Vane

NOWHERE SPECIAL.

Tucked neatly away in one of the many bustling, overcrowded suburban cities taking over the Inkadian region, Vane's beginning was remarkably ordinary. Two parents, four siblings, and a nice house near identical to the infinite clusters of others in a neighborhood just as cramped as the rest of the city. Living small was something Vane had to learn how to do early, in the room he shared with his two older brothers who barely fit in there as is. One could wonder if he was a planned addition, the way things were set up. He certainly did, sometimes.

To put it kindly, Vane's family didn't exactly know how to communicate with each other. His father thought the best resolution to conflict was redirection and distraction, and refused to take sides in the inevitable spats that'd come with five children in a house meant for half that many. His mother was emotionally fragile in comparison, but far more fierce, taking everyone down the drain with her if they dared come to her pointing fingers. Vane's brothers grew up rough-housing and pushing each others buttons their whole lives to show affection — as such, Vane ended up being their next target when he joined their ranks. He took no such sentiment from their theatrical tormenting, though, mistaking mischief for malice. His sisters were often locked away in their room to avoid them, fighting with each other just the same. It was just something he had to put up with, and had for as long as he could remember.

Needless to say, Vane didn't exactly grow up thinking his feelings mattered to much of anybody. When his well-meaning parents would just wave them off or punish all five of them for making them known, it gave him all the more reason to keep them to himself. There were plenty of good days, but plenty more he'd spend aching for even a little privacy or reprieve from the stifling chaos he lived with. He grew to resent his brothers in particular for the jokes they'd pull on him and their relentless teasing, but his protests were never taken seriously. And as he understood it, neither was he.

His warped perception only grew worse in age. It was obvious to most that his parents were a little overwhelmed by their load, even if they loved their children to bits. The louder his siblings grew, the quieter Vane got in comparison, often overlooked when deciding what to do, where to go, what they'll eat. He was easier to miss. His family once made it halfway home in their van before realizing he wasn't with them, leaving him to endure the worried stares of strangers he didn't want to answer to until they came back for him. It wasn't a one-time occurrence, either, no matter how his mother had apologized for it. Sometimes he'd decline to call and remind her to pick him up from his swim meets just to see how long it'd take her to notice. The looks on their faces when he'd joke about it only made him feel better for a moment.

His brothers were infamous, attracting people just as obnoxious as they were who'd treat Vane just the same. His sisters were well-liked, but rarely with crowds he was able to hang out with. People didn't have much left to spend on him. Vane knew not how to approach, anyway. He was, without a doubt in his mind, a complete nobody. Except to those who needed an easy target to pick on when they could be bothered to notice him to begin with. He'd put up with that, too. It was all he could really do.

His brothers' antics, fake-out dates and swirlies, whatever else highschool threw at him, he endured it all without a word to anybody. He was pretty damn sure that it wouldn't matter, or that his solution would just be to "toughen up". So tough it out he did. He kept his grades up. Became the best on his swim team. Tried their local Turf circuit, and quit just as quick when his brothers began cropping up just to mess with him. All in good fun, they thought, but Vane was hardwired into hostility at every little slight on top of all the rest building over the years. That silent festering could only stay silent for so long. Those long afternoons spent waiting alone for his ride were spent half-hoping it wouldn't come, if only so he could have a moment to himself.

When the topic of his future comes up, things go a little sour. Vane hasn't exactly thought it through, and his interests and ambitions were kept under lock and key lest they be mocked. It's a friendly tease. A lighthearted jab, they thought. But Vane is bruised enough that he can't tell the difference. When his desires or lack thereof get poked at just right, as all of his interests and accomplishments do, Vane has enough of just sitting around and taking it. He's just shy of eighteen when he boils over and decides to finally let them have it. He'll go right now. Do just as he said he'd do right now, while his siblings continue to sit on their asses and do nothing. He'll graduate, too, while they're still mooching off their parents. He'll get his life together before they even start theirs, he swears on it. Without their help.

OVER (IT) AND OUT.

It's the first taste they get of Vane's true feelings. And the last, for the time being. No one could stop him from packing that bag and tearing through that door, however his confused parents tried to. Vane was dead-set on leaving with the first train he could catch. He would find a place he liked, find something new to do. He had his savings from his part-time jobs to get him there. He'd make it work. That wasn't going to be enough, though. After making such a big show of walking out, saying all the wrong things to all the right people, Vane found what was missing from the equation. He'd left as the overlooked nobody always being left behind, and that's what he would stay if he didn't change it. What he wanted now was all he'd never had: he wanted to be something. Fame, infamy, it didn't matter. He just wanted to be known. He just wanted respect. And he'd do just about anything to get it.

That's what lead him to Inkopolis.

Vane hadn't liked Turf much, back in his hometown circuit. Once his brothers were involved, it wasn't so much a sport as it was a splat fest, with him as their primary target. The objective had been impossible, and the whole thing a big embarrassment. That long-festering seed of desire to overcome had since grown in him, though, into a fierce competitive spirit that was ready to give it another go. But Turf wasn't enough. He knew it wouldn't be. He looks higher, to the Ranked version of the sport. It was all labels and numbers and drama. There was hardly a soul in the city who didn't keep eyes on it, especially on its top ranking players. It was the highest star he could think to shoot for. And shoot for it he did.

No matter how well he took to the sport without the hindering hands of his siblings— remarkably well, anyone could tell you— it would still take work and time. He hopped hotels until he found a place he could rent. Juggled side jobs while climbing the ladder. Did his research, fed himself well, became his own trainer in the absence of anyone else to show him the ropes. He kept up with his classes online all the while, refusing to drop his senior year and give them even one more thing to hold over his head. He ran himself near-ragged, filled his fried brain with caffeine until it would work a little harder, better. For what, he wasn't sure. As long as he didn't have to go crawling back home. He'd never hear the end of it if he did. Ever.

Spiteful motivations aside, his natural talent combined with his hard work turned him into a scary competitor, and that previously nameless little nothing dipping his toes into the world of the pros was suddenly a threat. While he'd started to genuinely enjoy the action of being a front-liner, having eyes on him solidified it all. Whether as an obstacle or as an ally, people finally knew of him. Maybe he even had fans of his own. The respect he'd so desperately been seeking was finally in his hands, but he couldn't be so sure so soon. It felt too easy. Too easy to have, too easy to lose. The world he came from was one where anything and everything he did was worthy of ridicule; if they knew who he'd been before his climb to victory, he was sure they would eat him alive. That cool and competent mask couldn't slip for even a moment. Or else he could never put it back.

Nobody would be getting any dirt to muddy his reputation with, thank you. He plays it safe and sticks to his objective. Nothing more.

He makes it to X-rank, eventually. It's quite the occasion. By then, he finally has a place to call his own, small but his. Things were good. He didn't have to share it with anyone. He had a name for himself, an X that told everyone around just what they were dealing with. Even his side-job, while hardly as flashy, wasn't completely miserable. He learned how to take a loss with grace. How to mingle with the Inkopolis crowd without betraying his perfectly crafted image. How to grow up a little, in some ways more than others. The ghost of his old self still wasn't sure how to shake the feeling that he's faking it, and he'd never known a companion closer than arm's length, but it didn't matter. He'd never been anyone's first priority in his life — it was his turn to be that for himself, now. Finally being welcome, though, and having a place carved out for him was... kind of incredible. Whether he truly belonged in it or not, no one ever had to know. He wouldn't be leaving, either way.

Despite his long list of accomplishments, though, Vane still hadn't called home. He was sure that even making it to the very top of his rank wouldn't be enough for the people he wanted to prove himself to the most. At every turn, he felt like he needed something more to rub in their faces. Something they couldn't possibly find a way to twist to be meaningless. Seems even he ended up prioritizing them over himself; everything he'd done up to now was all for their approval. What a stupid thing to be living his life for. He's over it.

It'd worked out for him, so he told himself — it's not like he'd lost anything in his pursuit if he'd never known what he wanted to begin with. What he had now suited him perfectly fine. He'd done just as he said he would do: he got his life together before they even started theirs, without their, or anyone's help. He slept well at night knowing that, whether or not they ever would.

He was just shy of twenty-one, ready for his life to really begin, when that changes.

THE HARDER THEY FALL.

Some years ago, in the deep dark of an underground metro and all of its facilities tucked away from the public eye, a nightmare was born below Inkopolis. An artificial intelligence dubbed Tartar executed its plan to eradicate all of cephalopod-kind, having already slaughtered thousands to harvest their bodies and stripped all the more victims of their identity and autonomy in the name of its twisted desires. The city was narrowly saved from complete annihilation, back then, the monument to the occasion still standing in dilapidation not far from Hammerhead bridge.

Vane knew nothing of the hellish ordeal that'd gone down right under his feet. Very few people did, or how lucky they were to still be alive. As fate would have it, though, he would be getting a taste of that nightmare for himself. Marina Ida has been working tirelessly on a program to help the survivors of the gruesome Sanitization process recover their minds, and one such survivor slips away during extraction. Confused and afraid, it doesn't take much to set them off. Vane made the mistake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, only catching a glimpse of his assailant in the chaos: green, pallid, and dripping.

He makes it home on a prayer and a miracle, nursing a torn ear and a nasty bite to his arm. Blinded by the strange ooze they'd gotten in his eyes, he doesn't realize it's started melting his eyemask already until he's trying to wash it off. Everywhere it touched is some kind of stained, in fact. Shaken and sore, Vane tends to his wounds and goes to bed, just thankful to have reached it. He'd deal with it in the morning.

And deal with it he would, for far more than one. Something was very, very wrong.

The bioweapon that had threatened to wipe them off the map wasn't the first of its kind. Thousands of test subjects had gone into the mixture used to capture Tartar's puppets into a perfect, lifeless stasis. Before being fine-tuned to perfection, there was trial and error. A slurry of gore and harvested DNA had a job to do, alterations to make. The earlier the build, the more volatile the result; within the sterile environment of Kamabo's labs, it worked as intended, but the introduction of foreign contaminants caused some... undesired side-effects. They found a solution eventually. Reworked the recipe, disposed of the contaminated batch. But it lived on in the lifeless body they'd imbued with it, down to their cells.

And now, in Vane's.

He's never seen anything like it. He doesn't know why it glows, why it burns to the touch, why it reeks of bleach and chemicals. Certainly doesn't know what it's made of, a small mercy that proved to be the only one of its kind. In through his bloodstream came an executer — and when it fired commands, his body had no choice but to obey.

BLEACH AND BILE.

There was resistance, of course. Vane's immune system flew into overdrive in a pointless, violent revolt. He spends more than a week burning in fever, as his body flipped every switch it could to stop the intruding substance from having its way. Slowly, but surely, it was overpowered. His arm grew discolored, cold and then numb. His eyemask was permanently smeared, frozen dripping down his face. When his fever lessened and the pain dulled, he thought that was it. He thought wrong.

He hasn't a clue what he's come into contact with. When exposed to foreign matter, foreign DNA, that faulty formula becomes a mutagen.

Octoling-like claws sprouted from his fingertips, over the sheaths of his own. His sclera darkened, the red of his irises replaced with that same eye-searing seafoam. But it's not enough to look like theirs. He watches his own face split open in the mirror, sees the eyes of his assailant stare back at him from the melted mess of his eyemask. His hair won't stop dripping, sink full of teal and blood. He drags himself to urgent care and bails at the looks on their faces when they catch a glimpse of his own. Nothing could stop it, anyway. No one knows what it is.

He'd vanished from the public eye for weeks, too sick to work. But he couldn't just hide around his apartment. Stewing in fear would only drive him mad, and stubbornly, he refused even now to let go of the life he'd made for himself. And forget going home, looking like this. He returns to the turf scene, covering as much skin as he could. With a hood over his eyes, you almost couldn't tell what lay below. His play-style shifted into something more aggressive, more agitated. Few can get close enough to see what he's hiding before he takes them out. He was still weak from illness and disoriented, seeing double, but it didn't matter. He refused to give up. Rumors had already started about his disappearance, and all the more at his change in demeanor. Vane finds himself getting his first taste of the wrong side of fame. If anyone found out about this, it'd ruin him, he was sure of it. He wouldn't let it happen.

It isn't through with him yet. The blueprints have already been made, awaiting their beck and call. It sinks its claws into anything that passes it by. When that fever comes back again and again, he learns that it's the only warning he'll get before his body tears itself apart. A tail begins sprouting from his back, a bizarre combination for lack of substitute, tentacle and fin mangled together. Something shifts inside, clawing beneath the skin out of his sight. He drags himself back up anyway, back out to the tournaments. Hid the tail in his jacket, or wrapped around his leg. He didn't tell a soul. Only dared to slip to his recent duo partner when they caught him bedridden, insisting he was fine all the while. He had to be. He had to be.

Yes, he has to be. Without the constant push to keep his mind elsewhere, there'd be nothing to stop his head from spiraling off of his shoulders. If he were to give his fears a voice, they'd take over him for sure. If he were to hand this burden to another, he'd lose everything he worked for. And if he gives in, he'll have to face the thought of what the rest of his future will look like now. This isn't going away. He knows it isn't. He isn't sure when, or if, it'll ever stop. But he was only just beginning to live. He won't, can't lose it. He refuses to give up before his body does, an all-too real hypothetical he dares not think about lest he fall apart. He's sure he can deal with whatever comes next.

He has to.

AND NOW?

Despite the looming fear of his future, Vane hasn't fallen into despair yet. Not that he leaves much time for it. He's spitefully managed to maintain his rank despite his difficulties, and has no plans to slow down and let it catch up to him. The rumors persist, but so does he. He's remarkably resilient, or maybe just refusing to look at the elephant in the room when it isn't stepping right on him. It's not impossible to catch him out, to coax a little chat out of him. He doesn't exactly love being cooped up at home even if that's the safer option. Besides, if being in the ranked scene has taught him anything, it's that people will be talking no matter what he does. It's what he signed up for. He won't cower. If you're looking to get on his good side, though, it's best you just stay quiet if you see something you shouldn't.

If queueing against him is your aim, tread carefully. He's kind of been taking out his stress on anyone close enough to splat, lately. Nothing personal... unless you're a gossip.