s three, if they were even still beating, and Iso’s. By the time they snapped out of their internal musing, the Mem Cake was gone.

Seafloor glitters with pale moonbeams

Blank slate number ten-thousand-eight

awaits the dawn, dreaming sweet dreams

“Did she eat it?” Acht whispered, as if they were afraid to disturb anything.

Iso Padre watched the little ghost, his breath hitching as her eyes slowly opened. “She’s awake. Acht, can you see her?”

They stared at his hands, a flash of pink briefly reflecting in their shades. “A little bit.”

Eight squinted, the darkness around her seeming far too bright. She blinked a couple of times, looking up at Iso Padre. She was confused, that much was clear, but she relaxed a bit, as though she could sense the big isopod wouldn’t hurt her.

“Hello Eight,” Iso Padre said, his voice low and gentle. He’d never seen a ghost so close before. She was so small and adorable…and so tragically pitiful. “Do you remember anything, young squire?”

Her eyes bore right into him, but she didn’t say a word, or move an inch.

“I doubt she can speak,” Acht told him. “She’ll need more of her memories.”

Iso Padre let out a heavy sigh, casting a look over at his briefcase. “Well, we’ve got all the Mem Cakes here.”

Chapter Text

It took a few days for Eight to muster the strength to consume enough memories to function, but by the time she did, she had grown greatly. Gone already were the days when Iso Padre could hold her in his hands. Now, she was a small, vaguely octoling-shaped toddler, her height barely reaching his first set of knees. She could run and float about for hours, but was still so timid she would scurry to hide behind Iso Padre at any sign of danger- the “danger” usually being a random noise or a sudden movement from Acht.

What’s more, Acht could no longer see her, though they felt her chill when she passed by.

“Ai-Pa!” Eight chirped, her warbled voice not quite fit to properly pronounce Iso Padre. “Ai-Pa!” She tumbled through the air, latching to the back of his shell, where she’d stuck a bunch of stickers back when she was alive. (Each of his deceased friends had left a couple.)

“What is it, young squire?” he responded with all the softness and levity one would give to a real child. 

“Hungry!”

“You’re hungry?” Iso Padre smiled and turned around, miming to take her hands.

“Yeah, hungry, Ai-Pa!” She pretended to hold his hands as well, spinning him around. Of course, she had no actual ability to move him, he just kindly chose to humour her. “Want more cakes!”

Iso Padre felt his smile falter. He knew she was not actually hungry, but was rather craving the relief that came with reliving a memory.

Acht, who had recently been excluding themselves from these ghostly affairs, looked up from their laptop. “What’s she saying?”

“She needs more memories.”

“Aren’t there more Mem Cakes left in your briefcase?”

Iso Padre shooed Eight away and opened his case by a crack. Indeed, there were several left, though he wasn’t sure how long they would sustain her. Were there enough memories within for her to be able to go to her body once they were consumed? Where would they find more if not?

“Acht,” Iso Padre said, setting his briefcase down. “Will you look after Eight for me? I’m going to go look for the conductor.”

Acht shrugged. “I can try.”

He crouched down before Eight, making sure she listened to him. “Will you be good for Acht, please?”

The little ghost frowned, donning the classic tragic little kid face. “They can’t see me! No fun to play with.”

“I know, young squire, but they care for you deeply. It’ll just be for a bit, alright?”

“Okay…”

And so, Iso Padre went off down the dark hallways. Sometimes he wondered if the old train station was trying to be ominous and creepy at all times. He took his briefcase with him, though he’d left a couple Mem Cakes with Acht in case Eight was too hungry to wait for his return.

He arrived at the vaguely brighter central station just as the train was pulling in. Quickening his pace, he called for the conductor waiting to give the train its next sendoff.

The conductor was a tiny little sea cucumber you could squish in your hand. His skin was a marble of purple and blue, speckled with sparkles like a galaxy. And while he was one of eighty identical conductors, Iso Padre easily recognized him.

The conductor looked up, his little hat bouncing with the motion. “Oh, Mr. Iso Padre! It’s rare to see you on this side of the yellow line.”

“C.Q, could you possibly spare a moment?”

C.Q Cumber hummed, glancing back and forth between the train and him. “Just one moment, please.” One of his arms stretched out unnaturally long, and he waved to the window at the very front of the train. The machine began to rumble, and slowly took off as the conductor pointed down the tracks.

Iso Padre smiled, finding the methodical procedure impressive every time.

“Now, I have little time before the next train arrives, but what was it you needed, Iso Padre?”

He took a deep breath, reasonably feeling rather grim all of a sudden. “It’s about the test subject number 10008. She died, didn’t she?”

The conductor seemed to wilt a bit, raising an arm and patting one of Iso Padre’s shoulders. “Indeed. Shot dead by a sanitized soldier. What a horrific way to go.”

“She seemed the type to put up a fight until the very end.”

“She was. The poor girl’s back was covered in scars, but she never gave up. She was always reassuring her friends she was alright.”

Iso Padre’s eyes widened. He’d meant to inquire about Mem Cakes and such, but a new idea popped into his mind. “Eight’s friends. What happened to them?”

C.Q Cumber’s skin rippled, and his tone even sounded bitter. “The lab facility was collapsing, so they were quick to escape. They boarded the train and went home like nothing happened.”

For a moment, Iso Padre’s shell felt hollow. “They just…left her?”

“She died. I imagine nobody was thinking clearly.”

“Can you please tell me everything you know?”

The conductor gave him what he assumed was a look of sympathy, considering he didn’t really have a face. “Deepest apologies, sir, but such details are strictly confidential to those affiliated with Kamabo Co.”

“There’s no way Kamabo can still run with the blender in the state it is in. Please.” He hung his head. “Eight is a ghost and I need to bring her back.”

The conductor considered this in silence, almost seeming to sparkle a bit brighter. “Eight was a very valuable passenger. I too am sad to see her gone…” He glanced left and right, as if anyone could be listening. “The Deepsea Metro is directly sponsored and run by Kamabo Co. As such, I cannot help you.”

“But-”

“However. I will tell you this. Number 10008 was killed by that inkling she was close with. And you know what they say about ghosts.”

Iso Padre dropped his briefcase. “What?”

“Indeed. The telephone took control of that inkling, and used her to do away with Eight.”

It was not very often that Iso Padre found himself furious. But right then, his claws trembled, and his whiskers pinned themselves back. “How could she do such a thing? Eight loved her so much!”

“Sir, she was sanitized. She wasn’t in control of herself. She likely doesn’t even remember the whole thing.”

“So what you’re telling me is that the girl who killed her is up on the surface, living her life, unaware of Eight’s blood on her hands?”

“Indeed.”

Iso Padre sighed, and slowly bent over to pick up his briefcase. He was quiet for a little longer, so he could regain his bearings. “Thank you, C.Q. What you’ve told me should help me figure out where to go from here.”

“Of course. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.” The conductor looked up as the next train came rattling down the tracks. The train came to a stop, and a few passengers filed out.

“It’s alright, my friend. Well then…” Iso Padre bowed his head to bid him farewell, but C.Q Cumber stopped him.

“Allow me to let you off with a warning. Please ensure the telephone doesn’t discover your plan to bring Eight back. If it does…I truly cannot help you.”

Iso Padre trudged through another hall of the metro alone, passing rows upon rows upon rows of vending machines. Some were filled to the brim with Mem Cakes. Some were practically empty. Each bore a number.

10005.

10006.

10007.

10008.

Iso Padre stopped. Lo and behold, a shiny new vending machine stood among the others. It contained dozens of Mem Cakes, organized in neat rows, containing all the power to bring dear Eight back.

He ran a claw over the pin pad, down to the slot meant for inserting coins. Or rather, Mem Medals, of which he had none.

Narrowing his eyes at the sturdy glass, he contemplated breaking it himself, so his beloved ghost could feast upon her memories without a care in the world.

But alas…there was the risk of damaging the memories…and he would never want that.

He kept walking, turning a corner and finding another vending machine all on its own.

Only four Mem Cakes rested within, all in a row along the top. The number on the machine was scratched out, but he had a feeling he knew whose soul it represented.

It was foolish to be angry. He knew this. The inkling hadn’t been in control of herself. But just thinking about the light in Eight’s eyes when she spoke of her, and that same light fading as the hands she once held choked the life out of her…

Growling a curse, he slammed a claw into the glass, and the impact easily shattered it. The echo bounded down the halls, sparkling shards raining down to the concrete below.

Iso Padre’s shoulders raggedly rose and fell in time with his breath. He did not feel better. If anything, he felt worse.

Then he heard something ringing.

At first, he dismissed it as typical tinnitus. But then it grew louder, and more persistent…and familiar.

He slowly cast a glance to his right…and there it was.

An old, antique telephone, standing there like it had been waiting a while. It continued to ring and ring impatiently, the bells staring him down like eyes.

Iso Padre did not want to answer it, but he did regardless. “Hello?”

“Well, well, well. If it isn't ol’ test subject number 4008! Whatcha doin~?”

“It is none of your concern.” He hung up, and spun on his heel to make a hasty escape.

“Something’s off in the metro, haven’t you noticed? The spirits seem unusually loud.”

“A ghost can only be seen by the one who killed them,” he muttered bitterly.

“And you,” the phone drawled. “And here you are, poking around the Mem Cakes.”

“Perhaps I am simply mourning another life taken from me.”

“You sure mourn a lot.”

“You sure kill a lot.”

The phone paused, humming like a dial tone. “Watch yourself, isopod.” And the call dropped.

Iso Padre hurried off, not daring to look over his shoulder. He walked until he returned to Acht’s usual hangout, where the poor DJ kneeled on the ground, hat askew, looking exhausted.

“Ai-Pa!!” Eight chirped, floating over to him and giving him a hug the best she could.

“Hello, young squire!” he said, trying to keep the grief and fear out of his voice. “It looks like you’ve been giving Acht quite the workout.”

“Ugh…” Acht groaned. They looked at him, sitting up straight and fixing their hat. “So how’d it go?”

He sighed, giving Eight a non-existent pat on the head. “It’s about as bad as we thought.”

As she floated off to do something else, he opened his briefcase. Stuck to one of the others, was a Mem Cake shaped like a bright green squid, no doubt representing the inkling who killed her. Iso Padre picked it up, turning it over to examine it.

Eight had loved her so much. The memories within would surely destroy her.

Frowning, he tucked the little cake away into his pocket, and closed the briefcase.

Chapter Text

With more memories consumed and relived, Eight grew up even more. She resembled a mostly mature octoling, one that was usually a year or two away from joining the military. Her eyes were youthful and wide, and she looked up at her friends with nothing but warmth.

To pass the time and distract her from her untamable hunger, Acht and Iso Padre had begun to teach her Inklish. Some of her Mem Cakes contained her prior knowledge of the language, so she was able to pick it up quite quickly, though a charming accent clung to her words.

Eight stared at the words on Acht’s computer screen, glaring a little. “La- la-” She cursed in Octarian.

“Ride.” Iso Padre corrected. “It’s more of a ruh sound.”

She frowned, sticking out her tongue a bit.

“I struggle with my R s too,” Acht told her, offering a smile. Of course, they couldn’t really see her, so they weren’t sure how effective it was. 

“You’re doing well, though. Why don’t we take a break?” the isopod suggested. “Are you hungry?”

Eight nodded, or at least, Acht assumed she did, because Iso Padre reached for his briefcase to give her something to remember.

Acht sighed, seeing the dwindling number of Mem Cakes resting within. “Hey. I’ve… I’ve got an old octoshot laying around somewhere. I can do a couple tests to get some coins for the vending machine. I assume there’s one for her?”

Iso Padre looked up, sternly shaking his head. “There’s no need to go to such lengths. I know your body is too weak to handle the tests.”

Acht rolled their eyes, rummaging around their stuff until they found the weapon they were looking for. “I’ll be fine. Besides, it’s not like we’ve thought of any other way to get her memories back.”

The isopod hummed, averting his eyes like he was hiding something. Acht knew it too well, because they often did the same thing. But there was no point in pressing him now. Not in front of Eight.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll just do one or two tests.”

Iso Padre looked like he was about to protest, but something invisible snagged his attention, so Acht took that opportunity to slip away.

They dug their old CQ-80 out of their jacket pocket and scanned it at the station’s terminal, then waited by the yellow line for the train to come.

Eventually, they heard the old machine come rumbling down the tracks, and they got on.

“Good afternoon, number 9980,” greeted the train’s conductor, but they ignored him.

They studied the map of the metro and selected a station with a relatively easy test, and slumped down into a seat as they waited.

Goodness, they hadn’t even done any fighting yet and they were already exhausted. The joys of being sanitized. But this was for Eight. For her sake, they had to power through.

With a sigh, they felt they had nothing much else to do but reminisce. They hadn’t felt this determined about anything since sanitization. The only thing they ever wanted was to sit by themselves and make their music, and then number 10008 came along.

Eight sure had a knack for brightening things, that was for sure. She reached their dead hearts by loving their music, and by anointing herself as their friend. Even though Acht had never said or done much in return, she truly seemed to care for them. Perhaps she’d been seeking solidarity with another test subject.

Acht rested their head against the cold glass window, staring out at the dark sea outside. They wished they’d been a better friend. They wish they’d tried more. Sure, they’d chatted and answered her questions, but socializing had been strenuous enough before they’d been rendered a zombie.

Maybe this was their chance to make it up to her. And once she was alive again, they’d find her killer and beat the shit out of them.

A ghost can only be seen by the one who killed them. They wondered if Iso Padre had thought of that.

The train at last came to a stop, and Acht disembarked, pulling their octoshot out of its holster.

The station was brightly lit, though sticky and humid fog filled the air, making it difficult to see more than a few steps in front of them. Plastic grass crunched beneath their boots, and artificial trees lightly swayed with the air conditioning.

It was loud, with the buzz of the lights and the whirr of the fans, yet somehow eerily quiet.

Acht held their gun tight, and if their hearts were capable of beating, they would have been thundering in their ears. They moved forward slowly, their gaze darting around, searching for any sign of a threat.

For the moment, they seemed to be alone.

So, they pressed on. They just needed to make it to the end terminal. Nothing too tricky. Of course, now would be the time for a wrench to be thrown into their plans.

They took a second to rest against one of the trees, letting out a long sigh. But in their brief moment of respite, they heard a shift in the grass.

A sanitized octoling just like them leapt out of the fog, claws curled and ready to draw blood.

Acht cursed and moved aside, readying their gun and firing a round of ink. They whipped their head around as the octoling fled into the fog, shoulders rising and falling in time with their panicked breaths.

They hurried onwards, imagining heavy footfalls echoing behind them, when an unfamiliar stream of ink cut them off.

Another octoling sat atop a sniper’s perch, following their movements with a charger. She fired again, just barely missing.

Acht let out a long sigh, trying to remember the training they’d zoned out during in their youth. They ran at the sniper, narrowly dodging shot after shot. They inked up the side of a fake tree, then shifted into an octopus and swam up, leaping onto the perch.

Landing back on their feet, they took aim at the sniper, who couldn’t reposition herself in time to take them out.

Acht winced as her ink splattered across their skin, smelling so strongly of bleach their throat burned. Though as much as they wanted to fall to their knees and heave for a moment, they hurried on.

The end terminal wasn’t much farther, and they made it past without a hitch. The golden, glowing reward was a simple coin, which quickly vanished into their pocket. 

The ride to central station dragged by in a blur, and they’d blacked out most of it, slouched in a seat staring up at the ceiling. They truly wanted to bring Eight back…but there was no way they could do this forever.

They hurried through the eerie station, glaring at the telephone along the way, before heading down some halls and finding vending machine number 10008. Dozens of Mem Cakes glittered at them from behind the glass. They definitely couldn’t do this forever.

Acht thought about which memories might make Eight the happiest, but they eventually gave up and selected one that might hold the most answers.

This Mem Cake closely resembled one of Acht’s own- the one they’d never eaten- depicting the popular idol Marina. Acht knew they knew her. And they knew Eight knew her. And they knew she’d meant something to them. But the rest was fuzzy.

But Marina had been down there with Eight. Maybe if Eight remembered her…something? Maybe her former friends might lead to what happened to her, or where to go from there.

Acht slipped the coin into the machine and punched in the right number, and watched as the little shelf spun around and the Mem Cake dropped down into the chute. But to their absolute delight, the one behind it got stuck to the first, and fell down with it.

They returned to their usual spot, feeling rather proud of themselves. They slumped down beside their laptop and took a look around, finding Iso Padre, and presumably Eight, nowhere. They thought nothing of it, assuming the two were off finding answers of their own.

Until, at least, they felt a shiver like nothing else. Every vein beneath their skin ran cold like ice, and they immediately sat upright. 

“Eight? Was that you?”

Of course, Acht wasn’t sure how they would get an answer if it was Eight, and a brief pause from the chill indicated the ghost felt the same.

“I uhhh…” They pulled the little bundle of memories out from their pocket. “I got a Mem Cake for you.” They winced as the cold dragged itself along her face like a caress from a hand, and a gentle sigh was blown onto their face. “Hey, I’m fine. Are you worried about me?”

The Mem Cake delicately rose from their hand, hovering midair for a moment before disappearing. The fluorescent lights above flickered and rattled, before glowing a bit brighter, and Acht could have sworn the invisible force before them flashed a brief pink, but vanished just as quick.

“Eight?”

The cold faltered as the world around returned to normal, but of course, the ghost did not say anything. Well, if she did, Acht couldn’t hear her. Obviously.

“What’s happening?” Iso Padre came running, clutching his briefcase like a lifeline. “Eight? What’s going on?” Lights flickering, walls groaning- he had no idea what to think until he saw Acht and Eight crouched next to each other.

Acht explained themselves, easing the old man’s nerves even more. Just a rather nice memory. That was all well and good.

“Though, you look quite tired,” he remarked. “That test was hard on you, wasn’t it?”

“For Eight’s sake, I can endure it,” they replied. This earned a pouty look from Eight, who tried to grab and shake them.

Iso Padre chuckled, crossing his arms. “So, Eight, what have you remembered now?” He nodded in place as he listened, a warm yet uneasy smile stretching onto his face. “Ah, the friends you travelled with, how wonderful. I remember them. Those two pop star ladies were very nice, and I enjoyed talking with that old man.”

“Wasn’t there someone else with them, too?” Acht asked, idly fidgeting with the cord of their headphones.

“I don’t believe so,” Iso Padre responded far too quickly. He tried to cough to mask the slip-up, but Acht was giving him a weird look.

Eight sat still, staring off into space. “No…I think there was someone…”

Iso Padre quietly wrestled with himself. He couldn’t just stand there and lie to her and risk tampering her memories- that could blot out her entire sense of self. He could not protect her and destroy her at the same time.

Acht counted with their fingers. “Marina…Pearl…that Cuttlefish guy…and…”

“There was someone…” Eight mused, eyes finding the ground. “She was…important.”

Acht abruptly straightened, snapping their fingers. “I think I remember! Eight told me about her, like a million times.”

Eight flinched in surprise, but quickly leaned in to listen.

“There was this girl Eight mentioned. Ugh, what was her name? I promise I listened.” They dragged a hand through their hair, knocking their headphones askew. 

“A girl…” The poor ghost sighed, looking down at her hands. “I can’t see her face…she was beautiful…”

“She was okay. I doubt I’d even recognize her if she came along.” Acht leaned their head back, lightly bumping it against the wall. “Oh yeah! Three, right? Agent 3?”

Eight didn’t seem to have much of a reaction. She was still, blinking in consideration, before her eyes went wide. They flickered into a new colour- the bright yellow Iso Padre had met a dozen times, standing out against the pink. She gasped, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. “Agent 3…how could I forget?”

“Was I right?” Acht whispered, and the isopod gently nodded.

Eight rose to her feet, whirling around like she might find the answers written on the walls. “I think I loved her. I think I do. I can’t see her face…” She frowned, staring at a splash of graffiti further down the hall. “But she left. All my friends left me here…”

“I hate to ruin the mood…” Acht dug around behind themselves, before procuring another Mem Cake. “But the vending machine gave me two.” They held it out in their open palm, and Iso Padre winced at the shape.

A gun. A gun that closely resembled that agent’s hero shot, nonetheless.

“I doubt that will be good news…” Iso Padre walked up behind Eight, hovering a reassuring hand behind her back.

Eight shook her head. “If it is my death or my life, I want to know. I want the answer.” She took the cake and stared down at it grimly, before eating it.

Her eyes cut sharper than a knife

You’ve been betrayed, it hurts to say

Shot dead by the love of your life

She shrieked as the memory came upon her, stumbling back and phasing through Iso Padre.

The lights violently swung from their cords, sparking and flickering like lightning. The walls creaked and the floor rumbled. Eight herself flashed a brighter colour, before the pink was weighed down by dreary grays.

“Eight?” Acht and Iso Padre both asked in unison.

As everything around them came to a halt, Eight’s arms dropped to her sides, and she aimed her gaze away.

Iso Padre slowly turned around, gently asking once again, “Eight?”

Tears streamed from her eyes, vanishing into thin air as they rolled down her cheeks. “I was… I must be wrong about her…” She gasped, her tiny voice trembling. “I loved her…but…” 

“What happened?” Acht whispered once again.

“It seems this memory was rather painful.”

Eight fell to her knees, beginning to sob. Breath after breath, the air wasn’t enough for her. She clawed at her face, and tugged at her chest, finding the answer written in blood on the concrete floor.

“Because the one who killed her…was Agent 3 herself.”

“What?” Acht hissed.

Iso Padre set his briefcase down and tucked his arms behind his back. If she came to this conclusion on her own…he’d do nothing to stop her. Well…

He felt the squid-shaped Mem Cake in his pocket, practically burning against the linen linings.

Almost nothing.

Chapter Text

It had been a week and one day since Eight learned the truth. And she’d been weeping the whole time. 

Each tear she shed was another nail in Iso Padre’s shell, a stab to his heart. Acht often asked how he wasn’t going crazy.

He wasn’t sure himself. He’d never seen a ghost until likely a decade since he first boarded the train. With so many sparkling stars hanging above him, he’d certainly thought he’d been going mad. 

As for the quiet, echoing cries…he’d gotten used to them.

Another week and another day later, Eight had drifted off somewhere alone. Iso Padre found her in the same train tunnel she’d appeared the first time.

Her sobs and wails no longer bounced off the walls in tragic cacophony. She kneeled on the ground, running her hand over the mural painted there, still very much crying.

Iso Padre had never bothered to give the graffiti much thought, but he examined it as he stood behind her, searching for the right thing to get her attention.

“That’s a pretty painting, isn’t it?”

“It is…” the girl sighed.

The work of vandalism depicted a city skyline in clumsy, boxy shapes. A sky was filled in behind it in faded blues, and clouds were dusted with yellow from a childish sun in the center. Just beneath it all, the city was mirrored, a mix of dark hues and vibrant neon. And off to the side, away from the painting, was a crudely doodled pair of cephalopods- a green squid and a pink octopus.

Iso Padre’s eyes softened a bit, and he delicately stepped closer. “Acht got some Mem Cakes for you. Are you hungry?”

Eight had not eaten since she remembered her death, not to mention the ravenous nature of her existence, so he knew the answer was yes. Even so, she shook her head, mournfully shifting away from him.

“I…don’t know if I should go any farther.”

“What do you mean?”

Her breath hitched, as she began to cry once more. “Agent 3… She was something in my world of nothing. But she…” Eight reached up and felt along her temple, where the bullet wound must have been. “She killed me. This truth makes me wonder…if I even want to exist.”

“My darling young squire,” Iso Padre sighed. “Is there not more to life than her?”

“Of course there is! But each answer brings so much pain. I don’t know where I should go from here.” She rested her head against the wall, her fingertips grazing a trail of paint. “I want to be alive again…but what kind of life is there for me?”

Iso Padre watched her longingly gaze up at the mural, his ever beating heart weighing him down. “Eight…what does this painting mean to you?”

She tragically sniffled, wiping her tears away. “I don’t know. I think it’s important, though.”

“It reminds me of the surface.”

“The surface…” She let out a sigh, closing her eyes. “I remember…I wanted to go there. I wanted to see the sun, and the sky.” She slowly rose to her feet, touching the hues she’d never had the chance to see.

“When you were alive, you told me you wanted to live there.” 

With Agent 3, he didn’t add.

“I still do…” she mumbled. “I want to live in the light.”

He watched her once more, seeing the hope alight in her eyes when she spoke of the surface, flashing a brighter yellow when her hand traced the drawing of the squid.

He thought of the matching Mem Cake in his pocket, knowing he’d been a fool all along. “Eight, listen…” He was about to pull it out, when a horrible ringing hit his ears.

Eight gasped, flinching away from the wall. “That’s..!”

Iso Padre reached for her, though he knew he couldn’t take her hand. “We need to go.”

“I know,” she said with a firm nod. “The telephone means danger.”

Eight followed behind Iso Padre as they hurried down the halls. The ringing grew louder and louder, its shrill tones digging into her immaterial form, but she focused on the corrugated surface of the isopod’s shell.

They found Acht, who was already standing up, octoshot at the ready. Their head whipped back and forth as they analyzed for threats, but their shoulders sank in relief when they caught sight of the two.

“Iso, what do we do? The phone’s onto us.”

Iso Padre faltered. Eight had seen brief moments of weakness in the man, but this was the first time he’d ever looked truly hopeless.

“Is there any way we can get to the surface on our own? Take Eight up and figure things out from there?”

They bit their lip, their finger anxiously tapping the trigger of their gun. “I don’t know. We’d either have to climb up through the lab or take the train. Both options are flawed.”

Eight looked back and forth between them as they racked their brains trying to think of something. She hated the panic on their faces. But there was nothing she could do as she was then.

“And what about her body? We still haven’t found it and she needs it if we’re bringing her back.” Acht stumbled backwards to rest their hand against the wall, tired already. “We need more time.”

Iso Padre sighed. “We’re not going to get more time. Tartar will dispose of us at this rate. We need a plan.”

Eight gasped, drawing the two’s attention. She shakily pointed at something behind them.

A small puddle of ink pooled and inched closer and closer, glowing an unnatural teal in the dim light. In time with a toll from the phone like a scream, three sanitized octolings rose out from the ink, brandishing their weapons.

“Shit,” Acht hissed. They stepped forward, guarding Iso Padre and Eight with their arm. “You two, get out of here.”

Iso Padre was quick to protest. “But Acht-”

“It’s fine!” They fired a warning shot as the enemies stalked closer. “Please, just let me buy you a few moments. Make sure Eight is safe!”

The isopod let out a long breath, nodding gravely. “Very well.” He took a step back, gesturing for Eight to follow.

“But…” Eight looked back at Acht, who had pounced into action as the octolings approached them.

Acht spared her a quick glance, and managed a smile. “I promise not to die, Eight.”

Swallowing her tears, Eight smiled back, and hurried after the isopod. “Thank you…”

Alarms blared in time with the phone’s awful rings, and Eight couldn’t help but imagine footfalls behind her as she fled with no goal in sight.

She knew Iso Padre was searching for answers. She could tell from his wince and from the way his whiskers curled and from the way he reached for her hand despite being unable to hold it.

Everywhere they turned, there was no escape from the dissonant echoes haunting the metro. They travelled down halls, though doors marked “staff only,” up flights of stairs, down more flights of stairs, and twisting countless corners leading only deeper into the darkness.

They finally arrived at a dead end, bearing no signs, no doors, nothing.

Nothing except an old antique telephone, waiting for them.

Eight gasped, pulling herself closer to the isopod, hiding behind his shell.

“What do you want?” Iso Padre growled, putting an end to the incessant ringing.

The phone sat in silence for a moment, before a crackling, grainy voice responded. “Well, well! Hey there, number 4008! Partaking in some good old fashioned necromancy, are we?”

“It is none of your business.”

“Considering you were just accusing me of murder, I think it’s plenty of my business.” In a single blink, the phone was gone, though its voice and unspoken threat hung in the air.

Another sanitized octoling lunged at them from behind, claws scraping against Iso Padre’s shell.

Eight felt her hearts sink as she watched him fight them off, faltering in place because she wanted to help but couldn’t. She was a soldier. She wasn’t supposed to stand there and be useless.

She was brought back to reality by a horrifying bang, seeing the octoling holding an E-liter. Ink from the shot splashed over Iso Padre’s shoulder, effortlessly dissolving his carapace.

Iso Padre hissed in pain, nearly doubling over, but kept scrambling to fight back. He finally wrenched the weapon from their grasp and delivered a hard hit to their head, sending them reeling back into their ink.

Eight stayed still as a corpse in the silence that followed. The both of them waited, waited, for anything else to come at them, but it was simply quiet.

Iso Padre fell to his knees, coughing as he rested against the wall.

“Iso Padre!” Eight cried. She kneeled down next to him, frantically looking over the bruises and dents in his skin. The damage to his shell was easing as the ink leaked away, but it was clear the shell would never protect him as well as it once did.

“Eight…” the isopod croaked. “I’m alright. Are you alright?”

She gently nodded, placing her hands over one of his arms. “I’m sorry…” She squeezed her eyes shut as she began to tear up. “I’m so sorry…”

“My darling young squire, why are you sorry?” He offered a tiny smile, his cracked sunglasses glinting.

“You- You and Acht are ge-getting hurt trying to help me.” She sniffled, her voice catching in her throat. “You’re getting hurt…because of me.”

Iso Padre shook his head, delicately setting a claw over her hand. “Oh, now. Listen to me, my dear.”

She slowly looked up, almost unable to meet his eyes. 

“Acht and I can handle ourselves just fine. And we don’t mind getting into a little trouble for your sake. Do you know why?”

“Why?” she asked in her smallest voice.

“Because we love you.”

She felt a new wave of misery wash over her, and she pressed closer to him, beginning to sob.

“You don’t need to cry, my dear Eight. I’ll be just fine. We isopods are resilient!” He let out a heavy wheeze, leaning his full weight against the wall. “That being said…I’m not certain I can move from here. Acht and I may not be able to help you much more.”

“It’s alright!” she insisted, lightly shaking him. “I’ll stay down here with you. I’ll stay a ghost.”

“No, no, my dear,” he said with a sad smile. “You must live!”

She stared up at him, flushed and wide-eyed. Her breath trembled, and tears streamed down her face. She knew there was supposed to be hope for her, but it was hard to believe such a thing was true.

“In truth…I owe you an apology as well.” He struggled to sit up, sticking a claw into his pocket and digging around. “I’m so fond of you, yet I’ve been keeping something quite important from you.” He held out a little Mem Cake. It was bright green and shaped like the squid she’d seen painted on the wall.

“Agent 3…” Eight whispered. She took the Mem Cake, turning it over in her hand. All she could remember of the girl was love, and death.

“The truth about her lies hidden within those memories. It was wrong of me to keep them from you.”

“It’s alright,” she told him, practically on autopilot. She took another moment to gaze down upon the little squid, before taking a bite.

At last we meet, my so-called foe.

But is our fate to spray this hate?

Perhaps we’ll learn in depths below…

Eight gasped as the warm memory faded back into the dark metro. She could finally see her face. The inkling often pretended to look serious and aloof, but her eyes were warm and kind. “Agent 3… She would never hurt me. So…why?”

Iso Padre nodded sympathetically. “She was under that foul telephone’s control. Her memories of this place, and you, are gone.”

Eight’s eyes widened. “She…doesn’t remember anything?”

“Indeed. And let me tell you something.” He coughed once again, his entire body trembling. “Though I appear to be an exception, a ghost can only be seen by the one who killed them.”

She straightened, slowly drawing away from him. “So you’re saying…Agent 3 will be able to see me?”

“Yes, my dear. She will.”

“What about you?” Eight asked, feeling weak all over again. “I don’t want to leave you.”

The isopod simply shook his head. “There’s nothing more I can do for you. Go to her. If she truly is the hero you remember, then she will help you.”

She averted her eyes, looking down at the floor.

“I believe she has a set of Mem Cakes of her own. I saw them in one of the vending machines.” He leaned back into the wall, warmly looking up at her. “You should go get them.”

Frowning, she set her jaw. “Okay.”

“Don’t worry about me. Acht will come and get me.”

She slowly got to her feet, her eyes wandering over his weak and broken frame. “Okay.”

“Be brave, my darling young squire.” He gave her one last smile to send her off. “And when we meet again, you’ll be alive. Now go.”

“Okay.” She turned away from him and closed her eyes. She could imagine where the Mem Cakes were, able to sense her own. All she had to do was get there. “Thank you for everything, Iso Padre.”

Chapter Text

“Then, you must only like me because I’m pretty?”

“What? No way! Sure, you’re gorgeous, but there’s more to you than that.”

“Like what?”

“C’mon Eighty, don’t make me get all poetic on you.”

Agent 3 and Agent 8 wandered through a dark train tunnel, balancing on the steel beams of the rails. Three struggled to keep her balance, but she was determined to do her damn best because Eight was just fine in heels.

“Girls like poetry. Haven’t you heard?”

Three rolled her eyes. “Girls like all sorts of things.” She nearly tripped, but recovered easily enough. “What kinda things does a girl like you like?”

Eight smirked as the girl stumbled her way through a cool, tough act. “I don’t remember. I’m figuring it out as I go.”

“Well, I know you’re into poetry.”

“That is true.”

“And music.”

“Hip-hop and disco, specifically.”

“And DJs who are totally head over suckers for you.”

She scoffed, but would be lying if she said she didn’t blush. “Fine. What are you into?”

“Pretty girls,” Three chirped, making a heart with her hands.

Eight gave her a light shove, nearly knocking her off her balance. “There you go with pretty, again.”

She laughed, waving a hand. “Sorry, sorry. I guess…I don’t really know my type. Never really thought about it. But then you came along, and you’re meeting all the criteria I didn’t know existed.”

“So you like girls who can beat you up.”

“Maybe,” Three replied with a stupid smile.

Eight shook her head, grinning at the girl’s antics. Of course, she’d imagined pinning her up against the wall or crawling into her lap and holding her down many times, but she’d voice that thought some other time. “By the way, what’s in the bag?”

On their little walk, Three had been holding a suspicious black duffel bag over her shoulder, and surprisingly had yet to use it as an excuse for her shoddy balance.

“Spray paint,” the girl said with a grin.

“And why do you need that?”

“I found a bunch of it in some storage closet. Thought I’d leave a nice little mural.”

Eight crossed her arms. “Aren’t you a janitor? The telephone’s going to kill you.”

The two found a nice spot to take a break. Eight squatted down on the ground while Three sorted out her colours. Eight listened to the clinking of the cans and the girl’s quiet mumbling, finding it a relaxing mix of noise to zone out to.

“Random question,” the inkling said, looking over her shoulder. “Do you have any dreams?”

Eight hummed, resting her head on her knees. “I have forgotten that too.” She sighed. “But right now, I want to make it to the surface, and start a new life.”

“The surface, huh? I guess I’ve been taking it for granted my whole life.”

“What’s it like?” Eight asked, looking up at her. “The city where you live?”

“Well…” Three shook a can of blue, reaching her arm back and forth until a decent section of the wall was covered. “There’s a biiiig blue sky that you can see from anywhere.” She added a few white blobs Eight assumed were clouds, then sprayed in a lopsided circle in yellow, letting its rays stretch and shine and drip. “And it’s usually sunny.” She grabbed a can of gray, drawing a skyline of tall, uneven rectangles. “There’s tons of huge skyscrapers. People live and work in all of them.” She fumbled to grab a neon green, then drew a tiny squid off to the side. “And that’s where I live… Do you remember what your home was like?”

Eight slowly got to her feet, stretching a bit. “My home is similar, but…” She took a can of black paint, and sprayed it all underneath Three’s vibrant city. “It’s usually quite dark. I’ve never seen the sun.” In the same gray Three had used, she painted her buildings upside-down, mirroring the surface. Then she swapped through as many shades of neon she could find, highlighting buildings and drawing tiny little signs in pink, green, and blue. “But we always found a way to make our own light.” She took the pink once again, and drew a little octopus next to Three’s squid. “We all love our home, but many of us want more. That’s why I’m here, I think.”

The two of them stepped back to look at their little work of art, and Three gently took her hand.

“I’ll help you get there. The surface, I mean.” She offered a warm, hero-ish smile. “That way when you make it, you’ll have a friend.”

“That’s nice,” Eight mused. “Let’s find a way out of this metro quickly, then. I want to see this city of yours.”

Eight reminisced on the memory that last Mem Cake had left her with. She and Agent 3 were supposed to escape together. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

She was disappointed when she saw the surface for the first time. Sort of. She was disappointed, because it was nothing like she’d imagined all her life. But in another way, she was in awe, because in its own unique way, it was just like home, and just like the metro.

It was dark, but the sky was alight with a collage of stars dancing around a bright white moon, bathing the streets in their light. The streets were bursting with neon from signs and billboards, shining on even though there was nobody awake to enjoy them.

Eight had always imagined constant light, constant sunshine, but perhaps it was silly to expect that in the middle of the night.

As much as she wanted to wander around and wait for the sun, she had someone to find.

So she searched.

And she searched.

She explored every road, every alley. She crossed overpasses and underpasses and tunnels and train stations, finding no sign of anyone, nevermind Agent 3.

Eight wasn’t sure how long she searched. The sun had risen and fallen quite a few times. She’d become an expert at weaving through crowds, simply phasing through people and sea creatures, watching them shiver as she passed.

It was a cloudy afternoon. Eight stood in the middle of a busy intersection, watching seas of inkfish gather at the crosswalks. She’d seen likely millions of people just within the last hour. Her hope in finding one specific person was rapidly dwindling.

But then, she heard someone’s voice carry unusually loud over the crowd.

“Three! Wait up!”

Eight turned her head, seeing a short green inkling chasing after someone.

“I’m fine! Just leave me alone!”

Eight gasped. It was like all the heavens shone down onto the city, bringing her some luck.

There was Agent 3, pulling her headphones over a beanie, walking away from the guy following her. She was just as lovely as Eight remembered, though she looked quite tired and unkempt.

Agent 3 whirled around, nearly bumping into the guy Eight assumed was her friend. “Sorry. I just…”

“I know. It’s okay.” He patted her shoulder, and took a step back so she could leave.

Eight was quick to follow, never losing sight of her even in the thickest of crowds. She tried calling out, but Three did not hear her. Tried cutting her off, but Three did not see her.

Strange, but Eight was undeterred. She simply watched. 

Watched Agent 3 go about her daily life. The girl rarely left her room, nevermind her home, only occasionally being dragged out by a message from her phone.

Watched Agent 3 pick at her keyboard, but hesitate and flinch away like someone had walked in on her.

Watched Agent 3 cry until she couldn’t move, and watched her litter the floor with drink cans, and watched her clean them up the next morning while holding her head. It seemed Eight’s death was haunting her before the ghost could even show up.

She was pitiful, and nothing like the hero Eight once knew, but she still believed in her. After many days of watching her cry, Eight slipped in behind her as she slept, wrapping her arms around her. The girl shivered, but relaxed into it.

Eight often followed her around, and Three would glance over her shoulder like she’d caught a specter from the corner of her eye, or stare right through her at the wall behind her.

Sometimes she spoke, and sometimes Three seemed to hear her. Usually that only brought dismay, and she often lamented to her friends she thought she was going crazy.

Eight eventually got sick of being ignored. Endless nights holding the girl close did well to make her feel whole again, but she knew it wasn’t enough. She longed to stare into her eyes and run her hands along her face, longed to feel her cool skin beneath her fingertips, longed to be alive and stand next to her in the light like they’d promised.

One morning, as the sun leaked through the blinds, she stood at Three’s bedside, staring down at her sleeping form.

Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, though her brow was creased.

“Wake up,” Eight said, earning a gentle flick of Three’s ear. “Wake up,” she added, almost impatiently. “Wake up. Wake up.”

Agent 3 groaned, rolling over and clamping a hand over her ear. Completely unbothered, or perhaps extremely tired of being bothered.

Eight rolled her eyes. Seriously? “Can you hear me? Three, wake up!”

Three slowly pulled herself up, rubbing her eyes and looking around. Her gaze slowly met Eight’s and her eyes went wide. “Ei-Eight?”

The ghost smiled, practically beamed. Agent 3 could see her. It was horribly wrong to think about, but wonderfully right all at once.

“You finally noticed me. Took you long enough.”