Day 12: Look What You've Done To Me ~ Raising Me Up
It Was Never Your Fault to Begin with

That's right, gang; it's time for another Splatoon Halloween story!

Troubadour- aka (former) Test Subject 10,007- carries a lot of guilt and regret from her time down in the Deepsea Metro, and they’re dangerously close to weighing her down. But hopefully, it won’t have to come to that.

My original idea for a Halloween story this year was a little bit more involved and would’ve been longer, but I had difficulty getting it off the ground and decided to temporarily backburner it. However, this story does serve as a sort of “prelude” to one that will come later- as well as an “interqual” between the future follow up and the 2018 Halloween Splatoon story I did, Beneathness (PART 1 ~ PART 2).

This story also expands and fleshed out ideas I briefly covered in the description for my track Capability Assessment, which “in-universe” is a piece Troubadour wrote as part of the process of overcoming her trauma. you can buy the song here btw *eyes emoji*

As this work has a few personal headcanon ideas of mine within it, I’ll include a brief explanation of them after it’s done, as well as art of the characters who appear (excluding the two canon characters who show up- y'all know what they look like). The dual title of the piece- to reflect the midpoint shift- come from the songs Look What You’ve Done to Me by Voodoo Chilli, and Raisin’ Me Up by Hideki Naganuma (which, for once, both have lyrics that actually relate to ideas in the story instead of just ganking the titles/picking them cos they musically match the tone).

***

31/10/20021

Inkopolis Square, Greater Ika County, Shokushu

10:35pm

The moon hung low in the sky, hazy and orange. Thin clouds barely obscured it's light as they lazily edged by it. The normal hustle and bustle of the square, often still near cacophony at this hour, was near deathly silent.

Were it not for the chorus of quiet, garbled, gargling groans carried by the wind.

Numerous odd looking figures stood in what could only barely be called a “tactical formation” at various points around the enclosed square. Though they all appeared to be ink-based creatures, they were coloured a pallid, sickly teal-green that constantly shifted shades, as though they could barely hold their forms together as heavy, heavily wrinkled and decaying tentacles fell down their heads. Many of them, in fact, couldn't- several appeared to be missing limbs, or had obvious holes and chunks missing from their bodies barely held in place by long, sinewy strands of indo-ink that just about passed as upper-form muscular structure. In many cases, it seemed the crude military garb made of leather and metal was all that kept them upright.

As she looked at them with wide eyes, desperate to gaze anywhere else but unable to look away, it was all Troubadour could do not to cry- doing so, of course, would give away her hiding position behind a series of crates in a mostly sealed off alley. She'd spent the last 30 minutes watching more and more of these dreadful things saunter into the abandoned square, each one ensuring her clean route out of here was less and less viable. She'd say she was surprised that so many of them were looking for her, here and now, but she'd be lying to herself; she knows the sheer scope of the things she left alive down there all to well.

Finally tearing her gaze away as she huddled as deeply into the corner as she could, drawing her legs in and hugging her knees, she tried to measure and control her breathing. This wasn't sustainable; they may be able to stand there all night, in no need of food or warmth, but she couldn't. She was going to have to make a move if she wanted to get out of here.

If she wanted to make this right.

Inhaling deeply as she steeled herself, she peaked around the corner again, thankful for both the darkness obscuring her and for the basic but effective FFP2 dust mask obscuring her slightly more measured, deeper breaths. One of those things was lurking close to the alleyway entrance, almost swaying in the light breeze due to one of it's leg's being very heavily damaged. It appeared to be holding a battered, standard issue Octoshot- not Troubadour's preferred weapon of choice, but it would have to do.

She let out one last deep, shaky breath, clenching and unclenching her fingers and rolling her shoulders.

3,

2,

1,

Her Krak-On high tops scuffed the concrete as she dashed forward- enough of a noise to alert the creature closest to her, but it's reaction was too slow- it had barely begun turning around by the time Troubadour's shoulder slammed into it's side, a sickening snap and squelch splitting the murmuring ambience as it's damaged leg crumbled under the force. It dropped the Octoshot on the ground- in the direction opposite from Troubadour's trajectory, forcing her to skid and turn around as she scrambled for it.

She couldn't make out exactly what the beast she presumed was their leader cried out, due to their damaged vocal chords, but it certainly sounded like the Octarian word for “Traitor”. A word that could also mean “Coward”. Somehow, that stung more that the fleck of gunk from a stray shot that struck the back of her shin, denim jeans not serving as the best armour against whatever the shell this stuff was.

“Yeah yeah, fuck you too!” Troubadour shouted back, ducking low to avoid the volley of shots and just about managing to do so as she grabbed the Octoshot, mercifully still fairly loaded with ink. Taking aim, she began to circle around the encroaching huddle of sanitized demons, picking them off gradually as she barely dodged most of the shots they fired back. The ones that struck her burned as badly as she remembered, but biting down on her bottom lip with her beak was the best she could do for relief in the moment.

Her life was made easier by the fact that some of these things had arms so damaged that trying to operate weaponry was actively destroying said limbs, meaning the volley thinned comparatively quickly and made said creatures sitting ducks- moreso then their admittedly slow pace already did. That made dodging easier, and openings for shots easier still. Troubadour found herself repeatedly aiming for the head on each target, just about managing to hit it in most cases but missing more then if she would if she took body shots- she had no idea if that was wholly necessarily to destroy, but the context clues were hard to ignore.

The crowd thinned down, but the fight was definitely taking it's toll on her- she'd taken one particularly fierce shot to the stomach, causing her to lurch backwards and let out a cry of pain; it was only by sheer luck that her stumble caused every other shot to miss. The tank of the Octoshot was almost empty at this point, and she wasn't in a safe enough position to directly hook the weapon into her ink funnel (which was not an advised means of weapon operation to begin with). Anger briefly overtaking fear, Troubadour rushed forward, throwing the spent weapon at the freak of nature heading up the sortie, causing it to tumble backwards and knock their compatriots to the floor in a domino effect. She quickly assessed her own ink buildup situation- just about enough in her sacs- and focused on drawing as much of this spare ink to her fist as possible, her arm tensing up as various muscles kicked into overdrive to help warm the ink up. Without the aid of combat ready adrenaline and production boosters, it wasn't going to be the most spectacular Ink Splash, but it didn't need to be; with one short jump towards the crowd, she slammed her fist into the pavement, the kinetic force combined with the ink buildup causing her surface skin layer to briefly recede, the buildup exploding outwards and onto the gaggle of creatures, covering them. They hissed and snarled as the physical force of the ink, and the entirely different genetic makeup of it compared to theirs, began to dissolve their bodies away into nothing.

Troubadour panted loudly, condensation building up in her mask and sweat pouring down her forehead. She was already tired enough, but using that much ink in one go, with such force, only exhausted her more. She fell to her knees, slumping to the ground as she desperately tried to catch her breath, and psyche her aching muscles back into moving; more would almost certainly be coming, and she had places to go.

Sluggishly picking herself up, she limped over to the alleyway by the tower, kneeling onto that familiar grate and shifting into Octopus form, slinking through the gaps.

---

Troubadour expected the scene at the NSS' outpost to be pretty dire, but it didn't stop her hearts sinking any to see the already ramshackle hut looking even moreso; there were large holes in the roof and the walls, the windows had been smashed, and the floor was dotted with pools of that rancid gunk. It was only when she noticed the prone bodies of Marie and Callie Cuttlefish on the floor that panic completely took it's hold, as she dashed over to the nearest of the two to her- Callie- gently cradling her head. By some mercy, she opened her eyes, a small smile of recognition dotting her face as she looked up at Troubadour.

“H-hey there, Tall Dark 'n Mysterious...” she rasped, her voice gossamer thin and nearly lifeless. “Didn't... didn't expect to, to see you here...”

“Don't talk.” Troubadour said, her tone sharp yet fragile. “You're... hurt.”

“I'm fine...”

“The fuck you are!”

Callie couldn't help but weakly laugh. “It's... not like you to worry.”

“That's not funny.” Troubadour said, her voice shaking.

“I know it's not.” Callie replied, her smile taking on a sadder tone. “G-get out of here, girl... you can't...”

The Inkling trailed off, her eyes begin to roll. Troubadour's eyes felt hot.

“No, no, no, don't you dare- don't you fucking dare-”

Troubadour stopped herself from finishing the sentence. She knew it was a waste of time already. She gently let Callie's head rest on her lap for a moment, as she fought very hard to stop the dams from bursting even as the urge to scream bubbled up inside her. She couldn't afford to lose it here.

She'd just set the Inkling's head on the ground when a large bang and whoosh occupied her attention; the door to the shack had flung open, something being thrown through it. Trembling slightly, she turned in the direction of whatever was flung.

“Geffen!”

The Octoling in question- the esteemed Agent 8 of the New Squidbeak Splatoon- lay on his back, breathing erratic. A pool of deep indigo was forming beneath him, a frighteningly mortal looking gash slicing through his orange and navy hi-vis agent gear and down into his stomach. He turned to face Troubadour as she called his name out, and she felt her hearts stop.

She'd never seen fear in his eyes before.

“Run... r-run...!” was all he could say, straining to move but unable to do so. “Run before-”

He was cut off as a horrid, rubbery snap echoed throughout the air, and a teal shape launched from the door, latching onto Geffen's face; Troubadour shrieked and staggered back, only registering that this elongated limb was an arm- an arm who's claws had sunk into Geffen's eyes and mouth, lifting him up off of the ground; his arms and legs flailed with renewed, but brief energy, clearly in agony but too weak to do anything as more and more the blood oozing from his wound gradually began to brighten in tone, and thicken in consistency.

That's when she heard footsteps. Slow, measured, but heavy.

Against her better judgement, she turned and looked.

Avex. Agent 3. The Inkling who bested DJ Octavio, who saved Geffen and The Cap'n's life.

The right side of his body as almost completely consumed by that gunk, his right arm turned into a massive, gloopy appendage, and the gunk over his eye having sprouted it's own, pulsing, predatory looking eyeball. The second his focus shifted to her, his already furious face grew only more so, as he bared his beak.

“You.”

In motions too quick for her to react to, he retracted his new arm from Geffen's face- leading to the boy crashing to the ground gracelessly- before launching it in her direction, grabbing the scruff of her shirt and dragging her forward until they were practically face to face.

As he gazed into her very begin, she swears she can hear the sound of Avex's skin layer sizzling and bubbling.

“Coward.” Was all he said, in perfect Octolang. “Too afraid to pull the trigger.”

Troubadour felt her legs buckle underneath her, as she fell to her knees, Avex still gripping her shirt. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“Sorry you left us to rot.” Avex replied, still talking in Octolang.

“No...! No, it-it, it wasn't, I-” She stammered, in reply.

“To afraid to pull the trigger. To end it.” His tone and timbre remained even, measured, but the bile was evident.

“I tried!” Troubadour cried out, reverting to Octolang herself. “Even before I knew what you were, I tried!”

“So, then; you were simply useless. Worse than useless.”

Troubadour could feel tears rolling down her cheek. “Shut the fuck up...!”

“Your empty vulgarities don't amount to anything, 10,007. We both know your bark is louder then your bite.”

Troubadour ground her beak. “You don't know shit!”

“I know pain, 10,007. Having my agency ripped away. You think I- any of us- wanted to do... this?” Avex gestured to the surrounding area with his free arm, Troubadour noting with rising terror that the bodies of the Squid Sisters and Geffen were beginning to rise. “You think we want to exist like this?”

“I didn't do this to you! Hell, I barely avoided it myself! Why are you blaming me for what he did?!”

“Because he's dead.” Callie said, flanking her left.

“Because you could have killed us.” Marie followed up, on her right.

“But you didn't.” She heard Geffen say from behind.

“Because of you, we rot and but do not perish.” Avex resumed, his eyes widening in fury. “Because of you, we follow the whims of a long dead maniac, unable to resist no matter how hard we try.”

“It's your fault.” said Callie.

“All your fault.” Marie echoed.

“And now, everyone pays the price of your mistakes.” Geffen sneered.

“Pathetic creature.” Avex spat, leaning in to her ear. “You should have stayed in the Domes and simply faded away, like the wretched wad of sputum that you are.”

In spite of her situation, indignant fury boiled over inside Troubadour, and before she could second guess herself, she shot up, grabbing Avex's uncorrupted head with her right hand, and tearing at that cod damned slime with her left. Her hand burned, her breathing became restricted as Geffen's hands clasped around her through, and her movement was restricted by both Squid Sisters- Marie trying desperately to wrestle her arm away, and Callie pulling at her waist to drag her off her feet. But she fought; anger overtaking exhaustion, strength briefly surged through her body as she tore chunk after chunk of that cancerous blob off of Avex's head- even managing to rip the eye out of it's divot, it's outer layer bursting in her hand and sending a foul smelling viscera dropping down her arm. Avex, for his part, merely looked at her and smiled, cruelly, as the edges of her vision began to darken.

“Too little, too late, 10,007.”

And everything turned to darkness.

***

OW!

What the hell?! Did I fall?!

Who the fuck just screamed like that?! My freakin' ears...

What is this shit I'm wrapped up in? And why is breathing so cod damned difficult?

… Ah.

Her darkened bedroom gradually came back into focus, what little moonlight there was leaving a noticeable shine on her various posters. The low hum and various LED lights adoring her elaborate computer rig helped ground her, as she fought to untangle herself from the duvet she was wrapped in. Her body ached from the impact of the floor, suggesting she didn't fall out of bed so much as throw herself out of it. As she finally pulled herself up, sitting on the edge of her bed, light poured into the room as her door opened.

“Are you alright...?”

The tone was flat- almost robotic- but Troubadour could hear the concern buried within as she looked up. Geffen glanced at her from the door, clad in that ridiculous onesie he so favoured, tired eyes giving her a once over as though checking for injury.

“Bad dream.” Troubadour replied, hoarsely. “Real bad.”

“... The sanitized?”

“Yeah.”

Geffen nodded, looking down for a moment. “Come; we'll discuss this over tea.”

Troubadour glanced at her clock. “It's four in the fucking morning, Geff.”

“An hour after I would have been up in the army, Troubadour.”

“Hardy har.”

“Please.” Geffen's tone firmed up, sounding almost irked for a moment before Troubadour registered it for the worry it was. That gave her pause. “I would... like to unburden you, some.”

Troubadour sat quietly for a moment, lost in thought. “... Start the pot. I'll be out in a moment.”

Seeming satisfied, Geffen nodded and closed the door. Troubadour reached for her phone, snatching it from the night stand before frantically unlocking it and scrambling through the contacts list. Her legs bounced as the phone rang, and she wanted to berate herself for it- for being so worried- but she needed to know.

Before too long, the dialling noise ceased, replaced by a sleepy but angelic voice that filled her ear and her hearts; “Troub...? Is that you...?”

Troubadour gulped, eyes feeling damp. “'Sup, earache.” Her voice wavered.

“Are you alright? It's late.” Callie replied, not giving the Octoling the usual grief for the nickname.

“I... I just needed to know you were fine.”

“Oh, honey...”

---

“May I speak frankly?”

“S'gonna be hard to take you seriously wearin' that, but sure.”

Geffen rolled his eyes as Troubadour took a sip of her tea, the two sat opposite each other at a table in their apartment's miniscule dining area. “You are not coping very well with what happened.”

“Wow; good eye, soldier.” Troubadour said.

“Do not with the sarcasm tonight, Troubadour, please.” Geffen groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I am trying to be helpful.”

“And that's sweet,” Troubadour replied, sounding harsh but meaning it, “but this ain't exactly performance anxiety or a bad breakup, Geff. You oughta know trauma responses when you see 'em.”

“I do indeed.” Geffen replied, his own tone softening. “I'm not arrogant enough to think one conversation with me is enough.”

“So, what?” Troubadour shrugged, placing her mug down. “You think I oughta go to therapy or whatever?”

“Now who's stating the obvious?” Geffen quipped, his face remaining neutral.

Troubadour couldn't help but smirk. “Ooohhh~! Buzzcut's got barbs tonight!”

“What I can't figure out is why you don't think the same.” Geffen said, cutting through Troubadour's snark.

Troubadour stuttered for a moment, looking off to the side. “Who says I don't?”

Geffen looked at her dryly. “Because it has been two months, and in spite of the frequent night terrors you haven't even expressed interest in seeing a professional.”

Troubadour narrowed her eyes. “Maybe I don't think I deserve a shrink. Maybe I think this is well deserved karma.”

“For what?”

“You know what.”

Silence hung in the air for several minutes after that, both Octolings quietly sipping their tea, reflecting on each other's words. It was, of course, Geffen who broke the silence first.

“I think that's bullshit.”

This time, Troubadour couldn't stop herself from actually laughing. “Never thought I'd hear you curse.”

The barest smile appeared on Geffen's face for a moment. “I suppose you are rubbing off on me.”

“Careful with that phrasing, buddy.”

“But I mean it.” Geffen said, face returning to it's neutral expression. “I do not want to dismiss your emotions as nothing, as the guilt you carry is certainly genuine... but I don't think for a minute you consider it a fitting punishment.”

Troubadour had no response, simply sitting and thinking for a moment. Then; “What gives you that impression?”

“The fact that you've built a life for yourself here, of course. You went along with the Captain's attempts to secure you a job in cyber security, you fiddle with music in your idle time, you've formed connections with Avex and his friends-”

“To be fair, Avex's little squad are a package deal that I did not ask for,” Troubadour snarked, even less convincingly then usual.

“- and with me. With... well, with Agent One.”

Troubadour, again, had no response. She couldn't deny any of what he was saying- not seriously, anyway.

“Make no mistake; I know it's possible to go about one's day even when they carry heavy burdens. I know that one can experience thoughts and feelings besides those of sadness, anger, or fear...” Geffen's voice softened, clear he was speaking from some level of experience. “But I think you know, deep down, that your sense of guilt is misplaced.”

That did it; that brought the tears back, fresh, though they weren't accompanied by sobs. Troubadour simply silently wept for a moment, turning away from Geffen as she tried to collect herself. For his part, Geffen simply sat and waited patiently.

“... It's like... I know, really, that I ain't at fault for what happened to 'em. Those Sanitized folks. I know it wasn't... like, my job to... to... stop their suffering.”

“But...?”

“I felt restricted enough by... everythin' back home. Always heard stories from the older staff about what things were like before we went all or nothing on the militarisation- how we barely emulated the good life the Inklings had within our meagre means- but obviously I was spawned after that was all over. Even still, without actually experiencing that, lack of any meaningful choice or freedom sucked.”

Geffen thought for a moment. “Reflecting upon it, I am compelled to agree. I admit, I did not find our way of life so oppressive back then... difficult and trying, certainly, but nothing to that degree of severity.”

Troubadour looked surprised. “Not even the song?”

Geffen shook his head briefly, before stopping to think again. “I suppose it awakened a curiosity within me... the thought that, maybe, things were different and better on the surface. Not in the way we were propagandized to believe, either. But it... wasn't until after all of our misfortunes in the metro, when I actually got a chance to experience the life of a surface dweller, that I realised just how bad things were back home.”

“I see. Well, yeah, for me it was just... always constricting. Always so... stifling. I didn't like having no control over what I did- not in ways that mattered, and not in ways that weren't always in service of something or someone else. And I just... knowing how the Sanitisation thing... works, like...” Troubadour drifted off.

“... You can relate, to a degree.”

Troubadour nodded. “It's... it scared me, G. Being locked in a body that only looked like who you once were, and that you can't control, forced to do this all this really messed up shit... feeling yourself rot away all the while. I know, if I were in their shoes, I'd just... want to be put out of my misery.”

“... That was not what those tests were for. That was not why you were made to fight.”

“I know, I know!” Troubadour cried out, whimpering slightly. “I know it was all some fucked up 'survival of the fittest', 'kill or be killed' nonsense instigated by that fuckin' malware... that they probably didn't have any capacity to think left. But...”

“I know. I understand.” Geffen finished, gently.

“Do you...?” Troubadour asked, unsure.

“In as much as I possibly can.”

Silence fell between them again. Both mugs dry, the two simply looked down at their hands, deep in their thoughts.

“... You should not be punishing yourself for things that aren't you fault. You are allowed to seek help.” Geffen said, scratching the back of his neck. “I know you don't need my permission or blessing, but... well. Sometimes it can be helpful to have a voice besides your own counter that dreadful inner monologue.”

“... Thanks, Geffen. I know you're right, really. Promise I'll think about it.”

Geffen nodded, before once again barely smirking. “You're wrong about something else, too.”

Troubadour cocked an eyebrow at him. “Yeah?”

Geffen's lips actually curled into a cheeky smile, parting to reveal his beak in a shit-eating expression she had rarely ever seen on his face. “You found it remarkably easy to take me seriously whilst sporting my evening wear of choice.”

Troubadour burst out laughing- raucous, actual laughter. “Fuck, man, I am rubbin' off on you, huh?”

***