Chapter Text
Quackity flapped his wings to shake off the dust that had settled on them after he’d been under the bed gathering papers from who knows when. Juan was standing nearby and had to shield himself with his arms from the cloud of dirt kicked up by the movement; he had no idea that the duck had waited until he was close enough to intentionally coat him in dust. Quackity smiled as he watched Juan sneeze, but he turned away so Juan wouldn't see him do it while he tucked his wings back through the holes in his blue leather jacket.
To Quackity, the jacket was practically a treasure. It was the first possession he had managed to steal directly from someone belonging to The Federation. He was barely fifteen years old; he, Aldo, and Roier were fleeing from Vegetta and Foolish when they encountered agents prowling the city limits. Up to that point, Quackity had never engaged in direct combat—despite Aldo and Roier constantly urging him to learn alongside them—but now he had no choice: he had to fight with his friends, or all three of them would die. Aldo took the lead, guiding him by shouting out whatever Quackity couldn't see. They had access to firearms by then, but Quackity had never actually used one; he never imagined that the moment he joined the scouting party would be marked by an explosion from his own hand and the death of a Federation agent—especially since the only way to take them down was with a headshot. If asked now, he would say his initiation into the squad was obviously iconic, because he was destined to be iconic. But at the time, he was terrified; his hand was trembling, and because he froze, staring at what he had done, a Federation agent struck him hard in the sternum, knocking him down onto his wings—wings that were, back then, too small to lift him off the ground. Fortunately, the situation didn't escalate further, as Roier’s alpha father, Foolish, found them. The shark-man finished off the remaining agents with incredibly precise shots. It was then—amidst the scavenged remains of the corpses, while the three of them were being scolded by Vegetta—that he got his hands on the jacket.
It was common to see him with it on all the time, especially in situations like these. You could say it was almost like a lucky charm; on the few occasions he wasn't wearing it, things had ended... well, "badly" would be putting it mildly. Incidents where Quackity wasn't wearing his jacket include the time one side of his head was shaved off by a gunshot, the time his left wing went bald for three and a half weeks due to a superficial burn that sent him plummeting from at least five meters in the air, and—Juan’s personal favorite—the time he accidentally failed to notice the can he was about to eat from contained dog food instead of spaghetti Bolognese. He didn't have anything important to do on that occasion; in fact, it happened after a rescue mission that had gone almost perfectly—"almost" because, upon returning home, he ended up eating dog food, and nearly everyone in the house saw him spit out the contents he had just put in his mouth. But, of course, he wasn't wearing his jacket when they sat down to eat.
A premonition churned in his gut—an instinctual pull, as if he already knew what was about to happen that night. Of course, his conscious mind had no clue and felt he needed all the luck he could get; it made sense, after all. Venturing into Styx always carried a near-fatal risk, let alone an extraction mission like this one. It wasn't just about getting into the city—a solid thirty-minute flight at top speed from the hideout—but also evading the Feds guarding the city limits from the rooftops; they were already on his trail due to some reckless risks he’d taken earlier. On top of that, he wasn't sure how he’d infiltrate a federal lab without alerting the sentries and jeopardizing the entire mission. True, he didn't have a plan; he was driven by an instinct compelling him to go to that meeting, knowing he wouldn't get another chance unless he risked it all right then and there. Yet, he wasn't worried. Quite the opposite—he was excited about what he might find. His instinct had never let him down, and with his lucky jacket on, nothing bad could happen to him. Or at least, that’s what he kept trying to convince himself.
"Did you secure your thigh rig?" Juan asked in a monotone voice.
"Yeah..." came the reply, in an even more monotonous tone.
"Check it again; the pouch on your right needs to be really tight. Whenever you land badly, you fall onto your left side." Quackity scoffed and rolled his eyes, but he complied, pulling firmly on the straps securing the black leather pouch—adorned with white and gold stars he’d drawn on it years ago—and felt his pulse thrumming faintly against the strap.
"Done," he said, his tone still bored.
"Make sure your holster doesn't bang against—"
"Juan, I'm not an idiot; I do this every day." Quackity crossed his arms and shifted his weight onto his right leg, looking at Juan with raised eyebrows.
"That doesn't matter, Quackity; you need to be absolutely sure—this is really important." The man who had just spoken lowered his arms and gazed up at the starry sky. "Now, show me your weapon."
"Oh, Juan," Quackity said with a sly smile, raising his eyebrows.
"No—not that way, you animal!"
"First you have to buy me a few shots, or at least a coffee." He gave Juan a playful shove and covered his cheeks, swaying back and forth. Juan swatted at him—a blow that hurt his own hand more than it did Quackity's arm. "You're so rude to someone you just asked to show you their di—"
"Quackity, stop it!" Even in the dim, flickering light from the broken sign, he could tell Juan was blushing.
"you can dish it out but you can´t take it" he laughted touching his flsuehd cheek taking the oportunity to snatch the slip of paper containing the details of what he needed to identify what he was meant to steal while Juan muttered to himself about how much he loved his job. "Check yourself, man; one day you’re gonna accidentally ask an alpha to show you his dick, and those guys don’t think twice."
"Quackity…"
"Its okay Juan, I get it, you heat its coming, you don´t have a mate-"
“I have plenty of suitors!”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, I guess.” He shrugged and spread his wings, ready to take flight.
“Quackity we haven’t…” Juan glanced at his clipboard, looking for the document the duck had just tucked into the pouch on his thigh holster. “Quackity!"
"Bye Juaaaaan" he sang out as he lifted off the ground, beating his wings slowly enough for the otter to see him stick out his tongue and laugh at the look on the other mans face.
With that, he pulled his goggles down over his eyes and propelled himself into the air to avoid hearing Juan’s shouts. Flying always relaxed him; even though much of his body remained tense to maintain his balance, there was something about the air up there that he couldn't find on the ground. It made no sense—the air was just as dirty in the sky as it was on the ground—yet he could have sworn it breathed differently. His friends didn't get it; even though he sometimes carried them along and showed them a glimpse of that world, none of them truly flew—none of them had wings—and to the rest of them, the dirty air of the sky was just that: dirty air.
Soon—too soon for his liking— the lights of the distant city came into view. A defiant smile played on his lips at the prospect of another run-in in Styx—with the sentries and, more importantly, with the Federation. Styx was a high-tech city; its lights were visible just fifteen minutes into a flight at Quackity’s pace—he could even spot them in broad daylight. Normally, its borders were heavily guarded by hundreds of sentries, but tonight, security seemed lax. Usually, he would need his goggles' thermal vision to pick them out. The sentries always wore black—shirt, tie, and dress trousers paired with a jacket like the one Quackity wore, though in different colors. Quackity paused in mid-air to survey the terrain. The momentum of his wings carried him a few meters further, but he had accounted for it. He then activated his thermal vision and confirmed that there were indeed few sentries on the ground. He hesitated. It felt like they were expecting him".
But this isn't the first time they’ve been expecting someone from the Revolution, which is precisely why Roier insisted on upgrading the goggles worn by all the aerial scouts. Quackity is wary; he adjusts the light-filtering temperature to ensure that, should he enter through the center, nothing will happen to him. He is at a considerable distance, so the sentries look like tiny ants moving about routinely—yet this offers him no peace of mind, for there is surely a trap hidden in this situation. It couldn't possibly be this easy.
He looks to the sky, and to the ground as well. He is at a perilous height above the earth, yet he wants to go higher. He keeps beating his wings with measured strokes, takes a deep breath, and then puts more effort into his flapping—determined to ascend as high as possible, rising past the point where the Federation sentries’ small red silhouettes are visible, climbing until he feels he is suffocating; yet even then, he cannot clear Styx’s tallest skyscraper. He gasps for air, fighting to keep the pressure from crushing his lungs; he still has plenty of physical exertion ahead of him—not just to reach the city, but to navigate it once inside. He begins to skirt the city’s perimeter, staying far enough away to remain unseen in the darkness, and that is when he discovers the trap being laid for him.
The sentries were in the buildings.
“Remember, dude: no fight with them is fair, so be ready to out-cheat their cheating—and just not give a damn.” Aldo’s words echoed like a ghostly whisper in his ears; he heeded them as he went into a steep dive, pulling a firework from the holster on his left thigh—one designed to explode in a brilliant blue. As he neared the city, he lit the fuse; just before it blew, he let it go, blinding and disorienting the sentries. He then executed a rolling landing on the pristine streets of Styx, coming to a stop in an alley where the wealthy dumped their daily trash; he had fully retracted his wings while still airborne, ensuring that anyone who spotted him would see nothing but a human. With few sentries on the ground, he was lucky enough to avoid a ground search; the pyrotechnics had done their job, drawing their attention to the sky in search of a winged figure. The only downside to his plan was that he now had to travel on foot.
He removed his goggles and tucked them into an outer pocket; he also took off his jacket and turned it inside out before putting it back on, so that the brilliant blue he loved so much now appeared as a creamy white—matching the people who lived in Styx. Finally, he removed his holster and tossed it into the trash, weapon and all; while it was normal for civilians to carry gear in thigh rigs, it wasn't normal for them to wear holsters. His heart pounded and his hands trembled—a reaction to the cold blood that had previously circulated to his wings but was now rushing to his legs, screaming at him to escape. He sighed, trying to calm himself and convince himself that nothing truly bad was going to happen—that his plan had worked. He was even so anxious that he tried to convince himself the Moon Goddess was working in his favor, placing him exactly where he needed to be to fulfill his destiny.
But a sentry passed right by that alleyway and caught him standing there, staring up at the sky with trembling hands—almost as if paralyzed by the figure's presence—and his heart stopped. He held no positive memories of the people in white armor and helmets who stripped workers of their own faces.
"Sir?" the sentry called out, and Quackity looked at him with wide, large brown eyes. "Are you alright?"
"What was that?" —he mentally congratulated himself for reacting just like any lobotomized city dweller— "A-are we under attack?"
"No, nothing like that." —The sentry stepped closer, seemingly trying to catch his scent to determine his secondary gender— "Everything is under control, but I’d still recommend you head home; this is no time for a beta like you to be out and about."
"I was just taking out the trash... it’s not easy looking after a newborn... sir." —He almost slipped up, but tried to keep a low profile by looking up at the sky again— "Are you sure there’s no trouble? It looked like one of those terrifying hybrids from the wilds managed to get in..." —The sentry turned and looked at the sky; he followed suit, trying to channel his fear toward the heavens— "Sir?"
“Go back home, sir,” he says sternly, though he places an arm on the other man’s shoulder in a rather confusing manner. “Charlie Alpha Sierra,” he speaks toward his shoulder—into the intercom on his own white jacket. The man manages to make out “Code A South,” but he fights with all his might to keep from smiling and giving himself away.
“Thank you for your protection,” he says with a slight bow, then runs past him to “go inside.”
He turns onto the street looking for the building's entrance; upon finding it, he practically lunges at the door, shoving it open to slip inside and hide. He is lucky enough to have stumbled upon one of those new facilities where the concierge has been replaced by a mindless AI. Once he realizes he is safe, he spends a minute with his eyes closed, trying to steady his breathing while reminding himself that he is a soldier—that he has been doing this for ten years and it is far too late to turn back. After regaining his composure, he pulls out his goggles and puts them on to orient himself using the integrated map Tina had insisted on adding. He knows he needs to head to the Center for Nuclear Studies—or CNS, as the note says—because the compound he was sent to retrieve is a uranium derivative, and the facility is just a few blocks away. To get there, he will have to lure the sentries far away; that way, if they spot him running, they will assume he is merely a defenseless Beta—a scenario that has played out before. Fortunately, he still has plenty of pyrotechnics left to sow chaos in a section of the city.
Now more self-assured, he leaves the building, rummaging for the dust bombs as he walks in search of the perfect spot to set them off—a spot that eventually turns out to be another trash-filled alley. He lights the fuses on two bombs and lets them roll toward the alley, then keeps walking as if completely innocent—as if his hands weren't covered in the telltale dust that would give him away in a heartbeat. He counts off the seconds the dust bombs usually take to detonate, aiming to get as far away as possible so his ears are spared the thunderous blast; when the explosion occurs, Quackity lights two more bombs and hurls them as hard as he can in the direction opposite the CNS, then breaks into a run as if being chased. A few streets ahead, others join him, all of them fleeing in a panic amidst the chaos; there, he sees actual Betas—people with bodies like his own—yet he can both see and feel the difference. He tries not to dwell on it and focuses instead on finding the place he needs to be in.
Disoriented by the commotion, Quackity stops in the middle of the street to look around. Several people bump into him; an alpha nearly knocks him over while shouting insults—acting in defense of his partner—but a man helps steady him. He looks like a beta, yet he isn't one; Quackity can detect the faint scent of marzipan coming from him. He is an alpha.
"Are you alright?" the man asks. Nerves churn in Quackity’s stomach again, though he attributes them to the fear of being caught. Quackity nods, feeling a bit dazed; the scent has already settled into his nostrils. "Be careful... are you going far?"
"I..." —He glances around; both of them are now being jostled by the crowd still fleeing— "I don't know..." —He feels pathetic, but realizes he can use that to his advantage— "I was near the explosions and—and—and..."
"Shit." —The alpha seems to panic slightly and scans his body for any signs of injury; as he does, he notices the CNS logo on the black sweatshirt the other is wearing. That meant two things: his target was close by, and he could take advantage of this guy's kindness.
It´s exactly whar he did: he feigned his eyes rolling back and his legs giving way, letting gravity pull him to the floor. He braced himself for an impact that never came; the alpha had reacted in time to catch him. Internally, he wanted to squirm—an alpha was holding him as if he were some poor omega in distress. It went against everything he believed in, and he struggled to convince himself that this was necessary to gain entry to the building—that he hadn't been the one to impose the system making alphas feel responsible for the care of those they deemed weaker (and not to brag, but if he had to face that alpha in unarmed combat, he was certain he would win without even breaking a sweat). He was simply taking advantage of that system—and not even as an omega, but as a beta.
"Shit, shit, shit," he heard him curse as he knelt down, cradling him in his arms and gently laying him on the ground. "Nexe, I need you to do something for me." Quackity wished he knew who he was talking to, because all he could hear while his eyes were closed was the sound of people running. "Distract the security guard—call him over, ask him to check something, anything... There’s an omega who’s passed out amidst the chaos of the attack; I’m going to..."
Omega. Omega. The alpha had recognized him as an omega. Yet he was certain he had applied his suppressant patches and covered his entire body—hair included—in scent-masking suppressants. He had done everything right; he had followed every step rigorously to ensure no one realized he wasn't a beta—he had even smoked the neutralizing tobacco Vegetta had found a couple of years back. And still, the alpha had recognized him as an omega. He trembles involuntarily—small spasms he cannot control no matter how hard he tries—and this seems to further alarm the alpha, who speaks more rapidly; yet he cannot clearly hear the words, too busy spiraling and retracing his steps over and over, searching for the moment his camouflage plan failed, unable to pinpoint when any of his scent—which, according to Roier, was already nearly imperceptible—could have leaked through the suppressants.
So, caught between feigning unconsciousness and spiraling into paranoid panic, he didn't notice when the alpha stopped talking to whoever he had been contacting before—only realizing it when he was being lifted up again, this time bridal-style. Once more, he felt the impulse to move—to shove the man away and curse him for assuming he needed help—but the worst part was that he couldn't; he needed a way to get inside the building where the alpha—that "beggar alpha"—worked. Feeling movement, he opened his eyes and feigned regaining consciousness; he could no longer bear not seeing what was happening around him, though the only thing in his line of sight was the alpha. His omega, usually dormant, stirred within him, signaling something he couldn't quite decipher, so he ignored it; right now, he just wanted to return to The Burrow and not step outside again for a good few days. He would handle the cleaning and the cooking—the Moon Goddess knew he would even help Juan with his work—if only he could make it out of this situation in one piece; given how things were unfolding, he wasn't sure his heart could withstand the overwhelming surge of emotions and stimuli.
"What are you doing...?" he asks in a low voice; the scent of marzipan was strong and seemed to be what was agitating his omega, so he didn't have to put on much of an act when he spoke.
"You fainted in the street; we're safe now."
"Safe...?"
"Yes, yes." The alpha glances at him for a moment and smiles, fighting the urge to silence his omega. "There was a stampede, and... you said you were coming from the explosions."
"The explosions!" He tensed his upper body, looking ready to fight. "Th-there was a horrible hybrid from the Outlands, and... we have to warn the sentries—!"
"Calm down! You're safe now; this is one of the most secure buildings in the entire country." The interruption was an attempt to soothe him, but the speaker's attitude was having the opposite effect on the man's true self—far removed from the helpless-omega persona he maintained for the city.
"Where are you taking me?" He tried to keep up the charade; the longer he could string it out, the deeper he could get into the building.
"I work here, so I'm taking you to my office until things calm down outside."
It is then that he looks around; he hadn't realized his eyes had remained fixed on the alpha from the moment he opened them—good for his cover story, but not so good for his true self. Regardless, his scattered mind finally tries to recall as many details as possible, though it is difficult; much like the hazy recollections in his memory, everything in this blasted building is that "Federation white"—confusing and sterile. There are perfectly symmetrical corridors and gleaming tiles that look as if they were sealed with gold grout; there is a tall plant in an equally white planter that, were it not for the shadows cast by the warm lighting, would appear to be fused directly to the floor. They step into an elevator that quickly begins to descend. At this point, he can hardly believe his luck; as he recalls from the information Juan gave him, the nuclear reactor—along with the byproducts of the various elements studied at the facility—should be located in the underground level.
The amount of luck he’d had so far was absurd, yet he assumed that was precisely why his instincts told him this was the moment to go for the vial; there would never be another opportunity as perfect as this one, where he was actually being carried to the very place he needed to go. In short, fate had brought him exactly where he was meant to be. He was meant to be here, meant to play the part of a helpless omega in distress, meant to be “saved” by this alpha.
The elevator stops at the floor marked "RN," just past level -5; the smell makes him frown—it is vastly different from the scent of the burrow. It is simultaneously damp and sweet, though sweet in the worst possible way—like pools of blood that had dried ages ago. Few hybrids consumed blood, and if he recalled correctly, they were banned by the Federation itself, often condemned to death before they could even breathe the Earth's foul air. Moreover, this area was a far cry from the building's pristine entrance; instead of white tiles and spotless walls, the Alpha’s "office" featured a dark floor—almost like rough-hewn stone—and walls of metal that looked rusted in places. In a way, it reminded him of abandoned sites from the Old World; the stone flooring resembled the decorative paving found in the outdoor areas of old shopping malls he used to visit with Roier. It was certainly a curious detail for such a secure facility owned by the Federation.
In fact, one might think twice about treating this Alpha so poorly, given all the kindness he had shown for absolutely no reason. But he was a Federation worker, and every thought about him was interrupted by the phrase, "but he’s from the Federation."
It’s a shame to steal from him, but he’s from the Federation.
He smells really good, but he’s from the Federation.
He’s handsome, but he’s with the Federation.
He agitated my omega, but he’s with the Federation.
"You can sit here while I get an update on the situation upstairs." The alpha snaps him out of his thoughts as they reach a desk; the alpha looks directly at him with a gaze that feels gentle—he doesn't quite know how to interpret it, but he gets a funny feeling in his stomach when he realizes it. To avoid feeling that strange sensation any longer, he makes a slight move to stand on his own; the alpha leans down to set him on the ground, and he quickly stumbles over to the chair, collapsing into it and spinning around to search for the small bottles containing the vial he was asked to retrieve. He is close to completing his mission.
“And… may I know my savior’s name?” Who would have thought that one of Tina’s cheesy books would help him interact in a situation that actually mattered?
“Michał,” the alpha replies. He doesn’t stay standing; instead, he walks over to where a lab coat is hanging and takes out a bottle that looks similar—no, not similar, identical—to his own suppressant bottles, except that instead of the letter Ω, it bears an α.
“You said that so nicely, really.” The alpha smiles at him.
“What’s your name?”
“Alex.”
“I’ve never seen you downtown, Alex.”
“I don’t like crowded places…” As he says this, he spins the chair around again; that’s when he spots a faint, almost imperceptible glint inside one of the half-open drawers. He needs to find a way to get a better look at that. “Actually, I only ran toward the crowd because things were exploding where I was; it was empty over there.”
"So, what was someone like you doing out on the streets alone so late?" Quackity rocked his chair back and forth, raising an eyebrow as a nervous smile slipped out.
"What do you mean by 'someone like me'?"
"You know what I mean." The alpha smiled. "You're a cute, young omega, and clearly unbonded—even though you're of an age where you'd typically be bonded."
"Interesting analysis." He spun the chair again. "How old do you think I am?"
"Twenty-four?"
"Close... I'm twenty-five."
"How old do you think I am?"
"I don't really look at that sort of thing. That whole bonding business... meh." He shrugged and rolled his eyes. "It's stupid."
"Hm…"
"Are you telling me you’re bonded?" —for a second, he dropped the act, as if testing the waters— "You look older than me; even your dreadlocks look white." —he didn't mean it seriously, and it seemed the alpha didn't take it seriously either.
"It’s a fashion statement; besides, it matches the whole place." —The guy looked upward, clearly referring to the surface world.— "I’m twenty-nine."
"A twenty-nine-year-old, unbound alpha." —Quackity stopped rocking the chair and crossed his arms, waiting for a reaction from Michał— "Because I doubt you’d bring an unbound omega into your office—at what, 1 AM?—when it’s just the two of you." —He felt a pang of self-betrayal for referring to himself as an omega, but the alpha looked genuinely thrown off, so that feeling mattered little in the moment.
“How do you know I’m an alpha…?”
“How do you know I’m an omega?”
“You smell like li—” but Michał didn’t get to finish; the sound of a heavy metal door opening put them both on alert. Quackity tensed up but said nothing; he simply held his arms close to his chest with his fists clenched—not in a fighting stance, but as if trying to keep himself from being detected. “Nexe!”
"You're an idiot for risking our lives for an omega." That was his first impression of the guy named Nexe—a dog hybrid (though he couldn't tell exactly what breed), yet clearly intelligent, given that he’d definitely broken into the place with ill intent.
"I couldn't just leave him there alone; there was a stampede, and he’d passed out." Nexe looked at him, frowning and wearing an expression of disbelief.
"That’s the stupidest thing you’ve said all month."
"You’re so cruel to me—but fine, I get it, you hate me." At that, Quackity turned his chair away so he wouldn't have to look at either of them. "Can I have a word with you here for a second?" The door opened again, and he heard two sets of footsteps walking away.
Quackity glanced back to make sure he was alone; seeing neither of the two people, he pulled out the sheet detailing the vial's specifications. There was a lot he didn't understand, but he did grasp the handwritten note Juan had added at the bottom: “The informant says the compound has no name, but it comes in recycled vials—like the ones used for suppressors, only slightly taller. They have a peculiar color and glow due to their uranium content. Ha ha, ur-anium.” Quackity shook his head as he tucked the paper back into the holster on his right thigh, taking the opportunity to also stuff in a handful of the vials from the open desk drawer. He wasn't certain if these were the ones he’d been asked to retrieve, but given his luck lately, it wouldn't surprise him if they turned out to be exactly the right ones.
Then, he rose from the chair, trying to make as little noise as possible as he moved toward the door; he had to act fast—he already had what he needed, and there was no reason to stay in this death trap near an active nuclear reactor. At that moment, he did the opposite of what he had been doing all along: instead of passing entirely as a human, he shifted fully into his animal form and waited.
Barely a minute had passed when the heavy metal door opened again; Quackity—in his duck form—seized the chance to dash and flap his wings right between the men's legs, catching them off guard, though they were quick to react.
"The omega!" Nexe shouted. "It's the hybrid the sentries are looking for!"
Upon reaching the halfway point, he shifted back, smiling at both of them; his wings rose proudly before their astonished gazes. Yet, the moment lasted less than a second; as soon as his human feet touched the ground, he began racing up the stairs, using his wings to propel himself within the confines of the narrow space. They were close on his heels, so he didn't stop after climbing six flights—as the two men had expected—but kept running upward, planning to escape the city directly from that point. The alpha seemed fascinated by what he saw, rather than concerned for the safety of the CNS or even Styx—an omega who appeared neither intimidated nor frightened, having toyed with him from the very moment they met.
And he loved it.
He was elusive enough to find the very person who could have led him to one of Styx’s most secure locations by feigning victimhood—and no one even knew his motives for doing so. As the hybrid keeps running up the stairs, he shouts for Nexe to head back down and memorize his scent so he can track him if he escapes; his friend obeys, quickly retracing their steps. Then, without breaking stride, he strips off his sweatshirt and tears a section from the back of his black T-shirt to free his wings, allowing him to keep pace by beating them—propelling himself up the stairs far faster than he could on foot. He hasn’t used them in ages—hasn’t even shifted in a long time—yet here he is, racing against someone who has transformed three times in less than thirty minutes. He barely manages to grab the jacket the other is wearing after a chase spanning at least nine floors—he isn't sure; it could be more. He watches the boy’s wings vanish back into his skin as he writhes to break free, finally succeeding only when the garment is no longer on his body but in the alpha’s hand.
They both come to a halt; Alex, standing a few steps higher, glares defiantly while panting. Michał knows he should catch him—this is his chance—but something inside holds him back. Alex spots a door near the alpha and realizes he can’t keep climbing; his goggles are still in his jacket, and he can’t risk high-speed flight in the dead of night—plus, all the "tech-bros" at The Burrow would tear him a new one over the cost of building a pair like that from scratch. He decides to dash up one more floor, seizing the pause in the chase. He opens the door he finds there—which is completely different from the heavy metal door deep in the underground—and steps into an open-plan office space with a large picture window at the far end. He waits for the alpha to follow; the moment he sees him enter, he lunges, and they tumble together, grappling over the jacket. Eventually, Alex ends up on top of Michał, straddling him and pinning his wrists beside his head. Once again, they lock eyes for a long, motionless moment—witnessed only by the moonlight filtering through the window—until Alex breaks the spell. He slides his hand into the jacket to grab his goggles, stands up, and leaps onto one of the desks. Michał accepts defeat as he watches the omega hurl a chair through the picture window, shattering the glass to create an exit. He rises—making no move to catch him—just in time to watch Alex jump into the void; his wings reappear instantly, and he vanishes rapidly into the distance at a speed that sparks both immense curiosity and awe in the alpha.
“Multi, a beta fooled you,” a voice crackled over his intercom. “There’s no scent down here.”
“How do you know I’m an omega?” Alex’s voice echoed in his memory as he looked at the jacket he had managed to take—still in his hand. He smiled in disbelief and brought it to his nose. It smelled unmistakably of apple liqueur; it was obvious to him that the other was an omega. An omega who had tried to pass as a beta—and who had caught him doing the exact same thing.
Quackity arrived at The Burrow sooner than expected. His adrenaline had been surging so high that he hadn’t even noticed the cold until he landed and his fingertips began to tingle painfully. He even collapsed to his knees, then onto his left side, as the adrenaline faded. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten out of the CNS, let alone how he’d managed to escape the city, but he had done it—he had escaped and completed his mission. He lay on the cold, dusty ground for a while, simply breathing and catching the scent of the alpha on his clothes. It had been so faint when he was face-to-face with him, but now the scent of marzipan seemed to envelop him—yet it wasn’t… invasive; it wasn’t cloying. It was just there, reminding him of the alpha’s blue eyes.
“Quackity?” Juan’s head poked through the trapdoor leading to the cafeteria roof. “You’re early—did we get what…?” As the otter approached the duck, he noticed him trembling, and his blood ran cold. “FOOLISH!”
“WHAAAT?!” the shark shouted back.
“COME QUICK, SOMETHING’S HAPPENED TO QUACKITY!”
“Oh, shit…”
Foolish quickly climbed onto the roof to help Juan; he checked Quackity’s temperature with his hand and hurriedly carried him inside the cafeteria to wrap him in a thermal blanket. Juan was so anxious that Foolish even offered him one of Tina’s herbal infusions to help him calm down while he examined the duck.
"I'm fine, Juan... just..." —he swallowed hard before speaking— "I smell like an alpha, and it makes me sick..." —he lied about that last part. Well, it wasn't necessarily a lie; the scent itself didn't make him sick, but it did feel strange to crave more of it— "Plus, I almost got caught; my blood sugar just dropped, that's all.
"Do you want to go through decontamination?" —Quackity shook his head.
"I want to sleep." —he frowned and looked at the floor. Then, he unstrapped the thigh guard from his right leg and tossed it to Juan, who nearly dropped it— "By the way... there's the delivery."
"You got it...?" —Juan asked, incredulous.
"Of course, man." —he tried to sit up, but suddenly every muscle in his body began to ache; were it not for the thermal blanket covering him, he likely would have kept shivering— "Who do you take me for?"
"You’re sleeping here tonight; I’m going to keep an eye on you," Foolish told him. "I don't think you could make it downstairs anyway."
"Yeah, yeah, fuck it." He tried to get up, but his muscles protested with even more pain. "Oh, fuck..."
"Quackity?" Juan hurried to help him, draping an arm around his shoulders. "What do you mean, you smell like an alpha?"
"Can't you smell it?" They both started walking after Foolish, who was making up a bed on one of the cots in what used to be the café’s storage room—now serving as an infirmary for members of The Burrow. "I reek of marzipan."
"No, Quackity, you don't smell like anything." Foolish confirmed this with one of the many noises he made while working.
"Can't you smell me, either?"
Both shook their heads again. Now he had more questions than before—more than he’d been able to process during the flight back. But he was too tired to hold onto them much longer. Tomorrow would be a new day, a time to question everything that had happened, but for now, he just wanted to sleep.