Chapter Text
The pavement was cracked and uneven, weeds pushing through like stubborn veins. William trudged at the front of the group, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, his jaw set. Behind him, the others followed—Kurt with his shoulders hunched, Jeremy whistling tunelessly to fill the silence, Charlie trailing close to PB, and Sonic darting ahead only to circle back every few steps like an overcaffeinated border collie.
They had no car. William’s insistence that “walking never killed anyone” had been met with Jeremy’s sarcastic, “Except all the people who died while walking.” Still, they pressed on.
The streets reflected the chaos of the Merge. A pair of fish-headed people in trench coats smoked by a lamppost, their gills flaring as they muttered to one another. A snake woman with jewel-encrusted scales haggled with a skeleton peddler who rattled every time he laughed. Elves in crisp suits brushed past a group of humanoid cats arguing about politics.
“Feels like Comic-Con got drunk and exploded,” Jeremy muttered.
“Don’t make eye contact with the skeletons,” William replied flatly. “They’ll try to sell you insurance.”
Kurt, usually the one to find some humor in chaos, barely reacted. His eyes were fixed on the cracked sidewalk, his voice brittle when he finally spoke. “All of this—and Burntrap’s out there using it to take more people. To… destroy more lives.”
Blaine walked a step behind him, arms folded, gaze flicking across the crowd. “Welcome to reality. It doesn’t care about your pain, Kurt. Either you adapt, or you get crushed.”
William cut a glance back at him, the gears in his jaw audibly grinding. “Coming from someone currently funding his life with my wallet, you’re not exactly the poster child for survival instinct.”
Before Blaine could snap back, Sonic zipped ahead, then froze mid-step. “Uh, guys? Don’t freak out, but I think I just spotted somebody who knows a lot about our walking tin-can problem.”
They all looked up.
Standing at the corner, nursing a coffee and glaring at his phone like it had personally insulted him, was a young man in a varsity jacket. His hair was neat, his eyes sharp, his posture tense in a way that suggested he’d seen too much too young.
William recognized him immediately. He wasn’t sure why—it wasn’t like they’d ever met—but there was no mistaking him. William Clockwell. Mark Grayson’s best friend. The boy who’d had his crush Rick snatched and turned into a ReAniman by D.A. Sinclair.
Kurt frowned. “Is that…?”
Jeremy snapped his fingers. “Oh my God, yeah, it’s Clockwell. Invincible’s buddy. Guess the multiverse shuffle brought him to our block.”
William’s lip curled. “Perfect. Just what I needed. A walking trauma case with a direct hotline to Sinclair’s handiwork.”
They approached cautiously. Clockwell noticed them when Sonic accidentally dropped the rest of his chili dog on the sidewalk. His expression hardened.
“You,” Clockwell said, pointing directly at William. “I’ve seen things like you before.”
William tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Like me? Handsome middle-aged engineers with impeccable taste in waistcoats?”
Clockwell’s hand twitched. “Like ReAnimen. Half-machine, half-dead. Sinclair’s work. Don’t play dumb.”
The group stiffened. Kurt immediately shook his head. “No—he’s not—he’s not like them. He’s…” He faltered, looking at William, then away. “He’s different.”
William sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Clockwell, is it? You’re barking up the wrong man. I’m no one’s puppet. Least of all Sinclair’s. Do I seriously look like a corpse? I didn’t think my eating habits were that bad…”
Clockwell stepped closer, eyes burning. “Then why do I believe you had something to do with what happened to Rick?”
The name hit like a blade through the air. Kurt gasped softly. PB frowned. Jeremy muttered, “Ah, crap…” under his breath.
William’s gaze darkened, the corner of his lip twitching. He leaned in just enough for his words to land like gravel.
“I didn’t touch your Rick. But I know who did. Sinclair’s not just tinkering anymore—he’s got a bloody factory running, courtesy of my rotting counterpart. And if you’re smart, you’ll save your accusations for the bastard who deserves them.”
Clockwell blinked, the sharp edge of his anger cutting into hesitation. “Burntrap…?”
“Bingo,” William said with a brittle smile. “Green rabbit, stinks like rot, dumber than a brick but somehow still breathing. He’s your enemy. Not me.”
The two men locked eyes, tension thick.
Finally, Clockwell looked away, muttering, “If Sinclair’s really working with someone like that… then Rick…” His voice cracked, barely audible. “…Rick might be gone forever.”
For once, William didn’t bite back. He just watched him quietly, the faintest trace of something almost human flickering across his face before vanishing.
Jeremy, awkward as ever, clapped his hands together. “Sooo… maybe we, uh, team up? Common enemy, common trauma, that sort of thing?”
Clockwell didn’t answer. But the way he didn’t walk away either—that was answer enough.