Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was an ordinary day out in the dam, and Stroganoff was minding his own business collecting scrap. Normally he didn’t collect scrap. That was usually someone else’s problem, like an all too enthusiastic small fry wanting to get out of combat practice. But at the moment, there were no young children to pawn the job off to, and Stroganoff needed an ammunition resupply.

As the only big shot of the clan, Stroganoff was usually alone in most matters relating to his duties. He cleaned his cannon regularly, snagged some fuel from whatever clan had too much from octarian trading, and made sure that there were plenty of cannonballs for his cannon to launch. 

Which was why Stroganoff was here, deep underneath the dam’s murky waters, trying to pick out some good metal from some sunken boat. He had collected a decent amount, slung into a bag on his back, and was looking for more if only to waste time. Besides, the waters of the dam were starting to get rid of the chill from winter, and Stroganoff was enjoying the occasional warm current.

His day was interrupted by the sounds of something on the surface. He was far too deep to identify what it was, other than loud, annoying and consistent, and looking up didn’t help matters. On the surface appeared to be a dark bubble, gently bobbing on the dam’s currents. 

If only because it would bother him if he didn’t find out, Stroganoff swam up to the surface to see what it was. With a powerful kick of his tail, the salmonid reached the surface with ease. Sunlight greeted him, fresh air kissed his face, and the loud noise, now identifiable as a baby’s crying, was even worse than below. 

The source of the noise also looked different on the surface. The bubble was some inkling contraption, filled with bright purple ink and the source of the crying: an inkling baby. The little squid was screeching its head off, unaware of the situation it was in other than the fact that it didn’t like it.

Curiously, Stroganoff picked up the bubble. If the squid reacted to Stroganoff’s presence, it wasn’t obvious. The little thing kept crying and wallowing in its ink, occasionally smacking the bubble itself. The bubble was a round plastic container, with strange air holes carved in its surface. Probably to allow air in and not water, if he had to guess.

Inklings were odd creatures in Stroganoff’s mind. They were cursed to never return to the sea, so it made him wonder what this little one was doing on the water’s surface. If he had to hazard a guess, this little one was a survivor of a sinking ship. Perhaps its parents got into their own little bubbles and weren’t expecting their little one to drift off, or sank with the ship and hoped their baby fell into good hands.

Well, luckily for these hypothetical parents, Stroganoff was more than happy to play his part as a salmonid rescue party.

Indeed, the salmonids did extend an olive branch in times of need, swooping in to save the day of inklings or other helpless folks drifting into salmonid territory. The salmonids even had a word for these survivors:

Lunch.

It took Stroganoff a hot second, but he figured out how to open the bubble, a lid opening with a satisfying pop. The infant, a girl based on her scent, paused her crying for a moment. It was in this brief moment that Stroganoff and the baby locked eyes with each other. And then the baby went back to crying, albeit louder this time. The baby was lucky, Stroganoff knew how to make her stop shrieking, and he just so happened to be a little peckish.

With a fluid motion, Stroganoff dipped his fin into the purple ink and scooped the baby out. He had to be careful, since if he dropped her in the water, she’d disintegrate like the rest of her kind. All the while, the squid refused to stop crying, wailing as she couldn’t do anything about her situation.

Now this was the part where Stroganoff would introduce the squid to the insides of his mouth, bite down and enjoy that odd rubbery yet juicy flavour of an inkling. But something was wrong. For some reason he had paused, his mouth open in anticipation, but unable to commit.

Slowly, he lowered the squid back into her ink, and did something he probably shouldn’t have, and spoke to her. 

“Hey, don’t cry little one,” he said to her softly. Immediately he regretted it, his heart fluttering in his chest weirdly, but it's not like he could go back to trying to eat her. He held her bubble closely to his chest like he would with an egg, and with dawning horror realised that ‘lunch’ had become ‘daughter’ without his consent. 

He spent some time holding her, muttering and cooing at her to get her to stop crying, and it worked. Slowly but surely, as if reading his intent, the baby stopped her crying. Instead, she swam as close as she could to Stroganoff, and gargled at him, her tiny tendrils weakly reaching up to him.

He didn’t leave her hanging, lowering one of his fins into her reach, and smiling as his daughter lightly touched him for the first time.

“There, that’s not so bad, is it?” he muttered.

The baby only gargled more.

With a sigh, Stroganoff closed the lid of the bubble, and started to swim home. How was he gonna explain this to the chief?

Chapter Text

The chief of Stroganoff’s clan was a large man with a healthy appetite and the long life that allowed him to show it off. His face was a patchwork of scars and it was difficult to find even a scale on his body that hadn’t been damaged in some way. Despite his clan being rather small in population, the chief considered the art of war to be a priority. To the point he’d think ‘heart attack’ was an assassination method, and not a warning about his eating habits.

This is why his first assumption when Stroganoff approached him, bubble in fins, was that he was being offered lunch.

“Oh? For me?” The large salmonid focused his steely gaze upon the inkling infant.

While Stroganoff himself was considered large for a salmonid, the chief easily towered over him, and having eyes loom from above made Stroganoff nervous. Especially with what he had to say.

“No,” Stroganoff answered. He lightly tapped the plastic bubble, and the inkling inside tapped back from within. “This is my child now.” He had practised this sentence over and over on the way back to the village, but now that he had spoken it out loud… he couldn’t shut up.
“I found her. Didn’t eat her. Didn’t see any other parents around. So that makes me her parent now.” He ended lamely.

Stroganoff glanced up at the chief, hoping his nervousness wasn’t evident on his face. And that he'd mistake the sheen of sweat for water. And that the thudding in his chest was coming from outside. Either way, Stroganoff was expecting to hear ‘no’.

Luckily, Stroganoff’s words were enough to catch the chief off guard. The larger salmonid’s mouth fell open and he squinted at Stroganoff, as if trying to calculate something.

“Did you hit your head too many times with those cannonballs of yours and then sip some of that ink? You are aware that’s food, right?”

“She is edible, but she’s my daughter now.”

The chief studied Stroganoff more. Stroganoff, meanwhile, had found an incredibly fascinating mote of dust to stare at.

“You know,” the chief started, “you’ll be the first person to lose a child to a pantry raid.” He laughed at his own joke. Stroganoff didn’t find it all too funny. 

“If you won’t let me have her then I’ll leave the clan.” Stroganoff rebutted, before regretting his words.

The chief cocked his head slightly and a sick grin curled on his lips. “Oh really? Fine then. I’ll entertain your delusion for a little bit. Come with me.”

The chief turned away from Stroganoff, indicating he should follow, as the two walked into the chief’s personal armoury. 

The walls were covered in the finest weapons and utensils the chief owned. Many of them were keepsakes from skirmishes, either from other salmonid clans, or from when the clan clashed with inkling sailors. The chief approached one of the walls, and picked out what appeared to be the smallest steak knife he owned. It looked comically tiny in his fin.

“Normally, I do not allow outsiders in without good reason.” the chief said, investigating the knife closely.  “And the same will apply to your… ‘daughter’.” He turns to look at Stroganoff. “Since she is a baby, I will go easy on her. Instead of a duel, I just demand she draw blood from my body. If she can do that, she will be part of the clan. If not…” A large grin forms on the chief’s face. “I hope you’re willing to back up your words very quickly.”

Stroganoff silently nodded, opening the bubble.

His daughter, feeling the wave of fresh air, peeked out from her ink and looked up at the chief. If she found him scary, she was leaving a bad impression, babbling at him like she had her father. 

She was handed the steak knife, and the inkling instinctively wrapped her tentacles around the hilt.

“Now then, little one,” the chief said, “strike me and draw blood. Your life depends on it.”

The inkling, naturally, didn’t care, and instead happily waved the knife around like a toy.

Stroganoff did not have faith in his daughter. Afterall, she was a baby, unaware of the world around her unless she found it scary. His body tensed and his grip on the bubble tightened, anticipating for the very second the chief grew bored of her attempt. The chief knew he had set the inkling up for failure, and he too tensed up, ready to pounce on the inkling and her father. 

The two salmonids stared at each other, neither willing to blink, in case the other moved in the split second of darkness. The inkling, even while waving a knife and babbling, was forgotten. The situation had now become a mind game between the two salmonids.

The mind game was quickly resolved when the baby threw the knife. 

The chief had lowered his head in preparation to launch himself at Stroganoff, which left his eyes in the perfect range for a baby to throw a knife at.

The chief backed up with a roar, his tensed muscles springing him into the wall of his armoury. The floor shook from the impact, and metal clattered loudly as utensils smacked against the wall, each other, and the chief. The larger salmonid covered his injured eye with his fin, where the knife had hit him.

Stroganoff himself sprung at the same moment, fleeing for the door when he saw the chief move. As if time itself moved backwards in the moment, he only saw the knife being thrown after he fled to the door, and the sound of the metal clattering was met with the equally unpleasant sound of the inkling baby crying over the sudden jostling and loud noise. 

Idly, Stroganoff stroked the inkling to comfort her, as he observed at the chief.

“Did she cut your eye?” He asked with polite malice. Stroganoff hoped that the chief would open his shut eye to reveal a leak of scarlet. Instead, the chief opened his eye to reveal nothing had changed, and a quick look at his fin revealed no blood.

“No,” the chief said. Stroganoff would have felt terror in that moment, but something was off about the chief. The larger salmonid had sounded strained, his breathing heavier. As he pried himself off his own wall, Stroganoff could see why. 

On the wall of the armoury was a sharpened salad fork, the curved prongs dark with a deep red. 

“Your little daughter…is a strategist, I see.” The chief said, taking deep breaths between sentences. “I like her already.”

Chapter Text

News about Stroganoff’s adopted daughter spread quickly, and by sunset, most of the clan had seen the little inkling, and everyone had an opinion of her and Stroganoff’s sanity.

“That’s your baby?” said Cranberry. She was an old maws, who had long since given up life on land, and just slept in the waters. Her face was stern as she gave her judgement to the little purple thing in front of her face.

Stroganoff nodded. He had a long day and he had confirmed this so many times as is, his voice was getting tired.

“Well she’s an ugly baby.” Cranberry remarked.

“I’ve noticed.”

The inkling, for the most part, was fine being paraded around town. She had cried for food at the market, and the merchants were quick to offer Stroganoff their butchering and pickling services. When he explained the inkling wasn't food and was his daughter, the same merchants offered their psychiatric services instead. And when the baby didn't shut up, the merchants threw a shrimp at Stroganoff to make him stop the noise. 

When she had been fed, the inkling had mostly spent time either swimming in her ink or sleeping, which gave the village ample opportunity to oggle at the little squid. In one magical moment, the little inkling even laughed, Stroganoff’s neighbour encountering the two out in the village and pulling a funny face for the inkling.

And then, they were home. 

Stroganoff’s home wasn’t much. There was his workshop where his cannon and all his equipment lived, and there was his living space. He had a bed, table, and a fridge. For the most part, this had suited him just fine, since he hadn’t anticipated suddenly adopting a baby out of nowhere.

But now he currently had a baby (that he adopted out of nowhere), and he needed to improvise a cot for her. The bubble would at least be a good enough place for her to sleep in for a while, but to ensure it didn’t roll around, Stroganoff swaddled the bubble with his blanket. 

Hopefully this would be enough to keep her safe.

The next issue would be food.

Just… What did inklings eat?

At bare minimum, inklings could eat shrimp. He found that out at the market, but as for anything else, he had no idea. He opened his fridge and checked what he had on offer. He had kelp jam, two jars of snails, pickled squid (...is he still allowed to eat squid?), half a seagull, and some smoked trout. 

Could inklings eat snails? It was the only thing he had that was baby sized, so it was worth a try.

Stroganoff opened the lid of the bubble, and offered the inkling a snail. She reached out to grasp it in her many arms, before tucking it amongst her tentacles. Even though Stroganoff knew that was where her mouth was, it was still surreal to hear her chewing the snail despite not being able to see it happen. The inkling happily swallowed her food and gargled at Stroganoff.

For most of the day, Stroganoff had been mostly stoic, mostly stressed. Confronting the chief had taken a lot out of him, and he had been on edge while walking through the village. It was only now in the comfort of his home that he felt himself relax.

The baby, now finished with her meal, flailed her tentacles around and gargled at her father. Stroganoff smiled and leaned close to his child, reaching a fin into her cot for her to grasp.

“You need a name,” he said softly. She cooed in response. “You need a respectable name. One even you can hear and feel proud, but one that is special, so you never doubt how unique you are.”

He stared at his daughter, thinking. His first idea was Pasta. Soft and chewy, just like her, but full of great potential. Long thin tendrils that can be cooked in any way, and yet…

No, maybe not Pasta. Perhaps something similar?

He pondered more, muttering different types of pasta and seeing which one stuck, checking his daughter’s reaction for each one. Eventually,  he found one that met its mark.

“How about… Ravioli?”

The inkling responded to the question with a bit more conviction than with his other suggestions.

“Oh? Do you like Ravioli?”

“Aa! Awaba!”

Stroganoff chuckled. “Ravioli it is.”

Chapter Text

Stroganoff was a doting father to Ravioli. There was barely any time where he was’t by her side… even if it was mostly out of fear that she’d be eaten if he looked away.

Even then, it didn’t matter how he played with her, what toys she had or what food she’d eat, Ravioli was still a different species. One that Stroganoff barely knew from anecdotes. This is why he grew concerned when her puddle of ink started to disappear.

Even if her kind could not be in water, they were still children of the sea. He wondered if Ravioli would get dehydrated without any ink in the same way salmonid babies get dehydrated without being submerged in water, and he was afraid to find out.

This is why he came to the conclusion that he would need more ink. He explained his thought process to his neighbour, Cookie. The golden salmonid had made it her mission to visit Stroganoff and his ugly tentacled baby every day, and understood his fears and worries about Ravioli’s wellbeing.

“Well, if she needs ink, I do believe Vanilla has some.” Cookie thought out loud. 

“Vanilla?”

“Aye, he’s an artist. Saw him hoarding bottles of the stuff. Dunno where he gets it from, but I assume it's octarian made. And octarians and inklings are basically the same thing so it’d probably work for her.” Cookie said. 

Without much choice, unless Stroganoff wanted to try hunt down an inkling invader and steal from them, he decided to track down this Vanilla guy.

It wasn’t all too difficult, as all Stroganoff had to do was ask ‘where is the artist?’ and passersby would point him in the right direction. He had to ignore their whispered remarks, mean comments about ‘was that the insane guy?’ and ‘I wonder if he’s still keeping that inkling pet.’, and keep on moving, before finding the humble little abode Vanilla called home. 

“What do you want.” A scrawny salmonid with a silver face opened the door with a huff. He did a double take when he realised the height of his guest, straining his neck to look up at Stroganoff. His attitude immediately shifted, since he didn't want to piss off someone bigger than himself.

“Ah… hello there. May I help you?”

“I need ink.”

Vanilla frowned. “Why would you… wait, aren’t you the weirdo with the inkling pet?”

“She’s my daughter.”

“Right, right. One of those ‘fin babies’ or whatever people are calling pets nowadays” Vanilla rolled his eyes. “Honestly I shoulda seen this coming when I heard about that. Why do you need ink?”

As Stroganoff politely forced his way into Vanilla’s abode, he explained the situation, of Ravioli running out of ink, and how Vanilla was the only person Stroganoff knew that had ink. 

“Hmph. Some audacity you have, approaching a stranger and demanding he help you out.” Vanilla remarked. “But… I’ll help you and give you some ink. But only if you give me something in return.”

“Alright?” 

“I’ll share my ink with you, but when that inkling of yours is old enough, she’s gotta give me all the ink I want.” Vanilla looked smug as he made his demands, pulling out a bottle of ink to tease Stroganoff. 

The larger salmonid thought about it.

Logistically, inklings could produce a lot of ink. Anyone who had been near an invader could verify that claim. Unless Vanilla started hoarding empty bottles just for Ravioli to fill until her tentacles turned grey, this didn’t sound too bad.

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

Spring came and went, and parts of the clan disappeared on a salmon run. This left Stroganoff a lot of time to just spend with Ravioli. Her vibrant purple had slowly disappeared into the brownish black of Vanilla’s supplied inks, but she didn’t seem all too affected by being dyed. With not many others in the village, Stroganoff took Ravioli on walks. 

The young inkling, cradled either in Stroganoff’s arms or in a satchel on his back, drank in the sights of the village. She would quietly babble to herself and observe things in the sky, from the clouds above, to people’s laundry, to all sorts of artistry hung up on high. Her favourite seemed to be of an apple hung up high on the marketplace. It swung at a dangerous pace, threatening to fall over onto the awnings and tents that made up the marketplace, but never seemed to commit.

Maybe she just liked the way it moved.

Summertime went just as fast, as well as the autumn and the winter.

By winter, Ravioli was big enough to crawl about on the floor of Stroganoff’s home. This was a relief to her father, who had worried that something had been wrong since she had been cradle bound for, to a salmonid, far too long. She was only a little bit bigger than the small fry who had just been born, and at times felt even more helpless than even the weakest runt. 

Either way, the chill of winter seeped into every crevice of the village, and Ravioli was turning out to be an expert at disliking the cold. It was once again that Stroganoff worried about his incredibly alien daughter. Afterall, everyone knew inklings were basically a liquid, but how far did that go? Would she freeze if Stroganoff didn’t keep her warm? What if she got too warm? Would she boil and steam? These questions haunted the large salmonid while huddling around the neighbourhood bonfire. At least Ravioli didn’t evaporate into mist when warming up around the flames. 

Pretty sure the village would make fun of Stroganoff even more if Ravioli became a cloud.

When it was her first (how old was she, really?) birthday, the anniversary of when Stroganoff found her, Ravioli could say her name. It was evident that she was struggling, her mouth not designed to speak salmonid tongue, but the way she said ‘Wah-wee-o-wee’ was almost melodic.

Stroganoff celebrated the occasion with his cannon. Firing bright red flares into the night sky for the little inkling, who in turn was absolutely enraptured by the sights of them.

Those that were at first apprehensive of Ravioli grew fond of her with time. Jeers at Stroganoff’s expense faded into genuine questions about the little inkling. Some folks were morbidly curious about how the weird liquid squid worked, while others wanted to know her development.

Perhaps the new generation of small fry being born helped. Those who had been childless before now suddenly had their own bundles of joy to raise, and saw Stroganoff as less of a weirdo with an exotic pet and more of a fellow parent. 

But despite the niceness shared between parents, none of the salmonids wanted Ravioli to be within fins reach of their own children. Ravioli was still an inkling, afterall.

With the change in season, Stroganoff and some other salmonids he had roped up got to work expanding his home. While his place had been the perfect haven for a lonely gentleman, he now had a daughter and an almost permanent guest in the form of Cookie. His home needed to be bigger now, and if there was any time to do it, it was probably now.

During the construction, Ravioli and Stroganoff lived in Cookie’s home. The goldie was delighted to have someone in her little empty nest, and showered Ravioli in old hand-me-downs from her own children. Stroganoff was just appreciative to have a roof overhead to unwind during the night, especially as he worked on his paintings.

Vanilla had, over the course of summer, grown bored of just handing over ink to Stroganoff, and demanded the bigger salmonid to become his apprentice. No idea if the scrawny salmonid just got a kick out of technically being ‘superior’ to someone twice his size, but he taught Stroganoff all he knew with gusto. 

His paintings could still use some work, but Stroganoff could paint what was clearly the sunset, the village, and of course, Ravioli.

As Ravioli grew, Stroganoff tried to capture her development in ink. As her form grew longer and stranger, her tentacles shaped themselves, and her face changed, Stroganoff tried to paint it all. He wondered why Ravioli looked the way she did. She looked neither like an ordinary squid nor an adult inkling, and instead some kind of horrible mistake. 

It honestly creeped Stroganoff out a little bit.

It got a bit worse when Ravioli started learning to walk. His home had been finished at this point, and Ravioli was figuring out how to balance on her weird wobbly limbs. Perhaps it was some form of instinct in her, but the way she moved, sometimes with two limbs, other times with four or five, was uncanny to Stroganoff.

Cookie, as if unaffected by Ravioli being an eldritch being, loved to cheer the baby on in her attempts. Perhaps Cookie’s years of being a parent had made her immune to any horrors children could instil. She’d probably be proud to hang up crayon drawings on her fridge, whether it be of a house or the shadow man. 

That was another thing, Cookie was frequenting Stroganoff’s abode more and more, acting as much of a parent to Ravioli to the point that Ravioli started calling her ‘mommy.’ Cookie was flattered, but Stroganoff couldn’t help but feel offended. He adopted Ravioli, he took the brunt of everyone’s jokes about him being insane, so it felt unfair that Ravioli considered anyone else her parent outside of him.

Not that he would dare tell a soul. Admittedly, he appreciated the goldie’s help in raising his unusual daughter.

The other salmonids in the neighbourhood also liked to occasionally peek in on the resident oddity. Cranberry, sticking her head out of the water and resting her fins on the embankment, demanded to be shown Ravioli.

“Ugh, she’s hideous,” the old maws stated, as the inkling stared at her with wide-eyed curiosity. The little inkling had been introduced to Cranberry, and, upon failing to say the old woman’s name, dubbed her ‘Cranmaw.’

The old woman pretended to be offended by the name, as well as the accompanying pat as Ravioli curiously touched her face, before slinking off into the water with a tisk. But if anyone saw her swimming away, they’d have noticed her unable to hide the big smile on her face.

Vanilla was also very politely interested in Ravioli… if only because she was his ticket to an infinite supply of ink. Any chance he could, he would try to get her to produce ink, and fail miserably. He started sulking when the young inkling drank a full bottle of ink during one of his pestering attempts, which happened to be also during one of his classes with Stroganoff.

Ravioli happily sat down and started drawing with the grownups, creating deformed blobs on the page she was handed. She looked very proud as she pointed to one of the blobs on her page and called out ‘daddy!’. The blob most definitely did have a slight ‘Stroganoff’ shape to it.

The page went on the fridge door when they got home.

Chapter Text

Stroganoff couldn’t remember when the chief had summoned him and Ravioli, only that he did and Stroganoff was deeply concerned. He held Ravioli’s tentacle firmly in his fin as the two walked to the chief’s home.

“What’s the matter daddy?” Ravioli had asked when she saw his expression.

“The chief has summoned us both.” Stroganoff answered bluntly.

“Oh.” It was amazing how much the young squid could pick up from context alone. Understanding from her father’s tense form that this was a serious issue, that the chief was a serious man, and that she should be on good behaviour. Still, her eyes betrayed her curiosity.

“Are we in trouble?”

Normally Stroganoff would give Ravioli a curt answer. The squid asked a lot of questions the moment she finally understood how to speak, and the only way Stroganoff knew how to answer them was to be as short as possible. For the most part, both father and daughter would be satisfied with the interaction.

“I…don’t know.”

But right now, it just made both of them more tense.

The chief’s home was very large and very noisy. Parts creaked, clanged and clattered as the concrete and metal structure was hit by wind and the occasional wave. Ravioli stared in awe as she tried to calculate how tall the building was, focusing on the sheet metal and ornaments that made up the roof. Probably somewhere between a hundred and a billion metres. It looked like even her father would struggle to reach up there, and he was pretty tall.

Stroganoff, in the meanwhile, was taking deep breaths. He feared the worst for this meeting, and his mind kept drawing up new and exotic ways for this to go badly. Was this about Ravioli? Did the chief sell her to the octarians? Or did the chief grow bored of the resident mechanic and was selling him ? Was someone going to get eaten?

As if to expressly drag Stroganoff out from his anxious thoughts, there was a call from inside the home. Stroganoff quickly scooped up Ravioli and walked inside.

“Well well well, if it isn’t the resident morsel and her father,” the chief said with a mean laugh. 

Ravioli, for the most part, was not often scared of her salmonid neighbours; but perhaps it was the way the chief looked at her that made her hide behind her father’s form. Stroganoff lightly patted the little inkling’s head.

“You wanted to see us?” Stroganoff said.

“Yes, yes I did.” The larger salmonid leaned closer to Ravioli, looking at her with interrogating eyes. “You see, just because your daughter is a little freak doesn’t mean I will let her freeload in my village. She is one of us, and so I expect her to learn our ways.”

The chief focused his attention on Stroganoff. “She’s taken long enough to get to this stage, I expect her to take part in combat training by the end of the week.”

Stroganoff opened his mouth and stumbled out some form of weak argument. What the chief called ‘combat training’ was what most normal people would call school, but there was a very obvious threat behind the chief’s words. That Ravioli would be trained to fight, to go to war. 

The idea of Ravioli going into training never crossed Stroganoff’s mind. The concept of his daughter, an absolute gentle soul, learning to fight terrified him in ways he couldn’t form into words.

But to go against the chief was to go against law itself, so Stroganoff sadly trailed off.

“Very well,” Stroganoff responded, and started to walk out.

“Hold on,” the chief said,” I need to speak with Ravioli personally.” The mean grin on his face did not falter as he looked at the young inkling.

Ravioli was adequately mortified by the threat of being left alone with the giant salmonid, and clutched her father’s fin tighter. With a little bit of coaxing, Ravioli let go of Stroganoff, and followed the chief. She looked back at her father as the chief guided her out of the room.

The chief walked to his personal armoury, to which Ravioli couldn’t help but stare at everything hung up on the walls, listing everything she could identify and studying things she could not. Bizarre and alien shapes greeted her, with mechanical parts, handles and sharp blades all polished to a shine. 

The chief, ignoring Ravioli staring, picked out a sharpened salad fork.

“Do you know why this fork is special?”

“No?” Ravioli meekly responded, looking at the weaponised fork.

“You can thank this fork for why you get to be standing before me today.” The chief lowered the fork, handing it to Ravioli. “Which is why it is only fitting that this becomes yours. Take it. Guard it with your life.”

The inkling, not able to quite grasp the weight or sentimentality of the situation, wrapped her arms around the fork and numbly nodded.

“Good. Now leave. You’re dismissed.”

The inkling didn’t need to be told twice, scampering off with her new weapon. She’d ask her father what the fork meant when they got home. Especially after his reaction to seeing her hold it.

Chapter Text

Perhaps Stroganoff was worrying too much about Ravioli going to school. He feared the worst, thinking that the other children would be cruel to the inkling. His mind whirled with scenarios, afraid of them as he wouldn’t be there to protect his daughter. Afterall, what if the other children decide to beat her up? Or drown her? Or mock her until she runs back home, ashamed of what she is? And if she gets so demoralised from her interactions with others, would she try to-

Stroganoff darted up from his bed. He couldn’t handle this kind of thinking, and being left alone with his thoughts wasn’t helping. Sneaking past a sleeping Ravioli, Stroganoff left his home and just stared out at the village.

Even in the darkness of night, the world was still wide awake. The water would slap against walkways and embankments, buildings would creak, and the rowing of a nearby boat broke the silence. Lights softly glowed on the water’s surface, the stars above burned with intensity, and the moon kindly stared back at Stroganoff.

“Goodness gracious, why are you up so late?” A voice called out to Stroganoff. Turning around revealed to have come from Cookie’s house, the goldie peeking out from a window. Even at this late hour, the old goldie had a warm look to her, smiling at Stroganoff.

“Ugh.. I’m worried about Ravioli.”

The golden salmonid nodded, before her head exited from her window. A light from inside flicked on, and Cookie opened her front door. “Well come in dearie. I’ll whip us up some tea.”

Stroganoff entered Cookie’s home and settled down at her table as the hiss of boiling water filled the room. At this point, both salmonids knew what each other liked in their tea, which was why Cookie was automatically pouring tea for the other salmonid. 

She joined Stroganoff at the table and rested her fins on her own teacup.

“So what’s been bothering you?”

“By chief’s orders, Ravioli has to join combat training.”

“Oh, you mean she has to go to that old schoolhouse? Well it's a perfectly good institution. One of my kids teaches there. Why the worry?”

“I’m just… scared something bad will happen to her there since I won’t be there with her.”

Cookie let out a laugh, and reached over to pat his fin with her own. 

“I hate to break it to you dearie, but that’s just called being a parent. You’re always gonna worry about ‘em until the day they die.”

“But I don’t want Ravioli to die!”

“I know dearie. I never want my own kids to die, but that’s what happens. The rough part of parenting is just accepting that you cannot protect your children forever. At some point they are gonna go out on their own, and the only thing you can do is wave them off. Of course, that’s normally when they get older.” Cookie ended her speech with a laugh. ”Ravioli is still young. And it’s just school. She’ll be fine.”

Stroganoff solemnly nodded. “I suppose you’re right,” he mumbled. “It’s just… well. She’s an inkling. It’s… difficult. I don’t know if what I’m doing is wrong or what. And then I fear that she’s gonna get harassed at school.”

Cookie gave Stroganoff a reassuring look. “You have to put a little faith in your fellow salmonid, dear. Ravioli is just as much part of the tribe as the rest of our children. I’ve raised plenty to know that. Once they get over the fact that Ravioli looks different, she’ll just be one of them.”

The goldie reached out, leaning over the table, and lightly pat Stroganoff on the cheek.

“You have nothing to worry about.”

Stroganoff smiled at that.

The two sat there, drinking tea, when Stroganoff spoke up again.

“How do you know if you’re being a good parent?” His words echoed anxieties of the past and future.

“You don’t. You can only do your best.”

Chapter Text

Ravioli was nervous on her first day at school. Stroganoff taught her how to keep her fork sharp and helped her get dressed for the big day, while Cookie prepared some sandwiches for her to take. “Nothing can be scary if you have a seanutbutter and eggjelly!” The goldie said as she handed the young inkling a little bag.

Ravioli clutched her father’s fin as they walked to the schoolhouse. Compared to the rest of town, with their haphazard mixture of concrete, sheet metal and wood, the schoolhouse felt odd. It had been painted in several bright colours and decorated with generations of graffiti; and a rainbow of colours flew in the sky from all the banner flags draped from the schoolhouse to other nearby buildings, poles, buoys and statues. But underneath the veneer of joy and wonder, a dreariness hung over the building.

The two walked past teenaged salmonid, loitering in the grounds in front of the building itself, their scarlet snouts turning to stare at Ravioli. Mean remarks were whispered and gesticulations were exchanged, and Ravioli, not being stupid, walked closer to her father. She kept a close eye on them from the safety of her father’s side. 

The schoolhouse itself was free of teens, as instead schools of small fry ran up and down the hallways. Many of the little ones yapped and yabbled upon seeing Ravioli, before dashing off to their own childish affairs. Ravioli, on the other hand, peeked curiously into every classroom they walked past. She was met with teachers of differing sizes. Some were smaller than some of the teenagers, while others were just as tall as her father. 

Her own classroom was at the far end of the schoolhouse, and Ravioli froze upon realising what this implied. The teacher was waiting inside, and gave Ravioli a steely gaze. “Ah. I have been expecting you. Come in then.” The teacher barked out.

Instead of following her teacher’s beckoning, Ravioli turned around and reached back to Stroganoff, weakly hugging her father as her own way of begging him to not let her go. Unfortunately, instead of suddenly deciding “let's go home!”, Stroganoff lightly patted her head, and nudged her into the classroom. 

“It’s only for a few hours. I’ll be here the moment you can leave.”

And with that, Ravioli was at school. The young inkling numbly sat down on the carpet with the few other early arriving small fry and just stared at the floor. A wave of darkness washed over the inkling. Not knowing how to cope with the horrors of being separated from her parents, she started to weep.

The teacher, upon spotting this, cocked her head to the side.

"Why do you weep, child?"

"I miss my daddy."

"...He was right here."

"But he's gone now."

"...He'll be back in like a few hours. He just said that." The teacher was confused about why Ravioli was upset, and even more confused about how to comfort the child. In the end, she just muttered to herself and waited for the rest of her class to come slamming in through the door.

Like a great biblical flood, a swarm of small fry came pouring in from the doorway, screaming, gargling and babbling amongst themselves as they flung themselves onto the carpet. 

Ravioli and the other early arrivals had barely enough time to shield themselves from the onslaught of their fellow classmates, some of which had been thrown into the air by the sheer force of enthusiasm by the swarm. Ravioli stopped crying as she found herself trying to move some small fry out of her lap, watching as one unfortunate soul found herself stuck upside-down in the net that hung on one of the walls.

The teacher sighed and went to go rescue the small fry caught in the net, the little salmonid gurgling a 'thank you' to the teacher before waddling over to a particular cluster of small fry.

For the most part, the class was... boring. Once Ravioli got over her homesickness, and the small fry got over their strange fascination with their taller, brown black classmate, class could be described as some form of musical performance.

The teacher would say something, and the small fry would respond with some form of shouting. Most of the time it would be wildly incorrect, ("My name is- "  "FIFTY SEVEN"), but it was the thought that counted. Mrs 'Fifty Seven', after a few bouts of the small fry shouting out numbers, managed to introduce everyone to Ravioli (who had been dubbed "NORTH POLE" by some of her classmates). 

It would take a few days for Ravioli to find out the purpose of this morning class, having run her voice hoarse joining in on the shouting. It turns out that the first class of the day was to have the small fry shout and jump and bounce everywhere before the siren for the next class rang. 

Once they had all the screaming out of their system, the small fry were mildly calm and could actually be taught. The first actual lesson had everyone learn something known as an 'alphabet'. The teacher, a rather boring salmonid with a bowl cut, would draw squiggles on the board and explain that it had a sound attached to it. 

By the time the siren for break rang, Ravioli was aware of there being squiggles for every single sound ever made, but had no clue what they all meant. While all the small fry happily launched themselves outside and started playing in the schoolyard and the nearby body of water, Ravioli was stopped before she could join them.

"Sorry dear, you're gonna have to stay inside for a little while." The bowl cut teacher explained. He looked guilty as he said it, and Ravioli was a little crestfallen at the news. She ate her sandwich and was bored, until the teacher offered to help her write some of the squiggles he had just shown.

By the time the siren rang for the next class, Ravioli could draw the squiggle for screaming. A big mighty 'A', with its large mouth open wide and ready to shout. 

The next class was something called 'combat class,' and the teacher explained something along the lines of 'tournaments' and 'houses' and 'ranks' and 'age groups'. Ravioli must admit, she hadn't been paying attention. She had the biggest spoon in the class and already her fellow small fry were challenging her to duels to the death. 

Fortunately for everyone involved, none of the small fry actually knew what a duel to the death meant, or that Ravioli actually had a fork. If she just bopped her opponent on the head, she automatically won. She may have put in a bit too much force with her swings, but the small fry she smacked didn't seem to be badly affected. They were unresponsive for a few seconds, before going back to their usual incredibly bouncy selves. 

The last lesson of the day was called ‘food’, a fact based only on the fact that it's what the small fry kept chanting as they and Ravioli walked to their next class. As they got to the actual class, their chanting grew louder, ending in a loud crescendo when the door opened.

Inside appeared to be a series of pots, pans, bonfires and gas cookers strewn about haphazardly, with a pile of vegetables, meats and eggs bundled in the middle. The teacher looked unsuited for the job, looking as skinny as to have never eaten food in his life, with a missing eye and an almost smashed in looking face. His eye betrayed the terror he felt seeing his class, as any moment he opened his mouth, at least seven small fry would raise their spoons and let out a victorious war cry. 

After a few unsuccessful attempts, the teacher managed to greet his students, but things immediately went pear shaped when he implied that food existed. The minute he said ‘egg’, all the small fry slammed themselves into the food pile, yelling and screaming at each other as pieces of lettuce went flying through the air. The teacher, at this point, was now hiding behind his desk, giving up on any possibility of education, and just hoping that he survives. 

Being slightly taller than her peers, Ravioli easily nudged some smallfry out of the way as she herself walked to the food pile. While she had been too slow to actually get one of the eggs, it turned out the skills she learned in combat class came in handy, as all she needed was to gently slam her salad fork on the head of one of the small fry that did have an egg, and she could take it with ease. 

With her egg in her fin, Ravioli peeked over the teacher’s desk.

“I have an egg,” she meekly announced to the quivering salmonid. 

The teacher, seeming like a nervous wreck, weakly nodded and begged Ravioli to keep quiet about her possession. After a lot of stuttering, the teacher managed to instruct Ravioli to bring over one of the gas cookers and a frying pan.

The rest of the class played like some sort of stealth mission, as the teacher instructed Ravioli on how to fry a bird’s egg while sneaking about the classroom to retrieve ingredients, while the rest of the class was throwing things. Based on the gentle but persistent stench of smoke, there was the possibility that something was on fire. 

Once she had successfully cooked the egg, an inelegant, spread out and overcooked mess on the frying pan, the teacher rewarded Ravioli by letting her eat it. Maybe it was just the fact that he had one person he could actually teach, but the teacher seemed to calm down as the lesson progressed. By the time the siren for the end of the rang out, the teacher seemed almost sad to see Ravioli go.

That, or he knew he would have to clean up the natural disaster that was his class.

Ravioli, on the other hand, was excited to leave, running out to the entrance of the school and slamming herself into her father the second she saw him.

“There you are,” Stroganoff said as he pulled his daughter into a hug. “Did you have a good day?”

“Uhuh! I learned so many things and I got to cook an egg!” Ravioli bounced as the two walked home.

“Oh that sounds fun. Did you get to eat it?”

“Yup! It wasn’t as good as your eggs though.”

Stroganoff laughed. “I’m sure you’ll get better with time. You can practise tomorrow when you go back.”

“Go back?” Ravioli stopped. She didn’t like where this was going. 

“Well yes, dear, you’ll be going to school here every day.”

“I am?” There was a deep horror inside the small child.

“Yes dear, school isn’t a one time only thing.”

“Oh.”

With the looming threat of having to deal with the small fry tsunami more often on the horizon, Ravioli’s enthusiastic gait turned to a regretful walk.

Chapter Text

It was autumn when a travelling band strolled into the village aboard their musical dinghy. Flyers were passed out for when the band was performing, littering the floor of most of the village’s paths like autumnal leaves. Ravioli read one of the yellow pieces of paper, picking up the page and slowly spelling out the words on it. Figuring out what it meant, she immediately wanted to go.

Stroganoff frowned when he looked at the flyer Ravioli offered him. “I dunno. Seems pretty late for you to be up.”

“Aw, pretty please?” Ravioli had learned a lot from school. Not only had she learned how to read, but she also learned psychological manipulation. A kid in her class had shared his secret on how to get anything you wanted from your parents, and Ravioli was more than happy to try it out. “With a seaberry on top?”

Naturally Stroganoff gave in, and asked Cookie if she wanted to come along too. The goldie was flattered and agreed, and with that, the little unofficial family were going on an outing.

Ravioli was absolutely excited, bouncing up and down as the three walked along the wooden, metal and concrete pathways that paved the way between buildings.

The band was performing out of their little boat, a haphazard array of cables strewn about the port and in the waters near the boat. The occasional spark would scare the attending technician, and a ‘caution: electric water’ sign had been placed on a buoy near the boat.

A varied set of chairs, blankets and pillows lined the port in front of the boat, and many salmonids were taking their picks. Already feeling self conscious about his height, Stroganoff opted to sit in a chair near the back and in a corner as a courtesy to the other, shorter salmonids. Maybe it was just Ravioli, but she could have sworn he sounded grumpy when Cookie suggested she and Ravioli sit closer to the action on one of the blankets.

With a bit of gentle persuasion and the power of ‘if I sit more aggressively than the other person they will leave’, Cookie managed to get one of the blankets closer to the stage. From their vantage point, they got a good look at the band, and the band got a good look at them.

One of the instrument players stopped polishing his trumpet to stare at Ravioli, before pointing her out to his bandmates. One of the musicians, curiosity in her eyes, cupped her mouth and called out to Cookie.

“Oy! What’s that thing next to you?”

Ravioli looked around, trying to find the offending object, while Cookie cupped her mouth and returned a response. “‘S an inkling!”

The band huddled together and muttered amongst themselves.

The technician broke the silence as another spark shot out from a speaker.

The same musician barked out another question. “Is that thing supposed to be here?”

Cookie was more than happy to fling back a response. “Aye!”

That caught the band off guard, as they huddled again, much more aggressively. There were gestures to indicate insanity was involved. Once their debate was settled, the musician that called out to Cookie loudly grumbled “Alright. Cool.” before going back to preparing for the performance.

In the silence that followed, Ravioli lightly tugged Cookie’s shirt.

“Hey momma?”

“Yes dearie?”

“What’s an inkling?”

Cookie froze, her face defaulting on a smile as her mind whirled. Did… did Ravioli not know what she was?

“Your father and I can explain later, alright dearie?” She said with a trained false jollyness. Years of rearing children had left her a natural at making children drop topics even when she was facing an emotional crisis. “Let’s just focus on the band.”

“Okay!”

Behind the smile, Cookie was freaking out. Did Ravioli think she was a salmonid this entire time? No surely she knew already, right? Oh but why would she ask what an inkling was if she knew what it was? Ravioli was way too young to be pulling the ‘We both know the truth but I’m feigning ignorance so you have to admit you are a horrible person out loud’ card, which meant her question had to be genuine. Oh goodness gracious. 

While Cookie silently had a crisis, the band started their performance.

While there were many fantastic and talented bands out there, these guys were not one of them. They performed their best, and Cookie had to admit, their music sounded like the audio equivalent of finding a crunchy bit in a juice box. But for Ravioli, who did not have standards yet, this was the most incredible experience of her life. 

She had joined in on the music, singing with her strange warbly voice. The rest of the audience must have found it an upgrade, since nobody complained, including the band. 

While Ravioli was singing, Cookie couldn’t help but notice something odd about Ravioli. At first she had written it off as a trick of the lighting, but as the performance continued, Cookie decided to trust her eyes.

Ravioli was changing colour. 

Her dark black and brown hue was shifting, melting and giving way for a soft orange.

By the end of the performance, most of Ravioli had changed colour, with only the bottoms of her extremities still brown. The inkling seemed unaware of her own colour shift, and it was only when Stroganoff reunited with the two ladies did someone say it out loud.

“Goodness! Ravioli! You’ve changed colour!”

Chapter Text

Ravioli was confused about a lot of things, and in the peace and quiet of playtime, she could ponder about everything. As she smashed two scrapper cars together, she thought about what she had heard the night before. 

‘Inkling.’

It sounded like a weird word, and she had heard it a few times and just brushed it off as ‘weird things grownups say’, but after last night it really bothered her not knowing. Mom had forgotten to explain what it was, and Ravioli herself had forgotten to bring it up after the performance. So she’d just have to figure it out herself.

What if an inkling was a type of blanket? They were sitting on a blanket that looked similar to the one mom had in her house, so maybe that’s just what those kinds of blankets are called? Maybe that’s why the band was so interested. They just wanted to know why the inkling was outside. It all made sense! An inkling was an inside blanket, not an outside blanket.

Was an outside blanket called an outkling?

Maybe she should ask dad if they could get an outkling.

Speaking of her dad, he was surprised at the fact that she had changed colour. To be fair, she was also surprised by it, but it also felt… right? It was during the concert she felt like something was lifted off her, like some kinda… blanket (an outkling if you will). At once, she felt lighter, clearer (like a freshly washed inkling!), and it seemed like it resulted in her turning a pretty shade of orange.

However, this begs the question: if she changed colour, does that make her a grownup?

All the other kids in her classroom were dark like she had been, but all the grownups had pink noses and pretty colours on their body, so did that mean she was a grownup now?

She really hoped so. Being a grownup was cool! You got to stay up late and play with cannons and best of all, you could go into water!

Mom and dad had made sure to drill it into Ravioli’s head that she couldn’t go outside without supervision and was forbidden from jumping into the water. She’d get sick is what they told her, but she had seen everyone else go into the water just fine!

So now that she was a grownup, surely she would be allowed to go swimming now.

Unless the fact that she was orange instead of pink was the reason why she was forbidden. Was she sick or something?

Oh if only she were pink.

But wait… what if she could be pink? As if something in her mind clicked, Ravioli stopped what she was doing, and closed her eyes. If she thought about it hard enough, could she turn pink? It was difficult to describe (especially for a 6 year old), but she had to think through her skin from the inside. 

Maybe the outkling and inkling comparison was fitting. She really did feel like something had been cleared from her body, and if she focused right, like she was made of individual threads of an inkling, she could turn pink.

It felt like a wave, a strange sensation rippling out on her skin, and as Ravioli opened her eyes, she watched in awe as she could see her skin shift colour.

It was amazing! She was pink now!

But oh, there were so many other pretty colours, it would be a shame if she could only be pink or orange. She wanted to be asparagus green! Apple red! Lemon yellow!

The promise of adulthood was dropped as Ravioli instead played around with colours. By lunch, not only had she mastered this new ability, but she had turned herself the same shade of brown as the wooden floorboards, and was ready to jumpscare her father when he walked in.

Stroganoff, meanwhile, had keen enough eyes to see his daughter flopped on the floor.

“Ravioli?”

“Boo!” Ravioli shouted as she revealed she had been hidden on the floor this entire time.

Stroganoff was so terrified he did not move a muscle. “Oh, you’re brown now. Are you okay?”

Ravioli giggled. “I can turn into all the colours! Watch, watch!”

Stroganoff quietly cheered as Ravioli started shifting colours, the older salmonid impressed, and admittedly, a little relieved that the inkling was starting to do something inklings were famous for. 

Chapter Text

Seasons passed, Ravioli trained, grew and had her 7th birthday. Before she knew it, she needed new clothes.

It was at this point that Ravioli realised that she was different. While she had at first just brushed off why her face in the mirror looked nothing like anyone else in the village, the differences were starting to pile up. She practically towered over her peers and there had been times where she had been thrown into classes with older kids just so she had better opponents.

The need for new clothes was only making this difference worse. When she complained about her pants being too small, normally her father would take her to the market to pick something new out. This time however, nothing fit her. Her weird two-tails couldn’t move if the pants were too long, and anything shorter was made for smaller children in mind.

Instead, the tailor (who was also the town surgeon and resident taxidermist) had to make something new for Ravioli. The tailor made a fuss about the ordeal, remarking how she had never done anything like this, but she still took Ravioli’s measurements. The rest of the town, with their not so prying ears, heard every unique swear the tailor uttered as she fiddled with paper within her studio. 

The end result was interesting to behold. A large square of fabric rested upon Ravioli’s chest, where fabric straps went around her shoulders and fastened together behind her neck. The real part of the pants rested on her waist, and instead of clinging to her two-tails, the bottom flared out, letting Ravioli extend her tails as far as she wanted to. With such a large amount of fabric being used, circular patterns of salmon swimming had been painted on two of the corners to make the outfit look interesting.

“You better be appreciative, you’re a walking waste of fabric.”

The remark stung, but it spurred Ravioli on to say something. When she and Stroganoff walked away, holding fins, Ravioli spoke up.

“Hey dad?”

“Yes?”

“What am I?”

It was said so casually that the question caught Stroganoff off guard. Ravioli just looked up at her father as he fumbled with words. She hadn’t quite grasped the existential horror her question entailed, and was just left with being existential, while Stroganoff dealt with his own horror.

“I uh. Well.” How did he answer this ? What if Ravioli took his answer the wrong way? Or was upset at the knowledge given to her. Maybe he should have said something sooner… But surely she should have known all of this already? In the end, Stroganoff only had two options: Lie or tell the truth, and he didn’t have the heart to lie.

“Oh well… you’re an inkling.”

“Oh… okay.” Satisfied, Ravioli continued to walk. 

Stroganoff mentally sighed in relief. He had been expecting to carry home a child tackling the stress of being different. Instead she was just walking in such a way that her pants flitted about this way and that.

Being a parent was hard.

Chapter Text

“You look so cute!” Cookie cooed when she caught sight of Ravioli. The little inkling lit up, her weird teeth showing as she smiled at the compliment.

“Oh, it looks so swishy! It looks a little bit like the toga I used to wear back in the day.”

Naturally, Ravioli spun around for her mother, doing her best to let her outfit fly out from under her. The goldie applauded the little show, and Ravioli beamed.

Cookie had been waiting in Stroganoff’s house, having let herself in and made tea. It was only after seeing Ravioli’s new outfit did she remember her reason for visiting.

Vanilla had obtained some strange device that could instantly draw a realistic picture in seconds. There had been a lot of octarian jargon attached, but it sounded fun and Cookie wanted to get an instant drawing.

And why not commemorate Ravioli’s new outfit with a drawing? The little inkling agreed, and as if she hadn’t just come home, Ravioli stepped out of the house holding Cookie’s fin. Stroganoff politely declined the invite to pester Vanilla, and instead waved them off. Ravioli didn’t say anything, but she could have sworn she heard Stroganoff huff as the two left.

“What do you want.” Vanilla called out, annoyed before opening the door properly. His expression changed the moment he saw who was outside.

“Is that a proper way to speak to your mummy?” Cookie bit back, a large smile on her face the entire time.

“Uh. H-hi mom.” The scrawny salmonid said weakly. He lightly pawed his fins together and  quickly glanced away from his mother to look at Ravioli. The young inkling, who at this point did not know the two were related, was taking in this discovery with an open gasp. “...Sorry.”

“D’aw, it’s alright dearie,” Cookie said as she patted her son on the head. Compared to her, Vanilla was tiny, the tallest part of his hair not even reaching her neck. “I heard you got some magic octarian thingumimgummy that draws pictures, so naturally I want one!” The older woman didn’t even let her son invite her and Ravioli in, instead just politely pushing Vanilla out of the way and walking inside his home. 

“Uh…” Vanilla trailed as he tried to regain his composure. “I’m not doing this for free,” he said. “The camera and its film weren’t cheap, you know. What’s in it for me?”

“The satisfaction of bonding with your mum!”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve done enough already.” Vanilla rolled his eyes. “I’m not joking about the price. That thing cost eggs .”

There was a slight pause, as mother and son locked eyes. Cookie broke the silence.

“Oh if that’s the case, I can pay you with some wisdom!” Cookie said with a great big smile on her face. “I know you’re still a virgin dearie-”

“Mom no!”

“- so I’m sure I can help you woo over a lady or two and you can get all the eggs you could ever want-”

“Mom. Mom please.”

“I know you still haven’t worked up the courage to do a salmon run yet so nobody has seen how handsome you look when you properly mature but I can lend you my toga so you look really spiffy when the day comes-”

“Mom I. I’m not listening anymore.” Vanilla said, placing his fins on his head to cover his ears. He then started aggressively humming. 

“You see dearie it's really simple you just gotta show a little bit of tail-”

“HMM Hmmm HMMM that’s the sound of me not listening!”

“- and ladies like it when you are a certain level of persistent too-”

“HMMM HMMM HMMMM!”

“-and when you do get eggs I want you to know that I do expect grandchildren-”

Ravioli could only watch as Cookie kept saying things that made Vanilla react silly. Was this how grownups talk with their parents? Cookie was saying a lot of big words and Vanilla kept flinching as if each one was physically injuring him. She honestly found Vanilla’s reactions to be quite funny, but she couldn’t help but notice something odd about Vanilla.

For some reason, Vanilla didn’t have a red snout. All the other grownups had red snouts, but Vanilla’s face was all silver, like all the kids in Ravioli’s class. Except the difference was that the small fry were, well, small and young. Vanilla was a grownup. 

“Uhm. Mom?” Ravioli piped up.

“Oh, yes dearie?” Cookie stopped talking about ‘nest diameters’. Vanilla looked relieved.

“How come Vanilla doesn’t have a red snout?”

“Hey, I’m right here!” Vanilla huffed, relief gone, “I just haven’t gone on a salmon run yet!”

“Well are you going this year, dearie?” Cookie teased.

“Well. N-no. But I have a bad back! I’ll go eventually.” Vanilla defended himself. Despite what he had said earlier, the scrawny salmonid found himself retrieving his newly obtained camera and letting out a defeated sigh. “I’ll… I’ll take your coddamn picture. Just shut up about dating tips, mom.”

“Easily done!” Cookie responded, as Vanilla pointed the two ladies over to one side of his home. Vanilla’s abode was full of art supplies, from sculpting tools to paints, all strewn about on every available surface, and even on the floor on some occasions. There was some method to the madness, but not one that Ravioli could easily piece together.

One wall had a white sheet draped over it, and a bare lightbulb angled to shine on the surface. Vanilla ordered the two to stand in front of the sheet while he organised the strange box.

Ravioli was curious about the box. It had a lot of buttons and knobs and a large glass eye, and honestly looked really fun to fiddle with. Especially with how focused Vanilla was with adjusting every knob to be at the right point.

Satisfied with the direction of all the knobs, he pointed the box at the women, so that the large glassy eye was staring right at them. “Okay, now I need you two to stand completely still and not blink. Oh, and uh, say cheese. That’s apparently part of doing this.”

“Cheese!”

“Cheese.”

Flash!

Like lightning, the box flashed for a split second, turning the room white before going back to normal. Both Ravioli and Cookie shook their heads to get rid of the bright glare burned in their eyes, while Vanilla was interested in a piece of paper the box spat out.

He gave it a few aggressive shakes, and by magic, a perfect drawing of Cookie and Ravioli formed.

“Here you go.” Vanilla grumbled as he handed the drawing to his mother. Cookie raised it up to appraise the quality, while Ravioli stood on her tiptoes to get a better look herself. It was amazing, and just as Cookie had said, it looked real. 

The two women left Vanilla’s home after much grumbling from the annoyed salmon, and started to walk home.

“Hey mom?”

“Yes dearie?”

“How come you never told me or daddy that Vanilla is your son?”

Cookie’s smile widened into a smirk. “I thought it’d be funny. Your father doesn’t remember Vanilla even though I raised that boy in my home. Now I’m just trying to see how long it takes for your father to figure it out. Plus I think it's amusing seeing your father pestering my boy.” 

Cookie let out a laugh, a distinct “dohohoh” before lightly elbowing Ravioli. “Don’t tell your father, he doesn’t suspect a thing yet.”

Chapter Text

Ever since the day Ravioli found out what she was, a lot has been on her mind. She still didn’t know what an inkling was exactly, outside of her being one, but it brought an odd comfort. At least now when she wished to grow a normal tail or sprout scales, there was a purpose for it. 

Before, she had been jealous of her peers, how natural and normal they looked, while her form was alien and bizarre, even to her. Her teachers tried to skirt around the issue, but if it was out of politeness or they were simply scared of angering Ravioli’s father, she couldn’t be sure. What was clear was that they found her an inconvenience. 

At this point she associated ‘swimming classes’ with ‘freetime’. Nobody would let her near the water, and anytime she tried to bring it up, the answer was always a solid no. Even when she thought she was being incredibly slick with how she phrased the request, the answer would still be no. 

All she could think of was that it had something to do with being an inkling. Afterall, even grownups that just met her already knew she wasn’t allowed to swim, that being in the water made her sick. Could a grownup really look at her weird appearance and already know? 

This then brought another question to mind: Why was she here? Everyone knew how children got raised. For most children, you were part of a shoal and were taken care of by the shoal parents. Someone that collected the small fry when they just hatched. Ravioli even knew who the shoal parent for most of her class was, having seen him when he had been collecting his gaggle of small fry. 

It was only on rare occasions that instead of living in a shoal, a small fry was collected and raised by the parents that made the egg. Based on what her mom had told her, Cookie had done that with Vanilla and a few of her other children that Ravioli had never met. 

So surely, Ravioli should have been in a shoal, probably one full of inklings. But instead she was raised by her dad. Why? Had she been a weird egg? She was supposed to be a salmonid this entire time but then something went wrong?

How were eggs made? Maybe that’s where this whole problem came about.

Ravioli peeked from behind her doorway, observing her father as he tinkered with his tools. Ravioli still didn’t understand what her dad did, apart from playing with metal and his big cannon in the back. Maybe she’d ask him one of these days. But not today. Today was about eggs.

She waited for the right time, and walked into the room. Stroganoff smiled at his daughter and lowered his tools. 

“Hello Ravioli.”

“Hi dad, can I ask you something?”

“Of course dear.”

“Where do eggs come from?”

Stroganoff froze. Uh. Uhm. Was that something he was allowed to answer?

He looked at his curious daughter, heat flushing to his face as she stared at him with wide eyes.

“Oh. It’s uh. Well you see it’s very funny uh.” He couldn’t say it. “So what happens is.” This is so embarrassing and Ravioli was looking at him expectantly. “There's this thing where the uh. And the uhm.”

“You don’t know either do you?” Ravioli said with a harmless smile.

“...Yes.” He fibbed. Why had this question flustered him all of a sudden!?

“Why don’t we ask mom! I bet she knows!” Ravioli said, before taking her father hostage, delicately holding his fin and tugging him towards the door.

Knowing that he probably wasn’t getting out of this without the ground opening up and swallowing him, Stroganoff put down his tools and followed Ravioli.

“Mom! Mom!” Ravioli called out as both she and Stroganoff entered Cookie’s abode.

“Oh, what is it dearie?” The goldie looked up from her tea at her two visitors.

“Dad and I don’t know where eggs come from! Do you know?”

Behind Ravioli, Stroganoff mouthed ‘ help me’.

Cookie nodded, and clasped her fins together. “Oh well it’s quite simple dearie. You know about salmon run, yes?”

“Uhuh!’

“Well, when a mummy and a daddy get to the right age and want more kids in the world, they go on a salmon run, where they go back to where they were born. There, the mummy makes special mud balls, and the daddy puts special water on them.”

“What makes the water special?”

“It’s extra salty,” Cookie answered, not missing a beat. 

Stroganoff wanted to slam his head into a wall.

“Right, well um, I think I remember now. Thank you Cookie. Come now Ravioli, let’s go back home.” Stroganoff said, beginning to walk out of the door. 

“Aw, can I stay here? I wanna ask more questions!”

Stroganoff paused, and Ravioli couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes darted to Cookie, before looking back at Ravioli. “...Alright. Don’t stay here for too long, okay?” The large salmonid then numbly left.

Cookie poured some tea for the inkling and invited her to sit down. “So what else are you curious to know dearie?”

Ravioli thought about it for a moment. Even with the explanation of how eggs were made, she was still confused about herself.

“Where did I come from?”

Cookie held a smile on her face, and took a sip of tea. “Oh dearie, that’s a question you shoulda asked your father.” Her tone wavered. “But I suppose you did ask. Your father found you one day out in the dam.”

“You mean in the water?”

“Exactly dearie. You were in a little bubble that kept you safe from the water.”

Ravioli nodded, understanding but also not. She furrowed her brows, trying to do the maths. “Was that my egg?”

“Ah… probably not dearie. Eggs usually aren’t made of plastic.”

Ravioli’s brows furrowed. “Then where was my egg made?”

Cookie shrugged. “Don’t know, dearie. You just appeared. Then your father adopted you.”

Well that made things more confusing. So she wasn’t born, just found. She was so concerned about where her egg was, that the confirmation that she had been adopted didn’t stick. But what Cookie implied made her curious.

“Why can’t I go in water? Is it because I’m an inkling?”

The goldie nodded. 

“What is an inkling?”

The goldie cocked her head slightly. 

“Well, you’re one, dearie.”

“I know, but what is an inkling?”

Cookie placed a fin on her chin.

“Well, do you know what a squid is?”

“The tube fish with lots of tentacles?”

“Exactly. Well, an inkling is like a big version of a squid, like how I am a big version of a salmon.”

Ravioli looked at her hands. All at once, something clicked. Perhaps if she thought about it, she could see her hands being the same as a squid’s tentacles. And the word inkling. It had nothing to do with inside or outside, like with her blanket guess, but it had to do with ink . Like squid ink!

While Ravioli was trying to picture herself as a big squid, Cookie continued. “Inklings are rather small, since I’ve never seen one even as tall as me, but they are quite impressive combatants. They can fly, they can spray a lot of ink, and they’re made of a liquid, so they can turn into a squid, and swim very quickly through their ink.”

Ravioli stared at Cookie in awe. That sounded awesome! “When do I get to turn into a squid and fly and spray ink?”

Cookie chuckled. “I’m not quite sure, but one thing you can do already is change colours.”

“You mean this?” Ravioli said, excitedly shifting to a bright red.

“Exactly dearie. Maybe with time you’ll figure out the rest.”

The young inkling smiled at all this new knowledge. “Can we go visit them? I wanna see them fly and stuff!”

Cookie maintained a smile. “Ah, I’m afraid not dearie. Inklings live very far away.”

“Oh. Then one day I’m gonna go and visit them!”

Cookie giggled. “That’s the spirit dearie.”

Ravioli returned home for dinner, and happily shared her new knowledge with Stroganoff. While the large salmonid seemed miffed about learning that Cookie told her she was adopted, for the most part he seemed happy about her curiosity, and was happy to confirm everything Cookie had said. 

Ravioli went to bed incredibly giddy, and couldn’t fall asleep. Instead, she quietly zoomed around her room, pretending to fly and swim without making a noise.

That’s when she heard a knock on the door.

Dad would tell her off if he found out she was still awake, so she said nothing and quietly hid behind her door, as Stroganoff walked past to see who was outside.

“Cookie? What are you doing here?”

“Ohhh Stroganoff, I think I made a mistake today. I think I said too much.”

The door closed, and based on the walking Ravioli heard, Stroganoff had let Cookie in.

There was a flick as the gas stove turned on, before Cookie piped up. 

“Actually, do you have any booze? This isn’t a moment for tea.”

Silence, before the sound of a bottle and some cups were placed on the table. Liquid, assumed to be the ‘booze’ Cookie had mentioned, was poured. More silence, probably as the two grownups took a drink. One of them slammed the cup on the table, before Cookie continued.

“Ohhh, I really shouldn’t have said anything. Ravioli’s curious about inklings now.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that,” Stroganoff answered. “Part of me is a little bit glad she knows now. I couldn’t think of a good way of explaining it all.”

“Stroganoff, she wants to meet them. She wants to go out there and-and talk with those monsters.”

Monsters? Ravioli felt uneasy all of a sudden. She was intruding on something she was clearly not supposed to hear, something she strained to hear as much as she could.

Cookie continued. “Stroganoff I love Ravioli as much as I can, but I can’t handle the thought of her interacting with one and getting taken away.”

There was a sound of more liquid being poured into the glass. More silence, and the adults continued.

"I don't think she'll actually do that."

"Ohh you don't understand Stroganoff. All it takes is for one of them to find her, and they'll take her like they take our eggs. I know you haven't seen any for yourself, but they are mean, greedy and vicious. I've seen those bastards kill someone fleeing just for the sake of it!"

Ravioli silently repeated Cookie’s words. 

“Inklings are just the spawn of evil. Absolutely hate them.”

Stroganoff said nothing, and the house fell silent. Ravioli felt uneasy. Her intuition told her that dad was mad.

"Stroganoff?"

"Why do you say it like that?"

Did he snarl?  

"If you hate inklings so much, why do you even care about Ravioli?" The table scraped against the floor, as if someone pushed it. Like Stroganoff moved slightly forward, bringing himself to his full height.

"I, wait Stroganoff-"

"Ravioli is my daughter.” There was an uncomfortable pause. Ravioli didn’t dare move, in case one of the grownups heard her. “I get ridiculed by the town for adopting her, I risk my life trying to convince the chief to let her be part of the tribe, I have to deal with the fear that ONE DAY, SOMEONE DECIDES SHE'S NOTHING MORE THAN A PIECE OF MEAT-"

Ravioli covered the sides of her head, her father's yelling hurting her ears. 

"-and you just swoop in like the nosy bitch you are to take all the credit. And for what? Just to show off? To take Ravioli away from me? Because you clearly have some ulterior motive coming here-"

“N-no, that’s not what I meant!” Cookie sounded wounded. Wounded, and scared. Ravioli was frightened too. She had never heard her father raise his voice before, and would hope she never heard it again. 

There was another pause. Cookie tried to muffle a sob, Ravioli barely hearing the soft noise. 

“I’m sorry. Please I. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that." Cookie said between laboured breaths. "I'm sorry. I'm just scared for her. I don’t want anything bad to happen to her."

More silence followed. Stroganoff sat back down.

"I only ever wanted to help." Cookie continued. "I put aside how I felt about inklings, because I-i know I couldn't blame what happened to me on a baby. I'm sorry you thought I was- I was being nosy..." Cookie’s words dissolved into a mumble that Ravioli couldn't hear. She continued talking, rambling indecipherable words.

Even if Ravioli couldn't hear it, it seemed like it was a good enough apology for Stroganoff. The larger salmonid sighed.

"I'm sorry for making you cry.” There was a pregnant pause. The goldie was still sobbing gently. “I don’t dislike you. I’m actually appreciative of your help. Just… maybe a little jealous.”

"Jealous?" Ravioli barely made out what Cookie said.

"Yeah. You just seem to know everything, and everyone likes you, including Ravioli. 'Just felt like it was unfair. 'Cause in the end, I'm just one bumbling idiot in way over his head, and you're the only reason Ravioli is even alive now."

"Oh dearie," Cookie said in-between a sob, "don't sell yourself short. You are an amazing father already. I'm just a sad old lady trying to feel better 'bout old wounds."

"Old wounds?"

A pause. In that time, Cookie seemed to have caught her breath.

"Oh Stroganoff, surely you heard what happened to me. Nobody could shut up about it after it happened."

“...No? What happened to you?”

Cookie took a deep breath. Ravioli knew what she was about to hear was bad. As if the young inkling needed more evidence to hate her own kind. But she didn’t dare move.

“We attacked one of their intruding ships. They knew we were coming. One of those inklings, he pressed a giant rolling pin on me, while his cohorts slaughtered everyone else. I managed to get away, dive into the water before he broke my back, but he broke something else.”

Ravioli felt numb. 

“Ever since that day, I haven’t been able to have kids. I got lucky once, but it hurt, and I haven’t had a miracle since.”

More silence.

“I’m… sorry that happened to you Cookie. I didn’t know.”

“I miss the sounds of my own children." Cookie stumbled, her voice threatening to return to tears. "I’m sorry you thought I was gonna do something bad to Ravioli. I'll be honest, when I saw her for the first time, all I ever wanted was to share my love.”

There was a pause, both adults mulling in their uncomfortable tension. Stroganoff broke the silence. 

“Even though she’s an inkling?”

“Yes. I… I can’t forgive them. Not after what happened to me. I'll never forget those eyes that stared into mine as he crushed my body. I've gone to many a dark place from what happened, and I lost so many children being unceremoniously killed and left without the respect of being eaten. I absolutely hate them.”

I absolutely hate them.

The phrase echoed in Ravioli’s head, as tears dripped down her face. Suddenly her own mother felt alien. A stranger. Anything else Cookie said felt hollow, like Ravioli’s imagination was the source of the words. Afterall, there was no way the mom who hated her could say it.

“But Ravioli is different. She’s one of us. It doesn’t matter that she’s the same species as those monsters that hurt me. She’s filled with love, from the village, from you, from me. She’s no longer just an inkling, even if her appearance says otherwise."

Ravioli finally found the ability to move, and went to bed. She suddenly felt exhausted, and as Cookie and Stroganoff talked more, their voices now muffled, Ravioli fell asleep. Her mind was filled with bitter dreams and hateful monsters.

Chapter Text

Ravioli didn’t know how to feel about herself after last night. She sat in her room for a long while, not playing with her toys, just staring at the ceiling.

Cookie’s words repeated in her head, how the goldie actually felt about Ravioli’s kind. Some part of her, a rational part, wanted to point out that Ravioli was the exception. But it felt like a hollow comfort. Afterall, how long until she wasn’t an exception?

It didn’t help that she felt guilty. As if what happened to her mom was her fault. Only because she was the same species as her mom’s attacker.

She must have fallen asleep, as her dad woke her up for dinner. It was shrimp tonight, and the only noise that could be heard was the soft clatter of cutlery.

“Are you okay dear? You’ve been awfully quiet.” Stroganoff asked.

“I’m fine,” Ravioli lied,” just a bit tired.”

Stroganoff smiled. “Well, you do have school tomorrow, so you should rest up.”

Goodnights were shared, and the lights in the house flicked off. Ravioli’s eyes lay open, staring at the dark ceiling, before climbing out of bed. She silently opened her bedroom door and strained to hear any sound. She was met with the idle creaking of the house, the gentle lap of water outside, and her father snoring.

With this as her chance, Ravioli snuck out of the house and started walking.

She felt a chill from the sudden freedom she had given herself, and for the most part, anyone else awake didn’t seem too stressed to take that away from her. The stars above glittered, while the moon hung low in the sky. There was something magical about the town at night. Whether it was the silence, the way the water rippled under the moonlight, or the fact that some people were still awake, carrying on their business even in the middle of the night. 

Curious, Ravioli knelt down to where a bucket of water had been placed. Whoever lived in the building next to the bucket was using this to store rainwater, and even now the occasional drip fell from the gutters. Slowly, she placed one of her fins- no, tentacles, into the bucket. When she didn’t immediately die, she submerged more and more of her tentacle into the bucket. It was when she had half her arm in the bucket did she feel…weird.

She pulled her tentacle out and examined it. It was all bloated, and if she touched it, her own colour leaked onto her other hand. She also had the oddest urge to spit, something watery building up in her mouth. So she did, a stream of almost clear water leaking from her mouth onto the concrete walkway. Suddenly the warnings about water made a little bit more sense.

She continued her meandering, exploring parts of town she had never really visited before. It was then that someone spoke, and she jumped at the sound of her own name.

“Ravioli, what are you doing past your bedtime?” A familiar grouchy voice spoke. Vanilla was sitting on a bench, and had spread a variety of art supplies around him. In his lap was a book, a paintbrush in his fin.

“Um. I’m just walking.”

“Ah yes. Walking. The pastime of serial killers and people with problems.”

Ravioli looked at the ground, before making her way over to the bench to sit. She had to scoot some of Vanilla’s belongings out of the way, much to the artist’s chagrin.

“That wasn’t an invitation to sit but okay.” Vanilla grumbled before sighing. “What’s the matter kid?”

“I found out I’m an inkling.”

“Only recently? Kid how’d you not figure that out sooner?”

Ravioli weakly swung her legs as she stared at the floor. “I did… kinda, I just didn’t know the word until a few days ago.”

“Ah, I see. So what, is that what’s bothering ya? I’m guessing you also figured out you’re adopted too eh?”

“Yeah…” When Vanilla said it like that, Ravioli wondered why she didn’t think of that sooner. In hindsight, it was pretty obvious. “It’s just, well yesterday, I overheard my mom and my dad talking.”

“She’s my mother, but continue.”

“She got hurt by an inkling a long time ago.”

“Ah yes. That fun story.” Vanilla rolled his eyes. “Did she mention the mental breakdowns? Because those were not fun.”

“She said she hated inklings.”

“Oh.” Vanilla’s hair drooped, like the wind out of his sails. He grimaced. “Yeahhhh I can suddenly see why you’re a bit bummed out.” For once, the grouchy artist looked at Ravioli with actual concern. “Well, dunno if it can change your mind on it, but she loves you dearly. She doesn’t shut up about you when she visits. If we’re playing the favourites game, I'm losing.”

Ravioli said nothing. She just looked around, glancing at Vanilla’s book. Even under the glow of the harsh streetlamp, it was a lovely painting of the area. She didn’t quite understand how the splotches of colour ended up looking like a replica of real life, but it was magical to see Vanilla’s paintings anyhow. 

“I feel bad for being an inkling.”

Vanilla closed his book, leaving the paintbrush inside as a bookmark, and placed it by his side. “Hey now,” he said softly, “That’s not a good thing to say about yourself.”

“But it’s true. If inklings are bad, then I don’t want to be one.”  She stared at her feet. Her weird, malformed two-tails. Her useless, inconvenient and evil not-tail.

“Inklings aren’t all bad.” Vanilla offered. “We live different lives, but that doesn’t make them bad guys.” He sighs. “It’s not like salmonids are exactly ‘morally superior’ anyway. You probably wouldn’t hear it in school but I hear a lot of bad stories when trading with octarians.” He scratches the back of his neck. “In a way I’ve been in your position.” Ravioli looked at him. “I’ve also thought that I don’t want to be a salmonid. I don’t want to be called a vicious monster, or be accused of eating people. I don’t even want to find out the bad things my kind has done. But that’s not a good mindset to have. That just makes you sad and angry.” 

Ravioli nodded.

“It’s a good thing I have back problems. Pretty sure Cod knew I’d turn evil if I didn’t.” He weakly laughed at his own joke. He glanced at Ravioli. “You wanna know the secret to feeling better about being an inkling?”

She nodded again.

“Love yourself. Learn everything you can about inklings, and forge it into an armour over your heart. You’re going to hear more people say bad things, either on purpose or on accident. You can’t let it wear you down, and you can’t let anyone take your armour from you. Don’t let another inkling’s sins send you down a dark path. Do you understand?”

“Kinda.”

“Good.” Vanilla answered, his good deed of the day done. “But speaking of learning about inklings…” Vanilla picked up a bottle from the bench, and emptied the contents on the floor. “How ‘bout you give me some ink?”

“What?”

“Thought it was pretty obvious. Got a bottle right here, you’re the inkling. Just do the thing and spit out some ink.”

Ravioli accepted the bottle, and blankly stared at it. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? It’s literally in the name. Ink lings make ink. It’s your whole thing. Don’t you have like. A hole. Or something for this? Or maybe it’s just your mouth, I dunno how inklings work. Just try make ink.”

Ravioli stared at the bottle. You know when she snuck out tonight she hadn’t been expecting to suddenly need a new skill. Could she even make ink? Like Vanilla said, it was in the name, but at the same time, she had no idea how to go about it. Her first attempt was to just spit in the bottle, coloured saliva leaking off her tongue.

“Did I do it right?”

Vanilla frowned. “I don’t think so, no. I’ve heard of inklings being able to paint large areas with their ink in a matter of minutes, so you must’ve done it wrong.”

Ravioli frowned as well. Was there a trick to it? Or maybe it had to do with her changing colour? She closed her eyes in thought, and started shifting colours again. She focused on the feeling of the wave that rippled through her skin, until she found a part of her, inside her chest, was resonating with her shift in colour. It was an odd sensation, as if she had a fizzy drink lodged in her chest, before it settled down once she finished changing colours. 

Was that her heart? No, she already had three of those, this was new.

She lightly poked her chest in thought, and as if waiting for her, some unused and tired muscles called to her. It took a few attempts, her own body not used to the strange bit of motion she was asking, but she could feel a surge of ink rise through her body. Some of which leaked out of her mouth, much to her own shock.

“...Are you okay? Please don’t die on me, that’d be rude.”

Ravioli nodded, before licking her ink covered lips. The ink tasted different, but it wasn’t a bad taste, just different. Now that she knew what to expect when pushing against that inky part of her body, Ravioli tried once again to fill the bottle, ink leaking from her mouth into the bottle with ease.

“Well well well, you actually did it. Colour me impressed. You are actually an inkling.” Vanilla remarked as he plucked the bottle from Ravioli’s hands. “Consider this a free lesson on being an inkling.” He gave her a mean grin before studying his new bottle of ink more intensely. “I’ll be expecting more of these in the near future.”

Chapter Text

Vanilla was true to his word. He’d been waiting 7 years for this very moment, and he had the empty bottles to prove it. He had an evil grin on his face and a heavy bag on his side as he knocked on the door of Stroganoff’s residence.

“Ah, greetings Vanilla,” Stroganoff said as he opened the door for the scrawny salmonid. “Sorry I haven’t been doing lessons for a while.”

“Oh don’t worry about that. I’m not here for you today.” Vanilla said, his chest puffed out as he walked into Stroganoff’s abode. “It’s time you upheld your end of our deal.” The smaller salmonid opened his bag, revealing a clattering pile of glass and plastic ink bottles.

“Ah…” Stroganoff trailed off. “I don’t know if she can even… you know. Do that.”

“Oh, she can and will. Call her over.”

“Alright. Ravioli?”

“Here!” Called out a voice, before the inkling herself peeked out from her room. The inkling had just returned from school, and was still a little tired from her adventure the night before. “Hi Vanilla!”

“Hello Ravioli. I have a job for you.”

✦✦✦

“...And each bottle has a label for what colour I want in that bottle specifically.” Vanilla lectured as he piled more and more bottles on the desk. Ravioli looked uncertain at the task at hand, an army of empty containers in front of her.

“Um. I don’t know about this…” She remarked.

“Luckily, I do. Better start spitting.” The scrawny salmonid said with a smirk.

✦✦✦

Stroganoff had gone back to work after seeing what Ravioli and Vanilla were up to, and it was only an hour later did he peek in to see how they were doing.

“Are you winning?” he asked.

“No…” Ravioli trailed off, her fifth bottle of blue ink in front of her. They were all different shades, and Ravioli’s skin looked like a gradient of all five.

“Yup,” came a smug Vanilla. He had a book open and was busy painting with Ravioli’s ink. “‘Kid’s got potential as a walking ink factory.”

Ravioli looked at her father. He could only apologise with his eyes. A deal was a deal.

“Well, let Ravioli take a break now and then.”

“Yeah yeah, sure thing.” 

✦✦✦

“Okay Vanilla, I think that’s enough for today. I’m gonna ask you to leave. It’s getting late.”

The sun was setting, and the living room was bathed in the hues of fire. Ravioli was suffering from a mean headache and was resting under a pile of filled bottles. If she had to turn green one more time she was probably going to hurl. 

Vanilla harrumphed at being kicked out, but started scooping up bottles and placing them into his bag all the same.

“Yeah sure. I need to get dinner any-” the salmonid toppled over as he hefted the bag over his shoulder, “-way…” He was currently pinned on the floor and looking annoyed at the situation. He gave Stroganoff a weak smile. “...Say. how ‘bout you help out a guy with a bad back?”

Stroganoff sighed, and picked up Vanilla’s bag with ease. “Fine.” He walked to the door and glanced at Ravioli. “Go get some rest dear.”

Ravioli was way ahead of her father, currently fast asleep on the table, unaware of the two men’s shenanigans.

Chapter Text

There was excitement in Ravioli’s class today. They were getting a new class, taught by a completely new teacher. He was apparently a storyteller who went by ‘Mr Sprout,’ but since the news was yabbled by a small fry aggressively bouncing on her seat, it was worth taking the news with a grain of salt.

But still, it was exciting, and in the midst of other classes, the students theorised and generated all sorts of rumours about him. Ravioli implied he breathed fire, and at some point everyone knew it as fact. Mr Melon, the quivering cooking teacher, did not like everyone screaming about a fire breathing salmonid, but any attempts to quell the class only stoked the flames (literally and figuratively) higher.

The students arrived at their new classroom, idly chatting as they waited for the arrival of their new teacher. There was silence as they heard walking, everyone’s eyes on the door.

A large man opened the door, bowing down to pass through the doorway. His hair had been combed into a long tassel that flowed down his neck. The scales on his body looked like they were made of steel, and the teeth that stuck out from his face looked like broken shards of glass. He drew himself to his full height, his head nearly breaking the ceiling.

Most salmonids lived for their humble lives and jobs in the village. Then there were those that lived to die in battle. Ravioli’s father steered clear of those types, advising Ravioli to do the same, but just being at school was enough for Ravioli to learn about them. They found life in villages to be an idle pastime, the only discussion on their lips was the next war. The chief favoured them among others, and as such, said warriors were usually higher up in the pecking order and rarely bothered with anyone else. 

There was a particular word for the knights, those that decked themselves in suits of armour, and as Ravioli looked at the man before her, she knew what he was:

Steelhead.

Ravioli’s neck naturally craned up to see the man’s face, and was met with his sharp, permanently annoyed eyes already affixed on her. She didn’t like the look he was giving her.

“Ah.” He spoke, a voice like glass being ground into bricks, “I see. This is the class with the inkling. What a great honour.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

He picked up a piece of chalk, and scraped it onto the chalkboard. He put too much force on the chalk, and while it couldn’t break, it would scream and screech as it was used. Satisfied with his abuse on the chalk, the steelhead took a step away from the board so all could see what he drew. The end result was a demonic figure, a gaping hole for a mouth and spines coming out at the end of its fins.

“Can any of you tell me what this is?”

One student raised a fin. “A bear?”

“Yes. Indeed. Very clever. This is known as a bear. It is a demon who strikes at random, the punisher for the lazy, the foolish, and the showoffs.”

The classroom fell into hushed mutters. The man needed only to utter a soft growl to render everyone silent and bowed. 

The man focused on Ravioli. 

“Miss Ravioli.” 

She grew still, trying her best not to breathe. 

“Can you think of a reason why a bear would punish you?”

Ravioli shook her head.

“You stand out. You’re obnoxiously coloured, obnoxiously shaped, and don’t get me started on the audacity that is you even being here. Dare I say it, if a bear ever found you, its hunger would be sated for years, and the rest of the class would look unpunishable by default.”

Ravioli squirmed in her seat. Her face was getting hot, and her eyes were prickling.

As if satisfied with her reaction, the man lost interest and turned to the rest of the class. 

“My name is Brussel Sprout. I will be your teacher for mythology from here on. I will say this: I do not tolerate bad behaviour. Get on my bad side, and there will be consequences.” He glanced at the board, to his drawing of the bear. “I’ll make you wish you got eaten by a bear instead.”

✦✦✦

Ravioli remained silent about her new teacher when her father picked her up from school. She felt ashamed that the steelhead nearly made her cry, and didn’t want to feel like a little kid tattling to her father because of a minor inconvenience. Even then, when Stroganoff peeked in her room to wish her good night, he noticed her expression of worry. The looming threat of being eaten by a bear still haunted the young inkling even hours later.

“What’s the matter Ravioli?” 

“Mr. Sprout said a bear is gonna eat me.”

“A bear?” Stroganoff asked, walking into her room proper. “Who told you about bears?”

“Mr Sprout. He’s our new teacher at school. He drew one on the board and said one’s gonna eat me because I’m different.”

Stroganoff frowned at that. “Well, that was an awful thing for him to say.” He lightly patted Ravioli on the head. “Luckily, bear’s aren’t real. It’s just a scary story. Like the gill fairy, or the three headed goose. It’s not real, and you’re not going to get hurt by one.”

Ravioli glumly nodded. While it was comforting to know bears didn’t exist, her imagination had made one real enough that it couldn’t be dispelled. 

Stroganoff smiled. “Now get some rest.” He turned to leave, and then paused. The full extent of what Ravioli said came bearing down in his thoughts, not just the fact that a teacher frightened her. 

“Ravioli?”

“Yes?”

“Your new teacher. Mr. Sprout. What did he look like, exactly?”

“He was big, like you, and had a mean look in his eyes. He had really sharp teeth and when he growled everyone went quiet.”

Stroganoff didn't need half of his daughter's explanation to know who exactly her new teacher was. His expression soured with recognition.

"Do you know him, dad?"

"Unfortunately. Don’t worry too much about it, Ravioli. Get some rest."

Chapter Text

Late night waves smacked against the concrete paths, as Ravioli once again snuck outside of the house. She had fallen in love with the thrill of freedom, going somewhere without her father or teachers to oversee her. Just the very act of going down a path she and her father never took was exhilarating, and it felt like a great discovery only she could experience. 

She avoided the area Vanilla sat when he found her sneaking out. The last thing she needed was him telling her to go back... Or get roped into ink filling again. She wanted to explore! 

Even though her parents weren't by her side, Ravioli ended up walking the same paths that they normally took anyway. She ended up at the schoolhouse, the place abandoned at night, and even more dreary in the weak light of the moon. The colourful flags that waved in the wind were washed out into hues of blue, and dark windows stared at Ravioli like gaping holes.

She went on over to the playground, a place she did not often tread. Without a soul in sight, Ravioli felt confident that she wouldn't be shoved into the small pool on the far side of the playground. Instead she could sit on the tyre swing, listen to the creak of rusted chains and feel the sense of joy the area had.

It didn't take long for goofing about in the playground to lose its lustre. There was nobody to play with, and throwing sand outside the sandpit wasn't as thrilling a rebellion as Ravioli thought it would. 

So she wandered, finding a door to the schoolhouse open and entering. The open halls were dark, the only source of light filtering from the occasional window. Ravioli stumbled until she got to a classroom, and much to her chagrin, it was Mr Sprout's. 

Stupid meanie. Making her cry. 

She kicked over a garbage bucket in revenge, pretending the bucket was Mr Sprout himself. His body went flying, his innards spilling out. There was even some 'blood' from a half eaten juicebox.

It made a satisfying metallic clatter too. Ravioli wondered if it was similar to how a steelhead would sound falling over. Her mind imagined a baking tray being thrown down some stairs. A loud cacophony with a satisfying CLANG at the bottom. 

Her reign of terror over Mr Sprout did not stop there. Ravioli’s eyes naturally meandered to the chalkboard, where a halfhearted demon with demented eyes and smoking spines lay unerased. Mr Sprout liked his demons, Ravioli found out. Her hand went for the chalk, realising she knew what would be the perfect demon for him to teach next class. 

Her vandalism was prettier to look at than Mr Sprout’s art, as she drew a long and angry salmonid clad in armour. He had menacing eyes, a fierce snarl, and upon his flat head, a big piece of poop. With stink lines. And flies. 

Ravioli was proud of her artwork, giggling once she took a step back and got a good look at her masterpiece. 

She had been too absorbed in her own work that she didn’t notice that she wasn’t alone. A presence had turned on the light in the hallway, and upon seeing the glow coming from one of the classrooms, was walking on over. He could smell that whoever was inside was Ravioli herself, and soon enough, peeked in to see what she was doing.

“Ravioli? What are you doing here so late?”

Ravioli jumped, whirling around and brandishing the chalk like a sword, before lowering the chalk. Staring at her was the smashed-in face of Mr Melon. 

“Ah, M-mr Melon, I was just-”

“Causing trouble? How’d you get in here?”

“...One of the doors was unlocked.” Ravioli’s hearts thudded loudly. Normally Mr Melon was terrified of most things, stuttering and fearing for his life. This was the clearest she had heard him speak, and was afraid of what that meant for her.

Mr Melon looked around, seeing the drawing upon the chalkboard as well as the toppled over trash bucket. “Well, I won’t scold you for your nonsense, but I suggest you clean up after yourself. I doubt Sprout is going to b-be ha-appy seeing this in his classroom.”

Ravioli sulkily nodded, and wiped off her lovely artwork from the chalkboard, and picked up the garbage she toppled over. All the while, Mr Melon observed, his only eye keeping a good look at the young inkling. Once she was finished, even mopping up the juice with a cloth, did Mr Melon nod, and invite her out of Mr Sprout’s classroom.

Instead they sat in his classroom, the kitchen for once in a state that could be mistaken for orderly. There was no mess, no pots thrown on the floor, no smell of burning, and no puddles of oil and blood. Instead, Mr Melon turned on a gas stove, and placed a banged up kettle on top.

When the kettle reached a boil, he poured himself and Ravioli a cup of tea. 

“So, Ravioli, I’m not going to yell at you, but I am gonna ask you to go back home. It’s not safe for you to go out by yourself.”

Ravioli solemnly looked at her cup. “Is it because I’m an inkling?”

Mr Melon paused, his one eye glancing at his (for now) pristine kitchen. “...Yes. Your father… h-he scares me. He’s v-very over protective of you, and I d-d-don’t want to be the one to. Oh dear. Confirm his fears.”

Ravioli cocked her head slightly. “Mr Melon, why are you afraid of my dad?”

Mr Melon was now shaking. “H-he’s a very b-big man, your father. Y-you know what they say about bigger fish…”

“No?”

The quivering teacher took a deep breath, as if to quell his shaking. It did not work.

“T-they eat the smaller ones…”

“But my dad wouldn’t eat anyone!” As Ravioli said it, she remembered the incident a few days ago. The way her father yelled, and how she could picture how he loomed above Cookie in his flash of anger. Suddenly Mr Melon’s bout of shaking was understandable. 

She was silent after that, and drank her tea quietly. Once both their cups were finished,  Mr Melon locked up, and escorted Ravioli home personally. Or at least got her to the vague neighbourhood area.

“I d-don’t want y-your f-father thinking that I. I. Oh dear. Just get h-home safely please.” Mr Melon said, before darting off down the road.

Chapter Text

Even with the looming dread of having to deal with Mr Sprout, Ravioli still went to school. The days now felt like they were split in half. The first half of the day was all fine and dandy, to where studying formal cutlery etiquette felt thrilling. And then the second half of the day happened, taking place during the half an hour Mr Sprout had Ravioli’s class.

Dread slowed down time to a crawl, and Mr Sprout’s personality only slowed time further. 

He always brought up inklings. Always. He’d find some way to insert them into the lesson, and paint them as villains at best. 

Or monsters at worst.

He always looked at her too. He had some smug look in his eyes as he somehow brought the subject of the day’s class round to inklings. On particularly special days, he would draw one. With gaping wide mouths full of vicious fangs, demented eyes with blackened rings around them, and tentacles forming eldritch patterns. 

She sometimes tried to look away, trying to deny that wasn’t how inklings- how she looked. Ravioli would try to recall Vanilla’s advice. Loving herself even when something hurtful was said. It was a sinking feeling when she discovered that it wasn’t easy. She couldn’t just wish she loved herself. She had to put in effort, to drown out the pain chipping at her.

And some days, she was just too tired.

The moment the siren rang, Ravioli would be the first to escape the class. Some days she was left numb. Other days she felt like she wanted to cry. Other days she wept. Today was a numb day. 

Mr Sprout’s class led immediately into break, so most of her classmates would be running for the outside. They would collide into each other, pushing, biting and yowling all for a sample of fresh air. Technically, Ravioli was supposed to stay in Mr Sprout’s class for the break, but she knew full well that being left alone with him would only prove bad for her health. 

So she went to Mr Melon’s class instead.

Everytime Ravioli walked into cooking class, the room was an absolute mess. Mr Melon would be hunched down on the floor, mopping up blood, oil, and destroyed food spilt from the previous class. It had become routine at this point. Ravioli would walk in, the quivering teacher would smile at her with his smashed-in face, glance at a nearby broom with his one eye, and ask her to help out.

“Hey, Mr Melon?” Ravioli asked as she swept up shards of a broken glass bottle. “Why is Mr Sprout a teacher?”

“Well, he volunteered. That’s all there is to it. We all volunteer. Why do you ask Ravioli?”

“I think he hates me.”

“Hates you?”

“He makes every lesson be about inklings being the bad guys. I know he’s doing it on purpose.”

“Oh,” the salmonid responded. It wasn’t an ‘Oh’ of action or sympathy, just an ‘Oh’ of acceptance. 

“Can you tell him to stop Mr Melon?”

The teacher tensed up, as his flat face found the floor even more fascinating than before. His fin found it important that he start scrubbing the grout too. “Ah… m-maybe… ask someone else…Sprout is… a… l-little bigger than me. And stronger. And has two working eyes. And could probably bite my head off if he w-wanted.”

Mr Melon’s head darted to the door, fearing that speaking the devil’s name would summon the steelhead himself. 

“Look Ravioli, I’d love to h-help… but I’d rather not get on his bad side.”

“So you can’t do anything?”

“No, not really.” Mr Melon slumped slightly. “In theory I’d love to tell him off for bothering you, but I’m sure he’d rip my fins off if he didn’t like my tone. That’s just how life is.” The salmonid picked himself up. The floor was mostly clean, if one ignored the massive burn stain on one side of the room.

“You just gotta accept there’s always gonna be a bigger fish, and you can’t do anything about it.”

“And just try not get eaten?” Ravioli remembered from their nighttime meetup.

Mr Melon offered a lopsided smile. “Yes, exactly! There’s ways of getting the upper hand, but honestly for your health it’s probably better to just ignore him.”

Ravioli nodded, and went back to mopping the floor.

“Or uh,” Mr Melon started, “well you could always get your dad involved.”

“What do you mean?”

“W-well, it’s just. Your dad is p-pretty scary too. I d-don’t think your dad would be too badly hurt if he and Sprout got in a fight…”

Ravioli’s brows furrowed. “No, it’s fine. I don’t want my dad to get hurt.”

As if on cue, the siren for class shrieked.

“Oh, I gotta get to class. See ya Mr Melon!”

“Ah. Good luck Ravioli.”

The inkling nodded and navigated the schoolhouse, walking her way to the largest room.

It was known as ‘the field’, a large rectangular room where the floor was carpeted in lush green plants and felt humid all year. It was a tangle of moss, clovers, grass, and tiny yellow flowers. Sunlight filtered in through a stained glass mural on the ceiling, one of an albatross in flight. 

The stained glass gave the greenery beautiful hues, from mint green to dark turquoise. Of course, she was only distinctly aware of all these colour names thanks to Vanilla. Having to refill all his bottles had expanded her vocabulary on colours, and in her mind, she dreaded the next time he wanted more.

She wasn’t the only one here; some other kids, small, tall, and some her height, were on the field too. They were all busy, focusing on their weapon of choice. A small fry was practising spoon drills, while a teenager was sharpening a carving knife. Some others were looking for a particularly blood free area to sit down, while a large salmonid was showing off his strength.

The younger kids paid Ravioli no mind, but she was the subject of interest to the teens. She knew they were muttering about her, and based on Mr Sprout’s class, she had a feeling their opinions weren’t positive.

She ignored them as she pulled out her salad fork, and tested the prongs. Sharp, unbending, unyielding. It wouldn’t need sharpening, but Ravioli had better get some stretches in.

After all, today was a tournament day.

Ravioli would get assessed among her peers for combat prowess. If she won her bouts, she’d be transferred to more intense combat classes. If not, she’d stay where she was with her current teacher.

Generally, there was no real need to ascend to more advanced classes. Most folks got on fine just staying where they were class wise, only being placed in more advanced classes when they grew up. It was what happened to Ravioli. She was considered big for her age, towering over the small fry in her regular classes, and was at that stage where she was the smallest in her combat classes.

However, despite the slight difference in size, Ravioli could hold her own against her peers, and recently found herself determined to prove herself the better combatant. 

It was all Mr Sprout’s fault for that. Ravioli was no longer the weird salmonid. She was the inkling . And she had a lot of pressure put on herself to ensure that her peers didn’t see her as a monster, but as one of them.

And the key to that would be proving her worth in a fight.

The rest of the tournament filtered in, including the referees. The referees were the teachers of the combat classes, as well as what was considered a ‘neutral’ referee. The neutral referee was one of the teachers outside of the combat classes, to ensure there would be no bias for or against any students. Unfortunately, it looked like the neutral referee was Mr Sprout.

The small fry always went first. It was adorable seeing them bean each other with their spoons. Usually their bouts were for who could withstand a concussion the longest. The victor being half conscious as everyone else applauded. 

Mr Sprout looked at the dazed losers with contempt. If any of them looked like they could understand words in their current state, Mr Sprout gave them the helpful advice of “stop being pathetic.”

After the small fry came Ravioli’s division. For the salmonids in the midst of growth spurts. Here were the fat, the lanky, and most notably, the inkling. 

It was starting in this division that the salmonids branched out into different weapons, laying down spoons for more comfortable cutlery. It was here that the way to victory was changed. Instead of inflicting brain damage on each other, the winner would be whoever was the first to draw blood from their opponent. Forfeiting was scary, as it required drawing your own blood on your opponent’s behalf.

Ravioli would be up against three opponents: one that had a similar blunt face to her father, a nervous one with wispy hair, and the one with the carving knife.

Mr Sprout had looked bored for most of the matches he oversaw, the most excitement he got was when he could insult the losers for losing. However, the moment he heard Ravioli be called up for her matches, their eyes locked, and Ravioli could see a predatory interest. 

As she and the blunt faced salmonid were called up, she maintained a neutral look and changed her ink and body to a dark blood red. She had a bad feeling Mr Sprout would be looking for any excuse to disqualify her, and she could already hear him nitpicking if her ‘blood’ wasn’t the same red as the salmonids.

“We will now begin the match between Goulash and Ravioli.” Mr Sprout called.

Goulash had a pair of tong nun-chucks, and despite his larger stature, he wielded them with dexterity. Mr Sprout blew the whistle, and the match began.

One of the first things Ravioli learned was the technique of observing. Since both sides started the same distance away each match, if she waited for her opponent to come to her, she could assess the situation before needing to defend herself.

Goulash was slow. He compensated with whirling his nunchucks around. With a quick step Ravioli could get behind him and jab him with her fork. She knew how much force she had to put on her weapon to draw blood. Goulash squeaked as a prong made its way past scales and dug into flesh.

Ravioli’s fork held evidence of who won.

Ravioli could feel Mr Sprout’s annoyance as he announced the winner. The other teachers commended Ravioli on her speed, but Mr Sprout seemed more interested in encouraging the loser to do better.

“Don’t worry,” Mr Sprout comforted the blunt-faced child. “You’ll have proper opponents to duel soon enough.” He said it loud enough that Ravioli heard.

The inkling wiped the blood off her fork.

Her next opponent was called. The salmonid with wispy hair was called Cantaloupe, wielding a colander and a sharpened egg lifter. He seemed terrified of Ravioli despite being taller.

When the whistle blew for the duel, Cantaloupe hid behind his colander. When Ravioli concluded that Cantaloupe had no interest in approaching, she moved towards him.

He squeaked and closed his eyes, waving his egg lifter to and fro in hopes of cutting Ravioli. She stayed out of his range, and when Cantaloupe’s flailing faltered, Ravioli slashed at his egg lifter fin.

He yelped and dropped his weapon. After a lot of fussing, including Mr Sprout having to see what was going on, it was concluded that Ravioli was the victor, having given Cantaloupe a small scratch.

Once again, Mr Sprout was comforting the loser, having pulled the panicky salmonid into a hug and patting his head. The other teachers congratulated Ravioli for her win, as if to balance out Mr Sprout’s spite.

Her last opponent was the teen with the carving knife, a cocky grin on his face as he took his place on the moss. In the midst of silvery faces, his blood red snout stood out. Had it not been for his small stature, Ravioli could have mistaken him for a grownup.

“For this bout, we will see Ravioli facing off against Sharpened Ambition Shishkabob of the Harrowing Heights.”

The long name caused a stir amongst the other kids, muttering to each other in soft sentences. The inkling felt like she was missing something. Feeling like the long name was an omen, Ravioli tightened her grip on her salad fork.

Shishkabob did the same, and when the whistle blew for the start of the bout, both inkling and salmonid stood still. Unlike her previous opponent, Shishkabob’s idling was not out of fear.

He was observing her.

They locked eyes as they both sized each other up, and for a brief moment, the battle took place within their minds. Ravioli’s mind wandered to Mr Melon’s ramblings. 

There’s always a bigger fish

Well. Shishkabob certainly felt like a bigger fish, especially since he was trying to use Ravioli’s own tactic against her. He was waiting for her to lose patience, lose the mind game and go towards him and his knife.

But… What if there was a way to make him think he won, but run to her?

An idea struck, and she tensed up, and her expression flickered to fear. She took a step back, and in that moment she saw Shishkabob smirk from his supposed victory.

Using his tail as a springboard, Shishkabob launched himself towards Ravioli, his knife outstretched. Ravioli’s expression changed to a smirk as her trick worked, and she parried the knife with her fork. The two weapons clanged loudly, made only louder by the general silence from the rest of the field. 

Time felt like it slowed down, and Ravioli had infinity to see Shishkabob’s face, as it shifted from smugness to anger.

Then he brought the knife down, slashing the air in front of Ravioli’s face. She didn’t dare be in the same place when the upswing returned, and she instead lunged at Shishkabob from the side.

The salmonid parried at the right time, metal clacking metal as the blade pushed itself between prongs.

Both opponents pulled back, and Ravioli was the first to attack again. This time she aimed for the head, returning the favour after Shishkabob’s down swing. The salmonid had a similar idea, and his blade jabbed into the fork.

The force was enough to push the fork and Ravioli’s hand back. Something tweaked, and Ravioli immediately knew her arm was injured. The beginnings of a numbness struck her shoulder, and she tightened her grip on her fork in response.

Shishkabob was getting more aggressive in his jabs, no longer interested in just drawing blood, but rather wanting to stab the inkling.

There was only so much Ravioli could do, knowing she couldn’t fight back without opening herself up for injury. Every parried blow made her arm’s condition grow worse, numbness  pooling down and a growing sense of weakness.

The worst part was she was afraid.

She now understood Mr Melon’s words, why it was better to not get involved with the bigger fish. She felt like she was going to die. There was no way she could get away from Shishkabob, no way to stop this fight before he stabbed her in some way. She was out of options.

Except for one. Inside herself, between three hearts lay the part that had been dormant for years. She had exercised it with Vanilla’s slave labour, but as she moved to survive the onslaught, that part in her chest reacted.

She knew she couldn’t get out of the way in time as Shishkabob slashed right through her chest, so her body doubled over to protect herself.

In an instant, the blade touched her. In the next instant, it was cutting through air. In the next, the grass was covered in Ravioli’s ink, and Ravioli was on the floor, unscathed.

Mr Sprout blew his whistle before the knife finished moving.

“Disqualified! Shishkabob wins.”

There was loud chatter among the audience, and Shishkabob looked down at Ravioli, confused. Ravioli looked up at him, also confused about the situation. Why was she on the floor?

Her body felt weird. Not in the ‘help I just got stabbed’ way. She was splayed on the ground, and while she could move her arms and legs just fine, she could also move her hair? The spoon in her hand felt larger too, wobbling when she tried to raise it. Also her neck was missing. Ravioli could only look upwards, and stare at the albatross window.

But… she wasn’t injured? She didn’t feel like she had been stabbed, it was only her arm that felt hurt.

“Can… someone help me up?”

The crowd squawked in horror at Ravioli speaking, and even Shishkabob leapt out from Ravioli’s limited range of sight.

The only person willing to go near her… was Mr Sprout.

She didn’t like how he loomed over her, a smirk on his face as his red snout got incredibly close.

“Well then, I didn’t know you knew how to shift yet. A real shame you decided to cheat. You were doing so well. Perhaps we should call your father?”

Chapter Text

Ravioli sat shaking in Stroganoff’s arms. He had been summoned to the school early due to Ravioli ‘cheating’, only to find a quivering and upset squid in Brussel Sprout’s fins. Based purely on its colour and scent, he knew it was Ravioli, and bristled at the fact that the steelhead was holding her.

He didn’t let Sprout open his mouth before growling, demanding Ravioli back. The two large salmonids locked eyes, onlookers pausing to see titans clash. Any attempt Sprout made at getting a word in edgewise was met with Stroganoff’s growling, before the steelhead gave up.

Once his daughter was safely in his arms, Stroganoff turned away and left. He ignored the steelhead’s attempts to continue the fight, focusing only on the sobbing baby in his arms.

He stroked her head and mumbled soft comforting words, in order to calm Ravioli down. In a way, this felt nostalgic. Ravioli was back to being an infant, small and helpless, scared of the world and needing to be comforted. The young squid said nothing, only occasionally sobbing. 

He didn’t know why Ravioli had transformed back into a baby, but he knew Brussel Sprout was behind it. Were it not for the fact that Ravioli’s safety was on the line, Stroganoff would probably have attacked the steelhead outright. 

Cookie was gazing out of her window when she saw Stroganoff.

“Oh there you are dearie, where’d you go? Saw you and a little scamp run out…” She trailed off as she saw the bundle in Stroganoff’s arms. “Ravioli?”

“Something happened at school.”

Cookie nodded, before slipping out from the window. The old goldie joined the two as they headed inside Stroganoff’s house. 

The soft scent of gunpowder and tea hung in the air, familiar to all three inhabitants. Stroganoff defaulted to the couch, cradling his squid daughter while Cookie meandered and fussed about. She fetched blankets and started tea. A warm cloth and candy found their way on the nearby table, while Stroganoff cradled his daughter, burying her in the depths of the blanket.

After what seemed like an eternity, Ravioli stopped crying.

“I think I nearly died.”

The sound of her voice was enough to make both Stroganoff and Cookie jump. While Cookie at least knew Ravioli looking like a baby was normal for her species, hearing her voice come out of her squid body came as a surprise. Stroganoff recovered and offered a small lick on Ravioli’s head.

“But you’re safe now. What happened?”

The squid rambled about the tournament, of Mr Sprout’s spite, her final opponent, how she narrowly dodged a knife by shrinking, and now she was stuck as a squid.

“Don’t stress yourself too much about it dearie,” Cookie spoke up. “You’ll figure out how to grow back. Inklings can do it in the blink of an eye,” she gave Ravioli a pat on the head, “but while you are in this state, let’s pass the time! Maybe all you need is to calm down and you’ll go back to normal.”

Stroganoff nodded at the idea. Ravioli… wiggled.

The two adults fumbled with conversation, eventually just talking about the weather. Cookie thought rain was coming, which would be annoying since she hung clothing up and wanted it dried.

While Stroganoff himself was enraptured with the threat of rain, Ravioli was bored. And trapped. 

The adults meandered on to discuss recent trades in the marketplace, and Ravioli quietly thought to herself. Her arm still hurt and she was thinking about the fight again. Maybe she should have forfeited before the match started. Taken the omen that was Shishkabob’s big name for what it was and cut her losses then and there.

Actually, what was the deal with his name?

“Hey dad?”

The adults glanced at Ravioli. “Yes?”

“The one with the knife had a big name that made everyone start talking. Why?”

“Oh? you mean he had a title?” Cookie asked, her eyes furrowed at the news. “Well that would explain things. Dearie, I fear to say it, but you might have been set up.”

Ravioli could only look at Cookie, while Stroganoff was frowning.

“The chief bestows titles upon those who returned from their first salmon run, which means that kid you fought should not have been fighting you to begin with.” Stroganoff sounded sour, the start of a growl in his throat. His mind was lingering on who could have arranged that duel, his suspect Sprout.  The more he thought of the steelhead purposefully causing something to happen to Ravioli, the angrier he got. 

In an attempt to calm Stroganoff down, Cookie continued the train of thought. “Titles are also given to those who have done something exceptional if they haven’t partaken in a salmon run yet. My one son got his title thanks to his career, since he’s never been on a salmon run.”

“Right.” Stroganoff said, “Well, I think Vanilla is also like that. Pretty sure he mentioned having an arty title at some point.”

Cookie and Ravioli exchanged a look. Cookie’s mouth twitched.

“But does that mean you have titles?” Ravioli asked her parents.

“Of course dearie,” Cookie laughed, “if someone’s been on a salmon run, there's a good chance they have a title.” 

“Oh wow, so what are your titles?”

Cookie smirked. “Oh, I’m known as The Great Kind Mother, Cookie Of a Thousand Winds,”

Both women glanced at Stroganoff to hear his answer.

“Mine’s The Water’s Albatross, Stroganoff Who Overshot The Moon.”

The little squid could only look at both of her parents in awe. Their conversation was interrupted by the front door opening.

“Knock knock!” Vanilla called as he intruded. “Guess who needs more ink!” His walking was punctuated by the gentle clatter of bottles. The scrawny salmonid’s reign of terror ended when he saw Stroganoff and Cookie huddled over a small squid.

“Is… that a baby?”

“I don’t think so,” Ravioli answered. Vanilla jumped at the sound of her voice. “I’m just stuck like this until I… unstuck myself.”

“So… no ink?”

“No.”

“Nope.”

“No dearie.”

“Drat. Well, I best be going then-” The salmonid turned to walk out.

“Wait,” Ravioli called, “you have a title right?”

“...Yes…?”

“Can you tell me?”

The scrawny salmonid snorted, crossing his arms at the request. However, there was a good chance his attempt to have an attitude was squandered by his mother being in the room. 

“The Dreamer of Reality, Vanilla the Summer Child.”  

Satisfied that he had done what he was asked, Vanilla continued to head out. “See ya.” 

Chapter Text

It took a week for Ravioli to figure out how to return to normal. In that time, she was exempt from school, and spent her time in the house either sleeping or trying to move in her new body. It was awkward work, and for the most part she was just shamefully crawling around.

Stroganoff was busy, and apologised to Ravioli when she asked if they could go out. His workshop was littered with pieces of metal, mostly cutlery and kitchenweaponware, and the sounds of his tools at work filled the house.

Cookie, on the other hand, was more than happy to take Ravioli out on field trips. The young squid said nothing but squirmed as she was taken out of the house in a little basket. The fear and sadness knowing that Cookie hated inklings loomed over Ravioli’s head. The squid felt quietly uncomfortable being alone with the older woman as they went shopping.

The marketplace was loud and bustling as ever. Beautiful hand drawn signs filled the air, while the scent of cooked food enticed Ravioli. Cookie was looking for fresh ingredients, and soon Ravioli was helping take note of spices and salts that filled the basket with her.

One thing Ravioli was learning from all of this was the difference between Cookie and her father. Her father treated the marketplace like a race, getting what he needed and leaving.

Cookie instead liked the meander. She would walk into an antique store just to admire the odd items on sale, asking Ravioli’s opinion on everything before wandering to the next store. It was an odd experience, and Ravioli couldn’t help but feel tired despite the fact that she wasn’t moving. It was just a lot more chit chat than she was used to.

Cookie also liked to go “what’s that?” and investigate, usually discovering some inventor peddling his items, or a performer showing off her swimming routine.  It was through Cookie’s curiosity did she and Ravioli find themselves sitting on chairs in front of a makeshift classroom.

Cookie was politely denying letting anyone move the basket Ravioli was in, letting the young squid have her own seat.

The thing that stood out the most was the overhead projector in the middle of the room. Most folks were turning up just for the thrill of seeing it in action, and not for the actual class. 

Once enough people had settled down, a rather meek looking salmonid with a large mane of hair approached the front. He stumbled over his words but was pleased to share “Advancements and discoveries in archaeology.” Ravioli understood none of it, while Cookie muttered that it was about “old stuff”.

He explained how there was an ancient advanced species of fish known as mermaids. While not much is known about them outside of possibly having an omnivorous diet ( “What’s an omnomvorbus?” “That means they ate everything.”), a mermaid fossil had been recently discovered in the far west.

This was when everyone grew interested in the teacher’s words. Not because they actually were curious about the recent breakthroughs in science, but because he was heading to the projector. The lights were turned off, and in front of the makeshift class there was a drawing of bones.

Ravioli was old enough to not be scared of skeletons, but the odd, malformed bones she now saw were eerie. The skull was flattened, like it had rammed into a door too many times, and its fins looked like they were tentacles before forming into proper fins. 

The teacher rambled on, far too confusing for Ravioli to follow, before putting another drawing on the projector.

It was a guess as to how mermaids had looked, where their gill plates rested, what their bony fins and two tailed bottoms would have looked like. The only thing Ravioli could think of was how her feet looked similar to the mermaid’s two-tails. And if her legs looked like mermaid two-tails, then inklings had similar legs. And if inklings had similar legs, then was Cookie mad at being shown something that reminded her of inklings?

The rest of the lesson, Ravioli was worried about Cookie's reaction, that the goldie was now in a foul mood.

The lesson ended and everyone else left, apart from Ravioli and Cookie.

“What’s the matter dearie?” Cookie asked. Ravioli didn’t realise she was tense in the basket, and relaxed. 

“Nothing!”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing. What’s on your mind dearie? I won’t tell anyone if it’s a secret.”

Ravioli was quiet, and Cookie patiently smiled at her.

“Are you mad at me?”

The question took Cookie aback.

“M-mad? Dearie, why do you think I’d be mad at you?”

“I know you hate inklings.”

“Who told you that?” Cookie’s smile faltered, a frown forming in its place.

“I heard you and dad talking about it. You said you hated inklings.”

Cookie cocked her head to the side, frowning as she tried to recall what conversation she had where that had been brought up. It dawned on her when exactly she had shared those words, and gasped. “You-you heard all that?” The old woman’s voice grew quiet.

Ravioli said nothing, just quietly sat in the basket. She was trying not to cry, and failing.

“Oh dearie.” Cookie scooped Ravioli out of the basket, holding the squid in her arms. Ravioli’s eyes started to weep, while Cookie lightly stroked her head.

“I was hurt really badly. I felt like I lost part of myself. For a long time, I was sad about what happened.”

Ravioli said nothing. Cookie pulled Ravioli into a hug and sighed.

“I… I don’t want to lie to you dearie. Cause I can’t take back what I said, and I don’t want to. There’s so much bad in the world, my only fear is being hurt again.” Cookie paused. “But I don’t hate you. I can’t hate you. I hold a grudge against someone who tried to hurt me, and anyone who would do the same to anyone else I love. Dearie, there is no way you can hurt me, because I know you won't. And I can never hate you. Do you know why?”

Ravioli looked up at Cookie. Both of them were crying.

“You’re my baby. You’ll always be my baby. What happened to me isn’t important. The only thing important is that you are here, and I love you.”

There was silence, as Ravioli embraced her mom.

Chapter Text

On a particularly sleepy day, a boat arrived at the docks. Upon its sails was an emblem of an anchor with albatross wings. Unlike most other travelling salmonids, the ones exiting this boat had an air of calmness to them.

They wore white linen cloaks that billowed from behind them, and all carried a clean travelling case in one of their fins. 

Everyone was on their best behaviour when they saw the white cloaked salmonids. Folks got out of their way, and all conversation hushed. Even Sprout, who got shoved out of the way (or nudged, depending on if you ask Sprout or the chum who did it), didn’t make a fuss. He politely nodded as they passed.

When they arrived at the marketplace, the world fell silent. Nobody dared bring attention away from the white cloaked individuals, and merchants in mid shout quickly found fruit corking their mouths shut. 

Being the most crowded part of the town, many of the folks found creative ways to clear the path for the white cloaks. Children were picked up and tossed into the water, dextrous individuals climbed on top of awnings and merchants pulled their tables to make space. Everyone else got sandwiched to make way.

Soon enough, they arrived at their destinations, a block of more permanent marketplace shops and homes. The tailor, the ice keeper, the herb grower and the innkeeper greeted the fellows in white cloaks, ushering them inside their shops and homes. 

There was a rush from all four, as they explored their stores, before running back out and hanging a new sign above their businesses. This was identical to the symbol found on the boat’s sails, a hand painted anchor with wings.

It was only after these signs went up did all hell break loose. Children were fished out of the water, merchants closed shop, and salmonids rushed to queue up before all of the doors.

And when Stroganoff caught wind of what was going on, he headed to the marketplace with Ravioli in tow.

The healers were in town. 

Ravioli could only stand on her tiptoes and look in awe at the queues. It felt like everyone in the village was here, and if they weren’t in front of her and her father, they were behind her instead.

At some point Stroganoff placed Ravioli on his head, it being a safer spot for her compared to the ground. Now Ravioli was fascinated with feeling tall, towering over most of the salmonids and even some of the stalls.

From her vantage point, she could even spot Vanilla and Cookie, the goldie probably acting as a bodyguard for her scrawny son. The two waved when she called out to them.

Eventually Stroganoff got to the front of one of the lines, in which he and Ravioli entered the ice keeper’s abode. There were a few salmonids laying on the floor, bloodied cold rags pressed against their mouths; the ice keeper himself occasionally prodded one of them, resulting in a whimper and a change in rags.

Stroganoff tried his best to creep past the sad figures, while the ice keeper politely pointed down to one of his fridges.

Inside of the fridge, a space between the ice had been cleared for a bed, a bucket of water (with minimal frost), and a bucket of blooded teeth. One of the white cloaked individuals was here, discarding his cloak for the warmth of a woollen onesie. His dishevelled hair stuck out in multiple places, and his left eye had a permanent twitch.

He was busy wiping his tools when he saw Stroganoff. He didn’t bother looking up when he spoke up. “Right right, lay on the bed for me.” The salmonid instructed, and Stroganoff did as he was told.

“My name is Doctor Rock Candy, I will be your dentist, now open wide,” he said, pulling out strange instruments from his cleaning rag and shoving them in Stroganoff’s mouth.

“Fascinating, fascinating. Your teeth are rather small for your stature. You don’t have trouble eating do you?”

Stroganoff could not answer, as the doctor had both his fins in the big shot’s mouth. He made a ‘guh’ sound as an answer. The doctor nodded, pulling out another tool and shoving it in Stroganoff’s mouth. 

“Well you certainly keep your teeth clean, I see. Did another dentist tell you to not drink the swimming water?”

“Gough.”

“Oh well in that case: don't drink the swimming water.”

Doctor Rock Candy pulled his fins out of Stroganoff’s mouth, and quickly dunked them in the water bucket. Satisfied, he wiped them on the cleaning rag and pulled out a saw with a spike on the end from his travelling bag. Both Ravioli and Stroganoff stiffened upon seeing the instrument.

“Oh relax! This is just ‘cause I can’t reach all the way back in giant’s mouths without falling in.” He inserted the saw in Stroganoff’s mouth. The big shot was very still.

“Besides, I’ve only had three fatalities this year.” The doctor casually added.

Stroganoff was too busy staying still to react.

After what had been an eternity, Doctor Rock Candy was satisfied and pulled out his instruments. Stroganoff’s mouth shut, and he deflated as he stopped holding the breath he’d been holding. Or at least deflated as much as a man of his stature could.

“Well that’s about it. Unless you want me to look at your pet too.”

“Her name is Ravioli.” Stroganoff huffed.

“Right right. Well?”

Ravioli did not wait for permission. She was cold and the bed looked snug, so she jumped on the bed and looked up at the dentist.

“That answers things. Now open wide for me.”

Ravioli did as asked, revealing her sharp beak.

Doctor Rock Candy took one look before sharply glancing at Stroganoff.

“Those aren’t teeth in her mouth.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Yes! I’m a teeth doctor! A toothologist! A dental pianist!” Doctor Rock Candy grabbed his hair and started pulling. “I can’t WORK in these conditions!”

Some sort of strained noise came out of his throat, before he leaned towards Ravioli and whispered to her.

“Have you considered growing teeth? It’s very popular with kids these days.”

✦✦✦

Satisfied with their day trip to the healers, the two walked home. It had been an eventful day, meeting the doctors, who were bewildered by Ravioli; and their patients, which included a girl without a tail, a giant with a cone over his head, and a father-son duo, a knife embedded in the father’s back, while the son looked ashamed of being there.

Soon Stroganoff and Ravioli were joined by Cookie and Vanilla. Cookie was giving a good natured laugh, while Vanilla was stumbling with a long pipe in his fins.

“What’s got you in a good mood?” Stroganoff asked. At the inquiry, Cookie’s laughter increased. “Ohhh you shoulda seen it. The doctors told Vanilla he needs a walking stick for his back. He’s been stumbling around with that pipe for the past hour.”

Vanilla could only growl at his mom’s mockery. He wasn’t doing a good job of figuring out how to balance on the pipe and looked like he wanted to use it as a weapon.

Stroganoff looked surprised. “You actually have a bad back?”

“Yes!" Vanilla squeaked, raising the pipe to prove his point and nearly keeling over. "Ever since I was a baby! What, did you think I was lying about that?"

"To be honest... yes."

Vanilla growled and stormed off. Cookie laughed and waved her son goodbye, and walked with Stroganoff and Ravioli home.

Chapter Text

Autumn. Ravioli had experienced eight of them, and yet the change in season always came as a surprise. It felt arbitrary, the slow change in temperature as summer faded away.

According to teachers, one way people could tell when autumn was starting was by the plants. With the gentle chill, their leaves would turn from green to orange and fall to the ground in preparation for winter. But there wasn't much greenery in the village, unless you count one of the neighbour's failed bonsai trees. Its weight was currently threatening to destroy the roof, and its leaves were showing hints of orange. 

For the salmonids, there was another way they knew autumn had arrived. A way that Ravioli never really paid attention to, or thought about much.

During the season, some of the women would grow plump. Their stomachs got round, much like her father’s gut. It was more evident when they sat, settling down differently to compensate for it.

The tailor was one of the women affected by the seasonal plumping, and when Ravioli was getting measured for winter wear, the young inkling worked up the courage to ask.

“Why are you fat all of a sudden?”

“They’re eggs.”

Eggs? Ravioli’s face betrayed her confusion. “Why are they in your tummy? Did you eat them?”

That got a snort from the tailor, “Sure kid, let’s go with that.” She gave her stomach a protective pat. “Gotta keep them safe ‘till salmon run.”

“Oh… And then they’ll hatch into small fry?” She hadn’t thought about it, but Ravioli was realising that Cookie’s eggs-planation was rather vague. The young inkling was now connecting dots she didn’t know existed.

“Yeah that’s about right,” the tailor said, figuring Ravioli didn’t need to know about any of the other steps in the process.

“Then how do they get out of your stomach?”

“Magic.”

“Ohhh.” She didn’t know what sort of magic the tailor was talking about, and as a girl Ravioli felt like she was missing something obvious. Part of Ravioli wondered if the tailor was just embarrassed to admit she’d cough them up.

Cookie was delighted about the news in regards to the change in season. She had taken it upon herself to check up on multiple of the expecting ladies personally, and had a large grin on her face when Ravioli visited.

“Why are you so happy mom?”

“Dohoho, we’re getting new little ones soon!” Cookie said, taking a sip of her tea. “My body isn’t what it used to be, but I still get excited for the other ladies. ‘S prolly my goldie heart speaking.”

“Goldie heart?”

“Oh! Have you not been told the story of the Goldie Heart? Dear me, do your teachers have swiss cheese for brains?”

Cookie took another sip of tea, before clearing her throat. She seemed delighted to share the story.

“Long long ago, there was a mean and selfish man, who hoarded too much food and never shared. His village suffered a bad winter, and needed his food to survive. He kept it hidden, and even if the others wanted to steal from him, they couldn’t find his food.

“He laughed at their misfortune, until the ground he buried his food in froze over. He was too hungry to break the ice, and reluctantly asked his village for help. They would only help if he promised to share, to which he begrudgingly agreed.

“Thanks to his food, the village survived. When spring rolled around, the village, including the selfish man, got to meet all the small fry that hatched. It was at that moment that the man felt so much love that his heart turned to gold. 

“After that year, he shared his love with the village; his face permanently smiling, his scales turning gold, and his home filled with hundreds of small fry.”

Ravioli listened to the story with rapt interest, a large smile on her face. She had got so used to Mr Sprout that she had been expecting an inkling to barge in and ruin everything. But that never happened, and she felt an odd sense of relief.

“So you have a goldie heart too? How did you get one?”

“I was just born with it dearie. No evil deeds or anything. Always been one to love everyone,” The goldie pulled Ravioli’s head close, and gave her a kiss on the head, “And every hatchling.”

Chapter Text

The growth of eggs spelled a change in the village. One that Ravioli had never been aware of before, but it was becoming an obvious hindrance.

When the ladies got full of eggs, the men got weirdly interested in them. Including Stroganoff.

He and Ravioli would be out shopping when the big shot would pause and stare at one of the expecting women. It took a lot of prompting from Ravioli to get him out of his stupor, only for him to get distracted by the next lady. He didn’t even need to see one to know a lady was there. Sometimes he stopped and looked behind him, to which the lady he was staring at would grow coy and walk off.

Once Ravioli noticed this behaviour, she noticed other men do it too. Mr Sprout’s lessons grew slightly disjointed, and had less evil inklings in them. It was like his mind was elsewhere. Specifically next door, where Mrs Apple taught. He even forgot to be malicious to Ravioli one day, his thoughts having wandered to the neighbouring classroom again.

The only man Ravioli knew to not be acting weird was Vanilla.

Ravioli asked him what was going on when the scrawny salmonid popped in for more ink.

“Huh, courting time already?” Vanilla asked, piling empty jars onto the table in front of Ravioli.

“Courting time?” Ravioli grimaced, staring at the size of the new containers. Why on earth did he need so much phthalo blue?

“It’s when men suddenly realise that ladies exist. If he really fancies one in particular, he’ll try impress her before salmon run.”

“Ohh,” Ravioli thought, not quite understanding. “Then why aren’t you acting funny?”

“Not my year.” The silver salmonid stated, casually pushing a jar closer to Ravioli.

“What do you mean?” Ravioli purposefully ignored the jar.

“Well, you know how only some of the women here are carrying eggs?”

“Yeah?”

“Everyone’s got a different year when their body wants to go on a salmon run. Some will go this year, some the next. It repeats every four years normally.” Vanilla politely rudely tapped on the lid of the jar in front of Ravioli. 

“So everyone going on a salmon run this year will go on another one in four years?”

“Yup. Now are you gonna give me ink or just lip?”

“When do you go on salmon run?”

“None of your business, kid. Less talking more inking let’s go.”

✦✦✦

Ravioli had learned so much about salmon run and about how eggs were made in such a brief span of time. She hadn’t even realised that there were steps before the steps to egg making. She was filled with questions she wanted answers to, but was too shy to even ask.

In some way, it felt like a great big mystery, one that Ravioli had to figure out for herself. She had a vague understanding, but not enough knowledge to connect the dots with confidence. It felt wrong asking a grownup for all the answers, even though they already know just by being a grownup. Perhaps it was something she’d solve just by growing up. Figuring it out slowly over time.

But even then, a thought lingered in her mind, and curiosity compelled her to sneak out of bed. 

She crept past her father’s room, the large salmonid snoring loudly, and wandered to the kitchen. She turned the light on, and started scrabbling through the cupboards. Ravioli wasn’t quite sure what the thing she was looking for looked like, but if it was anywhere, then it’d be here. 

She found the salt quickly, and placed the long jar on the counter as she dug around some more. The rest of the cupboard was filled with the usual suspects. Condiments, plates, non-weaponized cutlery, but not the thing Ravioli was looking for.

The inkling felt a disturbance, looked up, and saw a very groggy and confused Stroganoff.

“What are you doing, Ravioli?” He asked, his words slurring slightly from sleepiness. 

“Oh, I’m just looking for something.”

Her father glanced at the salt placed on the counter. “Salt? Why do you need salt?”

“Well, I wasn’t looking for the salt exactly…” The inkling fiddled with her tentacles.

“Then… What were you looking for? Do you need help?”

“Well…” Ravioli paused, feeling embarrassed. “I was looking for your special water.”

Stroganoff looked blankly at his child. “...Special water?”

“You know! For salmon run! For the eggs! I wanted to see where you were keeping it.”

Realisation dawned on Stroganoff as he realised what the ‘special water’ Ravioli was talking about. He was suddenly wide awake as he froze from horror. His face grew quite hot quite quickly, and the only thing he could think of was getting Ravioli back to bed as soon as possible. “Oh that- its. Oh. Uhm. No, don't worry about that, let’s go back to sleep.”

“Can I see it?”

“N-no. It's. A secret. In a secret place. For secrets. That you can’t reach.” Stroganoff wondered if this was how he was going to die. Could he report his own daughter for harassment?

“Well can you show me how to make it?” She lifted up the salt. “I have the salt.”

“No that won’t be necessary. I have more than enough. Plus it’s. Only for boys. Boy secret. You can’t know about it. Sorry Ravioli. G-go to bed.” The big shot punctuated his point by pointing down the hall. Reluctantly, Ravioli gave up on her quest for knowledge, and went back to her room.

She didn’t go to her bed, though. Instead she lingered by the door, hoping that Stroganoff would reveal its location now that Ravioli wasn’t ‘looking’.

What instead happened was that Stroganoff went to bed.

…Did he keep it in his room?

She would have to find out on a later date.

✦✦✦

“It’s not funny!”

Cookie howled with laughter as Stroganoff confronted her over his incident with Ravioli. Even now, just having to repeat the whole exchange, Stroganoff was getting flustered. 

“It’s a little funny-” Cookie wheezed out, before descending into a loud cackle. When Stroganoff had barged in her house that morning in a huff, she had been worried that there was an actual problem- Upon hearing Ravioli’s exploits, she hadn’t been able to stop laughing, as even her attempts to calm down were filled with giggles. 

“Alright, but dearie,” Cookie started, in the midst of recovering her breath, “there’s nothing wrong with a kid being curious. We’ve all had that morbid curiosity to find out how everything works. Just empty a pickle jar and say it's yours if she’s being a little nosy.”

“I’m- I’m not doing that,” Stroganoff spoke back. 

“Alright dearie, but don’t be surprised if she goes snooping.” The goldie warned, before a large smile crept on her face. “Or… you could always give Ravioli a more detailed lesson on how babies are made-”

“No I think I’m fine I’m gonna go- ” For a large man, Stroganoff could move quite quickly to escape dangerous situations. As he was fleeing to preserve his life, he could hear Cookie start to laugh again. 

Chapter Text

There was a lot of buzz in town as folks got ready for the salmon run festival. For Ravioli, it was a time of exciting boredom. Her dad got pulled out of his work to help with decorating and building parts of the festival, so she’d be stuck at school for longer unless Cookie picked her up.

It was usually sunset when Stroganoff returned home, tired and in the mood to complain about anything and everything he did that day. Today the subject of his ire was heavy lifting. He was a giant, afterall, and got stuck with the duty of carrying things nobody else could, even if it strained his own back.

Cookie was more than happy to cook something for the little family, while Stroganoff did his best to not fall asleep now that he was on a surface soft enough to be mistaken for a bed.

Every now and then, the power would flicker. Decorations being tested on the festival grounds causing the generator to fail from draw alone. When the power died, Ravioli suddenly found herself plunged into darkness, her only source of light being her parent’s luminescent eyes. Naturally neither salmonid found the lack of light to be a bother, but Stroganoff forced himself up and would head out.

Just to make sure there wasn’t a fire on the festival grounds. Again.

On one occasion, Cookie took Ravioli shopping. The marketplace had shrunk, as travelling merchants returned home, and small stalls boarded up for festival preparation. Even the bustling crowd that populated the marketplace was nowhere to be seen. Majority of folks were caught in the affairs of the festival, either roped into decorating or going out hunting for food for the occasion. 

The only places still open were the permanent shops, a slow trickle of business as folks got prepared for the festival or the times ahead. The tailor lay fast asleep outside her store, while one customer wiped blood from his fresh stitches, and others looked at the selection of fin and tail warmers on offer.

From the marketplace, one could see the festival grounds. A large floating raft on which buildings were constructed, a half put together sculpture of bamboo (and dad! Hi dad!) stood centre, and folks were busy with hanging things up or painting upon any empty spaces.

Ravioli spotted something with a vibrant blue hue, before seeing Vanilla. The artist was on the floor, his walking stick by his side as he focused on dipping cloths into a large bucket of dye.

It dawned on Ravioli that some of the decorations were being coloured with her own ink. Looking now, she could recognise some of the colours she had made for Vanilla being used on paintings, on banners, and even on parts of the constructed sculpture. Ravioli wasn’t sure if she should be proud or demand credit.

At least she now knew why Vanilla suddenly needed so much blue. 

At school, Ravioli and the other kids got roped into doing odd jobs for the festival. Many of the older kids were at the grounds, doing manual labour with the grownups. Everyone else at school got little fun activities to do.

Some people made decorations, others assembled lanterns and made candles. Ravioli was in the kitchens. Mr Melon had handpicked her and some other kids to help with meal prep. 

Some of it was easy but boring, like plucking the feathers off a seagull, but the most notable moment was when a shark was dropped down on the kitchen counter. 

Mr Sprout did the honours, carrying the dead fish over his shoulder like it was nothing. His hair had been tied back for the occasion, a tight bun protected by a hairnet.  His eyes locked onto Ravioli, as both of them had the dishonour of having to see each other.

"Have you made sure your students washed their fins?" Mr Sprout spoke at Mr Melon. "We wouldn't want food poisoning at the festival, right?" His eyes did not leave Ravioli.

"Oh, d-don't worry, they washed their fins before-"

A rumble left Sprout's throat. 

"On second thought, you are right. B-b-better safe than sorry. C-come kids!" Mr Melon quickly said, rushing everyone over to the sinks for a scrub.

Ravioli gave Mr Sprout a sharp glare before removing her gloves and walking to the sinks. She wasn't a fan of having to wash her tentacles. She could be quick enough that the water didn't bloat her tentacles, but the soap was the worst part.

She didn't understand how her body worked, but if her tentacles got too wet, any liquid that she touched went into her mouth. This usually wasn't a problem since it would just be juice or water, but the same sensation applied to soap.

She mentally retched as the bitter taste crept onto her tongue. The soap had barely touched her tentacles before it was in her mouth. She scrubbed as quickly as she could before rubbing her tentacles dry.

"T-there," Mr Melon said as his students filed back into position, "N-nice and clean. Now they can uh. Prepare the shark."

Mr Sprout's eyes had not moved away from Ravioli. 

"Yes. I suppose so. I'll get the next one then." 

The giant salmonid sauntered out of the room, and Mr Melon nearly collapsed on the floor.

Ravioli grabbed a knife and started cutting into the shark. The blade made quick work of the shark's fins, while Ravioli imagined she was cutting off Mr Sprout's stupid fins.

Chapter Text

As the salmon run festival marched ever closer, Stroganoff sat down with Ravioli to discuss some matters.

Unlike years before, Stroganoff would not be skipping salmon run this year, which meant he would be gone until spring. Cookie, for her own personal reasons, was going too, which meant they needed to find someone to take care of Ravioli while both parents were gone. 

Vanilla huffed and was severely offended when he was asked to take care of the inkling, but begrudgingly agreed to do it. He joked about converting Ravioli into a 24/7 ink factory, which was quickly dropped when the scrawny salmonid saw Stroganoff frowning at the notion.

While it was all fine to organise who was taking care of Ravioli over the next few months, another pressing issue would be Ravioli’s birthday.

Salmonids were all born in the same month, many sharing the same day and obviously the same place of birth as the rest of their clan. A salmonid’s age was always counted in how many reunion festivals they had experienced. 

Ravioli, on the other hand, had been born at least two months before that year’s reunion festival. Her birthday was always a private affair, but unless she wanted to celebrate her ninth birthday at the same time as everyone else, Stroganoff suggested they arrange to celebrate early, before he and Cookie left for salmon run. 

The young inkling agreed, and during one night, they gave her birthday a proper celebration. It was just Ravioli, Cookie and Stroganoff, having a small festival inside of Stroganoff’s home.

Flags and decorations were hung on the ceiling, while candles flickered and burned in their coloured lanterns.

There was a lot to eat, especially since this was an excuse for Cookie and Stroganoff to use up their perishable food supplies. Ravioli got the first picks, before Cookie selected what she wanted, and Stroganoff had everything else.

Once dinner was finished, the three went outside, and Stroganoff shot flares into the sky with his trusty cannon. Since Ravioli was nine this year, Stroganoff let her load the cannon.

The ball of explosives was launched into the air, bathing the darkened sky with a mystical red. The neighbours as well as passersby on boats were confused about the lights, and loudly yelled that Stroganoff was a bit early for celebrating salmon run. 

A few neighbours in particular flocked towards Stroganoff’s abode to see what the big deal was, only to find out they were celebrating Ravioli’s birthday early. With the mystery solved, many of them grumbled some well wishes to her before heading off back to bed.

Cranberry had popped up when she saw the flare, and when the old maws found out it was Ravioli’s birthday, sunk back into the waters with a grumble. She returned with a clam in her fins, handing it over to Ravioli.

“‘Dunno if you like this sort of thing, but there's some pearls in there if you break it open.” She muttered, before disappearing back into the depths.

It was practically bedtime for her anyway, so Cookie and Stroganoff gave her a goodnight kiss and sent her off to bed. Ravioli placed the clam in her room, and tucked herself in bed for a restful slumber.

…Which would be the case if it weren’t for the fact that her parents had wandered off, having a grownup talk as they walked around the neighbourhood. Mischievous thoughts spiralled in Ravioli’s head, and instead of going to sleep, she rolled out of bed. The inkling felt the need to finish what she had started a few days ago, creeping out of her room and sneaking into her father’s in search of special water.

There was an unspoken rule between Ravioli and Stroganoff, where she was forbidden from his room. It wasn’t a hard rule, as she had crept in there once or twice during a scary thunderstorm, but for the most part, she wasn’t allowed in.

It was a little out of the ordinary. Children would usually sleep in the same beds as their parents, but Ravioli just accepted this oddity with every other oddity in her life. She was an odd child as is.

And it was why she felt a tingle of thrill as she turned the light on and looked inside.

At first glance, Stroganoff’s bedroom looked normal enough. On one side of the room there was his bed, extra large for him to rest comfortably. On the other side was a series of drawers and a wardrobe.

Ravioli explored the drawers, digging through strange foods, little bits and bobs, and socks that Ravioli could easily climb in and use as a sleeping bag. But nothing that looked like water of any kind. The wardrobe was equally a bust. It just had her dad’s clothing, hanging limply from hangers that easily dwarfed Ravioli in size.

What interested her was a pile of metal scrap hidden in the back of the wardrobe, covered with a cloth.

It all looked like junk at first glance, many of it strange shapes that Ravioli couldn’t identify. Unlike junk, it was clean, and despite losing its lustre there was not a spot of rust to be seen. It wasn’t just metal either. Now that she was looking at it she could see other bits and bobs. Leather straps, plastic fasteners and other materials were in this sea of junk.

It was heavy too, and things linked together in odd ways. She would pull out what looked like a large frying pan from the mix, before some leather strap tugged some other part of metal in the pile. Didn’t help that she couldn’t move most of it that easily to begin with. She had an easier time shoving things out of the way than actually lifting them up and assessing them. 

She dug around, managing to find something that, while still large, was light enough that she could pick it up. It was a weird shape, a plastic pipe that swelled at both ends, each encased in a thin circle of metal. Large dents that looked like giant teeth marks crisscrossed the top and bottom of the pipe with a hole in the middle. Connected to the circles of metal were more pipes, and following where they lead revealed the apparatus to be connected to one of the frying pans.

In a way, it was familiar. Like she had seen something like this before. She stared at the apparatus in her hands for a long time, trying to piece it together, before recognition dawned on her. She dropped what she was holding as a chill of knowledge seeped into her mind, and paranoia of being found suddenly loomed over her.

This was steelhead armour.

She knew she had learned too much, and Ravioli quickly covered the evidence of her snooping. Her hearts were pounding in her chest as if she had been caught, and she dived for the safety of her own bed. Her mind bubbled with questions she knew she could never ask without getting in trouble, and her head brewed theories to explain it all.

Chapter Text

After what felt like far too long, the salmon run festival finally arrived.

The sun set on the village, and the festival grounds came alight with the glow of hundreds of lights and lanterns. Colours danced in the sky as banners and flags waved in the gentle evening breeze. 

There was an ever present din of music, musicians clambering on a small stage in order to play their piece. Naturally, there was no such thing as ‘waiting your turn,’ multiple musicians were competing with each other to drown out each other’s music.

The smell was almost overwhelming, as an army of cooks roasted meats on whatever fires they could get their hands on. Mr Melon was part of the chefs, a jovial look on his smashed-in face as he worked away on fine kebabs and a whole roasted tuna.

In the centre of the festival grounds was a large statue, made out of wood, bamboo and straw and painted bright colours. It was of two salmon, one male one female, their heads together as their tails created an arch.

The chief sat in front of the statue along with all of his knights, the private party being jovial as they drank juice. Among the knights was Mr Sprout, and Ravioli was shocked to find him in a good mood too. She didn’t think it was possible for him to actually smile.

Ravioli herself had come with Stroganoff and Cookie, both parents holding one of Ravioli’s tentacles as they entered the festival grounds. There was a lot to unpack and a whole night to take it all in. Especially since Ravioli got to stay up past her bedtime. 

There were a lot of stalls, people selling trinkets or hosting games. A good few folks were using this as a means of spring cleaning, their ‘prize pools’ containing things from their home they no longer wanted. Ravioli watched some poor sap play one of the ball games, and despite having rather poor aim, it looked like he hit one of the targets. He was handed a chair for his efforts, confused about what to do with it.

Ravioli herself got to play a few games, feeling like an absolute genius as she won all of them on her first try. She knocked down a stack of bottles, guessed where a pearl was hiding under one of three shells, and managed to fish out a small fish from a fishing pool.

It was a tasty snack. 

The family also encountered Vanilla, the scrawny salmonid sitting behind a stall, equipped with his magic camera.

Before he saw Cookie, the artist was enthusiastically offering to take photos of folks, in exchange for a ‘lovely maiden’s kiss.’

Cookie happily paid the price, giving her son a peck on the snout before he realised who kissed him. 

Cookie left one photo richer, and Vanilla grumpily wrote an exception to his maiden’s kiss price:
‘ Kiss can’t be from my own mom. ’

It was an hour or two later when the festivities lulled slightly, as the second part of the festival began. A large horn was blown, and the chief got up from his spot of merriment. Folks all stopped what they were doing (including one of the cooks, before he smelled his steak burning and freaked out) and glanced towards the centre of the festival grounds. 

“It has come once again, that we see ourselves facing the salmon run. Tonight, we drink, we feast, and we are merry, knowing tomorrow will be a time of goodbyes and journeys. It will be the day in which our village splits in two.

“The guard, those that will stay behind and tend to the village in our absence, and the warriors, striding forth back to our spawning grounds so we may bring forth the new generation of our village.

“We celebrate love, death, and rebirth, spearing forth to our ancestral grounds, much like our ancestors before us. Come forth, our warriors, and let us feast for the journey ahead.”

The chief’s knights let out a joyful hurrah, which the rest of the village mimicked.

Normally, Ravioli and Stroganoff would head to what was known as the guard table, a bunch of blankets and other seats for those not going on the salmon run. Despite knowing it was going to happen already, it came as a surprise when Stroganoff gave Ravioli a pat on the shoulder and a kiss on her head before heading towards the warrior’s table.

The warrior’s table was long, able to fit everyone going on the journey on one side, so that they had the perfect vantage point of all the folks cooking food. Stroganoff and Cookie sat next to each other, the goldie resting her fins in front of her while Stroganoff towered over the table.

Ravioli felt awkward without either of her parents with her, and found herself wandering over to where Vanilla was sitting.

“Really kid? A billion different spots and you pick the one next to me?” Something told Ravioli that his hostility had nothing to do with her sitting next to the artist, but instead the bowl of chips he was hiding under his pillow.

“Well mom and dad are up there…”

“Yeah I noticed.” Vanilla said, before putting a crisp in his mouth.

Those in charge of the cooking started dishing up their meals, placing them on a variety of plates. Volunteers got up from the guard table, picked up the plates, and placed them in front of the warriors.

Stroganoff was the first to be fed, generous plates of heaped meats piled before him, while everyone else leaned over to watch him eat. Before too long, he had practically inhaled the contents of his first plate, while the others at the table got their own feasts.

There were fully roasted birds, fresh catches of fish, rotisseries of sharks, shrimps on sticks, deep fried clams and bowls of squid so fresh some were trying to escape. And that wasn’t even all, the side dishes that accompanied the meats were nothing to sneeze at either. Finely fried vegetables and fruits decorated the rest of the table, exotic and rare tastes prepared just for the festival.

There was even a giant orange fruit whose hard shell had to be cut with a saw, its guts scraped out and turned into fried snowballs. 

Once the cooks ran out of food, the next batch was put on the flames. In this downtime, musicians snuck back onto the stage, while the warriors stood up from the table. The middle of the festival grounds had been cleared, and the warriors were meandering there to dance. 

There was squabbling and scrambling, fighting and yelps as salmonids fought for the honour to dance with each other. Ravioli watched as the tailor approached Stroganoff, practically throwing herself at the giant while the entourage of boys following her looked aghast at her choice. Cookie was on the sidelines, not interested in dancing but delighted in playing matchmaker.

Mr Sprout, swaying as if drinking too much juice left him dizzy, had picked up Mrs Apple and was swinging the flustered teacher around. While she didn’t seem to mind, her original, smaller-than-Sprout sized partner was silently fuming over the theft. 

Part of the dance folks were doing included a special hug, both partners pressing their snouts together. Stroganoff easily hoisted the tailor ‘till their faces touched, holding her in place for a moment before putting her down. 

“Why do they do that?” Ravioli asked Vanilla. The salmonid had stolen a bowl of shrimp during the commotion and was shoving them in his mouth before anyone could ask him for one.

“Oh,” Vanilla said with his mouth full, crunching down and swallowing before properly answering, “it’s to remember each other’s scent. Kinda annoying to pick a partner for salmon run and then lose them when you get there.”

While Ravioli had seen this so many times, it was only now that everything clicked into place.

“Wait, are they picking who they are gonna make babies with?”

“Yup. That’s how it usually goes. Dance here…” Vanilla stopped himself before he said what he wanted to, realising Ravioli’s age, “...Dance there.”

Ravioli looked back to her dad dancing with the tailor. The smaller woman was delighted with her choice, squeaking with joy at the way Stroganoff lifted her up. 

“So is my dad gonna make babies with the tailor?”

“Oh is that his partner?” Vanilla glanced over to the big shot. “Huh, so it is. Good for him.”

“Does that mean I’m gonna get siblings?”

Vanilla shrugged. “Dunno, Has your dad mentioned wanting more kids?”

“No?”

“Then don’t count on it.” Vanilla ended the conversation by shoving more shrimp in his mouth.

Once the song(s) were done, the warriors returned to the table, where their next course was brought over to them.

Ravioli was growing bored of watching people eat, and everyone nearby was too busy talking grownup stuff for her to eavesdrop. To entertain herself, Ravioli pretended to fall asleep to get Vanilla’s attention, slowly falling on top of the artist as she fell ‘asleep’.

He just pushed her off.

When they started dancing again, Ravioli’s eyes wandered to Cookie.

“Hey Vanilla?”

He didn’t grace the inkling with a response, just looked at her direction.

“How come mom is with the warriors-”

Vanilla placed a fin over Ravioli’s mouth. “I’m going to stop you right there. Don’t care what you’re asking, don't .” Ravioli could only look at Vanilla, unable to speak up. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, and don’t ever say that to mom, alright?” His expression was sour.

There was an awkward silence between the two, before Vanilla sighed and offered Ravioli one of the shrimp. “Here, stop looking so glum, sheesh.”

The warriors continued to eat, Ravioli fell asleep for real, and woke up when she found herself in her dad’s arms. There was a gentle mutter as folks walked home, wishing each other good luck and good night. 

Knowing this would be the last Ravioli would see of him for a while, she curled in and dozed against his chest.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the salmon run began, as folks departed into the waters and Ravioli was left as the responsibility of Vanilla. He walked her to school (which was still going on despite the holiday season), barking at her to slow down when she walked faster than he could keep up with his walking stick. Ravioli thought the artist was just going to leave her at the schoolyard, but was surprised when he ambled inside with her.

“Why are you coming in?”

“I’m a substitute.” He sounded thrilled to have the job, the kind of excitement only being held at knifepoint could inspire.

As the school day passed, Ravioli found out that many of her teachers were on salmon run. It felt like most of the day was spent hopping from substitute to substitute, the only teacher still teaching Ravioli’s class being Mr Melon.

One substitute, realising far too late that she couldn’t handle public speaking, ended up spending most of her class trying not to burst into tears. She made a brave attempt at teaching the class some basic biology regarding salmon run.

“Y-you see, when a salmonid’s body starts preparing for salmon run, w-we call that their s-spawning season…”

She became an unconsolable mess once she tried to explain the fact that eggs existed, and spent the rest of the class hiding in the corner in shame. 

For once, Ravioli was excited for Mr Sprout’s class, knowing that he wasn’t here to teach it. What surprised her was when she opened the door, Vanilla was inside, sitting on Mr Sprout’s desk drawing on the chalkboard.

The previous class was enraptured as he told a story, punctuating his points by poking the board. He was retelling Goldie Heart, and Ravioli couldn’t help but feel smart for already knowing the story.

“Oh, ‘guess the other class is here. Well go on, kids. Scram.”

The young salmonids collectively groaned at this development.

“Mr Vanilla, can’t we stay?” Asked a lanky boy, “All of our other classes are just substitutes, and you’re the best teacher we’ve ever had.”

As Vanilla thought about it, Ravioli was having whiplash hearing someone call Vanilla ‘Mr.’. Vanilla himself looked like his ego had been inappropriately inflated by the compliment, his head threatening to explode from all the hot air.

“Well, I suppose I don’t see why not,” Vanilla remarked, the old class rejoicing as Ravioli’s class found a seat with them.

“Now where was I?” Vanilla thought out loud, before continuing on with the story.

The lanky boy that bribed Vanilla with kind words wandered over to Ravioli, fascinated with the inkling.

“Hey, are you the inkling?”

She nodded.

“That’s cool. My name’s Mash Potato,” he introduced himself.  

“I’m Ravioli.”

“Haha, sweet. Wanna be friends?”

Ravioli was bewildered by the question. She never had a friend before. Dad never let her wander outside, and while she was friendly with her classmates, none of them really talked to her. The idea that you could just ask people to be your friend was blowing her mind. “Sure!”

Potato grinned. “Sweet!” He pulled Ravioli into a side hug. “I’m friends with the inkling!”

Even though she only had him for about five seconds, having a friend was nice. At least Ravioli felt that way until the end of Vanilla’s story, which was enough time for her to wonder about it. She didn’t know what exactly being friends entailed, and right now she was underwhelmed with the friendship experience.

“Hmph, I’m bored!” Announced a small fry. “Why did all the teachers have to go on salmon run anyway?”

“Well kid, that’s just cause it’s everyone’s year to go. That’s all."

“Oh! We just learned that today! It’s called the spawning season.” Ravioli piped up.

Vanilla tapped the chalk against his jaw, nodding in approval to Ravioli’s remark. “‘Kid’s right. Everyone that went on salmon run was because they are having their spawning season. Can’t control when that happens, and it just so happens almost every teacher all had their spawning seasons this year.”

“Then how come some of the kids went with them?” Potato asked. “They weren’t acting weird like the grownups and their spawning season.”

“They get the Longing.” Vanilla answered.

“Longing?” Now the whole class was interested.

“You all remember what your nest smelled like, right?” Vanilla asked. The class (except for Ravioli) enthusiastically nodded. “Part of someone’s spawning season is getting a yearning to return to their nest. They want to picture it again, smell it again. And well, it’s not unheard of that kids get the Longing even if they are nowhere near old enough to be in their spawning season. So they go on the salmon run with the adults.”

“Do you get the Longing Mr Vanilla?” Potato asked.

“Of course I get the Longing too. I get years where the only thing I want is to return to my nest with everyone else. It’s just because of my back that I haven’t gone on a salmon run yet.” He raised his walking stick, which was resting next to the desk. “It’s why I have this stick with me. It’s supposed to help my back so I can eventually go on a salmon run myself.”

“Mr Vanilla!” Another kid piped up, “What do you do when you get the Longing then?”

“I lock myself in my house and die inside.” 

The children didn’t appreciate the morbid joke.

“...Jokes aside, I paint. It’s why I became an artist. I longed to go to my nest, to the point I could see it when I closed my eyes. So I started painting.”

“Oh wow! Can you draw it now?”

Vanilla snorted. “Of course kid, what do you take me for?”

The doodles of a goldie were wiped off the chalkboard, as Vanilla started freehanding the scenery of his (and the village’s) spawning grounds.

Chapter Text

Salmon run was many things for different people. 

For the young going on their first salmon run, it was a rite of passage. Climbing up past ancient ruins, combating strong ocean currents and cold water, and braving the monsters that lurked far from civilization. These were all trials a salmonid had to endure to gain their adult colours. They’d swim with gusto, rising to the surface to sing war cries and raise their weapons.

For the hopeful, it was a time to usher a new generation. The women, full of eggs and waiting to lay, clucked amongst themselves. Older women comforting younger women as they worried over the smallest aspects of the salmon run. Discussions of who wanted to be a shoal parent, who was planning on keeping a child or two, and how many children would be born this season. 

For the sorrowful, it was a place to die. Many did not survive the journey, and already the voyage had less individuals than when it started. Some people died without a fight, accepting their fate as a shark removed their lower half with surgical precision. Others fought destiny, ready to give the world not just themselves, but the unlucky creature that tried to eat them.

But there was one thought that lingered in everyone’s head as they travelled to their spawning grounds. From the folks sailing in the fleet of boats to those swimming in the waters. It simmered and boiled, bubbling over until the thought became overwhelming.

War.

It was part of nature as salmonids. Other species saw the salmon run as their opportunity to get involved in the salmonid’s affairs. Stealing, feeding, wasting; conflicts ending in blood being spilled and lives ended, life blooming in the wake of the aftermath. Salmonids would get their revenge in time, striking and destroying other species’ nests as comeuppance. But there was more to it. Salmonids drew their weapons upon their own kind.

There would always be times in which folks did not see eye to eye, splitting off to lead different lives, but destiny meant those feuds would return when salmon run began. No matter how far they would go, they had to return to their ancestral spawning grounds. And when the scent of each other filled the air, weapons and individuals would clash.

It did not help that nature aided in these conflicts. Salmon run changed people. Beyond the silver faces getting their adult colours, going through spawning season brought out a shift in everyone. Their sense of smell improved, their vision sharpened and their scales hardened. Teeth felt sharper as a wetter tongue lapped at them. 

Their minds felt more sensitive, easier to provoke carnal needs of rage and sorrow as their full bellies cried out in illusory hunger. They would always be hungry on a salmon run. It did not matter that the festival’s feast would last them for months, the salmonids were hungry.

Stroganoff felt lucky. Spawning season never bothered him, never feeling like his personality changed even as he realised his nose picked up the scent of every fish darting underneath the boat. Sure, the school of fish made him feel peckish, but that was nothing compared to what those swimming were doing, bathing the waters red as the remains floated to the top.

Speaking of the boat, Stroganoff had to sit exactly in the middle, as otherwise the boat would lurch uncomfortably, sink into the water and threaten to capsize. He was in the company of a few women, who decided his stomach was the perfect place to rest their heads while having a sleepy conversation. They would often forget they were resting upon a living being, surprised whenever Stroganoff offered a point to the current discussion.

Apart from the women sleeping on him, everyone else on the boat were discussing the possibility of a fight. They shared a common spawning ground with another clan, and encounters rarely ended peacefully. Especially not during salmon run. Folks were idly toying with weapons, many of which Stroganoff himself had repaired.

His own cannon lay in the storage of the boat. The machine and his ammunition were covered in a tarp to hide the stench of gunpowder that would otherwise deafen everyone’s nose.

The sun rose and bathed the waters shades of delectable orange as they finally saw the island. Horns blared, people shouted, and those sleeping-in were roused with a start at the news that they had arrived. They all stared at the spawning grounds, transfixed with a sense of religious awe as if this had been their first time seeing it. Even with it just teasing them on the horizon, everyone could smell it. The bricks. The soil. The grasses and the leaves. 

It smelled of home in the truest sense of the word, as everyone all mentally agreed that the journey and the sacrifices had been worth it. Love swelled in their hearts. A carnal, violent, hungry love, but love all the same. 

And yet, something was wrong. It was in the air, in their noses. Foreign boats belonging to another clan bobbed in the waters. There was a hubbub. Messages between clans were exchanged and relayed to everyone.

A ceasefire was called.

It all clicked. All they needed to do was take another sniff of the air.

Inklings.

Chapter Text

“I bet I wouldn’t get the Longing,” Potato said, once Vanilla was done drawing the island. “I haven’t got it yet.”

Ravioli looked in wonder at the chalk art. She had never seen the island itself, but just looking at the detail Vanilla put in the drawing, and the happiness it instilled in everyone else, filled her with awe.

“Oh trust me kid, you say that and then it’ll hit you like a ton of bricks.” Vanilla said.

Ravioli raised her hand.

“Ah, yes kid?”

“Why do people go on salmon run in the first place? Can’t they make kids here?”

Vanilla frowned, and tapped his chin. “...Have you guys not been taught the story of the great egg?”

The class collectively said no.

“Jeez, what sort of teacher do you have?” Vanilla said as he erased the island off the chalkboard.

“Okay so I don’t quite remember all the details, but the first being to ever live was a giant fish. She laid all the stars in the sky and the egg we all call home.”

Vanilla punctuated his point by drawing a circle.

“When she finished laying all her eggs, she died, having done her job. Her body fell onto our egg,” Vanilla drew the dead goddess, “and gave us life.”

“Every part of her got consumed. Her bones became land, her scales became trees and kelp, her blood the water and so on.” Vanilla quickly scribbled where parts of the goddess went.

“Now there's two parts that are particularly special. Those being her memories and her intelligence.”

He drew a bird and a fish.

“Her intelligence was passed on to us, while her memories turned into the first birds: the albatross. Now there’s some fun stories about the albatross I can get into, but the most important thing to know is that they can fly forever, so that the goddess can watch and guide us.”

Something in Ravioli’s head clicked.

“Is that why the ceiling of the field has that big albatross window?”

“Yes!” Vanilla answered, waving the chalk around. “That’s it exactly.”

There was muttering from the other children. They didn't know the reason for the albatross window either.

“Anyway, back to the point. Because we, the salmonids, were bestowed with the goddess’ intelligence, we understood the importance of life and death.”

Vanilla drew an egg and a salmonid on the board.

“Life cannot exist without sacrifice. Much like the goddess, when we die, our bodies feed the plants, the animals and the water. We welcome death and accept the honour of being eaten, knowing that what we feed will in turn nourish the next generation. 

“Now we go back to Ravioli’s question. Why do we go on salmon run? You see, our ancestors were guided by the albatross to our spawning grounds, rare dots of land that peaked above the waters and proved to be the perfect places to raise our eggs. By following the albatross, our ancestors were blessed with the goddess’ strength and might.

“This strength was how our ancestors endured their long journeys and the trials that sprung up along the way. They could protect their eggs from thieves and other salmonids and return home once the eggs hatched."

"But in exchange for the goddess' blessing, we lay down our lives and allow ourselves to be eaten. We become one with the world, and enrich it with the goddess' blessing."

Chapter Text

They dived into the waters, the embrace of liquid filling everyone’s lungs as it flowed over their gills. The waters here were murky, a hue of turbulent green from forests of kelp that hid small skittering fish.

Stroganoff carried his cannon. He made it look easy as the smaller folks swam ahead. 

Cookie was somewhere else. The reason for the ceasefire made her tense up, her expression unreadable behind her fake smile. Stroganoff had idly looked for her when the news broke, but if she had spotted him, she didn’t look him in the eye.

They went their separate ways.

Those leading the charge for both clans' salmon runs, along with the chieftain's cronies had talked strategies. Sprout proudly took the lead in these discussions as the 'inkling expert'. Very few people around here had actually seen one (not including Ravioli), while Sprout knew far too much about the little squids. From how their weapons worked, to how their ink was venomous in large doses, and most importantly:

How to kill one.

Everyone else not interested in hearing the steelhead's ego inflate instead stared at the invader’s vehicle floating on the waters. 

While there was tension in the air, thick enough to be cut and made into the sandwiches, there was a slightly different filling. A positive kind.

For many folks, they had not been alive when the clans had started their feud, nor had they developed any grudges of the salmonids that smelled differently to them. It was small, subtle, but with the ceasefire, there was no need for aggression, and with that came a curious playfulness from both sides. 

The children naturally all started to play, no prejudice or manipulation affecting them yet. It had not dawned on them the gravity of the situation, as they raced past everyone else, playing with the kelp and harassing the fish. 

The adults, on the other hand, were cautious as they approached the opposite clan. 

Those that had strong resentments approached each other with a solemn nod, before firm punches into each other’s faces were exchanged. It was an understanding, an acknowledgement of complex feelings that couldn’t be described with words, and a waste to write it down in blood.

For others, that held no grudge, there were flits of flirtations. Women teasing the foreign smelling men, while they showed off their weapons in response. Gentle nudges here and there, and the occasional laugh lightened the mood.

A signal was ushered, and folks marched to the surface, ready to defend their land.

The air was filled with the discordant melodies of war bands playing on the boats. Bagpipes and tubas shrieked and honked while drums droned in anger. As heads rose above the water, liquid leaked out of their nostrils and filled by the stench of squid.

The island was drenched in their ink, a sickening bright blue hue that dripped from the walls and trees.

A horn from the invader’s vessel blared out, deafening the brave salmonid who had climbed aboard.

Like clockwork, the inklings sprung out from their brightly coloured puddles, a mess of tubes and alien armour around their eldritch bodies and bizarre weapons in their tentacles. Unnatural yet captivating eyes stared at the charging salmonids from underneath a tangle of tentacles and helmets.

And yet, despite the inklings being almost alien, there was one thing they had in common with the salmonids. Their faces were pink, a myriad of hues that only proved that they too were warriors, surviving their own unnatural equivalent of salmon run.

It was a bloodbath, the invaders killing salmonids with ease, globs of ink fired like bullets. The lucky ones died on the first hit; the unlucky were left covered in ink, succumbing to the venom as it flooded their gills.

To make matters worse was the inklings’ multitasking. They would harvest the eggs of the fallen women all while slaughtering anyone who came too close. There was an efficiency in their alien movements, running away once they had their fill, only to return and kill those in pursuit.

Stroganoff ignored how he felt about the situation. How the alien yelps of pain and screams of anguish sounded uncomfortably similar to Ravioli. He took aim, loaded the cannon, and fired. When he reloaded, he ducked his head and pretended to not hear what was going on around him.

He saw one die. Disintegrating into ink as someone stabbed it in the face. Its armour and life preserver started to move as if haunted. He got to see the moment of rebirth, the inkling violating the rules of life itself as its ally splashed the life preserver with its own ink. 

However, the invaders’ hubris was their downfall. Soon the battle swung in the favour of the salmonids, overwhelming and cornering the inklings. Cookie had ripped the face off one, while another found itself swallowed whole, the maws spitting out its clothing. 

Sprout had caught one and was busy drowning it. The inkling flailed as its head was shoved into the water and raised out, unable to twist or claw its way out of Sprout’s grip. The steelhead was entertained watching it spit out copious amounts of water, as its face turned inky blue and bloated.

After one last dunk, the clothing turned limp, and the water around Sprout turned colourful.

The final inkling had been captured, salmonids taking morbid delight in ripping its tentacles off. The inkling screamed, and in a desperate move, spat on the closest life preserver before dying.

The newly revived inkling shot blindly in a last ditch effort for survival, before its gun was ripped from its tentacle and thrown into the water.

Sprout approached the panicked inkling as it struggled against the salmonids holding it down, and lifted it up by the preserver. 

“Quite rude to ruin our special time, is it not?” The inkling said nothing, instead kicking at Sprout’s armour. “And you’ve made such a mess of the place too. Do you know how long it’ll take to clean up, hmm?”

The inkling did not understand a word that was being said, its eyes darting around in hopes of seeing an opportunity to escape. 

“Ah, a shame there’s no reasoning with inklings. Our beloved goldie did give you a rather poetic death, I think it’s worth making sure it's permanent.”

Teeth met face.

The inkling screamed.

A uniform hung limply in Sprout’s grip.

An idle silence hung in the air as everyone watched Sprout as he assessed the strange outfit, holding and moving it around like it was a doll. Ink softly sloshed in the bottoms, before the steelhead turned it upside down, the ink splattering the ground unceremoniously. Something that looked like a plastic feather floated on the colourful puddle, which Sprout collected and gave a once over. 

“We fought off a massacre and this is all we get? Almost a waste, really.” 

The giant salmonid turned to someone smaller. "Go collect the rest of the inkling's artefacts. It was my knowledge that led us to victory, so it's only fair I get their items."

Sprout placed the plastic feather in his armour, nestled in by his breast, before spotting Stroganoff. The steelhead's expression turned to a smirk as both giants maintained eye contact. 

“On second thought, maybe I should share. I do think my brother can make use of the inkling’s armour.”

Stroganoff said nothing as Sprout referred to him, only uttering a soft growl.

The song of albatross filled the sky, as the birds flew down to greet the salmonids.

“For now,” Sprout spoke,” let’s give our fallen warriors their rightful departure.”

Chapter Text

The rest of autumn and all of winter dragged on slowly for Ravioli, as she started to sorely miss her parents.

Life was just boring, with nothing to do at home. For now, she lived at Vanilla’s place, which came with its own problems. For one thing, it was a mess. Half started, half baked and half eaten projects lay everywhere, with art supplies strewn about. The neatest part of Vanilla’s home was the shelf of her ink, organised into a rainbow that gave Ravioli a headache.

Secondly, Ravioli wasn’t allowed to do anything. She couldn’t draw or use any of the artist’s supplies, she couldn’t run, and she most certainly couldn’t touch anything. She couldn’t even watch Vanilla draw. He complained about ‘performance anxiety’ whenever she peeked over his shoulder, whatever that meant.

The only entertainment Vanilla had was a cardboard radio. It was the only thing Ravioli was allowed to use without Vanilla snapping at her. The sound crackled and fizzed, and when there wasn’t music, it was full of boring grownup talk. When Ravioli complained about all the talking, Vanilla fiddled with knobs until the grownup talk was in another language. 

The music on the other language radio was weird and bad.

There was one benefit to all of this, at least. Vanilla was a small salmonid. Unlike her father, Ravioli could wrap her tentacles around Vanilla and give him a hug. It was weird when she first did it, doing it just to hear Vanilla yell at her, but instead the artist just huffed and accepted what was happening to him.

Sharing a bed had been a weird experience too. Ravioli knew this is what other salmonids did, but she had been so used to having her own bed that sleeping in the same bed as Vanilla felt like an invasion of privacy. The scrawny salmonid was just… There . A presence that didn’t give Ravioli peace of mind, as she waited for slumber to come for her. 

He’d always fall asleep first, bunching up the blankets underneath him and laying on his side. He snored. It wasn’t loud, but she could hear him exhale through the gill he was resting on top of. She could feel the way his chest pulsed with every breath, a slow yet consistent rhythm that reminded Ravioli of the waves outside. And his tail. Vanilla had a rather large tail (for someone his size) that flared out similarly to how Cookie’s did. On occasion it would flick and twitch, the appendage poking into Ravioli’s legs.

When the bite of winter started to settle in during the nights, the blankets piled up. Vanilla’s snoring got louder, and the artist pulled Ravioli in for cuddles.

That sense of friendliness was only on display inside Vanilla’s home, however.

Gathering around a bonfire without her parents made Ravioli feel weirdly empty. She would usually be kept safe in Stroganoff’s arms or swaddled in a blanket next to Cookie. Here she was next to strangers, while Vanilla tried his best to not be associated with her. 

As if to make it worse, Vanilla didn’t understand Ravioli’s dismay.

“Geez kid, they’ll be back. No need to make such a fuss.”

Potato was an interesting addition to Ravioli’s schedule. On occasion, he would follow Vanilla and Ravioli home. On those days, Vanilla refused to let the younger salmonid into his home, and so the trio would instead wander to Cookie’s house.

(“Stroganoff’d snap me in two if something broke in his home, plus I’m sure my mom would be delighted to have Potato over when she comes back.”)

Playing with someone her age for the first time was… Odd. Potato knew how to have fun, Ravioli just went along with it. They wandered the house, hid in various nooks and crannies, drew on the walls, drew on the ceiling (“Hey! Get down from there!”), and played pretend.

When there was a lull in the day, they’d pester Vanilla about whatever art he was making.

“So what’s with the stick?” Potato asked, picking up Vanilla’s walking stick. The artist had long since swapped out the tall pipe for a carved wooden cane, the perfect size for his scrawny stature.

“‘Need it for walking. Helps put less pressure on my back.” The grownup reason wasn’t understood too well by either child, but they did find the top of his cane interesting. A smooth, yet strange fish was in the middle of a jump, arching out of the water.

While Ravioli didn’t know the fish, having not eaten anything like it, Potato recognised it immediately.

“Is that a dragon?” he asked.

“Yup.” Vanilla didn’t look up from his painting.

“Oh cool! My dad’s a flipper flopper, so we have lots of dragon stuff at home.”

“Good for you kid.”

Ravioli, on the other hand, had heard of neither dragons nor flipper floppers, and proceeded to get an impromptu lecture from Potato on the matter. By the end, she knew all about the magic fish that flew through the air in ancient times, and the salmonids that tried to capture that majesty.

“One day I’m gonna be a flipper flopper too!” Potato announced. “I’ve been doing a lot of swimming and lots of gymnastics.”

This led to a conversation about swimming, and about how Ravioli wanted to see her friend do some tricks.

“I’ve seen some performers at the market do cool tricks,” Ravioli said, “can you do anything cool?”

“I can jump really high!”

Vanilla had his back turned to the kids, but snorted at the remark. “So can everyone else, kid.”

Potato stuck out his tongue at Vanilla. “I can jump extra extra high! Like to the top of the chief’s house high!”

Ravioli thought about it. “That’s really high.”

✦✦✦

On one particularly chilly day, Ravioli and Vanilla found themselves huddled around a hot water bottle, wrapped in a blanket and listening to the crackly radio. 

Ravioli was insanely bored, and the cold wasn’t helping. The hot water bottle became a test of endurance. How long could she press her tentacles against the bottle before it got too hot? How long could she stand the chill of winter before returning to the bottle's warm embrace?

…Dunno. Ravioli didn't think to actually count. She was just going off vibes.

Her mind wandered, given there wasn't much to do outside of complaining. Lot’s of topics flowed past, but her train of thought slowly arrived at a long abandoned station.

The steelhead armour.

After the night she had found it, Ravioli had been afraid her dad was going to find out she snooped and yell at her for it. She feared that even thinking about it would be enough to tip Stroganoff off.

But the consequences for her actions never came. 

She had so many theories as to why Stroganoff had that armour, and didn't like any of them. There was a history to the armour, she could feel it. She just didn’t know what that history was. Good? Bad? All it did was make Ravioli realise she knew next to nothing of her dad.

Before she could finish her thought, think through things, she spoke up.

"Hey Vanilla?"

He grunted a response.

"You know my dad, right?"

“Last time I checked I’m not suffering from amnesia, so yes.”

“Uhm…” Ravioli realised she didn’t know how to phrase this. It wasn’t like she could just ask Vanilla ‘hey, what’s my dad’s entire backstory.’

“Can you keep a secret?” She eventually figured out a way to broach the subject.

“You killed someone?”

“No!”

Vanilla snorted. “Just messing with you, kid. Sure, I’ll keep your secret.”

“Well, before salmon run, I poked around in my dad’s room, and I found steelhead armour there. Do you know why he has it?”

Vanilla shrugged. "Beats me. First guess? Prolly just assume it was some kind of inheritance. He’s a big guy, one of his parents was probably a steelhead, they died, and now he keeps the armour. You don't think Stroganoff actually puts it on in his spare time, do ya?” Vanilla ended with a cheeky grin.

Ravioli remained silent, as that had been one of her theories. 

Vanilla chuckled.

Chapter Text

It was a joyous day when the salmon runners returned from their journey. Ravioli (and by extension Vanilla, who’d been using her as a pillow) woke up with a start as a loud horn announced their arrival. Ravioli scrambled out of bed and got dressed with a hurry, bouncing on the tips of her tentacles as the promise of seeing her parents again filled her with energy. 

Vanilla, much to Ravioli’s annoyance, was slow to get ready.

“Calm down kid, there’s gonna be like a billion babies out on the docks if we get there now.”

It didn’t matter what Vanilla said, Ravioli wanted to go and she wanted to go now. At least she settled down (with a slight huff) when Vanilla offered her breakfast. He wasn’t a bad cook, and he had weird spices from the octarians. Weird, but delicious.

By the time Ravioli and Vanilla arrived, the 'billion babies’ were starting to filter out, their shoal parents herding them all to their respective homes. It was mostly the adults and the one or two children they decided to keep that were still on the docks.

Luckily it was easy to spot Stroganoff among the crowd, the big shot towering over everyone else, a collection of bags and his cannon by his side. He hadn’t spotted Ravioli, as he was instead in the middle of a conversation with the tailor (clutching a sleeping infant). 

Ravioli wasted no time in getting to him, running through the crowd and pushing folks out of her way until she got to him. “Daddy! Daddy!” She cried, wrapping her arms around him in as big of a hug as she could muster. And then she started to cry.

Stroganoff picked her up and pulled her into a tight hug. A large smile curled on his lips as he took in the scent of his inkling daughter.

“Oh there’s my sweetheart. How’ve you been Ravioli?”

Ravioli could only sob.

The tailor and Stroganoff shared their goodbyes, before parting ways with their children in tow.

✦✦✦

Once Ravioli recovered from all her crying, Stroganoff was more than happy to share how the salmon run went. He skipped over a few parts, reduced to a stuttering mess as Ravioli grilled him about details over what happened between him and the tailor. He stumbled past a few euphemisms before remembering he had an escape from the situation.

“Oh actually, that reminds me, I got something for you.” Stroganoff said, whirling about and heading to his bags. Thank goodness he remembered just in time. Ravioli was starting to ask about ‘special water’ again. 

Curiosity grabbed a hold of Ravioli, dropping the topic at the promise of presents. Stroganoff handed her a rather heavy luggage case, quickly finding its way on the floor as the young inkling opened it up.

Inside were exotic feeling fabrics and strange thin plastic pipes. Ravioli pulled out a bundle from the bag, holding it delicately as she unfurled it. Long shapes that resembled tentacles revealed themselves, stretched out over Ravioli’s body in an embrace.

It was perfectly shaped for her body.

Her eyes lit up.

“These are inkling clothes!” She announced, poking and prodding it to figure out how she could wear it. She was enraptured, a large smile on her face as she worked out what went where. The sleeves and pants were easy to figure out, but the weird end bits confused her. Strange socks that split into five, tinier socks bewildered her, and what she at first thought were weapons turned out to be something Stroganoff called ‘boots’.

But that wasn’t even the end to the presents, as outside of the clothing, there were three strange heavy circles. Life preservers, already full of pretty blue ink.

✦✦✦

As the sun began to set, the village reconvened at the festival grounds. Most decorations had lost their lustre after the long months, and those dyed with Ravioli’s ink had returned to blank canvases. Torches lit the grounds with a warm glow.

The statue of the two salmon stood tall, while communal cauldrons cooked what remained of the village’s winter rations. 

This was the reunion festival.

Unlike Ravioli, all salmonids hatched in the same window of time. While the salmon run festival celebrated departures and promises of new beginnings, the reunion festival was a humble celebration of anniversaries.

In other words, it was everyone’s birthday. Mates and friends shared joyful conversation, exchanged presents, while warm stew filled their bellies and babies got to meet the rest of the village.

Ravioli was always popular at reunion festivals, babies toddling towards her with curiosity in their eyes. They would babble at her before giving an experimental nibble on her tentacles. The babies didn’t have teeth yet, and even the most ambitious baby couldn’t break skin. Usually the parents would come over and apologise, pulling away however many babies they were responsible for while Ravioli laughed it off.

After everyone had settled down and had their fill of stew, the chief would stand up and give a speech, welcoming his warriors back from their venture and offering a prayer for those that passed on. 

After his speech, he would call forth all of the youths that had experienced their first salmon run, along with their relatives and friends. One by one, after hearing whispers of tales from their relatives, the chief would bestow every salmonid with a title. Everyone would cheer, before the cycle started anew.

Ravioli always fell asleep during this, and knew to just lay down and rest on Stroganoff while it happened. Time would fly by, and Stroganoff would shake Ravioli awake just before the conclusion of the festival itself.

One of the chief’s knights would carry a lit torch, scurry over to the salmon statue, and coax the flames to dance on the flammable structure. It happened slowly, little embers creeping up the statue before properly bursting into flames.

For a brief moment, the festival grounds experienced daylight, light bathing the salmonids as the statue’s flames warmed their scales. Everyone cheered as the flames consumed the statue, dancing and singing while watching it burn.

In the midst of her own singing, Ravioli glanced around. She hadn’t seen her mom at all during the festival, and even at its brightest, she couldn’t catch the glint of gold. Mentally shrugging, Ravioli continued singing with everyone else.

Flames danced high, the wood splintered and collapsed under its own weight, and a gentle breeze cooling the remnants of the fire kissed Ravioli’s face.

Chapter Text

Ravioli was enamoured with the inkling clothes. She loved the socks, the funny pants (that kinda fitted her!) and especially the life preserver.

It took some fiddling by both herself and Stroganoff, but they got it to work. It hung on her back like a turtle shell, pipes and wiring prodding into her skin at the back of her neck, while a soft red light signified that the preserver was working.

Apparently it could bring Ravioli back from death, needing only ink to be poured in the centre to revive her.

While Ravioli wasn’t planning on taking a quick swim to test it, it felt comforting. Magical even.

Which was why she excitedly wandered over to Cookie’s house. She wanted to show her mom everything.

However, the only thing that greeted Ravioli when she opened the door was an empty house. A layer of dust covered every surface, and the only light came from the sunlight filtering in from behind Ravioli. The inkling stared at the scene, confused. The silence was deafening, and only grew louder the more Ravioli looked around.

Why wasn’t mom home yet?

“Hey dad?” Ravioli spoke up, wandering back home.

“Yes, Ravioli?” Stroganoff didn’t look up from his work.

“Where’s mom?”

Stroganoff looked up. “Oh, did I forget to tell you? She passed away during salmon run. Sorry for not telling you sooner.”

There was a pause. Either the world or Ravioli stopped.

“It’s fine.” Ravioli said truthfully. Or did she? As the inkling walked away, she could feel something felt wrong. Her stomach felt eerily empty and her mind was thinking too fast. But at the same time, nothing happened. Nothing happened.

Nothing happened.

Nothing. Happened.

Mom was gone. She would never see Ravioli’s new clothing. All her small idle promises of taking Ravioli somewhere or telling her something were left unfulfilled.

And she wasn’t even here to apologise.

And Ravioli never got to say goodbye.

Ravioli closed herself in her room as her vision began to blur. She slumped to the floor, her legs suddenly weak as the inkling felt like she was drowning.

All at once, Ravioli was sobbing, her entire being burning with an indescribable pain; an inferno that only grew as she struggled to breathe. Stroganoff walked in with a rush to see what had happened, and was confused by the sight of his sobbing child.

Questions of “What happened? Are you hurt?” were left unanswered, Ravioli only able to form pained wails as she clung to her father for dear life. Stroganoff could only look at his daughter and pull her into a hug, bewildered, confused, and scared at Ravioli’s sudden hysteria.

Despite his efforts to sooth her, Ravioli wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop. There were bouts of calmness, in which Ravioli was just heaving; before a stray thought of Cookie being gone repeated, and Ravioli was once more reduced to sobbing.

Mom was gone. Mom was gone and there was nothing Ravioli could do about it.

Chapter Text

There were a lot of strong emotions one felt when a loved one passes away:

Disappointment. Annoyance. Exasperation. 

It usually took someone a week for them to adjust to a new life without their loved one. Fix patterns, change their habits, rearrange furniture. Everyone has gone through the motion of setting out three forks when only two are needed. Inconvenient, but people coped and recovered. Life went on.

Ravioli had been bed bound for over a week now. When she wasn’t in bed, she was miserable, lethargic. Trying to cheer her up with her favourite food only caused her to sob at the dinner table. 

Stroganoff had been worried for Ravioli the moment her illness manifested, and with time was only getting more concerned. To make matters worse, the village’s healers were stumped by her sickness. The idea that someone else’s death could cause someone to go ill was bewildering to them, even though that is what the inkling claimed. Beyond that, they didn’t know what actually caused it, or how to treat it.

Stroganoff was learning he could tell when Ravioli was sleeping or awake. When she was awake, the scent of her tears permeated through the house. When she was asleep, she’d stop crying, and the smell of tears faded slightly. 

Right now Ravioli was asleep, and Stroganoff was outside to get some fresh air, to get away from the ever present despair of his child’s sickness. Even now he could smell the illusion of tears, the scent haunting him even as he tried to drown it out. 

He took a deep breath, catching every other smell of the neighbourhood. Delicate smells of meat cooking, the sweat of babies playing, and… the naggy persistent scent of Vanilla. 

Vanilla? Why was he in the area? 

It didn’t take Stroganoff long to find where the artist’s scent led, as he only needed to look at Cookie’s house to find his answer. The big shot could hear rummaging from inside, and the patience Stroganoff didn’t know had been thinning snapped. 

Stroganoff opened the door and glared at Vanilla, the scrawny salmonid on the floor and in the midst of stealing. A crate lay on the floor next to him, as the artist rooted through Cookie’s collection of mugs. The artist raised a fin in greeting, Vanilla not even looking at Stroganoff.

The brazen ignorance only fanned Stroganoff’s flames, uttering a growl as he asked “What are you doing here Vanilla?”

The scrawny salmonid stopped and looked up, his interest now piqued by the growling giant looming above him. A nervous confusion found its way on Vanilla’s face, as his body instinctively curled up so he was even smaller.

“-Just looking for things I want to keep? That’s all? W-what’s wrong?”

“Do you think you could maybe steal at a later time?”

“S-steal? But this is my mom’s stuff. I’m allowed to have it.” Vanilla responded. There was a tone of voice one learned to use when dealing with an angry giant. Diplomatic. Calm. Immediately agreeing with whatever the giant wanted. If Stroganoff wanted, all he needed was to growl and Vanilla was willing to give him the whole house.

But that wasn’t needed. Stroganoff’s anger was short lived, freezing as bewilderment took its place.

“Wait- You mean. You’re Cookie’s child?”

Now it was Vanilla’s turn to be angry, immediately forgetting he had considered Stroganoff a threat mere seconds ago.  “Of course I am! How do you not know that!”

“Uh- I mean well. I don’t remember Cookie mentioning it…” Stroganoff glanced away, trying to recall some time where it would have been brought up. His mind was turning a blank.

“Wait, hold on.” Vanilla started. “She didn’t?”

“...No? At least I don’t think so.”

While Stroganoff was trying to remember some clue, some old conversation, Vanilla sighed.

“You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if she did that on purpose. Must’ve been some kinda prank she was pulling.” Vanilla frowned. “She’d probably be killing herself with laughter at this point, before saying she ‘got you’.”

They glanced over at where Cookie used to sit. A soft wind in the shutters howled with laughter.

“...shouldn’t her other kids be here too?” Stroganoff asked. “You know, get what they want from her?”

“Gone. I’m the only one left.” Vanilla shrugged, “Kinda a depressing thought, but nobody else came.” He started rooting through mugs again, his head diving deeper into the cupboard to pull them out. “How’s Ravioli?”

“She’s sick.”

“Sick?” Vanilla lifted his head- “Ack!” -Smacking into the top of the cupboard. “What happened? She was fine when she was with me.”

“She’s been acting weird ever since I told her Cookie passed on. She’s been sleeping for most of the day.” The older man slumped. “I’m worried about her, but I have no idea if there’s anything I can do to help. Doesn’t help that I can’t ask Cookie for advice now.”

Giving up on rummaging through mugs, Vanilla gave Stroganoff a worried look. “Well, tell you what. Not exactly an expert but I could probably see if the octarians know what’s wrong with her. They’re similar species, could be a shared illness.”

“That probably would help, thank you Vanilla.”

“Hey don’t mention it. I don’t want the kid dying either.”

Chapter Text

It was amazing having a fountain of information at your fin tips. Vanilla was no stranger to octarian made toys, and was quite chuffed over owning a radio walkie talkie. In just minutes of turning the thing on, Vanilla could talk to an octarian operator on the other side. The antenna was almost as tall as Vanilla, towering and wobbling high in the sky as the signal crackled and fizzed to life. 

It took far too long for the operator and Vanilla to get on the same page, both hitting language barriers before ideas came across. What Vanilla called an ‘illness’ the operator knew under a different name.

‘Grief’

The octarian leafed through his dictionary, hoping to find the salmonid equivalent of the word. Instead he discovered there was no translation, only a note that haunted the operator:

‘There is no word, as salmonids do not grieve.’

“So how do you cure grief anyhow? The kid’s probably a bit too young to drink so I don't think we can feed her moonshine.”

“It’s not something you just ‘cure’! It takes time to heal.” The operator said, exasperated. 

“Like a wound?”

“Y-yes, exactly! Like a wound.”

“Okay then how do you wash, disinfect and bandage grief?”

“Metaphorical! There is no actual wound! Take the child to grief counselling!”

“Counselling…” Vanilla frowned. A lot of octarian words sounded needlessly complicated, and Vanilla had to try figure out the translation. “...so… talking…?”

“Yes. With a professional.”

Professional talker? Why, that’s everyone. You can walk into the marketplace and at least half of the merchants offer therapy sessions. He could probably figure something out.

✦✦✦

“Go away!” Ravioli wailed as Vanilla tried to barge into her room. Respecting her wishes, Vanilla did just that.  

✦✦✦

The silence of the night felt despairing for Ravioli, who found herself exhausted but unable to sleep. She wasn’t even in the mood to cry, her mind going blank when she tried to think of a reason.

She dreamt Cookie was still alive. It felt normal, playing a game with her mom even as the dream itself naturally escalated. Ravioli accepted the situation, treating the day with Cookie as any other day.

It was only when she woke up did the horror of loss strike her again. The dream made her feel empty, the void in her heart worse. 

She chastised herself for it too. For not saying something to her mom while Cookie still lived in her dreams. Or maybe it was just for having Cookie in her dreams in the first place. Ravioli wasn’t sure.

Giving up on rest, Ravioli crept out of bed. It felt mechanical, as she got dressed and found herself wandering outside. She thought it would make her feel better, but being alone outside just felt worse than being alone inside.

She walked over to Cookie’s house. To cry.

Her emotional state was in bad shape, and some warped imitation of her instincts told her to make it worse. Ravioli opened the door and entered. She was met with the darkness, a desolate emptiness that only cemented that Cookie wasn’t home.

In all honesty, Ravioli was hoping that if she opened the door enough times, she would see her mom on the other side like normal.

…And yet, despite being in the empty house of her mom, Ravioli felt something creep down her spine.

She wasn’t alone.

She was too slow as she felt a presence behind her, fins wrapping around her shoulders and pulling her down. She stumbled to the floor and felt someone’s chest press against her back. A scream died in her sob-stained throat as something hot and wet touched her head. A tongue.

She was being licked.

“Heh, gotcha,” Vanilla’s voice spoke from the darkness, “knew you’d sneak in here,” before the tongue continued to lick.

“What are you doing ?” Ravioli said. Her fear was replaced with confusion upon hearing Vanilla’s voice, her own words warbled in bewilderment.

“What kid, never been groomed before?” He said, giving her head another lick. Her head was wet now, and she could feel stickiness.

“Why are you grooming me!? Stop it!”

Vanilla let Ravioli go, and finally turned the light on.

“Well,” Vanilla started, “parents groom babies to make them stop crying. Figured it was worth a try seeing if it would snap you outta your state.”

As if on cue, Ravioli felt tears well up in her eyes. “Well it didn’t work.”

“Yeah, figured. I do at least know what’s wrong with you though.”

“You do?”

“Yup, according to the octarians, it’s something called ‘grief’.” Vanilla shrugged, “Don’t quite understand it myself, but basically, mom dying injured your head.” Vanilla said, before sitting himself down at a chair, where his cane lay hanging. 

“Can you make it stop?” Ravioli mewled. She didn’t want to feel this way as much as her father and Vanilla didn’t want to see her in this state.

Vanilla gave her a worried, apologetic look. “No idea, but the person I talked to about all this did say a professional talker can help. So… let’s talk.” He invited Ravioli to sit opposite him.

Already the scene hurt, reminding her too much of when Cookie would chat to her at this very table.

“So uh… I gotta ask,” Vanilla spoke. “Does… does it actually hurt?” His voice was soft, worried. It made Ravioli almost forgive the licking.

She nodded. 

“Man… that’s just awful. Can’t imagine having to deal with this grief thing just ‘cause someone else died.” Vanilla sighed. “Everyone dies one day. You know that." There was a pause, Vanilla thinking of what to say. "I’m- we are the only kids mom had that are still alive”

Ravioli said nothing, more tears leaking from her face.

“It’s a weird feeling. I knew I’d probably outlive mom, but my siblings too? It makes me feel strangely alone.”

“Aren’t you sad they’re gone?” Ravioli muttered.

“Not really. Never met them. By the time mom had me, they all struck out on their own.”

“What about the siblings you hatched with?”

“I had none, kid. I was born… after … mom’s encounter with inklings.” Vanilla glanced down at the table. “Funny story, that. After that incident, she couldn’t have children. The inklings broke her body, but not having eggs broke her heart."

“Her kids left. Some were old enough, others couldn’t handle the sadness. She was all alone, until she learned she had one last chance. A miracle.” Vanilla sighed. “A real shame that miracle was me.”

He glanced up to see Ravioli weeping. “You alright?”

Ravioli nodded.

“Good. I’d feel bad if I was making this worse.”

He continued with his story. “So anyway, I was her miracle. A single egg she doted over like her life depended on it. Then it came for everyone to hatch. And I didn’t. Something was wrong. It looked like I was never going to hatch at all. The devil had reserved a seat for me in hell.”

“But mom never gave up on me. Even when everyone else was gone, and it was just me, her, and a boat captain keeping her fed, she was there for me.

“But it wasn’t like I had forever. I’d either hatch or starve in my own egg. Sure it’s easy now, knowing I’m very much alive, but mom was helpless as her only baby fought hell itself.

“Then one day, I fought the devil and won.

“Not without a cost, I could barely move before it hurt too much. But mom was just happy to see me breathing. Her little miracle, born a season too late, in just as much pain as herself.”

Vanilla fiddled with his cane.

“After that? Well, my back never fixed itself. It only got bearable with age. But mom felt guilty. She had her bad days, made worse when I couldn’t leave the bed. But even then, she loved me just for being her child.”

Vanilla tapped his fins together. “Well… that’s… about it. You don’t wanna hear my sob story so we can just cut it there. You should probably go to bed, maybe talk with your dad too. Just to make you feel better.”

Ravioli nodded, wiping away pooling tears.

Chairs scraped as Ravioli got up, and was about to leave when Vanilla spoke up again. 

“Wait, before you go,” Vanilla picked up a book, and opened it up to where two photographs were taped to the pages. They showed a younger Ravioli with Cookie, and a photo from the salmon run festival.

“Figured you should have them. You’re the other person in the photo after all.”

Ravioli silently nodded, and clutched the book close to her chest as she went back home.

Chapter Text

Ravioli’s sickness didn’t improve, but it didn’t worsen either. She was just sick, sleeping all day and spending her time either staring at the photos of her mom or crying too hard to see the photos.

But there was hope, and once Vanilla explained to Stroganoff that the treatment was just to talk to Ravioli about it, the big shot endeavoured to speak to the inkling about Cookie’s death.

It was… awkward. The inkling would weep if Stroganoff even uttered Cookie’s name, and the salmonid grew alarmed from just that alone.

It took time for both of them. For Stroganoff to realise it was okay that Ravioli wept, and for Ravioli to heal. It only worried Stroganoff when Ravioli continued to weep in the middle of the night, the smell of her tears lingering in the air.

Slowly he got up, and knocked on Ravioli’s door.

“Ravioli? Are you still up?”

A weak croak was the answer.

He opened the door and glanced down at Ravioli, the inkling’s face puffy from crying.

“Let’s have a talk, alright?”

Ravioli trailed behind, as Stroganoff walked outside and layed down on the hard path. He settled down, until his eyes were staring up at the stars. Ravioli climbed onto his stomach, so light she barely left a dent where she sat, and looked up at the stars as well.

There was a silence for a while, both father and daughter entranced by the glittering lights shining above them. Lanterns around them ensured they weren’t plunged in darkness, while the water's soft waves lapped at the supports underneath them. A breeze layed down with them, a cool welcome during the warm night.

“You know, my mother died before I was born,” Stroganoff started. “But my father told us stories about her. Of her bravery, of her strength. So while we never met her, in a way we were part of her life. Her body became part of the land, and her memories became a part of me. Much like how the land is grateful to have eaten her, I’m grateful to have known her in some way.”

He lightly stroked Ravioli’s head. “I hope you feel the same way about Cookie. Her body may be gone, but that doesn’t mean she herself no longer exists. You and I keep a little part of her in our hearts.”

Ravioli was softly weeping, but nodded at her father’s words.

“One day I’ll be gone too.”

The young inkling sobbed and clinged to her father.

“I want you to make a promise with me,” he said, lifting up Ravioli’s head. “When that day comes, promise me you won’t weep. I’ll still be with you forever, long after I return to the earth, because I’ll always be in your heart.”

Ravioli said nothing, only clutching her father like a lifeline.

Chapter Text

The month after the reunion festival was punctuated with a buzz from younger salmonids on the search for a new home. While many houses would be inherited by the children of those who passed, it was common enough that luck rolled her unfair dice and left homes empty. Their owners dead and the children moved on.

One such salmonid was on this hunt. Caramel Horn had settled into adulthood without much fanfare and yearned for her own space. Her walking was slow and methodical, each movement accompanied by her tail heavily thudding against the concrete.

Her slow walking was part of why she wanted her own home. Her old home was chaotic and frenetic, and it would be normal for her to be left behind with everyone else racing ahead. She would be the last to get out of bed in the morning, the last to get food if nobody thought to fetch it for her, and by the time her shoal siblings were playing at school, she had just opened the door to leave home. 

Horn liked the idea of being allowed to be slow in the privacy of her own place. No siblings to ditch her, no parents to push her. Life was constantly a race, and she had grown tired of being in last place. She just wanted to be by herself, no races, no pushing, just life at her own pace.

Of course she was not a fool. If she was too late, everyone else house hunting would claim anything empty, and if she were too early, the relatives of the deceased would judge her, annoyed they couldn’t collect what they wanted to inherit in peace. Just the thought of imposing on a hypothetical family brought a shudder to Horn.

Which was why she was awake before the sun rose, slowly trekking her way to one of the spots where there was possibly an empty house. Apparently the neighbour got ill after the reunion festival, the mysterious disease blamed on the now dead homeowner. It was a weird situation, but it did mean there was likely an empty house looking for a new resident.

Horn was exhausted when she finally arrived, the sun slowly starting to rise and shine weakly on the homes before her.

It was a nice looking neighbourhood, but there was something weird in the air. Raising her snout and taking a deep breath through her nose, Horn caught a strange squiddy smell amongst the normal scents of the area.

Oh! Then it hit her! This must be where the inkling and her owner live! Horn had seen the little purple creature a few times in the market, but the idea of living near it fascinated her.

With a spring in her movement, Horn approached one of the homes that had its lights on and knocked on the door.

A groggy lady opened and glanced at Horn.

“Uh, hi… um, I was wondering if you knew any empty homes in this area?”

The lady took a moment to study Horn, before glancing at the young salmonid’s tail.

“Is your tail made of wood?”

Horn flushed, before curling herself to show the woman her tail. It was made out of two pieces of wood, one laying flat on the ground while the other pointed upward like a normal tail. Her pants were unique, able to be fastened at the back with lace, and it hid where wood met scales.

“Um, yes. It’s a prosthetic.”

Curiosity satisfied, the lady pointed to a house a few buildings away. “The one with the bent doorway. If you walk past the giant’s house, you’ve gone too far. The house itself might not smell abandoned but the owner’s child hasn’t claimed it.”

With a nod, Horn thanked the lady and started the trek over to the empty home. The sound of Horn’s wooden tail hitting the path felt more pronounced now that it got brought up in conversation, and Horn’s movement felt more slow.

Before long, however, she was at the house with the bent doorway. The top of the doorway looked like it had been hit with a hammer many times, and there was now a gap between the door and the doorway.

Just like the lady said, the place smelled of activity. At least two people had been here recently, one of which appeared to be the inkling. Based on the scent, Horn figured the inkling lived next door, in the home that looked like it housed a giant. 

With a gentle push, the door opened, revealing a cosy little home with a large table and a big bed. Horn did a quick poke through all the cupboards, noting a sizable collection of mugs, but no food. Aw, she’d have to fix that later.

The walls offered a mishmash of textures and artworks, ranging from professionally made paintings to childish scribbles (including one on the ceiling). The wardrobe offered a collection of what Horn could only describe as old lady clothes, shawls and loose clothing made for someone slightly bigger. They hung on hangers as Horn debated on keeping them.

She’d need to take them all to the tailor first if she kept them though. Get the back of the pants opened up so she could fasten it over her prosthetic.

Nevertheless, she had a house now! The achievement was slowly dawning on Horn, leaving her giddy and a big smile on her face.

With a happy sigh, Horn flopped herself on the bed, unlacing her pants and unbuckling her tail before making herself comfortable.

She did it! She had a home. She’d have to introduce herself to the neighbours later, but for now, it was time for some well deserved rest.

Chapter Text

It was the middle of the afternoon when there was a sound of tapping wood outside of Stroganoff’s home. The sound was just infrequent enough to not be annoying, but it was ever present amongst the sounds of Stroganoff working in his workshop. Before too long, a soft knocking rapped on Stroganoff’s door. The big shot put down his tools and went to answer.

Outside was a silver faced girl, long blond hair that had flopped over and covered one side of her face. What had been confidence in the girl’s expression quickly died as she looked up and saw how tall Stroganoff was.

“Can I help you dear?”

“Uh um um n-no I d-don’t n-need help sorry I was j-j-just um- I moved next door,” she pointed to Cookie’s home. “My name’s Caramel Horn- th-that’s all sorry. B-bye!”

The poor thing was terrified, and was now doing her best to ‘run away’, waddling weirdly with a wooden tail.

Stroganoff gave her a sympathetic look before closing the door. Right, folks were usually intimidated by his height. He probably should give the nervous salmonid a welcome gift, if only to show that he was harmless. Last thing Stroganoff needed was to have one of the neighbours be scared of him.

He was used to his neighbours being used to him, it was almost a shock to have someone cower and run away.

Then there was also the aspect of her moving into Cookie’s home. Has it really been that long since the goldie had passed?

There was a weird emotion that filled Stroganoff’s heart as he thought about it. Perhaps it was Ravioli’s ‘grief’ since Cookie’s passing, but the fact that time passed stung slightly. Someone’s passing had never quite bothered him like Cookie’s did. In a way, his new neighbour inspired something bittersweet about it all.

Life moved on and healed, even if Cookie’s death lingered in their family's lives. Stroganoff meandered to his collection of teas. Perhaps Horn liked tea?

✦✦✦

Ravioli wandered out of her home one night, the spring air resting on her face while the waters softly lapped against supports. It was a habit at this point- entering Cookie’s home on the impossible chance that this time Cookie would show up and greet Ravioli like nothing happened. It always ended the same. Cookie’s house was silent, Ravioli’s gut would drop, and she would weep.

She opened the door to Cookie’s home and gazed inside. Light weakly poured in from the door, but something was off. Ravioli had, admittedly, performed this song and dance a bit too often. Not enough that her father had noticed, but she had stared at the table and kitchen from the doorway too many times. She could picture the scene with her eyes closed and still see everything where it once was.

And so Ravioli knew something was wrong when the table had a new candle on it. Ravioli’s gut stirred, a horrible hope blooming as Ravioli went to destroy it herself. She flicked the light on and wandered over to Cookie’s bedroom.

She was not there.

Instead there was a lump under the blanket, two red dots gazing up at Ravioli.

“Get. Out.” Ravioli spoke, her voice angry before the rest of her caught up.

When the lump didn’t move, Ravioli raised her voice.

“GET OUT!” She screeched at the lump.

“GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!” repeating the words until her voice grew so loud it became noise, her vision blurring and her body shaking.

The lump refused to move, instead shifting under the blanket to make itself smaller.

Stroganoff shouted Ravioli’s name from inside their home, as Ravioli approached the lump, fists balled up. There was a satisfying wheeze from below the blanket as Ravioli’s fists met the lump, a red in Ravioli’s mind that ignored everything else.

Up until the door behind her slammed open.

“RAVIOLI!” Stroganoff yelled with a snarl. The inkling froze in terror, and nothing more was said, as Stroganoff picked her up and went home.

Chapter Text

“It’s not fair!” Ravioli wailed. “That’s Cookie’s home!”

Stroganoff hated having to discipline Ravioli, especially now that Cookie wasn’t here to back him up, but he felt like he had no choice. Ravioli started a fight, and he thanked the stars above that their new neighbour didn’t fight back.

“It was Cookie’s home. Now it’s someone else’s. You can’t just go into someone's home and attack them.”

“It’s not fair!”

“It is fair.” Stroganoff hated how he had to do this. He hated seeing Ravioli sob, especially since this time it was his fault for her anguish, but at the same time, her refusal to move on from Cookie’s death was starting to get annoying. “Cookie is dead and we’ve all moved on. You need to get over yourself.”

Something in his sentence caused Ravioli to start crying loudly, which was enough to break Stroganoff’s thinning patience.

“Go to your room and stop crying!”

The inkling screeched and wailed as she ran to her room, slamming the door behind her. There were muffled thumps as the young girl threw a tantrum, throwing belongings against the wall.

Now that Stroganoff was alone, he started to regret everything he just said. His head found itself buried between his fins, an attempt to hide from his own actions. He had to stop himself from going into the inkling's room right then and there and apologising. Worry filled his chest, and Ravioli’s tantrum was only making it worse. 

So he stepped outside. It was a very nice morning at the very least. A gentle breeze comforted him in the wake of his own regrets. He took a deep breath, and if he focused on the water, he could pretend to not hear Ravioli.

He hated this situation. He hated how he had nobody to ask for help now. He hated how this all started because Cookie wasn’t here. Every problem that arose from Ravioli’s grief chipped away at Stroganoff’s fortitude, until his breathing got heavy and his eyes watered.

He was frightened and alone. Cookie had been there with him for nearly a decade, there to help him raise Ravioli, able to answer his questions, be his companion when he felt lonely. She had been his voice of reason, his second opinion when his anxiety got the better of him, and the gentle nudge in the right direction when he felt lost.

He didn’t want to admit it, but Stroganoff feared that he caught Ravioli’s illness.

He was in grief.

His mind wandered to Cookie's passing. Wondered if he should have done something- if he could have done something.

Maybe he should have dissuaded Cookie from going on the salmon run, scoffed at her choice, guilt tripped her into staying.

“Oh, but if we both go, Ravioli will be alone.”

But he didn’t. And she was dead. Probably the most devastating death Stroganoff had ever experienced, as even months later the inconvenience of her passing haunted him and Ravioli.

He glanced over to the home that once was Cookie’s. The poor girl inside had been on the receiving end of Ravioli's outburst, and Stroganoff knew he should apologise on Ravioli’s behalf.

He gave the door a light tap, the girl inside responding with a ‘I’ll be there in a minute!” 

The girl’s cheeriness worried Stroganoff’s mind. Was that the cheeriness of someone who wasn't bothered by last night, or was it a facade? A front put up so that nobody would know that she was frightened and worried after what happened to her? Stroganoff wondered if he should leave before she opened the door. Even if he wasn’t in a good state, maybe he could at least ensure someone else was.

There was shuffling and the sound of wood tapping the floor before the door opened.

Horn’s chipper expression faded as her neck craned up, replaced with terror as she locked eyes with Stroganoff.

“Oh-I-I-I’m sorry for last night s-sir. I’m sorry please don’t be mad-” she said, stumbling over her words and cowering.

“Woah wait,” Stroganoff responded. He was already feeling bad for coming here. “Calm down. Please. I came here to apologise… for Ravioli.” He slumped slightly. He was an awkward man used to talking to Cookie. Used to the goldie sometimes reading his mind, knowing what he meant to say instead of what actually came out of his mouth.

But he didn't have that now. All he had was a cowering girl in front of him, tears leaking out of her face in fright, and Stroganoff had to convince her he meant no harm.

That, and he also forgot her name.

He is a terrible neighbour.

"...What was your name, miss?"

"C-c-caramel Horn," she answered in between sobs.

“Right… that's a lovely name. I'm Stroganoff. I'm… not sure if I told you that.” 

There was a pause. Stroganoff was hoping that Horn would say something. Anything. Instead she stared at him and tried her best to not cry (and failing).

"Uhm…" he started, “do you like tea?”

“...Yes…?”

“How uh… how about we have tea and talk?”

Horn flinched at the request, before stumbling over her words. “Oh… a-alright. C-come in…” she said, a diplomatic albeit terrified response from the girl afraid that she was about to lose another limb.

The room felt tense as Horn slowly got the kettle to a boil, bringing over tea cups and tea bags to Stroganoff. The big shot said nothing, quietly worrying about if this was too far and Horn hated him and he should leave and just pretend like this never happened and never speak to Horn again and maybe move to the opposite side of town-

But no. He knew he couldn’t do that. A draught from outside slapped the back of his head, enough to shake him out of his anxious spiral. He wanted to set things right with Horn. He couldn't do that if he just ran away or avoided her. 

He just hoped he could actually do it.

Once the tea was poured, Horn stood at the table, tense and staring at Stroganoff.

“Don’t you want to sit?” He asked.

“I… can’t.” She made a motion to her wooden tail. “Can’t sit w-with my tail on.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“I-it’s okay! I rest on my tail so I’m kinda sitting!” Sorry if it’s making you uncomfortable.” she said with an awkward smile.

“Oh no it’s fine. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

“It’s alright.”

The two sat in silence, tapping at their teacups as they suffered through the tension.

Stroganoff took a deep breath and spoke up

“I’m sorry-” “I’m sorry-” Only to be interrupted by Horn. 

They both paused, realising they both were about to apologise. Again. 

And then they laughed. Like a fog, the tension lifted as the sounds of laughter filled the room. Stroganoff’s loud guffaws as well as Horn’s soft giggles.

“We really need to stop apologising so much,” Stroganoff spoke, a chuckle leaking mid sentence.

“I suppose so. How about we uhm… ban the word sorry?”

“Sounds good to me,” Stroganoff said, leaning over to softly blow on his tea. “Pardon-” Wait. That counted as ‘sorry’. The big shot wasn’t in the mood to play loopholes. “So um. What happened to your tail?”

“Oh, I lost it as a baby. Got a fungal infection and it cost my tail.” Horn answered.

“Oh, I’m sorry to-” Stroganoff stopped. Even with a ban he couldn’t help himself. He was left silent, unable to continue the conversation in any way.

“It’s fine! I’m alright now. I’ve got my prosthetic so I can do things by myself.”

“That’s good at least.”

“Mhm!” Horn mumbled as she sipped her tea. “How did you get an inkling by the way? I… i… um…yeah…” Horn drifted off. Her point lost as fear washed over her again, tears threatening to spill.

“Oh…” Stroganoff grimaced. “I hope you know last night wasn’t your fault.” The big shot had no idea how to apologise for what happened now there was an apology ban, “Ravioli’s just been sick for the past while, and she took it out on you.”

The silence and tension returned, and once more Stroganoff felt bad. “So uhm… I’d… say sorry but you know we did ban that…”

“I-it’s okay.” Horn said. “How ‘bout you tell me where’d you get her?”

“Oh that, that’s a funny story, you see…”

Stroganoff stayed at Horn’s house for a little while longer, the two sharing stories and occasionally forgetting their apology ban.

Chapter Text

Stroganoff handed Ravioli a mop. The incident with Horn was still fresh on the inkling’s mind, her face stuck frowning.

“I think it’s time you start doing some chores around here.” Stroganoff said, dropping a bucket of water by Ravioli’s feet. “It’ll help keep you out of trouble.”

There was an edge to his voice. Ravioli’s encounter with Horn still haunted him; he had no clue how to actually address what had happened between the two women, and was only grateful it didn’t end badly for his daughter. He would be lying if he said the incident didn’t keep him up at night.

“Now I want you to go mop up my workshop, and I don’t want you leaving until the floor is spotless. Got it?”

Ravioli said nothing, sulkily picking up the bucket and mop and heading to the workshop.

It was the oldest room in the house, and Ravioli could feel it from just the floor alone. Most of the floors in the house had a slight wobble to them if you paid attention. Layers of wood and metal supported Stroganoff’s weight, but felt far too thin to do the job.

The workshop had no such wobble. It was made from concrete and a woven basket of steel. In some parts the concrete wore just enough away that the steel rods peeked through, like a spine poking through skin.

The workshop also smelled of gunpowder. Ravioli could barely smell it in the rest of the house, but here it burned in her mouth until she grew blind to its scent.

She dipped the mop in the bucket and started to scrub. Her mind wandered as dirt and dust got sponged out of the floor.

Her thoughts were angry, aimed at her father and the stranger next door. It wasn’t fair that someone could take mom’s home. Use her table. Sleep in her bed.

The inkling’s thoughts turned to hypotheticals. The stranger violated memories and destroyed heirlooms without much care.

And dad took the stranger’s side when Ravioli tried to preserve Cookie’s memory.

Ravioli’s vision blurred.

Soon the water on the floor was mixed with Ravioli’s tears. Large viscous globs of liquid that fell from her face and onto the floor.

Did dad hate her now? Was the mopping some excuse for him to get away from her? She knew he was tired of her crying, of her missing mom. 

It didn’t help how silent everything felt in the workshop. It truly felt like Ravioli had been left alone. Abandoned. And now she was crying again. Dad had already told her to stop, but the tears only grew worse at the situation.

A sob escaped Ravioli’s throat, a guttural pained noise she couldn’t stop herself from making, and then chastised herself for making it anyway.

Her rage turned to herself. The useless inkling. The sick crybaby. The terrible monster.

Did mom ever actually love her? It was starting to feel like it wasn’t the truth. A lie the old lady kept up just to reveal her contempt at the end like some cruel punchline. She’d probably laugh at how Ravioli was sobbing over her death. Pathetic.

A scream came out of Ravioli’s throat, before throwing the mop at a wall. Things on shelves rattled as the mop bounced off, before rattling some more once the bucket of water was tossed too.

Water crept over the concrete floor as Ravioli curled up, trapped in her own head as she continued to weep.

Maybe if she was normal, mom would still be here.

Chapter Text

While Ravioli still had her bouts of crying, she could at least get out of bed without Stroganoff’s prompting. The big shot himself was relieved at this development, hoping that it was a sign that the inkling was at least healing.

The problem was that Ravioli would look out the window, see Horn’s home, and her mood would visibly sour. Her skin would turn a dark blood red and her motions tense.

It was most evident when Stroganoff made Ravioli do the dishes. It was a petty thing for him to do, since he knew how much Ravioli hated soapy water (somehow being able to taste it through her hands). He was constantly debating between if he should stop Ravioli or if making her not do the dishes made her spoiled. Once again, he missed Cookie's wisdom.

The kitchen sink was right underneath a window (in case something burst into flames and needed to be quickly tossed outside), and it gave Ravioli an amazing view of parts of Horn’s home. The silver salmonid’s laundry was hanging outside, fluttering in the breeze.

With alien precision, Ravioli dipped her tentacle in the sink’s water, puffed out her cheeks, and spat soapy water on Horn’s clothes. This situation had played out multiple times, Ravioli’s aim improving each time, and the silver faced girl was left confused as to why her clothing was wet.

Horn had a feeling she knew the cause of her wet laundry, and today she caught the inkling in the act. The salmonid walked out of her home to admonish Ravioli as well as rescue her clothing. However, she failed on both fronts, her words too soft and stuttery to make a difference, and her clothing already wet. Instead, all Horn managed to do was put a target on herself, as Ravioli proceeded to spray her in soapy water too.

Upon being sprayed, Horn held an expression of hurt acceptance, trying to move her laundry out of Ravioli’s way. However, she was still slow, and Ravioli soon made washing dishes into a target practice session.

By the time Ravioli drained all the water in the sink, Horn was soaked. Her walking had slowed to a crawl, her wooden tail barely able to move as the soapy water made it slide about. The young woman’s eyes welled with tears, as she was reduced to dragging herself along, using her house’s walls as finholds.

Stroganoff had been unaware of the situation, but checked in on Ravioli when he heard more water be poured into the kitchen sink. At first he was confused, saying nothing as Ravioli leaned out of the window, before watching her spray water from her mouth.

“Ravioli? What are you doing?”

That stopped the inkling in her tracks. The water in her mouth quickly returned to the kitchen sink, and Ravioli gave her father a guilty look.

“I was just um… Nothing.”

Stroganoff did not believe her, and glanced out of the window, where a wet and upset Horn stood.

“Are you alright, Horn?”

She didn’t answer, but her fin idly wiping away tears said all it needed.

Stroganoff turned to Ravioli. For once Ravioli felt very aware of how her father towered over her. “Are you responsible for this?”

Ravioli shook her head.

Stroganoff said nothing.

Ravioli said nothing.

Stroganoff did not take his eyes off the young inkling.

She kept glancing away.

“...Well?”

Ravioli gave up, and sheepishly nodded.

“That’s what I thought. Are you going to apologise?”

Ravioli’s guilt dissolved. “No.”

Stroganoff sighed.

Once again, Stroganoff missed Cookie. She would probably know how to resolve every single problem Stroganoff now faced, and probably have everyone become friends over tea. But now he was alone, having to be his own miracle worker and figure out what the heck he was supposed to do.

“Just do the dishes.”

The big shot left his home and walked over to Horn. The silver faced salmonid was still trying to inch her way back inside her house, almost exhausted from pulling her body along.

“Do you need help?” Stroganoff asked.

“No… I-i’m fine…” Horn muttered, her voice warbling from the tears in her eyes.

Stroganoff resisted the urge to sigh again. It was one thing having Ravioli be difficult, it was another thing entirely to have Horn act in a similar way. In a way, it confused Stroganoff. Why would Horn not want help when she was literally needing to drag herself inside? Perhaps if he was in a better mood, he’d try to understand Horn’s stubbornness.

“Please let me help you.” Stroganoff said softly.

There was an emotion on Horn’s face, unreadable as she stopped trying to move. Disappointment? Shame? The big shot wasn’t sure, but soon she relented, silently raising her fins towards Stroganoff. He said nothing as he plucked up Horn, the younger salmonid squeaking at the ease of which she was lifted. Horn found a place between Stroganoff’s fins, as he walked her inside her own home.

Chapter Text

Ravioli was dusting when Vanilla walked in, announcing his presence by tapping the door with his cane. 

“Knock knock! Guess who is in a good mood and needs yellow.”

Ravioli looked at Vanilla as he intruded. “I thought I gave you lots of yellow last time?”

“Yeah well, I left the jar open and it all disappeared. Whoops. No use crying over spilt ink, especially when I get it for free.” Vanilla said, pulling out a jar and placing it on the table for Ravioli.

The inkling had half a mind to ignore Vanilla, but figured it was a good excuse to stop dusting. She sat down at the table and shifted her ink colour. It was such an easy process that Ravioli didn’t even have to think about it, instead letting her mind wander as she filled the jar.

A stray thought of the neighbour came in her head, and her once good mood evaporated, as her temper bled in both her mind and ink.

“Hey,” Vanilla said, lifting the jar unamused. “This is orange .”

“Well that’s what you’re getting.” Ravioli huffed.

“Sheesh, what’s with the attitude, kid?”

“Somebody stole mom’s house.”

Vanilla cocked his head slightly, before staring out the kitchen window to double check. “...No…? It’s still where it was last time I was here. I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed a whole house being nabbed.”

“No! Someone’s living inside mom’s house!”

“...and…?”

“Vanilla, that's mom’s house!” Ravioli said, angrily slamming her tentacles on the table. 

“Yeah, and? I don’t care about who is living there now. Good for him or whatever.” Vanilla said, gesturing to emphasise how little he cared for the subject. “It’s bothering you though, that’s obvious.”

“It’s not fair! That’s mom’s home, and the new person is ruining everything!” Moisture threatened to leak from her eyes. “...And dad doesn’t care either.”

Vanilla rolled his eyes, before approaching the softly weeping inkling, his body pressed against her back as he pulled her into a hug. Then he started licking, long slow wet strokes on the back of her head. It left Ravioli feeling sticky, but at the same time it was comforting. The sensation of stickiness was softly muffled by the warmth of the action itself, the consistent rhythm of Vanilla’s tongue on her head, as well as the feeling of him just being there.

He stopped once the worse of her crying subsided, but still kept her in their hug.

“Look kid, life moves on. Your dad isn’t indifferent, it's just part of life that new people move into old homes. Do you really want mom’s home to be empty forever?”

The inkling was silent, a sniffle betraying her thoughts, before softly shaking her head.

“Yeah, exactly. You know deep down this has to happen. Empty houses don’t stay empty forever. The guy who lives there now is probably happy to have a space for himself. And who knows, maybe he’ll have kids someday. You know mom’d love that, right? To have her home full of children again.”

Tears silently leaked from Ravioli’s eyes. Vanilla gave her another lick. There was a brief silence between the two, long enough that Ravioli was now well aware that her head was horrendously sticky.

“Now…” Vanilla glanced at the jar. “How ‘bout some yellow, hmm?”

Unbeknownst to either Vanilla or Ravioli, Stroganoff had been listening in from his workshop. The older man had anticipated needing to put down his tools to stop the inevitable fight breaking out between Ravioli and Vanilla, but was surprised and relieved when that didn’t happen. Instead, he peeked his head out, glancing over to the scrawny salmonid.

“‘Scuse me, Vanilla, can we talk for a second?”

Curious, Vanilla left Ravioli’s side, following Stroganoff into his workshop.

The artist hadn’t seen the interior of the place, and the stench of gunpowder deafened his nose almost instantly. As he covered his nose, his eyes wandered all over. Everything towered over him, but a few sheets of paper caught his attention.

“Oh hey,” Vanilla remarked, pointing to the papers with his cane. “You kept your art! After all these years, eh?”

As Stroganoff shut the door behind the silver faced salmonid, he smiled. “They’re nice to have.”

“Well I thought you’d have thrown them away.”

Both salmonids looked at the drawings. Of smudges and shapes, and a smear of colours that could be mistaken for a sunset.

“Horribly novice, though,“ Vanilla said, before glancing in Stroganoff’s vague direction. “What did you wanna talk about?”

“How’d you get Ravioli to listen to you? She’s been fighting with the neighbour since that poor girl moved in and you just calmed her down almost instantly. How?”

Vanilla shrugged. “I dunno, Ravioli trusts me. Her mistake. Probably helps that I'm not her dad.” Vanilla said with a cheeky grin. “You know how it is with kids, they think their parents are out to inconvenience them. But me? I don’t have that power over her. You know this isn’t the first time she’s talked to me about stuff she shoulda asked you about.”

“It isn’t?”

“Nah, she asks me dumb questions all the time like I’m her confidant.”

Stroganoff’s body deflated a little. “She should be asking me stuff…”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up. She doesn’t ask because she loves ya. She probably doesn’t want you to think she’s dumb. But since she knows I already know she’s dumb, she asks me stupid stuff.”

Stroganoff still looked a bit hurt, but Vanilla’s words put him at ease a little. Either way, the worry in his heart wiggled out, and soon Stroganoff found himself asking a new question:

“How are you so good at this?”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Just… I don’t know. Telling Ravioli things. I feel like you’re a better parent right now than me.”

Vanilla was silent for a moment, resting on his cane as he thought to himself.

“Hey, lean over.”

Stroganoff did as the scrawny salmonid asked, lowering himself until his head was (relatively) closer to Vanilla’s. The smaller salmonid lightly rested one of his fins on Stroganoff’s shoulder. Despite his smaller stature, Vanilla’s fins felt comically large for his body, and took a lot of space on the big shot’s shoulder.

“You’re a great dad, alright? Ravioli is lucky to have you as her father, and not anyone else. Just because I’m good at shooting my mouth off and Ravioli listens doesn’t mean I’d make a better parent for her.”

Vanilla’s fin slipped off Stroganoff’s shoulder, his face turning away as he thought to himself. Stroganoff stood up, figuring the reason Vanilla wanted him lowered to be over.

“You know…” Vanilla said, “I… haven’t really told anyone this, but I kinda want to be a parent one day.”

“You do?” Stroganoff asked, this news bewildering, considering what he thought of the artist. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking. I’m too much of a prick to care about kids,” Vanilla said, trying to act cool as if he wasn’t bearing his heart out to Stroganoff. “But it’s true. I know it’s not gonna happen anytime soon, but I actually like kids. And well, I mention this ‘cause I kinda look up to you, you know?”

Stroganoff was silent at this revelation. 

“Yeah buddy,” Vanilla said, smirking, “how do you like them apples? You aren’t allowed to think you’re a bad parent now, ‘cause you know I wouldn’t throw something like that around lightly.”

The big shot remained silent, his mouth open in an attempt to combat the artist’s words, but falling short. Eventually he found something to say, even if he thought it sounded weak.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it big guy.”

There was silence between the two, before Stroganoff spoke up again. “But uh, well. Vanilla… could you still do what you do for Ravioli?”

“Teach her to not be stupid? Sure thing, Stroganoff.”

Chapter Text

It was a particularly warm day in summer when Ravioli finally found the strength to go back to school. She had missed quite a lot in her absence, including how many rumours had been spread about her.

Potato at least was willing to give her the time of day, while others avoided her like the plague.

“Oh hey! You’re alive!” Potato announced.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well you were sick for a good while, I honestly thought you were a goner. Even my dad said I should stay away just in case it’s contagious.”

Ravioli huffed. “That’s just rude. I’m perfectly fine!” She raised her arms to prove her point, and caused several salmonids nearby to dive for cover. They all peeked at her from the safety of whatever trashcan or paper banner they had as protection, while Ravioli frowned in return.

At everyone’s overreaction, Ravioli wished she could smack all of them. Or actually infect everyone with some minor cold as revenge.

The teachers themselves didn’t seem too worried about Ravioli’s disease, Mr Melon overcoming his usual skittishness to give the inkling a firm hug. The poor cooking teacher was happy to have his favourite student back, relatively unscathed despite the months-long illness.

Mr Sprout on the other hand, gave Ravioli a creepy smile when his eyes found her. “Ah, I see you’re back. You haven’t brought a plague upon our clan have you?”

“No…?”

“Good.” The giant salmonid turned around and started drawing on the board. “Today’s class will be about how an inkling spread a plague on an unsuspecting village…”

Once school was over, Potato and Ravioli loitered by the entrance of the schoolhouse, playing a game while waiting for Stroganoff.

“Oh, who is this?” The big shot said, glancing at Potato.

“This is Mash Potato! He’s my friend.” Ravioli said.

Potato was in awe of Stroganoff, his neck craned all the way up to look at the giant’s face while his mouth lay open in a silent gasp.

“Wow! You’re so fat!”

The statement took Stroganoff a moment to process. “...Yes.”

“Oh man, I bet Mr Sprout could beat you in a fight.”

Stroganoff snorted. “Brussel Sprout can’t throw a punch to save his life.” He turned to Ravioli. “Let’s go dear.”

Once they were out of Potato’s earshot, Stroganoff muttered to Ravioli.

“You need a better friend.”

Chapter Text

One day, Ravioli woke up, and realised something about herself. She felt better. It was an odd feeling, one she couldn’t describe, but it was like some part of her grief just disappeared overnight.

On a whim, she picked up her photos of Cookie and stared at them. Her heart ached, seeing her mother’s face on paper, but at the same time, it didn’t hurt anymore. Not in the way it would just yesterday.

There was a thought, morbid, melancholic, whatever, but Ravioli wanted more. More photos. Not just of her mother, but of her father, and of Vanilla and even Mash Potato. Immortalised, preserved on paper just for her.

“Hey dad,” Ravioli spoke after breakfast. “Can we go to Vanilla’s house today?”

“Why?”

“I want to ask him something.”

“Oh, certainly.”

Ravioli hadn’t been on an outing for a long time, and Stroganoff was more than happy to encourage the inkling to have a reason to go out. The weather itself felt like it was celebrating with Stroganoff, a cloudless sky full of birdsong shined above, while a cheerful breeze walked alongside the two. 

On the way there, Ravioli rambled about her plan. Of getting photos of Stroganoff and Vanilla. She didn’t mention Potato, since she knew her dad didn’t like him. She’d figure out how to get a photo of him later.

Ravioli knocked on the artist’s door. There was scuffling from inside, before an annoyed “What do you want.” opened the door.

Vanilla’s grumpiness disappeared when he saw it was Ravioli on the other side.
“Hey kid, you alright?” He gave Stroganoff a nod before glancing back at the inkling.

“Can I get a photo? I want one with you and dad in it.”

There was a pause on the silver salmonid’s face, glancing between Stroganoff and Ravioli. He was doing the maths. Photo paper wasn’t cheap, and neither Stroganoff nor Ravioli looked like they were going to bust out a wallet full of eggs to pay for it.

But at the same time, the hassle of these two begging him would probably get on his nerves, plus there was the looming threat of Ravioli deciding to burst into tears from simply being told no.

With the numbers calculated, Vanilla sighed. “Sure, kid. Come on in I guess.”

Vanilla quietly darted a look at Stroganoff once Ravioli walked past, mouthing out “ you owe me” to the big shot.

Since Ravioli did live in Vanilla’s house for a few months, she was intimately familiar with his photo ‘studio’. That didn’t make the sensation of standing on the (dusty) white sheet backdrop underneath the bare lightbulb feel less thrilling.

Stroganoff was already bordering on crawling when it came to Vanilla’s house, but even at his lowered stature, the lightbulb bonked against his snout and forehead. There was a bit of struggle from both men as they tried to figure out how to angle Stroganoff best in the photo, until Vanilla gave up, and just told Stroganoff to lie down.

“Don’t worry I’ll try not to get all your gut in the frame,” Vanilla remarked as he fiddled with the camera.

“Wait,” Ravioli said,” I want you in the photo too!”

“Wh- really?” Vanilla said. He was a little bewildered by the request, but then went back to fiddling with the camera.

There was a ticking sound as Vanilla propped the camera up on his nearby table, scurrying to Ravioli’s side and wrapping a fin around her.

“Alright, now say cheese both of ya.”

“Cheese!”

“Cheese?”

Click!

A light flashed, and the camera printed the photo. It plopped on the floor, and Vanilla dashed to pick it up.

The artist shook it a few times before presenting it to Ravioli and Stroganoff. 

“There ya go kid. One photo entirely for free. Out of my own pocket. At no expense.” Once more, Vanilla and Stroganoff shared a look.

While the inkling knew what to expect, it still amazed her to see her dad and Vanilla on paper just like Cookie. Their memory preserved.

Chapter Text

It was like any other day when autumn returned to the peaceful village. As the warmth of summer was slowly forgotten, and the overgrown bonsai tree turned orange, the start of spawning season reared its head.

Stroganoff and Horn had been having tea when the topic got brought up.

“This is gonna be my first spawning season by myself.” Horn remarked. The young woman, much like some other ladies in the village, was showing the signs of bulking up. Horn herself seemed excited about the prospect, telling Stroganoff all about how there is no way this could be any worse than her first spawning.

Stuck at home, being taken care of by her parents while her siblings all had fun on the salmon run.

Stroganoff could only smile as Horn rambled, wishing her a better spawning than her first. He came over for tea quite often at this point, wanting to include Horn into his life in the same way Cookie did for him. The younger salmonid, once she got over her fears of the giant, was happy to have him over.

There was a knock on the door, a bit too loud and eager to be someone Horn recognised. She was confused, excusing herself and waddling over to the door, where Stroganoff overheard much of the conversation.

It was a man, who sprang to action the moment Horn opened the door, flooding her in platitudes over her appearance and her smell. It was obvious why he was there in the first place, and Horn giggled nervously until she finally got a word in. 

“Thank you, but I’m not going on the salmon run.”

The man’s tone of voice changed immediately, the compliments drying up until all that was left was a curt “Farewell.”

Horn closed the door, and took a little while longer to return to Stroganoff. She tried her best to not look like a kicked guppy, but it was written all over her face.

“Got snubbed?”

She quietly nodded.

Stroganoff gave her a sympathetic look. “It happens. Try not to take it personally.”

“I know,” Horn said softly, “it's still not nice being rejected.”

“I understand.” Stroganoff said, taking a sip of his tea while Horn settled down.”But that begs the question: do you want a partner?”

“Um, well, I’m not going on the salmon run…”

“Even so,” Stroganoff said, “You can still have a partner. There’s plenty of folks who probably aren’t going, and it’s a nice way to make a friend after it's all over.”

“True…” Horn said, before turning a little bashful. “Well um. Don’t tell anyone but… I’ve always wanted to be courted. I’ve seen so many other ladies get gifts and attention, and I’m kinda jealous because nobody bothers with me.”

Stroganoff smiled. “That’s very sweet. You’ll find someone who’ll shower you in affection, I know it.”

Chapter Text

Vanilla arrived one day with a larger bag than usual and a change in his demeanour. He seemed… distracted when he barged into Stroganoff’s home. The bag clattered down on the giant’s table, and Vanilla mumbled something about Ravioli.

Ravioli recognised the bag when she saw it, remembering it the last time Vanilla was here wanting inks for the festival. What was odd was Vanilla himself. He hadn’t unpacked the bag at all, and was instead staring at the table with great interest. In a way it weirded Ravioli out. She didn’t think she would miss Vanilla barking at her, but it felt wrong that he didn’t say anything as she hopped up to the table.

“Are you okay?” She asked.

“Wha-?” Vanilla said, being pulled out of his trance. “Yeah I’m… yeah…” His thoughts were interrupted by himself, his eyes having a faraway look as he stared into the middle distance.

Stroganoff, who was busy making some tea for himself and Vanilla, took a curious look at Vanilla. He then glanced at the direction Vanilla was staring in, and as if he figured out the punchline of a joke, smirked.

“Hey Vanilla,” Stroganoff said. It was enough to rouse the artist out of his stupor. “You distracted by some one …?” There was a laugh in the giant’s words, even as he attempted to hide his smirk with a tea cup.

“What? No! No.” Vanilla said, his posture straightening as if he needed to prove his point. “I’m just a little hungry. That’s all. I’ll get something to eat later. For now I just really need those eggs.”

The artist paused. He mentally repeated what he said, before horror flickered in his eyes.

“I-i mean ink!”

His head slammed into the table with a boney bonk, while Stroganoff broke out into a loud guffaw.

“I see your head’s nextdoor.” Stroganoff teased.

“Shut up…!” Vanilla grumbled. His head was still pressed against the table.

Ravioli could only stare at Vanilla, it slowly dawning on her that Vanilla was going through the same weirdness dad went through last year. A situation Stroganoff was more than ready to tease the scrawny artist over.

Stroganoff snorted, before his voice went soft. “Why don’t you talk to her?”

“I’m not going on the salmon run, Stroganoff. Don’t need someone to tell me to screw off.”

“She’s not going either.”

Vanilla’s head shot up. “Wait- really?”

“Told me herself.”

Vanilla was frozen. A strange expression on his face and an odd twinkle in his eye.

“Excuse me for a second.” The artist said, grabbing his walking stick and walking out the door with a brisk pace.

Stroganoff (and Ravioli) peeked through the kitchen window, watching as Vanilla trekked to Horn’s house, before giving her door a few loud knocks. When the door finally opened, Ravioli heard something she didn’t think was possible.

Vanilla said hello nicely.

Chapter Text

Horn was in a very good mood when Stroganoff came to visit her the next day. While it was perhaps incorrect to say she had a spring in her step, she was certainly moving with zest. She was dressed a little differently too. Her usual outfit was replaced with a somewhat baggy blouse, a shawl with mesmerising patterns of coral embroidered on it. She was even humming while watching the kettle boil. Stroganoff himself couldn’t help himself from smiling, the younger salmonid’s happiness infectious.

“You seem cheery.”

“I am! You won’t believe what happened yesterday!” Horn said as she poured tea for the both of them. “Someone asked to be my partner! And he doesn’t even mind that I’m not going on the salmon run.”

“Oh that’s wonderful to hear, Horn,” Stroganoff said, as if this was news to him. “I told you you’d find someone.”

Horn smiled at that. “He even said that he wants my eggs for trading.”

“Oh.” There was a lot of disappointment in Stroganoff’s voice, all directed at Vanilla. Something told the big shot that Vanilla’s guppy love wasn’t as innocent as he once thought. “If he gives you trouble you can always say no.”

“Oh don’t worry about me.” Horn said. “We made a deal. The first thing he buys with my eggs has to be for me. So… we’re not just partners, we’re business partners.” Horn looked too proud of her achievement for Stroganoff to shoot her down.

“Well, as long as you’re happy.”

“I am! I even arranged a date with him!”

✦✦✦

Ravioli was peeking out the window when she spotted Vanilla approach her home. Thinking it would be funny, she opened the door just as he approached to scare the scrawny salmonid.

…Only to watch him stroll by.

“Evening kid!” he said in a jolly mood.

Ravioli was mortified. Vanilla was never jolly!

Immediately, she knew something was up. She studied the way Vanilla meandered Horn’s door, hiding within the safety of her own home as she watched the artist. 

For once in his life, Vanilla had done something akin to dressing up. The paint-stained apron he wore everywhere (to prove that he was an artist) was nowhere to be seen; and in its place there was a sweater vest. His hair looked like it had been fussed, the top half smoothened until it was just a sheet of red, while the bottom half was tied back into a ponytail with a ribbon. 

Vanilla rested himself against Horn’s home as he gave the door a light tap with his stick. While he waited, his fins fiddled with everything. His hair, his ribbon, his stick and even his vest, every adjustment he made quickly replaced with a new one. Even the way he rested against the wall was not immune to his fiddling, the artist finding new poses and angles. Some more casual, some more formal. 

Caught up in his own adjustments, Vanilla jolted when the door opened. His demeanour changed, his attention focusing on Horn. Ravioli watched in disgust as the artist got weird in response to seeing Horn. Doing something Ravioli had seen salmonids at school do before, but she never expected Vanilla to go to such depravity.

He was wagging his tail.

Vanilla’s antics got weirder the more Horn talked to him. He was rubbing his face against the doorframe, uttering weird soft noises that Ravioli could barely hear. His eyes had a weird glint in them as Horn laughed, his tail wagging harder at her reaction. The only thing Ravioli could conclude was that Vanilla got a head injury, and that Horn was the cause.

They were… going on a date? At least that's what Ravioli could hear from her spot. While a polite salmonid would just close the door and get back to chores, Ravioli was neither of those things.

She observed the two as they walked (slowly, as Horn ambled her way down the concrete path and Vanilla kept pace). It was obvious when they stood next to each other that Horn towered over Vanilla. The scrawny artist’s head pointed upward the entire time they walked.

When they turned the corner, Ravioli followed after.

She knew that salmonids could ‘smell’ her and each other easily, and so crept behind Horn and Vanilla slowly, hiding behind houses and in empty barrels. She stumbled over people’s belongings (and people) in her quest, barely squeaking out an apology before making her way along. At least the couple’s slow walking meant Ravioli didn’t need to hurry when they turned a corner, the inkling having a feeling the two didn’t suddenly run off.

Their destination was a rather informal cafe. Informal in that it was simply the alley behind someone’s house, decorations and laundry moved out of the way to make space for tables and chairs. Folks always did this before the salmon run, taking delight in seeing (and gossiping about) courting couples.

Vanilla was in good company. While the artist had his chin on the table staring at Horn, the other men at nearby tables were also acting weird. Music was provided by a salmonid showing off how fast he could play his banjo (and failing), while someone else stood stock still as his date stacked plates on his head.

The owner of the plates quickly put an end to that act, unfortunately.

Ravioli watched in horror and disgust at what she was seeing. It was deeply uncomfortable in a way she didn’t understand, observing the way the men flailed and squeaked and hooted and hollered just to get the attention of the women already in front of them. They were all acting weird, and Ravioli was not a fan.

Did they all get hit on the head or something?

In the midst of her staring, Ravioli glanced at Horn. The salmonid was not sitting down, instead standing at her table and resting upon it. Her stomach had grown noticeably plump, but something else caught the inkling’s attention.

Ravioli had seen that shirt before.

That was mom’s shirt.

Her vision (and tentacles) turned red, and she stormed towards the couple.

Vanilla spotted her first, but could do nothing before both women clashed.

“That’s mom’s shirt!” Ravioli shouted.

Horn’s expression changed, her restful demure eyes replaced with fear. She tensed up as the inkling shouted at her, accusing her of breaking Vanilla too.

“Woah woah woah!” Vanilla said, stumbling out of his chair and placing his stick between the two. The entire cafe was staring at them. Music silenced, plates falling on the floor, and a thick tension between Ravioli and Horn.

Something within Horn snapped, the horror and terror she felt seeing the rest of the cafe staring at her got replaced with an ugly rage aimed at the young inkling.

“Can’t you leave me alone!?” Horn said with a snarl. “I didn’t do anything to him, and it's my shirt, and I’ll wear it if I coddamn please .” She tensed up, her fins balled into fists as she somehow lifted herself to a taller height. 

There was a whimper from Vanilla as he placed himself between Ravioli and Horn. Whether it was from being put in the situation or just the looming threat of his date being ruined, it was hard to tell. “Kid, please go home. I’ll tell Stroganoff if you don’t.”

“Why are you taking her side!?” Ravioli shouted.

“Because, kid, you’re being a pest. Not everything is about you.”

The inkling stood there, angry, before she stormed off, screaming and kicking things as she walked home. By the time Ravioli returned, she was less fuming and more sulking. Her dad glanced up from the kitchen when she opened the door.

“Ah, Ravioli, where’ve you been?”

“Horn broke Vanilla.” Ravioli said miserably, before storming to her room.

Stroganoff opened his mouth, and then shut it. 

Good for him?

Chapter Text

As autumn continued, Stroganoff was once again called to work on the festival grounds. While he was busy, there was nobody else to collect Ravioli.

Except for Potato.

“Whatcha waiting here for?” He said, as Ravioli sat on the rocks outside the schoolhouse, watching the multicoloured flags as they softly swayed in the wind. It was simple but it passed the time, entertained with the wind’s simple puppetry.

“I’m waiting for my dad.” Ravioli said. “Dad says it’s not safe for me to walk alone.”

“Aw, that’s lame. I walk home alone all the time!” Potato said with a grin. “Hey, how ‘bout we walk! That way you’re not walking alone!”

Ravioli’s eyes lit up. “Sure!” She said, getting up from the rock.

The two friends meandered about, in no great rush to return to either’s home. It was now that Ravioli felt a spark of joy she had nearly forgotten. The thrill she felt sneaking out of her home, but now in daylight and with a friend.

She found herself smiling, something lost being rediscovered.

“Hey, have you ever been to the chief’s neighbourhood?” Potato asked, a sly grin creeping on his face.

“Only when I was super young.” Ravioli answered. She didn’t have many positive memories of the area, since the only times she had been there, her father had been distressed in one way or another. That, and the chief scared her. 

Potato clasped his fins together. “Then I have a great idea. Let’s go there! C’mon, it’ll be great!” The lanky salmonid said, before darting off in a direction, Ravioli followed.

✦✦✦

A lot of materials were used in making a village. Houses, shops, docks and farms slowly formed. In the outskirts, things were more haphazard, more likely to fall apart or break, bare bones with only graffiti and vandalism as signs that anybody lived there. The centre of the village was an entirely different story. Artworks and statues reached high into the air, while the floor itself felt sturdy under tail.

Ravioli felt awe as she walked. Her head was almost permanently looking skyward, looking at all the art that danced in the wind.

Giant forks and knives hung on corners of buildings, as pillars in archways and supports on bridges. Lures and hooks designed to catch behemoths glittered a million colours, detailed scales painting the floors in its reflected light. Statues of food were everywhere, guarding buildings and instilling hunger in those travelling past.

The folk here were a little different to those Ravioli usually saw. They weren’t very chatty, instead too busy walking with purpose. Eyes fell on Ravioli before continuing on with their day.

A lot of homes here were bigger too. The perfect size for all the giant salmonids they occasionally saw walking past. They even saw one of the knights on patrol, fully decked in his suit of armour, his mouthpiece apparatus hanging underneath his chin.

Potato was smirking the entire time, watching Ravioli absorb the sights.

“I was right to bring you here, you look like you’re trying to swallow flies.”

“Everything is so cool!”

While the two meandered, they walked past a boat, its captain getting onto dry land.

It was a postal boat. Its emblem, a letter in a bottle, waved on the mainsail.

“Hi mr. postman!” Potato greeted. Ravioli gave him an enthusiastic wave.

“Hello, kiddo,” The postman said, talking to Potato. “‘Got some good news for your chief.”

Postal work was known to be boring. The act of travelling between towns took a lot out of those that delivered mail. Naturally, they read whatever letters they were delivering to pass the time, sharing anything fun with passersby. It was where the saying ‘ Don’t shoot the messenger (for reading your mail) ’ came from.

“There’s a peace treaty in the works right here.” the postman said, holding a beautiful bottle in his fins, a letter curled inside and contained with a cork seal.

There was awe in both children’s eyes as the postman walked past.

“Peace treaty’s big news!” Potato remarked. He then grew bored of politics. “Wanna go see the knight’s houses?”

“Sure!”

The knight’s housing situation was unique.  Built as one great wall separating those the chief liked from the rest of the village, the houses stood as a miniature dam wall. Building materials used to construct what may have been fortifications long ago, with doors and windows cut afterwards as an afterthought.

Just in front of the homes, there was a small community garden and pool, where a majority of children and likely the knight’s mates were sitting around. The children play fighting while mothers and fathers keep a wary close eye on both their children and at Potato and Ravioli.

In a way, it felt cosy . Just from walking past, Ravioli could tell the knights and their families shared a level of intimacy she could never imagine sharing with all her neighbours. Adults laughed and ate lunch together, while the children were playing games that would have been impossible to see pulled off at school. 

While Ravioli stared at the folks, Potato nudged her over to the homes, wanting to play the fun game that was peeking through everyone’s windows to see what the inside of their houses looked like. 

Half of the game was physically reaching the window, neither child tall enough to reach it normally, not even if Ravioli stood on top of Potato. The lanky salmonid would leap up high in the air and grab onto the window itself, while Ravioli would climb on the wall, using anything and everything as a way to get up there.

Oftentimes, the game was about the climb itself, as the window revealed nothing special. Turns out, when peeking inside someone’s house, you will just see someone’s house. There was nothing really extraordinary inside. No secret betrayals being cooked up, no great drama to overhear. At best, the knight may have a really nice couch in view, or a cute pet sleeping in a little bed. 

Then they walked to one home.

On the outside, it was not obvious anything was wrong, but as Ravioli got close to it, she froze.

It started in her ears. A faint ringing grew louder and louder, overtaking every other sound until only it remained. Then it morphed, higher pitched as the ringing itself became voices.

And they were all screaming.

Hearts thudded in her chest as air suddenly became a commodity, her mind fighting between what she knew was reality and what every sensation was telling her.

Something was telling her to run. Instilling fear in her to the point it was the only thing she could think of. Terrified wails begged her to flee while she still could, something fighting for control inside the inkling herself.

Her body shuddered on its own, the inkling’s ink changing without her able to control it. First she grew pale, the colour draining from her face and tentacles, before that paleness turned to an ashen grey, that grew darker and darker, until Ravioli herself was pitch black.

She took steps back, away from the home, until the screaming was no longer audible. Reality came flooding back, as if nothing ever happened. The only evidence to suggest anything was wrong was Ravioli's heavy breathing, her body refusing to let go of the black ink. 

Potato, who had been in awe at seeing Ravioli change colours, was confused about why she was stepping back, or why she looked so scared. He seemed almost nonchalant despite what Ravioli experienced.

“There’s… something. In that house.” Ravioli said. She wasn’t even sure if she was right, if there was even anything in the home, but she didn’t go closer. Just in case the screaming started again. “I can hear screaming.”

Potato cocked his head to the side, sniffing the house from the outside and trying to listen in.

“I don’t hear anyone, and the place smells empty. Are you sure?”

Ravioli nodded.

Potato gave the door one last sniff, before once again jumping for the window to peek in. He spent a long time looking inside, his eyes darting everywhere, his mouth open in a gasp.

“Aw Ravioli, you’re missing out. There’s nobody inside but I think this is Mr Sprout's home. I see lots of cool things on the walls!”

The inkling was silent, while Potato was happy to describe the weird plastic pipes and shapes he could see. She didn't know how to feel about the situation, or how little Potato seemed to care. She didn't even want to know what was inside Mr Sprout's home, if his very house begged Ravioli to run.

She wanted to go home. She didn't feel safe without her father.

Chapter Text

The salmon run festival felt inevitable, with Ravioli having mixed emotions on the occasion. This would be the first festival without her mom, and there was a dull ache in her chest thinking about it.

It was before the sun set when Stroganoff set off, a confused Ravioli in tow. She didn’t understand why they were heading to the festival so early, or why her dad was just standing on the side of the path. At least until Horn walked out of her home. The silver faced salmonid was also confused when she saw Stroganoff waiting, the older man beckoning her over.

“Well, you mentioned you had to leave early to get to the festival on time, so why don’t we walk together?”

“Oh, um, you don’t have to do that…” Horn said nervously. “I’m m-meeting my date at the festival…”

“It’s alright. I want to walk with you.”

Stunned to silence, Horn ambled along, Stroganoff keeping pace. Ravioli rushed ahead and waited, and at times ran circles around the two for walking so slowly. Horn was in her own world, ignoring Ravioli’s antics as she focused on the floor and on walking.

And then the young woman started to weep, Stroganoff alarmed at her reaction.

“Are you alright!?”

“I’m sorry, nobody has ever waited for me before…” Horn said, before sobbing more.

Stroganoff could only offer words of sympathy as they continued to walk. Horn calmed down, a smile replacing her sobs, and an enthusiasm for the festival itself. 

Music blared, lights shined, and food cooked under the watchful gaze of the wood and straw statue. This year’s statue was of a salmon clutching an egg, the egg painted in hues of fire, a school of fish swimming on every brush stroke.

Vanilla had been waiting on the grounds, and almost teleported to Horn’s side when he saw her. He had flopped down on the floor with his tail wagging high, and the young woman laughed at his antics. Then he needed help, unable to get himself back up. Horn giggled as she scooped the scrawny salmonid up, propping him back on his tail as if nothing happened. 

With that, the two headed off to have their own fun, and Ravioli led her father around to the festival games. New festival meant new games, new people spring cleaning, and new people being rigged into receiving a free chair as a prize. She had hoped to bump into Potato and sneak off to play games with him, but sadly he was nowhere to be found.

Despite the lack of friend, Ravioli did win a fish, quickly chewing down on it the moment it flopped into her grasp.

Far too quickly, the second half of the festival began. The chief stood up and talked too much, bringing up the peace treaty Ravioli and Potato had found out about a few weeks ago. The grownups were surprised by the development, even Mr Sprout at the knight’s table stared in horror at the chief.

Folks going on the salmon run were debating on what it meant for them, the dinner table full of conversation.

Ravioli's eyes meandered, already bored of everyone's grownup talk. She slowly settled on the knight's table, where discussions were growing heated. She didn't know why she focused on Mr Sprout, but she did. His face in a snarl as he attempted to shake his fellow knight mid argument.

Her mind wandered back to the incident with his home. How her ink turned black and all she could hear was screaming. Outside of Potato, she didn't tell anyone about what had happened, what she experienced. It was weird and sad to say, but she didn't think anyone would believe her.

While Ravioli was lost in her thoughts, Horn found herself slowly walking to Stroganoff’s side among everyone not going on the salmon run. She was doing her best to hide her stomach, covering up the shame she felt not being on the salmon run despite her condition. Stroganoff said nothing, but invited her to settle down, and asked where her date went.

Said date was currently sneaking over to where food was being cooked. He snagged a bowl of fried squid while nobody (at least nobody who would reprimand him) noticed.

The scrawny artist was proud of his accomplishment, scurrying back to the safety of whatever pillow he had claimed. Normally Vanilla would stuff them all in his mouth before anyone could ask him to share, but this time, he instead looked around at the crowd around him. He spotted Horn, and soon carried his pillow (and food bowl underneath) to be by her side.

“Want one?” He said, raising the bowl to Horn. The blonde was taken aback, nervously accepting the treat with Vanilla’s encouragement.

“W-won’t you get in trouble?”

“Nah, I do this every year. Nobody is gonna miss a few snacks.”

Horn felt skittish after eating a few, watching everyone at the dinner table and anticipating them calling out for the missing bowl of fried squid.

But that never happened, and Horn felt a weight lift off her shoulders when there was a break. Eating was done for now, and it was time for dancing.

Horn watched as everyone else had fun, before Vanilla tapped her shoulder.

“Wanna dance?”

“But… we’re not going on the salmon run.”

“So?” Vanilla smiled, “we can dance here.”

They waddled over to a bit more open space, and were slow and stiff in their dancing. Horn couldn’t move much, so the two were mostly just swaying their fins in each other’s grasps.

By the end of the song, they had grown more comfortable, even if their dancing was still simplistic. Horn was smiling while Vanilla laughed, pulling each other into a warm hug.

Chapter Text

With the festival drawn to a close, the salmon run began, and those left behind lived life like normal. However, unlike previous years, Ravioli would get to see what the salmon run was like, just by observing Horn.

Two things stood out. The first was Horn’s stomach. As the months marched on, Horn’s stomach got bigger. If she had been plump before, Ravioli didn’t have a polite word to describe her now. The salmonid also changed outfits, and soon she was wearing the same loose gown every single day. It draped over her stomach, but still threatened to pull taut if she grew any larger. 

Horn’s stomach was the reason for a lot of trouble the salmonid suddenly found herself in. Even while her stomach had still been in the plump stage, Horn struggled to put on her tail. By now, she couldn’t reach anything below her stomach, and Stroganoff would come over in the morning to help her put on her tail. An act Horn greatly appreciated, but couldn’t find enough unique ways to thank the big shot every time. 

The second thing that stood out was Horn’s stomach, again. Not in the sense that it really was that huge, (alright, it was probably getting to that point) but rather, Horn’s appetite changed.

Ravioli and her dad were returning home from shopping, carrying canned rations when they walked past the silver faced woman.

She looked confused, resting against her doorway as she tried to mop up saliva dripping from her face.

“Horn? Are you alright?” Stroganoff called out.

Immediately, Horn snapped out of her stupor, but instead of looking at Stroganoff, her eyes rested on Ravioli, unmoving. “Hm? Um. I don’t know. I’m just a bit dizzy and I started drooling…”

“Have you eaten something?”

Horn froze, mentally retreading her morning. “Oh. Oh no I haven’t.”

Stroganoff laughed while Horn made her way back inside her home. “Go eat something, Horn.”

They continued home, while Ravioli felt bothered by the encounter.

“Hey dad?”

“Yes, Ravioli?”

“How can Horn forget to eat?”

Stroganoff shrugged.

“Everyone feels hungry during their spawning season. Not even eating makes it go away. Guess Horn just got used to it and eating slipped her mind.”

✦✦✦

It was a cold day when Potato and Ravioli snuck out of class. When Potato discovered Ravioli had never ditched a class before, he decided that they should fix that, right now.

“What class did you have anyway?” Potato asked.

“First aid.”

“Oh, so nothing important. But!” the salmonid smirked. “Where do you wanna go?”

“...Back? I don’t wanna get in trouble.”

“You won't! That’s the best part!”

Even though Potato said that, Ravioli felt nervous. She felt guilty with every step she took away from the schoolhouse, and time felt like it was going faster.

“Okay, but seriously, we can take as long as we like, where’d you like to go?”

Ravioli thought about it, before remembering the incident with Horn.

“Can we go visit Vanilla?” The artist had not visited at all since the festival, and Ravioli wanted to check on him. She worried he was starving himself, like how Horn had accidentally done the same.

“Your babysitter? Sure!”

With that, the two kids set off for the artist’s house, Ravioli leading and Potato following.

Vanilla’s home was a little out of the way, almost hidden by a stack of scrap and abandoned artworks. Usually, a bird or two would stand on the scrap, fluttering off when someone walked past. Today, however, there were none, and the walk to the artist’s house felt eerily quiet.

Before Ravioli could walk to the door and knock, a voice from inside interrupted.

“The door’s open, kid.”

The inkling was a little taken aback, glancing at Potato as if to confirm it wasn’t a trick on her senses. The lanky salmonid shrugged, and both children entered Vanilla’s home. 

The main area was empty, the lights turned off and all the curtains closed. Potato walked over to the kitchen to see if Vanilla was there, while Ravioli wandered about.

The thing that stood out the most was the canvases. Vanilla's home was a mess only he could navigate, and he had made the area a labyrinth with easels and pages. They all looked like a madman's scribbles, and not the refined realism Vanilla prided himself on.

As Ravioli walked, she felt like she had entered some part of Vanilla's psyche. She recognised the island which all the salmonids called home; its shape drawn and repeated and stamped and cutted and carved on almost every canvas. Where Vanilla hadn't drawn the island, he had drawn salmonids. Eggs. Babies. And Cookie.

Ravioli wasn't sure how to feel about seeing the goldie. It didn't stir her heartstrings like she thought it would, but seeing the same scribble of her mom over and over was unnerving.

Mom looked different in Vanilla's drawings. A longer twisted neck, a flared head of scales, and a pained manic expression. Her mouth was open but Ravioli couldn't tell if she was screaming or roaring.

Every now and then, she'd see bitemarks. Mostly on the paper and fabric canvases, but Ravioli had her suspicions on one set of dents on a sheet of metal. Smears that looked like Vanilla started licking the canvas, and there were greasy, oily smudges from his fins. 

She somehow spent a small eternity staring at it all, before arriving at the artist’s bedroom.

As she opened the door, Vanilla was staring at her. His hair was dishevelled, his mouth ajar, tongue swishing between teeth like a caged animal. 

Then there were his eyes. They were open wide, wider than normal for the usually frowning salmonid, and Ravioli felt unease at being the focus of his gaze. He'd been waiting.

“Vanilla?”

“‘Sup kid.” Vanilla spoke, and like a fog, the tension Ravioli felt dissipated. It was a nice reminder, despite his current state, Vanilla was still Vanilla.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah kid, I’m fine. Was just sleeping, that’s all. Why are you and your friend here?”

The salmonid got out of bed with a stretch, putting on pants and wandering over to the kitchen while Ravioli rambled. She explained the incident with Horn, and how she worried that Vanilla was accidentally starving himself too.

The entire time she spoke, Vanilla stared at her, paying no attention to the environment around him. When Potato came into view, Vanilla only spared a glance at the lanky salmonid’s direction, before continuing to stare at Ravioli.

“Ah, don’t worry about me, kid.” Vanilla said, before opening a drawer. Inside, a vast collection of tins, cans, jars and packets was stuffed tightly. The salmonid grabbed one of the tins, ripping it open and shoving the contents in his mouth. “I’m probably gonna end up fat before I go starving.”

As Vanilla licked his lips, savouring the last of his meal, Ravioli felt the same feeling of unease growing again. Vanilla was a small and scrawny salmonid, only taller than Ravioli thanks to his hair. But right now, he loomed above her, his teeth made all the more apparent with every swish of his tongue.

As if also sensing the tension, but not knowing the cause, Vanilla picked up one of his jars.

“How ‘bout you kids take a fish for the road? I’ll be fine, and if Horn comes over, I’ll be sure to feed her too.”

Vanilla popped open the lid, and for a brief moment, his focus went from Ravioli to the jar.

“Oh… I’m really hungry…” Vanilla muttered, as moisture leaked from his mouth. He shoved a pickled fish in his mouth, swallowing it whole, before offering the jar to the kids. He was still drooling as Ravioli reached into the jar, his eyes trained on her.

Vanilla had not blinked the entire time the two had been here, and it was an uneasy fact to acknowledge as Ravioli bit into her pickled fish, walking to the door.

Turning her back towards Vanilla had been a mistake. She was confused when she felt the salmonid's fin on her shoulder, turning to look at him. He leaned forward, mouth open as if to speak. But no words came out. His grip tightened the moment Ravioli's instincts kicked in, unable to run away as his mouth opened more and more.

Teeth met face-

And then it was gone. And so was Vanilla. The sound of glass shattering pulled Ravioli into a reality that had rushed before her eyes, a blur of survival instincts and feelings that were uncomfortably familiar to what she felt at Sprout's home. 

Then she spotted Vanilla, the salmonid on the floor, with Potato on top.

“Sorry sir, it looked like you were gonna eat Ravioli.”

The inkling touched the top of her head. For some reason she couldn't feel pain, but was distinctly aware that she should. A row of punctures softly leaked ink, slowly dripping down her face and staining her hand.

Vanilla suddenly looked lucid, a horrified expression on his face as Potato climbed off him. He made no attempt to get up, instead mopping his now colourful saliva off his face.

“I…” He started, in an attempt to defend himself. But for once, the wordy salmonid was at a loss for what to say.

“Please don’t tell your father. Just go. ”

The two kids did not need to be told anything more. Ravioli ran out of the artist’s house, Potato in hot pursuit.

Chapter Text

The next few days were lonely for Ravioli. 

There was no way to hide what had happened, and Stroganoff was alarmed to find his daughter bandaged and leaking ink from her head. It didn't help that it hurt, and Ravioli didn't feel too well from all the ink loss.

She was held, protected, as he asked what happened. He knew they were bite marks just from the stains on her bandages, and wanted to know who did it to her.

She lied and blamed Potato. It was the first name she could think of.

It was scary seeing her father’s expression darken and his fins shudder underneath her; she feared that if he hadn't been holding her, Potato would be dead. She finally understood why Vanilla didn’t want Stroganoff to know the real culprit, and regretted mentioning Potato.

Ravioli didn’t know how to feel about the incident itself, partially because she couldn’t remember parts of what happened. Small things she remembered, like Vanilla’s fin on her shoulder and the fear she felt. But not what actually happened. 

She didn’t know how to feel about Vanilla attacking her either. Some part of her already forgave him for what happened, knowing it must have been an accident (he wouldn’t hurt her on purpose, would he?). But at the same time, she shuddered at the notion of seeing him ever again. Him, and those wild eyes and those sharp teeth.

Ravioli wasn’t allowed to see Potato after that day. Her father scaring the child off when he tried to approach. It stung when, even when her father was not there, Potato didn’t come visit her during school breaks. A sore realisation that Potato had other friends.

She had none.

Ravioli felt particularly lonely walking into Mr Sprout’s classroom. The kids were starting to learn lessons from the giant’s tales, and wherever Ravioli sat, the salmonids made a point to avoid her. It wasn’t out of malice or fear. They’d all sat in the same class, hearing the same stories. They were as tired of evil inklings as she was, and could influence Sprout as much as she could. 

But at the same time, she knew they blamed her for Sprout’s lectures. If only because she herself thought the same.

“Today we will be learning one of my favourite fairy tales: Goldie Heart.”

Ravioli froze. A darkness oozed into her being like molasses. Her mouth felt thick while her hearts started thudding loudly in her chest. A sharp pain grew in her stomach as she mentally cried out. 

No. No no no. It wasn’t fair. That was Cookie’s story.

Unaware or uncaring, Sprout continued, doodling on the board the entire time.

“Long long ago, there was a noble man who had everything he wanted in life. He had a mate, he had powerful friends, he had amazing hobbies and a fantastic home. During one winter, his food suddenly disappeared, and his life was in disarray. He spied on his food source and discovered other salmonids were stealing his food.”

The soft screech of chalk on board was deafening to Ravioli, but it did nothing to drown out Sprout’s voice. If the other children knew she was uncomfortable, they didn’t say anything. 

“‘Why are you stealing my food?’ The man asked.

“‘We are hungry, ’ the other salmonid answered. ‘Inklings are stealing our food.’”

Ravioli focused on her breathing, looking upwards to prevent tears from falling. Her tentacles gripped her dress like a lifeline. She was used to Sprout’s stories, she knew how they ended. But this was different. He was ruining mom’s story.

“So the noble salmonid confronted the inklings. They laughed at him as they burned everyone’s precious food. The noble salmonid grew angry at the waste, and fought off the inklings. It was a long battle, but the noble salmonid was strong, the inklings weak. The inklings died to his might, and the noble salmonid was made a hero. His scales turned gold from the blood of the inklings, and from that point onwards, he protected everyone from inklings, the end.”

Ravioli was barely holding back sobs, her face burning from threatening tears. She tried to escape into her own little world, and failed. She was still in Mr Sprout’s classroom, her ears listening to every word he said and recording it to memory.

“You know,” Mr Sprout said, drawing on the board. “We used to have a goldie in our humble little clan. Lovely woman, never met her personally.” 

Ravioli tensed up. She opened her mouth to scream, preferring Mr Sprout admonish her for having an outburst than let him continue. But the sound never came out, despite how loudly she screamed in her own head.

“She perished in the salmon run last year, a real shame. Saw her get shot in the head by an inkling.”

Ravioli stood up. She wasn’t sure if it was by her own volition or if her legs did that for her.

Mr Sprout looked at her curiously, confused. She was heaving, the start of her tears falling down her face.

And then she ran.

There was silence in the classroom, Mr Sprout studying the doorway that Ravioli ran through. He then shrugged.

“Don’t know what her deal is.”

Chapter Text

“Alright, that’s enough. Go on, shoo!” a man’s voice spoke out, as the bristly end of a broom prodded Ravioli awake. The inkling groggily batted the broom out of her face, as she quickly recollected what had happened.

Sprout happened. Ravioli found herself running, out of the schoolhouse, out onto the docks, and into someone’s houseboat. She’d been crying, about mom, about herself. 

She didn't know if Mr Sprout was lying about how mom died, and while she mentally tried to tell herself it wasn't true, she believed Sprout's words anyway. Once again she had hated her own kind, and hated her own flesh for being what it was. She didn’t realise she had fallen asleep, but the broom poking her said otherwise.

“Come on, shoo! Go back to your owner!”

“Leave me alone!”

The salmonid with the broom stopped. He was odd looking. Unlike everyone in the village, he had sandy coloured scales, his nose almost pink, and his eyes a vibrant blue. “You can talk?”

Ravioli nodded.

It was now that Ravioli was awake and in the mood to pay attention to her surroundings, that she could get a good look at the houseboat she decided to hide on. It was rather cramped, the place full of strange artefacts and old keepsakes that could easily be mistaken for garbage. The sandy salmonid probably lived alone, and didn’t seem like one for guests, as there was only one chair in the home, resting against a rather small dinner table. 

The only place that was free from the clutter was the kitchen. The counters had seen better days, but it was clear that it was worn and used with love. Stacks of dishes rested in the safety of a clear plastic drawer, while cooking utensils hung proudly on the wall.

The sandy salmonid frowned. “Well uh. I’m heading off. You should go back to your owner.”

“I don’t wanna go home.”

“Okay. Well. I’m still leaving, so can you go mope on the docks?”

Ravioli took one look at the docks, gazing out through the window, before averting her gaze. Painful memories of Cookie resurfaced, and she wasn’t in the mood to cry. Instead she stared at the salmonid before her, an idea forming in her head. 

“Can I come with you?” 

“Uh… I’m heading off to the Sunless City…” he said, before shrugging. “I guess you can come along…? Won’t your owner be upset if you leave?”

“Owner? I’m not a pet!”

“Oh. Good enough for me. Let’s get going then.” The sandy salmonid said. With that, he got to work preparing his houseboat for travel. An engine sprung to life and purred as he raised the anchor on his vessel. The boat bobbed to life, as the tide let it tip toe away from the docks.

“I’m Chip, by the way. You?”

“Ravioli.”

“Well, nice to meet you.” Chilp said with a smile, fiddling with the knots. “Also- what are you ? You smell like an inkling…”

“I am an inkling.”

“Really?” Chip gave Ravioli a once-over. “Huh. You look nothing like the ones I’ve seen before.”

“You’ve seen other inklings?”

“Oh yes. Not often mind you, but here and there. My grandfather owned one once. Now that’s a fun story.”

The boat ambled its way into open ocean, the air filled with chatter, the sails filled with a protective wind.

Chapter Text

“RAVIOLI!”

Stroganoff was struggling to breathe, his gills flared out and his eyes flitting over every inch of ground he could see.

Ravioli was nowhere to be found at school, and Stroganoff had already walked home and back and back home just to make sure. Horn was standing outside her house, having promised to keep an eye out for the little inkling in case she came home alone.

But she had disappeared.

Even trying to sniff her out failed, the smell of one inkling disappearing in the odorous clutter of the busy roads.

“Any sign?” Horn spoke softly.

“N-no, i-it’s like she just vanished.” Stroganoff forced himself to breathe. The big shot was finding it difficult, ebbs of fear striking his mind like hammer on metal, his limbs shaking from each impact.

“RAVIOLI!” He called, a desperate bellow that was left unanswered.

All at once, Stroganoff didn’t have any strength left, and he sank to the floor. His breath was coming out in wheezes, eyes feral as shudders overtook his body.

Horn had never seen someone act like the way Stroganoff was right now, and there was a mixture of concern and fear as she looked at him now. Her fins instinctively fell to protectively rest on her growing stomach, and she started to walk away.

Horn liked Stroganoff. She was grateful for his friendship and for all the kindness he had shown her, but she couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t a giant. That she was well aware of his strength, and feared what he could do with it when he wasn’t being gentle, when he wasn’t in the right state of mind. 

She didn’t want to assume that at some point Stroganoff was going to lash out, and that her comforting him would be a risk on her life and body, but well.

A fool wore two prosthetics.

Horn’s walking was slow. She was already slow, but her pace was made worse by her eggs. Spawning season did a number on her body, from the heavy eggs she had to carry to the never ending hunger that gripped her mind, to the homesickness for her spawning grounds that left her nauseous. 

But at the same time, her sense of smell had grown sharp. The scent of Ravioli in her own home had grown from a simple fact to a burning lighthouse to Horn’s hungry nose, and if she raised her snout right, she could pick up its traces.

A soft breeze brushed past Horn’s face, in its hand carried the softest remnant of where Ravioli had been. If Stroganoff couldn’t find Ravioli, hopefully Horn could.

Chapter Text

It was sunset when Ravioli and Chip arrived at the Sunless City.

It was a giant concrete building that jutted out from the ocean, almost out of spite. Windows littered the walls, mismatched sizes and positions to the point it was not easy to tell how many floors the city held.

Each window had its own personality, tiny decorations that glittered and flitted in the wind. Together, it all formed a cacophony of colours and motion, as if the building had sprouted billions of individual hairs. But these decorations paled in comparison to the artworks affixed to the building and the nearby waters.

Boats of gravy bobbed in the healthy green waters, while ropes of spaghetti ended in decorative lures. A fish skeleton rose to the sky on albatross wings, held aloft by chains and a crane atop the building.

Speaking of albatross, the birds in question circled the top of the building, their songs ringing out across the waves. Friendlier birds landed onto salmonid boats, with Chip’s being given that honour.

Ravioli could only look at the bird in what was a mixture of terror and awe. She had seen many drawings of them; renditions of their wings, their shape in flight, to even their serene and salmonid-like faces. But none of those drawings could prepare her for the jarring reality that the bird was absolutely huge . It was one thing to naturally crane up to look up at salmonids, and another thing entirely to do the same for a wild animal.

At the very least, the albatross had no interest in making Ravioli its lunch, and instead just calmly waddled on top of the vessel.

“You look like you’ve never seen an albatross before,” Chip remarked. 

“I never have,” Ravioli said.

“Well, you’re gonna be seeing a lot of them before we dock.”

The salmonid was not wrong. As the two got closer to the docks of the city, more and more birds (mostly albatross) flocked onto the boats and any other land they could perch on. Folks on other boats gave warm welcomes to them, offering a snack or two to the birds and gasping in delight when it was gobbled in a flash.

It was an act of love that Ravioli had never witnessed before, but it was infectious. Before too long, she was smiling along. The albatross on the boat became less intimidating, and more a reassurance. She remembered a story about how the albatross were made to look over salmonids, and Ravioli knew nothing bad could happen underneath the watchful gaze of the bird.

By the time they reached the busy docks, Ravioli had forgotten why she was on this trip to begin with, the dull ache of Cookie’s death replaced with a warm and safe wonder. 

The streetlights were on as the last of the sun’s rays disappeared over the horizon, people guided by their glow towards the city’s entrance.

It was a weird setup (at least for Ravioli). The dock was outside the city, long and labyrinthine as boats found a place to moor; while the entrance was a giant door that had seen better days, graffiti painted on all available surfaces.

People moved in and out from the entrance at a constant pace, an ebb and flow that felt more like water than individuals.

Chip found a spot to moor, before glancing at Ravioli.

“...you know, city folk might get the wrong idea of you if you go walking around like that. Wait right here.”

The sandy salmonid dug through belongings, before fishing up a leash and collar.

“This’ll do the trick. Nobody will look at you twice if you put this on.”

Ravioli looked at Chip’s proposition with horror. “I’m not a pet!”

“Aw, don’t think of this as being a pet, think of it as… a way to tell folks you don’t wanna be bothered.” Chip said, toying with the leash. “Unless you have a better idea in mind? Some folks around here can get a lil’ grabby, and we wouldn’t want you grabbed, eh?” His expression was hard to read as he said it. 

“Well… no…”

“Great. Collar up.”

Before Ravioli could argue, the leash and collar were thrust into her tentacles. She looked at the leather curiously. Much like how she knew of albatross from pictures, she had never seen a collar or leash up close before. The leather leash was long, and fastened to the collar with a large metal hook. The collar itself had a buckle that was designed for salmonid fins, and was nearly impossible for Ravioli to budge with her weak strength.

Curiously, the collar had a little metal tag on one of the punch holes. It had tarnished with age, but a name had been stamped onto the metal.

’Raspberry’

“Hey Chip?” Ravioli called, “who is Raspberry?”

“Oh that? That’s the name of my grandpa’s inkling.” Chip said. A frown formed on his face as he glanced at various locations in his houseboat. “...Dunno if I still have the drawing of the two of them. I got all of gramp's stuff when he died, but I forgot what I sold off...”

Chip meandered over to a small bookshelf, where he leafed through what little book collection he had. All the books were laminated (like most of the books salmonids owned), and the book Chip was leafing through had grown sticky from sea water.

There was a loud ripping sound as Chip wrestled individual pages apart, and loudly declared “Aha!” when he found what he was looking for. He then happily walked over to Ravioli to show her what was inside.

It was an album of drawings, with the main interest being one of a salmonid and a strange creature standing next to him.

It looked nothing like Ravioli, but at the same time, the creature had the same black markings around its eyes, the triangular fins on the sides of its face, and tentacles coming from its head. A smudge of red has been used on the top of its head, and it resembled its namesake: Raspberry.

The creature was small too. Standing next to what Ravioli assumed was Chip’s grandfather, the inkling was significantly shorter than the salmonid. The same collar Ravioli now had to wear was around its neck, the salmonid holding the leash by the collar.

One thing stood out, though. The drawing was not the best, but the inkling’s fists were balled up, its mouth drawn as a thin line. The inkling was angry, and looked like it wanted to strike out. 

In a way, it scared Ravioli, but fascinated her all the same.

Ravioli’s gazing was interrupted by Chip, who pulled the book away. “Right, well, better put that collar on,” he said, as he placed the book back on the bookshelf.

Ravioli tried to save some of her dignity by wrapping the collar around her arm, but much to her dismay, the collar could not be made small enough to cling to her arm without slipping off. With a huff and a feeling that this was wrong , Ravioli wrapped the collar around her neck.

She thought she could at least keep the leash, but even that hope was dashed when Chip took it out of her tentacles, and proudly guided her into the city. The collar dug into weird parts of Ravioli’s upper shoulders, and there was a deep discomfort she felt just being attached to a leash. It wasn’t nice having her pace dictated by Chip, even if walking next to him wasn’t too difficult.

And yet, Chip's words made her even more unnerved. He said it so casually, but the concept of being ‘grabbed’ filled her with unease. While fairytales had taught her what it meant for someone to get kidnapped, it was not something Ravioli had ever thought of as a real thing. A real thing Ravioli had to worry about. It made the collar more oppressive, and for the first time in her life, Ravioli felt uneasy being surrounded by salmonids.

Chapter Text

The city was a strange place.

The night was filled with ambient song, as an army of musicians competed to drown the whole city in their cacophony. Huge neon lights covered many of the walls, and any space left was covered in paper signs and graffiti.

Chip and Ravioli found an inn for the evening, its food tasted like cardboard (and the fish Ravioli received was a cardboard cutout), and the other patrons were loud. 

One of them, a man who kept repeating his name over and over, was crying and moaning about how he used to be a flyfish pilot in his youth. Everyone learned in explicit detail how the moment he grew too big to fit in the cockpit was the moment he knew the greatest days of his life were over. At some point, he realised he was being ignored, nobody caring about the washed up ex-pilot. In response, he pulled out an octarian-made boombox, and started reciting a song he had made about himself and his many woes.

The bed was somehow worse: There wasn’t one. Instead there were two options; sleep on a rope the innkeeper had set up to the side, hanging alongside her laundry, or sleep on the floor once the innkeeper chased out the non-sleeping patrons.

Ravioli opted for the floor, hoping she could get some privacy by hiding under a table. Instead, at least three other salmonids decided to press against her, snoring away and unaware of the inkling’s discomfort.

It was only now that Ravioli was left to her own thoughts that she was regretting the journey here. Her bandaged head was getting stale with no way to redress her wound, and her neck felt uncomfortable as the collar pressed into her. She missed her bed, she missed having a hot (non-cardboard) meal, and she missed her privacy.

But worst of all was the lingering sting of Cookie’s death.

Ravioli found herself crying herself to sleep yet again.

Somehow the morning was better, despite Ravioli feeling really stiff. She got a single fried egg for breakfast and relished the taste.

Things only improved as Chip and Ravioli exited the inn. While the city’s name gave it away, Ravioli was still shocked when she realised there was no sunlight. Were it not for all the folks walking about, the inkling would have thought it was still the middle of the night. There was only artificial light to illuminate the winding halls, long tubes of fluorescence keeping the place from plunging into darkness.

Everywhere the two went, there was a large crowd of salmonids, all with differing shapes and colours. Ravioli was used to how the salmonids of her hometown looked, and was fascinated with the exotic scale colours that flashed past her. There were also the natives of the city, easy to spot from everyone else thanks to their pale scales.

The two spent the day exploring, climbing up ramps to ascend floors of the city, looking into weird shops and stalls they walked past.

It was while looking at future antiques (“They’ll be antiques when your grandkids get them!”) that a salmonid approached the pair. He towered over the two, dressed in expensive clothing and having scales the colour of fresh blood, and looked down at Ravioli with an uncomfortable stare. 

“Excuse me sir,” the man said, speaking to Chip, who had been staring at a glass paperweight,“That inkling in your possession. How did you come across one so young?”

Chip shrugged. “You know how it is.”

“...Fascinating.” The man remarked, bending down to study Ravioli more. He stroked his chin, deep in thought, while Ravioli squirmed underneath his gaze. Not breaking contact with Ravioli, he spoke again: “How much for her?”

The question gave both Chip and Ravioli a shock.

“Oh, actually she’s-”

“I’m not for sale!” Ravioli yelped. She spoke too loudly, and the rest of the shop turned to look. Hungry eyes drilled into the inkling as she felt a mixture of embarrassment and a sense of distress. Her cheeks were hot and her hearts thudded heavily in her chest.

She clutched Chip’s fin, some form of safety in the store. Soon everyone grew bored, including the man wanting to buy her.

But she didn’t leave Chip’s side after that.

Chapter Text

The two didn’t speak about what happened. Ravioli too nervous to bring it up, and if Chip cared, he was doing a good job not showing it. After they left the future antique store, the two found more distractions out in the Sunless City. 

Light shows, a live operating theatre (with a large enough crowd that Ravioli couldn’t see the doctors at work), a boat that sailed on land, and plenty of marketplaces. The two couldn’t walk up or down a floor without encountering some form of marketplace. Some larger, some smaller, but everywhere they looked, folks were buying and selling, and many of them were idly interested in the inkling on a leash.

Slowly, Ravioli grew hungry, her morning egg no longer enough to keep her fed. While she didn’t have the sense of smell like the salmonids around her, the young inkling found her curiosity piqued as she smelled something delicious.

It was meat. The telltale smell of fresh meat being cooked filled her sense of smell, her mouth starting to water from the delectable smell alone. While she couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from, Chip easily found what direction it was coming from. He too was curious about the smell, mentioning how cities normally don’t get fresh meat, especially not in winter.

They happened upon a gathering of salmonids, all dressed in black, surrounding a large barbeque. Hiding in the eaves above them, were a colony of birds. They too were interested in what was being cooked, and all eyes focused on a chef working in silence.

Chip was satisfied, but Ravioli was in awe. Her eyes glued to the barbeque and the giant portion of meat softly sizzling. Ravioli had seen the innards of plenty of fish, but she had never seen meat that was bright pink, let alone large enough to look like it came from a shark.

The salmonids in black glanced at her curiously as she approached, a woman amongst the gathering turning around and speaking to Chip.

“Would you like a piece for your pet?” she asked.

Once again, Ravioli was reminded of her leash and collar, and as if to spite part of her that flinched at the woman’s words, she spoke up.

“Please, I’d love some!,” the woman’s head turned to look at Ravioli, “It smells delicious!”

The woman looked bewildered for a moment, surprised to hear the inkling talk. But soon that surprise was replaced with a smile. “My mate would’ve been happy to hear that.”

The chef didn’t need any further instructions, carving out a generous steak for Ravioli, a plate put in her hands.

She didn’t need any prompting to eat up, even if she found it odd that none of the salmonids were eating with her, not even Chip. However, she was soon consumed in the sensation of food on her tongue. The steak itself was delicious, a unique flavour she had never tasted before. There was a hint of sweetness; honey, a rare food she never had before, had been soaked inside the soft pink meat.

The steak didn’t last long, Ravioli unable to stop herself from shovelling more and more of it into her mouth. She was left with an empty plate and a longing for more. Her mouth yearned for more of the pink meat, her tongue still lapping up the honey in her mouth. But she had limits, and one steak was more than enough to make Ravioli full.

“Would you like some more?” The salmonid woman asked.

She couldn’t place her tentacle on it, but Ravioli could have sworn the salmonids in black, as well as the chef, were in a better mood once she had finished eating.

“No, I’m full, but thank you!” Ravioli said, before returning to Chip’s side. The entire time, the sandy salmonid had not said a word, curiously watching what was going down while he held Ravioli’s leash. It was only when they were out of earshot that Chip spoke up.

“Never seen someone participate in a funeral like that.”

“Funeral?”

“It's when people gather to prepare the dead for eating.”

“Dead?” Ravioli said, looking back at the gathering and the pink meat,” But I didn’t see a dead person.”

“You ate him.”

There was a stillness in Ravioli’s mind as she answered “Oh.”

Ravioli may not have been the brightest individual, but she wasn’t that dim, and not that sheltered. She knew of death from a young age, even if the full extent of what it meant only hit her with her mother’s passing. She knew of the cycle of dying so nature can eat, and in turn nourish the next generation (she’d been told plenty of times it is what happened with her mother’s body after all), but it never stopped the pain of mother no longer being there.

At some point the whole lecture just became noise with no real meaning, the intentions wearing away until all was left was just simply nagging. Nagging Ravioli to get over it, to not act out, to stop crying.

Except, now a part of that lecture clicked.

There was a strange realisation at what she had done, that she had eaten the flesh of a person she could have spoken to. And yet, she didn’t feel sickened by that knowledge. Cannibalism was a frowned upon act to commit, but to the eyes of the salmonids admonishing it, it didn’t count if Ravioli did it. She wasn’t a salmonid, after all. The taste in her mouth didn’t grow sour, and her stomach didn’t lurch at discovering the origin of its meal.

Instead she felt… sombre.

For someone she never met, she helped him become part of nature. Those at the funeral were only happy to have her eat and enjoy the meal, and she thought back to her mom.

Was mom and everyone else… happy? When she got eaten? To continue a cycle she herself had been part of? And if so… what did it mean for the inkling that killed her? What did it mean for Ravioli to be the same species as the one who killed her mother?

A breeze broke through the stale air of the city, and lightly caressed Ravioli’s cheek.

Mom never hated Ravioli. A fact the little inkling knew, even if she feared it wasn’t the case. Maybe it was stupid for her to only understand it now, but it didn’t matter how mom died. Mom would have wanted her to be happy.

Afterall. Mom wasn’t just a part of nature. She was a part of Ravioli too, in her hearts and mind.

Even though Ravioli sniffled and wept, for the first time in a long while, she felt better.

Chapter Text

It was early afternoon when Chip and Ravioli caught word that shark wrestling would start soon. Ravioli’s feet hurt from all the walking, and as Chip enthusiastically rushed down to where it was happening (Ravioli in tow), all the young inkling could hope for was that this activity included sitting.

“What’s shark wrestling?” Ravioli asked.

“You never heard of it? Only the best sport ever imagined!” Chip said as the two clambered down ramps around the city.

They had climbed a few floors during the day, and were now rushing to the ground floor where the action was to take place. For the first time, Chip was moving at a considerable speed, and the leash tying the inkling to the salmonid threatened to pull taught.

“Picture this. A watery arena. One side, a salmonid; the other, a shark. And then they fight to the death!”

“What happens if the shark wins?”

“Well, it gets to eat. But!” Chip said, thrusting his fin up in the air with enthusiasm, “If the salmonid wins, the shark is cooked and served to the crowd. I’m telling ya, it’s gonna be the best tasting meal you’ve ever had.”

While Ravioli was still quite full from her funeral meal, she followed the enthused Chip without much argument. The idea of watching someone fight a shark did sound cool, though the young inkling worried about anything going wrong.

The arena was packed when Ravioli and Chip grabbed seats, staring at an empty pool of water. The arena was in the middle of an atrium, multiple floors of the city cut open and fenced so passersby on the upper floors of the city could peek at the action. Folks not wanting to sit with the crowd instead camped on the upper floors, precariously hanging over the railing or watching the pool with binoculars and spyglasses. 

A speaker system crackled to life, feedback squeaking out in a deafening cacophony, before a voice spoke up.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Sunless City!” It was a man, invisible to the crowd, but you could hear the large, sharp toothed smile on his face. The crowd cheered just from that alone, before the announcer continued.

“Welcome to tonight’s shark wrestling match! Tonight we are honoured to have two of the greatest wrestlers of our time.”

Spotlights flashed on, the pool of water sparkling from the attention.

“In the shark’s corner, we have an indomitable beast, with a streak of twenty violent kills and barely able to be contained within its cage. I fear for my life as much as I fear for today’s challenger! It’s… Razorskin!”

A spotlight pointed to one side of the arena, as part of a metal door parted open. Inside, a huge shark thrashed and bit at the cage. Scars decorated its hide, and it made it no secret how sharp its multiple rows of teeth were.

The crowd booed, shouting mean and cruel words at the animal.

This included swearwords, as someone near Ravioli taught her some unique and colourful words her father would not approve of.

Once the booing died down, a spotlight pointed at the opposite door in the arena.

“Our challenger for today is a lonesome traveller on the path to fame, with many victories to her name. She was once a small town girl with grand ambitions, and tonight we will see if she can conquer her greatest foe yet. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for The Tempest Waters, Green Bean The Eye’s Diamond!”

A door opened, and a salmonid swam into the pool. She was a giant, made more clear when her head rose to the surface. She had a sharp face, a blunt nose, and blood orange hair that had been plaited into a long rope behind her head. The crowd cheered for her, and she ate up all the attention, alternating between bowing and posing for her audience.

As the cheering quietened, the giant stopped her theatrics, and instead grew tense. The announcer counted down to the start of the match, the crowd counting along as eyes watched the shark’s door.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Zero.

The shark’s doors sprung open, and the shark could swim into the larger pool. Ravioli had anticipated to see the fish charge out of its cage, beelining for Bean. Instead it was slow, slinking out of the cage in silence. The spotlights followed its every move, its dorsal fin cutting through water with an ominous efficiency as it circled the giant.

The salmonid was tense, her eyes following its every move. Then, she flicked her tail and pushed her fins in the water, as the shark struck faster than the spotlights could track.

It was now that the fight truly started. The shark forced above the water, rows of menacing teeth hungry for blood. Bean dodged out of the way of its bites, while the shark endeavoured to rip out the salmonid’s flesh.

She twisted, turned to face the shark head on as it tried once more to bite, their heads colliding with an audible smack.

The shark stopped moving for a moment, enough for Bean to seize the beast in her fins. It was clear now the size difference between Bean and the shark. Bean may have been a giant, but the shark was an absolute monster in comparison.

The shark thrashed in her grip, biting at the air as its tail struck her like a whip.

For a moment, it looked like Bean was winning, the crowd cheering in anticipation of her getting the final blow. Then the shark struck true, and thrashed its way out of Bean’s grasp. It was a clean cut, where teeth met snout, enough that Bean’s scarlet nose was bathed in her own blood.

But it was not enough force to even make her flinch.

Once more the shark attempted to bite, while Bean tried to seize it. 

The fish let out a roar, before Bean’s own teeth bit into the shark, deep into its gills.

The shark struggled against Bean, blood dyeing the water as the salmonid proved her strength against the mightier foe. She ignored the tail striking her scales as she forced the shark onto its back, the beast growing still from the manoeuvre. With her foe immobilised, Bean landed the killing blow, biting into the shark’s throat until it stopped moving.

The crowd cheered once more, chanting Green Bean’s name as the woman stood up in the pool.

She was covered in blood, both her own and the shark’s, forcing air through her gills by the gulpful. With her victory secured, the giant drank in the crowd’s love as she caught her breath.

She then turned, and looked in the direction of Ravioli. The inkling felt a chill down her spine and had to quietly convince herself that the giant couldn’t possibly be looking at her .

When the cheers died down, Bean swam back through the door she came, and a new door opened. A raft with a crane, grill, and enthusiastic chefs puttered into the pool, a few diving into the water to secure the night’s meal.

The rest of the event played out more like a party than an arena battle. The shark was cut up and prepared into different delicacies while the crowd ended up chattering to each other. Cheering, laughing, joking. Even Chip was casually discussing grownup topics with those nearby, forgetting the inkling sitting next to him.

Before the first meals of the shark were served, Ravioli felt a gentle tug on her leash. Much to her horror, it wasn’t Chip on the other end.

The inkling gave a squeak and pulled the leash out from the strange salmonid’s grasp. “N-no,” she stumbled, “you can’t-”

The stranger looked at Ravioli curiously, a calculating look on his face after hearing her speak. “Excuse me for my impolite introduction madam,” he drawled. His voice was familiar, as Ravioli realised it was the announcer himself, “Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding. Are you an inkling?”

“Yes?”

The salmonid nodded to himself, before gesturing for Ravioli to follow. “Come with me, Green Bean herself wants to talk to you.” He glanced up at Chip, who was too busy chatting to notice what Ravioli was doing, unaware of her near squidnapping. “Alone.”

Ravioli nodded, slipping out of her seat and following the announcer.

They went down a floor, the crowd above them fading into a soft melody, as the water itself became more persistent. There was a glass window to the side, showing glimpses of the watery arena as well as the chef’s raft that floated on the top. Swirls of light from the water’s surface danced on the narrow hallway, and was the only source of light in this dark passage. The floor itself was wet, and Ravioli could taste metal through her bare tentacles.

The announcer guided her to a door, but indicated for her to stop. The announcer peeked his head inside, and muttered a few words to whoever was inside. A woman laughed, and said in a clear, loud voice, “bring her in then.” Warm light spilled out against the cold concrete, and the announcer opened the door fully for the inkling. Ushered inside, Ravioli came face to face with the wrestler she had seen in the arena.

The giant salmonid was covered in bandages, red stains seeping through the white dressings. Despite her wounds, she sat with poise, as if her wounds were nothing more than decoration. Her eyes were predatory, and there was something vaguely familiar in the way she looked down at Ravioli.

“Well well well,” Bean remarked, “Aren’t you an odd sight?”

Ravioli said nothing, clutching to her leash like a lifeline as she heard the door behind her close.

“Fry got your tongue?” She smirked, “that announcer fellow told me you could speak.” She waited briefly for Ravioli to answer, but grew bored when the inkling said nothing.“Aren’t you curious why I asked for you?” The woman asked.

Ravioli nodded.

The giant smirked. “You smell of my kin. I haven’t spoken to my brother in years, and something tells me you know of him. Giant, red hair, has teeth jutting out and has a little bit of an odd shaped snout? Sound familiar? Past owner…?”

Ravioli cocked her head to the side. “You mean my dad?”

“Oh? He’s your father?” Bean said, before letting out a soft laugh. “Didn’t peg him as the fatherly type, but I suppose things can change over the years.” Her smile softened. “How is he?”

“He’s fine.” Ravioli answered. “I didn’t know he had a sister.” There was a hint of awe in her voice, realising she had an aunt. A cool wrestler aunt. 

“Well, I suppose me leaving the village left a bit of a sore spot for him.” Bean shrugged. “‘Prolly thought I kicked the bucket at some point and didn’t think I’d be important to mention.” She snorted, as if what she said was a joke. “Though, I still find it amusing that my brother of all people decided to adopt an inkling. He used to love inklings, but I didn’t think he’d have it in him to actually raise one.”

“He loved inklings?”

“Oh yes, he was obsessed with them when we were kids. Had this little squid plushie he cherished. Wouldn’t be surprised if he still has it somewhere. He also loved collecting little relics here and there from inklings. Pretty sure the happiest moment of our childhood was getting to cook an inkling for him.”

Something in Ravioli went quiet at that. Her smile disappeared off her face as a sudden fear she didn’t know was possible bloomed. 

Bean laughed. “Oh don’t worry, if he wanted to eat you, he’d have done that instead of selling you.”

“N-no!” Ravioli stuttered. “He didn’t sell me!” Bean looked like she was going to ask, but Ravioli found herself explaining everything anyway. “I’m not a pet. I just ran away from home. I wanna go back to my dad.” She slumped. She hadn’t realised it until she said it out loud, but she sorely missed her dad and everything else that made home home.  

A thrilling day of adventure could not replace the lifetime Ravioli had of her life at home, even if her newly discovered aunt was insinuating that she was destined to be lunch.

Bean snorted at that. “Looks like I struck a nerve there, suppose you inherited my brother’s soft side too.” There was a distant look on Bean’s face as she sighed. “It's sweet to hear he’s turned over a new leaf. It would be nice to talk to him again at some point… Especially since we’re so close to the village anyhow.” She glanced over to Ravioli’s leash. “You’ve come a far way away for a vagrant. If you want, I could take you back there myself.”

Ravioli was piqued by her aunt’s words. “You would?”

“Of course. I’d love to take you back and see how your ol’ papa Sprout is doing.”

Something in Ravioli froze at the mention of Sprout’s name. All of a sudden, Bean didn’t look like a stranger related to her father. Instead it became more and more obvious how similar she looked to Ravioli’s cruel teacher, even having the same predatory eyes and mean smirk. 

Even the accidental threat Bean posed of placing her into Sprout’s fins was enough to make Ravioli shudder. She knew she should just decline the giant’s offer and run back to Chip, but part of her decided she had to speak up, even if it made things worse.

“...My dad’s name is Stroganoff.”

It was just one sentence, but it was enough to stun Bean, the giant woman’s eyes widened as her mind recoiled.

And then she laughed. It was mean and loud, and Ravioli had no idea what Bean found funny.

“I’m sorry, did I catch that right? Your father is Stroganoff !?”

Ravioli nodded.

Bean continued to laugh, guffawing loudly as she banged on her nearby table.

“Oh, oh! He Who Rips The Ground Asunder himself is a daddy!? Oh that’s rich!”

Ravioli stood quietly, gripping onto her leash like a lifeline. She was upset about this whole interaction, and had wished she hadn’t come here at all. The threat of tears poked at her eyes, interrupted as Bean finished laughing. The giant leaned closer, a smirk on her face.

“If I were you kid, I’d keep running. Run away as far as you can get and find a nice owner. That man destroyed our family, and it's only a matter of time before he decides to rip you limb from limb.”

Chapter Text

Ravioli felt numb. That was the only way to describe it. She couldn’t tell if it was from the twenty four hours in which she had been in this city; or the five minutes with Bean in particular that was now playing in her head over and over. She wanted to argue against Bean, defend her dad as the gentlest, kindest person she knew.

But then she was reminded of the steelhead armour dad had in his closet. Suddenly she felt like her argument was null and void. There was history that Ravioli didn’t know, and based on what Bean said to her, she feared to learn it. The woman’s words replayed in her head over and over, the threat of violence making Ravioli shudder.

She didn’t even acknowledge the trip she and Chip were taking, the two walking back to Chip’s houseboat. Her head was too busy. The crowd was overwhelming. She wanted to sleep, and forget all of what happened today.

At least, until a woman shouted her name.

“ RAVIOLI. YOU COME HERE. RIGHT. NOW. ”

The inkling didn’t recognise the voice. It was a sharp, angry, hoarse screech that chilled Ravioli’s hearts.

Instinct told her to look for the source, turning her head around. As if they were the sea, the crowd parted. But it was not for Ravioli’s benefit that they did so, as instead, it was quite obvious that nobody wanted to be in the warpath of the woman who shouted the inkling’s name.

Horn stared down at Ravioli. Her eyes glistening with a predatory look, her mouth open agape and tongue lolling out. Her every breath was forced, silently staring at the inkling as she shuddered with rage.

Chip wanted to flee, wanting as much to do with the angry spawning woman as the rest of the crowd, but the salmonids around him refused to let him pass. His attempts to push past were met with an equal pushback from those curious to see the drama unfold, believing Chip to be ‘Ravioli’. The man whimpered as the crowd sealed his fate, feeling Horn’s eyes penetrate his very soul.

“Wh-who is that ?” Chip whispered to Ravioli. “Who did you anger??”

“That’s… my neighbour.” Ravioli said. She made no attempt to walk forwards, instead curling behind Chip, as Horn refused to look away.

“ GET OVER HERE. ” Horn screeched. And the crowd, much to Chip’s horror, started shoving him and Ravioli towards the angry woman. Chip was no match for all the pushy fins moving him, and Ravioli wasn’t given an option to resist thanks to the leash. Eventually they had no choice, and closed the gap themselves. 

“Do you have any idea how worried sick your father is!?” Horn roared. The inkling flinched. The voice she heard was nothing like the soft stuttering Horn she knew, but it came out of Horn’s mouth like it belonged there.

Ravioli wasn’t given a chance to answer, before Horn spoke again. “He thinks you’re possibly dead, and you’re over here being someone’s PET ?”

There was a snarl in Horn’s voice as she lunged towards Chip, her fins gripping parts of his neck as he choked under her oppressive grip.

The most terrifying part of Horn’s actions was seeing Chip struggle. He was using all his strength to break free, flailing and punching at Horn to get her to let go, but the spawning woman didn’t even flinch. Instead she continued to snarl, her grip around his throat got tighter, and she lifted the sandy salmonid into the air.

“Stop it! Stop it!” Ravioli squeaked, joining Chip in trying to pull Horn off him. The young inkling’s arms could do nothing to pry Horn from the choking Chip, but some part of Ravioli’s actions were enough to snap Horn out of her angry trance. Her enraged eyes softened, her snarl faded, and she placed Chip back on the ground.

Chip fell over, massaging his sore neck as he tried to catch his breath. Scales fell off where he rubbed, the exposed skin a scary red colour while his gills flared in an attempt to get more air into his body. The crowd dared not to interfere, in case Horn was still in a strangling mood, but it didn’t seem like Chip was at risk of dying either.

Horn didn’t utter an apology, as it was clear that she was still in her foul mood, but she didn’t attack Chip again either.

“We’re going home,” Horn said, “right now.” Her eyes snapped to Chip, who flinched at the eye contact. “ You .”

Chip could only wheeze as a response, curling in on himself to make him less of a target to the angry woman.

“You kidnapped her. Now get us home. Or. Else.”

Chip didn’t argue, having a feeling that the ‘or else’ included more choking. If he had been unsure before, he certainly discovered that he wasn’t a fan of being strangled.  

Once the sandy salmonid got up, he guided Horn to his houseboat. The crowd had disappeared, and was now back to its usual throng, though many folks kept a wide berth around Horn. At some point, Horn snatched Ravioli’s leash out of Chip’s fin, and he was now clutching his fins as if they had been burnt. 

The boat was terrifyingly silent as Chip started the engine, while Horn and Ravioli sat inside the salmonid’s home. Even when her eyes couldn’t see him, Horn’s entire head tracked where Chip was, and he flinched whenever he looked over and saw the spawning woman staring right at him.

Ravioli herself was in a weird space as the houseboat reached open water. She was too upset to cry, even though she was badly shaken and guilt was now eating at her core. Not only did she feel bad about what Horn had said, but she also felt guilty about Horn attacking Chip. She found herself just standing in the middle of the houseboat, focusing on the way the boat bobbed on the water’s surface as the tension made doing anything else impossible.

Horn lost interest in bullying Chip, and ambled her way to the salmonid’s bedroom. There was a loud clattering sound as a pile of belongings were shoved without thought or consent, and a rather squashed bed was revealed. Chip’s head whipped around at the sound of his life falling apart, but then quickly looked away when Horn met his eyes.

With no resistance, Horn bunched up the blankets and pillows and uncomfortably settled down for the trip. Her stomach drooped and rested on the floor in an unflattering position, while her wooden tail made Horn’s lower end stick up unnaturally.

Ravioli felt relieved, seeing Horn’s eyes close. For now, she was safe from being yelled at by her angry neighbour-

“ Don’t think I’m done with you Ravioli .” Horn said, as if she could read the inkling’s thoughts. “ Come here.”

It wasn’t like Ravioli had a choice. Horn’s eyes snapped open and onto the inkling, a predatory glare that felt vaguely familiar. The older woman’s fin reached toward Ravioli, and picked up the end of the leash.

“What is this?” she said accusatively. “Why are you leashed ?”

“I-it was Chip’s idea. He said-”

“Oh- so some random guy walks up to you with a leash and collar and you just GO WITH IT!?” The anger Horn had returned, the woman squirming to an upright position as her eyes focused on Chip again. “I have half a mind to just rip his throat out -”

“No! Please don’t! It’s not his fault-”

“THEN WHOSE FAULT IS IT THEN, RAVIOLI ?”

The inkling’s eyes felt misty as Horn glared at her. “It was my teacher, he-”

“Ah yes. Of course !” Horn said sarcastically, “some random teacher at your school told you to become a pet! Why didn’t I think of that?”

Liquid fell from Ravioli’s eyes. “Stop it!”

“Stop ‘ what ’, Ravioli? Am I hurting your feelings?” Horn shouted a laugh. “Right, because everyone knows the only feelings that matter are yours .” The salmonid then pulled a mocking sad face, wiping away nonexistent tears, “Poor little inkling. She has such a hard life sitting around and bullying others .”

Ravioli was crying, unable to run away with Horn holding her leash.

“Yes yes, cry , maybe someone will feel sorry for you. Because it sure as hell isn’t me. Do you know what you have done? Your father is beside himself thinking something bad happened to you, and thank goodness you just happen to be playing pet in the next town over.”

Horn took a breath, as if all the shouting winded her. The rage in her eyes died down, and her voice was softer.

“What would have happened if you were kidnapped? You are so lucky I could track you down. Your father couldn’t. Either I found you or you were gone forever. And you know what’s funny about that?”

Ravioli sobbed.

“I hate you. You’re the worst person I have ever met, and my life has been worse because of you. I could just let you be kidnapped. Because then I never have to deal with your harassment ever again. But no. I’m not doing that. I’m not going to kill or eat you either. You wanna know why?”

Ravioli wasn’t given time to answer, not that she wanted to respond to the angry salmonid in front of her.

“Because I care for Stroganoff. He’s the kindest man I have ever met, and I wonder how he could have such a blight for a child. He doesn’t deserve the turmoil you put him through.”

Ravioli hiccuped. She hated how much she was crying, as every word Horn said worked only to make her feel worse. Shudders overtook her body as loud sobs betrayed the distress the inkling was feeling. Her face was disgustingly wet, and all attempts to dry her face were quickly made moot by a fresh stream of moisture. She didn’t know how to defend herself against Horn’s words, if only because she knew what the salmonid was saying was true. It was a horrible realisation to have, one that Ravioli had no power to fix. All she could do was cry and mumble.

“I-I’m so-orry…” Ravioli wailed. She didn’t know why she leaned in to hug Horn, but at the moment, it was the only thing helping her from falling apart. Her arms did their best to wrap around the spawning woman’s large midsection as she sobbed. She could feel Horn cry with her, silent tears dripping onto the top of her head.

“R-rav-ge-geddoff-me-” Horn said, the anger in her voice non-existent, replaced with a disjointed fear. The inkling felt the leash pull taut, while Horn’s other fin pushed her away. Confused at both Horn’s sudden worry as well the feeling of the woman pushing and pulling her at the same time, Ravioli looked up.

Horn was drooling, her mouth hanging open and her eyes burning into Ravioli’s flesh.

Even if Ravioli wanted to flee, she couldn’t. Horn was pulling the leash, dragging the inkling closer to the woman’s face as the all familiar hunger that had possessed Vanilla took over Horn. Ravioli closed her eyes as she saw Horn snap, darkness censoring what happened next.

Teeth gnashed-

-But Ravioli’s face was spared. The inkling opened her eyes and saw that Horn’s teeth found themselves around a pillow. A mean, guttural growl escaped from the salmonid’s throat as Horn thrashed the pillow about in a blind attempt to ‘kill’ the bundle of cloth in her mouth.

And then she slowed down, grip on the pillow loosened as the look in Horn’s eyes disappeared. In its place was lucidity and disgust. She spat the pillow out, grimacing and wiping her tongue on her fin.

“ Ough… that tastes like loneliness .” She said to herself. The woman then glanced at Ravioli, guilt on her face. “I’m sorry… I’m just… so hungry…”

In an instant, the angry salmonid in front of Ravioli disappeared. In its place was Horn. Sad, tired, and hungry. The shock of what happened was enough to make the inkling stop crying, and she now noticed how sickly Horn looked.

Her stomach may have jutted out, but her face was gaunt, deep bags discoloured her eyes and her blond hair was an untidy knotted mess.

Ravioli felt awkward, her voice still quiet as she asked Horn the same question her father always did.

“Have you eaten today?”

Horn slumped at the question. “No… I forgot… I’ve been riding boats all day trying to find you. Haven’t been able to sleep either.”

“I’m sorry…” Ravioli said. She knew it was her fault.

“It’s… it’s fine…” Horn muttered.

There was silence between the two, interrupted by Ravioli’s hiccups and shudders or Horn nibbling on the bitten pillow. In that quiet time, Ravioli struggled with the collar. The chunk of leather had been nothing but terrible, and the inkling wanted to be free of it. As she did so, the light caught on the collar’s tag, and Raspberry’s name once more shined.

In the shock of all that had happened, Ravioli’s mind welcomed the excuse to think about something else. The young inkling wondered about Raspberry, partially wishing she could have met the adult inkling, while also feeling sombre knowing that Raspberry wasn’t around anymore.

With a clunk, the collar and the leash fell to the floor. With it went the thoughts of Raspberry, as Horn spoke up again.

“Why did you even run away?” Horn asked. Her voice was soft, barely a whisper. Unlike before, Horn actually wanted an answer, and waited patiently for Ravioli to find her words.

“One of my teachers told us how my mom died.” Tears bubbled over at her own words. “I was so sad I hid on this boat.”

A fin reached over to Ravioli's face, stroking the inkling's face. Horn said nothing as she did this, combating the part of her instinct that saw Ravioli as food. She would look at Ravioli, drops of moisture leaking from her mouth, before attacking the pillow again. Every time she did so, her face was one of disgust, regretting the experience. It was after letting go of the pillow that Horn spoke again.

“Your mother’s death… you punched me because I moved into her house, right?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Was she a good person?”

Ravioli paused. Tears once more spilled, slower and thicker this time. “She loved me.”

Horn was quiet at that, her eyes closed in thought. For a moment, Ravioli thought Horn had fallen asleep, the salmonid’s breathing slowed to a gentle rise and fall, before Horn spoke.

“Your dad told me about your grief thing. It… sounded familiar to me, but I never knew why.” Horn snorted. “Of course now I’m delirious from no sleep or food, so it all makes sense." The salmonid gave Ravioli a gentle look. “When I was younger, I acted the same about my tail… I wasn’t a very pleasant person to talk to when the topic got brought up.” 

Horn sighed, idly licking the pillow as she thought. “Maybe… after I get some sleep… and maybe dinner… and preferably a bath too… we can talk about it.”

“I’d like that.” Ravioli muttered.

Horn snorted, and once more threatened to drift off to sleep, the wet pillow between her fins.

“By the way,” Horn mumbled, “I don’t actually hate you. I’m not good at keeping grudges.”

Chapter Text

By the time the boat arrived at the docks back home, both women were exhausted. Horn never got any sleep despite her attempts, and needed help getting out of Chip’s bed by both the sandy salmonid and Ravioli. Horn’s eyes struggled to stay open as they slowly walked off the man’s houseboat, and neither paid him any attention as he unmoored his boat and escaped into the night with his tail low.

The street lights were starting to flick on, and there was less activity on the paths. And yet it felt like home. The path underfoot, its mishmash of textures and stains was familiar, as was the colours of the scales of the salmonids walking about. Water gently slapped at supports as if to greet Ravioli returning home, and the arts and statues she had seen and grew bored of since she was a baby were fresh and new.

The land itself wasn’t the only thing greeting Ravioli a warm welcome, as soon Horn and Ravioli’s walk was interrupted by a loud “Ravioli!”

A lanky salmonid darted between Horn and Ravioli, a huge grin on his face as he looked to the inkling. “Where’ve you been? People were saying you were kidnapped and there was a really big fight at the school.”

“I ran away,” Ravioli answered lamely. It felt bad openly admitting to what she had done, and she was too tired to sugarcoat her words.

Potato was silent, looking to the waters that surrounded the paths and squinting. “...Didn’t know you could run on water…”

Horn snorted at that, and even Ravioli smiled at Potato’s joke. “I went on a houseboat to the Sunless City.”

“Woah, really?” Any worry the lanky salmonid had disappeared off his face. “Not even my dad let’s me go there, you gotta tell me what it’s like.”

Potato walked with them for most of the way home, occasionally rambling about random things. The entire time he bobbed his head strangely, not really paying attention to Ravioli. It would only be later that Ravioli realised what he had been doing.

Much like Vanilla, Horn was staring at the inkling and not the rest of the world, only for her vision to be blocked by Potato. The lanky salmonid made no mention of Horn nor what he was doing, but in hindsight, it was obvious that he was protecting Ravioli from the older woman’s hungry eyes and the looming threat of her teeth.

They arrived at the corner of their neighbourhood, and Potato stopped. “Well, guess this is my stop. I’d walk you the rest of the way, but I know your dad doesn’t like me. See ya!”

Ravioli and Potato waved to each other, before the inkling walked with Horn the final stretch. The older woman had slowed down tremendously, and Ravioli was quietly worrying that Horn would collapse on the path. But that never happened; even though Horn was worse for wear, her wooden tail barely moving her forward, she managed to complete her journey and delivered Ravioli back home. The salmonid all but fell on top of Stroganoff’s door, the last of her strength used up. Her eyes closed for rest, as she batted on the door.

Stroganoff opened up, his face morose until he saw the familiar purple colour of his daughter.

“Ravioli!” he cried, snatching the inkling from where she stood. Ravioli didn’t have a choice, as she felt herself buried in her father’s chest, his fins holding her tight as if to never let go. The older man breathed heavily as he held his daughter, and Ravioli found herself resting her head against her father.

For a brief moment, there was nothing but joy between the two. Distress and long days faded away, terror of the unknown and the horror of what had been discovered thrown away. Ravioli could hear the gentle drum of her father’s heart and the rise and fall of his chest, and she knew he could feel the pulse of her own hearts in exchange. 

Something was wrong, though.

Blood.

He had a hole underneath his chin, leaking a dark sticky red. It leaked onto the top of her head, and soon her mouth was filled with the heavy taste of metal. When he loosened the hug, and raised Ravioli to get a good look at her, she could see a matching hole underneath his left eye.

“I-” Stroganoff said, before turning to Horn. “Thank you, Horn.”

Horn did not acknowledge Stroganoff’s gratitude, and had not even moved from her spot by the door, her eyes refusing to open. Despite being taller than Ravioli and her stomach large from her own eggs, Horn looked small and helpless.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” Horn croaked. “I can’t make it home.” Her house was next door, and yet it was easy to see that it would be impossible for the spawning woman to even move without falling over.

As if something in Stroganoff switched, the older man lost all interest in his daughter. Knowing that she was safe, Stroganoff placed Ravioli back on the floor, and instead focused on Horn. His fins were delicate as he lifted Horn, cradling the woman who had rescued his daughter. All the while, words tumbled out of his mouth in a race to help Horn in any way he could.

“Oh- of course. You can sleep here I’ll sleep on my couch you can have my bed have you eaten I can get you something to eat you don’t look too well-”

“Dad, why are you bleeding?” Ravioli interrupted.

He stopped, Horn curled against his chest, uncaring about the blood staining her hair. His expression faltered. The moroseness he had felt before he had Ravioli back returned, as if he had hoped that nobody would question the deep wounds on his head.

“Go to bed. Please.”

It was only four words, but it said everything. He was exhausted. They all were. It was early in the evening, but Ravioli didn’t bother to argue. She stumbled to her room as Stroganoff carried Horn to his own room, and fell asleep before she remembered hitting the bed.

Chapter Text

He didn’t explain his injuries. Stroganoff finally got around to patching himself up, but he didn’t tell Ravioli how he got them. Apart from Stroganoff holding her for far too long, it felt like an ordinary day.

As if nothing happened over the past few days.

Horn looked a lot better that morning too. She had managed to groom her hair back to something more presentable, and there was energy back in her eyes. Those eyes, however, betrayed a feral hunger at the breakfast table, and Horn proceeded to eat almost everyone’s breakfast. Ravioli managed to grab an egg before Horn stole her plate; and Stroganoff had turned around to fetch his tea and looked back just in time to see Horn enthusiastically shove his entire plate in her mouth (an amazing feat given the generous portions Stroganoff ate).

It took some considerable effort from both Stroganoff and Horn herself to pull the plate out of her mouth, and she shyly apologised once the plate was dislodged.

“Well… at least I don’t have to ask if you’ve eaten today.”

Ravioli wondered how much Horn told her father about why she ran away, since Stroganoff never really asked her. In a way, she was grateful he didn’t ask, as being reminded of what she did just made her feel all different shades of guilt, and the less she had to talk about it, the better. Though this made her wonder about her father’s injuries. Did he feel the same way about them? Not wanting to talk about it even though Ravioli worried about where he got them?

It was at school that the illusion of normalcy disappeared.

Everyone looked at her with curiosity, before taking turns mumbling to each other. When she’d confront them, the salmonids in question suddenly had homework they still needed to eat.

At least Potato was back to hanging out with her. Ravioli didn’t think she’d miss her lanky friend, but then he skidded to a halt in front of her and gave her a huge hug, and she realised just how terrible the days without him had been.

During the day, they both had a free period: Potato’s teacher accidentally stabbed himself, and Mr Sprout wasn’t at school that day, and so they were goofing off, the lanky salmonid grilling Ravioli for details on the Sunless City.

“One of the strangest things was the lights! It really did feel like the sun didn’t exist there.” Ravioli rambled. Potato listened, enthralled by every word she said. Occasionally he would interrupt, if only to ask about some outlandish rumour he had heard about the city and hoping Ravioli could verify. Most of the time, Ravioli could just shrug and say she didn’t know. 

He asked about flamethrowers, or the secret underground seagull farm, or the multitude of flyfish that patrol the city 24/7 that can sense naughty children. While it was obvious the moment he said it that the last one was just a story Potato’s father told him to deter him from going; the other two options made Ravioli think. Did she accidentally have the most boring adventure in the Sunless City? Where apparently police patrol the streets on the tops of trained alligators?

To avoid her own mini crisis over unoptimised sightseeing, Ravioli changed the subject to shark wrestling. Potato gasped in jealousy. “Aw man, I’ve always wanted to see a match!” He said, his tail wagging as Ravioli told as much of what she remembered of the actual fight.

She didn’t, however, mention what happened next. Of being summoned to the wrestler’s room and finding out the wrestler was actually her aunt. Or that the woman had mistakenly thought Sprout was her father.

And it was only while actively not talking about it did things connect. A salmonid’s sense of smell was rarely wrong, and Bean herself said Ravioli smelled of her kin. Given her own weak sense of smell, Ravioli never really thought about what she smelled like (but she had been told she smelled delicious); but if she smelled of someone , surely it’d be her father.

Which made Bean’s mix up, assuming Sprout was Ravioli’s father, reveal something: Sprout was her uncle. It was a revelation that had no apparent relevance yet, but it made Ravioli wonder why Sprout hated her so, or why her father hated Sprout.

The siren sounded for break, and all the kids raced out of the building for their brief moment of freedom. From the vantage of a window, Ravioli could watch the new game everyone else was playing.

It was a playfight, a perfectly rehearsed act that ended the same way. Two kids would tussle, and then one of the kids laid on the floor. The one still standing lifted up one of the downed salmonid’s fins and called out ‘snap!’. The one on the floor then lay still, the ‘snap!’ped fin stuck up like a sail.

At first Ravioli didn’t think much of it. Kids often recreated duels they’d witnessed between adults and this was no different. On the rare occasion where other children sat indoors for break, Ravioli herself had been involved in a few play fights. Other kids explained her role, before her and her ‘duelling’ partner performed the fight. Naturally she wasn’t very good at it, and her partner had to remind her of her lines, but it was fun in its own way.

She watched as two small fry decided to recreate the fight right underneath her window, and for the first time, Ravioli could hear what the kids were saying.

“Where is she?”

“I have no clue what you are talking about.”

Punch.

“Does that help you remember, Sprout?”

A bite in retaliation. Under the left eye and on the chin. Ravioli suddenly knew who the kids were mimicking, her stomach feeling sick as she watched.

Sprout went down, putting up a miserable fight as his attacker pummelled him to the ground. The attacker then placed both his fins around one of Sprout’s.

Snap!

“If I don’t find her, I’ll kill you. You should never have been near her, you filthy cephalopodaphile .”

Sprout laid still on the ground, his fin stuck in the air like a sail.

Ravioli was still as the kids laughed, cheering at a successful recreation of the fun duel and the perfect recital of the difficult word that had been heard. She pulled herself away from the window, and instead stared at the floor. It dawned on her why Mr Sprout had been missing for the past few days, and guilt squirmed in her stomach, knowing it was her fault. But that wasn’t the only reason for her stomach’s discomfort.

She was thinking about the man who attacked Sprout. In the midst of her aunt’s awful howling laughter, Bean had called her father something:

He Who Rips The Ground Asunder.

It sounded a lot like the first part of a title, one that Ravioli wouldn’t be surprised if it was given to the steelhead whose armour rested in her father’s closet.

Chapter Text

Stroganoff was summoned to the chief’s home a few days later, his face still bearing the wounds of his fight. He was tense when he asked Horn to babysit, and left Ravioli over at her home.

It was awkward, Horn too shy to bring up the glaring issue of Stroganoff leaving a very edible child in the spawning woman’s house. When Stroganoff left, Horn had politely asked Ravioli to keep her distance, for her own health. 

“Is dad in trouble?” Ravioli asked.

Horn sighed. “Honestly? I… think he might be. But… we don’t have to think about that.” The woman said in an attempt to change the subject. “You remember when I promised that talk? Back on the boat?”

Ravioli nodded.

“Well, I think it’s about time I upheld my promise,” she said, inviting Ravioli onto the couch.

It was Cookie’s old couch, with a soft musky smell and lumpy pillows. Horn had added a blanket on top of the couch for decoration, and had piled a few extra on one side.

Being unable to sit thanks to her wooden tail was an inconvenience for Horn most of the time, but with her large stomach tiring her out, having to stand all the time was downright hell for the salmonid. And it was not like she could just remove her tail, since she wouldn’t be able to put it back on afterwards.

To get around this temporary inconvenience, Horn was using a pile of blankets to get herself seated on the couch without needing to remove her tail. It was not an elegant solution, the woman struggling and rolling to get herself and her stomach into position; her tail clonking on every surface in protest. But eventually she was as close as she could get to being comfortable, her tail jutting at an odd angle.

“Normally I don’t wear my tail while on here… but it’s not worth the hassle of taking it off, not while I can’t even reach the fastener.” Horn said, illustrating her point by stretching her fin over her stomach. There was no polite way to describe her state. She was round, and her fin couldn’t even reach the middle of her egg filled body.

The salmonid was doing her best to be light hearted, despite the looming heavy talk and the very real risk Ravioli faced just being near the spawning woman. However, her smile faltered, and she fiddled with her fins, Ravioli looking at her expectantly. 

“...Gosh. I. I know I promised to talk about it but… how do we even start?”

Ravioli did a small shrug. She wasn’t really sure what to really say, but knew that if this was like any of Vanilla’s professional talks, Horn was about to (indirectly) make her upset.

“You said me being sad about my mom was like your tail.”

“Oh! Right!” Horn said, recognition in her eyes as she recalled half slurred remarks and words that sounded cooler in her sleep deprived head. “Well um… you’ve seen my tail…”

✦✦✦

Loss. It hurt. Even if the actual removal was painless, the memory still lingered. It took a week for someone to recover from death, to only take out two forks instead of three. But it took a lifetime to not feel crushed when reaching for the cutlery drawer, only for the fin itself to not be there.

Horn had her tail long enough to take it for granted, like everyone else. Wagging, flicking, running, swimming. It could do everything until Horn got really sick, her lower end sprouting tufts of white and green mould.

She remembered crying for her mother while in the grip of the tailor, too small to fight as the sharpened blades of scissors grew closer to her own flesh. She couldn’t remember the pain, but could remember her own screaming, wailing ever louder as if her own voice would be enough to stop the metal removing dead tissue.

And then suddenly moving was hard. And Horn was faced with the reality that would stay with her for the rest of her life: She was slow. She was never without some solution to move, whether she was carried or pushed or put on a cart, but it never stopped the way she looked at herself.

Nobody could tell her how to feel about her tail. Why she bristled at the word ‘stump’, or why people saying they still loved her, despite her missing tail, felt hollow. She yearned for what she didn’t have, what everyone else took for granted.

It became a game. A toy for her to mentally play with in the darkness of night or during idle hours of the day when she needed help moving. She saw her tail from many points of view.

She saw superiority in her struggles. She saw helplessness and attention. She saw exotic compensations for what she did not have. She dreamed dreams where she had her tail, her mind celebrating the miracle until she woke up. And worst of all:

She learned true fear. It was not the fear of loss, it was the fear of losing again.

“One of my biggest fears is losing my fins,” Horn said, her eyes drifting down to her fins, which were resting on her large stomach. “I do a lot with my fins, I have a few hobbies, and I need my fins for those.”

“Hobbies?”

“Yeah, things to pass the time. I’ve been apprenticing with the herbalist for a while now, and I love watching the plants grow.” Horn giggled. “Your dad loves tea. Every now and then he shares what he got from the herbalist, not knowing I helped grow it. It’s really sweet.”

She softly sighed, looking at her fins. “But the worst part, if I lose a fin, is that it’s not the end of the world.”

Ravioli cocked her head to the side, confused. While she understood why Horn was upset about her tail, or why she didn’t want to lose her fins, it was her last sentence that confused her.

Horn saw the young inkling’s confusion, and smiled. “It’s like how your mother died. She’s gone, and there's no way she’s coming back, but it’s not like your life ends with her. Are you afraid of your dad dying?”

Ravioli was taken aback by the question, her mind filled with terrible possibilities. She answered with her tears, softly running down her face at the thought.

Horn continued, her voice soft as she explained how Ravioli felt about losing her dad is how Horn feels about her fins, how she too wept at the possibility of it happening, of what it’d mean after it happens.

“It’s kinda cute, you know,” Horn remarked. “You’re crying over something most people know is just going to happen one day. You act like one of your tentacles got ripped off and you’ll be crawling for the rest of your life, when it’s just that your dad will pass away.”

She laughed at a silly joke in her own head. “It’s as if you made your father and your mother a part of you, because ten tentacles wasn’t enough limbs.”

They talked more, Horn eventually turning the questions onto Ravioli. What she thought about her mother. How she felt now that Cookie was gone. How she would live without Cookie.

Ugly words were said. There were kind reassurances. But there was one thing Ravioli was grateful for, and that was the knowledge that someone else had gone through ‘grief’. That she was not alone.

Chapter Text

When Stroganoff came home, he was unscathed but miserable. He ambled in, almost trying to sneak inside his own home.

“Dad! Are you okay?”

Stroganoff gave Ravioli a slow, miserable look, before sighing.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

That was the end of the conversation, as Stroganoff proceeded to slowly walk to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

He didn’t come out of his room after that, and by the time Ravioli realised that, the sun had set, and she was hungry. Quietly, Ravioli walked over to Horn’s home. Despite being uncomfortable having the inkling over while the spawning salmonid ate, Horn was happy to give Ravioli some dinner.

“Did he look hurt?” Horn asked in between large bites of pickled seagull. “He could be injured and sleeping it off.”

“No. Just sad.”

“Hmmm…” Horn said, before continuing to savage the bird in front of her. “Well, I can’t smell him bleeding from here, so it must not have been physical punishment.” There was a loud snap as Horn crunched through the bird’s hollow bones, chewing on them like candy, “and I doubt the chief’d just let him go back home if he had been exiled…”

It took Horn a lot of self control to not bite her plate as she started lapping up what remained of the bird. Evidently, more self control than what she had in her current state, as the plate quietly received a few nibbles to ensure that it wasn’t edible. If Horn had a continuation of her thought, it was forgotten in the frenzy of eating.

Ravioli had quickly eaten a few rollmops (well aware that the longer she spent eating was a longer chance of Horn considering her a second helping), and was now worrying about her father.

“Do you think he’s gonna be okay?”

“Of course.” Horn said, having concluded that her plate was not edible, “he's the toughest guy I know! He fought a knight and won . That’s no easy feat, even among the knights.”

After dinner, both women were skirting around the issue of whether Ravioli should go home. Admittedly, Ravioli felt more nervous being inside her quiet house, even if the alternative was being near Horn and her teeth. To get her mind off of her father, Horn showed Ravioli the small garden at the back of the house.

It was a small tray that rested against the window, swaddled in the safety of hooks and metal fasteners to ensure it wouldn't be knocked out of its cradle. Even though the sun had set, the plants, small sprouts, welcomed the starlight that filtered in from the sky.

The thing that stuck out to Ravioli was the smell. Her nose was not even comparable to the salmonids (let alone the sensitive nose Horn currently had thanks to her spawning), and yet there was a unique musty smell that wafted from the tray. Naturally, Ravioli asked, wondering which of the plants it was coming from.

“Musty?” Horn questioned, looking at the plants. Her snout slowly swayed, as she softly sniffed each plant to identify who had the offending odour, before she pointed to an empty spot of the tray. “I think you’re smelling the soil.” Horn said with a giggle. “I guess that makes sense. It’s freshwater soil.”

“Freshwater soil?” Ravioli asked.

“It’s from the mainland, where there’s no salt. Some plants can’t survive on salty earth. Kinda the same with some fish.” Horn said. “You know, in a way, this probably smells of your birthplace to you.” She said, scooping a small bit of soil in her fin, and placing it in Ravioli’s tentacles.

“My birthplace?” Ravioli said, sniffing the soil again. Her words were more directed at the soil itself, than her confusion about what Horn had said. Birthplaces were important, and Ravioli had always felt sorely left out that she wasn’t born on the same island as everyone else. 

In fact, she had no memories of her birthplace, or anything else from before her dad took her in. It wasn’t often that she thought about it, what divided her from everyone else in the village, because it was a rough topic. It threatened to tear at her mind with questions that she knew would have answers she didn’t like.

But this wasn’t one of those times. This soil didn’t inspire the same longing everyone else had for their birthplace, but it had a sense of wonder to it. It didn’t smell of a birthplace to Ravioli, but it felt inviting and welcoming. Even the texture was inoffensive to Ravioli, the dark brown chunks smooth and soft against her tentacles.

However, Ravioli didn’t have too long to enjoy the wonders (and then get bored) of the soil before Horn interrupted. The woman said nothing, but Ravioli was on high alert as she saw the salmonid’s head suddenly snap up into the air. The inkling was relieved when it seemed that Horn wasn’t intending on biting, but had instead caught a new scent in her sensitive nostrils.

“He’s crying.” A look of confusion settled on the salmonid’s face, not believing her own words.

“Dad?”

Horn nodded.

There was a looming concern over the house after that. Horn didn’t want Ravioli to leave, fearing Stroganoff would lash out. At first Ravioli said no, but then the thought of what happened to Sprout lingered in her mind, and by the time the lights went out at Horn’s home, Ravioli was swaddled on the couch.

✦✦✦

Ravioli didn’t know what time it was, but she couldn’t sleep. She was worried about her dad, but feared confronting him. She didn’t know what was going on, but there was someone who would know:

The Chief himself.

The inkling slinked out from Horn’s couch, and crept through the door. As the night sky greeted her from above, and a wintery breeze patted her shoulder, Ravioli glanced at her own home.

There was a feeling, almost despair, as she looked at her house. She didn’t even know if her father was asleep or still upset, and she felt bad that she wasn’t even going to try comfort him.

Soon Ravioli’s legs moved by themselves, away from home, into the night.

She remembered the chief’s neighbourhood from her adventure with Potato, and traced the steps they took to get there. The area was different at night, statues that inspired whimsy during the day now glared at Ravioli menacingly. The lights glowed bright enough that Ravioli never lost her way, but they somehow made the shadows more dangerous.

Moreover, there was a chill that was biting at Ravioli. She was wearing enough that she was in no danger of freezing, but her every breath turned to mist. Even the wind, that often made Ravioli feel safe, felt unmistakably pushy tonight.

The Chief’s home was easy to find, Ravioli spotting the giant structure a few blocks away, towering above even the knight’s homes.

The lights were still on, a yellow glow escaping from the bead curtain the Chief called a door. In comparison to the darkness of the night and the shadows that seemed to be staring at her, the light was inviting and warm. Ravioli took a deep breath before parting the curtain, realising how heavy each strand was as she clattered her way inside.

The Chief’s home was… exotic. Patterned paper decorated the walls while a thick smell of something burning filled the air. Decorations and furniture designed for someone three times Ravioli's size furnished the halls and rooms, dust peeking in the corners only Ravioli was small enough to see. The inkling felt more like a toy in the house than a person, her head pointed almost straight up just to see everything. 

She felt a little lost, especially given the size of the home. Even exploring the hallway felt like a journey, when a voice called out from a nearby room.

“You may enter, little inkling.”

She recognised the Chief’s voice, hoarse and bubbly, and walked to the room where it originated.

He was sitting at a desk, absolutely massive but looked merely normal with him beside it. An ocean of papers and the remnants of food sat on the vast and intricately carved wooden table. In one fin he held a magnifying glass larger than Ravioli, the other a dip pen that would put most of the village’s weapons to shame. The pen’s inkwell was less of a jar and more a bathtub, full of a dark liquid that Ravioli shuddered to think of who had to make all of that.

Ravioli never liked the Chief. He looked funny in an uncomfortable way, rows of double chins acting as a staircase to the grin that curled on his face. His eyes were normally an imposing blood red, but were currently hidden behind a pair of spectacles, the ends of the glasses curled and hooked into his massive mouth.

“You know, most nighttime visitors are here to kill me, but I see you forgot your weapon,” he laughed.

“I’m not here to kill you.” Ravioli said, her hands reaching for her clothing to fiddle.

“Then why are you here, hmm? State your purpose, little inkling.”

“Um… you summoned my dad today and… he was really upset afterwards.”

“Upset? Whatever for? I merely offered him his old job back.” The chief stated. A smile curled in the corners of his mouth, and Ravioli didn’t like what that meant. She had unwittingly spilled blood in the water, and was now seeing fins.

Part of her wondered if she should leave, realise her misstep and go back home; but at the same time, curiosity and the possibility of solving the mysteries of her father rooted her in place.

“What was his old job?” She said quietly.

The chief laughed. “Ohhh, has your father never told you? He used to be my steelhead. Probably the finest warrior this town has ever produced, aside from his mother, of course.”

Ravioli looked down at the floor at the news. She knew in her gut that it was true, but at the same time, she didn’t want to believe it. Her father, who often denounced the steelheads for their violence, had at some point had been one himself.

“You know, I’ve witnessed those two duel many times when I was younger,” the Chief continued. “ I remember those two squabbling over the littlest things, from inheritances to jobs. Brussel Sprout was never happy that I didn’t hire him when I already had his brother- didn’t need both of them fighting on the job, and your father usually won those fights anyway.”

As the Chief continued, Ravioli listened to every word. It was only recently that she even found out that Sprout was her uncle, and in a weird way, she wanted to know more about him. If only because it meant she learned more about her own father too.

“Then, one day your father left, and you have no idea how happy his little brother was to be his replacement.” The Chief chuckled. “Or rather… he was just happy to be a knight. Little sloppy seconds never really was the first choice for anything.”

Ravioli’s expression faltered. Even upon finding out what her dad did to Sprout, Ravioli did not feel bad for him. She may have felt some guilt upon the situation, but at the same time she remembered how Sprout made her cry, and that was enough to dry up her sympathy. And yet, the way the Chief spoke of Sprout, Ravioli couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him.

“So, when I heard those two had another duel recently; why, it reminded me of old times. So it made sense. My knight is out of commission, and Stroganoff clearly still has what it takes; why shouldn’t I offer him his old job back? Sprout was merely a substitute for him anyway. But, he said no, and that was the end of it.” His ugly smirk grew bigger. “Did not know he was upset by my offer. Now that’s a little mystery I don’t know the answer to, but I get the feeling I know the perfect child who I could hire to solve it…”

Chapter Text

Things went back to normal the day after the talk with the Chief, even if Ravioli and Stroganoff were occupied by entirely different meetings.

For Stroganoff, he was struggling with old feelings that had been dug up, not realising just how bad unearthing them would make him feel.

Ravioli, on the other hand, had been handed a shovel and told to dig. The Chief did not give Ravioli a time limit, nor did he give her exact instructions, but he gave Ravioli an offer she couldn't refuse:

The Chief wanted to learn all he could about Stroganoff, and he was willing to trade what he knew for whatever Ravioli learned.

"Think about it this way," the Chief explained, "You and I have our different sources. Your father may have looser lips around you, and I know this village's history. We both get to learn the full story of my favourite knight if we collaborate."

After that moment, life went on. Mr Sprout was still not at school, children found another duel to recreate, and soon, something special happened.

It was Ravioli’s birthday. The inkling woke up like it was any other day and wandered over to the kitchen. It was a rather cold day and her father was already making tea.

“Happy Birthday Ravioli,” he said with a smile. Birthdays were great. Stroganoff usually saved some canned fruits for the occasion, and Ravioli would happily gobble down the tasty treats with gusto. She’d have them during the day, some at home, and having at least one during the neighbourhood’s bonfire.

“Looks like cloudy weather, so no fireworks tonight sadly.”

“It’s okay,” Ravioli said, reaching for one of the fruit cans for breakfast.

Stroganoff waited for when Ravioli was finished, wiping syrup off her face when he spoke up. He was nervous, tense, before dropping a large metal ring in front of Ravioli. It was polished steel, small moons engraved on the surface and an opening on one side. It was the perfect size for Ravioli’s tentacles, and it looked familiar in a way.

“So um,” Stroganoff started, “I noticed your… face tentacles. They’re getting long, and I know you’re still upset over Cookie so… I made that… to look like her scale bangle. So uhm. Your tentacles. You could tie them back.” He was rambling, saying words to fill in the silence, studying Ravioli’s face.

She held the metal ring as if it were the most precious thing she had ever seen, tears pricking at her eyes. Her eyes shut as the start of moisture slipped down her cheek, and she dived into her father’s side for a hug.

“ Thank you .” She whispered.

✦✦✦

While Ravioli worked out how to use the scale bangle with her tentacles, Stroganoff walked next door to Horn’s. He had checked in on Horn every morning since her spawning made independent life difficult for the woman, and had not anticipated that today would be different.

And yet, Stroganoff knew something was off when he opened the door to her home. An almost sickening scent lingered in the air, and grew stronger the closer he got to Horn’s room. Inside, Horn was already awake. She didn’t say a word to Stroganoff, but it was clear that she was in a state of confused distress; antsy and worried as she squirmed on her bed.

Ravioli had overheard the two adults talking about it a while back, but as she heard Stroganoff bust out of Horn’s house and rush down the road, the inkling knew what was happening today:

Horn was laying her eggs.

Ravioli found her curiosity piqued. While she had slowly pieced together the great mystery of where babies had come from, she still didn’t quite understand what laying was exactly. (She knew it was how eggs escaped a woman’s stomach, but she wasn’t sure how just sitting magically made eggs appear.)

Once Stroganoff returned (with a woman in tow, who slipped into Horn’s home), Ravioli’s nosiness skyrocketed. Half of her wanted to see Horn lay her eggs, and the other half wanted to go because Stroganoff explicitly told Ravioli not to bother Horn.

With spite, Ravioli crawled in through Horn’s window.

She wasn’t sure what to expect, but somehow Horn laying in bed and groaning wasn’t as action packed as she hoped. The woman who had entered Horn’s home did not blink an eye at Ravioli; as the inkling struggled to find handholds to drag herself in, while her one leg became partially stuck in the window frame.

There was a thud as Ravioli fell to the floor. It was enough to get Horn out of her stupor, but instead of focusing on Ravioli, she was surprised at the existence of the woman standing next to her bed. 

“It’s alright sweetie, I’m your midwife,” the woman introduced herself, patting Horn on the shoulder as she started her work.

The midwife was efficient in her movements. She curled the edges of the bed’s blanket into a temporary nest, while moving Horn to one side and propping up the silver faced salmonid’s head with pillows. The entire time, the midwife made smalltalk with Horn.

“Is this your first laying?”

“No.. second…”

“Ahh, then you’ve already experienced your worst one! Don’t worry this will go a lot better.”

“Thanks…” Horn mumbled.

“Do you think you’re laying more or less eggs this year?”

Horn’s fin idly reached for her stomach in response, before letting out a dry “ definitely more.”

The midwife chuckled at Horn’s answer, before helping the silver faced woman out of her gown. It was only while neatly folding the clothing did the midwife indirectly acknowledge Ravioli.

“Oh by the way, your pet snuck in through the window. Want me to chase her out?”

The inkling’s hearts skipped a beat at the word, crying out “I’m not a pet!”

Some bickering happened between the three women, Horn’s answers getting shorter and quieter the more it continued, while the midwife and Ravioli learned quickly where each other stood in this situation:  Ravioli would be allowed to stay as long as she helped. Even if it was her birthday today, the midwife cared only about making sure Horn’s laying went well.

“Don’t stress too much about it not happening quickly enough, sweetie,” the midwife told Horn. “It’ll happen. Just be glad you don’t have a needy partner here. I’ve seen some of those men try to help speed up laying. I've smacked more than enough enthusiastic idiots using a lady as a beanbag chair."

Horn softly snorted at that, before softly groaning.

And then, it happened.

Ravioli learned a lot in the span of a few minutes, seeing Horn’s first egg. That knowledge then quickly lost its lustre as the midwife threw Ravioli a towel, rolled the egg over to her, and told her to dry.

The egg itself was interesting. It was around the size of a tennis ball, a bright orange, and squished gently as Ravioli wiped the towel over it. Were it not for the fact that Horn had produced her second and third, Ravioli would have been happy to just study the single egg already in her grasp.

One by one, at a slightly slower pace than the rate they were being laid, Ravioli dried the eggs. Soon Horn’s bed became filled with the small orange spheres, and her stomach grew smaller and smaller. 

By the time both the midwife and Horn were certain that she was finished with her laying, her stomach looked like a deflated balloon. The midwife congratulated Horn on the feat, only to be met with a tired grumble. The laying had taken a lot out of Horn, and now that all her eggs were accounted for, she fell asleep. A protective fin rested on the eggs closest to her chest, and a smile curled on her face.

Chapter Text

The next day, Horn was out and about, now that she could put her tail on by herself. It was a very sudden transformation for everyone, Horn’s maternal shape gone, and she looked half starved with how little fat she had on her. 

Of course, it wasn’t difficult to wonder why Horn looked unhealthily gaunt: she was. Without eggs to make it look like she had the same svelte figure as Stroganoff, it was plain to see that she hadn’t been eating properly. Her blonde hair looked worse for wear and her scales had lost their sheen, but there was a smile on her face and a sparkle in her eyes.

She was in good spirits when she visited Stroganoff, a bulging bag resting on her back. Even though the lumpy nature betrayed what was inside, Stroganoff still asked “Are those your eggs?”

“Yup!” Horn said, gently removing the backpack from around her shoulders and offering the handle to Stroganoff. “Feel how heavy it is!”

Naturally, Stroganoff could pick up the backpack with ease, but was still impressed. Afterall, it was one thing for Stroganoff himself to pick up the eggs, and another to realise that Horn had been carrying the same weight in her smaller body over the past few months. Based on the few times where he had to pick up the poor woman, Stroganoff wondered if the bag was nearing the same weight as Horn herself.

“How many eggs are in here?”

“Not telling!” Horn joked, “You’re not supposed to ask a lady that!”

“Oh, right.”

Ravioli was also given a chance to pick up the bag, the inkling horrified when she couldn’t get it to budge. The adults laughed at her expression, Ravioli pouted, and Horn stayed around for tea. Horn, however, was rather sheepish when she asked Ravioli to leave the room.

“I’m sorry, I know I laid my eggs, but I’m… still kinda sensitive.”

It wasn’t said, but it was a threat that Horn may accidentally take a bite out of Ravioli again. This time unhindered by her eggs, not that her stomach had slowed down Horn’s jaws on the boat. Neither woman had told Stroganoff about that incident, but the older man was not an idiot. He likely pieced together what Horn could have done, and made all the more grateful that Ravioli returned in one piece.

However, the topic of Ravioli was not brought up, as Stroganoff was more interested in how Horn was doing. As they spoke, the conversation drifted to the eggs, as well as the reason why Horn was carrying them around today to begin with.

Vanilla.

“Look Horn, I’m not saying he’s out to swindle you, but I’ve known him for years. He’s a little rough around the edges, and not exactly someone I’d trust in a trade deal. That little cretin comes here often demanding Ravioli provide him with jars of ink, and I have half a mind to smack him with how he treats her.” A frown that had formed on his face faded away to something more playful. “Just know I’m willing to smack him for your sake too.”

Horn wasn’t exactly joyed at Stroganoff’s talk, but it wasn’t like she could argue against the older man. She hated to admit it, but her cute partner maybe wasn’t as interested in her as she first thought. And with spawning season coming to close, so too would their obligation as partners. 

“Do you think he’s gonna skimp out? I know he promised that the first thing he buys with my eggs will go to me, but…” Horn drifted off, stirring her tea instead of finishing her point. “What can you even buy for a single egg anyway?”

“Could get some exotic tea for that price.”

Horn hummed, a bit depressed. “Well, if I get tea, I’ll share some with you.”

“And I’ll smack him for you.”

Chapter Text

Spring was heralded by the return of those that had gone on the salmon run. Cheering and squabbling occurred outside, as parents herded their children to their homes.

When the sun set, Stroganoff, Ravioli and Horn carried their winter rations towards the festival grounds. It was not unusual for Stroganoff to have a lot of food to offer for the reunion festival, the man’s long fins full of cans and other preserved foods. What caught his eye, however, was Horn’s stock.

Folks who stayed behind during their spawning season usually ended up eating all their rations if they didn’t pace themselves, begging neighbours for their scraps when their own supply ran out. This was a fact that Stroganoff himself had struggled with in the past; fighting the compulsion to eat when Ravioli was an infant, Stroganoff dealing with his own spawning woes.

There was no shame in being indulgent when in that state, having nothing by the time the reunion festival started. But based on how much Horn was carrying…

“Horn.”

“Yes?”

“Next time your spawning comes around, I’m forcing you to eat.” Horn was struggling with what looked like a month or two's worth of rations, some piled in her fins, while others were stuffed inside a backpack. Knowing Horn’s poor eating habits during her spawning, Stroganoff wouldn’t be surprised if the silver faced woman had purely forgotten to eat for a month overall.

He wasn’t mad at Horn, but he was severely disappointed. It was better to be pudgy from overeating than to grow frail and starve, and Horn looked like she was suffering the consequences of her lack of eating. If Stroganoff had to personally ensure that during Horn’s next spawning, she looked pregnant after laying her eggs, he would.

“Hey! I remembered to eat… most of the time. I never fainted!”

Stroganoff snorted. “Not fainting isn’t supposed to be an accomplishment.”

✦✦✦

Ravioli wore her scale bangle to the festival, her tentacles looped around her ears with her tips pinned up like sea bunny ears. It felt fitting to wear her birthday present while everyone else received their own.

Stroganoff and Horn had gifts for each other, the younger salmonid offering the big shot a tin of mint leaves, while Stroganoff gave Horn a music box.

“It's not much, but I thought you’d like the music.”

Horn let the box play, the song, a sombre waltz, barely audible above the general din of the festival.

“It’s beautiful.”

Sprout was at the festival as well, swaddled in so many bandages he may as well have been a mummy. The rest of the knights were obsessed with him in a cruel form of caring. He was being fed spoonfuls of soup against his will, the steelhead trying to resist as someone pried his mouth open.

Ravioli focused too long on him, and there was a brief moment, where Sprout was covered in spilled soup, that his eyes met hers.

They were angry.

Babies crawled over to Ravioli, giving her hands curious nibbles. Years before, this was endearing. Now it reminded her of Vanilla and Horn, and not in a good way. She was relieved when the babies were scooped up and taken away.

Speaking of Vanilla, he finally showed up. Stroganoff and Horn were quick to invite him over, and just as quick to grill him on the state of Horn’s eggs. It was hard to tell if there was genuine curiosity, or if Stroganoff was going to use him as a tennis ball.

“Jeez! Calm down!” Vanilla grumbled. “Yes, I got you something,” he said to Horn, who had assumed that Vanilla would live up to his end of the deal by the festival. “It’ll take a hot second but it’s coming!”

The artist then made a move to storm off.

“Wait, Vanilla.” Horn said. “Don’t you want to sit with us?”

The artist blinked. “You want me with you?”

“Of course!” Said Horn.

“Vanilla, I’ve known you for years now. I’m more than happy to have you sit with us.” Stroganoff answered.

It wasn’t often that the silver faced salmonid looked flustered, but this was one of those times. He settled down a little ways away from the party, just far enough that it was ambiguous on if he were sitting with them. At least, until Stroganoff dragged him closer, the scrawny salmonid yelping at the movement.

As soup was being handed out, Vanilla pulled Ravioli a little ways away. Just far enough that Stroganoff couldn’t overhear.

“H-hey kid,” Vanilla stumbled. He looked guilty, and was having a hard time looking the inkling in the eyes. “I- uh. I just wanted to say sorry for. B-biting you. I felt so bad afterwards and I know I should have apologised but I was afraid that Stroganoff’d kill me if he so much as found out and its been eating at me since it happened and-”

Vanilla found himself interrupted as Ravioli pulled him into a hug. “It’s okay,” Ravioli said.

It was as if a weight had been lifted from the artist. For a brief moment, he relaxed and even smiled a little bit, returning the hug.

While they ate their soup, the chief stood up and spoke to the crowd. Ravioli personally didn’t listen, as the sight of the chief made her remember her deal with him. She hadn’t been actively sleuthing for her father’s history, and there was an uncomfortable pressure in her stomach at the reminder. Though, she didn’t know if it was guilt at going behind her father’s back, or stress at the very thought of having to return to the chief empty finned.

At some point, she came back to reality. The chief was bestowing those that had returned from their first salmon run with new titles.

Horn was silent as the line in front of the chief grew shorter, a look of melancholic longing as a pair of triplets happily scampered away with matching titles.

“What’s the matter?” Vanilla asked in between sips of soup.

“Oh… ‘ just don’t like the naming ceremony too much.” Horn answered.

“Why, you want a title or something?”

Horn nodded solemnly. “A little… it just feels bad knowing I won’t ever get one.”

Vanilla snorted. “Trust me, it’s not worth it. That line feels like forever and your tail starts going numb.” The salmonid then remembered who he was talking to, nearly choking on his soup as he forced out an apology. “Sorry,” he said, studying Horn’s expression.

But Horn wasn’t offended by Vanilla's remark, instead softly laughing at the man’s earnestness. “It’s fine,” she said, lightly patting Vanilla on the head, “but wait - how do you have a title?”

Vanilla shrugged. “Pretty sure my mom nagged the chief half to death. If you ask him he’d say it’s ‘cause I’m such a great artist but…” he shrugged. “It’s really not worth it in my opinion. I personally hate mine.”

What Vanilla didn’t say was his full title. The Dreamer of Reality, Vanilla the Summer Child. A title that probably inspired an image of innocence for folks that never met the man, but the second half was a sour point for Vanilla. Titles were usually things that referenced great achievements a salmonid had done, parents and friends informing the chief of what an individual had done before receiving their title.

But what Cookie told the chief had been largely ignored, as the chief remembered something very distinct about Vanilla, and that was his delayed hatching. It was a situation of mind games, the chief, looking down at the scrawny man, a snout of silver in a queue that proudly sported red, and decided the only achievement Vanilla had earned was the fact that he had been born at all.

“You can always have it changed,” Stroganoff piped up. “Not the easiest thing to do, but it is possible to convince the chief to change it.”

“Oh really?” Vanilla said sarcastically.

“I had mine changed.”

That piqued the interest in the two silver faced salmonids. Ravioli too found herself listening, reminded that she had learned one half of his original title.

“You had yours changed?” Horn said, “But why?”

Stroganoff shrugged. “My old title didn’t fit me anymore. Felt like a reminder of things I’d rather forget.”

The chief wrapped up his speech, and the conclusion of the festival began. One of the knights lifted a torch, jokingly threatening to set Sprout’s bandages on fire, before carrying it up to the statue.

The flames took time, before they climbed onto the wood and began to dance. At once, the statue was alight, and the night disappeared for a moment. At that moment, the crowd cheered, stood up, and started to sing.

A knot formed in Ravioli’s stomach, as she remembered that this was the night she had realised mom was gone. Stroganoff softly reached for the inkling’s hand, as tears spilled down her cheek. Ravioli barely had time to wipe her tears when her other hand was claimed, Horn giving her a reassuring smile. She was quiet, but she joined in the dance and song. The voices of the clan rang loudly into the sky as the embers of the fire sparked and hissed.

A wind, ice despite the fire’s heat, ruffled at Ravioli’s dress and her hair. It danced and fluttered along, greeting the rest of the salmonids as if it too were singing.

For now, Ravioli sobbed, a warble in her voice and a shake in her arms. But despite it, she danced and sang, with a smile on her face and family around her.

For Cookie.

Chapter Text

Stroganoff and Ravioli were having lunch when they heard a commotion coming from Horn’s house. The woman was screaming, squawking loud and shrill. Worried, Stroganoff decided to go check on her. Nosy, Ravioli followed behind.

“Horn, are you-” Stroganoff said, slamming open the door to Horn’s house. And then stopped.

Horn had pinned Vanilla to her table, and was now frozen after what could only be described as manic kissing. Her tongue stuck mid-lick, pressed firmly against Vanilla’s face. 

Stroganoff was dazed, a boiling heat rushing to his face as he realised what he walked in on- and with horror, realised that Ravioli was witnessing it too. She quickly had a fin covering her eyes.

“O-oh, Stroganoff-”

“D-d-don’t worry,” Stroganoff interrupted, “I c-can see you are pe- perfectly fine. I uh. Have fun, we’ll be going,” He said, scooping up Ravioli and beginning to flee the scene.

“Wait!” Horn said.

Stroganoff waited, wearing a look that made him look like a terrified puppyfish. He glanced over to Vanilla. The scrawny salmonid was not moving, and Stroganoff wouldn’t have been surprised if he had a heart attack.

“V-vanilla gave me a really nice gift.” Horn said, also flustered from the situation. She then realised she still had the poor artist pinned to the table, and promptly let go of him. Vanilla (or what remained of his virgin corpse) just kind of remained there. His eyes hazy, mouth open, and face sopping wet.

While Horn walked over to the couch where her present lay, Ravioli checked on Vanilla. If he was aware that Ravioli was within eyesight, Vanilla showed no sign of acknowledging her. Occasionally his mouth would move, and he’d mutter “Oh wow” to himself. So Horn broke Vanilla. Again.

While Vanilla recovered from having his first kiss (and the additional eighty kisses after that), Horn happily presented her new gift to Stroganoff and Ravioli.

It was a prosthetic tail, made out of a synthetic white material. While the underside of the prosthetic was more sturdy, the top had been lovingly sculpted to resemble a salmonid’s tail. It certainly piqued Stroganoff’s interest.

“It looks octarian made.” Stroganoff said, picking up the tail and assessing it, “I didn’t know the octarians made prosthetics, let alone for salmonids.”

Horn beamed. “Well, either way, I have one now!”

There was excitement as Horn unlaced her pants and unbuckled her wooden tail. It took a bit of figuring out from both Horn and Stroganoff (Vanilla was still dead), but in the end, Horn was standing with her new tail.

Overwhelmed with emotions, Horn wept. The rest of that morning was spent teaching Horn how to walk again, Stroganoff supporting her so she wouldn’t fall over. She wobbled and lost balance quite easily, but Horn was excited with every new step she took.

✦✦✦

Horn wanted to rest after her very exciting morning, so Vanilla, Stroganoff and Ravioli returned to Stroganoff’s home. However, the moment the three set foot back in the house, Stroganoff realised how much of a mess the house was, and set Ravioli off to do some chores.

That left Vanilla and Stroganoff some time to talk.

“You did a nice thing.” Stroganoff remarked.

Vanilla, by this point, had recovered from Horn’s affection. He had even (begrudgingly) dried his face. He psht’d at Stroganoff’s comment, not looking the big shot in the eyes.

“‘Only did it because her being slow annoyed me.”

Stroganoff snorted. “Sure, whatever lets you sleep at night. How many eggs did you spend on it?”

“Not tellin’.”

There was silence, a sulky expression on Vanilla’s face.

“...Octarians’ll bleed you dry for medical supplies,” Vanilla mumbled. “You’d think their scrap is cheap compared to it.”

“That sounds about right for them. I do have to ask, though. Why did you get involved in trading?”

Vanilla shrugged. “My mom and I learned the octarian language together. I couldn’t go to school so she taught me herself with those laminated books octarians send out. The octarians usually have catalogues in those books, and well, I wanted something from it. Skip a few steps and well, I’m a trader now.”

Stroganoff smiled. It had been a while since Cookie had been associated with something good in Stroganoff’s mind. Ravioli's anguish had tarnished the thought of the goldie for him, but it was nice to hear about her in a positive light. 

Plus now he was remembering her prank, of not revealing that Vanilla was her son. It was a stupid prank, but in hindsight, knowing how long she had kept it hidden from Stroganoff was amusing in and of itself. Just the thought that Cookie spent every moment hearing Stroganoff talk about the scrawny artist and dying with hidden laughter was enough to make Stroganoff chuckle. 

“What did you get?”

Vanilla squinted, “Don’t go snooping, pal. Why do you wanna know all of this anyway?”

“It’s called conversation, I’ve known you for a decade now, but I honestly don’t know that much about you.”

“Huh,” Vanilla said, Stroganoff’s response catching the scrawny artist off guard. His expression softened, before going back to its regular frown. “Well, I don’t know jack ‘bout you, so why don’t you tell me something about you?”

“Alright, what do you want to know?”

“Oh jeez, I dunno. Why are you so fat?”

“I eat a lot.”

“No that’s-” Vanilla grumbled. “That was just me being stupid.” There was a pause, the scrawny salmonid thinking to himself. Then he remembered something.

“You said you changed your name. Why?”

Stroganoff sighed. “That? That’s a long story.” He quietly got up and headed for the kitchen. He reached for the top of the cabinets, where only he (and dust) could reach, and pulled out a bottle of liquor. “Gonna be needing this.”

Chapter Text

It started with a love story. As most stories do. Between a man and his rival. Perhaps she was the best steelhead to have ever lived. But she didn’t fall in combat. It was her eggs that killed her, and the man was left alone promising that he would raise their children.

That man was Stroganoff’s father. He made sure his children all knew of their mother’s legacy. How she could rip throats with ease, that her fins could snap bones. Her armour stood tall in the centre of the house, and their father made a promise:

“I will make you all warriors, but only one of you will be worthy enough to inherit her armour.”

Their father meant well, but he was a warrior before a parent, and he rolled in his sleep.

There was a reason why Ravioli slept in an entirely different room.

Those that learned to sleep on the floor lived longer, their sleep fitful and bodies stiff, but hearts still beating by the time the sun rose. And when their father woke up, those still alive would be tasked with a new trial. It felt like their father had a new test for his children every day. Physical challenges that pushed everyone to their limits until they couldn’t move.

And sometimes, those that couldn’t move wouldn’t ever get up again.

Stroganoff himself had bonded with two of his siblings. They were independant and didn’t mind sleeping on the floor, huddling next to the skittish Stroganoff who couldn’t sleep alone. And so, Stroganoff, his brother, and his sister, made a promise to each other: To never be apart, and that no matter what their father threw at them, they’d endure it together.

And that was life. They grew up, they survived. Everyday they passed their mother’s armour. Stroganoff didn’t know what his siblings thought, but he looked up at the armour and knew he wanted it.

Then something changed. Their father passed away.

It was just them left. No other siblings. Just three giants on the cusp of earning knighthood from a newly appointed chief, and two sets of armour.

They planned to sort the dispute amicably. They’d duel and decide who gets what that way. No hard feelings.

And then Stroganoff won. And there were hard feelings.

The chief recruited him as a knight, the salmonid proud to have the strongest of the three siblings as his knight, standing proud in his mother’s armour. His sister didn’t want knighthood, but kept her father’s armour polished.

His brother, however, had nothing. And that was a problem for the salmonid that wanted everything. He wanted to be a knight, He wanted his mother’s armour, and Stroganoff had both.

They had fights, verbal and physical. The verbal fights ended up physical anyway, and Stroganoff always won.

“I was a different person then,” Stroganoff said, pouring himself another shot of alcohol. “Not a good one. I hurt my brother. He’d probably be dead if it weren’t for my sister.”

Things turned nasty. His sister took his brother’s side. Calling Stroganoff unreasonable and greedy, and Stroganoff refused to bow down and relinquish the armour. Even when his siblings only demanded apologies, Stroganoff refused, snarling and raising his fist at the only two people he had cared about.

So they left. They didn’t need Stroganoff. His sister had wanderlust in her eyes and left the village entirely. His brother sulked in some corner of the village, his hobbies his only companion.

But it was only when they were gone did Stroganoff realised something. He needed them. The skittish child that had needed his siblings to sleep peacefully suddenly had fitful nights. He couldn’t speak for himself either, what remained of his backbone disappeared. He was a knight, a mouthpiece for the chief, and his armour rattled when put in front of a crowd. It was all well and good that Stroganoff was a merciless killer, but he was an embarrassment if left to open his mouth.

It didn’t help that he’d cry. When he couldn’t sleep, he wept. He wept over his mistakes. He wept over burned bridges. He wept because he was alone, and oh how he was willing to give everything up if only to have his siblings by his side again. Nights spent crying turned to days where he was tired.

The chief knew something was wrong, and they talked. It was not the talk of friends, it was the talk of a superior to his knight. Stilted, full of half truths and vague threats.

“In the end, I was suspended. At least until I sorted out my problems.” Stroganoff spoke. “I became a fixture at the market. I spoke to almost every single merchant who gave therapy. Most of it went nowhere.”

One merchant did mention something. A respite for giants such as himself. Forgo knighthood for something humbler, maybe happier. With that, Stroganoff thought about it, and he accepted it. He told the chief that he was departing, and so he did.

“What happened after that is it’s own story-”

Vanilla groaned. “You’re skimping out!”

Stroganoff snorted. “You asked why I got my title changed, not  ‘why I lived in a monastery for a few years’. Besides,” he says, looking at his bottle of alcohol, “I need significantly more of a drink to talk about that.”

It was years later that he reunited with the village. Spawning season gave him a terrible longing, and those on the salmon run invited him back.

“Funnily enough, I didn’t have much trouble with my title before I returned. The monastery didn’t use titles. But then I had to say my title out loud, and I felt ashamed. My title was as bloodied as my past, and I wanted to let it go.”

Stroganoff tapped the desk. “Well, that’s about it. Now, are you gonna tell me your oh so secret item you bought for Cookie?”

Vanilla was a little dumbfounded by the whiplash, having forgotten what had sparked Stroganoff’s trip down memory lane.

“Right… I just bought her some tea.” He took a sip from his own cup. “I busted my tail looking for someone who’d give me an egg for trading, and ended up drawing my first commission for it. Well uh. That’s it. Darn. Now I feel like I’m the one skimping out.”

Stroganoff laughed.

✦✦✦

In another room, chores had been largely forgotten about. Prying ears strained to eavesdrop, a body rooted to the spot in hopes to catch every last word, growing numb as the very threat of moving put a risk of losing out on what was being said.

Chapter Text

Life for Horn became different after she got her new prosthetic. At first she only wore it around the house, going back to her wooden one when going out. She was embarrassed to admit it, but getting used to her new tail was significantly more difficult than she had thought. Her sense of balance was tested almost constantly, and she only stopped wobbling when she had fallen over.

Of course, this didn’t stop Horn. Her new tail opened up many possibilities for her, and she wanted to explore them all. Wagging was something she really wanted to do, shaking her tail even if she was only practising for when something joyful happened (or her excuse was that having a tail she could wag was reason enough to wag). Wagging, however, normally showed her weak spots. She’d lose her balance in some way, by shaking herself too hard, her tail landing at a funny angle, or dislodging her tail from where it met her body.

She’d cling to whatever surface was nearby as she slowly fell over, before getting up and starting it all over again.

However, above all other opportunities Horn could think of that involved her new tail, only one prospect truly excited her: Swimming.

She made quite the fuss over it, arranging to have both Vanilla (since he got her the tail afterall) and Stroganoff over to watch her go swimming for the first time. Naturally, Ravioli was watching too, peeking from the window while the three adults loitered on the path.

Horn’s plan was to take her first swim in the water’s around the neighbourhood, and was currently getting undressed. The silver faced salmonid didn’t have any swimming attire, and was left bare, only her tail’s harness left on her body.

Once she was ready to dive in… she didn’t. Instead Horn stared at the water with dread, her fins fiddling with each other as her body tensed.

“What’s the matter?” Stroganoff asked.

“I’m… scared.” Horn squeaked. “I-I’ve never gone swimming before, what if something happens…”

The big shot gave Horn a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Nothing is going to happen. Worst case scenario, I’ll fish you out.” He glanced over to Vanilla. “And if you feel lonely, I’ll throw him in.”

“HEY!”

That got a chuckle out of Horn. But still she was nervous, getting cold fins over the whole ordeal.

“Want me to lower you in?” Stroganoff asked.

She quietly nodded. With that, Stroganoff picked up Horn and lowered her into the water. The thick green embraced Horn, and soon was supporting her more than Stroganoff. She bobbed in the waters, her fins splayed as she tried to find balance, before Stroganoff let her go.

There was a yelp and a splash, Horn flailing in the water now that she had no support. The way she rolled was inelegant, and Stroganoff was prepared to pull the woman back out if she needed it. But that never came to be, as Horn found her footing in the water, and stabilised herself easily enough.

Her tail became one with her, as the salmonid discovered something: she could swim. There was no sudden sinking, no struggling just to find balance or stay afloat. Just her in the water. And like all salmonids faced with water, she dived in. 

Bubbles escaped as air got replaced with water, gills welcoming the soothing flow of water over them.

Stroganoff and Vanilla watched as Horn disappeared into the murky depths, the only sign of where she was being her white tail. They observed how she swam, nervous and slow, meandering as if afraid to commit to any one direction. Then, something must have changed, as she started to pick up speed.

A lot of speed, the silver faced woman darting about in circles, going faster, turning tighter-

And then her tail disappeared altogether.

The men didn’t have to wonder where it went for too long, as Horn’s face started to rise-

And then shot out of the water in a majestic leap.

It lasted for less than a second, but it was a second of triumph. Horn’s mouth opened with a huge smile, eyes to the sky as her tail and fins propelled her into the air.

There was something magical in that moment, Horn guided by nothing but her ancestral instincts to rise out of the water, her new tail propelling her to heights she never dreamed of before.

Then gravity pulled her down, and Horn was suddenly aware of a horrifying fact: Her instincts told her how to jump, but they did not tell her how to land.

Horn was barely able to stutter out a noise before she hit the water, a loud smack as she bellyflopped back into the green depths. The two men flinched. That looked like it hurt.

There was a moment of silence as they waited to see if Horn would resurface. They did not believe the woman was in any danger; but after a fall like that, they wouldn’t blame Horn if she faked her own death and fled to the next town over.

She resurfaced rather quickly despite the fact. A sheepish look on her face as she said “I’m okay!”

A laugh was exchanged between all three, as Horn reported that bellyflops hurt quite a lot.

The rest of Horn’s swimming session went smoothly, and soon both men were in the water too. Horn dragged Vanilla in (emotionally), and Stroganoff felt a bit left out sitting on the path by himself. The neighbourhood was shook as the giant enthusiastically cannonballed his way into the water, waves slapping against supports more loudly than usual.

The sun was teasing the sky with orange when they came out of the water, Ravioli walking outside to check on them. Vanilla was exhausted, curled on Horn’s back once she had her clothes back on.

“How was swimming?” Ravioli asked.

“It was amazing!” Horn answered, “You won’t believe how good it was to be able to swim.”

“I wouldn’t.”

That caused Horn to stop for a moment, Vanilla lifting his head and opening his eyes. They shared a look, mixed emotions as they felt conflicted. While Horn had finally experienced something she had only been able to dream of, it was punctuated with some form of apologetic guilt.

Much like Horn before today, Ravioli would never swim in the ocean. Everyone knew of the inkling’s curse, that they were born from the ocean like everyone else, but forbidden from returning to it.

However, Horn didn’t feel guilt for too long, as she gave Ravioli a sympathetic smile.

“It’s like flying.”

Chapter Text

The Spring heat was merciless, a heatwave blowing in on the village. School was currently cancelled due to nobody being in the mood for it, and Ravioli was melting.

It was a funny party trick she had learned. Tensing her chest and ink sac while letting the rest of her body relax. Her body was made of ink, and nothing made it more evident when her body could go flat and limp against surfaces. Doing it on the floor was funny, becoming a literal Ravioli shaped puddle. Having her head ‘spill’ off the side of a table was a riot. And peak comedy was to sit on her chair, her body limp against all surfaces and the floor, becoming the oddest set of stairs imagined.

Her father had been worried the first time he saw her doing it, fearing that the heat was starting to boil the poor inkling. Luckily she became three dimensional the instant he called her name, the inkling giggling at her father’s reaction. Even still, he worried for his daughter’s well being, and treated both himself and Ravioli to some water from the tap.

There was nothing quite like water, with its beautiful emerald hue and thick consistency. Naturally, people debated on if the metallic, coppery taste was the best, or the sweet aftertaste that cloyed one's tongue. Stroganoff personally had grown to dislike the metallic taste- too similar to memories of salmonid blood in his mouth. Ravioli, however, recoiled when her water was too sweet, associating the aftertaste with nausea.

Once they both had their fill of water, Stroganoff returned to his work. Ravioli, being a bit bored, meandered in and watched.

“Hey dad?” she asked, as Stroganoff worked on a broken pan.

“Yes, Ravioli?”

“Why do you repair things for the village?”

“Well, there’s nobody else in the village who can do metal work. Not anymore at least.” He wiggled one of the pan’s sides, the way it wiggled betrayed how brittle it had become. “There used to be a good metal smith in the village. Knew how to make suits of armour.”

“Have you ever made armour?”

“I’ve made a helmet for a small fry once,” Stroganoff smiled, “but not armour. Nothing like what the steelhead wear.”

“Oh,” Ravioli furrowed her brows. This was an opportunity to find out more about the armour in Stroganoff’s closet, but she didn’t quite know how to get there. “Why don’t you like steelheads?”

Stroganoff paused. He looked over to Ravioli. In the grand scheme of things, he didn’t know how old his daughter was. Sure, she was ten years old, but what did that mean for her maturity?

While he debated on if Ravioli was mentally ready, he realised that it didn’t matter. It was he who had to decide if he was ready to share his story or not.

“I used to be one.”

Ravioli was quiet as she lied, faking mild surprise. She had known this for months, vaguely aware of the possibility for years now, but there was no elegant way to tell him she knew. Because he would ask her how she found out, and Ravioli wasn’t sure if she was ready to share how she learned it.

Stroganoff, however, smiled. “A lot of things happened to me while I was a steelhead, a good lot of those knights aren’t as nice as they want you to think.” He sighed. “Including me.”

There was silence between the two, Stroganoff figuring out words, and Ravioli not knowing what to say.

“I’m sorry.” Ravioli said.

“Don’t be,” Stroganoff said, “ It wasn’t too bad. I made some mistakes that I feel bad about, but I don’t regret my time as a steelhead.” He puffed out his chest and flexed a fin. The muscles in his shoulder bulged, and for a rare moment, Ravioli met an entirely different man. Boastful and proud.

“I used to be the best warrior in the village, nobody could top my skills. And believe me, they tried.”

And then, the man disappeared. Stroganoff relaxed his fin and exhaled his held breath. “Admittedly, I almost worry that I am still the best warrior in the village.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t have fought Sprout.” He looked at Ravioli. “You know he’s your uncle, right?”

A genuine question from the older man, not sure if Brussel Sprout had told Ravioli their familial connection.

She nodded. “Why don’t you like him?”

“Ah…” Stroganoff’s shoulders drooped. “It’s not like I want to dislike him, he’s my brother after all, but…” A thought crossed his mind. “Actually, I can show you why. Come with me.”

Curious, Ravioli followed, as Stroganoff walked to his bedroom. At once, Ravioli felt herself holding her breath. She normally wasn’t allowed inside her father’s room, but her eyes automatically darted to her father’s closet.

Unaware that his child had once disturbed the very relic hidden inside, Stroganoff opened his closet. Inside was a pile of scrap hidden under a cloth. He needed only to nudge it to find what he was looking for, that being a large frying pan.

With ease, he lifted the pan. Ravioli watched in awe as the scrap pulled upwards, straps and fasteners moving with the pan like the strings of a marionette. 

Life was breathed into the pile of metal with just Stroganoff’s strength, and beside him stood a suit of steelhead armour. Coppery leaves decorated the helmet pan, like a golden laurel to rest on one’s head. The same leaves decorated pauldrons and suspenders, concluded upon the hilt of a sword that rested by the waist.

“This, Ravioli, is my mother’s armour.”

Ravioli stared in awe. She had known of its existence, and yet that knowledge did not prepare her for seeing it stand tall before her. It was like looking at a ghost, the empty armour containing enough majesty that Ravioli could see its previous wearer. A woman, who looked like a kinder version of Stroganoff’s sister, rested in the negative space between pans and straps.

“My mother died before I was born, and my father told my siblings and I that he would train all of us into knights worthy of wearing her armour. In the end, I had earned that right, and Sprout was never happy about that.”

Stroganoff sighed, and the armour was laid to rest on the floor.

“He would cause fights. I know I should have been the better person, but he knew how to rile me up and make me look the villain.”

There was a smudge on the armour. Stroganoff licked it off.

“I’d like to make amends, but I burned that bridge years ago, and I doubt Sprout would accept my apologies without me handing the armour over.”

Ravioli nodded. She felt conflicted. On one hand, she knew from Bean how violent her father was, but on the other, she didn’t doubt her father when he said he wanted to say sorry.

And yet, the incident at school played in her head. The snap, the death threat, and that word not even Ravioli could consistently utter. Her father didn’t want to be violent, but it lurked in the shadows Stroganoff cast.

“Well,” Stroganoff said, “That’s about it. ‘Suppose I should put this away now.” He said, glancing at the armour.

“Wait,” Ravioli said. Curiosity spurred her on, as well as the desire to see the armour out for longer. “Can you put it on?”

“Oh, um,” Stroganoff sheepishly looked down at his stomach. “Admittedly I’m not as svelte as I used to be. I don’t think it fits anymore.” He said. However, the proud man who once wore the armour took control of Stroganoff’s fins. Parts were unclasped, straps opened, and with practised movements, Stroganoff balanced the helmet atop his head, the mouthpiece resting under his chin.

“Can at least still put on the helmet,” he remarked. A smile curled on his face as he looked up at the metal atop his snout.

“You look so cool, dad!” Ravioli said.

Stroganoff chuckled at that. “Thank you.”

It had been a long time since Stroganoff had taken the armour out for anything beyond obligatory maintenance, where he did nothing but curse its existence. And yet, with his child looking at him with awe, cheering him simply putting it on, Stroganoff felt warm in the cold metal. For the first time in a long while, the armour was something he was proud of.

He spent a good while longer with the helmet on, showing Ravioli how it worked.

Chapter Text

There was a day in every child’s life in which they looked at toys and felt no spark to play. Generations of children rolling balls, bashing blocks and squishing plushies eventually grew bored, handing things over to a younger child.

Brussel Sprout’s favourite toy was introduced into his life the day his father brought him home. The giant had stored a whole trove of toys as part of his hoard, and happily upended the whole box for his newborns.

Many of the toys were not suitable for babies, wooden blocks snubbed as soft plushies were cuddled.

Sprout found a really big one, at least big for a newborn who had to take a nap after every meal. It was incredibly long, and what it lacked in girth, it made up for in ways to play with it. Big buttons and fun flaps decorated the sides, and one end was decorated with tassels. Those tassels would go in his mouth often, and when his teeth started coming in, it was the tassels that felt them first.

“Wa’s dis?” Either Sprout or his siblings would ask, pointing to the wet and chewed up toy.

“That is a squid.” Father answered. 

From that day forward, Sprout found himself adoring his toy, now that it had a name. By the time everyone was stretching out and hitting growth spurts, they grew bored of their toys, and soon everything that once left the toy box was returned. 

All except for one.

The little toy squid had grown up with Sprout, getting bigger as patches upon patches were layered, new buttons sewn on and details ripped off and replaced with fresher examples. In a distant memory, Sprout could remember when it was pink and blue. It had gone through many colours over the years, changing with every whim, needing patches every now and then through what could only be explained as wear and tear.

It was because of this wear and tear that Sprout found himself trailing into the tailor as the sun began to rise. His toy safely hidden in a satchel that rested underneath his broken fin, while his functioning fin fumbled with the door.

The tailor herself was displeased to have a customer so early, as she asked a curt “Well what are you here for so early?” to the giant.

“I suggest you watch your tone around a knight,” Sprout said.

“Yeah, well I make the chief’s underwear. So how ‘bout you watch your tone around me ,” the tailor spat back. 

Sprout’s last words died as a grumble in his throat, as he and the tailor locked eyes. However, he said nothing more, as he admitted defeat to the tailor.

Salmonids were famous for their bickering and fighting, as folks harboured hostilities to one another. Times of peace were shaky at best, and all it took was for a debate to get too heated and for weapons to be pulled out.

That, or sometimes you angered your brother by accidentally making the local inkling run away. Whoops.

However, there were moments where fighting was just not worth it. There was a gesture salmonids did, as a sign of good will in good times, and a sign of submission and defeat in times of conflict. One Sprout hated to employ, but since he was still badly beat up, and in need of the tailor, he found himself begrudgingly doing so.

Sprout stuck his tongue out of his mouth, soft pink teased out from its snout of sharpened teeth. What the gesture was supposed to mean, be it literally holding your tongue, showing you were in no state to bite or something else, Sprout didn’t know. But it did get the tailor in a more agreeable mood, snorting at him before calming down.

“So what are you here for? Break your pants?” She asked.

Sprout said nothing, struggling to open his satchel with his only working fin. He managed in the end, however, placing his plush squid on the tailor’s table.

“I need this patched.”

The tailor looked less than thrilled to see the heap of fabric, at first mistaking it for half chewed food. Puncture holes littered the squid’s body, an eye threatening to run away from the abuse done to it, while the tentacles were barely holding together.

And it was wet .

The tailor grimaced as her fin felt moisture, her eyes staring up at the giant.

“You chew this.”

Sprout let out a growl. The tailor snorted.

“You were sticking your tongue out just a moment ago. Mind your manners, boy. I’ll fix your stupid chew toy.” She prodded it to the side with a scratched up ruler, “once it’s no longer wet. It’ll take a day, assuming I don’t have better things to do.”

Sprout nodded, and turned to leave. He stopped, however, when he heard a voice. 

“Mummy!” Came a small child, a little small fry waddling out from somewhere deeper in the building. “Mummy I had a scawy dweam.”

The child flopped onto the tailor’s side, burying her face into her mother’s clothing. As if her customer did not exist, the tailor focused on her child, scooping up the baby and cradling her.

The nonsense the tailor cooed to her child was lost on Sprout, as his other senses took interest.

The small fry smelled familiar. Smelled of kin. And with disgust, Sprout realised that it was Stroganoff’s spawn.

He slammed the door on his way out.

✦✦✦

Ravioli was bored. School was still out, it was still hot, and there was nothing to do. She was staring at her favourite scrapper and rolling its wheel, but was in no mood to actually play. She stared at her toys on their disorganised pile, and felt the dread of effort just thinking about playing.

What she was doing couldn’t even count as playing. Just fiddling with the wheel as time ticked past.

There was no grand chase or elaborate stunt, or even mommy scraper and daddy scrapper bashing into each other to make more scrappers. Just the toy in one hand, and the wheel spun by the other.

Suppose it made sense. She was 10 now. She was practically an adult. Adults didn’t play with toys (or at least, she hasn’t found any stashed away in her dad’s room), so surely this was a sign of her maturity.

She sighed, looking at the pile of toys again. She wished she had the mood to play with them, if only because she was so bored.

She could hear kids playing outside, splashing about in the water. Chirps and hoots as they threw water about. She could also hear where they were, if she focused right. It was strange. She had only realised it recently, but she could sense where someone was, even if they were quiet and behind a wall, as long as they were close enough. Though, ‘close’ was a relative term, with Ravioli able to perceive people as far as the end of the road in their neighbourhood.

None of the kids at school had understood what Ravioli was talking about, scoffing at her and declaring that she had just learned how to smell and track someone- not a big deal. So she didn’t mention it much. Not even Potato thought it was that cool, even after Ravioli could more reliably count how many people were in a room without looking than Potato himself.

Horn was outside too. Ravioli couldn’t hear her, but the inkling knew that the silver-faced salmonid was swimming. Horn was doing laps around the houses, diving under the path before resurfacing on the other side. It was weird. When Horn swam too deep, she would ‘disappear’ to Ravioli, but would ‘reappear’ once she swam up.

Dad was on the couch. Either reading or napping. He had left his workshop because it was too hot, and then flopped down on the couch with a generous helping of water.

And Ravioli was bored .

She plopped her scrapper beside her bed and rolled off. Maybe something to drink would make her feel better.

Turns out dad was napping, a soft snore rumbled from his gills while his tongue lolled out. He stirred once Ravioli walked past, and struggled to speak with his heavy, dry tongue.

“It’s way too hot, Ravioli. Surprised you’re not evaporating in this heat.”

Ravioli nodded, taking a cup to the tap and pouring water for herself.

“I wonder how Horn’s doing in this heat,” Stroganoff remarked. “I’m half tempted to go swimming and invite her along.”

“Horn’s already gone swimming,” Ravioli answered. “She’s doing laps.”

Stroganoff nodded. Suppose it made sense for the woman to practise swimming with everyone else. 

“How’s her swimming coming along?” He asked.

Ravioli shrugged.

“But… weren’t you just outside?”

“No? I’ve been in my room?”

Stroganoff cocked his head. “But then how did you know Horn was doing laps?”

Stroganoff may as well have asked Ravioli why she could see the colour blue.

“I just feel she’s outside, you know?” Ravioli said, and then pointed in the middle distance, her tentacle slowly moving in one direction. “This way.”

Stroganoff found himself dealing with a lot more things than one should have to deal with after taking a nap. His head swivelled into the direction Ravioli was pointing in, even though he knew he would just see the walls of his house.

Naturally, Stroganoff could smell Horn, but not with the odd accuracy of Ravioli. At best, Stroganoff knew she was in the neighbourhood, along with the rest of the neighbours, but couldn’t track the woman the way Ravioli was.

As Ravioli’s tentacle slowly inched towards one of the windows, Stroganoff got up to look. Part of him didn’t quite believe in Ravioli’s ‘feeling’, but that doubt was dashed as he saw Horn swam past, in the direction Ravioli had been pointing.

“Hi Stroganoff!” Horn said, before she disappeared into the waters.

Stroganoff found his eyes going back to his daughter, mouth open ajar.

“How… Did you do that?”

Ravioli shrugged. “Can you not do that?”

“No, Ravioli that’s… nowhere near what I can smell…” In his mind, Stroganoff was reeling at the oddity that was his daughter. But was she? Perhaps this was normal for inklings. It wasn’t like Stroganoff knew anything about the squids. Any discoveries Ravioli made about herself were discoveries for everyone else too. Where it was her colour changing, or shifting into a squid by accident, or this time, a killer tracking sense.

“Well it’s. Not something I’ve heard anyone doing before. Are you sure it’s not just your nose? Maybe it’s finally got stronger?”

Ravioli shook her head. “Nope, I feel it in my fins,” she said, pointing to the little triangles on either side of her head.

✦✦✦

The waves were the only thing that greeted Ravioli late at night, as the inkling found herself sneaking out of the house.

It was late, later than when she usually snuck out, and even the night time bustle had gone to bed. Her hearts were beating loudly in her chest, as she looked around at her surroundings, her fins trying to find any person who would be awake at this hour.

With the coast clear, Ravioli ran down the road. Running as if she was anticipating being caught.

It had been late in the evening in which Ravioli’s mind wandered back to Sprout, the damaged salmonid glowering at her back at the festival. She wondered what she had done that the salmonid tormented her so, and worried what would happen once he recovered enough to go back to teaching.

Then her mind wandered again, to Sprout laying in his bed, to Sprout’s house. And then to the screaming she had heard within. 

What was inside Sprout’s home that only Ravioli could hear, a grating scream coming from so many voices that it deafened Ravioli's own thoughts? Even though Potato claimed he couldn’t hear anything, Ravioli was nervous about it all. 

It couldn’t just be nothing. It just didn’t make sense. Then what was it?

Her mind had gone back to that afternoon, where her father stood bewildered at what had been a new thing only Ravioli could do. Hearing the screaming from Sprout’s home was also something only Ravioli could hear, and so her mind thought:

If not even a salmonid could smell out who had been screaming… could Ravioli’s fins sense what (or who) was the source? Especially since she had a growing suspicion that if there was anyone trapped in Sprout’s home… it would be an inkling.

The thought scared her, but the thought of leaving someone in Sprout’s cruel fins scared her even more. She’d worry about how to save them later, but she needed to know if her suspicions were right.

As she ran, her fins picked up the presence of people. All of them lay resting in their homes, and those still walking around the inkling avoided. She travelled all the way to the knight’s homes, stopping once she hit her destination.

The wall of homes stood tall in front of the stars, consuming the light, and leaving the roads in front of it plunged in darkness. A lamp, the only one at the end of the road, did nothing more than make the shadows stronger.

It was like a gaping maw, and with trepidation, Ravioli walked forward, towards Sprout’s home.

At first, she could only sense Sprout within his own house, the rest of the home empty. But Ravioli was not going to accept this as an answer, slowly closing the gap between herself and the giant’s home.

Then it started. The ringing. The formless noise in Ravioli’s ears that only grew louder and more coherent the closer she got, until all that filled her head was screaming. It was overpowering, the voices doing their damndest to hijack control of the young inkling, to push her away from the home. She shuddered, her ink turned black as breathing became difficult.

But Ravioli was here on a mission- to find who it was that was screaming. And that purpose was enough to ground her, enough to save her from the blind panic the screaming desired to instil in her. Her fins focused on Sprout’s home, searching for anyone who wasn’t the damaged salmonid himself.

And there was nobody else.

In disbelief, thinking the screaming was just affecting her senses, Ravioli searched again, closing her eyes as her fins mapped out Sprout’s home.

And there was nobody else.

Once more, Ravioli tried, her fins shaking as her impulse told her to rush inside the salmonid’s home, her tentacles barely reaching for the handle and opening before she realised her mistake. The screaming continued as pandora’s box was opened, Ravioli looking in, hoping now she would find the inkling-

But there was nobody else.

The lamp outside was barely bright enough to shed any light inside, but Ravioli’s eyes wandered to a table in front of her. A lump of purple, with tentacles and button eyes, stared back at her.

Fear finally overtook her, and the inkling scrambled away. The haunting screaming quietened the further Ravioli ran, reality and colours and air rushing back into her the further she got away.

Part of her was counting her blessings for just escaping, while her thoughts grew scared of the screaming once more. If nobody was screaming… then what was Ravioli hearing? Thoughts of ghosts filled the inkling’s mind, as a cool breeze ruffled her shoulders.

And in the morning, Sprout would wake up to find his front door wide open, the scent of inkling on the handle.

Chapter Text

Ravioli’s new ability to locate everyone in the neighbourhood aside, she was still bored, and the inkling remembered her talk with Horn a long time ago.

Perhaps something else should have stuck, but Horn had mentioned hobbies, and well, maybe Ravioli needed one.

“Horn, how do you get hobbies?” Ravioli said as she barged into the salmonid’s home. Horn had been minding her own business eating hard tack, and jumped when her door opened with a slam.

“Ravioli- I-” The blond looked almost terrified, life flashing before her eyes before realising what Ravioli said. “What.”

“Hobbies! You told me about your garden, how do you do that? I’m bored.” Ravioli added at the end, to explain everything.

“You want to know how to start a hobby?”

Ravioli nodded.

“Well um, I suppose you just have to find something that interests you. But I can show you how to garden.”

With that, Horn finished her hard tack and guided Ravioli to another part of the house. There Horn kept a stack of old worn mugs and a sack of soil. The sack had foreign text on it, and Ravioli couldn’t help but think it was silly to need to use so many squiggles just to describe dirt .

“So um, I figure I’ll just show you the basics.” Horn said, instructing Ravioli on filling one of the mugs with solid, using a pencil to make a hole, before planting a seed of something called ‘Time’.

“How can you grow time?” Ravioli asked.

Horn giggled at that. “It’s a type of herb, not the actual concept of time.”

“Oh.” Ravioli was a bit disappointed, having hoped that the seed she had planted would start sprouting clocks.

With that, Horn showed Ravioli how to prepare water for the plants, filtering out the salt (and colour) from the water outside until all that was left was an odourless, colourless liquid.

“Are you sure that’s water?” Ravioli asked, squinting at the transparent fluid. Despite Horn’s insistence, Ravioli remained distrusting, refusing to even sip it despite watching Horn willingly dip her tongue in it.

But, feeling like a mad scientist, Ravioli dribbled a little bit of ‘water’ over the seed, watching as the water disappeared.

“Now we wait.” Horn said, waddling back to her couch.

“How long does Time take to grow?”

“A month.”

Something in Ravioli flinched at that. She had expected it to take half an hour. A month was… Significantly longer. If only they were growing time. Ravioli would use it to hurry up the plant.

Chapter Text

“Can you teach me how to draw?” Ravioli asked in the middle of refilling Vanilla’s jars.

“No.” Vanilla answered, not even looking up from his painting.

“Why not? You taught my dad!”

“Yeah, and that's how I realised I don’t wanna teach; less talking, more ink.”

Ravioli crossed her arms and pulled away from the jars.

“What if I don’t fill in the jars unless you agree to teach me?”

“Ravioli, you are indebted to me, not the other way around.” Vanilla said, finally looking up. “Plus you’re the only person in this village who can draw at any point.”

Ravioli frowned at that. “What do you mean? I don’t know how to draw.”

“Everyone knows how to draw. Give a salmon a stick and some mud and he’ll put his mind on it.”

“But I’m not a salmonid!”

“I know. If only you had some way of drawing whenever you wanted, like you were some… species of squid famous for its colourful ink production . ”

“What does that mean…” she trailed off, vaguely understanding where Vanilla was going with this. “You mean I can just draw? Whenever?”

Vanilla shrugged. “Stick your tongue out real quick.”

Once Ravioli was doing what he asked, the artist reached over and dipped his brush on her tongue. He then traced the ink filled brush on an empty page, doodling a little inkling on the corner. He said nothing, but glanced at Ravioli with a bemused expression.

“Wait! I want to try!” Ravioli said, grabbing Vanilla’s brush and paper, before giving the brush a good lick. Once it was dripping with ink, Ravioli tried to draw some stick figures. She drew Vanilla and herself, before sharing it with Vanilla.

She was expecting a ‘Wow!’ or a ‘Cool!’ from Vanilla, but was quickly reminded to lower her standards.

“Yup. You did it.” Vanilla said. He then took his brush back for his own work.

“How do you get better at art?”

“Copious mental breakdowns.”

Chapter Text

Deciding that the glamorous life of an artist (one filled with screaming, crying, and something known as ‘impostor syndrome’) wasn’t for Ravioli, she continued searching for hobbies.

The choice to read loomed above Ravioli; literally in most cases, given the tall bookshelf in her house; but Ravioli did not currently hate herself. Most physical activities didn’t interest her, and the others either involved water or stabbing (or both in cases like underwater jousting).

She gave fishing an honest attempt, and then stopped when she hospitalised someone.

It was only when school started again did Ravioli find a new avenue to try.

She was helping mop up Mr Melon’s floor (this time there had been an incident regarding fish-based black pudding) when she told the skittish teacher her woes.

“Well, it may not be as exciting as all the sports, but have you thought about picking up cooking?” Mr Melon said as he wiped out a drawer that had been open during the incident.

“Cooking?” Ravioli said, her face betraying the horror of her teacher’s words. “I don’t wanna get swarmed…”

Mr Melon chuckled. “You don’t have to cook here, you know. If you want, we could do some private lessons. I haven’t been able to teach baking for a long while, and I’m sure you’d like it.”

Ravioli frowned. It wasn’t like she disliked Mr Melon, far from it! The poor salmonid, with his smashed face and missing eye, happened to be the only teacher Ravioli actually liked and talked to. It was just… this felt like homework. Not even the fun ‘eat all the problems on the page’ kind. Like actual work .

It was almost enough to make Ravioli debate reading.

At least until she remembered reading involved books, which made her suddenly very interested in Mr Melon’s proposition.

And so they settled on a time, meeting at Mr Melon’s house for cooking classes.

✦✦✦

It was the next day when Ravioli arrived at Mr Melon’s home, the inkling nervous as she knocked on the door. Mr Melon lived in a metal part of town. Everyone’s movement was musical, from a child scurrying past to the purposeful swish of a giant’s tail. A teenager practising drums rattled the path with his fast paced rhythm, and Ravioli could feel every note through her feet.

That, and she could sense everyone else around her. It was weird to think that Ravioli was alone in how she perceived the world, how nobody else felt the tickle in the back of their ears that she did when a home came into view.

If she wanted, she could count every single baby fast asleep in their parent’s beds in every single house. Or she could even ignore it, just knowing who had children and who lived alone as a simple fact.

Mr Melon lived alone. His home was a shack, corrugated metal roof turned a surprising shade of green, while a multitude of chimes hung on the eaves. The door shook when Ravioli knocked, and opened in an instant.

Mr Melon had a squashed face. On occasions, he had been compared to the equally flat faced Ravioli (usually by a moody Sprout, and usually followed with some creative threat comparing Mr Melon to cooked calamari). Right now, his face’s appearance was more prominent, his mouth open in a big lopsided smile.

“Ravioli! It’s good to see you. Please, come in!”

The salmonids house was the remains of someone else’s kitchen, his bed rolled up to the side as prepared bowls and ingredients greeted the inkling.

The air was comfortingly warm, and had Ravioli not been here for a lesson, she wouldn’t be opposed to a nap.

“So, I figured we could start with something easy and fun. Have you ever made cookies?”

“No,” Ravioli answered. Her eyes lit up at the prospect though, because who would say no to cookies?

✦✦✦

Ravioli was starting to notice a pattern with hobbies. There were periods where you had to stop and wait. With plants, you waited for them to grow; with art, you had to wait for paints to dry. Cooking was no different, as once the cookies went into the oven and the timer set, you had to wait.

Ravioli was wondering if she would need an additional hobby, a hobby to do while waiting for the other hobby to be ready.

In the meanwhile, Mr Melon and Ravioli cleaned.

“Hey, Mr Melon?”

“Yes?”

“What happened to your eye?”

“Knife,” he said, not looking up as he wiped a bowl.

This, however, was a terrible answer, and Ravioli soon found herself looking at the cutlery hanging on the wall.

Seeing her horrified expression, Mr Melon quickly elaborated. “Oh no no no! This was years back when I was still a stinger.”

Ravioli was taken aback, neither expecting the news, nor the way Mr Melon said it. Mr Melon was skittish about almost all forms of confrontation. It was even more outlandish to believe he had been a fighter at any point, than it was to think of Stroganoff as a steelhead.

Mr Melon continued. “Some sap from the opposing clan didn’t like me shooting at him, and so he threw a knife.”

The salmonid traced a line over where his missing eye was. Ravioli hadn’t noticed it before (not that she made it a hobby of staring at the empty space where Melon’s eye should be (thought, it would make for a great pastime if she was going to continue baking)), but there was a large straight scar over where his eye once was.

“Sorry…” Ravioli said.

“It’s fine, dear,” Mr Melon said comfortingly. “Doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“Well… what happened to your snout?”

“Same guy hit me with a frying pan.”

“Oh.”

“I got my revenge on him though! He didn’t think I’d take the knife out of my face. Kinda just… stabbed him in the eye too. The classic ‘eye for an eye’ thing,” he said, a lopsided smile on his squashed face.

It was surreal to Ravioli, hearing her teacher reminisce over old battles.

“Well um…” Ravioli said, wanting to change the subject as she wiped a cutting board. “My neighbour is missing her tail.”

“Aw, shame.” Mr Melon responded, a cluck of sympathy as he dried a few bowls.

“And you know how I was sick for a while?”

“Yes?”

“Well… I was sick because my mom died… and my neighbour said that losing my mom must have made me feel like losing a limb.”

Melon’s look of sympathy focused on Ravioli. Her illness had haunted a good few people that cared for Ravioli, and that included Melon himself.

Idly, he traced over where his missing eye was, before he spoke again.

“When I lost my eye, I was fine at first. I was more freaked out and fascinated over how different my vision felt than anything else.” He picked up a cup. “You wouldn’t think about it, but I’ve had to change how I drink, so I don’t cover my eye when drinking.” He proceeded to mimic sipping some water from the cup, drinking it decidedly over his left, blind, side.

“But then one night, it finally dawned on me what my situation meant. I realised that , well, I only have one eye left. And if I lose that, I’ll be blind.”

The counters were spotless, but the surfaces found themselves attacked as Melon continued.

“I remember that night well. I started crying. I felt so helpless and terrified. Scared that I could lose my other eye, that I would lose the ability to see.”

He stopped cleaning the counter, and gave Ravioli a weak smile.

“Is the grief… like that?”

Ravioli nodded. She didn’t know why water was dripping from her face, but it was anyway. “I’m afraid of my dad dying.”

Quietly, Mr Melon approached Ravioli, and pulled her into a hug. They said nothing more until the timer trilled, and the cookies were ready.

Chapter Text

At some point, Ravioli gave up on pursuing a hobby. It felt like nothing really interested her. Music instruments were intimidating, she had too many left feet for dancing, and singing was dashed when she discovered her voice disappeared when people looked at her.

Schoolwork at least kept her busy, and as Ravioli’s skill in fights increased, so did her enjoyment for combat classes. There was a thrill in a fair pummeling between both sides, no matter if Ravioli won or lost. She had even been promoted to the same level as Potato, the aspiring flipper flopper excited to finally share a class with his friend.

The class itself was something worth getting excited about too. When they weren’t organising duels, everyone was doing their own thing, learning different skills under different tutors.

A few kids were practising stinger drills, assembling their tower and disassembling it. A cohock was balancing a frying pan on his head as practice for wearing a steelhead helmet. Potato was being personally trained by his father, the old man making his son hold his breath ‘to really feel like a dragon.’

Even Ravioli was being specialised into… well, an inkling. It wasn’t easy, since she was the only inkling in the village, but her teacher was figuring things out. Right now, both Ravioli and her teacher were trying to make her shift into a squid. It was going about as well as asking a small fry to sit still.

Ravioli laid on her back and did everything in her power to shift. She folded herself into exotic shapes, spat out copious amounts of ink (by accident), squinted and thought about squids real hard, spat out copious amounts of ink (on purpose), and yet nothing was working.

Perhaps all she needed was a break, but that would be dashed when the tutor for the aspiring steelhead strolled in.

Sprout looked as angry as always, his broken fin swaddled against his chest, almost hidden away in the long robe he wore. His eyes met Ravioli’s, predatory as always, and soon his purpose here was forgotten.

“I see you’re learning to nap. You’ll advance to kindergarten if you keep it up.”

“Oi!” barked Ravioli’s instructor. Despite being smaller, the salmonid woman had no qualms squaring up against the injured giant. “She’s trying to shift, and I will not have you belittle her.”

“Belittle? I would never, especially not to my favourite student.” His eyes focused on Ravioli again, and he took a step closer. “In fact, I think I can help.”

The loud room grew silent, as Sprout revealed a sword tucked within his robe. Time stood still as the giant unsheathed the blade, before time freezing entirely as Ravioli came face to face with the end of the blade.

“I remember the first time you shifted,” he said, the sword’s edge ghosting the top of Ravioli’s chest. “It was a surprise to all, watching you shrink to avoid the sharp end of a knife.”

Ravioli could only stare at the sword, her hearts beating loudly in her chest. She was sure the sword vibrated just from being so close to her hammering chest.

“I wonder if you need a little more prompting .”

He raised the sword, and Ravioli could do nothing but watch as he brought it down to cleave her in two. She couldn’t move, her chest too heavy, her limbs too weak. She closed her eyes so she didn’t have to watch herself die.

And there it was, in her ink sac. It was like a muscle, immature, but it could function in a pinch, and that pinch was happening now.

She was already on the floor, but she could feel herself shift. Her body shrunk as it retreated into her head as if she were a snail, her arms and legs growing smaller and useless. Her two large tentacles, once tied back with her scale bangle, released themselves and became her arms.

But death never came, and neither did the thud of Sprout’s sword hitting where her head was.

Ravioli opened her eyes to see the blade nowhere near her, stopped prematurely by the knight himself and hanging in the air.

His expression was hard to read, but smirked as he saw his plan had worked. 

“Glad I could be of help,” Sprout said, as he sheathed his sword. “And by the way. Next time you come over, try do it when I’m awake. I’d love to have you over for tea.”

With that, the giant walked off. The class did its best to go back to normal, Ravioli left frozen on the floor.

Chapter Text

It had been a long time since the last incident, but once again, Ravioli was stuck as a squid, only able to stare up at the sky and slowly crawl everywhere. When the siren sang for the next class, everyone left and forgot about her. Except for two people.

Potato, and his father.

“You know, you’re supposed to ‘unsmall’”, Potato’s dad suggested, looking down at Ravioli.

He looked nothing like his son, droopy eyed and a bit squat. The scales on his body looked normal and healthy, but his face was pale, a normally scarlet snout was instead a pastel pink.

“I can’t,” Ravioli said miserably, “I don’t know how.”

Potato, however, had an idea. “Well, we all saw what happened, maybe you just need to relax?” Without asking, Potato scooped Ravioli up, cradling her in his fins.

“Hey dad, can we go home?”

“Don’t you have classes, son?”

“It’s probably first aid.”

“Bah! Useless subject. Lick anything small, sew anything big, read yourself a bedtime story if you’re dying. There,” Potato’s dad declared, “I saved you both hours of your life.

With that, Ravioli and Potato were allowed to skip class, a big smile on Potato’s face, and Ravioli flapping her fins in joy.

Potato didn’t live that far from school, or at least that’s how it felt from Ravioli’s perspective. It was… odd, to say the least. She was used to how her dad carried her, him slow and methodical. Potato, on the other hand, skidded . He didn’t go fast enough to endanger Ravioli, but that still put him at a pace faster than everyone else’s speed limit.

The house itself was lopsided, salvaged bent beams of metal giving the house its structure- if structure was the right word. A firm breeze looked like it could topple it down, and the house had anxiety from that alone.

The inside was a little better, all the walls decorated with art of dragons. Majestic silver beasts flying in the air and swimming in the oceans. There were even crude drawings, closer to the ground, of even more dragons, the artists currently fast asleep in the house’s bed.

Ravioli and Potato soon joined them, the salmonid plopping the squid onto an unoccupied space a bit away from the tired infants, before flopping down next to her.

“Alright, operation relaxation can begin!” Potato announced.

“Just lay back and snooze away the fact that you nearly got stabbed.”

Ravioli… couldn’t nod, but hoped that wiggling her tentacles conveyed the same thing. She relaxed, took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She got a whopping minute to herself before-

“Alright, I’m bored of this,” Potato said, “What the heck was Mr Sprout’s problem anyway?”

Ravioli sorely missed having shoulders, and flailed her tentacles in an attempt to shrug. “I don’t know… he’s always hated me.”

Potato solemnly nodded at that. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he's even more mad at you after what your dad did to him.” The young salmonid curled his one fin to his chest, replicating the look of Sprout’s broken fin. Then, that look of solemness disappeared, a mean grin replacing it. “Are you gonna tell your dad what happened? I wanna see ‘em fight again.”

Ravioli frowned under her tentacles, shrinking at the very idea of her father and Sprout fighting. She worried if her dad planned on keeping his word- ready and willing to kill Sprout for harming Ravioli again.

“I… don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Yeah, of course!”

Glancing to the napping babies, Ravioli beckoned Potato to lean close to her beak. In a hushed whisper, Ravioli explained what she knew. That Sprout was her uncle, how he used to love inklings, of the incident that divided the brothers; and of the chief, and the task he gave Ravioli.

Potato listened with rapt attention, and when Ravioli was finished, he asked about Sprout. “But wait, why does he hate you if he loves inklings?”

Ravioli shrugged. “Something must have happened to him, but I don’t know what. I was thinking of asking the chief about it.”

“You could also ask the chief to get him to tell Sprout to stop bothering ya!” Potato said.

Ravioli lit up. “That’s a great idea!”

“...but… you should probably unsquid first.”

“Right… I don’t know how though.”

“Well, it happened before, right? How’d you unsquid that time?”

Ravioli (flailed her tentacles in order to look like she) shrugged, “I just kinda… did it. You know?”

Potato did not know.

“Um,” Ravioli started, “Well, it’s in my chest,” she pointed to the bed, where her chest should have been, before remembering it was now above her head. “It tensed up, but normally it’s relaxed.”

As she was talking, Ravioli focused. Just like times before, she had to focus on what made her an inkling. Specifically, her ink sac, the strange organ that felt like both a blessing and a curse to the inkling. It made her special among the salmonids, but at times she couldn’t help but feel alienated for the very same reasons.

She yearned to have someone else who knew what it was like to have one, to have a mentor who could teach her, explain all the good she could do with her wonderful body. But all she had were secondhand accounts, of salmonids who saw inklings shift, but no clue on how the inklings felt when they shifted.

Right now, her ink sac felt strangely large, despite Ravioli’s smaller size. Specifically, Ravioli felt like she had become her ink sac. She could feel her skin ripple like liquid, and every subtle movement left a bit of inky residue in its wake, only to disappear.

Maybe that’s what happened? Did Ravioli just become her ink sac?

Ink had been a defence mechanism for not just inklings, but for their squid ancestors since the birth of molluscs. To offend, to disorientate, to distract or to harm, ink had evolved alongside the beings that utilised it. And in that moment where Ravioli thought she was going to die; would it not make sense that her instincts, older than the first squid to crawl on dry land, would resort to using ink to survive?

Then… surely she could tell herself that she was safe? That her ink had saved her, and it could go back to sleep? If she had hidden inside her ink sac, surely she could pull herself out?

And then it clicked. She could. There was a muscle that made her a squid, but its twin lay waiting to reverse the shift. All it needed was a little prodding and some practice.

It was not elegant, it was not fast, but Ravioli slowly pulled herself out of her squid form.

Potato yelped loudly as Ravioli’s form shifted and changed before his very eyes. Eyes bulged from the inkling’s head as half of her tentacles elongated; while the other half along with her face practically inverted itself.

The rest of Potato’s siblings, upon hearing Potato’s distress, woke up. The infants then saw the distorted body horror that was Ravioli’s slow shift, and started screaming.

And so, Ravioli’s understanding of shifting was born. Heralded by the sound of traumatised babies screaming at her.

Chapter Text

When Ravioli got home, she was more than happy to tell her dad about how she managed to shift… excluding all the men who made it possible. Her father was delighted with this news, proud that his daughter was learning more about herself. 

Ravioli, however, felt nervous. Tonight she would approach the chief, with both what she had learned about Stroganoff, and about Sprout. As her father prattled on, all she could do was smile and nod.

She helped with dinner, helped with cleaning, and then ‘went to bed’ early. She layed on her bed and waited for her father to go to bed himself.

By the time he was in his room, Ravioli had nearly fallen asleep. Her body felt heavy as she forced herself out from the comfort of her bed. The night was young, and plenty of folks were still walking under the glow of the street lamps.

“Ravioli? What are you doing?”

One of which was Horn, the salmonid wearing her white tail. Ravioli felt herself paling, as the woman approached her.

“You’re not… running away again, are you?” Horn asked.

“N-no!” Ravioli exclaimed.

“Then why are you sneaking out?”

Ravioli panicked. She needed a lie that would placate the silver faced salmonid, but was drawing a blank. The more time Ravioli spent quiet, the more likely Horn would know she was lying.

“I’m going to the chief,” Ravioli blurted out, giving up on lying.

Horn paled at the mention of the chief, worry in her eyes for the little inkling.

“Th-the chief? Ravioli, what have you done to get involved with him!?” The woman placed her fins on Ravioli’s shoulders, a tight grip on the inkling. “Please tell me you’re not in t-trouble.”

“I’m not in trouble!” Ravioli said, which eased Horn slightly, “but it’s a secret. You can’t tell my dad!”

“I-” Horn frowned, unable to complete her own sentence. She paused to think, her fins still holding Ravioli where she was. Eventually, she found what she wanted to say. “If you’re not back by midnight, I’m t-telling him.” She was nervous as she said it, the very thought of getting someone else involved (let alone Stroganoff of all people) with the chief making her stutter.

Still, she let Ravioli go, and with a time limit, Ravioli found herself running.

✦✦✦

“Well well well. If it isn’t my favourite little morsel.” The chief said as Ravioli entered the room. It was a different room, stuffed heads of fish (and salmonids) graced the wallpaper covered walls, while the chief was lazing upon a seat custom made for him.

In his arms was a giant- a salmonid woman that looked cartoonishly small merely by being next to the chief, her face wet and some of her clothing torn. She looked relieved to see Ravioli, someone to distract the salmonid she was barely tolerating.

“Do you bring news? Perhaps you have some information on a certain someone…?”

When Ravioli silently nodded to the chief, he let out a noise that could only be categorised as a laugh. He dismissed the woman, the giant more than happy to leave, and told Ravioli to make herself comfortable.

A cushion the size of Ravioli’s bed had been left on the floor, and with no other options for where to sit, the young inkling climbed on top of it. It smelled musty, and it clearly had not been washed in a long time, parts of the fabric having turned concerningly solid. However, she wasn’t given any time to complain about her seating, as the chief demanded she start sharing immediately. 

The chief didn’t care for Stroganoff’s childhood in any way, dismissively declaring ‘I knew that already,’ to most of what Ravioli tried to share. He perked up when Ravioli got to the subject of the inheritance, and with such a hungry look, Ravioli regretted even mentioning it.

“Ah yes. I remember that fondly,” he said. “None of them wanted people to watch, but I had recently claimed the spot of chief, so I demanded that I be there when they duelled.” The chief laughed. “That poor idiot Sprout. You should have seen the look on his face when he realised he had lost to both his brother and sister. I thought he was about to get a sword and start stabbing someone. It was a riot seeing how angry he was.”

The chief chuckled and wheezed, before continuing on his ramble.

“It got even better when I recruited Stroganoff right then and there!” The chief slapped the finrest of his couch. “Stroganoff looked like a puppyfish, and Sprout looked like he was gonna cry! Oh! Oh! It was so good!”

Ravioli said nothing, but tears threatened to leak from her eyes. She shouldn’t feel sorry for Sprout, and yet she did anyway. Her body betrayed her mind, feeling empathy for the monster that had tried to stab her earlier that day.

“But,” the chief said, “Stroganoff got everything he could have asked for. Why’s this important?”

That’s when Ravioli, albeit hesitantly now, revealed that the inheritance was only the beginning. Of how the siblings split up, and Stroganoff was made worse for it. 

“Hmm, yes, I remember when he started acting off. I just assumed it was that pesky ‘trauma’ thing- I have to keep one of my old knights around despite him being too scared to fight. I told Stroganoff to get better, and that was that.”

The chief smirked. “So you’re saying this entire time, he’s been crying like a baby because his loser brother abandoned him?” The chief laughed. A horrible cackle that once more made Ravioli uncomfortable.

She felt like this had been a mistake, and the chief had barely followed up on his end of the deal too. He had mostly been laughing at everything, like it was all one big joke.

However, despite all that, Ravioli still had her one demand- the real reason she had come here to begin with.

“A-about Mr Sprout,” Ravioli stumbled.

“Speak up! I thought I just heard a name there.”

“Y-yes. You see… S-sprout tried to hurt me today and-”

“Well what am I supposed to do about that?” The chief said. “You don’t look all that hurt to me.”

Something in Ravioli’s gut dropped. The sense that she had already lost, but it was too late to back out and say nothing.

“He’s your knight, c-can’t you tell him to stop? He tried to hurt me and he torments me at school…”

The chief snorted. “That just sounds like he’s doing his job, despite what your father did to him. I see no reason why I should discipline him. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Ravioli opened her mouth, and then slowly and shamefully closed it. She couldn’t tell the chief that her father would kill Sprout if he found out about today, not without risking the chief’s ire. 

“Despite everything, Brussel Sprout is a good knight, and just because you are thin skinned doesn’t make him any less of a quality knight.” The chief layed back down against his seat, and dismissively waved to Ravioli. “You may go. We’re done here.”

Knowing full well there was no way she could argue against him, Ravioli left.

✦✦✦

Ravioli felt numb. She had failed, not only to know more about her father, but to convince the chief to do something about Sprout.

Horn was there when Ravioli returned to the neighbourhood, the blonde giving Ravioli a tight, reassuring hug, asking no questions on what had happened.

Fat tears rolled down the inkling’s face, and Ravioli wanted to do nothing more than sleep.

Chapter Text

“I couldn’t do it,” Ravioli miserably informed Potato. It was lunch, and while a food fight was going on, Potato and Ravioli huddled under one of the tables.

“Aww,” Potato said, stuffing a few seagull nuggets in his mouth. Above them, a small fry bellowed out a war cry, only to be pelted with spoons. “So what are you gonna do now?”

Ravioli shrugged. “I guess I just have to hope Sprout stops, you know?”

It wasn’t an answer as it was more throwing in the towel. Ravioli and Potato both knew that.

“Well, it’s not much, but do you wanna skip school? My friends found something cool, and I think you’ll like it.”

Ravioli frowned. “...Alright? What is it?”

“It’s a surprise!” Potato announced, his tail wagging.

With his friend in tow, the two kids escaped school. Potato was excited, while Ravioli was nervous. No matter how many times the two skipped school, Ravioli never got over the fear of getting caught.

They were going to the docks this time, Potato leading the way to one side where the rental boats were held. Behind the counter was a surly giant, that glared at the young lanky salmonid.

“We need a wide boat!” Potato told him, his head barely reaching the countertop as he balanced on the tip of his tail.

The giant merely harrumphed, and left the counter to retrieve the boat in question. Within a few minutes, Ravioli was nervously settled into the boat, two balances on either side for stability, and Potato was in the water, a harness attached to his body. The two children waved the man goodbye, and headed out into the open sea.

The ocean by their humble little town had always been blessed with calm waters, a dam not too far being the one to thank. Ravioli had no need to worry about waves, but did so anyway. She had only been on a boat once before, back when she had ran away, but even then she had not been this close to the water.

Potato was underwater, the young salmonid determined to carry Ravioli to where he wanted. The sun only grew hotter as the day passed on, Ravioli dipping a tentacle into the ocean to cool down. 

They passed by islands and boats, some islands uninhabited; one with a marooned salmonid who had forgotten he could swim home, and some with hints of greenery and nature on it. The boats were equally fascinating in a boring way. Most were fishing boats, with a houseboat puttering past on occasion. There was even an octarian spy vessel, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst boats designed in salmonid styles. 

Ravioli thought nothing of them all, counting trees on the islands up until it looked like they were heading for one in particular.

As the island grew closer, Potato slowed down, and his head peeked up from the water.

“And here’s our destination!”

“An island?”

“Not just any island! Can you smell it?”

“No? Potato I can’t smell well.”

“Oh. Not even from here?” That got a shake from Ravioli, “Oh. Well um. Keep your eyes peeled for something.”

Confused but curious, Ravioli surveyed the island. The only thing of note was a strange looking boat, similar to the octarian spy vessel, that bobbed far away on the other side of the sands. Otherwise it was just an ordinary island. At some point, someone had built a few structures with the intention of living there, but there were no signs of anyone residing there now.

She was about to ask Potato again what it was she was supposed to be looking out for when she heard it.

It made her ears twitch, as it seemed less like sound, and more like a foreign thought that made itself welcome in Ravioli’s brain. It was a thought of joy, an exclamation of happiness that didn’t have a word. It existed for only a moment, but suddenly Ravioli felt alert, her eyes scanning for something- but what?

Some part of her already knew the source of the thought, and the rest of her only needed to see it to believe it.

Her eyes strained from staring, before-

!!!

She saw it.

It was a figure, running over the island’s terrain, too far away to see nothing more than its body shape.

Ravioli’s hearts skipped a beat. It looked like her.

It was an inkling.

And just as quickly as it had appeared in her vision, the inkling disappeared.

She didn’t quite understand what she was feeling. It made her lean as far out of the boat as she was comfortable with, her hearts thudding in her chest while she panted as if she had just ran a marathon. All at once she wanted to run and see and explore and touch, but the boat and the water confined her to where she was.

There was a yearning like no other, a sadness as if she had missed out on the experience of a lifetime.

And Potato was smiling.

“Didja see one?”

“There’s inklings!”

Potato beamed. “My friends found this island a while ago. Inklings have been coming here all week. I’d take us closer, but they have weapons.”

Ravioli nodded, albeit with a slight melancholy. While she knew Sprout’s stories only existed to hurt her in particular, she knew there was a grain of truth in his words: Inklings were dangerous. Cookie loved her, but had been damaged by them; Sprout seemingly changed his mind on them, and Ravioli wondered if the giant too had been hurt by the squids.

“Can we stay a little while?” Ravioli asked as she relaxed against the boat. “I wanna have another look.”

Potato nodded, both salmonid and inkling staring at the island, watching for when an inkling next appeared. She didn’t know how long they waited, but eventually another inkling ran past. Closer this time, with Ravioli able to make out bright oranges and dazzling yellows.

Then, something happened. The inkling saw the boat.

Ravioli felt something chill. She could barely make out the inkling’s face, but she knew it was looking at her and the boat. It had stopped to stare, and now was walking towards her.

Potato didn’t need further prompting, the salmonid swore as he dived underwater, tugging at the harness to turn the boat around. But it was slow, very slow, the inkling reaching the shore and calling out long before the boat considered moving.

Ravioli was scared yet entranced. The inkling was beautiful, a face of pink framed by tentacles of yellow. Its voice sounded like the ocean and like bird calls as it squawked.

Soon there were others. All beautiful, with the same pink faces and the same coloured tentacles.

And she heard another thought in her head. It was not the thought of joy like before. It was a beckoning, a demand to come over, as if shouting at Ravioli to come this way. It wasn’t just one thought either. The four inklings on the beach bombarded her with both their voices and their thoughts. She didn’t understand a word, but she knew they were getting desperate, the boat finally turning around and away from them.

Then, one of the inklings ran into the water. The one that had seen her first. His feet, covered in the same armour Ravioli had at home, kicked up water as the inkling got deeper and deeper.

He pulled the life preserver off his back as he started to swim, barely too slow to catch up with the boat. He called out one last time, before giving up. He floated where he was, spitting out water as his face lost its pink hue, his eyes filled with sorrow as he looked at the retreating Ravioli.

His tentacles had changed too, shifting from yellow to the very shade of purple Ravioli currently sported.

In her hearts, she understood the gesture, as she looked at the inkling with terror, yearning, and melancholy.

The inklings could do nothing but watch her, and they stood there, watching, until they grew too small to be seen.

✦✦✦

Potato kept swimming and dragging the boat until he felt the coast was clear, the boat slowing down as he peeked his head out of the water.

Ravioli had been weeping, an urge she didn’t quite understand, but worried her friend.

“Are you okay?” Potato asked.

Ravioli nodded, wiping tears off her face. “I’m fine.”

“Was it the inklings? I didn’t see what happened. They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

Ravioli shook her head. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” she said.

The young inkling grieved for something she didn’t know she had lost. For a brief moment, she had been among her kind. Even if she couldn’t understand what they said, their very existence sang to her soul. The man and his tentacles turning purple was a gesture Ravioli had never experienced before, but in her hearts, she knew it had been a gesture, one of love and kindness.

She partly regretted not jumping into the arms of the swimming inkling, mourning the lost potential of interacting with her own kind.

She knew she would regret jumping off the boat, but that didn’t stop her from yearning to go back.

Potato gave Ravioli a worried look. “Well, I better get us back to town. If you wanna talk, just call okay?”

Ravioli nodded, and Potato went back to swimming the boat.

The ride back was quiet, Ravioli staring at the sky and the birds as she tried to recall every single detail of the inklings. She had been lost in her head, and it was a shock when they finally arrived back at the village.

They thanked the gruff giant for the boat, and made a mad dash for the school. They could hear the final siren of the day rang out just as they snuck inside, Ravioli heavily panting as her eyes met with her father’s.

Chapter Text

The days after meeting the inklings spelled a change in Ravioli’s demeanour. She felt a sense of wonder in everything, her mind whirling with thoughts about the adult squids.

Her mind obsessed with every little detail she could wring out from her head. From the inkling’s arms (and the five tentacles at the end of both) to their beautiful melodic voices.

Their speech, alien to Ravioli, felt familiar and natural as the recreated words slipped out of her mouth.

And the feeling of words and thoughts in her head! It was like she had a secret connection to the inklings, one that Potato had no clue about.

She found herself pulling out the inkling clothes her father gave her and playing with them. Trying to put them on by herself and puzzle how everything worked. She found herself no less smarter after these sessions, but there was just joy in trying to put herself in the mind of an inkling.

“What’s got you so cheery?” Stroganoff asked over dinner.

“Been thinking about inklings,” Ravioli said, skipping all that had happened to her and Potato.

“Oh? What about them?”

“Just…” Ravioli trailed off. Telling her father she had seen one would have led to trouble. Unless… “My friend showed me a photo.”

While Stroganoff did not like Potato, it seemed like having Potato not endanger his daughter for once made the big shot not disapprove.

With that in mind, Ravioli rambled all she could about the inklings, the looks, the arms and their five tentacles, the purple heads and the pink faces.

“I didn’t know inklings turned pink!” Ravioli said. “Like your snout!” She said, pointing to her dad.

Stroganoff could only smile at that.

“When do I turn pink?” Ravioli asked.

Stroganoff shrugged. “Think you need to go on a… well I guess it wouldn’t be a salmon run for you… a squid run?”

As he said it, something stirred in Stroganoff. The realisation that one day, Ravioli would have a face of pink too. That she too would have to experience the hardships of migration and see more of the world. He didn’t know when it would happen, whether it loomed in Ravioli’s near future or happened years from now, but it filled Stroganoff with a mixture of emotions. Mostly worry, and how he wished that he could keep his strange and exotic daughter safe for the rest of time.

“Other than that,” Stroganoff continued,” I just don’t know. But I’m sure you’d look lovely.”

Chapter Text

The inkling lived on in Ravioli’s head, and Ravioli had to force herself to think of other things.

Like Horn. The woman had been fretting about some special herb she and the herbalist had been growing, and today was the day of the harvest.

“Why are you worrying so much?” Ravioli said. She looked at what Horn was busying over, seeing a few black dots in a bowl, as well as a small cup of sap.

“Well, it’s just… this is supposed to be medicine that helps ease pain,” Horn said, pointing to the sap, “but well… we got a bit of a sad harvest. I was hoping for a lot more than what we got.” The salmonid said, glancing at the little black seeds.

“I was hoping to give some of the sap to Vanilla for his birthday, but well, there’s barely a sip here.”

In Ravioli’s head, there was only the inkling. She thought of how only the silhouette of one had been a great gift from Potato. “I think he’d like it, even if it’s just a small amount,” the young girl said.

Horn grumbled. “You think so?”

Ravioli nodded.

However, as she watched Horn scrape the sap into a small bottle and prepare for walking to Vanilla’s Ravioli felt herself on the brink of bursting. She needed to talk about the inkling. She knew her dad would be upset, but Horn…?

“Hey Horn?” She asked, following the woman as she left the house. Horn was wearing her white tail today, and while she hadn’t quite mastered moving, her balance had significantly improved.

“Yes?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Sure…?” Horn said, mentally preparing herself for whatever disaster was about to befall her ears.

“Potato and I took a boat to see inklings.”

Horn squawked . Her face flashed through a myriad of emotions, experiencing stages of bewilderment in record time, before finally landing on acceptance. “Ravioli-!” She shouted, “You know that was stupid, right?”

Ravioli nodded.

Horn sighed. “Well, I really can’t stop you. This isn’t because of the chief, is it? He’s not trying to get you kidnapped again is he?”

“No! My friend just wanted to cheer me up. It’s just, well…”

With that, Ravioli went into detail about everything. From the voice in her ears to the silhouettes, and even how an inkling started swimming towards her.

“Swimming? Ravioli, that's impossible.”

“I know. I think it was his armour. It looked like plastic skin on him.” Ravioli said. “He gave up after the boat got too far. I don't think he wanted to drown…”

Horn didn’t know what to say. “Well… I’m glad you’re not hurt… Or watched an inkling die.”

“But Horn, there was something the inkling did when he swam towards me.” She said,”he made his tentacles purple. Like mine.” She fiddled with her dress. “And I… wanted to go with him.”

Horn offered Ravioli a look of sympathy.

“And I don’t know what that means,” Ravioli said.

They arrived at Vanilla’s home, Horn giving the artist’s door a firm knock.

“I think that’s Longing,” Horn said.

Longing, the term used for when salmonids felt the urge to return to their nesting grounds. Ravioli had no birthplace she remembered, and nobody had any idea on what that meant for her future migration. It never crossed Ravioli’s mind that she could feel Longing- and yet, when she thought of the adults calling for her, of the inkling turning purple for her … Her hearts wished she was back there, on the boat. That she had leapt into the arms of the swimming inkling. That they took her with them, wherever they were going.

She was silent, pondering about Longing when Vanilla opened his door with a frown.

“What do you want- Oh Horn!” The artist’s face lit up. “What brings you here?”

“We’re here for your birthday,” Horn said.

“My birthday-?”

“Yeah, you said you were born when Summer started, right? So happy birthday!” Horn said, inviting herself in.

Vanilla did not seem opposed, instead doing the mental maths. “Oh, that’s right, it would be my birthday around this time. Huh.” Vanilla said. “Can’t believe you remembered.”

“Of course! We’re friends. Remembering that your birthday isn’t on reunion festival day is important to me.”

Vanilla was quite stunned by this revelation. “Gosh. Well um. Thanks.”

“I also got you a present.” Horn said. 

That grabbed Vanilla’s attention. “What didja get me?” he said, a little too fast, his eyes glued to Horn’s fins.

The blonde giggled to herself, as she pulled out the bottle with the sap.

“It’s not much, but it’s the first harvest the herbalist and I got from a pain killing plant.” Horn said, as Vanilla took the bottle and investigated the small amount of liquid inside.

He then immediately drank it, sticking his tongue into the bottle to lap up the residue too.

Horn laughed. “Well, do you feel better?”

“Nope.”

The woman snorted. “Well, give it time. In the meanwhile, what have you been up to?”

As the two grownups talked, Ravioli found herself exploring more about Longing. How could she get Longing for a place she couldn’t remember? Stroganoff’s home was the closest she had to a birthplace. But even then, she yearned for what was impossible- for Cookie to be back, for instance.

And yet, some part of her worried about the Longing- of what would change for Ravioli. It was the part that feared change in all forms, that wanted everything to stay the same. But even that part was almost silent, compared to the thought asking ‘what if?’

What if she had leapt into the inkling’s arms? That she trusted the being who, despite being the same species as Ravioli, was downright alien to the young inkling. 

It would have meant never seeing her family again, but it also meant seeing more of the world. Even visiting the Sunless City had taught Ravioli so much, and her place in it as an inkling. Would going with the inklings have been the same? Learning more about things in exchange for her home?

The part that hated change hissed at this, sinking its claws deep into the inkling’s gut as it reminded her of how much home meant to her.

But no matter how much the resistance to change growled with trepidation, it could never silence the ‘what if?’

Chapter Text

As Autumn came, Ravioli found herself no longer thinking of the inkling as much. Quashing the looming threat of Longing by focusing on other things.

She cooked with Mr Melon, threw herself into combat classes (sometimes literally) (with both herself and her instructor learning more about inklings with every session), and played with Potato during breaks.

However, the Longing would rear its ugly head again, but Ravioli was not the target this time.

Potato had been out of sorts that day. Still happily playing with Ravioli even if he found himself a bit more sluggish. He complained about his sleep, grumbling about his father waking him up early, and then starving him at breakfast.

By lunchtime, though, something in the salmonid snapped. He was staring at his water soup, spoon hardly touched, when the first of the tears rolled down his face.

“Are you okay?” Ravioli asked automatically, a hand reaching out and stroking her friend’s scales as more and more moisture silently leaked from his face.

“I want to go home.” Potato mumbled.

She gave her friend a sympathetic look, lightly patting him as she said “well, it’s only a few more hours-”

The sentence had the opposite effect, as Potato’s composure crumbled entirely. Soon he was sobbing, loud howls as a stream of tears flowed from his eyes. Children stared at Ravioli with accusatory looks, assuming she was to blame for her friend’s hysterics, as he continued to cry out “I want to go home!”

A teacher soon collected Potato, comforting him while escorting him out. Ravioli wasn’t allowed to go with him, but she overheard the teacher’s soft words to the distressed child.

“ You’ll be alright sweetie. You just have Longing .”

Chapter Text

“How are you feeling?” Ravioli asked Potato. The lanky salmonid had been gone for three days. When he returned to school, he was still slightly miserable, clutching a blanket he took from home.

“Bad. I haven’t been able to stop crying since I got the longing.” Even as he said those words, his voice wobbled. He had managed to keep his face dry for now, but it was evident that his blanket was doing all the heavy lifting in this endeavour. “My dad says I have to go on the salmon run this year.”

Worry tugged at Ravioli’s hearts. The salmon run was a perilous endeavour, everyone knew that. Ravioli herself knew that, thinking of her mother passing years ago. The last thing she wanted was to never see Potato again, especially with the looming threat of the inklings they had seen, but at the same time, seeing Potato in this state worried her too.

“Is there any way to make the Longing stop?”

Potato shook his head. “My dad says I have to go to school like this. And when I get home he’s gonna make me start training for the journey.”

Potato looked less than thrilled at his future. “He’s gonna make me start eating more too. He says it’ll make the hunger less bad.”

Silence fell between inkling and salmonid. They both remembered last year, of Vanilla biting Ravioli, that Potato had taken the blame for it. Even now, Stroganoff held a grudge against the child, and the last thing either child needed was for Potato to actually bite Ravioli this time.

“I think I have the Longing too,” Ravioli said. That piqued Potato’s interest. “It started when we met those inklings. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them.”

“Are you gonna go on the salmon run too?

Ravioli shook her head. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to deal with the Longing. I was just hoping it would go away by itself.”

What she didn’t say was that she didn’t know how inklings went on a salmon run, and was scared to find out.

Theories of having to attack salmonids in order to turn pink flitted her mind, among more scary theories that belonged on Sprout’s chalkboard.

“Well, you know what the Longing means, right?”

Ravioli shook her head.

“It means we’re becoming adults!” Potato announced. “One thing I’m looking forward to is earning my title! I hope I get something cool like dragon master.”

Ravioli giggled.

“Have you thought about what you want your title to be?”

Ravioli paused. “No. Not really.” She honestly just assumed she would never earn one. Sure, Vanilla had one despite never going on a salmon run, but at least he was a salmonid .

Somehow, Ravioli got the feeling that being an inkling meant she’d never get a title.

The two talked more about the upcoming salmon run, Potato promising to share everything he experienced to his friend. That included… details on how babies were made.

“I know how women have eggs,” Ravioli said, “but I know nothing about boys and special water.”

“Special water?” Potato asked.

Ravioli explained what her mom had told her. That women made mudballs, and then men poured special water on top in order to make babies.

“You don’t think my dad will make me make special water, do you?” Potato asked, suddenly worried.

“I don’t know. But if he tells you how to make it, will you tell me? My dad said it was a boy secret.”

Potato smirked, the smirk of a child perfectly prepared to share everything he learned to Ravioli in crystal detail.

“Of course.”

Chapter Text

Potato and Ravioli talked a lot more about Potato’s upcoming journey over the next few weeks before the festival. It was surreal seeing how dramatically he seemed to change the closer the festival got. He felt taller, he felt stronger, and the way his eyes moved was sharper.

But despite it all, he was Ravioli’s friend. He told her everything. From the training, to his change in diet, and even the hunger.

“It’s so weird. My dad made me eat so much this morning, but I’m still kinda peckish.” He said. “And I think I understand why your babysitter tried to eat you. It’s not something I can describe too well but…” He looked guiltily as he spoke, “you smell like dinner.”

He then quickly stumbled out an apology. “Not that I’d eat you! You’re my friend. I’d rather tape my mouth shut!”

There was also another topic. More adult. More scary. More beautiful. More romantic.

“My dad says I should try find a partner for the salmon run.” Potato rambled, “but I honestly don’t know the first thing to do. I’m a little scared.”

He glanced at Ravioli.

“If only you were going on the salmon run. I’d just pick you.”

As Ravioli walked home that day, her thoughts were on mates. Or partners. Or both? Didn’t they mean the same thing?

Either way, it was an excuse for her mind to dwell on the inkling once again. Her thoughts about him had changed. She had obsessed over him and what he meant, until new thoughts and feelings emerged.

…Was it bad that she kinda wanted to nibble on him?

Maybe that’s what it was like, wanting to have a partner. Or mate. Or both? Either way, her mind felt a certain hunger when thinking about the inkling, and wasn’t sure what it meant entirely.

“Hey dad?” she asked as they arrived home.

Stroganoff said nothing, but the glance told the young inkling that he was listening.

“What’s the difference between a mate and a partner?”

“Oh.” Stroganoff said. “Were children at school talking about it?”

She nodded.

“Well,” Stroganoff started, “a partner is someone you go on the salmon run with to m- make -” Stroganoff choked slightly, as the purpose of salmon run escaped his mouth, “ch-children with. Some people go with who… they think will make for good children. Others will go with someone they’re comfortable with, like a friend. Usually women pick who they want, since it's their eggs. And uh, after the salmon run you kinda go back to normal.”

Stroganoff was rambling, as it was his only way of escaping his own embarrassment over the salmon run. “You can make some lovely friends by being partners.” He glanced at Ravioli to make sure she was still listening.

“As for mates,” he continued, “Well, they’re a friend you live together with and raise children with. Some mates stay together for their entire lives, while others drift away after a while. Most of the time, your mate is not the same person as your partner, but sometimes partners become mates. It’s a very beautiful relationship.”

Ravioli was quiet, thinking through the differences between the two. The description of mates, however, made her think about her father.

“Were you and mom mates?”

The question came out of nowhere, and it made Stroganoff pause. If Cookie had still been alive, he probably would have said no without needing a thought. But Cookie had been a memory for a long time now, and Stroganoff had a lot of time to think about her. About their friendship. And beautiful hypotheticals.

“Honestly? We might have been. She never asked, and neither did I, but…” Stroganoff was silent, his eyes closed. “Well, I’d have been honoured.”

Ravioli was silent too. In her head there were a lot of thoughts. The inkling and her mother sat side by side, while another train of thought arrived at the station.

“Which one can you bite?”

“What.” Stroganoff said, pulled out of his daydream by a question he must have misheard.

“Are you allowed to bite mates or partners?”

“Biting?!”

Ravioli nodded with a straight face, a genuine look of curiosity in her eyes. Which honestly only made it worse for Stroganoff.

“Wha- I. Where did you- No! You don’t bite anyone! Who told you that?” Stroganoff said, distraught.

“Nobody,” Ravioli answered. “It just makes sense, you know?”

“Absolutely not. No!” The big shot was horrified. “Biting people is bad!”

“But what if they’re delicious?”

That seemed to break Stroganoff. He proceeded to look like a suffocating fish. Opening his mouth to make a point, before backing down. Then he’d raise a fin, then lower it.

Stroganoff suddenly found himself worried for all future partners and mates Ravioli will have.

Chapter Text

A few nights later, Ravioli lay in her bed, the inkling still in her mind. But now it was less about him, and more about inklings in general.

She was thinking about mates and partners. She felt alone- with no other inkling to talk to, but realisation dawned on her that she wanted an inkling mate. After her meeting the inklings, and how absolutely magical it was just having someone matching colours with her, there was no way she could see herself being mates with a salmonid.

She liked the idea of sleeping next to an inkling, as she wrapped her arms around a pillow. Her imagination weaved wishful thinking and dreams into reality, as the young child imagined her hypothetical inkling mate. He’d be fast asleep in her arms, and she’d bury her face into his side.

Of course he was smaller, and that Ravioli had to hold him close to protect him. It just made sense. And since he was so small, and so close to her mouth…

The pillow in Ravioli’s arms received a soft bite.

He’d be a little snack just for her.

She felt so giddy thinking about it, doing it. Peppering her pillow with nibbles like how a salmonid licked another’s face.

Would he squirm? Try to get away from her strong grip before giving up? Oh, she could hold him extra tight while he tried to slip away, a smile on her face at the excitement of the idea.

She gave her pillow an extra nibble, a gentle punishment to her inkling mate for trying to escape. 

But with every bite, her tongue felt the rough fabric of her pillow. It was barely tolerable. Inklings had better taste better. Delicious even. Hold on…

Ravioli had a thought. A dangerous, innocent thought that made Ravioli reach out for one of her tentacles. It was one from the back of her head, growing long and healthy. She had learned long ago that the tentacles on her head felt no pain, thanks to an incident involving her running over one of her hair tentacles with a toy steel eel (dad shook like a leaf seeing the amount of ink spilled). It was information she knew, but didn’t know what to do with.

…Until this very moment.

She slipped the tentacle in her mouth, as she nuzzled into the pillow. Once more she pretended that the pillow was an inkling partner. She wanted to know what he tasted like. Using herself as a reference.

It took her a while to find the confidence to bite down, her beak prodding the tentacle without the pressure to break skin. Ravioli took a deep breath, thought about the inkling, and then…

Chomp.

Ink pooled in her mouth. It was like being flooded with her own saliva, the severed tentacle laying limp in her mouth. It felt rubbery to bite, and the taste was nothing to write home about.

Why did salmonids eat inklings? This is horrendous! There’s no flavour! It’s just rubbery!

Disappointed that her inkling mate tasted bland, Ravioli fell asleep. In the morning, Stroganoff would freak out over the cut tentacle, and Ravioli would sheepishly lie about a ‘sleepy accident’.

Chapter Text

In what felt like a blink of an eye, the Salmon Run festival was built up and ready. Lanterns lit the floating raft the festival was on, as people had their festivities under the watchful eyes of the wooden bamboo statue. It was of a goldie this year, smiling as she clutched an egg in her fins.

Ravioli had managed to sneak off, thanks to conspiring with Horn. 

Horn had ‘accidentally’ unbuckled her tail, and while Stroganoff was helping Horn readjust herself, the inkling walked off to find Potato.

This would be the last time she saw Potato before he left for the Salmon Run, and there was no way she was going to miss out on playing with him before the night ended.

“Ravioli, hey!” Potato said, as he saw his inkling friend.

He had bulked up significantly during the season, and despite having the same smile as always, he looked different. Less lanky.

“Are you ready to play all night?” He said with a smirk. “We have until dinnertime, so I’ve planned out our attack.”

He pulled out a crumpled up paper, where a faded pencil map had been drawn.

Based on what Ravioli had seen of previous festivals, Potato had planned to even visit stalls Stroganoff usually avoided. With a giggle and curiosity, the two scampered off on their night of fun.

✦✦✦

As the night went on, the two had fun exploring what the festival had to offer beyond what Stroganoff curated for Ravioli. 

Stalls selling octarian junk stood next to stalls selling inkling preventative measures. The merchant of the octarian junk screamed his head off as he pushed flyers into the fins of expecting women, while the other merchant focused his gaze on Ravioli. 

Stalls that were quite obviously scams found their victims, and the con artists ambitious enough to trick someone larger than them found themselves on the receiving end of a giant’s wrath. It was quite fascinating hearing how pathetic someone could sound the moment a giant lifted them up by the tail, and even more fascinating to see the giant split a wooden table in half with the con artist’s body. 

Stroganoff eventually found them, and it took both children and the force of Horn (who had really strong googly eyes) to convince him to let the kids have their time playing.

As the night marched closer to dinnertime, the two sat down to play delicious chess (it’s like chess, but delicious).

“Man, I’m so nervous,” Potato said, claiming Ravioli’s rook with a knight, and putting it in his mouth.

“What about?” Ravioli said, placing down a red uno card.

“Just, you know, the feast. I didn’t really find a partner like my dad wanted,” Potato said, rolling a dice. Getting a 6, he placed 5 prawns on the board.

“Can’t you just ask someone to dance with you?” Ravioli said, as she removed one of the squares from the board. A prawn slowly scuttled its way off its square, falling into the gap Ravioli made.

Potato shook his head. "It’s… I dunno. Hard to explain. Even thinking about dancing makes me scared.”

Ravioli looked at her friend. It was surreal, but she had never thought Potato could be scared. Not even when faced with inklings did he shudder, and yet right now, he had worry written all over his face.

“It’s not just the dancing, admittedly.” Potato continued. He dropped his cards on the table, the game forgotten. “Your mom died on the salmon run, right?”

Ravioli quietly nodded. The world suddenly felt very silent as Ravioli knew where Potato was going, her chest thudding heavily.

“You got sick because of it. I’m… scared I’m gonna die and make you sick.”

The two said nothing, before Ravioli pulled Potato into a hug, liquid dripping down his scales.

Neither said it, but they knew this could be goodbye.

Chapter Text

The next day, the folks on the salmon run prepared to start their journey. The sun had only started dyeing the sky in colours, and those boarding the boats were almost ready for their journey. Those that would be swimming were mingling on the pier. Ravioli had not slept that night, a strong pain in her stomach and worry for Potato keeping her up.

It was only when she saw daylight that she decided to get up and see Potato off.

The crowd was intimidating, too loud and chatty for the tired inkling. It felt like there was cotton in her ears, searching for her friend’s face in a sea of snouts that all looked too similar for her liking. All while her eyes begged her to go to sleep, Ravioli fighting to keep them open.

Then she felt a fin tap her shoulder.

She turned around to see a lanky silver salmonid… wearing a flipper flopper mask.

“Potato?”

The salmonid unclasped his mask, and Potato smiled. “You came to see me off?”

Ravioli nodded.

Potato gave Ravioli a hug as he softly laughed.

“P-promise you’ll come home.” Ravioli stuttered, wiping away tears filling her eyes. Potato could only look at her sympathetically, their conversation the night before replaying in both their heads.

“Of course I promise,” Potato said. “I can’t tell you everything I saw if I don’t come back.”

He laughed for both of them, and then a loud siren interrupted the children’s conversation.

“Ah… we’re starting,” Potato said, placing his flipper flopper mask on again. “Wish me luck!”

And with that, the two parted ways.

Ravioli sat somewhere and watched as salmonids formed impressive rows on the pier, diving into the water and replaced with the next row. The boats, small in number, lazily meandered their way into open water, salmonids onboard waving those on the port goodbye.

At some point Potato too was in the water, surrounded by too many folks for Ravioli to see where he was.

By the time the sun had fully risen, the salmon run had started.

And Ravioli was alone.

Chapter Text

As days went by, Ravioli found herself with a new thought dwelling in her mind: That of Potato’s wellbeing. She worried for her friend, fearing for his life, distraught at the fact that even now there was a possibility that he was already dead.

It lingered in her head until she couldn’t sleep, and by breakfast it found residence in Ravioli’s stomach. Her father noticed, worriedly asking if the inkling was alright. Her vibrant purple skin had turned ashy, and her appetite had dwindled significantly.

She lied. Too tired to construct a fake story, but not able to know if her father would get mad if she admitted to stressing about Potato. “It’s fine,” she croaked.

School only made it worse. The quieter halls and teacherless classes made the lack of Potato more poignant.

He wasn’t by her side. He wasn’t running around and laughing. He wasn’t sopping wet and delighted in shaking the excess on the inkling.

He could be dead.

It wasn’t the first time Ravioli cried at school, but everyday afterwards, she would start sobbing at any and all reminders of her friend.

The crying, however, was almost inconsequential compared to the physical weight that built up in Ravioli’s stomach. Food was bland and tasteless, and when she finally mustered the energy to put something in her mouth, all it did was make her stomach more upset.

“Ravioli, you have to eat…” Stroganoff said, reaching for his daughter’s food, prepared to spoon feed her. Even if she didn’t admit to why she had lost her appetite, her father worried about her declining health.

Then one morning came, and Ravioli couldn’t move. Her eyes lay lazily open, too tired to function and yet adamantly refusing to let the inkling rest. Her stomach had turned from a place of weight to a place of pain, and any food that once had been in her system had long since been thrown up. 

Stroganoff brought Horn over, the giant himself starting to worry too much over his daughter’s condition, and it took Horn a lot of effort to calm him down.

Ravioli, on the other hand, couldn’t be soothed with a few gentle words and a herbal remedy for stomach ache. Instead, all she did was suffer fitful rest, woken up by pain, nightmares, or Horn coming in to feed Ravioli another remedy.

Eventually, Horn had a suspicion on what was ailing the poor inkling, sending Stroganoff out to fetch items on a shopping list. The big shot carried the list like it were holy scripture, his task the most noble venture he had ever committed.

In reality, the list just had a lot of items just to get the large man out of both womens’ hair. When he was gone, Horn confronted Ravioli.

“Alright, your dad’s gone-” Horn started. “Now tell me, are you having another one of those ‘grief’ things again?”

Ravioli was barely awake, and yet wide awake at the same time. She looked up at Horn with slow eyes before sighing.

“I’m afraid my friend is gonna die.”

“Your friend? You mean the tall one?”

Ravioli nodded. “He’s on the salmon run now, but before he left, he said he didn’t want me sad if he died. N-now I’m scared…” the inkling trailed off, her vision blurring as hiccups filled her throat.

It took Horn a while to understand, the woman cocking her head to the side as she tried to understand Ravioli’s plight. Despite both of them having bonded over loss, Horn was still a salmonid, and the finer details of grief were lost on her. It was as alien to weep over the possibility of someone dying as it was worrying over bait falling off a fishing hook. Both were inconsequential things one moved on from. You found new people to talk to, you put new bait on your hook.

And so Horn felt almost guilty as she looked down at the weeping inkling, having no way of understanding why it caused anguish for Ravioli. All she could do was show sympathy and hope she could soothe the poor girl. 

“Oh Ravioli…” Horn said softly, lightly stroking the inkling’s head. “There’s not much you can do. He’s on the salmon run. All you can do is hope he’ll return.”

“And what happens if he doesn’t come back!?” Ravioli croaked. 

Horn was silent at that. She knew the answer she had was not an answer suited for the inkling, but she was drawing a blank on any other response.

“Oh Ravioli. What do you want me to say? I can’t lie and say everything will be okay, but that doesn’t mean you have to worry yourself sick over a possibility.” Horn said softly.

Ravioli hiccupped, her body shaking as tears began to spill.

The silver faced salmonid pulled Ravioli into a hug.

✦✦✦

Stroganoff returned home with an impressive array of items in his fins, a cacophony as things were dumped onto the table in the middle of the house.

“Alright, I got everything on your list!” Stroganoff said happily to a mildly horrified (yet impressed) Horn. “Even the really weird stuff. I haven’t heard anyone say ‘eye of newt’ when meaning mustard seeds in a long while…”

The man happily rambled on about how he navigated the depths of the marketplace for all the items, while Horn was quietly figuring out what to do with everything.

Chapter Text

While Ravioli did not get instantly better, her stomach did stop hurting with time. Time, and kindness from Horn. The silver faced salmonid became a confidant to the young inkling, and soon was hearing about more than just Ravioli’s worries about Potato.

“So the teacher who tormented you is also Stroganoff’s brother, but they both hate each other over an inheritance dispute.” Horn summarised as she stirred some soup. The soup was constructed with some of the weird things Stroganoff had managed to get, as this was the only way Horn could figure out a use for everything without coming clean to the giant about why he had to get all those items in the first place.

Ravioli nodded.

“And this guy- did you say he hates inklings or loves inklings? I wasn’t sure on that part.”

“I don’t know!” Ravioli answered. “The chief says he loves inklings, but then he bullies me! He tried to stab me-” She was thinking about the incident with the sword, but then remembered the possibly rigged fight, back when mom was alive, “-twice!

Horn gave Ravioli a worried look. “He tried to kill you? Either he’s the world’s stupidest inkling fanatic or he just hates your guts.”

Ravioli nodded at that. Honestly it was freeing being able to trash talk Sprout to someone, now that she didn’t have Potato to talk to. Then, she remembered something.

“Oh, um Horn, my dad called Sprout something once. A seffa-pollo-lo-file. Do you know what that is?”

“A seffa… cephalopodophile?” Horn said, trying to piece together what Ravioli asked, before realising the horror of her words.

“Yeah! That one!” Ravioli said, before seeing Horn’s horrified expression. “Is it bad?”

“Uh.” Horn said. The soup was forgotten about- at least until it started to burn. “Ah! Drat!” The stench of the silver faced salmonid’s burning concoction filled the air as she attempted to rescue it. “Well um, that’s. Oh dear.” Horn said, bouncing between both Ravioli and her soup. “R-ravioli, how much do you know about the salmon run?”

Ravioli watched as Horn fussed over the soup. Tendrils of black smoke threatened to escape from the pot, as Horn stirred as if her life depended on it. “Salmon run is for making babies, right?” The inkling asked, unsure of her answer, and unsure of why Horn was asking such an obvious question.

“Yeah… That’s right. P-people pick a partner and m-make a nest and the like together. Well um.” Horn stuttered, as she removed dark clumps from the soup. “Sometimes… people get a non-salmonid partner and um. T-try to um. Get children.”

Ravioli tilted her head to the side. She was confused, if only because she was trying to imagine a salmond and an inkling having children. She may not have known all the nuances of salmon run, but even she was aware that the two species couldn’t have children together.

“I thought only salmonids could have babies with other salmonids.”

Horn nodded as she scooped a spoonful of the soup to taste. “Yes… but… that doesn’t stop people from trying anyway. And um. Well. If your teacher was called that word, that would mean he had an inkling partner …”

“Oh.” Ravioli said. With one word, she summarised all she thought and understood of the situation. Which was also just ‘Oh.’

“So then he likes inklings?” Ravioli mused.

Horn choked on the soup. “ That’s one way to put it- ” 

“But then why does he hate me?”

Horn shrugs. “I dunno, maybe he’s jealous of your father?” Or maybe his ‘partner’ bit him, Horn thought to herself.

Ravioli nodded, but not quite listening. She was instead thinking about Sprout, and his hatred for inklings. Could he really have had an inkling partner once?

Chapter Text

Water wetly slapped at supports, as Ravioli snuck outside into the night. The chill of winter was settling in, idly chewing on Ravioli’s triangular fins as the young inkling walked down familiar paths.

While she didn’t like what she was doing, she needed to see the chief again- he had used her to find out about Stroganoff, and all she could do now was hope he’d help her find out more on Sprout.

The cold had a strange effect on Ravioli’s special tracking senses. It felt… blurry. Not enough that she couldn’t still sense people as she walked past, but it felt like if it got colder, it’d get too blurry for her to identify anything.

At least the wind wasn’t bad tonight. The only time a breeze brushed past the young child was when a waft of warmth escaped from a burning fireplace (or someone’s laundry that caught alight). It felt reassuring, especially with Ravioli’s skittishness as she progressed towards the chief’s house.

Someone else was already waiting outside the chief’s door. A giant, with tired sad eyes and hair that had long since turned grey. A long cloak, with fine embroidery of flowers and fish on the edges, swayed gently in the occasional gust. His eyes looked over to the inkling, but his expression did not change.

It was imposing in a way, Ravioli looking up but unable to know what the giant was thinking, let alone his intentions. The cloak made him into one solid shape, and his face was equally as solid and unbreakable. Ravioli was far more used to her father and Sprout, both brothers wearing their emotions on their sleeves.

Part of her wanted to dart inside the chief’s home, walk past the loud clattering curtain that the chief used as a door in order to speak with him, but for some reason, the idea of the old giant silently watching her do that made her feel self conscious. So… she waited outside with the giant.

But Ravioli was not dressed for the winter evening, and while she tried to pretend that she was fine, the young inkling was cold and shivering. The giant did not say a word as he saw her shuffle about, but there was movement underneath his cloak. The dark fabric parted, and Ravioli was invited to step inside.

It was warm, pressed between the giant and the fabric of the cloak. It was like being swaddled in a thick curtain, with the only light coming from below the cloak from the chief’s door.

“You’re not properly dressed for the occasion, young squid. What pressing matter do you have with the chief that you had to approach so underprepared?”

“I have to tell the chief something.” Ravioli said.

“And what would that be?” The giant asked. 

Ravioli was silent.

A soft chuckle emanated from outside the cloak. “Now now, there’s no need to be so secretive. If it’s a pressing matter, I can help you speak with the chief sooner, and if it’s not so serious, I can help without getting the chief involved. Trust me dear…it's best not to get the chief involved in your life.”

Ravioli frowned, fiddling with her skirt in the safety of the giant’s cloak.

“I want to know more about my uncle.”

“Your uncle? Oh that would be… you’re Stroganoff’s child, and Brussel Sprout is still alive… You are talking about Brussel Sprout?”

The inkling nodded… before remembering the giant couldn’t see her. “Yes.”

“Ah… well, I’ve been the one ensuring his broken fin heals after his fight, so I suppose I could share a thing or two with you. Now, what were you going to tell the chief?”

“Sprout tried to have children with an inkling.”

“What-” There was a sound of sputtering, as the illusion of the giant being an immovable statue was broken. The giant flinched at the inkling’s words, and when the giant next spoke, it was obvious he was struggling to compose himself.

“I… Well then. I uh. Well I.” He stuttered, “I knew researching inklings was his passion project… uh…” He coughed, and muttered to himself, “ Well I didn’t know it was THAT kind of passion project.” 

He then focused back on Ravioli. “Who told you that?”

Ravioli explained. That it was less concrete fact, and more based on what her father said to Sprout one time.

“I see…” The giant said. The cloak shifted, as the giant knelt down, lifting the cloak to look at Ravioli. The young inkling had never seen any giant do that for her before, not even her own father, and was met with the giant’s sad eyes. “What is your name, child?”

“Ravioli.”

“Right. Ravioli. Rumours are a very dangerous thing, and doubly so to share with the chief. With just those words, you could ruin the life of an innocent man. And for what purpose? To gain some pitiful half remembered fact from the chief?”

Ravioli didn’t look into the giant's eyes.

“I see you now understand the weight of your potential actions. I will not lecture you further. Heaven knows spite is born from a scolding gone too far. But… if you wish to find out more about Brussel Sprout, I can do my best to tell you what I know.”

Ravioli’s eyes lit up at that.

The giant snorted. “I see that piqued your interest. I suppose an introduction is in order. My name is Cupcake. I live in the final house in the knight’s neighbourhood. I have affairs that will keep me out of the village until the reunion festival. When I return, you are more than welcome to visit, and I’ll share whatever I can.”

Ravioli nodded numbly. It was a lot of words, and yet she felt hope. There was a promise of finding out more about Sprout, and, more importantly, perhaps Cupcake could help with the troublesome knight himself.

“Now, Ravioli, I ask that you cease being an information broker for the chief.”

“Alright.”

Cupcake gave an appreciative nod.

“Now, do you need an escort home? I’d prefer to not be the last person to see you alive.”

“N-no, I’ll be fine.” She weakly squeaked.

“Then return home, Ravioli. And heed my warnings.”

Chapter Text

There was a strange sense of hope in Ravioli after her encounter with Cupcake. Where all she had to do was wait until the reunion festival. It pained her to wait so long, especially since she still worried for Potato too.

The rest of winter was a long, boring, and painful wait for Ravioli. She spent a lot of time doing nothing. Not even idly entertaining the idea of a hobby. She just couldn’t put any soul into them.

Not even her birthday was all that fun.

At school, she just wasn’t in the mood. Swaddled in a blanket (with a few small fry snuggled inside with her), she barely paid attention to her lessons. Horn, at least, tried to keep Ravioli in as high spirits as she possibly could.

“Some of the plants are starting to turn green again. ‘Means Spring’s coming soon,” Horn said. “That means meeting up with Potato too.”

Ravioli tried her best to smile at the silver faced salmonid’s words, even if mentally, she was already preparing for the worst.

Then it happened.

Dawn had not yet broken when bells were ringing and people were shouting.

The salmon runners had returned home.

Stroganoff woke Ravioli up that morning. “Let’s go meet up with that friend of yours.” It was done so begrudgingly, her father putting aside his dislike for the younger salmonid just for Ravioli. And Ravioli was grateful for that.

She got dressed with shaking hands, internally chanting to herself that the worst had happened.

Her stomach was in knots by the time she and her dad left the house, and it took all of Ravioli’s self control to not run ahead- to find out if Potato was still alive.

The docks were full of energy, throngs of newborns waddling behind new parents, while the knights carried the equipment of those that passed. Naturally, Ravioli looked at what the giants were carrying, wanting to see if they carried a particular flipper flopper’s mask among the damaged scrap.

She was in her own head, her chest already deciding that the worst had happened, when a fin tapped her shoulder.  She whipped around to look, angry that someone dared to interrupt her hopeless searching. It was a man, with a sharp scarlet snout and dark scales. He was tall, yet well proportioned. Her expression softened. In one of his fins, he clutched a flipper flopper mask.

“Potato?”

“Who else could it be?”

She ran into him as fast as she could, using as much force to make sure that he was real- that she wasn’t just imagining things, that this wasn’t a stranger lying to her. Her arms wrapped around Potato tightly; as heavy, thick tears fell from her face, and she wailed with the relief and love that her friend was okay.

“It’s good to see you again.” Potato said softly, returning the hug.