Chapter Text
Inklings, to Agent Eight of the New Squidbeak Splatoon, were very strange.
“You say that inklings participate in these events known as ‘Turf Wars.’ How large is their army, and how long are they trained for?”
Agent Three of the New Squidbeak Splatoon was much stranger than other inklings.
“Turf Wars are not actual wars, Eight,” he said flatly while focusing on the pasta he was preparing. “They are more like a sport than a war.”
“Inklings have wars for fun?” Eight asked in shock. “I could not imagine.”
Agent Three, Eight had noticed, did not mesh well with her perception of inklings. Since she first moved in with him, Eight had only ever caught him doing agent work or spending time with her. She did not necessarily mind Three being with her; he was tasked with making sure she understood the basics of inkling society, after all, but placing a definition on how society works became more difficult when Three stood as the polar opposite of the loudness and carelessness all other inklings embodied.
Eight had first noticed his strangeness back when they had first met in the Deep Sea Metro. As the only other inkfish there besides Cap’n Cuttlefish and herself, it was only natural that he looked out of place. She had attempted to speak with him, but she was met with radio silence every time. She did not know much about him until the elevator incident, which is when she learned that Agent Three was a monster of an opponent.
Eight watched Three stir the pot of noodles, her eyes focusing on the faint cyan scar around his right eye that served as a constant reminder of their experiences in the Deep Sea Metro and all of the questions that came with it. Three had made it as clear as day in the past that he did not wish to discuss it or anything affiliated with the Metro, and any of Eights attempts to glean as to why were shut down before they got anywhere. Granted, the Metro was a horrific place with more than a few skeletons in its closet, but all of it was over. She was on the surface, she was safe, and she was living with one of the few people she could truly call a friend, even if she did not quite understand the new world she was placed in.
“Agent Three, are you a talented Turf Wars soldier?” asked Eight.
Three looked at her momentarily before turning back to the food. “What makes you think that?”
“The food you make is very good, and this is also a nice residence. I was wondering if this has anything to do with your social status?” Eight explained.
Eight watched as Three turned around and placed a generous helping of food in front of her, thanking him as he did so. Three nodded wordlessly. He did not consider store-bought pasta with homemade marinara sauce worthy of much praise, but if Eight was willing to compliment him for boiling water, putting noodles in it, and then putting plants in another bowl, he may as well appreciate it.
“A mix of whatever happens to be in the kitchen and a one room apartment is definitely not ‘nice,’ Eight. This is pretty standard for most people.”
Three saw Eight’s eyes widen in surprise as she leaned closer to him as if she believed he was lying before grabbing a fork and taking a bite of the dish in front of her. Three decided to avoid commenting on it. If she thought that their living situation was military-grade, that left some room for concern. Three turned back to the kitchen and gave himself a much smaller helping of pasta before taking his seat at the table.
“If you are not a soldier, then which rank do you possess?” Eight asked before spinning her fork and taking another bite. She liked twirling the noodles around her fork. It was fun and it helped her get a lot of noodles on it.
“It’s not an actual war, Eight,” Three sighed. “I’m not that special, nor do I play that often to be considered good.”
Eight frowned. “What about being a part of the New Squidbeak Splatoon? Is that not special? No one else has that title.”
“Cuttlefish told me not to tell anyone that I’m part of it. Something about preventing a war between species,” Three countered passively before taking a small bite of pasta. Eight noticed how he did not spin his fork before taking a bite. She figured he did not like to eat as many noodles as possible.
Three continued, “We’re also not affiliated with Turf Wars as a whole, either, so anything we do doesn’t translate to them. What the agency does is very different from the sport.”
Eight pursed her lips. “That is unfortunate. You deserve to be recognized for your exceptional talent on the battlefield.”
Three shrugged as if dismissing her compliment before taking a few noodles into his mouth. Eight glanced at him before returning to her food for another twirl of pasta. As she was spinning her fork, an idea struck her.
“We should enlist into one of those fun wars tomorrow,” she suggested, “Your training as an agent should certainly make achieving victory much easier.
Three snapped to attention. It was a simple and harmless enough request for most inklings, some even built entire careers and livelihoods on Turf Wars, but Three was strange, and he was terrified of the implications. Turf Wars required ink, which required weapons, which are symbolic of fighting, and Eight, himself, and fighting was a combination he wished he never had to experience again.
“I don’t play for fun, nor do I care about being a showoff,” he decided to say, “They’re training for me at best.”
“Training is never a bad idea. Besides, I am intrigued to learn about a key part of inkling culture.”
Three did not respond.
“Please? I insist,” she asked.
Three breathed out in defeat. She got him.
“Alright, Eight,” he said, “If you’d like to play, we need to get something first.”
Eight nodded in victory as she ate the last of her pasta, placed her silverware horizontally parallel on her now finished plate, and thanked Three as he picked up her dish and put it in the sink.
“Should I come get you once you have finished cleaning?” she asked, not afraid to showcase the unbridled excitement in her voice.
“Sure,” Three replied while turning on the faucet, “I’ll see you in an hour or so.”
Octolings, to Agent Three of the New Squidbeak Splatoon, were confoundingly enigmatic.
“Agent Three, where are we going?”
Agent Eight of the New Squidbeak Splatoon, despite Three’s best efforts, was still the most enigmatic of all.
“Agent Three, why do you have so many shiny circles in your pocket?”
“Those are called coins. I’m buying a weapon from Sheldon with them. You’ll need one if you want to play in Turf Wars,” Three said.
Three found it difficult to exactly describe Eight. She was an octoling, the suction cups on the outside of her tentacles and her rounded ears were clear indicators, but she also was not an octoling at all. The octolings he had met previously were ruthless fighters clad in battle armor and metallic goggles, willing to give everything up to protect the Zapfish they had stolen. They were difficult to combat in the beginning, but Three had no problems taking them down once he realized they all fought the same. Three was glad that Eight was not like them both in terms of friendliness and saving him from the horrors of the Metro with her combat skills.
“Does the Octo Shot I have not suffice?” Eight asked.
“Your Octo Shot is a military-grade weapon, and is far more powerful than what is allowed in Turf Wars,” Three said. “If you had a replica of it made, then you could use it, but it would be easier and faster to buy something new.”
“I thought the trick to winning a battle was to stack the cards in your favor as far as possible?”
“During agent missions, yes, but Turf Wars are a sport,” Three said. “There are various restrictions placed on weapons so that no one weapon is better than others so that the playing field is fair for all players, regardless of weapon proficiency, and so that the winners are mostly decided by skill, not weapon selection.”
Three watched as the concept of weapon balance processed in Eight’s mind. According to her, she had been a member of the octarian military in the past, but the memories had become hazy after being sent to That Place. One of the most recent memories she had told him was the beginning of required training for weapons besides shooters for all octoling soldiers in an effort to diversify their army, or at least that is what the elite army members had said. A rumor spread that the true reason was due to the New Squidbeak Splatoon simply having much better technology in the shooter field, which was very much true, and the octarians desperately tried to find some way they could regain the upper hand, but unbeknownst to them, Sheldon had the same idea to diversify the Splatoon’s weaponry around the time they stole the Zapfish for the second time. The New Squidbeak Splatoon dealt with, according to Cap’n Cuttlefish, world ending threats, so it was necessary to take any and all advantages possible.
“Are we going to arrive soon?” Eight asked, “I would like to be able to maximize the time we have to prepare for our upcoming battle.”
Three shrugged, “We’ll be there soon enough, but we may not be able to leave for a while if Sheldon keeps talking.”
Ammo Knights, despite being the most famous weapon distributor in all of Inkopolis, was rarely crowded, but it never felt empty. The walls were busy with weapon models on display and advertisements for new brand associations. Toni Kensa was by far the most popular and recent sponsor, with them manufacturing a whole lineup of weapons for the store to sell. That was the second busiest Three had ever seen the store, topped only by its opening day.
“Hello and welcome to Ammo Knights! How may I help you?” called a voice from the store counter.
Sheldon, although not officially affiliated with the New Squidbeak Splatoon, was essentially a part of the team.
“Oh! Look who it is! It’s so nice to see you again, Three, and it’s certainly a surprise to see you, too, Eight!”
Three did not remember the last conversation he had with Sheldon, despite how often they saw each other. He was present at almost every one of the Splatoon’s meetings, with the rare exception being when the meeting lined up with the release of a new weapon, where Sheldon had to be there to attempt to satisfy the sudden surplus of customers. Three had heard that he was allegedly asked to be a member, but he had declined and said something about the technology team keeping their distance from the troops on the front line. Three agreed with him.
“What brings you here? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you two,” Sheldon asked.
“Agent Three has informed me about ‘Turf Wars,’ and that you are the local arms dealer,” Eight stated as if she had rehearsed the line.
“Arms dealer?” Sheldon laughed, “That’s one way to put it, I suppose, but I like to think of myself as ‘arsenal ambassador.’ Please wait here while I get some selections.”
Eight turned to Three with a puzzled expression.
“Are they not the same?”
Three shrugged in response while he watched Sheldon scurry to the back storage closet. He would have loved to tell Eight more, but he was positive he would never learn what went on in Sheldon’s brain, nor was he sure he wanted to.
Eight had almost drowned out the chaotic clattering ringing from the closet before Sheldon returned and placed the catalog on the desk, although to her, it was more similar to an advertisement. A rainbow of colors adorned the various pages and several discount stickers with bold numbers and distracting arrows had been stuck to it, ripped off, and then stuck on it again. Eight figured that inklings adored bright colors.
“Usually, customers aren’t allowed to buy anything past the first few pages until they increase their overall freshness, but I’m hoping to have a workaround for that sooner or later,” Sheldon said, “Anyway, my point is that you definitely know a thing or two more about weapons than the average first-timer due to ‘certain experiences,’ so I’ll let you buy whatever you want.”
Eight saw Three’s brow furrow at the mention of “certain experiences,” but she knew better than to push the subject, especially in front of others. She began to browse through the catalog, carefully turning each page with a look of wonder plastered on her face. She read through the booklet at a steady pace until one page caught her eye.
“Sheldon, which weapon is this?”
Sheldon’s eyes lit up at the request for his endless knowledge, “That is the Kensa Sloshing Machine! This unique weapon in the Slosher class allows the user to fling twisting corkscrews of ink at their enemies, even if they are hiding behind walls! The Fizzy Bomb sub weapon allows for explosive combos with the main attacks, while the Splashdown special lets the user rise into the air and slam downwards with a huge blast of ink, splatting all nearby opponents! Of course, this set is also great for-”
Three shot Sheldon a tired glare.
“Sorry,” he replied, sheepishly scratching his arm, “Force of habit.”
Eight was silent for a moment as she soaked in the wonder of Sheldon’s words.
“Inklings are quite peculiar with their weapon choices. The octarian army would never have considered household appliances for military use,” she muttered to herself before swiveling to face Three, “May I acquire this weapon?”
“Is that the weapon you want?” he asked.
“Yes,” she nodded.
“Then you can have it,” Three stated.
Sheldon clapped his hands together. “Excellent choice! Please wait for a moment while I go grab your purchase!” he said, walking to the back room once more.
Three nodded before reaching a hand into his pocket and sifting through it.
“Agent Three, what are you doing?” Eight asked.
“I’m getting money so I can pay Sheldon for the weapon,” he replied.
The door to the back room opened to reveal one Kensa Sloshing Machine in the hands of one surprised expression.
“Oh, no need for that, Three,” Sheldon called as he reappeared, “As this is Eight’s first weapon, and because we are closely affiliated, you don’t need to worry about that. Consider this one on the house.”
“Sheldon, that’s not fair. Let me–” Three began, shoving his hand further into his pocket.
“Please, I insist,” Sheldon countered.
Three stopped and pulled his hand out of his pocket. “Alright,” he said in defeat, “Thank you, Sheldon.”
He walked out of the store with Eight close behind. Sheldon waved at the pair as they left.
“What does he mean by ‘on the house?’ Are you going to place your money coins on the roof of his residence?”
Three looked at her and shook his head, accepting that he would likely never know what goes on in hers.
Deca Tower was one of the most confusing places Eight had ever been to. The building itself was enormous, with a massive screen displaying everything from news updates to weapon advertisements to the current battle rotation while various billboards and light fixtures were stacked along its sides as if to test how many things inklings could put on it before the construction team got bored.
The inside of the building was no less chaotic. An endless sea of colors from various inkling heads carpeted the entire floor, with some growing impatient in queue lines for matches or trying to view the results of previous battles and either cheering or groaning in response. If Eight had to describe both the interior and exterior of Deca Tower in one word, she would say it was loud.
“Follow me,” Three said, waiting for Eight to nod in confirmation. She did.
Three began moving in an almost predetermined path and Eight followed as he weaved through the crowd like a thread, seemingly knowing exactly where he was going. Eight, meanwhile, struggled to both absorb her surroundings in awe and follow Three through the labyrinth of inklings and glowing screens. As she trailed behind Three, and occasionally apologized to any unfortunate people she had collided with, she became increasingly transfixed on Three’s pathing. He had made it unmistakably clear that he rarely fought in Turf Wars, if ever, yet he was navigating through the building as if he were a regular. Eight doubted that Three had memorized the layout of Deca Tower, or that inklings were born with an innate ability to navigate through the building, yet Three marched on, unwavering from his internal compass. Three was much more strange than she had realized, she supposed.
“We’re here,” Three said, snapping Eight out of her musings.
“That was quite impressive,” she commented, looking back at the crowd they had gone through. Three followed her gaze and shrugged when she turned back around.
Three blinked once, unaware of what she was referring to before turning his attention to the entrance to the battle.
“Are you sure that you’d like to play?” he asked.
Three had asked more for himself.
“Of course,” Eight responded.
Eight had answered for both of them.
Three paused for a moment before replying: “If you say so,” and handed Eight a silver wristband that had a small screen on it.
“This is your communicator,” he explained. “You can talk to your teammates with it and also send out either distress or approval signals. In addition, it also functions as a portable map of the stage.”
Eight nodded in understanding and secured the device to her left wrist.
“I’m ready,” she said, adrenaline already pumping through her system.
Three gestured to the doors leading them to the battle stage.
“Let’s get this over with, then,” he said, Eight trailing behind him as he entered the doors that would seal his fate.
“So, in order to achieve victory, we must cover more of the ground with our ink within three minutes?” Eight asked, staring ahead at the expanse that was Arowana Mall.
“Pretty much,” Three said while lifting his Dynamo Roller in his hands, seemingly getting reacquainted with its weight. Eight thought she remembered seeing the weapon in the back half of the catalog and text that read something about a “high freshness requirement,” and “vulnerable to being rushed down,” but the memory was blurry at best.
Eight looked at the two other inklings on her team. The boy had a flat bowl cut that threatened to obscure his eyes and wore a black face mask to match the Kensa .52 Gal he was carrying. The girl had chin-length hair and was absentmindedly twirling the barrel of her Mini Splatling, waiting for the match to begin.
The platform beneath them began to glow and the boy with the mask spoke gruffly: “Are you all ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be!” the girl chimed.
Three tapped his fingers along the handle of his roller soundlessly, staring straight ahead at the map before him as if he were a statue. Eight pursed her lips.
“I will watch your six,” she affirmed. Three jolted a bit before turning to face her.
“It’s just a sport, Eight, no need to sound so militant,” he replied.
“I will protect you,” she countered.
The boy with the mask groaned. The girl with short hair giggled. Three was momentarily stunned.
“If you insist,” he said before glancing away.
A whistle blew without warning and Eight watched as her teammates sprang off of the platform and onto the floor. The Mini Splatling user dashed towards the left side of the map while the .52 Gal wielder dropped down into the large pit in front of them and began painting that area. Three had decided to move towards the alleyway on the right of the map, and Eight followed suit shortly after.
Eight decided to survey the area for potential threats before dropping down into the center of the stage. She carefully stuck her head out behind the cover of a brick wall and was promptly ambushed by an opponent. An inkling wielding an Octobrush had climbed up the wall to their perch and flailed their weapon around wildly with a battle cry, but Eight was out of range of their attack. Realizing they had made a mistake, the aggressor morphed into their squid form and attempted to retreat, but was promptly splatted by her attacks moments later.
“Are all soldiers this reckless?” asked Eight. Surely, any soldier worth their salt would think twice, let alone think at all, about charging straight into enemy lines without first surveying the area for potential threats.
“Not all of them,” Three replied, walking up behind Eight and placing an Ink Mine at their feet, “But most of them are.”
Eight exhaled with mirth at his comment and decided to take advantage of her recent splat by moving further ahead and dropping down into the center of the map, painting the floor her team’s color while also keeping an eye out for more ambushes. Once the area was covered, she hid in her octopus form to keep herself out of the opponent’s sights. A good defensive hold was essential to succeeding in battle, after all.
The boy with the .52 Gal did not seem to care as he almost blindly moved over the ledge and into the enemy’s territory. Eight threw a bomb to assist him before ducking back into the ink, knowing that following him would be a death sentence. A few moments passed.
“Ouch…” rang a distress signal from ahead of her. She peeked over the wall to notice a half-destroyed Splash Wall and a .52 Gal on the floor surrounded by a puddle of enemy ink. Eight looked at Three, who only shrugged in response, and curved a few shots over the wall to check for any opponents. Her attention was quickly diverted when the whistle of Tenta Missiles sounded overhead.
“One in the left alleyway, two coming up to you!” called the voice Mini Splatling user through the communicator as the missiles flew to their target’s locations. Three dropped down into the middle of the map alongside her and began flinging globs of towards the enemy base.
“I’ll be fine on my own,” he said as he readied another fling. Eight nodded, moving left to approach the alleyway.
Eight was about to round the corner of the alleyway when a deafening boom rumbled and a streak of enemy ink darted past her, prompting her to move back behind the wall and seek cover immediately. She recognized the sound as one from the charger class of weapons, and her suspicions were confirmed when a bright laser appeared in front of her. Chargers were suited for a backline role and were especially vulnerable to being rushed down, but Eight did not want to risk the chance of the opponent hitting their shot and splatting her in one hit, which would only be more likely due to the thinness of the alleyway.
She reached behind her back, using a large sum of ink to materialize a Fizzy Bomb and began shaking the can of ink. The bomb bulged as the carbonated ink inside became more agitated, and she quickly threw it towards the laser’s origin once it had reached its maximum power. The bomb detonated three times in quick succession, and Eight used the ink released from each blast to disguise her approach. The charger shot blindly into the explosions and missed Eight as she took the downtime to begin hurling ink at the opponent, eventually splatting them and watching their body transform into a blast of her ink and their spirit float upwards towards the respawn platform.
“Enemy in the left alleyway neutralized, pushing up,” she called as she moved further into the enemy’s base, painting as much of the map as possible while watching for more attackers. After she finished painting, Eight’s hair began to bubble and glow, indicating that her special weapon, the Splashdown, was fully charged.
“Splash-o-matic approaching courtyard. You know what to do,” spat the .52 Gal boy from her wristband.
“Copy that,” Eight said, before moving in to secure her target.
Three was not exactly sure what to think of Eight, but one thing that he could say was that she was a natural. She had never participated in a Turf War before, and he could safely assume she had never used a slosher weapon for very long, yet she was managing to hold her own with players who knew much more about fighting than the average Octotrooper.
Three glanced at the .52 Gal wielder, who had been making it very clear that he was in the middle of the map and did not care if the opponents were aware of his presence, either. On second thought, maybe only some of the players were more skilled than Octotroopers.
He was snapped out of his musing by the unmistakable noise of an inkling being splat, and he quickly realized that the .52 Gal boy had erupted into a pool of enemy ink. His hands gripped the handle of his Dynamo Roller tighter as he darted his eyes around in an effort to spot who the aggressor was.
Nothing came, yet Three remained on edge, and after a few moments of inactivity, he decided to check for attackers by flinging a wall of ink over the ledge.
The ink carpeted the sky before falling over the hill, revealing a vial of Toxic Mist traveling straight for him. The vial collided with the floor, spreading a poisonous gas around him. Three dropped his roller as the poison sucked the ink out of him and sapped his strength, unable to move as he covered his mouth in a coughing fit.
He pressed his distress signal with the little energy he could muster as two opponents, one with a Splash–o-matic and the other with an Octobrush, appeared over the ledge and began approaching him. Three reached behind himself in hopes of being able to place down an Ink Mine to halt their advance, but the mist had already siphoned his ink supply below the required amount. The opponents smirked as they continued approaching their target unimpeded.
Three’s wristband was like a beacon as it flared to life, forcing Three to avert his afflicted eyes from the screen as it emitted a constant pinging noise. Someone had decided that now was the perfect time to Super Jump to his location, unaware that Three would be unable to protect them, let alone himself. He could have sworn that the opponent’s smile only grew upon noticing the circle and bobbing arrow directly on top of Three’s helpless form.
Three had already accepted defeat when friendly-colored rings started to emanate from the Super Jump marker, causing the attacker’s eyes to widen. Suddenly, he was blinded by a torrent of ink that drowned out the startled yelps from his attackers as they were splatted on the spot, and had the wind knocked out of him by what felt like a stack of bricks collapsing on his chest. As the carnage settled as Three returned to his senses, now no longer under the toxic effect of the mist, he found himself unable to move as the weight of an inkfish with outward-facing suction cups and rounded ears pinned him to the ground.
“What was that about being fine on your own?” Eight teased.
Three opened his mouth, yet nothing came out. He quickly glanced around, being able to notice a large circle of friendly ink surrounding him, an Octobrush and a Splash-o-matic lying discarded on the ground, and his own roller to his left, but no matter how hard he tried, his vision always returned to Eight’s coy expression as she stared at his own face, which was most likely swirling with several more hues than just his current ink color despite his best efforts to shove it all down. Further scanning of his surroundings showed Three than the boy with the .52 Gal rolled his eyes at the ordeal and simply began firing his weapon again, while the girl with the Mini Splatling had an ear-wide grin plastered on her face and made a heart shape with her hands. Three decided to ignore the symbol before his face betrayed his actions.
“Get up, you two. There’s still a few seconds left,” growled the .52 Gal boy from their communicators.
Eight rolled off of Three, standing up and offering him her arm to grab on to as Three also stood up from his prone position and grabbed his roller. Eight moved towards the enemy base to cover more Turf while Three stayed where he was, both processing what had just happened and taking every precaution to ensure that no enemies got to him until the whistle blew and signaled the end of the match.
“That was exhilarating! I can understand why so many inklings enjoy sparring like this,” Eight nearly exclaimed.
“I’m glad you liked it,” Three said quickly.
Eight simply nodded in response and let the cacophony of Deca Tower act as the company of silence. She noticed how Three had slung his Dynamo Roller over his shoulder and had tried to avoid prolonged eye contact since the match ended as they walked to a large screen near where they had entered the match. The screen flashed to life with a blinding light and displayed the results of their previous match. Their team had won by a staggering amount, as they were able to claim more than two thirds of the total turf available. She reviewed the scoreboard closely and noticed how Three had scored the highest overall stage coverage out of anyone on her team or the opponents.
“You performed very well,” Eight remarked, attempting to start a conversation.
Three shrugged and remained silent. Eight did not know how to progress, so she let their conversation fizzle out into the rest of Deca Tower’s noise.
The two of them wordlessly left the building after claiming their rewards of experience points and cash, Three still refusing to look at Eight for more than a few moments. Worry began to build up inside of her, and its effects only grew until they reached the door to Three’s apartment.
Three fumbled with the key until the door unlocked with a click, and he held it open for Eight before entering himself. He turned and shut the door behind him before noticing that Eight had not moved away from the door.
“Agent Three, I truly apologize if my actions during combat have upset you,” she said. Her eyes were shrouded in many emotions: fear, worry, concern, but the most prominent one to Three was the guilt that covered her like a film.
Three deliberated what to say, daring not to move as Eight continued staring at him.
“You did nothing wrong,” he said, but Eight’s expression did not change. Three sighed, tapped his fingers along his arm, and glanced away from Eight.
Eight had never seen Three do many things, and she had certainly never seen him this uneasy before. Three had always had a stoic disposition since he had met him, and while he certainly was more talkative now compared to when she had first met him, he always maintained a neutral expression and attempted to stay as collected as possible. While other inklings let themselves ride along the waves of life, Three was strange in the regard that he made an effort to search for calmer waters to paddle through. It seemed like even the calmest of rivers could get choppy on occasion, though.
“Your actions did not upset me at all,” Three began, tapping his fingers more rapidly. “I was just overwhelmed at the time. If I’m completely honest, that was one of the first times in a while when I truly felt like I was enjoying myself.”
Eight watched in awe as a sheepish smile grew on Three’s mouth and resisted the urge to giggle as he fully turned his head away from her. She felt like she was in a dream. This was the most expressive she had seen Three since the day they met, and a small part of her was afraid that this moment would end if she moved.
Three took an anxious glance at Eight and slowly turned himself to face her upon realizing the pure joy she was experiencing and the soft smile that graced her lips. Eight was an enigma to him. He could not understand how someone who had been through as much as she had could be this friendly, sweet, and as he had recently discovered, playful, to someone like him. The Deep Sea Metro had changed both of them forever, and Three had already accepted that he was not deserving of forgiveness after what had happened between the two of them, but this was the closest he had gotten to believing that there was a chance for him to wash away his sins.
Eight yawned and glanced at the clock.
“I believe that it is becoming rather late,” she said, gesturing to the time. Three looked at the clock as well, noting both what it read and how dark it had become outside.
“Today was a long day. I think it’d be a good idea to call it a night.”
Eight nodded in agreement and headed towards her room, but paused halfway along the trip.
“Agent Three, may we fight in another Turf War again?”
Three couldn’t help but smirk, “Sure, Eight.”
Eight’s eyes lit up once more as she bolted for Three’s current position, causing him to flinch in surprise. She took this opportunity to wrap her arms around Three, embracing him in a tight hug. She kept him in her arms for a few moments before freeing Three from her grasp.
“Good night, Agent Three,” she said, turning towards her room as if nothing had happened.
“G–good night, Eight,” Three responded in stunned stillness, failing to process what had just happened as he watched her walk away and a smile forced its way onto his face. Three blinked slowly as he regained control over his own body, and also began to prepare for sleep, overjoyed with the newfound knowledge that maybe, just maybe, there was hope for him after all.