A violet mass of pressurised ink flies overhead. Crows caw in their flight into Dome D-8's scorched trees. A second ink shot scratches the jeep. The sharp sound of high-velocity ink, paired with grazed metal, brings a chill in the driver's neck. Her neck stays locked on the road ahead nonetheless.

"God--! Please say we're close," she spits through the motor's heaving roar. Running on a low tank. It barely keeps up.

Having called shotgun earlier, an octoling in her late teens peeks her head out of her laptop, an army model. The road is heading straight to the dome's edge. Inconveniently, its ancient iron-clad exit is locked from end to end, barred with security systems. There's no visible gaps to squeeze through.

"Keep pressing the pedal!" The octoling breathes out in haste. "We are so so very close!"

Her gasp betrays the genuine panic she kept locked in for hours. The close calls are relentless. The driver gnaws on her black lip. Her thick platform's sole is already in contact with the jeep's floor, of pilled carpet and chewed rubber, tapered by the steel pedal. She gives the gear shift another smack, and this time, the machine allows them the luxury of the fastest gear.

"Fucking finally!" She relishes to hear the motor working harder than before. "Are they still hot on our trail?"

The octoling raises herself better, to look into the rear-view mirrors. Her white tentacles spiral out of the barren window frame. "Not close anymore. There isn't any fuel left for them to use, I think." Her speech is decorated in Octarian pronunciations. Yet, her very own conscripts are after her. She hopes she hasn't been identified.

"They're not catching us then," the driver rasped defiantly.

The driver has passed her teenage years a while ago, yet sometimes, her attitude begs to differ. There are a lot of peculiarities about her at first glance. Where there should have been suckers, her orange hair splits at its end into claws, hinting at her strange crustacean heritage.

The girl in the passenger seat is dressed in neatly sewn military garments - genuine leather and lightweight aluminium. The driver dons in the same clothes as the last day she's seen real sunlight. Phleather leggings, tank top ripped into a crop, and studded bracelets.

The octoling frantically types into a simple terminal window, hitting backspace more often than she would be comfortable with. Each command is precedented with an executable name, adm octsysctrl, and at least ten shorthand arguments only she can understand. And yet, each Enter keystroke leaves her with either a parsing error, or a long and painful timeout, set precisely after ten seconds. Panic makes her write the wrong addresses and commands. Each second is essential, even the ones spent thinking before the timeout would kick. She modifies another parameter, a network address, and seeks the blessed confirmation. A different message prints out this time.

"Dana! The gate...! I've unlocked it!" The octoling announces with slight surprise even for herself. "With the data I entered, it's opening around 10 percent, and then closing and locking up. Estimating 60 seconds of time to exit." Her gaze is fixed on the widening gap. "We need to leave the jeep here."

The corners of Dana's lips wipe her scowl with their lift. It lifts even her soul. "Nice one, Itvara! Just say when."

The gates become bigger and bigger under their gaze, incredibly imposing in size. The motor coughs. Itvara estimates there's 100 metres left between them.

"...Now!"

The black platform jerks from the acceleration to the brake, making it screech in pain as it's pinned to the floor. The sudden halt nearly smashed the two against the windscreen, Itvara's computer toppled from her lap. Without any second thoughts, she grabs hold of it again, and jumps out the passenger window. Her friend struggles to get out, thin black brows lowered in disdain for herself. Itvara finds the door handle for her, and reaches her free hand out.

She pulls Dana out, guiding her away from the vehicle. Purple-tipped claws circle around longer, black-tipped ones. The motor's left to rumble alone in a crater. It's a product of the Valley, destined to be forgotten in it.

The gates have reached their maximum programmed opening, which is a comfortable arm's width for the two, thanks to the gates' collosal size. From here on, they're automatically closing, for good. Thankfully, the two's feet still hold to run the last mile, even through the scorched and scratching vegetation. Itvara pulls the crabling away from the reinforced gates, looking back at the open slit as one of the Great Octarians' light becomes a thin line upon them.

Now she understands why these faux celestial bodies are essential in every dome. The tunnels become pitch-black, humid and claustrophobia-inducing once the gates close and the satellite can't reach its rays inside. With so little light seen over eons, these tunnels feel otherworldly. Using the light emanating from her various gadgets, Itvara leads the two further in, looking for the grilling that will bring them up. She vaguely remembers how it should look like from her brigade's descriptions. They are experts compared to her, the brigade's homebody.

Dana's claws graze at the tunnel walls sometimes, coming into contact with their sliminess. Behind the herbaceous film, there are concrete walls of an age far beyond what they could comprehend. She slows her pace at the sound of metallic heels hitting gratings. Itvara's feet suddenly felt very heavy, stepping on top of the exit pipe's mouth. A very different air blows from below.

It's here.

For the few that were brave enough to venture out, for the few that were cowardly enough to abandon their homeland; she's not sure in which category her laurels will reside. In any case, she won't be the one to mend this story of violence and greed, of two sister nations torn long ago. The legacy of her actions will be only for the future to decide.

Itvara latches on Dana's sore inner elbow, sinking her claws slightly into the skin. It's not the first time. Being gentle is no longer something of concern, she pulls on her orange-inked partner, with anxiety ready to split her hearts eightfold. The narrow piping demands them to be liquefied, and for the first time, the octoling swaps the deep purple circles on her tentacles for orange ones. In this trustful hold, they dissolve and brace.

They flow through the systems. There's a slight change in pressure. The darkness gets choked out by a ray of light, though there's no warmth in its embrace.

They reform their feet. The journey to the other end brings them to a familiar scent for Dana. It's hard to put your finger on it: musty, dusty, mechanical, with an artificial sweetness and savouriness that has no place in this landscape.

They won't let themselves celebrate too early. Wherever they are, Itvara didn't forget their instructions: get away from their source of arrival as soon as they can.

Mindful of not dragging Dana too far behind her, Itvara takes large strides through the new tunnel they've found themselves into. They're on a slightly raised platform, running parallel to some train tracks. One end is as pitch black as the pipes. The other lets a cool light that reaches the tips of their boots. It becomes apparent that they're on a station's platform, beyond the perimeter they're allowed to walk on, as indicated by the barriers and bright red Forbidden entry signs. Itvara taps on Dana's shoulder, and guides her arms and legs over the barrier. Her sweat's still hanging on the side of her temples, still stressing over someone jumping on them. Though, she sighs in relief as the platform's stark empty. The savoury scent is familiar to Itvara as well. She traces it back to a closed stall. The sign enumerates drinks, snacks, tobacco, newspapers in a clear Inklish font.

They nearly jump at the subtle hum of a speaker that's just turned on. An announcement follows. A long note rings in a pure sine wave. Then a shorter lower note, followed by the same long note. This sequence repeats twice. The last one eerily reverbs.

This raises a tremor in Itvara's core, which spreads to her limbs. What is this jingle? It's only two notes, yet their pitch and arrangement...

Next southbound train is in ten minutes for Angelfish Station. Take care when entering and exiting the trains and allow space for larger citizens. The jingle for the Inkopolis Underground follows once more.

"The Underground and the Valley were connected?" Dana half-whispers, though her pitch made it sound like Itvara was intentionally leaving this detail out.

"It- It's news to me too! We don't know all of the connections. There's so many, and the old large spec sheets are still top classified."

"Let's get out before someone finds us with unpaid fare," she interrupts. "See if you can find some stairs."

Indeed, at the other end, there's signs that lead to the station's exit. Each stair gets Itvara closer to the elusive surface. Although she's already up there, by definition, it doesn't feel official in this liminal space. She's too accustomed to artificially lit tunnels. Frankly, the only difference is that the moss lining on the earlier walls was switched in favour of the Underground's many colourful adverts.

Nonetheless, her tentacles jitter in anticipation. Her brigade had brought her back descriptions of the surfacing metropolis, how the air tasted on their lips, and the real weather's feeling on their skin, though all they could've physically brought back for her were snacks and trinkets. Flavoured kelp crisps - they definitely sell those at that stall.

The exit barriers let them through with no protest. The final set of stairs feels slippery. A thousand street lamps stand before Dana once more, though they’re all nondescript masses of light. Like everything is, as of lately.

It's surreal nonetheless. Dana doesn’t know how many days it’s been down there. It felt like years, years that hang like an albatross around her neck. A less wiser version of her knew this city’s nights by heart, it’s feeling is oh so familiar, though this city won't stop taking her by surprise in little ways. Her steps are accompanied by splashes, though the water will never reach higher than her oversized, spike-studded platforms. Every step she takes, she can’t stop hitting puddles. Seems the weather’s turned colder, wetter in the meantime.

Her friend, curly tentacled, mane that's a pale halo around her somewhat youthful face, looks towards the intersections with sparkling acid green eyes. She’s still looping her beauty-mark clad arm around the other’s peach toned, spiked elbow. Under the sheen of the recent rainfall, the traffic light’s tricolour warbles against the ground, the windows, the atmosphere. This air is truly different. The stars, the sky... No simulacra. No binary encoding. A home away from home.

They've made it, though it's never over. They keep walking.

Dana's been taking smaller strides. There still are short flashes of blankness and confusion jolting through her mind, though she fights them back with gritted fangs. She won't allow anything control over her senses but herself. Her orange-inked, semisoft hair pincers also stay stoically closed, not half-open, not ready to snap. There's newfound awareness in all she does.

“Angel, even if there’s no way for you to know, you have to figure out the direction we're going.”

“That’s easy, I can look for more street signs and landmarks.” Despite herself, Itvara brightly declares she will take on any task.

“Once we know, I should be able to get us two back home from memory. You just keep an eye out for anything.”

Itvara circles the unknown intersections, looking out for anything she would be able to read. At every crossing, she latches onto her friend’s elbow a bit tighter. We’re waiting for the wave of cars to stop, Dana. Take care with the sidewalk, Dana, she says every time without a fault.

She also prides herself with her Inklish script reading, and picks out the signs that stand out. Seastarbucks, Konchbinis, they’re not unique Inkopolitan landmarks, as she assumed. Dana quitely adds, "they’re chains".

This aimless yet dutiful stroll reminds Itvara of the seldom trips she had back in A-1, the Valley's capital dome, whenever she would be allowed one. She would get a taste of its urban philosophy, in its outdated, concrete architecture. Other domes weren't as lucky, steel guts emerged from the eroded concrete blocks. The City of Colour has newer materials, shapes, attractions. Her Valley seemed stuck eternally in time, while the surface relentlessly moved forwards, never waiting for anyone lagging behind.

Even at these obscure hours before dawn, there's enough folks around to make it feel awake. Especially when most are inebriated, making quite a commotion at times. Some anemone girl has a speaker on, which attracted a large group under a closed bar's shadow. Before Itvara figures what's it all about, their overlapping conversations get cut by a sharp, distant siren.

Sirens grow louder, their intermittent crescendo more intense. There’s even more commotion a few streets away from them. In spite of her closed eyes, Dana squeezes them more shut. "This city,” she grunts. “I forgot how damn noisy it is. Can you see any landmarks now?”

Itvara nearly pointed in a direction, though immediately knew there's no point. “There is something going on, in the noisy way. Should we check it?”

Dana can't ignore the sirens, as much as she tries. “Yeah, why the hell not. Let's see how my tax money is doing.”

Itvara keeps her head high after the warm glow peeking behind the buildings, that has no place between the neons and starlight. Before she knows, she finally discovers what the real commotion is about.

A spout of fire flies out of a building’s entrance. Inkopolis Fire Department vehicles are surrounding the building, and the firefighters are containing the spitting smoke and heat. The infernal orange glow is mixing with the brigade’s red-blue vehicle signals.

"Now, what's this..." a low mutter escapes the black lips. Something in Dana's gut shifts.

"A fire accident?"

"Accidents aren't usually left to get so out of hand. I can tell just from how hot it's on my face."

She approaches the flames more eagerly than Itvara, like a moth going for the bulb. She needs to know more, ask someone for details, but she wouldn't be able to explain herself to the octoling as to why. She can feel Itvara's arm pulling harder against her elbow.

Maybe it's for her good. "How big's the fire, exactly?"

"It spans the entire ground floor. But... Let's take some steps backwards,” Itvara carefully pulls her back to a comfortable position. She prefers they overlook the chaotic scene without any involvement. She's a fresh runaway, after all.

Dana complies. Though she can't shake off the flames' allure.

The main entrance is coughing out embers and thick smoke, which fizzle out at the firefighters' hoses. An especially burly crab keeps hold of one of the hoses, controlling the water and fire tempests. It's odd, knowing Dana is one of them, and yet, nothing much like them. She's more like Itvara's own kin, from the little she learned from her in the Valley.

Itvara's somewhat confused as to why Dana's lingering on this moment. Her inital guess was her fogginess, though she's staring in deep concentration, as if digging something back from her memory cabinet. To understand herself, Itvara stares in the same direction. A jet of water puts off that spot, revealing the exposed brick wall hidden behind the flames. And an intact signpost.

“Oh! I see a sign through the smoke. Bottlenose Bulv-ard?”

“Boulevard,” the correction comes immediately. Dana’s expression grows grim. She's suddenly tense in her limbs, so much so that the octoling feels it under her fingers.

Itvara squints at the building, and contemplates the street's name. She encountered it in writing many times before. It was frequented by her brigade, though Itvara always mangled their routes towards it. If she knew earlier that it had a direct kettle from the D North Regiment, maybe she would've saved many hours of cleaning up camera footage and access logs. In any case, it's not like this little piece of trivia will be of any use anymore.

Her thought process cuts with Dana's stutter under her breath. As Itvara's ears perk, the crabling nearly takes a step forwards, then asks with a raspier voice.

“Are... are there any victims?”

The octoling cranes her head. “I can only see firefighters. The medical troo-” she catches herself, “...staff is idle.”

The leg returns to its steady position. Dana strokes Itvara’s forearm in appreciation, for being the eyes she couldn’t use. “Okay. No victims..." she said the last part for herself, then continued with her usual confidence. "Of course. It's no coincidence. I should've known we were bound to end up on Bottlenose Boulevard. I should've known when I felt the fire.”

“So you know where we are now?”

“Angel. This is where I’ve died.”

Two patrollers look unsettled. Their ink reservoirs are empty. Dry vegetation is hanging from their boots. They look up to their superior, slightly apprehensive.

Their anxious squirms are understandable, considering her stature. Her ID is deeply etched in the metal of her left shoulder plate. RVL-41, though more subordinates know her as Major Regina Revelia. Slender, straightened tentacles fall at the sides of her hollowed cheeks, and repeatedly curl and unwind just at the ends. Her legs, belly and neck are covered in her tight jumpsuit, leaving her wide shoulders exposed for the armour. Two metallic belts hold her gear and holster. She still wears her elite kelp around her head, as she did in her most dangerous operations.

"I do fully assure you," there's a base growl in each of Regina's syllables, "that DWL-14 is right in that watchtower, continuing our high-priority mission."

"We must confirm--"

Regina may have briefly paused, though it was no cue for them to interrupt. "Dewaele has requested that nobody enters the top floor as she's concentrating on a very difficult security task. Only I, as her superior, will enter her premises."

"Understood, Major. We need to see she's here," one octoling digs their heel in the dirt for courage.

"Then get a fucking commander of mine here to see for themselves," an asymmetric fang peeks out. The space between her brows folds multiple times. And she knows nobody up the chain will bother so much for a low-rank. "Understood?"

The patrollers exchange looks, swallowing in dry. The shorter one takes initiative. "I... suppose she could ping back to the A-2 Main Tower to confirm her presence."

"I'll tell her when she's taking a break. You get the ping and leave us at the important matters at hand. Like this Squidbeak situation. We shall not let it extend to any part of the D Wing. I have already notified my brigade."

"Understood, Major," in unison.

As the two turn away, marching on their blistered soles through D-10's verdant undergrowth, Regina drops her eyes to her boots, soothing her pulsing temples. This was just a little detour. Thankfully, it's all nearly over... Just a few more steps left to end the ordeal.

She twisted to the horizon behind her. It's impaled by an aging telecommunications tower turned military base. This dome's own small but proud platoon resides here. It's the only major structure in the dome, among the dense and responsibly conserved rainforest.

She marches on a beaten path in the vegetation, to reach the tower. There's two empty parking spaces between the foliage on the way there. Although the concrete is deeply cracked, plants haven't grown at all in the crevices. Two jeeps were at place once, although they're currently missing. She passes by the parking lot, unbothered by the fact. She hovers her wrist at the tower's entrance, until the access system beeps. The brigade's sleeping quarters are at its first floor. Nobody's to be seen here, yet it's been left with unmade beds.

Regina enters the lift, pulling only one of the two manual metallic sliding doors to the middle, in order to activate the lift's button. It creaks under its own weight, though it eventually gets up.

Atop the tower's spire, the windows are taped with posters from the A-2 metropolitan dome. A few Turquoise October, and a lot of lesser known names. The room's left in a mess, especially around the Technician's desk, though the floor on the opposite end is mostly empty. Only a few wooden crates remain on that side of the floor, hammered shut with nails. They're spray-painted with arcane acronyms, understood only by those who reside here. They're not meant to be peered into, due to their contents. She pushes them more to the middle. There's something to do about them on the way out.

The Major approaches the desk, staring into its six old monitors, spread on two rows. Sixfold bloated clones stare back at herself through the curved glass' reflections.

A map of the D North Regiment is displayed, with the nearby domes highlighted in white. In the middle it's theirs, D-10. A critical alert blares on D-8.

She pulls the keyboard closer to her. Before she messes with the terminal, she opens up with a line she hoped to say in person. Teletype will do in this case. Her keypresses are significantly slower than her Technician's, though the keyboard clicks the same. Upon hitting enter, Regina's fingertips rest on the desk. Her bordeaux eyes squint for the confirmation that the message was sent. She wishes the second it took would've lasted longer.

Now, she has no excuse not to execute the protocol. They affectionately called it the last resort.

Regina claws at one of the crates pushed earlier. She doesn't need a crowbar to pry open the nailed lid. A dozen grenades rest quietly inside. These aren't ink based, thus allowing untraceable action. A bestseller on the Sepia Market, Regina knows. She dumps a crate of them on the floor, letting them roll randomly. The other box, she brings outside. Her heartbeat takes the place of a countdown.

Out of the tower, a sure distance away yet still looking at it straight, she takes the first grenade. After a step back, and winding up her arm for a better impulse, she releases it. Her technique's impeccable. The grenade catapults into the digital sky and hits a screen. The screen cracks. The grenade explodes. A mass of dirt and dust vomits out of their contact. The rubble topples over their watchtower, burying their misdoings. A mass chain reaction occurs on the top floor.

These never were perfect blue skies.