Chapter Text
The weapon lies scattered in pieces across the cold steel table, its parts reflecting dully under the overhead light. It had jammed during a solo mission the other day, which lately has been a common occurrence.
Three stares at the dismantled pieces, the smell of leaking ink mixing with the faint dampness of the underground air. Their hands move methodically, screwdriver in one and the gun held down in the other, though their grip trembles. The tension is subtle, a slight shake that betrays more than they’d ever admit.
The wear and tear on the weapon mirrors their own skin. Scars criss-cross their body and tentacles like a map. But none are as glaring as the mark that consumes half their face, the flesh darkened and ridged, stark against their already tanned skin. It pulls slightly when they grit their teeth, though they’ve learned to ignore the discomfort.
The small screwdriver wavers in their hand as they strain to focus with their one good eye. When they apply more pressure to the screw, the tool slips free, gouging into their opposite hand with a sharp, angry sting.
They hiss but swallow the curse rising to their lips. For a moment, they watch the blood bead along the line it’s drawn. Another scar, they think absently.
Shoving the screwdriver aside, they reach for the drawer by the desk, yanking out a roll of gauze. The action is impatient, the sound of tearing fabric sharp in the silence. The gauze turns red too quickly.
Their head tips back against the worn metal chair, a sigh escaping through gritted teeth. Above, the ceiling fan looms useless. It’s been broken for longer than they’ve been with the Squidbeak Splatoon, its presence a reminder of the base’s age. Cuttlefish had said it was an old underground base the Octarians inhabited after the Great Turf War. Though it was close to the surface, and they were driven out sooner or later for reasons they’re sure Cuttlefish knows, but won’t say.
Its haphazard charm is oddly comforting. The others, Callie, Marie, even Four, talk sometimes about finding somewhere better. But none of them make a move. Maybe they’ve all grown attached.
Three spins their chair away from the desk, surveying their room. It’s frugal but lived-in, cluttered with trinkets collected over years of missions. The captain’s hat—their hat hangs on a bent hook above their bed. They haven’t touched it since Cuttlefish bestowed it to them two weeks ago upon his sudden retirement.
The stitching on one of the patches is starting to fray. They’ll have to ask Callie or Marie to fix it.
The blood weeping from their hand has slowed, the sharp sting dulled to a faint throb. With practiced indifference, they tape a fresh layer of gauze over the wound. Standing feels like an unnecessary effort, but the desk and what’s scattered upon it hold no appeal at the moment.
The bed creaks as they collapse onto it, one leg dangling over the edge. It isn’t the most comfortable, but they find they can sleep on anything. The ache in their hand pulses faintly, a rhythm they try to ignore as they close their eyes. For a moment, the world narrows to the sound of their own breathing, the steady thrum of their heartbeat, and the faint hum of fluorescent lights above. They focus on that instead of their hand, a quiet practice they’ve mastered to bear injuries more than once.
Though the quiet doesn’t last long. The creaking signals the door opening across the room. Three doesn’t move immediately, their body sluggish, thoughts still caught somewhere between rest and the gnawing ache in their hand.
Marie’s voice cuts through, dry and unimpressed. “I told her to knock, but she insisted you were up working.”
The cousins step inside, Callie and Marie’s figures familiar enough to recognize at a glance. But there’s someone else behind them, a shadow framed in the doorway, too tall to be Four.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Callie says sheepishly as they approach the bed, though it’s aimed at Marie before her gaze flickers back to Three. “That’s what you told me earlier, right?”
Three forces themselves upright, rubbing the sleep from their eye with the heel of one hand. “I was working, yes” they say, their voice gravelly. “Just… taking a break.”
“Sorry, Cap. We’ll be quick, promise.” The informal title slips from Callie’s mouth as easily as if it’s their name, but it lodges in Three’s chest like a thorn.
Marie is less theatrical, her tone clipped. “We have someone we want you to see.” She gestures toward the figure behind them.
The movement brings her into focus. Three’s breath stalls for half a second.
An Octoling.
Her suction-speckled hair is cropped short, brushing her shoulders. She’s dressed in tactical gear, dark skin peeking out in places the clothes don’t cover, contrasted by the harsh overhead light. But it’s her eyes that really hold them—a deep, luminous orange that cuts through the room. There’s a hesitation there, a sheepishness at first, but it evaporates the moment their gazes lock. Her expression shifts to something sharper, like she’s seeing a ghost. The realization seems to set in for them both at the same time. This was undoubtedly the same Octoling from the Deepsea Metro.
Marie continues, unbothered by the tension building in the air. “This is Agent Eight. Though I’m sure you two don’t need introductions.”
Eight nods stiffly, a formal acknowledgment that Three returns with the same rigidity.
“She’ll be joining you on upcoming missions,” Marie says. “After Gramps’ stint underground, we’ve decided to look more into the tunnels. There’s a lot about ‘sanitization’ we still don’t understand.”
“Gramps says she’s good at what she does,” Callie adds, casually folding her arms. “And we’ll be handing off what you guys find to Pearl and Marina.”
Three raises an eyebrow. “Off the Hook?”
Marie nods, her expression flickering to something more serious. “They had a firsthand encounter with whatever created the sanitization process. From what I understand, you were… compromised.”
Their memory is foggy. They have a faint recollection of the duo being there alongside that telephone’s voice, cold and mechanical. Cuttlefish had tried to explain it later, but his words had been as jumbled as their memories. The only clarity came in flashes: a swift impact, a helicopter’s whirring blades, the feeling of cold metal, and the mark on their face.
They do, however, remember their first encounter with Eight. How they had blindly followed Cuttlefish’s orders to attack them, and how she had fought back with the ferocity of someone who had nothing left to lose. She had looked exhausted.
“She’ll be staying in Four’s room for now,” Marie says, snapping them back to the present. “We’ll send you two back into the tunnels. See if anything turns up.”
Three glances at Eight again. She’s quiet, her focus more on the room than the conversation, though there’s a subtle tension in the way she stands.
“Got it,” Three says simply, their voice flat. “Let me know when.”
Callie throws a playful salute. “Will do, Captain.”
As they turn to leave, Eight lingers for a fraction of a second longer. Her gaze slides back to Three, unreadable, before she follows the cousins out of the room.
Three waits until the sound of footsteps fades before exhaling, long and heavy, and collapsing back onto the bed.
They wonder in the back of their mind if they’re only doing this because they’ve had trouble recently given their injury. A quiet sting pricks at the edges of their thoughts, creeping up behind their eyes. The cut on their hand throbs faintly, a pulsing reminder of everything they’ve let slip lately. They hate how weak they feel.
***
At some point, sleep overtakes them. The kind that drags you under before you can fight it, leaving you disoriented when you resurface. Waking up in a room without windows is always a small shock, the lack of light makes it impossible to tell the time of day. For a brief moment, they let the silence stretch, heavy and blank, before the glowing numbers on their clock pull them back. It’s late, much later than they expected. The others are either asleep or gone by now.
Their body hums with restless energy, the ache in their hand refusing to let them settle. They know themselves too well to believe they’ll fall asleep again any time soon. There’s a communal area outside the bedrooms, a mismatched space of trinkets, filled with a touch of everyone’s personality and also often where they go to discuss missions. Four brought an old mini-fridge they had, there should be some water in there. That will help.
The air is cool against their skin as they shuffle into the room. It isn’t until they’re halfway across the floor that they notice the figure standing near the far wall. By the time their vision focuses, Eight has already turned, her eyes catching the low glow of the single lamp in the corner.
Her presence startles them, though they hate to admit it. She seems taller in the dim light, her silhouette cutting sharp lines against the haphazard chaos of the room. It’s the first time they’ve seen her out of uniform, dressed in a loose t-shirt that hangs slightly off one shoulder, paired with shorts that make her seem impossibly casual.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice soft. “I did not know you would be awake.”
Her Octarian accent lingers in each word. Three blinks away their surprise and clears their throat. “Couldn’t sleep,” they rasp, their voice rougher than they’d thought. “Just getting some water.”
“As was I,” she replies, her gaze flicking away from theirs to scan the room. “I became… distracted by all of this.”
They follow her eyes to the far wall. Doodles, hastily written notes, old mission reports, all of it clustered in uneven patches. At the center is a crude portrait Cuttlefish had drawn years ago. Callie, Marie, Four, himself and Three.
Three crouches near the fridge, pulling open the door and grabbing a water bottle from the shelf. “Look around all you want,” they say, the words coming out flat but not unkind.
The bottle cap resists when they twist it, and the tension pulls too hard on their bandaged hand. Pain slices through them as they feel the healing wound tear open. The bottle clatters to the floor, unspilled but loud enough to echo.
“Shit,” they mutter, clutching their hand as blood wells and spills down their fingers from beneath the loosened bandage.
Eight moves instantly, her steps quiet but purposeful as she crosses the room. “What happened?” she asks, her voice sharpened with concern. “Are you hurt?”
They grimace, fumbling for the first aid kit they keep stashed in a cabinet, but exhaustion makes their fingers clumsy. The clasp refuses to budge, and another drop of blood splatters onto the floor.
Eight comes up beside them, her hands steady as she unfastens the kit in a single, practiced motion. Without a word, she pulls out gauze and tape before holding her hand out, palm up, expectant.
Three hesitates before placing their injured hand in hers. She removes the old bandages, and proceeds to wrap the wound with precise movements, her fingers brushing against their skin as she works. Her focus is unshakable, her brow furrowed just slightly.
“I had to do this a lot myself,” she murmurs after a moment, breaking the quiet. Her voice is softer now, almost apologetic. Three’s gaze drifts to her hands, where faint scars crisscross her dark skin, paled and uneven.
When she finishes, she secures the bandage with a final piece of tape, her hands lingering a beat too long before she pulls back.
“Thanks,” Three mutters, flexing their fingers experimentally. The bandage is firm but not too tight, perfectly done. “Anyway, I’ll leave you be.”
They move to leave, but her voice stops them.
“Captain?”
The word hangs in the air, and when they glance back at her, her expression is steady, though there’s something tentative in her posture. “I look forward to working with you,” she says simply.
No matter how many times someone calls them that, it never feels real. The weight of the title is something they’ll never grow used to. With a quiet sigh, they wave a hand dismissively. “Just call me Three.”
Her lips curve into the faintest smile, and she repeats it under her breath, like she’s testing it. “Okay, Three,” she says, her voice softening. “Rest well.”
They nod and retreat to their room. The bed is as uncomfortable as ever, but they manage to fall asleep anyway, as they always do eventually. Thoughts of Eight linger at the edge of their dreams, tangled with uncertainty. They can only hope nothing will go wrong.