Dave rested his chin on his fist as he vacantly watched the barren desert landscape crawl by. The rise of the sun did little to make the surrounding area more interesting, all it did was change the temperature from freezing to sweltering. He sighed as he watched a cactus identical to all the previous cacti slide past like it was part of an endlessly scrolling backdrop. Normally, Sam knew, when he was stranded on a long car ride, he would talk to his fellow passengers, but Miss Pauling wasn't able to understand him, and he evidently didn't feel like talking to Sam right now. Unfortunately for him, Sam did want to talk. She had been saying his name for the past fifteen minutes, trying to get his attention, but he had ignored her so far, at least until she flicked his ear.

He yelped at the sharp pain and rubbed a hand over the thwacked area. "What's wrong?" She asked.

"Nothing."

She rolled her eyes. "You and I both know that that's bullsquit." He didn't argue with that. "Seriously, what's up?"

He tried to deflect. "I'll… I'll tell you later."

"Why not now?" She gestured to the empty desert surrounding the truck. "We clearly don't have anything important to do right now."

"You're not going to give this up, are you?"

She shook her head. "You're brooding and smell all sweaty, and I can only deal with one of those two problems right now."

Dave sighed. "Okay, fine." He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "Soldier said some weird- well, not weird, I guess, I don't know… I don't know what he was trying to say. He yelled a lot, so I didn't get most of what he said." Dave laughed awkwardly, like it was a joke that he was forced to find funny. Sam narrowed her eyes. Clearly, Dave would not spill what was bothering him. Apparently, Dave knew that his answer did not satisfy his teammate, so he drew out a worn book from his pocket. "Soldier did give me this, though," he handed it to Sam, "I think he said it was called the War of Art or something."

The pocketbook's cover was torn, and its pages were waterlogged. Scents of smoke and dirt coated it like the smell of rotting fish from a trash bag on the street. Sam's nose scrunched up as she flipped through the book's pages. Blocky and complicated letters dominated every page. She thought they looked different from the writing on the signs she saw in the RED base but wasn't certain. She handed it back to Dave as he continued talking. "He said he wants me to read it and have it memorized by next week."

Sam's eyebrows furrowed. "How are you supposed to do that?" She asked. "You can't even read human."

"It's crazy, right?!" Dave exclaimed. "I can't do that!" He folded his arms and huffed, "It's like I'm back in school."

Sam giggled. "Like that bs project we had to do on the Great Turf War for Mr. Mantley last year."

"Yeah! But instead I can't read any of the books on it."

"Let's be real here," she said, "you didn't read any of the books for that project anyway."

"That's not true! I read, like, at least two." Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Okay, fine, one book and the introduction of the other."

"Oh, really?"

"…I only read one chapter, but in my defense I did infinitely more than Alan." He threw his hands up in the air. "Happy?"

Sam giggled again, "Yes." She actually was happier, because she managed to distract Dave from whatever was bothering him. He still smelled sweaty and gross though, but she'd take what she could get.

Sam and Dave kept idly chatting for the rest of the ride, until Ms. Pauling abruptly slammed the breaks. The two inklings flew into the dashboard and Sam heard two dull thuds from the bed of the truck. Alan and Tim weren't ready for that either, evidently. Miss Pauling said something to the inklings and got out of the car. Sam and Dave peeled themselves off the dash and blearily exited the car.

Miss Pauling had the duffle bag with the disturbing contents inside slung over her shoulder and was already walking away from the truck. The other two inklings had barely clambered out of the truck bed before a sharp whistle from Miss Pauling signaled them all to follow her. She took off swiftly, apparently unhampered by the bag's weight. The four inklings hastened after her, and Alan took this opportunity to complain. "I don't think I'll be able to sleep for weeks."

"You're not the one who touched it," Tim said.

"I still had to see it," he retorted. "That was nasty." He looked down and groaned. "Aw, some of the human ink got on my new shoes!"

"How'd that happen?" Sam asked.

"It was leaking when Tim took it out and I guess it spurted on me," Alan answered. "Do you think it comes out naturally like ink?"

"That was poor word choice," Tim commented.

"Like, if I just leave it alone I won't—what?" Sam and Dave snickered. "What do you mean 'poor word choice'? What's so funny?"

"So, human juice spurted all over your brand-new Zink Seahorses?" Dave asked while suppressing a laugh.

"Yeah, human juice got all over my—" realization dawned on his face. "Oh, screw you guys." The rest of the inklings laughed while Alan pouted. "I try to use a fancy word for once and you guys just laugh at me," he whined. "I'm just gonna use cavesquid-speak from now on."

"That would probably improve your callouts," Sam poked.

Alan furrowed his eyebrows and jutted his jaw forward. "Me no want hear it, woman!"

"Do we even know if they… uh, 'do it' that way?" Tim wondered aloud.

Before anyone could reply, Miss Pauling came to a stop at the foot of a towering mesa and eyed her four charges. She stood there, thinking, for a few moments before seemingly reaching an epiphany. The woman unzipped the gore-filled duffle bag, rooted around and withdrew four burlap sacks. They were small and stained with human ink. She took Sam's hand and placed it in Dave's, then Miss Pauling put up her own hand in a gesture that indicated 'stay,' as if they were dogfish. Sam tried to ignore the heat slowly spreading across her face.

Miss Pauling joined the rest of the inklings' hands together, forming a chain of increasingly bewildered inklings. She then put the bags over their heads. It. Smelled. Awful. Sam gagged at the sack's overpowering coppery stench. Groans and gagging told Sam that her friends felt the same way. The burlap was also thick, she couldn't see anything but the brown of the sack and deep-red stains. As she gagged, Sam felt a tug on her hand, urging her to follow.

Sam let herself be dragged forward, gripping onto Dave's hand tightly (just so she wouldn't get lost). She followed unthinkingly until Dave stopped abruptly, accompanied by several deep growls. Sam gulped nervously and squeezed Dave's hand even tighter. Miss Pauling barked out a single command and the growling quieted. She was dragged forward again, and she heard quiet snarling surrounding her before it passed behind them. Something wooden croaked and scraped against the dusty earth. The air staled and chilled. Their footsteps echoed through the unsettling silence.

The chain of inklings kept moving forward for several minutes until a male-sounding voice called out to them. Miss Pauling responded with what was presumably a greeting, then the man said something back. He sounded closer now. Miss Pauling replied again, her tone suggested finality, somehow. The man mumbled something back. Sam and her team were shoved onto a metal surface. There was a beep before the ground started moving. Sam realized that they were in an elevator, and going down.

Something cold and metallic poked her shoulder before Miss Pauling issued a rebuke. A man, different than the one from before, muttered an apology. Sam realized then that she was sweating, despite the rapidly decreasing temperature. She shuffled closer to Dave, or at least where she thought he was. The elevator descended for what felt like hours before it finally stopped. She was dragged forward again.

If it was cold before they took the elevator, it was positively frigid now. How deep underground were they?

"Miss Pauling, explain to me precisely why you have brought children into my fortress?"

She had been dreading that question the whole morning. "Well, ma'am…"

"I was sure that you were aware of this company's strict 'no-children on the premises' policy."

"I am aware of that policy, ma'am."

"So, you are aware that the only exception to that policy is for when children need to be silenced?" The Administrator continued, "I do hope you aren't planning to do that in my office."

"Of course not, ma'am," Pauling hurriedly assured. "They aren't here for termination, ma'am, they're here to observe the mercenaries on camera." An unimpressed glare. "Apparently they hired the mercenaries to coach them on fighting last night. They're also from the future and part squid, or something. I didn't quite get that part." The Administrator's face didn't so much as twitch. "Most importantly, they don't understand English and they haven't seen an inch of the facility."

The Administrator took a long drag from her cigarette. "You have not answered my question, Miss Pauling."

"Oh, well, Engineer fixed my woodchipper last month and I owed him a favor."

"This is precisely why we pay these men in cash, Miss Pauling," she droned. "Remove the bags." When Pauling complied, the Administrator leaned in so as to be eye level with the one with blue hair-tentacles. Her cold eyes bored into the boy's. Pauling had been on the receiving end of that piercing gaze more times than she could count but it never failed to make her shift uncomfortably in her skin. The 'inkling' subconsciously backed away from the owlish stare and the Administrator reclined slowly. Pauling swore she saw the ghost of a bemused smirk tugging on her lips.

The Administrator sat back in her chair for a long time, deliberating. Miss Pauling knew the Administrator had already reached her decision, probably from the moment they entered the building, but was enjoying making these children squirm. After the air had grown thick enough with tension to be cut with a rusty knife, the Administrator passed judgment, "How heartening it is, to know that the time-honored tradition of contract killing will be passed to the next generation."

She spun her chair back to the wall of monitors. "Be advised, Miss Pauling, if they look anywhere but these screens, you will find yourself digging four new shallow graves tonight."

"Understood, ma'am."

Even if the inklings could understand English, they would not have needed that warning. Their eyes were all glued to the array of monitors towering above them, despite their positively antique design. From the moment the RED Team spewed forth from those shutter doors Sam could follow each mercenary from screen to screen without losing sight of them for even a second. There were televised pro-turfing leagues that would kill for this kind of battlefield coverage.

Sam had been watching Heavy for almost the entire time. He, Demoman, and Medic were charging into a blue, concrete building that appeared to mirror the REDs' base, weirdly. It reminded her of locations designed for turfing in Inkopolis. Almost as though this was also a staged battle. That would explain why the dried-out human woman in the chair frequently announced things into a microphone. Although, Sam had never seen a television studio with such tight security. Maybe that was just a human thing?

Heavy and his teammates had entered a courtyard area and all shell broke lose. Heavy jumped into the courtyard, twisting a small blue building while charging his weapon. The building emitted two quick beeps and fired at Heavy. It had two rotating barrels for arms that made it resemble a very uncomfortable chair. Bright streaks flew from the barrels and burrowed into Heavy's body, he shouted something to Medic. The next instant, he and Medic shone bright red. He laughed as the building's attacks pelted him harmlessly. Then, Heavy returned fire.

Sam thought the building's attacks were already loud, but Heavy's weapon was deafening, even through the speakers. He unleashed a torrent of those same yellowy streaks (Sam really had to ask what their weapons used for ammunition) back into the blue building. Demoman dashed into the courtyard, spun around, and fired a single red and black cylinder at the building. It hit dead center and the building exploded, sending smoking metal fragments everywhere. Heavy cheered and charged up the stairs where the building stood moments before with Medic.

Heavy, still glowing crimson, turned the corner and spotted a human that closely resembled Engineer, but wearing blue, scrambling to his feet. Heavy dropped his massive gun and slowly approached the Engineer-lookalike. The blue Engineer swung a massive wrench wildly at the giant human's head. Heavy raised a single hand and caught the Engineer's with ease. The man in blue tried to wrench himself free from Heavy's grip but couldn't resist the bigger man's grip. Heavy twisted the Engineer's arm and the smaller man's appendage bent a direction it probably wasn't meant to. Sickening cracks mixed with an inkcurdling scream through the grainy speakers.

Sam felt ill. She shot a glance at the other spectators, her teammates stared transfixed, horrified. The old human was enthralled as well, but her decrepit face betrayed a mixture of satisfaction and wicked glee. Heavy's red shine had faded by now, and Demoman ran to join him and Medic. Demoman raised a hand, presumably to give Heavy a congratulatory slap on the back and brought it down quickly. A slender man in a blue suit replaced Demo and a knife materialized in Heavy's back. Heavy bellowed a sharp cry and fell forward on the Engineer. The man wearing the blue suit drew a small weapon from his jacket and fired at Medic. Red ink spurted from Medic's chest and he collapsed.

Sam's hearts stopped. Did her coach just die? She watched the video feed, desperately hoping that he would stand right back up and throttle the Spy doppelganger, but he laid still. As the blue Spy dragged Heavy's unmoving body off the Engineer like a sack of potatoes, Sam realized that he was well and truly dead. Sam had only known Heavy and the others for one night, but she still felt awful. Her hearts sank further when she realized that, since Heavy was dead, she had no teacher, so she probably couldn't keep up with her teammates. They would probably let her stay on the team, but she would just be a burden.

A desperate part of her bargained with no one. This has been like turf wars so far, right? she mentally rationalized. The battlefield was mirrored for both sides, the old woman was seemingly acting as a referee like Judd, and it looked like it could be televised. Why wouldn't it have some sort of respawn as well? She stared at the door the RED team came out of expectantly, hoping for the giant man to barrel through. After several tense seconds, the shutter door opened and, lo and behold, out came Heavy with Medic and Demo in tow.

Sam released a breath she wasn't aware she was holding. The mercenaries' battle became much easier to watch. They quickly settled into a cycle of mustering at spawn, charging into the enemy's fortress, and getting thwarted only to be set back to square one, all without that first charge's tension gripping Sam's hearts. Not to say that it wasn't exciting television, every individual duel or group push was an intense struggle of pure martial skill and knee-jerk reactions combined with reckless insanity. Sam saw some of them jump into the sky off explosions. Never had Sam seen combat at this level. The closest thing she could think of was the pro-turfing league's yearly championship, but she didn't think any pro-turfers could take on any of these mercenaries alone.

The old human woman plugged and unplugged a series of auxiliary cords announcing into her microphone as she did so. Her voice's tone betrayed something exciting happening. Scout had gone deep into the blue team's base and grabbed a blue briefcase from a large desk. He ran up the stairs that led to the courtyard. Sam saw the men in blue rushing to the courtyard to cut him off. Just before Scout leapt into the yard, Heavy and Medic emerged from the lower floor and shot at the blues, distracting them long enough for Scout to escape down the path where Heavy and Medic came from.

Scout dashed across the covered bridge back to his base, cheering as he went. He ran to a room deep in the bowels of his base that was almost identical to the room in the blue base. As he slammed the blue briefcase down on the desk, the old woman made two announcements into her microphone. The RED mercenaries cheered in response and rushed towards the fortress across the bridge. The old woman turned from the wall of screens and gave what sounded like an order to Miss Pauling. Responding with a curt nod, Miss Pauling blindfolded the inklings again. Thankfully, she didn't use the disgusting bags from last time. She joined the inklings' hands and led them away.

Sunlight burned at Sam's eyes as Miss Pauling removed the blindfolds. She blinked rapidly to expel the moisture accumulating in her eyes. As her vision slowly cleared, she saw her friends doing the same. She also saw Miss Pauling climb into Engineer's truck and ignite its engine. "Dibs on the front seat!" Alan shouted as he and Tim scrambled for the seats. Sam was about to complain, but Dave spoke before she could. "It's only fair, they sat back there on the way here."

She and Dave climbed into the truck bed and held on tight to the sides. Miss Pauling pulled away from the giant mesa onto the highway. Sam could barely contain her excitement, "That was so cool!"

"Yeah, I guess."

"I've never seen anybody fight like them!" Words tumbled out of her, "They fought in the air! They were in the air! How do they do that without super jumping? Can they fly on their own? Why was Heavy glowing? Their weapons were so loud and they blew each other into pieces! Did you see all those flashes? Do you think they use lasers? And – are you not excited?"

Dave shifted uncomfortably. "No, no it was cool it just looked… dangerous."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked. "Turf war is dangerous too."

"I know, but that looked like a different beast than turf wars. Like, dangerous because all those explosions and the fact that they didn't splat each other quickly." He paused to collect his thoughts. "You saw what Heavy did to that blue guy that looked like Engineer, right?" She nodded. "Doesn't that bother you at all?"

"Well… yeah," she admitted. "But it's not like they'll do that to us."

"Soldier hit Alan earlier."

"Oh, yeah. But they probably won't do that again," she offered meekly.

Dave didn't look convinced. "Besides," he said, "I don't think that kind of stuff is turf legal." Sam had no response.

Some time later, the truck approached another mesa that stood by a bend in the unending road. Sam thought little of it until Miss Pauling turned sharply off the road and drove into the empty canyon. The canyon rippled and absorbed the pickup truck and its passengers. Thick fabric smothered the two inklings in the truck bed. After batting it out of their faces, Sam and Dave beheld a massive, concrete factory, complete with covered windows and towering smokestacks that billowed soot and smoke into the atmosphere. A cacophony of beeping echoes tore Sam's gaze from the factory. Red buildings like the ones she saw on the screens flanked the truck on both sides, dozens of barrels tracking the car's every move. The inklings scooted closer to the front seats.

Miss Pauling parked the truck in front of a garage and exited the vehicle. As the inklings followed suit, the garage door lifted, and a tired-looking Engineer emerged from the dark interior. "Howdy, Miss Paulin'," he greeted. "Kids," he added as an afterthought. The new arrivals returned the call and Miss Pauling tossed him the truck's keys, which he caught. "Thanks for keepin' her in one piece, Miss Paulin'. Your moped's in the garage." He turned around and waved for them to follow.

The garage was unimpressive compared to what they saw mere hours ago. It was cold, dimly lit, and packed with odd parts and scrap ends. A white van riddled with holes occupied most of the room's space along with a few wooden crates, a refrigerator, and a dartboard hanging on the wall. It all combined to create a more "lived-in" atmosphere than the cold, industrial facilities they had seen so far. Miss Pauling straddled her purple moped, waved goodbye to the inklings and Engineer, and drove out.

"Welcome to RED Base, kids," Engineer began, "We brought along your guns, I think most everybody's havin' a look at 'em right now, actually." He chuckled, "I wanted real bad to take a look at 'em, myself, 'fore the boys could."

"Are they usually careful with weapons?" Dave asked uncertainly.

"Well, sure. Long as they ain't mighty curious how somethin' works." That wasn't very reassuring. "Don't fret, I'm sure I c'n fix anything they break." Before the inklings could press further, Medic entered the garage from a door leading deeper into the facility. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly before he strode into the room confidently. "Herr Engineer," he greeted brusquely. Engineer nodded, "Doc." As Engineer began a long, meandering lecture on all the things the inklings were not allowed to do in this building, Medic entered the back of the white van and emerged seconds later with that same trash bag from earlier slung over his shoulder. Her curiosity was too much for Sam to bear, she had to know what was in that bag.

She nudged Alan and nodded towards Medic. He stared back vacantly at her, uncomprehending. She repressed a groan and inclined her head more obviously towards the trash bag. He seemed to take the hint that time, but he didn't understand what she wanted. Finally, she mouthed, Get that bag open.

Why? He mouthed back.

Just do it. Medic was about to leave the room; it was now or never. "Excuse me, Mr. Medic?" He stopped and turned to Sam, a single eyebrow quirked. "While we were watching you fight, I saw you and Heavy glow bright red a lot. What was that?"

His face lit up, "That, mein frauline, was the ÜberCharge. It renders the patient immune to all forms of physical damage."

"That sounds fresh!" Sam supplied, "How does it work?"

Medic chuckled. "It has been a long time since I have had the opportunity to share my finest creation with someone. You don't mind, Herr Engineer?"

"Be my guest, Doc." While Medic regaled Sam with all the intricacies and incomprehensible medical jargon of the 'ÜberCharge.' She didn't understand a word of it, but Medic was so engrossed in explaining his invention he failed to notice Alan sneak up behind him. The yellow-haired inkling found a throwing dart and was using it to tear a hole in the plastic trash bag while Medic talked about electrical currents in the heart or something. Finally, Alan cut a big enough hole for some of the garbage inside to spill out of the bag.

A crushed soda can fell from the bag and clanged loudly against the floor. Medic stopped talking and looked over his shoulder at the inkling. "Rattenkind!" he shouted. He spun around and grabbed Alan by the neck, lifting him into the air. Alan clawed uselessly at the rubber glove crushing his windpipe. Sam shot forward, gripped the bag and tore the hole open as wide as she could. Medic stopped threatening the flailing Alan and watched as the contents of his precious trash bag poured onto the floor.

Sam wasn't sure what Medic had found in Inkopolis that was so important, it was all just garbage so far. At least she wasn't sure until the bag dumped an unconscious inkling. Probably the worst possible inkling to find unconscious in a trash bag twelve thousand years in the past. Even under a layer of refuse and ink crusted over her face, the long, black and pink tentacles and sequined outfit were instantly recognizable. "Oh Cod," Sam whispered.

Callie Cuttlefish, the pop music idol, co-host of Inkopolis News, one of the most famous women in Inkopolis, laid crumpled on the ground covered in garbage and her own dried ink.