Chapter Text
It's supposed to be easy.
See, Schlatt is many, many things. He's a man, he's a monster. He's a businessman, he's a con-man.
(He's a god. He's a demon. He's nothing, he's mortal.)
Schlatt has more names than he could possibly even dream of counting. He drowns in them, swallows them up and uses them to bolster an ego that was forged of titanium. More names, more screams, more power—!
Schlatt is and was many things. Schlatt is not an idiot.
He knows from the start, before it even begins, that Tubbo will turn traitor. Hell, he wouldn't even call it that if he was being honest. (Which luckily for him, he never is.) Pulling Tubbo, the bright eyed, nervous wreck of a kid into his cabinet is a power move. A final dig at the gut of Wilbur Soot and everything he represents, a final mouthful of spit to stick to the end of a violent, overdramatic "fuck you", strings he pulls through the ends of Wilbur's perfect tapestry with the express purpose of causing as much chaos as physically possible. It isn't even a personal vendetta — not really anyway. It's just Schlatt, craving what he always does. Power, money, and a little bit of fun. That's him. Those are the pieces that make up the whole.
He knows that Tubbo's a traitor, even before the kid tries to lie about it — and the key word is tries, because Tubbo couldn't lie to save his life. He knows every single time the kid sneaks away to betray falsehoods with a few truths sprinkled in for flavor. He knows every single time the kid makes up another impossible lie in an attempt to soothe absolutely nothing at all. He knows he's a traitor when Tubbo runs off to the woods and comes back with his expression more stable — eyes set and hands steady. He knows he's a traitor as he ruffles his hair on an old wooden path, as he smiles and tells him he's proud. He knows he's a traitor as Tubbo peeks inside his office at night, gaze dragging over the papers that litter Schlatt's desk like purgatory, knows he's a traitor when Tubbo brings Quackity and they both pry old bottles from his fingertips, guide him like he can't walk a straight line.
He knows Tubbo is a traitor as he stands just behind him, back straight and arms folded behind him like a regal king. He knows he's a traitor, and he does not pity Quackity just because Tubbo smiles like he isn't. The concrete powder that stains his concealed hands dusts the inside of his suit jacket, and he knows what will happen. He plans it all, step by step, dragging a reluctant Quackity along by the lapels as he plots a glorious ending to his fireball of a reign. He knows Quackity is bound to fall too, to go in the same blaze that will send away Tubbo, once the latter respawns. He doesn't care.
He knows that Tubbo has a trigger word, given to him by a maddened Wilbur. That he has a plan he thinks Schlatt doesn't know about — that he thinks Schlatt is oblivious to the mass amounts of TNT that litter the stage and audience seating. He also knows that the wire has long since been cut, severed before the plot could even begin. The deaths that came from explosions were quick, and respawning was quicker, but the buildings would be too much of a pain to reconstruct.
He knows, and he waits. He waits as Tubbo begins the speech of a traitor, all bright eyes and shaking, clammy hands.
He waits. His ears are pricked upward, waiting for the moment that will trigger the end of it all with near baited breath…
…
...
And it doesn't come.
It takes a second to process that it's over. In fact, he doesn't realize until applause breaks out over the crowd, starting with the vehement support of a man in a gilded crown and shielded eyes. Tubbo backs away from the microphone with an exhilarated exhale, looks around at the roaring crowd with a smile so wide that it's nearly blinding. He beams and he pulls the crowd in like a beacon, and he does not say the trigger phrase.
Schlatt's brain stutters even as his facade — ever reliable, ever present, an everlasting bit — does not. His brain stutters for the first time to comprehend, to understand, to realize, and Tubbo pauses to look at both him and Quackity in turn. The beaming smile dims a little from something like nervousness.
Schlatt falls back to the bit. To the facade. To the proud smiles and the steady hands. He pulls Tubbo to his side and hooks an arm around his shoulders, and Quackity gives him a look that he can't quite decipher as he pulls the mic upward with a smile he doesn't know if he feels. He doesn't see the way Quackity pulls his hands from his pockets, doesn't see the way his shoulders begin to relax.
"Let's give it up for Tubbo!" He calls to the cheering crowd, patting the kid — god he's a kid, wasn't Schlatt that once? — on the shoulder. "What a fucking amazing speech, am I right? I love this guy!"
He knows Tubbo is a traitor. Tubbo has to be. The smart thing to do would be to execute him — to box him in and blurt his lines and allow everything to go out in one final fucking blaze of glory. The final punctuation mark before he respawns and is finally sent back to wherever the hell he came from.
He smiles and he thumps Tubbo on the back, shares a look with Quackity that he isn't sure he really understands. And he hates that, because he always understands. That's what he does. He plans, he creates, he destroys. The concrete powder remains powder. The water bucket sits behind him, propped up and overflowing on the platform behind them. Tubbo looks at him and looks at Quackity and he looks happy, and nothing goes to plan.
Schlatt grabs Tubbo by the shoulders and tells him he's proud, and he does not look at the way Tubbo's eyes turn to lanterns or the way his smile splits his face. He doesn't see the pain behind it, like cut ties that waver in the wind like old bridges that burn in the centers.
It's almost a miracle when Wilbur suddenly appears in the crowd, a violent crash of energy into the ringing in Schlatt's ears. He screams something near incoherent, points and shouts while smiling like Schlatt has never seen him smile before. He pulls Tubbo back with him and Quackity steps in front, and he doesn't register any of it at all, even as his lips stretch out into a smile and he shouts right back down.
(He's shouting again, and Schlatt can't hear him. He plugs his ears and closes his eyes and refuses to listen, because no matter what Wilbur says he always wants to be above him. The water creaks at his windows but he doesn't care, he can live here forever and Wilbur can't do a thing about —)
Tubbo ducks his head away from Wilbur, nearly hides his face in the lapels of his suit. Schlatt doesn't stop him, doesn't protest, ignores it in favor of taunting a man with wild eyes and wilder gestures, a man who grows more frantic as the button he smashes does nothing at all. The girl — Nikki — who always refuses to remove her old uniform stares in horror, blinded by new realizations and old memories, and even she backs away when Schlatt screams an order to the guards, although it's impossible to tell if it's because of that or Wilbur's raging monologue.
They all do, they all watch as the circle closes around a banished ghost of the past. Technoblade sweeps between them, but even he looks antsy, brow furrowed as Wilbur continues to push past the sheild he tries to hold aloft. Schlatt wants to laugh. Doesn't Technoblade know that if Wilbur doesn't want to be protected, he won't be?
Through it all, Quackity does not flee. Tubbo buries his head and Schlatt does not touch the concrete powder that lay in wait, and absolutely nothing goes to plan.
It was supposed to be easy, he thinks as the guards grasp at empty air. Technoblade soars into the sky on the heels of a trident at the same time that Tommy does, one vanishing while the other appears.
It was supposed to be easy, he thinks as Tommy vanishes in a blur of enderpearl dust, a thrashing Wilbur pinned by the arms. As Tommy looks back, eyes wide enough to reflect the agony of new betrayal. He wonders if Tubbo is looking back, where Schlatt cannot see him. He wonders if Tommy knows how Tubbo trembles whenever Wilbur's maddened eyes lock on them, an echo of old times.
It was supposed to be easy, he thinks, as Tubbo begins to sob. As his hands rise on their own, ruffling the hair of a kid far too young to be in a war.
It's supposed to be easy, and like everything else, it never was.