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subasekabang · 5 years

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A Redbud’s Name in an Ink-Splattered World

Rating: T Word Count: 7676 Pairings/Characters: Neku Sakuraba/Yoshiya “Joshua” Kiryu; Neku & Joshua & Beat & Rhyme & Shiki & Eri; Neku Sakuraba, Yoshiya “Joshua” Kiryu, Daisukenojou “Beat” Bito, Raimu “Rhyme” Bito, Sanae Hanekoma, Yodai Higashizawa. [Other Characters(9)/Ships(1) to appear in later chapters.] Warnings: Frequent Canon-Typical Violence, Injury; alluded to, but neither appear in the chapter. Swearing, mostly from Neku. Summary: It’s summer in Inkopolis, just after the chaos that broke loose during the last celebrations—and yet, even in its aftermath, a delicate balance meant to be enough to wrap up the mess that was made isn’t anything close to scrubbing the grime and stone under the city’s waves. Yet, when something pulls at the balance and tugs the seas of color too far and too thin, he finds himself of all people squidnapped and sunk into an underwater espionage, stubbornly searching for what hides in Inkopolis’s murky depths. As much as he hates the ‘people’ part of it…

Well, maybe he’ll find he’s submerged himself in much more than he agreed to—both in his missions and in the hearts of those he works with.

Partners: Vi, Turtel Author’s Note: I’ll be posting this on ao3 eventually (probably with way more gushing than I can fit here!!) This was the only chapter I managed to complete, but I’m happy with how it turned out. Thank you so much to everyone I talked to and worked with along the way!!

The day that Neku’s world starts isn’t when he’s born, but it is the last Saturday of July.

It’s a day when less than a week has passed since the last Splatfest, at a time when both celebration and cleanup are as remarkably chaotic as any of the other 18,994 or so weeks Neku has endured have ever been. Now, the sun pours over Inkopolis Square like a cast in a mold. The city, absolved of the mess and dissonance that had fully collected itself nine days prior, wafts a gentle balance into the air once again, its citizens ambling once more along its glowing streets and sunlit buildings.

So it claims.

By all means, Inkopolis should be—and is far better, if it is—a place of peace. In the days following the final festivities, Neku and his mother saw lotuses and water lilies hung from the other tenants’ windows in rows. All turf wars and activities had declined, even during peak hours. Any hints of disaster from the Splatfest should have dissolved, leaving its hosts, participants, and spectators behind with the precarious rubble—and to Inkopolis, that was exactly how it seemed. If this had kept up for longer, Neku would have been pretty pleased.

It does not take long for him, a normal, law-abiding, doing his best to survive now and that’s it Inkling, to walk straight into disaster.

He doesn’t even mean to, honest! It’s a complete and utter mistake that shouldn’t be one—the most glaring reason being that this was the quickest way home, and his normal path home. Plus, it was supposed to be relatively safe; sure, maybe he could find people fighting or tagging the walls, but that was a rare occurrence and a given for Inkopolis. Turf wars and art were indispensable to the city: the two together were its blood, its infrastructure, and its entire world.

Perhaps it’s the absence of both on his way home that hurls him into another world.

When Neku walks home from Inkopolis Square, often a twenty-seven minute trip if he speedwalks, there are no brawlers and no graffitists. Every drop of ink that dripped and spilled was gathered up by the air before sunset. Now, there is he, his bag and tank, his cherry-blossom sketchbook, his Permanent Inkbrush and the concrete floor. He walks with only one companion, and that is the music streaming through his headphones—not a single other being is in sight.

And then, of course, it happens. Because nothing can go without a hitch in Inkopolis.

Neku doesn’t register exactly when he bumps into a stranger, but it’s after three songs and four seconds into a “Twister” remix, which seems to place it at a solid fourteen minutes into his walk. When he does, it’s because he’s falling face-flat onto the floor, and because he almost hits it if not for his last-second scrambling.

That’s weird, is the first sentence that comes to mind. There’s nothing to trip over on this way home. Unless someone thinks that kicking rocks into incoming pedestrians’ paths is supposed to be funny, Neku knows this route enough to use his phone or daydream on the way back, and that requires a very specific amount of certitude in the neighbors’ goodwill.

In an uncontrollable wave of curiosity, Neku turns his head, then his arm and bag, then his legs—

And he finds himself staring not exactly face-to-face with a towering, 100 percent glowering Inkling. He has dark brown hair, ancient ram symbols all over his clothes, and fluorescent sneakers that disrupt the menacing vibe he’s trying to pull off, and Neku swears that he’s never met him before in his life.

As unexpected as this is, Neku devises a plan. It’s short and simple; after all, there’s only one solution to this, panic-led or not.

He breathes. Sighs.

Then, he turns back around and starts walking away.

It is an incredibly ingenious plan, which is also probably why it fails so quickly. No more than four steps forward and Neku swears the start of the lyrics in this remix sounds horrendously off-beat, which shouldn’t be a problem when he’s listened to this version again and again.

Then, of course, the obvious sets itself into motion. The drums thud closer and faster until they cease; the air shifts behind Neku and sends goosebumps through his shirt; in one swift motion, Neku yanks his Inkbrush off of his shoulders and jerks his ink tank back in place, and dashes forward in a stroke of ink before any foreboding hell can break loose.

A few seconds pass before he pivots back around, granting an unwavering stare towards his imposing assailant. His Inkbrush drips at his side, knuckles white around one of the two black grips as the others brush against his walkman.

The song skips and a different mix encompasses the fray, swallowing all but the stranger’s words.

“You,” he rumbles, shaking the ground but little of Neku himself, “why swing that measly pastry brush along this concrete?”

Neku grimaces. Nobody calls a paintbrush, let alone his Inkbrush, a goddamn pastry brush, and gets away with attempted murder. It’s an insult and injury he isn’t standing for, so he weighs out his conversational choices and comes up with, “Pretty sure we both know the reason why, dude,” and gives a shrug with his spare hand.

“Hmph.” The man scowls, and he drags his roller back. Neku studies the length of the roller and the gold paint covering it; he realizes how normal it looks in comparison to the man, who looms over both him and his own weapon with ease. “Of all foods, I could not have expected you to be a citrus peel. Your bitter bark is just that: a bark that none dare bite.”

“And your point is…?” Neku could laugh at how bad that was if he wasn’t in danger. “I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

“You need not play coy. You are just the same as them. Unlike the raw morsels of this city, you are consumed by your desire.” The roller draws in further, and Neku steps back. “Even after this haluhalo of chaos and order, there is still something you want, isn’t there? No matter what it is, they are just the same—and soon enough, you—”

“That’s enough out of you, isn’t it?” a voice echoes from the nearby alley, stepping out of its maw and into the fray. Out tumbles a boy made of shades of platinum and lavender, the bell sleeves of a silvery blouse trailing behind him as he tiptoes past the puddles of orange and brown. When he stops, he stares straight up towards Neku’s assailant. “I would think your group would have more dignity than go after odd passerby on the street, but I must have overestimated you.”

“Quite the way to prove a point, isn’t it? Perhaps next time, you should be more covert in your preparations.”

“I see no point when there won’t be a ‘next time,’” Neku’s ally—maybe an ally? he can’t really tell—shrugs, still turned away from him. “He has no relation to our missions. If you’re looking for a fight, then I regret to say that it’s me you’ll challenge.”

“I desire no challenge. This recipe was issued to me not so long ago, and it was purely to the point. But, if you must stand in my way—”

The man lifts the roller behind him, high in the air, and the boy in front of Neku sidesteps out of the ink, glancing to him as he does. Neku’s gaze lingers on his odd acquaintance; he even squints until the man’s attack comes back to mind, and he springs off of the sidewalk, possessions rattling behind and around him as he rolls onto the road. The roller meets the concrete and thuds, cracking the tiles Neku had once stood over as he drags himself off of the asphalt.

Smooth, he grimaces, rubbing a red spot on his shoulder. Dangerous, too, considering his lack of skill with rolling.

Cods, if this is some kind of evaluation, he’s certainly failing it.

“How long do you intend to keep this up, Higashizawa?” the boy asks, crossing his arms. “You should know by know that you can’t defeat us.”

Neku’s eyes narrow. He’s not particularly keen on being included—hell, he hasn’t even done anything himself, but… has this guy even pulled out a weapon yet?

He tries to ignore that fact to focus on his assailant. Higashizawa—that must be his name, if not ‘the man who tried to kill Neku, like, twice with shitty food jokes’—stands like a statue, unmoving, his eyes trailing their every move and nothing else. For a while, the noise is deafening. The cold stone reverberates fire and whistles. The strange boy hums an odd, harmonic tune. Neku observes both, his hearts rasping a fast, arrhythmic beat, and waits for a signal.

Higashizawa moves first. He slings his roller over his shoulders and turns away from them, sending a wave of nervous heat over Neku as he remains silent. Then, finally, he speaks, slow and steady.

“How shameful. You would prefer the table set and appetizers cold before cooking the main dish?” a ‘tsk’ slips from under his breath. “It will be an unpleasant meal. Let us see if you liven it up once all has been said and done.”

Neku watches the man turn away and disappear on the path to the square, and a final wave of relief washes over him, letting his breath escape like steam. He looks back to the boy, who turns at the same time that he does and quirks a small smile.

“You’d best be getting home, wouldn’t you? Go on. He won’t be back for a while.”

“Yeah, great hearing that from a stranger.” Neku snorts, but he considers it. He turns around and takes a step forward before a realization settles in his head, and he jerks his head back to the boy.

“Hey—who even are you, anyways?” One of ‘them’ might be a good guess, considering what Higashizawa said, but… who the hell, and why?

The boy is already a good distance away when Neku yells at him, but still within hearing range. It doesn’t stop him from continuing onwards, giving naught but a cryptic silence in response.

“Hey! Answer me!” he yells again, and the boy stops, pivoting on his heel and leaning back. His phone glows, tinting his face blue as he speaks.

“I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough, won’t you?”

The boy doesn’t deign Neku with another response after that, even when he yells once more. He turns the corner up to Inkopolis Square, and Neku spins back around, leaving the dissipating puddles behind.

What the fuck just happened? He wishes he knew. Maybe that would’ve helped him give his mother a reason it took five extra minutes to get home and get ink over his shoes.

The next day, Neku takes the time to process what the hell happened, and doesn’t come up with shit.

The day after is when they—unfortunately—cross paths again.

Call him an idiot for it, don’t call him one—whatever. It shouldn’t exactly be Neku’s fault that Inkopolis Square is at the peak of popularity and Inkopolis Plaza is the ghost town four minutes away from his house, or that that means that all of his clients are up and kicking ink at the Deca Tower instead, but maybe it should be his fault for taking a trip outside to sketch their commissions in the face of possible danger.

But it should so not be his fault that they meet at one of the freshest coffee shops downtown. That’s a factor he doesn’t take credit for.

All things considered, it’s quite possible that he should: Neku has always found solace from the city’s constant chatter within a corner of CATfish Café, where a small table and two chairs are enough for him to seat himself, his things, and his coffee while doing whatever. But that is exactly why—because after a year and a half of visiting the store, from the moment winter froze the rest of the town over to now, when summer burned it to a crisp, he’s never seen the other enter the store once.

Until now.

It’s like a freaky coincidence—the chance that they meet while waiting near the pick-up counter, standing side-by-side because there’s no other place to stand when it’s so crowded. Neku doesn’t notice until he turns left out of curiosity and looks straight into the same hair and shade of lavenders. He has on a periwinkle button-up and dark jeans, and the longer that he stares into that orange phone, the more Neku realizes he’s either ignoring him or he genuinely hasn’t seen him.

For four seconds, Neku considers what to do, until he resolves to speak first, harshly, “It’s you. You’re that kid from Saturday.”

All that Neku gets is another flick down the blue screen.

He tugs the boy’s right sleeve once, twice as he continues, “Hey, you didn’t answer me last time. What the hell did you mean by—”

“Shh.” The boy budges away from his pull. He places the index finger of his free hand over his mouth, even as he continues to look over his phone. “Try not to be loud about it, will you, Neku? We’re in a public space. We wouldn’t want to drag anyone else into this fiasco, would we?”

“As if I signed up for this in the first place,” Neku grumbles. He pauses, processing every word as two Inklings, teal and fern hair respectively, take an order from the counter.

Wait.

“How do you—”

“Oh, you know.”

No, he glares pointedly, I certainly do not know! “Fine. Fine,” he sighs, throwing his hands out in front of him. “Okay. What do you want from me?”

The boy smiles again. “Isn’t that obvious? I came to talk. Go find us a seat, will you?”

“Only if you get my order,” Neku mutters, but he doesn’t give him his receipt and swivels to find a seat instead. Luckily enough, the corner is still open, and he drops all of his belongings gracelessly over one of the seats before leaning back in it himself. He waits, tapping his foot over the wooden panels and glancing at the mural-like segments which pop in bright colors from the walls. Eventually, the other arrives, their coffees both landing like airplanes over two runways and the stranger following suit in an opposing chair.

“Alright, first things first,” Neku starts, crossing his arms. “Name. So I don’t need to make a stupid name for you like ‘Salted Cod’ or whatever that ancient jellyfish says.”

“Straightforward,” he notes, and clears his throat before responding. “My name is Yoshiya Kiryu. My parents would call me Joshua, however—and seeing as how we’ll be meeting in the future, feel free to say the same.”

Oh, he really hates that.

“Okay. Joshua. Great,” he says, uncrossing his arms and pointedly avoiding his loathing. “I don’t need to introduce myself, so shoot: what the hell happened yesterday?”

The boy replies quickly. “You were attacked by Higashizawa on the way home.”

“Dude, I’m not dumb.”

“Of course,” he lilts, though the smile on his face says otherwise. “But he did have a reason, as incorrect as it may have been. He thought you were one of ours.”

“Is this that ‘them’ thing he mentioned yesterday?”

“Correct! You’re rather smart, aren’t you?” he hums, “He was talking about the ‘Cephalosquad.’ I suppose the other group would call it a ‘secret society of heroes,’ but there’s nothing quite heroic about defeating lower-level fighters.”

“What a name,” Neku rolls his eyes. Cephalosquad. “And the reason he thought I was involved was…?”

“Presumably the wrong place at the wrong time. We’ve had missions all over the city.”

“So that just prompts premeditated murder? I could’ve died there—”

“And it’s likely that you wouldn’t have. You wouldn’t have given up and died, would you?”

“…No,” Neku resigns, and Joshua smirks, “Exactly.”

It’s unfortunate that he has a point.

“Now that that’s settled…” Joshua takes a sip from his coffee, setting it down before steepling his hands. “How would you feel about actually joining?”

Neku’s hand freezes over his own coffee, the heat ineffective to thaw it. “What.”

“It’s nothing complicated, really. You’re already rather involved in this, regardless, so it’s not like you have much of a choice.”

Joshua’s voice is careless, as fluous as honey and as calm as the snowfalls in storybooks. Neku’s bridges the gap between nettles and marcato notes as he leans forward. “I told you, I didn’t ask to be a part of it. What, do you want me to say ‘yes?’ Oh, sure,” he hisses, voice bristling yet dulcet in tone, “I’d be happy to die the next time I go outside, thanks a bunch for the offer!”

“…So you’re saying no.”

“With pleasure.”

The table falls silent. When the sound over their coffee returns, it’s from Joshua chuckling, his smile even more evident on his face. It’s saccharine, and it’s sickening, and—

“So, did you have anything else to tell me, or can I go? I have a job to do,” he says, even though his sketchbook is the first thing he meant to grab when he got to the table and not anywhere else.

“…Hmph,” Joshua frowns, his eyes narrowing. “No, I don’t. If that’s what you really want, then I won’t stop you.”

He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it; by the time he can possibly say a word, however, Neku’s already gone on his way, his person and belongings wholly absent from the opposite chair and his shadow ten steps away from that of the café overhang.

He doesn’t see Joshua again for a while, but it doesn’t mean the boy’s presence ever leaves him.

Which is godawful unfortunate. When he had said that he wouldn’t sign up for whatever joke of a ‘Cephalosquad’ that the boy was a part of, he had meant it—and he still does, even three days after their talk.

And, technically, one could say that the other had done the same, following through with the words that he had said before Neku had left—but it seems today that it isn’t the case, not when Neku’s pocket is yet again disrupted by someone out of the crowds.

It happens when he’s drawing those same commissions that he had meant to the day of the past incident, right in the midst of a more complex one: it’s a poster for two twins, an Inkling and an Octoling clad in yellow and purple as they gesture and yell through a microphone in close composition. It’s not as special as it’s been made out to be, whether by him or the client—their mom, apparently, even though she’s got hair dyed with lime and not sunstone or amethyst—but considering the quality, it’s an oddly significant one.

He can’t really fathom why someone would request so much from a high school student, but he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it.

“Excuse me,” a voice snaps him out of his thoughts, tapping the table before lifting their hand back up, “Did someone named Yoshiya Kiryu come by here yesterday?”

An Inkling looks down at him from the tableside, a cup of coffee wrapped in her hands. Her fingers peek from rosy sweater sleeves, and she smiles the sun from under a black beanie and a skull pin. For every second that she speaks, a brown bag around her shoulder and her hip rustles, blown by the wind of every note nearby.

He’d feel bad snarking to her, but she’s the one who sought him out. She should definitely see this coming.

“Sure did. And I met him.” Twice, he doesn’t add.

“Oh, good.” she speaks, and then there’s a look of regret on her face that adds, well, not really. “I was wondering if I could talk to you. About—well, what he was supposed to talk about.”

“I think he talked plenty,” Neku grumbles, erasing a harsh line, and the girl winces.

“Well…” her voice trails off. A finger taps her chin before resting over the cup sleeve again. “Yes. I’m sure he did. But I don’t think he said the right things. Otherwise, we probably would have met somewhere else.”

“What, are you expecting me to join because you’ll say something he didn’t? ” Neku rolls his eyes, glaring up to the Inkling shortly afterward. “ You’re bullshitting it at this point, aren’t you.”

“I’m not, really,” she sighs, and she pauses. The music overhead drowns as it ends in the crowds, and she speaks as the next track plays. “Please, will you hear me out? I don’t have any reason for funny business, honest.”

Neku feels a little sorry for her, actually. She came all this way and now he’s turning her down without a second thought, his mouth opening not seconds after to respond—

And then he looks up at her one last time, her eyes pleading under knotted brows and her fingers cutting small dents in the paper mold, and his first words fade to naught.

The beat of a drum echoes through the speakers. It is quiet, waiting, expectant.

Neku groans. This is going to kick his ass, and he knows it.

“…Fine. Go ahead.”

Her face lights up like the sun, and as she nears the opposite chair, Neku just knows that he’s screwed more than a hundred times over.

“May I?” she gestures. Neku nods, and her face nearly glows, the effect only disrupted as she sets her coffee down with a ‘clink.’

“Alright. Thank you,” she smiles, steadying herself in spite of the shakes and glee in her voice.

“Before we get started, we should introduce ourselves, shouldn’t we?” The chair drags along the white tile and she slides swiftly into the seat as she speaks. “My name is Raimu Bito, but Rhyme’s just fine. Joshua and I have been working together for the past eight months.”

She nods once again, then twice, eyes training on him and waiting, and Neku jolts himself out of his commission-induced stupor to speak.

“Neku Sakuraba. I’m, uh—pretty sure you know how we met.”

Rhyme interlaces her hands in her lap, barely visible between the table and the loops of pink. The edges of her mouth turn upward, and her eyes narrow in turn, apologetic but almost laughing in Neku’s eyes. “Well, Neku, it’s nice to meet you!”

He doesn’t grant her a response. The weariness pales her face.

“Alright—back to business,” she says, and sips her coffee. “So, did Joshua at least tell you about the Cephalosquad?”

“Yeah. And why I’m stuck in this mess.” Neku says, leaning into his sketch. “That’s it.”

“Is… that when you left?”

“No, I left after he said I didn’t have the choice to join or not.”

Rhyme pauses, fidgeting her hands as she mulls over what to say. Eventually, she half-whispers, “…Neku, I think you might be barking up the wrong tree.”

Unbelievable.

“What the hell is there to mishear from that?” Neku leans back, eyes narrowing. Rhyme continues to stare up at him, no sign of being unfazed. “Well, nothing. It’s what he didn’t tell you that might’ve helped, you know?”

She takes another sip of her coffee—although by now, Neku’s pretty convinced it’s just tea. “He probably said you got caught up in this because of a coincidence, right? It’s partially true. Sometimes, you just happened to be somewhere by chance. But other times, it would be on purpose.”

“We’ve got a little… no, a big problem on our hands,” she whispers, her eyes now glancing between Neku and her own palms. “To tell the truth, we’re not a big group—after all, we haven’t worked together for long, and we can’t reach out to too many people. We wouldn’t want anyone to catch on, you know?” her shoulders lift and plummet. “But, of course, that means that we’re not prepared when something like this happens.”

“Like… what, exactly?”

“Something’s… happening. We’re all sure of it,” Rhyme murmurs, and Neku raises a brow. “We’ve been hearing about these people in town called the ‘Reefers,’ and their name hasn’t yet sunk to the bottom of the sea. We’ve been tracking them ever since we first heard about them—and one of them was the guy who nearly killed you.”

Her fingers interlace again, twisting into untangleable knots. “After what happened… we really have to be on full alert. Whatever they’re after, they’ll get it—and if they’ll harm strangers, then they’ll likely get rid of anyone in their way if they have to.”

She falls silent. The café, from the people to the music, takes in a breath, a pause.

“Sorry. That’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” Rhyme sighs once more, and her hands fall apart, the palms briefly white as a sheet. “We really need the help, though. I know it might be a fixed decision, but would you at least think about it?”

Neku stares at her, gaze unmoving. She locks eye contact with him, and they stare and stare, the café and music picking back up in their place.

…Ugh. “Okay. And what are you going to do if I don’t?”

Rhyme regards it quickly, thoughtlessly, like she’s considering the tirade of a fifth grader. “We’ll find someone else who’ll help.”

“And if you don’t?”

“We have to,” she says, hope persistent in her voice.

“But if you don’t,” Neku snaps, and she smiles.

“I think we will. But, if not, then… I guess we’ll try to do it on our own.”

The silence returns. This time, it drags on, stretching as thin as a wire. Neku watches it pull along, focusing on Rhyme, her drink, his own and the notebook and the table, until it finally snaps in two with his own voice.

“Your damn team isn’t gonna leave me be, will it.”

“Well, I will, and I’ll try to stop them. I can’t make any promises, though.”

Something in her eyes shifts; then, her seat creaks, and she rises from the table, taking her drink with her. The clasp around her bag opens as she starts walking—but she doesn’t leave the vicinity before turning back to Neku one last time.

“Neku? Thank you, at least, for hearing us out. It really means a lot.”

And then, before Neku can say even the smallest of words—she’s gone. All that’s left is all that belongs in his hands, and a thin sheet of paper with cursive letters and neat prints of numbers.

How clever.

He tucks it away between the pages of his sketchbook, and his world shifts back to normal once more.

Frankly, Neku isn’t sure how he got so caught up in this.

The Great Zapfish casts a shadow overhead. It slinks around the Deca Tower and chimes like a bell. Neku catches a glimpse of its oil black skin when he looks up, its whiskers jittering as it appears and disappears. With its departure, he glances back down to the conversation in the palm of his hands, the bright hues fluorescent under both shadow and sun as he scrolls through the few messages from the night before.

> August 1, XX19.

neku. (20:07) hey. this is neku neku. (20:08) ill do it

rhyme! (20:19) Perfect!! rhyme! (20:19) Can you meet in front of the Deca Tower, tomorrow, at 12?

neku. (20:22) sure w/e

rhyme! (20:22) ٩(•̤̀ᵕ•̤́๑)彡ᵒᵏᵎᵎᵎᵎ I’ll see you there!

He’s dumber than a stream of minnows. Why did he agree to this when that’s the equivalent of casting away any normalcy in his life?

He sighs again, peering around for any sign of rose knit or black. There’s little to find in the crowds of people, all arranged in a spectrum of designs as usual, so Neku casts his eyes back to his phone and the headphones slung for once around his shoulder.

“Neku, over here—!” A familiar voice bursts from the crowd, and Neku turns his head, one hand halfway through to pulling his headphones back up. He ducks through some of the passing crowds, ensures any chance of actually bumping into them never becomes true as he makes his way to Rhyme. When he finally catches sight of them, he notices another next to her—another Inkling with the same color hair, taller, and dressed in a loose tank top and cargo pants—and he seems to recognize him at the same time, his voice raising as he looks Neku over.

“So’s this the guy you and priss kid were talkin’ about?”

Rhyme beams. “Yep! Neku, this is my brother, Beat. Beat, this is Neku. He’s going to be working with us from now on.”

“Yo!” He grins as well, waving his hand halfway in the air. “Wassup?”

Neku responds with silence.

“Well, jeez,” Beat mutters, crossing his arms, “if that’s what you wanna do.”

Rhyme cuts through the tension with a tilt of her head and a step forward, then another as she walks past them. “Okay—we should get going, right? I bet those two are waiting for us back there!”

“They can’t have been for a while,” Neku shrugs, following behind her and her brother. “Why’s your brother here, anyways?”

“You got a problem with that?”

“Beat!” Rhyme yells, turning around once before continuing. “He kinda wanted to go with me. Plus, I thought it’d be a good idea—you guys could get to know each other on the way!”

“How long is the walk?”

“Not too far! But striking a conversation like this never hurt, right?”

Honestly, Neku’s surprised that she can keep up a smile for this long, stop, and bring it back so quickly after. Still, instead of arguing with her, he merely resigns, “…Sure.”

He’s gotta say, though, the silence that follows seems almost laughable. Finally, after a few minutes of it, Rhyme brings up another topic again, drifting to Beat’s side and leaning past him as she does.

“So, what’ve you been up to this summer?”

“…Nothing.”

Rhyme tilts her head, a finger tapping her chin in thought. “Really? I mean, besides turf wars or Grizzco? Like, at The Reef, or Arowana, or— ” suddenly, she nearly jumps, eyes widening as she notes, “ Oh! What about the Splatocalypse?”

“You mean the last Splatfest?” Neku raises an eyebrow, and Rhyme continues on.

“Yeah! But calling it the Splatocalypse is pretty fitting, too, isn’t it? It makes it unique.”

He’ll ignore the destructive parameters of that name—cods and carps, of all things those hosts could call it, it didn’t need to be that—and pretend like it’s still just the ‘Final Splatfest’ that they held. “Whatever. What do you mean, ‘what about’ it?”

“Well, which team were you on? It’s always interesting to hear about everyone’s teams and opinions during the Splatfest.” Before Neku can swat away her and her question, she adds, “C’mon, we‘d never make fun of your decision!”

Well. Now she’s just forcing him to. He should get some kind of reward for this, like what they give in games when you tell the truth or a good option.

Neku glances around them, then back to their group, and finally gives in. “…Pretty sure I joined Chaos.”

“Someone like you joined Chaos?” Beat says, and Neku almost laughs at how contrary his words are to Rhyme’s own.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nah, there’s nothin’—” Beat gives up, and leans a ways back— “I just didn’ expect you to join it.”

“You don’t have to say why. I’m sure you had a good reason,” Rhyme hums, “But, if it says anything, Beat and I actually joined Chaos, too! Right?”

Beat grins and yells, “Hell yeah we did! And those Team Order punks got their asses beat hard!”

“…Well, basically,” Rhyme laughs, though she jabs him lightly in the shoulder soon after. “You’re exaggerating, though. We lost a few of those rounds, didn’t we?”

“Well—yeah, but what about the other rounds? Order got served, and most of it’s ‘cause of us!”

“I can’t disagree with that,” she sighs, but she smiles again before looking back in front of them. “Hey, Neku, guess where we are?”

“…‘Here’?” It doesn’t take much skill to notice the difference in setting, but only when Neku actually bothers to look around. When she gives him a small nod and affirmation, he’s only even more stunned than he was prior. Color him surprised more by the fact that they barely needed one topic to cover the distance—though maybe they were walking pretty fast, and maybe most of that time was covered by a wash of silence.

Something’s… kind of weird about this, though. Taking a look around, most of the walls and path has faded to a dull grey and obsidian; Neku faintly thinks he’s seen this before as they pass by the sound of rushing water, a background noise that only heightens as they pass through the area. When they step over panels of white chalk and splatters of old graffiti, Neku realizes exactly where they are, and the shock nearly escapes through his voice.

“Wait, isn’t this Angelfish Canal?”

“Yep. But we built the base over here since it was quiet. Nobody would notice us.” She gestures to him to approach a grey door, the windows covered by blinds and steel frames, and knocks twice before pushing the door open. “Anyways, welcome!”

Neku steps through, not expecting much from the dreary exterior, and subsequently tries to avoid the shock that resurges and follows.

They’re in a main room, vast in size but nearly void of spare space. Instead of the light steel from the windows, black steel melds around the clear glass windows, the stark white shelves and hangers, and all else that hangs around and in the room. A white tile snakes from one entrance to another, passing white napkins and containers and a glassy table with white borders prominent in the room’s center. The only difference in color are the chairs surrounding it, black but splattered with color alike a construction paper and crayons.

“…Yeah,” he winds up hissing, “I did not see that coming.”

Rhyme shrugs and responds, “That’s fair.”

“Is that the new kid?” A voice bursts from a separate room. Its speaker soon follows: a man with similar monochromatic tones in his clothes and hair, walking calmly through the doorway almost incognizant of anything that had occurred prior. He slouches back, one hand in the front pocket of his pants and one against the doorway. Rhyme waves to him as she notices him.

“Yep! He said he’d do it!”

“Nice,” he pushes himself off the frame and waves, wrapping his free hand around the nape of his neck. “Well. Welcome, Phones! Feel free to make yourself at home.”

Oh, Neku has absolutely seen that face before. He’s exactly sure he knows where, too.

“Mr. H?!” he sputters, falling back onto one leg. “Aren’t you normally at—”

“Nah, we’re closed this morning. Had some ‘deliveries’ to make.” The man laughs; his shades glint, the same ones Neku’s always seen him wear behind the counter, and continues on. “But, hey, thanks for joining. Really livens up the place, you know?”

And here Neku thought it was lively enough with the cast and decor, but now, this— “Sorry, are—am I getting some kind of explanation for this? Like, what’s going on?”

“ Yeah, of course, Phones. ”

“Neku,” he frowns. “It’s Neku Sakuraba. I’ve told you this a million times before.”

“Gotcha! Sorry, Phones,” Hanekoma gives a thumbs-up in response, and Neku wishes the door weren’t so far away now.

“As for your question, though: what we’re doing is all top secret.” He walks towards Neku and the rest of the group, pointing at the two around him once before bringing his hand back to his neck. “We have agents, here, so to say—like Rhyme and Beat, here. That’s three down. Then, there’s support: there’s two on communication and three on designs. They‘re the same; you’ll see ‘em soon enough.”

“Then, of course, there’s me. Sanae Hanekoma. Blood type A, March 3. By day, your hip café barista. By night, local sponsor, leader, third designer, the works.” He jabs a thumb towards his chest, and Neku raises an eyebrow. He’s pretty sure he’s heard the first half of this before.

Hey, though. Maybe he should be glad the guy didn’t give even more of a personal ad than before.

“Okay. Sure,” he groans. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“How good are you at Turf Wars?” He asks.

“What, is that going to affect what I do?” Neku says, raising a hand up in a half-shrug.

“Nah, it won’t. But it’ll affect how good you are at it.” Hanekoma looks around, even past Neku and the others and even lowering his shades to squint past the window blinds and the front door. “…Seriously, he can’t be this backed up. I know the others are workin’ shop, but where’s—”

A single, sound knock echoes on the door, and the door creaks open. Neku whips around, nerves and fears filling his head at the singular knock versus the two of Rhyme’s own, and looks back to a bright lifevest. It soars through the air, the original orange and white just barely visible under layers of cream and neon pink ink as its owner enters. “Sorry, did I miss something?”

The owner’s hair is noticeable first, a pale silver and lavender against the black and contrasting hues. Even then, his hair and his skin seems to be covered or singed in patches of the same hues of ink, and Neku doesn’t think he’s ever regretted a decision so much in his life as this.

“There’s the kid of the hour!” Hanekoma yells, waving in the agent; Rhyme gives a smaller wave, short and curt, and follows up with a soft, “Welcome back, Joshua.”

“Why, thank you both. My apologies for the delay—I was rather caught up during the mission.” He grabs a hand towel off of one of the racks and swats the ink off and away from him, and Hanekoma waves him off.

“’s alright. Actually, you showed up just in time.”

“Oh?” Joshua looks up from the towel, already stained in the foreign ink, and his eyes widen slightly before he speaks. “Oh, Neku! You actually showed up. Color me surprised.”

Neku crosses his arms and scoffs, stepping back from the boy. “…Yeah, no thanks to you.”

“Not even one? I’d like to think I had some effect on your joining.”

Beat jumps in, standing solidly between his group and Joshua alone as he yells, “Yeah, well, you almost ruined it! What if Rhyme hadn’t stepped in to help, huh?”

Joshua wipes the last of the ink off and drops the towel in a small hamper nearby as he points out, “But she did.”

“Guys, not the point.” Hanekoma steps in the center between all of them, both of his hands out towards the two. When they’ve both backed down—though, arguably, Beat certainly hasn’t, a hand still held out in front of Rhyme—he straightens up and turns to Neku. “Anyways. Neku—you’ll be working with Josh as an agent.”

Neku feels his mouth go dry, his gaze unmoving from the other as he struggles to speak.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have a problem with that?” Hanekoma sighs, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “I know you might have some qualms with it, but we’ve been needing a second agent for a while. Our team’s usually out in partners. Safety reasons, y’know?”

Frankly, Neku’s calling bullshit.

“Okay,” he says, throwing his hands in front of him, “well—then why can’t Beat or Rhyme go with him?”

Beat turns, his face scrunched up as he mutters, “‘Cause I ain’t goin’ with that priss.”

“Beat…!” Rhyme says, half-gasping and half-warning as she places a hand over Beat’s arm.

“Sheesh, see what I put up with?” Hanekoma sighs, his hands digging deeper into the ends of his pockets. His voice cracks with amusement soon after. “…Kiddin’. But he already was—and then after a mission, he didn’t want to. He’s been with Rhyme ever since—and hey, that’s why you’re goin’ in his place!”

“I—” Neku feels his voice rising into a yell— “You could have told me beforehand!”

“Does it really matter, Phones? It’s the same goal either way! You’ll just be farther out on the field than the rest. Isn’t that what you signed up for?”

He hates to admit it, but… he does have a point, and it’s hardly refutable with how he’s phrased it. “…Sure. Yeah,” he gives in, and Hanekoma grins.

“That’s the spirit! Now, Neku, apologize to the kid, will ya?”

Wow, this is not getting any better, is it? “…What?”

“Did I stutter? I told you two you’d be workin’ together, didn’t I? How are you gonna work together if you won’t even talk nice?”

Neku glares daggers at him, at Joshua, at all of them—and, in the end, it doesn’t do anything. He sighs, “…Fine. Okay,” and takes a deep breath, and he runs through the few points he can apologize for. “I… am. Sorry. For being a jerk and telling you off five or so days ago.”

It doesn’t seem like more than a half-canned response to him—at least, that’s the amount of effort he put into it, anyways, and Rhyme’s clouded stare back must have noticed it, too—but Hanekoma nods and turns away. “Alright. Josh?”

The boy looks up towards him, a smile faint on his face as he says, “Yes?”

“C’mon, get over here. You’re included in this, too.”

“Really?” The smile falls from his face, drowning quickly under the waves of apprehension before he shrugs it off. “…Well, alright. I’m sorry for what happened four days ago. I understand that it jeopardized our objective, and I apologize to Rhyme for just the same.” He looks back to Hanekoma with the same expression: Is that good enough for you?

Apparently, it is.

What a damn low standard.

“Good! See? You two are talking to another! That’s an improvement from before, isn’t it?” Hanekoma turns back to all of them. His face, momentarily alight, grows pale. The lights around them flicker once, twice, and again, and for a moment, it feels like all of the winter has seeped past the summer heat. “Now, before I can dismiss you four, I’m gonna need you all to remember something—especially so this sort of thing doesn’t happen again. Alright?”

“Trust your partner. You remember when I said that last time, right?” He looks through to all of them but Neku, watching each of them nod slightly before he continues. “I meant it. You can’t face these Reefers without one another. You can trust yourself all you want, but you’ve got to trust each other—and more than ever, you’ve got to trust your partner when you’re here. No matter how far apart, no matter what happens: you need to remember you’re not alone. All of you are stronger together. If you can open up, reach out, and tell them what you’re thinking, then you’ll only grow stronger. You all got that?”

Beat and Rhyme nod once more. Neku tries, as fake as a nod would be, but his chin and his mouth clam up, frozen by frost and wind, and all that comes out is silence.

“…Josh?” Hanekoma asks. “Phones?”

His voice is a fire, quick and unsteady to the ice; Neku places his hands to his elbows, and musters the little strength and masks he has after to mumble out, “Yeah, sure.”

“Yep,” Joshua follows him, nods. “Got it.”

Neku spots the man’s eyebrow raise just above his shades—and then, he sees it lower, falling in place of a sigh. He takes his hands out of his pockets and places them firm around his waist.

“Alright! Well, class—you’re all dismissed.”

The lacking reception begins, and it ends almost as soon as it starts. “…Kidding, kidding. I’ll see you kids back soon, yeah? I’ve gotta open up shop. Why don’t you all stop by later? Especially you, Phones—maybe you’ll see the others, while you’re at it.”

“…It’s fine. I think I’ve had enough coffee for one day.” Neku grumbles. “I’m just gonna go.”

“That’s cool. Hurts a little, but it’s cool.” Hanekoma places a hand over his chest; it falls from it just as easily, and he laughs Neku’s words off with a wave of his hand. “I’m kiddin’. Go and be on your way.”

Neku doesn’t take long to approach the door before he hears another yell.

“Hey, Phones: one more thing?”

“…What?”

“Get a good rest. You never know when a mission could pop up, you know. We try to be available whenever we can.”

“…Sure,” he chokes out, half between laughter and half between exhaustion. Hanekoma? Acting as some kind of dad for him? Where did that come from?

The answer never comes—he pushes the door open and enters the open canal again, and the visions of jet black and white and silver hues fades back to a dull grey. The water fills his ears once more. But just as easily as he pulls his headphones over his ears, everything floods back in a blur—what happened six days ago, four, one day ago, and today, all else washing away with the waves and debris—

and, honestly, the whole way back, Neku wonders what the hell he got himself into, because he sure as hell never thought it’d be this.

…It’s going to be a long summer.

#TWEWY #The World Ends With You #TWEWY Bang 2019 #inkresistup #Subarashiki Kono Sekai #fanfic #submission

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