First EncounterFrom Nemo's Perspective


Nemo crouched behind the wreckage of a broken FlyiFish Aircraft, one hand gripping his damaged Splattershot, the other trembling uncontrollably.


The blood-red sunset bled over the muddy shores of Marooner’s Bay, the air thick with a bitter, metallic tang of salt and rust.

And there he was—that salmon. Eyes burning with a stubborn fire that words couldn’t capture.


It was him—the one they called The Captain.


Nemo remembered this salmon.

He’d seen the footage in the mission briefing: striking gathering squads with surgical precision, even in violent storms—an airborne monster, nearly impossible to bring down.


Now, their eyes locked.


The salmon let out a low hum, spreading his small fin-wings as he slowly approached.

Not charging like the others, not moving with the wild rhythm of a typical horde. Just him—alone, persistent.


Nemo instinctively pulled the trigger.

The ink burst out, exploding into a sticky splash of color.

The salmon twisted sharply; the ink grazed his side but didn’t stop him. He only moved slower—more deliberately.


“...Stay back,” Nemo hissed through gritted teeth. His fingers were going numb.


But the salmon couldn’t understand Inkling. He just stared with those unsettlingly bright eyes—like he could see straight through Nemo’s skin, carving something deep into his bones.


The next moment, Nemo broke.

He sprang up and ran.


Behind him, the faint splash of water.

Not a chase.

More like… following.




From the Captain’s Perspective


Saltwater stung cold against his little fin-wings.


He’d woken from a failed mission, washed ashore by the tide onto this wreckage-strewn beach.


His squad—gone. The command signal—gone.


Just him now.

A lone, straggling salmon.


He shook his head, blinking through the crimson haze of sunset—and saw the figure.


That one…

The one who shot him down.


Thin, battered clothes, weapon glinting with oily rainbow hues.


And in those eyes—something familiar.

Not anger.

Not pride.

Fear.


The Captain moved toward him, slowly.


Not out of vengeance.

Not because of orders.


He just wanted to get closer. Just a little closer—to see clearly the one who had knocked him out of the sky and into the end of the world.


He could sense the tremble in the other’s hand, heard a sharp cry, then ink tore through the air, splattering against his side.


Pain.

But not fatal.


He shook it off. Didn’t stop.


If that Inkling had wanted to kill him, it would’ve ended right there.


But he didn’t.

He just ran—clumsily, desperately.


The Captain tilted his head, letting out a low rumble.


He didn’t understand the meaning of this battle.

But he knew—


This one, this “Agent 3,” wasn’t like the others.


In his eyes—wounds, pain, and something else…

A strange, silent kinship.


The Captain wobbled forward, continuing to follow.


Not an enemy.


Not quite a friend.


But at least—

Not someone who wanted to leave.