Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Gramps called a week back to yap about the newest recruit, she didn’t expect this. 

Callie gnaws at her lip as she stares at the monitor. The cameras ringing the Sectors are mostly poor quality from exposure, but she knows a kid when she sees one. And it definitely is a kid, all dough-soft features and awkward limbs. Hell, he looks like he only learned to shift a week before he was dropped in the middle of a warzone.

“Is he lost?” 

“I think that’s our new agent,” Marie says, dry as sand, tapping at the keyboard to switch to another angle. 

The picture is too grainy to get a good look at his face beyond the shock of electric-green tentacles piled on top of his head. He fumbles at his headset but gets no response. Gramps’ frequency went cold hours ago. She’d know, because they spent most of that time trying to reach him.

“That’s a kid, though.”

“I noticed.”

“But-” she leans in to the screen, close enough she swears she can make out the individual pixels. “I sorta expected something more…” 

“More?” Marie supplies. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised Gramps didn’t mention it.”

She shouldn’t be. Gramps has a funny little habit of omitting detail and she still has no idea whether it’s purposeful or his idea of a surprise. She likes surprises, normally, but not like this; not this strange, lost child, slipping through a grate and landing unsteady on his feet, rolling his ankle at the shock. He’s close enough to a camera that she can see his eyes, bright and pink like the sun approaching the horizon. 

“Geez, I didn’t think I’d be on eggsitting duty,” she groans, chair squealing as she leans back. “Gramps can’t be serious about this. He doesn’t even look like he could find his way around a Junior.” 

“He’s also good enough to make it through Sectors one-through-three within a couple weeks, has only been splatted once, and took down three Octoweapons without needing to call in for backup.”

Her lip gloss settles on her tongue; gooey and candy-sweet. Picking at her lips really is a bad habit of hers, but now isn’t the time to consider stopping. “I’m seriously gonna splat Gramps for this when he gets back.” 

When, and not if. She’s grateful that Marie doesn’t acknowledge the slip in her wording. There’s no reason to, not anymore. Gramps goes missing so consistently they might as well make it a holiday. They were terrified the first time, the second, but routine is just something repeated enough times that its absence becomes strange. Every time he goes missing someone is there to pull him back, either her or Marie. 

Or now Agent Three, staring out into the empty spaces of the Valley, the muggy early-June wind sweeping his tentacles to the side.

But Marie is cool as ever and Caliie knows her better than she knows herself, good enough to know that it’s not her putting on a brave face. She really does admire how effortless she is, from the calm drone of her voice to the manicured edges of her cuticles. Callie still gnaws her lip when she’s worried, bounces her leg and makes the whole table shake. 

“We should say hi.” 

She really should swap to another lip gloss. Lime, maybe? It’s a summer flavour. “You wanna do the honours?”  

“I’ll let you do it, Agent One,” she says with a wry smile. “We can’t let ourselves get out of order.” 

So she reaches for the walkie-talkie lying next to the monitor, taking one last breath before pressing the button and saying-

They find him perched on the front steps of the cabin, elbows propped on his knees, working a piece of gum between his teeth. The way he sits so close to the edge of the wood reminds her acutely of a bird on a wire about to take flight. 

She thought she was over the initial shock of how young he was, had been since he managed to save a city single-handedly, but gods if seeing him in person for the first time doesn’t feel like a fresh slap across the cheek. He’s smaller than the cameras had made him seem, and his armour hangs off him less like hand-me-downs and more like a bag caught on a branch. 

You should be in school, is her first thought, then, do your parents know about this? 

“Hey!” she says with a little wave, properly warding off all shock. “Three, right? Nice to meet you! I’m Agent One.” 

“I’m Two.” Marie flashes a peace sign. “Hey.” 

His eyes rake over her face, then Marie’s, violent-pink and dissecting. “I already know who you are.” 

Callie blinks. It’s not the voice she expected, instead gently-pitched and slightly sweet. Now that his face isn’t obscured through the grain of the cameras she can see the soft edges, the way his mask tapers to gentle points over his cheeks. 

She’s starting to think Gramps omitted a bit more than his- her? age. 

“Uh, yeah. We just introduced ourselves,” Marie says, effortlessly smoothing over Callie’s silence. 

Three chews, purses his lips, then pops a bubble, all the while holding Callie’s stare with an even sort of defiance. “C’mon, quit lying. I’m awful lucky meeting a couple of celebs.”

Her eyes flick over to Marie, but all she gets in return is her classic what’s your problem? look and a shrug. Typical.

Three smiles. Callie thinks of the knives they keep locked behind cases in kitchen stores, so sharp they need to be handled with special gloves. “Say, can I get an autograph or something? They sell well.” 

Marie arches an eyebrow. “We’re not on the clock, kid.” 

“What kinda celeb refuses a fan?” 

“A fan that’s clearly trying to profit off us?”

“We got burgers!” Callie interrupts, too quickly, holding up a paper bag like she’s warding off a monster. Customary Fresh n’ Chips stop on Gramps’ orders. Usually they get three meals, but she supposes they’ll have to make getting four their new norm. “We don’t know what you like yet, so we just got you their Squiddy Meal. Hope you don’t mind. I can autograph the bun in ketchup if you want.” 

She withdraws a box, shoving it at him. He eyes the offering with trepidation before snatching it away, like she was threatening to retract it if he took too long. “Gee, thanks. Bet no one’s ever been given a burger by the Squid Sisters before.” 

Is that sarcasm? Are kids his age smart enough to be sarcastic? He looks like he’s fourteen, and that’s her being generous. 

Marie slaps Callie’s hand aside to rummage through the bag, withdrawing a handful of loose fries. “Yeah, well, get used to it. Luxury dinners, courtesy of the NSS.”

He makes a face when he peels open the top bun, small nose wrinkling as he pinches the pickled onion between forefinger and thumb and tosses it to the ground. He’s a picky eater, then. Noted. 

“Where is Gramps, anyway? Usually he’s all over us when we have food.”

Three spits his gum into his hand and pastes it to the underside of the porch before taking a bite. “Inside.”

“Doing what?” The look on Marie’s face suggests barely-concealed disgust. He’s a charmer, Three is. 

“Dunno,” he shrugs, swallowing. “Stuff.” 

“And you’re not helping?” 

“Gotta keep an eye on the deej.” He motions with his foot towards the snowglobe, smirking as the DJ cracks open an eye to glower. “Cap’s orders.”

The cabin door slides open the moment she opens her mouth. Gramps sticks his head out, eyes raking over the premises before landing on her and Marie. More specifically, the burgers. 

“There you are! I started thinkin’ you took a detour.”

“Hey Gramps!” She smiles, holding up the bag. “We brought lunch. One Crabby Cake Deluxe, just like you asked!” 

He hobbles over, snatching the bag from her grip and casting a scrutinizing eye over the contents. “You got the double?” 

“Double patties, toasted bun, extra aioli, crispy onions, hold the pickles,” Marie recites. “And waffle fries.” 

Marie has his order down to a science. It’s practically obligatory considering how picky he gets about it. Gramps shakes the bag and pops out a fry before looking over his shoulder. “Did the girls feed you too, sonny?” 

Three stiffens automatically at his mention. Callie can’t even tell that he’s breathing with how still he’s gotten, like he’d been caught with his hand in someone else’s pocket. He raises his burger, face neutral and cloistered behind his bangs, mantle pulsing the same slate-grey as the sky. Gramps just nods. 

“This is the first time you two are proper meetin’ the new recruit, eh?” 

“Yep!” Callie chirps. “Three’s gonna fit in great.” 

“Fit in, huh?” Marie mutters. “Sure. I guess we’re just saying things today.” 

Gramps puts out a hand to ruffle Three’s tentacles but he flinches away, eyes wide and wild. To his credit, Gramps just chuckles. “Good reflexes there. Y’see? He’s a sharp kid, even if he’s a bit odd. Doesn’t talk much. Or at all.”

Typical Gramps and his vast understatements. Callie has only properly known Three for about ten minutes and she already has so many questions she feels like a pot spilling over, parboiled. For one, why he was perfectly chatty with her and Marie only to clam up the moment Gramps came within five feet of him. 

(Two: How old are you? Why are you here? How are you here? Do your parents know about this? Do you want them to?) 

But Three looks like he’s suddenly on the verge of keeling over, and even if trying to read him is like eel-catching with bare hands Callie knows a cry for help when she sees one. “So! Should we go in to eat?” 

Gramps nods, tossing another fry into his mouth. “Good idea. Three! Go inside and get us set up, will ya?”

Geez, the poor kid nearly drops his burger. Callie winces as Gramps gives him a pat on the back that he doesn’t manage to dodge, sending him stumbling for the cabin’s door before he follows in tow. 

Then she exhales, feeling too much like a half-deflated balloon. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath in tandem with Three until they both left. She loves Gramps, really, but he’s always been a bit on the intense side, and occasionally more like a concentrated hurricane than a man over a century old. 

“I think Three’s a girl,” Marie says. 

Then she’s holding her breath again. Gramps and his surprises. Marie and her habit of picking up on Callie’s thoughts like they’re broadcasted on a teleprompter. 

“You think?”

“Gramps didn’t make any fuss about her being a kid. I wouldn’t put it past him to pull something like this as well.” 

She considers two boxes; one for Three is just a dramatically prepubescent teenage boy and we’re both being as bad as Gramps right now, and the other for Three really is a girl and Gramps just saw her hairstyle and made assumptions because he still doesn’t realize girls can keep their tentacles short nowadays. 

“And Three doesn’t correct him because-” 

“He’s weirdly shy around him?” Callie says, then pauses. “Or she, or… it.”

Marie gives her a look. “It?” 

“Hey, I’m just spitballing!” She raises her arms in surrender, only to get an eye-roll in return. “I dunno what else to say!” 

“Definitely not that.” 

“Do you think it’d be weird to ask?” 

“Probably,” Marie snorts. “Not like that’d stop you.” 

Callie scowls. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Girls!” Gramps sticks his head back out the door, glaring. “You better get your butts in here before the crabby cakes get cold!” 

And that settles the argument for them. 

It’s hot, unseasonably muggy for late August, and it doesn’t help that she has to keep up a disguise whenever she goes out in public. She’s gotten better at slipping under the radar the last few years; has to, if she ever wants to get groceries or grab a coffee without getting mauled by fans, but that doesn’t mean she has to enjoy it. 

Marie put it like this, once; people recognize others through shapes, and when you learn yourself you can learn how to obscure it. Callie is a bow and long tentacles, big eyes and heels, so if she stuffs her tentacles under a cap and exchanges the star-crossed contacts in favour of the type of shades Gramps wears when he’s driving in the summer, she’s suddenly a little less recognizable. 

But it doesn’t change that she’s sweltering. Mahi has sprinklers that spray a fine mist over the spectator’s seats every five minutes, but the difference is negligible. Marie has a spray bottle that doubles as a plastic fan, but it stopped working properly almost immediately after she bought it. It helps that she’s not the only one suffering. 

“You know Ancho-V is open too, right?” 

Callie wrinkles her nose. “Who’d wanna go to a smelly old arcade when you could come here? The resort’s shutting down for the season anyway. This could be our last chance until March.” 

“An air-conditioned arcade,” Marie mutters, spraying herself in the face. 

“An arcade full of blobs and teens that haven’t discovered deodorant yet.” 

“Right, because this is better.” She looks around at the other spectators, a dozen or so rich-looking squids sipping cocktails and looking at the stage with no small degree of boredom. “We’re not even allowed to dip our feet in the pool.” 

She’s beginning to suspect the majority of the crowd is just made up of resort attendees looking for something to do. The matches are technically open for anyone to watch, but tickets are at borderline extortion prices. She had to remind herself that she can afford stuff like this now, frivolous things like a glittery pair of earrings she saw in a shop window, or a cute little dress she only pulls from the closet on holidays. 

Or tickets to watch a bunch of teenagers slip in ink and fall in a pool. “Gramps said that Three was playing Ranked this afternoon, so I thought we could make a day out of it! Y’know, do something fun for once?” 

“Fun,” Marie repeats, staring into the middle distance. “Uh-huh. Fun.” 

“And we need to be able to gauge Three’s progress even when sh- they’re not on the field.” She nudges Marie with an elbow. “See? That’s your job, Miss Workaholic.”

Marie hums and nods, feigning consideration, then turns the bottle around and sprays her square in the face.

Callie is blowing water out of her nose when the bells chime, signalling the start of the match. The screen overhead displays the map and players and it’s only then that it occurs to her that she doesn’t actually know Three’s name. 

She squints. “Do you think they’re YourMom ?”  

“If they are then I’m shoving them in a locker,” Marie mutters. 

The teams spawn in; blush-pink versus lime-green. Three emerges from the left, pale magenta tentacles tied back and pulled through a Takaroka cap. Callie nearly falls out of her seat when she sees that they’re carrying an E-Liter. It’s enough of a gamble bringing a regular Charger into B+, let alone that. 

“I thought they stuck to Shooters?”

“Three’s good with just about anything, but given the choice they’ll pick Shooters or Chargers,” Marie says, a smug little tilt to her lips. “Gramps and I have been taking turns helping their aim.” 

“Yeah, but can they even hold it upright?” 

She shrugs. “It’s Tower. If anything, they’ll at least be able to keep the platform clear.” 

They seem to handle it confidently enough, but hell if the damn thing isn’t nearly as long as they are tall. As if she didn’t need any more brutal reminders that Gramps had just roped in some kid into a private war against the ghosts of the past. Some kid that saved the city, growing calluses on the soft bits of their hands from how frequently they clutch a weapon. 

Was that what Marie looked like to Gramps on her first mission? They were around the same age according to the fuzzy grain of her memory, if not a little younger. She smuggled a bottle of peach soda in the pocket of her hoodie but the plastic has grown slick with condensation. She cracks it open using her sleeve and takes a sip; the taste is cloying, mingling unpleasantly with the sharp citrus tang of the lip gloss she scraped from her teeth. 

“Their positioning is alright,” Marie says. She’s fixated on the match easily enough. Not like Callie, always too much in her own head. “They’re even peeking from the right side of their cover instead of the left. I practically had to smack them to get them to stop.” 

She scans the stage, tracing the path of the laser. Callie knows enough about Chargers to tell that they’re keeping their distance well enough, even if they linger out of cover a little too long to be safe.

And they are good for their age, especially when everyone else in B has only just learned how to toss a bomb and not have it land in the water. Not nearly as good as Marie or Gramps, and she bets the match would already be over if they were using a Shot, but good enough that Marie seems pacified. 

Three releases the trigger and the crack of the shot echoes over the waves of the pool, but the strip of paint misses their target by a handful of inches. The enemy team’s Carbon retaliates with an Inkzooka in quick succession. She swears she can see Three’s eyes bug out seconds before the shot finds its mark. 

Marie sniffs, but says nothing. 

“I think that’s them.” She nudges Marie with an elbow, pointing at the screen. The only blacked-out name on the pink team is jude: just the one name, all lowercase. 

“Jude?” She looks up, squinting under the rim of her cap. “Weird name for a girl.” 

“It makes them sound like a grandma,” Callie snickers. Marie rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her lips. 

They’re down to the last few minutes of the match but Three’s team has barely pushed the Tower past sixty. They don’t quite seem to realise that they should be the one hopping on the tower, instead opting to hide while their teammates jump on and off when they feel like it. Their positioning is decent, if a little too aggressive. 

It probably is mostly Marie’s influence, even if she’d never give her the satisfaction of admitting it. Gramps was more of a shoot-first-ask-later guy. 

Then Three peeks out from behind a balloon and flicks their Liter to the left in a blink as they release the trigger, sniping the enemy Sploosh mid-air. Callie lets out a booyah! and claps. Even Marie nods in approval. It earns a few dirty looks from the rest of the crowd but she barely cares. Sue her! The kid should know when they’ve done something well. 

Three looks over their shoulder, eyes settling on her spot in the crowd. She waves with both arms before Marie pushes her down. She swears they smirk. 

“Aw, shoot,” she hisses. The distraction was just enough to let the Carbon slip onto the platform Three was using as a snipe, sinking into a blotch of green paint. “Yeah, that’s my fault.”

Marie shrugs. “It’ll be a lesson.” 

The Carbon barely has their roller held overhead before Three jolts and, in one fluid movement, swings their Liter and clocks the poor sucker right in the jaw.

The kid splats and geez, just how hard did Three swing? A ripple of shock passes through the crowd and a horn sounds in quick succession. The game stops in its tracks, fingers hovering over triggers, brushes stopped mid-flick. 

“Ugh, here we go,” Callie groans, flopping down in her seat. “You didn’t teach them that move too, did you?” 

Marie just smirks. “Reflexes.” 

She feels bad for the kid that got smacked, really, but gods if the whole rigarimole of penalties and disqualifications and all that crap isn’t boring. She sinks down in her seat as the match supervisors head onto the stage, taking a swig of her soda. They don’t get Judd in for Ranked, but she’s sure Three is going to get mauled by the cat next time they step into the Lobby. 

They don’t look too ashamed, mostly indignant at the punishment. The supervisors give them a decent tongue-lashing before shooing them back to spawn and they march up the ramp, a dark little look hidden beneath their bangs. The Carbon respawned fine, even if they’re rubbing their jaw and wincing. Non-ink injuries tend to stick even after a respawn. At least they’ll have a story to tell. 

The match is over quick after that. 

Predictably, Three doesn’t show back up in the rotation. Her and Marie opt to sit in on a few more matches just to get their money’s worth, but even she has to admit that it gets boring fast when there’s no one she’s actively rooting for. Midday on a weekend means the players usually tend to bump around the C- to A range, and watching kids slip and fall into the pool is only funny the first four or five times. 

So they leave, only to nearly trip over Three when they get out of the resort’s gates. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be back in the Lobby?” Marie says, the gap between her hat and mask sporting a glare that would make anyone else keel over flat. 

But Three just shrugs. They’re crouched in the shade of a palm tree, nearly teetering into the road. “I skipped. Didn’t wanna hear the coordinators tell me how I fucked up.” 

Strong language for someone their age. If Gramps heard that he’d probably make them hold a bar of soap in their mouth. Marie’s eyes rake over them, scrutinising. “Where’s your Liter?” 

“Rental.” Three holds her gaze easily, steel on steel. “They took it after the game, then I gave ‘em the slip.” 

Callie snorts, then invites herself to crouch down beside them. Their loitering is earning a decent amount of scrutiny from both security and pedestrians alike, but she shrugs it off. “Hey, look, aside from the whole assault thing I think you did pretty good!” 

They twist to look at her. Genuine surprise is a rare look on them, but not unwelcome. “Really?” 

“Yep,” she says, popping the p. “Even Marie thought so.”

“Don’t tell Three that. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.” 

“Wow, thanks,” Three grins, revealing the sharp edges of their teeth. “I thought you’d never say it.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m the nice one.” 

By habit she tries planting a hand on Three’s head to give their tentacles a ruffle. They jolt before it even makes contact, easy as smoke, avoiding her like the contact physically pained them. 

Marie arches an eyebrow. “You’re awfully jumpy.” 

Three perches their elbows on their knees, tucking their chin in the crux of their arms. “I guess? ‘S not my fault or anything. Every time I’ve been snuck up on there’s been an Octo, or a gun to my head, or…”

Callie’s mouth tastes funny, but she finished her soda fifteen minutes ago. Must be the aftertaste. Anything but the way their voice breaks, the wariness they wear as habitually as a sweater. 

“I didn’t mean to hit the other guy,” they mumble. “He just snuck up on me, and next thing I knew I swung.” 

“Hey, I thought it was pretty funny,” Marie says. 

Her instinct would be to put an arm around the kid’s shoulder, give them a squeeze to let them know they were alright, but clearly it’s not something they appreciate. It’s hard being the touchy-feely type sometimes. “So did I! It sucks the supervisors got on your case about it.”

They nod. It's as good an acknowledgement as any. 

“So…” Marie starts, tapping a foot impatiently. “How’re you getting back anyway?”

“I was just gonna bum a ride, or sneak onto the bus. They don’t make you tap if you slip in through the back doors.” 

Bum a ride? Who’s teaching them to talk like that? Gramps wasn’t wrong about them being sharp, but there’s a venom to it that makes her feel too uneasy. 

(Where are your parents? Whose words are you parroting? Do they know about this? Does anyone?) 

Maybe lime lip gloss wasn’t a good idea. The artificial stuff tastes funny. Mango, then? Ginger? Three is staring at her, their tentacles a electric-green blur in her periphery. 

She wipes her mouth and cracks a smile, easy as pie. “We drove over, so we could pop by wherever you live if you want.” 

“I drove,” Marie corrects. “She doesn’t have her license.” 

“It’s Gramps’ car,” she shoots back. 

“Whatever.” 

“Don’t bother,” they say, too quickly. “I don’t need it.” 

“We’re not squidnapping you or anything.” Marie nudges them with her foot. They flinch. “And I’d sleep better at night if I knew you weren’t hitchhiking.”

WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS DON’T THEY KNOW YOU’RE GETTING IN CARS WITH STRANGERS- 

“We’ll stop for lunch, too!” she winks. That gets Three’s attention. 

“You’re paying, right?” 

“I’ll write it off as a business expense.” 

“Then it’s settled!” Callie claps, standing up. She offers Three a hand but they predictably don’t take it, rising on the balls of their feet and dusting off their shorts. “And we’ll go someplace better than Fresh n’ Chips this time.” 

It’s enough to get them to follow her without complaint. 

She nearly breaks down the apartment door in her rush to escape the chill of the hallway. The interior heating hits her face and she feels like melting. She swears her cheeks need to unthaw with how hard the wind was blowing, freezing her smile right on her face. Her boots fall off behind her in her immediate beeline to the couch and she sinks gratefully into the cushions, burying her head under a pillow. 

Marie neatly shrugs off her windbreaker and hangs it in the closet, all curt and passive-aggressive. “At least take off your jacket.” 

“Nuh-uh. Not until I can feel my tentacles again.” How that girl can only wear a light jacket in this weather and get away with it mystifies her to no end. “You might actually be a monster.” 

“You’re just a wimp. Put on a space heater if you want.” 

And start a fire? Yeah, no thanks. She slithers out of the cold fabric of her jacket in exchange for a blanket, nuzzling into the fluff. “You good, Three?” 

They haven’t taken their jacket off. She doesn’t even think they’ve moved from the spot on the doormat, lingering on the threshold like a spirit caught in limbo. Callie recognizes the look on their face because she’s worn it herself when she was younger; the look of someone scared to intrude, that stepping somewhere without permission could land them right back outside. 

But it’s their place. Callie has trashed it more than a few times. There’s no invisible barriers to disturb, not here. She lifts up the edge of her blanket, waving them over. “C’mon Three! Take that jacket off and warm up. Marie’s making hot chocolate.” 

“Am I?” 

She swings her feet and bats her eyes. “Please?” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Marie waves a hand, moving into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, Three. Seriously. You look like a kicked cat.” 

They manage to peel their jacket off at the very least, even if the look on their face reads foreign lands, do not intrude. Callie pats a spot on the couch. They opt to perch on the end closest to the door. It’s such a strange habit of theirs, sitting like they need room to take flight. 

“So,” she starts, tossing them a blanket. Not hers, not yet. They’re still so jumpy she’s sure if she offered to huddle for warmth they’d run screaming out the door. “Can I call you Jude?” 

“Huh?” They stare. “How’d you know my name?” 

“Your Turf name,” she winks. “Remember when we went to see you?” 

They fist their hands in the blanket, soft fingers curling uncertainly in the pattern of the knit. They haven’t opted to wrap it around their shoulders like she has, instead tugging it onto their lap like a pillow. “Uh. Right.”

“Can I, then?” 

They bob their head. Callie beams. 

“Can you what?” 

Marie emerges from the kitchen holding two mugs, both piled high with whipped cream. She claps before accepting hers, warming her fingers against the hot ceramic. 

“Jude is letting us use their name.” 

“Oh, great,” she says, handing Three their mug. “I felt weird calling you a number all the time.” 

“You can use our names too! I’m Callie, she’s Marie.” 

Three rolls their eyes, but there’s little venom to it.

“I think we should order in,” Marie says once she has her own mug. “There’s no way I’m cooking.” 

“Takeout and a movie?”

She considers it, then shrugs. “Why not.” 

“Great!” Callie sets her mug down on the coffee table, sliding towards the TV cabinet on her knees. “You guys can sort out what to eat. I’ll find something to watch.” 

“I’ll let you decide,” she hears Marie mutter. “I don’t wanna look at anything.” 

Her fingers part through the DVDs, teeth finding her lip by automatic habit. She finds it disgusting, but it's not like she can just stop or anything. Especially when she's worried, and Three is too much of a strange little thing, going from cocky and dangerous to stiff and flighty with little warning beforehand. Even getting them to agree to coming over was about as difficult to navigate as hostage negotiations. They’re too much like- A soldier, she guesses. A weapon, serrated edge. Saviour of a city before most kids would learn to shift.

How old are they, again?

“I dunno what to get,” Three says behind her. The ruffle of paper tells her Marie probably foisted a stack of brochures on their lap and went to take an aspirin. “I haven’t had most of this before. I don’t know what I like.” 

She’s glad her head is buried in the cabinet. She’s sure they wouldn’t appreciate the pity on her face. 

Well, whatever. So what if the kid doesn’t know what they want? It’s pathetic how much she’s reading into everything, almost like she wants to find something to wring her hands over. Her mom said she was too dumb to guess how other people felt. 

“Just pick something with flavours you like,” she says, keeping her voice steady. “That’s how I do it.” 

By the time she’s re-emerged Three has settled on poké bowls. Marie is already making the call. She already knows what Callie likes, anyhow, so there’s no need to ask. It’s all practised. 

She plunks a stack of DVDs down on the coffee table, fanning them out. Most of them are comedies, some romances, two action flicks, one drama Callie made a cameo appearance in, and three Squidmas movies. Of them all, only two are PG-13, but she wants to be the cool one. They can handle a bit of innuendo anyway. They’ve been in a warzone. 

“Do you wanna pick a movie too, or should I choose one?” 

Three eyes the movies, giving a cursory scan of the cases. “You can. I dunno any of these either, ‘cept for The Squiddyloves. Shit’s for kids, anyway.” 

You’re a kid, she wants to scream, but instead smiles. “Alright! I’ll just ask Marie, then.” 

They settle on a R-rated Squidmas comedy from the early 2000’s that Marie’s parents apparently got a kick out of. From what she remembers it’s completely filthy, but given Three’s acidic wit they’d probably enjoy being let in on it. She knows she did at that age, and it’s not like Marie is playing virtuous.

And for the most part they do seem to like it. After the food arrives they spread their drinks and bowls out on the coffee table for easy access, and Three spends the first thirty minutes or so of the movie snickering under their breath in-between forkfuls of rice. Callie’s not even sure if they get half the references, but they’re at least having fun. 

It’s when the lead, hungover and dressed in a ratty Father Squidmas suit, feverishly kisses the romantic interest and their clothes start hitting the floor that Callie remembers how liberal films from that time tended to be with the more risqué stuff. 

“Shit,” Marie says around a mouthful of salmon. Apparently she’s come to the same conclusion. “Cover Jude’s eyes, or something. If Gramps hears we let them see this movie we’ll be on cleanup duty for the next six months.”

She has her doubts about how effectively she’ll manage to wrangle them. She looks over but they’re not even watching the screen. Their fork skids across the bottom of their bowl as they chase around a spare grain of rice, eyes shadowed beneath their bangs. 

She snickers. It’s nice to know that at the end of the day there’s still some things they can’t handle. 

There’s a few more scenes like that in the movie, and way more T&A than she remembered (she’s surprised Marie’s parents ever let her watch this), but Three has the good sense to keep their eyes down during all that stuff without Callie needing to make them. Good kid, sparing them Gramps’ wrath.

They’re near the climax of the movie when she realises Three has fallen silent. The lead gets in a shootout in a department store, ducking behind shelves of soft toys as the bullets send feathers flying. The light plays bright over Three’s face, a pale smudge as she watches carefully in her periphery. 

On screen, someone throws a grenade. Three stands up in time with the explosion, head trained downwards, but whatever they mumble is overtaken by computer-generated flames and the hollow rattle of gunfire.

“Huh?” Callie says, tilting her head. “You say something?”

“Bathroom,” they mutter, avoiding eye contact.

“Do you want us to pause?”

They shake their head hard enough their tentacles slap their cheeks before running off. She exchanges a look with Marie. She just shrugs. 

Thirty minutes later the credits start rolling. Three still hasn’t come back out. 

“Should I go check?” She asks, tilting her head to peer down the hall. The bathroom door is still closed. “It’s been half an hour.” 

Marie doesn’t look up from her phone. “Maybe they got sick.” 

“Then I should definitely check.” 

“Knock yourself out,” Marie says, swiping her thumb across the screen. 

The bathroom door is locked when she pushes against it, but there’s no light seeping out the bottom. She furrows her brow. Who goes to the bathroom in the dark? She knew Three was weird, but not that weird. 

“Jude?” she calls, rapping her knuckles softly against the door. “Are you alright? Did you get flushed down the toilet?” 

No response. She presses an ear to the door, just to confirm if they’re even in there. All she hears is the distant rush of traffic and slow, heavy breathing, the raspy inhale of someone trying to choke down tears in silence. 

She feels her hearts plummet like a stone-filled sack in still waters. “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

“Piss off.” 

She can’t even be mad when it sounds like they were barely able to form the words. “I can hear you crying. Are you okay?”

It’s barely audible, but she swears she hears them mutter obviously not. 

“Did you get sick?”

Clearer, this time: “Go away.” 

She peers back down the hall. Marie looks up from her phone, face illuminated in the ghostly white light, and mouths something. Callie just frowns and shrugs, hoping the message is clear enough. 

“Should I call your parents?” 

“No!” they shout, so sudden, nearly making her jump. “Nonono, don’t call anyone, please.”

(Do they know about this?)

What is she supposed to do in situations like these again? Marie would keep pushing, press her hands down against their refusal until they budged and spat out the number of someone who could properly handle them. But she’s not Marie and she can’t; she knows the feeling, can count on both hands the amount of times she begged Marie’s parents not to phone her mom about her getting sick or twisting a tentacle when she went down to the creek to catch dragonflies. 

Or maybe she’s projecting.

“Just…” The sharp intake of breath. Three gasps for air like a fish on dry land. “Piss off. Go watch the movie. I don’t care.” 

“The movie’s over,” she says gently. “We’re worried.” 

No response. 

“I won’t call your parents or anything if you don’t want me to, but-”

“Just go,” they cut her off sharply, voice as fragile as fresh ice. 

So she does. They come out ten minutes later with wet cheeks, refusing all offers to be driven home.

She stares at the ceiling, ears trained to the faint ghost of Marie’s breathing. There’s a second room that’s technically Callie’s, but she barely uses it save as an extra place to cram all her stuff. They’d had sleepovers since they were both eggs. This is second nature. Marie has had this blanket since she was six. 

“Gramps shouldn’t have recruited Three.” 

Marie lifts her head from her pillow. Her tentacles glow in faint little pinpricks, near-identical to the fireflies they’d catch on camping trips. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean-” she scowls into the darkness, glaring upwards. “They’re a kid. ” 

“I noticed.” 

“Doesn’t it make you feel weird? They still look like they only learned to shift last week or something. I just…” She fumbles for one of Marie’s plushes, tucking it under her chin. “I dunno.” 

“We were younger when Gramps recruited us,” she says, voice leaden with sleep. “I think we turned out fine.” 

She stares upwards. “We were?” 

(We did?) 

Marie nudges her with an elbow. “Yeah, don’t you remember? Gramps had us shooting balloons before we were ten.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Guess my memory’s all fuzzy.” 

Marie snorts. “To be fair, that was ages ago. A lot’s happened since then.” 

We turned out fine. “I guess I’m just overthinking stuff.” 

“Hey, that’s my job.” 

Callie squeezes the pillow harder, feathers bulging beneath her arms. “Yeah, yeah.” 

Then Marie rolls over and the lights go out, leaving her to herself. 

“Stay fresh!”

She holds the pose until she sees the last fan get escorted cleanly away, dropping the arm with a sigh of relief. She’s done it so many times that night it's getting tingles. Marie slouches, so automatic it’s like the strings holding her upright had been cut clean. 

“I have no idea how you keep so peppy,” she mutters. “Doing this ten times in a row makes me want to yank my tentacles off and turn them into calamari.” 

“Aw, come on!” She nudges her, a quick jab under the ribs with her elbow. “I like meeting our fans. It feels a lot more meaningful when you get to know a few faces in the crowd.” 

“So do I, but that doesn’t mean that some of them aren’t total weirdos. I’m pretty sure the last guy tried sniffing you.” 

“He did?” 

Marie just grunts. So much for that.

“Whatever. I’m not the one reading too much into people.” 

“Sure,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

Callie smirks. “Or maybe people like me are better fits for showbiz, and not sad little introverts like you.” 

She gets a smack on the shoulder for that but it’s light, enough to know that it’s in jest. 

The guard signals that their next meet-n-greet is coming up and she readjusts her cap, making sure it lies flat on her tentacles. To her side Marie does the same, standing upright. 

She blinks. It’s Three. 

“You’re a firefly too?!” she damn near squeals. The tips of their tentacles glow faintly, little lemon-lime pinpricks lighting their cheeks. She has to actively restrain herself from pinching them, like she’s a grandma or something. “That’s actually so cute.” 

“It’s annoying, that’s what.” Their ear flicks in irritation. Well, whatever. She can’t help it. 

Marie arches an eyebrow. “How did you land yourself a backstage pass?”

“Stole it.” 

“Yeah, right.” 

“Was it Gramps?”

Three stares. “How’d you know?” 

“I’m psychic.” She winks. “So! Have anything you want us to sign?” 

Gramps must’ve made a stop by the merch vendors for them, because they’re decently decked out. They’ve got a glowstick (in her colour, take that Marie), a CD copy of their latest album, and a shirt so large it hangs to their mid-thigh. She’s starting to think they prefer oversized clothing. Even off-duty everything they wear is at least one size too big. 

They offer up the CD, watching hungrily as she whips out her neon-pink permanent marker and signs, adding an extra flourish to the bow before passing it off to Marie. She shoots Three a look with narrowed eyes, all suspicion. 

“You’re not gonna sell this one, right?” 

“Who knows?” They smirk. “You aren’t gonna be able to tell if I do.” 

Marie mutters something under her breath, scribbling her signature. “You know, there’s loads of kids out there that’d go nuts for something like this.”

“Oh, so you’re talkin’ bout exploitation now.” 

Big words. Not for the first time, she wishes they were a little less sharp, if only for her peace of mind. “If you show it off at school I bet you’ll be the most popular kid in no time.” 

She hands back the CD. Three accepts it with a devious little look in their eyes. “Yeah, sure. No one’d ever expect a loser like me to even breathe near you guys. They’d shit if they knew the truth.” 

So they’re having trouble at school as well, on top of whatever’s going on with their parents. No surprise there. Kids like them are always the first to be fed to the sharks. 

“Don’t actually tell them,” Marie says. “We’d have to dishonourably discharge you.” 

Over Three’s shoulder the guard raises a hand; two minutes left. So soon. Has their time always been that short? Three turns the CD case over, admiring how the glitter marker shines under the hot lights. 

“Say,” she grins. “You want a selfie as well?” 

“Huh?” They look up. “Does that cost extra?” 

“Nah, not for you. Besides, if you show it to the others at school tomorrow I bet they’ll really lose it.” 

Three digs in their pocket to hand her a clunky old Inkphone 2. She opens the camera function and bends down to their level. Usually she doesn’t have to sink down far, just a couple inches, but she wears heels on stage to match Marie’s height. 

“Can I put an arm around your shoulder?” she asks, softly. “I won’t if you don’t want me to, but it’ll be extra-cool to show off to everyone else.” 

Three blinks, scanning her face, keeping themself still. 

Then they nod. Slow, but firm. Small victories. She grins and tosses an arm over their shoulders, squishing them in. Marie looms over top and flashes a peace sign, and that’s when she snaps the photo. 

Three is smiling when she pulls back. Small but soft, nothing like the sharp-edged blade they kept sheathed in their boot, borderline feral. 

“Stay fresh!” she and Marie sing in unison, watching their back as they’re escorted away by a guard. Marie doesn’t even have to force it that time. She snickers. 

“What?” 

“They’re growing on you. Admit it,” she teases, jabbing her with an elbow. “They’re cute, aren’t they?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Growing like mold, maybe.”

Despite that, there’s a smile on her lips. 

Admittedly, she almost likes comms duty when she’s monitoring Three. She’d usually have Marie in her ear when she was on the field, but once in a while Gramps would make them swap out and keep her watching the screen and she learned quick to dread it about as much as she used to dread chem in school. Besides, she likes to talk, and Marie doesn’t. 

Three, on the other hand, tolerates her chatter and will banter back if they’re in the mood. She can tell they’re happy to have someone that will not only talk to them, but actually listen to their responses. She’s developed a habit of keeping a notepad beside the monitor, taking quick note of all the little things Three lets slip. 

It’s almost exclusively inconsequential stuff, like food preferences or what maps they hate, but hey, progress!

“So, Three, what type of stuff do you actually like on your burgers?” 

“What?” They look over their shoulder, briefly, before flicking their attention back to the path of the Octomaw’s prowl. It’s a funny habit of theirs, jolting like they expected someone to be right over their shoulder. “Why do you wanna know?” 

“You know, lunch orders and stuff. Every time we get you something you pick everyth-”

Marie cuts her off with a swift kick to the shin. “One, shut up. Please. And watch out, Three, I think it’s coming up from underneath.” 

Three sinks down into the ink, waiting, their breath echoing heavy through the speaker’s feedback. The gleam of teeth under the low light marks its position, razor-sharp edges cutting through the ink like a ship’s prow before stopping abruptly. 

She knows this by now. One, two-

Three reemerges and tosses a bomb underhand just as the Maw snaps shut with a sharp clack. It swallows, pauses, then chokes as the bomb detonates, wrenching open its mouth and exposing the tentacle to gunfire. Three jumps back before it even has a chance to burst. 

“Nice!” she claps. “I never thought of doing it like that before.”

Marie nods. “Good job, Three. I don’t think it’s gonna fall for the same trick twice, though.” 

“So, like I was saying, burger toppings-” 

“I don’t like burgers.” 

“What?!” she shrieks. “Seriously? Who doesn’t like burgers?” 

Three manages to shoot out the bottom row of teeth before they come crashing down to earth. “I just don’t. They’re gross and soggy, and I ate too much of it when I was little.” 

“Huh? Why?” 

“I dunno.” Two more teeth go down to gunfire, and they even manage to kick one away before it impales their foot. “‘S cheap, I guess.” 

Cheap. It was what her mom usually brought home for dinner when her hours at the pub were cut. She doesn’t like that she can empathise. It gives her a bad taste in her mouth, and she’s not drinking anything she can blame it on. “So what do you like?” 

“Seriously, One, they’re in the middle of a fight.” 

The bathroom door slams shut and cuts off Three’s answer, followed by the hollow sound of Gramps’ cane tapping against the floor. 

Callie fumbles for the walkie, managing to yank it from Marie’s grip and turn off the power just as Gramps makes it in the kitchen. “Three still up?” 

“Up and kicking, but I’d be a lot happier if someone gave me back the walkie.”

Callie shrinks back from her glare. “Hey, I just didn’t want Three to hear Gramps and clam up! You know how they get around him!” 

“You know, it’d probably be better if they weren’t talking.” 

“Funny kid,” Gramps mutters. “Dunno why he’s fine blabbing to you two.”

“Shh!” Callie hisses, before turning the walkie back on. “Hey! Sorry! I knocked the thingy over and the battery fell out.” 

Marie was probably right from the looks of it. The gold plating of the Maw’s teeth means Three managed to splat it again in the time she wasn’t watching the screen. “Classic you.” 

She shrugs it off, eyes tracking them across the screen as they roll out the ink, narrowly dodging the Maw’s bite. Watching them on the field is nothing like watching them in Turf, where they were uncertainly fumbling the objective alongside their teammates, occasionally getting a splat. There’s a strange confidence to them that seems to disappear the moment they sling off the headset, a switch flipped off and draining them of whatever kept their shoulders up. 

Or maybe it’s just her projecting again.

“Hey, when did you learn to shift?” 

Marie shoots her a glare. She shrugs it off. Three’s aim falters at the question, just a bit, before they right themself. “Huh? What?” 

She motions for Gramps to pay attention but keeps a finger to her lips, just in case he decides to start yapping. “I mean, you’re obviously good at fighting, but most other teens can’t even hold form for more than a minute. I was just wondering.” 

The camera is on their back so she can’t read their face, but their tone is uncertain. “‘Round this time last year, I guess.” 

It’s January. Gramps said they met in May. Four months of getting used to fine motor control before they learned to wrap their fingers around the trigger of a live weapon. Four months to learn how to sleep without turning squid before they were set on a battlefield and ordered to run without looking back. 

“How old are you, anyway?” Marie says before Callie can scream for her to stop. 

“Thirteen.” 

Where are you parents where are your parents why don’t you want to call them why are they okay with this why are you here why won’t you tell them why am i okay with this where are they where are they WHERE ARE YOUR- 

She doesn’t know why she’s surprised. It was around what she had guessed initially, take a few. Then again, it’s one thing to make an assumption and entirely different to have solid confirmation that it’s a thirteen year-old down there on the field, fighting a monster fifty times their size. 

“Thirteen, eh?” Gramps says. “Told you the kid was a prodigy!” 

Three freezes like a machine powered down, feet rooted in place, eyes wide. Marie doesn’t even have time to yell before the Octomaw’s teeth come down, a monster starved, jaw shutting with the sickening snip of a pair of scissors being shut. 

The shriek that pierces through the speaker echoes in her head for the rest of the day. 

They’ve hit the credits of that night’s movie (PG-13 this time, thanks Marie) when she notices the rain, coming down hard enough that it sounds like hands hammering against the window. She peels back the curtains to see raindrops illuminated under the mellow orange tone of the streetlights, nearly resembling sleet. 

She checks her phone. No severe weather warning, but there’s still no way she’s going back to her place that night. Neither is Three for that matter, still perched on their end of the couch, cracking popcorn kernels under their beak. 

She’s about to suggest they phone home for a ride before cutting herself off, remembering too well how they reacted the last time she made that mistake, so much uncharacteristic panic for someone who otherwise acted like they were afraid of nothing. She really wouldn’t be surprised if they had an issue with authority figures in general, or at least adults, considering how they clam up whenever Gramps is within earshot. 

So they’re operating under the radar of someone. No biggie. She’ll just have to figure out a way to get them home without blowing their cover. She’s a bit of an expert in the art herself. 

“Hey, Mar?” she calls to the kitchen. “You good to drive?” 

“Why?”

“It’s pissing rain,” Three supplies. 

“Yeah, that.” 

Marie comes out of the kitchen, drying her hands off on a squid-patterned tea towel as she eyes the window. “Oh, wow. It’s really coming down.” 

“Do you think you’d be able to drive in that? Jude has to get home, but there’s no way I’m letting them take the bus.”

“It’s fine,” they say quickly. “I do it all the time.” 

Callie shudders. “Yeah, no. You know how night transit gets. If I let you go like that I won’t be able to sleep for a week.” 

They roll their eyes. The idea doesn’t concern them at all. Her stomach twists, resembling nausea. “I’ll walk, then. You got an umbrella or something?” 

“I know! You can just sleep over, can’t you?” She claps her hands, batting her lashes at Marie. “Please?” 

To her credit, she doesn’t put up much of a fuss. “Yeah, sure. There's a spare room.” 

She grins at Three. They don’t share her excitement. If anything, whatever leftover mirth they had earlier has drained away, leaving their face pale and hunted. 

“I'll have to-” they take their phone from the pocket of their shorts, gesturing it in lieu of words. Their hand is shaking. “I gotta call. I’ll get my ass- uh. I’ll be in trouble if I don’t.” 

Even Marie catches on to it. “Do you want us to call? Whoever it is will probably be less mad if an adult handles it.” 

“You’re eighteen.”

“Still more adult than you.”

“No,” Three shakes their head. “No. I gotta do it.”

But they don’t tap in the numbers, or even turn on their phone. Just sits there, a doll posed on a shelf, joints loose. 

“Oh, right! We should make up the guest room.” She stands and makes a beeline for the bedrooms, grabbing a fistful of Marie’s sleeve on the way. “C’mon, Mar. Show me where the pillows are.” 

She closes the door as soon as they’re in, only to immediately open it back up a sliver and press her ear to the gap. 

“What are you doing?” Marie hisses. “Wasn’t the point to give them some privacy?” 

“Shh!” She waves a hand, shooing her away. “I am giving them privacy. I just wanna listen, too.” 

Three has the phone to their ear when she looks back, but still seems to be waiting for whoever it is on the other line to pick up. They’re tapping out a pattern on their knee that she doesn’t recognize, soft fingers dancing a silent drum beat. 

Then someone picks up. They take a deep breath, one last gasp for air before dipping underwater. “Is Miss Marnie there?” 

The phone must be on speaker. She can hear enough of the reply to tell that someone’s talking, but not enough to make it out properly. Whatever it is, it makes Three flinch. 

“Why the hell are you on the phone?” They scowl. “Get your head outta your ass and pass it over. This is urgent.” 

“Geez, the kid has a filthy mouth,” Marie mutters behind her. “Did I talk like that at their age?” 

Callie jabs an elbow behind her without looking. It’s easily dodged. 

“I’m sleeping over with friends, that’s it. Serious.” Then they flinch, screwing their eyes shut. “Sleeping over, not- just shut the hell up and give Marnie the phone, alright? I don’t wanna talk to you.” 

They hoist their legs up on the cushion, tucking their chin in against their scabbed-over knees. “I actually have friends now. I’m not like you. Anyway, I’m gonna melt if I go out in the rain. I’ll come back first thing, I swear.” 

If she really listens she thinks she can make out a bit of the other end. Don’t believe- no way- get your ass back-

“Pass it over, will you? I dunno why you care anyway.”

And they finally do, evidently, but if anything Three looks even more nervous to talk to whoever that Marnie person is than the person they were snapping at. 

The voice on the other end sounds older this time, but harsher, like a fork against porcelain. She swears Three sits up straighter when they talk, lifting their head from their self-embrace. 

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. Uh- I know, I’m sleeping over with a friend, that’s why. No, I- I was invited.”

Irresponsible little s- “I know, I’m sorry. I was gonna come back, but the rain- Look, I already told Chika I’d be back in the morning. Yeah, I- No, they offered, but got worried. That’s it.” 

Don’t trust that for a second- You’ve pulled this shit before- CALLIE YOU BETTER GET YOUR ASS BACK IN THE HOUSE BEFORE I COME DOWN THERE TO DRAG YOU HOME

She really wishes she couldn’t hear the other line. 

Eventually Three manages to pacify their- parent? Guardian? - whoever it is, and they’re allowed to hang up. Their relief is apparent even through the crack in the door, dragging their body down into the cushions like so much dead weight. They curl in on themself, burying their face in their soft sleeves. 

“I hope they’re not crying again,” Marie murmurs from somewhere over her shoulder. “I really don’t know how to handle kids.” 

She creaks the door open a peek and they jolt, high alert. Their cheeks are dry. She’s glad. 

She makes sure to slap around a few pillows for posterity before heading back out, Marie in tow. “All good?” 

“Yeah.” Three takes a shaky breath, but nods. “All good. I can sleep over as long as I go back in the morning.” 

“Yeah, of course. We don’t wanna keep you forever.” 

“We have your bed all set up, and there’s extra blankets and stuff in the closet if you want,” Marie says, casting a scrutinising eye over Three. “You should probably take a shower before you get Valley gunk all over the bed, though.” 

“Since when were you on my case about that?” 

“Since I let you sleep on my furniture,” she shoots back. “Senior agent’s orders. Gimme your clothes to wash, too. I’ll pass you some stuff to wear to bed.” 

They roll their eyes but acquiesce, grumbling as they head over to the bathroom. Lights on this time, and a second later Three tosses a sweater and shorts out the crack of the door. 

“And don’t use all the hot water!” Marie calls over the sound of the faucet. “The bill is at stupid prices!” 

Callie snickers. “I don’t think they care.”

“Yeah, whatever. As long as they don’t take more than five minutes.”

They take ten. Judging by the steam that curls after their heels when they step out the water was borderline boiling. The happy look on their face is worth it though, in her opinion. 

She’s grateful to Three for giving her an excuse to sleep in Marie’s room again. She’s always convinced it’ll be the last, always clings too much to every spare second she has under the stars, sleeping next to the soft breathing of company. She has her own place now, after all. The other room just on the other side of the wall for these exact scenarios. 

She went to check if Three was sleeping. They locked the door.

“I can’t stop thinking about that call,” she murmurs. Marie doesn’t turn over on her side to talk, just lifts her head a tad. 

“What happened, anyway? I could barely tell with you hogging all the ear space.” 

Stupid ungrateful girl- “I mean, I couldn’t really tell either, but it was nothing good, you know? I kinda hope that it wasn’t actually their parents.” 

Marie hums. “I can’t really imagine talking to my parents how they did.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause your mom would twist your ears until they fell off,” she snickers. 

“It’s her fault I picked up all that language at a young age,” Marie grumbles, hiking the blankets up over her shoulder. “I don’t know what we can do about it though. I doubt Three would appreciate it if we stuck our noses in their business.” 

She sighs, willing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Marie’s childhood bedroom was plastered with so many glow-in-the-dark stars it was more a private galaxy. She remembers making up fake constellations. The fisher. The archer. The eel. None of them are present now. Too many gaps, too much empty space. She’s lost that type of creativity when she’s by herself. 

“It’s weird that they never brought up their parents in the first place, right?” 

“I guess?”

“I mean,” she continues, searching. “You’d think they would, even if they were trying to sneak around under their radar, something like oh yeah my parents would flip if they saw this, but it’s just-”

“They’re private, though. It’s probably just how they are.” 

“Can’t you run a background check?” she blurts, the words falling out before she can even process the logistics. 

That gets Marie to sit up. Her tentacles illuminate her cheeks in a ghoulish glow, enough to indicate she’s shooting Callie one of her looks. “A background check? Seriously? What do you want next, a drug test?” 

She grumbles, yanking over one of Marie’s plushes and batting her with it. “No, dummy, just to see what their living situation is like. Besides, we are technically a secret intelligence agency. That’s the sort of stuff they do, isn’t it?” 

Marie bears a couple hits of the plush before yanking it from Callie’s grip. “Look, even if you have a point, I don’t know where to start. We barely know their name, or even if it’s their real name. I can’t just type Jude into a search engine and get their life story.” 

“You’re smart. I know you’ll come up with something.”

“Classic excuse,” she drawls, sliding back under the blankets. 

“Please…?” she whispers into the darkness. “Even if you don’t find anything, I’d feel better if we tried.” 

No response. Outside the window a car passes by, wheels splashing in the inch or so of rain that’s settled on the asphalt. Marie’s voice is gentle when she speaks next. That’s how Callie knows she’s in trouble; when the gloves are brought out. 

“Are you sure you aren’t projecting?” 

She opens her mouth, but no words come out. Marie’s hand snakes beneath the blankets and squeezes, just a bit, just enough to feel her warmth. She hasn’t said anything, but her non-response must be as loud as if she had buried her head in her hands and screamed. 

The rain hasn’t stopped. 

“Nice one, Mar,” she cheers, soft hands curling over the splintered wood of the fence. The can topples over on the grass and the echo of the shot still rings in the grey skies, the wet smell of the air promising rain. 

The second can joins the other in the long grass, then another, but she misses the fourth, the ink just glancing off the tin surface. Marie hands the Bamboozler back over to Gramps, defeat weighing down the gesture. They’re not old enough to load weapons, not yet, and Gramps only lets them prop the Bamboo up on the fence to steady their aim when they shoot cans, or apples, or whatever other targets he’s procured that day. 

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, squiddo.” He ruffles Marie’s head, mussing up her tentacles from the sleek tail her mother did up for her that morning. “Three outta four ain’t bad.” 

“I coulda done better, though. I know I could.” 

The tank gives a little beep as soon as it’s full, and then he’s passing it back off to Marie again. Callie hides her frown behind her sleeves like she’s practised. It’s always Marie who gets to shoot the Bamboo, not her. Her aim’s too wild, and Gramps says she has impatient fingers, whatever that means. 

“I know,” he says, and the wind parts the tall grass like a rock in a stream. “You’ll be better soon enough.” 

Between the half-digested scraps Three spits out about their favourite fast food place and subweapons and what temperature they drink their water at, they let it slip that their birthday is some time at the tail-end of May. No proper date, no sentimentality attached, and she gets the impression that it isn’t a celebration for them, but it is information worth more in weight than how much they dislike Zones. 

And she definitely has to do something for it, even if they expect nothing. Especially because they expect nothing.

“Just get them food or something,” Marie said when she brought it up, rolling her eyes in that nasty little way of hers. “There’s a place that does good fried clams. They like those, don’t they?” 

“Sure, I’ll just be lame and get them food like we do every week!” 

Marie had paused then, coffee held halfway to her lips. “They met Gramps in May, didn’t they?” 

And that shut her up. 

She might be a lot of things, including a few gentler synonyms for airheaded and a total klutz, but when she sees the opportunity for a good gift there’s no way she’s going to let it slip by without at least a second glance. She picks a day when Three is on duty and comes with a tote, kicking it out of sight before she even sits down.

She’s grateful they don’t notice when they come in to collect their stuff, too busy with tuning their headset and cleaning out their tank to bother. Marie gives her a weird look, but then again, Marie always gives her weird looks. It’s nothing unusual. 

“You’re on Sector 2 today, Three,” Marie says as she boots up the computer, the camera circuit displaying nothing but defunct pylons and empty space. “Take it easy.” 

“Awful nice of you.” Three slips on their headset, eyeing Callie. “What’s wrong with her?” 

“Who?”

“One. She’s being all weird.”

“What? I can’t smile now?” She says, hand pressed to her chest in mock-offence. “Geez, you got mean.” 

“She’s always weird.” Marie gets a swift kick under the table for that. She has the grace to not let it show on her face. “I want a sweep of all the kettles. I think they’re trying to boot up the Nozzle again.” 

“On it,” they say and finally leave, shutting the cabin door behind them. 

Callie lets out a breath. She’s sure Marie is still staring at her, but she’s not looking to check. 

“What is the gift, anyway?” 

She winks. “It’s a surprise, isn’t it?” 

“Uh, yeah, not for me though.” She gets one last side-glance before Marie’s attention is on the screen, tapping through the camera circuit to find the one monitoring the launchpad. “Just try not to spoil it for them before they’re finished up, alright?” 

It’s going to be a long day. 

She manages to keep her yap shut the whole time, which is gargantuan effort on her part. She can’t help being the excitable type, too wired to sit properly. Hunkering down in a crummy old cabin to be on the phone for five whole hours and not say a single thing is borderline torture.

But she manages, she does. Even if she doesn’t talk half as much as usual. It’s for a good cause. 

She’s practically vibrating by the time Three comes back in after one last sweep of Sector 2. They shut the door behind them, kicking their shoes on the mat. Headset off and charging, ink tank hung on a chair, and finally they sling the vest off and place it on its proper hook. 

And that’s when she pounces. 

“Surprise!” She cheers, dragging the bag out from under the table. “Happy birthday!” 

Marie buries her head in her hands.

Three eyes her, scalpel-sharp, like it was a special type of ambush. “How’d you know when my birthday is?” 

“You told us, dummy. I wanted to do something nice for you.” 

“Didja get food? I’m starving.” 

“Hah,” Marie snorts, voice muffled. “Told you.” 

She resists the urge to pout. “We get food every week! That’s lame. I got you something cool. ” 

Three wanders over to peer in the bag but she gives their hands a smack. They scowl. “What’s the point of a gift if you’re not gonna give it to me?” 

“Sit down and I’ll show you.” 

They warily oblige, claiming a kitchen chair. Marie slinks over to the couch, muttering something under her breath. Callie rummages in the bag and plunks down a razor on the table, right in front of them.

Three stares. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I’m not gonna kill you.” She reaches back in the bag, fishing out a tub of mantle gloss, then a ratty ink-stained towel. “Ta-da! I’m giving your tentacles a cut.” 

“Seriously?” Marie calls from the couch. “That’s your idea?” 

“Yep!” Callie grins. 

“What kinda gift is this?” They scowl. “I wanna keep my head, thanks.” 

She pouts. “You don’t trust me?” 

“No way.” 

“She is actually pretty good at this,” Marie says. “She does her own bangs, and she’s an idol. You’re not, so you technically have way lower standards.” 

Three glares at the razor in her hand. “If you fuck me up I’ll never like you again.”

“Hear that, Mar?” she calls. “They just said they like me!” 

“Not anymore.”

“Look,” she starts. “If you don’t want me to do this I’ll put everything away and we can just grab some food, but I wanna do something nice for you! Besides, your tentacles have gotten super long, and I notice you brushing them out of your face all the time.” 

She pinches one of their tentacles for emphasis, wagging it back and forth. They shrink from her hand, but don’t pull away. Another victory; small, but real. 

“It’s a safety hazard on the field, Three. If you don’t get them cut I’ll order you to get a full shave.” 

“Fine. Do whatever,” they mutter. “If you screw up I’ll let you know.” 

She really owes Marie for this. 

Their pacifism lasts a whole ten seconds before she tries dunking their head under the sink. 

“The hell are you doing?” they spit, clinging to the edges of the sink with a downright unreasonable amount of strength for a fourteen-year-old, face inches from the tap. They’re a monster, that one. “What part of a haircut involves waterboarding me?” 

“I gotta clean your suckers out, duh.” She gives another good shove down and finally forces their head under the water. Sure they’re strong, but they can’t beat Dynamo muscles. “You know, you’re making this way more of a pain if you struggle.” 

They don’t listen, and hell can the kid be fierce if they want to. Getting them to sit still feels like trying to move Judd from his spot in the sun, all claws and teeth and spit. She drops the towel on their face and ruffles their tentacles until they’re dry, and it’s only when she threatens to let the razor slip an inch or three that they finally stop squirming, knuckles curled white over the seat of the chair. 

“So!” She claps her hands on their shoulders. They jump. “Any preferences on the style?” 

“Get your hands offa me.” 

Evidently not. Marie looks over her shoulder, smirking. “Give ‘em a bowl cut.” 

“Oo! Or that superfresh flat style that’s getting popular. You could be so ahead of the crowd.” 

They settle for a simple trim on the condition that they’ll let Callie get their bangs out of their eyes. She forces their head back down and reaches for the numbing cream this time, a sharp minty smell filling the air when the lid cracks open. She scrapes out a glob and rakes her hands through their tentacles, taking care to avoid the suckers. Sensitivity tends to vary and cheap home-cuts will forgo it entirely, but they can’t accuse her of torture if she uses it. 

There isn’t much to cut besides a spare few overgrown bits. A clean stroke takes care of a stray tentacle in the front and she holds the towel up to the end to staunch the ink, beading green on the fabric. The high-end places have stuff that cauterises the tentacles with the cut but she never bothered getting her hands on it. It’s too expensive, too high-tech for someone that only really does routine bang maintenance and a once-in-a-blue-moon trim. 

Marie snaps a photo from the couch, discreet as ever. 

She ends with the mantle gloss for no reason other than a flourish. It doesn’t take much of the stuff to make their tentacles all shiny, just a glob or two. Three’s ear flicks when she works it into the ends. The numbing cream must be wearing off. 

“There!” she announces, standing back to admire her handiwork. “I think I did pretty good!” 

She ties Three’s tentacles back before handing them a mirror. Fresh cuts always look a little scrappy, but within a week or so the suckers will re-form and round out the edges again. Still, she thinks she did a decent job. She just hopes Three agrees. 

They’re not thrilled. They’re not upset, either. They angle their head in the mirror like they’re watching the refraction of a prism, following the way their bangs brush the side of their cheeks with careful attention. 

“You can hide your mask with your tentacles like this,” she says quietly, next to their ear. She doesn’t think it’s something they’d want to have spoken aloud. “I noticed you liked to do that.” 

Marie looks up from her phone and cranes her neck before shooting her a thumbs-up. “Nice job.”

“Right?” She pats Three on the head, gentle as ever. “I think they like it, too.” 

But Three just murmurs their thanks, staring at their face in the mirror like it was something they had never seen before.

“So,” Marie starts, voice muffled around a mouthful of breaded crab. “Why don’t you ever talk to Gramps?” 

Three scrapes the tines of their plastic fork over their fried clams in lieu of an answer, eyes trained firmly downwards, lips locked tight. She recognizes it acutely as the face of someone who doesn’t feel like speaking, can’t make themself open their mouth. They’ve worn it often enough. Hell, so did she, years ago. 

“Just don’t,” they mumble, picking at their food. 

She arches an eyebrow. “You haven’t said a single word to him in over a year.” 

Three just shrugs. “Guess I’m consistent, aren’t I?” 

“Are you scared of him?” Callie suggests, though she doubts it’s the answer. Three isn’t scared of anything beyond a few specific exceptions and Gramps’ intensity is all seafoam; looks intimidating, but turns to nothing in the hands. 

She gets a glare in return. Well, whatever. They’re entitled to it. 

“I just don’t,” they continue. “I don’t bother with him. He’s nice, I guess, but I ain’t letting him know anything about me.” 

They don’t let anyone know anything about them. All the scraps of Three she’s collected, their birth month, preferences, little bits and pieces; those had to be wrung out from them like soapy water from a towel. 

“That’s tactically detrimental,” Marie says. 

“Tactically detrimental my ass. If I had anything super important I just write it down.” They spear a clam, turning the fork over with a clinical degree of scrutiny. “Not that I got much or anything.”

She can tell Marie’s put-off by them again with the way her ears pin back, like she was about to leap forward and bite. Time to play damage control. It’s a wonder she’s managed to put up with them for this long, considering their near-compulsive tendency to run their mouth. “What does he know?”

“Name.” They shrug. “Age. Availability. Told you I didn’t have anything good.” 

“Did you ever tell him you were a girl?” 

Their eyes widen, and for a moment it looks like they’re about to spit. Callie can’t tell whether they’re embarrassed or angry - not that they’re mutually exclusive or anything, so it could probably be both. 

(Too stupid to tell what other people want, Cal, just quit trying-) 

“I- I never-” Their hand is still fisted around their fork, white-knuckling the flimsy plastic. It’s shaking like she told them to make a call again, a plank she’s kicked them onto and ordered to walk. “I dunno what you’re getting at.” 

“Hey, look, it’s all fine if you haven’t,” she says, hands held in what she hopes is a pacifying gesture. “I’m not saying you have to.” 

“I should, though.” Their voice cracks; waves breaking on stone. It’s misery, she realises, with a sort-of dawning shame. I always knew you were an idiot- “I just- forgot. That’s it. After we’re done here I’ll write him a note or something and tell him to quit being a senile old bastard and-”

They purse their lips suddenly, cutting themself off. Hell, it looks like they’re about to cry. She’s never seen that from them before, only heard it, but it feels like watching an accident on repeat. 

“It’s fine, Jude.” It’s Marie’s turn to talk them off the ledge this time. She’s grateful. If she kept yapping on she’d probably just fuck up and actually make them cry, and then they’d talk to her about as much as they talk to Gramps. “If you don’t want to tell him, you don’t have to.”

“I should want to!” Emphasis on should . Emphasis on want. “Girls don’t like being mistaken for boys.” 

Emphasis on- huh? Like? That throws a wrench into the equation. Other questions bubble to the front of her mind, ones she wouldn’t voice out of fear that the tears will either spill over or they’ll try to strangle her. So do you want Gramps to keep at it? Should we? I figured you were just a tomboy. I thought he was making assumptions. I’m making assumptions. Cal, just keep your fucking mouth shut, will you? You’re a disgrace, you. 

She won’t press. They’re- he? Three’s entitled to his privacy, too. 

Marie seems to have the same idea. Not for the first time she’s grateful that she’s about as bad in these sorts of delicate situations as Callie is, two rogue agents lashing out in a shop selling nothing but porcelain vases. 

At least Three’s started to eat again, if overly methodical to the point of listless. In the silence she can hear the crunch of the clams under his teeth, fried skin breaking open. Marie slurps on her pop, the straw scraping against the cup’s opening. 

“You should try talking to Gramps, though.”

Well, someone had to ruin the silence. At least it wasn’t her. 

Three opens his mouth to protest but Marie cuts him off before he can start, holding up her hands. “Not about the thing we just talked about, but in general. I meant it when I said it could cost us a mission, one day.”

“I dunno what to say,” he mumbles, turning his clams over with his fork. “How do you start up conversation with someone you haven’t spoken to before? I can’t just… say things.” 

“Just start small! You don’t have to come strong out the gates or anything. I’m sure if you said hi it’d make his day.” 

He nods, unconvinced at first, until he seems to rationalise it to himself. She’s glad, really. She’s sure the kid needs at least one positive adult figure in his life, and her and Marie barely count as adults in the first place. 

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll try.”

It’s another victory, it is.

Gramps greets Three with all his usual fanfare the next day, but she swears his eyes nearly pop out when he gets a hi in return. 

She won’t claim she has any influence on him, but no one questions her when she can’t fight the smile off her face. For the record, neither can Marie.

Three steps onto the invisible platform with all the trepidation of someone stepping onto a boat in frothy water. Then he tests his weight, plants his foot on firmly, and hoists himself up. Callie notes that he’s avoiding looking down; a sentiment she sympathises with a little too much, and one Marie refuses to let her live down. 

“So, Three-”

“No.” He says automatically, borderline reflex. 

She scowls. Not like he can see it. “I didn’t even say anything?” 

“This is about the Splatfest, ain’t it? I’m not gonna listen.” 

“I- No?” Beside her, Marie covers her mouth with her sleeve, muffling a laugh. “What, I can’t chat now? Rude.” 

On the monitor a lone Octarian soldier floats in seemingly empty space. Three inches his way on-camera, taking care only to step on the patches of teal ink he had shot out ahead. “You were tryna get me on your team, weren’t you?” 

Yes. “Uh, no. Even if I was, I wouldn’t need to tell you to join my team anyway.”

Marie turns her attention away from the computer in favour of glaring, grey eyes narrowed into slits. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means that he’s obviously going to side with me.” Her eyes flick back to the monitor. Three tosses a bomb, a mint-green explosion in midair. “Right?” 

“What are you on about?” 

“You’ve lost all dignity, haven’t you?” Marie jabs. “We’re on duty. You can try coercing him onto your team later.” 

“Coercing?”

“Besides,” she says smugly. “Three has good taste. Obviously he’ll be on my team.” 

Callie blinks in shock, but Marie doesn’t look any less smarmy. If anything the stupid, smug grin on her face has only grown wider, dimpling her cheeks. 

It’s so on. 

“Look, Three, you think I’m the cooler one, right?” She says into the mic. The camera isn’t on his face but she swears he’s rolling his eyes at her. He’s just as bad as Marie sometimes, really. “Right?” 

“Don’t listen to her, Three. Just keep focused on the mission.”

“Right?” She practically shakes the walkie, like being any more forcible would squeeze an answer out. Three ducks behind a pillow for cover, fingers fumbling at his tank for a bomb. “I get you food, I let you watch R-rated movies-”

“-not anymore.” 

“And I let you stay up past 11!” 

“Gee, thanks Ma. What next, are you gonna tuck me into bed? Gimme a kiss on the forehead?” 

“What about the haircut? Aren’t you happy about that?”

“Yeah, the one you had to hold him down to do?” Marie snips. “I bet he’s thrilled about that one. Look, Three, I won’t give you an elevator pitch like she’s doing. I trust you’ll make the right decision.” 

“Hypocrite!” she nearly shrieks. “You were acting like you were above this!”

“What, and you’re not?” 

“Y’know, I’m having a real hard time deciding,” Three says, but he doesn’t sound conflicted in the least. His tone is nearly identical to the way he gets when he’s thinking up some type of scam, all freshly-honed edges and sharp points. “What’s my loyalty worth to you?” 

“You-” She cuts herself off before she can say something Marie will really never let her live down, but hell if it isn’t hard. “You got a bunch of autographs, a selfie, a vinyl record of the deluxe edition of our CD, and a ton of leftover merch from our last tour! What else do you want?” 

“That was last year. You can’t claim all that shit was just to win me over.” 

He really is a little snake when he wants to be. Her eyes are on the screen in theory, but she barely registers his movements enough to comment on them; watch out for the Sniper, Three. I don’t get why they change up the platforms every time. I mean, who goes to all that trouble to trip up a kid? You’re just a kid. I don’t know why the validation of a fucking kid means enough to me that I’d get actually mad at my own- 

“You’re still renting your E-Liter, right?” Marie says, smooth as ever. “I have an old 3k that I barely touched. It’s yours if you want it.” 

“Huh? Really?” 

“-On the condition that you join my team.” 

She practically shoves Marie over, fumbling for the walkie so she can tug it to her mouth. “Three, if you join my team I will buy you a Custom.” 

Three whistles. “Now that’s bribery.” 

“And it could be yours if I see that Tee on you tomorrow!” she wiggles her fingers for extra emphasis. “Kraken is such a sick special.” 

“Get off- ” Marie grunts, elbowing Callie to the side. “You’re really sinking low for this, huh?” 

“So are you!” She scowls. “You know, you could’ve just sat back and let me yap without getting your own hands dirty.” 

“Why did you do it in the first place, then?” 

“I wasn’t gonna try to bribe him at first, but then you came along and started running your mouth-”

“Running my mouth?” she snaps. “We’re on duty! I don’t get why you’re doing this now of all times!” 

“Guys?”

“You always act like you’re above me, then just go ahead and do the same thing anyway!” she snaps. “You’re a hypocrite! Just admit it!” 

“I hope this is recorded. Proper extortion material, here.” 

“Shut up, Three, if you record this I will actually-”

“Oh, so you’re threatening kids now, huh? Check out Little Miss High-and-Mighty over here-

“Soldiers incoming! Hey- where’s my warning? You’re supposed to be watchin’ aren’t you? Are you seriously pulling this shit right now?” 

She doesn’t know when it turns into a full-blown argument, but at some point she starts feeling less like herself and more like she’s ten and Marie has made some offhand comment about how small and crummy her house is, or how strange her mom acts sometimes. The screen is barely a suggestion in her periphery and she’s sure Marie isn’t even bothering to watch either - there she goes with her stupid apathetic look again, always acting like she’s above this, above me, you can’t even read your lines with enthusiasm, you’re a shit excuse for an idol, you- 

At some point Three disappeared off-screen, leaving the camera trained on the same empty void, false stars glittering overhead in artificial constellations. 

The celebrations continue for two days afterwards. Insult to injury. She parts back the glittery pink curtains of her bedroom to see the skyline lit electric-green, fireworks dancing in glass-paned skyscrapers like the sunset over calm waters. 

“I mean, I really don’t get it! I’m happy for her, you know, but I really thought I was gonna come out on top! I didn’t think she actually cared!” 

“I always liked Marie better,” her mother says. She pulls the curtains back over the window.

In-between auditions and glorified stunt cameos and commercials where she had to hold up tubs of mantle gloss and bat her lashes at the camera, she gets a message from Gramps. She nearly misses it, wedged somewhere between a notification from a tabloid subscription and her food delivery app reminding her that gyoza is 25% off if she orders in the next ten minutes, so hurry it up, will you? 

We need you at the Canyon asap. Just the one sentence, short and to the point. Not like Gramps really comes around for chit-chat, so she doesn’t know where her disappointment stems from. He was nice enough to give her a break from duty after the news gig ended and she suddenly had no idea what to do with herself. Something-something pick your career back up off its ass, something-something still can’t look Marie in the eye. 

So she goes. It’s an order. Lately she’s been longing for them. Life was so much nicer when she had the easy restrictions her schedule would provide; when it wasn’t just herself. 

It’s a damp day, and Marie is there. They both opt to stay at a distance, she notices, a good five feet for civility’s sake. Three keeps his tentacles the same way she styled them all those months ago and they’ve grown out past his shoulder blades, shackled behind his neck. His eyes rake over her and Marie and the gaps in-between, and she feels all too much like a roast at the head of the table at a holiday meal. 

“Keep at it, will ya?” Gramps taps him with his Bamboo, prompting him to crouch down and continue piling plates and bags and all sorts of oddities in the camping bag at his sneakers. “I want outta here in an hour, tops.” 

“Where are you going?” Marie is the first to break their silence. She was always the braver one. “You didn’t tell us about this.”

“I thought I’d let you girls enjoy your vacation a bit more before you had to head back in.”

Enjoy. Vacation. Hah, right. “What’s with all the camping stuff?” 

“Camping trip, obviously,” Three says, wedging a spare ink tank in the bag’s leftover space. “Cap is working me like a seahorse over here.” 

By lingering reflex she almost looks over at Marie, searching for confirmation that at least she knew what was going on. Marie doesn’t move a muscle. “Camping? Seriously? It’s March. You’re going to freeze to death.” 

“I figured it was ‘bout time to get Three used to longer missions. ‘Sides, there’s nothing like living off the land, isn’t there?” He gives Three another tap with the end of his Bamboo. Three’s ear twitches, but he doesn’t flinch. “Right, squiddo?” 

“Whatever you say, old man.” 

“Where are you headed?” Callie says. She’s doing her best to keep her eyes trained on Three’s packing. Otherwise she might see Marie, and her face, and that strange, distant look she gave her before they both silently decided to hold each other at arm’s length. 

“Mt. Nantai! I’ve heard more activity from the Octos over there, and I got a feelin’ they’ll be sticking their slimy suckers aboveground again at some point.”

Callie arches an eyebrow. “Nantai? Geez, that’s a bit of a hike.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Three grumbles, earning a sharp look from Gramps. 

“You better enjoy it, squiddo. Back in my day we had no cars or nuthin’, just our ten tentacles and two damn feet!” 

“Doesn’t Three have school?” Marie interrupts, sounding bored. 

Three flashes her a sharp grin, all teeth. “Forged a doctor’s letter. Turns out I’m pretty good at signatures.” 

Marie mutters something under her breath, but lets it slide. Some things haven’t changed. She can’t tell if she’s glad. 

Eventually Three manages to cram their supplies (mostly Gramps’, evidently) into one overlarge camping bag, pots and pans and rope hanging from carabiners like warding talismans. He ties off one last knot clove-hitch before slinging the straps over his shoulders. The bag isn’t heavy enough to make him keel over properly, but the look on his face suggests he’d rather leave it in the mud. 

“Careful,” Marie says, a teasing note in her voice. “Nantai is a day’s hike away.” 

He drops the bag, letting it clatter. “Alright. I think we’re set.” 

Gramps eyes the bag the same way he eyes his food, all scrutiny. “You sure you got everything?” 

“Obviously.” 

“Camping gear? Food? Weapons?”

“Yeah, yeah, get off my case.” Callie can see his E-Liter crammed in a bedroll that’s strapped to the underside of the bag, his Shot hanging at his hip. The most danger they’ll encounter out there will probably be Gramps slipping on a stray patch of moss or something, but she supposes it doesn’t hurt to be armed to the teeth. “Can we go now?”

“Impatient,” he chides, shaking his head. “I’ll let you say your good-byes. You like your privacy, dontcha?” 

And he sets off. Little fanfare, like always, but with finality. With how often he goes missing it may as well be precaution at this point; every time he disappears off the face of the earth could be his last. 

That leaves Three. And her. And Marie. 

“Sucks that I have to leave right away. It’s been a while since I saw either of you.”

In the same room, is the unspoken caveat. Breathing the same air. We all know damn well why. 

She smiles, stretching her mouth until she feels her eyes crinkle. “You don’t gotta look so down! Camping with Gramps is actually kinda fun. He used to take us out when we were little, and we’d learn songs on the guitar and roast octo weenies. You’ll probably have a good time.”

“Probably,” he scoffs, kicking the bag. “If my back doesn’t give out first.”

“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot about that,” Marie says. “I think I can still remember a couple songs.” 

Without thinking she laughs, hiding her mouth with the sleeve of her sweater. “You didn’t like guitar, though. You always complained about calluses.” 

“Yeah, well, I got…” she trails off, the soft little smile on her face faltering, like she forgot she wasn’t supposed to have one. “I got better eventually. Piano is still more my thing, though.” 

“Yeah,” she nods, blankly, forcing her face back down into soft neutral. “I don’t blame you.” 

It’s dangerous reminiscing like this. Too long in Marie’s company will remind her of what it was like when they were joined at the hip - how much it hurts now that they aren’t, like there was a tangible scar from the day Marie suggested they do their own thing and she agreed without a fight. 

It’s better this way. Marie likes her space, and they’re both technically adults now. Callie oughta learn to live with herself. 

“Three! Are ya comin’ or what?” 

Three casts one last look between them before straightening, slinging the bag over his back. His legs bend with the weight, but do not buckle. “Guess that’s my cue. Seeya in a couple weeks, I guess.” 

“Seeya!” she chirps, waving. “We’ll keep the place locked down for you, no sweat.” 

“Be safe,” Marie echoes. “And seriously, try to enjoy yourself. You’ll stop getting vacations like these once you’re our age.” 

“Yeah, well, I’ll try not to twist a tentacle or anything,” he says with a mock-salute. Then he’s gone too, his lightning-green shock of tentacles disappearing down the path Gramps had carved. 

There are birds chirping somewhere, she realises idly. Funny. She thought it was too cold for them to be out. 

“Callie, I-”

“It’s fine,” she cuts her off quickly. Too quickly, before whatever she says makes her scream and beg for her not to leave her alone again. “Whatever I said before, I’m- I’m sorry. It was shitty of me, and I just- uh-”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Marie says and oh no, she’s using that gentle voice again - the one she used with Three when he’d flinch or curl in on himself for whatever reason, and she’d have to coax him back out again without getting bit. But it’s her, this time. She’s the one that has to be brought out of hiding, like an eel wedged too far in its nest. Her with the needle-sharp teeth. “That was months ago anyway. I honestly forgot why we were fighting.” 

“Blanket apology, then?” 

“Ditto.” She smiles. It’s soft, and to Callie it feels too much like she’s watching the crocuses poke their heads aboveground. “I kinda missed hanging out with you.”

“I-” I missed you so much I’ve half-convinced myself I’d be alone for the rest of my life, every night when I watch the sunset it feels like I’m eating myself alive. “Yeah, me too. I miss our movie nights.” 

“Hey, we’ll have a bit to catch up, won’t we?” 

“If we trash the cabin we’ll have to clean up before Gramps gets back,” she snickers. 

“It’s just a couple weeks,” Marie says. “We should enjoy it while it lasts.”