Boy from Nowhere

The Agent

[Cuttlefish's POV:]
"Bucko? Bucko!" Cuttlefish hobbled over to the fallen Inkling, reclaiming his cane to avoid further danger. Gently pressing his hand to the boy's ink-stained shirt, the old Inkling could feel his hearts pounding away. His chest was still heaving, but his breathing was all but a whisper. Altitude sickness?

"Alright, lad. Let's get you cleaned up inside." Wrapping an arm around the unconscious adolescent's torso and slinging one of his arms over his own shoulders, the captain attempted to lift the boy to his feet. He felt like a sack of stones even with the support of the cane. Had carrying things always been this hard? Gritting his beak, Cuttlefish continued lugging the unconscious Inkling back toward his abode.

— — —

"Blast, I'm nowhere near as young as I used to be..." the captain groaned, massaging his limbs. The boy's body had been covered in cuts and bruises under the clothing, decorating his body like a sickening mural. Splinters had been lodged into his skin, some pushed in so deeply that they had to be dug out. He'd patched up everything the best he could and scrubbed the grime from his body, but there was nothing he could do to prevent more scarring.

Now, laying in the small cot, he looked so peaceful, so at ease compared to earlier during their fight. Cuttlefish found himself replaying the boy's movements in his head over and over. Each swing, the way his balance shifted as he fought... he had certainly earned his scars.

The young'un was tough, no doubt, but he was untrained and volatile. He'd be too dangerous to wander the streets of Inkopolis, leaving him isolated and even more unstable. If not worse. He needed to be trained, but there was one problem.

The eyes, the window to the soul, as they were so often called. Those bright blue irises were surprisingly cold for somebody his age. What had he seen? Where had he been? He felt... sorry for the boy. At least he wasn't there anymore. The old Inkling yawned, picking up his old clock to check the time. Nearly sunrise. He sighed, picking up the boy's stained clothes.

"Well, I don't suppose I'm getting any sleep now... no reason to leave these clothes unwashed. Give these old hands something to do." He muttered to himself.

— — —

[Nemesis's POV:]
Nemesis's eyes flickered open, blurred with sleep. Everything was so warm and comfortable, and he was so tired... surely it couldn't hurt to sleep a little longer for once. His eyelids began to close, but his brain refused to shut down. Something didn't feel right, but what? He shifted a little, his arm gently brushing against the soft- wait, soft? He was supposed to be outside. The Inkling bolted upright, his eyes snapping open. The cuts on his back stung and his ears rang at the sudden movement, causing him to flinch.

Blinking to clear his vision, he scanned his surroundings. The room he was in was simple and cramped, lit by a small handheld lantern that bathed the walls in a warm yellow. Communications equipment and storage boxes lined the wall opposite him, a file cabinet crammed in the corner.

How had he gotten here? What had happened last night? Where was the old man? Determined to find answers, he stood up, reaching for his knife.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, but... the fabric didn't feel right... where was the knife? Why did the cloth feel so... new, so smooth? Looking down gave him his answer: his clothing had been replaced. Hugging tight to the Inkling's body was a black undershirt, covered by a similarly colored high-necked jacket.

More questions bubbled to the surface, but the young male had no answers to them. The best he could do was guess, but he suspected the old man would have the answers he wanted. He wanted to look around for a way to escape. But without his knife, he would be completely at the mercy of the elderly Inkling, and that was not an idea he relished. He'd need to think this through, and well. A quiet clacking alerted him to a presence outside. Moving as quietly as he could, Nemesis peeked through the slit of the screen door.