Eight jerks awake in the kind of momentary panic you only get from knowing you've been here before.
Well, not strictly here here, but a...situational here: Waking up with a headache, not knowing where you are and how you got there. It's all too familiar to Eight, but at least he knows who he is this time. The last thing he remembers is putting on the headset to be the test subject for his friend Marina, to see if her virtual reality project would finally help him and the rest of his people recover their memories...
Something's gone very wrong.
"I...guess I should assume you're not one of Marina's AIs?" he says, addressing the masked figures.
At least they didn't laugh at him too much. He listens to the offer and...it sounds like he's under their thumb either way.
Like paying for the tests at Kamabo...
What a sour taste that leaves in his mouth.
In the end, he picks a motorcycle. It's not much to look at, but he has no experience with cars and Marina swears by them. No, it doesn't occur to him how many of his choices she influences. He just knows that if it's good enough for her, it's more than good enough for him. The one drawback is that there's no way for him to carry his weapon on it, except tucked under the ink tank strapped to his back. Not comfortable and absolutely not an approved way to carry it by the standards of the Octarian Army or any official ink sports league, but maybe that's OK. He should probably have it at arm's reach at all times anyway Who knows what he might be forced to give a face-full of ink to?
It took quite a few tries to find a helmet that didn't squish his tentacle into his eye, but, hey, now all he has to do is...learn how to ride it. Shouldn't be THAT much different than learning how to use a new weapon, right? Test things, be meticulous, don't jump into the real thing until you're comfortable. He takes awhile to get off the lot, but he makes pretty good time until about halfway he takes a hill a little too fast, tips the nose too far forward, and wipes out.
He's not really hurt -he doesn't have bones to break, after all- but his bike bounced into the middle of the road and is probably blocking your own vehicle. Help him out or yell at him, your choice.
Panorama
Oh no. Rain.
Eight cannot do rain.
Literally. He'll dissolve.
He ends up ducking into a supermarket in the hopes that they'll sell an umbrella or a poncho or something. He can handle the light showers that are happening right now, but if the sky opens up his body will liquefy and run right into the storm drain.
He's in luck: there's one umbrella, collapsible and made of clear plastic. And out of his price range, which is free. He sighs. He really doesn't want to have steal it. It's a moral thing but also a pride thing? Octarians just don't lower themselves like that.
"...Wonder if they'd let me have this if I told them I'll die without it?"
He says it to himself, but also a little bit to whoever's around. He hasn't felt on his own in a long time, and his shyness has always been fighting with his extroversion. Indirect communication is just how it comes out.
Blackout
Back in Octo Valley, blackouts were a fact of life. On bad days what power they had often needed to be diverted to weapon manufacturing or hospitals or kitchens, or wherever it was needed. The dorms where Eight lived? Not even a consideration. When the power went out, you went to sleep or went somewhere where there were still lights.
Of course, in Octo Valley, all you actually needed to worry about was maybe a prank, or a bunk mate who was afraid of the dark. Not so here.
He really, really doesn't want to have to test his ink against the bladed or projectile weapons he's seen people carrying. He hasn't seen one be fired yet but he has a feeling he never wants to.
The first thing he does is change his ink color from magenta to a bright yellow, a color much easier to see in low light conditions. Best not to take anyone by surprise. He picks up his Octobrush, and goes to start knocking on doors.
Wildcard
[Got a better idea? Hit me up on Caligraphunky or DM me! I'm open to all! Also feel free to switch formats, I'll match you.]
Agent 8 | Splatoon
Eight jerks awake in the kind of momentary panic you only get from knowing you've been here before.
Well, not strictly here here, but a...situational here: Waking up with a headache, not knowing where you are and how you got there. It's all too familiar to Eight, but at least he knows who he is this time. The last thing he remembers is putting on the headset to be the test subject for his friend Marina, to see if her virtual reality project would finally help him and the rest of his people recover their memories...
Something's gone very wrong.
"I...guess I should assume you're not one of Marina's AIs?" he says, addressing the masked figures.
At least they didn't laugh at him too much. He listens to the offer and...it sounds like he's under their thumb either way.
Like paying for the tests at Kamabo...
What a sour taste that leaves in his mouth.
In the end, he picks a motorcycle. It's not much to look at, but he has no experience with cars and Marina swears by them. No, it doesn't occur to him how many of his choices she influences. He just knows that if it's good enough for her, it's more than good enough for him. The one drawback is that there's no way for him to carry his weapon on it, except tucked under the ink tank strapped to his back. Not comfortable and absolutely not an approved way to carry it by the standards of the Octarian Army or any official ink sports league, but maybe that's OK. He should probably have it at arm's reach at all times anyway Who knows what he might be forced to give a face-full of ink to?
It took quite a few tries to find a helmet that didn't squish his tentacle into his eye, but, hey, now all he has to do is...learn how to ride it. Shouldn't be THAT much different than learning how to use a new weapon, right? Test things, be meticulous, don't jump into the real thing until you're comfortable. He takes awhile to get off the lot, but he makes pretty good time until about halfway he takes a hill a little too fast, tips the nose too far forward, and wipes out.
He's not really hurt -he doesn't have bones to break, after all- but his bike bounced into the middle of the road and is probably blocking your own vehicle. Help him out or yell at him, your choice.
Panorama
Oh no. Rain.
Eight cannot do rain.
Literally. He'll dissolve.
He ends up ducking into a supermarket in the hopes that they'll sell an umbrella or a poncho or something. He can handle the light showers that are happening right now, but if the sky opens up his body will liquefy and run right into the storm drain.
He's in luck: there's one umbrella, collapsible and made of clear plastic. And out of his price range, which is free. He sighs. He really doesn't want to have steal it. It's a moral thing but also a pride thing? Octarians just don't lower themselves like that.
"...Wonder if they'd let me have this if I told them I'll die without it?"
He says it to himself, but also a little bit to whoever's around. He hasn't felt on his own in a long time, and his shyness has always been fighting with his extroversion. Indirect communication is just how it comes out.
Blackout
Back in Octo Valley, blackouts were a fact of life. On bad days what power they had often needed to be diverted to weapon manufacturing or hospitals or kitchens, or wherever it was needed. The dorms where Eight lived? Not even a consideration. When the power went out, you went to sleep or went somewhere where there were still lights.
Of course, in Octo Valley, all you actually needed to worry about was maybe a prank, or a bunk mate who was afraid of the dark. Not so here.
He really, really doesn't want to have to test his ink against the bladed or projectile weapons he's seen people carrying. He hasn't seen one be fired yet but he has a feeling he never wants to.
The first thing he does is change his ink color from magenta to a bright yellow, a color much easier to see in low light conditions. Best not to take anyone by surprise. He picks up his Octobrush, and goes to start knocking on doors.
Wildcard
[Got a better idea? Hit me up on