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Quackity was enjoying his nightly smoke on top of a cliff overlooking Manberg. He sat down on the grass, inhaling another drag before exhaling it in a puff of smoke. The calm night breeze whistled in his ears, and the sounds of crickets filled the crisp air. The nightly quiet warmed his frozen nerves and eased the tension in his shoulders. It’s why he smoked the most at night.
The numbing quiet was suddenly interrupted by footsteps. Quickly, Quackity stood up to turn in the direction of the noise, only to see the silhouette of a familiar man.
It was Wilbur Soot, former leader of L’Manberg and current enemy of Manberg. He was stumbling up the hill leading up to the cliff, his breath so loud it was audible from where Quackity was standing. Finally, Wilbur reached him, heaving and panting like a dog on a hot day.
They both stood for a moment, Wilbur towering over Quackity with furrowed eyebrows and a sorrowful look in his eyes. The awkward silence built in the air, creating a rope of tension begging to be snapped.
Finally, Wilbur broke. “Quackity- I-I don’t know what happened, I-” He choked a little, tears forming in the bottoms of his already bloodshot eyes.
Quackity stumbled forward and grabbed Wilbur’s shoulder. “Wilbur! Wilbur! It’s fine! Just calm down!” He assured.
Quackity let go of his shoulder, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and opening the top. Inside laid only four more cigarettes, most of the pack was used from earlier that day when Quackity had to step out of Schlatt’s office. That drunken president’s bullshit got to him sometimes. He pulled out one on the far left corner and handed it to Wilbur along with a small pocket-lighter.
Wilbur reached out a shaky palm to grab the white stick and another for the lighter. It wasn’t a healthy way to deal with things, but he and Quackity both knew that for people like them, it was the only solution.
Quackity still remembered when Wilbur first started smoking. Quackity was the one who offered, saying he looked stressed from the woes of law school. From then onward, Wilbur smoked more than him. It started with just four a week, then seven, then ten, then finally, a pack a day. Quackity didn’t like to take the blame for his friend’s nicotine addiction, but sometimes he did.
Those days when they were in law school were much simpler. The stress they dealt with was irrational, and the tasks they performed were superficial. Reading old-timey books and writing extensive essays seemed so complicated back then.
Now, they had to deal with running countries and leading rebellions.
Wilbur brought the cigarette to his lips and flicked the lighter on, failing a few times from the build-up of sweat on his fingertips. Once it finally lit, he took a long drag and blew out a cloud of ash-gray smoke.
It was a routine for Wilbur: have a panic attack, run to his enemy, grab a cigarette, and try to forget the impending doom upon both their allegiances. Quackity was the vice president of the man who exiled Wilbur from the nation he once owned, yet the guy still came to Quackity almost every night. Not like Quackity didn’t do the same sometimes, but it seemed like it bothered him more than Wilbur.
Wilbur was like that. Although he was the one who started the whole mess, he seemed to care the least about allegiances or whom you were allied with. He allowed anyone into Pogtopia with a cheeky smile and welcoming words. He’d probably accept Quackity with open arms, but they both knew that would never happen. Quackity had a deal, after all.
That deal was: to be vice president and merge his votes with someone he barely knew just to spite someone he held dearly to his heart.
The things determination for power will make you do.
Taking a drag from his cigarette, Quackity looked out on Manberg. The moonlight shined down on the classical L’Manberg architecture. Tiny, wooden cabins and huts with intricately carved patterns and plants hanging from ceilings lined the streets. It was almost like a fairy town if the buildings were sized up. The old charm of L’Manberg remained, almost like it was abandoned. The only things missing were the L’Manberg flags posted outside of them.
Schlatt couldn’t be bothered to build anything new, so he kept those eerily nostalgic buildings, and whenever Quackity passed by, he was reminded of Wilbur’s legacy and just how much he strived for freedom.
It made him sick to his stomach.
Almost everyone had left. What used to be the buzz of what seemed like a million lights was now just a few low hums. What remained were one light from Schlatt’s office, one from Connor’s little hut, and some from what was left of the citizens that chose to stay in Manberg.
Finally breaking the silence, Quackity dragged out a long sigh. “So… what happened this time?”
Wilbur bit his bottom lip and looked down at his feet, raising his toes and shoving them back down. “I-I lashed out at Tommy again.”
Quackity sighed. That poor kid didn’t deserve to deal with Wilbur’s anger. Quackity knew what it was like: fiery, loud, piercing, digging into your soul and worming its way into your deepest fears. He never knew an outburst like that could puncture the presumably thick-skinned vice-president’s soul so deep. And Tommy had to deal with that consistently.
Wilbur let out a shaky breath. “I never mean to. I-It just… happens. I guess.” He said the last line with a shrug.
Quackity fiddled with the cigarette between his index and middle finger, trying to think of a response. You need to manage your anger better, Wilbur. No, too direct. You’re actually kind of a bitch sometimes. Okay, like that’s any better. Just yell at me if you want. No, Quackity didn’t want to deal with that.
A fire began to form in Wilbur’s already deep amber eyes as he turned to face Quackity. “I just don’t get it!” Well, it looked like he’s going with the last option without Quackity even saying it. “How come I’m the one doing shit when he just lays around joking with everyone!”
Quackity shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because he’s a fucking kid, Wilbur.” Oh shit, that’s not going to end well, is it?
Wilbur looked like he was going to say something, but his shoulders relaxed. He turned away from Quackity and took another drag, sighing out the smoke. “You’re right. I shouldn’t say shit like that.” Wilbur looks at his feet, biting his lip. “I-I’m just being a bitch.”
Quackity blinked a couple of times. What?
Wilbur’s bottom lip quivered. He placed his forehead in his free hand, breath hitching. Wait, was he crying?
Quackity tossed his half-finished cigarette to the ground, grabbed Wilbur’s shoulders, and turned him around to face the shorter. His eyes were filled with tears, and his eyebrows were furrowed in a way that made Quackity’s heart tear in half. All he wanted to do was grab Wilbur, swing his arms around the other’s torso, and tell him he’d be okay.
Wait, what?
Well, that was new.
Wilbur gripped Quackity’s polo shirt and let out a choked sob before nearly collapsing on top of the younger. Quackity, being almost an entire foot shorter than Wilbur, didn’t exactly want the freakishly tall man to topple on top of him. So when Wilbur began to fall, Quackity wrapped his arms around the other’s torso and held him up instead.
Well, now they were hugging.
Wilbur squeezed the back of Quackity’s suit jacket and silently sobbed into his shoulder. Quackity would usually be revolted, but he only felt warmth blooming in his chest. Understanding, empathy . He tended not to feel it, but he was now, and it felt so… refreshing .
Quackity didn’t need to say anything. The circles he was rubbing on Wilbur’s back were probably telling enough. He knew what Wilbur was feeling. So much anger, yet so much hatred towards that same anger.
Just why exactly were they so similar, yet so different?
Why did they end up on opposing sides?
Ah, that’s right.
They’re both too determined to see what’s right in front of them.
Quackity sighed into Wilbur’s chest. He relaxed, even if it was just for a moment.
—
When Quackity joined Pogtopia, Wilbur had told him that they were going to win L’Manberg back.
During the final Pogtopian meeting, he declared that L’Manberg would be open to anyone, non-Europeans included. Later, in private, he told Quackity that he could finally join, and together, they would reform L’Manberg and create a nation to be envied.
Quackity still remembered when they were teenagers sitting in Wilbur’s study room, brainstorming ideas for countries. His entire room was old-fashioned looking. The walls were made of dark oak, along with almost every piece of furniture in the room. Bookshelves lined every corner of the room, filled with plenty of books Quackity could never bother to read. Some of them were dispersed throughout the room, on the floors, on his desk. Wilbur wasn’t a very organized person.
It was homey. The firepit carved into the right wall was almost always lit, filling the room with the rich smell of burning wood. Wilbur’s desk had a small lamp on it, but the dim, old-fashioned, hanging lamps created most of the lighting. Sometimes, teenage Quackity wished his office looked like it, but he didn’t have a wealthy father like Wilbur.
In that office, the two would giggle amongst themselves, sometimes doing actual work. They mostly babbled on about stupid shit that didn’t matter, but they were stupid teenagers.
There was one instance where Wilbur blurted something with seemingly no meaning.
Wilbur spun around in his desk chair, chewing on the end of his quill. He’d probably need a new one after this. His round-framed glasses were slightly slipping from the bridge of his nose, making him look like he aged thirty years. He wore the same furrowed brows and distant look as he usually did when he was lost in thought.
Quackity was reading a textbook that he was only half paying attention to, so his eyes easily drifted from the monotonous text up to Wilbur.
“What’s up?” Quackity asked, adjusting himself in the uncomfortable wooden chair.
Wilbur sucked in a breath, abruptly stopping his spinning. He gently placed the quill onto his desk and spun his chair to face Quackity. “Listen to this,” he said with a mischievous grin.
Quackity raised an eyebrow, his hands still lightly gripping the two sides of his textbook.
Wilbur leaned forward, placing his elbows onto his desk and lacing his fingers together. Placing his chin on his hands, he smirked. “What if we made a country?”
Quackity flinched in surprise, his textbook falling onto his stomach. “E-Excuse me?”
Wilbur burst out laughing. Quackity couldn’t help but slightly chuckle as well.
Wilbur shook his head and waved Quackity off. “I’m sorry- your reaction-”
Quackity, grin still on his face, closed his textbook and promptly placed it on the desk. “So, tell me about this country.”
Wilbur grinned widely and leaned forward again. “So I was thinking-”
After that, Wilbur described a nation where everyone was free. Where everyone could laugh and have fun. It would be a nation of prosperity and freedom.
When Wilbur told Quackity they would create that very nation as they stood in a hollow ravine nearly a decade later, he couldn’t help but feel joy swelling in his chest.
They were going to create the nation they dreamed of in law school.
Or so they thought.
Because right now, Quackity was kneeling on a pile of dirt, staring at a hole in a blown-up cliff in the distance, with Wilbur’s lifeless body lying inside.
Why did he do it? Why would Wilbur ask his own father to kill him? He had so much ahead of him. He had a future.
Quackity didn’t know. It was Wilbur’s decision, and he made it for a reason. There was no use dwelling on it. Wilbur was dead.
He was dead.
…
Right before Philza stabbed him through the abdomen, Wilbur caught Quackity’s gaze. There was a look of utter sympathy in his eyes, one of sorrow and yearning. It was like he knew the emotions Quackity was about to go through, and he sympathized with him for it. But it was also like Wilbur had a moment of regret, knowing that fact. Perhaps he took a glance at everyone’s faces before he died. Tubbo, Niki, Jack, Tommy.
Maybe he saw everyone and had a flash of doubt like he did with Quackity.
Even if he did, it was too late. Philza listened to his son’s request and killed him. An assisted suicide.
Suicide.
Quackity grasped the ash-covered earth beneath him.
L’Manberg was destroyed, blown to smithereens. What used to be gorgeous architecture was now piles of ash and dirt. The once green grass and crystal-clear, flowing rivers were now ugly gray hills of rubble. Some smoke was still rising from the land, making the air smoggy and hard to breathe. The atmosphere was covered by a gray film, mostly consisting of ash and residual gunpowder. It was like he was dropped into a black-and-white movie.
Some of the people around him were getting up, but almost everyone was at least slightly injured from the explosions. Worse than that, multiple dead bodies were lying in the rubble. Most of them had now destroyed weapons lying beside them, reminiscent of the resultingly aimless battle they had fought in. Quackity spotted some with their limbs blown off and others with their heads missing completely. It was a gruesome sight; blood was splattered everywhere, mixed among the rubble and dirt.
So many people were dead, and it was because of Wilbur. All of them had lives, families, and futures. How come Wilbur had to go from a righteous hero to a terrorist in just a couple of seconds?
Quackity wanted to believe Wilbur had a reason, but he simply could not forgive this. Any reason Wilbur was to provide wouldn’t make up for the number of people he slaughtered. It wouldn’t make up for the amount of trauma he has caused.
Anger boiled deep in Quackity’s gut, a rage that built up in his throat, begging for him to scream. The very person he considered one of his closest friends was a fucking terrorist. He was a fucking mass murderer.
And he was dead.
The tension in Quackity’s shoulders released. The person he was mad at was no longer living. His corpse was lying just a couple of kilometers ahead of him.
A twinge of sadness prodded at his throat, but he swallowed it down.
Sucking in a breath, he stood up and began to take a step forward, but he quickly realized his right leg was injured. An overwhelming stabbing pain shot at it when he tried to move it, causing him to stumble forward slightly. He settled for walking with a limp.
Other than that, Quackity wasn’t too injured. There was a loud stabbing pain in his left arm, and he could feel blood trickling down the side of his head, but aside from that, he was practically unscathed. He almost felt guilty for being so lucky as he stared at the cluster of bodies lying on the ground.
Grasping at his left arm to prevent it from moving and causing more pain, he took a few limping steps forward. He probably looked pathetic, but almost everyone around him did anyway.
The demolished earth crunched beneath his feet. Every step he took, his foot slid against piles of dead grass and gunpowder. Sometimes, he hit stone in places where it was affected the most.
Finally, amongst the smoke, he could see that he was getting closer to Wilbur’s now demolished button room.
Once he did reach it, he stumbled forward and fell onto his knees in front of Wilbur’s body. Philza was sitting in the corner, his cheeks stained with tears and his massive wings reduced to stripped bone and loose tendons.
But Quackity didn’t care about Philza. All he was focused on was staring down at the corpse of his dead friend.
Wilbur’s abdomen was torn into a gaping hole, covered in fresh, crimson blood. It pooled around his entire body and splattered across the walls of the button room. His jacket was covered in it as well, most of it now dried and likely permanently staining it.
Quackity’s eyes drifted to Wilbur’s face. His eyes were closed, dried tear streaks running down from them. Eyebags were still visible under his eyes, a reminder of the stress he had been going through.
Quackity knew something was off about Wilbur when he joined Pogtopia. Well, there was always something off about the guy, but this was different. Quackity had noticed it when they had their little meetings beforehand, but it seemed more prominent now, as he was around Wilbur almost 24/7.
The way his leg tapped, the way he bit his lip just a tad bit harder than usual, his eye bags.
Wilbur wasn’t stressed; he was going insane.
Quackity once walked in on him pacing around the room and mumbling to himself. Even when Quackity tried to get his attention, he continued to talk to himself, gesturing and all. It wasn’t until Quackity grabbed Wilbur by the shoulders and shook him violently that he came to reality.
There were times when he would sit with Wilbur, and he’d just be silent the whole time. It was a stark contrast to when they were in law school, where he would ramble on about his ideas and opinions.
Wilbur was hilarious and kind, always laughing his ass off at anything Quackity would say with that cheeky smile of his.
Where did he go? What had happened?
Quackity ran his fingers along the fabric of Wilbur’s coat, pinching some and rubbing it against his fingerprints.
The very man he was reminiscing over had just blown up the country he worked so hard to win back, and in the process, he slaughtered the people that wanted to help him.
He was a terrorist, a monster .
So why was there an ache swelling in Quackity’s chest?
Quackity bit his lip, feeling something rise in his throat. He took a deep breath, but it still lingered. His eyes were burning, but he continued to push it down. He rarely ever cried, and he didn’t need to now.
Even then, hot tears began to run down his cheeks. He sniffed, bringing his arm up to wipe them away, but they kept on coming.
In no time, he was sobbing uncontrollably. His vision was blurred with tears, the world around him muffled by the ringing in his ears. An iron band wrapped around his chest and squeezed, making him gasp for air. Coughing and sputtering, he gripped the front of his torn shirt. His throat felt raw, but the wave of sorrow persisted.
All those years of pain came rushing to the surface, like a tsunami breaking a small dam. It wasn’t just the grief of losing his long-time friend; it was everything .
Quackity fell forward, forehead hitting Wilbur’s chest. He sobbed softly into it, clutching the deceased man’s torn and bloodied jacket.
That was the first time he’d sobbed so violently in the twenty-one years he’d been alive.
And it would be the last.