Creatures keep passing through the ticket gates, spreading like a flood throughout the underground station. The pale octoling and crabling let go of their arms briefly, to each take a lane at the gates.

Dana prays that her ticket's magnetic tape doesn't fail her. An affirming chime sounds from the machine. The ticket isn't spit back out, and the gates light green. How Itvara knew to do this to two old tickets lying around the apartment, it's past Dana's understanding.

Besides her laptop, Itvara carries a little wonder device in her pocket, some Octarian ingenuity that can intercept any signal and reprogram control systems. And she touted it's not even official military equipment. It's a hobby device.

They relink their arms on the other side, and emerge from the station's mouth. They find themselves amidst a crowded crossing, disorientating for Itvara at first. The Plaza's station always shocks newcomers. Though, hanging on Dana's descriptions of the area, she gets them over the monumental crossings, needling through high rises and busy sidewalks.

They're headed for something called the Dragonet Building, on 148 Sandbar Street. It's supposed to have a large, automatic door, tucked between a wall of well-kept hedges. Itvara finally sees the building's number, then its name in a modern script. She swerves them right through its lobby.

Light, generic music. Sterile furniture. Large artwork. Perfume diffusers. A yellowtail receptionist. Itvara passes through the monochrome chamber, avoiding any eye contact. She feels out of place, with Dana's oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Dana also keeps her gaze locked ahead, though her opaque sunglasses and evening dress, the first things Itvara found in her drawers, make her blend into the landscape.

"They never fucking change the scents," Dana mutters before the elevators. "It's always the same, safe lobby stench."

Itvara doesn't reply, until she presses the 9th floor button and the doors close.

"What scent would you like instead?"

"Lavender."

Dana exits as soon as the elevator announces their floor. She has the steps memorised from here.

Itvara catches up with her. "Number 902... Is this it?"

Dana nods. "Yeah, so it's locked behind a card key, as I said. I left that in Amygdala. I don't know if--"

The lock beeps.

"Done. These are easy to spoof," Itvara brings the Dorsal Zero device to her smirk with a smug flick. The device emulated the master key, as it makes it known on the orange LCD.

"...That's cool to know. Having my ten million G apartment broken in with a toy. ...Cool." Dana talks through it, to keep herself from losing her mind over such technology.

"It's cute, but it is not a toy," Itvara pushes the door for Dana, letting her enter first.

The crabling feels short of breath, even from such a short road from the station. She takes cautious steps to the room's centre, kicking her feet until she spots the long sofa in the middle. She lowers herself onto it, keeping her head low until the ink flows like normal again. The sunglasses slide off her nose, and she catches them to place them on the coffee table. The reveal of her hollow-grey eyes still creeps out Itvara.

"Do you need help?" Itvara closes the door behind them.

"No. Just some time. ...Start looking."

However, fascination takes hold. The octoling chooses to squat next to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, completely detouring the designer furniture. Her acid green eyes are perfect circles, taking in the Inkopolitan skyline with awe. The skyline has a palette unlike the domes, bright and intense, where the patterns of greys get interrupted by the wonders of their booming economy. It doesn't even strike her mind that the Great Zapfish is acutely missing from the frame.

A low groan in the open-plan living gets Itvara instantly on her feet. Though she lets go of the military response, as she watches Dana lay better on the couch, eyes open towards the glossy ceiling. The back of Dana's claws begin tracing the backrest's contours, building a peculiar static underneath them. She absorbs a trace of life.

The presence left in the floors, in the windows, the couch pillows - Dana senses it through her extremities. It's not her fooling herself, considering how soulless and vacant this house would be otherwise. Someone was here, very recently.

Yet the bright blue marketing brochure, which came together with the card keys, was still on the coffee table, in the same place Dana left it, gathering dust. She picks it up, turning it into a makeshift fan for the leftover traces of a fever.

She needs more information before she can jump to conclusions. Dana calls Itvara to her.

"Peruse this," she hands the brochure to the octoling. "What changed inside since I've bought the apartment?"

Itvara does an analytical scan of the room and the brochure. The only thing that distinguishes this apartment from the pictured showroom is the stashed yoga mat in the corner. Nothing else. Itvara's curiosity gets the best of her.

"What is the turquoise mat for?" She picks it up from the corner. "...So soft and light."

Dana's breath skipped, just as it was getting back to normal. "Mat? Is it rolled?"

"Yes."

"...Cool. That's all I needed to know. Keep searching," the crabling says, a dash of concern in her tone. She starts pulling at her lower eyelashes.

Itvara prances around, without a goal, until she finally declares. "What am I looking for? I forgot."

"The cash box. A square, metallic safe, about twenty by twenty, inside one of the cabinets. I'll be looking as well," Dana pushes against her knees to rise. "Keep me in the loop about the other stuff, though."

Itvara toys with something in the background.

"Oh...! Is this...? This looks a little like an Octo Oven unit from the Canyon! It is so small!" She giggles as a pushes a mechanical component down. The spring inside recoils, and the metallic device rattles a bell, chiming.

...A toaster. Dana never has toast. She wouldn't ever have needed this, though Silviana wanted it included. Another thing that lost its purpose.

"I only ever see small units for parts. This one is not rusted!" Another bell chimes, louder. "Wuh? It pushes projectiles upwards? And the launch force is so weak... What is the point, then?"

Dana keeps feeling around the walls, hitting the integrated storage's doors. She pushes on them, to have them open, and gets her hand digging. All the shelves feel dusty and empty, until she hits the right one. She makes contact with a cold, heavy cube, filling the entire shelf. The cash box.

Dana claps her pincers. "Does your toy open this sort of locks, too?"

Itvara perks from the kitchen. "Oh... It depends on the encryption they used in manufacturing. Do you remember any segment of its code? We can brute-force it."

The crabling kneads the wrinkles out of her forehead. ...She set it to the one she always uses, but her coma has eaten up all of her blander memories. Itvara makes confident steps behind her, until she reaches the safe in question. She brushes her tentacle on Dana's arm, to have a better look inside.

"Dana. I don't think it is locked...?"

Her black-tipped claws start feeling the shelf again. They hit the secure metal. Her fingertips trace its boxy contour. Something thin sticks out. She pulls it. A deluge pours, its door opens against it.

The cash box couldn't even close properly from how full it was. Now, it's everywhere. Dana doesn't remember her and Silviana being so loaded.

"...Fuck." Dana spits under her breath.

"Is it an issue? It is enough for a soldering set, no?" Itvara scans the notes that fell the floor. She gets nervous while inspecting them. These are the most expensive notes the Inkadian banks currently accept.

"Itvara... Life was so much nicer when I couldn't afford any of this shit."

A circle of banknotes surrounds the two women, keeping them penned in.

This is what this apartment amounts to: a neat vault of their meaningless possessions. It's void of their reality, of any truth or ideals. It's where life stops giving something to fight for.

Dana finally learns, buying this place was an utter mistake. It was built on dirty money, claimed on dirty money, meant to keep them around dirty money. Even the funds she gathered with Silviana, with their sweat and perfume, gained a perverse connotation once they've gotten involved in this investment. Her regrets keep piling higher.

Who ever leashed Dana to this hollow, materialistic world?

Her knuckles pop in their squeeze. A figure forms in her mind's eye that makes the ink on the top of her head bubble.

Marzi did.

Central Inkopolis, early evening, approximately a year ago.

The brakes squeaked. Dana got out of a cab. As the heels latched on the concrete, she was neatening her long coat down. It was from a small, exclusive brand, and had sea bunny fuzz around the hems, contrasted with a tartan pattern on the inner lining. She struck jackpot and had a regular of hers take her on a shopping date, letting her pick the coat out. She ripped the dangling tag off with her pincers, and stealthily threw it on the backseat of the car.

The driver left her in the heart of the entertainment district. Machines, club advertisers and lights were assaulting her senses, so she did a swift retreat towards a red-carpeted basement. Inside, smoke and chamber music massaged the brain after the intense stimuli.

The chandelier-lit establishment spanned more than a dozen of her North Inkopolis apartments put head to head. Reconditioned carpets lined the roads between the casino's tables. For once, she traversed them in slow strides, as if walking through an opulent garden. She liked the weight of her new coat as she took her steps, thus she latched on any good feeling with an apprehension that it wouldn't last.

The casino housed an eclectic mix of pre and post-GTW entertainment: wooden, gold-brushed decor was kissing with flashing lights and screens from the glitzy gambling machines. Dana had two tables she particularly enjoyed - the Roulette and the Poker tables, both left in the hands of fate and faith.

She took a stop before their areas, at an exchange booth. She handed her card to the assistant and requested the standard set of Poker chips. The assistant counted them, placed her debit card over a terminal, neatly transferring the funds across. She was acquiring a taste for the process. What an inciting exchange, how somewhat teasing it was for her, waiting for those three seconds of near-field communications. She took the chip holder and her card back, making sure to graze her hand on his. It always made him look away from his register.

At the Poker table, she sat between a sharp-dressed trout and a casual-smart inkling. Spouses waited for them back at home, she often observed by the rings on their digits and fins. On the other side, the nautilus dealer shuffled the cards, and held a distant stare beyond the room while dealing the five cards.

A pale hand with gnawed nails slammed over the five cards in front of it. Some winced, Dana sighed. It was that regular, the one she kept intersecting with. His tasteless, large sunglasses were hiding half of his face.

She knew men like him. She wasn't usually impressed.

During betting, he slurped his stinky alcohol from his kitschy rocks glass. After each sip, he sniffed his thin nose loudly, and grazed his index finger under his nostrils, before using it to push his casino chips forwards. Every time the dealer dealt another hand, his strident self-satisfied snort would rise past Dana’s right shoulder.

All this show wasn't even for Full Houses or Flushes. He'd snort and gesticulate at Two and Three of a kind. Granted, they'd sometimes carry him. Regardless, she would've knocked the beak out of his stupid face if he kept making his obnoxious little noises. He had the worst poker face, yet he confused the entire table.

The trout and married inkling left the table, possibly exhausted by the manners at the table. Whoever sat in their empty spots wasn't there for more than three rounds. Dana and that yellow-inked man however, they were going head to head, asserting themselves, betting with greater impudence, racing on who would hit their threshold in moxie.

Though, neither was getting wealthier in chips than what they were three hours before.

It was getting dull, even with the yellow inkling's commentary, and Dana still knew to leave when the fun was running dry. Yet, she was a prepotent of go big or go home.

"All in," Dana announced.

The tasteless regular's long ears perked. "Heh. All in too, mate," he pushed the chips with zeal, then lifted the sunglasses to reveal his eyes. Dana had to glance.

She struck a pair of needle-eyes. They were small, uncanny, pokey, revealing how this off-yellow ink was his natural one. The mask around them was thin. The bags underneath them were like valleys. These eyes weren't ever left a break.

Dana's at the time were surrounded by makeup, glittery and heavy on her large upper lids. Their three bottom lashes were painted a royal purple, and her tear-ducts didn't glisten. Her jet-black eyes couldn't let anyone in.

The two kept staring at each other, while the dealer attended the side pots.

There was something unsettling and exciting about the yellow inkling. He wasn't following nature's design. Neither did she. The fact made Dana's ink stab her, and not in the usual, medical way. Intuition was going haywire, as it kept seeing this man, again and again and again and again.

More cards were dealt.

Something caught her vision while checking her hand. The yellow inkling stuck a pinky out. Dana had been putting together these signs, in her quest to decide whether they were random or revealing. She had a feeling his pinky stuck out to hold the cards steadier on the table, implying his hand wasn't impressive enough to hold up high. She upped her bet. Her throat purred in her laugh when the table revealed their cards.

Indeed, she won the greatest slice, with the best hand. Nonetheless, the regular had beaten the others at the table, taking a cut back from himself. His fingers grabbed towers of tokens like a mechanical crane game, as thin and as stiff as one.

As the dealers changed shifts and places, Dana gathered her chips. The man with the sunglasses laid his forearm on the chair's edge, turning and leaning towards her.

"Wicked competition. Not bad, bruv," all his words had insinuated sounds, he barely vocalised them to completion.

She didn't look back at him. She was too busy making sense of what was a signal, and what was her pattern-seeking brain doing pranks on her.

Though another day came, thus another try at finding joy in solitude.

This time, Dana rolled on the carpets in her usual, hastened manner. She came on a mission. She would conquer the Blackjack table. It should've been less tense, cutting down on the layers of mind games she was losing sleep about.

It was going well. It genuinely was, until fate spat in her face again. To her surprise, and horror, she just acknowledged who sat next to her. A yellow-inked man, with plastic white sunglasses and a Adidace branded shirt underneath a blazer. She didn't want anyone to notice she was a regular. Especially another regular. Especially this regular.

It would've been too obvious to get up, so she toiled through a few rounds, building an invisible wall between her and the male inkling. The wall kept crumbling with each unwarranted comment he made about his cards. Dana began to bend the cards in her hand.

Alas, he was holding his cards, obliviously, into Dana's line of sight. She temporarily dropped her filters, to peep how his round was going.

His cards were as followed: a ten of shells, a nine of kelp. If he hit again, he would've busted the entire thing, so he would've called to stand. Dana's hand was a smidge over his, with an ten of kelp and a jack of corals, but she wanted him to leave from humiliation. She squinted in his direction, sending a subliminal message for him to hit. She commanded him, unbeknownst to anyone.

And hit he did, the loser. However, he became even more ecstatic when he got his third card. Dana tilted her head in pure confusion. She leered at her own hand. She correctly called a stand. The dealer and table revealed their cards. The yellow inkling won. Why?

This asshole drew a two of hearts.

“Oh, fuck no. You have to be kidding. There was the slimmest chance you would’ve gotten that next! You shouldn't have hit!” Dana slammed her cards on the table, and her legs rattled with an urge to leave.

He was laughing copiously. “The only numbers I care 'bout is the ones that go up,” he tossed his winning tokens around his palm. “If it’s my cards goin’ over or the cash goin’ up, none won't change my play.”

“Then pick a slots machine or some other bullshit table,” her black-tipped claws coiled as she heavily gestured. She was pulling her new coat over without grace. “We don’t need quacks like you at the real tables. Go watch sevens and melons line up.”

"Sevens and melons! Ha!" He gave another explosive laugh. Dana didn't care. She took it as he hasn't ever been roasted this hard in his life.

The fun ended earlier than anticipated. Dana took her puny tokens to the exchange booth. She was leaving with a loss this time, though she was too wound up to mope about it in her shoebox apartment.

She eventually settled in the smoker’s lounge, with a slim cigarette and a Negroni that shone her own colours in the low light. There was an opulent sort of peace in the massive plush couches, circular and intimate, with tables meant for entire parties, but there wasn't a table that had more than two creatures seated.

Rich people had such immense spaces, and never properly filled them. Back in Silvertip, her natal town, kids made do with the tiniest makeshift tables, fully surrounding them with their warm bodies, playing whatever trading card game was hot at the moment. The kids grew up later on, there was space left only for the delinquents at the tables, and they started doing lines of slug tranquilliser on them, bought with hourly wages.

The images of yesterday brought Dana into a melancholic daydream. She drifted out of the casino and into her neighbourhood's backyards, remembering how novel everything felt at the time. But her dreams were always cut short. The yellow-inked man was walking across to her, each step slightly teetering, glass in hand.

Automatically, she stopped slouching. She took a long drag from her cigarette, steeling up for something incredibly vapid.

“I weren't 'specting you to beat me 'ere, love. That's a free spot?” The inkling's index finger unglued from his glass and wiggled in the couch's direction.

Her thoughts ran by themselves, for the thousandth time. I know your lot. You’re just another sleazy man with a drink too many. Get out of my face.

“Get out of my face," it materialised.

He leaned and sat regardless, on the opposite side. His spread knees covered half of the couch.

Dana was a statue, only her eyes were moving.

"...What are you doing."

"Not much, not much. And ya?” He was about to drink, if he didn't keep missing his lips with his glass.

"I'll say it again," she leered. "I asked you to leave."

"Tho' you just asked me what I'm doin' innit?" His body leaned closer. "No take backs, now! Tell ya, am doin' amazing!"

She picked up and groaned into the glass. “...Fuck's sake."

"Am still rollin', even after them bare bluffs from yesterday," he gave himself a pat on the back.

She sipped from the cold, sweating glass. Her black lips fizzled with restraint.

"You were killin' it at the Poker tables innit right then. Why you switched 'em today? Like, Blackjack?" he scorned.

Dana's shoulders rose. "Why not?"

"Why Blackjack?"

"Is it a problem?"

“Win much in Blackjack?”

She blinked her squint away. “I don’t keep track.”

“You gotta! An’ see for yourself, you gotta 'void that table," he snorted, "I done know that game isn't workin' for me. But, check it!" He rattled his chips, not exchanged yet. "I got them lucky twenty ones!”

“That’s the point of a damn casino. First, learn to fucking play. Then, you'll need some luck, but the thing standing between you and your luck is your cards." She came to terms that she wouldn't shake him off her back. So, she took a larger gulp of her drink. "Then you wake up and realise your dealer's handling your cards. Can you still call that luck?”

"You tell me, love."

"I just think we're paying for the impression of luck. They throw a treat now and then when you pay them enough. They're just keeping you trapped in here, abusing your need for a thrill, until it becomes addiction."

"Innit," he nodded. "We get it the most."

"...Get what?" Dana left her glass on the low table.

"I don't 'ave gamblin' addictions or any of that shit, but I get ya. I like them brains," his finger uncurled from the glass, to point at hers. "You're one of them real playas."

Her legs crossed. Her squint wasn't wavering.

"You done noticed? It's either me or ya winnin' at every game." He leaned on his knees.

"Yes, if you take enough chances, you'll end up winning a game. I unfortunately pick the same days as you do to come in here."

"Ye, safe! We figured the game. We can play the others. You done saw yesterday, innit?"

The pinky, he meant. He lifted it, wiggling his small eyebrows in his display.

"Earlier, I thought it proper dizzy to hit again, but, fuck it, I done it. An' you was sitting right on the money! I saw your sign. Ya let me win, my blud!"

This got Dana's beak grinding behind her lips. Her gaze became a thousand daggers.

The man's arms flung behind his neck in his lean back. "Wooh, feels good to get a proper table partner. An' she's a fuckin' snack," his tone got unfittingly husky for his voice, as he took Dana's figure in.

Dana got her feet parallel. She lifted off in an instant. "And I can't be fucked about you. Keep sitting there. I'm ripping your tentacles off if you follow me."

"Woah, woah, I'm not chirpsin'!" The inkling's hands sprung off the couch's backrest, raising in surprise. "Don't sour the mood. I was gonna suggest a few more games. An' hope you tagged along for 'em, maybe split the bag between us? Man's not gonna be wiser, innit. We came lone inkfish, we leavin' as one, but we're leavin' loaded."

Dana's heel stopped rolling on the carpet. She looked behind to him, over her coat's fuzz. "...You want to me to cheat? No, thanks. I like coming here."

"Nah, love, nothin' you gotta do for me," he settled back on his seat, as soon as he hooked her. "I'm the one signallin'. Ya play as you do."

Her thin dark brow rose. "And how would that make us rich?"

The man's smile went from ear to ear. He looked past the couches for a moment, letting a single laugh before looking back at Dana.

"I kno' nobody readin' me better than you, love."

After her pupils pulsed, Dana turned towards him. She stood with her hands in her coat's pocket, measuring the man up. Her sour face was mixing hints of something sweeter, spicier.

All his grating behaviour, it became a revelation when Dana saw the games through his tacky sunglasses.

Her head gestured towards the tables. She did not wait for him to get up.

Their plan didn't need much detailing. They were already used to talking without words, from the repeated encounters in the casino. He was going to join Dana only after watching some of her games from a distance, gauging the current crowd's weaknesses. They agreed on the signals as they journeyed to the tables. A lick of his lips was a filler round. Two sniffs became an absolute no-go. The pinkies pressed on the table were soft encouragements for Dana to press ahead. A carefree lean on his chair was his time to shine.

She learned him in one night.

They couldn't believe the weight of their chips in their holders at the end. They went to different exchange booths, though their minds replayed the same glorious scenes. Outside the casino, two streets away, on an alley with dripping air conditioning units, they split their winnings.

The yellow inkling handed Dana her half. She did the same thing she did with the chip exchange clerk, she brushed her hand against the thin skin of his. The inkling hummed a short sound of gratification, though the rest of his expression was unreadable behind his large sunglasses.

After her brief analysis of character, Dana left wordlessly. She had no need for goodbyes, because she knew she would've kept seeing his mug in the casino. They both understood this crooked arrangement was to stay.

Marzi watched her until she blended between the streets. It seemed that the Tiedes always had a knack for striking bountiful partnerships.

Dana had the city's traffic lights dancing into her eyes, a perfect mirroring of what was reflected in the large window next to their table. Silviana looked at her between bites of her food, which was neatly bunched in the centre of a plate that was too big for it, smudged with overengineered sauces. Whenever Silviana hit Dana's sight, Dana would let a soft giggle, her eyes would squint with glee, and she'd coquettishly trail back to her own plate.

Though she couldn't keep herself off Silviana. Dana watched Silviana's sip of her wine with interest, observing the liquid bunching in thin, ghostly streaks on the wall of the glass. The moment was too dilated for what it was worth. It wasn't Silviana's first five star restaurant lunch, and neither the flashiest one, though an intrinsic mystery was in all of her actions. Dana's greatest curiosity was how Silviana's loose lingerie strap stayed glued on her shoulders, unperturbed by any of her moves. She let it slip in her mind, to keep putting it back in place with her mouth.

"You're happy." Silviana affirmed with mild, amused surprise. "I'm glad."

She couldn't understand why Dana was in such a light mood, though she wasn't fretting over it. Every time Dana was about to describe her secret heist, she tied her tongue back, keeping it for herself. Dana picked at the squidcorn in her plate, watching the thick sauce linger on each bit.

"Damn. The food's good. The view's great. Finally, a place that lives up to its name," Dana smirked for herself.

"I know. I can't get my eyes off this view. They've got a great angle of Inkopolis Bay."

Dana scrutinized it again. "I could've even seen Silvertip's lighthouse from here, if it weren't for the Hammerhead Bridge construction."

"Yeah... It'll be a few more years until they finish." Silviana readjusted in her seat, to gaze in the same direction, westbound. "And then, it'll be so much easier for you to go back home. They might skip the whole border check on the Splatlands side."

"Psh. Dunno if I'd still want it, by then." Dana tapped the corners of her lips with the cloth on her lap.

"I feel you. It's too easy to lose yourself in this city. So much to offer, though so much to lose," Silviana sighed. "At the very least, I know I won't go back home. I was supposed to study, to build a life. I can't look my father in the eyes again, after..."

Dana shoved another mini lobster roll, before cutting over. "I'm sure mine didn't want me goofing around like this in Inkopolis either. But I made it with my hands. I'm all to blame for it. It's not the same for you. You were roped into some insidious shit."

Silviana never spoke about it in detail. During her short-lived apprenticeship at a ceramics studio, she lived in a flat share. She got tangled into her roommate's life, and both got baited by a too-good-to-be-true ad. That was when Silviana learned of luxury, of the excess of pleasure, and the price of it. She paid in dignity. Dana couldn't help noticing Silviana blanking at work, whenever a new guest came too close.

A slow-winded, unremarkable jazz piece was humming in the background. The candles flickered their orange light. Silviana finished eating in this relative quiet. She neatly placed the utensils on her plate. Her voice sounded a note lower.

"We might be wiser, but the things we're getting waved at our noses haven't changed. The company handed me an easy live, and I was walking with socialites the next day. Any pleasure and purchase that crossed my head, they'd make it reality, only if I played by their beat. If I didn't, they'd always find ways to make me feel inadequate about myself, like I would die out there, without them. They buy you into obedience, and give you the sense that you're the greatest. I am still sick, how they fooled and lied to the girls... I wish I could find whatever pieces of myself went missing in there."

Dana nodded, biting back the urge to bring the Cutthroat Days members into the discussion. They weren't far off from this anecdote, though they were incredibly irrelevant all of a sudden, as Silvi's soft, yet pained voice made the rounds in her head. Despite it all, the words easy and pleasure didn't sound so unappetising. The void between her ears kept interjecting them while she ogled.

She broke it before Silviana noticed. "That's how they get you. The sweet-talkers are the ones that are the most fucked in the head."

"You know already," her sapphire eyes trailed back to Dana. "Thankfully, I wasn't in many productions, and I hadn't done my tattoo yet, so I can keep dancing without fear. There isn't much of a chance of my old name springing back."

"I can't wait for you to use it again," Dana blurted.

It made Silviana recoil, mid-sip. She wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea, and Dana was too eager for it. Dana would've completely rejected returning to her old name. Why would've she thought differently for Silviana?

Dana picked up on the hesitation. "Of course, all in their due time... In the meantime, if anything goes south, or these ghouls haunt you, or anything, I'll make sure you're safe. I'll also make sure nothing takes me down. We're swimming out of Inkopolis together. Alright?"

Silviana hummed in agreement, a meek smile pushing her cheeks upwards.

Dana scrunched her dress' skirt. "I'm dead serious. I'd kill any bastard for you."

"Let's hope we don't get to that," Silviana puffed in laughter. "I'm plenty safe already with your presence. Your pincers get pretty reactive, it's kinda scary!" she pointed at them, to illustrate. They stopped mid-click, in self-consciousness. "Besides, you'd not take anyone's bullshit. We won't get roped into anything remotely like that." Silviana laid her fingers over Dana's palm like a feather.

Only one thought blared in Dana's mind.

We figured the game. We can play the others.

"You never know, Silvi. I'll have to put in a few prayers for us."

Silviana let a small, surprised sound. "Prayers? You never came across as spiritual. I've never seen you visit a shrine or celebrate a holiday."

"Because shrines are pointless. People who go to them have gods that like bargaining with trinkets and bells in exchange for wishes. If you're lucky, you get a paper from the Voice From On High machine that makes the world argue for a weekend. Is that really the voice of the gods? Mine doesn't do that. Mine doesn't talk. Mine looks down upon Earth and laughs."

Her head tilted in curiosity. "Why did you say that, then?"

"I like having someone there to keep me accountable," the black claw pointed at the sky, sardonically.

Silviana raises a humoured brow. "Were you brought up in a spiritual family? Usually, people are more indifferent about it."

Dana looked to the road below. The rushing drivers went past a yellow light. "No. It just rubbed on me. I was non-stop hearing people praying to higher beings in the hospital. It got real stale, you know. And I've been in there too much of my life, because of my organs' ink incompatibility. I still have to manage it with pills, but I always do better with a prayer."

"That's sweet, coming from you, somehow," Silviana cooed. "I'd feel bad asking gods for things. I don't know what I'd ask for," she slid the strap of her lingerie higher, before enchanting Dana with her gaze. "What do you usually pray for, Dana?"

A shadow fell upon the peppercorn eyes. She couldn't have said it out loud.

Cease the explosions in the sky.
Cease the explosions in her mind.
Cease all pain, thus cease all love.

Cease her, God, for once.