Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

✿✿✿

If your personal outlook on life could be lumped in with the ‘glass half empty’ folks, or if you subscribed to a belief in Murphy’s Law, or especially if your name was Mizole, you may find yourself frequently in the resignation that, when in doubt, you can more than often assume things will go as things usually do, that being poorly; but Ryann Torasurii of Wet Floor dabbled very frequently in what you could call ‘optimism’^[1], which had its upsides.

Presently, optimism was what was getting her through the morning: sure, they were running extremely late. Sure, yes, the Triggerfish Express Train had decided it was in dire need of renovations the one week out of the year it saw the most traffic. Sure, yeah, it had been raining on and off since last Friday, and the ‘on’ spurts were getting worse and worse as things progressed, and they could barely see ten feet in front of the car, and they still had at least twenty minutes driving time to go at this crash-avoiding snail’s pace, but.

It could be worse. Mostly Ryann was just glad she didn’t have to be the one driving in this mess. Plus, it was Wednesday. Wednesdays were her favourite day of the week^[2].

The rain fell hard and fast, just like it had been doing for the past week, drumming on the roof of the car like a snare staccato with something to prove, occasionally punctuated with a great, blundering roll of timpani. It obscured not only the view^[3], but also, apparently, the sense of all the other drivers on the road. Highway I-164 was hazardous in its own right, even in sunny skies, and water pooling on the road now hid some of the potholes, reduced a great deal of traction, and mostly frightened people, which did nothing to help with the swerving and abrupt stops and motorized incompetence in general.

Mizole, the poor soul currently in the driver’s seat of the Wet Floor Carpool Vehicle^[4], swore and jerked the wheel to one side to avoid an oncoming car drifting disagreeably into their lane with its highbeams on, so blissfully oblivious it honked at them.

“Yeah, and your mother!” he snapped, biolights along his forearms flashing in a threatening manner that neither the other driver nor their mother could appreciate, given the separate vehicles. Though staring rigidly past the struggling windshield wipers at the rain-slicked road ahead, he spared the second to flick the bird at the car as it passed, which it did appreciate, or at the very least notice, because it honked again. “Fuckin’- god, it’s not that difficult!”

“Not everyone is a first-rate driver like you, Mizole,” Ryann hummed kindly from the passenger seat, and giggled when Kazami, behind her, met that with a bark of laughter.

“Yeah, and apparently not everyone has an IQ above room temperature,” responded Mizole, with another angry flash of his lights, tone scathing. The hairband he wore meant she got a clear view of his deeply furrowed brow and dark glower, which he directed at her for the minutest fraction of a second before darting back to the road.

Ryann began to quip back about ‘the average is an average’ but found herself stopped, lurching along with everyone else in the vehicle with an “Oop,” because Mizole had slammed on the brakes in order to avoid hitting the truck in front of them^[5]. The innumerable air fresheners and the string of flowery beads hanging from the rear-view swung forwards and back very dramatically; the salmonid bobble-head on the dash (a slightly sun-bleached goldie with paint scraping off the toga) stayed very firmly sticky-tacked where it was, discounting all the bobbling.

Mizole laid on the horn with a growl, lights under his eyes fluttering frustratedly; but the truck was already doing the same for the vehicle in front of them and, in fact, taking the next step, which involved rolling down their driver’s side window, sticking their head and a fist out through it, and hollering.

“Oh,” said Kazami, as a storm of muffled curse words floated through (or rather, dinged off of, such was the strength of them) the windows, the fist waving and pointing and demonstrating several explicit gestures. “Is that Fin Bottom?”

“Looks like,” snorted Kagi, who along with Kazami, sat in the second row of seats behind the driver. “They’re gonna get wet like that.”

“Don’t think she cares,” Kazami grinned, an amused clicking of her mandibles accompanying the smile. “Ooh, yeah. Get ‘em.”

“Get on with it, more like,” Mizole grunted, as Fin Bottom opened their door, landed with a splash beside his truck, and marched around to the front of it to confront whoever it was that had prompted the fist shaking and hollering. In fact -and Ryann had to admit she was impressed you could hear her over the rain, the closed windows, and the distance- he was still hollering as they rounded the vehicle, teeth bared, tail flaring and flashing furiously behind her as he sloshed through puddles up to the ankle of his scarlet boots. And those things had heels.

Tsumabushi, in the third and final row of seats (if you were abiding by local laws, anyways, and disregarding the hatch-back), stuck his snout between Kagi and Kazami and added his two gesos: “C’mon, Mizo, this is first rate entertainment! They make you pay for stuff like this in the city.”

“S’different out in the countryside,” nodded Ryann, grinning to herself when Kagi scoffed in amusement. She leant forwards in the hopes she could see the impending fight through the windshields of the truck; alas, they were tinted. “I’m betting on Fin.”

Mizole just muttered something under his breath and thumped his forehead on the steering wheel a few times.

“There’s no one behind us, at least,” Kazami tried, and Mizole just lay on the horn again. Ryann had the sneaking suspicion he’d been up earlier (or maybe later, though eventually late trended in the direction of early anyways) than was good for him.

“I don’t care who’s behind us,” Mizole hissed through his teeth, hunched over the wheel, each italicized word emphasized with a balled fist slammed against the horn, flaring his lights dramatically. Ryann thought he was making rather a big deal of things. “I care that these fucking idiots keep stopping in the middle of the damn road, and-”

“Please stop punching my car,” said Kagi from the back.

“I can do whatever I want to your stupid car, ‘cause you’re making me drive it,” Mizole retorted, and gave the horn another whack. Ryann reached over and grabbed his wrist. And then the other one, and flashed her beak at him when he tried to yank them away.

“In fact,” he went on at a growl, struggling in Ryann’s grip, “when we get to the bridge, I’m thinking about putting this wretched thing through the railing and into the river as fast as it’ll go.”

“Sounds good,” said Kagi amiably. “If you can get it above 100 kilometres in this weather before bits start falling off, colour me impressed.”

Mizole scoffed. “You’re already blue,” he muttered, though apparently somewhat mollified, and Kagi gave a grunt of agreement in reply.

“Oh, hey!” Tsumabushi pointed with an incline of his head. “Fighting fish at twelve ‘o clock, sopping wet and simmering per usual.”

Ryann glanced back and found the cutthroat nodding towards the truck, which, indeed, Fin Bottom had returned to. Instead of the rampant glee usually gracing her expression post-fight (typically, post-fight-win, though the glee would be there regardless), she had a vaguely confused air about her, not to mention a fistful of papers. Ryann pretended she didn’t feel a twang of disappointment^[6]

“That was quick,” said Kagi. “Think she just one-shot’ed them, or what?”

“I don’t think she got to do anything,” Ryann mused, and turned the teeth-bare into a grin, releasing one of Mizole’s straining wrists to send a wave over the dash in Fin’s direction when he sent a glare towards the Carpooler. “Doesn’t look self-satisfied enough.”

Fin returned it with what could have been a grin, had the weather been a little lighter, but as it was the combination of overcast skies, the red light from so many taillights going past reflecting off her storm-shadowed face, and the general disposition of Fin Bottom^[7], it came across in really quite a malicious manner and Ryann, though maintaining her grin, slowly lowered the waving hand to make herself appear smaller and less fightable.

With a glare, Mizole jerked his hand out of Ryann’s grip as Fin went about shaking himself off before getting back in her truck (not, Ryann suspected, that it made much difference while he still stood in the shower). “I cannot wait to hang out with him for a week.”

“We’re hardly gonna see each other,” Kagi scoffed. “Opposite ends of the camp for most of the day, probably. Frankly, it’s really not much more than, like, four days total.”

“You’re not enough of a threat to get her after you, anyway,” added Kazami, with an amused clicking of her mandibles, and Mizole’s lights seethed quietly, muttering something under his breath that a crash of thunder rolled conveniently over.

“Was that friendly?” Ryann asked, watching as the truck revved its engine and sped off, splashing water up everywhere as it went. “I think that was friendly. Right?”

“It was a lot of teeth, at the very least,” said Tsumabushi, elbows on the headrests on either side of him, grin resting in laced fingers. “Lotta teeth. Maybe too many, really.”

“Oh, and you’re a fine one to talk.”

“Please. I’m not in the habit of putting them in people, thank you very much.”

Kazami clicked a claw and pointed between the front seats through the downpour. “That guy’s waving.”

Ryann scoffed at Tsumabushi but relented, following her claw.

Jutting halfway into their lane was a small car so beaten and weathered that a faint, hitherto repressed memory of her highschool science class popped into mind, whispering the word oxidization in shuddering tones.

It also put the Carpooler to shame in terms of the bumper-sticker-to-not-bumper-sticker ratio, which Ryann had foolishly presumed an impossible feat to manage. Possibly, the owner of the poor thing thought they could disguise how the rust had almost worked its way into the passenger compartment (and appeared to be attempting to hotwire things) by plastering enough Hello Kipper stickers on it, which created what frankly could be most kindly described as an eyesore.

Maybe they just really liked Hello Kipper, though Ryann had her doubts.

At any rate, in the driver’s seat, waving lazily at them through a rolled-down window, sat a fishfolk, somewhere between their late teens and early forties. Ryann waved back when Mizole only scowled, and they turned their wave into a ‘come here’ gesture, backing out of the lane to give the Carpooler space.

Exuding an air of utter detestation as he did so, Mizole pulled up alongside it, rolled Ryann’s window down for her via the driver’s-side control panel, and barked, “What?” at the fishfolk (from this distance, Ryann could guess they were a rummynose tetra, though still found herself lost as to how old they were) loud enough to be heard over the rain.

“Sheesh,” said the fishfolk, looking them over with a sort of half-lidded expression of unfocused disinterest, which somehow matched the fin-slicked-sloppily-to-one-side thing they’d done with their semi-translucent hair. They turned back into their car, produced some papers, and passed them through the windows to Ryann. “You’ll be needing these.”

Ryann inspected the papers, slightly dampened from their brief excursion between windows. They had Camp Triggerfish logos plastered on all sides, but she still felt the need to ask, “These are…?”

“Who the hell are you?” Mizole demanded, leaning over Ryann’s lap to get a good look at the guy. Ryann, shuffling through the pile of papers for the important things, handed Mizole the pamphlets. Come A Stranger, Leave A Friend! one of them read across the front, which had about as much depth as corporate mottos usually did.

“Pamphlets,” observed Tsumabushi, when Mizole tossed them into the back with a fluttering of Camp Mottos.

“Oh, yeah… sorry.” The tetra plucked at a badge on their shirt which, Ryann had just noticed, had Camp Triggerfish embroidered on the left side of the chest, gold impact font set on army-green cotton. “I’m Fogo. I’m your campgrounds admission guy.”

“Sure,” said Ryann politely, trying not to make eye-contact with one of the innumerable Hello Kippers (and friends) staring blankly at her. Hanging over her lap, Mizole snorted disdainfully.

“Yup,” said Fogo agreeably, casually hanging an elbow out their window^[8]. “Well, that’s got your registration forms, you sent ‘em in online, technically you’re supposed to give me your driver’s license so I can compare, but, like...” they waved a hand vaguely “…you guys are the guys. You’re Wet Floor, right?”

“Yup,” nodded Ryann, and Mizole muttered, “Do we look like fuckin’ DoorDash?” She planted a hand on his forehead and pushed him gently back into his own seat.

“Cool,” said Fogo. “Nice, yeah, uh. Big fan. Anyways.” They pointed vaguely towards Ryann. “So other than reg and the big waiver, you’ve got maps in there, menus, uh… the vehicle register thing. Think that’s it. You can give it to the Main Office when you get to Camp, I guess. Or shove it in the mail slot ‘round back, at least. There’s, like, nobody there, it’s nuts. All this delay ‘cause the rain, I guess. We don’t even have any Inkopolis Café trucks there yet.”

“Hey, yeah,” Mizole demanded, leaning over Ryann’s lap again, “why are you the camp admissions guy if you’re not at the camp? Not your natural habitat out here, is it?”

Fogo nodded slowly. “Just a shift switch, dude. I’m heading in for the day, ‘cause if we’re getting flooded in, I’m not sticking around. Brook should be there in a couple hours, she can get all your stuff up to date, or… whatever. She was supposed to be here, like, ages ago, which is why I’m hangin’ out on the road. Figured you folks would cruise down this’a’way sooner or later…”

“Don’t call me dude,” muttered Mizole, after a second’s silence had been used to absorb that. Kagi made a noise that sounded like a strangled laugh, which presumably it was, and so then had not been strangled very well.

“Hey- Where’s our cabin key?” Tsumabushi called suddenly from the back. “Or are we sleeping in the river?”

“Ohhh, yeah,” said Fogo. “Yeah, I gave the big keys to the folks in 4.1, so those are there already. Yours should be the one with the lil’ blue cover. I think.”

Ryann looked to Tsumabushi and back and raised her voice over the rain. “So we can just… go in? Sorta thing? Once we’re there?”

Fogo nodded. “Once you’re past the Little Triggerfish Bridge -few kilometres up that’a’way by now- you’re all set. Just stick the vehicle registration form in the mail-slot at the main office, ‘cause someone else should be in pretty soon, and then they can get them all sorted through before other folks start showin’ up.”

“Sure,” returned Ryann, with a nod.

They stared at each other for a few seconds. The rain drummed ceaselessly.

“…Yeah,” said Fogo, breaking the pause with a slap to their rusted car door, and Ryann thought automatically of antibiotics. “So, like… I need to get going, uh, I‘ve got… stuff… to be doing. So.”

“Thank you!” said Ryann, only partially lying. They’d filled the registration papers in ages ahead of time, at Mizole’s neurotic request, and the papers had been folded neatly in the cup holder for the length of the conversation- but the pamphlets might come in handy.

“Sure,” said Fogo, or at least that’s what she thought they said, as Mizole had already rolled up the window, laid on the gas, and had the Carpooler screeching off around the rusted, Hello Kipper-plastered corpse of a car and onwards down the I-164 Triggerfish Exit before they could get the word out properly.

A sign just beyond where they had parked whizzed past in the rain: Camp Triggerfish, 5km; Triggerfish River Bridge, 1km.

“…the average IQ is an average,” Ryann murmured after a while, when Fogo and their car had been left far behind, finally finishing her earlier thought. It seemed appropriate.

“You’re an average,” Mizole sneered immediately, and Ryann, quickly realising the tease as a friendly one (he seemed calmer now that the main road and its fools were behind them), snorted.

✿✿✿

The Little Triggerfish Bridge, a slimmer, shorter affair than its more substantial sibling the Big Triggerfish Bridge on the main road, provided an excellent cut-off between the rest of the world and the crumbling, grassy side-road to Camp Triggerfish. It both kept out unwanted visitation and prevented patrons of the Camp from escaping^[9]. On the other side of the Triggerfish Exit, past the North-East mountain ring, a similar bridge (the Other Little Triggerfish Bridge, unofficially) bridged a gap over a not-quite ravine that deterred all but the most eager of escapees.

The Little Triggerfish Bridge cut a simpler, dryer path over a not-quite ox-bowed portion of the Triggerfish River, some 15 metres below its stainless-steel supports. Its concrete pillars and piles were stained up and down in all sorts of graffiti, much of which was thought-provoking- not in the manner that made you think about the graffiti itself, mind you; rather more it made one pause and ponder the question of how on earth the artist got to a spot maybe a metre over the rushing water, and if the answer was more likely to involve rappelling impossibly down to it, or swimming.

The Little Triggerfish Bridge, centrally bascule in nature, sat in a default state of raised, because you only needed to use it if you were a) going to Camp Triggerfish, which required important papers or an embroidered shirt or b) looking for a necessary, slightly quicker route through the North-East mountain ring, which was sort of suspicious. Thus, the Little Triggerfish Bridge had a gatehouse on the western side of the river, and a large, well secured terminal on the eastern side that required at least three sets of keys to get into and use.

The Little Triggerfish Bridge staff presently wanted the Triggerfish Spring Music Festival Hullabaloo vehicle registration papers, and so for this reason the Carpooler was now idling damply by the side of the road, with Tsumabushi leaning over the back seat into the trunk to dig around for Mizole’s bag, which, upon finding, he was to dig around in that for a pen. Or a pencil. It didn’t really matter. Ryann found herself with nothing to do and so settled for watching this in amusement.

“You think it matters if it’s pen or pencil?” Kagi asked him, and Tsumabushi only responded with a grunt of annoyance. “If you find any, that is.”

“What even is the license plate, Kags?” Mizole, who had been placed in charge of filling out the Carpooler’s registration form properly- not due to the tidiness of his handwriting, or something reasonable like that, but more so because he tended to fuss excessively if anything was done in a way he disapproved of. “It’s W-F-F-S, and then…?”

“W-W-F-S 2-2-7-3,” corrected Kagi.

“…I thought it was W-F-F-S.”

“It,” said Kagi, in disbelief, “is my fucking car. I know what the license plate is.”

“Pen!” cried Tsumabushi, triumphantly holding it aloft. Kazami cheered. “It’s red, but, like, can they really be that mad?”

“Not my problem.” Mizole stretched an arm back to take it and had to take a couple grabs for it because Tsumabushi kept tugging it just out of reach. “So, license plate, signatures, date… alright.”

The proper boxes were filled in or ticked as the situation required. The ‘felonies’ portion was mused over and ignored. The glove box was opened for scrap paper to scribble on when the pen tried to die halfway through signing the form. The Carpooler finally, finally, pulled forwards to the Bridge gatehouse.

“Hulllloooo,” said the operator when they pulled up and rolled the window down, turning away from the computer he’d been fiddling with. A middle-aged giant trevally fishfolk with a receding hairline, a shirt that matched Fogo’s, and a nametag that read ‘Jack Caran’ took the fold-creased papers from Mizole, and, looking them over, said, “I just don’t think it’s reasonable.”

“Sorry?” said Mizole, and Ryann shared the sentiment, wondering if she misheard through the relentless pounding of rain on the car and, now that they were closer, the muffled rush of the river.

“Oh,” said the trevally. “Sorry, not you. These are looking good. Do you have your driver’s license on you?”

“Sure,” said Mizole, and dug in a pocket. Ryann considered the question briefly, and after a second’s thought decided yes, that was a bit of a stupid one.

Someone else in the booth behind the trevally sat suddenly forwards into Ryann’s line of vision: a yellow-tinted inkling of maybe twenty (though that might have been pushing things) in the same uniform as the trevally, sans the nametag. “Have you folks seen any?”

“…Sorry?” said Mizole again, eyebrows pinched, in the process of handing his license to the trevally at an awkward angle to keep it as much out of the rain as possible.

The trevally shook his head. “Nothing,” he scoffed, a smile teasing on his lips as he stamped the papers, one after the other. “Denay here’s big on river fish, so he’s keeping an eye out for seasonals. Keeps thinking he’s seeing zapfish, but they aren’t due until next year, so he’s just losing it.”

“Am not,” protested Denay, taking the driver’s license from his senior and running it though some photocopier-esque device, along with the papers. “They were late last round. They’ve been tracking them for centuries,” he intoned severely; “if they’re late one round, they tend to be early the next. That’s how it works.”

“It’s a bright yellow fish,” said Jack Caran, in a tone that suggested they’d been having this conversation for a while and, so far, found it led nowhere but back around to the start of it, and was beginning to wonder if could be more efficiently described as an argument. “You’d think a bright yellow fish would be easy to spot, and I haven’t seen any.”

Denay huffed. “They’re muted when they’re spawning, I’ve told you. Helps to avoid predators, and-”

“I’ve heard it, Dee,” interrupted the trevally. He took the driver’s license back from a scowling Denay and returned it to Mizole, along with the papers. “Teenagers, right? Give ‘em a spring break job, just bein’ a good godfather, and all they do is talk about the spawning habits of zapfish.

“You’re all good to go,” he hummed, and gave the door of the Carpooler a friendly pat. “Take it slow in this wind, though, will ya? Last kid through here tore past like they had hell on their tail, made me real nervous.”

Ryann considered this. “The driving, or the driver?”

“…yes,” said the trevally. “Didn’t know they allowed so much teeth to show on driver’s licenses, either.”

“I’m sure they make exceptions,” Ryann smiled. “Thanks!”

“I’m just saying!” Denay exclaimed, while they were pulling off, “if they do show up, it’s gonna be a problem…”

The two rain-stained halves of the Little Triggerfish Bridge eased down to slot together in the centre, halting with a faint clunk that shook rainwater from its parapets and sent it running in rivulets to the concrete. Slowly, the bright red crossing barrier bar raised, followed by its twin on the far side, and with a wave from Denay in the booth and a rumble from the engine, the Wet Floor Carpool Vehicle lurched forwards in its way and went gently across.

Ryann glanced out her window as they went over. Most years, the snow sloughed down from the mountains under the warmer skies of mid March, but this year’s recurring cold snaps meant nothing melted properly until almost the end of the month. Combined with the unseasonably wet weather they’d been having for the past week, the river had climbed its banks a good few feet, swollen and swelling further as the rain still hammered down.

Most years, it meant that Inkopolis residents with basements (or, cod forbid, in subterranean homes) on the north-west edge of the city, near the Triggerfish, found their late March/early April paychecks went towards shop vacs, dehumidifiers, and large area fans as the water snuck into sewers, crept up lowland roads, and generally made things quite damp. This year, the flood bracket had extended down the length of the Snapper River too, into the canal, even temporarily decommissioning it as a Turf zone; or so Ryann had heard.

The river foamed and spat with the rain pelting into it, the surface bubbling like a great, roiling pot set to simmer. Bits of trash and plant debris being tossed downstream made for a sort of river potpourri, careening southwest, sloshing and swirling out towards the coast.

“Lookin’ pretty wet out there,” noted Kazami, which more or less summed it up.

Tsumabushi made a thoughtful sound, peering out his own window. “Yeesh. If it doesn’t let up by tomorrow, we’re going to have trouble with the equipment.”

“They’ve worked with that before, I think,” Ryann said. The Carpooler thumped gently over the Bridge on the far side, and she watched it disappear in the side mirror, barrier bar falling back into place and bridge raising again. “Put up a big tarp or something a few years back, when we had a storm like this.”

“Wasn’t that when they had that lawsuit where the chick got electrocuted?” Kagi asked. “Like- Hullabaloo won thanks to the waivers, but I’d prefer to avoid being, uh. Electrocuted.”

“C’mon, Kags!” Tsumabushi reached between the seat to knuckle Kagi’s shoulder. “It’s the fiftieth anniversary! They can’t cancel just ‘cause of a little casual electric shock, huh? Just toughen up a little.”

“She got second degree burns, dude. And her bass got toasted.”

“Ooh,” Ryann shivered, “not the bass.”

“Second degree burns,” Kagi repeated.

“Those heal, though. Basses are expensive.”

Tsumabushi wrinkled his snout and looked to reconsider things.

“Yeah, I heard about that,” Kazami butt in, leaning around to join the conversation. “I think it was her bass that got her, actually, bit of a power surge and-” she made a ksshew noise “-got the bass, her amp, her hands. Lots of fun. S’why I play drums,” she told Kagi, “drums can’t get you.”

“Drums can absolutely get you,” Kagi huffed in the back. “Tendonitis, carpel tunnel…”

“Tendonitis,” scoffed Kazami. “Speak for yourself, soft boy.”

“Don’t you have tendons?” Tsumabushi said. “I mean, they’re called, like, apodi… somethings? But they’re basically tendons.”

“Apodemes,” Kazami supplied, with a clicking of her foreclaws.

“You admit it!” Kagi cried, triumphant. Then, “…soft boy?”

Ryann sighed and left them to their squabbling, turning her gaze back to the front.

The windshield wipers went back and forth, squeak, squeak, squeak. Spruce needles and cherry blossom petals tumbled down and stuck to the glass, knocked from their branches as the wind whipped through the trees along the side of the road. Squeak, squeak, squeak, went the windshield wipers, and swept them away again.

“If I drive all the way up here, in this weather,” Mizole grunted, just loud enough for her to hear him over the others’ argument, “and then they turn around and cancel, I’m never accepting an invitation again.”

Ryann regarded him quietly for a moment, then smiled. “It’ll probably be fine,” she told him. He only snorted vaguely. “My phone was saying it’s meant to clear up soon. Definitely overnight.”

“Hope so,” sniffed Mizole, and turned the windshield wipers up a notch. The road went on rolling on in front of them, shimmering and rippling in the rain.

✿✿✿

As far as Ryann was concerned, there was no need for this much fussing, and in fact she intended to volunteer to put a stop to it, but wanted, for the sake of her own entertainment, to see this particular argument through to its end.

“I’m driving!” Mizole snapped, slinging an arm out at the Camp driveway in frustration, lights flaring; “I’m not going anywhere! Do- do rock-paper-scissors, or something! Just hurry it up, will you?”

“I’m not getting out in that,” Tsumabushi huffed.

“I’m not sure I can,” hummed Kagi.

“It’s the spirit of the thing,” Kazami said evenly. “And Ryann could crawl over to your seat, you know.”

“I could,” agreed Ryann, with a nod in Mizole’s direction.

Mizole glared at her. “If someone doesn’t get out right now and lift that fucking bar, I’m turning this damn rustbucket around and dropping you lot off at the nearest bus station.”

Looming in front of the Wet Floor Carpool Vehicle at the moment, just as bright red and obvious as its comrades back at the Bridge, a barrier bar. It stretched across the Camp’s driveway and typically would have been controlled by someone in the admissions booth it was connected to; alas, as Fogo their campgrounds admission guy had said, there appeared to be no one to do this, and as such the bar went on hanging offensively in the way.

“Rustbucket?” repeated Kagi, pressing a hand to his chest. “Definitely not doing it now.”

“Ryann, push him out of his seat and just drive through it,” instructed Tsumabushi.

“Yes,” said Kazami.

Mizole leaned around to look out the back windshield, a determined look in his amber eyes, and began to back the Carpooler out of the driveway.

“Alright! Alright, alright,” Ryann laughed. The argument had ended. She unbuckled and popped her door open when Mizole stopped rolling back, putting a hand up to shield her eyes from the rain. She tromped forwards in the soaked gravel, boots sticking slightly as the rain pummeled it into mud lite, and put her hands around the barrier bar. It was cold.

Ryann lifted from the point nearest the booth, with some effort; the point of the barrier bar largely revolved around keeping people out, which meant it was hard to lift manually. Ryann went on lifting anyway, because a species with no bones puts a lot of responsibility to the muscles.

“Does it go any higher?” Mizole shouted at her from the dry, effortless shelter of the Carpooler.

“No!” Ryann called back, miffed. “Just go! I think it’ll fit!”

Mizole shrugged, pulled her door closed, and scraped agonizingly under the bar.

“If anything,” he grunted, when they were trundling along again, after Ryann had made it back to her seat, a great deal wetter and muddier than when she had left it, “it probably cleaned some of the dirt off the roof.”

“Dirt doesn’t get on the roof,” Kagi sighed, who hadn’t taken his head out of his hands yet.

“Sorry,” said Ryann, guiltily. The metallic screech of barrier bar on Carpooler roof would resound in her ears for a while, she suspected.

“S’okay,” said Kagi, with another sigh, “it’s not as if it would’a gone any higher if anyone else had done it.” He didn’t take his head out of his hands.

“Not as if it’ll reduce the value of the thing any further,” Mizole offered, rolling with a rhythmic crunch into the main parking lot.

Kazami elbow Kagi. “Yeah, he’s probably right about that,” she grinned.

“Probably impossible to make it worth any less, at this point,” Tsumabushi added, and Ryann giggled despite herself.

Mizole laughed softly at that, guiding the car to a parking spot. “I dunno- you did see what’s-‘is-name’s car, right? How was that thing driving?”

“Fogo,” supplied Ryann.

Everyone reflected on Fogo’s car for a moment.

“Anyway,” said Kazami, and leaned into the front seats. “Anyone else notice there’s, like, no one here?”

That produced another second’s silence as everyone glanced around the paring lot. Other than a pile of gravel in one corner, nothing else notable joined them in the parking lot.

“So, like,” started Ryann, and then momentarily strayed from her train of thought when hail started dinging around them. “Er. So should we get out and look around, or…?”

Kazami tapped one of her foreclaws on her window. “Looks pretty rough out there.”

“Coming from the one with natural body armor, no less,” Tsumabushi said. “I’m not exactly reassured back here.”

“I was thinking of you soft-bodied freaks, actually,” Kazami hummed. Her mandibles clicked together happily when Tsumabushi shook his head in amused disbelief, and Ryann snorted.

“I think I’m gonna get a headache if I spend another second in this fruity fucking car,” Mizole exhaled, turning the Carpooler off. He leaned around his seat. “Not letting up anytime soon, I’m guessing,” he said, looking past Tsumabushi’s head out the back window, “so I’m getting to the cabin.”

“Fruity?” Kagi scoffed, sounding scandalized. “Oh, says you.”

“I mean these,” Mizole retorted, reaching up with one untrimmed claw and tapping the collection of air-fresheners hanging from the rear-view. “I know you’re probably desensitized at this point, but the rest of us still have olfactory function. I’ve been up here for forty minutes.”

Ryann barked a laugh at that in time with another disgraced snort from Kagi.

“Desensitized is a big word, Mizo,” Kazami hummed. “And I don’t know what you’re complaining about, at least you’ve got a nose.”

Mizole rolled his eyes and opened his door, swearing under his breath when hail immediately took the chance to bounce in. “Look, whatever. Join me or don’t, but I’m not spending another second cramped in here- with you people, no less.”  

And then, arm up to shield his face from the oncoming weather, he got out of the car and slammed the door behind him.

“He’s left the keys,” Kagi said, as soon as the door was shut. “Ryann, crawl into the driver’s and throw it in reverse.”

“Ooh,” giggled Ryann, and was halfway over the clutch when the sound of hail roared into the back of the van with the opening of the back-hatch.

“Mizole,” Tsumabushi called to him, breezily, “would you mind stepping back over there for just a second? You know, out of the way. No reason.”

Ryann glanced back: Mizole stood at the open trunk, already soaking wet and staring at them, unimpressed. Between Kazami’s chortling, the way Ryann was perched over the stick-shift on her haunches like a guilty sea slug, and Kagi’s… and Kagi, he must have figured it out, because all he did was stoop down, stand back up again, and sling a handful of melting hail at them over the back seat.

footnotes

^1. If only because saying things like ‘wilful ignorance’ or ‘blatant disconnect from reality’ made people look at you funny.⤴︎

^2. Thursdays came second, even though she’d heard less than amiable things about Thursdays. Ryann had a good hold of Thursdays.⤴︎

^3. Which was really quite unfortunate because the view on the way to the Camp could be chalked up to one of the best parts of the experience: mountains, usually just dim shapes on the horizon in the city, rose up to fill the sky on all sides, coupled with the dense, verdant spruce along the embankments where the road had been carved into the earth, an occasional cherry tree in near-full bloom adding a blurred yet welcome splotch of pink to the palette… alas, not today. Today was grey.⤴︎

^4. Kagi’s ten-year-old, dirty, off-white SUV, which seated up to eight plus baggage if you didn’t mind the visibility loss, had enough bumper stickers to wallpaper a small apartment, took rear-endings like a champ, and was covered in so many dents and dings Ryann wondered if it had been rolled down a particularly unforgiving hill the first time she saw it. Maybe more than one hill. During a hailstorm.⤴︎

^5. The truck had been in front of them for a while and, until now, had been one of the few competent drivers on the road. Ryann felt a strange stab of betrayal.⤴︎

^6. Had she really expected Fin to take someone on in the middle of the highway? Well- okay, not even the middle, rather more off to one side, but still. No, not really. It was probably just wishful thinking.⤴︎

^7. That was, never very far from threatening, along with broad, strong hands (typically balled in fists when not playing the fiddle) and a face containing some impressively sharp teeth that really drove the threat home.⤴︎

^8. Which would have been less strange if it hadn’t been pouring down rain and the door wasn’t rusted in such a way that it appeared as though you could potentially exfoliate with it and subsequently contract tetanus.⤴︎

^9. Although this never came up in Turf War or the Spring Hullabaloo, it was an issue of surprising scale for some of the summer kiddie camps. Children (typically of age range 12-15, because however much they wanted to, younger kids tended to give up only a couple kilometres out on account of having shorter legs and a weaker resolve) are oftentimes a great deal more determined than expected, especially if they are being terrorized by Camp Counsellors and the impending fate that is nature-oriented team-building. Whatever the hell that meant.⤴︎

Chapter Text

The word of the day contained three letters. It had two consonants and one vowel; it rhymed with ‘pet’; and it described something that most definitely could not be categorised as dry, if such a category even existed, here and now, at Camp Triggerfish.

Additionally it did not do justice to the situation that had overtaken Ryann’s shoes, which, already fairly damp from her earlier excursion, had progressed to absolutely sopping. She had not thought about rain-proof shoes when getting dressed that morning because she usually didn’t have to worry about trekking half a kilometre in the mud during a torrential downpour when she was in the city. Most of the time she stayed indoors, and when she didn’t there were always buses and things to catch. The only possible thing to catch out here was hypothermia^[10]

Though the hail had let up, the rain continued on, relentless. But Ryann of Wet Floor (or, presently, Wet Everything) would not splat in the face of a bit of water! Boldly, she had taken the lead of their little rain-braving party and now, having already led them past the front office to stuff their papers through the mail-slot, had directed them confidently through the storm towards their cabin and did not flinch even once when thunder rolled directly overhead, though a second party may be required to verify her account of events.

Ryann scanned the horizon. There wasn’t much of one, given that the rain cut visibility into a fraction of what it would usually be. The mountains, near in the distance, were barely visible, just rain-blurred shapes pocked with the occasional splash of pink and green of the local flora. The VIP cabins loomed close from behind their protective fencing, warmly lit from inside and a much inviting respite from the weather. The rest of the camp may well not have been there, for all she could see.

“So, er,” she said over her shoulder to her bandmates as they squelched in a beeline through the sodden grass. The roar of the storm swallowed her words and she cleared her throat to try again: “Which cabin are we in, again?”

“We’re in 4.2!” Kazami, two paces behind her, had been designated luggage carrier, what with the four arms and all that. Tsumabushi’s jacket had been draped over her to shelter the instruments in her claws.

“But we don’t have the keys!” Mizole called up, just behind Kazami. He and Tsumabushi walked on either side of Kagi, each holding one end of the Kagi’s jacket and stretching it over Kagi's^[11] head to keep him from melting in the downpour^[12]. 

“They’re in 4.1, are they not?” Kagi added at a near shout. “Or that’s what what’s-their-face said.”

“Fogo!” Tsumabushi hollered, making up the final car in the Wet Floor Rain Train. “Fucked-up-car-Fogo!”

Ryann remembered –it would be hard to forget Fucked Up Car Fogo. Or at least their car. “And 4.1 is… which one, exactly?”

“Pfft,” scoffed Mizole, and squelched up beside her (Kagi made a sound of displeasure when the jacket was dropped on his face). He pointed, the bioluminescent lights along the length of his finger strobing like a directional traffic sign. “It’s up there… somewhere.”

The Wet Floor Rain Train paused to allow him to squint through the rain for a beat, and that he did. And then for a few beats longer. Thunder rolled overhead.

Eventually Mizole’s lights dwindled to nothing. He scratched his goatee and muttered, “I don’t remember.”

“Well,” said Ryann, rain dripping down her face. “Good try. Thanks, Mizole.”

“Look, it’s gotta be up there somewhere, right?” Mizole wiped the rain off his own face and started forwards again, usurping Ryann’s lead. “Unless they moved the whole Camp around, it’s up there somewhere.”

“You don’t sound so confident,” Ryann giggled. She fell back, graciously not fighting him for the position of Rain Train Conductor. “Maybe they did move the whole Camp around- it has been a year since we’ve been here. Maybe it sunk into the earth and disappeared forever and we’ll have to sleep in the rain, too.”

“Or the river,” added Tsumabushi.

“I like the moving around option better, myself,” Mizole scoffed over his shoulder. “At least it’ll be somewhere .”

“They could do that,” said Kazami, coming up beside Ryann. “Take a while, though.”

“Why would they do that?” Kagi, hands full with his luggage, hadn’t bothered to move the wet jacket from his face and now walked with his head down, watching his feet. “Some sort of sick grocery store trick?”

The Rain Train stopped short, having come up on the Hullabaloo fence. It was of the same sort you might see at a sports event: tall and weighted down with the occasional hunk of concrete. It was temporary, and once the main event began would have security guards stationed around it to hold off crazed fans that held no respect for a meagre fence. Still at the head of the party, Mizole took up the task of opening its gate.  

“Grocery store trick?” Kazami repeated.

“You know,” said Kagi, from under the jacket. “Like how at MakoMart, when they occasionally rearrange all the products to different sections, so you have to walk around more to find things. You end up buying more stuff that way. Or that’s the corporate ideal, anyway.”

There came a noise of rattling chain-link at the gate, and Mizole’s grumbles floated to them between the raindrops.

“Oh!” Kazami’s mandibles clicked in amusement. “Is that why they do it? I always thought it was some sort of enrichment for the employees.”

Ryann snorted. “That’s totally what it is, yeah.”

“You ever worked at a MakoMart?” Tsumabushi butt in. “You don’t get enrichment, you are enrichment. For the customers. Especially at the rich people one, in the High-Tide section of the city. You ever been to that one?”

More chain-link noises; more grumbling. A flash of light, indicating a warning of incoming offensive, reflected off Kazami’s rain-streaked carapace. Mizole, when Ryann glanced over at him, seemed to be having troubles with the gate latch. She left him to it; if she went to help now, she’d just get shouted at. He’d ask in a moment.

“With the giant IkaCola box displays around Squidmas?” Kagi shifted his luggage to one hand and peeled the jacket off his head, ignoring Tsumabushi’s protests. “I’m fine, really. No, yeah- there’s always someone getting shouted at, at that one.”

“Tell me about it,” laughed Tsumabushi.

“That’s the one you worked at, isn’t it?” Kazami tilted her head back to look up at him where she stood, squinting when rain fell into her eyes. He nodded, shuddering dramatically. “Poor Tsumabushi.”

“ Poor Tsumu,” sighed Ryann, grinning and patting his elbow. “You’re safe, n-”

“Will you guys stop reminiscing about your minimum-wage torture days and help me with this thing?” 

“We’re not reminiscing ,” Ryann scoffed, finally turning round to go to Mizole’s aid now that she had been explicitly permitted to. “We’re…”

Mizole looked up from where he had been fiddling in soaking wet, one-handed vain with the gate, eyebrows furrowed and lights thrumming in aggravation. “Yeah?”

“…yeah, okay, we were reminiscing.” Ryann dropped her bag on the ground and pushed him aside, much to his mild chagrin. “Wanna join us?”

“Minimum wage bad,” agreed Mizole, lights fading as Ryann undid the latch. “Though I’m not too fond of this, either. At least minimum wage wasn’t sopping wet.”

“The sprinkler system decided to malfunction that one time,” offered Tsumabushi. “And then also there was the mildew issue. Surprisingly, unrelated.”

“I thought you said it was in the rich people part of the city?” Kazami stepped out of the way of the gate as it swung wide. 

“Yeah,” said Tsumabushi, “doesn’t mean they actually use all the rich people revenue, mind you.”

Ryann banged her bag on the gate. “Wet Floor Rain Train, forwards!” 

“Rain Train?” Mizole snorted.

“Rain Train,” repeated Kazami with a grin.

“S’what I’ve been privately calling it in my head, yes.” Ryann heaved her luggage up again, making way for the others to pass through. “And now we’re the caboose.”

“Pfft,” said Mizole, a soft flare of amusement coming to light on his face. “Damn.”

They followed the others at some length (Mizole waited for her to close the gate again). A garden, small but pleasant, resided in the centre of the semi-circle of VIP cabins, and there was a pair of shapes bobbing around at the edge of it. The rest of Wet Floor had already headed for them; Ryann and Mizole dashed through the shower to catch up.

“Oh,” said Ryann, as they jogged, and pointed to a small cluster of vehicles on the edge of the fenced-in area. “There’s the rest of the cars.”

“Oh,” Mizole repeated. “Yeah, look at that. I guess we should move the Carpooler, then.”

“Probably good for now, though, right?”

“I mean, yeah. Just wanna get it out of the main lot before it gets abducted for being the Wet Floor car, or whatever.”

Ryann scoffed. “No one would ever guess that that poor thing was the Wet Floor car.”

“They might, though,” Mizole grinned. “Our weapons are still in there, too, so.”

They came upon the rest of the band and the pair of shapes. One of them was Paul from SashiMori, and the other was Blow of Bottom Feeders fame, who held a flashlight in one fin. A tartan umbrella protected them both though it seemed, Ryann guessed, that Paul had left its shielding canopy at least once, given that his sky-blue sweater was almost as wet as Wet Floor was.

“Oh, and you two as well,” said Blow, amicable, and turned the flashlight on Mizole and Ryann as they joined the group. “There’s lovely. What can I help you folks with on this dreich day?” 

“We were wondering if you could point us in the direction of 4.1?” Tsumabushi asked. “We don’t have our cabin key.”

Ryann caught Paul’s gaze and she waved; he only blinked uncomfortably and glanced away. He had an earthworm clutched gently in his hand- or tentacle, rather, seeing as he hadn’t quite made it to the age for developed fingers. He also had a rainhat on, in a shade that nearly matched that of his tentacles. The worm did worm things; i.e. squirmed.

“Sure,” nodded Blow. He nudged Paul. “That’s where you’re staying, isn’t it? Which one was it?”

Paul looked up at him with a wide-eyed stare before turning to Wet Floor. “Oh,” he said. “Yes, over… there. Um.” And then he said nothing else. 

Blow pat him on the head encouragingly. The rainhat slipped over his eyes. “Well. Wasn’t it…” he paused, turned in a circle, and pointed with the flashlight. It cut through the rain, illuminating every passing droplet. “It’s just across the way, here, I think.”

Wet Floor followed his fin. “Splendid!” said Tsumabushi, and, with a protesting (and beginning to melt) Kagi in tow, went directly towards it. “Thank you!”

“Thanks!” said Kazami, hoisting the instruments and wheeling around to dash^[13] after them. “Catch you later!”

Blow chuckled. “It is quite wet, isn’t it? I won’t hold you up.”

“Nice worm,” Ryann said to Paul. Mizole caught her elbow to pull her along. 

“…moving them from the sidewalk,” he told her in a small, Paul-ish voice, entirely unsure of itself and thick with an unfamiliar accent, the colour of which had only been somewhat diluted by the local dialect. “So they won’t become stepped on.”

“Good idea!” she smiled, straining against Mizole’s insistent tug, and waved in parting. This time, he returned it. Blow laughed heartily.

Thankfully the cabins had roofs over their porches. When Ryann thumped up the steps with Mizole (who nearly slipped on the slick planks and yelped as he did so), she breathed a sigh of relief. The gale still swept through, and the hardwood had been plastered with all sorts of storm detritus –cherry blossom petals, spruce needles, dirt and grit of all genres- but in wake of the battering she’d taken in the rain, she hardly cared. 

The curtains had been pulled-to in the window looking out on the porch, but light shone between them, slicing a bronze glow into the grey-blue wash of the afternoon. Lightning flashed past the shelter of the porch, briefly outshining the light in the cabin. Thunder blundered along directly after it. The rain went on falling.

“We already knocked,” Kazami exhaled, already collapsed on the porch’s bench under the weight of the instruments in her claws and Tsumabushi’s wet jacket- which had to be ten pounds heavier than usual, soaked through as it was. “No answer yet.”

“Hm,” nodded Ryann. “Thank cod for roofed porches, at least.”

“Right?” said Kagi, and pushed his glasses up his nose with one knuckle. Or tried to, anyways; the way he had destabilized in the rain meant his finger merely stuck, and he pulled his hand away to find the glasses sunk half-way through it. “Shit.”

Tsumabushi observed the situation with the tip of his tongue out in aversion. “Dude.”

Ryann giggled, carefully extracting the glasses from their owner by one arm. “Don’t be rude , Tsumabushi. Piptophilia isn’t funny.”

“Not being rude,” defended Tsumabushi, “just worried. And disturbed.”

“You know what’s disturbing?” Mizole said. “Bones. And the way you crack yours. It’s so nasty.”

“Nasty!” exclaimed Tsumabushi. “Kagi’s face is, like, actually just melting off right now.”

“At least I don’t have bones under it.”

“You have a beak in there somewhere, don’t you? And a pen?”

“S’not bones.”

“Aren’t they?”

“I’m glad I don’t have to worry about bones or spontaneous combustion,” said Kazami.

“Bones are gross,” agreed a voice from the cabin’s doorway.

They all turned: Ryu-Chang stood in the open door, and had been for who knew how long; they’d been too absorbed in their squabbling to have noticed the door opening. Karla was at his side, eyestalks wavering as they gazed out towards where Blow and Paul were still frolicking amongst the worms. Taichi stood between them, looming over everyone.

“Yes, they are,” said Tsumabushi, smoothing down the front of his shirt. 

“A blessing and a curse,” laughed Ryu, leaning against the doorframe. “What can we help you kids with? Man, it’s absolutely flyfishing out here.”

Ryann took over. “We were wondering if you would happen to know where the cabin keys are?” 

Ryu pondered this for a beat. “Actually, I didn’t ever get my fins on them, did you…?”

Karla shook their head.

“Hm,” said Ryu-Chang. “Taichi?”

Taichi sniffed, lifting his head just slightly when he did it. It made Ryann think of a nudibranch her grandmother once owned. “Warabi took them, I think. We’ll never see them again.”

“They’ll be around,” sighed Ryu, a smile on his lips and a contagious mirth in his eyes. “He’s a fine one to talk,” he told Ryann (Taichi scoffed), and then leaned back into the cabin to holler, “Warabi!” 

There was a brief pause before the curtains in the window to their left swished open and the face of Diss-Pair’s Warabi peered out at them. Ryann waved and his single eyebrow furrowed, then rose, and then he laughed silently behind the glass and the curtains fell shut again.

A beat later and Warabi had stuck his head between the members of SashiMori. Taichi shuffled over to give him room and brushed some lint from his shoulder while he was at it.

 “Ah,” said Warabi, observing the crowd gathered on the porch with sharp eye and sharper grin. “Wet Floor. Wetter-than-usual-Floor, anyways. Yeah?”

“You know where those keys got to, man?” Ryu asked.

“We don’t have ours,” explained Kazami.

“We were told you did,” Tsumabushi added.

“Yeah,” said Warabi. He didn’t say anything else for a beat, squinting his lazy eye all the way closed in deep thought, looking between the members of Wet Floor. When his gaze landed on her, Ryann mimicked his squint and managed to tug a laugh out of him. 

“Uh,” he grinned, shaking his head. “Yeah, probably. I can find them.”

Taichi scoffed. 

Ryu clapped a hand to the octoling’s shoulder. “Get lookin’, then, man, they’re getting soaked out there.”

Warabi wrinkled his nose at Ryu. “No pressure or anything,” he laughed, disappearing into the depths of the cabin. “You could invite them in, you know! Wet Floor, do you want hot cocoa?”

“Ooh,” said Ryann. 

“We were makin’ some for Paul, for when he gets in,” Ryu told her. “And Blow, if he wants any. Plenty to go around.”

Karla nodded.

“He always insists on buying in bulk,” Taichi hummed. “Turned out for the better, for once.”

Ryann looked behind her and exchanged a glance with the rest of Wet Floor. The glance didn’t have much desire for hot cocoa in it. Mostly it was damp. She wouldn’t mind a cup, but… “Uh… I think we’re alright. But thank you!”

“Sure,” said Ryu. “If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”

Warabi popped back in then, a hand thrust out the door with the ring of keys dangling between his fingers. “Here we are. I’d left them on the shower shelf.”

“Why on earth were they in there?” Taichi demanded.

“Haven’t the faintest,” grinned Warabi, as Ryann took the keys, looping through them until she found the one with the blue cover. Sky blue. She might have preferred turquoise. “If it doesn’t work, maybe I can come pick your lock, or something.”

“Cheers,” said Kagi, as Ryann passed the remainder of the keys back.

“We’ll… keep it in mind,” said Mizole.

Warabi only laughed and shook his head, piercings jingling.

“Thank you so much!” Tsumabushi inclined his head slightly. “Best of luck for tomorrow!” 

“Cheers,” said Ryu. “You kids, too!” he called as Wet Floor started tromping down the steps, back into the rain.

“Hope we get to see some of you!” Ryann called back. 

“If the schedule allows, which I’m sure it won’t,” Taichi said. “Ciao!”

Karla waved, and then the door was shut.

“Ciao?” Mizole repeated to Ryann, and she giggled. “Sheesh.”

✿✿✿

They did not have to call Warabi to pick their lock. Slightly disappointing, but probably easier on everyone in the long run. Ryann suspected they wouldn’t have lasted another three minutes outside, anyways. The warm, gold-and-green embrace of the cabin was a much-appreciated respite from the storm, even if it smelled of mildew and PineSol.

Her bags thumped just past the shoe mat in the front hall and immediately began to produce a puddle on the dark, varnish-stripped hardwood. “Oh my god ,” she exhaled, and began pulling her shoes off. “I can’t believe it’s still raining.”

“I can,” sighed Kagi. He had started to resolidify in the dry cabin, though he looked as though he had a ways to go yet. “It does this every year.” 

“Usually later, though,” Mizole said. “Hope it lets up soon.” He had positioned himself over the vent in the corner, lights fluttering in content as warm air washed over him.

Kazami, having already dropped her cargo, just made a vague keening noise, facedown on the densely patterned shag rug a few paces into the main room. 

“Don’t put your face in that,” Tsumabushi pleaded, plucking her up and peeling the sopping wet jacket from her shoulders. Just as he was the only one on Team Early Bird, he also seemed to have an infinite resolve and apparently suffered no ill effects of marching half a kilometre through a rainstorm. “You have no idea what could be on it, or in it, or under it.” 

“Dust slugs, I suspect,” said Kagi, and tried to lift the corner of it with his foot (clad in Squid Squad brand socks, of course). “Ah, no, it’s glued down. Classy.”

“Gross,” said Mizole.

They all regarded the rug for a moment.

“At least it’s not wall-to-wall like it is in the Lounge?” suggested Ryann. Facts about dust mites danced through her mind, and so did several other things about shag carpet that she didn’t dare speak aloud. At least the pattern meant that stains didn’t show- though that was probably why they chose it in the first place. She said as much.

“Gross,” said Mizole again.

“We won’t be in there, anyways,” Tsumabushi said. “Too much going on with the festival, more than likely.”

“So that makes this the grossest rug we’ll encounter.” Kazami fidgeted her mandibles together slowly in mild disgust. “Cool beans.” 

“Not necessarily,” said Tsumabushi. “They have little rugs in the bathrooms here, too, right? Those are almost certainly worse.”

“Listen,” said Kazami, “I don’t need to think about that. At all.”

“It was meant to make you feel better about things, actually.”

Kazami breathed an amused scoff and went past him into the kitchen.

“Well,” said Ryann. “Gross.”

“Right?” Mizole agreed, and she laughed. He had apparently completed a full turn over the warm vent and was now trading places with Kagi. “That’s what I’m sayin’.”

Ryann sighed, content. “I was gonna take a nap,” she said, “if anyone needs me.”

“We’ll be down here,” said Kagi. “Drying instruments, probably.”

Tsumabushi added “And you.” 

“Yup,” said Kagi, and prodded his still-viscous nose a little over to the left to emphasize this. “And me.”

“Have fun!” said Ryann, and left them there to go take her nap.

She went up the stairs to the second floor slowly, lugging her bag ahead of her step by step, counting each as a small victory. The first bedroom on the right became hers; she claimed it by draping her wet jacket over the outer doorknob.

Inside, lights off and shrouded in the darkness of the storm, Ryann surveyed things. It definitely fit the category of bedroom, no more, no less. There wasn’t much to say about it, really. It was a small room; there was a bed with the head pushed against one wall, as well as a small chest of drawers, and a window with no blinds. A lamp and a digital alarm clock on one nightstand, a small packet of Camp Welcome Biscuits on the other^[14]. 

Dark green walls, dark hardwood floor, a patterned shag rug that no doubt contained undesirable multitudes. The smell of rain, creeping through the closed window (things didn’t seal as well when they’d been there for almost a century). And, faintly, mildew. Always mildew, at Camp Triggerfish; and what would it be without it? Health and safety compliant, Ryann thought.

She dropped her bag on the ground to rummage through it, selecting a pale pink turtleneck and a pair of black sweatpants, peeling her wet clothes off. 

Once dressed, she clambered over the bed on her knees to get to the window. This room faced north and, if the rain ever did let up, would give Ryann quite a striking view of the river and the mountains behind it. Presently the world beyond the glass was composed of shadowy shapes and rain-streaked shades of blue-green-grey. Lightning split the clouds dramatically, and the window rattled in the pursuing roll of thunder.

She hooked her fingers around the handle of the window and struggled to pull it upright for a good few seconds before realising it might be easier if she undid the lock first. Not significantly, and the old frame screeched in its sixty-year-old track as it went, but she was after fresh air and she would get it, cod dammit, even if it meant dampening the floor under the window as rain splattered in the crack. 

Next came the alarm clock. Ryann pondered over the buttons for a little bit. The radio-switch and the snooze were missing entirely, but she discovered if she stuck a claw into the dust-coated depths she could prod the trigger for the radio; the snooze remained a lost cause. 

The other buttons were sticky at best, if not entirely unresponsive, and after jiggling them aimlessly around and accidentally resetting the time to ten twenty-seven pm, she just gave up. Who planned naps, anyways? She’d wake up when she woke up. As cod intended. It would work out in the end; and if it didn’t the others would come get her. Probably with a cup of water to dump on her head, if Mizole had any say in the procedure. 

With that reassuring thought in mind, Ryann pulled back the dark green bedclothes, inspected the dark green inner sheets, and fell prone onto them without so much as a second thought. The roar of the rain through the open window lulled her very quickly to sleep.

✿✿✿

In fact it did work out in the end, and in nearly the exact way she expected it to. 

People with a more precise internal clock (see: Tsumabushi), a stronger will to carry on (see: Tsumabushi), and a drive to live each and every moment of their life in a state of fulfilling personal betterment (see: take a guess!^[15]) might have been up sooner. Nap Roulette was the name of the game, for Ryann; how long she was asleep usually amounted to ‘until she woke up’ or, more frequently, ‘until the others woke her up’, and one was more entertaining than the other.

This time around it was the latter option, and after what felt unfairly like no time at all. In snatches of consciousness, while being shaken around and spoken to in urgent tones, she caught the face of the alarm clock, and it now, however incorrectly, read eleven pm, even. Ryann could not perform very complex math problems shortly after waking, but she suspected ten thirty to eleven was not nearly as much sleep as she had hoped to get.

She spat the lint out of her mouth and managed “What?” although the combined effect of having just awoken and being nearly face-down in her pillow made it more of a vague groan with a question mark tacked onto the end. Not that Ryann worried about it for too long- as soon as she’d said something, the shaking had stopped and she had got to work going right back to sleep.

The blanket was ripped unceremoniously away from her and Mizole's voice barked “Ryann!” and she knew it to be Mizole’s voice on account of the water splashed on her face. Yup. Mizole. 

“Get up!” Mizole snapped, as she pried her eyes open to glare at him where he loomed over the side of the bed^[16] . “We’ve gotta go!” 

“We’re not going anywhere,” came Kagi’s voice, as Ryann pushed herself off the mattress into something resembling sitting position. Her head felt like it was full of sand. 

“Going… what?” she asked, when she could keep her eyes open long enough to focus on Mizole and Kagi’s respective forms. Kagi had resolidified, she noted. That was good. “We just… didn’t we just get here?”

“The zapfish,” Mizole just growled, unhelpful, and grabbed ahold of her arm before promptly changing his mind, turning on his heel, and stalking out of the room.

“The… zapfish?” Ryann looked to Kagi for help.

Kagi shrugged. “Apparently the kid at the bridge booth was right,” he said. “They’ve started coming up the river, so we’re… well, we’ve been very strongly encouraged to not go anywhere in any form of vehicle. Certainly not near the river, because it might disturb them.” 

He pushed his glasses up his nose and thumbed over his shoulder. “We’re meeting in the kitchen, if you’re lucid enough to join us. I’m making tea.”

Ryann pulled herself from the bed and went stiffly after him. “So,” she started, and then had to stop as a yawn overtook her face. “So, what, is the show cancelled? ‘cause no one’s allowed to drive near the river?”

“Looks like,” said Kagi, sighing as they descended the stairs. “Postponed, at least. Personally, if I were a zapfish in the throes of the once-every-twenty-years mating season, I would-”

“Where the hell is this going, Kags?” 

Kagi paused for some length and eventually said over his shoulder, “Nowhere good,” and stopped talking as they rounded the end of the stairs into the kitchen.

Ryann barked a laugh. “No, no- I think I get it. You mean, like… car vibrations seem like smallfry when you’re… busy making smallfry.”

“Ew,” said Kagi.

“You started it.”

“You didn’t have to finish it, though, is the thing.”

Ryann asked “Where’s the fun in that?” and laughed again when Kagi rolled his eyes at her.

They had come upon the kitchen. Mizole and Kazami were seated on stools at the high island in the centre of the room, huddled close and looking at Mizole’s phone. Mizole’s expression was absolutely saturated with disdain; Kazami mostly looked worried and a little bit confused. 

Tsumabushi was at the sink, running water. The kettle whistled from the stove, steam condensing on the underside of the green cabinets. They quite liked green at Camp Triggerfish, Ryann had noticed.

“What on earth are you two on about?” Tsumabushi demanded. Presently he was washing a spoon, and with a flourish of water droplets brandished it at them. “Kagi, you’ve explained the situation?”

“At some length,” said Kagi, wandering idly around the island and sighing when Tsumabushi bopped him on the head with the spoon.

“Pretty much,” agreed Ryann, sliding into a stool opposite Mizole and Kazami. “We can’t leave?”

“We have to leave,” Mizole grunted, leaning closer to his phone. The bioluminescent spots on his jaw and over his eyes throbbed brightly in explicit annoyance. “And soon, before it’s an instruction, not a suggestion.”

“I don’t wanna be hanging out here indefinitely if we’re not even doing anything,” Kazami agreed. “We might be able to make it! If we went now, I mean. Before all the traffic ordinances go up.”

“We’re perfectly fine here.” Kagi had leant back against the fridge, arms crossed, and rolled his eyes behind his glasses when Mizole growled and slumped forwards on the island. Ryann pat his head kindly. “We won’t make it back to the city in time, anyways, and I have no desire to be fined.”

“Ghhhhh,” intoned Mizole into the island, claws splaying out and clicking ineffectively on the marble. 

A thoughtful silence faded in. Thunder rolled outside. The kettle went on whistling. Mizole muttered something to himself. Possibly several somethings; but it could just as easily have been one long, strung out something, Ryann wasn’t sure. 

He turned his head to glare at Kagi, “Can you make your tea already?”

Kagi scoffed and went to do just that.

“Hey, yeah- what about food?” Kazami asked. “I brought some snacks and stuff, but I figured there’d be vendors by tomorrow. Are we gonna starve?”

Tsumabushi tapped the spoon on the counter thoughtfully. “If we’ve got keys for the whole place, we can probably get into the mess hall, right? Or whatever it is they’ve got here.”

“They usually do sell hot meals and stuff from the mess hall, yeah.” Kagi plunked a mug down on the counter and dropped a tea bag in it. “And they do kiddie camps and stuff all the time, so they’ve probably got some nonperishables in store.”

Ryann watched him pour water into his cup, blowing the fragrant steam away from her face. “I mean… but being fined,” she hazarded, “that’s only per vehicle, right?”

“And you’ll get a mark on your license,” Mizole grunted into the island. 

Kazami nodded severely. “And your’s has your face on it, already,” she said, “which is bad enough to begin with.” 

Mizole lifted his head to glare at her. Ryann laughed aloud.

“Hm,” said Tsumabushi, and then paused, squinting out the front window. “What’s going on out there?” 

Ryann swivelled her stool to follow his gaze. Between the raindrops marched a disorganised gaggle of their Hullabaloo colleagues, all at varying levels of enthusiasm but generally the same level of sopping wet. “Oh,” she said. “That looks like fun.”

“Makin’ a break for it,” Mizole observed, and then shot the rest of the band several pointed looks. 

“Pfft,” said Kagi, and sipped his tea. “I’m not going back out there, but if you’re looking to endanger the country’s power grid stability, be my guest.”

“I’m sticking around, too,” Tsumabushi said, and finally put the spoon in its appropriate drawer. “You kids have fun, and don’t call us when you need bail, alright?”

“Hm,” said Ryann.

“So you’re driving?” Mizole’s furrowed brow quirked when he caught Ryann’s gaze. The fury in his lights had dwindled some, and dwindled further when he met her eyes. And then held there. 

“Fine,” she sighed eventually, averting her gaze and forfeiting the staring contest. “Fine, but I want a trip to Arowana if I get any marks on my license.” 

“Course” said Mizole, and pushed away from the island. “Tsumabushi can take you.”

“Ooh,” said Kazami. She pointed to Mizole’s phone, still flat on the island. “They might also decide to take your license away for a bit.”

“Tsumabushi can take you,” said Mizole again, after a slight pause.

“Gonna have to,” hummed Kagi. 

Tsumabushi shot Ryann a thumbs up and a grin, and, though sighing loudly and pointedly, she returned it all the same.

✿✿✿

If your personal outlook on life could be lumped in with the ‘glass half full’ folks, or you subscribed to a belief in Yhprum's Law, or especially if your name was not Mizole, you might find yourself hoping- no, believing, assuredly, that everything would work out for the best, sooner or later, and you only had to give it some good old fashioned time and patience to get there.

Though presently trapped behind the unforgiving wheel of the Carpooler, shoes still quite wet, Mizole whining on one side of her and Kazami reading aloud the Wikipedia page for Zapfish on the other, and a mild headache hammering away at her mantle, Ryann did not feel this assured belief slipping. She held fast in her optimism; had been and would still, even when the storm seemed to pick up just as they left the cosy shelter of the Camp, almost willing them to stay within the green and gold mildew-scented property limits.

“Our Great Zapfish is a hundred and four,” Kazami was saying, and as she turned the windshield wipers up a notch, Ryann heard the gentle click of claw on screen as the crab scrolled further into the trivia section.

“Wow,” said Ryann sincerely, swerving hand-over-hand^[17] around a large branch in the road. The air fresheners on the rear-view swung back and forth dramatically, as was their wont; the Goldie bobblehead on the dash bobbled but otherwise stayed right where it was. Thank god for sticky tack. “Senior citizen.”

“Actually,” said Kazami, and held up one claw in a perfect pantomime of Kagi’s Smart Guy Correction pose^[18], “they usually live to be about 500. The one in Splatsville is two hundred and twenty-seven, and they’re having a big party for its two hundred ‘n twenty-eighth next month.”

“Great,” said Mizole, flatly. “Means they’ve got plenty of time to spawn on that isn’t ours.” He shuffled in his seat, steely glare unwavering as he stared out the windshield. “Think you could go a lil’ faster?”

Ryann sighed and shifted gears. Her shoe went squelch when she pressed the clutch. Thunder rolled around the vehicle. “Won’t that bother the zapfish more?”

“It’s mostly to do with electromagnetic stuff, it said.” Kazami’s claw clicked on the phone screen again. “It’s just that the… the vibrations caused by vehicular activity near and within bodies of water in which zapfish are spawning have been known to disturb the fish and chase them from their nesting grounds which, given their reliance on specific areas, can ultimately lead to failure to spawn.”

“Wow,” said Mizole flatly.

“So, like,” said Ryann, “’cause we’re driving alongside the river… yeah, probably.”

“Yeah,” said Kazami. “Probably.”

Mizole sighed, long suffering. Ryann glanced at him, and his gaze was still trained on the road, bioluminescent lights fluttering like a fire contained beneath the surface of his skin. “You said they do this for how long?”

“Last time,” recited Kazami, no doubt scrolling back up to the ‘Duration of Spawning’ section, “in 2002, they were in the Triggerfish River for a total of seventeen days, and in 1976 it was thirteen days, er…”

“Just give us the Trench Notes, would you?” Mizole grunted.

Kazami made a sound with her claws Ryann had come to know as the crab equivalent of the middle finger. Mizole glanced back at her, disdainful, but said nothing.

“Two weeks, usually,” Kazami said finally. “Sometimes three.”

“Yeesh,” said Ryann.

“Good god,” said Mizole, and thumped his head on the dash. “We’re gonna end up Lord of the Flyfish-ing it if we’re stuck that long.”

Ryann scoffed. “Speak for yourself, Mizo.”

“That’s the one where they kill the guy with the rock, right?” Kazami leaned around into the front seat. “Do we do nose-goes for that, or…?”

“You don’t even have a nose,” Ryann argued, one finger already to her nose anyways.

“Default exclusion,” Kazami told her. “Sorry, Mizole.”

Despite himself, Mizole puffed a breath of laughter between his lips. “I already have a headache,” he sighed, “a bit of blunt head trauma should round things out nicely.”

“You too?”

“Me too, what?”

“You have a headache,” Ryann clarified, and glanced up from the wheel to him. “That’s what you said.”

“Yeah,” scoffed Mizole, “and I don’t know if it’s the weather or you people that’s causing it.”

“Yeesh,” said Kazami. “Ry, there’s some rocks along the road this’a’way if you wanna pull over now.”

Ryann laughed aloud. “I also have a headache,” she explained, “is what I was getting at.” Mizole made a noise that sounded suspiciously like ‘finally’. Ignoring him, she went on: “I was thinking it was the mildew.”

“Sure,” said Mizole. “I guess that could be it.”

“Feels like someone’s tryna microwave my brain,” Ryann went on. “From, like, a great distance. Gently.”

“Hm,” said Mizole, and pondered for a while. “You know how,” he began, and made a near abstract motion with his hands: trying to press the palms together but was prevented from doing so by some invisible force, “when you try to stick magnets together backwards?”

“Yeah.”

“S’like that,” said Mizole, “in my head. Gently.”

“Huh,” said Ryann.

“I don’t have a headache,” said Kazami, “in case anybody cared to wonder.”

“We don’t,” said Ryann happily, as Mizole reached back to administer an amicable pat to Kazami’s claw.

“I shall find two rocks,” said Kazami.

Ryann barked a laugh at that. “You don’t need two separate rocks to- oh.”

On the rain-streaked, not-too-distant horizon, the shape of the little bridge loomed. A short line of cars –their Hullabaloo peers– had filed neatly in front of it.

Mizole sat up, sighed heavily, and asked, “You think we’ll get fined?”

“Hm,” said Ryann. She caught a swell of his apprehensive light in her peripheral but didn’t look over. “About to find out.”

“They better not.” Kazami clicked her claws. “Kill them with rocks.”

“Yeesh,” said Mizole.

Ryann eased the Carpooler into place at the end of the line, trying to peer around to the front of it. “No killing people with rocks,” she told Kazami vaguely. “Can you see what’s up?”

“Some people standin’ around. Doesn’t look like anyone’s looking to drive, though,” Mizole groused. “It’s not,” he started, and then cut himself off with a yelp when a knock came at the passenger window.

Noiji.

“Noiji,” remarked Kazami, as Ryann and Mizole stared at him through the glass. “And Paruko. Huh.”

“Th’ hell did they come from?” Mizole bristled, lights flaring defensively.

“The Camp, probably,” Ryann offered, and laughed, pleased with herself, when Mizole shot her a scathing glare.

Outside the car stood Noiji and Paruko of ABXY. They were huddled closely together under a single green umbrella which Paruko held in one hand; her other clutched a handheld console. Her symbiote had tucked itself against her neck, under her tentacles, and Ryann thought it looked even more exhausted than usual - then again, that was hard to gauge. It seemed to have resting miserable face.

Noiji, damp yet chipper^[19] as always, offered a bright little wave, a grin stretched ear to ear. Ryann returned it (maybe not at quite the same strength, but it was hard to match a Noiji grin), and he closed his fist and made a cranking motion, round and round^[20]. He grinned wider when Mizole obliged him, window buzzing down at the press of a button.

“How goes it?” Noiji asked, raising his voice to be heard over the drum of the storm. Without waiting for an answer, he went on: “We got some, uh… not-so-ideal news.”

“Bad news?” Mizole translated for himself, beak clacking sharply with the force of it. Ryann couldn’t say she was surprised. A patron of Murphy’s Law, he would always be. “What bad news?”

“Not what he said,” Paruko muttered under her breath. Her clownfish burbled.

Kazami stuck her head between the driver’s and the passenger. “Can we get across?”

Ryann leaned around her to see Noiji’s answer.

“Well!” Noiji looked back up towards the bridge, hanging onto the window ledge and leaning back. The road must have been slicker than he thought it would be because he then nearly slid right under the Carpooler on his heels, head disappearing past the edge of the window. Paruko peered after him with an unworried sort of mild interest.

Mizole sighed heavily. Ryann leaned closer to the window to see if Noiji was alright. Paruko shifted on her feet idly and poked the handheld console. A clap of thunder rolled overhead.

“Whoof!” When he’d steadied himself, grinning all the while, Noiji shrugged. “Well, yeah, I mean, if you can jump your car over the river, yeah. Otherwise… not so much.”

He mimed pushing a button. “No one in the gatehouse, but there’s this little pre-recorded message on the Terminal all about how we’re, like, not allowed to leave until the fish do, so that’s pretty cool!”

“Oh,” said Ryann. She wasn’t positive if that had been sarcasm or not, or indeed if Noiji had any practice with sarcasm in the first place. “So we can’t get across.”

“Probably not,” said Paruko.

“But maybe!” said Noiji, and jostled her with an elbow. “Possibly! We’re working on it!!”

He extended an arm with a snap of wet fabric, pointing towards the bridge. “Crack team of experts, breaking into the Terminal as we speak!! Might be able to get it goin’ from this side.”

“That sounds definitely illegal,” Kazami piped up from the second row.

“And it’s a darn beautiful day to be breakin’ the law, isn’t it?” Noiji laughed. Paruko nodded in sombre agreement. “Already goin’ against it, bein’ out here. You guys are welcome to join us, if you wanna help! Or stretch your legs, or… might want an umbrella, though. Wet out.”

“I only brought one,” said Kazami.

“Ghhgh,” Mizole groaned.

“Thanks,” Ryann sighed, and ignored Mizole’s glare. “How long have you guys been here?”

“Not too long,” Noiji hummed. He rubbed his chin in thought. “No, not very long at all.”

A long pause elapsed and then he turned to Paruko and said, “I haven’t been counting…?”

Paruko made an I-don’t-know noise. “Ten minutes, maybe?” And then her fish burbled and she said, “Oh. Sorry, no. Eleven.”

“But you haven’t been able to get over yet,” deadpanned Mizole. His lights gave his annoyance away, simmering like a pot about to boil over.

Noiji just shrugged. The grin had yet to leave his face. “We’re working on it!! Or Warabi is, anyways. But we’re doin’ the important bit: moral support! And umbrella holding. Not much help, otherwise.”

“None whatsoever,” said Paruko.

Noiji shook his head. “If it was a Pikki-Fish 720, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation!! But oh well. They’ll get it, anyways. We’re optimistic!”

“Eh,” said Paruko.

“I’m optimistic!!”

Mizole went “Ghhhhghg,” looked between Noiji and Ryann, glared up at the Terminal’s crowd for a moment, and finally relented and unlocked his door.

“The more the merrier!!” Noiji laughed, and with a quick final glance, tipped an imaginary hat. “Happy to have you!” With that he gave a running start and slid away in the wet grass on the side of the road.

Paruko watched him go with a quiet fondness in her eyes, only moving to get out of Mizole’s way. “I think he’s allergic to the umbrella.”

Ryann snorted. Ah, Noiji: the maniac she could only ever hope to be.

She and Kazami followed Mizole’s damp and resigned trudge to the Exit Terminal. Paruko tagged along at some distance, busy with her handheld. The trees swayed wildly on either side of them; the river rushed ahead. The grass went squish, squish under their feet. It smelled of petrichor and cherry blossoms.

“I mean,” said Kazami as they walked along the short line of cars, scrunched together under the single umbrella Ryann held. The rain pattered on the canvas as a constant roll of snare and dripped down the frame of the thing. “I mean, you know, it’s not so bad at the Camp, I guess.”

“It’s pretty nice, yeah,” agreed Ryann. “Still, two to three weeks seems like a bit, huh? Plus, I was hoping to be back for Springfest this weekend.”

“Ooh, yeah!” Kazami fidgeted her mandibles with faint clicks of anticipation. “Tortoise all the way.”

“What?” Ryann scoffed. “You’re Team Tortoise?”

“I am,” said Kazami, indignant. “Why, is there an issue?”

Ryann just shook her head. They could get at that later. For now, they’d caught up to Mizole and the Terminal, and that took precedence.

The Little Triggerfish Bridge Exit Terminal was shaped similarly to the sort you might see at a fast food drive-thru, sans the menu and trash scattered at the base. It had one button to push for assistance, and another for emergencies, in blue and red respectively. It had a speaker set near the top of it from which those in the booth on the other side of the river would relay instructions.

The Little Triggerfish Bridge Exit Terminal had been replaced no fewer than twenty-eight times since its installation in the late nineties, and now had a few of those large concrete balls placed around it to deter otherwise curious vehicles, painted dark green. The problem with this was that the shade of dark green they had chosen nearly matched the foliage around the balls for much of the year, and so while the Terminal hadn’t been replaced for quite some time the planning committee had, and for now they seemed to be winning the lawsuits about car crashes.

The Little Triggerfish Bridge Exit Terminal was said to only really work about sixty percent of the time, and that most often you’d have a better chance getting your desires across if you just shouted over the river. Presumably, this had been tried already.

Presently, the Little Triggerfish Bridge Exit Terminal was surrounded by the, ahem, Crack Team of Experts that were, double ahem, breaking into it.

Ryann and Kazami stepped up to the back of the group. Ryann counted eight others, thirteen with Wet Floor and ABXY, including:

-Diss-Pair, at the Terminal cabinet itself. Warabi, standing in its open cabinet, was prodding at its innards and looked tense; Ikkan held an umbrella and looked… like Ikkan. Sort of tired; sort of bored. One or the other. Both, likely.

-Yoko, Karen, and Aachin of Ink Theory, in front to Wet Floor’s right. Karen held a yellow and pink-spotted umbrella which she and Yoko fit beneath (only because Yoko was hatless for once, Ryann presumed), but Aachin stood in the shower, snug in a teal raincoat and seemingly unbothered as the rain drummed on her test.

-Fin, Fuka, and Muruta of the Bottom Feeders, in front to Wet Floor’s left. Noiji chattered with them, or at least at them. Substantial space had been put between them and Ink Theory. Their umbrellas were tartan, and identical to Blow’s. Cute, thought Ryann, who had no idea of the significance of the reasoning and its importance to the band.

Ryann leaned over Mizole’s shoulder, squeezing in close to get the umbrella properly over all three of them. He leant backwards into her, just slightly. “How’s it going?”

Noiji answered for him: “Pretty swimmingly!! Not been hit by lightning yet, I’d call that good so far.”

Mizole sighed. “Depends who ask,” he said flatly, and glared at Noiji’s gleeful knuckling of his shoulder.

In front of them, Aachin glanced back. “Hey!” she said. “You guys, too?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Ryann, as Karen and Yoko turned to see what Aachin was on about. The Bottom Feeders also glanced around, and she waved to them, too. “Hi!”

Karen inclined her head; Yoko offered a small wave. Fuka and Muruta acknowledged her with a toothy grin and a tip of the hat, respectively; Fin flicked her tail and side-eyed Ink Theory.

“Hi!” Aachin parroted back at Ryann with a giggle. “More partners-in-crime! Fun!”

Karen sighed and wove two of her many, many arms together in front of her. The three others on the umbrella shifted, one parting from the handle to poke Aachin in the side of the head. “Breaking the law shouldn’t be fun, Aachin.”

“Pfft,” said Kazami.

“I’m mostly here for the thrill, myself,” Noiji agreed, and happily accepted an approving elbow from Fuka.

“It’s not illegal if you don’t get caught,” Ryann offered.

“Right?” Aachin cried, and shook her head in disbelief. Rain ran down the sides of her test. “Like, and screw the zapfish! But I’d be fine stayin’, just that me ‘n Karen are making sure Yoko gets home good.”

“Karen is very, very worried about me,” said Yoko, quietly, almost inaudible under the roll of the storm. Through the exhaustion there was amusement in her tone. Ryann nodded, appreciative.

“This sort of weather doesn’t agree with you,” Karen told her in an even voice.

“Thank you, Karen,” said Yoko, “I can’t say I’d noticed, really.”

Karen just made a short noise of disgruntlement. “And I don’t think you should be driving on your migraine medication, even if you’ve said you can.”

“Haven’t taken it yet, anyways,” said Yoko.

“Ooh,” said Ryann. “Migraines?”

Yoko shrugged. “Not quite,” she said, “but I thought it was going to turn into one. Seems to be better, now. Just the usual, then,” she sighed, and looked upwards into the rain past the rim of the umbrella. Thunder rolled.

“She could drive like this,” Karen told Wet Floor, to Yoko’s exaggerated eye-roll, “only it would be rather hard on her. Of course, there’s the business with being fined, but…”

“Tough choice,” Yoko snorted, and shook her head. Then she squeezed her eyes shut as though wishing she hadn’t. “Fined… wife dead in car crash. Fined… wife dead in car crash.”

Karen snorted and tugged Yoko’s head to her chest with several of many tentacles.

“I certainly can’t drive like this, I hope you know,” said Yoko severely, into Karen’s chest.

“Why are you guys here?” Aachin asked, as Yoko and Karen dissolved into amicable bickering.

Ryann shrugged and looked down at Mizole. “Uh… you know.”

Mizole sent Ryann a Look, clearly displeased about the conversational ball being lobbed into his court. “Wet,” he said shortly, and without the usual bite. “Cold. Kind of gross. Headache.”

“It is gross,” nodded Aachin. “Always smells like mildew.”

Mizole cinched his eyebrows in an agreeable manner - not that Aachin would know that, not being accustomed to his mannerisms. Probably she thought he was trying to dislodge something in his eye.

“Noiji said you guys were trying to get the Terminal going from this side?” Ryann tried, before the conversation turned to the topic of mildew. She’d had enough of mildew, for a little while. “How is that… going?”

“Yeeaaaah,” said Aachin, “uh… He keeps kicking it, actually. So, like, maybe not great? But it’s fun to watch, at least.”

“Kicking it?” repeated Kazami, and right on cue a metallic thunk reverberated past them between the raindrops. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” said Aachin again, and looked over her shoulder towards the Terminal. “Think it’s insulted him personally, or something,” she went on. “Like I said, fun to watch.”

Ryann followed her gaze just in time to watch as Warabi, apparently overcome with despair^[21], dropped his head forwards against the metal casing. She winced at the audible whap of the hit, though Aachin, Fuka and Fin chortled to themselves.

“Looks like it’s going great,” sighed Mizole under his breath.

“Ouch,” said Kazami.

“Good fun,” Fuka murmured.

“Yeesh,” said Ryann, in agreement with all three statements. Ikkan was offering the octoling an encouraging pat on the shoulder. Warabi waved it away, half-hearted, and begrudgingly pulled himself out of the cabinet to continue… doing whatever it was he’d been doing. Hurting himself, mostly.

“That’s the second time with the head thing!” grinned Aachin.

“He’s going to concuss himself if he keeps it up,” murmured Karen.

“Definitely gonna bruise,” nodded Yoko.

“Drama queen,” Fin piped up, almost to herself, and then when people looked at her with interest pretended she hadn’t.

“Ghhg,” said Mizole, and dropped his head backwards onto Ryann’s shoulder. “Nevermind. We should just go back now, instead of wasting our time and getting sopping wet while we do it.”

“We’ve come this far, though!” Kazami gave him a gentle whack with one foreclaw. “We can’t just give up!” She looked to Ryann and added, “Unless you’d like to, of course. Then sure.”

“She’s allowed to give up, but I’m not?”

Kazami shrugged, grinning. “She is the one driving us.”

“I can drive perfectly fine,” Mizole retorted.

“And get your license revoked, if you’re lucky,” Ryann laughed.

“Revoked?” Karen uttered the word at a low, strained volume, as though it might cause grievous injury if she said it too loud. Eyes wide, she looked to Aachin.

Aachin said, ever helpful, “I can’t drive, so, like, it’s you or her,” and Karen sighed heavily.

“Hm.” Yoko, still watching the progress (or lack thereof) at the Terminal, nudged Karen. “If we’re driving at all.”

Ryann followed the line of her gaze. Warabi had extricated himself from the Terminal cabinet again and had begun to gesticulate wildly at Ikkan. Ikkan looked at best unconcerned and at worst lost but unaffected by it. They had an exchange that carried on for a little while, wholly incomprehensible to everyone else, and it went like this:

Warabi gestured; Ikkan shrugged placidly.

Warabi kicked the Terminal and swore at it; Ikkan watched him do this with placid disinterest and shifted the umbrella from one hand to the other.

Warabi let out a sort of long keening whine that carried on the breeze and made everyone who heard it wish it didn’t; Ikkan shrugged placidly a placid second time and laid a placid hand on Warabi’s entirely non-placid shoulder.

Warabi looked seconds away from bursting into tears. Ikkan gave the shoulder his hand had been laid on a companionable pat, and Warabi put his (Warabi’s) head in his (Warabi’s) hands.

“Hm,” said Ryann. Kazami tittered.

“They always look like they’re having such a good time,” said Karen kindly, at the same moment Fin snorted “Somethin’ wrong with those two,” and they glared at each other.

Eventually, Warabi emerged from his hands and said one more thing to Ikkan, short and snappish (Ikkan only nodded). Then he turned round and called to the rest of them “Well! We’re not going anywhere,” and didn’t visibly deflate at the variety of groans of dismay that echoed around the small crowd, at least as long as you didn’t look too closely.

“Sorry,” he grunted, and gestured vaguely at nothing in particular. Ikkan shuffled nearer to him to keep them both under the umbrella. “Nasty set-up they’ve got. And an alarm, which I’m still not certain I haven’t already set off, and, yeah, uh…”

Ikkan caught the glance the octoling fumbled around the expectant group, whether it had been intentionally thrown to him or not. “It’s wet,” he called over the sound of the storm, “and we’re not meant to be out here, anyways, so. Maybe we should call it and head in?”

Ryann patted Mizole’s shoulder as he lolled dramatically against hers.

“Oh, well,” sighed Noiji, and jostled his elbows about in a joyful manner that Ryann felt he hadn’t earned in the moment. “Back to Camp, then.”

Mizole gave his heaviest, most long-suffering sigh yet, directed a half-hearted glare in Noiji’s direction (Noiji only grinned and offered a thumbs-up) and pulled himself from Ryann’s shoulder to march back off through the rain to the Carpooler.

“Aw,” said Ryann, watching him go.

Kazami bumped against her reassuringly. “Just,” she said, and waited until she’d got Ryann’s attention, “just don’t let him drive. He’ll put us off a cliff, or something.”

Thunder rolled over Mizole’s retorting cry, though there was nothing thunder could do about the hand gesture he slung at them.

Footnotes

^10. And, if the Camp pamphlets were to be believed, also a wide selection of river fish, but Ryann had never been fishing before and certainly didn’t intend to start now.⤴︎

^11. How many times can one read ‘Kagi’ before it becomes nonsensical and/or a product of poor writing?⤴︎

^12. Along with his azurism (a relatively benign chromophore condition which limited ink colour to shades of blue, green, or purple, and also tinted the individual in that hue), Kagi had piptophilia: a shifting and stabilizing disorder which affected inkfish. He shifted forms slower, splatted quicker, and had a harder time enduring the obstacles of day-to-day life that most other inkfish took in stabilized stride, such as rain, small injuries, and heightened emotions of any kind. Also he was a huge nerd, though this wasn’t really genetic, nor did it have injections you could take to manage your symptoms like piptophilia did.⤴︎

^13. Weighted down by luggage and the wet jacket, she could not so much dash as struggle quickly, but she was trying very hard and that’s all that mattered, really. A for effort.⤴︎

^14. Ryann didn’t spare these a second glance because every other time she’d lodged in the VIP cabins they had been gingersnaps, and she didn’t expect that to change now. She wasn’t terribly fond of gingersnaps. Kazami could have them later.⤴︎

^15. Tsumabushi.⤴︎

^16. It was difficult to effectually loom at five foot even, but Mizole had always worked so hard at it, it was hard to find it in your hearts to discourage him.⤴︎

^17. Not the correct way to do it by any means; please do not take driving tips from this work.⤴︎

^18. Kagi had done this pose just once when they were first getting to know each other and they’d teased him relentlessly for it ever since. He tended to play into it now. Now, they got at him for pushing his glasses up his nose, which couldn’t really be helped given the lovely aquiline slope of it. Poor Kagi.⤴︎

^19. Pun intended. Feel free to chuckle lightly at your leisure.⤴︎

^20. Nearly obsolete, was the crank-down window, Ryann thought idly. Same with the banana-phone, and pop-tart phones just didn’t spark the same amusement. Ah, the industrial revolution and its consequences on the marine race.⤴︎

^21. Pun not intended this time around, but I won’t fault you for laughing anyways.⤴︎