Chapter Text
“Three? Do you see anything?”
As Agent 3 advanced through the tunnel, she watched her breath plume into the frigid air. The flashlight mounted on her Hero Shot did little to pierce the oppressive darkness. Every so often, her head grazed the low ceiling, forcing her into an awkward crouch as she pressed forward.
“Nothing but a narrow passage. Probably an old transport route for smaller Octarians. My guess is Octoballs,” she replied through the comms.
Cod… what an unfortunate designation.
Callie’s voice crackled in response. “Ugh… those things always gave me the creeps. Let us know if you spot anything.”
The mission was simple in theory: intercept Octarians attempting to restore one of the decommissioned Octoweapons. Marie had intercepted a fragmented radio transmission referencing a “mission to retrieve,” but that was all she’d managed to glean.
“The farther I go, the more I think this place has been long aban—”
Three cut herself off at the sound of a footstep. Then another. Then the faint yet unmistakable chatter of lesser Octarians. She approached a grated vent and peered down to the chamber below, not daring to whisper into her headset.
“What is it? What—”
Three silenced Marie by switching off her comms entirely.
She assessed the hostiles. Four lesser Octarians—two Twintacles and two Speedy Twintacles. Accompanying them were two Elite Octolings. The taller of the pair issued commands in Octarian. Drawing upon her rudimentary grasp of the language, Three deciphered fragments.
“The DJ provided these coordinates. There may be a Zapfish here. Search thoroughly,” the taller one ordered.
Three tracked her movements carefully.
The chamber resembled an abandoned laboratory. Empty tanks, overturned tables, discarded ink pouches, and syringes littered the space. A thin veneer of dust coated every surface. The Twintacles’ spherical transports carved fresh trails through the powder across the concrete floor.
The taller Octoling adjusted her goggles and began methodically scanning the perimeter. The shorter lingered behind, rifling through cabinets. As the others dispersed, she was left momentarily alone.She approached a locker and pried it open. Inside: a lab coat sized for an Octotrooper, a faded photograph affixed to the door, and a single vial—the only container in the room that still held anything of substance.The shorter Octoling lifted the vial to the light. Within it shimmered a trace of bioluminescent fluid.
“Colonel?” she called.
She moved to rejoin the others, vanishing from Three’s line of sight.
Three shifted into swim form and slipped effortlessly through the grate. Emerging silently, she shadowed them from a distance, poised to strike. As Cuttlefish had always preached, stealth commanded half the battlefield.
She caught their exchange.
“What is it now, Lieutenant?” the taller Octoling demanded.
“I found this in a locker. It appears—”
“Is it a Zapfish, Lieutenant?”
Her subordinate faltered. “No, but—”
“Will it in any conceivable way resolve the energy crisis in Kettle 13B?”
“No…”
“Then discard it and continue the search.”
By then, Three had maneuvered behind countertops and filing cabinets to the opposite side of the room, where an unfortunate Octotrooper was about to meet an equally unfortunate demise. She dispatched him swiftly and without spectacle, then eliminated the others in similar fashion.
Only the two Elites remained.
“Where have those imbeciles wandered off to?” the Colonel muttered. “Playing with laboratory relics? Show yourselves!”
Her outburst was interrupted by the Lieutenant’s voice.
“Colonel… we are not alone.”
Three struck first, targeting the smaller Octoling. Confined spaces favored her. She delivered a sharp blow to the Lieutenant’s face, only to be deflected moments later. The Lieutenant widened the distance, circling cautiously.
The Colonel attempted to flank her from behind. Three vaulted over a countertop, and the Colonel collided unceremoniously with her subordinate. The Lieutenant shoved her off, attempting to reengage, but the Colonel stepped between them.
“So. You are one of the Squidbeaks, yes? The Splatoon?” Her Inklish was thickly accented but intelligible.
“Colonel, we don’t have time for theatrics—” the Lieutenant protested, attempting to sidestep her superior.
The Colonel shoved her aside. “I have tolerated enough. You will not claim credit for stealing my—AUGH!”
A burst of ink struck the Colonel square in the chest, splatting her at point-blank range.
The Lieutenant reacted instantly, vaulting across the countertop and knocking the Hero Shot from Three’s grasp. They devolved into close-quarters combat—trading strikes, grappling, struggling for leverage. Three broke away, retreating deeper into the abandoned kettle. The Lieutenant pursued.
No words passed between them. None were necessary. This was professional. Efficient. Brutal.
Three slipped into an antiquated icebox filled with indistinct bags suspended from hooks. She concealed herself among them, poised to ambush. The tactic succeeded briefly—but the Elite adapted quickly.
Three adapted faster.
A bag tore free from its hook and thudded onto the floor with a disturbingly hollow sound. The Elite seized the fallen hook and rolled clear of Three’s attack, then drove the metal spike into Three’s shoulder.
Three grunted—refusing the satisfaction of a scream.
The Elite kicked her to the ground.
“This is not personal,” the Octoling stated coolly, planting the heel of her chrome boot against Three’s chest—pinning her atop the rancid-smelling bag. A foreign insignia marked its surface, though Three had no time to scrutinize it. Survival took precedence.
“Of course it’s personal,” Three rasped. “If it weren’t, I’d already be dead.”
The Elite folded her arms. “I am not naïve, Inkling. You possess a portable spawn point. I am willing to wager it retains enough charge to resurrect you at least once.”
She paused, as though weighing something.
“I will grant you a choice. Leave. Report that you found nothing. Pretend this encounter never occurred.”
Three twisted her head to stare at her captor. “What?”
“I am sincere. I did not intend to harm anyone today. I only wish to keep my people alive.”
“That Zapfish belongs to the surface.”
The Octoling stepped back with a weary exhale. “Allow me to phrase this differently. Do you not possess sympathy? For the desperate?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Three shot back. “Your people stole from mine. We’re taking back what’s ours.”
“We are trying to survive. My people are dying—”
“They’re paying for the greed of your Octobot King!”
The Octoling retreated once. Twice. Three advanced.
“I am offering you mercy, Inkling.”
“I don’t want your mercy.”
Three lunged, driving the Octoling through the doorway. They crashed into a decrepit chamber, its foundation fractured, its walls seeping with that strange luminescent ooze. They slammed each other against concrete and rusted metal. The Octoling fought ruthlessly—pressing her thumb into Three’s wounded shoulder before sweeping her legs.
As Three struck the ground, the room shuddered.
Footsteps sounded in the doorway.
“What the—An OCTOLING?!”
The Elite faltered, distracted. She turned toward the elderly figure in the doorway—brandishing an old Bamboozler MK I.
Three seized the opening, rolling atop her opponent and driving her into the floor. The fractured foundation surrendered. The Octoling struggled to wrench herself free as the ground gave way—but she was too late.
Her goggles were torn loose during the plunge. As she fell, she locked eyes with Three one final time.
In her gaze, she saw not a hero—
—but an oppressor.
That happened two years ago. Two years before Eight’s life would be altered forever.