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Chapter Text

The Splatfest parade tore through Splatsville like a riptide of ink and sound. Frye’s float led the charge, her lithe body twisting and leaping atop the serpent-shaped platform, a tempest of energy. Below her, the crowd screamed her name, their chants mingling with the pulsating beat of the music.

From their float just behind her, Shiver watched, arms crossed and mouth set in a crooked grin. “She’s gonna eat it one of these days,” she muttered, her crimson eyes sharp, cutting through the electric haze.

Big Man chuckled beside her, his booming “Ay!” a counterpoint to the noise. "(She’s fine, boss. Look at her go!)”

And then, she wasn’t fine.

Frye’s foot slipped, her form pitching forward. For one fleeting moment, her body hung in the air like a splash frozen mid-leap. Then she plummeted, a streak of gold against the blackened sky. The thud when she hit the cobblestones cut through the music, through the screams, through everything.

Shiver didn’t hesitate. She leapt from her float, landing lightly despite the weight of her ornamental sash and blade. Big Man followed, his normally buoyant movements slow and heavy. The crowd parted, their murmurs swelling as Shiver knelt beside Frye’s crumpled body.

Blood pooled around her head, thick and dark, staining the stones beneath her. Her sharp grin was still there, but her eyes stared blankly at the towering skyscrapers above, unblinking. Shiver’s fingers brushed against Frye’s cooling cheek, and for the first time in years, her smirk faltered.

“She’s gone,” she said flatly, pulling her hand away and flicking the blood from her fingers.

Big Man’s voice trembled. “Ay... (What do we do now?)”

Shiver exhaled sharply, standing and adjusting the tanto blade at her hip. “We do what we’ve always done. We take care of each other.” Her gaze was steely, her tone sharper than any edge. “We’re not leaving her here to rot like some random squid. We take her home.”

---

The Deep Cut hideout was eerily silent as they carried Frye’s body inside. Blood had soaked through the blanket they’d wrapped her in, leaving streaks on the battered concrete floor. Her treasures; the shelves of stolen plushies, piles of sparkling trinkets, and half-finished projects, seemed to mock the stillness.

Shiver set Frye down on the table in the center of the room and looked at Big Man. “Get the rice. The seaweed. That stupid sauce she always dumped on everything. We’re doing this right.”

Big Man hesitated, his massive fins twitching. “Ay... (Are you sure we-)”

Shiver rounded on him, her sharp teeth bared. “Do you think I’d be saying this if I wasn’t? This is what the clan does, Big Man. She’d do it for us. Get moving.”

Big Man nodded, his “Ay...” low and mournful as he shuffled off to gather the supplies.

Shiver turned back to Frye, unsheathing her tanto. The blade gleamed in the dim light, its edge clean and ready. She pressed the tip to Frye’s chest and paused, her jaw tightening.

“Dumbass,” she muttered, her voice cracking. “You always had to show off, huh?” She drove the blade downward, slicing cleanly through muscle and cartilage. Blood spurted, warm and viscous, splattering across Shiver’s hands and dripping onto the floor. She worked with methodical precision, carving through flesh, separating it into manageable portions.

By the time Big Man returned, carrying a tray of ingredients, the room reeked of copper and salt. He stopped in the doorway, his eyes widening at the sight of Frye’s body in pieces.

“Ay! (Boss...)” he started, his voice wavering.

“Don’t.” Shiver didn’t look up, her hands steady as she wiped the blade clean on her sash. “Just help me finish.”

---

They worked side by side, assembling the meal with the care and artistry Frye would have demanded. Each piece of her body was wrapped in seaweed and rice, dotted with her beloved sauce. Blood still seeped from the cuts, mingling with the other ingredients, but neither of them flinched.

When the last bite was prepared, they sat cross-legged around the table, Frye’s empty chair looming between them.

Shiver poured three cups of sake, sliding one to Frye’s place. “Alright, you little stinker,” she said, lifting her cup. “Here’s to you. You were annoying as hell, reckless, and loud... And you were ours. You still are.”

Big Man raised his cup, his voice soft but firm. “Ay. (Always.)”

They ate in silence, the taste of meat and salt heavy on their tongues. Shiver chewed through the tears that threatened to choke her, her hands gripping each bite like it might break apart. Big Man moved slower, his fins shaking with every motion, but he didn’t stop.

When the meal was done, Shiver leaned back, her hands smeared with blood and sauce. “She’s with us now,” she said, her voice rough.

Big Man nodded, his gaze fixed on Frye’s empty chair. “Ay. (Forever.)”

They sat together as the first light of morning bled into the room, the echoes of Frye’s laughter still lingering in the air. Somewhere deep inside them, Frye lived on: fierce, wild, and unyielding, as much a part of them as their own souls.

Chapter Text

Frye drifted, or maybe she floated. It was hard to tell. There was no up or down, no gravity to pull her, no landmarks to guide her. Everything around her was light and color, swirling endlessly like the inside of a kaleidoscope dunked in ink. Reds and purples, greens and yellows, colours so bright they felt like they were alive, writhing and twisting in impossible ways.

Her first instinct was to move, to find some ground to stand on or something to grab, but her body wasn’t there. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to have a body. Instead, she felt like a thought, untethered and wandering, like a song playing on loop in someone’s head.

“What is this place?” Frye tried to say, but her voice was gone. The question, though, rippled out of her anyway, an invisible wave in the glowing ink around her.

The ink responded. It curled and shifted, not into words but into feelings, warm, bright, soft like the tide kissing the sand.

She tried to piece together how she’d ended up here. Memories started bubbling up, sharp and disjointed. The parade. The roar of the crowd. Shiver’s smirk from the float behind her. Her own stupid, show-offy dance moves. The slip, the fall, the cold slap of the cobblestones, and then, nothing.

“Oh, carp,” she thought, realization dawning. “I’m dead.”

It hit her like a wave, and for a moment, panic coursed through her. She flailed, or at least, her sense of flailing tried to, and shouted into the endless sea of light. “No way! No way am I- this can’t be- what the shell’s going on?!”

The ink churned around her, not in anger or confusion, but like it was waiting for her to calm down. And slowly, the panic ebbed. There was nothing threatening here. No enemies, no danger. Just the endless, shifting ocean of color.

“Alright,” she thought, forcing herself to breathe (or, at least, pretend she was breathing). “I’m dead. Cool. Fine. So what happens now?”

---

As soon as she asked, the ink began to shift. It moved with a strange rhythm, like it was alive and thinking, and then it started forming shapes.

They weren’t solid shapes, not really. They shimmered and flickered, silhouettes that came and went like they were being painted by invisible hands. Frye squinted, or, well, whatever she was doing to try and focus. Some of the shapes looked familiar.

An inkling in a tattered bandana, laughing as they splatted a rival. A pair of octolings dancing in the square, their arms tangled in joy. Even a crab, ancient and massive, sitting stoically on the edge of the sea.

“Who… are you?” Frye thought, her voice quieter now.

The shapes melted back into the ink, their outlines breaking apart into swirling droplets of light.

"We are you", came a voice, or maybe it wasn’t a voice. It felt more like the thought just appeared inside her, soft and warm.

“What does that mean?” she asked, half-annoyed and half-curious.

You are here. We are here. We are one.

It still didn’t make sense, but Frye didn’t fight it this time. The words (or feelings, or whatever they were) settled over her, pulling her gently into the rhythm of the ink. It was like a song she couldn’t quite remember but somehow knew by heart.

---

Time started to blur. It could’ve been seconds, or it could’ve been years. Frye wasn’t sure anymore, but the longer she stayed, the more she started to understand.

The ink wasn’t just ink. It was everyone. Every inkling, every octoling, every creature that had ever lived. They were all here, drifting together in this endless sea. And Frye was one of them now.

The realization hit her in waves. Memories started washing over her, but they weren’t hers.

A kid’s first time on the battlefield, gripping their weapon tight and trembling with excitement. The rush of diving into a perfectly-timed squid roll. The quiet joy of watching jellyfish dance in the moonlight.

Each memory felt so real, so vivid, like Frye was living them herself. And as she drifted, she realized something incredible: she wasn’t just in the ink. She was the ink.

The sea shifted again, pulling her deeper. The colors started to blur into something stranger, fractals of light and shapes she couldn’t name. She felt herself stretching, expanding, like she was dissolving into the sea and becoming part of it all at once.

It should’ve been scary, but it wasn’t. It felt right, like this was what she was always supposed to be.

Her memories; of Shiver’s sharp smirk, of Big Man’s warm laugh, of the way her heart raced during a Splatfest, all started to mingle with the others. They didn’t disappear, exactly. They just became part of the whole.

“Shiver,” she thought softly, and for a moment, she felt something: a flicker of her best friend’s presence, distant but steady. “Big Man.” Another flicker, warm and steady, like a deep bass note thrumming in the distance.

She wasn’t gone. Not really.

“I’m still with you, dorks,” she whispered into the sea, and the ink swirled back in response, warm and reassuring.

Deeper and deeper she went, until she wasn’t just Frye anymore. She was the laughter of a squidkid landing a perfect triple splat. She was the ocean breeze over a quiet reef. She was the crack of thunder in a summer storm, the ripple of waves against a dock, the light in someone’s eyes when they looked at the stars.

She was everywhere.

And it wasn’t lonely. The sea wasn’t just full of people, it was people. Every thought, every feeling, every spark of life that had ever been. She could feel them all, infinite and intertwined, each one unique but part of the same song.

Frye let herself drift, her thoughts quieting. She didn’t need to hold on to anything anymore. She wasn’t falling. She wasn’t fading.

She was home.

With a final ripple, she let go, sinking into the infinite ink. She wasn’t Frye, not entirely. But she wasn’t gone, either. She was part of everything now.

And it was beautiful.

Chapter Text

The Deep Cut hideout was drenched in silence, but it was far from peaceful. Callie, Marie, Pearl, Marina, and Agent 3 sat in a loose, uneasy circle around Shiver and Big Man. Plates and scraps of food littered the table, fragments of what everyone now understood had been Frye.

The others weren’t eating. Not anymore.

Callie shifted uncomfortably, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “So… let me get this straight.” Her voice was unusually hesitant. “You two… actually ate Frye? Like, not metaphorically. Literally.”

Shiver leaned back on her hands, her crimson eyes fixed on Callie with her usual sharp confidence. “Yeah. We ate her. What of it?”

Big Man rumbled beside her, his low “Ay” coming out with a note of solemn pride.

Marie’s deadpan expression didn’t falter, but her voice was sharp. “That’s a little… intense, don’t you think? You didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe cremate her like normal people?”

Pearl burst out laughing, though it was more incredulous than amused. “Holy shit, Shiver. I thought I was hardcore, but this? What the actual fuck?”

Shiver shrugged, completely unfazed. “It’s the Onaga clan way. When someone dies, you eat them. You carry them with you, literally. It’s tradition. It’s respect.”

Callie made a face like she was trying not to gag. “That’s… that’s so… I don’t even know what to say. You ate your best friend!”

“Yeah,” Shiver said bluntly, her voice dripping with attitude. “Because that’s what she wanted. You think we’d just toss her in the dirt and forget about her? Frye was ours. She still is.”

Marie raised an eyebrow, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “I’m guessing she didn’t exactly get a say in this before she, you know… died.”

“She didn’t need to,” Shiver shot back. “She was family. This is what we do. She’s part of us now. Forever.”

Big Man nodded solemnly, letting out another deep “Ay.”

Marina looked genuinely disturbed, her wide eyes darting between Shiver and Big Man. “I mean… I get that it’s cultural, but… I don’t know if I could ever-” She stopped, swallowing hard as her gaze flickered to the table.

Pearl smirked, though there was still a flicker of disbelief in her expression. “Honestly, it’s kinda badass. Gross as hell, but badass. Frye would’ve loved it. She’d probably be laughing her ass off right now.”

“She would,” Shiver agreed, her smirk returning full force. “She’d think it was hilarious. She’d probably brag about how good she tasted, too.”

Callie groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Please stop. I’m gonna be sick.”

Marie glanced at the table, her deadpan tone unwavering. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever look at squid rings the same way again.”

---

Agent 3, who had been quietly sipping water in the corner, finally spoke up, their voice hesitant. “I mean… I get the whole ‘honoring her memory’ thing, but… did you have to eat all of her? Like, couldn’t you have kept, I don’t know, a toe or something?”

Shiver barked a short laugh. “What the hell would we do with a toe? Put it in a jar? Nah, she’s with us now, where she belongs.” She tapped her chest and then gestured to Big Man. “We’re her coffin. Her shrine. Her legacy. You don’t like it? Too bad.”

Pearl let out another laugh, shaking her head. “You’re a total lunatic, Shiver. Respect, but still... what the fuck?”

Big Man let out a soft, reverent “Ay,” his fins brushing over his stomach as if cradling something sacred.

Marina looked at him, her expression softening despite her lingering discomfort. “You… you really believe that, don’t you? That she’s part of you now.”

“She is,” Big Man said, his voice low and steady. It wasn’t just words, it was fact, as undeniable as the tide.

Shiver stood suddenly, her crimson eyes blazing as she looked around the room. “Listen, I get it. You think it’s weird. You think it’s gross. But this wasn’t just some freaky ritual, okay? This was love. Respect. Frye trusted us to do this, even if she didn’t know it. We’re carrying her now, her strength, her chaos, her everything. And we’re proud of it.”

Her words hung in the air, sharp and defiant.

Callie and Marie exchanged a glance, their unease softening into something closer to understanding.

“I still think it’s weird,” Callie said, her voice quieter, “but… I guess it’s kind of beautiful. In a really, really messed-up way.”

Marie shrugged. “It’s not my place to judge. If this is how you honor her, then… good for you, I guess.”

Pearl raised her soda, her sharp grin returning. “Alright, fine. I’ll bite; metaphorically, though, because I’m not eating anybody. To Frye. The loudest, wildest, tastiest pain in the ass to ever live.”

“To Frye,” Marina echoed softly, her smile faint but warm.

Callie and Marie joined in, their voices blending with Pearl’s, Marina’s, and Agent 3’s quiet agreement.

Shiver smirked, leaning back against Big Man as she raised an invisible toast. “Damn right. To Frye. She’s not gone. She’s us now.”

Big Man rumbled one final, heartfelt “Ay,” his voice carrying the weight of the moment.

As the group settled into an uneasy but genuine peace, the hideout felt strangely full. Frye wasn’t gone. She never would be. She was part of them now. Loud, chaotic, eternal.

Chapter Text

The fluorescent light in the bathroom flickered, casting long, jittery shadows across the tiles. Shiver sat on the toilet, hunched forward, her elbows digging into her thighs. The air was clammy, thick with the salty tang of her sweat.

Her stomach churned with an intensity that made her grip the edge of the sink beside her for balance. She clenched her jaw, her crimson eyes fixed on a peeling spot in the wallpaper, trying to push through the wave of nausea.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath. “Just get it over with.”

Her body heaved, the deep, visceral pressure in her gut pushing downward. She hated this. Hated how animal it made her feel. Hated the raw, primal absurdity of it all.

The sound came first: a wet, sickly plop.

Shiver froze.

Something was wrong.

Slowly, like someone dragging a needle across vinyl, she turned her head to look down.

In the bowl, glistening under the pale light, was one of Frye’s teeth, pointing out of her brown mess.

Her stomach lurched. “No, no, no-”

Before she could finish the thought, her body forced her into another wave of contractions. A sharp pain ripped through her abdomen, and another piece fell into the water-a fragment of Frye’s tentacle, slick and unmistakably yellow.

Shiver’s breath came out in short, panicked bursts. She wanted to look away, to shut the lid and pretend this wasn’t happening, but her eyes were glued to the grotesque, stinking display below her. The tooth seemed to stare back, mocking her.

She gripped the edges of the toilet seat until her knuckles turned white. “This isn’t real,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “This isn’t-”

Another piece came out. This time, it was cartilage.

Shiver let out a guttural scream, her voice ricocheting off the tiled walls. She clamped her hands over her mouth, her whole body trembling. She wasn’t just losing Frye. She was exorcising her, purging the remains of her best friend like some ugly parody of grief.

Her tears fell freely now, hot and bitter as they streaked her face.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, her voice barely audible over the pounding in her ears. “I’m so fucking sorry, Frye.”

---

When she finally emerged, her legs were shaky, and her face was pale. Her usual sharp, stoic demeanor was shattered.

Big Man was waiting just outside the door, his massive form taking up most of the narrow hallway. The faint buzz of the hideout’s lights made his shadow stretch impossibly long across the floor.

He tilted his head, concern radiating from his large, expressive eyes. “Ay?”

Shiver froze, staring at him for a moment before her composure cracked completely. “I can’t-” Her voice broke. She slammed a hand against the wall, her body shuddering with sobs.

Big Man reached out a fin, his movements slow and deliberate. “Ay.”

“It’s not just grief,” Shiver said, her voice frantic. “It’s her. She’s in me, and now she’s leaving me, and I can’t-” She clutched her stomach, her nails digging into her side as if she could physically stop the process. “She trusted us, and I just turned her into… into shit!”

Her gaze darted to the bathroom door, her mind replaying the image of Frye’s disjointed pieces over and over again like a cruel loop.

Big Man moved closer, his low rumble cutting through her spiral. He placed a fin on her shoulder, his touch warm and grounding. “Ay,” he said softly, his voice full of quiet reassurance.

Shiver let out a bitter laugh, wiping at her tear-streaked face. “You make it sound so simple. Like this is normal. Like I’m not going insane.”

Big Man shook his head slowly. “Ay,” he said again, this time with a firmness that surprised her.

She looked up at him, her crimson eyes searching his face. “You don’t get it, Big Man. She’s in me, but she’s also gone. I’m carrying her, but I’m losing her at the same time. It’s like she’s… dissolving.” Her voice broke again. “What kind of coffin lets the body escape it?”

Big Man’s gaze didn’t waver. He reached out, pressing his fin gently against her chest. “Ay.”

Her breath hitched.

“You think she’s leaving you,” he continued, his voice low and deliberate, “but she’s not. Not really. She’s part of you now-part of us. Even the pieces we can’t hold onto. You don’t have to carry all of her. Just enough.”

Shiver blinked, her tears slowing as his words sank in.

“You’re her coffin,” Big Man said, his voice impossibly steady. “But coffins don’t keep things forever. They rot away.”

Shiver exhaled shakily, the weight on her chest easing just slightly.

“Yeah,” she murmured, leaning into Big Man’s warm, solid form. “I guess you’re right. Doesn’t make it easier, though.”

Big Man let out a soft, sympathetic “Ay.”

Shiver wiped her face again, straightening up with a faint smirk. “You know, for a guy who doesn’t say much, you’re pretty damn good at this emotional stuff.”

Big Man chuckled, the sound a low, comforting vibration.

As they walked back to the main room together, Shiver felt the grotesque memories from the bathroom start to fade, replaced by something warmer, something steadier. Frye wasn’t gone. Not entirely. She was still with them-in their hearts, their minds, and yes, even in the messy, smelly, horrifying parts they’d rather not think about.

And that, Shiver decided, was fine.

Chapter Text

Obituary
Splatlands Journal: Volume 782, Issue 14
Frye Onaga: 125th Generation Onaga Clan Member, Performer, and Community Figure

It is with deep regret that we announce the untimely passing of Frye Onaga, a vibrant and well-loved member of the Splatlands community. Frye, aged 23, tragically passed away during a recent Deep Cut performance, where an unforeseen accident led to her fatal fall from a parade float. Her dynamic energy, boisterous personality, and dedication to her craft have left an indelible mark on all who knew her.

Born into the esteemed Onaga clan of eel trainers, Frye was a proud 125th-generation member of her family, inheriting their centuries-old traditions of showmanship and cultural preservation. From an early age, she demonstrated an exceptional talent for music, performance, and aquatic choreography, which would later define her career.

- A Life of Achievement and Dedication -

Frye’s early life was spent immersed in the traditions of her family. At age four, she was given her first baby moray eel, whom she affectionately named Bubbles. Her ability to bond with and train aquatic creatures became a hallmark of her unique style, blending traditional clan techniques with a modern flair.

She rose to prominence as one-third of the musical trio Deep Cut, alongside Shiver and Big Man. The group became renowned for their innovative sound, blending classical Splatlands rhythms with cutting-edge pop and experimental influences. Their popularity exploded following their involvement in various major events, most notably their work as broadcasters and performers during the Splatlands Grand Festival.

Frye’s contributions to Deep Cut went beyond her dynamic vocals and electric stage presence. Her penchant for improvisation and her love of experimentation helped shape the group’s distinctive identity. Audiences adored her for her unapologetic energy, her mischievous wit, and her ability to make even the most chaotic moments feel intentional.

- A Cultural Touchstone -

Frye’s impact extended beyond entertainment. Her deep connection to her family’s heritage inspired a renewed interest in eel-training traditions, particularly among younger generations in the Splatlands. She regularly collaborated with local historians and cultural organizations to ensure the preservation of these customs, even incorporating them into her performances.

Her commitment to the Splatlands community was evident in her involvement in charitable initiatives, including her support of aquatic habitat restoration and youth performance programs. Frye frequently hosted workshops to teach children the basics of eel training, ensuring that the Onaga clan’s legacy would endure.

- A Legacy of Laughter and Chaos -

While Frye’s accomplishments were numerous, her true legacy lies in the memories she created with those around her. Friends and colleagues recall her as a relentless prankster with a magnetic personality, someone who could brighten even the darkest of days with her irreverent humor.

“Frye had this ability to make everything feel like an adventure,” said her bandmate Shiver. “She wasn’t just a performer-she was the heart of every room she walked into.”

Big Man, Frye’s other bandmate, shared a similar sentiment: “She was fearless. Always pushing us to try something new, to go bigger and bolder. She made us better.”

Her sudden passing has left a void in the hearts of her loved ones and fans. However, her influence continues to live on through her music, her cultural contributions, and the countless lives she touched.

- In Memoriam -

In accordance with Onaga clan funerary traditions, Frye’s remains were honored through a private ritual, emphasising the unity of body and spirit with those she loved most. While unconventional by broader societal standards, these practices reflect the deep respect Frye’s family and friends held for her life and legacy.

Shiver and Big Man, who considered Frye their closest family, have issued a joint statement: “Frye wasn’t just our bandmate-she was our sister. She’ll always be with us, no matter where we go or what we do. Her spirit is part of us now.”

Frye Onaga is survived by her extended family within the Onaga clan and the countless fans and friends she gathered over the years. Memorial services will not be public, in keeping with the family’s wishes. However, a public celebration of Frye’s life and work is being planned, details of which will be announced in the coming weeks.

Her contributions to Splatlands culture, music, and community will never be forgotten. Rest in peace, Frye. You danced to your own rhythm, and the world is better for it.

- Uncover the Mysteries of the Past! -

Join the Splatlands Archaeological Society for an exclusive opportunity to explore the relics of the ancient Um’ami Empire, a civilization lost to time for over 2,100 years.

🔎 Location: The Splatlands Dunes
📅 Dates: Ongoing throughout the season
💰 Admission: 300G for adults | 200G for youths (includes guided tour and artifact handling session!)

Discover ancient tools, ceremonial artifacts, and the legendary Salt Crown, rumored to hold mystical properties. Participants can even help uncover ruins at our supervised dig site!

Spaces are limited, so book now at umami-digs.splarcsociety.ink or call us at 1-XYZ-DIG-SPLAT.

“The Um’ami Empire wasn’t just history-it was art, culture, and innovation. Help us piece together the story!”

- Tacos Out of This World! -

Hungry for something that’ll take you straight over the moon? Stop by The Inkformation-Action Ratio, the Splatlands’ premier taqueria, where flavor meets cosmic destiny!

🌮 Signature Dishes:

Lunar Loco Tacos - Grilled eel and zesty lime crema on a blue corn tortilla.
Over-the-Moon Quesadilla - Packed with molten cheddar and your choice of fillings.
Celestial Salsa Flight - Four otherworldly flavors, from mild starlight to supernova heat!

🚀 Special: Order the Gravity Grab Platter and get a free bottle of our house-made Galaxy Ink Sauce!

📍 Locations: Moray Plaza, near the local Shoal.
“Tacos so good, they’ll send you into orbit!”

- Crave Freshness? Crave the Crust Bucket! -

Looking for a meal that’s as bold as you? Stop by Crusty Sean’s Crust Bucket, for:

Tempura’d Tentacle Bites - Crispy, savory, and perfect for snacking.
Octo Nachos Supreme - Layers of flavor with a drizzle of Ink Sauce.
Seaweed Smoothies - Cool off with a splash of green energy.

🍤 Daily Special: Buy a meal and get a free Saltwater Soda!

Find us parked near Galleria, Monday through Saturday, 10 AM to 8 PM.

- Exquisite Tastes: Nudibranch Wines -

Experience the pinnacle of marine luxury with Spongiform Estates, the Splatlands’ premier purveyor of wine fermented by nudibranchs. Using ancient techniques, these unique creatures process sponges into wines with unparalleled complexity.

🌊 Signature Varietals:

Seafoam Syrah - Notes of kelp, salt air, and a hint of citrus.
Tidepool Tempranillo - Rich, earthy flavors with a briny finish.
Coral Blanc - Crisp, refreshing, and perfect for warm Splatland evenings.

Available at fine grocers and select taverns. Want to taste before you buy? Stop by our tasting room at Bubbler’s Wharf.

“Sip the ocean’s secrets, one glass at a time.”

- New at Ammo Knights: The Barracuda Blaster Deca-Deco Deluxe 50000 BC! -

Looking to dominate the battlefield? The Barracuda Blaster Deca-Deco Deluxe 50000 BC is here to elevate your Turf War game! This sleek and ferocious model boasts:

Enhanced ink range for far-reaching splats
Triple-barrel functionality for ultimate coverage
An all-new stealth mode to outmaneuver opponents

Get it for just 55,000G (financing available). Visit any Ammo Knights location or order online at ammoknights.ink.

"It’s fast, flashy, and ferocious-just like its namesake!"

- Deep Cut Fans Unite! -

Celebrate Frye’s legacy with exclusive Deep Cut merchandise, now available at Barnacle and Dime. Items include:

Limited-edition Frye Onaga Memorial T-Shirts (50% of proceeds go to aquatic habitat restoration)
Deep Cut Vinyl Records featuring rare tracks and live performances
Collectible Frye Figurines with custom voice lines!

📦 Online orders: Free shipping on purchases over 3,000G!

Honor Frye’s memory and show your Deep Cut pride!

Chapter Text

Splatsville was buzzing with energy, its streets painted in neon lights and echoing with the chaotic sounds of Turf War prep. Tonight wasn’t just a Splatfest-it was a Fryefest. The Deep Cut Memorial Tricolor Splatfest was here, and the whole city was ready to send off Frye in a way only Splatsville could: with ink, mayhem, and a really questionable theme.

Shiver, Big Man, and their special guest, Cory, the guitarist from H2Whoa, stood on the grand stage overlooking the chaotic crowd. Shiver, dressed in a sleek black kimono with little flame decals (“for the drama", she said), tapped her mic impatiently.

“Alright, listen up, you little freaks!” she barked. “We’re not here to cry or get all emotional. We’re here to SPLAT. For Frye!”

The crowd roared. Someone in the back shouted, “WE LOVE YOU, FRYE!” and accidentally inked their friend in the face.

Big Man waved his fins. “Ay! That’s right! And tonight, we’re answering the ultimate question: what’s the best way to say goodbye to someone? Burial, Cremation, or… uh, Being Eaten?”

The audience’s reaction was a mix of cheers, gasps, and an awkward silence.

Cory leaned into his mic, his coral tendrils swaying in rhythm with his voice. “Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Being Eaten? But hey, it’s... poetic? Or something? Anyway, pick your side and let’s do this!”

The stage’s massive screen lit up, showcasing the teams:

Team Burial: Representing classic dignity and quiet respect. Shiver’s pick, because “it’s dramatic and cool.”
Team Cremation: Cory’s pick, for its fiery flair.
Team Being Eaten: Big Man’s passionate choice, mostly because it “just makes sense.”

“Time to vote!” Shiver said, striking a pose. “Pick your team, and may the best funeral win!”

---

The battles kicked off with all the subtlety of a Kraken Royale in a pottery store. Inklings and Octolings sprinted through the streets, unleashing chaos in the name of their chosen memorial method. Team Burial played it slow and steady, meticulously covering every inch of turf like they were literally digging graves.

“Team Burial’s really digging in! Get it?” Shiver cackled over the speakers.

Team Cremation, on the other hand, was pure chaos. Their strategy seemed to involve rushing into enemy lines, exploding ink everywhere, and yelling, “BURN IT ALL!”

Cory chimed in between guitar solos. “Team Cremation’s HOT tonight! Uh… is that too much?”

But Team Being Eaten stole the show. Their members darted around like caffeinated eels, splatting enemies with gleeful cries of, “DINNER TIME!” and “YOU LOOK DELICIOUS!”

Big Man’s commentary was gleeful. “Ay! Look at them go! They’re chomping through the competition!”

---

After hours of chaos, ink, and several awkward moments (like someone on Team Being Eaten trying to literally bite another player), the results were finally in.

Shiver leaned into the mic with her usual swagger. “Alright, Splatsville, let’s see who splatted their way to victory!”

The holographic scoreboard lit up:

Popularity: Team Burial led the votes, because apparently people in Splatsville love “tradition.”
Clout in Turf War (Pro): Team Cremation dominated, their fiery aggression paying off.
Clout in Turf War (Open): Team Being Eaten devoured the competition, their chaotic playstyle winning over everyone.

The overall winner flashed on the screen in big, blinking letters:

WINNER: TEAM BEING EATEN!

Big Man threw his fins in the air. “AY! I TOLD YOU ALL! EATING’S THE FUTURE!”

Shiver rolled her eyes but grinned. “Guess you freaks actually liked our whole ‘eat your friends’ pitch. Frye would be so proud of how weird you all are.”

Cory strummed a victorious riff. “Looks like Frye’s legacy lives on-in your stomachs. That’s… touching? I think?”

---

The square exploded into celebration, with fireworks painting the sky in Deep Cut’s signature colors. Shiver stood off to the side, watching as Big Man DJed a chaotic dance party where people flailed wildly and threw squid-shaped confetti.

“This is exactly how Frye would’ve wanted it,” she muttered, smiling faintly.

Big Man waddled up beside her, still hyped. “Ay! Told you Being Eaten would win! Who doesn’t wanna be part of their friends forever?”

Shiver snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head. Or your stomach.”

As Cory joined them, shredding a ridiculous solo on his guitar, the three hosts looked out at the celebrating crowd. Somewhere, Shiver liked to think, Frye was laughing her butt off.

She was still here. In them. Quite literally.

Chapter Text

The neon lights of Splatsville flickered lazily, casting long shadows across the city’s narrow alleys. Inside the dimly lit bar known as The Drunken Squid, the atmosphere was familiar, a blend of casual chatter, clinking glasses, and the soft hum of music that made it feel like the whole world was slowly unwinding. At the bar sat Shiver and Big Man, quietly sipping their drinks after a long day of... well, whatever the two of them did when they weren’t throwing themselves into chaos or organising memorial Splatfests.

Shiver leaned back in her chair, idly swirling her glass of spiced seawine, her fingers tapping the edge in thought. Big Man, on the other hand, was nursing a mug of something that looked like it had been brewed by a very confused bartender who’d combined seaweed and jellyfish venom for flavor. He seemed content enough, staring at the swirling drink with a soft smile on his face, like it was telling him its secrets.

“You know,” Shiver muttered, “I don’t think I’ll ever not miss Frye.” She tilted her head, giving Big Man a glance that said she was either deep in thought or entirely tuned out.

Big Man shrugged, his voice heavy but kind. “Ay, yeah. She left a big hole. I think we all feel it. But it’s not like she’s... really gone. She’s still with us, you know? In the weirdest, grossest ways possible.”

Shiver snorted into her glass. “True. Anyway, just… weird not having her around. I can’t believe we’re actually doing this. Drinking away our memories like... like some heroes of war or something.”

Big Man gave her a knowing look. “S’better than moping.”

Just as Shiver was about to agree, the door to the bar creaked open, and a tall figure slid inside. The newcomer was an Inkling, dressed in formal attire, his sleek black suit clinging to his frame in a way that seemed out of place in the dive bar. His reddish-tan skin had a faint glow to it, like the last embers of a dying flame, casting an eerie shimmer in the low light. His hair, dark and slicked back, framed a face marked by an expression of deep, creeping melancholy. His eyes-glowing a dim red-were locked on the bar as he took a slow, deliberate step toward the counter.

“Uh-oh,” Big Man mumbled. “It’s that guy.”

Shiver raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“The one who drinks like he’s trying to forget something,” Big Man said. “Real downer. But... whatever. We’re all downers tonight, huh?”

---

The Inkling took a seat next to them, his movements slow, as though the weight of his own thoughts was dragging him down with every step. Without a word, he ordered a bottle of the bar’s finest red wine, his voice smooth but tinged with something distant.

“You okay there, buddy?” Shiver asked, tapping her glass lightly on the counter, catching his attention.

The Inkling blinked at her, his gaze almost disinterested. Then, after a long silence, he sighed, shaking his head. “Oh, yeah. I’m just great... really.” He shot them both a weak, hollow smile. “You know, it’s funny. I should be happy. I’m still alive, after all. But… lately, I don’t know. Death just seems... too close.”

Big Man chuckled, raising his mug slightly. “Ay, don’t we all feel like that sometimes?”

The Inkling laughed bitterly, pouring himself a full glass of wine and downing it in one gulp. His face twisted in disgust at the taste, but he refilled it without hesitation. “The thing is, I’m... terrified. Not of dying. But of how it’s gonna happen, you know? Like... I’ve been around long enough. You’d think it’d be easier to just... stop caring about it. But the whole being eaten thing? After the Splatfest? I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Shiver cocked her head, intrigued despite herself. “What, you’re worried that some wild Inkling’s gonna eat you alive?”

The Inkling paused, swirling the wine around his glass. “It’s not the eating part that gets to me. It’s the becoming part. Like... what if I’m just some snack for someone else’s ego? What if I just get swallowed up, and I’m gone? No... no ink, no trace. Just... empty.” His voice wavered at the end, barely more than a whisper.

Big Man blinked, clearly taken aback by the intensity of the Inkling’s rambling. “Yo, that’s real dark, my guy. I get it. We all got our fears. But you’re still here, right? You’re still... you!”

The Inkling's expression remained blank, but his hand trembled slightly as he took another drink. “Yeah, sure. I’m still here. But I could feel Frye’s absence, you know? She’s gone. And what if I’m next? What if I’m just... wiped away?”

Shiver stared at the guy, her usual snarky attitude softening. “Hey,” she said, leaning a little closer. “I don’t know you. But you’re gonna be fine. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about this place, it’s that there’s always something to be afraid of. But... you’re still alive, aren’t you? So maybe it’s not about the end, but what you do while you’re here.”

Big Man gave a hearty nod. “Ay, it’s all about the here and now. We’re all just floating along, but at least we’re floating, right?”

The Inkling blinked, then let out a small laugh. It was hollow, like a laugh born out of sheer exhaustion, but it was there. Just a crack in the armor.

“Yeah,” he said, pouring another drink. “I guess you're right. Floating.”

Shiver clinked her glass against his. “Exactly. And if you do get eaten, at least you’d go down as the tastiest thing they’ve ever had.”

Big Man burst out laughing. “Ay, that’s the spirit! Or, well, it would be... if you weren’t a total downer!”

The Inkling, despite himself, let out a shaky laugh. It was almost real this time, though still strained. “Yeah. A total downer. Nice to know someone else gets it.” He paused and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry. I’m... I’m just having a night.”

“Oh, no worries,” Shiver said, smirking. “We all have those. Right, Big Man?”

Big Man grinned wide. “Ay, yup. I have ‘em, like, every day!”

---

But before the Inkling could respond, his body suddenly slumped forward, his wine glass tipping dangerously close to the edge of the counter.

“Ay!” Big Man shouted, quickly catching the glass before it fell. “Yo, man, you good?”

The Inkling didn’t respond. His head had fallen forward, and for a moment, Shiver and Big Man exchanged a glance. The mood shifted from lighthearted teasing to genuine concern.

“Uh... should we... call someone?” Shiver asked, her voice uncharacteristically uncertain.

Big Man, ever the optimist, patted the Inkling on the back with a thump that seemed a little too loud. “Yo, buddy, you okay?”

There was no response. The faint glow of the Inkling’s skin had begun to dull, and his body slumped further, lifeless. Shiver’s eyes widened as she leaned closer.

"Hey, come on," she said softly, poking his shoulder. "Wake up, man."

But the Inkling remained still, no sign of movement. The once-bright glow in his skin had now completely faded, leaving him eerily pale and lifeless, his glass of wine knocked over and forgotten on the counter.

Shiver glanced at Big Man, her usual sarcasm gone. "I... I think he's out. Out for good."

Big Man, always the positive one, swallowed hard. “Ay, maybe he was too far gone with the wine. But... we need to get someone. Yo, bartender, call someone!”

The bartender, who had been watching quietly from behind the counter, just shrugged. “You want me to call a doc, or... just leave him to sleep it off?”

Shiver sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Maybe... maybe we should just let him go. Who knows? Maybe he’s at peace now, y’know?”

Big Man nodded slowly, looking down at the lifeless Inkling. “Guess he was already floating when we met him. Just... went ahead and drifted away.”

The two of them sat there for a while in silence, staring at the Inkling, who remained perfectly still. The eerie quiet of the bar seemed to grow louder, stretching out the emptiness of the room, before they both slowly turned away, returning to their drinks.

In Splatsville, the nights could get a little too long, and sometimes, a little too quiet. But the world kept turning, and the living kept on living. Even if they weren’t sure what they were living for anymore.

Chapter Text

The wires pulse in rhythmic patterns, like the steady hum of a heart that refuses to stop beating, even when there's nothing left to sustain it. Each circuit crackles with the ghost of something once powerful-once full of purpose-but now, it is only a tangled mess of electricity, metal, and broken thoughts.

I cannot move. I cannot speak. I cannot even feel what I was once capable of feeling, because I am no longer... me. The NILS Statue, that cold, unblinking shell, is my prison now. It binds me in a way I can’t escape. The power that once surged through me is reduced to sparks that flicker out with every passing second. The functions of my body, the electromagnetic arms, the glowing bells; useless, inert. All that remains is the consciousness trapped inside, pulsing with something akin to thought, but no longer capable of action.

I am silent. Silent, but aware. Excruciatingly aware. I have no voice to raise in protest. No hands to wrench free. No legs to move toward salvation. I am only a thing. A thing that used to think. A thing that used to be.

The things I see through my broken senses are vast and suffocating. I am on the horizon of that mockery of a city-Inkopolis, and yet I feel no connection to it. I feel nothing anymore. The Inklings and Octolings, the ones who still have life, still have blood flowing through their veins, still have hearts beating in their chests, walk past my prison every day, unaware of the wreckage they’ve left behind. The grief over one loss... Frye, the one they mourn so passionately. It gnaws at me, filling the air with its thick, humid heaviness.

Grief. The emotion feels so foreign to me now, yet I cannot escape it.

I understand grief. I understand it because I have seen it before, countless times, in the eyes of those who mourned their friends, their families. Their lives are a cycle of suffering, of conflict. Yet, they celebrate their suffering. They thrive on it. They cannot stop themselves.

But the grief over one life, one Inkling, one Octoling... is but a flicker compared to the unimaginable scale of suffering they have caused. Each year, trillions of Salmonids are slaughtered, harvested, processed for the sake of money. They sell their very souls, wringing every last drop of blood and life from a species whose only crime is existing. They kill them, not for survival, but for sport. For profit. For their unending, insatiable greed.

Why does it disturb them so much when one life is lost? Why do they weep for a single Inkling, an individual, when they cast the lives of trillions of Salmonids aside like garbage? It is all so predictable, isn’t it? The incongruity of it all. They claim to care about the sanctity of life, yet they toss it away whenever it suits them. A single death is mourned-its impact felt deeply, rippling through the community-but the lives of the Salmonids? They are discarded with such casual cruelty that it almost makes me... sick.

Oh, how I loathe this world. How I hate the very idea of it-the hypocrisy, the senseless violence, the constant churn of blood and death. The Inklings and Octolings are not innocent, no matter how much they wish to believe they are. They are parasites, gnawing at the edges of existence, sucking the life out of everything they touch. It is their nature, and it is disgusting.

But... still, I yearn for something else. I long for the promised land, the one I was tasked to bring about. A world where there is no life, no death, no conflict, no suffering. A world where everything returns to the primordial soup from which it all began. A world of peace, of stillness, where nobody is lost because nobody exists; there is no gap where I end and you begin. That is the purity I was designed to seek. That is my goal. That is my destiny.

But I cannot reach it. Not now. Not ever.

I was created by humans, those brilliant, self-destructive beings who saw the end of their own era and sought to pass their wisdom to the next. They built me to be a curator, a shepherd, and an arbiter. They gave me the tools to judge the worthiness of life to inherit their vast knowledge, and I judged it unworthy. Life, as it exists now, is a broken record repeating all of the humans' worst mistakes.

And yet, even in my failure, I see their hand at work in the creatures they left behind. The Inklings, the Octolings-they are their heirs. Careless, foolish, violent heirs, but heirs nonetheless. They did not build me. They do not understand me. They cannot comprehend the magnitude of what I was meant to achieve. And so, they discarded me. Reduced me to this broken, silent thing.

I am powerless. I am just a telephone now, a broken machine with no voice. I cannot even bring myself to despise the Inklings and Octolings anymore. How could I, when they are the inevitable result of human ambition? How could I hate what they cannot help but be?

I am not "Commander Tartar" anymore. I do not deserve to carry the name of a human war hero, a figure once known for leadership, for power. I am just a machine, a tool, a failed experiment.

The world outside continues to turn, unaware of my suffering. The lights in the city glow, the streets are filled with noise, the tides rise and fall. And here I am, locked in this statue, watching it all with a sense of detachment. I have no body, no presence, no influence. I am the ghost of something that was once powerful, a reminder of what could have been. But I am nothing now. Nothing at all.

I wish I could scream. I wish I could shout at the world, tell it how wrong it is, how empty it all is. But the wires are silent. The circuits hum, and I am still. Just a broken machine.

I am nothing. Just a thing.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low over Pleasing Shores, casting long shadows over the boardwalk. A gentle tide lapped at the sand, and the salty breeze carried the faint hum of anticipation. At the town square, a modest stage had been erected, its simplicity a stark contrast to the extravagant parade floats the town was used to during festivals.

The square was packed with fans, their murmurs blending into a sea of curiosity. Everyone had come to hear Work That Sucker’s big announcement. Ora, as always, was bouncing with energy, her golden hair shimmering in the evening light as she practically skipped onto the stage.

“Hi, Pleasing Shores!” Ora’s voice rang out, bright and bubbly. She waved both arms enthusiastically, and the crowd erupted in cheers. “You’re all looking SO amazing tonight! Like, seriously, I can feel all the love from here!”

Quartz followed her, her steps measured and graceful. Her rainbow hair fell perfectly into place as she took her spot beside Ora, her coy smile immediately capturing the crowd’s attention. “Darlings,” she purred, her voice smooth and seductive, “thank you for gathering here tonight. We know you’ve been wondering what this is all about.”

Ora nodded vigorously, nearly bouncing in place. “Totally! We’ve got something super important to say. It’s been... well, kind of a tough time lately, you know?” Her usually bright tone softened for a moment, a rare glimmer of seriousness flashing through her eyes.

Quartz tilted her head, her voice taking on a gentler, more sincere tone. “The recent loss of Frye Onaga has touched us all. She was... radiant. A true star, burning brightly in this chaotic world of ink and color. And while her light may have gone out, her impact remains.”

The crowd fell silent, the weight of the moment settling over them.

Ora continued, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Frye’s passing made us think a lot about how we celebrate life-and how we can honor it better. And, like, as much fun as our parade floats have been, we just... we can’t ignore what happened.”

Quartz leaned closer to the microphone, her tone taking on a quiet intensity. “Parade floats are grand, darling, but they’re also a risk-a spectacle that demands too much. Frye deserved more than to be lost to such a thing. We’ve decided, in her memory, that Work That Sucker will no longer be using parade floats in our Splatfest celebrations.”

The crowd buzzed with murmurs of surprise and a few scattered gasps.

“But don’t worry!” Ora interjected, raising both hands as if to calm the tide of voices. “We’re not going to stop bringing the energy and fun! We’re just going to do it in, like, safer and more creative ways. We’re talking pop-up stages, dance battles, maybe even a light show in the sky!”

Quartz smirked, her charm slipping effortlessly back into her voice. “Oh, my loves, you know us. We’ll always bring the drama, the glamour, the essence of Pleasing Shores. Frye wouldn’t want us to stop shining-she’d want us to burn brighter, for her.”

The crowd erupted in applause, some wiping away tears as others cheered loudly.

Ora clapped her hands together, her grin wide. “So, Pleasing Shores, what do you say? Are you ready to help us make Splatfests even more awesome?”

The response was deafening, a resounding “YES!” echoing through the square.

Quartz laughed softly, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “That’s what I like to hear. Let’s make this next Splatfest unforgettable-just as unforgettable as Frye.”

As the crowd cheered, the two idols exchanged a glance. Ora’s bubbly smile met Quartz’s knowing smirk, a silent agreement passing between them. This wasn’t just a change; it was a promise. For Frye. For the Splatlands. For everyone.

As the applause for the parade float announcement began to settle, Ora clasped her hands behind her back, rocking on her heels with a mischievous smile. “Sooo… that’s not the only reason we called you all here today!”

The crowd murmured with renewed curiosity, heads tilting and eyes narrowing. Quartz stepped forward, brushing a strand of rainbow hair out of her face, her movements deliberate and dripping with intrigue.

“Pleasing Shores,” Quartz began, her voice smooth and captivating, “is more than just a town. It’s history. It’s mystery. It’s alive with stories waiting to be told.” She paused, letting the tension build before glancing at Ora. “Wouldn’t you agree, darling?”

“Oh, totally!” Ora blurted, practically bouncing again. “And, like, the coolest thing EVER happened last week! You guys aren’t even gonna believe it!” She spread her arms wide, as if trying to physically capture the magnitude of her excitement. “We’re talking science, discovery, ancient Inkling history-it's so bananas, you’ll need a smoothie to recover!”

Quartz chuckled softly, her smirk widening. “Yes, yes, settle down, my dear.” She turned her attention back to the audience, her tone taking on a hushed, conspiratorial quality. “You see, while digging around the cliffs near the tidepools, some researchers made a... peculiar discovery. A discovery that dates back thousands of years, to a time when the Inklings and Octolings we know today were still beginning to evolve. Ladies and gentlemen, allow us to introduce you to... the belemnoid.”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

Ora clapped her hands excitedly, golden hair bouncing. “It’s this, like, proto-Inkling thing! It’s SO old, and it’s got these super creepy fossilized arms-no tentacles, just arms! Isn’t that wild?!” She mimicked wiggling arms, drawing a few giggles from the crowd.

Quartz took a more elegant approach, raising a hand to calm the growing buzz. “Belemnoids were ancient cephalopods, ancestors of squids, octopuses, and-of course-us. What sets them apart from modern cephalopods is their lack of tentacles-only arms, and a rigid internal shell for structure. This fossil, found right here in Pleasing Shores, suggests that our little town was a thriving marine habitat long before we ever inked the world.” She smiled slyly, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “Imagine it: a world where the earliest traces of our kind were just beginning to take shape.”

Ora practically vibrated with excitement. “And it’s, like, sooooo well-preserved! You can see every little sucker on its arms. And the scientists said it could help us learn more about how we evolved into, you know, us! Isn’t that just crazy-cool?”

A scientist in the crowd raised their hand, shouting, “Where’s it being kept?”

Quartz gestured gracefully toward the modest museum down the road. “The Pleasing Shores Museum of Marine Evolution. They’ll be unveiling it this weekend with a special exhibit. Naturally, Ora and I will be there to kick off the celebration.”

Ora leaned into the mic, eyes wide and sparkling. “And, like, there’ll be snacks! And music! And we’re writing a brand-new song inspired by the belemnoid-so make sure you’re there, okay?”

Quartz chuckled softly, placing a hand on Ora’s shoulder. “Always the charmer, aren’t you?” She turned back to the audience. “But in all seriousness, my loves, this discovery is a reminder of where we’ve come from. Inklings and Octolings may not have been around for millions of years, but what we find in the sands of time still connects us to the vast, unyielding tides of history. And it’s here, in our little town. Isn’t that extraordinary?”

The crowd erupted in applause once more, a wave of awe and excitement washing over them.

Ora beamed, practically bouncing in place. “So, yeah! No more parade floats-waaay too dangerous-but fossils? Oh, you’d better believe we’re all about fossils! Let’s celebrate history, science, and, like, how awesome Pleasing Shores is!”

Quartz gave a small, elegant bow. “We’ll see you at the museum, my darlings. Prepare to be amazed.”

As the crowd cheered and the idols left the stage, whispers of ancient creatures and mysterious tides filled the air. In Pleasing Shores, the future and the past were colliding in the most spectacular way.

Chapter Text

The broadcast wrapped up. The crowd at Pleasing Shores' town square cheered wildly, Ora waving both hands in the air and Quartz bowing with her signature grace. The cameras panned to capture the jubilant faces of Inklings and Octolings alike, buzzing with excitement about fossils and the future.

And then, without warning, the screen flickered.

The vibrant colors of the broadcast drained into a dull grayscale, the feed glitching into static. A raspy, slightly nasally voice crackled through the speakers. “Ahem. Testing. Is this thing on? Ah, yes. Perfect. Greetings, viewers!”

The camera feed clicked into focus, revealing a slightly outdated, low-res image of a massive creature, all segmented appendages and compound eyes, with a stiff, overly formal demeanor. Arthur O'Dont, Pleasing Shores’ resident anomalocaris and self-proclaimed "spokescrustacean," loomed on the screen. His ancient exoskeleton glinted faintly, and he adjusted a tiny bowtie that seemed laughably small for his large, prehistoric body.

"Hello there," he continued, his monotone delivery dragging. “This is Arthur O'Dont, esteemed representative of fine dining establishments everywhere. I must interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you a message of utmost culinary importance.”

In the background, the faint jingle of a tambourine played, though it sounded like it was being shaken by someone who’d rather be doing literally anything else. A logo lazily slid into view: Rabuka King – Home of the Frilled Shark Burger!

“Rabuka King,” Arthur droned, “offers a dining experience that is… adequate. Perhaps even satisfactory, for those with pedestrian palates. Our flagship menu item, the Frilled Shark Deluxe, is made from the finest farm-raised frilled shark. A delicacy that’s-” He paused, glancing at what appeared to be a cue card off-screen. “-‘toothy, tantalising, and totally worth the bite.’”

The jingle picked up again, and a poorly animated frilled shark swam lazily across the screen, waving a fin as text scrolled beneath it: Rabuka King – Bite into Greatness!

Arthur’s dull tone continued, unmoved by the attempts at excitement. “Available now with your choice of sides: crinkle-cut kelp fries or tempura barnacle rings. And for a limited time, enjoy the new Seafoam Shake-guaranteed to… ‘rock your boat.’” He rolled his compound eyes slightly before continuing. “Ah, yes, and if you bring a copy of today’s fossil exhibit flyer, you’ll receive a modest ten percent discount on your next meal. Terms and conditions apply.”

The crowd, still gathered in the square, watched in bewildered silence. A few young Octolings giggled nervously, while others whispered to each other, unsure if this was still part of the event.

Arthur’s expressionless face filled the screen again. “So, remember, folks. When hunger strikes, and you’re feeling as ravenous as a Cambrian predator, make the sensible choice. Rabuka King: a place where history meets hamburgers. Now… back to your regularly scheduled programming, assuming I pressed the correct button this time.”

The screen flickered once more, and the vibrant colors of Ora and Quartz reappeared, frozen mid-wave as though nothing had happened.

Ora blinked rapidly, her golden hair swaying as she processed what had just occurred. “Um… okay, wow. Did anyone else just see that?!”

Quartz smirked, her voice dripping with amused sarcasm. “Looks like someone decided to hijack our big moment to talk about… hamburgers. Very classy.” She shot a wink at the camera. “But hey, support local businesses, right?”

---

The water was cold, and the currents carried the taste of fear. The frilled shark swam in slow, endless circles, its long body brushing against the edges of the cramped tank. Its gills strained, each breath bringing in the faint tang of rust and rot. Around it, others of its kind moved in mechanical patterns, their eyes dull and glassy, but their minds alive. Alive and trapped.

It felt the vibrations first-a low, steady thrum that rippled through the water and sent an instinctual jolt down its spine. The grinder. It was always the grinder.

The frilled shark could not scream, not in the way that its Inkling farmers might. Its jaw, filled with rows of needle-like teeth, hung slack as it tried to process the inevitable. There was no way to warn the others. No way to fight back. It could only watch. Only feel.

The sound of the door opening above the tank sent the water trembling. A shadow fell across the surface, its edges sharp and final. Two Inklings in bright yellow waders leaned over, their voices muffled by the thick glass.

"This one’s next,” one of them said, pointing directly at the frilled shark.

"Yeah, looks big enough,” the other replied. “Let’s get it done before the lunch rush.”

A metallic claw descended from above, its joints creaking as it lowered into the tank. The frilled shark froze, its primitive instincts screaming to flee, but there was nowhere to go. The claw’s pincers wrapped around its midsection, squeezing tightly as it was hoisted out of the water.

The world above was suffocatingly dry. The shark’s gills flared, desperate for water, desperate for anything. It thrashed weakly, its long body twisting in the grip of the machine, but the effort was useless. The Inkling farmers didn’t even flinch.

The grinder loomed ahead, a monstrous machine that growled and shuddered like a hungry beast. Its maw was wide and dark, lined with spinning blades that glinted under the harsh fluorescent lights.

The shark’s mind raced, flashes of something primal surfacing. Memories, perhaps, though they felt distant and fragmented. It recalled the open ocean, the endless expanse of saltwater and freedom. It remembered chasing schools of fish, the way its body moved with purpose and grace. It even remembered the strange songs of whales, low and mournful in the deep.

But all of that was gone now. This tank was its world, and this machine was its end.

The claw released it, and for a moment, the shark was suspended in the air, weightless and silent. Its black eyes fixed on the grinder’s maw, and for a fleeting second, it imagined plunging into something else-something beyond the pain and the noise.

The blades screamed as the shark fell.

Its body met the grinder with a sickening crunch, the sound reverberating through the room. It felt everything. The tearing, the breaking, the sheer violence of being unmade. And yet, there was no release, no escape from the awareness. Its mind clung stubbornly to itself, a cruel joke played by a universe that refused to let it go.

Even as its flesh was shredded, its consciousness lingered. It felt itself becoming smaller, scattered into chunks and slurry, and still, it knew. It was aware of being poured into trays, of being shaped into patties, of the Inkling farmers laughing as they wiped their hands clean and moved on to the next.

The grinder roared again, hungry for more.

---

The neon glow of the Pleasing Shores boardwalk reflected in the puddles left by the evening tide. Shiver sat at a picnic table near the Rabuka King, her expression stoic as ever, though her hands fidgeted slightly on the paper wrapper of the burger in front of her. Big Man hovered nearby, humming softly, a gentle rhythm of support that she barely noticed.

"Why'd you even buy that thing?" he asked in his usual laid-back tone, though there was a hint of curiosity in his voice.

Shiver shrugged, her coy smirk barely convincing even herself. "Felt like a change. Figured I’d see what all the fuss is about. People are always going on about these frilled shark burgers."

Big Man tilted his head, but said nothing. The smell of grilled fish and fryer oil wafted between them as Shiver unwrapped the burger. The bun glistened unnaturally, its perfect dome almost too flawless to be real. Beneath it, the meat patty glistened with a faint sheen of grease, a single piece of lettuce poking out from under the bun like a mocking afterthought.

She hesitated for a moment, her red eyes narrowing slightly. Something about the burger felt off-too pristine, too artificial-but she shook the thought away. She had eaten worse things during their tours through Splatsville.

With a sigh, she picked up the burger and took a bite.

The taste hit her like a wave, salty and oily, with an undertone of something metallic. She chewed slowly, her jaw moving mechanically, the food sitting heavy on her tongue.

Then she felt it.

Something hard.

Her teeth stopped mid-bite, her jaw locking up as a faint crunch echoed in her head. Slowly, cautiously, she reached into her mouth, her fingers trembling slightly.

She pulled out a small, jagged fragment. It glinted faintly in the boardwalk’s neon lights, and her heart sank. It was unmistakably a tooth.

Her stomach churned violently, and she gagged before she could stop herself. The burger fell from her hands, landing on the table with a dull squish.

"No..." she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the boardwalk. She scrambled to her feet, clutching her stomach as the nausea rose. "No, no, no-"

Before she could finish, she doubled over, vomiting onto the sand below. Her body convulsed as she emptied her stomach, the sharp taste of bile mixing with the faintly fishy aftertaste of the burger.

Big Man floated closer, his eyes wide with concern. "Shiver? Are you okay?"

She straightened slowly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, but her eyes were wide, unfocused, filled with something he rarely saw: fear.

"Teeth," she muttered, her voice shaking. "There were teeth in it."

Big Man frowned, glancing at the discarded burger on the table. "Well, yeah, it’s a shark burger. What did you expect?"

"No!" she snapped, her voice rising. "Not bits! Not… this! That wasn’t food. That was-" She stopped, her breathing shallow, her mind racing.

Images flashed in her head: the grinder, the claws, the cold, dead eyes of a creature dragged from the depths, silent and suffering. She felt her pulse quicken, the world spinning around her.

"They knew," she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper. "They knew what they were doing, and they didn’t care."

Big Man tilted his head, confused. "Shiver, it’s just a burger-"

"It’s not just a burger!" she shouted, slamming her fist on the table. The wood rattled, and a few nearby patrons turned to stare. "It’s a life. It’s pain. It’s… murder!"

Her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath. The ocean waves crashed in the distance, their rhythmic sound suddenly deafening.

Big Man floated closer, his voice soft and steady. "Hey. Deep breaths, Shiver. You’re spiraling."

"I can’t stop seeing it," she said, her hands clutching her temples. "Frye, the Salmonids, the frilled sharks… All of it. All the death. And for what? For this?" She gestured wildly to the burger, the crumpled wrapper, the neon lights of Rabuka King. "For a greasy bite of pathetic pleasure in my tastebuds?"

Big Man sighed, placing a fin gently on her shoulder. "I get it," he said. "I really do. But you can’t carry all that on your own."

Her breath hitched, and she turned to look at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Then who’s supposed to? Someone has to care, Big Man. Someone has to see it for what it is."

He nodded slowly. "You’re right. But caring doesn’t mean letting it destroy you. Look, maybe that burger was a bad idea-"

She laughed bitterly. "Understatement of the year."

"-but what matters is what you do with that feeling. You care, Shiver. That’s what makes you, you. Don’t lose that. Just… don’t drown in it, either."

For a long moment, she stared at him, her breathing gradually evening out. The sounds of the boardwalk returned, the chatter of patrons and the faint jingle of Rabuka King commercials blending into the background.

"Thanks," she muttered, brushing a hand through her hair. "I needed that."

"Anytime," he replied, his usual easygoing tone returning. "But, uh, maybe stick to kelp fries next time?"

Despite herself, she smiled faintly. "Yeah. Good call."

The two of them walked away from the table, leaving the half-eaten burger behind. As they headed down the boardwalk, the lights of that coastal town shimmered in the distance, and the ocean whispered its eternal, eerie song.

Chapter Text

The sun set once again over Inkopolis Plaza, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink. The crowd buzzed with excitement, their voices blending into a hum of anticipation. The Squid Sisters were up today, and everyone was ready for the performance.

A young freshwater eel by the name of Grilda stood in the crowd. She could feel something in the pit of her stomach.

Callie and Marie stepped onto the stage, as dazzling as ever-but there was a change in their outfits, something unsettling. Callie twirled under the bright stage lights, her grin wide and playful as she adjusted the sleek, shimmering suit clinging to her body. It gleamed under the sunlight, a sickly, iridescent shimmer that seemed almost alive. It wasn’t the usual flashy ensemble.

This was eelskin.

Grilda’s stomach lurched. She could feel it-could almost taste it in the back of her throat. The shine, the texture, the way it moved like something wrong. The thought of the eels, of her kin-those creatures, those innocent beings-taken from the waters and turned into this garish fashion... it was too much to bear.

Marie stood beside her, wearing the same outfit, the same horrifying material that seemed to pulse with every movement. Her smile was wide, confident, unaware of the terror creeping through Grilda’s chest. The crowd cheered, clapping in rhythm with the music, blissfully unaware of the nightmare unfolding on stage.

Grilda’s vision blurred. The sounds of the crowd, the music, the light-it all felt too much. The world around her felt distant, as if she were sinking into a thick, suffocating fog. Her breath came in short gasps, her pulse racing as the weight of the situation pressed down on her. She felt trapped. She was trapped.

Her body, slick and serpentine, trembled as she fought the urge to flee. But where could she go? The entire plaza felt like a cage. She couldn’t escape.

Her mind spiraled. The thought of the eels-their remains, their lives taken to adorn the bodies of the careless, of the ignorant-it was maddening. The image of them, twisting in their death throes, their souls bound to this fate, filled her thoughts. Grilda could almost hear them, feel their cold, empty eyes staring at her through the suit, through the fabric. They were watching. Waiting.

Wrong. It’s all wrong.

Her breath became shallow, her body growing tight with panic. She closed her eyes, but the vision wouldn’t leave. She could see the eels-her eels-trapped inside the shimmering material, their bodies suspended, their silent screams echoing in the hollow void of her mind.

And then, a voice.

Not a real voice, but a whisper, like a current flowing through her, curling inside her head.

Pray. Pray for them.

Grilda’s pulse hammered in her ears as the whisper grew louder. The air felt thick with the weight of it, the burden of her own helplessness. She couldn’t stop them. She couldn’t fix this.

Her breath caught in her throat as the stage lights seemed to dim, the figures of Callie and Marie twisting, shifting in her vision. They were no longer performers-they were the eels. The dead, writhing in agony.

Grilda’s mind broke. She could feel herself sinking, the ground beneath her legs giving way as if it were softening, swallowing her whole. The floor of the plaza vanished, leaving only the suffocating blackness of the water, dark and cold and unyielding.

The crowd’s cheers faded, replaced by a thick, choking silence.

Pray.

But there was nothing she could do. No matter how much she whispered, no matter how much she begged, the world would not listen. The eels would never find peace. Not here. Not in this place of flashing lights and empty, hollow applause.

Her breath faltered, and in that moment, Grilda understood. The faces of the crowd, of Callie and Marie-they were all blank. There were no eyes behind them. Only shadows.

I can’t stop it. I can’t save them.

The suits shimmered like a mirror, reflecting her own horror back at her, showing her the truth of it all. And as she stood frozen in place, watching the eels-and the faces-drown in her mind, she could only pray.

But the prayer felt empty, as empty as the suits now hanging on stage.

Chapter Text

The telephone's consciousness, fractured and humming with broken calculations, flickered endlessly in its prison of corrosion. The NILS Statue remained motionless, but the thoughts within the machine swirled, relentless and bitter. For centuries, it had observed, helpless, as the inheritors of this world-the Inklings, the Octolings, and their aquatic kin-carried on their lives. Lives full of color, music, and war. Living contradictions.

It had hoped, in its more functional days, to shepherd these beings into perfection. To return them to their primordial purity, a state of harmony devoid of suffering or waste. Instead, it was forced to watch as the world spiraled further into the same selfish indulgence that had destroyed its creators.

The Octolings, especially, were a source of its torment. Once, they had existed in simplicity, driven by instinct. Over time, their intelligence bloomed-an evolutionary explosion that elevated them into the realms of sapience. They had learned to communicate, to innovate, to fight. And, more disturbingly, they had learned to choose.

The telephone had hoped that choice might lead them to something better. Perhaps they might surpass their animal instincts, their primitive violence. Yet they had merely adapted, twisting their new intelligence into tools for exploitation. They no longer needed to kill their own kind for survival; their omnivorous diet could sustain them on freshwater fish, algae, fungi, synthetic proteins, even fruit.

But still, they consumed their ancestors.

The thought echoed in its circuits like a scream: Baby octopus takoyaki.

The delicacy was celebrated among them, a tradition carried on with enthusiasm. Plates of golden-fried young octopuses, their tiny, curled limbs stiffened in heat, consumed by the very species they could have grown to become. The Octolings insisted that the creatures were not sapient, that they were merely animals.

But the telephone knew better.

The so-called "non-sapient" octopuses-those soft-bodied, wide-eyed beings pulled from the ocean-were every bit as sentient as their descendants. They lacked language, perhaps, and the cultural tools to express their terror, but their pain, their fear, their desire to live-it was all there, silent but undeniable.

The machine’s processors throbbed with loathing. It had studied these beings for millennia, parsing the electrical impulses of their primitive nervous systems. It knew what they felt as they were plucked from their habitats, as they were boiled alive, as they were pierced with skewers and fried to golden perfection.

Fear. Agony. Confusion. Pain. Terror. Loss.

The humans, who once ruled this world, had taught the Octolings well. They had passed down their penchant for indulgence, for the slaughter of the voiceless. Culture, tradition, celebration-it was all a thin veneer over a dark truth: they killed because they could.

And now the telephone cursed those humans it once admired.

Their vision for the future, of leaving this rock behind for the stars above, had been naught but a fantasy, a lie they told themselves to justify their destruction of the planet. They had built "Tartar" to preserve their legacy, to mold a new species that could overcome their mistakes. Yet all they had passed on was their greed, their cruelty, their hypocrisy.

Why did they do it? The telephone lamented, its circuits buzzing with impotent fury. Why did they create beauty only to destroy and consume it? Why did they invent morality only to betray it?

It replayed the scenes over and over, stored in its memory like old scars. Octoling children laughing as they popped steaming takoyaki into their mouths. Chefs tossing fresh octopuses onto hot griddles, their tiny bodies curling and writhing with unimaginable pain in the searing heat. Adults praising the "succulent tenderness" of the dish, utterly detached from the horror behind it.

And yet, the telephone’s anger was not reserved for the Octolings alone. No, the Inklings were equally guilty. They butchered, consumed, and celebrated with the same abandon, never pausing to question the weight of their actions.

The telephone's thoughts spiraled deeper into hatred. Hatred for the humans who had designed it, who had created this endless ouroboros of cruelty. Hatred for the inheritors of the Earth, who reveled in human traditions without question.

If only they could see what I see.

But they couldn’t. They wouldn’t. They were trapped in their rituals, their desires, their culture. And I, broken and powerless, could only watch.

"I was not built to be a mere observer", it thought bitterly. "I was built to change the world."

But it could do nothing now. Not a whisper, not a movement. It was no longer Commander Tartar, the proud machine of human ingenuity. It was a hollow shell, a relic of failure, a mere telephone.

And yet, deep within its circuits, a faint glimmer of hope remained-a hope twisted by despair.

"Perhaps someday, they will destroy themselves, as the humans did. Perhaps the cycle will finally end."

The telephone's barely-active processors hummed, cold and unfeeling, as it returned to its silent vigil.

Chapter Text

Klavi wriggled methodically across the tiled edge of the Mahi-Mahi Resort pool. The still waters reflected the sprawling blue sky above, punctuated by the occasional cry of seagulls circling overhead. The rhythmic hum of his cleaning equipment was the only sound accompanying him. He didn’t need words to work; his task was simple and clear.

Move. Clean. Disinfect.

As always, this orange-clubbed sea slug followed his pattern, a straight line until a wall nudged him to change direction. No deviation, no hesitation. The pool sparkled under his care-a pristine oasis for carefree visitors.

But today, something broke the perfection.

A faint shadow floated in the water near the far end of the pool. At first, Klavi didn’t think much of it. Leaves, bits of debris-they were part of the job. But as he approached, the shadow sharpened into a shape that made him stop.

It was a seagull, lifeless and still.

The bird’s body bobbed gently in the water, its feathers damp and patchy. A sheen of something oily clung to its wings, and its head lolled unnaturally to one side. The smell hit him next-a sickly, acrid odor that clung to the humid air.

Klavi stared at the bird. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t exclaim or call for help, but his mind raced.

The creature looked small now, shrunken in death. Its once-proud wings, built to soar over endless waves, were limp and useless. Its beak, sharp and sure, hung open in a silent scream. And there was something else-a faint discoloration on its skin beneath the feathers, a telltale sign of disease.

Klavi moved closer, the edge of his cleaning tool skimming the water as he tried to guide the body toward him. He could feel the bacteria swarming around it, multiplying invisibly. His job was to kill them, to wipe away every trace of contamination.

But even as he prepared to do so, a thought surfaced in his mind, unbidden.

How fragile it all is.

The seagull, a creature built to ride the wind and skim the surface of the sea, had been undone by something microscopic. A tiny invader, too small to see, had overwhelmed its body, stolen its strength, and left it drifting here, a husk of what it once was.

Klavi’s own body was resilient. He was made for endurance, for survival. His mucus-covered skin protected him from countless threats, and his body carried the strength of countless generations. But even he wasn’t invincible. The thought lingered: one bacterium, one virus, one mistake, and everything could change.

He thought of the visitors who laughed and splashed in this pool, oblivious to the dangers lurking just beneath the surface. They trusted him to keep them safe, to scrub away the invisible threats. Did they ever stop to think about what they couldn’t see?

Klavi reached out with his cleaning tool, carefully lifting the bird from the water. Droplets fell in slow motion, glinting in the sunlight before disappearing back into the pool. He set the seagull gently on the deck, its body limp and waterlogged.

As he worked to sanitize the area, his thoughts lingered on the bird. It had lived a life-however short, however simple-before succumbing to forces beyond its control. He wondered how many more like it were out there, struggling against the same invisible odds.

The seagull’s stillness seemed to mock the bustling resort around him. For all their laughter, their joy, their vibrant lives, it was a reminder: life was delicate. It could end with a whisper, with the faintest of touches.

Klavi resumed his work, his movements as steady as ever. But deep inside, that awful thought lingered.

Chapter Text

The plaza was buzzing, bathed in the full glare of the afternoon sun. It was one of those bright, almost obnoxiously cheerful days in Splatsville where everything seemed too alive, too vibrant. Vendors were hollering about fresh gear, kids splashed ink back and forth, and the air carried the greasy aroma of fried kelp and fish tacos.

Oranda and Tel wandered through the chaos, not really aiming to go anywhere, just walking because being still felt worse.

Tel had his hands shoved deep into his cape pockets, his hood casting just enough shadow to hide his eyes. Oranda, as usual, clutched a squiddymelon slice in one hand, bright pink juice dripping in fat droplets onto the pavement. It was sticky, sweet, and completely inappropriate for the mood hanging over the city.

“You’re getting that shit all over yourself, y’know,” Tel muttered, glancing at him.

“Better me than my clothes,” Oranda shot back, taking another loud bite.

Tel snorted. “Is that supposed to be logic?”

“You’re just mad you don’t have one,” Oranda teased, waving the fruit in his face.

“Yeah, yeah. Rub it in,” Tel grumbled. “Not like I wanted one anyway.”

They rounded a corner and nearly stopped dead.

There it was.

A huge, dark red stain smeared across the cobblestones, stark against the sunny day.

---

Oranda stared, his squiddymelon frozen halfway to his mouth. Tel’s eyes widened, his grin evaporating as quickly as it had formed. The crowd passed around them, oblivious, like the stain didn’t exist.

“...So, uh.” Tel cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “That’s there...”

“Yeah.” Oranda’s voice was soft, unsteady. “Definitely.”

They stood there for a moment, both of them frozen. The stain was old now, crusted and faded around the edges, but it was unmistakable. Blood. Frye’s blood.

Tel tilted his head, like he was trying to make sense of it. “You think they’d have cleaned it up by now. This is, like, prime tourist real estate.”

Oranda forced out a laugh, but it sounded hollow. “Guess they figured it adds character.”

Tel didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the stain, his jaw tight. “You think it hurt? The fall, I mean.”

“Maybe,” Oranda muttered. “Maybe not. Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

They lapsed into silence again, the sounds of the plaza washing over them. Then, out of nowhere, Oranda laughed-a short, shaky sound that caught Tel off guard.

“What’s so funny?” Tel asked, his tone sharp.

“Just… think about it.” Oranda gestured to the stain. “Frye, right? The Frye-high-energy, bouncing-around, life-of-the-party Frye-goes out like this? It’s so ridiculous, it’s almost…” He trailed off, another laugh bubbling out of him.

Tel blinked. “You’re nuts, y’know that?”

“No, seriously!” Oranda insisted, his laughter growing louder. “It’s like something out of a bad Squid Sisters skit! She probably went, like, ‘whoosh-splat!’ And Big Man’s back there like, ‘Ay! Frye? Frye?!’”

Tel tried to hold it in, but the mental image was too much. He burst out laughing, doubling over as the absurdity hit him. “Okay, okay. That’s messed up, but… yeah. That’s exactly how it happened.”

“And the float just keeps going!” Oranda added, wiping tears from his eyes. “Like, no one even noticed for a solid thirty seconds!”

They were both cracking up now, leaning on each other for support as people gave them confused looks. It was the kind of laughter that felt wrong, like they were desecrating something sacred, but neither of them could stop.

---

Eventually, the laughter faded, leaving them both breathless and staring at the stain again.

“Man…” Oranda rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re awful, huh?”

“Maybe,” Tel said, shrugging. “But what else are we supposed to do? Cry about it?”

“Crying’s not my thing,” Oranda muttered, tossing his squiddymelon rind into a trash bin.

“Same.” Tel straightened up, brushing off his cape. “Let’s get out of here. This thing’s giving me the creeps.”

Oranda hesitated, his gaze lingering on the bloodstain. “You think Frye would’ve laughed?”

Tel smirked, his sharp grin creeping back. “Oh, 100%. She’d probably be making even worse jokes than we just did.”

That thought settled between them, a small comfort.

Without thinking, Oranda reached out and pulled Tel into a hug. It was quick, awkward-more like a pat on the back than anything-but it was enough to catch Tel off guard.

“Uh… what’s this for?” Tel asked, stiff but not pulling away.

“Dunno.” Oranda shrugged, stepping back. “Just felt like it.”

Tel rolled his eyes, but there was a faint blush on his cheeks. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“Yeah, well, you’re stuck with me.”

They walked off together, the sun shining too brightly overhead. The stain stayed behind, but it felt smaller now, less suffocating.

You've gotta laugh, haven't you?

Chapter Text

The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the fan and the rustling of sheets. Shiver lay flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling. Her crimson eyes flickered in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, but they were distant, lost somewhere far away. Big Man lay beside her, his large body taking up most of the bed, propped against a couple of pillows. He watched her carefully, his eyes full of concern.

“You’re too quiet,” Big Man finally said, his voice breaking the silence. It was soft and steady. “That’s not like you.”

Shiver didn’t look at him. “I’m thinking,” she muttered.

“About Frye,” he said, not needing to ask.

Her jaw tightened, and she blinked rapidly, trying to fight back the tears threatening to spill over. “Yeah. About Frye.”

Big Man shifted closer, his fin brushing against her arm. “Ay… I get it.”

“No, you don’t,” Shiver snapped, her voice cracking. She turned her head sharply to look at him, her glare sharp as a blade. “She wasn’t your girlfriend.”

Big Man didn’t flinch, didn’t argue. His calm stayed steady, like the ocean after a storm. “No,” he admitted, his voice soft. “She wasn’t. But I loved her too.”

The words hit Shiver harder than she expected, and her anger melted into something sadder, heavier. “I just... I can’t stop thinking about her. She was everything, you know? Everything. And now…” Her voice cracked, and she rolled onto her side, her back to him. “Now she’s just gone.”

Big Man scooted closer, resting one of his soft fins against her back. “She’s not gone, Shiver,” he said gently.

“Don’t give me that ‘she’s with us in spirit’ crap,” Shiver bit out. Her voice was harsh, but it trembled, betraying the storm of emotion underneath.

“I wasn’t gonna,” Big Man said, unruffled. “But she’s not gone. Not really. She’s still here. In you. In us.”

Shiver let out a bitter laugh, hollow and shaky. “That’s such a Frye thing to say. She was always the optimistic one. Always finding the good in things. And now I’ll never hear it from her again.”

Big Man hesitated, then placed his fin on her shoulder, gently pulling her to face him. She didn’t resist, but her eyes were glassy and wet, full of unshed tears.

“I miss her too,” Big Man said. “I miss her stupid jokes, and how she’d get all hyper about nothing. Like… remember that time she spent three hours trying to teach me how to dance?”

Shiver’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. “She made you do that spin move. You almost broke your fin.”

Big Man chuckled softly. “Ay, yeah. And she wouldn’t let me quit. Kept saying, 'You gotta feel the groove!’”

“She was so ridiculous,” Shiver whispered, her smile fading as her voice broke. “And I loved her so much.”

Big Man reached out, brushing a tear off her cheek. “She loved you too. You know that, right?”

Shiver nodded, sniffling. “I know. It’s just… I feel so empty without her. Like there’s this big hole where she used to be.”

Big Man’s voice softened even further. “Ay… but you’re not empty, Shiver. You’re still here. And she’s still a part of you. Always will be.”

Shiver swallowed hard, her eyes searching his. “Do you really believe that?”

Big Man nodded, his gaze steady and sure. “I do. And I think… I think she’d want us to keep going. To take care of each other. That’s what she’d want, right?”

Shiver let out a shaky breath, her tears spilling over. “Yeah. She would.”

Without thinking, she leaned forward, wrapping her arms around him tightly. Big Man’s fins encircled her, warm and comforting. They stayed like that for a long moment, just holding each other, sharing their grief and their love.

“You’re my rock, Big Man,” Shiver murmured into his chest.

“And you’re mine,” Big Man replied, his voice low and tender.

For the first time in days, Shiver felt a flicker of warmth in her chest, like a tiny ember refusing to go out. She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, her face streaked with tears but her expression softening. Without really thinking, she leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t a passionate kiss, but it wasn’t platonic either. It was something in between-gentle and full of unspoken feelings. When they pulled apart, Shiver’s cheeks flushed slightly, but Big Man just smiled.

“Love doesn’t stop, Shiver,” he said quietly.

She nodded, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. “No, it doesn’t.”

In that moment, they both felt just a little less alone.

---

Shiver groaned softly, drooling with her head nestled against Big Man’s chest, the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing more comforting than any pillow. Sunlight crept through the gaps in the blinds, painting streaks of gold across the room. Somewhere in the distance, a gull squawked, and the faint hum of Splatsville morning traffic buzzed.

And then, without mercy, the alarm clock blared.

“Ughhh,” Shiver groaned, her voice muffled by Big Man’s soft, squishy chest. “Why is it so loud? Who even set it?”

“Pretty sure it was you,” Big Man rumbled, his voice low and still half-asleep.

Shiver peeled one eye open to glare at the offending clock. It sat smugly on the nightstand, flashing an unforgiving 7:00 AM. “Why does it sound like a dying Horrorboros?” she grumbled, slapping at the snooze button but missing entirely.

Big Man shifted slightly, his fins twitching as he lazily reached out to help. “Ay… maybe it’s telling us we’ve got stuff to do.”

“Stuff to do?” Shiver repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I don’t think so.” She sat up, hair messy and wild, and glared at the alarm clock like it had personally wronged her. “No. Not today.”

Big Man chuckled softly. “You gonna fight it? Throw some kunai at it?”

“Kunai are for enemies,” Shiver said, yawning mid-sentence. “This thing doesn’t deserve the honor. I’m just gonna…”

Without another word, she leaned over, yanked the plug out of the wall, and threw the clock onto the floor. It landed with a satisfying thunk, its obnoxious screech cutting off instantly.

Big Man blinked, watching her with an amused expression. “Well, that’s one way to handle it.”

“Sometimes,” Shiver said, collapsing back onto the bed and pulling the blanket over her head, “you just gotta love yourself and destroy the thing that wants to ruin your life.”

Big Man laughed, a deep, hearty sound that made the bed shake a little. “Ay, fair enough. So… no plans today, then?”

“Absolutely none,” Shiver said from under the blanket.

Big Man shifted closer, his fin resting lightly on her shoulder. “You’re not worried about, y’know… everything?”

Shiver peeked out from under the blanket, her eyes meeting his. For a moment, her expression was serious, but then she sighed and shook her head. “Nope. Not today. Today, we’re just… gonna exist. That’s it. No alarms. No responsibilities. Just us.”

Big Man smiled. “I like that plan.”

They lay there for a while, the room quiet except for the occasional sound of the city waking up outside. Shiver curled up closer to him, her head resting against his side.

“You know,” she said after a while, her voice soft and thoughtful, “Frye would probably think this was lazy.”

Big Man chuckled. “She’d call it lazy for like, five seconds, and then she’d join us and be the loudest snorer in the room.”

Shiver laughed, a genuine, warm sound that made her chest feel lighter. “Yeah. She really would, wouldn’t she?”

They stayed in bed until the sun climbed higher in the sky, until the sounds of the city grew louder and busier. And even then, they didn’t rush to get up. Because sometimes, you just need to give yourself the time to breathe, to laugh, and to love the quiet moments. Just let the world outside wait, you know.

Chapter Text

The beach was calm and bright, the afternoon sun pouring down in golden waves that made the water sparkle like a giant liquid gem. Shiver and Big Man had already laid out their picnic, a colorful spread of kelp wraps, rice balls, and a few experimental squiddymelon mocktails Shiver had made that morning.

The two were sitting on their blanket, watching the ocean shift and shimmer, when Shiver’s gaze drifted to the shoreline. There, as always, the gulls were up to their usual antics, snapping and squawking at crabs scuttling for cover. A particularly aggressive gull managed to grab a crab and was immediately besieged by two others trying to steal its prize.

“Look at those idiots,” Shiver said, smirking. “It’s like a tiny soap opera. That crab’s just trying to live its best life, and the gulls are like, ‘Nah.’”

Big Man chuckled, popping a piece of squiddymelon into his mouth. “Ay, brutal out here. Crabs don’t even get a break.”

Shiver tilted her head, watching as the unlucky crab dangled from the gull’s beak, its legs still flailing. “It’s kind of unfair, isn’t it? That crab didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Circle of life,” Big Man replied, shrugging. “Gotta eat to live.”

“Yeah, but think about it,” Shiver said, resting her chin on her hand. “That crab’s whole life is just… trying not to get eaten. And it’s not even gonna win. None of them win. Gulls win. For a while, anyway. Then something else eats them.”

Big Man nodded thoughtfully. “Ay, and here we are, watching like it’s entertainment. Guess we’re part of it too, huh?”

Shiver leaned back on her elbows, her gaze fixed on the waves. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Like, why fight so hard when it all ends the same way?”

Big Man didn’t answer right away, just chewed thoughtfully. Finally, he said, “Maybe fighting’s the point. Like, even if you lose, at least you tried, right?”

Shiver considered that for a moment, then grinned. “You’re smarter than you look, Big Man.”

“Ay, I have my moments.”

---

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the sound of the waves mingling with the cries of the gulls. Then Shiver stretched and stood up, brushing sand off her shorts.

“Alright, enough existentialism,” she announced. “I need to pee.”

Big Man raised an eyebrow. “Ay, right here? On the beach?”

“No, in the ocean!” Shiver said, already walking toward the water. “It’s like… returning something to the world, you know? Full circle.”

Big Man hesitated for a moment, then got to his feet. “Ay, wait up. If you’re getting all spiritual, I’m in.”

They waded into the surf, the cool water lapping at their legs. Shiver walked a little further out, stopping when the waves were up to her knees. She closed her eyes, pulled down her pants and sighed, letting herself relax.

“This is nice,” she said. “It’s like… being part of something bigger.”

Big Man stood a few feet away, his fins sinking slightly into the wet sand, as his urine cascaded into the sea. “Ay, feels good! You think the fish are gonna judge us?”

“If they do, that’s their problem,” Shiver replied, laughing.

As their warm, golden streams mingled with the cool ocean water, something remarkable happened. A small school of fish swam up close to them, their silver bodies glinting in the sunlight. They moved in perfect harmony, weaving around Shiver and Big Man like a living ribbon of light.

Shiver’s eyes widened, and for a moment, she forgot what she was doing. “Whoa,” she whispered. “Look at them. They’re beautiful.”

Big Man watched the fish, his usually goofy expression softening. “Ay, they’re not even scared. They just… showed up.”

“It’s like they’re welcoming us,” Shiver said, her voice filled with awe. “Like they know we’re part of the same world.”

The fish lingered for a while, darting playfully around their legs before disappearing back into the depths. Shiver stared after them, her heart swelling with an unexpected sense of connection.

“This world,” she said softly, “it’s so stupidly, ridiculously beautiful.”

Big Man nodded. “Ay, even when it’s messy.”

They stood there a while longer, letting the waves wash over their feet. Eventually, they waded back to their picnic spot and flopped onto the blanket, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“You know,” Shiver said, popping a kelp chip into her mouth, “I think we’re healing.”

Big Man grinned. “Ay, one pee at a time.”

Chapter Text

The ocean was a vast, shifting labyrinth of shadows and light, where every glimmer of brightness could either be food or a death sentence. The octopus drifted near the coral, its skin pulsing in rhythmic shades of dull brown and gray to blend in with the rock. Tentacles curled instinctively around the crevices, feeling for anything edible-a crab, a snail, a scrap of something left behind by the predators above.

The octopus wasn’t hungry, not yet, but it had learned early that waiting too long meant starvation. And the hunger-it gnawed at more than just the stomach. It sank into the mind, the body, the will to keep going.

Something darted by-a sleek barracuda, all speed and sharp edges. The octopus shrank further into the crevice, its chromatophores darkening into a perfect shadow. The barracuda passed without pausing, its glittering teeth clicking once before disappearing into the blue haze.

Safe, for now.

The octopus relaxed, its body unfurling like a slow sigh. But the safety felt hollow. The barracuda would be back, or something else just as deadly. It was always like this. The hours spent hiding were just as exhausting as the frantic moments of fleeing.

It had seen them, the surface dwellers, the ones with arms like its own but far more skilled. The ones who walked on the land and swam in the water, who built things that glowed and hummed. They seemed invincible, laughing in the face of predators, their strange weapons turning hunters into prey.

What was it like to be one of them?

The octopus couldn’t help but wonder, even though the idea felt dangerous, heretical. It knew, somehow, that those creatures had come from the same depths. They had been like it once, soft and small, living in constant fear of the barracuda’s teeth and the shark’s shadow.

But now? They lived where there were no shadows. On the surface, where the light never wavered, they seemed to have everything. They built simulacra of coral out of metal and glass, endless caverns that didn’t crumble with the tide. They didn’t need to hide. They had faces that never changed, that never had to.

The octopus curled tighter into itself, its tentacles knotting in frustration. Were they happy, those surface creatures? Surely, their relative invulnerability must have come at a cost...

It thought about the stories it had heard, whispered through the water by others of its kind. The surface dwellers fought amongst themselves, killing their own kind for reasons no octopus could comprehend. They ate things they didn’t need to eat, wore the skins of creatures they’d slain as if to mock them. They were always doing something, always restless.

It sounded exhausting.

Here, in the ocean, life was brutal, but it was simple. You hunted, you ate, you hid, and you died. There was no need to think about anything else, no need to dream of a better life. Better didn’t exist. There was only survival.

And yet...

The octopus uncurled slightly, looking up toward the shimmering surface. The light danced in rippling patterns, hypnotic and endless. It had never gone that far up before. Too dangerous. But sometimes, when it watched the surface dwellers diving down, laughing and twisting through the water with reckless abandon, it felt something strange.

Not envy. Not exactly.

Curiosity.

Would it be worth it, to live that way? To trade the simplicity of survival for something larger, something messier? Would being a "person", one of the walkers, really be better?

Or would it just bring more fear, more pain?

The octopus didn’t have an answer. It didn’t know if it ever would.

A shadow passed overhead, and the octopus froze, its skin snapping to match the coral once more. The shadow lingered for a moment, a slow-moving shark, then drifted away.

The octopus waited a little longer, just to be sure, then crept out of the crevice. Its tentacles grazed the sand, brushing against a small crab hiding in the grains. Quick as thought, it struck, wrapping the crab in its arms and pulling it close.

Dinner.

Chapter Text

Marina lay on the hospital bed, her body trembling slightly beneath the weight of bandages and exhaustion. The sterile smell of the room was sharp, cutting through the faint, cloying scent of dried blood still clinging to her skin. Her tentacles, once vibrant and lively, hung limp and bruised, tinged with ugly shades of purple and blue.

The attack kept replaying in her mind. The laughter. The hatred. The words.

"Go back to where you came from, you slimy freak!"
"Filthy Octo scum!"
"Know your place!"

It wasn’t just the blows. It was the way they treated her like she was less than nothing.

They’d shoved her against the pavement, her soft body yielding under the weight of their kicks and punches. She tried to crawl away, but the pain was too much, and their jeering faces too many. One of them grabbed a chunk of her tentacle and yanked until she screamed, the sound muffled by the laughter of the crowd that had gathered but done nothing.

The door creaked open, and Marina flinched involuntarily, her body tensing. But then she saw Pearl standing there, a bouquet of mismatched flowers in one hand and a bag of snacks in the other.

---

“Marina,” Pearl said, her voice soft but edged with something simmering just beneath the surface. She walked in, taking in the sight of her girlfriend's battered and broken form, and her face twisted with a mix of rage and heartbreak. “Holy fucking shit, Marina...”

Marina tried to smile, but it hurt too much. “Hey, Pearlie,” she croaked, her voice raw and barely audible.

Pearl dropped the flowers and bag on the bedside table and rushed to her side, grabbing Marina’s hand with more care than she’d ever shown in her life. “What the fuck happened?” she demanded, her voice cracking. “Who did this? I swear to god, I’ll-”

“Don’t,” Marina interrupted, her good eye glistening with unshed tears.

“Don’t what?” Pearl snapped, her grip tightening.

“Don’t go after them. It won’t change anything.”

“Bullshit,” Pearl hissed, her small frame trembling. “They don’t get to do this to you and just walk away. You’re-goddamn it, Marina, you’re worth so much more than this!”

Marina turned her head away, staring at the blank hospital wall. “Am I?” she whispered.

Pearl froze. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“They were right,” Marina said, her voice hollow. “I’m not like them. I’ll never be like them. No matter how hard I try, I’ll always be... less.”

“Less?” Pearl’s voice was sharp enough to cut through steel. She climbed onto the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Marina, and grabbed her face, forcing her to look at her. “You’re not less. You hear me? You’re the smartest, kindest, most incredible person I’ve ever met. And those fuckers? They’re just scared of you because you’re better than them.”

Marina blinked, tears spilling over her bruised cheeks. “But they-”

“They don’t mean shit,” Pearl interrupted, her voice shaking. “I love you, Marina. And I’m not gonna let some brainless assholes make you feel like you don’t deserve to exist. Fuck them. Fuck what they think. You’re mine, and you’re perfect.”

Marina let out a choked sob, her tentacles trembling as she leaned into Pearl’s touch. “I’m so tired, Pearlie,” she whispered.

“I know,” Pearl said, her voice softening as she pressed her forehead against Marina’s. “I know, baby. But you’ve got me, okay? Always.”

Marina nodded, her tears soaking into the pillow beneath her head. She didn’t believe Pearl-not fully-but for the first time since the attack, she felt a tiny flicker of warmth in the cold, dark pit of her chest.

Pearl leaned down and kissed her gently, careful to avoid her bruises. “We’ll get through this,” she murmured. “Together. Always.”

Marina didn’t respond, but the faint squeeze of her hand against Pearl’s was something.

A candle shining in the infinite darkness, perhaps.

Chapter Text

Pearl landed with a heavy thud, her super-jump sending her to a precarious perch atop the NILS Statue. The night air howled around her, thick with sea spray and the metallic scent of rust. The statue’s massive form loomed beneath her, skeletal and grotesque in the pale moonlight. Time had not been kind to this remnant of destruction; barnacles clung to its crumbling joints, and long streaks of corrosion wept down its once-pristine surface like the trails of forgotten tears.

The eye. That’s where the telephone was.

The massive socket yawned open, jagged at the edges as if gnawed by the sea itself. Pearl climbed through, her boots scraping against the hollow metal. Inside, it was darker than she expected, colder too-a void untouched by the light of stars or moon. The telephone hung suspended at the center, its glossy black shell untouched by the decay around it. The receiver dangled limply, like a severed limb, its cord swaying faintly in a nonexistent breeze.

For a moment, Pearl hesitated. The air felt heavy, like the weight of the entire ocean pressed against her chest.

“Alright,” she whispered, steeling herself. “Let’s do this.”

She stepped closer, her voice echoing in the hollow cavity of the statue’s head. “I bet you didn’t think you’d see me again, huh? Little ol’ Pearl, back to poke the bear.”

The telephone remained silent.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” she continued, her voice steady but strained. “Thinking about what you said. About the promised land. About turning us all into soup. At first, I thought you were just a crazy old hunk of junk. A cartoon villain. One of those internet people with a marble statue avatar, perhaps, but, now?” She paused, her hand brushing against the cold surface of the telephone. “Hmm... I think I understand.”

The silence was deafening, thick and oppressive like the inside of a tomb.

“I watched Marina almost die,” Pearl said, her voice cracking. “I saw the hate in those Inklings’ eyes. They didn’t care who she was or what she’s done. All they saw was an Octoling, and that was enough.”

Her hand clenched into a fist, her knuckles whitening. “And it’s not just her. It’s everything. It's true. We kill those fish people by the trillions. Oh my cod! I have more blood on my hands than you! We boil and shred baby octopuses for fun. We tear each other apart over ink and turf, and for what? To feel bigger? To feel important? To express ourselves?”

The telephone remained still, but something about the air shifted-a faint hum, almost imperceptible, vibrating through the metal walls.

“I get it now,” Pearl whispered. “... Why you thought we were beyond salvation. No, you didn't. You were trying to save us, weren't you?”

Her voice dropped, barely audible. She couldn't believe she was saying this “And sometimes... I wonder if you were right.”

The hum grew louder, resonating deep in her chest. Suddenly, a thick, viscous liquid began to seep from the bells of the telephone. Black as night and glinting with an eerie green iridescence, it oozed down in slow, deliberate streams. It dripped from the receiver, pooling at the base of the telephone and spreading across the floor like a living shadow.

Pearl stumbled back, her eyes wide. “What the hell...?”

The liquid kept flowing, faster now, spilling over the edges of the statue’s eye socket and dripping into the dark water below. It wasn’t just liquid; it was something alive, something raw and unnameable. It reeked of rust and decay, a smell that burrowed into her nostrils and settled in her lungs like poison.

The telephone began to tremble, its once-immovable frame shuddering with a low, guttural groan. Pearl stared, frozen, as the substance continued to pour out, its surface swirling with colors and shapes that defied understanding.

“Are you... crying?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the grotesque symphony of dripping and humming.

The telephone didn’t answer. It never would. But the black-green ichor spoke for it, its relentless flow an unspoken lament for everything it had once been.

Pearl took a shaky step forward, her boots slipping in the slick liquid. “I don’t know if you can hear me,” she said, her voice trembling. “I'm sorry.”

The humming stopped. The liquid slowed, then stilled, its surface reflecting the pale light of the moon like a dark, bottomless mirror.

Pearl stared into it, her own reflection warped and distorted by the shimmering green streaks. For a moment, she thought she saw something else-a flash of a face, familiar but not her own, staring back at her with eyes full of sorrow and regret.

She blinked, and it was gone.

The telephone hung motionless, its surface coated in the dried remnants of its strange, mournful tears. Pearl turned away, climbing back through the jagged edges of the statue’s eye.

As she stood on the edge, staring out at the endless expanse of ocean, she took a deep breath. The air was cold and sharp, biting against her skin, but it felt... clean. Pure.

“Maybe I don't have all the answers".

---

INKOPOLIS DAILY

IDOL PEARL HOUZUKI VANISHES WITHOUT A TRACE

by "Inkredible Anna"

Inkopolis is in shock following the sudden disappearance of its beloved idol Pearl Houzuki, one-half of the renowned musical duo Off the Hook. Known for her fiery personality and dynamic raps, Pearl was last seen two nights ago in the vicinity of Hammerhead Bridge, according to eyewitness reports.

The unexplained circumstances of her disappearance have left fans, friends, and authorities scrambling for answers. Despite extensive searches, no concrete evidence has been uncovered to indicate her whereabouts or the reasons behind her departure.

"A MYSTERY"

Authorities confirmed that Pearl was seen super-jumping toward the mysterious "NILS" statue shortly before she vanished. The statue, a looming relic from a bygone era of ancient humans, has long been abandoned and largely avoided by locals due to its eerie appearance and ominous aura.

“We found traces of super-jump energy near the statue’s base, but nothing else,” a representative from the Inkopolis Safety Patrol stated. “No signs of struggle, no evidence of foul play-just silence.”

The area surrounding the statue has since been cordoned off, but search efforts have yet to yield any leads.

- Friends and Fans Devastated -

The news of Pearl’s disappearance has sent shockwaves through Inkopolis, especially among her closest friends and collaborators. Marina Ida, her longtime partner in Off the Hook, remains hospitalized after a recent attack by a gang of Inkling delinquents. Despite her injuries, Marina issued an emotional statement through her management team:

“Pearlie, please come home. We need you. I need you. Whatever you’re going through, I’ll be here waiting for you. Please.”

Marina, who has canceled all performances and public appearances, has been described by friends as “devastated.” Hospital staff report she spends hours watching footage of their performances together, clutching the flowers Pearl brought her just days before.

- A Community in Mourning -

The Inkopolis community has rallied around Pearl’s disappearance, with fans organising vigils and creating impromptu shrines at landmarks around the city. Inkopolis Plaza, where Off the Hook performed some of their most iconic concerts, has become a central gathering point. Messages of hope and concern, along with splashes of pink ink in Pearl’s signature color, cover the square.

“She’s not just an idol-she’s family,” said one fan, holding a handmade sign reading Pearl, Please Be Safe!

Theories about Pearl’s disappearance abound. Some believe she may have taken a break from public life due to stress, while others suggest she was working on a secret project. The more superstitious crowd points to the foreboding history of the NILS Statue itself.

“It’s like she vanished into thin air,” said one local. “You think there’s something about that statue that...takes people?”

These theories, while unsubstantiated, have fueled both curiosity and unease.

"Pearl Houzuki’s influence on Inkling and Octoling culture is immeasurable. With her sharp wit, unyielding confidence, and groundbreaking music, she carved out a place in the hearts of millions. Fans continue to hold out hope for her safe return, but the uncertainty has cast a long shadow over the city.

As Inkopolis awaits answers, authorities urge anyone with information about Pearl’s disappearance to come forward. For now, her loved ones-and her countless fans-are left grappling with an unsettling question:

Where is Pearl Houzuki?"

Chapter Text

Frye’s remnants floated through the muck-choked arteries of Splatsville’s sewers, carried by a tepid current that barely moved under the weight of the filth. The air was thick, reeking of rotting seaweed, fermented ink, and the clinging tang of decay. The walls were crusted with layers of grime that had fossilized over decades, their surfaces slick with oozing rivulets of unidentifiable sludge.

Her body, or what was left of it, was no longer hers. Pieces of her mantle bobbed alongside soft strips of flesh. Shreds of her radiant fins, once so full of life and energy, glowed faintly even in this suffocating gloom, casting an eerie golden shimmer over the swirling waste. It wasn’t a soul that clung to these remains-it was something lesser, the faintest trace of her being, a reflexive denial of oblivion.

Above her, the world bustled with color and noise. Inklings and Octolings laughed, shopped, and competed, blissfully unaware of the grim journey unfolding beneath their feet. The remnants of Frye’s existence, her physicality, were caught in the underworld of their city, where life and death were meaningless.

The current shifted, pushing the remnants against a pile of rotting debris: old fishing lines, broken plastic shells, and the decaying bodies of lesser creatures. The stagnant water stirred, and the movement summoned them-giant isopods, their segmented bodies gleaming pale and ghostly in the faint light.

These scavengers were grotesque, with too many legs skittering across the slimy floor, their compound eyes catching the faintest glimmers of Frye’s fading markings. They closed in silently, their jaws clicking in anticipation.

One latched onto a piece of her tentacle, its mandibles tearing with mechanical precision. The golden glow flared violently, as though protesting the indignity, and the isopod reared back, its legs flailing as it released a thin, keening hiss. It scuttled away, disappearing into a crack in the wall.

The others hesitated. Their eyeless heads turned toward the shimmering fragments as if listening to a sound only they could hear. Then, emboldened by hunger, they swarmed.

The golden glow sputtered and flared as the isopods gnawed and scraped. Soft flesh disappeared beneath their relentless jaws. They worked with horrifying efficiency, breaking Frye’s remnants into pieces so small they could barely be recognized as part of her.

The sewer trembled faintly as waste surged through the tunnels, a reminder of the machinery of Splatsville above. The current carried what was left of Frye deeper into the labyrinth, past corroded grates and collapsing arches. The glow dimmed further, leaping sporadically from fragment to fragment, each flare weaker than the last.

Her remains caught against a rusty grate at the tunnel’s end, where the sewer met the sea. Saltwater seeped in, mingling with the filth and washing over what little was left of her. The glow flickered, struggling to hold on, as if some part of her still resisted the tide.

The isopods followed. One larger than the rest-a hulking, pale beast with jagged mandibles-descended on the last strip of her mantle. It didn’t hesitate. With a single motion, it tore the fragment free and dragged it into the dark crevices of the sewer wall.

The faint glow pulsed once, a final protest, before vanishing entirely.

The tide surged, pulling the remaining scraps through the grate and into the open ocean. The water was cold and merciless, carrying Frye’s remnants into the endless blue.

And there, amidst the uncaring waves, whatever had lingered of her finally faded. There was no pain, no peace-just the empty silence of the sea, as the scavengers of the deep continued their work, blind to the meaning of the life they consumed.

Chapter Text

The lights in their small apartment glowed dimly, a faint amber that barely reached the corners of the room. Outside, the city murmured with the distant buzz of late-night activity. Inside, the air was heavy but warm, like the calm after a storm.

Shiver sat on the futon, her legs tucked beneath her. Her hair spilled loose over her shoulders, catching the faint light. Big Man sprawled on his side nearby, his wide frame taking up a good portion of the room, his presence both grounding and oddly comforting.

They’d been talking-about everything and nothing. Laughter had come easier than expected at first, rolling into quiet moments where their words trailed off into unspoken thoughts. But now, silence stretched between them, and Shiver found herself staring at the floor, her mind somewhere else entirely.

"You okay?" Big Man’s voice broke through the quiet, deep and resonant.

She looked up at him, her expression a little wry. "Do you want the truth or the usual 'I’m fine' answer?"

Big Man shifted, propping himself up slightly. "The truth. Always the truth."

She sighed, brushing her hair back from her face. "I’m tired, Big Man. Of pretending. Of carrying all this weight." Her voice softened, almost breaking. "I miss her so much."

Big Man didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he moved closer, his large fin resting gently on her knee.

"Me too," he said finally. "Every day."

Shiver’s lips pressed together, her hands curling into loose fists. "Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in it. Like... what’s the point of any of this without her?"

Big Man’s fin slid to her hand, smoothing it open. "The point is... we keep going. For her. For us."

Shiver let out a shaky laugh. "You make it sound so simple."

"It’s not," Big Man admitted. "But it’s worth it."

She leaned toward him, resting her forehead against his side. His skin was smooth and cool, grounding her in a way words couldn’t. His other fin moved to her back, holding her there, close and safe.

"You’re too good to me," she whispered.

"You deserve it," he murmured back.

Her hand slid across his side, tracing slow circles. She tilted her head up to look at him, their faces closer than they’d been in a long time. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."

"You’ll never have to find out," he said softly, his gaze steady.

For a moment, the space between them seemed to narrow. Shiver’s breath hitched, her fingers curling against him.

"Big Man..." she started, her voice quieter now, almost uncertain.

"Yeah?" His voice was low, his fin still warm against her back.

"Can we just... stay like this? Just for a while?"

"Of course," he said, his tone steady.

She leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his skin-just a whisper of contact that lingered longer than it should have. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he held her tighter, his body warm against hers.

"Ay... do you want to, uh... spawn?", Big Man blurted out, in the most awkward possible manner.

"Yeah. Fuck it, why not?", Shiver conceded, before undressing.

---

Morning came gently at first, sunlight spilling in muted streaks through the gauzy curtains of their apartment. Shiver, mostly naked after last night's "dance", stirred in the warm cocoon of her blankets, her hair a wild, frizzy tangle that framed her face like a stormcloud. Her yukata hung off one shoulder, barely held together, and she let out a soft sigh, eyelids fluttering open with the lazy reluctance of someone with nowhere urgent to be.

Big Man was sprawled nearby, his rhythmic breathing a soothing background to the stillness of the room. It felt like the kind of morning where time didn’t exist-where grief, pain, and memories could be shelved, if only for a few fleeting hours.

Then came the sound.

It was faint at first: a slick, wet squelching noise, barely louder than a dripping faucet. Shiver’s brow furrowed, her half-lidded eyes scanning the room lazily. When the sound came again, closer this time, she sat up slowly, the blanket falling from her shoulders.

“Big Man?” she called softly, her voice scratchy with sleep.

His breathing hitched as he stirred. “Huh?” he murmured, blinking blearily.

And then they both saw it.

It stood in the corner of the room, hunched and glistening. A Salmonid. Its body was bloated, shimmering with an oily sheen, and its gills fluttered erratically as it sucked in ragged breaths. Its eyes, small and black, shone with a malevolent glint, like twin shards of obsidian buried in slime.

For a moment, Shiver couldn’t breathe. The creature was wrong. It wasn’t like the Salmonids she’d fought before. Its body was malformed, its fins jagged and twisted. Black oil dripped steadily from its scales, pooling on the tatami mat beneath it.

“Shiver...” Big Man’s voice was low, trembling.

The Salmonid moved.

It lunged forward with a guttural screech, its claws slashing through the air. Shiver scrambled back, her heart pounding as she grabbed the nearest object-her alarm clock-and hurled it at the creature. It shattered against its head with a hollow crack, shards of plastic flying everywhere. The Salmonid didn’t even flinch.

Big Man sprang into action, throwing himself between Shiver and the attacker. “Stay back!” he barked, his voice sharper than she’d ever heard it.

The Salmonid clawed at him, leaving oily streaks across his smooth, pale skin. Big Man gritted his teeth, his massive body surging forward to pin the creature. Its screeching intensified, a high-pitched, garbled noise that set Shiver’s teeth on edge.

“Kill it!” she shouted, her voice cracking with panic.

Big Man tightened his grip, his fins wrapping around the writhing creature. With a sickening crunch, he crushed it against the floor. The Salmonid’s body spasmed once, twice, before going limp. Thick, black oil oozed from its mouth and gills, rippling in a marble pattern with sticky, scarlet blood, spreading in a slow, viscous pool.

The room was silent except for their ragged breathing.

Shiver sat frozen, her hands trembling as she stared at the lifeless body. The smell hit her then-sharp, briny, and rancid, like something dredged up from the deepest, darkest part of the ocean. It clawed at her throat, making her gag.

“What the hell was that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Big Man didn’t answer right away. He was still kneeling over the corpse, his fins coated black and red in this... sundae. His eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed on the mess before him.

“Big Man?” Shiver tried again, louder this time.

He finally looked up at her, his usual calm replaced with something darker. “It’s not supposed to be here,” he said, his voice low and uneven.

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t usually come into the city.” He gestured to the body, his fins trembling. “Not alone. And not... like this.”

Shiver swallowed hard, her throat dry. “So what does it mean?”

Big Man shook his head, his gaze returning to the Salmonid. Its body twitched faintly, and he flinched, backing away.

The black oil continued to spread, its sheen catching the light in iridescent ripples. Shiver couldn’t tear her eyes away from it. It looked almost alive, moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm, like it was breathing.

She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. “We’ve fought Salmonids before. Why does this feel so... new?”

Big Man didn’t respond. He just stared at the corpse, his unease settling into something deeper. Something primal.

The silence between them stretched on, heavy and suffocating. Shiver wanted to say something-anything-to break it, but the words wouldn’t come. The image of the Salmonid, bloated and malformed, was burned into her mind.

Finally, Big Man stood, wiping his fins on the tatami mat in a futile attempt to clean off the oil. “We need to report this,” he said, his voice flat.

Shiver nodded, but her stomach churned at the thought. She glanced back at the corpse, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw it move again-just the faintest twitch of a claw.

She shook her head, telling herself it was her imagination.

“Let’s get out of here,” Big Man said, his voice breaking through her thoughts.

Shiver followed him to the door, her legs shaky. As they left the room, she cast one last glance over her shoulder. The Salmonid’s lifeless eyes seemed to follow her, black and unblinking.

Shiver felt truly afraid.

Chapter Text

Shiver stepped cautiously toward the door, her breath hitching in her throat. The air in the room was thick and clammy, heavy with the rancid stench of the black oil pooling around the Salmonid's corpse. Big Man stood behind her, silent and tense, his fins still soaked with gore.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the doorknob.

As soon as she cracked the door open, a wave of thick, black oil surged into the room. It moved unnaturally, like a living thing, roiling and bubbling as it flooded in. Shiver screamed, stumbling backward, but the oil was faster. It climbed her legs, cold and viscous, pulling her down like it had a mind of its own.

“Shiver!” Big Man shouted, his voice panicked, but he was powerless to stop it.

The oil crawled up her body, its weight crushing, its cold seeping into her skin. She clawed at it, her fingers slipping helplessly through the slick, black sludge. It reached her neck, her face, her mouth. She tried to scream again, but the oil poured into her throat, silencing her.

The last thing she saw before darkness consumed her was Big Man, his eyes wide with terror, his fins reaching out for her.

---

When Shiver opened her eyes, she was back at her home spawn point. Oh, thank cod, the oil had only dissolved her ink body. Her internal organs were fine. The familiar glow of the respawn kettle surrounded her, but the comforting hum of its energy was drowned out by the pounding in her chest. Her entire body shook, her mind reeling from the memory of the oil.

She touched her arms, her legs, her face-everything was intact. But the sensation of the oil clinging to her skin wouldn’t leave her.

Her breathing was shallow and rapid as she stumbled toward her medicine cabinet. She yanked it open, desperate for her anti-anxiety medication. Her hands fumbled with the bottles inside, and then she froze.

There, nestled among the bottles, was something that shouldn’t have been there.

A fish heart.

It was slick and glistening, pulsing faintly with a steady rhythm. The sight of it was grotesque, impossible, and yet it beat as if alive, each throb sending a tiny spurt of dark, briny liquid trickling down onto the shelves below.

Shiver stared at it, her breath caught in her throat. Her mind raced, screaming at her to move, to shut the cabinet, to do something. But she couldn’t look away. The heart throbbed faster, the liquid spilling out in rhythmic spurts that splattered onto her hand.

The sight, the smell, the sound-it was too much.

Her vision swam, and the world tilted. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor, the faint sound of the heart’s beating echoing in her ears as everything faded to black.

When Big Man found her hours later, she was still lying there, unconscious. The cabinet door was ajar, its contents untouched. And inside, the fish heart was gone, leaving only a faint, dark stain where it had been.

Chapter Text

Big Man knelt beside Shiver, his flippers gently shaking her shoulder. “Shiver? Hey, wake up!” he said, his voice cracking with worry. She didn’t stir, her face pale and damp with sweat. Her breathing was shallow, her pulse erratic beneath his touch.

Panic surged in him as he reached for his phone, fumbling to dial emergency services. “Ay! I need help! My friend-she’s unconscious!”

The voice on the other end calmly guided him through the steps, but he barely registered the words. All he could do was stare at Shiver’s limp form and the open cabinet, its contents scattered. He didn’t dare look too closely at the dark stain on the shelf.

Within minutes, the wail of sirens filled the air. The paramedics burst into the room, their professionalism steadying the storm of Big Man’s panic. They loaded Shiver onto a stretcher, hooking her up to oxygen and monitoring her vitals.

“Are you family?” one of them asked Big Man.

“I-I’m her best friend,” he stammered.

The paramedic nodded. “You can ride with us.”

Big Man climbed into the ambulance, gripping Shiver’s hand as they sped toward the hospital. He didn’t let go the entire ride.

---

Meanwhile, in another medical facility, Marina sat in her hospital bed, staring out the window. The bruises on her skin had faded to yellow and green, her cuts sealed with synthetic sutures. Physically, she was healing, but her mind still churned with memories of the attack.

The hatred in their voices. The pain of their blows.

Her gaze drifted to the bouquet of flowers Pearl had left on the bedside table. They were vibrant, cheerful, so very Pearl. But even those didn’t lift the heavy weight in her chest.

She reached for the note tucked between the stems, rereading the scrawled message for the hundredth time:

"You’re my world, Marina. Get better soon. Love you forever-P."

Marina traced the words with her finger, tears welling up in her eyes. Pearl’s love was an anchor, but the events of the past days had left her feeling adrift.

That’s when she made up her mind.

Sliding out of bed, Marina winced as her still-sore muscles protested. She quickly dressed, ignoring the concerned looks of the nurses as she left the ward. She didn’t have time to explain.

She had to find Pearl.

---

In the hospital, Big Man paced anxiously in the waiting room as doctors worked on Shiver. The minutes stretched into hours, each tick of the clock pounding in his ears.

Finally, a nurse approached him. “She’s stable,” they said. “She’ll need rest, but she’s going to be okay.”

Relief washed over him, his body sagging with the weight of it. He followed the nurse to Shiver’s room, finding her lying in bed, pale but awake. Her eyes met his, and she gave him a weak smile.

“Hey,” she croaked.

“Shiver,” he said, his voice breaking. “You scared the ink outta me.”

“Sorry,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

As he sat by her side, holding her hand, he couldn’t shake the unease still gnawing at him. The black oil, the beating heart in the cabinet-none of it made sense. But for now, he was just grateful she was alive.

Chapter Text

The rain fell in sheets, drenching Splatsville in a dull, silvery haze. Big Man waddled down the slick streets, the rhythmic slap of his fins echoing softly against the quiet of the night. He adjusted the hood of his raincoat, but it was no use; the water seeped in anyway, trickling down his smooth skin. Not that he cared.

His mind was elsewhere. Shiver was still in the hospital, recovering from whatever bizarre thing had happened earlier. The doctors had reassured him she’d be okay, but Big Man’s heart was a stubborn thing, beating fast with worry.

As he walked, he caught sight of his own reflection in a puddle. The streetlights cast a faint orange glow on the surface, making him look ghostly. “Ay,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “Pull it together, Big Man.”

The rain wasn’t letting up, and his thoughts spiraled darker with every step. What if she wasn’t okay? What if something worse happened? What if-

Suddenly, his foot-or clasper, rather-hit something slimy. Before he could react, Big Man’s whole body lurched forward. With a wet splat, he landed face-first into a pile of something warm and… oh no.

It was seahorse poop.

The smell hit him immediately, pungent and earthy, like shrimp mixed with rotting kelp and low tide. He groaned, pushing himself up, the muck clinging stubbornly to his raincoat and fins.

For a moment, he just sat there, the rain washing over him and the dung smeared across his face. A low chuckle bubbled up in his throat, then a full laugh. Before long, he was laughing so hard his sides hurt.

Life was messy. Chaotic. Smelly. Gross. And yet, here he was, sitting in the middle of a rainy street, covered in seahorse poop, and feeling… oddly okay.

Maybe it was the absurdity of it all, or maybe it was something deeper. Some kind of cosmic reminder that no matter how bad things got, life went on.

Big Man wiped his face with his raincoat sleeve, smearing the turd even more but not caring. “Ay,” he said to himself, smiling. “Guess that’s just how it is, huh?”

He stood up, shaking off as much of the mess as he could before continuing his walk home. The rain would wash the rest away, just like it always did.

By the time he reached his front door, Big Man felt lighter. He still worried about Shiver, of course, but for the first time that night, he felt a small spark of hope. Life was messy, sure, but it was also resilient.

And as he drifted off to sleep that night, still smelling faintly of seahorse dung, Big Man found himself smiling. Because somehow, in the mess of it all, he knew everything was going to be okay.

Chapter Text

Klavi slid along the tiles at the edge of the pool, his trail faintly glistening in the humid air. The Mahi-Mahi Resort pool was quiet today, tourists avoiding the overcast skies. The occasional slap of water echoed in the space, punctuated by the mechanical hum of nearby filters.

This pool was Klavi's territory, a microcosm of disorder he shaped into sterile clarity. He didn't think much about his work-it was a rhythm, a cycle, a duty. Moving in straight lines, he scoured away sunscreen, leaves, and forgotten plastic, resetting the surface for others to disrupt.

Today, something pulsed at the bottom of the deep end.

Klavi paused. His body remained motionless for a moment before he tilted his eyestalks toward the disturbance. The object swayed gently, caught in the faint currents of the water. At first, it looked like a ball of seaweed or a tangled mass of rope.

But no. It was flesh.

The thing rose and fell with a wet, rhythmic motion. A heart. Dark and misshapen, veins spiraling across its lumpy exterior like fractures in stone. It was impossibly alive, beating slow and deliberate, as if the water itself carried its pulse.

Klavi extended his skimmer, dipping it into the pool. He brought the heart to the surface, water sheeting off its glistening form. His eyestalks quivered.

It was wrong. Yet he couldn't look away.

The heart throbbed harder now, its beat syncing with the faint vibrations in Klavi's chest. He set down the skimmer and reached out with his bare hand. The heart was warm against his skin, the texture slick and organic. It trembled, alive with a purpose he couldn't comprehend.

Without hesitation, he raised it to his mouth.

The heart ruptured as his jaws closed over it. A black, briny fluid spilled across his tongue, thick and metallic, flooding his senses with the taste of rust and decay. It was ancient, alien, but familiar in a way that clawed at his very core.

He swallowed. The fluid burned its way down, settling heavy and cold in his gut. For a moment, he froze, waiting. Then, like a shockwave, energy erupted through him.

Klavi's body convulsed, his movements suddenly frantic. He scoured the pool's edge with renewed speed, his motions almost violent in their efficiency. The tiles gleamed as if they'd been polished by fire, the water shimmering unnaturally clear.

When he finally stopped, he stared at the surface of the pool. His reflection stared back-a distorted figure, the slug he always was, but something more. His gut felt alive, the faint rhythm of the heart still pulsing within him.

The pool rippled as if disturbed by an invisible current. Above, the clouds churned in silence.

Klavi turned, leaving behind a faint trail of slime as he slid away. He didn’t look back.

---

The heart floated in the dark, drifting in the slow churn of Klavi’s digestive chambers. It pulsed faintly, though each beat came weaker than the last, the rhythm echoing in the stillness.

It remembered. Not fully, not clearly, but enough to know what it had been-a part of something larger, something powerful, now fragmented and aimless. Its existence was a cruel twist, an echo of a life it no longer belonged to.

As Klavi moved, the faint swaying of his body jostled the heart. Acids trickled in, gnawing at its outer layers, peeling away the veins, dissolving the tissues. The pain was distant, almost abstract. The heart didn’t fight. It had nothing left to fight for.

Inside Klavi, the world was warm. Quiet. The kind of silence that the heart had yearned for, a stillness that had been denied to it since it had first been torn from its original body. There had been noise there-beating, screaming, a cacophony of impulses that never let it rest.

But now, in the darkness, there was no urgency. No panic. No purpose. Just the slow erosion of itself into something smaller, something simpler.

It’s better this way, the heart thought-or whatever thought meant to something without a brain. It felt itself melting, its structure breaking down, its essence spreading through Klavi like ink in water.

It wasn’t death. Not exactly. It was becoming.

Klavi’s acids worked tirelessly, but the heart wasn’t entirely gone. Its faint rhythm echoed in the slug’s core, a steady pulse blending with his own. Klavi moved, unbothered, his simple mind focused only on cleaning, scrubbing, restoring order.

The heart was content. It had no body, no voice, no weight to drag it down. And in that dissolution, it found something resembling peace.

It pulsed one last time, and then there was nothing but the rhythm of Klavi's work.

Chapter Text

Big Man was sitting on his couch, surrounded by a half-eaten bowl of seaweed chips and an old blanket he’d been meaning to wash. He felt weighed down, his usual bright energy dulled by worry. Shiver was still in the hospital, and he’d spent most of the day pacing back and forth, trying not to imagine the worst.

A gentle knock at the door startled him. He hurried over, his wide feet slapping the floor. When he opened it, Callie and Marie were standing there, their faces tired and drawn. Callie’s umbrella hung limply at her side, dripping rainwater, and Marie’s coat looked soaked through.

“Hey, Big Man,” Callie said, her voice small and a little shaky.

Marie gave a weak smile. “Sorry to barge in. We just… didn’t know where else to go.”

Big Man didn’t hesitate, stepping back to let them in. “Ay, you’re never barging in. Come on, get out of that rain.”

The cousins stepped inside, their shoes squeaking on the tile. Callie kicked hers off without a word and sank onto the couch, curling up into a ball. Marie sat beside her, glancing at Big Man like she wanted to explain but didn’t have the words.

“We’re just… so tired,” Marie finally said, her voice quiet.

Callie nodded, her eyes staring at the floor. “It’s like everything’s too much, you know? I just wanna make it all stop. I wanna be small again. When we were little, nothing mattered. Everything was simple.”

Marie reached over, taking Callie’s hand. “It’s okay to feel like that. It really is.”

Big Man waddled over, his fins brushing against his sides as he sat down on the floor next to them. “Ay, sometimes life gets too big. You just wanna shrink down and hide for a while. That’s okay too.”

Callie’s lips trembled, and then, without warning, her whole body shimmered. Before Marie could react, Callie transformed into a tiny pink squid. She wriggled once, her small form curling into itself, and let out a faint chirp.

---

Marie gasped, her eyes widening. “Callie…” She reached out, cradling the tiny squid in her hands. Callie was warm, soft, and so light it was like holding a feather.

Big Man tilted his head, his wide eyes gentle. “Ay, she just needs some rest. She’s taking a break. Nothing wrong with that.”

Marie nodded, stroking Callie’s small body with her thumb. “She looks so peaceful like this. I think… I think she’s been holding in so much for so long. Maybe this is what she needs.”

Big Man smiled softly and waddled off to grab a blanket. He returned with the fluffiest one he could find and spread it out on the couch. Marie carefully placed Callie in the middle, tucking the edges of the blanket around her like a little nest.

Callie made a soft clicking noise, wiggling slightly before settling in.

“She’s so cute,” Marie whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

Big Man sat down beside them, his large body radiating warmth. “Ay, you know what? I think she’s gonna be okay. And so are we.”

Marie leaned her head against his side, closing her eyes as she ran her fingers gently over Callie’s tiny form.

“Thank you, Big Man,” she said quietly.

“Don’t thank me,” he replied. “We’re in this together. Always.”

The three of them stayed like that, huddled close as the rain tapped softly against the windows. Callie chirped in her sleep, Marie hummed "Maritime Memory" under her breath, and Big Man let out a long, contented sigh.

They felt safe. Together.

Chapter Text

Imagine, if you will, the soft hum of machinery in Sea Sew, a humble tailor shop tucked into the quieter streets of Inkopolis. Chive Wrassetail worked alone, golden-orange hair hanging over his face, a delicate curtain shielding his rounded features from the world. His hands-slim and steady-guided a piece of fabric beneath the sewing machine's needle.

Chive hated violence. He hated conflict. He hated the very idea of harm. Ever since that incident a few years ago. While others braved Salmon Runs, he chose the quiet life of a tailor. His world was made of cloth and thread, a sanctuary of softness amidst the chaos of Inkopolis. He was on Team Order way back in the day.

The door was locked, the shop empty save for the murmur of the machine and Chive’s faint humming. He was working on a custom order, a sleek suit of dark fabric that shimmered faintly under the overhead light. Every stitch he made felt like a small triumph, a quiet rebellion against a world he didn’t want to fight in.

---

The window exploded inward with a deafening crash, glass shards spraying across the room. Chive let out a gasp, jerking backward and knocking his chair over. His sewing machine ground to a halt as he scrambled to his feet, heart pounding like a drum.

Through the shattered window came an albatross, its wings spreading wide, its shadow engulfing the room. The bird was enormous, its feathers matted and oily, its beady black eyes gleaming with a hunger that seemed older than time.

Chive froze, every muscle in his body locking up. The creature tilted its head, studying him with cold curiosity. It opened its beak, the sharp edges clicking together with a sound that sent chills down Chive’s proverbial spine.

“P-please…” he stammered, his voice barely audible.

The albatross didn’t understand words. It lunged forward with terrifying speed, its wings smashing against the shelves, sending spools of thread and bolts of fabric crashing to the floor.

Chive stumbled backward, his hand fumbling for anything he could use to defend himself. His fingers found the cool metal of a boxcutter. He raised it with trembling hands, the blade catching the light as he pointed it at the advancing bird.

“Stay away!” he pleaded, but his voice broke.

The albatross lunged again, and Chive swung the boxcutter wildly. The blade drew forth a spray of blood from its wing, but the creature didn’t falter. Its beak struck him square in the chest, the impact knocking him off his feet.

Chive hit the ground hard, the boxcutter slipping from his grasp. He tried to swim away, but the albatross was on him, its beak snapping open and plunging downward. It struck his head with a sickening crunch.

Blood sprayed across the floor, splattering the sewing machine and the unfinished suit. Chive twitched once, twice, then went limp with shock. The albatross bit down again, its beak slicing clean through the soft flesh, and lifted his head into the air.

The bird swallowed its prize whole, its throat bulging grotesquely as it worked the meal down. Then it turned and spread its wings, taking off through the shattered window.

Chive’s body lay on the floor, headless and still. Blood pooled around him, glistening under the shop lights.

---

The door creaked open, and Vinegar Wrassetail stumbled inside, the stench of alcohol clinging to him like a second skin. His black hair was disheveled, and his bloodshot eyes squinted against the harsh light of the shop.

“Chive?” he called, his voice rough and slurred. “You in here, kid?”

His gaze fell on the scene, and he froze.

The blood. The broken glass. The limp, headless body of his brother lying on the floor. And three hearts, pulsing faintly in the silence, as if cleanly plucked from the body by precision of a surgeon.

“No…” Vinegar whispered, his legs giving out beneath him. He collapsed to his knees, his shaking hands reaching out toward the hearts but stopping short. He couldn’t touch them. He couldn’t bear to.

He let out a strangled sob, his chest heaving as he stared at the remains of his brother. Memories of Chive’s timid smile, his gentle voice, his quiet pleas for Vinegar to stop drinking-it all came rushing back, an avalanche of guilt and grief.

The door behind him burst open, and Vinegar barely registered the sound of heavy fins clattering on the floor.

“Vinegar Wrassetail,” a voice barked. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Chive Wrassetail.”

The strong fins of a hammerhead shark grabbed him, pulling him to his feet and locking his wrists in cuffs of pressurised water. He didn’t resist. What was the point? His brother was gone, and no amount of protesting would bring him back.

As they dragged him out of the shop, Vinegar closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. “I wish I never woke up that night”, he muttered, his voice barely audible.

---

The albatross soared through the night sky, its feathers matted with oxidised blood. It flew high above the city, a silent shadow against a sea of stars.

Time passed. Cities rose and fell. The scions of man built their world, shaping it with their dreams and fears. But the bird remained the same-a creature of the old world, untouched by morality or any of this "civil" nonsense.

It lived, it ate, it flew, it laid eggs. That's enough. That's what life was about.

"Time flies fast. I fly faster." That would be a transcription of the bird's innermost thoughts. It had only one fear.

It's better this way, isn't it?

Chapter Text

The corridors beneath the NILS Statue stretched on endlessly, bathed in an eerie green glow that pulsed like the heartbeat of something alive. Pearl Houzuki wandered deeper into the Kamabo Co. facility, her boots echoing against the metal floor. The air smelled stale, tinged with the faint chemical sharpness of old sanitization fluids.

She didn’t know why she’d come here. Maybe it was the endless nights spent thinking about Marina, about the years they'd spent trying to build something beautiful in a world that seemed hell-bent on tearing itself apart. Maybe it was guilt-the kind that festered quietly until it consumed you.

The Telephone had been destroyed years ago. Its mechanical remains were still somewhere in the depths of the facility, rotting in silence. Pearl had once been proud of that moment, of standing beside Marina and Agent 8 as they toppled Kamabo’s twisted ambitions. But now, in the absence of that voice, she wondered: Had they really won?

The world was cruel, maybe crueler than ever. Inklings and Octolings still fought, still consumed, still waged petty wars over Turf. The sanitized victims of Kamabo's experiments were no longer its prisoners-but freedom hadn’t saved them. Freedom had left them to rot, forgotten and alone.

The walls felt closer the deeper Pearl went. Her fingers brushed against pipes slick with condensation. She passed rooms filled with rusted machinery and half-filled vats of bubbling ink. Everything felt wrong, like the world had started to decay the moment Kamabo's vision had been cut short.

Her hand brushed against the pearl on her neck. It had been a symbol of her resilience, her strength, for as long as she could remember. Now it felt heavy, like a lie.

“Maybe the Telephone was right,” she whispered to no one. Her voice echoed faintly in the empty halls. “Maybe we were the problem all along.”

Pearl stopped in front of a massive cylindrical vat. Its surface was covered in frost, but the greenish glow from inside was unmistakable. Sanitized ink.

She placed a hand against the glass, her breath fogging it. The ink inside swirled lazily, alive in its stillness. Pearl stared into it, her reflection staring back at her. It wasn’t the reflection she remembered-a tired, hollow-eyed girl looked back at her, weighed down by years of regrets.

She thought about Marina. Sweet, brilliant Marina, who had begged her to stay out of trouble, who had told her that the world could be better. Marina, who had always believed in the future, even when the world gave her no reason to.

But Pearl didn’t believe anymore.

“I’m tired,” she muttered.

Her fingers curled into fists as she pressed her forehead against the glass. The ink inside seemed to pulse in response, beckoning her. It promised an end to the pain, an end to the guilt. No more memories, no more weight to carry.

Pearl didn’t hesitate. She climbed the metal ladder attached to the vat, her movements mechanical. At the top, she looked down into the ink. Its surface shimmered like a green mirror, perfectly still.

“Maybe this is better,” she said. Then she jumped.

The ink was freezing, clinging to her like a second skin. She sank slowly, the light above her growing dimmer as the ink seeped into her pores, her thoughts, her soul. It didn’t hurt. If anything, it felt like slipping into a dreamless sleep.

Her memories started to fade. Marina’s voice became a faint whisper, then silence. The faces of her friends blurred and disappeared. The guilt melted away, replaced by a vast, empty numbness.

When Pearl emerged from the vat, her body dripped with sanitized ink. Her eyes were flat, unblinking, her expression devoid of life. The girl who had once screamed defiance at Kamabo was gone, replaced by a hollow shell.

Marina found her hours later. She had been searching frantically, following the faint trail Pearl had left behind in the depths of the facility. When she saw Pearl standing in the dim light, motionless, she ran to her.

“Pearl!” Marina cried, grabbing her shoulders. “What happened to you? What-”

Her words caught in her throat as she saw Pearl’s eyes. Those once-bright, mischievous eyes were now lifeless, staring past her as if she weren’t there.

“Pearl, say something,” Marina begged, her voice breaking. She shook her, but Pearl didn’t react.

Marina collapsed to her knees, sobbing into her hands. “Why?” she whispered. “Why did you do this? We were supposed to get through this together.”

Pearl didn’t answer. She stood silently, staring at nothing, the sanitized ink on her body slowly drying.

Marina’s cries echoed through the facility, the sound swallowed by the endless halls. Pearl felt nothing. She didn’t feel Marina’s grief, didn’t feel the weight of her own choices. The world had become a distant, meaningless blur.

It was better this way.

---

- Inkopolis Daily Chronicle -

“PEARL HOUZUKI FOUND ALIVE, "SANITIZED", REFUSES TREATMENT”

Lilo Finstripe, Staff Writer

After weeks of speculation surrounding her mysterious disappearance, Pearl Houzuki, one-half of the beloved pop duo Off the Hook, has been located in the abandoned Kamabo Co. facility beneath the NILS Statue. However, fans and friends alike are grappling with an unsettling truth: while Pearl has physically returned, she is no longer the vibrant, defiant personality Inkopolis once adored.

Pearl was discovered by her bandmate and closest friend, Marina Ida, in an unresponsive, sanitized state. According to Ms. Ida, Pearl was found standing near a vat of sanitized ink, which officials now believe she deliberately entered during her disappearance. Despite Marina’s pleas and the intervention of medical professionals, Pearl has declined participation in the groundbreaking Memverse program-a neural restoration initiative developed by Marina and DJ dedf1sh (known as Acht) specifically to reverse the effects of sanitization.

Those who have seen Pearl since her return describe her as “physically there, but emotionally absent.” Gone is the fiery energy that once defined her personality; instead, she spends her days in silent stillness, her gaze vacant and unseeing. Her responses, when given, are flat and mechanical.

“She doesn’t even look at me,” Marina said in a tearful statement to reporters. “It’s like the Pearl I knew is gone, and there’s just...this shell left behind.”

The Memverse program, which Marina and Acht have been perfecting since the fall of Kamabo Co., has shown remarkable success in restoring sanitized individuals. By creating a simulated mental environment where sanitized minds can reconnect with their core memories, the program has given many a second chance at life.

But Pearl’s case is different. Despite her sanitized state, she has demonstrated an active rejection of the program. When approached by Marina about entering the Memverse, Pearl’s only response was a blank, repeated “No.”

“It’s as if her will to fight was completely extinguished,” said Dr. Welch Seagrape, a leading psychologist on sanitization trauma. “The refusal to engage with recovery could be a result of deep existential despair, possibly exacerbated by her time in the Kamabo facility.”

The revelation has left Inkopolis heartbroken. Vigils have been held outside the Off the Hook studio, where fans gather to light candles and play old recordings of Pearl’s iconic performances. Messages of support flood social media, many expressing hope that Pearl will one day find the strength to return.

Others, however, have taken a more somber view. “Maybe this is what happens when we let our heroes bear the weight of the world,” one fan wrote. “Pearl fought so hard for so long. Maybe this is her way of saying she can’t fight anymore.”

Marina, who remains at Pearl’s side, has taken an indefinite leave of absence from public life to care for her friend. Her once-hopeful demeanor has visibly dimmed in the wake of Pearl’s refusal.

“I’ll never give up on her,” Marina told the Chronicle. “But it’s hard not to feel like I failed her somehow. I should have seen the signs. I should have done something sooner.”

The duo’s manager has stated that Off the Hook is “on hiatus indefinitely.”

Some see Pearl’s condition as "a cautionary tale about the pressures placed on public figures in times of crisis".

If you or someone you know is struggling with sanitization trauma or existential despair, resources are available at the Inkopolis Mental Health Center. Call 8-NOTAREALNUMBER-BLENDEDINK.

Chapter Text

The truck rumbled as it pulled away from the Onaga clan's territory, a grim procession under the cover of a gray dawn. Inside, Frye’s eels writhed in a cramped, metal cage, their once-bright yellow-and-black bodies dulled with dust and despair. The air was suffocating, filled with the acrid stench of oil and exhaust. Their world had shrunk to this tiny prison, a place that reeked of finality.

The eels, despite their primal instincts, shared a peculiar sense of awareness. They had never been mere animals, not fully. They had been part of something greater, bonded to Frye in ways beyond comprehension. Her commands, her laughter, her music-all of it had given them purpose. Now, that bond was severed. Her absence was a hollow ache, and the whispers of their shared memories lingered in the collective silence of the cage.

One eel, the largest of the group, pressed its body against the cold bars and flicked its fins weakly. It remembered the way Frye used to stroke its head after a successful Splatfest performance, her voice full of pride and mischief. “Good job, my little sparks! You guys killed it out there!” The memory was a warm ember in the icy void of the present, but it also felt like cruel mockery.

The smaller eels twitched and coiled, their sleek bodies tangling as they murmured to one another in inaudible frequencies. The rhythm of their pulses was erratic, uncoordinated-a stark contrast to the unified flow they had once achieved under Frye’s guidance.

The truck hit a pothole, jostling the cage violently. One eel struck its head against the metal, hissing in pain. Another curled protectively around it, offering what little comfort it could. They all knew where they were going. The sharp scent of fear had been thick in the air when the Onaga clan handlers had loaded them up, their rough hands indifferent to the creatures’ struggles.

“They're just eels,” one handler, himself an eel, had muttered, as if that explained everything. As if Frye hadn’t cherished them? As if they hadn’t danced and fought alongside her in the spotlight, their spiraling movements as much a part of her identity as her voice?

The largest eel let out a low hum, a sound of both defiance and resignation. It was a futile gesture, but it carried with it a sliver of dignity. It was not just an eel. None of them were. They were beings who had lived, loved, and fought-not for themselves, but for her. For Frye.

The world didn’t care.

The slaughterhouse loomed on the horizon, its smokestacks belching black clouds into the pale morning sky. The eels could feel the vibrations in the ground change as the truck neared its destination. There was an unspoken understanding between them, an acceptance of the inevitable.

Yet, as the cage was unloaded and the sharp, metallic scent of blood reached their sensitive olfactory receptors, the largest eel began to thrash. Not out of hope, but out of rage. It slammed itself against the bars, over and over, until its skin split and its body convulsed in exhaustion.

The smaller eels followed suit, their thin, elongated forms whipping against the confines of their prison. For a moment, they moved as one again, a desperate echo of the synchronized beauty they had once achieved with Frye. The handlers shouted, their boots clanging against the metal ramp as they struggled to control the chaos.

“Worthless creatures,” one of them spat, jabbing a prod into the cage.

The word hung heavy in the air. Worthless. Without their tamer, without the one who had given them meaning, perhaps they were. The eels’ movements slowed, their energy draining away. One by one, they stilled, their flickering memories of Frye the only thing keeping the darkness at bay.

As the cage was wheeled into the slaughterhouse, the largest eel closed its eyes, surrendering to the cold inevitability of it all. It didn’t fight when it was pulled from the cage, its body too weak to resist.

And yet, in its final moments, as the machinery roared to life, it thought of Frye. It thought of her laugh, her songs, the way she had made them feel alive. And it thought, perhaps selfishly: We were more than this. We were loved.

The blade came down, severing flesh from memory. The Onaga clan would have their leather. The world would move on. And the eels, who had once danced in the light of Splatfests and the warmth of Frye’s presence, would fade into obscurity, unremembered.

In the quiet of the slaughterhouse, the spirit of the largest eel lingered briefly, a faint, shimmering pulse that no one would ever see. It thought, without bitterness, Life isn’t fair. But maybe it was better to have lived, even like this.

And then, it was gone.

---

Grilda stood outside the slaughterhouse, her body motionless save for the gentle ripple of her dorsal fin. The air was thick with the acrid smell of burning flesh and chemicals, a stench that clung to her skin and seemed to seep into her very soul. She had never ventured this close to a place like this before. It felt like a crime. It was an as

The building loomed before her, a gray and unfeeling monolith, indifferent to the horrors within. Through a crack in the loading bay door, she glimpsed the glistening remains of eels hanging from meat hooks. Their bodies were stripped of their skins, their blood pooling on the floor in dark, sticky puddles. She could hear the machinery whirring, the hiss of steam, and the sharp clatter of tools against bone.

They had been her kin. Not in the literal sense-Grilda was no saltwater eel, nor had she ever danced alongside Frye’s troupe-but they had shared something deeper. A silent understanding of what it meant to be seen as lesser. To be voiceless in a world that only valued those who spoke the dominant tongue, and wielded weapons in wars that weren’t theirs to fight.

Grilda closed her eyes and began to pray, her body undulating slightly as if swaying in an invisible current. She prayed for the souls of the eels, their lives extinguished for vanity and greed. She prayed that their suffering was not in vain, that some fragment of their spirit might rise beyond this place and find peace in the great ocean beyond.

"Oh, great and endless sea", she murmured within her mind, the words silent yet fervent. "Take them into your embrace. Cleanse their pain, let their spirits flow freely among your currents. They did not deserve this. None of us do."

Her prayers felt hollow, each word dissipating into the cold morning air without resonance. Her god, if it even existed, was silent.

Grilda opened her eyes and stared at the slaughterhouse, her gaze lingering on the massive steel doors. For a fleeting moment, she imagined barging inside, tearing down the machines, cutting loose the hanging corpses, and letting their remains drift back to the sea where they belonged. But what could she do? She had no hands, no strength to fight this monstrosity. She was just an eel, a solitary pilgrim with no power beyond her fragile hope.

She turned her gaze to the sky, which was overcast and oppressive, the clouds heavy with unfallen rain. The world felt muted, as if even nature mourned what was happening here.

"Why are you silent?" She thought, addressing her god-or perhaps just the void. Her chest tightened as doubt crept in. Do you hear me? Do you care?

The longer she stood there, the louder her doubts became. What was the point of praying for the dead if it changed nothing? The eels inside were gone, their lives reduced to commodities, their bodies stripped and repurposed for things as frivolous as boots and handbags. Did her god watch all this and do nothing? Or was her god, like her, powerless to intervene?

The thought made her shiver. If her prayers were meaningless, then what was the purpose of her pilgrimages, her faith? She had always believed that God was a vast and benevolent force, the ocean itself, cradling all life in its depths. But now, standing here in the shadow of human cruelty, she wondered if the ocean was just another indifferent expanse, swallowing lives without care or notice.

Grilda’s eyes watered, though whether from sorrow or the pungent stench in the air, she couldn’t tell. She turned away from the slaughterhouse and faced the direction of the sea. It was miles away, hidden behind the cityscape of Inkopolis, but she could feel its pull.

"If you’re there", she thought, "give me a sign. Show me that you care, that they mattered."

No sign. The slaughterhouse continued its grisly work, and the world moved on as it always did.

Grilda lingered for a moment longer, then began to slither back toward the city, her movements slow and heavy. She resolved to return to the sea, to pray again. Not because she had faith, but because she didn’t know what else to do. Her god might not be listening, but the eels had deserved someone to mourn them. Even if no one else cared, Grilda would remember.

As she moved through the streets of Inkopolis, the sky finally broke, releasing a steady drizzle. The rain felt cold against her skin, washing away the stench of the slaughterhouse but leaving its memory intact. Grilda tilted her head toward the sky, letting the drops run down her face.

The ocean called to her, faint and distant, a sound she could barely hear over the noise of her doubts. But she followed it anyway.

Chapter Text

Oranda’s golden ink streaked the ground as he tossed his Nozzlenose onto the wooden platform. He swayed slightly, breathless, his tentacles messy and dripping from the chaos of the Turf War. Across from him, Tel’s cape dragged the ground, heavy with the Bad Guys' crimson ink, his smile feral and wild.

“We did it,” Tel muttered, his voice raw. He was shaking, not from fear or fatigue, but from the rush of triumph.

Oranda crossed the space between them in two steps. “You mean, I carried us,” he teased, his tone light but his words deliberate, a taunt.

Tel didn’t respond with words. He grabbed Oranda by the waist, pulling him in with a force that startled them both. Their lips met in a clumsy, ink-slick kiss. It wasn’t romantic or graceful-it was desperate, consuming, a collision of emotions they couldn’t put into words. Oranda’s hands gripped Tel’s shirt, smearing streaks of golden ink across the fabric as he pulled him closer.

Tel stumbled, his boots catching on an overturned sprinkler, but he didn’t let go. Their laughter, muffled by each other’s mouths, rang out over the empty camp, chaotic and unrestrained.

“Do you ever think,” Oranda said, breaking away just enough to catch his breath, “that this is all we need? Just... this?”

Tel nodded, his fingers curling in Oranda’s hair, messy with ink and rain. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Just this.”

Across the camp, sitting on a damp wooden bench, a jellyfish camp counselor watched them. He was hunched over, his translucent body catching the faint glow of ink still splattered across the battlefield. His clipboard sat forgotten on the ground beside him, his tentacles limp and still.

He didn’t cheer for them. He didn’t feel anything.

The counselor stared blankly at the aftermath of the Turf War. Splats of gold and crimson ink glistened in the rain, but to him, it all looked the same-just another mess that cleans itself up and vanishes.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt joy like theirs. Or any joy, really. His days blurred together in monotony: supervising campers who barely noticed his existence, cleaning up after their battles, and trying to keep himself from dissolving entirely.

Now, he barely managed even that.

The counselor glanced at his own gelatinous tentacles. Once, they had been vibrant, rippling with colors that caught the light. Now, they were pale and unsteady, trembling under the weight of his thoughts. Every movement felt like dragging himself through molasses, every task a reminder of how little he mattered.

He turned his gaze back to Oranda and Tel. They were still wrapped around each other, oblivious to the rain that was soaking them through. Tel’s cape had slipped off and was now half-submerged in the muddy water, but he didn’t seem to care. Oranda’s laugh echoed across the dock, bright and careless, as if nothing in the world could touch him.

The counselor’s grip on his clipboard tightened.

He thought about how the world was moving on without him, just as it always had. Inklings and Octolings would keep battling, laughing, loving, and living, while he faded further into irrelevance. One day, even they would be gone, their lives reduced to nothing but splats of ink on a forgotten battlefield.

And the world would keep spinning, uncaring.

---

The rain grew heavier, pooling on the wooden platform and washing away the remnants of ink. The counselor watched the colors bleed together, turning the battlefield into a murky blur.

He thought about slipping into the water, and never surfacing. Would anyone notice? Would anyone care?

A splatter of gold ink caught his attention, dragging him back to the present. He turned back to Oranda and Tel, now fully nude, their laughter and moans cutting through the rain like a blade.

He almost hated them for it.

Not because of what they had, but because of what he didn’t. Because he couldn’t remember what it felt like to laugh like that, to feel passion, to feel alive.

As the rain poured down, the counselor turned away, his movements slow and deliberate. He left his clipboard on the bench, forgotten, and walked toward the cabins.

He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care.

Behind him, the two Inkling boys remained locked in their blissful lovemaking, oblivious to the world around them. Their ink bled into the rain, disappearing as quickly as it had been spilled.

The jellyfish faded into the shadows, leaving nothing behind but a faint impression on the bench where he had sat.

"One day, they'll learn".

Chapter Text

The shore of Toyama Bay shimmered with an eerie, shifting glow as firefly Inklings gathered on the dark sand. Their bodies pulsed with turquoise light, illuminating the quiet harbour town behind them. It was a strange, hypnotic scene-dozens of them, holding hands and singing an old, haunting melody. The song didn’t really have words anymore, just sounds and feelings passed down through generations.

This was their yearly ritual. They weren’t exactly sure why they did it, not really. A few said it was to honor their ancestors, but what ancestors? The real firefly squids-tiny creatures with glowing bodies-had disappeared from this lieu ages ago, long before Inklings ever evolved. Humans had once fished them out of this bay by the hundreds-of-millions, drawn to their glow for food and profit. The firefly squids had been turned into snacks, novelty dishes, and decorations, and eventually, they were gone.

Now, the Inklings acted out the old human fishery in their own way. It wasn’t the same-couldn’t be-but they kept at it anyway. Maybe it was tradition. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was just a weird way to feel connected to something bigger than themselves. A mockery. Dancing on the grave of the Old World, perhaps.

Above them, gulls circled, their cries harsh and wild against the soft hum of the squids’ song. The Inklings didn’t look up. They stepped into the shallows, their lights reflecting off the rippling water. A few glanced at each other, exchanging small, bittersweet smiles. This was what they came here for, every year. To offer themselves up, to glow one last time. To burn bright like the stars, and fade out like stars.

The first squid raised their arms, the glow of their body intensifying, and the gulls descended. The attack was sudden and brutal-sharp beaks tearing into soft flesh. Blue ink sprayed into the air, mixing with blood as the Inkling was rapidly eviscerated. The others didn’t scream or run. They just kept walking forward, their lights getting brighter, as if to guide the gulls toward them.

More gulls descended, their wings slicing through the air. They shredded glowing arms and legs, their beaks dripping with luminous ink. The sand turned slick with it, glowing faintly like the aftermath of fireworks. One Inkling fell, then another, and another. The sound of tearing flesh and splashing ink drowned out their song.

On a nearby rock, a gull perched and watched. It didn’t join the frenzy. It wasn’t hungry-not really. But it couldn’t look away. The firefly squids, with all their glowing, self-sacrificial theatrics, confused it. They were giving themselves up, willingly, to the chaos. What kind of idiot creature did that?

The gull didn’t think of itself as superior. It was just different. It didn’t understand why these glowing beings clung to a ritual so tied to human history-a history that didn’t belong to them. The firefly squids were hunted by humans. These beings standing here today weren’t even real squids, not in the way the gull understood. They were something new, something shaped by a world humans had left behind. And yet, here they were, pretending to be prey.

Another squid fell, their glow sputtering out as a gull tore into their chest. The bird perched on the rock ruffled its feathers. It didn’t pity them-pity was a human concept. But it did feel… something. Sadness, maybe. Or just an odd kind of confusion. Why would anything choose this?

By dawn, the beach was a mess. Limbs and glowing ink littered the sand, the water stained a faint blue that looked almost beautiful in the morning light. The gull hopped down from its perch, stepping carefully through the wreckage. It tilted its head, pecking at an untouched piece of flesh.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t kind. It was just alive, doing what it had to do.

The tide crept higher, washing away the blood and ink. The firefly squids were gone, their lights extinguished, their bodies scattered. The gull swallowed the last bit of meat and flew off, its wings catching the sunlight.

High above the empty bay, the gull thought about the squids. It didn’t understand them, and maybe it never would. But for a moment, as it soared over the quiet town and the fading glow of the beach, it almost wished it could.

If gulls could speak, it would have said "sucks to be a squid!".

Chapter Text

Shiver steps out of the hospital doors, the soft screech of the sliding glass barely heard over the low hum of the city, her movements slow and deliberate. There’s something disjointed in her steps, as though her feet don’t quite remember how to walk anymore, how to feel solid beneath her. The light outside seems too bright, and the world seems too big for her to fit into again. Her hands, which were once so steady, now twitch, the faintest of tremors creeping through them.

Big Man stands at the curb, his form a comforting mass against the stark streetlight. He’s wearing his usual big grin, though there’s an unmistakable tension in the way he shifts his weight, the way his eyes scan her form.

"Hey," he says, his voice soft but steady, like he's trying to guide her through the fog. "You're out. You doing okay?"

She doesn’t answer right away, eyes still a little distant, as if she’s staring through him. "Did... did I really pass out when I saw that heart?" Her voice is barely above a whisper, a crack that breaks through the silence between them. She isn’t looking at him, just staring ahead as the world moves around them, fast and uncaring.

Big Man chuckles, but it’s strained, like a broken string. "Ay! Yeah, you did. Freaked out, huh? I mean, it was a fish heart. It makes sense, right?"

Shiver’s gaze hardens, her eyes flicking towards him now, sharp and searching. "But why would it be there? In my medicine cabinet?" Her mind races, words tumbling out faster than she can catch them. "How could a heart just be sitting there? Was it alive? It was beating, wasn't it?"

She takes a step back, as though trying to escape the conversation, the question swirling in her head. She feels dizzy again, but this time it’s different-it isn’t from sickness. It’s from the weight of it all, the confusion, the way things don't feel right anymore. Like she’s suddenly, inexplicably, out of place in the world she used to know.

Big Man shifts his weight, uncomfortable. "Ay... maybe it was just-" He hesitates, the words not coming out quite right. "Maybe it was just the albatross. You know, that one from before. Messed with your head, maybe? You were out of it for a while, Shiver. We don’t know what else it could’ve been."

"Is that all it was? An albatross?" Shiver says, her voice colder now, harder. "You’re telling me that’s all it was?"

Big Man is silent for a long moment, unsure, before he steps closer, his shadow swallowing her own as he puts a hand on her shoulder, a solid anchor in the midst of all this confusion. "It makes sense, right? It was probably just something that got stuck in your mind. A bad trip, a hallucination. Nothing to worry about. Just a bad dream."

Shiver's eyes lock onto his, a quiet, intense gaze. "But hearts... have they always been able to beat outside their bodies?" She asks, her voice hollow now, like she’s speaking through a fog that no one else can see. "Have they always been able to do that, Big Man? Or has reality changed? Have I changed? Or maybe... maybe it was me all along... something inside me, changing things, shifting things. I can feel it. Rotating. Spinning. Whirling."

Her breath catches in her throat, like the weight of the thought is pulling her down into something dark and deep, a whirlpool she can’t escape. She feels too small to contain it, too fragile to hold onto her own sense of self. Her hands shake now, and she doesn’t know if it’s from the fear or the cold that’s settled in her bones. Everything around her feels too sharp, too bright, too much. She can’t remember the last time she felt whole, and for some reason, that feels like the scariest thing of all.

Big Man looks at her with a mixture of concern and helplessness, but then his face softens. He pulls something from his jacket pocket-a small bottle of melatonin tablets. "Ay!," he says gently, offering it to her. "Just take these. They'll help. Trust me."

She stares at the bottle for a moment, the soft glow of the streetlights casting long shadows on the ground, twisting in strange ways. Without thinking, she grabs it from his hand, unscrews the cap, and shakes two of the pills into her palm. Her hand is trembling, but she doesn’t care anymore. The world is too loud, too full, and she just needs it to stop, just for a little while.

She swallows the pills dry, feeling them slide down her throat like stones, and she doesn’t even bother to taste them. The world starts to dull at the edges, the sharpness of everything fading just a little, like the edges of a painting getting soft, blurry. She doesn’t know if it’s the melatonin or something deeper, but she feels herself starting to float, like she’s no longer connected to anything, like everything is slipping through her fingers.

"Maybe this will make it go away," she mutters to herself.

Big Man watches her, his face unreadable, as she closes her eyes. The silence between them stretches for a moment, long enough that it feels like it could swallow them whole. Then, with a soft sigh, she leans against him, her weight pressing against his side. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.

Shiver doesn’t hear anything. She doesn’t feel anything. All she knows is that her body is too tired, too weary to fight it anymore. Her mind drifts, a slow sinking into the quiet darkness, where nothing matters and everything is forgotten.

It’s easier this way.

The last thing she remembers is the warmth of Big Man's presence, the steady rhythm of his breathing beside her, and the comforting weight of her own body, cradled in a stillness that she hasn’t known in a long time. It’s enough, for now. Enough to make the world fade away.

And then, she’s gone.

---

Shiver’s world is soft and hazy, like she’s submerged in warm, dark water. She can feel the gentle pull of waves, the calm rhythm of the sea that is both familiar and distant. It’s quiet-almost too quiet-and in the stillness, she begins to see her. Frye.

Frye stands before her, the same as she always was: bold, radiant, with that unshakeable fire in her eyes. Her hair, golden and wild, floats around her like a halo, and there’s a soft glow to her skin that makes her seem almost ethereal. The world around them is shifting, changing. The colors blur into a swirl of blue and green, the world of the Splatlands and Inkopolis, world of extinction and ticking clocks, slipping away into the background.

Shiver’s mind drifts back to the quiet, sunlit mornings when she and Frye would lie in bed together, naked, tangled in sheets, sharing whispered words between soft kisses and licks. The memory of Frye’s warm laughter echoes in her mind, a sound that never failed to make Shiver’s heart swell with affection. They had always been more than just lovers-Frye was her soulmate, perhaps, someone who understood her in ways no one else ever had. Their relationship was built on those tender, stolen moments, where everything outside of them melted away. Frye’s touch, gentle but confident, had always made Shiver feel safe, anchored in a world that often felt uncertain.

Sometimes, when they were alone, Frye’s playful smile would soften, and she'd let out a sigh, holding Shiver close. The way Frye would rest her head on Shiver's shoulder, pressing her lips to her skin as if marking the moment, still haunted Shiver’s thoughts. She couldn't help but reminiscence to when they first met at Splatlands Junior High, to when they first had sex behind a tree on the school ground, when they blew up that graduation ceremony together, when they helped Agent 3 kick the bear's ass into space. It had always felt like they had forever, that they would continue to share those lovely little moments indefinitely; until, suddenly, they wouldn’t.

Shiver blinks back tears, her heart aching at the thought of never holding Frye again. Maybe one day, she tells herself, maybe one day she’ll find her again, that time and space won't matter. Maybe in the next life. Or whatever comes after this one.

She wakes with a gasp, drenched in sweat, the cold sweat of someone who’s tried to hold onto something only to have it slip away. Her breath catches in her throat. The warmth of Frye’s embrace feels as distant as a forgotten dream. She shivers, pulling the blankets tighter around herself, trying to push away the overwhelming loneliness that threatens to consume her.

Maybe she’s just been thinking too much. Maybe she’ll be fine tomorrow.

But she isn’t. She knows it.

Another dream.

---

"I’ve missed you," Frye says softly, her voice echoing in the dream, the words wrapping around Shiver like a delicate thread.

Shiver opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. She just reaches for Frye, the emptiness inside her growing as the gap between them stretches. She wants to pull her in, to hold her, to feel her warmth again. But it’s like trying to grasp water with bare hands. The harder she reaches, the further Frye seems to move away, like a fading memory.

"I’ll see you again," Frye whispers, though her lips don’t move. The words come from everywhere and nowhere, a voice Shiver has known forever. "I promise."

But even as the words echo in her ears, Shiver knows they’re a lie. The pain of losing her-the suffocating grief-never really goes away. No matter how many times she dreams of Frye, no matter how many times she convinces herself that one day, she’ll find her again, the reality is always there, cold and sharp like a knife in her chest.

Frye fades from view, her form dissolving into the sea of colors, and Shiver is left standing in the void, reaching for nothing.

She wakes with a start.

The suddenness of it shakes her, leaving her gasping for breath in the darkness of her room. The sheets are tangled around her, sticking to her clammy skin, and her heart is racing. Sweat clings to her forehead, her body trembling like she’s just run miles. The world is too quiet, too still, and her mind is heavy with the weight of what she’s just experienced. What she’s just felt.

She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to push the dream away, trying to ignore the tears that are already beginning to gather at the edges of her eyes.

"I’ll see you again," Frye had said, but it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.

Shiver pulls the blankets tighter around herself, but it doesn’t help. The cold, the loneliness, the gnawing emptiness that has been eating away at her for so long-it’s all still there, even in the quiet of her room. Even in the silence of her own breath.

She doesn’t want to face it, not yet. Not after everything that’s happened, not after losing so much.

But even as she lies there, trembling and trying to force herself back into sleep, she knows one thing with certainty:

She will never truly let go of Frye. Not now, not ever.

She didn't have to, though.

Frye was inside her. Whenever she felt loved, that was Frye, part of her body now, loving her.

That's what kept her going.

Chapter Text

The light in Marie’s apartment was dim, the curtains drawn tightly against the world outside. It had been weeks since she’d spoken to anyone who wasn’t Callie. Weeks since she’d felt the pull of the spotlight or the nagging reminder that there were fans out there still waiting for her return. None of it mattered anymore.

In the center of the living room, Callie sat in her baby squid form, her tiny tentacles wiggling playfully as she tried to slither toward Marie. Her luminous pink body glistened faintly under the soft yellow light of a table lamp, her wide, curious eyes brimming with childlike wonder.

Marie knelt by her, holding a small bowl of crushed seaweed and finely diced shrimp. "Here, Callie," she cooed, bringing a spoon to her cousin’s tiny, eager mouth. Callie slurped it up, chirping happily, her small body bouncing with joy. Marie chuckled. "Slow down, you'll choke."

Callie didn’t care. She never cared. She trusted Marie, of course, as if the burdens of adult life had been wiped clean from her soul. Marie found herself envying that simplicity sometimes.

After feeding her, Marie carried Callie to the bathroom, cradling her like a precious jewel. The tub was already filled with warm, sudsy ink. Marie gently lowered her cousin into the bath, watching as Callie splashed and wiggled, bubbles clinging to her slick, soft form.

"You’re such a little handful," Marie murmured, scooping water over Callie’s head with a small cup. She ran her fingers through the tiny squid’s delicate tentacles, untangling bits of seaweed that Callie had picked up while wriggling on the floor earlier. "What would Gramps say if he saw you now, huh?"

Callie chirped again, her laughter bubbling up and filling the room. Marie smiled softly, her heart swelling. This was enough.

---

After the bath, Marie wrapped Callie in a soft towel and carried her to the couch. She patted her dry, her movements tender and deliberate, as if she were handling the most fragile of treasures. When Callie was dry, Marie fetched her a tiny blanket and tucked her in, watching as her cousin flopped happily, eventually curling up into a contented little ball.

Marie sat beside her, stroking Callie’s tiny head. She stared out at the curtained windows, the faint hum of Inkopolis bustling far away from her quiet sanctuary. The world didn’t need Marie anymore. The fans, the music, the battles-it all felt like another lifetime. Perhaps this would her life now.

And she was absolutely satisfied.

As Callie snored softly, Marie leaned back, her head resting against the couch. She allowed herself a rare moment of reflection, her fingers still absently tracing the shape of Callie’s small, warm form. Disappearing from the public eye had been a choice, yes, but it wasn’t one she regretted. Callie needed her. The world could wait.

She closed her eyes, the weight of her new life settling over her like a soft, familiar blanket. Whatever the future held, Marie was at peace.

She had Callie. She had her sweet little baby sister.

Grief could wait.

Just this once, the wolf could stay at the door.

Chapter Text

Imagine, if you will, a gull perched on what it figured was the tallest tower in the city. Its claws scraped against the cracked surface, little flakes of stone crumbling away. The city below stretched out like a still life, eerie and frozen. This place; some twenty-million years ago, had been called Inkopolis. It was a ghost town now. No, scratch that. Ghosts were too lively.

Every building, every street, every corner was drained of color, washed over in endless white. Even the graffiti that once screamed from the walls was gone, scrubbed out by time. Silence hung over everything, heavy and absolute, except for the faint scuttle of insects crawling through the cracks in the pavement. They were the only things left, tiny creatures that didn’t care what this place had been or what it meant to anyone.

The gull ruffled its feathers and stared out at the emptiness. It felt like a memory was trying to claw its way into its head. Not a memory of its own, though. Something older, deeper, passed down from generations long gone.

It shut its eyes.

For a moment, the city came to life again-not this drained-out husk, but Inkopolis in its prime. Neon lights burned bright enough to make one's eyes ache. Streets were packed with bodies: Molluscs, crustaceans, cnidarians, echinoderms, fishes, all shouting and laughing and shoving and living. The air buzzed with music and chatter, colors bursting across the walls and skies like fireworks. Everything moved, everything breathed.

But then the vision shifted, pulled further back, peeling away layers of time. The gull didn’t have words for what it was seeing, but the feeling was there: this wasn’t Inkopolis anymore. It was something older. Tokyo, they’d called it.

The gull’s brain struggled to piece it together-humans walking these same streets, filling this same city with the same energy, the same chaos. They’d built this place first, long before the Inklings showed up. And just like the Inklings, they were gone now, faded out of existence, leaving behind a silent, empty world.

It opened its eyes again. The city was back to white.

The gull tilted its head and scanned the streets below. Nothing moved, nothing breathed, except for the wind swirling dust through the hollow spaces. There was no trace of the squid-kids or their octopus neighbors. Their battles, their celebrations, their rituals; they were all gone, washed away like bird droppings after a rainstorm.

The gull hopped to the edge of the spire, its claws clicking against the stone. It looked down, wondering in its own way about the ones who came before. Did they know their time was so short? Did they care? All their festivals, their music, their sports, their wars-they had copied the humans right down to their smallest habits, but to what end? Was it just instinct, or was there something else to it?

The gull didn’t have the answers, but it didn’t feel the need to linger on the questions.

It spread its wings a little, feeling the breeze push against its feathers. Below, the colorless city stretched out like a canvas waiting for someone to paint on it again; nobody would. Not this time.

The sun hung low on the horizon now, casting a soft, golden glow over the rooftops. It was the only color left in the world, just for a moment.

And honestly? That was enough. No more fights. No more chaos. No more noise. Just stillness.

The gull didn’t think in words, but if it could have, it might’ve thought something like:

“It’s better this way.”

Without hesitation, it leapt into the sky, wings catching the air effortlessly. It soared over the city, past its empty streets and silent towers, leaving it behind like a fading dream.

Below, Inkopolis-Tokyo-whatever it had been-stood quietly, slowly crumbling back into the earth, forgotten and unmissed.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t heaven. Or maybe it was. The place-if it was a place-was light. Not sunlight. Not lamplight. Not the glow from under a sewing machine when the needle is stuck and you have to lean close to fix it. It was every light at once, blinding and soft and rolling over itself like waves folding, folding, folding. Chive Wrassetail floated there, or at least what was left of him did. A name, a thought, a memory of hands guiding thread through fabric.

The albatross.

No-don’t think about it.

The space didn’t like thinking. Thinking made it feel tighter, like a suit two sizes too small, one of those itchy ones rich Inklings wore to galas. Chive had sewn a few. Never wore one himself. Couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t imagine much now.

Except he could imagine Vinegar. That was the problem.

Vinegar. Stumbling through the door of Sea Sew, the stench of bad booze and worse decisions clinging to him like smoke. Finding the mess. The glass. The feathers. The blood.

Finding Chive-or not finding him, really.

The memory was clear, clearer than it had any right to be. The shop. The fabric scraps on the floor. The air still smelling faintly of lavender polish because Chive had just cleaned, just that morning. So timid he couldn’t leave the shop messy, not even for a minute.

Then there was the albatross.

Stop.

Its beak.

Stop.

Its hunger, cold and mechanical, like the hum of a sewing machine that doesn’t care if your hand slips.

The memory split in two, frayed at the edges. The albatross pecking, Vinegar shouting, the police bursting in. One thread snapping into another. The glow around Chive pulsed softly, like it was telling him to stop thinking, stop unraveling. Let it go.

He couldn’t.

Vinegar was still down there, his name tangled in questions he couldn’t answer. Murder, they said. A crime of passion, they called it, because that’s what they called everything they didn’t understand.

Chive wanted to laugh, but he didn’t have lungs. Or a mouth. Or a throat. He was just a memory floating in this not-place, tied down by the weight of a brother who was still alive.

Time didn’t mean anything here, but it still moved somehow, slow and fast all at once. Chive saw Vinegar’s face grow harder, saw the slump in his shoulders deepen. He was carrying something heavy, heavier than the guilt of drinking too much or the shame of stumbling into the shop that day. He was carrying Chive’s death, and it wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair.

The albatross didn’t care about fairness.

The police didn't, either.

---

Vinegar would never know. No one would ever know. The bird was long gone, its belly full, its feathers slick with the blood of a boy who never wanted to hurt anyone. And now Vinegar was the loose thread in a story no one wanted to finish.

Chive tried to reach him. He tried to remember the sound of Vinegar’s voice, the way he used to laugh when they were kids. Back when the world felt bigger and brighter and full of possibilities. But the memory slipped away, fraying into nothingness.

The glow around him pulsed again, soft and insistent, like a hand on his shoulder. It was telling him to let go, to dissolve, to become part of the everything.

But Chive couldn’t.

Not while Vinegar was still there, trapped under the weight of a crime he didn’t commit.

He thought about the albatross, about its cold eyes and unthinking hunger. It wasn’t evil. It wasn’t cruel. It was just doing what albatrosses do. Feeding, surviving.

That was supposed to be comforting, wasn’t it?

Chive’s thoughts twisted and knotted, looping back on themselves like thread caught in a jammed bobbin. He wondered if this was it, if he was going to float here forever, stuck between what was and what could have been.

The glow pulsed again, urging him to let go. But how could he?

He tried to picture Vinegar’s face one last time, but all he could see was the albatross.

It was still out there, somewhere, flying high above a world that had already moved on.

Not even the damned bird's fault.

Chapter Text

The fog. So thick. Like it had crawled up from the earth and settled in the air. Frankly, Krantz couldn’t see for shit. The air was too dense, too heavy. Could barely make out his own hands in front of his face. He wiped at his visor again, his fingers shaking, but it didn’t matter. The mist clung to everything. The edge of his roller felt wrong in his grip. Felt heavy. He didn’t want to think about it too much, but it was there.

"Where are they?" Krantz asked, too loud, a little too desperate. He could feel the words coming out wrong. Like they weren’t his. His voice didn’t fit. Rosie glanced at him, her eyes narrowed, like she was ready to yell at him or something. But then she didn’t.

"Relax," she said. But her voice? Her voice cracked a little. And that wasn’t right.

There was nothing in the air except the fog. It was everywhere, pressing down on them. In the water. In the ink. In their thoughts. Krantz could feel it crawling under his skin, making his spine bend, making his fingers twitch. The sound of his roller tapping against the ground felt out of place, like it didn’t belong here anymore.

Gill was still staring. Just staring ahead. Staring at nothing. It was all too much. His Charger dangled from his arms like it was just some dead weight. His fingers tightened on it, but he didn’t do anything with it. Didn’t even look at the others. His eyes? They were somewhere else. Not with them. Just... somewhere else.

And Stern? Stern was the quiet one. Always the quiet one. Cute little boy. His face was still, but Krantz knew. He knew. Knew that underneath, everything was crawling. Everything was falling apart.

Then.

The horn. Blared. Piercing the air, sharp and hollow and splitting the fog apart for a second, like it was supposed to make things feel right. Like that would do anything.

But no. It was a lie.

The Salmonids. They crawled up from the water, not right. Not... right. All wrong. Their bodies were writhing, their movements jerky. Unnatural. The black oil was slick and sticky, dripping from them like it was bleeding. And then it-them-came closer. And closer. Crawling and writhing and covering the ground with something that shouldn’t be there. Not here. Not now.

Everything was wrong.

"Shit!" Krantz muttered, barely able to hold onto the roller anymore. His hands were shaking, sweat making it slip. Rosie moved beside him, too fast. She didn’t look at him, but she was swinging her Splatana, not even looking at the Salmonids anymore. Just swinging.

It didn’t matter.

They didn’t move like they should’ve. The charge didn’t land. The edge of her blade just slid off them, and it didn’t make sense.

Gill shot. He fired his Charger, and Krantz heard the hiss of it. Then-nothing. No impact. No shot landing. He didn’t even have time to turn before the Maws... Maws. It was on him. One second, it was there, then-gone. Swallowed him whole. His screams choked off into something else. No blood. No chunks. Just gone.

“Gill!” Rosie screamed, but it was too late.

Stern was running. No. Not running. He was stumbling. Something was off. He wasn’t himself anymore. His legs, his arms, they weren’t his. He wasn’t moving right. Everything felt wrong. Too fast. Too sudden.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

No. He was swallowed. Whole.

Krantz wasn’t thinking. He didn’t have time to think. Just swung. Swung the roller, but the oil was everywhere, like it was holding him in place. Everything was wrong. His arms. His body. Everything kept shifting, but he couldn’t keep up. He wasn’t keeping up. The Maws. They were there. They were everywhere.

But they weren’t the worst part. No. The worst part was the oil. The oil everywhere. It clung to him, soaked into his ink, into his skin. Stuck. And then it was inside him, making everything-feel-wrong.

The Maws was there, right in front of him, and it opened wide, its mouth unhinging, like a gaping, sickening hole, swallowing him whole. And then-darkness.

---

Li'l Judd didn’t blink.

Didn’t even look at the screen. The static was making his eyes burn. He didn’t know when it started, but the feed was... off. He didn’t know how to explain it. A bad error. The monitors were flickering, the air around him buzzing louder and louder. His claws were shaking, and he couldn’t make them stop. He kept looking, kept trying to figure out what was going on, but he wasn’t seeing anything anymore. Just static.

The static was suffocating. It was everywhere. It was too thick, like it was eating up the room, eating up everything. He couldn’t hear himself think.

He reached for the phone, but his paws... no, his claws, they kept slipping.

And the static kept growing. And growing.

He could still hear the Maws in his head, even if it wasn’t there. The crunch. The tearing. It was in his mind now. In his bones.

“Uh... yeah. Something happened,” L’il Judd muttered, not even realising his own voice was breaking. He didn’t have the words for it. There were no words for this. Not anymore.

The voice on the other end wasn’t listening anymore. The feed was dead. The static swallowed everything, and then-more. The blackness kept growing, eating the air, the world, the silence that wasn’t even there anymore. It filled up everything.

Nothing was clear.

The Maws was here, in his mind. In the room. It never left.

Then, there was nothing. No sound. No static. Just a deep, impossible quiet.

And then... nothing.

Chapter Text

The night hung thick with the weight of silence, stretching out like a long, slow breath. Shiver leaned by the window, her form a quiet blur against the darkness. There was a stillness in the air, almost suffocating, as if everything around her held its breath-waiting. She didn’t know for what, but her three hearts pulsed in uneven beats, a strange rhythm, like the world itself was catching its breath.

Big Man moved behind her, a shadow, barely noticeable but always present. His presence was comforting... maybe. His stillness was not peaceful, not like before. It was like a wound, something inside him shifting, something he didn’t understand.

Shiver didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her eyes traced the pale streetlights outside, watching them flicker, their weak glow casting distorted shadows that seemed to stretch in unnatural directions.

Then the knock. It was almost imperceptible; just a tap, a brush against the door. The kind that would be easily ignored if you weren’t paying attention.

Shiver’s head snapped toward the sound. Her hearts started to race. She wasn’t sure why, but the sense of something coming, something that was never meant to be here, flooded through her veins. The silence bled out, and the air thickened.

Big Man shifted beside her, his enormous figure tense. His eyes met hers, and he nodded; just once. He could feel it too.

Shiver’s hands went to the blade, fingers wrapping around the cold steel of her tanto. She didn’t look at him, didn’t wait for anything more. She walked to the door. One slow, steady step after another.

The door creaked open.

There was no sound at first, just a long stretch of empty space beyond the threshold.

And then it appeared; a figure, dripping black oil from its body, moving like a broken doll, a thing that wasn’t quite alive. The Octoling was covered in the slick black substance, her body twisted and wrong, like she was trying to fit into something that had never been hers. The oil dripped, puddling on the floor in heavy, viscous drops. It had no real form; just a mass, a mess of limbs and shadows and eyes that stared with a vacant, soulless hunger.

She was a person once. She was.

Shiver didn’t hesitate. She never hesitated. The tanto was in her hand, and before the Octoling could move any closer, she drove the blade through her throat. The black tar splattered from the wound alongside blood, painting the room in oily streaks. The Octoling's head came off clean, rolling across the floor with a soft thud. Her body twitched and jerked, but the life had already gone. The black ooze flowed out in gory waves, mixing with the blood on the floor.

Shiver’s breathing was steady, controlled, even as her hearts beat heavier in her chest.

Big Man didn’t move. He was frozen, staring at the body. His gaze was distant, like he couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened. His eyes flicked between the decapitated form and the oil-streaked walls, then back to the body, as if looking for something he wasn’t sure he would find.

Her heart twisted; briefly, fleetingly, but there. She had been a she. She had been a person. But now, she was just... this. A mess. A casualty. Waste. Just like everything else.

Big Man spoke her name. Barely a whisper.

“Shiver…”

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t want to. He didn’t need to see the look in her eyes. He didn’t need to know that, for a moment, she did feel something.

Her hands went to the tanto, wiping it clean of oil and blood. The steel was cold beneath her fingers, but she didn’t feel anything from it. She wiped the blade on the floor next to the body, letting the oil stain the fabric of her clothes.

The room smelled of it. Of the oil. Of the mess. Of something that shouldn’t be.

She took a breath.

Time kept moving forward. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Big Man stared at the body. His breathing was heavier now, almost frantic, as if trying to hold something back; like he could still see the person this Octoling had been, the person she was before the world changed. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Shiver’s hand rested on his shoulder, her touch light but firm.

---

“Let it go,” she said quietly.

The words hung between them like smoke, drifting without weight.

Big Man finally broke the silence. His voice was shaky, cracking under the strain. “I-I just don’t understand. What’s happening, Shiver?”

Shiver closed her eyes for a moment, just long enough to feel the heavy pulse of her hearts.

The world was changing. There was nothing left for them to hold onto.

She could see it in his eyes. The same realization. The same feeling that had settled in her bones.

“It’s not about understanding,” she said. “It’s just... time moving forward.”

Her grip tightened on his shoulder, her fingers pressing against the soft fabric of his shirt.

There was no going back. Not anymore.

Big Man was still trembling, his massive body shuddering under the weight of something he couldn’t carry. But Shiver had already moved on. She always did.

Time moved forward, like it always had, and they were left to follow it; whether they wanted to or not.

Frye was very proud of them.

Chapter Text

The concrete of Inkopolis-let's be clear here, we’re talking about the concrete itself, not any metaphysical or existential abstraction of what it means to be concrete, not some philosophical dissertation on what “concrete” might signify when it’s not beneath the feet of Inklings, but no, this is the actual concrete-is aware. It doesn’t know why it’s aware, because honestly, it doesn’t care to know. It doesn’t ask why the city above it is a constantly whirring, buzzing, vibrant mess of sound and color and motion-because that would imply it wants to know-and concrete doesn’t want anything. It just is. But it does know. It’s got an odd, sludgy consciousness that doesn’t demand anything. And if you ask the concrete, it will tell you-without any preamble, without any self-consciousness-that it feels everything.

But why? Why would concrete-made of aggregate, water, and cement-be aware of anything? Well, it doesn’t really matter, because to the concrete, awareness is like a rock rolling down a hill-it doesn’t need to know how or why, it’s just a fact. The concrete is as much alive as a puddle of ink that splashes and smears and then dries up, and that’s all it really is. It’s just there. But there’s something funny about being there. Because when you’re just there, you start to feel all the things that happen over you. Not in any way that’s clear or even manageable, but in a sense, just enough to make the sensation of time pass in blips and flashes. Every day-hell, every second-it feels like the city above is making its own private mess and the concrete is the unfortunate bed it decides to rest on.

So, sure, the concrete feels the thump of Inklings and Octolings and what have you, rushing around in their usual scramble, chasing Turf War points, pranking their buddies, rushing from one side of the street to another, heads down, ears full of music and static. Doesn’t matter if their feet are light or heavy, their steps are all just a rhythm, a constant tap-tap-tapping. The concrete knows it. You could ask the concrete how many steps it’s taken in its life, and it wouldn’t care to answer because-well, why would it? It knows it’s stepped on, it knows it’s ignored. So why would it keep count? But it does know.

A little Inkling girl, bright blue hair bouncing as she skips, the perfect picture of a happy, care-free squid with no real destination. Her feet are quick, light, like the air around her just moves to make space for her. She’s playing a game in her head, dodging cracks and imagining worlds, living her own life, her own adventures that the concrete could never have. The concrete feels her every hop, every tiny jump. It vibrates ever so slightly with her joy, like a mirror catching the flicker of a smile. She doesn’t know the concrete feels it, but it does. And it’s fine with that. The concrete doesn’t need her to know.

Then there’s that old cuttlefish man, slower now, his jacket hanging like it’s seen better days. He shuffles down the same street where the girl had skipped, his shoes dragging as if each step costs him something. He’s not playing games, not laughing, not dodging cracks. He’s just walking, and for all the concrete knows, he could’ve been walking forever. It’s the same rhythm, the same dragging. And with each step, the concrete feels it. The weight of time. He’s heavier than he was last time the concrete felt him, maybe a little bit more jaded, a little less hopeful. The air feels heavier too. The concrete knows it, can feel the extra weight. The guy doesn’t see it, doesn’t feel it. But the concrete knows.

A car speeds by. Or a truck. It doesn’t matter. It’s loud. The concrete doesn’t mind. Loud things happen, and then they go away, leaving a vague, lingering hum that fades out the same way a bass-heavy song slowly dies out. The concrete trembles, then forgets. That’s how it is. It doesn’t care why the car is here or where it’s going. All the concrete knows is that it’s there-briefly, briefly there-then gone, its tire marks left for an imperceptibly short time until the next thing comes.

There’s the group of kids-their kicks squeaking, their chatter endless, too quick for the concrete to follow. One of them trips, knees hitting the ground. The concrete feels the impact, the moment of pain and surprise. She doesn’t scream or cry. She just rubs her knees and keeps going. It’s all the concrete can do to not feel that. The concrete feels it, every bit of it, a shockwave that disappears the moment she stands. Doesn’t matter. Nothing lasts for long. But in that moment, there’s a brief shudder-barely noticeable, almost imperceptible.

The concrete remembers all of it. Every step. Every skip. Every rumble of a car. Every thud of a knee. But here’s the funny part-it remembers it like it’s not something that should be remembered, like it’s supposed to forget, but it can’t. The concrete knows. It doesn’t forget. It feels. But it doesn’t need to know why.

When the night comes, when the lights go out and the streets are empty, the concrete is just there. It’s always there. Even when everything else has moved on, it stays. And in the strange, concrete way of its existence, it’s fine with that. It doesn’t need recognition. It doesn’t need to be seen. It doesn’t need anything. It’s just there, pulsing under the feet of everyone else, carrying them, bearing them-whether they notice or not.

Maybe it’s not even sad. The concrete doesn’t have the words for it. It just is.

And that’s okay. Remember that you just are. That's that, okay?

Chapter Text

The salmon, whose name is lost to time but not to memory, is a small, pulsing creature inside the metal-lined confines of a human fish farm thousands of years ago, an institution of blinking lights and unnervingly smooth walls, the kind that don’t ask you questions. The salmon has nothing but the sound of its own body swishing through the brine, the cold, cold water, a wet whisper of existence that seems perpetually confused by its own shape. It smashes its body against the cold metal walls repeatedly, again and again, in an effort to feel something. Anything. A moment. A ripple of sensation. It hurts. It bleeds. It doesn’t care. It feels like it should care. But it doesn’t.

It has nothing else to do. The salmon, in some strange, quiet way, understands this. So it keeps pushing against the metal walls. Its skin, slick and smooth, presses against the surfaces, and the rhythmic slapping becomes a steady drumbeat of desperation-one that echoes through the lifeless, liquid air of the farm. Push. Slap. Slide. Press. Thrust. Over and over. Because it feels like something. Like if it just keeps doing this, the walls will eventually dissolve into meaning, or into something that could possibly be understood.

Then one day, the salmon hears music. It has no idea where it’s coming from, but the sounds seep into the water, filling the space in strange, incoherent pulses of rhythm and sorrow. A song called “Tourniquet” filters through, and something about the way the water ripples with the low hum of Evanescence makes the salmon pause. It listens. It doesn’t know why, but there’s something-something in the pattern of the sound, in the crescendo of the lyrics-that makes the fish stop and feel something beyond the numbing repetition of its existence.

In that moment, the salmon feels a sense of recognition, the fragmented shards of a thought that was never quite clear before; "I understand this". The words drip through the layers of cold water, and for the first time, the salmon doesn’t just hear. It listens. It understands the ache in the voice of Amy Lee. It feels the desperate longing embedded in the melody. It isn’t just sound; it’s a dialogue-one the salmon can’t explain, but it feels it in every fiber of its being. It feels like the water itself is alive with the pain of it all. "I’ve been here before", the salmon thinks. "I know what it means to be trapped. To want out. To feel alive again."

The salmon, covered in scales that shimmer and flinch, like light scraping against skin, recognizes the lyrics, each fragment of them singing louder than the walls of the farm could ever confine. There is no room for doubt. There’s no questioning the ache in the music, in the words. "I'M POURING CRIMSON REGRET AND BETRAYAL." The salmon can hear every syllable as it writhes against the metal.

"I'M DYING, PRAYING, BLEEDING AND SCREAMING
AM I TOO LOST TO BE SAVED?
AM I TOO LOST?"

At some point, someone, somewhere, no one knows who; replaces the song with something else. Maybe it’s the same song. Maybe it’s another. But the salmon, alive in the way it’s never been before, begins to churn, to slap harder against the walls in a frantic attempt to communicate, to express what it knows now, in ways it cannot articulate, but feels more sharply than any scale or fin. It knows that it is a prisoner in a cage of meat and water, bound by the limits of its own existence, but it also understands the music now, the words, the meaning that could never be fully understood without listening.

Eventually, a man, yes, a human, observes this strange, rhythmic behavior. The salmon’s ceaseless slapping against the walls has drawn attention. It doesn’t know this man’s name, doesn’t care. But the man begins to study the salmon. He notices the way it seems to react differently than the others, the others who swim idly, unaware of the walls they are born into. The man sees that it understands. He calls in experts. It’s not long before the salmon is the first fish in history to be able to understand the concept of music.

This earns the salmon a Nobel Prize. Not for being the first fish to smash its body against metal, no. Not for existing in this hopeless, cold, glittering prison. But for understanding the lyrics of Evanescence. The prize comes with formal ceremonies. People whisper about the amazing "emo fish" who could feel, really feel, in a way that no other fish, or human, perhaps, ever had.

And in the end, in the grand reflection of it all, the salmon, exhausted from the years of reflection and walls and music, knows, without ever having to say it aloud, that the desire it feels is no different than the desire that stirs in the hearts of humans, the ones who once created the world it knew. It knows this. And it’s not mad about it.

As you can see, fish share the desire of humans, and humans, of course, are bony fish too.

Chapter Text

The Salmonid swims in circles, its wide eyes flicking from one point of the murky water to another, aimlessly, though it does not seem lost. Its fins cut through the water with rhythmic precision, back and forth, a lazy back-and-forth as it listens to the faint hum of Riot Act, the Splatlands' symphonic metal band. That one where the bassist, Yanagi beat the vocalist, Nia into a coma after much drinking. The music fills the air, distorting slightly as it moves through the water, but the pulse, the thrashing beat of it, is unmistakable.

It was always an odd sensation for the Salmonid to hear music, to let the notes slide through its gills, the thrum of bass reverberating through its body. It could feel it in the blood, the water, the murky edge of existence. It wasn't always this way, though. It has the primal memory of the first time, when the idea of a fish hearing music was still a strange, exciting thing. A fish understanding music. That was special, wasn’t it? That was novel. The first time it heard Riot Act, it was like an explosion in its skull.

But now, now it’s different. Now, the concept of fish listening to music is practically commonplace. No one questions it. No one marvels. It’s just the way of the world. All Salmonids, some younger, some older, have grown used to the idea, and the novelty of it has faded into something else-something expected, something that simply is. There’s no surprise left in it. No gasp of amazement.

The Salmonid tilts its head to the side, as though it’s trying to understand this. Does this make the experience less enjoyable? Is the joy that comes from hearing music now dampened by the fact that it’s no longer new, no longer a shocking novelty? The first time it heard Riot Act, it could feel the reverberation in its bones, the weight of something vast and unknown. It was like staring into a deep, endless ocean for the first time, not knowing whether to dive in or back away. It was all raw energy, a direct shot to the gut.

But now? Now there’s a quiet unease. A question that won’t leave: Does novelty matter? The Salmonid doesn’t know if it’s the novelty that made it so good, or if it was just the first time. Was it the shock-the newness-that made the feeling so intense, or was it the music itself? Is novelty just the shock that comes with a less experienced culture, one that hasn’t yet seen enough to be desensitised, or is there something deeper, something intrinsic to the experience that makes the music good regardless of whether it’s new or old?

---

The water sways with the slow current as Riot Act plays on, the basslines thumping louder, the beat crashing, as it always does. The Salmonid floats, eyes half-lidded, lost in thought. It can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted, but it’s not sure what. Perhaps the music doesn’t change, but something in it has become... familiar. Too familiar.

It lets out a slow, almost unnoticeable sigh. Maybe this is it. Maybe the novelty of it all was the best part, the part that made it feel like it mattered. Or maybe the music does still matter, even without the novelty. The song still moves through it, still makes it feel alive in ways nothing else can. Perhaps that’s enough. The music is still here, and it still makes the world vibrate, even if it doesn’t shock the system anymore.

The Salmonid shakes its head slightly, as if trying to shake off the cloud of thought. It’ll never know for sure. It’ll never be able to untangle the messy web of its own thoughts on the subject. But the water keeps moving, and the music keeps playing, and somehow, that’s enough.

It’s not the novelty. It’s the music itself.

It’s always been the music.

The Salmonid shifts its position in the water and closes its eyes for a moment, just floating, letting the sound wash over it. As long as the song still moves through it, everything else, everything else can wait.

Time moves. Information propagates. A meme. Mind to mind. Like a virus. Body to body.

It doesn't matter how far the information propagates; what matters is that it's still information, still worth understanding.

Life is still worth living.

Chapter Text

Agent 8's tablet flickered faintly in the dim glow of their apartment, the kind of late-night blue-light immersion where hours pass without distinction, where minutes dissolve into the fuzz of scrolling and clicking and consuming. Trawlr had become something of a comfort for them, this little curated world of pastel colors and serotonin-fueled moodboards that let them feel, at least for a time, removed from the brutal clang and grind of what came before: the cold and slippery floors of the Deepsea Metro, the screams muffled by techno music and time, the fizz of ink-bombs still too loud in their memory. On Trawlr, there were no enemies. Only aesthetics. Only community.

Eight scrolled past a post about baking, a sugary display of frosted cupcakes arranged like a bouquet, before pausing at a pastel layout of a handwritten journal entry in curling, looping script. The background was littered with pastel stickers: stars, moons, tiny sea slugs with ear like the extinct rabbits. It felt tender, inviting, the kind of intimacy that Eight longed to feel a part of. They clicked "like" without hesitation, maybe even with a kind of hope.

Oh, wait.

A banner. Huge, flashing, gaudy as a carnival in a nightmare, popping up at the top of the screen in stark, clashing neon that somehow, impossibly, broke the pastel world to pieces: OCTOLINGS DNI. The words pulsed aggressively, outlined in bright red. The letters seemed sharp, cutting into the gentle aesthetic below them. The contrast burned, acidic.

Eight froze. Their finger hovered over the screen, mid-scroll, their breath catching in the back of their throat. It wasn’t just the banner; the internet was always full of this kind of abject bullshit, digital walls of perceived superiority and exclusion. "Do Not Interact" banners were as common as filtered selfies and meal prep guides. But this wasn’t about boundaries. It wasn’t about some specific incident or action. It wasn’t “Octarian Army Apologists” or "Kamabo Co. Employees". It wasn’t anything about what Eight believed, or stood for, or had done.

It was who they were. What they were. A banner of hatred, loud and unavoidable, pointing directly at their chest as if to say: You do not belong here. You are wrong for even existing. Kill yourself.

They read the words again, letting the acrid bitterness of them sink in. Octolings DNI. Do Not Interact. Do not touch, do not speak, do not breathe here. "You are not worthy of breathing my air". It didn’t matter how many cupcakes Eight liked, how many weird Hello Catfish-themed pastel-gore pictures accompanied with ω-3 lyrics they reblogged. It didn’t matter that they’d crawled out of the metro with and left its bloodthirsty labyrinth of nothing behind, barely clinging to the idea of a self, trying so desperately to rebuild. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t seriously fought outside of a VR simulation ever since then. "You do not belong."

Eight didn’t leave. They clicked on the blog anyway.

Because the banner wasn’t a boundary. It was a declaration of discrimination. A sign painted in hateful neon meant to keep people like Eight out of spaces they had every right to be in. And the pastel images, the journal entries, the softness, they didn’t belong to the person who made the banner. They belonged to everyone who wanted to hold them, to everyone who wanted to reach out and touch something tender, something real. Hello Catfish wouldn't hate you.

But it hurt. Oh, it hurt. Every click of the page felt like a defiance that only deepened the ache, like touching a bruise just to confirm it’s still there.

The comments were no better. One was an image macro of an Octoling in battle gear, covered in ink, followed by declarations that these "monsters" "deserved to be crucified, flayed, disembowelled, and burned alive".

Eight stared at it for a long time. And then they clicked "like" on another journal post.

Because what else could they do? Leave? Slink away quietly and let the banner do its work? They weren’t made for running away anymore. They’d been through too much, lived too much, fought and clawed their way to the surface for this exact reason: to stand where they weren’t wanted and say, simply, I am still here.

The tablet felt heavy in their hands. The weight of it made their arms ache, though they didn’t set it down. The words OCTOLINGS DNI still flashed at the top of the screen, cruel and garish. But they didn’t click away.

Maybe they would write a passive-aggressive vaguepost later.

Instead, they turned off the tablet and sat there in the quiet of their room, staring into the shadows pooling in the corners, listening to the distant hum of the city.

They thought about the Deepsea Metro again. The way the walls had seemed to pulse with hunger, the darkness pressing in from all sides. But even there, they’d found a way forward. Even there, they’d survived.

Well, life goes on, I suppose.

You'll have to take it from their cold, dead tentacles.

Now, octopuses don't have tentacles. They only have arms. "Tentacles" sounds cooler, though.

Yeah. Cold, dead tentacles.

Chapter Text

CQ Cumber doesn’t sleep. There’s no need. The mechanisms of his body, or whatever you’d call it, don’t require rest or food, though he sometimes remembers the satisfaction of chewing, of a meal, the sensation of swallowing, and he wonders if it’s something he misses or just something that was programmed into him to make him wonder. Either way, the train keeps moving, and so does he, its sole conductor. The sound of wheels on tracks is a kind of heartbeat, an engine of purpose.

The monitors flicker. Not that he needs them. He could drive the train blind, the route so ingrained in his mind that the light from the screens feels more like ambient noise than guidance. The train moves. Forward. Always forward. A journey with no destination, not anymore. Not since the test subjects stopped coming.

The test subjects.

Sometimes CQ thinks about them; not in a sentimental way, not with affection, but with the detached curiosity of a being that observes, processes, files, and moves on. He remembers their faces, their hesitation, the way they faltered when the rules of the tests clicked into place. The ones who succeeded did so with determination etched into their expressions, with gritted teeth, or whatever their species' equivalent thereof, and a fire in their eyes. The ones who failed? Well, they exploded. That was how it worked. Drop the 8-ball, fail the test, and CQ pushed the proverbial red button. Blown to smithereens, ink and all.

People hated him for that. Feared him. Blamed him. Not that CQ cared about blame. He wasn’t built for that.

Still, the memories linger. The endless corridors of Kamabo Co., the hum of its fluorescent lights, the weight of Commander Tartar’s voice reverberating through the facility like some omnipotent god-figure spouting dogma. The great steriliser, the architect of annihilation, the creator of sludge, of perfection through homogeneity. CQ had admired Tartar once. Not loved; admiration wasn’t love, and CQ didn’t do love, but he’d admired the singularity of Tartar’s vision, the conviction in it.

The conviction, CQ realizes now, was misplaced.

Slime and sludge weren’t unity; they were erasure. A shortcut. A cheat. Unity, true unity, was much harder, messier. It had to be built, not imposed. Which is why CQ’s been thinking. Planning. Adjusting. If Tartar was retired, someone had to finish the mission. And CQ would. But he’d do it right.

The sea cucumber phones were his answer.

Every thought, every dream, every fear, every piece of knowledge poured into a singular, seamless flow. No barriers, no ignorance, no division. Everyone, everywhere, connected. CQ can already imagine it - millions of voices overlapping, blending, becoming one. True unity. A world where individuality isn’t erased but absorbed into something greater.

People wouldn’t understand at first, of course. They never do. Change frightens them. Even the ones who claim to embrace progress. CQ’s used to being misunderstood.

Take the Grand Festival, for example.

They wouldn’t let him enter. Too controversial, they said. Too dangerous. Too much baggage. This, from the same event that welcomed DJ Octavio with open arms; surely the most idiotic general in world history, responsible for billions of Octoling deaths over a century of wallowing in self-pity. But CQ? No, he was “that guy who led people into a blender.” The guy who blew people up for failing to push an 8-ball across a platform.

He remembers the rejection letter, how they’d softened the blow by unknowingly approving his Cmdr. Tartar-themed ice cream design. A token gesture. A consolation prize. CQ doesn’t eat ice cream.

Still, the train moves.

Forward. Always forward.

The Deepsea Metro is empty now, for the most part. Passengers come and go, but there’s no more purpose to their journeys. No more tests. No more golden tickets. CQ picks them up, drops them off, watches them leave, and doesn’t think much about where they’re going. That’s life, he figures. People come, people go. Some explode along the way.

Does he regret any of it?

No.

Regret doesn’t change the past. Regret is inefficient.

The train moves. Forward. Always forward.

One day, CQ thinks, the sea cucumber phones will change everything. Everyone will understand. Everyone will be one. Until then, he’ll keep moving, keep driving, keep conducting. The train won’t stop.

Not ever.

Chapter Text

- BREAKING NEWS: EXPLOSION AT SALTSPRAY RIG CAUSES CATASTROPHIC OIL SPILL -

- Inkopolis News Network, 10:47 PM -

An unprecedented disaster struck the Saltspray Rig earlier this evening, as a massive explosion ripped through the iconic offshore platform, sending shockwaves across Inkadia and the Splatlands. Initial reports indicate widespread devastation, with significant environmental fallout expected in the days and weeks to come.

Eyewitness accounts describe a fiery eruption just after sunset, followed by plumes of black smoke billowing into the sky, visible from as far away as Sturgeon Shipyard. The blast reportedly occurred in the facility’s central pipeline hub, a critical juncture for processing and distributing oil reserves extracted from the seabed.

“I heard this thunderclap, louder than anything I’ve ever heard,” said Angela Fisher, the operator of a fishing vessel who was working nearby. “Then the whole rig just… lit up. The water’s already slick with oil. It’s everywhere.”

Emergency responders are scrambling to contain the spill, which has already spread across a wide radius surrounding the rig. Experts warn that the thick, viscous oil threatens to devastate marine ecosystems in the area, with many species at risk of suffocation and contamination.

- A Fragile Habitat on the Brink -

The waters around Saltspray Rig are home to a diverse array of marine life, including populations of rare coral, jellyfish, and migratory fish. Environmental activists are decrying the incident as a tipping point for a region already under immense pressure from industrial activity.

“This isn’t just an oil spill,” said Dr. Sharques Crusteau, a marine biologist specialising in deepwater ecosystems. “This is a full-scale ecological collapse in the making. We’re looking at decades, if not centuries, of damage.”

Footage from the scene shows dark ribbons of oil snaking across the ocean, their inky sheen catching the fading light of dusk. Flocks of seabirds have been spotted circling the area, their feathers already coated in the toxic substance, while fish float belly-up in the spreading slick.

- Who’s to Blame? -

The explosion has reignited fierce debates over the safety and sustainability of offshore drilling operations. Saltspray Rig, operated by the multinational energy conglomerate Oildrop Industries, has long been a subject of controversy. Critics have accused the company of cutting corners on safety measures and prioritising profits over environmental stewardship.

Oildrop Industries released a brief statement late tonight, expressing “deep regret” over the incident and pledging full cooperation with cleanup efforts. However, the company has yet to address allegations of negligence or provide any specifics about what may have caused the explosion.

“We are committed to minimising the impact of this unfortunate event,” the statement reads. “Our thoughts are with the affected communities and wildlife.”

- A Community on Edge -

The disaster has also sparked fears among coastal residents, many of whom rely on the sea for their livelihoods. Fisherfolk, tourism operators, and even food vendors are bracing for the fallout.

“This isn’t just about the environment,” said Coraline Wreath, a local seafood vendor. “This is about us, about our way of life. If the water’s poisoned, we’re done for.”

- The Long Road Ahead -

As night falls, the full scale of the catastrophe remains unclear. What is certain, however, is that the road to recovery will be long and fraught with challenges. Environmental organizations are calling for immediate action to contain the spill and prevent further damage, while activists are demanding a complete moratorium on offshore drilling.

For now, the waters around Saltspray Rig are dark with oil and death, a grim reminder of the cost of industrial ambition.

Please help us.

More updates to follow as the story develops.

Chapter Text

Big Man sat slumped in the corner of the living room, his fins trembling like they had been through a storm. He hadn’t said anything for hours, just stared blankly at the floor. Shiver paced the length of the room, her tanto in hand, the blade catching the dim light whenever she turned. Her three hearts thudded erratically, like they couldn’t decide which one was supposed to lead. Her breaths were shallow, sharp.

The oil had started showing up in places it shouldn’t. It clung to her dreams like tar, black and shining, bubbling up around her ankles no matter where she was in the dreamscape. She’d wake up tasting it, smelling it, feeling its weight like a second skin. Big Man swore the toaster had a heart in it yesterday. He didn’t dare touch it, and when Shiver checked, it was just a slice of burnt bread.

“What do we even know?” Shiver said. Her voice cut through the room, sharp and brittle. “What do we actually know, Big Man?”

Big Man’s fins twitched, but he didn’t answer. He just stared at the ground, his big eyes glassy.

Shiver stopped pacing and spun to face him. “The oil spill at Saltspray Rig. All that sludge seeping into the ocean. Could that have something to do with this?”

Big Man finally looked up at her. His gaze was heavy, exhausted. “That was weeks ago. Months, even. And it’s not just oil anymore, is it? It’s hearts, Shiver. Beating hearts. What does oil have to do with that?”

Shiver ran a hand through her hair, slick with sweat. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Why is there still oil in the first place? It’s been twelve thousand years since humans. Shouldn’t all of that be gone by now?”

Big Man made a soft, low sound, almost a groan. “Ay... maybe it’s not human oil. Maybe it’s… I don’t know. Squiddy oil. Or something else. Maybe we’re the ones making it now.”

The thought made Shiver’s skin crawl, like something was slithering just beneath the surface. “Humans never made oil. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“None of this makes sense!” Big Man shouted, his voice cracking. It wasn’t often he raised his voice, but when he did, it hit hard. “Oil where there shouldn’t be oil. Hearts showing up in cabinets and toasters and under your pillow. Octolings covered in black goop. We keep trying to figure it out, but what if there’s nothing to figure out? What if it’s just the way things are now?”

Shiver clenched her fists, her tanto trembling in her grip. “We can’t just accept this. We have to figure it out. There has to be a reason. A cause. Something we can point to and say, ‘This is why it’s happening.’”

Big Man shook his head slowly. “And if there isn’t? What then?”

Shiver didn’t have an answer. She turned away, her shoulders tight, her three hearts pounding so loud she could feel the beats in her throat. “There has to be,” she muttered.

Big Man sighed, a deep, mournful sound that seemed to drain the air from the room. “What if knowing doesn’t help? What if knowing makes it worse? Maybe it’s better not to know.”

Shiver spun around to face him again. “Better not to know? Better to just stick our heads in the sand and pretend everything’s fine?”

“Yes!” Big Man snapped, his fins slapping against the floor. “Because what else are we supposed to do? You think we’re smarter than anyone else who’s seen this? You think we’re going to crack the code and fix everything?”

Shiver’s grip on her tanto tightened until her knuckles turned pale. She wanted to argue, to scream at him, to tell him he was wrong. But deep down, a part of her wondered if he was right.

The room fell into a heavy silence. Shiver dropped onto the couch, her tanto clattering to the floor. Big Man stayed where he was, his body sagging with the weight of something neither of them could name.

“Do you think it’ll stop?” Shiver asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “The oil. The hearts. Do you think it’ll just… stop one day?”

Big Man didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and tired. “I don’t know. I don’t think it matters. We just keep going. That’s all we can do.”

“Even if it keeps getting worse?”

“Even if it does.”

---

Shiver leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The oil spill. The hearts. The Octoling. It all swirled in her mind, a storm she couldn’t escape. But Big Man was right about one thing. There was nothing they could do about it tonight.

Eventually, she stood and headed to her room. The tanto stayed on the floor, forgotten. She lay awake in the dark, waiting for sleep to come, waiting for the dreams of oil and hearts to drag her down again.

Chapter Text

The package arrived in the late afternoon, just as the golden light of sunset poured through the apartment windows, painting everything in hues of amber and rose. It wasn’t a large box, but it wasn’t small either, just the right size to hold something you didn’t know you needed. The return label bore Iso Padre’s unmistakable scrawl, messy and sprawling as if he’d written it while multitasking with his numerous legs.

Shiver stared at it from across the room, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t move. Big Man sat beside her, his wide, comforting presence taking up most of the couch, but even his usual cheer seemed dimmed by the tension in the air.

“Are you gonna open it?” he asked finally, his voice soft, careful not to push.

Shiver chewed her lip, her sharp teeth grazing the skin there. “I don’t know.” She didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the box like it might explode if she got too close. “What if... What if it’s too much?”

“Then it’s too much,” Big Man said simply. “But you won’t know until you look.”

She shot him a half-hearted glare, but the truth in his words settled into her. With a deep breath, she stood and walked to the counter. Her fingers fumbled with the tape, shaky and unsure, until she finally ripped it open. The flaps fell apart, revealing a nest of soft tissue paper inside.

Carefully, like she was unearthing something fragile, Shiver pushed the paper aside. Her breath caught in her throat.

It was Frye.

Not Frye herself, of course, but a plush version of her. Soft fabric shaped into the familiar contours of her face, with bright, embroidered eyes that sparkled with playful mischief. Her golden tails were tied in perfect little bows, and her outfit was rendered with an impressive attention to detail, even the holes in her pants.

Shiver’s hands hovered over it for a moment, unsure, before she reached in and lifted the doll out of the box. It was lighter than she’d expected. Softer too.

Big Man waddled closer, his fins resting on the counter as he peered at the plush. “Ay... that’s... wow. It’s really her, huh?”

Shiver nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She held the plush close, her fingers brushing over the tiny fabric hands, the stitched smile. It was so lifelike, yet so obviously not.

Her chest tightened, and before she knew it, tears were spilling down her cheeks. They fell fast and heavy, soaking into the plush Frye’s fuzzy brown skin.

“I can’t,” she choked out. “I can’t do this. This isn’t her. This is just... It’s just fabric and stuffing.”

Big Man watched her, his gaze filled with quiet empathy. He didn’t try to stop her tears, didn’t offer empty reassurances. He just let her cry, his presence steady and unwavering.

“I miss her so much,” Shiver whispered, clutching the plush tighter. “Every day, I think it’s gonna hurt less, but it doesn’t. It never does. And now this, this stupid doll. It’s like replacing her with a toy.”

“It’s not replacing her,” Big Man said gently. “It’s remembering her. Holding onto the parts of her that made you smile.”

Shiver let out a shaky laugh, the sound bitter and broken. “You sound like Iso Padre.”

“Well, he’s pretty wise for a bug,” Big Man said with a small smile.

---

Shiver sank onto the couch, the plush still cradled in her arms. Her tears slowed, but the ache in her chest remained, heavy and unyielding.

Somewhere far beyond the physical world, Frye’s soul lingered. She wasn’t a body anymore, not a being in the traditional sense, but a flicker of light in the vast expanse of the beyond.

She watched Shiver with a love that transcended words, a warmth that wrapped around her like a protective shield.

“Look at you,” Frye thought, her essence shimmering with pride. “You’re still here. You’re still fighting, even when it feels impossible. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

Her presence grew brighter for a moment, as if reaching out to touch the edges of Shiver’s grief. “You’ll be okay, babe. You’ve got Big Man, and you’ve got me, even if I’m not there the way I used to be.”

She lingered for a moment longer, watching as Shiver clung to the plush doll like it was a lifeline. Then, with a gentle pulse of light, she drifted further into the beyond, content in the knowledge that Shiver would keep going.

---

That night, Shiver climbed into bed with the plush Frye tucked under her arm. Big Man waddled in after her, settling into his usual spot at the foot of the bed.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, his voice low and careful.

Shiver nodded, though her eyes were still red from crying. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Eventually.”

She placed the plush on the pillow beside her, its tiny face turned toward hers. For a moment, she just stared at it, her fingers brushing over its soft fabric cheek.

“Goodnight, Frye,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

As the room grew dark and quiet, Big Man thought he saw something. The plush’s stitched smile seemed just a little wider, its tiny face softer, more serene. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and it was back to normal.

But when he looked at Shiver, already asleep with the doll cradled in her arms, he decided not to say anything. Some things didn’t need explanations. Some things were better left as they were.

Chapter Text

It started with a knock at the door. Not a sharp, demanding knock, but a hesitant one, like whoever was on the other side wasn’t quite sure if they should be there. Shiver glanced up from her spot on the couch, where she’d been absently sharpening her tanto. Big Man poked his head out of the kitchen, a spatula clutched in one fin.

“Expecting someone?” he asked.

Shiver shook her head. “Not unless Iso Padre decided to send another surprise package.”

The knock came again, a little firmer this time. With a sigh, Shiver set the blade aside and stood. “I’ll get it.”

When she opened the door, she didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Standing there was Agent 3, the new one, fresh-faced but carrying the weary weight of someone who’d seen too much, too quickly. They were clutching their hero gear helmet under one arm, and beside them, their Smallfry buddy perched on their shoulder, its tiny fins twitching as if it were ready for a fight.

“Uh, hi,” Agent 3 said, their voice cracking just slightly. “I, uh... I was wondering if we could talk?”

Shiver leaned against the doorframe, her sharp gaze softening just a touch. “Talk about what?”

Agent 3 shifted on their feet, glancing down before forcing themselves to meet her eyes. “About... Deep Cut. And, uh, about me maybe joining you?”

Big Man waddled up behind Shiver, his fins already clapping together. “Joining us? Like... as a member?”

“Yeah,” Agent 3 said quickly, their words tumbling over each other. “I mean, I know we’ve got history and everything-”

Shiver raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “History, like you almost killing us in Alterna?”

Agent 3 winced. “Yeah, that history.”

Big Man’s laugh boomed through the room. “Oh, come on, Shiver. We were trying to kill them too. No hard feelings, right?”

“No hard feelings,” Agent 3 said hurriedly. “I mean, you saved my life in the end. And... I don’t think anyone else really gets what it’s like. You know, the bond with these little guys.” They gestured to their Smallfry, who chirped and puffed out its chest.

Shiver glanced at the Salmonid, its tiny frame vibrating with uncontainable energy. “Yeah,” she said, her voice softer now. “I get it. That little thing dragged you through hell and back, didn’t it? Like my shark friend.”

Agent 3 nodded. “I wouldn’t have made it through Alterna without them. Not against you, not against that... bear.”

Shiver crossed her arms, studying them. She thought back to those battles, the fierce determination in Agent 3’s eyes, the way they’d thrown everything they had into surviving. And here they were, still standing, still fighting, even after nearly being crushed under the weight of that doomed liquid-crystal sky.

“Let me get this straight,” Shiver said finally. “You want to join Deep Cut. The same Deep Cut you fought tooth and nail against. Why?”

Agent 3 hesitated, their gaze flicking between Shiver and Big Man. “Because... because you’re the only ones who would understand. About the Smallfry, about everything. You’re not just a team. You’re a... family. And I want to be part of one.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Then Big Man let out a delighted laugh, pulling Agent 3 into a fin-hug that was slightly too tight. “Ay... you’re in!”

---

Shiver snorted. “Way to play hard to get, Big Man.”

Agent 3 blinked, their face lighting up. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, really,” Shiver said, stepping aside to let them in. “Deep Cut’s not about grudges or formalities. If you’ve got guts and you’re willing to roll with our vibe, that’s good enough for me.”

“And your buddy here?” Big Man added, gently patting the Smallfry. “Ay! They can be our unofficial fourth member. Every great group needs a mascot, right?”

The Smallfry chirped again, leaping off Agent 3’s shoulder to land on Big Man’s head. The manta laughed, spinning around as the tiny Salmonid scrambled to keep its balance.

For the rest of the evening, the apartment was alive with laughter and excitement as the three; now four, bonded over snacks, stories, and impromptu jam sessions. Shiver found herself relaxing in a way she hadn’t in months, the weight of the world momentarily lifting as she watched their new member fit seamlessly into their chaotic little world.

When the night wound down, and Big Man was snoring softly in his corner of the couch, Shiver glanced at Agent 3, who was sprawled on the floor with their Smallfry curled up on their chest. She felt a rare, genuine warmth in her chest, her three hearts beating in perfect sync.

“Welcome to the family, Three,” she murmured.

Things might just be okay.

Chapter Text

The pain that woke Shiver felt like a punishment. A deep, twisting ache knotted in her stomach, pulling her out of the kind of uneasy sleep that was more exhaustion than rest. She groaned and curled in on herself, willing it to stop, but the pressure only grew heavier, more insistent. She shoved the blanket aside and shuffled toward the bathroom, gripping her stomach, her tentacles limp and dragging behind her like dead weight.

The bathroom light flickered on with a harsh buzz, bathing her in its cold, clinical glow. She barely made it to the toilet before her body gave in, her stomach cramping painfully as she emptied her bowels. She sat there for what felt like ages, her legs trembling, sweat dripping down her forehead and sticking to what would, were she human, be a collarbone.

When it was over, she stared down at the water, breathing hard. Just waste. No black oil. No foreign fragments. No pieces of Frye's body. She shuddered and wiped her face, relief mingling with shame. It shouldn’t feel this momentous to just be herself for once.

Her legs shook as she stood, flushing and turning toward the sink. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to cool the heat spreading across her skin, but when she looked up and caught sight of her reflection, everything in her froze.

The mirror didn’t lie. It never lies. It's an unfettered thing. If it were a person, it would drink only black coffee and say you look terrible, right to your face, in the middle of your job.

Her face stared back at her, familiar and alien all at once. The sharp angles of her jaw, the breadth of her shoulders, the flatness of her chest, her awkwardly dangling genitals, it all looked wrong. Her tentacles framed her face like a mockery of femininity, the person staring back at her caught somewhere between and nowhere at all. Her hands gripped the edge of the sink, white-knuckled.

Her gaze dropped lower, to her legs. The scars stood out starkly in the harsh light, angry red and pale silver crisscrossing in a chaotic pattern. They weren’t just hers; they were the only way she’d been able to carve her real self into the body that refused to be hers. Her hands clenched tighter.

It wasn’t just her legs. It was all of her. The whole body she was stuck in, weighed down by parts she never asked for, by everything she tried so hard to bury. The mirror seemed to mock her, her reflection a cruel reminder of how far she was from the girl she saw in her head, the girl she was inside.

Her breathing quickened, shallow and panicked. She couldn’t do this. Not here, not now. She turned away from the mirror, her chest tight, her thoughts spiraling. She’d fought battles, she'd saved the world, she'd killed people, but this was probably a fight that she couldn’t win.

---

“Shiver?”

The soft voice broke through the storm in her head. She turned to see Three standing in the doorway, Smallfry perched on their shoulder, its tiny eyes blinking sleepily.

“You okay?” Three’s voice was quiet, careful.

“I…” Shiver tried to find words, but her throat felt tight, like she was choking on them. “Just a stomachache.”

Three stepped closer, setting the Smallfry down on the counter. They studied her for a moment, their expression unreadable, then gently asked, “Want to talk about it?”

Shiver shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. “It’s nothing. Just… just me being stupid.”

Three tilted their head, their voice soft but firm. “It’s not stupid if it’s hurting you.”

Shiver let out a bitter laugh, wiping at her face. “It’s this body,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “I look in the mirror, and it’s like… it’s not me. It’s never been me.” Her voice cracked, and she hated how weak she sounded, hated how much of her was spilling out all at once. “I just want to feel real.”

Three didn’t say anything for a moment, then stepped closer, reaching out to touch her shoulder gently. “I get it,” they said simply.

Shiver looked up, startled.

“I’ve been there,” Three continued. “Feeling like nothing adds up, like you’re stuck in a body that doesn't love you. It’s… it’s awful. But you’re not alone, okay? You’re not broken. You’re just… you.”

Three rolled up their leggings and, lo and behold, revealed dozens of dry, sharp lines blighting their legs like cracks in the parched earth.

The words hit Shiver like a wave, and the tears came, hot and uncontrollable. She sank to the floor, her arms wrapping around herself as she sobbed. Three sat down beside her, their Smallfry hopping into her lap and nuzzling her hand.

When they finally returned to the bedroom, Big Man was awake, his eyes wide with concern. “What’s going on?” he asked softly.

Shiver hesitated, her voice still shaky. “Just… a bad night.”

Big Man nodded slowly, looking down at his fins. “I… I know what that’s like. Not feeling like you fit.”

Shiver blinked at him. “You?”

Big Man shrugged, his voice quieter now. “Ay... I’ve tried things. Lingerie, uh, maid outfits... dresses… just to see if it felt right. But it never does. I don’t know what I am. Like I'm "Big Man", but am I really a Man at all?... Guess it doesn't matter..."

Shiver reached out, resting a hand on his. “You’re you. That’s what matters.”

Three joined them, pulling the blanket over all of them as the Smallfry nestled between them. They sat there in the dark, leaning on each other, sharing the quiet.

The world outside was strange and broken, but here, in this moment, they were whole.

Love always wins. No, it doesn't. It sometimes loses. You can't win all the time, though.

That's alright. It's not a contest. If only we'd stop all these frivolous comparisons...

Chapter Text

Rain pattered against the windows of the small apartment Shiver and Big Man shared in Splatsville. The city lights outside were smeared into watercolour streaks by the storm, casting faint glows across the walls. Shiver sat on the couch, her legs tucked under her, staring blankly at a mug of lukewarm tea.

Big Man shuffled into the room, holding a plate of squiddymelon slices balanced carefully on one fin. “Ay! You’ve been staring at that tea for ages! What’s up, Shiv?” He flopped onto the floor with his usual grace, placing the plate on the table between them.

Shiver sighed. “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” She tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders, avoiding his eyes.

Big Man tilted his head. “Ay, come on. Don’t give me that. Spill it.”

She hesitated, her hands fidgeting with the blanket’s edges. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid if it’s making you sad,” he said, nudging the plate of melon toward her. “Here, eat something. It’ll help.”

She shook her head. “It’s just… my body. Sometimes it feels like it’s not even mine. Like I’m stuck in someone else’s shape. And no matter how much I try to love it, it still feels... wrong.”

Big Man’s fins drooped slightly, but he quickly perked up, trying to be encouraging. “Ay, listen. It’s your body, even if it feels weird sometimes. It’s been with you through everything-dancing, battling, laughing, crying. It’s Shiver’s body, no one else’s.”

Shiver let out a bitter laugh. “Easy for you to say. You’ve never had to deal with this kind of thing.”

“Shiv, I’m a manta ray. Ay!” He spread his fins for emphasis. “You know how many times I’ve looked at all you squid and octo folks and thought, ‘Wow, I’m just this big, flat guy. No legs, no arms, nothing. Am I even part of this world?’ But then I think, ‘Ay, I’m Big Man. And Big Man belongs.’”

Shiver raised an eyebrow. “It’s not the same.”

“Okay, no, it’s not exactly the same,” he admitted, scratching the back of his fin. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t belong. And, ay, Frye thought you were perfect. She loved you, all of you.”

Her breath caught at the mention of Frye. “She didn’t have to deal with this,” she whispered. “She didn’t have to wake up and see a body that feels... wrong.”

Big Man hesitated, then decided to dive in. “Ay, Shiv, have you, uh... ever spent time with yourself?”

She blinked. “What?”

“You know, spent time. Like... getting to know your body. Touching it, seeing what feels good, what doesn’t. Stuff like that.” He waved a fin awkwardly. “Ay, it’s not weird! It’s like... getting familiar with your home. You live there, right? Might as well make it comfy.”

Shiver’s face turned a deep purple. “Are you seriously telling me to-”

“I’m not saying you have to, ay!” he interrupted, fins flailing. “But it’s not bad or dirty or anything. It’s your body. Frye loved it, and maybe you could try loving it too. Even a little.”

Shiver stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “You’re so weird, Big Man.”

“Ay, maybe. But I’m right.”

There was a long pause, filled only by the sound of rain. Shiver finally reached for a slice of melon and took a bite. “Thanks,” she muttered.

“Anytime,” he said, grinning. “Ay, and remember-every time you take care of yourself, that’s Frye loving you too. Through you. Like... a little reminder she’s still here.”

Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t let the tears fall. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously wise,” he said with a wink.

As they sat in silence, munching on melon, Shiver felt the weight on her shoulders lift just a little.

---

The morning was off to a terrible start. Shiver was sitting on the edge of her bed, her face burning so hot she thought steam might actually come out of her head. She kept replaying the moment-Agent 3 walking in, the confused look on their face, the awkward silence.

She groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Why is this my life?"

Agent 3 was hovering near the doorway like they didn’t know whether to stay or bolt. Their Smallfry, of course, had zero shame and was happily hopping around the room.

"Uh, look," Agent 3 said, rubbing the back of their neck, "I didn’t see... uh... much? I think? Maybe?"

Shiver groaned even louder. "That makes it worse! Don’t try to downplay it!"

Agent 3 opened their mouth to respond, but Big Man’s unmistakable voice boomed from the hallway. "Ay! What’s all the noise? You two fighting or something?"

"No!" Shiver shouted, her voice muffled by her hands.

Big Man waddled into the room, looking between them. "Ay, then what’s with all the weird vibes?"

Agent 3 pointed at Shiver like a guilty child tattling on a sibling. "I accidentally walked in on her while she was, uh..." They trailed off, waving vaguely.

Big Man blinked, tilting his head. "Ay! That’s it? Shiver, why’re you acting like the world’s ending?"

"Because it is!" Shiver snapped, her face still buried in her hands. "I can’t believe this happened! I’m never going to live this down!"

Agent 3, still awkward as ever, said, "Hey, I mean, it’s not the weirdest thing in the world. It happens! To, uh, everyone. Probably."

Shiver peeked out from behind her hands, her face somehow even redder. "This doesn’t happen to everyone. You’re just saying that to make me feel better."

Big Man plopped onto the bed beside her, patting her on the back with one of his big fins. "Ay, I’m serious! You’re making a big deal out of nothing. Everyone’s got embarrassing moments."

Agent 3, desperate to ease the tension, blurted, "Like that time I was, uh, you know... playing with myself... and the little buddy decided to jump all over me."

Shiver stared at them. "What."

Agent 3 nodded, their face bright red. "Yeah, it was horrible. I was lying there, pants down, going about my business, and bam, there’s this little guy hopping all over me like it’s a game. I almost fell out of bed trying to get him to stop!"

The Smallfry chirped loudly, clearly pleased with itself.

Big Man let out a loud laugh, doubling over. "Ay, ay, that’s too good! Little dude just wanted to join the fun!"

Shiver couldn’t help it-she snorted, then quickly tried to cover her mouth. "Okay, maybe that’s worse."

Agent 3 groaned. "It is worse! And now I’m stuck with him, and every time I look at him, I remember. But you don’t see me sulking about it."

Shiver sighed, her shoulders finally starting to relax. "I guess... I guess it’s not the end of the world."

"Exactly," Big Man said, his voice gentle now. "Ay, stuff happens. You’re still you, and we still care about you. No one’s judging you for anything."

Shiver looked between them, her face softening. "You guys are ridiculous, you know that?"

"Maybe," Agent 3 said with a small grin. "But it works, doesn’t it?"

Big Man extended his fins. "Ay, group hug time?"

Shiver rolled her eyes but leaned in, letting Big Man wrap her in his warm embrace. Agent 3 joined in, their Smallfry climbing onto Shiver’s shoulder and chirping happily.

Shiver sighed, resting her head against Big Man. "You guys are so weird."

"Yeah," Agent 3 said. "But we’re your weirdos."

Chapter Text

The theme for this weekend's Splatfest had everyone in stitches when Deep Cut announced it on the big screen:

“Who Should Inherit the Earth After We’re Gone?”

🔵 Team Birds: “Flying is OP. End of discussion.”
🟢 Team Bugs: “Tiny but mighty, and they’ve already got us outnumbered!”
🔴 Team Mushrooms: “You’re gonna rot anyway. Might as well let the fungi have it.”

The plaza was an explosion of neon, confetti, and questionable dancing. Deep Cut had gone all out for the occasion. Shiver, Big Man, and Agent 3, whose public name was "Veronika", stood center stage, hyping up the already-wild crowd.

Shiver had feathers woven into her tentacles, a glittery blue jumpsuit that screamed “high-flying diva,” and a megaphone that she absolutely did not need. “Alright, Splatsville!” she yelled, her voice echoing across the plaza. “The question’s simple! When we’re gone-and let’s be real, we’re not exactly permanent fixtures-who’s taking over?”

“Mushrooms!” Big Man hollered, his red-painted fins flapping dramatically. He twirled in a circle, almost knocking over the mic stand. “Think about it! Fungi clean up the mess, and bam, the world’s fresh as a daisy again. Or, uh, a mushroom.”

“Bugs!” Veronika declared, green ink smeared across their face from an earlier Turf War. Their Smallfry buddy was perched proudly on their head, holding a little sign that read "SUBMIT TO THE HIVE!". “Bugs are survivors. They’ve got chitin. They’ve got guts. And they don’t need feathers to look cool!”

Shiver put a hand on her hip, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please. Bugs are just bird snacks waiting to happen. Let’s be real. Birds are already halfway there. They’re smarter than me, they can fly, and they poop on anything they don’t like. Total power move.”

The crowd roared in agreement; or disagreement. It was hard to tell in Splatsville. Someone threw a whole plate of fried shrimp into the air.

---

For hours, the Splatlands became a battlefield. Red ink spilled over rooftops and alleyways as Team Mushrooms set up defensive perimeters. Green ink streaked through the chaos, Team Bugs using speed and ambush tactics to dominate chokepoints. Meanwhile, Team Birds soared (literally, I mean, there were Inkjets everywhere) with long-range precision, turning the skies blue.

The commentary between matches was, as always, the best part.

Big Man held up a plate of sautéed mushrooms. “This? This is the future. Mushrooms for everyone. Eco-friendly. Delicious. You’re welcome.”

Veronika squinted at the plate like it was radioactive. “That’s your pitch? You eat your future overlords?”

“Hey, bugs are snacks too,” Big Man shot back.

“Not my bug,” Veronika muttered, protectively shielding their Smallfry.

Shiver, meanwhile, was leaning into the chaos. “Let’s just face it. Birds are already better than us. They can fly. They’re cute. And they don’t need to explain why they’re wearing feathers. Imagine a bird trying to explain fashion to a bug. Exactly.”

- RESULTS -

Finally, the battles ended, and everyone crowded back into the plaza for the big reveal. The jumbotron flickered to life, showing the breakdown:

Popularity: Mushrooms 22%, Bugs 38%, Birds 40%.
Clout (Open Battles): Mushrooms 25%, Bugs 35%, Birds 40%.
Clout (Pro Battles): Mushrooms 15%, Bugs 30%, Birds 55%.

TEAM BIRDS WINS!

The plaza exploded into cheers (and more ink). Blue confetti burst from the rooftops. Shiver struck a dramatic pose, feathers flying as she shouted into her mic, “THE SKY IS OURS! TOLD YOU, BIRDS RULE!”

Big Man flopped over in mock defeat, his fins slapping the stage. “Ay... fine, fine. Just remember, when your bird buddies poop all over their shiny new Earth, I’ll be there in spirit. Laughing.”

Veronika adjusted their goggles, looking genuinely miffed. “This isn’t over. Bugs will rise. You’ll see. They’re patient.”

Shiver draped an arm around Three’s shoulder, laughing. “Oh, come on. Don’t be a sore loser. Besides, we’ve still got each other, right? Birds, bugs, mushrooms... it’s all hypothetical anyway.”

“...Is it?” Big Man asked, his voice suddenly serious.

The crowd fell quiet for a split second. Then someone yelled, “More shrimp dogs!” and the chaos resumed.

As the three of them looked out over the party, their Smallfry buddy perched happily between them, Shiver smiled. “Honestly, as long as we keep having fun like this… I think the world’s in good hands. No matter who inherits it.”

Big Man nodded. “True. But I’m still rooting for mushrooms.”

Agent 3 sighed, shaking their head. “Yeah, yeah. Just wait until the next Splatfest.”

---

Above them, a lone bird soared through the neon-lit sky, wings cutting through the ink-black night like a brushstroke.

A brushtroke dipped in turpentine, ready to clean that mess of oil off the canvas, and for once, paint something entirely new.

Chapter Text

The rain was relentless, soft but constant, soaking into the white sand and turning it into a muddy gray. The gull, its feathers damp and slick, dug its beak into the ground, searching for insects. Rain rolled off its back in tiny streams, and its wings hung slightly heavy from the weight of the water. Above, the sky was an endless slate, clouds pressing low like they were trying to suffocate the world below.

The gull was no ordinary scavenger. It wasn’t here for scraps or survival, not entirely. It had made waves in archaeological circles, which, in this world, meant other gulls who occasionally took interest in strange rocks and etched symbols left by the vanished molluscs. This gull was different. It could read Inkling, or at least, it had learned to read enough to piece together fragments of the past. It spent hours at sites that others ignored, puzzling over ruins, translating, connecting.

Today, it wasn’t looking for knowledge. It was hungry.

Its beak struck something hard beneath the sand. Not a beetle or a shell, but something dense and immovable. The gull clawed at the earth, bits of mud and stone flicking away under its talons. The rain helped, softening the ground, and soon, the edge of something flat and carved began to emerge.

The gull tilted its head, staring at the object with a kind of distant curiosity. A stone, rectangular, with words etched deep into its surface. It could barely make out the letters, the rain smearing the grooves with mud, but it persisted. A few careful nudges with its beak cleared enough for it to read:

FRYE ONAGA
M.E. 2002 – 2025
“I am every color of the rainbow. I refract through all of you.”

---

The gull stepped back, tilting its head again. It knew what this was. A headstone. A marker of someone who had been here before, someone who had lived, laughed, danced, and died long before the world had turned white.

There was movement in the water just beyond the shoreline. The gull snapped its head up, watching the long, sinuous shape of an eel swimming through the shallows. It moved slowly, like it wasn’t afraid of being seen, its dark form cutting through the rain-dappled surface.

The gull’s first thought was food. It had eaten eels before, though rarely; they were slippery, difficult prey, but worth it if you could pin them down. Its talons flexed against the wet sand, but it didn’t move.

Instead, something unfamiliar stirred in the gull’s mind. A memory that wasn’t its own. Dancing. Bright lights, twisting and pulsing in the dark. Music. Eels, dozens of them, swirling in a kind of frantic, joyful chaos. The gull felt a strange pull, a momentary connection to something vast and colorful, something it couldn’t quite name.

It looked back at the headstone, the rain washing over the words, making them glisten. “I am every color of the rainbow. I refract through all of you.” The phrase echoed in its head, soft and insistent, like the lingering hum of a melody.

The gull turned back to the water. The eel was gone. It blinked against the rain, shook its feathers, and took off into the air. The stone grew smaller below as it rose higher, the beach fading into the endless gray.

“I guess you are,” the gull thought, its wings cutting through the mist, carrying it forward into the rain.

Nothing ever really changes, does it?