Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day of the Syndicate Coup

At approximately nine o'clock in the morning, a deafening explosion rattled the base of the Syndicate Headquarters.

Panic followed shortly after as people spilled out of the lobby, crying out in terror and fleeing for their lives.

Leading up to this violent juncture, there had been countless meetings, courts, disputes, and debates surrounding the Syndicate-Schlatt & Co. partnership negotiations, to the point of redundancy.

Evidently, it had all come to a head on this cold November morning.

The initial chaos subsided with the Council Guard conspicuously absent from their posts.

A booming voice then echoed from the intercoms, the tycoon boldly proclaiming that a decision had to be made.

That the Syndicate Council’s refusal to cooperate proved their indifference to the residents of their commune.

That Schlatt & Co. would assume responsibility for the health and longevity of all, as they had dutifully done so for the past several years.

The coup had lasted for less than a day. By lunchtime, the Syndicate was no more.

The Schlatt Administration instated itself immediately thereafter, with the man newly in charge bestowing himself the title of "Executive".

And all the quiet nights you bear
Seal them up with care
No one needs to know they're there
for I will hold them for you

– "I Will" by Mitski

One month and three days since the Syndicate Coup

For as long as he can remember, Bad always had trouble sleeping.

It was hard to say if he really needed sleep in the first place.

He could function reasonably fine without it, at least for a while. For this reason, he liked getting things during the quiet lull of nighttime.

It left the daylight hours open to keep a watchful eye on Skeppy. To talk with him about anything and everything. Reminisce and postulate. To assemble that day's stew, knead doughs for dessert or afternoon tea. Laugh and huff at his little jokes and jabs.

Those were how their days looked. In the secluded world of their island cottage.

For now, Bad sat on the weathered dock and cast his line in search for breakfast.

He took solace in this routine. Though the stillness of dawn and dusk often compelled him to ponder the fogged afterimages of his earlier life. Then he'd consider the future, equally shrouded in the haze of uncertainty. A sinking feeling always follows, without fail. He tugged back on the rod with a tenured rhythm.

Bad also took solace in Skeppy. They were two of a kind. At some point, both having lurked in the commune's shadows, crawling with fearful and soft-skinned mortals.

In these quiet hours, he replayed each memory in the other's absence. The passing glances from lofty rooftops. Every echoing laugh. The clamorous mishaps. From the moment he'd first encountered Skeppy, in a vivifying flurry of both awe and annoyance at his glimmering silhouette soaring through the star-studded sky, Bad felt that the world had somehow become more vast.

As the golden sun began peaking over the ocean, Bad returned home with four fresh salmon in tow.

Brushing past the browned, shriveling lilac bush and stepping onto their porch, he carefully set the rusting bucket onto the porch and reached up to twist the doorknob. The old wooden door made only the slightest creak as it opened.

“Boo!”

The door swung out of his grasp in a sudden gust.

Bad stumbled back onto the frosted lawn with a yelp. Through his disheveled hood and scarf, he peered up at Skeppy's radiant visage grinning down at him.

“Got you.”

“Good morning to you too.” Bad feigned coldness in spite of his smile, standing to brush the snow from his cloak. “Did I wake you? You shouldn’t be moving around this early, Skeppy.”

“I’m not made of glass, Bad,” Skeppy droned, retreating into the foyer with a slight wave.

Bad shut the door behind him. He leaned the fishing rod against the rack and set down the dwindling jar of bait. Lastly, laying his sheathed dagger onto a tree stump he'd repurposed into a side table.

“You might as well be.” He eyed the lesions in the other's palm, glittering like fresh snow beneath early sunbeams. “…Go sit. I’m making breakfast.”

"I'll leave you to it…" With a delighted hum and measured movements, Skeppy sat himself in front of the fireplace to bask in its warmth, cocooned by a knit blanket, "and stay right here."

"Scared your awful cooking skills might rub off on me one day?" Bad couldn’t help but laugh at a fond memory as it appeared in his mind out of the blue.

“As much as I loved that birthday cake you made," he said, twisting the stove until it clicked and hissed with heat, "it was seriously lacking in cake-like qualities.”

The other chuckled, “What's that even supposed to mean, ‘cake-like qualities’? You're still not over the sugar-salt thing?”

Skeppy certainly possessed many talents, but none in the culinary sphere.

As sunlight continued to flood through the windows and the briny aroma of home cooking filled the cottage, Bad soon enough joined Skeppy by the fireplace.

He turned to him with a gracious smile, accepting the plate of steamed fish. A stubbornly unmending fissure glinted faintly green from his neck, web-like cracks branching from the wound and trailing past the collar of his sweater.

“No potatoes today?”

“I wish." Bad settled with a quiet sigh, cozying into the colorful blanket. "We’re out.”

The fireplace crackled, occupying the silence. Light flitted in and out of the room as clouds drifted past the morning sun.

Bad watched the dancing flames, thoughts drifting past the island shore and conjuring into a concrete fortress. Burning smokestacks and rows of endless windows, looming over a glittering skyline.

“…Apparently, it’s true," he said quietly, almost to himself.

Skeppy set the plate up onto the couch, resting his chin on the other's head. “What?”

Bad hesitated, lingering in his embrace knowing that what he'd say next would bring this fleeting moment of stillness to a bitter end.

“There’s no Council Guard anymore, the headquarters is practically an open house at nigh—“

“I don’t wanna talk about this.”

“Just listen, okay? I thought about it and I have a plan—“

“I don't care, Bad," the other interrupted, evenly, "so just drop it, okay?”

In the end, it was Bad who pulled away. He sat back, looking to the other in disbelief.

“No, Skeppy, I won’t!” he exclaimed, before stopping himself and exhaling. “…I'm telling you, there must be a way. There's still hope.”

“Hope for what, exactly?" Dark eyes flickered to stare back at him, mild and placid.

“For you… to…” Bad hesitated, searching in the other's gaze for an answer. “I just… I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy!" Skeppy frowned, thick brows furrowing. "I’m really happy. I’m happy with you…” Trailing off, his gaze turned inquisitive. “Is that what this is about?”

“You’re in pain every day.” Bad turned to watch the flames, hugging his knees.

Skeppy returned a shrug, muttering, “It’s whatever.”

Bad sighed, “But it’s not! It's not whatever. We don’t know how much worse this could get—”

“I'm chilling, dude," the other retorted, "made my peace, had my fun. End of story.”

“What are you saying?" Bad exclaimed, a panicked tremor seeping into his voice. He held his eyes shut to keep himself from shouting. "You're-You're not on your deathbed, Skeppy… There’s still time, there’s another chance waiting somewhere in that city—“

“You’re being stupid, Bad." Skeppy began to stand, slowly. “And you're not listening to me.”

“Oh, I hear you loud and clear,” Bad snapped, resisting the instinctual thought to reach out for the other. “You’re just… giving up. On everything.”

Skeppy sighed, sauntering away from the fireplace.

“I’m tired."

He padded up the stairs, presence fading with the muffled thud of a door shutting.

I’m not listening? Bad grumbled under his breath, picking up the knit blanket and folding it into a square.

His idea was sound. In and out of the former Syndicate Headquarters with whatever healing elixirs were left behind from before the attack. If there was anyone who could do it, it would be the undying outcasts who'd once known that city inside and out.

Laying the blanket over the couch, he took to adding kindling to the fire.

Skeppy’s condition was worsening, the verdant crystals blighting his skin flaring with more relentless cracks. The uncertainty of it all weighed heavy on Bad’s soul. Ever since the terrible inciting incident, he'd been in perpetual disbelief over how the corruption stumped him. Bad had truly never encountered anything like it. Had truly known nothing of the cursed emerald that started it all.

Resting his hand in the blazing pit, wisps of shadow rose from his semi-corporeal form, blending together with the flames. It felt cold.

A strange, wooden drumming dragged Bad out of his thoughts. He whipped around to face the source. The sound came again. He slowly rose to stand.

Three equidistant knocks, like a metronome.

Cautiously, he approached the door.

He stood in front of it, perplexed. No one but he and Skeppy lived on this small speck of land, he'd made sure of that.

More importantly, why would someone be here? Dozens of scenarios ran through his mind at once. Someone washed up on shore? An overly dedicated salesperson? An assassin sent to make a foolhardy attempt on their lives?

Bad retrieved his beloved dagger from the tree stump, clipping the sheath to his belt.

“Who’s there?”

A moment passed in silence, before three more rhythmic knocks answered. Bad exhaled sharply, vexed.

In one fluid motion, he flung open the door and brandished his blade in the face of whoever had shown up at their doorstep.

He was met with what looked to be a flying camera. It hovered at a distance over the porch steps, its lens staring him down like an dismembered eye.

“Salutations, Mr. Halo!” A shrill, tinny voice suddenly blared from the flying object. “I am here to deliver a very special message from the Executive.”

Bad glanced to either side, warily. “How did you find this place? Who are you?”

“Please be noted that this is a prerecorded message and I cannot respond to any inquiries at this time.”

Training both his gaze and his blade on the drone, Bad dragged the door shut and stood in front of it.

“You are cordially invited to an audience with the Executive to discuss a mission of utmost importance. For this reason, your presence is required today.”

“Wait, what—“

“The Executive and his cabinet promises to make the trip truly worthwhile for you,” the speaker paused, “and for your… friend.”

Bad swiftly cast his dagger at what he could now only perceive as a threat. The drone collapsed to the ground with a mechanical whine.

“See y-you s-s-s-soon—!“

He glanced around the area, leaning to tear his weapon from the scrap. Its words played on a loop in his head.

Bad jammed the dagger back into his belt, staring doggedly at the defunct drone. How did that lousy con-artist-turned-dictator know who he was? About Skeppy, too?

There was no denying that the demon frequented the former Syndicate commune. It was the nearest marketplace and form of civilization, after all.

Of course, the commune had been famously known for its revered founder — the alchemist blessed with the knowledge to heal illness and alleviate corruption.

The Executive struck a deal with the alchemist several months back, to sell mass-produced elixirs using the wizened man's methods. The news had caused such a stir among the residents that even Bad had gotten wind of the partnership, not that he particularly cared.

When it all came crashing down on one unassuming morning, Bad truly couldn't say it really came as a surprise. The death of altruism at the hands of human greed — a tale as old as time.

Despite the pompousness of it all, he found himself scowling at the image of the wicked dictator, basking in the shattered hopes of unfortunate souls. He was likely hoarding the last of any elixirs, the last of anyone's hope to cure their incurable ailments.

With this thought, Bad mulled over the message. Some kind of mission and something to make it “truly worthwhile”.

If his suspicions were correct, maybe he wouldn’t need to break into the commune headquarters after all.

Maybe the Executive was holding exactly what Skeppy needed right above their heads.

Maybe he was sitting tight in that concrete fortress, waiting for Bad to take the bait.

Huffing, the demon retreated into the house with newfound grit. He gathered his satchel bag, along with some loose change and his beat-up communicator.

Before stepping out, Bad tacked a note onto the fridge.

Getting potatoes
Be back soon

Chapter Text

Remember when we met?
We acted like two fools

– "Star" by Mitski

Several years before the Syndicate Coup

A steady breeze stirred the forest. The moon hovered full, a silver coin in the sky.

The sound of loose papers and clanking metal scored the night's stillness with a grating ambience.

Bad had already lost track of how long he’d been walking a while ago. He let the noise wash over him, aloof. The weight of his satchel was part of him. No point in ruminating over it.

Absently, he brushed at the dried blood on his sleeve, as if the stains would fade if he thought about it enough. Moonlight illuminated the field in a sleepless blue.

In the distance, the city outskirts. As per routine after every job, Bad was en route to the pawn shop.

The place was like a ghost town at this hour. Each window darkened. Neon signs and fluorescent bulbs, the only signs of life.

The pawn shop owner was one of few merchants willing enough to barter with him. Whether out of kindness or self-preservation, she'd quickly picked up on the onlookers and their aversion to seeing the wraithlike entity during the day.

Clever to not pass up on the array of rare artifacts coming from far-away places, the merchant had promptly urged him to make drop-offs under the cover of night. He’d then return the next night to a credit slip, wedged behind a loose brick by the back door alley.

By all means, it was just another drop-off.

But it happened in the blink of an eye.

Just as he reached the crest of a steeply inclined road, Bad suddenly felt infinitely weightless once more. The satchel was gone.

He slid his beloved dagger out of its sheath. The wind picked up.

Scanning in each direction, he searched for the thief. The moonlight waned, casting a shadow over him. Bad hesitated, gazing up to see it.

A svelte silhouette leaped across the sky, studded with stars. Clanking metal echoed from above.

The thief stood upon the rooftop. His gaze met Bad's, dark eyes peering down at him.

Bad stared back. The other's eyes seemed to narrow, as he crouched and leaned over the edge. A neon storefront revealed a coy, mischievous grin.

“Aren’t you going to chase me?”

By the time Bad arrived at the north coast of their island, it was about noon.

Parked on the shore was a rusting motorboat. It would be a modest journey to the mainland, then another to finally reach the Syndicate commune outskirts.

Starting up the boat, he idly wondered to himself if the place had been renamed. Not impossible, given the "Executive”’s scathing reproach of the Council.

The island's isolation served its purpose in keeping them from the bureaucratic nonsense that went on with the city. Bad made this trip probably twice a month at most, to do some trading and gather choice resources that their island could not provide. 

A long time ago, before Skeppy, he'd visited the old alchemist himself. Bad had no expectations to be cured back then, so he left only slightly disappointed when the elixirs had no effect.

Admittedly, Bad did feel that his death was an unfortunate outcome of the coup. The wizened sage had helped many and kept the peace alongside his fellow Councilors. Really, it was the best case scenario for a ruling institution that held immense knowledge and influence.

The sky darkened as the afternoon progressed, the threat of snow looming over the horizon. This weather wasn't helping the sinking feeling in his soul. Skeppy's blasé arguments played on a loop in his head.

Bad never once enjoyed visiting this place. He couldn’t get used to the stares and whispers, people shuffling out of his path. It was tenfold after the coup. Their benevolent leader dead, a dictator in his place.

Granted, the Executive hadn’t actually done anything of note since the coup, as far as Bad knew about.

The last time he came to the city, he'd overheard street merchants discussing the Council Guard's disappearance. There were rumors that all of them were in on the attack, or that they'd all been covertly killed prior to the bomb even going off. Neither seemed like a plausible explanation to Bad, not that he particularly cared.

Given the drone that showed up on their doorstep that morning, he figured that the Executive was employing technology as his primary defense. Was it just him up in HQ?

No, there must be at least one other person – whoever recorded the drone's message. That voice was much too chirpy, too sycophantic to be the dictator himself.

Bad ran through scenarios as he weaved through alleyways, preparing himself for whatever he may encounter in the concrete fortress. Residential apartments grew into towering skyscrapers as he climbed the crumbling steps to the inner city.

The streets were barren, the odd vagabond or delinquent shuffling through the alleys. A staleness hung in the air, of diesel and smog.

The Main Hall gates were wide open. Bad reviewed a mental checklist as he stepped through. Five small blades for throwing, his obsidian dagger, a silver compass, and his communicator in case Skeppy would message.

The lobby was desolate, as expected. Rows of tall windows adorned the walls, a cracked stone path stretching straight across the floor from the entrance.

Groves of bare trees and dried shrubs lined the path and dotted the gardens, the scent of overripe citrus piercing the wintry chill. Rows of wilting flowers and bruised lemons littered the grounds

Bad couldn’t imagine the Executive would continue tending to the Syndicate’s shrubbery. Though, vestiges of vibrant color and leisurely picnics persisted in the carefully laid flowerbeds, tattered baskets and chittering squirrels darting across exposed branches.

He soon enough reached the end of the hall, facing what looked to be an elevator, judging by the upward and downward call buttons. Just beside them were a keypad and speakerphone.

Instincts prickling, Bad looked up to meet the eye of a camera hanging over the elevator door. With an inward sigh, he pressed the triangular button.

A moment passed in silence, before static crackled out from the speaker. After another moment, there was a loud beeeeep…

“Mr. Halo? Is that you?” The voice from the drone.

Bad winced. “Yes.”

He peered up at the camera once more, assuming the other was watching.

"…Do I come up?”

“Oh, right, yes! Yes, that’s right." Something shuffled past the white noise. "Apologies. Let me get that for you.”

A resonant ding opened the elevator doors.

Bad took a deep breath. He briefly considered the possibility that he was walking straight into a trap.

At the same time, the excitable tone of this voice that had been guiding him since that morning gave him the faint sense that these people weren't necessarily expecting him to show up at their invite.

With this compromise, he stepped inside.

A nondescript tune filled the ascent's silence. There was another camera in the corner of the steel box, staring directly at him. Bad couldn’t shake the feeling that it resembled a gun pointed to his head, from the corner of his eye.

The elevator halted ungracefully, pulleys whirring. The music followed suit and his sinking unease settled back in. The doors opened a moment longer than what would have felt appropriate.

“Welcome, welcome!”

Before him stood the person behind the cameras, unfettered by radio interference. He wore a lopsided smile, grey suit, navy blue tie, and a knitted hat. Despite the sly expression and domineering presentation, his stature was decidedly nonthreatening.

“Who are you?” Bad queried, flatly.

The other chuckled. “My, my, you look even more menacing in person, Mr. Halo.”

Dark eyes studied his shadowed features keenly, before resting on the faint halo that crowned his head.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He held out his hand.

Bad did not care for the pleasantries.

"Answer my question."

Smile twitching, the shorter spun on his heel and started down the hall.

“Walk with me.” 

With one last glance at the elevator's shut doors, Bad reluctantly followed.

Unlike the lobby, the next door wasn’t too far down from the elevator. The suited greeter walked leisurely.

“You can call me Quackity.” He straightened his tie, shoulders squaring. “I serve the Executive as his trusted secretary and right-hand man.”

Bad kept one hand rested on his dagger's hilt as they walked. “…How do you know who I am?”

“The Executive is a very knowledgeable man, Mr. Halo.” Quackity glanced over his shoulder, monitoring the other through the tufts of hair poking out from beneath his hat. “Not to mention, we have eyes everywhere.”

“…You’ve been spying on me,” Bad retorted, frankly.

The secretary guffawed, as if he'd just heard a joke.

“Ahh, well, you know…" he muttered, "the Executive values security.”

Bad tamped down the urge to sigh, loudly. “What does that have to do with me?”

Quackity gave a slight wave, facing forward. “Rest assured, Schlatt'll tell you everything you wanna know, pal.”

They arrived at a set of dark wood doors. Set beside them was a humble desk equipped with a shoddy-looking monitor and equally beat-up control panel, resembling a paltry office cubicle.

Quackity hauled the doors open with a grunt and stepped aside, flashing a smirk and gesturing with an open palm.

Bad couldn’t say that any of this was familiar to his one visit however long ago. Either the Syndicate or the Executive must have made some renovations since then. Or it might've been his memory.

The office was mostly barren, save for a large wooden desk and chair, and a steel cabinet in the back corner of the room.

The chair faced a large window overlooking the city. Silvery grey light poured in to illuminate the otherwise dingy space. It had begun to snow.

A single cylindrical glass sat on the desk, its contents gleaming scarlet in the light.

Bad stepped forward, cautiously. The secretary hadn’t confiscated any of his items, which was certainly a surprise.

Here he was, with a clear shot at the dictator himself. He wondered if it was an oversight, or completely deliberate.

“What am I here for?” he called out, striding up to the desk.

Bad decided to take the direct approach. Long corridors and long silences had grated his patience dull enough. The doors slammed shut behind him.

“Hello to you too." The Executive answered, casually. The chair swiveled, revealing a deceptively roguish smile. “And thanks for comin' on such short notice.”

The man resembled a devil in more ways than one. His laid-back demeanor gave him an insidious charm, betrayed only by the conniving glint in his eyes. The horns framing his guileful expression twisted into sharp points.

He leaned forward to rest his clasped hands upon the desk.

“I understand you are a highly coveted hitman.”

Bad frowned. The room grew quiet, the silence expectant.

“…Not anymore,” he answered, finally.

“Look, I’ve got a proposition for you,” the Executive grinned, leaning back in his chair with a creak. “I also understand you're in need of… help?”

The sinking feeling congealed into an ache, grip tightening on his weapon. Bad said nothing.

“As you know, the much-beloved alchemist is no longer with us," the other continued, plucking the liquor glass off his desk, "and in his absence, I have taken on the mantle of delivering aid to the people of this metropolis.”

The man turned to face the window once more, rising slowly from his chair.

“Unfortunately, as a consequence of Philza’s death, the prospect for life has become… a scarce resource.”

Smirking, the Executive took a languid sip out of the glass.

Bad remained silent. It was obvious that this con was on some power trip.

Pacing rigidly across the city's skyline, the man's expression fell into a scowl.

“I need you to take care of somebody. A criminal," he hissed, glaring down into the bottom of his glass.

He paused, before turning to Bad with that same sly grin.

"In return, you'll get all the elixirs your cold, indestructible little heart desires." The glass was returned to its spot with a low thud. "I'm right on the money, huh?"

Bad chose to ignore his bravado.

“How do I know you’ll keep your end of the deal?”

The Executive laughed, the sound bellowing through the empty office.

“Come on, tough guy— I’m a man of my word. To a fault!" he exclaimed, fizzling into a cough and smoothing the collar of his dress shirt. "…I killed that old bastard for going back on our deal.”

There was a tense lull as the man leaned over the desk, chuckling.

“Besides, we both know you’re the best of the best…" He shrugged, flippant in spite of the atmosphere. "Hell, you could smite me where I stand.”

The wind howled outside, a draft seeping through the glass.

“But you won’t. Will you?”

The man was right. Bad couldn’t risk calling his bluff. This had nothing to do with him, but everything to do with Skeppy. The prospect of finally curing him of corruption was staring him down, hungry and vicious.

All he needed was an assassin? Fine, as far as Bad was concerned, consider it done.

Before he could say anything, the Executive broke the staring contest and sunk back into his seat with another cough.

“Hey, tell ya what,” he muttered, reaching inside his blazer, “a little token of my good will…”

From its inner pocket, he revealed a small glass vial. Its contents glowed softly, in a deep magenta hue.

“Go home and sleep on it." He placed the elixir on the desk between them, gesturing. "There’s a lot more where that came from."

Bad glanced between the man and the vial, dagger beginning to slip out of its sheath. In the end, his hand left his weapon to take the elixir and hold it against the light.

Swirling his glass, the Executive downed the rest of its contents.

“Come back tomorrow at noon.”

He turned to face the window, disappearing from sight.

“Alex'll see you out.”

Bad left the office swiftly, shoving the doors open. The secretary sat in his crude cubicle, leaning idly in his rickety chair.

“How’d it go?” he simpered.

Bad made a beeline for the elevator, sighing.

“Just get me out of here.”

By the time Bad docked the boat, the sun had sunk below the snow-covered mountains in the far distance. He began the trek home in the dim light of dusk.

The elixir’s glow became more prominent as twilight settled, acting as a weak source of light from inside his satchel.

Restless, Bad checked his comm. No messages. He quickened his pace.

It would be a cold night. As he brushed past the trees, he tried to recall if the house needed more firewood.

What could he make for dinner tonight? It was only then he realized he never picked up the potatoes.

With each step he took, the elixir lapped against its glass trapping. It scored the night's stillness with a grating ambience.

The warm light of their home came into view through the brush. Bad pivoted to the side of the house, stepping into the garden. A thin sheet of snow blanketed the dried crops.

He crouched down and began brushing it away, uncovering the wilting stems and leaves of their summer melons. Inhaling sharply, Bad retrieved the elixir from his satchel.

Carefully, he pried the cork to open it. It was a viscous liquid, resembling a thinned honey. Holding his breath, Bad titled the vial over a withered stem, letting a single drop of magenta fall onto its fibers. He resealed the glass promptly.

In a matter of seconds, the plant unfurled into a healthy, vibrant green. Leaves unwrinkling plump, the tears and decay repairing themselves whole again. An afterimage of spring.

Bad didn’t anticipate that the Executive would try to send him home with a bottle of poison. Equally, he didn’t know what exactly he was expecting otherwise.

In any case, it couldn't be anymore perfect. An ecstatic laugh tumbled out of him.

Returning the vial to his satchel, he shuffled inside with an enduring grin.

Everything was as he left it that morning. Albeit, the fire had shrunk.

Bad left the satchel by the door. Five throwing knives, dagger, compass, communicator, elixir. All accounted for.

His spirits settled back into his typical evening routine. Tending to the fire, preparing dinner for Skeppy. Every now and then, Bad found himself glancing at the faint glow across the room. Just a few steps away.

After a while of going through the motions, he pulled the pot of rabbit stew off the stove.

Skeppy had been holed up since Bad returned from his impromptu trip to the inner city. To be fair, he was probably still in a mood from earlier that morning.

Though, either way, he'd spend a lot of time resting. Operating on bursts of energy, no thanks to the corruption. By all means, it was a mostly typical night.

Upstairs, Bad knocked on the bedroom door. He waited, listening for a response.

“Skeppy?” he called, cracking the door open.

Before he could get a glimpse to see if the other was awake, he found himself enveloped in his firm embrace, arms hooking around his neck in a near-chokehold. Delicately, he returned the gesture.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” Skeppy mumbled into his shoulder.

Bad chuckled, ruefully. “Don’t apologize. I…” he paused, sighing, “I just—”

“I know you just wanna help me.”

Silence shrouded around them.

Skeppy was right. That was all he wanted. It was all he ever wanted.

Bad suddenly felt vexed, at his own self. Vexed, for being so readable to the other while he'd spent the entire day replaying their argument in his head in vain.

“I don’t understand…” he whispered.

Skeppy stepped back to look at him, the floorboards creaking.

“Understand what?”

Bad’s gaze drifted to the exposed crystal of his neck, jagged shards threatening to crumble.

“If I told you there was a way to cure it," he began, quietly, "would you hear me out?”

Skeppy arched a brow, letting go of his shoulders.

“Well, yeah, sure but…" he trailed off, in thought. "Everything so far’s just been temporary.”

“…Come eat dinner.”

Chapter Text

You know, I'd always been alone
'til you taught me
to live for somebody.

– "Star" by Mitski

Several years before the Syndicate Coup

Skeppy could admit that he knew very little about this strange world in which he lived.

At the same time, he never really cared to uncover its wonders or mysteries.

He knew that he could not die. He also knew that he'd been living for a very long time. He vaguely remembers losing count of exactly how long, but not what the count had been.

If there was one thing that had stuck in his memory from early on, it was learning that most people couldn't withstand the swing of a blade or force of a blunt object to their bodies.

Other people bled when cut, bruised when hit. Their bones could break and their bodies would wither over time. Skeppy’s did not.

His skin appeared like so — flesh. But it was impossibly lacquered to the touch, like smooth bronze.

His dark hair stood in spikes, as if gelled. On closer inspection, shards of glossy agate, reflecting a pale blue when caught in the light.

Despite being composed nearly entirely of crystal, Skeppy was remarkably nimble.

Inexplicably gifted with a body forged in diamond and inherit agility, he spent his eternal days toying with his worldly peers. Skeppy could fall out of trees, get into fights, be hit by arrows, run for miles, leap across rooftops, and not break a sweat, let alone any limbs.

That being said, he wasn’t indestructible.

There were a grand total of two fracture incidents — with countless chips and nicks sprinkled throughout, but those were trivial.

The first time it happened, although startling, would ultimately become a fond memory.

It was a clear night. Skeppy was posted on the outskirts of the commune, just by the valley. Sitting on the ledge of an empty balcony like an owl, gazing out over the skyline.

Moonlight illuminated the rooftops. He peered down over the empty streets below, the occasional security drone hovering past. Variegated storefronts bathed the neighborhood in a dim haze of colors.

The air out here was crisp, a nice break from the mildewed streets of the inner city.

He’d taken to coming to this spot, waiting for the mysterious shadow man to show up below. They'd crossed paths on a few occasions throughout the years, he and the tenebrous other.

Skeppy had never once approached. They were no more than strangers, passing in the night.

He was certain that this shadow man was somehow different, something of a person maybe. Maybe something like him.

The shadow wore a hooded cloak that shrouded his face and often carried a leather satchel filled with assortments of goods. The faintest ghost of a halo hovered over him like a crown. 

Skeppy learned pretty early on that the entity was secretly pawning off valuable artifacts, coming to collect the credits each following night. It always went like this, month after month.

That particular night, Skeppy felt like having a bit of fun. He’d grown bored of watching the shadow man go through the motions, on the off chance that something different might happen.

Like clockwork, he spotted the cloaked silhouette emerge from the valley, carrying his bag full of loot.

Skeppy watched him saunter past the abandoned railroad, crossing into the city outskirts. Quietly sliding down the gravel hill. Boots scuffled on concrete, traversing the cluster of housing units. He slinked down to a lower ledge, craning to follow the other's path.

The mysterious pawner hauled with him a sizable bounty. Even from a distance, Skeppy could see the blood staining his clothes.

He'd already deduced that the shadow was some kind of killer, and that this routine he spied on night after night was simply the aftermath. It was intriguing.

Skeppy wondered if he had fun too, toying with mortals.

After mulling on the thought for a fleeting moment, he pounced on to the wall of a neighboring building and began descending swiftly down the drainpipe.

Clearly, routine had lured his target into a false sense of security. It seemed that he never expected to be robbed blind during one of these trips.

Why would he? In the dead of night, even the ever-buzzing cogs and monitors of the Syndicate commune slept.

Skeppy dashed up the front of some small shop, hauling the bag of treasures with him. He deftly perched onto the roof, meeting the eyes of his bewildered victim.

Like two little stars in the void of space, they beamed back at him. From the shadow of his hood, two pointed horns filled the space of his faint halo.

Skeppy almost missed the knife clutched in the demon's hand, the blade glistening a deep midnight-purple.

He couldn’t help but be endeared by the sight. Moments passed in silence as the two loners surveyed one another, a cool breeze stirring in the air.

Skeppy leaned forward with a quiet laugh, letting the storefront lights illuminate his face.

“Aren’t you going to chase me?” he called out.

The staring stars blinked. For a moment, Skeppy considered the idea that he couldn’t understand his language. Though, he was shortly proven wrong when the stars disappeared and the wraithlike form darted across the street below.

Chuckling under his breath, Skeppy promptly leaped across a gap to the next roof over.

He watched the other climb nimbly, gripping onto window sills and loose gaps in concrete. At last dragging himself onto the rooftop, the two faced one another at equal height.

Bright, white eyes shone with a newfound vigor. The demon brandished several smaller knives. Skeppy waved the satchel bag over his head, letting the clashing metal and paper echo through the night sky.

“Come and get me!”

Almost instantly, a glint of silver flickered across his vision. He sidestepped to dodge the knife, letting it wedge into some pipe behind him.

Cackling, he took off in the opposite direction. No doubt the knife-slinger was chasing him now.

Even with the extra weight of the stolen goods, Skeppy dashed and vaulted over ducts, gaps, and scaffolding. Admittedly, he felt vaguely impressed with how his pursuer was keeping up, relentlessly hurtling dagger after dagger.

One pierced the leather satchel with a thud, the others skidding across concrete as he ran.

Approaching the terminal edge of the landscape, a series of interconnecting bridges came into view, gridding against a long, dark descent.

Circumventing, Skeppy hopped and caught the ledge of the stairwell exit. Crouching upon the building’s highest point, he eyed a flight of stairs on ground level. They would lead down to the underground subway. A large billboard advertising Schlatt & Co. pharmaceuticals towered above it.

With a running start (and a bit of his signature flare), Skeppy soared past the building’s edge and the street far below, letting gravity drag him for a couple of storeys.

Momentum propelled him just enough to grab onto the metal frame of the billboard, and he braced himself to swing off it and disappear into the network of tunnels below ground.

In a jarring turn of events, Skeppy found himself in the air again much sooner than anticipated.

All of a sudden, he was plummeting ungracefully, flipping in the air with a yelp and crashing straight onto concrete. The satchel landed in a clutter far behind him.

Dazed, he pushed his chest off the ground and craned to scan the dimly lit sidewalk. Against the backdrop of the silver coin moon and fluorescent street lights, the knife-slinger rolled into a smooth landing in front of his stolen belongings.

Skeppy watched him gather it, leisurely clutching onto the shoulder strap. He flinched slightly at the sudden reappearance of his star-like eyes, staring directly into his own.

Attention turned fully to Skeppy, sprawled on the ground, the demon began to approach.

Skeppy sat up with a start, leaning back on his hand in an attempt to stand. His arm buckled unexpectedly. Glancing down, he was met with a brilliant glimmer that rivaled the luminescence of his pursuer’s gaze.

He flexed his fingers and his wrist, as if somehow the hand would reappear. Leaning on half a forearm, he braced himself for whatever karmic retribution would befall him momentarily.

The other peered down at him, carrying his dagger and Skeppy’s hand. It had been chiseled clean off his body into a sharp point, exposing the crystalline core. The narrow facets reflected the street lamps.

“Hey…” Skeppy began, shuffling in place, “a little fun never hurt anybody, right?” he chuckled, uneasily.

The demon stared, although Skeppy didn’t miss the slight tilt of his head. It almost felt like his eyes glossed with a slight curiosity.

Skeppy laughed, waving the shard that was his arm.

“C’mon, bad boy. Gimme a hand?”

To his enduring astonishment, the other chuckled quietly.

A moment passed in silence, before he held out the fractured limb by its jagged end.

Skeppy took it, humbly.

Skeppy often wished that Bad could just see things the way he did.

It would make this whole corruption thing a lot easier to deal with, if they could both just be fine with it. After all, he was fine with it. Shouldn't that make it fine?

Bad's persistent worrying was almost infectious, underscoring every waking moment of theirs. It was sweet, more often than not.

His doting reprimands to stay inside and out of the cold, his scrupulously prepared stews and breads, his insistence that — Yes, Skeppy, we'll go back to the city at some point.

Sometimes, it hurt more than the irreparable cracks in his body.

The fire crackling with restored fervor, Skeppy sat nursing a bowl of stew. From the corner of his eye, he watched the demon's wraithlike silhouette shuffling just outside the backdoor, hauling the bucket of fish to freeze overnight.

A draft caused the door to slam behind him as he returned, sighing.

“Bad."

Silver eyes blinked, lighting up as they turned to him.

Skeppy smiled, patting the rug. Acquiescing, Bad left the kitchen to settle beside him.

The fire's orange glow concealed the traces of emerald on his skin, just like the sunset's golden hour.

“So?” Skeppy muffled between sips of broth.

“…‘So’ what?” Bad murmured, wearily.

Setting the bowl up onto the coffee table, he craned to peer down at the other with a smirk.

“What’s your big solution, hm?”

Bad met his look with a hesitant exhale, before sitting up and reaching under his cloak. From his belt, he produced a tiny glass vial of pure magenta.

Skeppy reached to rub his eyes, the elixir's afterimage already burned into his retinas. He couldn't help but chuckle, disconcerted.

“Bad…" he began, trying to formulate a sentence. "How-Where… Where did you get that?”

“They called me. This morning—” the other cut himself off, scoffing. “The Executive, or whatever. He just… gave me a job offer, basically.”

“Job? What job?”

“They know who I am…" Another pause. "Was, I mean.”

Skeppy laughed, almost in disbelief. “Halo?”

A pained grimace. “…Anyway, they know about you, too.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Skeppy!” Bad batted the other’s shoulder, silencing his chuckling. “It's a regeneration elixir. It’s real, I tested it.”

“You’re saying I need to drink this?” Skeppy took the vial for himself, eyeing its contents closely.

“Yes! Isn’t this great?" Bad exclaimed, holding his hand in both of his. "You're going to be okay…!"

“Wait a minute, wait, wait…" Tearing his gaze from the magenta glow, Skeppy felt his brow furrow with that infectious worry. "You’re getting way ahead of yourself, Bad.”

His hold tightened. “What do you mean?”

“That job?" It was like he'd forgotten about that part entirely. "You didn't agree to it, did you?”

Bad sat back, gaze averting to watch the fire.

“No.” He blinked. “…Not yet.”

Skeppy sighed, deeply.

“Bad…”

“What? It’ll be a piece of cake!" the demon retorted, flippant. "From what they said, it’s just some human, uh, thief. Or something.”

"Are you really buying into this…?"

“Skeppy.” Bad's tone steeled, frowning. “Have faith.”

They sat quietly. Skeppy held the elixir, staring into its vibrant glow.

Admittedly, he was slightly curious to know what the magenta liquid would taste like. He glanced up to Bad, who returned an eager nod.

He couldn’t help but be endeared by his smiling eyes, beaming with hope.

“What about you?” Skeppy raised the vial, pinched between his fingers. “We can split.”

Bad sat back, shaking his head and waving.

“It won’t do anything for me,” he sighed. "Trust me."

“How do you know it'll help me, then?"

“I guess I don’t." The demon shrugged, expression faltering. “…Just give it a shot.”

Skeppy uncorked the bottle, winking at the double entendre.

“Cheers.”

He downed its contents in one swig, coughing at the bitter, salty sting of its taste. For whatever reason, he'd expected the potion to be sweet and fragrant, like melted candy.

Inwardly, he concluded that its bright pink color was deeply misleading. It really was like throwing back a shot of pure liquor.

“How do you feel?” Bad glanced between him and the empty vial, antsy.

Skeppy held his hands out, staring down at the thin, branching cracks in his skin.

As he opened his mouth to relay his grievances about the elixir’s flavor, he was sorely interrupted by a sudden gasp from the other.

Just then, a coldness blossomed from his throat — the laceration where the corruption originated. He reached a hand to the fissures trailing out of it, only to find that they'd had been smoothed over.

“Woah.”

Bad suddenly hopped up and opened a cupboard, hastily digging around for a moment before returning to his side with a small mirror in hand.

He held it up between them. “Look, Skeppy!”

The elixir hadn’t healed the wound completely, of course, but it sure as hell got a long way in repairing the damage of its corrosion over the last several months.

The newly sealed wounds glimmered faintly pink, just as the potion had within its glass container. It was a welcome change from scathing emerald green.

“It… actually worked…"

“What do you mean, ‘actually’?! I told you, I told you there was a way!” Bad cheered, standing triumphantly and guffawing. “I told you so, I told you so! And you didn't believe in me!”

Skeppy laughed, breathless, realizing just in that very moment that he couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen Bad so joyous.

A sharp, visceral sound pierced the balmy atmosphere, halting his train of thought. The soft glow of the fire vanished into darkness.

Chapter Text

Three months before the Syndicate Coup

Skeppy had known Technoblade for as long as he could remember.

Despite their profoundly similar circumstances, the two led equally different ways of life.

While Skeppy thrived in the wide-open world, constantly on the move and reveling in the torment of mortals, Technoblade rarely left the Syndicate Headquarters. He did not care for mortals, not even their suffering.

Skeppy supposed that he was as much of a recluse as Techno, in a way.

Although a pigman of few words, his old friend always possessed an inherit, enduring sense of direction with his immortal existence.

Meanwhile, Skeppy was a leaf in the wind, letting the days wash over him and his whims carry him from each moment to the next.

Technoblade knew his place in this world. He'd sought out like-minded individuals to build the Syndicate commune from the ground up.

Skeppy recognized that, and so he left him to his devices, floating in the peripheries of his sphere. For a while, at least.

It was a muggy night. The trees dripped with moisture and fresh meadow flowers bathed in the haze. Skeppy sat by the river bank, idly skipping stones across the water. Each whizzed across the surface, the insectile noise satisfying to his ears.

“Hello.”

Skeppy squealed, springing to his feet in a defensive stance at the sudden presence.

He crumpled back onto the grass upon meeting the familiar silver stare.

“You’ve gotta stop doing that, Bad.”

“Doing what?” the demon responded, blankly.

Skeppy chuckled, picking up another stone. “Never mind.”

Since their initial encounter some-odd months or years ago (he was never one to keep track), Skeppy found that his days had become a lot more fun.

The bad boy knife-slinger had become something of a presence in his life, their respective nightly routines slowly melting together. Courteous nods from a distance had turned into small talk. Small talk then turned into conversation.

Upon discovering their shared undying nature, conversations quickly turned into company kept till the early morning hours. They were two of a kind.

“Guess what I’m doing today.”

Bad dropped his satchel onto the gravel shore, crouching beside him.

“Wreaking havoc?”

Skeppy hummed, smirking. “More specific.”

“Setting the drone clocks back to make everyone late for work?”

“Nope! Nice one.” The stone skipped six times before sinking below the rippling surface. “…I’m going to see someone.”

From the corner of his eye, Bad watched him keenly.

“Who?”

“I can’t say. It’s a secret.”

It seemed that this stumped the demon. He pondered silently, peering over the edge of the water.

“A date?” he said after a minute.

Skeppy burst out laughing, baffled, “What? No!”

The image popped into his head, of Technoblade on a date. The concept was almost absurd.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Skeppy waved his hands, as if to swipe away his giggles. “Hey, let's go together. It'd be cool if my two friends could also be friends. With each other”

“Can’t. I have another job tonight.”

“Come on, Bad…” Skeppy dragged at the other's cloak, tilting. "I know you don't wanna."

“Wanna what?”

“Kill people.”

“…Should I want to?” he asked, forthright.

“No, I mean…" Trailing off in thought, Skeppy traced the dried resin encircling his forearm. “How is this what you do every single day? Like, sure, you look the part… I guess…”

He turned to meet the Bad's round, shining eyes.

Defeated, he sighed. “No, I just don’t get it.”

"Well," the other began, absently, "why do you do what you do?"

Skeppy knew his answer. "Feels right."

Bad seemed to smile. “Exactly.”

Bad disappeared back into the valley not long after their chat. They exchanged “bye for now”s, knowing they’d reconvene by the river at sunrise.

Skeppy hitched a ride on top of a cargo drone, which seemed to be traveling to the new quarry past the north border of the Syndicate commune.

The ship cruised through the quiet streets, making calculated, sharp turns. Warm air whistled past, fresh with the late-summer chill.

The Syndicate HQ soon came into view from behind surrounding offices and complexes, casting a shadow over the inner city. Skeppy always thought of the place as an exceedingly drab castle of sorts, grey and imposing.

Dark streaks of residual rain trimmed each windowsill like tear stains, soot and ash hugging the walls. The concrete fortress resembled a giant “C”, its wings wrapping around a wide courtyard, held up by a series of square pillars.

The Main Hall reached towards the sky, its facade meeting in a neat point that could sport a flag, if the Council so desired. They did not, of course. Techno would never allow such a patriotic thing.

As the cargo ship followed its path past the city’s center, Skeppy took the opportunity to hop off of it and onto a revolving billboard.

The Syndicate treated their residents well, no doubt about it. They provided security, healthcare, employment, all in return for the residents’ mere respect and cooperation.

Incidentally, they were also a secretive bunch. Skeppy often overheard various rumors and gossip surrounding the Council, ranging from how they'd converse with shop owners and employees, to what terrible things they supposedly conceal in their fortress.

It’s not like the place was really a closed off, heavily armed fortress. In fact, the Main Hall lobby was completely open to the public during the day, boasting a communal garden managed by Councilor Niki.

The Hall closed at dusk, the guards settling in for their night shift posts. Although the Council Guard were trained in combat by Technoblade himself, their weaponry and skill set were reserved solely for times of major conflict — of which the city had faced none thus far.

Skeppy rounded the west wing of the HQ, ducking into a lower alley that eventually opened up to reveal the lake hidden behind the HQ.

Its waters flowed into the distance, spurred on by the river that fed it from the south. It all carried a part of something else — the river carrying the ocean through the city, pooling into the lakes, and the city itself expelling runoff into these bodies.

The river stretched far beyond this place, deeper into the mountains and forests to the north. It was his and Bad's navigational anchor, if ever either of them ventured out of the city limits.

There was a hidden grotto where some of the lake settled into, concealing the Syndicate’s emergency exit tunnel. Skeppy knew for a fact that there was always a singular guard posted in this spot for the night watch.

A young-looking guy with a habit of anxiously tapping at the stalagmites with his spear. 

It was no different that night. The tunnel guard sat on a short stool, hunched and gazing out over the lake.

Skeppy hid by the grotto's edge. He glanced up along the outer wall. Its surface was rough and weathered, rocks jutting out in melded stacks. After a moment of quiet ponder, he picked up a stone and chucked it at the lake.

It skimmed the water’s surface, the sound echoing back into the grotto and bouncing off of its walls. Skeppy leapt up and caught onto a ledge, beginning to scale the cliff face. He heard water sloshing below as the guard startled.

“Who goes there?!"

Skeppy clambered onto the plateau, perching at the edge and peering over the grotto entrance.

Soon enough, the guard stepped out of the grotto. He gripped his spear in both hands, buzz cut head swiveling left and right.

“Hey?” he called out, wary.

Just as he began to look up to the sky, Skeppy dropped down from above, landing a kick square to his sternum.

The guard crashed into the shallow water, stubbornly clutching his weapon. To his credit, he found his bearings quickly.

The spear came to life with a sharp crackle and mechanical whine, illuminating the lake's surface cerulean. He drove the electrified weapon towards Skeppy, who caught it in his hand, pushing its sharpened point aside.

The spear began ticking and flickering, its circuit interrupted. The guard stared up in horror.

“Wait—”

With a single tug, Skeppy tore the weapon out of his grasp and spun its point forward. With a sharp sizzle and anguished cry, the guard collapsed into the sediment.

“Sorry, dude.”

Skeppy turned and stepped into the grotto.

He used the spear to disable the door’s keypad lock. Tossing the weapon, he hauled the door open and slipped inside.

It was a dark and cramped path into the main building. After what felt like forever, he came to another door. As he approached, the sound of a blaring alarm could be heard just beyond it. So much for stealth.

Scanning his surroundings, Skeppy spotted a ventilation shaft above the door. Stepping back for a start, he dashed and vaulted off of the wall to reach the vent, pulling himself into the narrow space.

One piece of gossip that stood out to Skeppy when he'd first heard it was about something being hidden in the underground floors of the Syndicate HQ.

Nobody seemed to know for sure what it might be. Some say there was an ancient creature being kept there, others arguing it was a precious artifact. The general consensus seemed to be that it belonged to Councilor Philza, the sage alchemist. 

Skeppy didn’t really care what it was they were hiding. All he knew was that his old pigman friend would probably hate for it to go missing from under his snout.

As he traversed the vents, he stole a glimpse down into each passing room. The alarms continued to sound, stifling the sounds of his movement.

Despite that, he paused at the sight of gold armor flashing past. Moving along the guard’s path, Skeppy froze at the sight of Technoblade himself, in all his pink and scarlet glory.

“Report.”

“The north tunnel has been breached, sir. Footage shows one intruder.”

“The guard?”

“He failed to stop the intruder. The taser… had no effect.”

Techno huffed. “Tell the others to stand down, I’ll deal with the intruder.”

He began to walk past the guard, monotonous voice droning through the alarm's shrill cry.

“Retrieve Jack. And guard this room. Make sure nothin' happens to the emerald.”

“Yes, Councilor.”

“And turn off the alarm, man. People're tryin' to get some sleep up there.”

“Right away, Councilor.”

The guard then spoke into his communicator, rattling off a series of orders. Skeppy heard a door slide shut.

Sensing that the coast was clear, he kicked out the vent grate and dropped into the room.

Evidently, the guard had suffered with recency bias and left to take care of the alarm. The place was empty. Void of almost anything else too. But at the very back wall was something special. Something shiny. Something Skeppy had never seen before, in all his countless years on this earth's surface.

A single emerald, encased in a glossy field.

Was this what the rumors had been about? This tiny gemstone, sitting in this empty, unguarded room? Skeppy almost couldn't believe it. There was probably much more hidden in these basement rooms, greater treasures and bigger secrets.

In any case, a bit of extra jewelry wouldn’t hurt to have.

He crossed the room, approaching the emerald. It spun and hovered in front of him, letting the dim fluorescent light bounce off its facets.

Out of the blue, Skeppy wondered what Bad was up to. Had he finished his work for the night? Did he find loot to trade? Did he like the color green?

The gemstone’s vibrant hue made him feel entirely at peace, concrete fading into the periphery of its viridescence. There was a faint whisper from the corner of the room.

He couldn’t get himself to look in its direction. Within the stone's clarity, he saw memories he didn’t even realize he had.

In the back of his mind, Skeppy began to wonder why this emerald was hidden away down here. Guarded by Technoblade in this reinforced room. Encased in a protective field.

Seeking every answer, he reached out to grasp its sheen.

Hot to the touch, it flashed neon then pure, dazzling white. The world was plunged into darkness.

And while you sleep
I'll be scared
So by the time you wake
I'll be brave

– "I Will" by Mitski

One month and four days since the Syndicate Coup

Skeppy woke up with a jolt.

A second passed before he was inundated with memories, painted in discordant green and magenta. A familiar pain surged in his throat.

For a fleeting moment, unconscious on the floor, he'd felt nothing.

“Skeppy!” Bad rushed to his side, crushing him in a hug. “I’m-I’m so sorry—"

“Ow, Bad, ow—” he croaked.

“Sorry, sorry,” Bad gently relinquished his embrace, sitting back on his haunches. “Skeppy, I… I thought it worked, but-but… it was like-it was like watching you break all over again…”

His voice dissipated, pained gaze trained on the fireplace. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, beams of a new day.

“I think…” Skeppy held the mirror in front of him once more, studying his own reflection, “…it did work.”

“No, no, you don’t have to try and make me feel better—”

“I’m serious, look," he chirped, pushing back the sleeves of his sweater. "The small cracks are all gone."

Bad turned to look, brow furrowing. It was true — even the oldest scar that encircled his forearm had been glossed over with no traces of dried resin. Though, the deeper fissures and original wound in his neck remained unmended.

“I guess it just… wasn’t enough…”

A silence ensued. Quickly realizing his mistake, Skeppy palmed his forehead.

“Wait, what am I saying?" he muttered. "Bad. You are not taking that job.”

“No, Skeppy, you’re right," the other turned away to watch the fireplace once again, shaking his head absently. “It wasn’t enough. You need more.”

Skeppy sighed. Despite having just woken up, he already felt fatigued.

“Bad—”

“I have to go now to make it by noon."

Before he could protest further, Bad swiftly stood up and drifted off to begin sporadically gathering supplies into his satchel bag.

In his heart of hearts, Skeppy knew there was no way to talk him out of this. Bad would go back to the city and take on the job, leaving him to sit and wait here in their home, with absolutely nothing to do.

Skeppy bitterly wished he could at least go with him. Of course, Bad would never let him. It wasn't even worth arguing over.

Before long, they were lingering in the foyer. Bad was geared up, a full belt of throwing knives slung over one shoulder and his leather satchel over the other, belt adorned with his trusted dagger. Wooden bow and a quiver full of homemade arrows strapped behind him.

A vague sense of both nostalgia and trepidation rose in Skeppy's soul, perplexing.

“I’ll be back in no time.” Bad said, quietly enough to make the him think that the reassurance was for himself.

Skeppy hesitated, hanging listlessly off the staircase banister.

“Promise?”

“Come on, Skeppy…” Bad began to laugh, falling silent upon meeting the other’s solemn stare. “Yes. I promise.”

“I know you, like, can’t die and stuff, but that doesn’t mean you can just go throwing yourself into danger,” Skeppy muttered, "okay?"

“I won’t.”

Skeppy couldn’t bring himself to give a proper send-off.

As much as he wanted to trust in Bad’s agency, he couldn’t shake the sinking feeling of watching him be dragged back into the mortal coils they'd long abandoned.

Part of him felt betrayed. Hadn't this been the reason they left humanity behind in the first place? To get away from the whims of politics, greed, and bloodshed?

The fact that Skeppy was to blame for this outcome was just salt in the wound. Another part of him wanted to cry and beg for the other to just forget about it all. To just stay by his side and let the corruption shatter him into pieces.

Baring his soul or not, Skeppy supposed he was selfish either way.

Bad offered a warm smile to ease the tension, reaching for the doorknob.

“Guess I’ll head out.” He opened the door, stepping outside into the fresh snow. “…There’s plenty of food, so you should be fine till I get—”

“Bad, I—“ Skeppy lurched forward, winter chill slicing through their home's warmth.

The demon turned, silver eyes gleaming with infectious worry.

“What’s wrong?”

Skeppy stood still, his hands hovering in the space between them, just before the threshold.

“Never mind, it’s nothing…” he said, in the end, managing a smile. “Keep in touch, okay?”

End of Part I: Prologue

Chapter Text

One month and four days since the Syndicate Coup

The weather that morning gave Bad a dreadful sense of déjà vu. The sun beat down on their snowy island for the better part of his walk towards the coast.

As he set off in the motorboat for the second day in a row, dark clouds settled over the clear sky with the promise of more snow. An exact replication of the day before.

He already found himself thinking of Skeppy. How long would it be until they saw each other again? He'd left so hastily, without so much as a hug to bid farewell.

No, no, this was no big deal. It was just another job. It'd take a couple days, maybe a week, at most. It had to.

Skeppy needed those elixirs. An unlimited supply was their only hope to cure the corruption.

By the time he reached the mainland bay, the boat was sputtering and whining with its waning fuel. There wouldn't be time to refuel. He’d just have to leave the boat by the docks with the hope it would still be there when he returned.

Bad retraced his path from the day before, striding through back alleys and jogging up flights of concrete stairs. Drones and ships hovered along the skyline, indifferent to the streets below.

As anticipated, the Main Hall was wide open with no one in sight. A single camera glared down from the gate above, tracking him diligently.

Since his encounter with the Executive and his fawning lackey, he’d been noticing these cameras blinking in every corner of the city, it seemed. Bad wasn’t sure if they'd always been there, overlooked and in the shadows, or if they were newly implemented as part of the Executive’s reforms.

Bad crossed the lobby briskly, wasting no time in slamming the elevator call button. Static crackled, followed by the droning beeeeep…

“Good day, Mr. Halo. We've been expecting you.”

“Y’know, just between me and you, I'm real glad you're taking the job. That slippery motherfucker’s been causing problems for way too long.”

Quackity chattered frenetically as they walked along the corridor. Bad winced at his harsh curses.

A pair of square sunglasses rested over the secretary's face, despite them being indoors and the sun being hidden behind storm clouds.

Truthfully, he hadn’t really given much thought to who he’d be killing for this bounty. To be honest, he didn’t really care.

Either way, Bad supposed it would be strategic to have intel. Based on his shameless slander, it seemed like the secretary was at least familiar with the target.

“Problems?” he queried.

Quackity seemed to hesitate, quieting for a moment.

“Let’s just say he’s given the Executive a lot of grief since his inauguration.”

“…What did he do?”

The other snickered, mirthlessly.

“What didn’t he do? The guy was a guard, y’know. Killed his own in cold blood and fuckin' ran away," he scoffed. "Schlatt thought he was betraying the Syndicate to join us, but no. Asshole just fucks off to make my life harder…"

“Where is he going?”

They came to the office doors. The secretary shrugged, dusting his pants.

“No clue, man. Just focus on the job.”

Quackity opened the doors to reveal the Executive sitting at his desk, a cigar trailing white smoke from between his fingers.

A slim man stood in audience before him, just as Bad had the day before. They both looked to Bad’s intruding presence in silence.

Bad shot Quackity a puzzled look. The secretary simply smiled in return, peering back at him over the rim of his sunglasses.

"Don't be shy, now."

Sighing, Bad stepped into the office.

“Nice to see you again, Halo. Please, come right in," the Executive greeted, deceptively jovial. "I was just catching up with our darling George here…”

He took a languid drag out of the cigar, gesturing in front of his desk.

This George person was overtly silent. Bad could only assume that he was observing him closely as he approached, but it was impossible to tell beyond the goggles that concealed his eyes. In addition to an impeccable poker face, he wore a thin grey coat and violet scarf.

“Be a dear and wait outside, will ya, George?" Ash trickled into an overflowing tray. "I'll give our new friend here the ol' rundown.”

The goggled stranger angled his gaze towards Bad.

The demon wasn’t sure how to respond to this unforeseen development. Truthfully, he wasn't sure if he should at all.

Bad searched for any signals within those dark, opaque lenses. A moment passed in quiet tension before the stranger spun on his heel, gliding out of the room with violet wool trailing behind him.

“…He's the stoic type, but no biggie,” the Executive started, “I’m sure you two'll hit it off just fine.”

Bad couldn't stop the bemused chuckle from escaping him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, you didn't-you didn't think this was gonna be a one-man job, did ya?" the Executive chuckled. To be honest, Bad had no reason to think otherwise. “Lover boy's been tracking the sonnuva bitch for weeks, bud.”

Given what the secretary said was true, it only made sense that the manhunt would have begun as soon as the conman came into power. Bad made a mental note, silent.

The man then slid a sheet of paper across the desk, planting a steel pen parallel to its edge.

“Just my due diligence,” he said with a shrug, taking another puff of the cigar. "Old habits, right?"

Bad skimmed through the contract, searching for any new stipulations or unseen fine print. To his mild surprise, it was just a straightforward outline of the job. No trickery, neither deception nor subterfuge.

The reward clause stated that he’d receive “an unlimited supply of elixirs” in return for eliminating the target. In other words, dead or alive.

He signed the bottom of the page with a vague scrawl.

“Wonderful.”

The Executive swiped the signed contract and penned in his own signature, promptly slipping it into an unseen drawer.

“Alex will show you to your supplies. George’ll tell you whatever else you need to know." He spun to face the window with a dismissive wave, exhaling clouds of white smoke. “Off you go.”

That’s it?

Bad didn't know what exactly he was expecting upon accepting the bounty, but he certainly knew that he'd been expecting something.

Any typical bounty posted to the underground network of forums provided a bare minimum of a name or description, at the very least. Yet here he stood, with barely an inkling as to what he'd just signed up for.

“Your secretary said the target was a guard,” he began, warily, “that killed his colleagues…? Why do you need him gone if he…" he trailed off, searching for the right words, "if he practically set the stage? For you to take over?"

His question hung in silence for a moment. It seemed that the Executive didn’t expect any follow-up questions. Or, rather, was unwilling to entertain them.

“Listen, here's all you need to know—"

Voice lowering to snarl, the man turned to lean forward in his chair.

“That fuckin' bozo is after something that belongs to me.”

Bad instinctively turned away from the stench of alcohol emanating across the excessively wide desk.

A guileful grin split the Executive's face as he let out an exasperated chuckle, brows furrowing.

“You’re not getting paid to ask questions, pal." He leaned back to raise the cigar once more, words dripping with venom. "I suggest you follow your assignment.”

Bad returned a curt nod and nothing more, walking straight out of the office and stepping into the corridor.

Quackity stood hunched over his beat-up console, brows knitted in confusion or frustration, or both.

George stood at a distance, arms folded and gazing out of a window overlooking the mountains, their peaks shrouded in low-hanging clouds.

“Oh, you’re back,” Quackity said, standing straight and fixing his hat. The lopsided grin returned to his face as he brought his sunglasses back over his eyes. “All right, fellas. Let’s get you suited up.”

With an imperceptible huff, George followed after the secretary. Bad trailed behind to observe.

The stranger carried a leather rucksack on his back, a small hatchet hanging off its side. Hidden in the shadow of his coat was a holster secured to his hip, sporting a silver-handled pistol and a narrow compartment that likely held a pocketknife of some kind.

As they stood, waiting for the elevator's arrival, Bad couldn't help but wonder. At a glance, this George person was entirely unremarkable. Just a human.

Human assassins were a rarity, at least in the network of the Syndicate commune. It was the outcasts and outliers of the world that flocked to those forums, scrounging to live.

Though, he supposed that humanity lived and died by the rat race. Scrounging to hit the jackpot, or that month's rent. Or both.

A muted ding pulled Bad out of his thoughts, gaze drifting to watch the elevator doors open.

They crowded inside, awkwardly. Luckily, the descent was short.

The doors opened once more to reveal a corridor with doors lining the walls. Three on the left and three on the right, each equidistant from the next.

“Okay, let’s see here…” Quackity muttered, shuffling over to the last door on the right.

Beginning with his shoulder and leaning with a grunt, the metal door slowly creaked open. The secretary dusted his hands, stepping back.

“That should be the one.”

Bad stole a glimpse at George, who'd yet to utter a single word. He watched as he quietly slipped through the narrow gap of the door.

Following suit, he continued to wonder. As he did, he was reminded of the indelible principle that, more often than not, the simplest explanation would be correct. Occam's razor.

Jackpot or rent. Seemed likely enough. It would explain the stand-offish front.

What he thought was a dedicated supply room turned out to be an empty bunk of some sort. A single bed took up the corner, with several crates stacked by its end. The wall displayed an assortment of various weapons, albeit with a few apparent gaps.

George sat crouched in front of an open crate, silently sifting through its contents.

Bad's gaze drifted to the lone bow hanging among the array of guns, knives, and axes. Its body was forged from metal, limbs carved into sharp points. The riser smooth and rounded, easy to grip. The bow’s matching arrows sat on the floor — each identically crafted and equipped with soft, plastic fletching.

No doubt this set outdid his own wood-carved one, made with love and scrupulous effort.

Running his hand along its taut string, Bad set his own bow down and lifted its gunmetal counterpart off the wall. Despite its appearance, it was remarkably lightweight.

“Feel free to take your pick,” Quackity simpered, gestured to the assortment of high-tech pistols and rifles. "Not like anyone else is using ‘em…”

“I like the bow,” Bad said, slinging the quiver over his shoulder.

“Suit yourself." The secretary shrugged, turning to George with a slight chortle. “…What'cha lookin' for there, huh?"

The other stopped his rummaging, rising from the floor with a first aid kit in one hand and a folded map in the other.

“We need food.” He left the bunk as swiftly as he'd entered.

The three once again shuffled into the elevator, descending once more to reach the cafeteria. A sprawling, barren hall with rows of empty benches.

Quackity led them down the aisle until they reached the far end, where a pair of doors swung into a spacious kitchen. Judging from the unwashed dishes and stale, earthy scent, the place hadn’t been occupied in a while.

George made a beeline to the pantry, leaving the other two to linger.

Leaning against the counter with a sigh, Quackity idly pinched his cufflinks.

“Not hungry?”

"Never," Bad shook his head, humming. "Either way, I can hunt. And fish."

After a few minutes, George returned with a handful of packets, craning to stow them in his rucksack.

“Sure you got enough?” Quackity chuckled.

He looked between the two expectantly, only to be met with silence. Clearing his throat, he began to walk out of the kitchen.

“All right, let’s go.”

They made their final descent to the Main Hall. Frigid wind stirred the wilted garden. A thin layer of snow dusted in through the wide-open gate, coating the crumbling stone path.

“Well, fellas. Good luck with your mission,” Quackity clasped his hands together, beaming. “I’m sure Halo will be of great help to you, George.”

“That’s… not my name,” Bad said, almost remorseful.

“What is it, then?” George interposed, sharply. “Aren’t you supposed to be the infamous, legendary assassin?”

Bad took a moment to regard the other's half-concealed expression, struggling to discern if he was being disingenuous out of anger, annoyance, fear, or some mix of all three.

“Not anymore,” he returned, evenly.

“What d'you think you were hired to do just now?” the stranger retorted, dryly.

Bad fell silent, turning back to Quackity. “Just call me Bad.”

The secretary adjusted his opaque lenses, chuckling uneasily.

"Very well then, Bad." He gave a slight nod, stepping back as George brushed past to start down the concrete steps.

"Let me know once you've reached the border. I’ll authorize your exit.”

Chapter Text

Two days since the Syndicate Coup

George wasn’t sure what exactly he'd just gotten himself into.

The conman-turned-dictator had been mostly incoherent. There was barely a debrief for the posted bounty, just some shameless insults thrown at the rogue guard and drunken, uncomfortable attempts at flirting.

Either way, George knew his objective. According to the redundant contract he'd been presented with, he was to locate and eliminate the last remaining Syndicate guard.

The secretary proved slightly more helpful. Annoying, but helpful nonetheless. He’d advised that the guard was seen leaving the commune from the north border's CCTV.

With no other leads, George dutifully began heading north.

As he tread past the abandoned quarry, the air crisp with the biting winter chill, reality began to solidify into a sinking weight in his soul. Like he'd finally come to after days of wandering around in a mindless, suffocating fog.

The Syndicate HQ had been barely recognizable. Just ruins of the place he'd come to know.

Everyone who'd lived there, gone without a trace. Dead or missing.

His mind struggled to wrap around the fact; refused, even. Just a few nights ago, he'd sat in the archives with Karl, dozing off to his rambling lectures about far-off places. Just a few nights ago, he'd passed by the guard as they made their night shift changeovers, like every night before.

Every member of the Council Guard except for the one that betrayed and killed them, dead.

Councilor Philza, dead.

Councilor Technoblade, missing.

Karl, missing. Or dead.

George took a deep breath, cursing himself. He couldn’t bear to fathom the gruesome fates of all those people.

The world was upside down. Everything felt wrong. Nothing was right anymore.

The air stale, the ground unsteady.

The trees melding into the mountains, with unseen crows shrieking into the sky.

What the hell was he thinking? Hunting down a violent murderer kitted out with stolen weapon reserves? Who did he think he was, some kind of hero?

No, he was the exact opposite. 

He signed Schlatt's contract under the guise of taking his filthy money. For all intents and purposes, he was working for the very man who initiated all of this destruction — chasing after a loose end he didn’t have the courage to pursue without the added incentive.

Lost in rumination, George barely noticed the boy peering at him from behind a tree.

“Um, hi.”

George startled, gasping and fumbling to aim his pistol into the woodland edge.

“Wait, stop! Chill!” The boy stepped out into the open, waving his hands in front of him. “Just chill.”

“Who…” George huffed, breath condensing into white puffs. “What… What d'you want?” he hissed.

“You’re-You’re the guy who took the job, right? The Executive’s bounty?”

“How—”

“Let me come with you,” the boy stepped towards George, brow furrowing. “I can-I can help you.”

George returned his gun to its holster, exhaling.

“And why would I do that…?” he muttered, scanning the forest for any other unwelcome guests.

The younger hesitated, sighing.

“Look, I—” Golden eyes flickered between the ground and the forest around them, searching. “I-I knew him, okay? I knew Dream. Before everything."

George arched a brow at him, hand hovering near his weapon.

The other kept his hands raised, sensibly.

"I know-I know what he can do, how he fights… a-and I can fight too!”

Silently, he eyed the large firewood axe hanging off the boy's backpack. He couldn't help but laugh, dryly.

“So you’re just his little friend here to kill me, is that it?”

“No!” the other exclaimed, evidently panicked. “No, no, no. I’m not gonna do anything. Just listen to me, okay?”

George waited, heart thumping in his chest.

The boy let out a dramatic sigh, running a hand through his dark, fringed hair.

“He… He killed a lot of people, didn’t he?”

This was true.

“He… He killed the man who raised me. The man who taught me everything I know…” he trailed off, eyes cast to the ground. “He killed Phil. For that, he has to die. I want revenge.”

George considered the choice before him. On one hand, the idiot’s sob story was a complete farce. If there was one thing the drunken conman made clear to him, it was his hand in the wizened Councilor's demise.

On the other hand, letting the boy come along would mean an extra pair of hands. It would mean back up, a lesser chance of George dying in the pursuit of this rogue criminal he knew nothing about.

And this idiot knew that rogue criminal, whatever that entailed. Logically, there was only one way to proceed.

“You follow my lead at all times," George said at last, shoving his hands back into his pockets and continuing north, “and get rid of your comm. If Schlatt sees your signal he’ll kill us both.”

“…Okay." Quieting, the other shuffled after him.

The two descended the steps, leaving the former Syndicate HQ.

As George weaved his way north out of the city, Bad hung back and let him lead the way.

His lack of knowledge was glaring. A gaping vacancy, a chasm that halted his train of thought from strategizing, brainstorming, planning.

Part of him was tempted to all but interrogate George. Question him about where exactly they going. About who exactly they were dealing with. About what exactly happened during his solo hunt that warranted his return to the city.

Despite the temptation, Bad figured that an attempt to make conversation with the other would not fare so well. They continued to walk in silence.

As they entered the city’s outskirts, it began to snow. The late-afternoon chill settled, smoke rising from the roofs of residential units.

Bad idly wondered how George dealt with the winter by himself. Humans were decidedly frail, with flesh susceptible to burns and frostbite alike. For an unkillable being like Bad, temperature was not a factor that needed consideration.

Leaving the city outskirts, they tread along the frozen river and down the valley. Buildings became sparse, bare trees and shrubs taking their place. A concrete fence in the far distance marked the end of the commune, and the beginning of hinterland.

Bad knew for certain there was a large mining quarry set up just beyond the fence. Beyond that, he hadn’t traveled that far north in years.

A single camera observed the two as they arrived in front of the wall. George promptly pulled what looked like a folded knife from his coat pocket, holding it flat in his palm.

After a second, the two pieces came apart and a translucent screen flickered to life. He tapped and swiped on it before holding the device towards Bad.

“Put your hand here.”

Bad peered into the screen, never having seen such a highly-engineered communicator before. It was only then that he saw why George seemed to care for his input all of a sudden, when he'd otherwise be perfectly content to take care of the obstacle on his own, as he had done so all afternoon.

The man was missing most of his ring and pinky fingers. And that was just his left hand, the wounds wrapped in layers of gauze.

Deciding not to question, Bad obliged. The device made a pleasant noise and George brought it back to himself, pressing more buttons. A dial tone sounded from its speakers, metallic components shifting left and right to orient the screen into a rectangle resembling a tablet.

“You made it.” Quackity’s voice cut through the initial distortion. He appeared onscreen, shrouded in static. “Uh, George, I don’t know if—”

“I already registered his prints,” the other interrupted, flatly.

“Oh! Of course," the secretary chuckled. "Smart and sexy, to boot.”

The camera above them whirred and appeared to go limp. A dim light beamed from its lens, projected a hand-shaped prompt onto the concrete wall.

“See, look at that. Already such a helping hand for you,” Quackity chuckled.

“Shut up, idiot,” George mumbled, turning to Bad. “Hurry up and open the stupid gate.”

Bad stepped forward and pressed his hand to the prompt. It disappeared with another pleasant trill and the camera whirred back into place.

The concrete wall began to rumble, abruptly collapsing into the ground below. It revealed the quarry, an enormous crater in the ground. Abandoned drills and cranes surrounded it, dispossessed of their purpose.

The woodland edge trimmed the horizon, just past the thin blur created by the snow.

“Remember, boys,” Quackity’s chirping voice called out, “you can’t come back until he’s dead or caught!”

“Are you done?” George started through the opening.

“Yeah, yeah…" the secretary relented, clearing his throat. "Keep in touch, all right?”

The call ended with a low sound, the communicator folding back into its compact form. George returned it to his pocket as he marched through the plateau.

“It’s getting dark," he began, quietly. "We need to find shelter before sundown."

Bad hummed, deciding to keep quiet for the time being. As he passed the fence threshold, the wall rose back out of the ground behind him.

George led them to the quarry's edge, where a decaying conveyor belt stretched across the crater. Without hesitation, he climbed on top of the steel frame and began walking across it like a bridge.

Bad followed behind him, cautiously. He silently admonished the other for choosing such a precarious path. It was awfully reckless, for someone so susceptible to sudden death.

They made it across the quarry with no incidents, luckily. The forest just up ahead now.

Bad was finding it harder to stifle his questions.

Were they going to set up camp in the woods? They weren’t given sleeping bags or tents or anything of the sort, which led him to hope they would not.

He was placing a lot of unwilling trust in this stranger who was supposed to be his mission partner. How would they work together like this? Strategize? Fight? Bad felt a familiar sinkhole in his soul. He missed Skeppy.

“This area isn't surveilled.” George unholstered his gun, holding it low. "Watch out."

Bad pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocking it silently.

Though the snowfall was light, it was hard to see clearly past a few feet. Bad squinted into the forest, searching for signs of life.

The howling wind died down as they approached the woods, the sun glowing orange beyond layers of dark clouds.

Entering the forest proper, the dwindling sunlight was left behind. In exchange, the pine canopies sheltered them from the snow.

Just then, Bad caught sight of a silhouette drifting through the brush, the snow crunching too far ahead for it to be him or George. He raised his bow, preparing to take the shot.

George held up a gauze-wrapped hand, blocking his aim. The man stepped forward, aiming his own weapon.

“Show yourself,” he called out. His hand, with its missing digits, lingered in front of Bad's arrow.

“George…?” A voice answered from the forest. “Is that you?”

George dropped his aim with a sharp exhale, returning his gun to his holster.

Confused, Bad lowered his own aim in tandem. He watched George stride past the trees, seemingly unfazed at the presence of another person lurking outside of the commune borders.

Reluctant to follow after him, Bad instead craned his neck to get a glimpse past the narrow birch trunks. Suddenly, a smiling young man came bounding up a hill.

“George!” he exclaimed, enveloping the other in a delighted embrace.

The recipient did not return the gesture, pushing the boy away.

“Get off, you smell like hospital.”

The newcomer breathed a laugh, stepping back. He then finally met Bad’s stare, expression dropping in sudden terror. A frantic yell escaped him, reaching for George's arm.

“Calm down, idiot!" the other exclaimed, snatching his arm back to pinch the bridge of his nose. "…He’s with us."

“Uh…”

Bad returned the arrow to his quiver and joined the two, coming to a halt as the boy shuffled back.

“Hi.” Bad clasped his hands behind him, hoping the gesture might quell the younger's misgivings. “Who are you?”

He seemed to settle, though his expression was still wrought with confusion. Or contemplation.

“Sapnap,” he mumbled, tightening the bandana on his head and standing straight. His golden eyes flitted between Bad and his bandolier of knives. “…I know you."

Bad blinked. "You do?"

"You used to come to the pawn shop. At night.”

Pulling together the ends of his cloak, Bad felt his brow furrow in recollection. “…The merchant I dealt with there was a woman.”

The boy fiddled with the straps of his worn rucksack, gaze dropping to study his shoes.

“Yeah. Puffy.”

“Okay, we get it," George snapped, starting to walk away. "Sapnap knows everyone. Can we get going now? We’re losing daylight."

Sapnap shot the man a look too quickly for Bad to interpret, before his eyes returned to the ground and he began following after him.

“Wait, hold on," Bad began, planted in the snow. "They didn’t say anything about a third."

George kept hiking, not even sparing a glance over his shoulder in response.

Sapnap did, lips pressed in a firm line. “Technically, you’re the third.”

“But… the contract…” Bad trailed off, tilting in ponder.

The contract had clearly stated it would be the two of them on this job. Though it was only then that the realization hit him.

He breathed a deep sigh. “They don’t know."

Sapnap shrugged, turning away. “Schlatt doesn’t.”

“Wait a minute, stop!” Bad shouted, eliciting an irritated groan from George as he finally turned around. “You’re telling me that the two of you have been after the target… for over a month?”

“Can you just shu—“

“And you had to come back to base?" Bad took a step forward, the snow crunching like a rib beneath his booth. "Why? Did you run out of supplies? Do neither of you not know how to forage, or-or hunt? Didn’t you come across any towns or settlements?"

The questions he’d kept bottled up all day long were pouring out one after another.

“Do you even know who you’re chasing? What he looks like?" he continued, a vexed snarl possessing his tone. "Is that why you came back? Because you lost in a fight—"

“Shut up!” George hissed. “I don't have time for your stupid questions. If you’re not going to cooperate, I’ll gladly dial Schlatt to get you kicked from this job and out of my sight—”

He pulled out his comm, wielding it like the knife it resembled. “Is that what you want?”

Bad said nothing, glaring into the other's eyes, hidden under opaque goggles.

“Whatever I say, goes,” George spat, shoving the device back into his pocket and stomping through the forest.

Bad couldn't help but sigh. Was he really going to let this brooding young mortal talk down to him? He supposed he had no real choice at the moment.

He trudged along behind Sapnap. For just this short while, he could grit his teeth and deal with this.

If two humans couldn’t get the job done, surely the addition of an unkillable assassin would ensure completion.

This was what he did every single day up until a couple months ago. The demon had killed countless people in these exact circumstances, past these very woods.

The sinking feeling in Bad's soul persisted in spite of it all. It clung to him like the snow to his clothes, except he could brush off the snow and leave it on the ground behind him.

He missed Skeppy.

Chapter Text

Six months and twenty-two days before the Syndicate Coup

George avoided sleep whenever he could.

He often ruminated over what a hindrance the act was for human beings. One third of their entire lives, surrendered to the unconscious.

Oh, how much more people could accomplish with the full twenty-four hour cycle as their disposal.

Perhaps sleep was a contingency. Implemented by some unseen being to hinder humanity from progressing too quickly. Hinder humanity from accelerating their inevitable extinction. Perhaps George should be grateful for sleep.

He could do without dreaming, though.

Dreams were unpredictable and inconsistent by nature. According to psychological theory, they were the brain’s way of organizing memories. Supposedly, this explained the occurrence of real-life people and objects in dreams, as well as the déjà vu phenomenon.

George didn't buy it.

On the rare occasion he could retain memory of his dreams, they were far too bizarre and downright otherworldly to be derived from his memory.

The odd nightmare was even worse — impossibly vivid and staggeringly surreal. Even the possibility of incurring one often proved to be too mentally taxing. Decidedly, sleep defeated its own purpose for George.

He often found himself working through the night, instead. Hunched over blueprints and code interfaces until the sun came up. To be fair, the sleepless nights kept his bills paid.

George’s weapon schematics were highly sought after, by commoner and bourgeois alike. It was for this reason he found himself involved with the Syndicate Council.

A one-time commission from Councilor Technoblade had somehow ended up in George attending the annual spring banquet.

He'd accepted the invitation reluctantly, only swayed by the promise of free food and an opportunity to discuss another commission opportunity.

The Council sure offered him more than what any local hunter or delinquent could. He’d just have to suck it up and deal with the noise and pleasantries just this once.

The Main Hall was open as per usual. People trickled in and out, children played in the bushes, and birds chirped from the trees. It was idyllic, simply put.

George crossed the gardens to reach the elevator at the back wall. One of the apprentice guards was sat on a metal stool, like some kind of bellboy. He recognized his face, but couldn’t recall his name.

“Oh, hello!” The apprentice grinned, shuffling out of his seat. “Here for the banquet?”

George nodded, letting him punch in the keypad’s access code. The doors opened shortly after, and he stepped inside.

“H-Hey, would you mind letting someone know it’s time for my fifteen? My comm died, and I’d really appreci—”

Before George could utter a response, the doors slid shut over the young guard's hesitant expression. He exhaled.

They opened once again to the banquet hall, murmuring with chatter and an ambient piano.

George yawned. The atmosphere was a pleasant surprise to him, having dreaded a clattering ruckus. Now he faced the creeping lull of his fatigue, spurred on by the soft music.

He resolved to find Technoblade, have a brief chinwag, grab a bite to eat, and head home. Solid plan.

The pigman Councilor was, famously, averse to this kind of setting. Knowing this, George had high hopes in getting out of here quickly.

He scanned the room from its fray. Technoblade was not hard to miss by any stretch of the means. Despite his cool, underspoken demeanor, his mere presence tended to steal a room entirely.

Passing by the refreshments, George nabbed a tea sandwich and an empty glass. Moving down the table, he eyed the rows of cocktails and liquor glasses. In the end, he opted for punch.

“Hi, stranger.”

George jumped at the presence that had seemingly appeared out of thin air beside him. He turned to meet wide, hazel eyes.

“Um, hi…?” He racked his brain, desperately. This person’s face was familiar too, but he was blanking on a name. “…Do I know you?” he said, inwardly kicking himself for how rude it came out.

“Not yet.” The stranger popped a canapé into his mouth, then held his hand out with a tilt. “Karl. Nice to meet you.”

“George." He shook the other's hand, apprehensively.

“You come here often?” Karl queried, a slight grin revealing a dimple in his cheek.

“Um…” George turned to glance over the room full of people once more, before returning to peer over the table. “No, I— I'm just… meant to speak with Technoblade. Here.”

“Oh, right, of course. Love that guy. We go way back,” he chuckled, breezily. “Think I saw him chattin’ it up with Phil way over there. Go figure, right?"

“Right…” George sipped his drink, nodding. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” Karl returned a wink, bowing playfully before sliding past him with a wave. “Tell him I said ‘hi’.”

George watched the eccentric man disappear into the sea of banquet attendees.

As he began his own journey through clusters of mingling guests, George finally remembered where he'd seen this Karl once before.

It was the last time he'd visited the Syndicate HQ to deliver his schematics. He'd caught a glimpse of those same hazel eyes watching him briefly from down a corridor, and the drapey clothing that gave him away like a trail.

A viridescent glimmer in the corner of his eye pulled him out of his thoughts. To his surprise, he found the two Councilors exactly where Karl said they’d be.

George suddenly felt awkward. They seemed to be deep in conversation, sidelined from the other guests. Sighing, he leaned against a pillar and sipped his punch.

Thankfully, it wasn’t long before some other attendee more socially adept than him interjected their discussion and dragged Councilor Philza into his own spiel. The man made big gestures and had a grandiose look about him. George chalked it up to the horns.

Seeing his opportunity, he approached the lone Technoblade. The pigman's emerald brooch gleamed in the balmy light.

“Hello…?”

The pigman didn’t seem to notice him until he spoke. “Hullo.”

“Um. I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“Ah, no, not at all." He gave a faint shake of his head. "Schlatt already did that for you.”

“Oh. Well,” George cleared his throat, “I figured I’d check in with you. About the schematics.”

"Right, yes, those,” Technoblade hummed. “They’re good, they’re good. Tubbo was havin’ a field day buildin’ those…”

George mirrored the hum. Tubbo, another one of the pigman's apprentices, and a name he couldn’t put a face to. He was starting to become frustrated with his sleep-deprived brain.

“Oh, I just remembered," he began, with a snap of his fingers. "You’re, uh, bellboy downstairs said something about a break.”

“Who? Jack?”

A light bulb clicked to life somewhere in George's jumbling memories.

“Jack! Yes. Him.”

The Councilor pulled a golden pocket watch from his cloak, tapping on its face.

"Great, I’ve been breakin' child labor laws for the last eleven minutes.” Returning the watch to his pocket, he craned to peer over the banquet hall. “Where're my minions when you need 'em?”

George chuckled, though he wasn’t entirely sure whether the pigman was joking or not.

“You don’t have a comm?”

“I’ve only got so much pocket space, man," Technoblade sighed. "It’s floatin’ around somewhere.”

George slid his own comm out of his jacket. “Here.”

“Oh, cool. Thank you.” The other took it graciously. After a moment of troubleshooting, a message was sent. “…Guess you’ve got a direct line to my elite squadron now.”

“Good to have, I suppose,” George muttered, ambiguous. “In case any of you need last-minute gear, or… whatever.”

“True, true,” the pigman mulled, handing the device back. “Speaking of— George. How would you like to develop weapon schematics exclusively for the Syndicate?”

George nearly spat out a mouthful of his punch.

“W-What?” he coughed out.

“I mean, it kinda makes sense, right? You’re, like, this expert weapons engineer… we’ve got a child prodigy of our own… Combine forces, y’know?”

George knew that Councilor Technoblade was an exceedingly blunt individual, but he’d never expected to be offered something like this on the spot.

“Would I, like, get paid?” he asked dumbly.

“To be completely honest, it wouldn’t be much,” the pigman shrugged, “but think of the stability, I say. Up to you.”

He had a point. George subsisted off a couple of regular clients, never really knowing what his state of affairs would be week to week.

In any case, this was a job offer coming straight from the Syndicate Council. He'd be stupid not to take it.

“Okay, yes, yeah. Sounds-Sounds good to me,” George blurted, voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

They shook on it.

George bid farewell not too long afterwards, leaving the Headquarters with an enduring smile. He descended in the elevator with a couple of guests who were also leaving early.

As he stepped back into the Main Hall, now silent and closed off for the night, he gave a courteous nod to the guard manning the elevator.

It seemed that Jack got to clock out of elevator duty, letting one of the other “minions” take over for the night.

The guard returned his gesture, smiling warmly.

The nighttime air was crisp, with the faint aroma of ocean and diesel. George spent a moment basking in the late April evening, taking the chance to check his comm.

The steel components separated, displaying the holographic screen. Having only been opened for the second time that night, it still displayed Technoblade’s message about tending to the lobby.

George glanced up at the new contact.

“Dream”.

The three hunters tread the forest, hastily.

Light was fading fast, and George seemed sorely unwilling to have them exposed in darkness.

Bad wasn’t entirely sure why that was, but after the outburst from earlier, he decided it may be best to dial it back and follow his lead for now.

Sapnap kept glancing his shoulder every now and then, likely brimming with his own slew of questions. Or fear. Bad couldn’t really tell.

Based on what the boy had mentioned, he'd known Bad as some kind of treasure-hunting phantom of the night. Chances were he knew about the assassin thing too.

At some point, George made a sharp turn into what looked like a ditch. He slid down to lower ground, leaving the other two to follow behind.

The ditch led down into a cave, the stone overhang sheltering the nook from snow. It was a reasonably large enough space to set up for the night. Bad peered into its dark depths, trying to gauge how far it descended.

“One of you go find me a piece of flint.” George slid his rucksack off his shoulders, crouching down to rummage through it.

A pile of charred wood and kindling sat on the ground — evidence of a fire having been lit there at some point.

“…Didn’t you have one you always used?” Sapnap mumbled, setting his gear near the wall.

“Obviously, I don’t have it anymore,” the other hissed.

“Bro, why're you being all pissy?”

“It’s getting cold," George’s voice echoed into the cave’s abyss, "we need a fire now, Sapnap."

“Okay, I know, I know!" The younger raised his hands, backing out of the cave entrance. "Chill out, I’ll go look…”

It was just the two of them again. Bad watched George scour through his things, the agitated scowl on his face deepening with each passing second.

Bad knelt beside him, opening his satchel.

“What do you need?”

George sighed, tossing a packet of food towards the charred patch of stone.

“I lost my flint striker,” he muttered, petulant, “and of course, I didn’t think to bring a lighter. Or matches. Or anything useful, apparently…” He brushed a hand through his fringe, sitting back on his haunches.

“That’s fine.”

Bad dug through his own supplies to find his hunting knife. It was a simple blade, apt for a situation like this. His beloved dagger remained by his hip. Though deadly in combat, its obsidian sheen was too impeccable to substitute for a flint striker.

“We can use a steel blade.”

“How?” George retorted, incredulous.

“I’ll show you once Sapnap gets back with flint.”

“…Fine.” He produced a bundle of sticks from his pack, setting them in the middle of the extinguished fire pit and arranging the old twigs around it. “He needs to hurry up.”

“Is it cold?”

“Um, yeah?" he exhaled, sharply. "It’s literally snowing."

Bad set his bow and quiver down by the wall. “I can’t feel the cold.”

George fell silent, expression unreadable past his goggles. “…Consider yourself lucky.”

Sapnap returned moments later, carrying an assortment of rocks in his hands. He set them in front of George, and began unloading more from his pockets. George swiftly reprimanded him for this.

“What? I’unno what flint looks like.” —was his defense.

Bad sorted through the stones, rotating each one in the dwindling daylight. He sorted them into two piles.

“Let’s try these ones." He lifted one of the three that passed for flint or quartz. "The others are just regular rocks.”

He felt George's doubtful side-eye. “How can you tell?”

“Sparking rocks look glassier than normal rocks,” Bad explained, evenly, “but the snow makes it harder to tell the duds apart.”

The two observed quietly as Bad wedged his knife into a piece of log. Holding it against a pile of dry leaves, he began striking the knife’s spine with the stone.

After a couple of unsuccessful tries, he exchanged it for the second most promising one. Giving it one solid swing, he leaned down to check for embers.

“I need one of you to blow on it.”

Sapnap chortled, earning a slug in the shoulder from George.

“Ow! That fucking hurts, moron…”

“Just do it, idiot.”

With the aid of directed oxygen, slowly but surely the ember began to smolder and produce smoke. As it grew brighter, Bad returned it to the pile George had set up in the pit.

Before long, they had a small fire going. Rubbing his hands together, George practically cradled it with his body.

He pulled down his goggles, letting them hang from his neck.

“Thank you." The warm light reflected in his dark, weary eyes.

Humming, Bad pulled his knife out of the log, tossing the wood into the growing flame.

The sky darkened to deep grey as night fell, signaling that the snow would be with them for longer yet. The fire’s orange glow cast long shadows on the ground.

It turned out that the cave was fairly shallow, terminating with mounds of boulders just a few feet past the fire's light.

The flames danced and crackled. It felt homely to Bad. The sound carried with it the memory of Skeppy’s laughter, the warmth of his presence.

Something in his soul began to ache. Bad turned away from the fire to watch the falling snow instead.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Sapnap’s quiet voice interrupted the silence. He and George had taken the liberty of boiling some water, using it to prepare the dried food packets.

“…I don’t need to,” he said. “Save it for yourselves.”

“How convenient,” George remarked between bites.

Watching the sky past the cave’s entrance, he continued to feel Sapnap’s eyes on him.

“So, um,” he began, clearing his throat, “do you have, like, cool demonic ghost powers?”

Bad turned to meet his stare, his faint halo tilting slightly. “I wish.”

“That sucks. At least you look super scary." He offered a small smile. “You’re actually, like, nice, though.”

“I’m just doing my job,” Bad shrugged. He glanced at George, siting aloof. “They hired me to help.”

Sapnap chuckled, absently. “Y'know, I… I used to stay up all night when I was a kid, watching out the window. ‘Cause I was afraid you’d come and kill us or something.”

Bad couldn’t recall ever seeing a kid around the pawn shop, not even during the day.

“I didn’t know Puffy had a son.”

“She doesn’t,” Sapnap said, firmly. “I mean, I’m not… she’s not my mom. I just lived with her for a while.”

“As a kid?”

The other frowned, eyes flitting elsewhere. “Yeah.”

Bad decided not to push further, lest George lose his patience again.

A moment passed before Sapnap stood up with a sigh, dusting his cargo pants and starting towards the cave entrance.

“Guess I’ll start the watch now. ‘Night."

“Sapnap, wait,” George called after him. “Go to sleep. We’ll do the watch.”

He paused, giving the other an unsure look.

“Really? I mean, I’m good for it. Not that tired yet,” he stretched his arm, massaging his shoulder.

“It’s fine. I’m taking first watch,” George muttered, before turning to Bad. “You’ll be next.”

With that, the three of them retired to their respective spots for the night. George settled himself by the cave entrance, looking out into the night.

Bad lay awake, huddled underneath his cloak and facing the wall. The aching in his chest kept him from resting his eyes.

It’s not like he’d be able to fall asleep, anyway. The stone underneath him wasn’t exactly cozy, and he couldn’t shake his worries about Skeppy.

He pulled out his comm. Compared to George’s compact, multifunctional device, his was a relic. It resembled a brick, and weighed like one too. He pressed its noisy, plastic buttons.

No messages received. Quietly, he began typing.

hi owo in a cave for the night
with some other people
everything ok with you?

Bad didn’t expect to hear back from Skeppy so fast, but his comm rang with a message notification.

hiiii all good lolol why u in a cave badboy
caveboy madfe some nrew friends???

He couldn't help but chortle at the reply. It was like Skeppy was right there with him.

I wouldn’t say friends D: coworkers?
just two humans

atleast u got companyt
get some sleep bad!!! gn <3

thanks :3
good night skeppy

Chapter Text

Two months before the Syndicate Coup

George didn’t know how to feel about the Syndicate.

Objectively speaking, the HQ was a nice place full of nice people. Maybe it was all just a little too shiny for him, a little hard to swallow.

He couldn’t really complain, though. They paid his bills, after all.

Or maybe he was too much of a recluse, too unaccustomed with having to deal with such a variety of people whenever he went to deliver his work.

For this reason, he opted to make his deliveries later in the afternoon, arriving there just before the Main Hall closed for the night.

He carried with him the blueprints and schematics for what might have been his biggest project yet. It was something new. And deadly.

It made him wonder when the Syndicate would ever need such a weapon. The Council Guard were all equipped with non-lethal weaponry, consisting of tasers and the occasional sedative dart gun for the night watch crew.

This was a carbon steel crossbow, the more powerful and precise sister to the common bow.

His calculations proved that the rate of arrow drop was approximately twenty-five percent lower compared to a generic crossbow, resulting in near pinpoint accuracy when paired with the specially engineered scope.

The weapon’s draw weight came in at an estimated eighty kilograms, about fifteen higher than the average. In other words, the thing boasted the speed and force of a gun, coupled with its inherit stealth factor.

Although George wondered, he wasn’t bothered enough to question it. He’d just deliver the materials, collect his payment, and go home. A yawn seeped out of him as he approached the elevator.

Typically, it was Jack who’d let him through just before heading to his dreaded night shift post.

“Good evening.”

That day, it was a new face that George saw. This guard was clad in golden armor, wearing some kind of gas mask that concealed most of his face.

His sheer stature was somewhat intimidating. George had to crane his neck just to get a look at him.

“Where’s Jack?” he asked, absentmindedly.

“State your name and business.” This guy was stern.

“Uh… George.” He held up the plastic tube. “I’m delivering this to Technoblade.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m… pretty sure he’s expecting me.”

“I’ll need to verify that. Please stand by.”

The guard pulled out his communicator. The faint sound of the dial tone could be heard.

George stood, awkwardly, unsure if he should be providing more information or not. Ultimately, he was let past after a string of “yes sir”s and a solemn apology from the guard.

He arrived to Technoblade’s office soon enough.

It was always jarring seeing the elevator doors open to such a cramped little room. A small desk in the corner with a dim reading lamp.

The Councilor himself sat there, hunched over a stack of papers. An archaic-looking TV sat on top of a filing cabinet in the other corner.

“Sorry about the trouble with Sam, he’s kinda been doin’ his job a little too well lately…”

“It’s all right.” George set his work down at the end of the desk, as he always did.

“That’s what you get puttin’ the Head Guard on elevator duty.”

“Where’s Jack?” George repeated his question to fill the silence.

“He’s… out of commission at the moment,” he trailed off, not once looking up from his documents.

“Did he get fired, or something?” George chortled at his own half-hearted joke.

“Nope. Just recoverin'.” The Councilor sat up in his chair. “Small security incident last week.”

“Oh.” He suddenly felt a little guilty for his gossip proclivity.

Jack had always been kind, diligently working his menial posts as the bottom-ranking guard.

“Well, hopefully those schems will help with… the security,” he said, attempting to provide reassurance or something.

“Thank you, George. This is good timing.” Technoblade reached over to pick up the tube of schematics. “I won’t have any more commissions for the foreseeable future. I’m givin’ you advance pay for the next couple months.”

George couldn’t get used to how direct the Councilor could be at times. He’d always find himself slightly taken aback by his nonchalance, so unwavering and sure.

“O-Okay,” he managed, “thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” the pigman shrugged. “Can I ask you something?”

He removed his rectangular glasses, folding them into the pocket of his shirt.

“Of course.”

This was a first. George had a feeling that the Councilor wasn’t going to ask about the schematics. He was almost afraid of how unpredictable the man’s next words were.

“What is the Syndicate?”

George blinked. Councilor Technoblade looked at him with earnest eyes, patiently waiting for him to answer.

He struggled to make sense of the question. Had the Councillor suffered a head injury? Did he lose his memory? Was this some kind of test? Is he asking a philosophical question? Or a geographical one? George’s head spun with a million counter questions.

“…I’m sorry?”

“What is this place? To you.”

“Like… this building?”

“The whole thing.”

George fell silent with ponder. He glanced out the window, overlooking the night skyline. This whole thing?

“It’s… a city, I guess.”

Technoblade hummed, nodding solemnly. “And what are we?”

“'We'?”

“Me, Phil, and Niki. The Council. What are we?”

George looked down to study the floor, thinking hard. He felt a stabbing ache in his temple. It was a deceptively simple question. What was the Council?

They oversaw this place, provided security and order. Provided assistance to those in need.

“You… protect us. The residents, I mean. You direct the guards, whose job is to protect. You regulate the businesses, properties… land use… weapons.”

The Councilor nodded.

“We govern.”

Something clicked in the recesses of George’s mind.

“Right!" he sighed in relief. "That’s the word.”

Technoblade unfolded his glasses and returned them to his snout, picking up his pen to continue his work.

“Thank you, George. Feel free to see the bookkeeper.”

George didn’t quite know what he was expecting at the end of this conversation, but he should have known to not have expected anything in the first place.

If there was anything he'd learned from working with Councilor Technoblade, it was this.

Visiting the bookkeeper would be his last obstacle before he could head home for the night.

Out of all the eccentric characters that inhabited the Syndicate Headquarters, George probably dreaded seeing her the most.

She seemed to dread seeing him walk into her office just as much, maybe even more. Each time she had to approve his credit transfers, it began a yet another rant on the Syndicate’s finances and how much they were already losing to the Schlatt & Co. partnership.

George resolved to just deal with it each time, nodding and humming idly along. It seemed like the job really stressed the girl out, being the Syndicate’s sole bookkeeper.

The elevator didn’t open directly to her office, but a long corridor with several offices along it. The bookkeeper’s was the second.

As he approached, the familiar sound of her exasperated voice could be heard, along with another. For whatever reason, George was compelled to hesitate in the shadow, just shy of the ajar door.

“—it’s ridiculous. So much of the funds are being eaten up by his…” The sound of shuffling papers could be heard. “…‘Production costs’? Don’t tell me you’re actually buying that.”

“Yes, the project is ambitious,” Councilor Niki’s voice replied, sweet and silvery, “but so many more people will be helped. They won’t have to come all the way here to the inner city just to see Phil, anymore.”

“You don’t understand, Niki. It’s getting impossible for us to make up the losses. We can’t persist off donations and, what, twenty percent of the profits? And that’s a whole ‘nother thing… profiting off of people’s suffering.”

“We still have trade, Hannah. The north quarry is coming along well. We’ll have a lot to offer for our partners.”

“It’s unsustainable,” the bookkeeper retorted. “Soon enough, we won’t be able to pay the workers. What then, Niki?”

Silence. George held his breath.

“Okay. I’ll talk to Phil. He should know about this.”

Hannah scoffed, “Good luck. Schlatt’s got him wrapped around his finger.”

“You know he’s just doing what's best for the commune,” Niki exhaled, “and Schlatt is helping with that.”

“Good night, Councilor,” Hannah muttered.

Footsteps padded towards the door. George stumbled back as it swung open.

“Ah." The Councilor blinked in surprise, before flashing a small, friendly smile. “Hello, George.”

He sputtered, struggling to reconcile his eavesdropping.

“I’m sorry, I-I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Niki laughed, lightly. “No need to be so formal.” She continued down the hall with a wave, “Have a good night.”

George could only bow his head in return. Clearing his throat, he stepped into the bookkeeper’s office.

Hannah let out an exasperated groan.

“Oh, great! More money down the drain.”

Bad lay still, eyes shut in an attempt to get some sleep, as Skeppy had advised.

Between the soft crackles of the fire and the wind whistling in through the cave’s opening, the sound of stirring and shuffling could be heard behind him.

He watched a shadow emerge onto the wall he was facing, quiet footsteps growing distant.

Shutting his eyes again, Bad focused on listening. A minute passed before he could make out the distinctive sound of a knife being unfolded, spun, folded again. The rhythmic noise was interrupted by a soft clatter, a pause, before beginning again.

“I can’t believe you’re still doing that,” Sapnap murmured.

Unfold, spin, fold. Clatter.

“Can’t catch it at the end anymore. Keep dropping it,” George mumbled back, monotonously.

“Can’t you make, like, robot fingers for yourself?”

“Didn’t have time.” Unfold, spin, fold. “I’ll get used to it.” Clatter. Pause.

Bad almost found himself dozing off with the repetitive sounds of the knife.

“So, we’re going through with this?” Sapnap spoke just above a whisper. Seconds pass. “…I thought you didn’t want—“

“You left first,” George retorted, sharp yet hushed, “and you’re asking me? You can back out any time you want, Sapnap.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

More seconds pass.

“A-Are we really good to just, I dunno, get back to business as usual…?”

“I’m fine. You’re obviously fine, too.”

“Do we-Do we even know what we’re doing anymore? How are supposed to make it back—”

“If you’d leave me alone, I could use this time to think and strategize,” George’s voice rose with each word, before fizzling out in a sigh. “Instead, you’re just wasting your precious downtime asking pointless questions.”

“Sorry…” the younger muttered.

Silence.

“…Why are you doing this? Honestly,” Bad barely heard George utter the question.

“…Doing what?”

“It’s not really revenge, is it? You would've been angry. If it was. But you cried.”

“W-What?” Sapnap’s voice cracked, “I didn’t—”

“I had to listen to you all night. Starving. Freezing.”

The younger fell silent.

“It wasn’t because of that, though, was it?” George’s voice was cold.

“I…” Sapnap whispered between the fire's crackles, “I never thought he’d actually shoot.”

Bad opened his eyes. Furtively, he turned to glimpse at the cave’s entrance.

Their silhouettes sat before the inky night sky. Sapnap hugged his knees, shoulder pressed against George's back.

Bad returned to feigning sleep.

“Go to sleep already,” George said, eventually. “I’ll have a plan in the morning.”

Footsteps began padding back to the fire, Sapnap sighing under his breath.

Chapter Text

He stood at the edge of a giant crater.

Deeper than it was wide, like an impossibly huge drill had taken to the earth.

He stared into its depths, squinting to see what lay at the very bottom.

He felt inclined to jump. Or rather, to uncover what lived at the bottom. There was something there. Something important? He needed to see it.

The sky growled with thunder, lightning flashing in the distance. There was no rain. Instead, plumes of ash fell from the darkened sky.

He looked up. Each striking flash revealed the silver lining of something in the sky. Not clouds or birds, but something constructed. It covered the sky like a cage, looming over him and the crater.

Stepping off the cliff, he fell into the crater. The wind rushed past, overgrown moss and vines clinging to his clothes. He landed in a pool of ice cold water.

Instinctively, he swam out of the water and rose from the mud. Peering back into the water, he caught his own reflection. He swiped the dirt from his pale skin, wiping his glasses too.

The bottom of the crater was beautiful. Luscious red foliage coated the ground, budding with crimson flowers that glowed softly. They basked the pit in warm, serene light.

He began walking forward. The thunder rumbled far, far above on the surface. Down here, all was at peace.

Through the balmy haze, he found what he needed to see at last.

The Egg, in all of its glory.

He approached it, arm stretched far out to reach it. He touched its surface. Its glow warmed his fingertips.

Whispers shrouded his ears. Barely audible. He held his ear up to the Egg’s surface. Indecipherable murmurs rumbled below its scarlet shell.

“Wake up.”

“Wake up.”

Bad jolted awake, orange flooding his vision. Inhaling sharply, he sat up and turned to find George peering down at him, haggard and weary.

“Your watch,” he muttered.

Bad nodded weakly. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw the other's brow twitch with apprehension.

Staggering to his feet, he left the fire and sat himself by the entrance.

Exhaling, Bad leaned into the wintry air. It was snowing lightly. It felt neither colder nor warmer than the firelit cave.

Bad spent the rest of the night reminiscing.

One month and five days since the Syndicate Coup

The sun rose over another grey morning. Warbling caws could be heard from the trees and in the distance.

It had stopped snowing at some point just before sunrise. Bad had been gazing out into the forest the entire time, unmoving.

What was he even supposed to be looking out for? He knew nothing. Nothing at all.

The image of the Crimson Egg pervaded his mind, his earliest memory. It was also the last and only memory of his previous life, prior to the shadowy form he currently inhabited.

The memory haunted his sleep, fading more and more into obscurity as time passed. He could only hope to forget it completely, one day.

Watching the white sun as it rose behind the overcast sky, Bad felt distinctly irritated.

It was already day two on the job and they had made zero progress. He had the creeping sense that going forward, nothing would be easy working with these two.

Despite being surrounded by double the company he was typically accustomed to, Bad felt more alone than ever.

George woke up first, though Bad doubted he was asleep at all in the first place. It wasn’t long before he prodded Sapnap awake. The boy rose eventually, silently taking a small pot and leaving the cave, still grumbling with sleep.

Bad watched as the two performed their morning rituals. Sapnap returned, placing the filled pot to boil as George prepared a dry soup packet.

“Did you see anything?”

George’s sudden presence beside him moments later made him flinch. He cradled a small wooden bowl in his hands, steam rising from its contents.

“No,” Bad said, hoarsely. “Unless you’re talking about the crows.”

The other held the bowl out in a hesitant gesture of some sort, silent for a moment.

“…No stupid questions?”

Bad stared up at his frigid expression, somewhat puzzled. He didn’t know how to interpret the remark. Was it an expectation he was setting for the remaining duration of this job? A genuine curiosity to his dejection, soul to soul?

Unable to decide, Bad chose to take the bowl of soup as an invitation.

The three sat around the fire once more. The soup was vaguely savory in taste, fairly watered down. A grain settled at the bottom, like sediment.

“I’m hungry.” Sapnap said, breaking the silence.

“We need to leave this area if we want to find more to eat,” George said.

“What's the deal with this forest?” Bad asked, testing the waters. "There's no game."

George sipped on his own bowl, watching the fire with vacant eyes.

“…I’m guessing it’s got to do with the quarry.”

“The stream used to be, like, a whole-ass river,” Sapnap said, “before they dug the quarry. Full of fish ‘n shit. Now it’s just whatever comes from the mountain.”

Bad hummed, feeling more delighted than he should at a question answered.

“So," he began, glancing between the two. "What's the plan?”

Setting down his bowl, George retrieved his comm and the map he took from the Council Guard barracks out of his rucksack. He opened both, letting the device sit on the ground and the map in his lap.

“Our primary objective is to get back to where me and Sapnap were.” The comm’s translucent screen grew to the same size as the map, displaying a map of its own. George circled a patch of barren land in the northeastern quadrant.

“The tundra?” Bad recalled traveling there a handful of times in the past. Decidedly, a miserable place for humans and non-humans alike.

“We started tracking him once we got to the other side of the mountain,” he pointed closer to the center of the map. "Up ahead."

“Tracking? How?”

George paused, glancing briefly in his direction.

“I have his comm information saved.”

For each answer he got, three more questions bubbled to the surface of Bad’s mind.

“Yeah, which is a freaking miracle, by the way,” Sapnap chimed, “‘cause you made me destroy mine for basically nothing.”

“Why—”

“Okay, can we just focus on one thing at a time?” George rubbed his eyes, “Where was I…? We tracked him for a couple weeks into the tundra, where I lost his signal…” he trailed off, inhaling.

“The weather reports for that region say the snow storm continued nonstop up until a couple days ago. He couldn’t have made much progress between then and now… So, there’s a nonzero chance he’s incapacitated somewhere in the area,” he paused to exhale, “or dead."

"Doubt it…" Sapnap mumbled.

“It’s going to take at least two weeks to get there on foot," Bad said, studying the map, “and that’s not accounting for time spent resting and gathering resources.”

“Quackity told me he was gonna let us use the ship…” Sapnap said quietly, looking to George.

“He didn’t say anything about a ship to me.” George kept his eyes on the map resting in his lap.

Bad got the sense that he wasn’t going to admit that he had no idea how they were going to catch up on a weeks-long time loss.

A moment passed before the other held up the parchment. “I found this and some notes in his room.”

“Wait, what?” Sapnap perked up, shuffling beside the other. “Let me see.”

“This map isn’t oriented around the city. The tundra matches up here in the south.” George traced the edge of it.

“He-He made this map?” Sapnap mumbled, eyes darting to read it.

“I reckon he’s heading past the tundra, to this mark.” The other pointed to a black, smudged circle in the northwestern quadrant. He turned to Sapnap. “Any ideas?”

Leaning back from the map and looking somewhat dazed, the younger's brow furrowed. “About what?”

“Where he’s going?”

Bad was suddenly reminded of the strange conversation he'd eavesdropped on. For the first time since they sat down around the dwindling fire that morning, the cave was silent.

“How would I know that, George?” Annoyance rose in Sapnap's voice.

“I don’t know," the other shrugged, aloof. "Maybe he’s mentioned something before."

Bad couldn't take the ambiguity anymore.

“Look, I’m sorry, but who is ‘he''?" he interjected. "I’m glad we’re finally getting somewhere with a plan and all, but I still don’t know a thing about who it is we’re after.” A partial lie, but true enough.

The other two paused to regard him, each with their own degree of uncertainty. They then exchanged silent looks before George shrugged.

“Go on, then.”

Sapnap scoffed, shooting him a look as if he’d just been accused of something. “Why me?”

“You knew him,” George replied, dryly, “not me.”

Cornered, the younger finally met Bad’s intent stare.

“Dream. He goes by Dream.”

Bad nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“I… he was… I knew him. A long time ago. Before he joined the Syndicate.”

“Is that… why you’re here?”

The other returned a slight nod, gaze averting.

“You know we’re here to kill him, right?”

He nodded again, fidgeting with one of the stones he'd collected the day before. “Mhm.”

Bad turned to George in hopes of getting him to back up his line of questioning, but the other was acting completely aloof to the conversation, indifferent stare trained on the map.

Exhaling, the demon turned back to Sapnap.

“How do we know you’ll help finish the job?” he queried, simply. "When the times comes?"

Sapnap shuffled in place, reaching up to tighten the bandana in his hair.

“'Cause I’m gonna be the one who does it.”

Before Bad could continue grilling the boy, George’s communicator began to flash and ring. Folding the map and stuffing it back into his rucksack, he answered the call.

The screen refreshed in waves of pixels as Quackity’s face replaced the map on screen.

“Good morning, boys,” he greeted, beaming with his usual grin and square sunglasses. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“You were, but go on,” George said, blankly.

“Quackity!” Sapnap exclaimed, expression softening. “What happened? Is everything okay?”

“Sap…” The secretary’s smile faltered. “I, yeah, everything’s great! Why wouldn’t it be?” he chuckled.

“I thought-I thought you were gonna let us use the ship,” Sapnap muttered, “to get back, I mean.”

Quackity chuckled. “…Right, I was going to tell you in person, but…” he paused to adjust his glasses, smile fading.

“I can’t, I’m sorry. Schlatt was seriously pissed when I took it to help you guys.”

Bad listened, quietly. Something in the secretary’s tone changed, though he couldn’t really say what it was.

He cleared his throat before anyone could question him further, “Anyway! Bad, how are you settling in with these losers?”

He sat up slightly at the sound of his name.

“I have questions.”

Quackity laughed, uneasily. “I'm sure you do…”

“I’m guessing the Executive doesn’t know about this," Bad gestured to Sapnap, who shrunk under his gaze, "does he?”

“No. No, he doesn’t.”

Bad hummed. “What would that be, then, hm? Treason? Insubordination? Infidelity?”

“H-Hey, c’mon, pal… so what, you’ve got more numbers? Just ‘cause it’s off the books, doesn’t mean we need to go and make a big deal of it… I mean, this is good for you— makes your job easier, I’d say.”

Quackity definitely had a way with his words, despite the nervous tremor in his cadence. Even still, none of it sat right with Bad.

A nagging, sinking feeling in his soul told him there was something off about this whole ordeal.

He chose not to push it. For the time being.

“Fine. As long as it doesn’t jeopardize my payout.”

“You have my word, pal,” the other simpered, before averting his attention. “George, I intend to follow up on what you and I spoke about.”

“…Do you know what you’re doing?” Although he feigned contempt, Bad wasn’t remiss on the apprehension that crept into George’s voice.

“Have some faith in me, will ya?” Quackity scoffed, straightening his tie. “All right. Check in with you later.”

“Quackity,” Sapnap called out, leaning into the comm screen. “Be careful.”

The secretary’s expression faltered again, the ghost of a doting smile flashing across his face.

“You too.”

The call ended.

Pocketing his comm, George pulled out the map from his bag once more, along with a handful of small notes. He turned the map around for the other two to see.

"He had a note about the mountain,” he shuffled through the papers, picking one from the stack and placing it near their current location equivalent to the map.

NORTH QUARRY
ABANDONED MINESHAFT???

The scrawl was hard to make out, but unmistakable.

“That’s probably how he made so much ground at the start,” George said. “Sapnap and I had to travel down the valley to find a gap in the mountain range. If we can find this mineshaft instead, I reckon we'll make up for some lost time.”

“I know where it is.” Bad scanned the oblong mass of ink, the mountains as they appeared on the map.

The mineshaft would definitely serve as a shortcut through them. Though, from his memory, it was also a derelict network of tunnels in which one could easily become lost and never emerge from.

“Great,” George sighed, re-opening the map on his comm and holding it out in front of him, “mark it.”

Chapter Text

Three weeks since the Syndicate Coup

George spun the butterfly knife in his left hand, flipping it open and close, again and again.

Sapnap watched him go through the motions, practically mesmerized by their fluidity.

“You’re annoyingly good at that.”

George smirked, tapping the side of his goggles to close the radar map covering most of his vision.

“It’s easy.”

He watched Sapnap strike a log with his axe, splitting it in two.

“You could, like, help me with this, y’know,” the other huffed, breath condensing in the frigid tundra air. “Instead of just sitting there like a princess.”

“I do my part,” George yawned. “I start the fire, cook your food. Very well, might I add.”

Sapnap couldn’t really argue, falling silent with a half-hearted grumble.

The two had been traveling on foot for the past three weeks.

They would stop for the least amount of time each night for rest, making this a rare moment of midday respite, only thanks to the biting cold that demanded for it.

Tossing the splinters of wood into the crackling fire, Sapnap plonked down on the narrow trunk of a fallen tree they'd made into a makeshift bench. To George's dismay, he immediately took to sidling up beside him.

"…What are you doing?” He made an attempt to shuffle away.

The other hooked his arm with his own, locking them in place.

“Huddling for warmth, moron.”

They were severely underdressed for the weather. Sapnap more so than him.

He wore a series of thin layers, a grey windbreaker over top of a white T-shirt over top of another long-sleeve shirt. Thankfully, he had the sense to bring a pair of gloves.

Meanwhile, George had left the city bundled in his old down coat, which made up for the thin denim of his trousers and shortsighted choice of knit sweater he'd thrown on over his sleep shirt.

Every few flips of his knife, he alternated hands. Stuffing the free one into his coat pocket, chin tucked into his violet scarf.

They sat like that for a while, watching the snow melt as it fluttered over the glowing fire. A slight breeze gusted every now and then, stirring the few trees surrounding them.

“…Is he still ahead?” Sapnap asked, eventually.

George hummed, not bothering to check the radar map.

“Not too far, though. On the other side of the lake, looked like.”

“Damn. Think he fell in there?” Sapnap chortled.

The dumb comment earned a short burst of laughter out of George. “After all this, he just drowns in some stupid lake?”

“That’s Dream for you. The guy’s smart, but a real dumbass sometimes. Smart dumbass…” Sapnap trailed off, in thought. “…One time when we were kids, we were playing tag." He sat up, leaning into the fire's warmth.

“And I was chasing him. He starts climbing this tree, right? Smart, but I start climbing after him. He panics and tries to jump across to another tree, like he’s doing parkour or some shit…”

A faint smile appeared on his face.

“Long story short, he falls and breaks his arm. Dumbass.”

George chuckled, the sound muffled by his scarf.

“I can’t imagine him as a kid,” he muttered. “…I can totally picture him pulling off a stunt like that now, though.”

The image of Dream, face concealed by his creepy smiling mask, vaulting through the forest with calculated, lethal grace was all too real.

"God, wouldn't it be nice if he could just break his fucking arm or something…?" Sapnap murmured. "Would make this shit so much easier."

“Seriously, though, there's no way he fell in, or whatever,” George continued, scenarios conjuring in his mind. “I reckon he's found shelter.”

The other scoffed. “Out there?”

“Yeah.” Exhaling, George leaned down to retrieve his rucksack. “The maps showed—”

Something whizzed through the air, resembling an irate mosquito.

It landed somewhere in the snow behind them with a sharp crackle as it pierced the frozen ground.

Sapnap stood up with a start, grabbing his axe and backpack.

“He’s here!”

George swung his rucksack over his shoulder, swiftly crouching behind the fallen tree as he cocked his gun. With a tap to his temple, Dream’s signal appeared in his radar, blinking up the map.

With no time to question why their target doubled back in the first place, he began running after the mark. Wordlessly, Sapnap followed suit.

As they gave chase through the increasingly sparse forest, the wind began to pick up. Dream’s signal slowed in turn, enabling the two hunters to close in.

The forest green cloak came into view, stark against the pure white snow. The carved smile glanced over his shoulder, as if waiting for the two to catch up.

George froze in his tracks upon seeing the carbon steel crossbow, locked and loaded in his gloved hands.

In one fluid motion, Dream turned and disappeared beneath the horizon's edge.

The sky had dimmed, snow falling in droves.

George raced forward, desperate to maintain eyes on their target.

It was only a matter of time before he disappeared into the storm, where they’d surely lose his signal.

Running with reckless abandon, he stopped himself at the last moment before the steep cliff, stumbling with a yelp.

“George?!”

Before he could utter a word of warning, Sapnap was already hurtling straight into him.

The collision sent them both tumbling down the hill, snow enveloping in a seething chill. A bare bush broke their fall, at least.

Lifting himself from the ground with a groan, George dragged a sleeve across his eyes, wiping his goggles clear of snow. He sat up, eyeing the clearing they had fallen into.

The wind howled, searing his skin with no trees to mitigate. He stared into the blank white plain before him. 

No signal.

He’d have to rely on motion sensors.

“Sapnap, you idiot…” he hissed, climbing to his feet.

“Where did he go?!” the other exclaimed, shielding his eyes from the mounting blizzard.

“Just follow me.”

Gritting his teeth, George pressed forward.

The reality of their situation sunk in his chest like cold lead. They had to act fast to trail Dream, or find shelter before they succumbed to the elements. Stumbling through a blanket of unperturbed snow, he scanned ahead. 

No motion detected.

“I can’t see shit!” Sapnap yelled, his voice swallowed by the landscape.

Trusting that he'd follow his lead, George kept his eyes forward. They continued treading through the tundra, blind leading the blind.

Suddenly, a silhouette appeared in the distance, barely visible through the flurry. 

Motion detected 50 meters ahead.

George broke into a sprint.

The glacial air pierced his lungs, bones still aching from the fall he took earlier. The silhouette became clearer in his sights. George held his gun steady at his side.

Dream’s cloaked figure soon came into view. He was hunched over, evidently struggling to navigate the blizzard.

George aimed at the ground beside him, squeezing the trigger.

The shot was muffled by the snow, but Dream recoiled and whipped around to face the gunman, regardless.

“Stop!”

George raised his aim to the smiling mask, an impossibly neon light glowing from its right eye.

He struggled to steady his hands as they numbed with both wind and recoil. Drawing a deep, pained breath, he approached the man.

Dream seemed to consider his demand, watching as he inched closer and closer. 

Motion detected 4 meters ahead.

“You have nowhere to run," George yelled through the storm. "Now tell me where—“

He was suddenly knocked off his feet again, face burning with cold.

George clambered out of the snow and gave chase once more, swearing inwardly. Dream dashed into the distance.

Sapnap’s voice trailed somewhere behind them, too muffled by the storm to make out what he could be saying.

George kept his eyes locked on their target, muscles flaring with the unrelenting chase. Slowly but surely, the cloaked man was dissolving into the distance.

In a desperate but strategic split-second decision, he pointed his gun and fired a shot into the distant haze.

Dream collapsed into the snow.

George heaved for air as he ran, watching his silhouette grow clearer and clearer as he zeroed in.

Suddenly, the masked face snapped to face him.

The crossbow pierced the white canvas, like a lone black rose clawing out of the barren land. His own creation, threatening to destroy him.

Gasping, George lunged aside.

An arrow flew past with bullet speed.

He heard a distant cry.

Laying very still in the snow, he craned his neck towards the source.

“Sapnap?” he called, before catching a glimpse of the other sprawled on the ground.

Hastily, he climbed to his feet and began to backtrack.

Heart pounding in his ears, George blinked back the static fuzz from his vision to find the other.

To his utter dismay, Dream’s lucky arrow had buried itself in Sapnap’s shoulder.

“Sapnap! What do I do?! What do I do?!”

“Keep going, don’t-don't lose him…!” Sapnap yelled back, voice faltering.

Dream struggled somewhere behind him, grunting in pain as he reconciled the bullet in his leg and writhed to continue fleeing.

George was frozen in place, flickering between the target and his companion.

“Go, George! Just… leave me…” Sapnap rasped, making an attempt to sit up. To no avail, he laid back in the snow, dyed red with his blood.

George felt his knees buckle, seething with the wind chill. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched Dream finally stagger to his feet, clutching his bleeding leg.

Hands trembling, his grip on his gun tightened. Looking again to Sapnap, he watched the scarlet stain beneath him bloom against the fresh, white canvas.

Tearing his gaze away from the sight, he started after Dream.

The masked man watched him take cautious steps, promptly raising the crossbow in response.

Halting, staring down the length of the very weapon he'd designed and engineered, George resigned.

“Don’t shoot."

Sucking in a breath, he returned his gun to his holster and raised his hands to the biting air.

George stumbled, swaying with the merciless storm. The toll of the chase was catching up to him.

“Just go,” he spat, stepping backwards.

Dream’s aim wavered. A few seconds passed in what felt like limbo before he broke into a sprint, disappearing into the tundra.

His trail of blood was quickly covered up by the onslaught of falling snow. 

Motion detected 15 meters ahead. 

Motion detected 18 meters ahead.

George turned, stumbling back against the relentless wind. Sapnap was still sitting there in the snow, slumped against a bent knee and clutching his shoulder.

“Wh-Why—What happened?” he stammered, grimacing in pain.

“Nothing, come on.” George hoisted him up from the ground, flinging his uninjured arm over his own shoulders. “We need to get out of here.”

“Fucking ow!”

George began to walk vaguely east, though he couldn’t be certain on account of the blizzard. He knew that older maps of the tundra depicted a settlement some distance east of their position, though it was ultimately a gamble.

Either way, there was no other choice. They would either manage to find cover from the blizzard, or die from exposure.

“Listen, it’s gonna be fine,” George mumbled, numbly, “it’s gonna be fine.”

“I’m sorry,” the other whimpered, flinching with each step he took. “I’m sorry, George.”

“Shut up," he hissed back. “It’s gonna be fine.”

The two limped across the tundra for what felt like an eternity. To the point where George began to wonder if Dream had actually pulled that trigger, sending him to this frigid hell.

The adrenaline coursing through his veins fading, he felt burning cold radiating all over his skin. He stared into the vacant distance, desperately willing something to appear in front of them.

With every passing second, Sapnap slumped heavier and heavier against him.

Then, as if his prayers had been answered, the blurred form of a small cabin appeared in the distance.

“Look… look, Sapnap… are you looking…?”

The other only grunted in response. With renewed strength, George dragged them to the porch of the cabin.

Leaning Sapnap against the wall, George hauled the axe from the younger's backpack and hauled it over the door's lock. After a few labored swings, he slipped a trembling hand into the crude gap and unlocked the door, shoving it open.

Dropping the axe, he pulled Sapnap inside, shutting the door behind them and barricading it with a dusty wooden shelf.

Drawing shallow breaths, George dropped his rucksack on the floor and began to rummage. Though they were shielded from the immediate storm, the cabin was still stale with a lethal chill.

He dug for his flint and steel, finally clasping both pieces with numb fingers.

Crawling towards the wood-burning stove in the corner, he brought the rock down into the metal. The impact of it was lost to his nerves, hands already burning from an invisible fire.

Whatever kindling was left in the stove refused to catch a spark, too wet with melted snow or condensation.

It didn’t matter anymore.

George dropped the rock and striker, bringing his hands to his face.

“Shit.”

An anguished cry tearing from his throat, he pulled his goggles away from his eyes and let them hang from his neck.

Reaching into his pocket, he crawled back to Sapnap, sitting slumped against the sofa.

George opened his comm, the screen flickering dimly. 

No signal.

Achingly, he typed out an SOS message. Hitting send returned a network error.

Letting the device clatter to the floor, he reached up to grab the edge of a tattered quilt.

Carefully, he wrapped it around Sapnap's shivering body. His gaze kept drifting to the bolt, lodged firmly in his shoulder.

“Why…” the younger whispered, expression wrought in pain and fatigue. He began to sniffle, warm tears rolling down reddened cheeks. “Why…?”

George said nothing.

He couldn’t, there was nothing he could do.

He unwrapped the scarf from around his neck, letting the cold air slice his skin.

Taking a moment to steady his hands, he wrapped the violet wool tight around the other's bare neck.

Thinking of the crossbow and Karl’s bygone warmth, George huddled beside Sapnap and shut his eyes.

Chapter Text

He sat in a large, murky room.

The air pungent with iron and cooked meat.

Attendees sitting around a grand table.

He couldn’t move.

A slab of seared steak sat on the plate. He tried to reach for it, but his hands rested rigidly on his lap.

Someone stood at the table's end, giving a toast.

An even warmth lingered along his back. He craned to glance over his shoulder.

Too bright.

Looking forward, he was standing now.

Everything was red.

Shouting. Everyone was shouting, incoherent and muffled.

He blinked. He kept blinking, again and again until his vision cleared.

There was an explosion of gold. Silver eyes. Bloodcurdling screams.

Red snakes slithered, swallowing the screams into oblivion.

He was being pulled into the ground, paralyzed.

Sinking into the earth's mantle, he was compelled to look into the corner of the room.

There, a creature hung from the ceiling like a spider, staring into his soul with vacant eyes.

Cold fear spiked his heart.

“Not yet, George.”

Three weeks and two days since the Syndicate Coup

George woke up gasping for air.

Met with blinding white, he quickly screwed his eyes shut again.

Body rippling with a sore pain, his muscles ached from even the smallest movement, as if each unconscious sensation had been stored away for the moment he came to.

Blinking rapidly against the stark white of the room, he shifted in a weak attempt to sit upright against the sterile cot.

The steady drone of a heart rate monitor was the only sound that filled his ears.

A violent chill ran down George's spine, in spite of the thick nylon blanket enrobing him. He glanced along thin curtain that sectioned him off, that left him clueless as to where exactly he was.

His hands were throbbing with a dull, insistent pain. With some effort, George dragged his arm up from the covers, letting it lay limp at his side.

Haphazard, blood-soaked gauze wrapped his entire hand, trailing down the narrow of his wrist.

George gaped in disbelief. The thought then struck him, that this surely couldn't be his hand.

He flexed his fingers into a loose fist, an uncanny space left where half of his pinky and ring finger should be. He blinked, over and over, but the gaps remained.

It was like tripping at the bottom of a flight of stairs — anticipation, cleaved violently by reality.

The curtain suddenly flung open.

George felt his heart leap out of his ribcage, the monitor quickening in tandem. Despite the constant chills, sweat melded his skin to his clothes.

Quackity stared at him with wide, darting eyes, the deep navies of his attire austere against the blank infirmary.

“George,” he breathed, inhaling sharply. He clutched a small tablet. “You’re awake.”

Seeing the secretary's stupid face with his stupid hat and stupid suit all in the flesh brought George crashing back down to earth, memories of frigid darkness and howling wind flooding his consciousness.

“Sa—“ He began, cut short by an impossibly dry throat. “Sapnap—"

Quackity rushed to a cupboard, setting down the tablet to retrieve a glass. Flipping on the narrow faucet, he let it fill with water.

“Don’t talk, you’re still fucked up.”

Returning to George's side, he held the glass to his mouth. The sickly lump in his throat made it hard to drink.

“Sapnap’s in another room, he’s—“ Quackity paused, frowning, “he’s fine.”

George took a deep breath, raising a gauze-wrapped hand to wipe the corner of his mouth.

He stared silently at the other, pleading for an explanation and to not subject him to speaking.

Gaze averting, Quackity set down the emptied glass.

“You’ve been out for two days." He sat down at the edge of the bed, eyes low. "I got your message in the middle of the night."

George’s head swam, temples pulsing with the heart monitor. His mind flitted from one thought to another, desperate to rectify the glaring blank that was the last forty-eight hours.

Straining, he raised his other hand from underneath the covers and let it lay on his lap.

He bent a knee into Quackity’s back, shooting him a quiet, bewildered look.

Eyes flickering to find the haphazardly wrapped bandages, the other swiftly averted his gaze once more.

“Your shit was all fucked up from frostbite. I did what I could,” he muttered quickly, a tremor creeping into his indignant tone.

The air thinning, George laid back against the leaden pillow and squeezed his eyes shut.

Maybe this was still just a nightmare. Maybe he froze to death in that empty cabin and this was his personal hell. Otherwise, this was just that. Reality.

He couldn't decide which outcome was worse.

Three weeks and three days since the Syndicate Coup

Though his body ached still with pneumonia, George found at least a modicum of solace in being able to move and speak again. 

The first thing he did was demand to know where Sapnap was.

Quackity had, shamefully, admitted that he’d hid the other in one of the basement rooms, treating his injuries there on the off chance that Schlatt would visit the infirmary (he never did).

George had gone to see him briefly, with the help of the secretary.

Seeing Sapnap lying in that narrow bed, still as a board and drained of color, was just too much. George resolved swiftly to visit again as soon as he woke up. Whenever that would be.

Quackity had stayed behind, eerily silent. Sitting close to Sapnap, grasping his cold hands in an attempt to warm them. As he did this, he murmured under his breath, whispering prayers in a language that George didn't understand.

Late that night, as he stared absently up at the blank ceiling, George heard his comm chime. A message from Quackity.

he's up

Deciding not to wait up, George painstakingly hobbled to the elevator himself and made the descent.

Here he was, standing in front of the steel door with his hand gripping the door knob. 

For a little more than a fleeting moment, he considered turning around and walking away from it all. He thought of leaving everything to be buried in snow, of letting the blood-stained tundra and acrid smell of rubbing alcohol be his parting memory of Sapnap.

In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to let go.

After all, he’d already made the trip through the building. May as well see it through.

Beginning to twist, his hand slipped, cruelly. George chortled to himself. It was almost funny.

Time and time again, the ugly reminder of all he’d taken for granted.

Acid rising in his throat, he wrenched the door knob with both hands.

Unlike the infirmary, the basement hideaway was a dingy place. Just concrete walls, fluorescent bulbs, a solitary bed, and a pile of crates in the corner.

“George—” Sapnap sat up with a jolt before flinching and laying back. “You-You’re okay.”

He watched him with round golden eyes, agape as if he had more to say.

George studied the floor, approaching the cot after a pause. He couldn’t discern the other's face.

Maybe he got used to seeing him expressionless, pale and asleep. The younger’s face was wrought with a base-level of pain, certainly, along with the concern and relief of seeing George.

But there was something else in his gaze that George couldn’t place. 

The boy gave him a sweeping glance. “A-Are you okay?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” George mumbled, clenching his fists. “…How’s your shoulder?”

The other blinked, absently.

“Oh, yeah. Fine. The elixirs help.”

Quackity must have gotten a hold of some of the stuff for him. George coughed. He didn’t blame the other for playing favorites.

“Good.”

Standing there, he felt hopelessly awkward. He ran a hand through his freshly washed hair, pushing it out of his eyes.

A quiet gasp tumbled out of Sapnap.

“Y-Your hand…”

George looked down at his palm, silent. The wounds had healed considerably over the last few days. Painkillers helped with the residual pain. Though, both his hands were still wrapped in gauze.

He glanced up at Sapnap, only to find him staring frightened, clutching the thin duvet with white knuckles.

“Frostbite.”

The younger’s frown deepened, eyebrows knitting with the memory of the unrelenting blizzard.

A silence settled. George sat at the edge of the cot, exhaling.

Just as Sapnap turned away and sunk into the cot, he finally realized that alongside pain, concern, and relief, he'd caught something disconcerting within the other's expression.

Remorse.

“We’re done,” George muttered. The other shifted to sit up. “It’s over.”

“W-Huh…? George, what—”

“You-We almost died,” he blurted. “It’s a miracle you’re in relatively good shape.”

The younger's gaze brimmed with remorse, that awful remorse.

“We can’t, George, we-we need to get Dream, remember? Didn’t-Didn’t you, like, sign a contract?”

He was pleading with him. Why was he pleading with him?

“Who cares?!” his voice quivered, dangerously. “Who cares about the stupid contract?!”

George couldn’t win. He'd failed either way.

He’d never get his answers, never get to confront the rogue guard.

At least he’d escape with his life, and Sapnap with his. Between all the traveling and hunting and surviving, George had forgotten all this time that the other was really just a kid.

What was he thinking way back then, letting him come along? Sapnap had approached him so brazenly, so adamant on joining in the manhunt to get his vengeance, or whatever.

George quietly chided himself for ever thinking he could rely on the younger in a fight.

In the end, it hadn’t mattered. It might as well have been George himself who shot that arrow into Sapnap’s shoulder.

What was with that guilty look on his face? He should be angry at him, screaming at him for dodging that stupid shot. “It should have been you!”

He tried to imagine Sapnap saying those words, but he just couldn't.

Sapnap would never say such a horrible thing, as much as he deserved it. He was too loving, too soft-hearted. George thought about how he'd wept in that dark, frigid cabin.

“George—”

Vision blurring, he stood up and started towards the door.

“I’m going to talk to Schlatt.”

George did not talk to Schlatt.

Instead, he returned to the infirmary and crawled into the cot.

He laid there. He didn’t know how long, but he laid there. Wallowing, sulking, ruminating.

Daylight came and went, came and went. He got up sometimes. Only to use the toilet and choke down the tap water.

At some point, Quackity showed up with a tray of food.

He didn’t feel like eating, so he laid still. Pretending to sleep.

“Stop being a little bitch, George.”

Quackity’s grating voice tore the silence into pieces. The idiot wouldn’t leave him alone.

George peeked up from the covers, eventually. He was vexed to find that instead of anger or impatience or pity, the other's eyes were glazed with sorrow.

George pulled the covers back over his head.

“No.”

“Are you just gonna lie here forever?”

Quackity presented a chastising front, but the fear in his voice was unmistakable.

“We’re done,” he mumbled back.

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘you’re done’?” The anger he had anticipated finally showed itself. “Sapnap already left, asshole. He said to come meet him in the woods past the quarry.”

George closed his eyes, suddenly drowsy.

“How old are you, Quackity?” he muttered, absentmindedly.

The other sputtered, likely gesturing in exasperation. “The fuck does that have to do with anything?”

George said nothing.

Quackity sighed, deeply.

“Twenty. I'm turning twenty this month.”

George inhaled, holding the breath in his lungs.

He felt the cot's weight shift.

“Listen, George. I know all of this is seriously fucked, but you can’t just go back on a deal with Schlatt.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “…You've gotta say something to him. Please.”

George wasn’t lost on the distress that cadenced his plea.

“I’ll go tomorrow.”

One month and four days since the Syndicate Coup

The miasma of cigar smoke suffocated the room. George stifled the urge to cough, determined to show not a hint of his despair to the man before him.

“All better?” The Executive smirked.

“I failed the mission,” George said, flatly.

“Hey now, don’t be such a Debbie Downer!" the other exclaimed, sitting forward in his seat. "It’s not all over yet. You’ve still got some fight left, don’tcha?”

He did not.

“I don’t care about the money," he exhaled. "Just… give the job to someone else. I can't do it.”

Schlatt seemed to brush past the suggestion, swiveling back in his chair.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, lover boy… I’ve got ya covered." He took a drag out of his cigar, blowing smoke. “Backup is on the way as we speak.”

“…Backup?” George’s mind jumped to Sapnap.

“Look, I’ll admit," the other muttered, "it was, uh, y'know, a bit myopic, of me to send you off all on your own like that…” He took a quick sip out of a short glass of cherry-red liquor.

"But, but! Tell ya what, I’ve got just the guy to seal the deal on that sonnuva bitch.”

George felt dizzy. He didn't know if the sweet forming on his brow was from enduring illness or sheer dread.

Before he could think to protest, the office doors creaked open behind him.

George strode away from the desk. He threw his body weight against the wood doors, cursing under his breath. Why did these stupid things have to be so heavy?

They shut promptly behind him. Quackity startled, sitting up in his rickety chair upon seeing him.

“George—“

“Move, idiot.”

George promptly shoved him out of the chair and took his place. Hands drifting over the trackball and control panel, he quickly acclimated to navigate the desktop.

“Dude, what is your problem…?” Quackity dusted himself, pushing his sunglasses up over his hatted head. “Hey! Get off my fucking computer!”

“Be quiet. They'll hear you.”

Quackity relented, watching George sift through various windows.

“What are you—“

He shushed the other, settling on the CCTV terminal and swiping the trackball over the view of Schlatt’s office.

“George, you can’t just—“

“I’m trying to hear!” he snapped.

Both the visual and audio were much to be desired, but the latter sufficed to let the two in on the conversation. Quackity made no further protests, leaning in beside him.

He glanced at George. Although he couldn’t see the man’s eyes hidden behind his goggles, his brow was furrowed in a mix of concentration and irritation.

"…I was gonna tell you," he mumbled after a moment. "Schlatt's been on my ass for days about this, 'invincible assassin', or whatever the fuck."

They listen to the Executive harp on. A moment later, George stood up with huff, letting the other take back his chair.

“What?" Quackity scoffed. "You’re pissed he’s not just throwing you back out there after that fuckin’ fiasco?”

“We don’t need another hunter,” George hissed, arms folding indignantly.

A sardonic laugh escaped the other.

“You’re probably gonna need a fourth seeing how the two of you ended up," he said, shaking his head. "God, I can’t believe I was ever worried he’d find out you weren’t working solo this entire time.”

George ignored his comment. “This just… complicates everything.”

He drifted to the window, looking out over to the mountains on the horizon.

So much time spent and distance traveled. All undone in minutes, by a single shot of that wretched crossbow.

And now, another idiot to keep in check.

He got lucky with Sapnap, who was willing to go along with trailing behind Dream as he trekked north. Whether out of fear of confrontation or some other reason, it didn't matter. They had an agreement, a mutual understanding.

This newcomer was an assassin. A proper hitman.

George knew the stories, all the different names people gave him over the years. The Grim Reaper. The Soul Hunter. Demon. Phantom. White Eyes. Halo.

As much as he could playact nonchalance, seeing the wraithlike standing in the doorway with wide, beaming eyes struck a fear in his heart reminiscent of seeing Dream’s smiling mask watching him from the shadows.

George had no doubt that the assassin would finish the job at the earliest opportunity.

“You had a clear shot,” Quackity began, interrupting his thoughts, “but you aimed at the ground. On purpose.”

He whipped around to face the secretary, brow furrowing.

“What?”

“You could have ended it right there. Avoided all of this. Come out of this without a scratch. Both of you—“

George shoved his goggles away from his eyes, marching across the stone floor.

“You spied on my footage? You little—“ He grabbed the other's tie in a fist.

“I-I wanted to know what happened!” Quackity exclaimed. “I-I’m sorry, okay? I know I shouldn't have, I know… Just-Just tell me why.”

George relinquished his grip, glaring still.

“None of your business.”

He leaned down to pick up his rucksack, slinging it over his shoulders and returning to the windowsill.

Quackity exhaled, sharply.

“Whatever you’re doing…" His voice dropped low, sounding more like he had over the past several days. "I wanna help.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“We all know what Dream's gonna do…”

George said nothing. Did they?

“…He’s gonna get rid of Schlatt.”

Silence fell over the two. George mulled over this statement. He mulled over the person who'd just made it.

He did not turn to face Quackity's ardent stare, instead lowering his goggles back over his eyes.

“And you want that?”

The other quieted for a moment, the trackball whirring and keys clicking as he closed the CCTV terminal.

“Yes.”

The office doors opened.

Chapter Text

One month before the Syndicate Coup

It might've been the crisp autumn air that beckoned George to the inner city.

There was always a festival around this time of year, right outside the Main Hall.

String lights stretched from light post to light post, children ran around with popping sparklers in hand, the aroma of various sweet and savory foods wafted through the air.

He didn’t really care for the festivities, but the atmosphere was undeniably warm. Inviting.

There was a quiet spot by the lake, down the path and hidden away from the chatter and crowds. It was something of a tradition for George, to grab a treat from one of the vendors and sit by the water for a while.

One of the more popular stands belonged to the Head Council Guard. The very guard he’d spoken to during his last delivery to Councillor Technoblade, funnily enough.

It was an amusing juxtaposition. The towering, stern-looking, golden armor-clad guard handing out slices of warm pumpkin pie.

George wasn’t sure if the man recognized him, but as he left the stand he couldn’t help but notice that everyone else’s pie slices looked a little thinner than his.

He'd picked up a take-away coffee, too. The caffeine was much-needed.

He'd made his way to the lake.

Gazing out towards the shimmering water, George was mildly disappointed to find that his secret spot wasn’t so secret after all.

A lone silhouette sat by the rocks. Before he could turn away and find somewhere else to be alone, the other turned to look at him. An arm shot up in the air, waving wildly.

George squinted, struggling to make out a face on the moonlit shore. Who was that? Someone he knew? He barely knew anyone in this city, none well enough to illicit that kind of reaction.

They must have mistook him for someone else.

“George!”

To his horror, he heard his name calling out from the person's voice. They stood up from the shore and began running towards him, nearly tripping over and onto the gravel.

Figuring he should be polite, George stepped forward to meet whoever this was midway, sparing them the trouble.

In the dim, balmy glow of the festival lights, Karl’s beaming face came into view. A violet scarf hung loose from his neck.

“It’s you,” he said, smiling with keen eyes.

“Hi.” George fidgeted with the sleeve of his coffee cup. “Karl, right?”

Though he wasn’t great with remembering names, the other had left a somewhat of an impression on him during the spring banquet. Not to mention those piercing, hazel eyes.

They flickered down to George’s hand. “I didn’t know you liked coffee.”

“I don’t. Um… it’s more of a necessity than anything.”

George hadn’t meant for his response to be funny, but Karl giggled like he’d made a clever little joke.

“I forgot how funny you are." He grabbed George by the arm, tugging. “Come on, I wanna show you something.”

For some reason he couldn’t fully identify, George let himself be dragged to the lakefront. Karl made him sit in the exact spot he usually did, looking out over the glistening water.

“You see it?” he said quietly. The moon hung high above the horizon, watching them.

“…See what?” George shoveled a forkful of pie into his mouth.

“The salmon.” He pointed near the shore.

George stared along the other's line of sight, glancing between his face and the water.

Before long, he caught the sight of slinking shadows swimming just underneath the surface. The fish moved around the water in enormous schools, barely visible in the dark, but clearly there.

“Why're there so many?” George muttered, mainly to fill the silence.

“The quarry is driving them down the river.”

“Oh.” He sipped his coffee, the taste bitter.

The two sat there for a while, listening to the distant chatter and music. The salmon lapping against the water.

George vaguely wondered what Karl was doing out here. For some reason, it was weird seeing him outside of the HQ. Every time they crossed paths, it was inside the building. His image of Karl began and ended within those concrete walls.

“Do you work for the Council?”

“Yep,” chuckling, Karl swung his feet over the rock they sat on. “I take care of the archives.”

“…Sounds fun.”

The other laughed.

“It’s not as boring as it sounds, actually. There’s some cool stuff in there.”

“Like what?” George finished off the last of his pie.

Karl shrugged, humming.

“I’unno.” A coy grin curled his lips. “Wanna come see?”

For the same reason he couldn't fully identify, George accepted the invitation.

One month and five days since the Syndicate Coup 

It was a short but tense journey down the valley.

Bad tried his best to swallow his misgivings, the questions that still chipped away at his initial impressions of the two mortals. And now Quackity thrown into the foray?

It didn’t matter, he told himself. None of this interpersonal nonsense mattered as long as Skeppy could be okay in the end.

As long as he could ensure Dream’s death, he would succeed in insuring Skeppy’s life. He could come home as soon as the job was done. This was Bad’s consolation.

Just as the terrain became increasingly strewn with rocks and loose rubble, they came to the mineshaft entrance, closed off with yellow tape. Wooden signs were posted outside, scrawled with various messages forewarning trespassers.

Retrieving a narrow flashlight from his rucksack, George marched past the signs and ducked through the caution tape.

“Wait,” Sapnap called out, “guys, are we sure about this? The abandoned mineshaft's abandoned for a reason.”

Bad cut through the yellow tape with his dagger, letting it fall to the snowy ground in ribbons.

“The Syndicate ceased operations in this mine because the workers demanded higher wages,” he turned to the other, waiting for him to follow them through. “We should be fine.”

“Yeah, but it’s been, like, forever since then…”

“This is the only way we can catch up,” Bad said regretfully. “Besides, Dream went through here just fine, didn’t he?”

He didn’t know that for certain, but obviously the rogue guard hadn’t died traversing the mineshaft.

Sighing, Sapnap followed after him as he stepped through.

As expected, the mineshaft was pitch black. George’s flashlight illuminated their immediate path, though it only stretched so far.

They walked along the rusted minecart track. A series of pipes ran along the walls, stretching into the darkness. Thin cobwebs coated the aged metal, glimmering in the light.

There was a faint, but putrid smell in the air, mixing with the earthy scents of dirt and coal. Bad chose not to think too hard about the rotten stench.

As they progressed deeper into the tunnel, the grey morning light disappeared from behind them.

Sapnap brushed past Bad, boots treading the dry dirt anxiously.

“I don’t wanna be behind,” he muttered, catching up to George.

Bad didn’t mind falling back. He could see fine enough in the dark.

Quiet in thought, he recalled that the mineshaft continued like this for a while. Eventually, though, there would be an intersection of diverging tunnels. He couldn't remember which way would lead them out.

“George…” Sapnap’s small voice echoed in the tunnel.

“Stop whining,” the other echoed back, “it’s literally fine.”

Just as Bad anticipated, they came to an intersection of three tunnels.

“I’m pretty sure we just keep going straight.” He peered down the middle path. “If memory serves.”

George shined his light into each tunnel. Each path was equally dark and dusty as the other, though collapsed wooden beams blocked the tunnel on their right.

He tapped the side of his goggles.

“This mineshaft was never properly mapped. It’s best we keep heading north.”

Bad rolled his eyes, silently.

Before they could continue forward, an unmistakable hiss rang out of the left tunnel. The three froze in place, struck by the startling sound.

Again, a faint hiss, along with a slight rumble beneath their feet.

“What the fuck is that?” Sapnap whispered harshly, clinging to George’s side.

The man shone his flashlight into the left tunnel, watching the darkness silently.

A wild, ghastly screech came from far, far down the tunnel.

“Come on,” George muttered, dragging Sapnap down the middle path. Bad followed the two closely. “Just stay quiet.”

Bad couldn’t recall hearing about or running into any creatures in these tunnels. Though, at the same time, it had been many years since he last traversed the mineshaft. Anything could be crawling in these networks.

With the thought in mind, he nocked an arrow into his bow.

They came to another section where the mineshaft had collapsed in on itself, with just a small gap between the boulders and rotting wood.

Knowing they couldn’t turn back now, Bad took the charge in crawling through the rubble first.

Shoving loose beams and crumbling rocks out of the way, he emerged out the other side.

“It's safe,” he called back to the other two.

He could hear them quibbling faintly from the other side, before someone eventually began shuffling hastily through.

Sapnap held out an arm, reaching through the dusty air, which Bad tugged on until he was free.

Exhaling sharply, the younger dusted himself off and pointed the flashlight back through the opening. George joined them soon after, muttering grievances under his breath as he took the flashlight back.

They pushed on through the tunnel, which only seemed to narrow as Bad found himself hunching more than usual.

It was only a matter of time before they came to a dead end. Their footsteps thudding against dirt turned into clanking against metal.

Embedded into the ground was a small rectangular grate, its gaps just wide enough to fit a hand through.

Shoving the flashlight into Sapnap’s hands, George made an attempt to force the hatch to open, first yanking on it then stomping a boot into it.

In the end, it was a futile effort — the hatch sealed shut.

“There is no way in hell we're going back,” Sapnap whispered, clutching the flashlight with white knuckles. “We have to open this stupid thing.”

George sighed, taking the light back and pointing it down the hatch.

“The tunnel continues down there,” he muttered, standing up and scanning along the walls with the flashlight.

“Use your axe,” Bad suggested, glancing at the weapon strapped to Sapnap’s backpack.

“It won't work. It’s welded to the platform.” George crouched down, searching the ground. “We need a bomb.”

“George,” Sapnap hissed, albeit hushed, “are you fucking insane?”

To Bad, it wasn’t a far-fetched suggestion. It would be fairly straightforward to fashion an explosive from what they had at their disposal.

The real issue was alerting whatever else was lurking in these caves.

“Sapnap, use your axe to break the pipes,” George ordered, rummaging through his rucksack.

“What is wro—”

“Just do as I say, idiot.”

George produced a paper bag, slipping his hatchet out from the side of his rucksack.

After a moment of hesitation, Sapnap reluctantly retrieved his axe.

Raising it above his head, he swung it down onto the rusted pipes. The sound reverberated through the tunnels, shuddering and howling. The three listened for the hissing, or the screeching in response.

Taking the silence as reassurance, Sapnap struck the pipe again. Dropping the axe, he wrenched the broken section off the wall with a grunt.

Sighing, he handed it to George, exchanging it for the flashlight.

Bad let them figure out the pipe bomb, opting to watch their backs in case someone, or something, snuck up on them.

Between the hushed bickering behind him and the clangs of steel on steel, the hissing echoed down the tunnel once more. Bad raised his aim into the darkness.

“You almost done?” he asked, Sapnap’s anxiety starting to rub off on him.

“No,” George exhaled, standing to scan their surroundings again. “…I need sulfur.”

Bad slung his bow over his shoulder, returning to the other two.

“Give me the light.”

Hesitating with a raised brow, George handed him the flashlight.

The rotten smell in the air may not have been from any rotting corpses, Bad realized.

“Is it cold in here?” he asked, pointing the light to the ceiling.

“Uh, no,” Sapnap said, swiping at his forehead, “it’s actually pretty warm.”

Running the light all across the ceiling, Bad began backtracking down the tunnel.

“Wait, come back! It’s dark—” Sapnap scrambled after him.

“Hold on,” Bad muttered.

Before long, there it was. A yellow glint on the surface of a flat rock, lodged in the mineshaft roof.

Cheering inwardly, he handed the light to the younger and pulled a small knife from his bandolier. Scraping the rock of its color, he let the dust fall into his palm.

He returned to George and held the powder out in front him.

“There. Sulfur.”

George glanced between him and the powder, incredulous.

“How?” He opened the paper bag, letting Bad pour it on top of the charcoal he’d collected from the campfire.

“The smell.” Bad dusted his hands, wiping the knife off. “Also, it’s bright yellow. Sorta hard to miss.”

George poured the mixture into the pipe.

“I’m colorblind,” he mumbled. Sapnap stifled a laugh. “I just thought it was moss, or something…”

The two watched him twist some kind of thick tape into a fuse, placing it inside the pipe and sealing it off with his hatchet.

The clang elicited another hiss from down the cave, debris raining from the ceiling as the cave rumbled.

George exhaled, placing the crude pipe bomb on top of the grate.

“Can you light it?”

Bad retrieved the piece of flint from the day before, along with his hunting knife.

“You sure it’s not gonna blow up in my face?” he asked, half-rhetorically.

“…No promises.”

Bad supposed it didn't matter, either way.

Sapnap hurriedly dragged George and himself away from the explosive, shining the flashlight from a distance.

Bad crouched down and began striking the knife’s spine with the flint. Sparks flew in flashes. The hissing turned into screeching again. Another strike, and another.

Finally, sparks caught on the fuse and began to emit a hiss of its own. Bad sprinted away from the door, ushering the other two to step back further.

The three waited with bated breath. The fuse stopped hissing. The mineshaft was completely silent.

After a moment, George leaned over to flash the light down the tunnel. The bomb sat there, intact.

As he opened his mouth to utter a complaint, a deafening explosion shook the ground and lit up the darkness in a brief flash.

The smoke cleared as the debris settled. A hole was left where the steel bars had been, blown apart from its welding to the metal platform.

“Dude, I can’t believe that worked,” Sapnap coughed, clinging to the flashlight.

A screech nearly as loud as the pipe bomb explosion echoed from behind them.

This time, the ground didn’t stop shaking.

Bad turned back to face the darkness, squinting to make out any movement.

Before he could think to start running in the opposite direction, hoards of giant, red-eyed spiders emerged from the darkness.

“Run!”

They clambered through the busted hatch, dropping into the lower tunnel one by one and bolting blindly into the darkness with only the flashlight to light their path.

Bad deliberately lagged behind, glancing past his shoulder to gauge the mass of mutant insects chasing them.

There were dozens, pouring in from the ceiling. Hundreds of legs scurried along each wall, flooding through the narrow mineshaft. They left a trail of bile-like green venom in their wake. The sight opened a pit of fear in his chest.

There was no doubt the other two would die a miserable death if caught.

The light suddenly disappeared into the ground beneath them, Sapnap screaming as he fell.

The other two peered down, catching the light shining from an even lower level of the mineshaft.

With zero hesitation, they jumped after him. George dragged Sapnap to his feet, muttering a string of curses through shallow breaths.

“Come on,” Bad urged, picking up the flickering light off the ground.

Just as they started racing away from the sinkhole above, the spiders began raining down, limbs thumping against the dirt.

They rounded a corner, sprinting desperately to outrun the horrible stampede. In the far-off distance, rays of light illuminated part of the wall like a beacon.

“Fire!” George suddenly screamed, “Watch out!”

Abiding by his frantic order, Bad ducked his head.

Less than a second later, orange light roared over him and an acrid scent filled the air. The screeches became ear-splitting as every last mutant spider was burned into a smoldering crisp.

He collapsed to the ground, watching the insects die off in a pile behind them. As their hisses died down, the sound was replaced by the whistle of a flamethrower.

The tunnels grew quiet eventually, and the warm light faded with the whistling. Breathing heavy, Bad pointed the flashlight to get a look at their savior.

A young boy stood over them, clad in a purple hooded sweater and some kind of transparent gas mask over half of his face.

He stared down at them with fierce, amethyst eyes.

Before Bad could say a word, the boy pointed his flamethrower down at the three of them.

“Get up and drop your weapons.”

Chapter Text

The day before the Syndicate Coup

Hannah felt vindicated.

Ascending through the Syndicate HQ, she tapped a thick-soled loafer against the elevator floor.

It was undeniable, Schlatt was up to something. She’d caught his idiot secretary loitering around the Main Hall gardens, poking around places he had no business poking around.

Hannah was afraid to uncover what exactly he was up to. She resolved to report her suspicions to the Council.

Of course, that would be an uphill battle.

Sliding through the elevator doors as they opened, she marched down the corridor until she came to the lone door at the end. She rapped on the door.

“Niki?” Waiting for just a breath, she twisted the doorknob. “I’m coming in.”

The Councillor stared back at her with a perplexed frown and hand raised in preparation to say something. Upon seeing the bookkeeper enter her office, she sighed and dropped the hand back to her pen.

“How are you, Hannah?”

“Not good,” she said dryly, “guess who I saw sneaking around the gardens just now?”

Niki took a moment to respond. “Who?”

“Quackity, obviously!” Hannah exclaimed, beginning to pace back and forth in front of the desk. “They’re planning something. They’re up to no good. I need you to get the guards to search the gardens.”

“I’m not going to do that, Hannah.” The Councilor’s tone was uncharacteristically cold.

The bookkeeper stopped pacing. “What-What do you mean? Why not?”

Niki set down her pen, looking up from her work to face the other with indignant eyes.

“You need to let this go. Schlatt isn’t doing anything, they’re not planning anything, Schlatt & Co. are friends of the Syndicate. You need to accept that.”

“You know that’s not true, Niki,” Hannah's voice dropped low. “You and I have both seen the records. That man is siphoning money from the commune—“

“It’s for the people!” Niki shot up from her chair, “So many people benefit from the elixirs! So what, our-our ‘profit margins’ are low,” she mimed quotation marks, “the partnership is saving lives!”

“Saving lives, huh? What’s the point in being alive if you’re drowning in mountains of debt? Those damn potions never had to cost so much — it’s plain greed, Niki.”

“I’m done talking.” She settled back in her seat. “Get back to work.”

“Why is it that the rest of the Council doesn’t seem to care? You said you’d talk to them, when I told you things were going south…! It’s your fault we shut down the quarry.”

Niki ignored her, scribbling furiously.

“They dismissed it, didn’t they? Told you not to worry about it?”

Silence.

Hannah scoffed, “Suspicious, isn’t it?”

“Be careful what you say, Hannah—”

“You’re just afraid of the truth—“

“What truth?” Niki exclaimed, voice rising to a yell.

Hannah stared into her clear blue eyes, searching for a modicum of willingness to hear her out.

“Do you ever feel…” she trailed off, expression softening, “like you’ve lost something?”

Niki's anger gentled. “Lost?”

“A sort of… emptiness. A missing piece,” Hannah’s eyes drifted to the corner of the room, “that makes it feel like the world isn’t really there. Like it’s all just a facade.”

A quiet moment passed as her words sunk into Niki. The Councilor let out a hesitant breath.

“I understand, Hannah. This longing for something that you think you’ve lost. It haunts my sleep.” She met the other’s gaze.

Hannah held her breath, hope stirring in her heart.

The Councilor broke her gaze, sitting back in her seat with a heavy sigh.

“You come to realize that there are reasons why things become lost. If things can be forgotten so easily, could they have been so important in the first place?”

“I-I don’t—“ Her hope fizzled out.

“Why not focus on the present? We’re responsible for a thriving commune of healthy, happy people. Our lives, our duties, they’re all real, Hannah. Dreams are just that. Dreams.”

Hannah blinked, unable to return Niki’s comforting smile.

“Okay. I get it. I’ll go.”

She turned towards the door, beginning to walk away from the conversation.

“Hannah,” Niki called after her. “We will figure this out.”

The bookkeeper didn’t bother to respond. She let the door slam shut behind her.

The purple-clad boy made all three of them relinquish their packs, supplies and all, along with every last weapon into one big pile.

As George tossed his holster and stepped back, the flamethrower jerked to point straight into his face.

“Those too.”

Cursing under his breath, he slid his goggles off and added them to the pile.

The boy held out a gloved hand, letting a violet beam encase everything into a bubble. Carrying the pile with one hand and his weapon with the other, he gestured down the tunnel.

“Move. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Completely defenseless, the three hunters had no choice but to obey. They shuffled on towards the sliver of light in the distance.

Bad cycled through their options. It was three against one, regardless of the circumstances.

The problem with ganging up on their mysterious captor lied in Bad’s trust. He couldn’t trust that either George or Sapnap would follow his lead, nor did he trust their skill in hand-to-hand combat. He’d yet to see either of them hold their own in a fight, after all.

So they trudged along.

“Hey, man,” Sapnap started, “could you, like, tell us where we’re going?”

“Be quiet,” he jabbed the end of the flamethrower into Sapnap’s back. “Face forward.”

“Okay, okay!”

His trust wasn’t the only problem. On one hand, Bad could easily face the delinquent and survive unscathed no matter how relentless the fire.

On the other, he’d effectively be throwing the other two to their deaths by making any sudden moves. As troublesome it was dealing with them, it’s not like Bad was fine with letting them die. He knew better than that.

The light at the end of the tunnel grew brighter and closer, until they emerged from the darkness into a bright and luscious cavern. Long, green vines hung from the ceiling high above, offering ripe golden fruit at their ends.

The ground below them transitioned from gravel and loose dirt into stone coated with vibrant moss. Tall blades of grass surrounded a pool of water, a narrow cascade pouring down from an opening to the surface high above, sunlight streaming in alongside it.

On the edge of the water, a disc-like airship lay wedged into the ground.

One by one, a dozen or so heads poked out from mounds of stone and small bushes littered with pink and red flowers. They watched the newcomers warily, whispering quietly among themselves. Besides that, the only sound that could be heard was the flowing water.

“Hello, hunters from the Syndicate commune!”

A chipper voice suddenly cut through the ambience.

A man as green as the cavern's flora materialized in front of them, a genial smile splitting his face. Literally.

“We’ve been expecting you!”

“Slime, inform the commander of their arrival,” the boy ordered sternly.

He dragged their pile of supplies and gear to the front, dropping the field and letting everything clatter onto the ground.

“Stow these in the ship.”

“Right away, Purpled!”

Before any of the three could utter a word, the strange man enveloped the pile in a green goop and trotted away to the water.

“Keep moving.”

Far down the end of the cavern, they came to a circle of leafy canopies surrounding a bonfire.

A lone person sat on a crate, watching the fire with their back turned to them. The grass rustled as they tread cautiously. Though Bad couldn’t see their faces, he could imagine the other two were just as mystified as he was.

“Would you look at that,” the girl’s voice rang out, derisive. She stood from the crate, turning to face them with a smug smile. “Just as the prophet said.”

“Hannah!” George called out with a startling mix of shock and relief. “What’s happening? What is all this?”

“Quiet,” Purpled smacked the butt of his weapon into the other's ribs, earning a pained cry. “Let the commander speak.”

“It’s fine, they’re harmless,” Hannah said to the boy. “And stop calling me that! We’re not in space, dumbass.”

With an affirmative grunt, he swung the flamethrower over his shoulder and marched away from the canopy.

“Holy shit, finally,” Sapnap breathed, dropping his hands onto his knees.

“…You’re alive,” George muttered, cradling his side.

The girl kicked a stone as she approached them.

“Sure am.”

Bad caught a glimpse of teal sheathed at her hip.

“Never too careful. The others weren’t careful enough. Too trusting. Look how they ended up.”

“…What d'you mean?”

A callous laugh escaped Hannah.

“I tried to warn them," she spat. "They never listened. Till the last second before that bomb went off in the Main Hall, I was crazy. Just paranoid.”

“What, the coup?" George questioned, incredulous. "You knew about the coup?”

“I didn’t know it back then.” Her hand rested on the sword’s hilt. “But I saw him. I saw the secretary plant it.”

The other fell silent.

Bad decided to speak up.

“That… That slime guy earlier called us the ‘hunters’… How do you know about that?”

The grin appeared on her face once more.

“Oh, that’s just Slime being Slime… but we were foretold, too," she paused, stepping forward. "Foretold that three bounty hunters hired by Schlatt would try to stop the prophet from restoring harmony.”

“Prophet…?” Sapnap mumbled.

“Don’t get me wrong, I couldn't believe it either,” Hannah raised her hands, beginning to pace in front of them, “when I heard that you, George, would be one of them. It didn’t make sense. You worked for the Syndicate, after all, I approved your credits for crying out loud!"

She halted, turning to face George with a sharp glare.

"Why would you turn around and work for the man who betrayed and killed them? That’s the part I still don’t get.”

George said nothing.

“Unless you’re just that money-hungry,” Hannah said quietly.

“What’s your aim here, exactly?” Bad continued his line of questioning. “You and a dozen refugees aren’t enough to take back control.”

The other turned away, hand returning to her weapon.

“I know now that my nightmares were visions, too. They showed me that revolution is futile, it only ends in meaningless killing…"

She continued to pace, expression concealed by her long, curled hair.

"My duty isn’t to revolutionize. The God of this world spoke through him, told me that my duty is to ensure the prophet succeeds in his mission.” She unsheathed the weapon. “And that means eliminating the three of you.”

“You’re talking about Dream, right?!” Sapnap’s yell came frantic, lurching forward. “What's he gonna do? What’s his mission?!”

“Wait!” George held an arm in front of him, facing the sword-wielding girl. “Hannah, we… we’re not trying to kill Dream.”

Bad turned to watch him silently, listening intently along with the girl.

“I-I understand. I get those nightmares too. Totally unexplainable, insane things that you’ve never seen before. I’ve seen wars, explosions, killing…” George trailed off, inhaling. “The only reason why I took this job was to figure it out. Whatever Dream’s doing, whatever he’s looking for, it had Schlatt worried. This job… it’s the only order he’s given since the coup. I think-I think that means there’s hope, right? That Dream’s just off trying to sort it all out?”

Hannah stared into his eyes, searching.

“And you want that?” she whispered, finally.

George exhaled. “Of course I do. We’re literally living under a dictatorship.” An unmistakable uneasiness was seeping into his words. “Schlatt, Quackity… they’re responsible for so much… destruction…”

She lowered her sword.

“Have you seen Niki?"

“No,” the other said, turning away. “Everyone's gone. You’re the only one left.”

She dropped the sword, letting it rest against the soft moss.

“It’s just us.”

A quiet moment passed. The fire crackled.

“Did… Did Dream tell you what he’s going to do?” George asked, caution pervading.

Hannah peered up at him with mournful eyes, brimming with tears.

“He’s going to revive Phil.”

Chapter Text

The day before the Syndicate Coup

Quackity hadn’t been sleeping very well lately.

His opaque sunglasses concealed the dark bags under his eyes. To any outsider, he probably looked like a badass, strolling through the inner city in his freshly-pressed suit and red wool beanie. 

That helped quell his nerves.

By all means, it was a typical workday afternoon. Just past lunch, the streets weren’t terribly busy. 

It was the same with the Main Hall. A couple of older folks on an afternoon stroll through the gardens, for the most part.

The gardens weren’t guarded at this hour.

None of the Council Guard would show up until sundown.

It was their “golden opportunity”, as Schlatt had remarked the other day.

The place was scenic, that was for sure. Even in the chill of early winter, roses and chrysanthemums decorated the ground in bushes.

The trees had faded to their deep browns and reds, fallen leaves rustling into small piles along the stone path. 

Quackity found himself breathing shallow, the crisp air piercing his lungs.

“Hey there, handsome.”

His breath hitched in slight terror at the sudden voice behind him.

He whipped around to face its owner.

Exhaling, Quackity put on an amicable smile.

“Sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” he chuckled.

“I’m sure we’ve met,” the man said, a glint in his hazel eyes. “I’m the Council librarian.”

Quackity vaguely recalled seeing the other's face at some point during Schlatt’s countless visits to the Syndicate HQ, from down hallways or past panes of glass. 

He was suddenly annoyed.

It’s not like he kept track of every damn person working for the Council, much less some bookworm.

“Right, of course.” He held his hand out, politely. “Good to see you.”

The librarian took his hand in both of his, holding it still.

“Wow, so cold,” he said, “and so formal.”

Despite the frosted air, Quackity felt heat rising to his cheeks. He pulled his hand away to fix his tie.

“I’m here on behalf of Schlatt," he muttered, smile tightening. "Partnership matters. Highly confidential.”

The other's eyes were unblinking.

“Don’t worry, I know everything.”

Quackity froze, silently thanking the Lord for the sunglasses sitting on his face.

“Is that so?” he returned blankly, coughing back the anxious tremor creeping into his voice.

“What brings you to the garden, then?”

The librarian brushed past him to float a warm hand through a chrysanthemum bush.

“Just… killing some time,” Quackity cursed his choice of words, “before I, uh, head up.”

The man hummed, seemingly in thought.

He plucked a yellow flower from the bush, turning back to face the other.

“I don’t know if red’s your color,” he muttered with a faint smile, tucking the flower’s stem into the breast pocket of Quackity's suit. “I like yellow.”

The secretary failed to come up with a sufficiently aloof response, watching in silence as the man left the Main Hall and disappeared into the quiet afternoon.

Real men don't need other people
And real men suck it in

– "Real Men" by Mitski

One month and four days since the Syndicate Coup

“Let me know once you’ve reached the border. I’ll authorize your exit.”

Watching the two descend the main stairs of the HQ, Quackity dropped his smile and spun on his heel, striding back towards the elevator.

He found himself pacing inside of it as he ascended.

Two steps at a time, back and forth, back and forth.

His heart rose to his throat as the elevator did.

Walking across the carpeted floor, he found himself teetering with the soreness in his legs. He'd probably walked twenty-thousand steps a day traversing these godforsaken halls and corridors.

He hated the wasted space. The hollow concrete.

Taking in a deep breath, Quackity hauled open the office doors. The familiar scent of cigar smoke assaulted his senses, immediately.

“Took you long enough.” Schlatt’s gravelly voice found him through the smoke, his words slurred. “Any more problems?”

Quackity approached the desk with measured steps.

“I just sent them off. They should reach the north border within the hour.”

The man sat facing the window, surveying the snow as it fell over the city. He leaned against the arm of the chair, beckoning silently with the lit cigar in his hand.

The beat-up radio on his desk droned with a fuzzy tune, swaying with mellow strings and a soft flute. 

Schlatt liked these old-timey songs. The sappy ones you’d hear in black and white movies.

The ones where you could barely make out the lyrics through static because they were so old.

Quackity had come to hate them.

He rounded the side of the desk, stepping closer to the late-afternoon light pouring in from the large window, bright and grey.

He stole a glance, to find the cigar’s cap turned to him. Schlatt watched him with an ambiguous smirk.

The secretary took the roll of tobacco in his own fingers, raising it to his lips and taking a short puff out of it. A dry cough escaped him.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Schlatt took back the cigar. “The world… this city… life!” he chuckled, snaking an arm behind the other’s waist.

“It’s all ours, pumpkin spice,” Quackity laughed weakly, settling himself in the man’s lap.

“That’s right, baby…” The other's voice dropped to a near-growl. “Just a couple loose ends, that’s all…”

There were two loose ends, to be precise. Dream and Technoblade.

Quackity could infer Schlatt’s issue with the latter, having watched the pigman escape on horseback during the attack's chaos with his current whereabouts completely unknown. 

As for Dream? He had not a single clue.

“C’mon, what’s got you so scared, anyway?” He reached over to take the empty whiskey glass from the other's hand. “He’s just some crazy fuckin’ Syndicate boot-licker that can’t face the facts… right?”

“That’s just the thing, sugar.” Schlatt's eyes darkened in thought, curled horns framing his scowl. “That goddamned book…”

Quackity poured from the bottle of liquor sitting on the desk.

“What book, hm?”

“If he gets to it, everything’s going to shit…” He took the glass, taking a long sip. “My destiny…”

Cogs turned in Quackity’s sleep-deprived brain, searching for the right words to draw out even a modicum of information.

“What’s some dumb book gonna do, Schlatt? Nothing can bring you down now. You’re a king.”

A low chuckle came from the man, which no sooner turned into a roaring laugh.

“You have no idea, Alex… no idea…”

Quackity was growing more puzzled by the second, struggling to navigate the other's senseless ramblings.

It was a game he was far too familiar with, though it was also a game that only Schlatt seemed to know the rules of. As a result, there was no winning. Just the endless hope for a bearable loss.

Which, Quackity came to accept, was a win in itself.

At last, he decided it was time to be direct.

“I wanna know about this book,” he whispered. “Tell me more.”

Schlatt all but ignored him, a slight smirk belying.

“Find Technoblade yet?” he returned, evenly.

“…Still working on it,” Quackity muttered. “Think I’ve got a lead, though. Gonna look into it tomorrow.”

The man held a vice-like grip on his shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss on his head. 

“Don’t disappoint me again.”

Quackity took it as a win.

One month and five days since the Syndicate Coup

His shoulders felt lighter after seeing George and Sapnap reunited.

Together with Bad, they would be kept safe. No more cold, no more snow, no more late-night messages scaring the shit out of him, no more suffering.

He wouldn’t be helpless to their tired complaints of hunger, thirst, fatigue — forced to just listen from the other side of the screen. Bad would take care of them. They’d be fine.

Closing his communicator and leaving his desk, Quackity readied himself for that day's errand.

He rode the elevator down to the hangar, where the Syndicate’s last airship was kept. It was a small thing, but would do just fine to get around the map.

Slotting his comm into the dashboard, he let the engine roar to life. 

The screen lit up in tandem. With a few quick swipes and selections, he set a course for the smidgen of a solitary island in the south.

He was going to need more information if he wanted to find Technoblade.

Whatever was left here at the HQ wasn’t enough, he needed someone else who knew him.

Though the pickings were slim.

One of the first things Quackity did once Schlatt took over the Syndicate HQ was to dig through the CCTV archives.

The next thing he did was snoop around the underground floors, hidden from the public and only ever accessible to the guards and the Council. 

It was good that he did those things in the order he did, otherwise he may have succumbed to that crazy fucking emerald just as Bad’s friend had. Probably worse, actually.

As he scrubbed through tape after tape, lo and behold, Quackity could hardly believe his eyes seeing the very man who broke into the Syndicate's underground floors in a failed attempt to steal said emerald, laughing alongside the unkillable assassin he’d been tasked to recruit.

Digging further, it became pretty clear that the two went way, way back. 

Decades of CCTV footage from all around the city caught sightings of them causing their respective mayhem. Night after night.

Their combined list of crimes was near-exhaustive, ranging from petty theft to homicide.

It was intriguing, to say the least.

What really caught Quackity's attention was the footage of that particular night, when the Syndicate was thrown into chaos by the unforeseen security incident.

The images had been corrupted by a combination of time and overexposure, but unmistakably, it was Technoblade who'd uncovered the intruder in the emerald's chamber.

Unmistakably, he picked up the unconscious man and left the room.

Unmistakably, nothing came of that particular incident.

Drifting over cerulean waters as the engine hummed steadily in the background, Quackity couldn't help but smile to himself. It must be his lucky day.

He’d be killing two birds with one stone — finding Technoblade and figuring out what that weird-ass emerald was for.

He just needed to make sure everything went off without a hitch.

With the ship, it didn’t take long to reach the island. Quackity opted to park by the beach, and trek the rest of the way. 

Though he wasn’t really anticipating any danger, he plucked a revolver from the ship’s reserves and stuffed it in his pocket. Just in case.

The island was quaint. A nice change of scenery from the concrete walls of the HQ.

It was only then, walking through the snowed-in woods, that Quackity realized he hadn’t been outside since his impromptu rescue mission to the tundra.

That hardly counted as an outing, though. The blizzard had been bone-chillingly miserable.

The air here, though still cold, was refreshing. The scent of pine and seawater was a vacation for the senses, dulled by the city's dry dust and smog.

Soon enough, he stumbled upon the brick and stone cottage. The warm glow of a fire could be seen from the window.

Dusting his suit and smoothing his hair, Quackity knocked on the door. 

A moment passed in silence.

“Who’s there?” 

A hesitant voice came muffled from behind the wooden door.

“I’m here on behalf of Executive Schlatt,” he began, “I was the one who invited your… friend, to join the manhunt for the rogue guard.”

He paused, leaning his face between the door and its frame.

“You’re Skeppy, right?”

Another moment passed in silence. 

Before long, a series of locks clacked open in succession before the doorknob twisted and creaked open, revealing the elusive intruder himself.

“What do you want?”

His tone was hostile. The sparkling glints in the cracks of his skin caught Quackity’s eye.

“May I come in?” he asked, stepping past the threshold and into the warm home.

“Wh-What, no?” The other shuffled aside, powerless to stop him. “Answer my question.”

Quackity paced across the wooden floor, eyeing the furniture and the trinkets strewn about. 

A colorful knitted blanket. A small stack of leather-bound books. A dented toolbox, with an oil-stained rag laid across it. A tall bolt of fabric, with a pair of scissors. A pair of wooden rackets, with no ball. A wicker basket filled with clothes, of various shades of blue. An old clock on the wall, ticking quietly in the background.

“…Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Thanks,” Skeppy said flatly, shutting the door.

“I assume you two built this?” He ran a hand along the back of the plaid couch. “Bad’s such an interesting guy… I had him all wrong at first. He can do a lot more than just kill.”

“What would you know about Bad?” The other flopped onto the couch, arms folded.

“Easy, pal,” Quackity chuckled, palms raised in defense. “I’m just doing him a favor here. How’re you holding up?”

“Oh, really?" Skeppy smirked, incredulous. "I talked to him last night, y’know. We don’t need you to be some… mail pigeon.”

“Right, well, in that case,” the secretary cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders, “how about I just cut to the chase?”

The other shot him a quizzical look. “Okay?”

“You know Technoblade.”

“Yeah, and?”

Quackity paused, narrowing his eyes at the other. “Do you… Do you know what, like, happened? With the Syndicate?”

Skeppy shrugged. “Sure.”

This jackass. “Just answer the goddamn question!”

“I just did, bro! What, you expect me to keep up with the local newspaper, or whatever? Who do you think I am?”

He gave a curt chuckle.

“You’re the motherfucker who trespassed into the Syndicate Headquarters to steal a magical fucking emerald that shoots people with its own fucking shards–” he stepped forward, jabbing an accusatory finger, “and you’re also the motherfucker that Techno-fucking-blade himself scooped up and escorted right out the goddamn building, with no further incident reports."

A wry chuckle escaped Quackity.

"So who do I think you are? I think you’re Technoblade’s only fuckin’ friend right now.”

Skeppy never once broke his glare, the glassy glint in his eyes boring into the other’s.

“Just get to the point.”

Something about this guy was really getting on his nerves.

“He disappeared a month ago. Been off the grid since," Quackity muttered, standing upright. "I’ll bet my ass you know where he might have run off to.”

Skeppy guffawed. “I’m not telling you shit, dude.”

“Oh, you wanna do this the hard way?”

Quackity reached into his pocket.

“You know if anything happens to me, you’re fucked, right?” From his pocket, the other produced some kind of brick with buttons. “I’ll tell on you.”

A coy smirk appeared on his face.

Quackity hesitated, staring at the brick. “What is that?”

“I’ve got Bad on speed dial, by the way.”

His heart sunk in realization. This was an oversight.

“Okay, just relax, we’re having a normal fucking conversation, okay? Don’t need to bring anyone else into it.”

“Not even your boss?”

Quackity furrowed his brow.

“Something tells me this isn’t just work…” Skeppy’s expression turned sly, “it’s personal.”

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. 

“What—”

“‘Cause why would you show up here, in person, by yourself? You could’ve just sent a drone like before.” Still holding the relic of a comm, Skeppy stood up from the couch. “What are you doing here, really?”

Control the situation. 

Despite his efforts, an uneasy chuckle escaped him.

“You think you know everything, don’t you? All of this is way bigger than me or you, you've got no idea, pal.”

The other’s stare never once faltered, an impossibly brilliant glint in his eyes.

“Bullshit.”

The dial tone rang out on speaker.

Fuck.

“Wait! Stop!” Quackity lunged out to grab the comm, stumbling when it was swiped away from his reach. “Hang up, just hang up! You’re right, okay? I’m on my own. Schlatt doesn’t know I’m here.”

Skeppy ended the call before it could be answered, eyeing him curiously. “Why're you looking for Techno?”

Hesitating, the secretary sighed and sat on the edge of the couch.

“I need answers, all right? About that emerald. About this-this fucking book that Schlatt won’t tell me shit about.”

The crystalline man was quiet, seemingly in thought.

“Why?”

Quackity exhaled sharply. “Why what?”

“You’re going behind your boss’s back, on your own little detective mission. Why’s that? Hm?”

He had a feeling Skeppy already knew the answer, given the smug smirk plastered on his face.

Quackity chose not to give him the satisfaction of admitting to his treachery. 

“It’s all connected.” The fireplace burned brightly in front of him. “I think, anyway. You, the emerald, Technoblade, Dream, the book…”

“Dream?”

“It’s who they’re after. Rogue guard, searching for some book… that Schlatt really doesn’t want him finding.”

Skeppy tossed his comm onto the lacquered coffee table, sitting back down and pulling his knees to his chest.

“You’re kinda losing me here, dude.”

“I wanna know what the big fuckin’ deal is…” Quackity’s eyes flitted between the other’s and the gash in his neck. “…and I wanna find it first.”

Chapter Text

Several years before the Syndicate Coup

Purpled woke up with no memory of the crash.

His ship was unresponsive and his headache wouldn't go away.

He’d landed in some skyless place. Surrounded by foreign vegetation. 

The atmosphere was relatively breathable, though not completely. 

He was alone.

For a few days.

A strange voice had called out to him from the water.

“Hello, Purpled from UFO!”

He'd been startled, brandishing his weapon in defense. How did the aliens know his name?

“Who goes there?” he called back. “Show yourself!”

The slime alien appeared from the pool, goop slithering through the weeds and congealing into a grinning humanoid.

“Good to see you.”

Purpled did not hesitate to fire.

The slime scattered across the ground, settling for a moment before the man regenerated.

“Woah, easy there!” He raised his hands. “I come in peace! Haha!”

“Are you here to kill me?”

“It’s funny you say that, honestly, but no,” the slime alien shrugged. “Consider me your fellow nonhuman friend, okay?”

“How… How do you know my name?”

Purpled aimed his blaster at the other's face.

The alien smiled, head tilting to one side.

“You don’t remember how you got here, do you?”

He didn’t.

“You don’t remember a thing from before a couple days ago, right?”

He didn’t.

“I can help you get settled, Purpled from UFO.”

The alien stretched his arm out in front him, slime dripping from his open palm and onto the ground.

“Dap me up!”

Hannah had left the three hunters to assure the rest of the cavern-dwellers that they had come in peace.

For the first time since the night before, they ate a warm meal, courtesy of the former bookkeeper.

It was some kind of sweet stew, fixed together from the glowing berries that grew in the cavern. Even Bad found himself savoring the dish, despite having no need for it.

No one had said a word since Hannah’s disconcerting revelation.

“That was pretty convincing,” Bad broke the silence first, loudly, “all that stuff you said about Dream.”

Uttering the rogue guard’s name in that moment felt like slicing a knife through bone.

Sapnap seemed to wince in accordance, peering back and forth between the other two over the rim of his bowl.

Vulnerable without opaque lenses to hide his eyes, George opted to cast them downward. Even still, Bad could see his expression twisted deep in thought.

He said nothing.

Bad quietly hoped that, for George’s sake, he was bluffing to Hannah about sparing Dream.

Otherwise, they’d have far more problems than a poor team morale.

“We all agree she’s crazy, right?” Sapnap said in a hushed voice, mitigating the tense silence. “All of that… All of that was just conspiracy talk. Right, George?”

The other continued to ignore, looking out towards the cavern pool with a distant thought in his eyes.

“We need that ship.”

“George.”

Sapnap stood up with a start.

“Tell me what’s going on. Do you know something?” He grabbed George by the shoulders, forcing him to meet his stare. “Is it true?! Is Dream doing something good?!”

The other wrenched himself from his grasp, glaring.

“I don’t know Sapnap, wasn’t he the one who killed Philza in the first place?” 

Though phrased like a question, it sounded more like a statement.

“I-Wh—”

The younger fizzled into a sigh, running his hands through his hair and scoffing.

He began to walk away, before spinning around with an exasperated groan.

“Fine…" he growled. "Fine! I lied, okay? Is that what you wanna hear?”

Bad sipped on the sweet soup, silently spectating the scene unfolding before him.

Out of all the reactions that he anticipated to come out of George in that moment, he never thought it would be a coy smirk followed by a mirthful chuckle.

“I knew it the whole time, you idiot,” he sneered.

Sapnap huffed, letting his hands drop to his sides. 

“What is your fucking problem, dude?”

“You thought I believed your little story?”

“Don’t change the subject—”

“What lie did you tell?” Bad chimed, earnest.

Sapnap turned to face him, agape as if he’d forgotten the demon had been sitting there.

“It was-It was barely a lie," he stammered, "I just needed a reason for him to let me come with him, that’s it.”

“So why are you here really, then?” Bad felt frustration teeming in his own voice.

“Yeah, Sapnap,” George chuckled, arms folding over his chest, “why are you here?”

A puzzled look flashed across the younger’s face, eyes flitting between the two before landing on George in a scowl.

“You sneaky son of a bitch, you’re just trying to get the heat off your back!”

Before the fighting could escalate further, Hannah returned with Purpled in tow.

George’s taunting expression faded as he stood up and started towards them, pushing Sapnap out of the way.

“Is that your ship?” he asked.

“Irrelevant,” the boy retorted.

Hannah batted his shoulder.

“…It’s mine,” he mumbled.

“Does it work?”

“No,” Hannah sighed, “he crashed it and hasn’t been able to get it working.”

“I-We can fix it,” George nodded to himself. “We can take it up north and catch up to Dream. Help him see it all through, or, whatever,” he spoke quickly.

Hannah glanced at Purpled, who folded his arms stubbornly.

“Some human couldn’t possibly comprehend the complex systems and engineering—”

“Purpled!” the girl exclaimed. “This is our chance. We don’t have to just sit back and hope anymore, we can go and help.”

The boy seemed to consider the notion.

“You can go back to… the moon, or wherever you’re from,” Hannah’s voice softened.

Purpled arched a brow, a moment passing in thought before returning to glare at George. 

“Fine.”

Bad wasn’t entirely sold on the whole “alien-from-outer-space” gimmick, but he felt more inclined to believe it considering the crashed ship.

The three had silently agreed to shelve their argument for the time being, instead opting to focus on retrieving their gear and finding a way out of this place.

Under the watchful eyes of Hannah and Purpled, they made their way to the ship by the water.

George approached what looked like the front of it, crouching and staring for a moment.

“Is this where the engine is?”

“If you mean the energy core, then yes,” Purpled muttered.

George turned to Sapnap, gesturing to the ship with a nod.

“Help me open this.”

Hannah left shortly, reassured that it seemed like they were getting a start on what they’d promised.

Purpled remained, leaning against the ship with a keen eye on George as he worked.

After a couple of minutes of poking around the engine, he stood up with a sigh.

“I need my goggles to run diagnostics.”

“Too bad,” the boy muttered, twirling a serrated dagger, “figure it out.”

“Do you want my help or not?” George snapped back. “Just have one of the idiots go get it.”

Bad stepped forward.

“I’ll go. I’m not of much help here anyway.” Neither is Sapnap. 

It was a bluff either way, but he was picking up on what George was putting down.

The boy sighed in defeat.

“Fine, go. Five minutes and I come after you.”

Nodding, Bad rounded the side of the ship. The side door slid open automatically, a platform extending to let him step in.

The inside of the ship was dark and dusty, the sunlight from the cavern’s opening barely reaching inside. It was like he'd never left the mineshaft.

Bad hurried to locate their things, eventually ending up at the ship’s bridge.

There, right near the console, all of it sat in a pile.

He hurried over to rummage, trying to work out a sound plan in his head while doing so.

They needed the ship to be up and running, so he couldn’t go back out there guns blazing just yet.

Bad had no idea if George truly possessed the skills and knowledge to fix the ship or not, but he knew he had no choice but to trust him.

Difficult, considering he couldn’t tell his lies from his truths.

Retrieving his obsidian dagger, he stowed it in the inner pocket of his cloak.

Just as he picked up George’s goggles from the pile, he heard the muffled trill of a familiar ringtone.

After a moment of scouring through each bag and pocket, he finally found George’s communicator from his rucksack.

Bad mulled over whether picking up the call would jeopardise their chances further or serve as an unanticipated beacon of hope.

Deciding he had enough time to determine the outcome, he answered the call.

He never thought he’d be so happy to see Quackity’s face appear out of thin air.

“Bad?” The other's brow furrowed, perplexed.

The demon shushed him, glancing over his shoulder.

“Listen, we’re in trouble. Can you send a drone or something to our coordinates?”

“Huh? I can barely hear you, what’s going on? Where’s George?”

“I don’t have time, hurry—”

“Bad!”

Another voice called out his name from the background.

“Oh my god," Skeppy’s radiant smile appeared beside Quackity. "I can’t believe I’m looking at you right now.”

Bad's heart sunk into the pit forming in his chest.

“Skeppy…” he exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath the entire time. “Wh-What, why…? Where are you?”

“I’m home, don’t worry–” He was always good at being reassuring. “This jerk just showed up here and won’t leave.”

“Why…” Bad trailed off, thoughts racing. “…Quackity! What are you doing there? Answer me!”

The secretary waved a hand in front of the camera, chuckling.

“Nothing, nothing! I’m just checking up on your boyfriend or whatever, all right? Schlatt doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“Liar! Stay away from him!” he hissed, bordering on a shout. “Skeppy, don’t listen to a word he says. You stay put, got it?”

“I got it, Bad…” Skeppy droned with a faint smile.

“Just-Just-”

The sound of approaching footsteps snapped Bad out of his nagging.

“We need help! Copy our location—”

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” Skeppy peered through the screen, brows knitted. 

He hadn’t intended to let the other know that they might be in danger, but it was too late for that.

Quackity filled the screen once more.

“Hey, what'd you say—”

“I knew it!” Purpled’s voice echoed from the corridor, “It’s the secretary!”

Before Bad could disconnect the call, his vision was empurpled and he was frozen in place.

He only regained sight upon crashing onto the titanium floors of a cramped cell, columns of thin lasers forming a wall behind him. 

It didn’t take long for the boy to round up the other two, throwing them into their own holding cells.

“You scumbag traitors had the commander fooled, but not me,” Purpled hissed.

Bad shuffled in front of the lasers. “Listen, it’s not what you think—”

“Quiet!” He pounded a fist against the corridor wall. “The commander will deal with you.” 

With those words, he stormed off the ship with resounding stomps.

Bad patted his pockets. The comm wasn't in his hands anymore, but he still had his dagger.

And by some miracle, stuffed into the same pocket were George’s goggles.

“What happened?” the man himself exclaimed from across the corridor.

Bad glanced both ways, careful of the lasers, before turning back to face the other. 

“Quackity called you while I was going through the stuff.”

“And you answered?!” George yelled, irate.

Bad sighed. He recognized, interanlly, that it wasn’t the smartest move on his part.

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” he muttered, “did you fix the ship?”

“I can’t know until I have my goggles,” the other retorted, through gritted teeth, “or activate the ship.”

He pulled the device from under his cloak, still wary that Purpled may be listening.

“I have them right here.”

“Great, thank you so much. Let me just — oh, wait!" he laughed, derisively. "I can't exactly achieve that without losing the rest of my damn fingers, now, can I?"

“You have a serious attitude problem, you know that?” Bad hollered back. “Whether you like it or not, we’re in this together. We need to figure this out together—”

“Just shut up so I can think—”

“Can you guys stop fighting?” Sapnap murmured from the cell beside George.

The two fell silent, each slumping in their cells in defeat.

It was only a matter of time until Purpled would return with Hannah in tow, and they would be trapped here for good. They needed to figure out a way to bypass the lasers. A way to escape.

Slipping off his glove, Bad reached a hand into the thin streams of purple. 

To his surprise, the zap of the laser left a sharp sting in his palm. He grumbled to himself, concluding that escape wasn’t an option even for just him.

As they sat sulking with only the electric hum to fill the silence, Bad thought of Skeppy. 

He'd never expected for him to pop up beside Quackity. Not in the slightest. Though maybe he should have anticipated that. Planned for that.

Seeing them side by side was almost surreal. He couldn’t recall Skeppy having a regular, productive conversation with a mortal. Or anyone, for that matter. Besides himself.

He was still stuck wondering what business the secretary could possibly have at their home.

There was no way to know for certain if Quackity was telling the truth about Schlatt not knowing or knowing anything.

For all intents and purposes, Bad was at his mercy.

Miles away from home, underground in some cave, trapped in some rundown spaceship in a tiny holding cell with no chance of escape.

At the same time, he couldn’t help but feel like he could trust Quackity more than either George or Sapnap in this moment.

It was hard to say if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“I see you are trapped in Purpled’s UFO.”

An unheard presence made itself known, startling all three of them.

Bad peered out between the lasers, meeting the eyes of the slimy humanoid from earlier that day.

“Can… Can you help us?”

The other returned a blank stare.

“I heard you talking to Quackity just now,” he began, distantly. “Is he well?”

Bad wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Um," he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, he’s good.”

The slime chuckled, sighing.

"Ah, always with the explosives, that guy…” he trailed off in thought. “I guess you all just end up going back to what you know. Right?”

The ghost of a smile flashed across his face. Slime dripped onto the floor.

“Hey, slime dude?” Sapnap called out from his cell. “…You think you could help us out?”

The man looked towards him, seemingly in consideration.

“It saddens me,” he began quietly, “that out of all of you, he never seems to stray from the path.”

He stepped towards the lasers, stretching an arm across the vertical streams of light. They whined, impeded by the slime that formed a narrow gap.

Snapping out of trying to decipher the slime man’s words, Bad crawled through the gap and out into the corridor.

“I’m going to go out there and distract them.”

The man lifted Bad from the floor, a newly dire look in his glossy eyes.

“Take the ship, make sure your friends don’t die, and stop Dream at all costs.”

Before Bad could utter even a word in gratitude, the man dissolved into the ground and disappeared from the ship.

“Bad!”

The sound of his name coming from George’s voice pulled him out of his stupor.

He promptly scanned the walls, searching for some kind of control panel. A touch screen panel lit red by the doorway.

With little hesitation, Bad drove his dagger straight into it, shards of glass raining onto the floor.

The ship darkened once more as the purple lasers disappeared, George clambering out of his cell first.

Bad handed him his goggles.

“Thanks,” the other muttered, sincere for once.

Securing them over his head, he began running down the corridor towards the bridge.

Despite being well-equipped with four holding cells, the ship was small. It didn’t take long for them to reach the console.

George made a beeline to it, pressing buttons and tapping screens in an effort to bring the ship to life. 

Sapnap gathered his rucksack and axe, posting himself near the ship’s door. 

Bad picked up his gear too, slinging his bow and quiver over his shoulders as he approached the console.

“How’s it look?” he called out.

Blue and lavender screens suddenly bloomed to life all around them. The engine roared before settling to a low whirring.

REBOOTING…
00:01:58.64

“Two minutes,” George exhaled, one hand pressed down on a button and the other pushing against a lever. “Just hold them off for two minutes.”

Bad rushed to join Sapnap. They peered out the door's window, watching for the inevitable arrival of Purpled or Hannah.

“You’re gonna have to shoot if they show up,” Sapnap said, quietly.

Bad readied his bow.

“I know.”

Nearly thirty seconds passed in silence, save for the whirring engine.

By the time another thirty passed, the sound stuttered and the lights flickered.

“Hey! Listen,” George called out. “Bad, get over here, now!”

Without a second thought, the demon made his way to the console.

REBOOT PAUSED
NETWORK ERROR

“What happened?”

George hadn't moved, still holding the button and leaning against the lever.

“I need you to open that panel–” He gestured below the console, “and do some hotwiring. I’ll tell you how, just be quick about it.”

Retrieving his dagger once more, Bad crouched down and pried open the steel panel. Behind it was a multicolored cacophony of weblike wires.

“H-Hey, Bad?” Sapnap called after him, “Bad, you gotta come back! They’re here!”

The younger brandished his axe, stepping back from the door.

“There’s no time,” George hissed, turning to Bad. “Find my gun and give it to him.”

“You can't be ser—”

“Now!”

Bad rummaged through the remaining pile of gear to uncover George’s pistol.

“Catch!” he yelled, tossing the weapon at the other. 

Sapnap fumbled to catch it, nearly dropping the thing before grasping it steady in front of him.

“Wait, hold on, I don’t-I don’t think—”

The ship doors began to open on their own.

“Sapnap,” George snapped, craning to look Sapnap in the eye. “I trust you.”

Bad returned to the wires, tapping George’s leg. “Tell me what to do.”

The other leaned back from the console, eyes narrowing. “Okay, okay… cut blue.”

Bad rested his knife against the blue wire, hesitating. 

“…You know what blue looks like?”

“Yes, idiot, do it!”

Wincing, he cut the wire.

Nothing exploded.

“Okay, now do red.”

He cut the wire. “Now what?”

“You have to expose the copper on each and twist them togeth—”

“George!” Sapnap yelled frantically. 

He was backed up against the wall, the gun held low. Multiple, running footsteps trampled the ground just outside the ship.

“How did you escape?!” Purpled’s voice echoed.

Working quickly, Bad carved away the cable jackets and foil with his knife. The conductors sizzled and sparked in retaliation, his fingertips merely tingling.

As he twisted them together, the ship whirred in response.

REBOOTING…
00:00:09.38

The screens flashed with the updated countdown.

The sound of a gunshot tore through the corridor.

“Holy shit holy shit holy shit—”

The gun clattered to the floor.

Just as the screens updated once more, the ship began to move beneath them.

The side door slammed closed and Sapnap slid down the wall, wedged between it and the floor.

“You okay?” Bad swept the gun off the floor, clicking on the safety.

“I shot him,” the other whimpered, eyes bulging.

Just on the other side of the ship’s impenetrable steel, Hannah was crouched beside Purpled, lying still in the lush green moss.

There would be no further attempt to stop their escape.

“Is-Is he-Is he dead? Did-Did I kill him?”

Turning away from the window, Bad shook his head in an attempt to console the other.

“No, no, it’s fine. You did good.”

The ship lurched violently, knocking Bad off his feet.

"Hang on!" George yelled. "We're taking off!"

Chapter Text

Real men keep cool in the face of a fire
Go down with the ship

– "Real Men" by Mitski

The day after the Syndicate Coup

Quackity hated being underground.

The corridors were so cramped down here. The rooms awfully claustrophobic.

The walls weren’t embellished like the upstairs floors, just plain concrete.

It was quiet too. Hauntingly so.

He’d make this trip a short one.

Rubbing his weary eyes and fixing his hat, he unlocked the door.

Stepping into the cellar, he shut it quickly behind him.

Quackity wasn’t sure if she’d moved at all since they brought her down here. 

She sat in the corner, facing the wall and hugging her knees to her chin. Judging by the untouched tray of bread and cold stew, it seemed she hadn’t.

“You should probably consider eating, or you’ll starve before Schlatt decides you’re of no use to him.”

The coldness in his own voice startled him.

The girl was silent.

“It doesn’t have to be like this.”

Quackity approached the corner.

“It’s Niki, right?"

He forced a chuckle, as if this were a soirée.

"Just tell us where Technoblade went, and you’re free to join the rest of us above ground. You can be a part of the Executive’s empire.”

Glacial silence seized the cellar.

“You killed them all…” she whispered, barely. “Why didn’t I listen…?”

“H-Hey," Quackity exhaled, "let’s not get it twisted. We had nothing to do with the vast majority of the killing, all right?"

She began to weep.

“Hannah…”

A weary sigh escaped him.

God, what was he doing?

He’d barely had time to breathe in the last couple days. 

A part of him wished Connor was still around — to be a compadre, as Schlatt would say, with a smirk.

Another part of him cursed the deadpan accountant for leaving the business. For leaving Quackity to deal with the messes by himself. To pick up the pieces by himself.

This wasn’t how he thought things would go.

As this realization dawned on Quackity, in the cold basement of the Syndicate HQ, he wondered if Connor had felt it back then.

The sinking feeling of losing sight.

“Listen,” he began, quietly, crouching on his ankles. “Just tell me what he wants to know and I’ll let you go, okay? Take a boat out to sea, run to the woods, I don’t care. I’ll erase the footage, no one'll ever know.”

A moment passed as the former Councilor’s cries became silent.

Slowly, she turned to glare at the other, clear blue eyes piercing into his skull.

“You may have taken everything from me,” she seethed, “but I will protect the hope our people have for what we’ve built. Until my last breath.”

Quackity felt his heart in his throat. 

“You think I want this?” he hissed, an exasperated chuckle tumbling out of him. “He’s going to make me kill you. He won’t do it himself, he’ll have you killed by me, is that really what you want?”

“Do it.”

Her eyes were hollow.

“Then see what you want.”

“I knew it! It’s the secretary!”

“The fuck—?” 

Before Quackity could get a look at the shouting voice in the background of the call, Bad disappeared from the screen and the call ended in a flourish of static.

“Bad? Bad?!”

Skeppy tore the comm from his hands, yelling frantically at it. He turned to the other, expression twisted in anger.

“You told me he was safe! Isn’t he supposed to have backup?!”

He chucked the device into Quackity’s chest.

Scrambling, he opened his GPS to find out the hunters’ current location. Searching the map for their signal, it turned up blank. 

“I can’t see them.”

“What do you mean, you ‘can’t see them’?!”

Quackity took a deep breath.

“They’ll be fine. It’s just bad timing.” He closed the comm. “Shit like that happens all the time.”

An attempt to get Skeppy on his side had sorely backfired on him.

“You’re such a liar,” the other muttered, curling back up on the couch. “I know he’s fine. Bad won’t let anyone mess with him.”

He better not let anyone mess with dumb and dumber either, Quackity thought to himself.

“I’m sure he’ll call back…” He leaned back as he sat on the far end of the couch. “Look, in the meantime, help me find Technoblade. I gave you what you asked for.”

Skeppy was turned away from him, looking quietly out the window. He hugged his body, hand resting over his neck.

“I’ll bet he can help you with that,” Quackity added.

“With what?”

“Whatever that emerald did to you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. Bad’s already kinda taking care of it.”

His words came out inquisitive, cognizant that Quackity should already know. He did, of course.

“So you’re just gonna sit tight and let him do all the work? Like some stay-at-home wife? What is this, the fifties?”

“Shut up, dude.”

“Get up and do something! You’re not made of glass, dumbass!” Hook, line — “Besides, you’ve got me.”

Skeppy guffawed, brow raised at the other.

“Is that supposed to be convincing?”

“You know what I mean,” Quackity sighed, tone softening. “I help you, you help me. I wanna do right by Bad, by everyone, all right? So help me do that.”

Skeppy grew quiet once more, in thought. 

Sighing at last, he unfurled and stood up from the couch. 

“Fine. I’m coming with you.”

Sinker.

Skeppy put out the fireplace before they left. Quackity watched him from the front door, tapping a shoe against the hardwood.

He fidgeted with a flip-top lighter, letting it click to life then snap shut. Again and again.

Soon enough, they left the house and began walking back towards the beach.

“You got a boat or something?” Skeppy mumbled, trailing behind.

“Even better,” Quackity remarked sarcastically, reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket. From it, he pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

He caught one with his mouth, flipping open the chrome lighter one more time for its sake.

It was noon by the time they arrived at the coast. The sun shone through sparse clouds, snow glistening on the beach.

“You weren’t kidding,” Skeppy paused, studying the ship parked in the sand.

Quackity exhaled a long stream of smoke, flicking the cigarette butt to the ground and kicking the sand to bury it. He pulled out his comm, tapping the screen to open the ship’s doors.

Taking in one last breath of the fresh, salted breeze, he stepped inside and made his way to the console.

“Where we heading?”

He booted up the engine, letting it hum in the background as he slid his comm into the dashboard and opened the GPS.

“Can you promise you weren’t lying before?” Skeppy joined him, the confident coyness in his voice nowhere to be found. “About… doing right by us, or whatever?”

Frowning, Quackity hesitated before meeting the other’s probing eyes. The bygone chill of a concrete basement crawled down his spine.

He inhaled sharply. “I promise.”

Skeppy searched his eyes, brow furrowing.

“I don’t have a crazy bullshit-detector like Bad does… so,” he stepped towards the GPS, “I’ll take your word for it.”

Quackity watched him scroll through the map, dragging it north past the city until the screen was filled with nothing but white. He thought the display had glitched for a second, before coming to an awful realization.

“A long, long time ago, before everything with the Syndicate, he lived out here,” he circled the general area. “If I had to guess, that’s where he’d be.”

Quackity could hardly believe what he was seeing. 

The fucking tundra? 

“I’ve been there,” he said. “I’ve seen an empty cabin. Was it his?”

Skeppy shot him a look. “Uh… I dunno. There used to be a village out there, too.”

Humming, he opened the GPS waypoint history, selecting the second to last one and letting it pop up on the map.

“This is where it was.”

Skeppy stared at the waypoint, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’unno… I remember his place being further north, to be completely honest.”

Quackity sighed. “Swear you’re not bullshitting?”

“I’m not!” he exclaimed. “Why were you out there, anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he created a new waypoint slightly north of the abandoned cabin, setting the course. “Buckle in.”

Never in a million years did Quackity think he’d have to go back to that horrible fucking wasteland. He prayed that the storm had subsided.

As they traversed the sky, he kept an anxious eye on the fuel gauge. They were good for a roundtrip, at least. 

He found himself feeling somewhat grateful for Skeppy’s tagging along. Going into this — whatever he was doing behind Schlatt’s back — he was expecting the worst. Stuck with his own thoughts for hours on end, chasing far-off leads.

He wondered if that was how George felt at the start of all this. Alone and lonely.

“Why’d you do it?” 

Skeppy’s voice came from the other side of the ship. Quackity snapped to glance over his shoulder.

“Do what?” He watched the other warily.

“Attack the Syndicate,” he returned blankly, lying across a bench.

“I didn’t—” Quackity stopped himself, turning back to the console. “It’s just politics, man.”

“Lame.”

“What? What do you want me to say? That we were bloodthirsty? News flash, the only person Schlatt killed was Philza. He wanted power, that’s it. End of story.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What did you do for power?”

The ship wavered. Quackity ignored him, drumming his fingers against the helm. 

Acid boiled in his chest, rising to his throat with a crease forming between his brows as he glared out into the horizon.

“I don’t have any fuckin’ power.”

“So, what happened to the guards?” Skeppy pressed on, making unapologetic small talk out of the morbid subject. “I heard about it. From Bad.”

A shallow breath escaped Quackity.

“Dream. Dream killed them.”

“Why?”

“That’s what we’re trying to fucking figure out, jackass!" he snapped at the other. "Can you be quiet? I’m trying to not fucking crash into a mountain here.”

“Okay, okay… no need to yell…”

The rest of the trip was silent. The mountains turned into forest again, and the forest turned into a blank white expanse.

Quackity breathed an uneasy sigh. The blizzard had cleared, but the tundra was blank white for as far as his eye could see. He quietly resolved to keep heading north.

“I’m bored,” Skeppy announced after a while of blissful quiet. “Do you have games on your comm?”

“Are you kidding me? How fucking old are you supposed to be?” Quackity turned to shoot him a blatant glare.

The other was still lying on the bench, playing with the sleeves of his sweater.

He breathed a dramatic sigh, turning towards the wall. 

“I miss Bad.”

Groaning to himself, Quackity turned his attention back to flying the stupid ship. 

A gasp tumbled out of his throat when he saw a speck of color in the distance.

“What, what? What?” Skeppy ran up beside him.

“Is that-Is that-”

“That’s it, has to be!”

They headed straight towards the landmark. Hope began to rise in Quackity’s chest with each passing second, as they approached closer and closer. 

Soon enough, a solitary cabin came into view. The place sat in the middle of a circling wooden fence, sectioning off a small portion of the vast tundra. The fence connected to a rocky cliff and the edge of the woods.

“Holy shit…” Quackity braced himself for landing.

“Um, is rolling up in an airship right by his house really a good idea?”

“It’s literally a Syndicate ship. What’s the worst he could do?”

“You’ve obviously never met the guy,” Skeppy chuckled.

“Oh, I have,” he muttered back.

The cold wind howled against the ship, a draft seeping in. Quackity cursed himself for not bringing a coat.

He turned off the engine, plucking his comm from the console and striding towards the door. 

“All right, let’s do this.”

Despite the clear, blue sky, the tundra was just as cold as it was the other day. The sunlight reflecting off the snow was fucking blinding, too. 

Drawing a breath through his teeth, Quackity slid on his sunglasses and wedged his hands into his armpits. They stepped through the wooden gate, which was unlocked.

“You good?” Skeppy side-eyed him, strolling through the snow like it was a grassy park.

“It’s cold as fuck.”

They stepped up to the porch.

Quackity leaned over to peer through the window. Between the blinding snow and his dark glasses, he couldn’t make out shit. 

Sighing, he gave three firm knocks against the door.

The two waited in silence. From the other side of the door, heavy footsteps approached. 

With a distinct feeling of déjà vu, a longer series of locks were undone before the door creaked open.

Technoblade towered over them in the doorway, giving Quackity a sweeping glance and huffing.

“No axe?”

Quackity wasn’t sure what he was expecting, coming to face Technoblade after all that had gone down with the Syndicate’s bitter fall. He couldn’t even remember whatever it was that he was going to say upon seeing him. 

Either way, he didn’t know how to interpret the pigman’s dry remark.

“Huh?” he murmured, dumbfounded.

“Techno!”

Skeppy leapt from the porch and pounced onto him, wrapping him in a hug. 

Technoblade was frozen in place, seemingly incapacitated. He patted the other’s shoulder mechanically.

“Nice to see you, Skeppy,” he said monotonously, “you can let go now.”

“I-We-Uh,” Quackity struggled to gather his words. “You've got a lot of explaining to do, Technoblade.”

“Do I?" the other mused. "I take it you’re not here to kill me and-or take me prisoner?”

Skeppy burst out in effervescent laughter.

“We couldn’t do that even if we tried.”

Quackity glowered at him, feeling more than slightly undermined. “I could, I just don’t want to.”

“Let me guess.” Technoblade turned back into the cabin. “Schlatt doesn’t know you’re here.”

“W-What? How—“

“Come in and shut the door, it’s gettin’ cold.”

Skeppy followed after the pigman, stepping past the threshold with a gleeful skip in his step. 

Quackity remained on the porch, unable to hide his bemusement.

How could Technoblade have known that? 

Quackity was the one who saw everything, who knew all the secrets they’d hid in those concrete walls. 

He oversaw the operations of the Executive's administration, pulling strings behind the screens, juggling both Schlatt’s bidding and his own goals.

The goals once promised to be part of a magnificent destiny.

Or so he'd thought.

Breathing a deep sigh, he stepped into the former Councilor’s home and shut the door behind him.

Chapter Text

Three weeks since the Syndicate Coup

Technoblade liked the cold.

The cold was uninviting. Solitary. Quiet.

It meant safety, far from mortals and destruction alike. This is what he told himself.

It was strategic. It was familiar.

He wished Phil could be here too.

The blizzard had been raging outside since earlier that day. Slowly, the sky had darkened to signify the late afternoon falling into night.

It would be a cozy evening, with the fire to warm his lodge.

In spite of this hope, there was a knock at the door.

Sighing, he retrieved his sword. Who could possibly be on his porch, in the middle of a complete whiteout?

He hesitated in front of the door, briefly considering the options. He came up with a three-in-four chance of a favorable outcome.

Upon opening the door, it became clear that luck wasn’t on his side.

Snow immediately rushed inside, the wind howling violently. On his doorstep stood Dream, shivering and clutching a bloodied leg.

“Techno,” he began through chattering teeth, pushing his wooden mask away from his face. “Long time no see.”

Wordlessly, the pigman stepped aside to let the man hobble inside. He gravitated to the fireplace, nestling beside it.

“Run into some unexpected weather?” Technoblade mused, disappearing into the kitchen. He put on the kettle.

A shuddering chuckle wheezed out of Dream. “You could say that.”

“Didn’t realize it was snowin’ bullets out there,” the pigman remarked, eyeing the apparent wound in the other’s leg.

Another strained laugh. “Very funny…”

His eye glowed fiercely green through the fire’s balmy glow. Without the mask, the angry scars marring the side of his face were visible in plain sight.

The guards had put up a valiant effort against Dream, having succeeded in inhibiting his depth perception and dexterity, at least. At the same time, Techno wasn’t sure — he couldn’t gauge exactly how advanced the man’s bionic implants were.

All right, maybe the guards failed miserably in stopping him. To be fair, the attack came out of nowhere for them. They were caught off guard, one could say.

The kettle began to whistle. Technoblade poured two cups of tea.

“You need help with that?” He handed one to Dream.

The other took it graciously, seemingly having forgotten about his bleeding leg.

“Oh, this? Don’t worry, it’s not fatal.”

“…If you say so.”

Dealing with Dream was never easy.

No matter how many times Techno found himself in this exact scenario, he could never get the hang of this one-on-one. A game of chess, back and forth, dancing around each other's words.

“How’re you holding up out here, hm?” Dream sipped on the tea, despite its boiling steam.

Techno hummed. “Yep, fine. Same old, same old.”

“I’m sorry about Phil.” An askew smile appeared on his cold-reddened face. “You know how it goes.”

The pigman paused to scoff. “You’re terrible at apologies.”

Dream raised his steel arm defensively, the other clutching his teacup.

“C’mon, I’m still getting the hang of all this.”

“A slow learner, too? Pick a struggle, man.”

Manic laughter racked Dream's body, dying down in a sigh. “This is fun. Are you having fun, Blood God?”

There it was.

“Honestly?” Techno figured this probably wasn’t the best response. “Not really.”

The other’s smile fell abruptly. “What’s wrong? Feeling a little too lonely?”

“You tell me.”

Something shifted. Dream’s small smile returned, his gloved hand returning to the wound. 

“I owe you one, Technoblade.”

Something shifted in the former Councilor too. 

“Mind if I call in that favor right now?”

“Be my guest.”

“You’re the guest here, actually, but sure.” 

Techno stood up from his chair, slowly trotting towards window as he looked out into the grey blizzard mist.

“When you reach The End, bring me to limbo. Let me speak with the False God, directly.”

“He is not false!" Dream exclaimed, voice quivering. "His words hold truth, His guidance brought me here, sheltered me from the cold…” he spoke, voice nearly hushed, almost dire.

“Unless… are you finally surrendering your worldly tethers?”

“Sure, let’s go with that,” the pigman exhaled. “…I trust you’ll put an end to Schlatt’s government.”

There was no question, just expectation.

“Of course,” the other said, with certainty, “but why do you wish to leave now? Things have been so interesting…”

“I’d argue the opposite, actually. I’m gettin’ bored of the same old, everyone-dies-in-the-end story.” Techno turned to watch the other’s neon green eye. “Besides, plot armor kinda defeats the point of an underdog.”

The sly smirk appeared again. 

“You, of all people, should know how much fun the killing is, Blood God.”

Techno gave the man an astute look.

“Sure, but it’s no fun if I’m not the one doin’ it.”

The other cackled, “Getting FOMO, are we?”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” the pigman responded, flatly. “Does a true God have to puppeteer his sole prophet into carrying out His will? I’m not so sure about that.”

Dream's face fell.

Techno turned to gaze out into the snow storm once more. 

“Does he know what fate his friends have suffered?”

“They're not my friends, Blood God. They're glorified placeholders.”

“This isn’t a game.”

The man burst out in roaring laughter. 

“But it is! The best game ever! My game… that will never, ever end.”

“I think you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

Dream's movements grew lethargic.

"I’m just saving him from his suffering. It was once My suffering, too…”

With a quiet chuckle, he collapsed onto the rug.

“…Sweet dreams, nerd.”

After ensuring that he was definitely, for sure out cold, Technoblade slipped on his cloak and left the cabin. 

He began to trek south, braving the storm.

If his calculations were correct, whoever put that bullet in Dream’s leg was either long dead and frozen in the snow, or hiding out in one of the abandoned cabins nearby. 

He opted to place his bets on the cabins.

It wasn’t long before he caught sight of an axe lying on a porch. 

With some effort, he was able to open the barricaded entrance. Just as he’d expected, two bodies were huddled together in the middle of the cabin.

With a heavy sigh, Technoblade approached them.

Of course. Who else but George and Sapnap?

Crouching, the pigman picked up the familiar communicator off the floor.

“Please help…”

Techno looked up, meeting the younger's golden eyes, dull and rheumy with sorrow.  

“Please…?”

Silently, he opened the comm. The screen flickered to life with an SOS that had failed to send.

Tapping on it, he moved over to the corner of the cabin. Message loading, he raised the comm to the ceiling.

By some luck, the message was delivered after an arduous moment.

Exhaling, Techno returned to the two, placing the comm beside them on the couch.

“Help is coming.”

He left the cabin as he’d found it.

“Get me off this fucking thing, holy fuck, I’m gonna puke, I’m gonna puke, get me off, get me off—”

Bad was learning very quickly that Sapnap did not deal well with flying.

“It’s fine, just calm down, it’s—”

“I shot him, I fucking shot him, I killed him-I just killed someone, I’m gonna throw up—”

Bad really did not want him to throw up.

“Listen to me, Sapnap.” He grasped the other’s shoulders in an attempt to make him look at him, to no avail. “Everything’s gonna be fine, all right? Just don’t think about it too much. People die all the time.”

For some reason, nothing he said seemed to help. The boy just cried harder, curled up on the ship's floor hundreds of miles in the sky.

Eventually, Bad gave up and tore himself away to stand. He approached the console, where George piloted the ship in silence.

“Let me take over,” he began, leaning over the panel to make sure the other wouldn't ignore him. “You need to go say something to him.”

Though he couldn’t see the other's eyes, his lips were pressed in a firm line and he gripped the helm with white knuckles.

Bad, still in possession of the man’s weapon, flipped it around and grasped it tightly by the barrel, holding it out expectantly.

“George—”

“It’s on autopilot.” 

Snatching the gun, George spun on his heel and left the console. With a perplexed huff, Bad took over.

Their destination had been set to a point just west of the tundra. A screen in the corner of the windshield displayed their ETA. 

Two hours and twenty-seven minutes.

Just as George said, the autopilot was engaged.

Bad didn’t even have to do anything, he could leave the console as is and go do something else.

But what?

He could hear the other two under the engine's hum, Sapnap sniveling quietly while George mumbled incoherently. Things sounded calmer now, at least.

Bad chose to leave them be, opting to watch the horizon instead.

After a while, he found himself leaned against the dashboard, lost in watching the landscape fly past. 

The sun was setting somewhere ahead, casting a tranquil backdrop of orange and pink. The wisping clouds tinged red, a sign of warmer days ahead. 

He took the moment to shut out the world. A much-needed moment of respite from the day’s chaos.

His mind inevitably drifted to Skeppy. What could he be thinking right now? He’d seemed so unsure when Bad left, reluctantly trusting that Bad would keep himself from harm’s way.

Bad could envision the other’s disappointed face now. Disappointed that he’d been so careless as to getting caught in danger. Right before his eyes, no less.

His gaze flickered down to their ETA. One hour and eighteen minutes.

Rubbing his eyes, he stole a glimpse over his shoulder. George and Sapnap were quiet now, both resting against the ship’s wall. 

They leaned on one another, huddled together and evidently exhausted. It must have been cold on the ship.

Bad turned back to the windshield view.

As the colors dissipated into twilight, the red clouds deepened into crimson.

They caught his eye.

He felt himself sinking into them, into their rich, vivid color.

The steady hum of the engine lulled in another hum. A low, warm hum that soothed his aching soul. 

He leaned further into it, the red sheen of the horizon just over yonder.

The ship churned. Bad gasped, steadying himself against the helm. 

Their ETA was stuck recalibrating, the autopilot disengaged.

Snapping to his senses, he steadied the ship against the sudden turbulence. The sky was dark as ink, hard rain pelting against the windshield.

It didn’t take long for George to push past him and take over. 

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! I-I don’t know what—”

Something reminiscent of a gunshot sounded through the ship, tilting everything to one side. An alarm began to blare.

“Thunderstorm!” George shouted, “We have to land!”

Before Bad could begin to wonder where the unforeseen storm had sprung from, the ship began to descend rapidly.

He dropped to the ground in an attempt to save himself from being flung around like a bug in a jar. Straining, he held onto a screaming Sapnap, anchoring them both.

Silently bracing for impact, he prayed that George knew what he was doing.

It ended up being that the anticipation was worse than the landing, as the underside of the ship ground against concrete, sending rough tremors through the entire structure. Steel creaked and tore in deafening scraps.

After several long and fearful seconds, the cacophony of noise subsided and was replaced with the sound of rain lashing against the ship’s exterior. Something fell outside in a grating crash.

Bad stirred, taking in a cautious breath. He released his grip on the strap of Sapnap’s backpack, sitting up to check on his unmoving form. 

The boy was still breathing, to his relief.

He twisted to look towards the ship’s console, where George laid on the ground, clutching his head and seemingly getting his bearings.

“You okay?” Bad called out, squinting in the dark.

Slowly, George stood up, wobbling. He leaned against the console, staring back at him. 

“…Yeah.”

Bad dragged Sapnap’s pack from his shoulders, rolling the boy onto his back. He was muttering faintly under his breath.

George stumbled to the ship’s side door, pounding a fist against the panel. 

The ship whirred weakly in response, the door beginning to creak open before freezing midway.

“Hold on,” Bad said before the other could think to slink through the gap.

George blinked, eyes widening in realization before staggering towards them. A gash near his hairline dripped blood down the side of his panicked face.

“Is he—”

“He’s fine, just passed out,” Bad said quickly, flinging a limp arm over his shoulders. “Help me get him out.” 

If the ship hadn’t been destroyed the first time it crashed, it definitely was now.

Rain poured from a darkened sky, thunder rumbling in the distance. 

They had landed on the roof of some high-rise, the ship’s front wedged into the stairwell entrance. One of its wings lay detached on the ground.

“Sapnap.” George shook the other by his shoulders, voice hoarse. “Wake up.”

He groaned, eyes fluttering open then closed again.

A moment passed in silence before he reeled to the side and threw up.

“Ew, what is wrong with you?!” George shrieked, jerking back.

Sapnap coughed, sitting upright.

“Ugh… that was fucked…”

Bad left them and made his way towards the roof's edge. He gazed out over what looked to be an entire city — with tall and darkened buildings stretching towards the sky, the ghost of twilight on the horizon.

Though the city was pitch black, seemingly void of all life as night fell, a twisting overgrowth of crimson red vines clinging to each and every structure painted a terrifying image with their sheer volume.

Bad’s heart sank.

George walked up beside him, wiping the blood from his brow.

“I think we’re in some city half an hour out from where we were headed—"

He froze upon laying eyes upon the infested cityscape.

“Red snakes…” he whispered through the hissing rain, barely audible.

Bad snapped to look at him.

“…You’ve seen this?”

The other's gaze flickered between him and the city.

His eyes flashed with fear for a fraction of second, before dulling as his expression dissolved into a scowl. 

“You crashed us.”

“I did not—”

“I told you it was on autopilot, you literally didn’t have to do anything.”

“I-I…” Bad trailed off, unable to come up with a response. “I’m sorry, okay? I must have dozed off or something, the storm came out of nowhere.”

“Whatever, it’s too late now–” He sauntered towards the other edge of the building, leaning over to peer down. “We need to get out of this rain.”

Bad sighed, making his way to Sapnap, still sitting by the crashed ship. 

“Are you okay?”

The boy ran his hands through his dampened hair, nodding groggily.

“I’m good.”

The demon watched him for a moment, brow furrowing. 

“…Does Puffy know you’re out here?”

The question seemed to have blindsided the other. Golden eyes blinked against the rain. 

“Uh… no…?”

Bad breathed another sigh. He looked out over the rooftop, beady eyes scanning the puddles of rain that dotted the surface. 

Something wasn't adding up

“Is it cold right now?”

Sapnap paused, idly cupping a hand into the falling rain. 

“…It’s warm.”

“Warm?” In the middle of December?

His train of thought was interrupted by George calling out to them, “Over here, idiots!”

Bad helped Sapnap to his feet. They gathered their gear and joined George by the edge.

“Dude, what the actual…” Sapnap began, looking out over the city. “What is all that?”

George ignored him, staring ardently along the building facade.

“We can get inside through here.”

One by one, they dropped down onto the rickety fire escape. They were high above the wild crimson tendrils clinging to the building's lower storeys.

With some effort, they were able to open a window into an enclosed balcony and slip inside of the apartment unit it was attached to, sheltered from the weather at last.

Wordlessly, Bad set down his satchel and bow, occupying himself with the menail task of getting a fire started.

The other two searched the barren place, checking for any scraps of supplies or signs of life.

“Totally abandoned,” Sapnap remarked, returning to settle onto the small couch in the living room with a thin blanket in tow.

“No power, either,” George sighed deeply, collapsing into a dusty dining table chair and patting his hair with an equally dusty towel.

“What now?” the other muttered.

Bad tossed the last of an old notebook into the fire, standing up to retrieve his gear. 

“You two keep an eye out–” He started towards the window. “I’m gonna see if I can find some food.”

Chapter Text

One week before the Syndicate Coup

Phil usually wasn’t this quiet.

That being said, he was generally a reserved person. He kept to himself. Worked diligently. 

But he still cracked jokes, talked with anyone who’d approach him, had laughs. Labeling him a quiet person wouldn’t be an accurate assessment.

And Technoblade knew him well.

Things were tense as of late at the Syndicate HQ. Ever since Niki brought up the bookkeeper’s concerns about the Schlatt & Co. partnership a couple months back, it had seemingly set the ball rolling.

It was getting to him, too. The pigman found himself stewing.

He had a bad habit of leaving things to stew like that. Leaving things unsaid.

Thinking of Niki and the bookkeeper, he resolved to not let things stew further this time.

Phil would often disappear into the underground floors at some point after lunch, with the implicit understanding that he'd return later. Today was no different. 

Technoblade found him in the concealed meeting room, circling the ornate roundtable with his hands clasped behind his back.

The balmy glow of magma illuminated the room, bubbling underneath the stone and glass floors.

Deep in thought, the man's eyes were hidden by the brim of his hat.

“Phil?”

The other paused, looking up to meet the the pigman's eyes with an affable smile. 

“Hey, mate.”

Technoblade approached the table, pulling the hems of his scarlet cloak together.

“Gettin’ your steps in?”

Phil chuckled, heartily.

“Just doing some thinking.”

The pigman hummed, peering down at the round grooves in the table edges. 

“I’ve been thinkin’ too,” he paused, feeling the expectant silence. “...think we’re losing sight of our purpose.”

Phil looked up from the table, brows raising. “Purpose?”

“Sic semper tyrannis," Technoblade returned flatly.

A lopsided smile appeared on the Councilor’s face. 

“We haven’t lost sight," he chortled. "We succeeded, Techno. All government eradicated.”

The pigman let out a weary sigh.

“I also think you could use some self-reflectin’.”

The other’s expression faltered, brow furrowing over cobalt eyes. 

“You know I’ve done nothing but reflect now. Reflecting on our work, reflecting on the past, the future—”

“Then you should know what my problem is,” he interjected, grimacing. “Phil. We’ve become what we sought to destroy.”

The man laughed, as if he'd been told a joke.

“The Syndicate isn’t a government, mate," he chuckled. "Everyone is free to do as they please—”

“Phil, Phil… come on. Just look around you.”

There was something so disheartening about the other's lack of understanding. A bitterness seeping into their undying friendship.

“You can call it a commune all you want," he began, tone steeling, "it’s a municipality all the same.”

Phil fell silent. His hands returned behind him and he began to circle the table once more, the sleeves of his emerald robe trailing like cicada wings.

Technoblade followed suit, watching his pensive expression contort with recollection.

“Karl said something odd to me today,” Phil started, quietly.

That was never a good sign.

“What else is new?” the pigman huffed, sarcasm hiding his apprehension.

The other paused, standing still in the lava's glow.

“He asked me how my son was doing.” 

Phil lingered by the corner of the table, waiting for a response. He got none.

“...I told him, ‘son? What son? I don’t have kids’.” A warbling chuckle escaped him.

Technoblade held his breath, settling at the opposite corner and turning to watch the glass. Gurgling magma filled the silence.

“We’ve known each other for centuries,” Phil muttered, turning to face the pigman. “Surely you must agree. That I’ve never had a son. Right?”

He didn't meet the Councilor's eyes.

“Unless I'm mistaken,” the man continued. “Is there something I'm… missing? You’ve always had a better memory than me, mate,” he exhaled another laugh.

“Karl's always sayin' things, Phil. You know that.”

“He knows things, too,” Phil retorted. “Things that seem so clear, yet I know nothing of. He uncovered those journals from Ranboo’s home dimension, dedicated all his time to that research—”

“Phil. You shouldn’t worry about it too much,” Technoblade interrupted. “Maybe… Maybe you should take some time off next week. Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

“No,” the other said firmly, striding towards the door. “I have business to attend to.”

“Ooh! Cozy…” 

Skeppy immediately took to claiming the armchair by the fireplace, wrapping himself in a knitted blanket.

“Yep, make yourself right at home…” Technoblade muttered, sauntering past and through to the kitchen.

Quackity lingered by the front door, arms folded as he scanned the place. 

He had to be careful here, on his own in the middle of nowhere with two reckless immortals. The likelihood of uncertain death was simply too high for comfort.

Stepping cautiously into the foyer, he muttered a half-hearted prayer under his breath.

“So,” the pigman's voice called from the kitchen. “What brings you two nerds to my humble abode?”

Quackity peered around the corner, watching the former Councilor as he sat at a small wooden table with a mug of tea in his hoof-like hands. There was an open seat across from him.

In spite of it, the secretary opted to lean against the wall.

“I have questions.”

“Of course you do." He sipped the tea.

“Don’t play smart with me, pal.”

“That’s a bit of an ask when it comes to speakin’ with you, Quackity.”

Before he could shoot back a curse-filled response, Skeppy appeared like a phantom beside him, chuckling.

“Your name is Quackity?” he exclaimed, slinking into the empty chair. “Like a duck? That is the dumbest—”

“You’re one to talk, fuckin’ Skeppy," the other spat, "what even is that?! What’s a Skeppy?!”

The crystalline man giggled, turning to Technoblade with a smirk.

“Dude, what happened with your guards? I heard they all killed each other.”

“Um, actually," the pigman began, "it was only one of them that did the killin’.”

“Oh, right, I knew that… but why?" Skeppy questioned, before jabbing a finger to the bystander. "This idiot doesn’t know anything.”

Quackity shot him an unseen glare.

Technoblade breathed a deep sigh, setting down his mug.

“Well… long story short, Dream didn’t want any of ‘em gettin’ in his way–" Inexplicably, he took on a scholarly tone. "He employed a strategic tactic to use the cover of attack in order to get geared up and leave.”

“Why don’t you tell us about that book he’s after, huh?”

Quackity marched up to the table side, situating himself between the two friends.

“Book.” Technoblade parroted, flatly. “What do you already know?”

“Doesn’t matter—”

“—Nothing.”

At his interjection, Quackity shot another look at Skeppy, who only grinned coyly in response.

Technoblade nodded to himself.

“The Tome Vitae. Known simply as the Revival Book.”

The cabin fell silent, save for the whistling wind and crackles of the fire.

“Revival?” Quackity huffed. “You’re kidding me.”

The pigman sipped his tea.

Skeppy chuckled, arms folding against the table. “All right, all right, so what is it really?”

“I wasn’t joking,” Technoblade deadpanned. “Why do you people insist on interpreting my statements as jokes and my jokes as statements?”

“No… what…?" Quackity murmured. "That’s-That’s just impossible, you’re lying–"

He slammed his palms onto the table, leaning over it.

"You’re lying!”

A book that can bring people back from the dead? What kind of magic fantasy bullshit was that?

Acidic irritation rising in his throat, Quackity’s mind instinctively jumped to Schlatt.

If this ridiculous notion was true. If this ludicrous thing existed somewhere in this world.

It would explain Schlatt's hellbent desire to have Dream out of the picture.

Quackity felt himself reeling in horror as the pieces fell into place. Suddenly, everything that never made sense was instantly given bitter clarity.

A million questions followed this realization. Chief of which being — why would Dream want something like that?

What would come of it? What was Schlatt afraid of?

Then it hit him.

“Is he trying to resurrect Philza?”

Quackity stared at the pigman, the absurd question tumbling out of his mouth.

Techno raised his hoof-like hands in a blasé shrug.

“I’unno what’s goin’ through that guy’s head, man. Real wild card individual, that Dream.”

“Hold on, wait a second,” Skeppy waved wildly, smile fading. “So, Dream’s the good guy?”

“It’s a little more complicated than good guy or bad guy, Skeppy…” Techno reproached.

“Bringing back a magical old man healer from the dead sounds like a pretty good thing to me,” Skeppy said. “And you’re saying Bad is out there hunting this dude down just so that Schlatt guy can stay dictator?”

“Pretty much," the pigman muttered, "give or take a few details."

“We need to tell him! Call off the manhunt,” Skeppy turned to Quackity, brow furrowed, “right?”

The secretary’s hand drifted to the golden chain hidden beneath the collar of his shirt, staring out the window and into the blank white expanse.

A moment passing in silence, he turned to Techno with a grave frown.

“Schlatt said that whatever Dream was looking for belonged to him,” he said, in almost a whisper. “…Is that true?”

“I mean, not really… the Revival Book has exchanged many hands, it’s…” The former Councilor hesitated, shifting in his seat. “It’s hard to say who it truly belongs to. Either way, you guys really don’t want Dream gettin’ the book first.”

“Why not?”

“He’s… not all there. It won’t end well, if he gets that kind of power all to himself.”

Quackity tapped his shoe against the hardwood floor, humming and twisting the chain of his necklace between his fingers.

“…You’re saying we need to confiscate it.”

Technoblade grunted. “Don’t you have, like, three people already doing that.”

The other suddenly snapped out of his rumination, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“W-What? How do you—”

“—Okay, so we tell Bad all this so he can get to the book first and keep it safe. Obviously.”

“Easier said than done, Skeppy,” the pigman mused. “Though I get the feelin’ those guys aren't too keen on this whole manhunt thing, anyway.”

Quackity's eyes darted between the two immortals, exasperated.

“Can you explain how the fuck—”

“You’re right. Bad only took that job because of me,” Skeppy sunk into his seat, frown deepening. “Dude, that Schlatt guy is messed up… he basically manipulated Bad into doing his dirty work for him…”

“Like I said, shades of grey, Skeppy.”

“Can you assholes let me speak?!” Quackity snapped, irritation spilling over. “How the fuck do you know all this shit?”

“Call it wisdom,” Technoblade sipped his tea, leisurely, “accrued over years and years and years.”

“Okay, okay, whatever,” Quackity muttered, rubbing his temples in an attempt to organize his thoughts. “…The emerald, the emerald. What's the fucking deal with that emerald?”

“Yeah, Techno," Skeppy chided. "The whole reason why any of this is happening is ‘cause of that emerald, y'know.”

“I’d actually argue the whole reason why any of this is happenin’ is ‘cause you broke into our guarded and locked basement with the intent to steal my stuff," the pigman retorted, evenly, "but to each their own.”

“I said I was sorry,” Skeppy rolled his eyes, huffing. “I’ve been paying for it ever since, anyway.”

He gestured to the gash in his neck, thin cracks webbing up to his face.

“I know, I know,” the other relented. “Look, the emerald isn’t really relevant to the subject at hand here…”

“Oh, I think it is, very much so,” Quackity sneered. “That thing is obviously some kind of weapon of mass destruction. What are you still hiding, huh?”

“It’s a dysfunctional relic. Broken, cursed. What else is there to say?” Technoblade grumbled.

“Explain.”

The pigman sighed. “Can we have, like, an intermission or somethin’?”

“No!” Quackity shouted, slamming the table again. “Tell us now.”

Technoblade gave the secretary a vacant stare.

“It was created to protect Phil.”

A puzzled look appeared on Skeppy’s face, onyx eyes gleaming in the waning daylight.

“How? It was just sitting in that room…”

“It was corrupted, a long time ago. But that was its original purpose–” He returned to his mug, taking a sip. “Now it just holds his memories.”

“What memories?” Quackity scoffed, shoulders squaring.

Technoblade shook his head slightly, exhaling.

“Look, I’m really not the one you should be askin’.”

“Then who?”

The pigman hummed, rubbing his chin. His brow furrowed, ever so slightly.

"You could go and bother Foolish, I guess.”

Skeppy and Quackity exchanged silent looks.

Neither of them had a clue as to what the Councilor was talking about.

“He created them. The emerald, I mean,” Technoblade cleared his throat. “You’ll find his temple out in the desert.”

“Wait, what?” Skeppy shot up from his seat. “Does that mean he can cure me?”

The pigman stared up at him, blinking. 

“Uhh… I never really considered that, to be completely honest.”

“I mean, if he made the emerald, surely he can reverse its effects,” he turned to Quackity, smiling. “If I’m fixed, Bad can come home.”

Quackity paused, struggling to parse the metric fuckton of information that had just been dumped onto him.

“…Right…”

“And if Bad stops that Dream guy from getting the Revival Book, we can bring back your friend, Techno,” Skeppy began to pace now. "Then we get this Foolish guy to fix his emerald, which'll fix me, and protect old guy so he can bring back the Syndicate, boom! Problem solved.”

Technoblade nodded to himself, humming. 

“That actually kinda checks out, for the most part.”

“It’s too good to be true,” Quackity exhaled, shoulders aching with tension. “There’s a million different things that can and will go wrong.”

“Yeah?” Skeppy arched a brow at him. “Like what?”

“Dream isn't just some guy. He's a scary motherfucker,” the secretary turned to meet the other's eyes. “If they run into him out there, he’s not gonna be pulling punches seeing… whatever Bad is, coming after him.”

“I don’t know if you’re keeping up, but Bad literally can’t die,” Skeppy scoffed. “Isn’t that the whole reason you hired him in the first place?”

“I don’t know if you’re keeping up, asshole, but he isn’t alone out there. He has two humans with him, who both nearly died because of Dream once already–” Tone rising steadily, Quackity felt his buried resurfacing from the snowy wasteland.

“And don’t give me any of that ‘greater good’ bullshit.”

“I wasn’t gonna,” Skeppy crossed his arms, frowning. “Did you forget? There’s a literal book that can bring people back to life out there. If anyone dies, we can just bring them back.”

“Okay, hold on–" It was Technoblade’s turn to interrupt. "You’re kinda glossin’ over a lot of the implications here. You can’t just go revivin’ people willy-nilly. That artifact is extremely dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“It was never meant to exist.” The pigman stood up from his seat, leaving the other two and approaching the window. “Its power corrupts. Absolutely. If you want your plan to succeed, you need to convince Foolish to help you contain it.”

“What about you?” Skeppy said. “Can’t you come with us?”

“It’s not my place,” he answered flatly.

Quackity buried his face in his hands and groaned. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. 

The concept of immortal beings was already hard to swallow on its own, but all of this magical mystical nonsense about life and death and power and corruption was starting to grate on his nerves.

It was like listening to one of Schlatt’s manic tirades, bloated with the same lofty, abstract concepts.

Once upon a time, Quackity revered destiny and power. Now, it all felt empty. As empty as the concrete fortress that once held those promises.

“All right, we’re done here,” he said finally, starting towards the door.

“Not so fast,” Technoblade called out as he passed the fireplace. 

Before Quackity could turn around to answer, he found himself knocked to the floor in a disoriented heap.

“What the fuck—?”

Technoblade towered over him, holding a silver trident mere inches from his face.

His typically deadpan expression was newly twisted with a quiet vengeance, a deep scowl looming like a storm.

“Quackity, you must pay for your tyranny.”

Chapter Text

Two weeks before the Syndicate Coup

“It’s getting worse.”

“I’m not interested.”

A dry wind drafted in through the sandstone walls. The torches flickered.

“Come on, throw me a bone here! I can’t do this alone.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I can’t do shit,” the other’s voice echoed harshly. “Oh, right, sorry, you probably forgot the last ten thousand times I told you that.”

“That’s a low blow, man.”

“What happened to figuring out the time travel thing? Going back to zero?”

“...I can’t. I–” he paused, clutching his chest. “I’m too weak.”

“...You should have just kept it to yourself.”

“Huh?”

“Why involve the others?!” he snapped. “Why keep dragging them into our mess?!”

“I-I didn’t have a choice—”

“Oh, spare me.”

Silence.

“Listen, I’m going to make this work. I’ll use the last of my power to send Ranboo back—”

“—He’s not gonna like that—”

“—so I really need you to have his back at the Stronghold.”

“Why can’t you have some sense? Don’t you see you’re overextending? At this rate you’ll forget everything. You’ll leave behind a shell of yourself. There'll be no way to restore you.”

“I didn’t wanna say it, but you owe it to them to at least try.”

“I don’t owe anyone anything.”

“What is your problem, man? You asked for my help first, now you want me to do all the work?”

“Just stop.”

“...I can’t keep letting them suffer.”

A callous scoff.

“You’ll forget.”

By the time Bad climbed all the way down the fire escape and leaped over the crimson vines onto the short roof of some shop, the rain had subsided and left behind it a humid haze.

The scent of dampened soil was muffled by the overwhelming miasma of iron that filled the streets.

He struggled to make sense of the weather, let alone anything else that had happened that day.

For the countless years he’d roamed on this earth, he’d never once encountered something as perplexing as warm summer rain in the middle of winter.

Even the alien and talking slime, he could get behind. But this weather? The vines might as well be spelling out bad news.

The streets were overrun with vegetation, the tendrils spilling out of storm drains and wrapping around abandoned vehicles.

Broken glass littered the ground-level storefronts. Runoff rushed downhill into the broken road, concrete crumbling to reveal the sewers.

Evidently, the entire city was infested with not a soul in sight. Completely desolate and left to rot.

Bad knew the vines were mostly harmless on their own, as long as he kept his distance.

Since his initial encounter lifetimes ago, he’d never once spotted the vines outside of that crater.

As he walked down the barren road, Bad racked his brain to conjure up the image of that ancient place. 

It couldn’t be anywhere near here, he reasoned. Though it wasn’t completely out of the question.

Perhaps the crimson crawled out of its home deep in the canyon and found this city. Corrupting the people in it and driving them mad.

Bad glanced over his shoulder every ten steps. The breeze drifted past like whispers.

He eventually came across what appeared to be some kind of broadcast station, topped with a wiry tower that rose into wisps of dark clouds. Out of simple curiosity, he stepped over the blood vines and hopped inside through a broken window.

On the off chance there were any survivors or supplies, he bet that he’d find them here.

In the end, a couple packets of beef jerky from a busted vending machine was all he had to show for the detour.

He’d yet to come across any creature. Not even a bird or insect. Something told him it wasn’t happenstance.

The vacant streets were slightly unnerving. He could hardly see ahead of him, having to rely on the dim yellow glow supplied by the large, red flowers bloomed out of the vines. 

Sighing, he dug around in his rucksack for his comm.

To his surprise, there was a message from Skeppy.

u good????
bad
baaaaadddddd

He typed out a quick response, the hollow clicks of each letter echoing in the fog.

yes yes i’m fine don’t worry
sorry a lot going on

Bad stood in the middle of the street, watching the screen for a reply.

With another heavy sigh, he gave up on waiting and continued walking. It wasn't long until he came to a park.

If he stood any chance of finding some game, whether it was a rabbit or a squirrel, it would be here. Nocking an arrow, he scanned the field closely.

Up ahead, he caught sight of a strange mound laying in the grass, distinct from the bushes and blood vine clumps.

He approached it cautiously, bow raised with its string held taut.

A deer lay dead in the grass, mummified by snakelike tendrils. Maggots crawled between its flesh and the vines that impaled its body.

Bad decided it was time to head back.

Just outside of the apartment building they had crash landed on top of, Bad stopped to listen to a screeching crow.

The bird was perched on top of a rusting truck, wings flapping as it cawed.

For whatever reason, the noise bothered him.

Raising his bow and letting the arrow fly into its neck, the shrill cries quieted abruptly.

A hushed whisper was carried by the warm wind.

It picked up into gusts as he climbed up the fire escape, becoming noisier and shrouded like static.

The sounds shrunk away as he crawled through the window, instead replaced by the crackle and snap of fire.

Clutching the dead crow in one hand and his knife in the other, Bad stepped out of the balcony and into the kitchen.

The bitter scent of burnt coffee filled the abandoned unit. George sat at the table, exactly where he was when Bad left. A fresh bandage hid the gash beneath his fringe. 

He half-heartedly flipped a butterfly knife open and closed in one hand, the other wrapped around a steaming mug. His weary eyes were fixed on the window, staring out into the infested city. 

“Is any of it real?” George muttered.

Bad wasn’t sure if it was an earnest question, or just an aimless lament. 

“Why wouldn’t it be…?”

He left to prepare the bird.

“It’s ridiculous–” With a dull clatter, George let out a shuddering sigh. “Giant spiders. Alien spaceships. That slime guy. Rain in December. These vines—”

With each word, his voice shrunk until it became a whisper.

“It’s all a nightmare. This is a nightmare.”

Content with his makeshift grill, Bad set his gear down and returned to the kitchen.

He took a seat across from the other, the wooden chair creaking. 

“You should try to get some sleep."

“And you–” The other’s tone suddenly steeled, face contorting with a scowl. “What are you supposed to be? Am I dead, is that it? Are you really the Grim Reaper?”

“Look, I get where you’re coming from. A lot of crazy things have happened, and this,” Bad gestured out the window, “takes the cake… but it’s all real, George. There’s no denying it, or… or explaining it."

He paused, sitting back in his chair.

"It just is. And there’s nothing we can do about it."

George shook his head, scowl fading as he shrunk into his chair. 

“You know," he yawned, "I only remembered after I saw the vines…"

“...Remembered what?”

“You were there…” he murmured, eyes shutting.

Bad stifled a laugh.

“Come on, George, don’t go all mystic on me. That’s not you.”

The odd droplet of rain pelted against the window. George breathed a languid sigh, resting against the wall. 

“The banquet…”

Bad sat at the table, knife clutched tightly in his hand. He glanced down at it.

Its blade dripped with blood.

Gasping, he dropped the weapon. It fell with a soft thud, onto crimson moss.

Confused, he scanned his surroundings.

The dilapidated apartment had dissolved into some kind of large hall.

The ceilings stood high, decorated with hanging crimson vines, reaching down to him.

The table stretched far out in front of him, vanishing into the distance.

Kill.

A hauntingly familiar whisper sent a chill down his spine.

Kill him.

With arduous effort, he turned to look over his shoulder.

You must.

There, in the corner of the room, sat the infestation's genesis.

The Egg cast a dim, bloody glow into his eyes, pulsing with each whisper.

Kill. Kill him. You must.

Bad was frozen in his seat, paralyzed.

He couldn’t speak, either. 

Where is everybody? Was the question his mind seemed to helplessly orbit.

“Kill who?”

He heard his own voice speak through the murmurs.

Kill Dream.

One month and six days since the Syndicate Coup

Bad woke up with a jolt.

The rising sun filtered in through a cloudy morning, bathing the apartment in gentle light.

His neck ached from an awkward sleeping position. It seemed he’d dozed off right there, head on the table.

Right across from him, George was slumped fast asleep between his chair and the wall.

Shuffling from the other room prompted Bad to rise, pushing his chair in quietly.

In the living room, Sapnap sat awake beside the extinguished fire. He was hunched over what looked like a shriveled newspaper, the thin blanket he’d found draped over his shoulders.

“Good morning,” Bad said, crouching to rummage through his satchel.

The other startled slightly, glancing over his shoulder.

“‘Morning,” he mumbled. “…Your bird’s done.”

Bad retrieved the packets of jerky out of his bag, making his way over to the dusty rug. 

“I found these last night.”

He handed one to Sapnap, leaving the other for George whenever he eventually woke up.

“Holy shit, real meat–" Eyes lighting up, he excitedly tore into the snack. “Thank you.”

Bad took the cooked crow from the shoddy grill and sighed.

“Dude, are you really gonna eat that?” Sapnap muffled between bites of jerky, raising a brow at him.

“I’ve had worse.”

A few minutes passed in silence as they ate their meager breakfast. Bad glanced at the newspaper, not really wanting to linger on his ominous nightmare. 

“What’s that?”

“Hm? Oh. Found it under the couch. It’s old…” Sapnap trailed off, pausing to chew.

The despondent look returned to his eyes.

“Someone lived in this apartment once. Probably had a family… a job… this was their home…”

Bad couldn’t think of anything to say that would ease the other’s dread.

Based on his attempts to console him the day before, he didn’t really fare well when the subject of death was involved.

“Now they’re gone," Sapnap mumbled, tossing the newspaper aside.

Bad decided to try changing the subject.

“How long were you up for?”

“I couldn’t really sleep.”

The boy pulled the blanket around his body, curling into himself.

They sat in silence once again.

Bad idly checked his comm. Still no reply from Skeppy. He sighed, the dreaded pit opening in his chest.

He’s probably just asleep, he consoled himself. It looked to be just past dawn, so he couldn’t hold it against him.

“…What did Quackity say?” Sapnap asked, watching him toss the device back into his satchel.

“Huh?”

“Yesterday. On the ship. You said he called.”

Bad rubbed his eyes. “Oh, right. Nothing,” he yawned, “just checking in, I guess.”

He deliberately left Skeppy’s presence unmentioned.

“D’you think he called back?” Golden eyes flickered towards the kitchen.

“Maybe. George didn’t say.” Bad hummed.

Hearing Quackity’s name brought back memories of yesterday. He recalled the other two's quarreling back in the cavern, how he'd stored that in the back of his mind with the intent of bringing it up later.

Now seemed like as good a time as any.

“Why did you lie to George?” Bad queried, trying his best to not sound accusatory.

Sapnap’s brow furrowed.

“I told you. I needed to go on this job.”

“Why?”

The other fell silent.

It was awfully quiet, with no birds to ring in the morning light or rain to cushion the silence. 

“Like I said, I knew Dream," he muttered at last. "…I’m just trying to figure out what his problem is.”

“Problem?”

Sapnap glanced back towards the kitchen once more, before pulling the blanket tighter around himself. 

“I've known him since we were kids, okay?” he said, voice hushed. “We, like, grew up together, or whatever. At some point, he started talking a buncha nonsense and left home to join the Syndicate. He… left me behind.”

A pained scowl crept onto the younger’s face.

“Whenever I tried to talk to him, it was like… it was like he was a total stranger… like I was somehow the crazy one for just trying to understand…”

Bad listened quietly. It became clear.

Evidently, Sapnap’s true motive for being here was personal. Far more personal than he’d initially let on.

“You think he went… y’know?”

Sapnap scoffed. “I mean, you heard what that girl in the mineshaft said. Dream, a prophet? I’m not saying he’s insane, but there’s definitely something wrong with him. He needs help, not to be hunted down and killed.”

“What was this ‘nonsense’ he talked about? Does he think he can… bring people back to life, or something?”

Revive Philza? Hannah’s words echoed in Bad’s mind.

Sapnap hesitated again, gaze averting.

“He used to say someone talked to him in his dreams.”

“…Who did? Talked about what?”

“I don’t know!" the other exclaimed. "I don’t remember, dude, it was always some weird, like, nightmare bullshit…”

Bad stood up with a start, pointing out the window to the city skyline.

“Does any of this ring a bell?”

Sapnap shot him a puzzled look, shaking his head.

“No, I’ve never seen or heard about that red shit in my entire life.”

Sighing dejectedly, the demon sunk back to the floor.

“It has to be connected…” he muttered under his breath. Pausing, he looked back at the other. “…Does George know? That you were close?”

Sapnap rolled his eyes, resting his chin between his knees.

“That idiot thinks he’s got it all figured out… you remember how he was trying to pick a fight yesterday?”

Bad remembered that goading smirk. The instigating jeers.

“I’m pretty sure he does have it all figured out.”

“Whatever,” the younger sighed. “We agreed from the start to not fight Dream or get too close, anyway. Just tracking until we get a chance to corner him.”

They agreed? Bad watched the other closely, leaning forward as he sat.

“Tell me what he’s armed with.”

Sapnap blinked, taking a moment to think.

“He took the Syndicate’s weapon reserves. A sword and-and… this insane crossbow.”

Of course, their elusive target was well-armed.

Given this, it was no wonder the two mortals would err on the side of caution.

It remained to be seen if either of them possessed any skill in combat. Despite this, Bad figured they were at least somewhat adept in the use of their respective weapons.

Between the heavy firewood axe and handcrafted silver pistol, Dream should have died to them long before they ever needed a third on the job.

At last, Bad came to the unfortunate realization that this winding train of thought led to.

Neither Sapnap nor George ever intended on killing Dream.

But why?

With this in mind, he began to parse all of the information he’d gathered over the past two days.

He recalled his strange exchange with the slime man in the cavern.

Everything about that… creature, was just strange. He couldn’t really begin to understand his cryptic mutterings over Quackity, only his last words. 

“Stop Dream at all costs”. 

It was an absurd notion, but he felt inclined to trust the slime man after how he'd helped them escape.

In the same vein, Schlatt’s contract had stated clearly, dead or alive.

Clearly, only one option would guarantee the fastest way home. The fastest way to get the elixirs he needs. 

The fastest way to save Skeppy.

Bad didn’t know what happened to the two prior to him joining them, but considering what little he knew about Dream, he could make an educated guess to say it was decidedly not good.

In fact, whatever happened to them was so dire that Schlatt went out of his way to seek out an unkillable assassin from retirement.

Ultimately, did it matter why? 

Why all these people want or didn’t want Dream dead?

At the end of the day, the man committed homicide at the very least. Wherever he was going, whatever he was doing right at that very moment, was all just addendum to his crime.

Finally, Bad’s mind circled back to the Egg and its lulling whispers.

It was then, and only then, that he came to the tragic conclusion.

“I don’t really know how else to tell you this, Sapnap…”

He stared blankly into the other’s searching eyes.

“The second I see Dream, I’m going to kill him.”

Chapter Text

It rained softly. The susurrus of its drops joining with the lake. The air fresh with spring.

George sat underneath an outcropping, watching the rain shower the lake. The rain showering the skeleton of a home. The rain showering the trees, swaying gently.

A bobber floated on the lake’s surface, attached to a string that connected him with the lake. George’s eyes watched the bobber, everything else in his periphery melting into the background.

“George.” Someone called his name. “George.”

He felt his own body twist to face the caller.

“Fishing again?” The voice grated on his ears, eerie and distorted. His scattered thoughts screamed somewhere in the back of his mind — that this wasn’t right. This voice didn’t belong here.

“Yeah.” George heard his own voice answer.

His vision blurred with the rain, a violet sheen swirling behind the tall silhouette to which the voice belonged. It was almost mesmerizing.

“We need to finish building the house, George.”

What? “What?”

A warm smile. A hand outstretched.

George squinted to hone his vision. Looking past the voice in front of him, he was met with a wall of deep violet. Why? What is this?

“What is this?” he muttered unconsciously. A gasp escaped him as he became lucid.

“George.” The voice became firm.

“What is this?” he repeated, subconscious flashing with foreign images and feelings. “Is this… Is this a dream…?”

The smile faltered.

He willed his body to shuffle backwards, dropping the fishing rod. “Where-Why… Who-Who are you?!”

Hollow eyes stared into his soul. "I'm your friend, George."

“Get away from me! This isn't real, this isn't happening—”

He slipped and crashed into the freezing depths of the lake.

“You will do no such thing.”

Bad snapped to face George's slim silhouette standing in the arched doorway between the kitchen and living room. Despite the absence of his goggles, his expression was completely unreadable.

“What the hell, Bad?!" Sapnap exclaimed. "I just poured my fucking heart out to you—"

“We recapture Dream’s signal and follow him. That’s what the plan has been and always will be,” George interjected, ambling towards them and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

An incredulous laugh escaped the demon.

“You can’t be serious," he muttered. "Why? What's the point? We can all be done here so much sooner if he just… just dies.”

“I told you, we can't do that," Sapnap hissed, eyes narrowing in mounting frustration.

“You know what?" Bad stood up with a start. "You two can stay here, actually. Just sit back and let me do all the work,” he grumbled. “I don’t have time for arguing and chit-chat. This ends today.”

He hastily picked up his gear, slinging the quiver and bow over his shoulders. They don’t want to kill Dream?

Fine, just leave it to the assassin.

Bad couldn’t help but feel that, deep down, this was always how it was going to be. This was why Schlatt sought him, after all, dragging him out of his quiet life with the only leverage that could ever convince him to return to a job like this. The dictator obviously wanted Dream out of the picture as soon as possible, and for complete certainty too.

It’s not like Bad relished in the thought of killing Dream. If the circumstances were any different, he wouldn’t do it. But they weren’t.

The reality was that Skeppy’s life depended on him. Bad didn’t care if it was selfish — one more death was nothing to him if it meant saving Skeppy.

As he began to storm into the kitchen and towards the balcony window to leave, the click of a pistol cocking stopped him in his tracks.

“How exactly do you intend to track him without me?” George said dryly.

A blithe chuckle escaped Bad. Were the blood vines getting to them? The fatigue? The hunger? Everything seemed to be crumbling at an alarming rate, just three days in. With this somewhat amusing revelation, he spun to face George and his gun.

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Bad tilted his head to one side, tauntingly, his faint halo tipping with it.

“George!” Sapnap shot up, eyes wide as saucers. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Wow, George! I know you're cold, but,” Bad stepped forward, giggling, “this is a whole new level of heartless—”

"Shut up," the other hissed, aim unwavering. He glared down the barrel of his weapon, finger resting on the trigger.

"Y'know, I was wondering why they'd hire someone like you for a job like this," Bad suppressed a chortle, "but between that kid yesterday and this stunt you're pulling? You've got no problem just gunning down anybody that gets in your way, do you—"

“Bad!" Sapnap shouted, wedging himself between them. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about—” he pushed the gun away. “George, don't listen to him, just stop, come on…”

George only rectified his aim, eyes darkening.

“This idiot is sabotaging us, Sapnap. The ship, the vines, he’s behind it all. He’s led us into a death trap.”

Bad burst into a fit of cackles, unable to stand straight. “Oh… Oh my goodness, that’s just—” He couldn’t stop laughing. “You’re so… You’re so paranoid, that’s… hilarious.”

“Come on, George, he’s right, you’re talking nonsense, you’re concussed or something.” The gravitas in Sapnap’s voice only added to the humor Bad was finding in this situation. “Just put the fucking gun down, dumbass!”

“You don’t understand, I’ve seen him. I’ve seen him with the vines, I’ve seen him execute people.”

Sapnap clung to the other’s arm, pleading, “When, George, when? When could you have possibly seen that? When?”

George grumbled, shoving the younger off himself. “In my nightmares.”

“Oh, come the fuck on!” Sapnap escalated into screaming, tearing the weapon from George’s disabled hands. “Stop! I’m sick of this nightmare prophecy bullshit—” he pointed the gun at both of them.

Bad crumpled to the ground, cackling still.

“What are you doing?! You idiot, we're supposed to be on the same side!” George exclaimed, a panicked tremor in his voice.

“I don’t care, I don’t fucking care, I’ll shoot! I did it once, I can do it again, motherfuckers!”

Bad was finding it hard to catch a breath, practically wheezing with laughter.

“Give it back!” George shrieked, hands raised in apparent fear of the other actually firing.

“Shutthefuckup!”

Between all the commotion and Bad’s hysteria, a familiar ringtone cut through the noise.

Bad took a deep breath, the giggles finally subsiding.

Sapnap lowered the gun. “Quackity…?"

George dropped his hands to his sides, pulling his comm out of his pocket. Wordlessly, he answered the call.

“Hello? George?” Quackity’s voice called out from the static. His face soon appeared on screen, oddly stern as his gaze flickered between them and somewhere in the distance in front of him.

“What?” George answered blankly, glaring daggers at Sapnap.

“What’s going on?" An uneasy chuckle. "You guys all right?”

“Quackity…!” Sapnap dropped the gun onto the hardwood floor, snatching the comm from George and walking away with it. “Holy shit, thank god you called…"

“Sap, wh-what’s going on?”

“Get me away from these psychos… I wanna go with you…” he whined, earning an endeared chuckle from the other.

“Hope you guys are building up your, uh, camaraderie…" he laughed.

George scoffed. Bad stumbled to his feet, following after Sapnap.

“Wait, is Skeppy there?” he leaned in to see. “Where’s Skeppy?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s right here, but I think he’s busy—”

“—Bad!”

“Never mind.”

It was Bad’s turn to steal the comm for himself. “Skeppy… Skeppy!” he couldn’t be happier, seeing the other’s beaming face. “Skeppy, I’m so sorry, you must've been so worried—”

“Nah, it’s all good. I know you can handle yourself.”

"Oh," Bad pouted. "Well, what if I wanted you to be worried?”

“Stop! You’re so embarrassing—”

“The fuck is happening right now?”

“Oh, Bad! We have so much to tell you,” Skeppy’s expression turned vaguely serious.

“Wait, where-where are you right now? What are you still doing with Quackity?”

“We’re on his ship—”

“Shut up, asshole!”

“Wait,” Sapnap mumbled, dejectedly. “I thought you couldn’t use the ship…?”

“Listen, Sap, I’m-I’m really sorry I couldn’t give it to you. I… I needed it for something else. I’m trying to get to the bottom of some shit back here, and—”

“Hey Bad, remember Techno?”

“Your… friend from the Syndicate?”

“We went and talked to him and found out a lot of stuff about Dream—”

“Hold on, Skeppy, what?” Before Bad could reprimand the other for getting involved with the manhunt, George snatched his comm back from his hands.

“Did you say Technoblade? He’s alive?”

“Uh, duh. Technoblade never dies, dude,” Skeppy said flatly. “I wanna talk to Bad.”

“It doesn’t matter, they need to know too,” Quackity’s argued in the background.

“Okay, fine. Listen up,” he exhaled. “We’re on our way to the desert. Bad, the guy who made the emerald that messed me up lives there. I think he can fix me.”

“Wait, is that-is that true?”

“Techno said so. He wouldn’t lie to me—”

“—can’t be sure of that—”

“Shh! Anyway, you don’t need to worry about me, Bad. I’m gonna take care of it,” he flashed a reassuring smile, brow furrowed. “Do you know anything about a guy named Foolish?”

“Huh? No?” What kind of name is ‘Foolish’? Bad thought to himself.

“A'ight, never mind.”

“Skeppy, you have no way of knowing if any of this is true,” Bad pulled the comm screen towards himself. “Just go home and wait for me. I’m going to kill our target today, no matter what—”

“Hold that thought, Bad,” Quackity interrupted as he appeared in frame once more. “You three need to figure out where Dream’s going and get there before he does.”

Everything fell silent for what felt like the first time in years. Bad felt two pairs of eyes on him, but he refused to meet either of them.

“Look, we think… or, we have it on good authority that Dream is searching for some kind of… uh—”

“Revival Book. A book that revives people.”

The silence persisted.

“Uh, hello? Still there?”

“What'd you say?" George was first to break the silence. "Revival Book? Like, bringing people back from the dead, revival?”

“Yeah, George, that’s what ‘revival’ fucking means,” Sapnap hissed at him, before turning back to the call. “How? How do you know?”

Quackity breathed a deep sigh. “Shit, okay, look, Schlatt kept babbling on about some fuckin’ book and I got nosy, all right? Technoblade told us about it.” 

“So it’s true,” George muttered, “Hannah wasn’t lying.”

“Is-Is he… Is he going to bring back Philza?” Sapnap followed up quietly, as if passing along a secret message.

“I don't fucking know…" Quackity sighed heavily. "That’s what it seems like, I guess.”

“Bad, listen to me, okay? You can’t let Dream get the book first. Techno really emphasized that, so I’m pretty sure it’s important.”

“Did-Did he tell you why, Skeppy?”

"He…" He watched the other’s eyes flicker off screen briefly, then return. “He said something about him being kinda, y’know. That it… ‘won’t end well if he gets that kind of power’.”

“Holy fuck,” Sapnap walked away from the call and towards the window, hands on his head. “I told you, I told you there was something wrong with him!”

“Hold on, what does this mean for us…? Does Schlatt know about any of this?”

“He doesn’t. And he won’t." Quackity turned away, the brim of his cap hiding his furrowed brow. "You three just keep up the manhunt. It’s up to you to get that book, all right? We can fix everything, we can fix everything.”

“Bad,” Skeppy called out off-screen, before appearing again with earnest, shimmering eyes. “I’m not gonna sit at home and let you go back to the killing just because of my stupid mistake. Forget the job, forget the elixirs, okay?”

Bad fell silent. He wished so desperately with all of his being that Skeppy could be there for real, that he could wrap him in a loving embrace. 

Somehow, Skeppy always knew how to quell the aching in his soul — the pain and grief he’d neglected for countless years, buried underneath the sands of time. Somehow, he always knew just what to say. 

“Okay,” he managed to choke out at last.

Quackity cleared his throat. “We’ll keep you posted once we reach the desert.”

“Quackity,” Bad called out, “how do I know you’re not doing all this to take the book for yourself? For Schlatt?”

He sighed, gaze returning to look out into the distance. 

“You haven’t known me for very long, so I get it, Bad. You have every right not to trust me. You have my word, and that’s pretty much all I can give you. I swear to you, I will ensure Skeppy’s safety,” he met Bad’s eyes through the screen. “For that, will you please help me do the right thing?”

Bad thought hard about it. Trusting Quackity was surely a major risk, for several reasons.

He remembered meeting the secretary for the first time, clad in his clean-pressed suit, touting himself as the Executive’s right-hand man. Now he had Skeppy with him? Practically holding him hostage?

“He’s telling the truth, Bad,” Sapnap exclaimed, startling everyone present. As silence settled, his face flushed. “I… I trust Quackity, he’s been on our side this entire time…” Eyes watching the floor, he kicked the loose boards. “Everything with the Syndicate, it wasn’t his fault… Schlatt made him plant the bomb. Right, Quackity?” he turned back to the screen.

“...Right.” A crooked smile. “…All of you stay safe, all right?” Quackity said, flitting between them and the distance. “Protect each other. Bad, I’m counting on you to keep those dumbasses alive.”

Bad nodded.

“Okay. Talk later.” The call ended.

The apartment was plunged into stale silence once more. A few seconds passed before George closed his comm and walked away without so much as a sigh. Sapnap followed suit, the two beginning to gather their things.

After a moment of humble reflection, Bad turned to join them by the balcony.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to Sapnap. Confusion flashed across the younger's face. “I… Dream is important to you. I shouldn’t have ignored that. I just—”

“It’s okay, dude,” he shuffled on his backpack. “I get it. You’re not in it for the money.”

“Huh?”

“That Skeppy guy. He’s why you’re here.”

A lump swelled in his throat at hearing Skeppy’s name come from his mouth. He bowed his head.

Was he being naive again? Placing his trust in Skeppy to somehow cure his own corruption? He knew nothing of the desert, except that it was far, far down south on the map.

They’d never been farther apart outside of this very moment.

He tried to console himself. Technoblade and Skeppy had been good friends even before Bad met the latter, so surely he hadn’t been misled. Part of him was still hung up on Quackity’s involvement, though he’d have to suck it up. What could he do besides abide by the next logical step?

“George,” Sapnap called, “come say sorry, idiot.”

“What?” The other retorted, aloof as ever. Picking up his weapon from the floor, he returned it to his belt.

“Come say sorry for pulling your fucking gun on him, stupid idiot.”

“I wasn’t gonna do anything,” George countered, irritably. “He literally can’t die. It would be a waste of ammo, idiot.”

“Then why’d you do it, idiot?!”

“You’re the idiot, idiot.”

Letting the two bicker, Bad retrieved the other packet of jerky from his satchel. He approached George by the window and held it out to him. Weary eyes flickered between him and the offering as silence fell over them.

“It’s fine.”

A few tense seconds passed. Just before George pulled his goggles over his eyes, Bad caught the man’s expression soften into a slight frown. Taking the packet wordlessly, he climbed out of the window and disappeared below the sill.

Sapnap brushed past, flashing a thumbs-up as he followed suit.

Bad sighed, taking one last look at the dusty apartment before crawling out the window.

Chapter Text

Holding hands under a table
Meeting up in your bedroom
Making love to other people
Telling each other it's all good

– "A Loving Feeling" by Mitski

One month and three days since the Syndicate Coup

Every few paces, Quackity glanced behind his shoulder, hand resting firmly over his heart. Or, slightly to the left of it, maybe. Whatever.

There’s no way he noticed. He was way too wasted. It would be fine, everything would be fine.

He quickened his pace through the HQ’s underground, navigating the maze-like floor with urgency. He knew this route like the back of his hand.

Left, through the door, forward, right, left, through another door, left, right, forward, forward through another door.

Until finally he’d reach an inconspicuous storage room hidden from the building's surveillance system.

He knocked softly, twice. Pausing, before opening the door.

“Hey.” He’d greet, shoulders finally relaxing as the door clicked shut.

“Hi.” Sapnap would greet back, lighting up at him from across the room.

Quackity would sidle up by the small old cot, sitting himself at the edge. Sapnap shifted under the covers, laying on his uninjured shoulder to face him.

It was strange to think that despite having grown so close over the past few weeks, the two had only just met one another face-to-face for the first time. In that desolate cabin in the freezing tundra.

The circumstances were certainly a shame, but it didn’t matter. They were here, together, in the universe of this dingy concrete box.

“Feeling better?”

“Mhm. Yeah.”

“Anything happen while I was gone?”

Sapnap shook his head, pulling the thin blanket over his ear. “Nope. Literally nothing.” 

A comfortable quiet settled between them. 

It was a peculiar thing, re-meeting someone. Quackity often caught himself staring, taking in the other’s small and unconscious movements, the subtle expressions and way he held himself.

Sometimes, he caught Sapnap staring too. Their eyes would meet, then quickly dart away, before they fell into a bout of flustered laughs.

In those passing moments of levity, it felt like he understood something that Quackity couldn't bring himself to articulate.

He breathed a deep sigh, still catching his breath from how fast he’d been walking.

“You okay?” A warm hand squeezed his wrist.

He offered a reassuring smile. “All good,” he took the hand in his own. “You cold?”

The other sunk further under the covers, in a futile attempt to hide his face. “No.”

“Look, I have a gift for you,” Quackity's hand floated back near his heart, reaching into the small pocket of his jacket to produce a small vial of cherry-red liquid. “To take care of your pneumonia.”

Sapnap’s brow furrowed, eyes flickering between the other and the vial. “I told you not to do that anymore… What if he catches you—”

“He didn’t. And he won’t. So it’s fine.”

“Still, you don’t have to, like, take that risk for me.”

“It’s-It’s not a risk, Sap…”

The other searched his eyes, unconvinced. After a moment, his gaze fell somewhere onto the blank wall.

"I wish you could just come with me.”

“…Come with you where?”

“On the manhunt, duh. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about dealing with all this shit. We can be together all the time.”

Quackity chuckled uneasily. “Sapnap, there’s no way you’re going back out there.”

“Huh? Why not? I told you, my shoulder’s all better—”

“You almost fucking died,” Quackity snapped, slipping the vial into the other’s hand and shoving it away. “Do you know how fucking fucked up it was getting you two back here?” His voice quivered dangerously, “I'm not a fucking doctor, you know. I didn't know what I was doing—"

“I-I know, I know. I’m sorry. You really saved us, I know, and-and I seriously owe you my life… ” he sat up in the bed. “But I'm not giving up. I need to go after Dream.”

Quackity held his head in his hands. He briefly considered the possibility that this was his personal hell. Silently, he prayed for mercy, for what little he had left to call his own.

There would be no convincing Sapnap. If there was one thing he knew for certain about the other, it was that he was absolutely hellbent on finding Dream.

“What’s he saying? About the job,” Sapnap mumbled, meekly prodding the other’s knee.

“Who, George?”

“…Schlatt.”

Quackity felt a pinch in his heart. “Uh, he’s pissed… had me find someone else,” he muttered.

“Wait, what? To replace George?”

He shook his head, still avoiding the other’s gaze. 

“To join him.”

Sapnap huffed, shaking his head with a smirk. “George is not gonna be happy about that…”

“It’s looking like he’s gonna take it. The assassin." Quackity exhaled. "He’s supposed to come back tomorrow to sign the contract.”

Suddenly, Sapnap tossed the covers aside, swinging his feet over the other side of the bed. 

“I’m heading out.”

“Sap, wait—”

“I’m going no matter what, Quackity. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” The other rose, rounding to the other side of the cot. He watched Sapnap hop to his feet, gather his gear and slip on his jacket.

Before he could stumble out the door, Quackity caught him in a tentative embrace.

“You better not fuckin’ die on me,” he whispered.

“Of course,” Sapnap chuckled heartily. He returned the gesture, radiating warmth into the other's heart. “I've got you looking out for me, don’t I?”

One month and five days since the Syndicate Coup

“Okay, let’s all just calm the fuck down, all right?”

Quackity shuffled away from the three-pronged weapon, inevitably pressing against the wall.

“I came in peace, I didn’t do shit!”

“What exactly do you take me for, secretary of state?” Technoblade spat, poised to impale the trident through the other’s petrified face.

“What-What are you talking about?”

“I can’t let you get away with perpetuating this cycle, this never ending lust for power. You must atone for the sin of government, Quackity.”

Skeppy poked his head from the kitchen. “Woah, what’s going on?” he asked flatly.

“Fucking help me!” Quackity shouted.

“Techno, what’s wrong?”

“The only thing worse than government is capitalism, Skeppy. It’s greed all the same. This man is guilty on all accounts.” The pigman pressed the weapon against Quackity’s neck.

“Wait, wait, stop, just hold on, just hold on.” His mind raced to save his own life. “You-You’re pissed about the attack, I get it, but I had nothing to do with that, it was all Schlatt! He killed Philza, he killed him, not me." He sputtered. "What-What do you think I’m doing right now? I’m a traitor, Technoblade, I’m a fucking traitor. I'm trying to fix this—”

“Lies! You planted the freaking bomb, dude, are you kiddin’ me?” the former Councilor retorted. “I don’t care who held the knife, you people killed my friends.”

Quackity gasped for breath. Karmic retribution suffocated him, for every horrible decision he'd made leading up to this moment.

Despite all reason, adrenaline fueled his fight or flight. With one hand gripping the trident’s base, he reached into his pocket with the other and aimed the revolver.

A bullet shot into the ceiling, Technoblade having dodged it by mere centimeters. In the split second leeway, Quackity sunk to the floor and crawled to the side. His arm ached numb with recoil.

“Bringin’ a gun to a trident fight, huh?”

Skeppy sighed theatrically. “Guys, can’t we just go back to sitting and talking over tea?”

“Fuck this, fuck this,” Quackity rasped, pointing the gun and dragging himself to his feet. “I don’t wanna shoot. I don't wanna shoot. Just listen to me.”

“No, you listen to me,” Technoblade retracted the trident, letting it stand at his side. “Quackity, the corruption of power is inevitable. This political goose chase is not the answer to your problems.”

Skeppy finally joined the two, biting into a sandwich.

“I-I know, I know it’s not the answer. Why the fuck do you think I’m here, man?” Quackity's voice faltered into a plea. “I fucked up… I thought-I thought we could make it. The thought of-of losing everything, after we worked so hard… I got desperate, I-I couldn't leave… Now I'm paying for it, every single fuckin' day." He lowered his gun. "This is my last chance to set the record straight. To make it right. You have to believe me. You have to.”

Technoblade sighed deeply, turning away from them and returning to his armchair by the fireplace.

“Heed my warnin’. This path doesn’t end well for you, either.”

Quackity took a precautious breath. His hand fumbled to find the doorknob.

“Yo, wait up!” Skeppy called, skipping after him as he stumbled outside. “See ya, Techno! Thanks for everything!”

“Skeppy,” Techno called flatly, turning to look his old friend in the eye. “If you manage to get a hold of the book, don’t let anyone near it. Especially him.”

“Uh… sure, dude.” Waving, he stepped out onto the porch and shut the door.

The sky had darkened to a marine blue since they arrived at the cabin, the setting sun casting golden rays over the tundra. The two boarded the ship, protected from the harsh wind.

Wordlessly, Quackity started up the ship and began flying back south. Skeppy settled onto his bench, keeping an attentive eye trained on the other.

After a while, the secretary spoke up from the helm. “I’m dropping you off. I need to check in at HQ.”

“What?” Skeppy sat up, “I thought we were heading straight to the desert.”

“We’ll head out first thing tomorrow morning,” Quackity glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll be back around dawn. Your island's on the way from the city, anyway.”

Skeppy fell silent, watching the other as he steered the ship with rigid shoulders. “You okay, dude?”

Quackity took a deep breath.

“I’m fine.”

If love and future will come to the end
don’t let me expect for those
Every time you treat me kindly,
why can’t I stop the tears?

– "よくばり" by ayase

Soon enough, Quackity was alone again with only the humming engine to accompany him home.

Though hours had passed since his standoff with Technoblade, he couldn’t seem to shake his the nauseous sensation of impending doom. A hard lump in his chest clogged up his airflow, refusing to go away. 

With a grumbling sigh, he pressed some buttons and flicked some switches in an attempt to turn on the radio or something. Anything to fill the silence.

“I don’t care who held the knife, you people killed my friends.”

The pigman's bellowing voice echoed in his mind. Static filled the ship. He flipped the switches back.

Exiting the GPS on his comm, he pulled up George’s contact and dialed. The tone droned alongside the engine. Restless fingers thrummed against the dashboard.

“Do it. See what you want then.”

Accusations, demands, and reproach all festered in his brain like worms. Whispering behind him like ghosts. Ghosts of his sins.

The dial tone ended abruptly, plunging him into silence once more. 

An anguished cry tore from his hoarse throat, a fist bashing onto the dashboard. He hated this, hated the silence, hated being alone.

The ship cruised through the night. Eventually returning to the HQ’s hangar.

Leaving the ship, Quackity turned to find his reflection in the window.

He dusted his suit, straightened his tie, and flashed an empty grin. Turning on his heel, he made his way to the elevator.

The sinking weight in his chest seemed to drag him down, with the suggestion he should collapse onto the concrete floor and stay there. Forever.

Swallowing his dread, he marched on until he reached the Executive’s office.

Peering into the darkened room, he found the man himself slumped at his desk as per usual, marinating in the stagnant aroma of booze and cigar smoke.

Quackity slinked across the hardwood floor, tiled with moonlight. He cracked open the window, letting the icy winter air seep into the office.

A lulling song played through the radio, the singer's mellow voice droning through buzzing static.

Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you

As he began to leave the office, Schlatt stirred.

“Pumpkin… that you…?” He reached out after him, as if he was flying away.

Gulping down a breath, Quackity turned slowly and approached the desk.

“I… I went and searched for Technoblade up north…”

“Shh, shhh…” The other raised his head from the desk, beckoning almost hurriedly. “C’mere, I missed you…”

Stars fading, but I linger on, dear
Still craving your kiss

Quackity didn’t like Schlatt when he was wasted like this. He’d much rather navigate the man’s wily front when he was just that little bit more sober.

All of that went away when he got to this stage. It reminded him too much of how things used to be. How he used to be.

In the end, he found himself stood beside Schlatt, rubbing circles on his back. The man hugged him close, leaning into his presence. 

“Stay here for a while… why don’tcha…”

“Let’s get you to bed.” The other murmured, unmoving.

“Alex…” His voice shrunk into a near-whisper. “Say you won’t leave…”

Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you
Sweet dreams that leave all worries far behind you

Quackity gazed out over the darkened city skyline, all of the lights twinkling like stars on the ground. As if the world had been flipped upside down, the inky blue yonder held only the crescent moon.

Silently, he cursed Schlatt for his humanity. 

Despite the cruelty, the violence, the fear he’d instilled in him and others as of late, the love he’d buried underneath all the pomp and grandeur still found ways to sneak up on Quackity in these transient moments.

But in your dreams, whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me

He cursed Schlatt for his greed, the greed that dragged them from the city’s sprawling outskirts and up to its highest summit.

The view from this summit made him ponder — just how much did they leave behind on the way up?

As much as he could blame and curse Schlatt, it was no means to absolve himself.

At the end of the day, Quackity only had himself to blame for the role he played in the Syndicate’s downfall. There were sins for which only he could repent for. Nobody else.

Deep down, he wished Schlatt was just as ruthless when shitfaced as he was sober.

By the time Skeppy finally got the fire going again, settling down on the couch to rest his eyes for an hour or eight, he heard a faint knock at the door.

Struck with confusion more than apprehension, he listened through the crackling fire. The knocking came again.

Groaning, he dragged himself off the couch and to the door.

“Who is it?” He droned blatantly.

“It’s me.” A quiet voice muttered back. 

Skeppy didn’t immediately recognize it, but he figured there would be no harm in opening the door to see.

To his surprise, Quackity stood on the porch, frowning and clutching a plastic bag in one hand.

But what Skeppy found more surprising than the other's sudden reappearance was the fact that he wasn’t wearing his signature suit and tie.

He was dressed in dark denim overalls, layered over a tidy collared shirt. He’d also exchanged the red knitted hat for an unremarkable baseball cap.

“Nice fit.”

“Thanks.” Quackity mumbled blankly. As he lifted the bag between them, the golden chain of his pendant gleamed beneath his collar. “Can I stay over? Brought food.”

Skeppy graciously stepped aside, gesturing with a thespian bow. 

“Please, be my guest.”

Chapter Text

Lady, runnin' down to the riptide
Taken away to the dark side
I wanna be your left hand man

– "Riptide" by Vance Joy

Three weeks before the Syndicate Coup

George liked the Syndicate archives.

It was a quiet nook in the upper west wing of the Headquarters, tucked away from any commotion that could be going on in the Main Hall. The library saw few visitors, George being one of them.

Despite being closed off from the public at all times, the walls were was adorned with tall windows stretching from the floor to the ceiling. They overlooked the lake to the north and the mountains far in the distance.

George often caught himself drifting from his work, cloud-gazing and basking in sunlight.

He never expected to return to the Syndicate HQ so soon after his last payout, but running into Karl at the autumn festival had somehow brought him to the archives late that night, its rows of towering bookshelves bathed in warm lamplight.

Admittedly, he didn't mind the outcome of that encounter. This beat his shabby studio flat by a landslide. It's not like he missed hunching over a tiny desk all alone for hours on end.

George didn’t even mind the interruptions to his work. In fact, he found himself welcoming them. Karl was fun. His lighthearted, doting presence was infectious. An alluring change of pace.

“Hi, Gogy.”

The librarian would waltz out of the thicket of bookshelves, coming to visit him in his designated corner of the library.

He’d came up with this dumb nickname for George, taking far too much of a liking to it than the other could conceive.

He hopped into the seat beside him, sitting cross-legged. Smiling, he slid a paper bag over a sheet of recursive calculations.

“Fresh from downstairs," he chirped. "Courtesy of Niki."

Rubbing an itching eye, he took the bag and peeked inside. “What do we have here?” George exaggerated his accent, earning a giggle from the other. “A pastry of some sort…?”

“Apple strudel.”

“Hmm…” Flashing a coy smirk, he took a bite. “Delectable.”

Thoroughly distracted from whatever work he might have had, George no sooner found himself engrossed in another one of the librarian’s nostalgic ramblings.

Karl often told tall, tall, tales from his past as a self-proclaimed, "explorer". Apparently, he’s seen the whole world. Supposedly, he’s met countless people and encountered endlessly strange things.

He’d recount these stories so earnestly, so excitedly, that George couldn’t help but be whisked away to those faraway places.

Grand cities, devastating battles, underwater cities, explosions, parties and soirées, bandits, ghosts and gladiators. Each story was totally unique and that much wilder from the last.

George recalled the first story he’d heard from the librarian. He remembered thinking it was so absurd.

"An entire kingdom made up of mushrooms?" He remembered laughing. He remembered nearly spitting out his bitter coffee.

It was then that Karl dug up a dusty old folder, flipping through its pages to find a set of rough sketches. 

He’d shown these to George, claiming they were the blueprints drawn up by the architect.

“Oh, I'm so sure.” He remembered saying.

“Maybe I’ll take you there one day.” He remembered Karl saying.

George didn’t really care if the stories were made up or not. As days passed in uniform, he found himself beguiling the time with daydreams beyond the city's borders.

As Karl’s mirthful laughter subsided, reminiscing about an encounter with a band of pirates, he sat up in his chair and propped an elbow onto the table, leaning into his palm.

“You busy?”

“Was. Why?”

“Wanna see something cool?”

“I suppose.”

Against his better judgment, he let Karl lead him away from his corner and through the stacks.

Here was the librarian's own little office littered with open books and journals, stray papers and notes tacked on the walls, and crates overflowing with artifacts and trinkets.

There were two desks, facing one another. One for the librarian and one for his assistant.

Ranboo glanced up from his journal at the sound of the two approaching, offering a cordial wave.

The night of the festival, George had spent the better part of a couple hours idly sifting through the paraphernalia Karl had stashed away here. The librarian had let him, of course.

In between flipping through dusty, yellowed books and fidgeting with archaic devices, he’d spotted a pair of glowing eyes watching from the shadows.

Ranboo was terrifying at a glance. Nonhuman, with sharp and pointed horns, a wide and piercing stare. Not to mention his sheer stature, towering over even the likes of Technoblade.

Despite the screeching first impression, George got used to seeing him around the place quick enough after learning of his timid nature.

Karl had told him the story of how Councillor Philza had stumbled across the young creature some-odd months ago, hiding in the lake's grotto during a thunderstorm. Hiding from the rain that burned his skin.

The Councillor resolved to shelter them in the Syndicate Headquarters, tasking Karl with uncovering his origin.

So far, the librarian only deduced that he was what was known as an “Enderman". Ranboo hadn't known even this basic fact about himself, retaining absolutely no memory from before the day he was found.

George settled into Karl’s empty chair, finishing the last of the strudel. He watched the other open a cabinet, shimmying out a small antique box from it.

“I found this in one of the basement rooms,” Using the sleeve of his oversized sweater, he wiped the residual dust off the lid. “Not even Phil knew what it was. But guess who did?”

“I wonder…” George tapped his chin, feigning contemplation. “I’ll wager a Ranboo guess.”

“Bingo!” Karl unlatched the box, presenting its contents for him to see.

It was mostly empty, except for four green or yellow marbles rolling around the bottom. At least, that’s what they looked like to George.

“When I saw them, I remembered something,” Ranboo spoke up from behind the desk partition. “They… They reminded me of where I’m from, I think.”

“What are they?” George reached inside the box and picked up one of the marbles between his thumb and forefinger. “It looks like an eye.”

The mysterious marble was remarkably light, its glass-like sheen thin and powdery.

“Remember those journals I found last week?” Karl plucked the marble from his hand and returned it carefully to the box, snapping it shut. “There were drawings of these things in them.”

George’s curiosity had been successfully piqued. “Go on.”

He leaned back in the chair, letting Karl reach across to grab the first of a stack of journals on his desk.

“Eyes of Ender.” He opened said journal to a bookmarked page.

“What, like the Endermen? Are you saying Ranboo literally has two more of those in his head?”

“Kinda morbid, huh?” Ranboo chuckled uneasily.

“What are they for?”

“Beats me,” Karl shrugged, flipping through the journal and pacing. “I’ve been trying to think where else I’ve heard about Eyes… I could've sworn…”

For being the Council Librarian, Karl was far from organized. George had quickly come to learn that the man had a tendency to be a bit scatterbrained.

When he wasn’t rambling about the things he read in the journals, or regaling stories from adventures past, he’d be muttering to himself about things he “could've sworn” he knew about. There was always something hiding just beyond his reach, it seemed.

In addition to not remembering, he also had a habit of misremembering.

More often than not, the librarian and his assistant would get caught in a feedback loop of “um”s, “hm”s, and “I think”s. 

George did his best to keep them on track, though he never claimed to be the most alert person in the room. The chronic sleep deprivation kind of made that notion impossible.

This time, though, he was able to connect the dots.

“Does it have to do with that Nether stuff you found a while ago?”

Karl clicked his tongue, scanning a page.

“The Nether…” His eyes lit up seconds later, and he snapped his fingers. “Of course!”

He skipped back to the desk, grabbing his personal journal of notes and a pen, flipping it open and beginning to scrawl his fleeting thoughts and idea onto its pages. 

Karl’s own journal stood out among the rest, bound in violet-dyed leather with a swirling insignia on the front. Its spine was engraved with his initials — KJ.

“What is it?” Ranboo rose from his chair, slender hands wringing together in wait.

A faint smile appeared on the librarian’s face as he turned to meet the Enderman’s two-toned eyes.

“They’re the keys to your home.”

One month and six days since the Syndicate Coup

“Can someone explain to me how the fuck it’s this hot out right now? It's literally December, dude."

Sapnap was right. Despite not being able to feel it, Bad could clearly see the sun's laser rays beating down on the desolate city, scorching the rain-stained streets bone dry. The nighttime humidity had subsided, leaving behind an arid heat distinctly reminiscent of mid-summer.

The other two had shed their jackets and layers, letting what little breeze there was wash over them.

George unwrapped the violet scarf from his neck, securing it around the strap of his rucksack.

“It has to be the vines.”

He was right. Even if it was something of a vacation from the winter chill, the heat was much too uncanny. Much too ominous to get comfortable with.

Bad eyed the blooming red flowers swaying in the sunlight.

“Don't go near them."

“Am I the only one totally creeped out by all this?” Sapnap shuffled to align his steps along the faded white line of the road.

“It doesn’t matter. Just focus,” George said flatly. “I’m almost certain Dream came this way from the tundra, but I still don’t have his signal. I need to figure out a way to extend my radar.”

“You can do that?”

“I thought of it last night.” He tapped the side of his goggles. “If I gain access to a bigger network, I can route my GPS through it and scan the whole city."

Bad quickened his pace to catch up. “I found a broadcast station not too far from here. Does that work?"

George nodded slightly. “That’s perfect.”

“It’s east from here. This way,” Bad veered from the road, leading them through a vacant alleyway and retracing his steps from the night before.

They shuffled through sprouts of blood vines, scattered garbage and debris. Sapnap groaned, pulling the collar of his shirt over his nose.

“We’re almost there," Bad assured.

Just before the horizon and over a stout building, the tower’s peak came into view.

As they stepped back into the sunny street, George began walking towards a dilapidated storefront, its door smashed in by a crashed vehicle.

“We can cut through here."

Bad surveyed the vines spilling out of the windows, their tendrils laid on the asphalt with ends trailing down the street.

As he crossed the crumbling road, he turned to look up-street, then back down-street. In the daylight, it became obvious that the infestation was much more dense up-street. As the roots grew wilder, their ends crawled onto the sides of buildings down the way, slowly enveloping the city from the north.

Something clattered from the alley behind them, prompting Bad to glance over his shoulder with blade in hand.

He watched the shadows for a moment, scanning for movement. Seeing nothing but rotting trash, he returned the blade to his belt.

He joined the other two in the rundown supermarket, following George as he weaved through the aisles. Sapnap lagged behind, scrimmaging the shelves for supplies.

“…I think the vines are originating from the north,” Bad began, the memory of the crater flashing in his mind. “You think that’s where Dream's going?”

The other seemed to mull over the thought, though it was hard to tell.

“Do you know anything about them?”

Bad paused. “What?”

“The vines.” The other pushed his goggles off his eyes, turning to meet the demon's beady stare. “I’m just curious.”

Hesitating, Bad was suddenly reminded of their tense confrontation earlier that morning, then of the other's panicked admissions from the day before.

“…You weren’t lying about the nightmares, were you?”

“I get weird dreams every time I sleep,” George shrugged. “I never thought they meant anything until Hannah brought it up. Then I saw all this,” he gestured to the vines hanging down from the ceiling, “and realized I've seen it before. Just not in real life."

He breathed a deep sigh.

"I’m not saying I’m an oracle or whatever, but I saw you in a room full of whatever this is…" he muttered. "Maybe I’m really losing my mind. Maybe I’m concussed. Or just tired. I don't know.”

Bad hesitated.

“I… hate to break it to you, but your dreams definitely aren’t just dreams."

Was this really the move? He could clearly picture that telling George about the Egg could backfire immensely, sparking a whole new standoff complete with death threats and fighting.

“What d’you mean?” George queried.

At the same time, he was getting sick of the secrets and lies between the three of them. Ultimately, it was hindering their progress and compromising their capacity for teamwork.

“…What else did you see in that dream?”

In light of Skeppy's restored will to chase a lead on curing his corruption, along with what he'd uncovered about Dream’s end goal, Bad felt a newfound inclination to build some semblance of trust with these two.

“I was sitting at some kind of dinner table. I couldn’t move,” George rubbed his eyes. “There were other people there, shouting like crazy. Something… blew up. I think. Then I saw you.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Your eyes.”

Realistically, it was the smart move for their success in the long run. And, of course, trust had to begin with honesty.

“Did you…” Bad pulled his hood down, letting shadowy wisps of hair fall down his shoulders. “Did you see the Egg?”

George stopped in front of the store's emergency exit, shooting him a bewildered look. “Egg?”

“A big red egg. Did you see it?”

“I… I dunno. There were vines all over the place, I can’t remember much else…" Trailing off with a faraway look in his dark eyes, he raised a brow at the other. "A big red egg?" He repeated, chuckling to himself.

“Guys!” Sapnap came bounding from between the aisles, clutching an armful of plastic bottles. “I found these in a cooler! We’re saved, holy shit…”

George gravitated towards him, taking one of the bottles. “Is that apple juice?”

Bad sighed inwardly. He heaved open the emergency exit, peering through an avenue of apartments.

“C’mon. It’s right over there.”

Revitalized by virtue of hydration, they pushed forth past the crimson and finally made it to the broadcast station.

Bad could've sworn the vines bristled wider than they did the night before.

“We should camp here for tonight,” George said, hopping through the broken window as he had. “Check the perimeter.”

Sapnap nodded, grabbing his axe from the side of his backpack. “I got this.”

“Go with Bad, idiot.”

The demon beckoned to him with a nod. Deflated, the younger followed him around the side of the building.

They tread slowly, cautious to avoid vines and flowers. The crimson didn’t seem to react to their presence, though Bad opted to err on the side of caution.

“So…” he began, stealing a glance at the other. “Quackity.”

“Huh—?” Voice cracking, Sapnap stumbled over a vine.

“I presume you know. About the coup.”

“Yeah,” Sapnap muttered, avoiding Bad’s inquisitive stare. “Why?”

“I’m just curious what his intentions are now, is all. He’s off on this grand quest in the middle of the ocean… with Skeppy,” Bad rounded the corner. “I… don’t understand what he’s trying to get out of all this.”

“The Syndicate shit really messed him up, y’know,” Sapnap followed, ducking to avoid vines hanging from a tree. “He never wanted it to go down like that. He… He was manipulated."

"What if it's a double cross?"

The other huffed. "If he was doing all this for Schlatt…” he paused, shaking his head. “He wouldn’t have kept me hidden this entire time.”

"Do you know for certain that he did?"

The other fell silent with a heavy sigh. "…You just don't get it."

“Hmm…” Bad glanced over his shoulder, a brow raised in jest. “You and Quackity, huh?”

Sapnap turned away to hide his flushed cheeks. “Shut up.”

Bad laughed, the weight on his shoulders lightening ever so slightly. At least he could rest easier knowing that Skeppy wasn’t in immediate danger with the wayward secretary.

There was still one nagging little detail, though.

“Why?” he questioned, forthright.

Sapnap paused to gaze out from the hill they’d ended up on, squinting against the gleaming sun.

Splitting the grass, a set of concrete stairs descended down to an outcropping, continuing to a pebble beach and a glimmering river. The scent of iron had faded, remedied with the water's brine and algae.

“Schlatt’s a piece of shit, dude.”

He continued to circle the building.

Something about how Quackity had pleaded for Bad's help with that mournful look in his dark eyes told him that it couldn’t be that simple, but he decided to give it a rest.

They returned to the building's front, climbing over the window sill and into the shaded indoors. The broadcast station's ground floor sported an open, empty lobby complete with dusty couches and barren vending machines.

A flight of winding stairs rose from the side, leading up to the mezzanine that overlooked the lobby in a ring.

“Up here, idiots.” George droned from somewhere near the ceiling.

They found him sitting in front of the control hub, colorful wires plugging into an arbitrary series of sockets. Rows of blank monitors surrounded him like like a tiled chalkboard.

A single cable connected George's comm to the panel as he navigated various windows and walls of text on its display.

“Perimeter’s all clear.” Sapnap tossed his pack down and slumped into a leather couch. “There’s a river down the hill out back.”

George paused his typing. “Is it clean?”

Bad set his gear down, sitting himself down on a stiff armchair. “I think it’s mostly runoff from the tundra. You wouldn’t wanna drink it.”

The other typed away for a few moments more before unplugging the device and returning it to his pocket. The central monitor flickered to life, seemingly in response. He stood up and held a gauze-wrapped hand out to Bad.

“Give me your comm.”

Blinking, he obliged, retrieving his brick of a device and handing it to the other.

George clicked its noisy buttons, muttering vague grievances under his breath before handing it back.

Bad studied the dim LCD screen. A second name had been added to his contacts alongside Skeppy's.

George picked up his rucksack, starting down the stairs.

“I’m gonna go wash up. Keep an eye on the radar and message me if you see anything.”

Chapter Text

The day after the Syndicate Coup

The glossy clicks of her shoes echoed through the temple.

A dryness hung in the air, the walls gleaming with torchlight. Piles of paraphernalia cast flickering shadows.

“Karl is gone.”

Water and powder mixed into a grey paste.

“What exactly do you want me to do with that information?”

“I think something’s wrong. You should come help.”

“He’ll be back. He always comes back.”

Silence.

“Are you giving up?”

“You know I gave up a long time ago.”

“You can still help them. There’s so much you can do.”

“What difference does it make? Humanity is hopeless.”

“They're not hopeless, only powerless.” The girl's tone grew agitated. "It's all up to us. We can put an end to this soon.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” The other shaped the mortar with calloused hands.

“The manhunt will begin tomorrow.” Footsteps shuffled towards the verdant beacon. “Go protect the Stronghold. Let's try the plan, just how Karl said.”

Silence.

“It’s our duty to restore the world, you know,” she said, quietly. “Death may be dormant, but we still serve Her.”

“She abandoned us, abandoned you, for eons. Only decided to show up when Her beloved Seraph got involved.” A curt laugh. “And look how that fiasco ended for Her. Reap what you sow.”

"It's your foolish decisions that caused that 'fiasco' in the first place."

"Leave."

Silence.

“If only Eret could see you now.” 

A wounded tremble in her voice, she stormed out of the temple in a flurry of clicking steps.

One month and six days since the Syndicate Coup

Skeppy opened his eyes at first light. Rays of gold beamed freely through the windows of his and Bad's home. The faint sound of running water helped to fight its torpid haze.

He sat up from the couch with a yawn, feeling strangely refreshed from having conked out right there.

He pressed a hand against his neck as if to check his own pulse, the dull ache of corruption thrumming there. Most of the time, the aching was just kind of annoying and hardly noticeable, but lately it was getting more adamant. Insisting upon itself.

Skeppy chalked it up to missing Bad's ubiquitous presence.

Quackity stood hunched over the kitchen sink, dragging clean plates out of the basin and onto a flat towel. After a moment of waking stillness, the sound of running water quieted and he turned towards the living room.

Skeppy met his weary eyes, offering a friendly smile. “Thanks.”

Quackity averted his gaze, wiping his hands on his overalls. “Thanks for letting me stay."

The two had chatted briefly over Quackity’s take-out, courtesy of his favorite spot in the city.

Skeppy had deliberately avoided questioning the other's sudden change of plans on account of being too tired and hungry to engage in earnest discussion. Instead, he’d listened quietly as the other cycled through the radio, commenting on and humming along to each fuzzy song that came on.

Skeppy felt well-rested and well-fed now, though.

“Why’d you leave?” He asked, simply.

“H-Huh?” Quackity stared, disquieted.

“Something happen back at ‘HQ’?”

He hadn’t meant for the follow-up to be a provocation or a taunt, but the other seemed to have taken it that way.

Arms crossing, Quackity scowled. “We need all the time we can get if we wanna make it to the desert in reasonable time." He leaned back against the kitchen counter, peering out a window. “It was smarter to spend the night here.”

“Right…” Skeppy assented. “Smarter.”

“You ready to go?” The other retorted flatly.

Skeppy pushed himself off the couch with a contented sigh, standing to stretch his limbs.

“I’ll meet you outside.”

Quackity hadn’t slept. 

The worst part was, he tried to. He laid awake on the floor of Skeppy and Bad’s cottage all night, wrapped in an old quilt, watching the fire in hopes of it lulling him to slumber.

Before he knew it, the blue aura of dawn had begun to seep inside through the windows.

It’s not like he usually had an easier time sleeping, anyway. Part of him had hoped that the distance between him and that concrete fortress would help him rest easier. Distance between him and the ghosts haunting that place.

Clearly, it didn't. Clearly, distance did nothing to fill the sinkhole in his chest. It didn’t dissolve the lump in his windpipe either.

He stood now on the porch, watching the sun glisten over another cold winter morning. Tapping a shoe against the wood, he slipped on a pair of fingerless gloves and slid his sunglasses over his eyes.

He could already tell it was gonna be a rough day.

Before long, the door creaked open and Skeppy stepped outside, swinging a satchel bag over his shoulder. Shutting the door and twisting the key, he gave the other a sweeping glance.

“You look like you’re ready to kill someone," he chuckled.

Quackity promptly began walking away, hands rummaging in his pockets.

“Yeah, you if you don’t hurry the fuck up.”

“Wow, I’m so scared…” Skeppy smirked, skipping after him.

The two retraced their exact path from the day before, heading down to the beach where Quackity had the airship parked.

As they exited the forest, Skeppy sidled up beside him and held out a drawstring pouch. Quackity peered inside. There were a handful of rolls, baked perfectly golden brown.

“No breakfast?” he said, biting into one.

Quackity shook his head, lighting a cigarette. “Not hungry.”

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged. “You got supplies on the ship?”

He tried to recall if he’d seen anything besides weapons. “I don’t know.”

“Hm, well, this is all the food I brought, so… might be a problem.”

Quackity sighed wearily. “I’ll figure it out.”

They arrived at the ship once more, the heavy atmosphere stifling the sense of déjà vu. At least, it felt that way for Quackity.

He quickly got things set up, plugging in his comm and bringing up the GPS. 

Their destination was simply “the desert”. Technoblade hadn’t mentioned anything beyond that. They could be looking for anything out there.

In any case, there were no known settlements that far south. Wherever this "Foolish" guy lived, Quackity banked on it being at least a bit noticeable in the vast, humdrum landscape.

As the engine whirred and they pulled away from the island, he stole a glimpse at Skeppy.

The other had already taken to setting up a nook for himself at the back of the ship, nestled in blankets and pillows that Quackity wasn’t really sure where he’d gotten from.

“Hey,” he called out. “You know this Foolish guy?”

“Foolish guy…” Skeppy snorted with a laugh. “If I did, would I be here with you right now?”

“I’m just asking, asshole,” Quackity grumbled, turning back to the dashboard.

"Okay, okay," Skeppy chuckled mirthfully. “For real, though? Nah. Never heard of him.”

Quackity tapped a finger against the helm as they left the island. “You think Bad would know?”

“Maybe. Prolly not, though,” he yawned. “He never left the mainland. Except for when we moved out here.”

A new wave of guilt washed over Quackity as he remembered how his last call to George’s comm ended. He dragged the map north, eyes scanning the unmarked hinterlands.

To his relief, George’s signal had reappeared, blinking mutely far in the northwest.

Exhaling, Quackity pulled up the man’s contact. “I need to check in with them anyway.”

“Who are those guys?” Skeppy asked moments after they ended the call.

Quackity reopened his GPS. “Sapnap and George.”

“Just so I’m clear, Sapnap was the one giving you puppy eyes. Is that right?”

“Shut up, dumbass, go take a nap or something,” Quackity hissed, shoving the other away.

“Ow, that hurts, jerk!” he rubbed his shoulder.

The other rolled his eyes. "Dude, you're literally made of stone."

Skeppy huffed. “So much for 'ensuring my safety'…”

Quackity sighed. He couldn’t have another source of guilt eating at his mind, that might just be the end of him.

“…Hey, what’s the deal with your corruption, anyway? Are you, like, dying?”

Skeppy nestled back into his nook, pressing buttons on his comm. “I dunno. Maybe,” he responded, as if Quackity had just asked him if he'd seen any spare batteries. “It’s been, like, couple months since it started and I’m still here, so…”

“Bad thought it was urgent enough for him to come out of retirement, or whatever.”

He breathed a deep sigh. “I guess.”

Quackity recalled the years-worth of CCTV footage he’d scrubbed through, the blurred images of two undying entities encapsulated in those archives.

“You’ve known him for a while.”

Skeppy scoffed. “A while for you. Not that long in the grand scheme of things.”

“How… How long have you been around for, exactly?”

“I dunno. A while for me.”

“Were you, like, born? Or-Or what? Made?”

“I don’t know.”

“How?" Quackity shot him a doubtful look. "What’s your earliest memory?”

Skeppy hummed, mulling over the question for just over a minute.

“Think I saw someone get stabbed to death.”

“What the fuck, man?”

“It wasn’t as messed up as it sounds,” Skeppy shrugged. "I don't remember how I felt. Just that I saw it."

Quackity felt a vague sense of envy creeping up his throat.

“What about you?” Skeppy asked back.

“What about me what?”

“What’s your earliest memory?”

“I…” Quackity began to answer, before trailing off into a blank thought. What was his earliest memory? He found it hard to focus suddenly, no thanks to the lack of sleep. "I'unno."

“Dude, you’ve been alive for like two minutes compared to me. How do you not remember?”

“My memory’s always been ass,” a yawn escaped him, “plus, I didn't sleep.”

“Aw, I should’ve given you the couch, huh?”

Quackity rolled his eyes. “It’s not that. I just… I've got a lot going on.”

“Like what?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

“C’mon, talk to me… I know I’m stuck with you for a while, so at least give me something to, like, sink my teeth into.”

Quackity shot him a look. “My problems aren’t for your entertainment, pal.”

“Okay, that’s not—” Skeppy exhaled. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just, like, trying to be nice, or whatever.”

Quackity held a vice-like grip on the helm, holding it steady to course.

None of it was particularly necessary, he could turn on the autopilot at literally any point. But having an excuse to occupy his mind, keep him from spilling his guts, felt like a lifeline at that moment.

He wasn’t about to start pouring his heart out to this old-ass talking rock who probably wouldn’t give a shit if they weren't stuck on this airship together for the forseeable future.

"Save your breath."

The afternoon came and went with relative peace. Skeppy had taken to playing some game on his comm, the clacking buttons and groans of frustration keeping Quackity from nodding off at the helm.

The sun set on the endless ocean, stretching as far as the eye could see. Quackity settled his gaze on the glistening water, letting himself get lost in a thoughtless haze.

He flinched when Skeppy suddenly came up beside him.

“Dude, you’re totally falling asleep.”

“No the fuck I’m not,” Quackity retorted, blinking away the fog of slumber.

“Let’s switch. You sleep and I drive.”

“No way in hell am I letting you near this thing.”

Skeppy shook him by the shoulder, “Come on! I’m probably a better pilot than you, anyway… I’ve flown plenty of ships in my time.”

Quackity snorted with laughter. “You sound like an old man, ‘back in my day, I sailed the wide open sea’—” he put on an exaggerated impression, prompting a wounded look from the other.

“Just ‘cuz I can’t die doesn’t mean I’m old—”

“That is literally the dictionary fuckin’ definition of old, dumbass!”

Skeppy crossed his arms, glowering at the other. “You’re mean, dude.”

Quackity guffawed. “I’m messing with you.”

He glanced over at the GPS, bathed in deep blue. They’d be travelling over ocean through the night, it seemed. The ship’s ETA was endlessly recalibrating, sparing them no assurance. 

Vision blurring with yawn-induced tears, Quackity rubbed at them one last time before engaging the autopilot with a defeated sigh. 

“Ugh, fine, have it your way." He began sauntering towards the back of the ship. "Listen, you don’t have to do shit, all right? Just keep an eye on what’s ahead, don’t touch anything, and wake me up if anything happens. Got it?”

Skeppy raised a mock salute, stepping to the helm.

“Aye, aye, captain.”

Chapter Text

There's this movie that I think you'll like
This guy decides to quit his job
and heads to New York City

– "Riptide" by Vance Joy

Two weeks before the Syndicate Coup

George dropped the box of documents onto the concrete floor, sighing.

Ranboo continued to walk leisurely, glancing back with a concerned tilt.

“You okay?”

George groaned. “Why couldn’t Karl do this himself again?”

The Enderman shuffled in place. “I’m not sure. He seemed busy with the journals.”

When is Karl not busy with the journals?

George heaved the box up off the ground, taking measured steps forward.

“I'm making him buy me food after this.”

Ranboo chuckled. "He probably would've either way."

The librarian had asked the two to drop off some older archives to the basement for storage. For whatever reason, George hadn’t expected the Enderman to be half as strong as he’d turned out to be. Ranboo carried his box of archives as if it were a small stack of books.

After a lot of complaining and heaving and sweating (all from George), the two deposited their crates into a dingy, lightless room full of similarly cluttered boxes, dusting themselves and piling back into the elevator.

“Do you get lonely?” George watched the concrete shaft drift past, absentminded. “Holed up in this place.”

“I’ve got you guys to keep me company," Ranboo shrugged. "It’s not like I long to be anywhere else, anyway. This place is all I know.”

George hummed. “What'll you do once Karl figures out a way to get you home?”

Ranboo fell silent as the elevator emerged from the underground levels, gazing out over the city's sprawling skyline as they rose over it.

"I don't know. This is my home.”

George turned to look out the glass too, though his eyes drifted past the rooftops and gridded roads, settling on the distant mountain peaks.

It was strange. To think there was a whole world beyond these borders he’d never laid eyes upon.

It’s not like he was stuck here, like how Ranboo practically was. The thought had simply never occurred to him until recently. That he could leave the city. Go see what lay beyond the valley.

He thought of Karl’s marvelous stories, how the librarian had seemingly seen the entire world already.

They made George wonder if he could do the same — brave the wide-open land all on his own, facing whatever challenges the unknown would throw at him.

For some reason, the thought gave him a sinking feeling.

They arrived at their floor with a muted ding. Stepping out of the elevator, George spotted Karl between the E and F shelves. He couldn’t tell with who from afar, but he seemed to be in conversation.

“We’re back,” George announced, prompting the librarian's posture to straighten as he turned to them.

“Hey, you made it." A warm smile appeared on Karl's face. "Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome,” George muttered, sarcastic.

Before he could demand payment in sustenance, an unfamiliar voice chirped from behind Karl.

“Ranboo!”

A short boy ran up to the Enderman, wrapping his arms around the other’s waistcoated torso.

Ranboo breathed a laugh, patting the boy’s dark, fleecy hair.

“Hey, Tubbo.”

Karl stood on his toes to pull a book from the top shelf, blowing the dust off its spine and pressing his shoulder against George’s. 

“I was just telling Tubmeister what I've been up to,” he whispered, “and he told me about this artifact encyclopedia, or something, I honestly don’t know…”

“Okay…” George muttered, unsure of what the other was trying to get at. 

He watched Karl leaf through the pages of the book. The dust made him sneeze.

“Bless you.”

George sniffled, rubbing his nose. “Thanks.”

Karl paused, flipping back a couple of pages before stabbing a painted nail into it. 

“According to this, there’s an ancient codex being protected in another dimension.”

George recalled some of his earlier discoveries. “The Nether?”

“Nope,” Karl grinned, tracing further down the page. “The End.”

“End of what?”

“No, dummy, like Eye of Ender. Like Endermen.”

Something clicked in George’s mind like it sometimes did. 

“Is that where Ranboo’s from?”

Karl nodded vigorously. “They’re gonna be stoked!”

He spun towards Ranboo and the other boy, who were chuckling and muttering between themselves, before doubling back to George and squeezing his wrist.

“Hey, do you mind grabbing my journal? It’s just on my desk.”

George nodded, wordlessly. The librarian flashed him a smile before letting go.

"The End". He found it to be somewhat of an ominous name to give a place. His mind was still stuck wondering, the end of what?

Humming, he made his way across the library. As he strolled, George found himself trying to conjure up images of what the place could look like. Some kind of dungeon? An endless forest? Maybe an alien planet?

He sure was learning a lot about Ranboo today. It seemed like that apprentice boy, Tubbo, had gotten to know him well already. 

George didn’t realize the Enderman had come into contact with anyone outside the library and the Councilors.

He weaved through the latter half of the alphabet before coming to the librarian’s corner workplace setup.

George yelped in fright upon seeing a stranger standing over Karl’s desk.

Alerted by his presence, the stranger turned around slowly.

“Hello, George,” he greeted casually, in the middle of flipping a page in Karl’s journal. “Nice to see you again.”

George gave him a sweeping glance, unsure of where he’d seen the man before.

His eyes settled on the journal's violet edges, swiftly darting back to glare at the intruder.

“That’s not yours,” he snapped.

Sea-green eyes blinked back at him.

“I’m sorry,” the man closed the journal and stepped towards him. George instinctively stepped back. “It's just, I’m a big fan of the librarian’s research…”

George eyed the silver armor covering the man’s chest and shoulders.

Smiling still, he held the journal out with both hands, bowing slightly to peer straight into his soul. Wordlessly, George took it.

He watched the guard brush past him and disappear between the bookshelves.

One month and six days since the Syndicate Coup

Left to their devices with the blank radar, the two had taken to raiding every last cabinet and drawer in hopes of scrounging together some semblance of a dinner.

Bad opened the bottom drawer of a desk, finding nothing but rotting paper and an empty bottle. 

“What does he look like?”

Sapnap poked his head up from the next cubicle over. “Hm?”

“Dream." The bottle made a dull clink as he shut the drawer. "What are we looking for, exactly?”

Frowning, Sapnap disappeared back behind the partition. 

“He’s tall. Wears green for camo,” he paused, “and a mask.”

“Mask?” Bad left the empty cubicle and joined the other. “What kind?”

Sapnap shoved an empty cabinet closed, sitting back in the wheeled chair with a huff. 

“Wood. Over his face. With a smile carved into it.”

Bad raised a brow at him. “Why?”

“Dude, I don’t know…" He pushed himself out of the chair and moved on to the next cubicle. “Like I said, he's not all there.”

It was definitely a choice.

Bad’s gaze drifted out the window, where snowy peaks of far, frigid mountains loomed in the distance.

“Do you think there’s a chance he… got lost? In the tundra?”

Sapnap fell silent, rifling through more empty cabinets. 

Bad quickly began to regret making the suggestion. Was it insensitive? Cruel? He only figured it was worth asking, all things considered.

For all they knew, Dream could've been dead this entire time. Frozen in the barren tundra for weeks.

“He’s alive,” Sapnap finally answered, with a resolute firmness that barred any further scrutiny.

“…I’m gonna check the radar,” Bad muttered, leaving the other to continue their fruitless search.

Exhaling, he sat down in front of the monitor.

About an hour had passed since George left it for them, the sun beginning to turn golden as late afternoon settled in.

Sinking into idle silence, Bad instinctively reached for his comm. No new messages.

He tried to estimate how long it should take Skeppy to reach the desert. The region was far, far in the opposite direction of where the three of them had ended up. He and Quackity would have to travel hundreds of miles over the ocean before getting even a glimpse of the coast.

There was a slim sliver of a chance they had reached the shore by this point. Though, even then, did they know where to go? The desert as vast and desolate as the tundra. Even Bad knew that despite never having been there himself.

He begrudgingly stopped himself from pinging a message. They couldn’t distract each other from their respective objectives. At this point, Bad was relying just as much on Skeppy as Skeppy did on him, even if it was all for the other's sake.

There was a minute comfort to knowing that they were in this together, in spite of the immeasurable oceans that separated them.

The control panel made a jarring sound, rudely interrupting Bad's rumination. He flinched, looking up from his comm.

Glaring back at him from the radar monitor was a small green marker.

Gasping, he leaned forward in an attempt to gauge its position on the map. Simultaneously opening George’s contact, he frantically clicked hollow buttons to type out a quick message.

“Sapnap,” he called out, flitting between the two screens. “Sapnap!”

"What?" The boy jogged up beside him. “What, what?!”

“He’s near." Bad tilted his head, studying the display. "I think."

“Oh shit,” Sapnap scrambled to gather his pack and axe. “I’ll get George—”

“No, wait, I’ll go," Bad stood promptly. "You stay here and watch this.”

“What? Come on, I can handle—”

“I can’t tell if he's on the other side of the city or literally right outside. What if you get ambushed—”

"I mean, obviously, I know that," Sapnap scoffed. "If he's here, I need to talk to him—"

“I’m back, idiots.” George’s dry declaration interrupted their debate. He climbed the stairs with swaying, leisurely steps. “I got your message. I was on my way, anyway.”

“Dude, George,” Sapnap’s voice hushed. “He’s here. He’s, like, right here, isn’t he?”

George set his things down with a languid sigh, running a hand through his damp hair. Reclaiming his seat at the control panel, he briskly reconnected his comm with a quiet clink.

“He’s nowhere near us.”

Sapnap exhaled sharply, dropping his axe. "Y'know, George, call me crazy, but sometimes it's kind of good to have, like, I dunno, a sense of urgency?"

“I already connected my GPS to the tower’s network. If he just showed up on it, that means he’s quite literally as far as he possibly can be from us."

“So, what now?” Bad breathed a weary sigh.

George unscrewed the lid off his half-empty bottle of apple juice. “We wait and see where he goes.”

Bad scanned the monitor, the verdant dot blinking every few seconds. “Are you absolutely certain he’s nowhere near here?”

“Yeah?” George rolled his eyes, gathering his legs up onto the chair. “Did you find any food?”

“There’s nothing here,” Sapnap muttered. “I’m getting hungry.”

“I might have seen some fish in the river,” the other yawned, "but my back kind of hurts from carrying this entire operation, so…" Flashing a smug smirk, George swiveled to face the monitor once more. "Feel free to make yourselves useful whilst I pinpoint our target."

Bad scoffed under his breath, picking up his bow and slinging it over his shoulder.

"Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone," he muttered, descending the mezzanine staircase. "…If you dunces can even get a fire started in the first place."

The river's current streamed with a tranquil lull. Bad watched it keenly, bowstring drawn taut.

Knowing exactly where Dream was gave him peace of mind. It seemed to do so for all three of them. Things were the most straightforward they’d been since they departed from the former Syndicate commune. Daresay, smooth. The only problem now was sorting out their food situation.

Bad searched for slithers in the water. It was far from his first time going fishing with a bow and arrow. In fact, he was well-versed in fishing with an assortment of implements, from the classic rod to a sharpened stick or simple tin bucket.

He released the arrow, letting it pierce a narrow silhouette beneath the water's surface.

It took less than an hour to gather three fish this way. As he trudged up the weathered concrete stairs trailing back to the abandoned city plateau, the sun sunk under the horizon.

Stepping into the broadcast station lobby, a faint warm glow flickered along the ceiling. Bad felt a vague sense of pride somewhere in his soul.

As he trudged up the last set of stairs, the odd sound of joyful laughter trilled from the firelight. Hesitating at the top of the stairs, Bad peeked around the corner.

George sat in the office chair, a radiant smile on his face and eyes crinkled with a residual chuckle. In his arms, he cradled a contented cat. Sapnap was crouched beside it, petting its gray-striped fur and cooing with an affectionate tenderness about him.

For the first time since Bad had met the two, they looked happy.

Smiling to himself, he slinked over to the fire and silently prepared their dinner.

“Bad, look!” Sapnap called to him. “This little guy just showed up outta nowhere.”

Tossing a few more scraps of useless documents into the flames, he wiped his hands clean and joined them by the control panel.

“I figured the vines would've gotten to every last critter in the city." Crouching, he reached a tentative hand to the cat’s ears. “I guess he's making do with the scraps.”

“How d’you know it’s a ‘he’?” George grinned, facetious. “It could be a ‘she’.”

“Could be,” Bad mused. To his surprise, the cat didn’t stir at the sight of him. Evidently, the animal was used to being around people. "Poor thing probably wants to cozy up by the fire."

Sapnap left them to peruse the campfire. “We should give her some nice, cooked food.”

Bad chuckled, “I just set those up, give it some time.”

The other flopped into a dusty armchair, leaning down near the floor and clicking his tongue. “C’mere, come to me instead."

George hugged the purring cat closer. “She loves me more, Sapnap, look.”

“C’mere, c’mere—” Sapnap struggled to keep himself from falling as he beckoned. “I’ve got the food here, come to me!”

George chortled, swiveling in his chair. “Look, she doesn’t care! She hates you ‘cause you stink.”

“Shut up, idiot," Sapnap laughed through his counter. “I don’t stink.”

George guffawed, opening his mouth to fire another jab before bursting into a fit of breathless laughter at his unspoken retort. The sudden movement made the cat leap out of his arms.

“You do, Stinknap,” he hiccuped into a chuckle at his own dumb joke.

The cat, meanwhile, finally made its way over to Sapnap, hopping into his lap and settling there.

“Look, she loves me!” he exclaimed, sitting back with a grin. “Dumbass!” he spat, cackling.

Bad found himself laughing too. The playful back and forth was a nice departure from how they’d started out that morning. It was ridiculous to think that these were the same people who were screaming over a loaded gun just a handful of hours ago. The thought made him giggle.

“Muffinheads…”

George suddenly dissolved into another fit of effervescent giggles, leaning back in his chair and reaching to cover his eyes. “What did you just say?!”

“Wait, what?” Sapnap exhaled a chuckle, looking over to them.

“He-He…” George coughed, “He just… He just called us muffinheads—” He interrupted himself with another mirthful guffaw.

“What?” Bad exclaimed. “What’s so funny?”

Sapnap joined in the chorus, slapping a palm to his forehead. “What the hell…? He’s-He’s the muffin man—”

The two launched into hysterics, rambunctious laughter echoing through the entire broadcast station. Bad was left sputtering, with no choice but to laugh along.

Nightfall settled, the fire's warm glow mingling with the sterile luminescence of the radar monitor. Bad sat in the midst, resting against the low window sill and looking over the river.

The moon was only a thin sliver in the sky that night, casting a brilliant sheen on the water’s surface. The clear, inky sky was void of stars.

Sapnap slept soundly near the fire, having drifted off with the cat claiming most of the armchair's seat. George tirelessly typed away at his newfound workstation, pausing to fiddle with some tools every now and then.

At some point during the night, he cleared his throat to break the silence.

“Are you gonna tell me about this mysterious egg of yours?”

Bad tore himself from the dark sky, sighing quietly, before shuffling away from the fire in hopes of not stirring the slumberers.

Using his butterfly knife as a screwdriver, George twisted it into his goggles.

“…The Egg is where the blood vines are coming from. It's at the bottom of a giant crater, and… I guess it’s somewhere north of the city.”

“Go on.”

“I came across it a long, long, long time ago… it’s the whole reason I’m like this,” Bad gestured to his halo. “I have a feeling Dream’s looking for it, or something, I’m not sure.”

George hummed, returning to typing into his comm's terminal. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” Bad glanced back towards the campfire. “Sapnap thinks there’s something wrong with Dream. Like, he’s not in his right mind. Remember what that girl said back in the cave? Dream ‘foretold’ them about some prophecy, and he knew we were gonna show up.”

“The Egg. It’s an ancient evil. Ever since I first encountered it, it’s… it’s talked to me in my dreams. What if it’s doing the same to Dream?”

George's brow furrowed, moonlight reflecting in his dark eyes. “That could… make sense, I suppose.” He went back to tinkering. “The thing is, I’m fairly certain I know where he’s going and I don’t think this Egg is necessarily related.”

“Where?”

George fell silent. A moment passed as he set down the knife and went back to typing, the glass-like keys clinking at a slow but steady pace. 

“I used to spend a lot of time in the Syndicate archives. The librarian there did loads of research into… other dimensions.”

Bad raised an incredulous brow.

“Yeah, I know," George sighed. "Look, long story short, I’m pretty sure that Revival Book, or whatever, is in one of those dimensions.”

“You knew that this entire time?” Bad whispered harshly.

“No! I mean, yeah, okay, no, I didn’t realize, okay? It's not my fault," the other lamented, sinking into his chair. "I didn't realize until-until Quackity told us about that stupid book. This whole time, I've just been trying to find… find…”

“Find what?”

George took the butterfly knife back in his hands, gaze averting. “The librarian, Karl," he murmured. "He disappeared the day of the attack. I looked for him. After. But… the entire library was burnt to ashes.”

Bad softened into a sympathetic stare. George scoffed in response.

“He’s not dead. There’s no way he’s dead," he hissed. "Dream has to know what happened. Where he went. He was snooping around Karl’s stuff just before the attack. He must've seen him that day—”

“Don't you think he might have—”

“No,” George interrupted, firmly. “Karl had to have escaped, or-or something. Dream… only got rid of the people that would come after him," he muttered. "Karl can’t fight. He can barely lift a crate… and-and Quackity told me they didn’t anyone besides the guards, and Philza."

“Okay, okay…” Bad relented.

He understood where the other was coming from. The thought of losing someone you care about was simply unbearable. Unthinkable.

At this realization, Bad felt a sinkhole open in his soul. Struck with this strange sensation, he let a few minutes pass in silence, returning to watch the river.

“…George?"

The other raised a brow at him, flipping the knife restlessly.

"I'm sorry. For the things I said this morning." Eyes drifting from the shimmering stream, Bad turned to meet his puzzled stare. "This Karl person… I can tell he means a lot to you.”

George turned away, leaning into the chair’s armrest with a disconcerted chortle.

“…That guy traveling with Quackity," he began, faintly, “is he like you?”

Bad quieted with ponder. Skeppy? Like me?

Skeppy was only like Bad in one real way, that being their undying nature and immortal lifespan.

He thought of his bright, doting gaze. His eyes that twinkled with a vivacious mischief that always won Bad over in the end of any quarrel or grievance.

He thought of his sculpted face, how sunlight danced on his curling smile, the point of his nose.

He thought of how enamored he'd been on that sleepless night so long ago, captivated by his lone silhouette perched over the city skyline.

He thought of how the corruption robbed Skeppy of his vivacity, and found himself staring back out into the endlessly dark sky, scowling at the absent stars.

He knew what George was asking on the surface. Though, between what he'd come to learn about the oft-petulant man, coupled with the understated sorrow he hid with indignation and opaque lenses, Bad felt a strange weight attached to the question.

“Yeah,” he said at last, through a sharp exhale. “He’s… sick, but… not for much longer.”

George hummed, gaze resting on the crescent moon.

Chapter Text

There is a light that I can see
but only, it seems, when there's darkness in me

Three months before the Syndicate Coup

There was a bounty on the alchemist’s assistant.

For weeks, nobody dared to claim it. It was a suicide mission. Not to mention, plain stupid. Why provoke the Syndicate? It made no sense. Evidently, whoever had posted the bounty had a vendetta. And a lot of money.

The offer increased. Day after day. Rising to the top of the web bulletin like a bloating cadaver. Inevitably, some brave mercenary claimed the bounty and took a foolhardy stab at the job.

The chump didn’t even make it inside the Headquarters before being apprehended and incarcerated by the Council Guard.

The bounty remained. Countless others staked their claims as the reward sum continued to inflate, all failing miserably to infiltrate the concrete fortress that was the Syndicate HQ.

It was starting to become somewhat of an eyesore, the absurd sum blighting the screen each time Bad opened the forums. He avoided the bounty, barely sparing a glance as he scrolled. Messing with the Syndicate was surely more trouble than it was ever worth.

At the same time, it had been a slow week. It seemed the underground circuit of mercenaries, assassins, hitmen, and other such felons were scrambling to take up every last job, bar the top listing. Bad wondered if they hoped to work up towards it, like levelling up for the final boss of some kind of game.

When put like that, it started to sound enticing.

By the end of the week, Bad found himself glaring at the ridiculous number. One-hundred and fifty thousand credits? He couldn't help but laugh. To think humans lusted endlessly after this fabrication of their own making. To think they'd murder one another in cold blood for the sake of this arbitrary construct.

Suddenly vexed, Bad claimed the bounty with a resolute clunk of his comm.

By all means, it was just another night. Only with a little more to do before the sun came up.

Crouching in the river valley, Bad spied on Skeppy as he coasted down the hill, on his way to see some friend of his. He lingered by the river for a minute, watching his own phantom-like reflection in its ripples.

Since when did Skeppy have other friends? This question wouldn't leave his mind. Was he bluffing? Making some jest that he couldn't quite pick up on? Bad could never really tell with him.

After some rumination, the assassin unsheathed his beloved dagger and dipped it into the river stream, splitting his own reflection. Standing up, he wiped the blade dry and held it up to the round silver moon. The midnight-purple sheen reflected its light into a pristine slice. All clean from his first job of the night.

With that, he set out for the inner-city.

Bad hadn’t given much thought as to how exactly he’d get into the Syndicate HQ. For whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he’d have much trouble. Unlike the mere mortals that buzzed around the bounty like flies to manure, he couldn't possibly suffer the same pitfalls as they did. The Council Guard decidedly wouldn't stand a chance against him, even if they resorted to their reserve of actual weapons.

The real hurdle was locating the target.

The listing had come with a brief, almost clinical description. Four foot, eleven. Eighteen years old. Brown hair, brown eyes. Often seen wearing a suit vest and lab coat. Often seen working alongside Councilor Philza. Rarely leaves the east wing of the building.

Bad knew for a fact that there were about fifteen or so residents of the HQ. Over a third of them consisted of the guards, who would be patrolling the corridors and perimeter as they did each night, regardless of any bounty floating in subspace. Most of the living quarters were located in the west wing.

In spite of it being the dead of night, Bad made an educated guess that the alchemist’s assistant was a workaholic. What with all the fanfare and demand surrounding the Schlatt & Co. partnership. The commotion was so great that even he had somehow become privy to the deal. Surely the assistant would be working overtime just to keep up.

Bad came to the HQ from the east, settling on top of an adjacent high rise for the initial stake-out. He pulled out his spyglass and began searching for light in the windows.

It didn’t take long for him to spot something. Granted, not a light, but a silhouette drifting past. He settled on watching this window, just a couple of storeys down from the top floor.

After several quiet minutes, there was a bursting flash of bright magenta. 

It took him aback, brow furrowing through the spyglass shaft. The technicolor reverie was fleeting, darkness returning in seconds.

Swiftly, Bad slinked his way down the lower balconies and began traversing the rooftops.

With no other way to reach his destination, he quickly took to climbing up the HQ's concrete facade, relying on the window sill ledges. By the time he came to the site of the mysterious spectacle, he'd ascended level with the moon.

Giving a huff of air for good measure, Bad lifted himself to peek in through the window. From the looks of it, he’d ended up outside of some kind of office. Loose papers and stacks of books littered the wooden desk. A fluorescent light poured in through a half-open door. The quiet hum of music could be heard somewhere beyond it.

Bad paused, watching for movement once more. Sensing no presence, he drove a fist through the glass. With a well-practiced fluidity, he unlatched the lock and crawled inside.

The soft lulls of an acoustic guitar and gossamer singing filtered through the radio’s faint static. Music flooded the next room over, spilling into the office.

Lucky, the assassin supposed. Dagger drawn, he crept towards the light.

A hunched figure sat at a workbench. Glass beakers, flasks, and tubes all filled with various shades of pink liquid littered its surface. A white coat draped down the tall stool, brushing against the ground. Something stewed in a pot, filling the place with the smell of fresh grass.

The alchemist’s assistant sung faintly along to the radio, plucking a white flower from a basket overflowing with more of the exact same.

As Bad was caught up trying to decipher what kind of science experiment he was witnessing, the song ended and the assistant hopped down from the stool.

They immediately caught Bad’s luminescent stare watching from the darkness, stumbling against the workbench with a horrified shriek.

Stepping into the laboratory, Bad readied a small throwing blade in one hand and raised his dagger at the young assistant with the other.

“What the hell?!” they cried, clutching the fresh daisy as if it was a string of pearls. “Who-How… What d’you want?!”

Bad said nothing. The petrified look on the young human’s face, coupled with their petite stature made him hesitate for a fraction of a moment. This wasn’t a fair encounter. Not by any stretch of the means. In the end, death never was fair. This, he knew well.

“It’s nothing personal,” he muttered, too quiet for the assistant to hear. He prepared to launch the knife into their heart.

He he deafening sound of an alarm sounding all throughout the building, Bad staggered, vision bathed in harsh red light. 

In the wake of sudden chaos, a glass beaker shattered in Bad's face. Knocked back against the door, he brushed the loose shards out of his eyes just in time to see the white lab coat trailing out of a doorway.

He dashed after it, sprinting into the corridor inundated with the blaring alarm.

“Help me! Guards!” Screaming against the shrill alarm, the assistant stumbled to round a corner. “Ant! Antfrost!”

Bad slid across the concrete floor, dragging a gloved hand under him as he peered down the corridor. He watched the assistant barrelling between flashes of scarlet, making a beeline for the elevator.

A guard whipped around at the sound of his name, pointed ears flickering to attention and jade-green eyes widening in horror as they met the assassin's.

Decisively, Bad flung a knife after the assistant. They crashed to the floor with a pained cry, the blade impaling their rib.

The guard sprung into action, wielding an electrified spear. He stepped in front of the injured assistant and began to scurry towards Bad.

“Drop your weapons!” he yelled over the alarm.

Between flashes of scarlet and electric blue, Bad ducked to avoid the lunging spear and drove a knee into the guard’s side, throwing him against the wall.

As the guard struggled to regain his bearings, Bad raced down the hall in pursuit. A dark trail staining the concrete floor, the alchemist's assistant crawled desperately towards the elevator.

In his tracks, Bad's balance faltered with vertigo as his breath suddenly stuttered. A biting chill bloomed from his throat, hands instinctively drifting to warm it.

There was a dull thud beneath the screeching alarm as his target slumped against the elevator doors, a hand crawling towards the call button in vain.

The world shifting back into place, Bad blinked away the vestiges of vertigo and paced to catch up.

He leaned down to remove his knife from the assistant's back, eliciting a pained shout. They turned to face the assassin with rheumy, doe-like eyes.

“Please… I don't want to die…”

Wordlessly, Bad plunged his dagger into the young assistant’s throat.

There is a dream that I sometimes see
That only appears in the dark of sleep

– "Abbey" by Mitski

One month and seven days since the Syndicate Coup

As he emerged from the clutches of slumber, murmurs shrouded Bad through waning darkness.

Kill.

“Oh, what the fuck…”

Kill him.

“What do we do?”

You must.

“I’m not touching that shit, bro.”

Kill Dream.

“Just use your axe, idiot!”

You must.

“Why me?! You do it!”

Kill Dream.

Bad opened his eyes. The murmurs subsided, replaced with the familiar sound of squabbling. Breathing a sigh, he raised an arm to rub the leftover slumber from his eyes. Met with resistance, confused, he looked down at his own cloaked form.

To his utter horror, a layer of sprawling blood vines blanketed his entire body, the tendrils grasping loosely at his limbs.

“He’s awake!” Sapnap exclaimed, ending the aimless bickering. “Dude, are you good?”

With a strained grunt, Bad tore his arm out of the vines’ coil, slinking it between the tangle to retrieve his beloved dagger. With several well-measured slashes of the obsidian blade, the blanket of vines fell into chopped tatters.

Free at last, he took a deep breath and rested against the wall, meeting George and Sapnap's gawking faces with a scowl. 

“You guys are just no help. You know that?”

George sputtered in response, eyes rolling and hands flailing. “What d'you want us to do?! You said not to get near these stupid vines," he muttered peevishly. "You've managed to sort it out yourself, anyway…"

“Is it, like, following us…?” Sapnap wondered aloud, scanning the mezzanine.

It seemed that, overnight, the crimson infestation had reached the broadcast station and crawled its way upstairs. Scarlet moss carpeted the linoleum floor, trailing up the stairs and barging through smashed windows. Like dead snakes, they converged around the pile of hole-punched papers on which Bad had laid to rest.

An unsettled frown flashed across George's face as he slipped on his rucksack. “We should go. I’ve got all the equipment I need.”

Still dazed from his rude awakening, Bad staggered to his feet and slowly gathered his gear.

They left the broadcast station through the back, vines having barricaded the front windows in webbing threads. Stepping out into an overcast morning, the three trailed down the sun-blanched stairs until they crumbled into the riverbank. The gravel beach looked blissfully gray, the vines having grown sparser downhill until they disappeared from sight entirely. Water gurgled between jutting shingles in the river's stream.

Gaze resting momentarily on its cloudy surface, George opened his comm to display the GPS for them all to see.

“Dream’s been moving west through the city. Presuming he's headed for that mark on his map," he made an unnecessarily drawn-out pause, "he's on track to get there within the next day or so. We need to start moving up the river to gain ground.”

Their own little triangle could be seen on the west end of the city, while the ominous green marker blinked in the northeast quadrant.

The three began to trek up along the shore. George lagged behind the other two, gaze trained on the screen of his comm as he typed diligently. It seemed that he’d been working tirelessly since last night. On exactly what, Bad still didn't know.

A little intimidated by the other's expression, wrought with keen concentration and a sheen of sweat from the mounting afternoon heat, Bad turned to Sapnap for answers.

“Hey," he began, quietly, "what's he doing?”

Sapnap kicked loose pebbles into the water as he walked. “He’s trying to hack into Dream’s eye.”

Bad blinked. “His eye?”

“Yeah,” the other yawned, gaze lifting to watch the river's bend in the distance. “During my watch last night he was talking about the signal's host name, or whatever. Somehow figured out that it wasn't a comm and hasn't been this whole damn time, then started freaking out 'cause Dream's comm contact is how we started tracking him in the first place," he huffed. "Then I remembered how one of his eyes would glow in the dark, like this crazy neon green.”

“I realized it must be an implant,” George interjected from behind them, "that has his comm data uploaded into it.” he muttered.

Bad hummed. He found himself mildly impressed with the deduction, even more so with the ambitious idea it seemed to have spawned in the other's head.

“If it’s emitting a signal, that surely means I can create a feed from it to my own device,” George said, emphatically. “In other words, we'll be literally spying on him.”

“Dude, you sure it's even possible?” Sapnap glanced over his shoulder, cocking a brow at the other. "You've been doing this all night already."

George scoffed in response, returning to his comm. “I know I can do it, I just need some time, all right? It’s hard to type…” he muttered the last part, tightening the gauze around his hands.

“If you figured out how to fix that spaceship in less than an hour, I’m sure you can figure out a tiny bionic implant,” Bad remarked.

“As much as I appreciate your sudden confidence in my expertise,” the other said, facetiously, “that ship was a couple loose wires and reboots away from being perfectly functional.”

“You’re saying that kid never bothered to check the damage on his own ship…?” Sapnap muttered, distantly.

"Well," George began, interrupting himself with a yawn, "not necessarily. He was probably working on it up until we showed up. Dunno why he couldn’t figure out the rest, though. It was fairly simple.”

"Huh."

Having tuned out of the conversation, Bad spotted a grove of trees peeking over the horizon.

“Let’s keep going until noon,” he said, pointing towards the distance. “We can set up camp there. I’ll gather more food while you work on that.”

George returned a nod, eyes drifting back to his device. “Sounds like a plan.”

The three continued to hike in silence. The overcast sky certainly helped to mitigate the sun's heat, leaving the weather just bearable enough to where the two mortals weren’t risking heatstroke by traveling out in the open.

The crimson vines grew ever denser over the city as they made their way north, though the riverbank remained clear of them still. It was as if the unearthly florae were bound to asphalt and towering concrete. Bad scanned the buildings on the city’s outskirts, all shrouded in red. He wondered if the growth pattern should be attributed to the concrete or the water.

“Did those vines, like, do something to you?”

Bad turned to face Sapnap, who was eyeing him sideways.

He blinked, unsure what the younger was trying to imply. “No. I’m fine,” he said, pausing. “Was I talking in my sleep?”

“Huh? No,” Sapnap said, shaking his head and gesturing towards the city's edge. “I mean, what’s the deal with you and all this shit?”

“George didn’t tell you?” Bad muttered. Part of him had assumed that George would have relayed everything about the Egg and the nightmares as soon as he'd retired for the night to let Sapnap take over the watch. He thought of the hushed conversation from the forest cave and the glaring blank that was George and Sapnap's month-long pursuit of Dream up until now.

“Tell me what?”

“The vines come from this… entity. The Egg. It corrupted me a long time ago and," Bad paused to exhale, "I hear it in my dreams."

Sapnap shot George an unseen look over his shoulder. “Wow, uh, okay. What the fuck?”

“That's what I was trying to ask you yesterday…” Bad's brow furrowed in thought. “Is there any chance that the Egg is what made Dream go rogue?”

Sapnap shook his head slowly, hands gripping the straps of his backpack. “There’s no way. He never, ever talked about any Egg. Plus, he's never been this far out from the city before.”

Bad felt his shoulders sink slightly, gaze falling to gray stones. “Right.”

“What is it with all of you and weird fucking nightmares…” Sapnap mumbled, shuddering. Chuckling slightly, he reached over to prod Bad’s shoulder. “You better not go crazy on me, too.”

Bad could only nod, unable to make an empty promise. If the Egg really was somewhere nearby, there was no telling what could happen. He couldn't help but feel like Sapnap ought to be more worried about his own exposure to the vines, along with George — even if it was only brief. The river's salvation was a stroke of luck, for sure.

The image of dead snakes lingered in his mind, the thicket of crimson that cocooned him through the night. Bad wanted to believe that the Egg no longer held any power over him, not since he fled from its vicinity eons ago. He wanted to believe that those incessant, whispering demands to kill were just that — vestiges of sleep. 

But the vines were drawn to him, undoubtedly. He’d have to confront it sooner or later. Confront the demon created by an ancient evil. The ancient evil that demands bloodshed, and the demon that provides it.

Sighing, Bad straightened his posture and set his gaze on the horizon once more.

"What happened to that cat you two found?"

Sapnap hummed. "I'unno… I think the vines scared it off…" he trailed off, in thought.

"…I left some scraps of dinner," George mumbled from behind, almost too quietly to hear.

Sapnap laughed, breezily. "Hey, maybe it's been following us this whole time," he smirked. "We could have a fourth hunter that way."

George chuckled faintly.

Soon enough, the grove of distant trees came into view with a grassy knoll, just off the pebble beach. Wordlessly, the three of them came to a halt on the bank to sip on water bottles and chew on scraps of food. At some point, George had left the two to sit in the shade and continue working on his self-imposed assignment.

Watching slithers of salmon swimming upstream, Bad stole a glimpse at Sapnap, who'd eagerly taken to carving a makeshift spear out of a fallen tree branch. He sat on the gravel, brow furrowed in concentration as if he was the one trying to find a way to hack into Dream's bionic eye.

“Do you believe it?” Bad spoke after a minute.

Sapnap sat up slightly, though his eyes were glued still to his woodworking project. “Huh?”

“Do you believe he wants to revive Philza?”

The younger’s expression softened, the blade of his hunting knife scoring the wood in a lapsing moment. His mouth curved into a quiet frown, before lifting into a lopsided smirk as he finally looked up to meet Bad's inquisitive stare.

“Of course I do.”

Chapter Text

I need something bigger than the sky
Hold it in my arms and know it’s mine

An endless crowd of people cheered wildly. 

The noise was exhilarating, the hysteria infectious. 

A golden sun carried their cheers with its light, shining over the sea of people.

Quackity stood on the stage. High up in the sky, towering over the world below. He felt ecstatic, though he didn't know why.

Of course, he wasn’t alone up on that wide open stage. There, front and center, was the man himself. The winner of it all. The day’s victor. The new president.

Schlatt basked in the glory, and Quackity swelled with pride. They did it. They did it together. They could only have done it together.

The world moved in slow-motion, but the crowd kept on shouting and applauding like their lives depended on it. Schlatt turned to regard him, an arm outstretched in invitation.

Quackity beamed, happily stepping forth into the world’s golden spotlight. He let himself be enveloped in his arms, holding each other close. It was nice.

Schlatt said something to him, his voice buried beneath the crowd's shouting.

Blinking against the sun, Quackity looked up to meet his eyes.

Smiling, the other repeated, “Do you see him too?”

Quackity heard himself chuckle. Schlatt’s expression was fixed, unwavering.

“Over there. Do you see him?”

Quackity's gaze drifted past him, settling onto a tower whose height rivaled the stage they stood upon. There, standing on the ledge, was a man. 

The crude smile carved into the spectator's mask stared back at him, hollow. Quackity startled at the uncanny sight. The crowd abruptly ceased its noise. 

The world’s spotlight grew cold yet brighter as he suddenly found himself alone in its rays.

Dazed, he lowered his line of sight to face the crowd. Through a smear of indistinct shapes, he caught clear blue eyes staring. Eyes he never fathomed to see open again.

Millions of faceless apparitions watched him in pin-drop silence. 

The girl stood out among them, her clear gaze filled with fervid life and loathing. Her voice pierced through the silence like church bells, sharp and silvery.

“I hope you starve.”

Just how many stars will I need
to hang around me
to finally call it Heaven?

– "Remember My Name" by Mitski

One month and seven days since the Syndicate Coup

A shrewd crash pulled Quackity out of his nightmare.

He sat up with a quiet gasp, clutching his racing heart as the afterimages of golden light and clear blue faded from his retinas.

The airship lights were dimmed low, inviting the inky night sky to close in around the windows with no stars to offer consolation.

Pushing back the brim of his hat, he narrowed his eyes at the ship's front, scanning haphazardly for the commotion's source.

“H-Hello?” he croaked out, before remembering where he was and who he was with. “…Skeppy?”

The other was sat underneath the dashboard, gleaming in the dim light. He looked up at the sound of his name, arms wrapped around his own shoulders as if there was a chill onboard.

“Oh. Hey…”

With a puff, Quackity staggered out from the slumber corner of pillows and blankets. “What… What the fuck was that sound?”

“Um,” Skeppy began, eyes averting before he buried his face in his knees. “Me.”

"Huh?" Quackity made his way to the helm, studying the other closely as he sat there on the floor, curled up as if bracing for some kind of impact. “What-What do you mean?”

Slowly, Skeppy unfurled his limbs to sit cross-legged. A palm remained on his neck, pressed against the irreparable fracture that began his corruption.

Tiny fragments of crystal fell to the floor in a drizzle, revealing a single, smooth fissure stretching from his jaw and up to right below his eye. The line glimmered faintly, the color of emerald.

“W-What-How—" Quackity sputtered, at a loss. "The fuck happened?!"

“I… I don’t know. This happens sometimes, but…” Skeppy trailed off, tilting with a blithe shrug, “…not that often.”

“What-What do I-What am I supposed to fucking do here…?” Quackity muttered to himself, pacing around the ship's cabin in search of an answer.

"Y'know, it’s actually not that bad—”

“There’s a fucking crack in your face, asshole!”

"Uh, yeah, thanks, I had no idea,” Skeppy retorted with an eye-roll, reaching up for the dashboard's edge to stand. "Chill out, it's not like you can do anything about it…" Trailing off in thought, he hummed. His brows then lifted in consideration.

"Well, actually… do you have any food?”

Digging through a supply closet, Quackity craned back to shoot the other a dumbfounded glare. “What?"

Skeppy made a pondering hum, tracing the smooth break. “Having energy helps… from it getting worse, at least…”

Letting the closet doors slam shut, a vexed groan seeping out of Quackity. “You couldn’t have mentioned that before we fucking left civilization?!”

“You said you’d figure it out, genius…”

Grumbling, Quackity padded over to the ship’s helm. The GPS flickered to life as he took the controls, its display virtually unchanged from how he’d last left it. Endless ocean. Infinitely calibrating ETA.

“This is bad," he hissed, tapping anxiously against the throttle. "This is fucking bad.”

His mind raced to find a solution to this newfound obstacle, through the lingering fog of sleep and steadily rising trepidation in his soul. That visceral, crashing sound had left an insidious ringing in his ears. It was a horrible, gut-wrenching noise. A noise that was Mayday — a sobering reminder that they were racing against the clock, seconds ticking down to an unknown terminal.

The last thing Quackity needed right now was a target on his back from breaking his naive promise to Bad. In the moment it felt like the right thing to say, to swear to the assassin that his beloved was in safe hands. After all, he needed those three to be on the same page. To work together and intercept that book.

Quackity kicked himself, inwardly. He just couldn't seem to resist getting himself into these predicaments. As if he needed anything more to weigh on his guilty conscience.

“How far out are we…?” he muttered to himself, scrolling back through the map.

He was relieved to find that they had made solid progress in reaching the desert coast. If they kept up their current pace and trajectory, they’d likely make it there by sundown. The question was whether or not Skeppy could remain intact without sustenance.

“Still a long way to go, huh?” Skeppy watched him scroll through the map.

Quackity sighed, letting the map return to their way-point. "Don't you still have that bread?"

The other leaned over the console, chuckling. "Dude, it's been a whole-ass day."

“Great. So, we're fucked," he spat. "What are we supposed to do? We can't turn back now, there's no way in hell…" Quackity narrowed his eyes at the paling horizon, "and it’s not like the ocean has goddamn grocery stores.”

Skeppy guffawed, fingers pressed against his cheek as if the fissure might deepen. “We could, uh, go fishing?”

"What makes you think I know how to fucking fish?!” Quackity exclaimed, before letting out an exasperated cry and disengaging the autopilot, taking the helm with a white-knuckle grip. “Just sit still. I’ll figure it out.”

Chuckling to himself, Skeppy left him and retired to the slumber corner. “That's what you said last time…”

The sun rose and morning settled in with no further disputes. The ship’s engine whirred on, the ocean flew past, and all was relatively calm as the two began their second day of travel.

Though he’d caught up on some sleep, Quackity still felt fatigue piercing the corner of his skull. He was flitting back and forth between mulling over a thousand different things at once, then struggling to form a single coherent thought as his mind drifted into the ocean rushing below. 

Some part of him wished he chose to just stay behind in the city, keeping his head down and managing the commune like he had been since the coup. Cleaning up messes and picking up pieces, like he had been since Connor left. Hunching over the dim screen of his comm and stifling laughs until dawn, like he had been since the manhunt began.

He argued against himself, that this would all pan out fine once they got a hold of that book. That book was the key to fixing everything, to undoing all his mistakes and restoring peace, restoring those happy days when the possibilities still seemed so new and exciting.

Once they got a hold of that book, he wouldn't be remembered as the primary accomplice to a violent political takeover, but the bringer of justice and restitution. Maybe even a hero.

Lost in his spiraling thoughts, Quackity failed to register that he was staring directly at a lone boat in the water until it nearly disappeared with the ocean rushing past.

Snapping back to reality, he swiftly pulled on the throttle to bring the ship to a complete halt.

Skeppy made a fearful yelp at the sudden change in inertia, “What the hell—?!"

“A boat," Quackity jabbed a finger against the glass, peering over his sunglasses, "there’s a fucking boat down there!”

The other carefully made his way up to the dashboard, leaning over it to see their beacon of hope for himself. “Woah.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” Quackity began maneuvering the ship down to the water's surface. "It's gotta have something. We've gotta check it out.”

“Hold up, what makes you think we can just park right up next to it and rob it? There’s probably people on board, idiot.”

“No fuckin’ way, that thing is abandoned as hell. This far out in the middle of the ocean? It's gotta be.”

The airship alighted onto the water, waves lapping against the metal exterior as it shifted side to side.

“I’unno…” Skeppy turned to look out the window, studying the wooden sailboat.

“Fine, you stay back in case I get jumped, or whatever,” Quackity said, only half in jest as the ship’s door opened. A salted breeze rushed inside, warm and fresh with brine. He patted the revolver on his belt, making sure it hadn’t disappeared on him.

“I'm starting to think you have a death wish,” Skeppy snorted, watching him with an amused smirk.

"I'm not letting some fucking pirate stop me now." Grumbling to himself, Quackity lunged over the water and caught himself on a rusting ladder, climbing up the boat's side and hauling himself onto the deck.

He crouched to hide behind a crate, glancing around the boat’s surface as he slipped the revolver into his hands. Leaning over, he could see the roofed cockpit was empty with nobody at the wheel. Silently, Quackity agreed with himself that he’d have to check the lower cabin too before making a blatant attempt at hijacking the thing.

Turning to begin making his way down the length of the ship, he was promptly met with the stainless silver barrel of a pearl-handled revolver, pointed right between his eyes.

Stricken with grim déjà vu, Quackity fell back onto the wooden deck with a startled cry and raised his own gun in return.

The ship’s captain stared down at him, a distinct mix of confusion and caution pervading her expression. She seemed utterly unfazed by his hostile response.

“What are you doing on my ship?” she asked, flatly.

“Listen, listen,” Quackity began, shakily, “I’m not here to hurt anybody, I just wanna make a trade, okay?”

The captain scoffed, eyes darkening. “Trade? I don’t need anything from you.”

Quackity paused, brow furrowing at the other's emphasis. “Come-Come on, think about it… you’ve been-you've been out here a while, right? There’s gotta be something you need, something you’re running low on…”

Neither her expression nor her aim wavered. She flicked the gun towards the water.

“Get outta here before I change my mind.”

A loud thud against the side of the boat interrupted their stand-off, prompting the captain to point her weapon over the ship’s railing.

Panic spiked in Quackity’s chest. “No, no, no, wait, wait, wait—!”

Skeppy emerged over the railing with a serrated bread knife in hand, gleaming in the sunlight as he hopped over and onto the deck.

Eyes flitting between the two revolvers, he froze in place.

“Oh, shit.”

Caution left the captain’s eyes as a bewildered frown engulfed her face. She lowered the gun.

“How…?" Her eyes narrowed, frown deepening into a scowl. "What are you doing here?”

Skeppy blinked, standing very still. “Uh… do I, like, know you?”

The captain sighed, weapon finally dropping to her side. “You’re Bad’s troublemaking trinket, aren’t you?" she muttered. "Skeppy?”

Quackity rose from the deck, warily. “You… You know Bad?”

She scoffed sharply. “You know Bad?” The pearl-handled revolver was jammed back into its holster. “Just what the hell is going on here?! Did he rat me out? Is that it? You're here to drag me back to the city?"

The captain glared daggers at Quackity, adjusting the red handkerchief in her long, wavy hair.

“Huh?” The other returned his own gun to his belt, palms raising in defense. “No? No. I’m not dragging anybody anywhere, I swear. We really just need supplies.”

“Oh, oh!” Skeppy suddenly chirped, tapping a finger against his temple, each returning a dull clink. “I remember! Badass pawn shop lady,” he chuckled. “Puffy, right?”

“Out of all the people…” Shaking her head, Puffy drifted past the two and ducked into the boat’s cockpit. “I'm not giving you shit, so just leave me be.”

“Wait, listen!” Quackity scurried after her. “We just need a bit of food, that’s all. Nothing crazy—”

“Not my problem!” she hollered back.

“Hey, just, wait,” Quackity stepped into the roofed quarters of the ship, removing his sunglasses and hooking them onto his overalls. “How… How do you know them?”

Puffy scanned a weathered map pinned to a corkboard, a golden compass gleaming in her grasp.

“I used to run a pawn shop," she exhaled. "Bad was a regular. Brought in all kinds of artifacts in exchange for credits.”

Quackity fought the urge to retort with the assertion, what the hell could Bad have needed money for? Instead, he sighed and massaged his temples.

“…Listen," he repeated, "Bad really cares about this stupid asshole I’m traveling with, and he’s kind of at risk of fucking shattering and dying if he doesn’t get something to eat. Literally.”

“I know.” Puffy tapped the face of the compass, brow furrowing. “The last time Bad came by, he mentioned having to take care of him. I haven't seen him since.”

“Well, I can tell you Bad's doing just fine,” he folded his arms across his chest, “in fact, he's on a job right now.”

There was a pause, the warm wind drifting through the cockpit.

“On a job where?” she asked, finally turning to meet the other's eyes with a raised brow.

"Up north. Near the tundra.”

Puffy stared at him, perplexion turning into disdain. “So, what exactly are you two doing on the literal opposite side of the map?”

Quackity leaned against the short counter of the kitchenette, sighing loudly. “You know-You know anything about some magical, like, geologist guy, or-or whatever-the-fuck? Living out in the desert?”

Her brow furrowed once more, steely gaze boring into him. A moment passed in silence.

“The desert is empty,” she said at last.

“I’ve got it on good authority that it’s not,” Quackity countered. “Okay, whatever, forget about it. Like I said, if you need something—”

Puffy pocketed the compass and brushed past him, stepping back out onto the deck.

She returned to Skeppy, who’d taken to watching the ocean waves over the boat’s railing.

“Do you have a comm?”

Skeppy turned to her, listless. “Yeah. It’s kinda old, though.”

“What about him?” she gestured over her shoulder, as Quackity shuffled back over to them.

“Uh, yeah," the other laid his arms across the wooden railing, leaning down to rest his chin there. "His is way cooler, actually. It’s got a built-in GPS and everything.”

“Hm,” Puffy nodded, knuckles resting on her hips as she pondered. Seconds later, she spun to face Quackity once more. “Give me your comm.”

“The fuck?" he blurted. "In what world is that a fair trade?”

She shrugged, starting towards the end of the ship. “You two are the first people I’ve come across since I set out here. I’d assume we're in the same boat.”

Skeppy laughed with a burst of vivacity, before quietly draping himself over the railing to let his arms dangle over the water. “Why not, dude? I don’t think we even need it. We know where we’re going.”

“Fuck off," Quackity snapped, sliding his sunglasses back on as the clouds drifted past the sun and its light became piercing. "This is my only way to get in touch with the others, jackass."

“It’s not your only way…" Skeppy droned. "Still got my comm."

“Are you kidding me?" the other deadpanned. "Your ancient brick of a device doesn’t even support fucking video.”

“I'm just saying, dude… You heard what she said. This is kind of our one chance to get what we need.”

“Who’s ‘we’?! You’re the one dying from starvation, or whatever.”

Skeppy huffed flippantly, as if they were fighting over pencils. “So… are you just planning to live off cigarettes and broken dreams for the rest of this grand journey across the seven seas?”

Quackity fell silent, gawking at the other in disbelief.

"You… You motherfucker—"

"All right, all right. Don't start!" Puffy shouted from the far end of the boat, dissolving the rising animosity. "Do we have a deal or not?"

Biting his tongue, Quackity folded his arms and turned to face the ocean. A part of him respected the captain's sensible nature. It was an increasingly scarce thing in his life. Nothing made sense these days. Sensible decisions were a notion he'd long abandoned, left to rot with happy days and exciting possibilities.

Deciding to be sensible in this arbitrary moment, Quackity weighed his options.

Sure, they could probably reach the desert and return to the commune without the aid of the GPS. By all means, the roundtrip was a simple back and forth along the globe's latitude.

At the same time, he couldn’t help but think of those early days, back when he first met George and, subsequently, Sapnap. He couldn't help but reminisce over those late nights spent idly chatting with the latter. Dim comm screens and stifled laughs. While the former slept, none the wiser to his borrowed comm.

He thought of how warm those fleeting moments felt. How Sapnap’s tired, rasping voice warded off the ghosts through static interference. For a few short hours in the dead of night, Quackity could wear the mask of his old life. Pretend ike everything was all right. Like anything beyond the LCD's fray simply didn't exist.

It was at this arbitrary moment he realized that not a day had gone by without him calling George and Sapnap. At the start, it was just another rote task added to his docket, for Schlatt's peace of mind. Lest he began another hysterical tirade.

Over time, their presence through the screen became the only thing Quackity could fall back on as the days weighed heavier on his soul.

“I can’t-I can’t just…" he murmured, faintly. "I can’t just not talk to them… to Sapnap…"

Puffy suddenly snapped back towards them, boots stomping against the wooden deck as she stared at Quackity with wide, searching eyes.

“What did you say?”

Quackity instinctively stepped back as the captain approached, “Um—”

“Sapnap?" she whispered. "How do you know Sapnap?”

The other stared back, astounded. "How… How do I know him? How do you know him?!” Small fucking world, he thought to himself.

“Ha,” Puffy scoffed, smirking mirthlessly. “I taught that kid everything he knows.”

Skeppy gasped, twisting to gape dramatically at the revelation.

“You’re his mom?!”

“W-What the hell?" The captain made an exasperated noise, glaring back at him. "No! He was, like, a live-in apprentice or-or a student more than anything… especially not my kid,” she chuckled sardonically, before quieting with a somber frown. "They both were."

Quackity rubbed his weary eyes, feeling suddenly fatigued.

“Anyway,” Puffy muttered, "answer my question. How do you know him?"

“All right, look." He breathed a deep sigh. "Long story short, that job Bad’s on right now? Sapnap’s with him too.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Puffy cried, shaking her head as she began to pace in a circle, arms crossed. “That stupid brat… gonna get himself fucking killed… can’t just leave it alone, can he…?”

“Hey, uh,” Quackity cleared his throat, interrupting her mumbling. “You’ve got a deal. I’ll give you the comm. Just gotta make one last call, all right?”

Hand cupping her jaw, Puffy turned to meet his eyes.

“Let me talk to him.”

Chapter Text

The day after the Syndicate Coup

“Pack your things, we’re leaving tonight.”

She said it so quickly and so blankly that Sapnap had to take a beat to process what exactly he’d just heard.

Comm in hand, absently dragging on its screen to refresh the bulletin, he gaped at the empty corridor outside of his room before clambering up from his desk.

“Huh?” he called after Puffy, leaning past the doorframe and glowering.

She said nothing, sweeping the contents of their kitchen cupboards into a rucksack. Grumbling under his breath, Sapnap sauntered out of his room and into the kitchen.

“I’m not leaving.” Arms crossing indignantly, he leaned against the fridge.

“Yes. You are,” Puffy said, firm. “We’re taking the boat south into the ocean.”

“To do what?” the boy muttered, feigning ignorance.

“Nothing, Sapnap!” The cupboard slammed shut, sending a tremor through the apartment. “We can’t stay here, how is that not obvious?!”

Sapnap averted his gaze, incessantly refreshing the page burned into his comm screen and retinas alike. Rows and rows of bounties went on for miles worth of cyberspace, disappearing and reappearing and going up and down in value.

He wasn't interested in ninety-nine percent of them, of course. Only one.

“I’m not leaving without Dream.”

Puffy dropped the bag onto the floor, stomping across the hardwood floors and wrenching the device from his hands.

"Hey!" Sapnap immediately lunged for it in return, “you can’t just—”

“Just stop it. Leave it.” Her voice trembled, pushing back against him. “He’s a lost cause. We can’t help him, Sap. He doesn’t want help.”

"I don’t fucking care!" He strained to reach and swipe, to no avail. “How are you gonna just leave him behind like that?! You-You don't know why he's on the run, what if-what if he's being framed—”

“I saw him, Sapnap!” Puffy’s voice turned pleading. “The moment they sent the notice, I fucking ran across town to make sure he was okay!"

Sapnap quieted with sharp exhale, meeting the other's rheumy eyes.

Puffy's expression shattered, holding her head in her hands.

"…I watched him end someone's life, Sap," she whispered. "I… I couldn't recognize him… his voice, his eyes… it was like he-he was some kind of monster—”

Sapnap returned an incensed growl. "He-He probably did it 'cause he had to!" he exclaimed with an exasperated flail of his arms. "There's-There's obviously something bigger going on, Puffy! That's why-That's why he left, that's why he wouldn't come home, because he couldn't—"

Abruptly, he silenced his own rambling. Decisively, he leaned down to take his comm from Puffy's hand.

He refreshed the bulletin, vexed to find the top results unchanged. "God, fucking—"

In his desperation, he tapped the search bar and began to type, "syndicate guard dream". The query returned no results.

The listing had appeared for a fleeting minute the night before. Like a flash of lightning, it was claimed as quickly as it had been posted.

"…Just drop it already, stupid idiot." Sapnap had spent each waking minute since fuming, quietly cursing out the greedy motherfucker that definitely bit off more than they could chew.

Puffy steeled herself with a deep sigh.

“You are not going after him.”

Wordlessly, Sapnap began padding back to his room.

Cursing under her breath, Puffy stormed after him and swung the door nearly off its hinges. The boy was already slipping on his backpack, evidently having prepped it well in advance.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?!” Puffy yelled at him. He didn’t respond. “He’s not going to listen to you, can’t you get that through your thick skull?! He hasn't listened to either of us for months, and I'm telling you, you’re going to get yourself killed!”

Pocketing his comm and securing the white bandana in his hair, Sapnap pushed past her and made a beeline for the front door.

Puffy watched him take the firewood axe leaned against the corridor, heart thrumming with relentless trepidation. She took another deep breath.

“When you find him out there…” she began, anger softening.

Sapnap hesitated, squeezing the door knob.

“And you see just how far gone he is…" Puffy let each word she spoke reverberate in the heavy silence. "…You'd better not hold back, ‘cause I can promise you that he won't.”

Sapnap left without a sound, save for the door slamming shut behind him.

One month and seven days since the Syndicate Coup

The sun beamed from the sky’s crest, its light streaming from wispy gaps in benign grey clouds.

After spending the entire morning hiking up the riverbank, the three hunters had settled to rest by the grassy knoll, the gravel beach partitioning it from the river. A cluster of wizened trees sagged down the hill, as if reaching out for the water's salvation. They provided a nice canopy to rest under.

George sat against the rough bark of a stocky trunk, meticulously combing through the socket interface and sprawling lines of his API. The missing fourth and fifth digits of his hands were proving to be greater hurdles than he'd anticipated.

Thankfully, their trek had brought them closer to Dream’s position, which was proving to be a major assist in getting access to his bionic eye.

He glanced up from the flickering screen of his comm to find the other two, who'd stayed by the river with the intent to gather more food.

Sapnap stood precariously in the lazy current, pants rolled up to his knees. His brows were knitted in determined concentration, a crudely sharpened stick raised over his head. Meanwhile, Bad was crouched on the gravel edge, gesturing to and fro.

Mildly amused, George continued to watch from afar until, finally, Sapnap drove the stick through the water's surface. In the blink of an eye, the younger stumbled and fell into the river with an unceremonious splash. George chuckled to himself.

Bad shot up, gesturing wildly now and, presumably, lambasting the other.

The distant chorus of yelling, laughter, and trickling water was then harshly interrupted by the sound of his ringtone.

George watched the incoming call notification appear over the network terminal, sighing quietly. Memories of a chilled breeze and crunching snow drifted through him like phantoms. Too used to hearing his ringtone late at night, the sound muffled by his coat, as he and Sapnap shuffled around to light campfires and brace themselves for those long, frigid nights in the forest.

Toggling his API with a tap of his goggles, George answered the call. There was a brief silence before static filled the air.

“What d’you want?” he began, the screen flickering with faded colors and shrouding pixels.

“George.” Quackity was unsmiling, the black squares of his sunglasses concealing any inkling of an expression. “How are things?”

“Fine. I managed to recapture his signal." George's brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with your comm? You're barely three pixels.”

The other cleared his throat, half-disappearing from frame. “We’re almost at the desert, uh… bad reception,” he paused. “Where's Sapnap?”

“Bad’s trying to teach him to fish." Glancing back up at the riverbank, George breathed a laugh. "The idiot only managed to fall in, of course."

That earned a small, absent chuckle from the other. The call grew silent, a harsh garble that could only be the wind seeping through the speaker.

"Does Schlatt know you've left?"

He'd asked it innocuously, bordering on disinterested in how he'd flattened his tone. Despite all that, the question still caused Quackity to disappear from view as he laughed, weakly and noisily. George waited patiently in silence.

"I-I don't know, George," he said eventually, returning in frame with a tight smile. "…Why?"

George stared at him through layers of glass, interference, and abstract barriers. He leaned back against the tree with a defeated exhale, watching the crinkled leaves dancing in the afternoon sun.

He dragged his goggles down from his eyes, leaving them to hang around his neck.

"What changed?"

Quackity chuckled again. "Geez, what's with all the weird-ass questions? Did I, like, miss a memo—"

"Stop." George couldn't help but interject, growing impatient. "Just stop. Congrats, you've officially defected from Schlatt's so-called cabinet and are now fully implicated in this ploy to bring back the Syndicate, so just stop it and answer me," he paused to breathe, "why? Why only now?"

There was always an underlying annoyance that festered in him when it came to Quackity. Of course, it went eternally unacknowledged. It was the default of their relationship, after all. The fact of the matter.

"Look, I—" Quackity cut off, sighing with the white noise. "I-I had no choice before. All right? I fucking-I wanted to leave. For so long. I wanted to leave for so long."

The fact of the matter was, Quackity was culpable for the catastrophe that upended his life. So many lives. Karl's life.

"Why didn't you, then?" George couldn't bring himself to hide the venom in his tone.

"…I just couldn't," the other muttered, faintly. "I'm sorry, George. I'm sorry."

Silence washed over them once more. George turned away, throat burning with regret for even bringing any of it up in the first place. But how couldn't he? After all this time, just stifling his grief and anger into childish annoyance.

The real salt in the wound was how recklessly, how valiantly Quackity had thrown himself into the whole affair.

Covertly seeking out Technoblade, digging up information about the Revival Book, taking it upon himself to make sure Bad would have no choice but to help intercept it. The sheer philanthropy of it was almost ridiculous. Almost unbelievable.

"Quackity," he called out, hoarse. "Why are you doing this?"

The other hesitated. He slid his sunglasses off his face, turning to look into the distance of wherever he was with narrowed, weary eyes.

"…For the first time in a very long time," he began, refreshingly solemn. "I… feel like things can be good again. Y'know. If we get that book."

George chuckled, mirthless.

Quackity met his eyes through the screen, brows furrowed in a vague mix of concern and remorse.

“Hey, uh. Could you call Sap over? There’s…" he trailed off, frowning. "Just-Just tell him it’s important.”

George paused, studying the call screen.

“…Why are you outside?”

Quackity's frown curled into a smirk, scoffing under his breath.

“Haven't you interrogated me enough?”

Squaring his shoulders, George breathed a deep sigh. "Fine, whatever."

He began to stand up from the grass.

"…George."

He groaned. "What?"

Quackity's gaze steeled in a rare moment of unfettered sincerity.

"I'm gonna do right by you. I swear."

There it was. The salt in the wound.

George returned a weak nod, minimizing the call and starting down the knoll.

"Okay."

“You are way too reckless to be doing this without a rod,” Bad muttered, lugging Sapnap out of the river.

The other guffawed, jovial.

“Bro, I almost had it! For my first try, I got pretty close.”

“You broke your spear,” he gestured to the snapped branch in the other’s hand. “I wouldn’t call that ‘pretty close’.”

“I’ve got this, I just need to be faster, y’know?” Sapnap shook the water out of his hair.

Bad sighed, “You’ll just wear yourself out,” he turned to retrieve his bow and arrows. “Leave the fishing to me.”

He paused at the sight of George approaching them from up the knoll, a faint scowl hanging on his tired expression. 

Yawning, he extended an arm towards Sapnap, the screen of his comm flickering dimly. “It’s Quackity.”

Sapnap’s eyes lit up with golden sparks. He eagerly took the device, opening the call. The screen displayed static for several long seconds, before clearing just slightly.

“H-Hello?” Quackity’s voice came garbled.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Sap…” Bad could hear the other's grin even from a distance. “Listen, I don’t-I don’t have a lotta time to talk. We’re still on our way to the desert.”

“Is everything okay?” Sapnap leaned into the screen, as if the image would somehow grow clearer.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good, I’m good. Don’t worry,” Quackity reassured. “Um, thing is, we kinda, uh, ran into someone out here… and she wants to talk to you.”

Sapnap’s face fell. “What?”

Quackity turned away to look to his side, before disappearing out of frame. A few quiet seconds passed as the device on the other end shuffled into someone else’s hands.

A young woman appeared on the call, her stony expression softening as she found Sapnap through the screen.

“Sapnap.”

The younger froze in place, holding the comm tightly as he visibly cycled through a gust of emotions. Eventually, he settled on seemingly none of them.

“You left.”

The other scoffed callously, “Did you think I was gonna come and stop you?”

Sapnap shook his head, muttering to himself. “You were wrong. Dream does need help.”

“Listen to me, kid. This is the last time I’m gonna tell you to quit while you’re ahead,” she took on a scolding tone. “What the hell are you doing all the way out north?!”

“Did you seriously get Quackity to call just so you could yell at me…?” Sapnap muttered, before standing up and shoving the comm back into George’s hand.

Bad drifted over to take the comm for himself.

“Puffy? Is that you?” The screen rematerialized.

“In the flesh,” she responded, sardonic. “Your little sidekicks found me out here.”

“Hi, Bad!” Skeppy called out, invisible past the call's boundary.

“Hi, Skeppy…” Bad answered softly, puzzling together the scenario currently at play. “…You left the city?”

“Uh, yeah? Did all you morons forget about the goddamn terrorist attack that overthrew the literal Syndicate?” Puffy hissed, fizzling into a sigh. “Anyway, put the little shit back on. I need to have a word.”

Bad turned to glimpse after Sapnap, who had stormed away downstream, curled up in a petulant squat and running his hands through the cool water.

“…Listen, I know you’re worried about him, but there’s something you should know,” Bad started. “Do you… know why he's out here?”

Puffy paused, furrowed brow twitching. “He thinks he can convince Dream to come home.”

“Right,” Bad exhaled. “What did… Has Quackity told you anything?”

“Anything about what?”

Bad then turned to glance at George, only to find the other had left him to join Sapnap down the riverbank.

“Well, um, look…" he continued, "Sapnap’s right. There's something going on with Dream. He’s searching for some ancient artifact and… and we're trying to get to it first.”

Puffy’s stern frown broke into a pained scowl. “Goddamn it…”

“I… I know you’re not gonna like the sound of this, but," Bad sighed, "he’s not going back without Dream. Surely you know how close they were—”

“Of course I know!” she snapped, before letting out a curt laugh. “Look, the sweet and-and adventurous little kid I grew up with is gone. The Dream that Sapnap is chasing after is gone,” her voice quivered. “You know happened that day. You know what he did, don't you? And you still think you’re the ones hunting Dream? Bad, you have to have realized by now that it’s the other way around.”

She wasn’t wrong. Bad may be short on details, period, but he knew that the rogue guard had murdered his colleagues in cold blood. He knew that George and Sapnap nearly perished to the frozen tundra from their last encounter with him. Given these facts, anyone could deduce that their elusive target was both ruthless and steadfast. A lethal pairing for someone seemingly off his hinges.

“He’s… not anywhere near us. George is keeping tabs on his location.”

Puffy fell silent, peering out into the distance.

“Bad, what’s your take?” she asked quietly. “What the fuck is going on?”

Bad fell silent. He wasn’t entirely sure why Puffy was resorting to him for guidance. Though, he supposed it couldn’t be helped. In the eyes of these mortals, he must look like some wise old relic, harboring centuries of unknowable wisdom.

But, if he was being completely honest with himself — between the circumstances of Skeppy’s corruption, the strange slime man’s worldly manner, the ugly resurgence of the Egg, and now this sudden reunion of disparate individuals connected by the Syndicate's tragic downfall — Bad was beginning to realize that he was just as clueless now as he was when he first signed Schlatt’s contract a few days ago. Just as clueless as when he first laid eyes on the viridescent fissures in Skeppy's throat.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, finally. “All I know is, we both have people to protect. That goes for all of us, Puffy. Including Sapnap.”

Puffy stared through the screen with a deep sorrow dimming her eyes.

“Can you do me a favor?”

Bad’s mind jumped to the pawn shop days. “Of course.”

“Could you tell Sapnap I’m sorry—” her voice shrunk into a murmur, “—that I’m sorry for leaving.”

The call ended abruptly. Closing the comm, Bad turned to the river.

George and Sapnap were still sitting on the bank, though he couldn’t tell if they were talking or not.

With a heavy sigh, Bad made his way over.

George turned at the crunches of his approaching footsteps, silently holding out his palm. Bad dropped the folded comm in his hand. Almost immediately, he reopened it and returned to working on his task.

Bad stepped over to sit on the gravel beside Sapnap, who hugged his knees tightly as he stared into the water.

“She said she’s sorry. For leaving.”

The river rippled against stones.

“I tried to explain. About the book and all. She understands, I'm sure.”

Sapnap buried his face in his knees. Bad decided to stop talking for now. 

The susurration of the river and George’s typing filled the silence.

"…He always wanted to be a hero." Sapnap began to mumble. "Ever since we were kids. He'd never fucking shut up about how cool and awesome Technoblade was… about being a part of the Syndicate one day."

There was a lull.

"I… I don't know how it all got so messed up," he continued, louder with rue, "but-but there has to be a reason. Dream… Dream's the type of guy who won't quit till he gets what he wants. No matter what."

Bad wasn't sure if the sentiment was meant to be reassuring or forewarning.

"I just know he's still trying to be the hero. Even if it's in his own fucked-up way. I just know it," he tossed a pebble into the river, eliciting a muted clunk from the water. “…He’ll listen to me. He has to.”

Bad couldn’t bring himself to agree, or even entertain the notion. He’d yet to even encounter the man, after all, let alone make any judgments.

Either way, he only knew Dream as the unhinged guard killer, while Sapnap had to grapple with the grief of having known him as a brother. His best friend.

There was an unspoken understanding that came out of Bad's conversation with Puffy. An understanding he shared with Quackity, too. 

It was an understanding that he was to chaperone in their stead, to prevent Sapnap’s headstrong will from getting the better of him.

With the weight of responsibility heavier than ever on his shoulders, Bad quietly returned to fishing with his bow and arrow. The other two remained by the riverbank, each content to just be in the other’s presence.

The remaining afternoon was serene, passing quickly by. Orange began seeping into the grey sky as an arrow impaled his fifth catch of the day. It was kind of overkill at that point, but it kept him busy.

As he started making his way back up the gravel beach to gather fire kindling, George’s voice hollered out into the barren landscape.

“I did it!”

Bad spun on his heel. George held a hand to the goggles resting over his eyes, the other typing sporadically on the blank comm. Sapnap sat on his knees, hanging off his shoulder.

“George, let me see! Let me see—!"

“Wait, hang on, just-what-get off me!” he pushed the younger away, absorbed by whatever he was seeing.

Bad returned to crouch beside them, staring into the darkened comm screen.

“Can you see him?”

“No, but I can see what he’s seeing,” George muttered, facetious.

“You know what I mean,” Bad retorted, before freezing with a sinking thought. “Wait. Isn’t he going to know? It’s his eye, isn’t it?”

“It’s fine, the model's too old,” George said with a dismissive wave. “There wouldn't be a security protocol.”

“George,” Sapnap urged, “what’s he doing?”

“…He’s just walking through the city.” He slipped the goggles off and handed them to the other. “I’m trying to get the feed on screen, but it’s not working.”

Sapnap held the device over his eyes, falling silent for a moment before grinning with a giddy laugh.

“Dude, George," he chortled, "you’re a fucking genius.”

George breathed a contented sigh, chuckling mirthfully before sitting up with a long stretch. He briskly folded his comm shut, yawning.

“Dare I say this calls for a celebratory feast?”

Chapter Text

The sky loomed crimson.

Sound muffled, as if he was trapped at the bottom of the ocean.

The air thick with smoke.

He hovered in the plaza, watching the chaos.

People grabbed and tore at one another, painting the cobblestone streets to match the sky. They mauled and maimed like rabid animals, taking life as if their own depended on it.

Tearing flesh, snapping bones, cascading blood.

Alone in the middle of the village, he was a spectator to the madness. Seemingly paralyzed, he couldn’t flee despite the shrill ring pervading the noise. Forced to watch a raving massacre.

Suddenly, between the burning huts and piles of bodies, he caught a glimpse of stark light splicing the sky. The red yonder was split by silver lightning.

The frantic screams and rumbling thunder became clear in his ears. Rain began to pour in icicle lashes, washing the streets clean of sin. Its hiss buried the world's anguish.

Between flashes of the lightning storm, a golden silhouette appeared in the sky like the sun itself. The shrieking chorus grew louder and louder into a hysteric crescendo.

Moments later, the world returned silent.

One month and eight days since the Syndicate Coup

The three had agreed over dinner that a watch wouldn’t be necessary for that night, given they could tap into Dream's exact line of sight at all times. Coupled with the GPS tracker, there wasn't the slimmest chance of an ambush now.

It’s not like there was anybody else to worry about, anyway. The city was completely barren as far as they could gather over the last few days.

Motivated by George’s indubitable triumph and a shared need to forget about all their troubles for just a short while, they’d all foraged around the area to fix up something of a feast, just as he'd proposed.

The campfire-cooked salmon Bad had gathered, garnished with sprigs of watercress plucked from up the riverbank and a puree of red berries they’d all concluded did not come from the vines.

Bad took the liberty of testing for poison, reporting that they were just kind of sour. Probably lingonberry (whatever that was, George didn’t know).

Meanwhile, George and Sapnap came across an old bakery just on the city's outskirts. Of course, any goods it might have housed were spoiled to nothing. In the end, they recovered a rock-hard bag of brown sugar, nibbling on the stale chunks for dessert. Call it desperation or nostalgia, it wasn't half-bad.

Sapnap had enthusiastically taken on the mantle of watching Dream — though he returned the goggles to George after only about an hour, relaying that the man had curled up in some park to rest, perched high up in a tree like a bird.

All in all, it was a good night.

With a much-welcome sense of normalcy after what felt like endless nightmarish absurdity, coupled with the safety of knowing that Dream, too, was bound by human nature, the three slept under the watch of the silver moon, blanketed by the river’s gentle murmur.

George lay nestled beneath his coat and scarf, layered flat together in a makeshift duvet. He pulled them over his nose, the unmistakable chill of dawn crystallizing the air.

He woke up feeling somewhat well-rested for once.

Basking in the serenity of a slow morning, he savored the sweet emptiness. When was the last time he slept through the night with no weird dreams? George truly couldn’t recall.

Eventually, he emerged from his nest on the tree’s side of the fire, its embers burning low. He squinted against the slivers of yellow painting the horizon, mantled by the dark and rolling promises of a storm.

A still, wraithlike figure sitting and watching the waking sky cast a faint shadow on the grass. George sat up with a yawn, stretching his sore limbs.

Bad’s silver eyes turned to look at him, blinking. 

“Good morning.”

George grumbled in response, unwilling to converse. He leaned over to rummage through his rucksack, pulling out a steel flask half-full with the watery coffee he’d made back in the apartment. He lazily poured some of it into the cuppish lid.

“Is that coffee?”

“...Why’re you up?” George rasped.

Bad returned to watching the sky. 

“Nightmare.”

George hummed. He swirled the lukewarm cup in his hand, watching his own features distort in its dim reflection. “D'you even get anything out of this?"

The other shrugged, “No, not really.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder again. “I just like the taste.”

“You’re weird.” George held out the cup, to the other's hesitation. He rolled his eyes. “…I have more.”

Bad chuckled to himself, taking the cup. “Thank you.”

Soon enough, a rumble of distant thunder prompted a drizzle of rain. The sun's golden light concealed by the incoming storm, a chill wind drifted along the river's stream.

George stood up with a huff, slipping on his coat.

“…I’m gonna check out some of those buildings nearby,” Bad muttered after him. “Need… supplies.”

“Suit yourself.” Starting down the knoll, George's gaze settled on the bleary water.

He slowly made his way across the gravel beach, pulling the ends of his coat together and settling onto the bank with a sigh. The rain pittered on stones, hissing along the river's surface. He studied the water, idly flipping his knife open and closed as he sipped on the flask.

Ever since the words, "Revival Book", were brashly catapulted into the sprawling mess that was his life, he’d spent each moment of intermediate silence racking his brain — sifting through memories to recall all the far-off things Karl used to talk about.

Turning up blank after blank, he kicked himself and his empty brain. Karl's rambling lectures were so vivid in picture, reminiscence coloring him so radiantly as he delivered punchy one-liners and jocular asides.

If only he could go back in time to transcribe each and every forgotten word.

Shuddering with a slight gust, George scoffed to himself.

As much as he wanted to disparage and belittle and tear down the ridiculous claim Quackity had made to them that day, deny any existence of some all-powerful magic tome, something in his memory clicked so seamlessly into place when he heard it.

He recalled one of the last discoveries Karl had made leading up to his disappearance. From that dusty encyclopedia in the archives. The day after his birthday, he recalled. He hadn't mentioned it. Though, if he knew where he'd end up just a few weeks later, he might've brought it up then.

Shaking the thought away, he coiled his hands around the steel flask and following a slithering shadow through the river stream.

The ancient codex protected in another dimension. 

The Revival Book concealed in The End dimension.

His encounter with Dream in the Syndicate archives that very day suddenly made a lot more sense once he pieced that together. In fact, a lot of things began to make that much more sense since that revelatory call the other day.

The Councilors’ insistence that Karl pour his time into researching The End, Schlatt’s fixation on hunting Dream down, and, in a roundabout way, Dream’s brutal execution of the Council Guard could be rationalized given he aimed to use the Revival Book to restore the Syndicate entirely.

Therein lay the caveat — was that really Dream’s ultimate goal?

Of course, there were no shortage of arguments to back up this presumed mission of his, to revive Councilor Philza and bring restitution. Between the information given to them by Technoblade, what Hannah seemed to believe, and Sapnap’s unbending conviction.

Arguments, with little evidence. George had his reservations.

The one thing (perhaps the only thing) that really threw off the whole ordeal for him was the elusive guard's disposition.

Even prior to the Syndicate attack, something about the man he'd encountered that day in the library was just… off. In an indescribable, chilling way. It was difficult to reconcile that encounter with the affable, though brief, exchange they had during the banquet some-odd months ago. He supposed it had been some-odd months ago.

If there was some mystical nonsense à la this egg Bad seemed so worked up over, pushing Dream to embark on this odyssey — there was really no telling what he may do if he stakes his claim on the book. It seemed that Technoblade had forewarned this to Quackity and his travel companion.

Power falling into the wrong hands.

In that case, whose hands were the right ones? 

George suddenly thought of Ranboo. He’d disappeared along with Karl during the coup, with no trace. He'd always wondered, even in those listless days, what kind of revelations were hiding in the Enderman's amnesiac mind. Surely, monumental and comprehensive ones.

He sipped the coffee, coldly bitter. Brow furrowing in thought, his mind began to flood with what-ifs and other such constructed scenarios.

What if they had escaped? Jumped the gun and left to find the Stronghold as soon as that initial explosion rattled the Main Hall? What if they were already on their way back, the Revival Book in tow? The Council already reinstated? The wizened alchemist alive and well? They had no way of knowing out here, after all, given Quackity's apparent resignation as the Executive's secretary.

George found his thoughts to be sinking quickly, festering into a void.

Why couldn’t he have disappeared with them?

A flash of lightning snapped George out of his thoughts, wincing at the clap of thunder that trailed its afterimage.

Pulling the hood of his coat over his eyes, he breathed in the mild petrichor and willed himself to remain anchored to the present, what-ifs be damned.

The only thing he could do to help Karl, wherever he may be, would be to keep in pursuit of Dream until they inevitably reached The End. Only then, would he get his answers.

He slid on his goggles, tapping the feed awake and calibrating the signal.

The static preview loaded in with chunks of pixels at a time, slowly revealing the view from Dream’s bionic eye. Faint static coated the display, fighting to produce a clear image.

George sipped on the last of his grainy coffee, rinsing the flask in the river's gurgling current.

He refreshed the feed, patiently waiting for it to load. It eventually returned, as clear as it had been the night before.

It seemed that Dream was awake, standing still and peering down at asphalt, slick with pools of rainwater. His crossbow came into view, in the process of being loaded with a bolt. 

Dream’s gaze shifted up, now looking ahead of him. He faced out into a grassy clearing, scanning left and right. Hunting for breakfast, one could only assume.

George squinted, struggling to make out the terrain through the low resolution. The feed bobbed up and down, indicating he was walking forward. It made him a little queasy to watch. 

He minimized the feed, standing up to return to the campsite. The rainfall began to pick up, having brought a gray mist over the terrain.

From his view down the hill, he could see the sleeping lump of Sapnap, alone with the extinguished fire. George flipped his knife closed, jamming it back in his holster.

He wondered what kind of person Dream must have been to him. It was a thought he often mulled over, though he'd never once ventured to ask the younger. It never quite felt right to do so for George. Too personal. Too sensitive of a subject.

Breaths condensing in white puffs, he was reminded of the tundra forest. Sapnap would sometimes give vague anecdotes like that. Childhood memories. Fights. Contests. Adventures. Glimpses into bygone innocence.

George thought of Sapnap's latest anecdote and wondered if he'd once thought of Dream as a hero. He wondered if the other would have known.

He tapped into the eye feed once more.

Pixels shifted to form a vertical cluster in the distance of Dream’s line of sight.

George froze in his tracks. 

The loaded crossbow came into view again, aimed directly into the cluster, which became still just a second later.

Eyes darting across the downpour's haze, George swiftly dropped to the ground.

An arrow flew overhead, whizzing at bullet-speed before piercing into the pebble beach behind him.

Against the grey backdrop he'd sunk into, he watched the bolt launch from the crossbow over the span of two frames, Dream sprinting immediately after it. The feed trembled like an earthquake.

George hastily closed it, stumbling down the riverbank as he reached for his gun.

The masked man's bounding footsteps ricocheted after him in a frightening crescendo, worn boots sliding across mud as he readied another bolt. The crossbow's string creaked through the rain's hum like a lone frog.

A fraught cry escaped George as he tripped, dragging back the pistol's spring with a resonant click and twisting to face the man. Another strike of distant lightning illuminated his broad, towering silhouette as it hurtled.

Dream raced into his aim, his left eye a neon green nucleus piercing through the mask's wooden cavity.

George squeezed the trigger, limbs numbing with recoil. Dream dodged the bullet with a swift side step. Thunder roared somewhere else.

Before he could get another shot off, a gloved hand seized his wrist and forced his aim to the dreary sky. The weapon was cast out of his weak grip, launched into the water with an unceremonious plunk.

“Get off me!” George screamed as he was pinned to the ground, thrashing against his assailant. A fist connected with his face, the taste of warm iron filling his mouth.

A cold snare closed around his throat. He clawed at it, but its grip clamped down like a vise.

He reached up in a desperate attempt to shove against the man, to no avail. With a vexed grunt, Dream's gloved hand jerked to restrain his arm against the gravel.

Staring down the viridescent gleam of his horrifyingly imminent demise, George weaved his last unimpeded limb down for his butterfly knife.

His fingers grasped wildly through the other's suffocating weight, finally snatching it from the holster. For the millionth time that day, George flipped his knife open, then drove its blade into Dream’s side, twice.

The man shouted angrily, releasing the chokehold of his bionic arm to stumble back onto the ground in a scuffling heap.

"You are just such a pain in the ass…" he snarled through gritted teeth, sucking in a pained breath. "You know that?"

In a moment of sweet reprieve, George rolled over on his side, hacking and gasping for air.

As Dream lunged at him with relentless drive, he drove the heel of his boot into the masked man’s stomach, causing him to cry out and shrink away to cradle his hemorrhaging wound.

With a white-knuckle grip on his knife, George crawled into the river. Wading frantically through the ice-cold water, he blinked back a moribund fuzz in search of his gun.

Wisps of scarlet bloomed under the surface like smoke, dripping down his face and seeping out of the tiny cuts in his palms. They all simmered like pins and needles.

"A thorn in my side…" Dream scoffed under his breath, dryly. "Literally."

In anticipation of his looming presence, George began to glance over his shoulder. Before he could get even a glimpse of the man, he was swiftly kicked into the shallow water.

Adrenaline spiking, he quickly slashed his knife up at Dream. The hasty attack missed by mere centimeters as his wrist was seized once more.

Dream’s brute strength easily overpowered George's own, briskly turning his own blade back on him. A strangled shriek tore from his throat, muscles burning like hellfire to keep his knife from plunging into his jugular.

He kicked wildly in a frenzied attempt to escape, the effort promptly crushed by an armored knee digging into his leg.

“It's time… for you…" Dream heaved, leaning every last grain of his being against the knife's hilt, "to go free… George…”

George felt the knife's point pierce his skin. He screamed in pure terror.

“Help me!”

In some heavenly intervention, Dream was promptly shoved off of him and into the water with a violent crash.

“Get away from him!” Sapnap bellowed as they collapsed.

George sat up from the shallow bank, coughing and gasping for breath as he scrambled for his lost weapon.

Before Sapnap could even begin to try and restrain Dream for any measure of time, he was flung back onto the rocky shore with a fierce shove.

Dream rose from the water to pummel steel and cartilage into the other, pinned by his steel-clad knee. Sapnap shielded his face, shrinking away from his blows.

“Stop it, stop, stop! Stop!”

A cold laugh seeped out of the masked man. He seemed to relent, stumbling up from the ground and clutching his bleeding abdomen.

“Where’s your stupid axe?” Huffing, Dream unsheathed a teal-sheened sword, bionic arm whirring and creaking with its vise-like grip. "I was hoping we could finally have a real fight, y'know? Just like old times… except, well, to the death."

Sapnap grunted, dragging himself up as well. The water pooled red at their feet. He spat out a mouthful of blood, dragging a sleeve across his face. 

“Dream…” he croaked, stumbling. “What the fuck… is wrong with you?!”

The smiling mask tilted to one side, crystalline sword reflecting the horizon's silver lining.

"Good question," he growled, gloved hand pressed against his blood-soaked torso. "Just got stabbed."

Sapnap coughed, stepping back onto the shore with his hands on his knees. 

“We know-We know what you’re doing… we know about the-the book, so just-just… just chill, okay?!”

A tittering laugh came from the cloaked man. He then stabbed the sword into the dampened riverbed, leaning on it for support.

“Oh, where's the fun in that?”

“Can you-Can you just talk to me…? Tell me what’s going on, Dream… why are you being so-so insane?” Sapnap’s voice quivered with his pleas.

Dream cackled, shoulders squaring as he stepped forward. The water sloshed with the force of his movement, unflinching and measured.

“It's funny. Seeing you like this.” His wrist rotated, the sword’s hilt pointed forward. “Drenched in sorrow.”

Dream gave the blade an underhanded swing, slashing him across the chest. The younger recoiled, collapsing onto the gravel beach with a sharp yelp. He hugged his torso, whimpering.

Dream clicked his tongue in a mocking tut. Thunder rumbled.

“See? It’s no fun if you don’t fight back.” He drove a vicious kick into the other’s rib, eliciting a winded cry. “Where’s your fire, hm?”

Both rain and river seeping through his skin and chilling his bones, George glanced over his shoulder, a familiar terror rising in his throat as the smiling mask snapped to meet his eyes.

Flinching and cursing under his breath, he lunged deeper into the river’s current towards a promising glint under the water, arms sinking into the cold depths.

Endless waves of dread washed over him, masqueraded by the ice-cold river.

Vision tunneling as he reached for the warbled silhouette of his gun, the unmistakable snare of metal fingers caught his ankle. Dragged mercilessly from his anguished crawl, George sunk beneath the river's surface, shrill protests muffled by water rushing into his lungs.

A sharp weight dug into his spine, ribcage grinding into the rough sediment.

His heart pounded in his ears.

Everything froze and burned at the same time. 

George's vision began to fade in dark spots.

Chapter Text

There is a light, I feel it in me
but only, it seems, when the dark surrounds me

– "Abbey" by Mitski

Golden light vanished into frigid darkness as Bad shot awake, gasping for breath. The river trickled soundly in the distance, the air crisp with dew. 

All was right in the dead of night.

To his relief, neither George nor Sapnap had stirred from slumber. The campfire burned low between them, embers glowing starkly molten in the dark.

Sitting still for a moment in the moon's silver light, Bad grasped the damp earth beneath him, the grass fibrous and tangible. With a shuddering sigh, he shuffled to kneel at the fireside. Movements stilted by heavy limbs, he slowly dragged a handful of dry kindling to the pit. He stoked the flames, dew evaporating from his gloves.

Something glowered in the corner of his eye. Blinking against the fire's flickering glow, Bad held his sleeve up to the light and brushed back his cloak.

His gaze fell upon a singular crimson vine, coiling his arm like a corrupted and corrupting snake.

“Suit yourself.”

Bad watched George shuffle down the plateau, trudging leisurely to the river’s edge as the rain drizzled.

He sipped graciously on the cold and thinned coffee. Lingering on the image of the other's blurred silhouette sitting within the grey haze, Bad set the thermos lid down by the campfire, now smoldering with dwindling warmth.

Gathering his satchel and tugging on his knife bandolier, he left the sound-asleep Sapnap and began hiking up to the city.

Drifting through the sparse grove of withering trees, he glared down at his sleeve and the wretched vine hiding in its cover. As he stepped onto solid concrete at last and started down the desolate road, Bad took to sawing his obsidian dagger against the crimson parasite.

Despite its frail appearance, the vine was exceptionally tough. Distinctly so from the thicket he'd woken up to the day before.

A sudden pain then shot through his limb, reverberating to his very core. The shock of it elicited a panicked cry as Bad paused in his tracks, waiting for the sensation to wash over and fade.

The vine's jagged thorns had begun digging into his tenebrous form, writhing and constricting in response to his attempt to sever it. 

Bad gaped at the narrow vine, breath stuttering. He struggled to comprehend what he'd just felt. Sharp and palpable. Burning, sinking, alarming.

Alien and utterly terrifying.

Drawing a cautious breath, he glanced up to scan the storefronts surrounding him.

Far down the street and shrouded in the downpour, he spotted a drugstore. That seemed like as good a place as any to search. Maybe there was some chemical, an acid or alcohol or something to kill this stupid red plant.

Of course, the place was barren.

Its empty shelves lay strewn across the grimy floor, anything of remote use having been looted long before any hint of a crashing UFO.

Bad sauntered past it all, crawling over the pharmacist's counter and rummaging through smashed cabinet after smashed cabinet. All he uncovered were empty prescription bags and expired vitamins.

Miraculously, he nearly tripped over a bottle of rubbing alcohol, leaking half-empty beneath a pile of loose papers melding with the floor's dirt.

Sufficiently frustrated and disturbed, still, by the residual ache in his throwing arm, Bad left the rundown store and stepped back into the rain.

Despite morning having long since settled, the sun's heat was concealed by the relentless storm. The city had sunk into a dreary haze, buildings slated with deep and muted colors. Their facades soaked with rain.

Water rushed down the streets, streaming into the storm drains and filled potholes in murky splotches.

Pulling the hood of his cloak over his eyes, Bad began back up the street, soon enough returning to the city's edge. He ambled past the bushes and narrow trees, heavy droplets falling off the branches like small stones.

Between the rain's static hiss and the sound of his boots shuffling through the damp grass, a bright but distant echo reached him through the air. 

Bad paused to listen.

He peered up at the treetops, brow furrowing.

A bird?

He'd only come across the odd crow in the infested city.

The sound came again.

It registered as a cackle, prompting the demon to reach for his weapon.

A cackle, echoing from the river, with a scathingly unfamiliar cadence.

He broke into a sprint, tearing through the grove to reach the pebble beach. Finally emerging onto the riverbank, he scanned the shore for any sign of the two he'd unwittingly left to fend for their own.

The knoll of their campsite stood some distance up the stream, disparate silhouettes moving through the rain. Eyes narrowing, his vision settled on a hooded figure stooped in the river stream. 

On the damp shore, Sapnap struggled to pick himself up, collapsing into a sprawled heap at a failed attempt to stand. His hand, sullied with blood, reached out to grasp at thin air.

Bad raced up the riverbank, ripping a small silver blade from his bandolier and launching it at the cloaked assailant.

Having heard his rapidly approaching footsteps, the man glanced up from the water, a neon eye staring down the knife’s trajectory.

His smiling mask turned away at the last second, the blade grazing past its painted wood.

Bad readied another knife as he surveyed the hapless situation. His gaze immediately darted to the steel arm, half-submerged in the water with a distinct, forceful tenacity.

Stepping into an overhand pitch, the demon let his blade fly into the bionic limb.

A horrible crash rang through the air as steel pried into steel, the cloaked man recoiling and settling into the water, clenching the spasming limb to his chest.

George then surfaced from the water's abyss, gagging and coughing as he rasped for air.

Bad kept his eyes trained on Dream, watching the man reach his gloved hand to produce a loaded crossbow. He did not hesitate to hurl another knife, though the other lunged across and onto the gravel beach just in time to dodge it.

Leaning on an armor-clad elbow, Dream aimed his weapon and pulled its trigger, letting the bolt impale the relentless downpour.

Having seen the shot coming mere seconds in advance, Bad twisted out of its pinpoint trajectory straight into another knife throw.

Faced with a much quicker counter than he seemed to have anticipated, Dream let out a pained yell as the blade impaled his shoulder.

Bad watched him stagger to his feet. Wary, he reeled back with another knife at the ready.

To his chagrin, Dream laughed. He kept doing so, even as he wrenched out the knife lodged in his bionic arm.

“Oh, come on now," he hissed, the steel limb going limp at his side. "Way to ruin the fun.”

Unconsciously, Bad felt his expression sour with the realization that Sapnap was wholly right in citing that something about Dream just wasn’t right.

The masked man tossed the blade aside, doing the same for the one protruding from his shoulder. Scarlet immediately bloomed in its place, profuse and insistent. He stood tall in spite of it, forest green cloak draping with the pouring rain.

“Are you… human?” Bad muttered, glancing sporadically between the other's glowing eye and whirring arm.

Dream howled with laughter, like he’d just heard a cursory, impossibly hilarious joke.

“Unfortunately,” he said, grin audible from behind the mask.

Just as Bad felt an inexplicable chill jolt his body, Dream raised his crossbow once more and fired an instantaneous shot.

Bad stumbled backwards with the sheer force of the bolt's momentum. A cold ache diffused from its point, buried in his chest.

In another instant after, Dream turned on his heel and began sprinting up the riverbank.

Exhaling sharply, Bad grasped the heavy arrow jutting out from his body, swiftly yanking it clean out.

Dropping it to the ground, wisps of shadow dissipated from its point and stirred under the crude tear in his vest.

Catching a glimpse of Dream's silhouette obscuring with the mist, he scuttled into the river and crouched to George's aid.

Wracked with harsh coughs and violent chills, the other shook his head and pushed against him, stubbornly.

“Go… go—” George rasped, “—after him… don't… lose him—”

“George, it’s fine, we can track him once you two're—”

Pulling his goggles down his face, he let them hang from his neck, dripping water.

“I can’t… see—” he hacked, leaning adamantly against him still, “—radar—the radar—”

His strained sputtering finally piecing into a dreadful realization, Bad gasped and snapped to look up over the horizon. Thunder rumbled in the distance, as if to scorn him for the oversight.

Torn, Bad stepped back onto the gravel as he flitted back and forth between the two battered mortals, and all of their gear still sitting up on the knoll.

His train of thought seemed to evade, sharp twinges prickling all over his non-corporeal body.

The small silver blade lay on the shore in front of him, blood washing away with plinking raindrops and staining his vision.

“H-Hey, listen to me,” Bad began, turning to meet George's bleary eyes. “Grab your things and head up to the street, in case he comes back.”

Before the other could utter a syllable in protest, Bad turned away and began racing up along the river's stream.

"Stay away from the vines!"

Hollering one last warning and tuning out all the alarm bells sounding off in his head, Bad poured the entirety of his being into catching up to Dream as fast as inhumanly possible.

Following a faint trail of scarlet across the gravel and up a narrow valley, he found himself running through the city's barren streets once more. Leaping over asphalt sinkholes and clusters of crimson overgrowth, Bad scanned the alleys and rooftops for the slightest shadow.

The blood trail was quickly washing away with the storm, leaving him stranded and blind in pursuit of the elusive, faceless, wily Dream.

His mind raced as fast as his legs, an inexplicable stream of voices bubbling to the surface of his consciousness between labored breaths and claps of thunder.

“You’re not getting paid to ask questions, pal. I suggest you follow your assignment.”

Kill.

“Take the ship, make sure your friends don’t die, and stop Dream at all costs.”

Kill him.

“Bad, I’m counting on you to keep those dumbasses alive.”

You must.

“And you still think you’re the ones hunting Dream? Bad, you have to have realized by now that it’s the other way around.”

Kill Dream.

A cacophony all scraping together, whispers shrouding his thoughts into an impossibly narrow tunnel.

It was getting harder to distinguish the ensemble of voices, his own memories and recollections from the incessant murmuring that only seemed to grow louder as he ran.

After what felt like an eternity following the ever-thickening vines due north, Bad came to a screeching halt as the road before him fissured into web-like cracks, the crimson slithering up from the earth's mantle.

The surrounding buildings stood as mere relics, hopelessly enveloped in layers and layers of the Egg's spawn. Their facades colonized by catastrophe, reduced to hollow concrete.

On the blank white wall of a dilapidated corner store, a scarlet handprint glimmered in Bad's vision like a lighthouse beacon. Smudged, trickling in thin lines down the wall.

“He’s going to revive Phil.”

Find Dream.

“Forget the job, forget the elixirs, okay?”

Find Dream.

“He’s not dead. There’s no way he’s dead. Dream has to know what happened. Where he went.”

Find Dream.

“He needs help, not to be hunted down and killed.”

Find Dream.

With an agitated cry, Bad held his eyes shut in an attempt to get his cluttered, tangling thoughts to simmer.

The timing of it all wasn't lost on him. The sudden encounter with Dream only served to compound the Egg’s urgent, unyielding demands. He was falling into a complete spiral.

He was being backed into a corner, forced to confront the monstrous entity with nowhere to hide, nowhere else to run.

Bad drifted past the bloody mark, following a sporadic trail of mud on the sidewalk. The trail brought him to a flight of stairs, piles of snakelike vines sprawling out of the subway's void.

Breathing a quiet sigh, he descended the stairs.

As he did, the world seemed to slip away, the thunderstorm becoming one long hiss in the background.

Padding through the muggy, overrun metro, it was like he’d entered another realm not unlike one of his bizarre nightmares.

Opposing arguments kept on tearing at his mind, splitting him right down the middle. In a feeble effort to pacify his inner strife, he muttered under his breath like a mantra, “Find Dream… just find Dream…”

In spite of his efforts, his hand gripped the hilt of his beloved dagger as tightly as the vines clung to him.

The miasma of iron was almost suffocating, stagnating within the hollow subway tunnels. The linoleum floor had long rotted into a mahogany-colored muck.

His dragging steps echoed off the walls, the sound returning twice as loud in his ears. As Bad walked across the platform, his gaze inevitably drifted down to the tracks, receding into the tunnel.

A deep violet glow illuminated the darkness, revealing a web of crimson vines threading between the tracks.

Beguiled by the vibrant image, pleasantly void of nauseating scarlet, Bad dropped down from the platform and followed the light. He stumbled over the vines, struggling to keep his balance.

As he came to a bend in the tunnel, a deep hum resonated from around the corner. It was cadenced by a faint noise, just like rushing wind. Just like the ocean tide. The sound pacified the Egg’s harsh whispers, droning in his head.

With a deep breath, Bad rounded the corner. 

Squinting against the violet luminescence, its brightness took center stage in his sight, forcing the surrounding swaths of crimson to fade into the darkness of his periphery.

At the far end of the subway tunnel stood a violet panel of pure unfettered light, tenebrous glass framing its edges like an antique doorway.

The vines branched out from within, clinging to the portal's frame and splitting off into the very tendrils that coated the floor and the walls.

Bad felt his senses return to him, momentarily. Something wasn’t adding up.

He stood at a distance, studying the glowing swirls of violet. Slowly, he began to approach, sloshing through a shallow pool of rainwater. His boots sunk into the thick sediment underneath.

Wading cautiously, he scanned the tunnel and the vines that clung to the walls. Grip on his dagger tightening, he raised it to trace along the snakelike tendrils.

Each and every last vine led back to the network surrounding the portal.

His blade reflected the light, glinting a sliver of purple across the murky water. As Bad came face to face with the violet gateway, he reached out to brush its glossy frame. It was smooth like stone at the touch, glimmering like glass.

Cogs turning, he held his dagger against it.

The finish was near-identical to the glassy stone. Black-purple, the color of obsidian. Unlike the portal's frame, his weapon had a brushed quality to it.

Suddenly reminded of the lasers that had trapped them like lab rats in the alien boy's ship, he reached into the swirling light. Reaching into a void, his hand disappeared past it. It was pleasantly dull in comparison to the thorns prodding him with vicious hurt.

Bad squared his shoulders, inhaling sharply. This is what Dream must have been searching for. What he had marked on that map. This mysterious gateway hidden in the city's derelict subway network.

Precious dagger held to his pounding heart, he stepped through the portal.