Chapter Text
An Inkling boy, with orange tentacles that have long grown past his ears and over his face, stands at the foot of Deca Tower like it might lean down and swallow him whole.
Inkopolis Square is quiet around him, neon signs buzz faintly, footsteps splashing faintly against the pavement, but he’s still. Fifteen years old, weapons-heavy and thinking a little too hard about money. About how tight it’s gotten.
Turf war is right there, just waiting for him, screaming, alluring him with the tantalizing promise of money, safety.
Tch, old habits die hard.
He shifts his grip on the dualies, new and gleaming in a way that makes him feel older than he is and younger than he should be. Fresh purchase, Last of his savings. A gamble, a real risky one.
Four years of work presses down on his shoulders, and his mind makes mental gymnastics, weighing his options, he takes a stroll through memory lane. It’s all still fresh in his mind.
Fishing comes back first, like it always does. He was twelve years old, standing on a slick dock with borrowed gloves and a bucket that smelled like salt and rust. Risky work, long nights, waves that didn’t care if it could kill you in an instant. The pay had been good, suspiciously so. They never asked for his ID. Never asked questions at all. He’d looked old enough, fully humanoid already, no soft edges left to give him away so they’d taken him in without a second thought.
That was the day shift he found Chip.
A bucket was drifting where it shouldn’t have been. An orange paralarva trembled weakly inside. Pale lavender eyes staring up at nothing. He remembers dropping everything: rod, gloves, common sense, and jumping into the water and hauling the bucket in like it was the most important catch he’d ever make.
After that, things blur into something more grotesque. Missions, a lot of them. Ink splattering the disfigured faces of Octo troopers, they went down in waves under his savagery. An old man’s voice crackling through comms, giving him orders, without substantial rewards. Bandana can’t remember the old man's name anymore, just the merciless gaze of octarians has shot him down time and time again. He’d left early. Didn’t really look back.
Then… There's turf war. Better described as his “complicated situationship” of the bunch.
Competitive, Loud, Chaotic, Punk, would be the best words to put it. He thought of it as a welcome distraction from his shitty life and the malnourished inkling in his apartment. The thrill of it sinking into his veins like a vampire’s fangs.That’s when he’d become Bandana, pulling the fabric low over his forehead, hiding his face, hiding the fang that gave him away. A name: A way to exist without being seen, just the way he liked it.
This “situationship" didn't last long.
Camp triggerfish, it was splatfest night, he made one slip on enemy ink and he fell back. Water circled him quickly, ink started to dissolve in his inside and he felt his skin erode from the water. The cold shock of it. The hissing pain of it like the hottest iron on his tentacles. A teammate dragged him out just in time. The pain taught him to value life, and acknowledge his fragility, since then, he’s dedicated himself to making Chip, his adoptive brother, live a better, healthier life.
Yet, despite growth, he still wakes up some nights feeling it, phantom pain and panic dripping down his forehead.
Now he’s here again, 2 years later, Deca Tower looms overhead, glass and steel cutting into the sky. Bandana eyes flutter open, long overgrown tentacles fluttering as the wind catches them. His old gear ruffles when he shifts, scratched, some places patched, overall too small for his taller build, but reliable. (And totally punk rock)
He closes his eyes.
Chip flashes behind his lids: pale eyes, dripping ink everywhere, that glimmer in his eyes “Things will be better”. The weight of responsibility settles in his chest, heavy and familiar.
Bandana inhales, then steps forward, he catches a glimpse of himself in the window, his bright orange eyes pierce right back at him, and he scowls.
“Ugly, Ugly man.”
He pulls up his bandana over his face and the doors slide open for him.