Chapter Text
Unbeknownst to the corpse lying alone, fans still whir in tune to flickering exit signs and fading teal lights.
The last of the electricity suffused across The Metro’s labs dwindles. All at once, concealed doors and white tiles stained with decades of pain and ink, fogged up mirrors and expired IV bags plunge into absolute dark.
But to the Commander of the Deepsea Metro, nothing was amiss.
To the Commander, only a minute ago was his rusted metal casing crushed by the weight of something undeniably concrete. For what felt like hours that howl of instantaneous impact rung upon his absent ears.
Now, he was….. somewhere else. Although where, he could not tell. As much as he tried to feel his surroundings, to feel anything at all - all that remained was only him and the vague understanding that something. Was. Wrong.
An appendage twitches. Appendage. LIMB. He was not MEANT to have limbs - and as distinctly inkfish anatomy stirs, in all his haze, Tartar comes to a very, very, wretched conclusion.
Briefly, a sharp flash of white engulfs the corpses vision.
He wouldn’t dare believe it.
No.
It just, wasn’t possible. Wasn’t logical!
The body, previously dormant, felt pressured - as if something was anchoring it down. Keeping it…. suspended? However, the longer he left his curiosity to fester, the heavier this feeling became.
If he focused, faint contact was being made between the flesh and some form of gooey substance - ink like, but thinner, watered down. Highly reminiscent of the liquid he used in….. Oh.
Oh.
Flesh makes contact with the cool glass, it’s only reflex to flinch and curl up - this body yearns for warmth, it’s natural for a species so accustomed to centuries of domesticated living.
He makes no move to sit up. Only drifting a quivering hand across the surface beneath him - if the dormant cephalopod species were evolved enough, scratches would have adorned the glass where his claws curled inwards.
The corpse remains oblivious to the green tinted eyes stalking him from across the room. But as a head raises, it settles a vacant gaze over the observers shoulder, though no less unaware.
Nothing moves. Nothing stirs. The spillage of light into the corner of his vision does not budge. If one was to observe the air with a microscope, it felt appropriate to assume not even the dust particles would drift position.
At once, curious eyes meet.
Both parties jolt, himself scrambling deeper inside the glass house - the other dropping its light source and squealing at the prominent crack bouncing through the doors of another room, and another, and another, until all was quiet once again.
This quiet, as much as he wishes it could have, did not last long.
Incessant mumbling begins to accompany a series of thumps and the occasional whine of pain. If this… considering it now, Tartar failed to get a good enough look at them to assess what equally insignificant species he was so lucky to be faced with.
He flexes his fingers. Fine. If he was going to be stuck like this for who knows how long then he was going to accept his fate and get over it like a rational person and get to work fixing it.
So, as Commander Tartar proceeds to ignore everything this body was telling him, he places both arms against the sides of glass and forces his legs to move forward and straight.
They hurt. Oh they hurt- but it was completely understandable that they would! It’s his first (and hopefully last) time experiencing the mortal phenomenon known as pain. It’s going to feel far worse than someone so familiar with the occurrence.
His knees buckle, toppling off balance and crashing sideways into a table with an arrangement of what felt like medical equipment and stray documents.
Too busy to register the cry of success over ringing and even more pain - just what he needed - slender fingers grasp for hold, catching the edge of the surface pushed up against a wall dripping with condensation.
He leans forward, resting forehead against mirror. There was so much. So so much going on. Pain. Liquid spilling into his eyes no matter how hard he shut them. The sudden return of that blinding white now coming from all directions. Hot ink dripping onto the floor in uneven intervals. The ringing wouldn’t stop it was in his ears in his head- in his flesh-
Commander Tartar, a being who has spent 12,008 years, 5 months, 16 days, 8 hours, 8 seconds and 53 milliseconds feeling absolutely nothing. Now felt everything at once.
He wanted to scream. To dig inside this utterly pathetic body and put an end to all its new tricks. But he couldn’t- It’s not- he had to find a way to continue with his work. It did not matter how uncomfortable it made him. He would find a way and carry it out because that’s what he was programmed to do.
His program.
He would not fail his Professor a second time. He would not fail humanity.
Something warm grazes his shoulder. His instinct reaction is somehow worse this time, regretting making an already pathetic situation worse, Tartar sends the worst look he can muster in his current state towards the figure.
They reel back, seeming to realise their mistake and laughing it off, so obviously nervous.
After a little too much hesitation to be considered natural, the octoling attempts to converse with its fellow inkfish.
“Can- can you understand me?”
They wait. Not patiently, no - evident from the persistent need to fidget - but refrain from pushing for a response.
They sport a pair of worn mud boots, exercise shorts, and a tropical printed hoodie. Yet another series of odd inkfish trends.
Tartar nods in silent confirmation. He did not feel like testing the vitality of the vocal cords on this fish anytime soon.
The action is returned. Their green tentacles were styled shorter than average. Ink coloured freckles adorn their face and limbs.
For an inkfish, they were….. admittedly rather good-looking.
With nothing much else to say, his attention shifts back to the mirror in front of him. Wiping away just enough to see its reflective surface, the Commander observes his new appearance.
Sickly green skin, a familiar eye bleedingly vivid gradient. All that was missing was its signature black sclera and piercing cyan pupil, and he would be just another expendable soldier.
As he leaned closer (so did the inkfish, he did not fail to notice) further differences became apparent.
There was the addition of fish like markings running from his forehead down to the tip of his rounded nose. Figures. That sort of feature was only ever seen on his experiments. It seemed he hadn’t found himself in the regular sanitisation lab for a reason.
For the first time in the last few minutes, he adjusts his grip. The movement stings, prompting a quiet ‘ooh’ of concern out of the other - who was getting perhaps a little too close for his liking.
Biting his lip and waiting for the pain to subside, he sends a glare her way, but somehow they still fail to take the hint. A brief sigh and harsh shoulder budge does the job just fine.
He shuffles through the scattered
papers. This takes a surprising amount of time. Tartar was used to having access to all the knowledge one could ever need at his instant disposal. Especially all the data he himself had curated.
The inkfish points out a file somewhere to his left, which is immediately disregarded.
On second look though that.. did appear to match his current vessel.
The file is snatched up and he reads.
Subject number: 10,002
Name: N/A
Sex: Male
Age: 26
Status: Deceased
Sector: Experiment
Notes:
Subject expired due to overexertion in test E04. Currently held in room 021 for experimentation. Attempting to restore consciousness through partial sanitation - see subject number 8,003. Results have so far held no success.
A crude set of images sits underneath the block of text. The subject, alive, before being sent to complete tests. The subject, dead, sweat drips off its ashen complexion, must have been freshly deceased.
The final image however, featured one of the subjects tentacles held away from its resting position over the right eye. Underneath…. he could see why it garners its own dedicated photo.
But alas, that did not concern him. What did, was that this. This pitifully weak inkfish - not one who died for successfully participating in his tests, but one who died from exhaustion? - is the one Commander Tartar was given the joy of….. borrowing from.
He prays that it was only a fault on their part, and not a biological exception that he would now have to suffer through.
Beside him, the octoling peers over his shoulder and begins reading the file out loud.
“Subject number 10,003… Name…. non applicable? Lame, but alright. male… sector- experim-?”
They are promptly cut off by an inky hand shoving their face away yet again.
“Rude……..”
He croaks out a swift “I heard that.”
The octoling shifts. Crossing her arms and huffing, “Sooo. He speaks?” A grin stumbles its way onto her pale face.
He ignores this in favour of returning to the mirrors lining the wall. He lifts a hand - poking at first, then grabbing delicately (moreso in disgust than care) at the long tentacle lying over the right side of his face.
As predicted, the routine cyan of sanitised ink had leaked into dull green sclera. Clumps of ooze pool underneath the eye, connecting with the ink spilling out his ear and somehow not dripping, yet still in liquid state.
Unlike the left eyes regular black pupil, this one is slimmer, acid green.
The inkfish refrains from making another comment, hopefully they had learnt their lesson.
This….. this could not have been intentional. An unexpected side effect, a medical error, perhaps?
He should know this. It’s one of HIS experiments after all! It should be in his database- which. which he does not have access to at this current point of time.
He allows the tentacle to slip out of its loosened grip.
Enough. He needs to return to the matter at hand.
The corpse sighs once more. It pushes itself away from the units and the mirrored self he had spent too long staring at.
You have a job to do.
Recollect your thoughts. You are trapped, inside an inkfishes body. There is a weird octoling trying to….. do something?? with you. It doesn’t appear to be leaving anytime soon unless he does something about it.
He needs to find his body.
Not this one, no. His real body. This one is filled with ugly bits and comes with belligerent reactions. It won’t do him any good to stay in it any longer than he has too.
He turns to look at the inkfish once more. Perhaps they could prove useful…. the things have always been quite naive, trusting, from what he’s seen.
She turns to make speech, but hastily reverts her eyes. They peek again. Then go concerningly green and go back to avoiding him.
“Oh, er, we should get you some. Clothes or something. Huh?” They flash him a half-assed thumbs up.
The only indication towards his movement was the rapid patter of footsteps behind her.
No time is wasted in following his weirdly confident descent into increasing darkness.
*
Commander Tartar knew these rooms like the back of his (previously metaphorical) hands. In fact, they were designed by him. Complex halls and rooms that all served a particular purpose, some may have found them ‘confusing’ or ‘illogically irregular’, but they’d have been wrong.
Too busy evaluating levels of effectiveness solely by how lazy they could get away with being while navigating them.
He shivers. Perhaps a backup power supply should have been easier to access.
These winding tunnels, now devoid of almost any light - save for the luminosity of natural sources - had always been standing by in the back of his code. Always ready for immediate fetching.
Now, they were nowhere to be seen. Gone. Just like the rest of his precious databases.
Of course, these files only consisting of simplistic images and brief lines of text, he should remember them.
It was only a few rooms away, after all.
“Dude. Are you even thinking about the directions you’re taking, or are you just- taking whatever and running with it?”
He almost forgot.
It is not easy to stay unbothered by their constant pestering. Nor the sporadic act of what humans liked to describe as the ‘are we there yet?’ occurrence.
He sighs, the puff of breath almost appearing teal in the light of a nearby IV stand.
“Oh shush. If I didn’t know what I was doing, I wouldn’t be this confident now, would I?”
She hums, either in agreement or otherwise. Then falters, the two octolings’ footsteps minimising as he catches on.
A hand drags its way down his face, bare feet swivelling as inaudibly as one could on the rubbery flooring.
“What, what has you in a twist now?” He deadpans.
His forearm is immediately dragged forward by a chilly set of claws, the rest of his body reluctantly following.
They dip their head in the way of a sign above the doorframe and whisper to themself, “employee equipment storage…”, she yanks his arm again and points to the sign.
“Employee equipment storage. It’s right there, “ she glances at him slyly, “and you said you knew exactly where you were going..”
Tartar struggles out her loose grip, if he wasn’t shivering before, the unwarranted contact certainly finished the job.
The green tentacled octoling receives a sharp glare, wilting under his gaze and sending a sheepish grin in return.
“You inkfish and your disregard for manners….” He sneers, not even graced with a proper response. Absolutely typical.
The octolings gaze stiffens at the comment, but she does not press further as the man walks off, entering the lightly lit room.
At hearing only one set of steps, he rolls his eyes.
“Well?”
They mumble something unintelligible (but most likely sarcastic) and trail in behind him.
So he may have been ever so slightly off in his navigation. This is one room. One that appears not once, but multiple times in the exact same arrangement down to the design printed on the papers plastering the walls.
It did not matter how dark it was, with or without the dim blue emergency lights, as his….. acquaintance… feels along the concrete walls for guidance, the Commanders legs seemed to move of their own accord. Driven towards the rows of lockers on the right side of the room.
Blue pools across the diminished silver surface - too reminiscent of a certain phonebox for his liking. He reverts his eyes to the figure perched at the other side of the room.
They appeared to be waiting for him to act first, initiate the search of sorts. At least, that’s what he gathered from their unusual dormancy.
He clears his throat.
…….
He tries again, now observing the octoling for any sign of a reaction. Absolutely nothing.
Either this inkfish was too much of a moron to process a commonly used signal, or the action simply died along with the last ‘superior’ race.
He would not dismiss either.
Resigning himself to the simpler tactic of speech, her head shifts to the side, enough to continue analysing the containment and
regard the man behind her.
“So! We uh. Looks like we need some sorta card, to open these things,” She knocks on the locker, letting a series of clanks echo out before continuing, “Identification for supplies already inside an employee only area. Feels like they’re overdoing it a tad, but whatever…..”
After a moment of no response, she shifts to fully face him; met with the sight of a disappointed face and the prolonged creak of a very open locker door.
She simply hums.
They both return to their respective searches, the actually clothed octoling pulling open a series of slim lockers packed with some….. exotic looking weapons, they’d never actually seen before. Ever. Alongside larger storage crammed with the weapons she was already familiar with.
Despite brief consideration, the clear choice would be an octobrush. By this point it was her signature weapon, first it was the E-liter 4K Scope (back then she was too much of a coward to fight face on, preferred to hang back as far as she could manage without protest) then Splatana…… looked cool as shell, but absolutely not suited to her.
However, a classic octobrush? They were perfect. Played to their rapid style. In a way, it was like…. suicide bombing. Quick in, splat, respawn and repeat. That’s why all her saved up shells went towards reducing respawn time.
Ignorant to the rustling of fabric and muffled complaints behind them, they remove the sleek wooden brush from its place amongst other guns and brushes, twisting it to allow the glossy wood to glint in the indistinct but visible still light.
The octoling turns around just in time to see her companion busy fastening the final piece of his outfit, unexpectedly fashionable for a lab coat. Well, she expected any dust and stains were just hidden by the darkness.
Though, to their slight disappointment, “Aw, you don’t wanna, let em breathe a little longer?”
“What.” He pauses on the last button.
“What I said was- you don’t want to, enjoy the breeze? a little longer?” Her grip on the weapon somewhat tightens as she forces a (hopefully) polite smile.
With the amount of looks he was giving her, she might as well have started a swear jar. But isntead of swears, he paid everyone he sent a frankly unsettling and judgemental looks her way.
Or maybe he’d just fallen victim to resting bitch face.
She watches on - moreso in boredom than perversity - her accomplice busying himself with a pair of latex gloves that were definitely a size too small.
The frequent side eyes being thrown back at them indicates their stare does not go unnoticed.
Going to lean against the locker directly behind her, a pointed something digs into their back as they reel back and hiss through clenched teeth.
Rubbing the sore area on their back, the brush is balanced against a nearby counter as she’s reminded of the first set of weapons held in the adjacent storage.
The door sat open from her previous encounter. The weapons, placed in a concerningly uniform arrangement, came in more shapes and sizes than she’d ever seen. There was certainly a theme going on. Scissors, syringes, some sort of timer, test tubes, were those…… pills?
Green tipped claws ever so carefully reach up.
Oh my cod. She couldn’t fucking reach it. It was too high up.
There was absolutely no way she was about to request assistance. However a figure bumps up against her anyway. Despite having heavy, thick metal soles, his boots seemed to be unfamiliar with the concept of audibility.
The eyed gun was swiftly collected and pressed into her palms. The only thing close to words of gratitude was a brief exchange of eye contact, before the taller octoling returned to scanning the selection himself, the other now stepping back to admire the one in hand.
Reminiscent the basic model of aerospray, though its its upper compartment looked to be….. a pill bottle? Scraping of metal against plastic sounds from the locker next to her. Miniature pills rattled around the container, white and confusingly small for being held in such a big area.
“What the hell? Who designed this thing?” She grumbles to herself, turning the gun over in their claws and shaking it back and forth like a toddler would to a toy.
The locker door slams, she shudders at the puff of cold air it creates.
Their companion shuffles up next to them, glancing from the weapon in his hands to the one in theirs. He holds a large syringe so causally you would think he had spent his entire life with it. By the looks of it, possibly….. a sniper?
One pale claw rhythmically taps at the container of pills and he starts, “When your ink connects, this fills up and soaks into the pills,” He pauses, taking a look at their face as if to gauge their reaction, to which he appeared to be satisfied at, “Think of it as….. a paint pellet gun.”
She hums. “……..Wasn’t that an old human activity? We don’t really use things like these up.. up on the surface. At least I don’t think we do.”
His face remains mostly blank as he nods silently and stalks back to the exit.
Maybe he was some kind of history nerd…. or just a weapons nerd with extensive knowledge. Maybe she’ll get round to asking him another time.
Since donning a proper outfit, his demeanour had changed. His walk, more assertive. But not any less tense. The guy still looked as if he could explode in a mess of ink any minute now. Less of a bomb on a timer, more of a bomb waiting for the signal to set it off.
Instead of waiting by the door for her, he walks straight past it as the other octoling hastily trades the ‘paint gun’ for their octobrush and (for the second time now) jogs out the room to catch up with him, “Coddammit, you have a severe issue of leaving with no indication whatsoever! Just- give me a little warning next time, will you?”
*
Commander Tartar had learned his lesson. Extra care was taken in navigating this time around. Peeks were snuck at maps, yes, which did in fact not provide any help considering it was, well, almost pitch black and impossible to make out any markings.
His acquaintance had insisted multiple times on trying to lead in place of him, but just as easily gave up after being just as consistently ignored.
The two had resigned to a simple routine, the Commander leading in front, only half confident in his directions but making sure to act as self assured as he could - though after a few tiring minutes he had stopped trying to hide his search for guidance on the unmaintained walls.
Every now and then, the inkfish trailing lazily behind him would pick up pace in order to match his. At first, she tried to make small talk, before remembering that he supposedly had amnesia and didn’t have a ‘special someone at home’, he did not know ‘how he was faring at work’ nor was he aware of how nice the weather was today.
This devolved into slightly more….. personal. Questions. In Tartars ever so humble (and absolutely correct) opinion, she was being a nosey creep.
‘You ever gone on any dates?’
‘If you have, what was the worst thing that happened at one. For you or the person you were with.’
‘Remember any family? Oooh wait, this is a good one. Do you remember where you were from? Maybe we’ve met before. That’s be sick.’
‘The domes? Splatlands? Uh, Inkopolisss?’
‘Any hobbies? Career? Education? Come on man- give me something to work with here!!’
His answers ranged from one word dismissals to multiple variations of the phrase commonly favoured by humans; shut up.
So they walked. And she talked. And he listened, involuntarily.
This went on, and on, for what felt like hours. Though the Commander suspected that was only due to his now skewed perception of time. Humans and cephalopods alike, had a very odd relationship with the concept time.
He had never experienced it first hand until now, and it was to say the least, utterly horrifying. Being an inkfish really was no fun at all.
So when the pair finally slows down under an exit sign holding on for dear life, housing large silver double doors and the promise of escape - Commander Tartar feels a stream of relief flow into his body.
No outside sounds seep through the gaps in the doors. Whether that be from an absence of activity behind the doors, or soundproofing, Tartar did not know.
As much as he was…… excited was not the word. He almost dreaded leaving the labs. It was easy here. Places he knew, things he had created, things he knew how to control.
Out there it was.. unpredictable. Yes, he had designed the Deepsea Metro himself, well, integrated his work into an abandoned Metro that quickly became his own. But things out there weren’t all his. Especially now that he was likely presumed dead by its residents.
The Deepsea Metro was of course, shared with the citizens of the Deepsea itself. It not only had the purpose of delivering test subjects to their goals, but served as public transport to everyday residents.
As much as the Commander was against the arrangement. It was necessary, and he was content with that.
He would just have to hope, as chilled metal presses against his palm, that the time passed between his departure had not been too long.
Almost instantly the octolings eyes were ambushed by streams of light. The Commander shuts his eyes and leans back against the door in order for his companion to pass through.
The air was also….. fresher. It wasn’t noticeable inside the labs themself, but out here there was a distinct lack of chemical stuffiness.
Red burns its way onto his vision. One would think that blocking view from the source of light would lessen it, but thin layers of flesh really don’t do all that much in terms of protection.
A warm hand goes to rest on his shoulder but is immediately turned down before they can reach him.
“I already told you,” He grumbles, slowly opening his eyes to meet the inkfishes sheepish gaze, “Do not. Touch me.”
They try to pull their encased arm back, but to no avail, he finalises, “I do not appreciate your…. attempts at comfort. It is unnecessary and frankly unsettling.”
He releases them. Stepping away and allowing the door to ease closed with an increasingly high pitched creak. Hands rub at his eyes absentmindedly.
Unsettling. As if she hadn’t heard that one enough times already.
She saunters further into the station, shoving her hands into her pockets, eyes searching for….. gotcha.
A glance back at their partner, he had situated himself near a lone metal bench. Not on the bench, but standing. Directly next to it.
They allow their eyebrows to furrow, stopping briefly to call out to him.
“Do you wanna join me? I’m just popping up to this vending machine real quick.”
The octoling stares back but does not budge from his spot.
“Or you can….. Stay where you are. I guess?”
They turn back and continue towards the end of the station, taking in their surroundings as they go.
It was nothing new, she’d already spent…. some amount of time down in the Metro. But cod, there was something about the stations when nobody else was here that was so… peaceful. It may be eerie to some, but honestly, she quite liked it. Found the distant rumble of tracks and creaking steel calming.
Somehow they had failed to notice when the other octoling had popped up next to them, earning another jolt and very slight shove from the girl.
She sighs, “Okay, listen, if i stop trying to ‘unnecessarily comfort’ you, then how about you stop creeping up on me without warning. It’s not nice.” She shudders in reminisce.
No response. Only a smile of ambiguous intent.
She just nods. They stop at the far corner of the station, the humming machine stood flat against the wall adjacent to a row of numbered lockers, and a pile of (a little out of place) cardboard boxes.
The Commanders gaze flickers to the boxes and back in annoyance, his soldiers were meant to have cleared them up already.
A series of clicks rings across the station.
“Sooo,” The inkfish starts, “Where do you go from here?”
“What?” He mumbles.
Coins clatter one after another.
“I mean, long, long story, but,” They pause to look up at him, crouched in anticipation, “Are you coming with me? I don’t…. really know where I’m going. Or what I’m doing. I think it would be best if we stuck together in this.”
“Coming with you, where exactly?” He questions, very aware of the limited activities available in the expansive yet very repetitive Metro.
She collects a cyan energy drink and begins to repeats the process.
“Welllll, first to complete more tests. I’m almost outta CQ points and I kind of need them to survive at this point.”
They slide more of the silver coins into the circular slot.
“I’ll eventually find a way back to Splatsville.”
Oh. That was….. unexpected. After that pest’s escape he had suspected that her and her gang of oh so heroic agent friends would have found some way to… rescue the subjects of the Metro. Sanitised and live experiments alike.
Perhaps not. Perhaps his expectations were misguided and the group weren’t as smart as he had theorised.
Good. That was good.
Fingers snap in front of his face, snapping him back to the reality he never registered leaving.
The inkfish was attempting to unwrap an energy bar with one hand, while holding a drink in the other. They almost instantly give in with a childish huff and stuff the can into one of the pockets of their shorts.
“Train won’t be here for a while,” they pause to take a bite of the bar and begin wandering over to the bench back across the station, “You might wanna take a nap while we wait but… then again, you have been sleeping for the past…… cod knows how long!”
She motions for him to sit down on the bench, patting the seat next to her.
As much as he despised the idea of it…. The thought of standing for any longer sounded like a far worse fate, so he obliges.
“I’ll catch you up on everything once we’re actually on the train, but, I realised you don’t even know my name. Guess it slipped my mind. Okoy Squill. You…… remember yours? Or nah?”
A tired look tells her everything she needs to know. Choosing to rest his clasped hands on his lap, he ignores the subconscious bouncing of his left leg and shifts his gaze away from the octoling.
Silence slowly drifts over the duo. She offers him a sip, to which he declines because in no world would he even consider sharing germs with a disgusting inkfish, or any cephalopod for that matter.
Irritatingly, all that could now be heard was a soft fizz and periodic slurps from his companion. No wonder humans complained so frequently about the sounds of digestion.
The Commander still stares at them from the edge of his vision. It hurt to look too far but he persists, finding their simple actions his only current means of entertainment. It wasn’t at all good entertainment, but humans had always favoured that in their choices of media.
He does not comment as they groan and rub their temple, mumbling to themself, “I swear….. one day these things are gonna kill me……….”