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It all started when Bad left a door open. There are fourteen doors in their mansion but even Skeppy only really knows where twelve of them lead.
One of the unknown doors leads to a portal. It goes straight to the outermost part of the Nether — a quiet place for Bad to find solitude from the chaos of the Dream SMP. He loves Dream's world but sometimes it is too loud, too violent, and too tragic. Here — surrounded by red hanging vines and soft mycellium dirt and sweet, intoxicating mushrooms— here is a place that Bad can call his second home.
His first home is always with Skeppy, though. Deep in the Badlands, they've built a mansion that Skeppy's designed- a home of glass and marble because the two of them are sick of seeing diamonds and netherrack everywhere. With Antfrost and Awesamdude, Bad's days on the SMP are filled with plans for passive military takeover and the usual prank to pull on Skeppy when he isn't doing them first. Every morning is a new build battle, a new adventure in the sky, and another day filled with screams of laughter and exasperated smiles.
As he watches his best friend bite into his latest prank ( a muffin shaped like a diamond and coated in glittery blue glitter), he hears Skeppy shriek before throwing a temper tantrum in the sand pit. Bad falls from the stone blocks he's perched upon, collapsing in giggles while watching Skeppy rant about how unfair it is that he can't tell the difference at all.
"Bad," Skeppy whines. "Are you listening to me? Bad. Bad. Bad, pay attention. Stop laughing, geez."
"I'm here, Skeppy." Bad manages to get out before succumbing to the laughter and the funny feeling that consumes his entire being. "I'll- I'll try to stop soon- mmfgh!"
He can't even get his sentence out before Skeppy dogpiles onto him with a big smile and warm arms, a wonderful contrast of rigid diamond arms and soft turquoise hoodie material. Out in the sunlight, Bad can see the diamond particles that dust tan skin in splotches of teal. It's a color that's so bright and unique and screams to him of Skeppy every time.
Fondness sweeps over him when he goes to rub at a persistent smear of diamond dust on Skeppy's face and his best friend turns his cheek to let a gloved hand pass over. Stuck underneath a death hug with diamond resolve, Bad wouldn't trade anything for the weightless feeling he gets when he's with Skeppy, wrecking havoc on the landscape with their builds and mod experiments. It's their world out here. It's always gonna be Bad and Skeppy, intertwined together, forever.
+
To tell the truth, the Egg is more than the blocks that make it up. It's a collective. Bad offers a special deal to the citizens of this world. For a few diamonds, he'll peer into their minds, take the worst of their thoughts from them, and scrunch the wriggling crimson red whispers into a tight ball.
Standing over Tommy, Bad holds still. With eyes closed and hand steady on Tommy's forehead, he hears the shears jostle in his pocket and feels himself step down a staircase. A staircase that is winding downwards, further and further into Tommy's conscious and far more complex than a 16-year old's ought to be. But, it can't be fixed as much as he wants to help. Dream's done his damage. Wilbur's done his damage. Tommy will live — even with these red angry thoughts that scream of terrible, horrible memories. Memories that are reminders of blood first shed in duels, a bomb that explodes too close, and ashes that cover the ground of a broken country. Sighing, Bad cuts and picks out crimson red wisps from the orange-red hues of Tommy's soul. It's another night and another walk up and down these stairs. Hopefully, Tommy sleeps better for a week. As Bad emerges, he tucks the red bundle of pesky loose thoughts into his black cloak pocket. He'll add it to the Egg tomorrow. Dream is waiting for his payment.
In exchange for the “free will” of the Badlands, Dream always demands something in return. He wants to know secrets— the deepest, darkest desires and fears of the inhabitants of this land. He knows Bad will do anything for Skeppy. Even if it means staying up until sunrise to transcribe heart-wrenching thoughts, trading the happiness of these children for that of his partner’s.
As he settles down by the river flowing through the craters if L’manburg, Bad reaches into his worn satchel for the loose papers that he documents everything on. He’s never asked what Dream does with the papers but it’s not his place to ask. He’s also never dared to perform his extractions on Skeppy. Shuddering, Bad brushes the thought away. Loud, curious, and full of that pure love for life— Skeppy deserves better than to be poked and prodded and laid bare before Dream’s cold, white-porcelain hands.
+
When morning comes, he makes the trek down the path to their mansion. The door's open when he gets to the front hall so Skeppy's probably somewhere inside.
“Skeppy?” Bad calls out, rolling his diamond payment in the palm of his hand. It’s strange, he notes as he stores the blood money away in a kitchen chest. He can usually hear Skeppy playing chase with Rat from a mile away, laughter ringing through the marble floors and through the granite hallways. But today, their house is eerily quiet and Bad feels the heaviness and solitude of their mansion weigh down on him without Skeppy’s bright-blue dash to his side.
“Skeppy,” He calls out. “This isn’t funny anymore, you muffinhead. Where are you?”
He checks his communicator twice. No whispers from him. Could he be asleep? Skeppy always sleeps at the most inconvenient times. It’s infuriating and endearing at the same time. Bad never falls asleep so he entertains the odd hours that his partner-in-crime deems fitting for mischief.
As Bad walks into the hallway, he passes doors painted in rainbow colors. Portals to different worlds and realms, gateways into mazes that he and Skeppy design and abandon on whim, and beautiful arched stone doorways that lead to staircases that only go up, up, up to the sky islands. Towards the end of the hall, he sees that his signature red curtains have been suspiciously shifted to the side. Behind them lie the buttons to activate the redstone security measures for his personal doors but now, inching closer, he can see the faint outline of a diamond-dusted handprint on the doorway. One closed door leads to the Nether and the other - uncovered and in plain sight- to the Egg.
+
One thing that Bad likes is that he’s never anything but Bad when he’s with Skeppy. Never the mocking glee that comes with the SMP members’ calls of “Badboyhalo” nor the villagers’ sharp whispers of a "red demon".
Not even the Egg’s whispers of “Conduit, Conduit, Conduit” make him feel a semblance of purpose and belonging.
He’s just Bad. Most importantly, he likes being just Bad. The Bad that makes Skeppy happy, the Bad that will stick by his side through thick and thin, the Bad that will dig them out of any hole Skeppy’s led them down.
But now, the hole is way too deep. It’s just the way the muffin crumbles, Bad supposes.
As he stares at the new embryo in the Egg, his eyes trace the red outline of Skeppy, asleep and almost peaceful in his tranquility. His teal hoodie is now red as ruby and his skin carries a faint tint of bloody crimson. There’s no trace of the happy blue Bad knows him by, and its wrong wrong wrong.
The light radiating out from the Egg fills the basement with a warm, haunting glow. The Egg is never harsh because it’s too smart for that. Somewhere, a long time ago, Bad had heard a story about a princess drawn to a spindle needle, hypnotic and green, lulled to death by a malicious lullaby. It’s probably true. Most stories are in these worlds.
Here, Skeppy’s the princess but Bad was never one to see himself as the knight in shining armor.
The hood of his cloak starts to suffocate him and he can feel the new voices in his pockets. Deep down, muffled by his shears, he can almost feel their creeping threads moving up the skeins of the wool cloth, transforming the surface of his body like ivy vines on a wall. They grow and grow and grow. There’s no end to their curiosity.
Rationally, he knows that they would never hurt the Conduit, but putting them in means adding to Skeppy’s pain. The threads will meld into the membrane and slowly constrict, absorbing every last source of energy that they can get.
Rationally, the Skeppy that Bad knows is no longer here. Nothing survives the Egg’s hunger.
But does rationality matter? If Bad were more angry, more hot-headed, more human- he might dare to break the Egg and reach in, grasping at strings and hope and the last bits of Skeppy. If he were more selfish to salvage what he could of his better part, maybe he would.
Bad cannot sob but he wishes he could. His eyes are dry because no tear ducts can exist beneath these pits of hardened redstone dust, formed over his time in the Nether. It’s unfair that demonspawn keep their sorrow in the pit of their stomach, deep down in their being. As he sinks to his knees, he’s aware of the vines that brush the bottom of his boots with their soft leaves and orange, sickly blossoms. Their acrid scent fills his lungs and leaves the bitter taste of metal and failure in his mouth.
Now on the floor, he spots Skeppy’s communicator and he makes a mad dash for it, crawling across the cold stone floor to unearth the signature blue case from its web of weeping vines. Bad struggles to make a sound of relief when he does the standard hard knock against his palm to turn it on. Skeppy hasn’t been down here long. Maybe - just maybe- there’s hope.
Then he sees the message log.
Dream whispers to you: if you really want to help bad, you should check the basement. it should be there.
You whisper to Dream: how do i know if ur telling the truth????
Dream whispers to you: i already know everything, why would i lie? :)
Time, as he recognizes it, comes to a standstill. He feels his voice tremble as the Egg asks its Conduit, "What’s wrong, what’s wrong, what’s wrong?”
He hears the whispers grow louder and bolder and alive before light flashes and he can see only red red red-
+
When he emerges from the underground, he’s stopped by Quackity, dressed in full netherite armor with a pickaxe extended towards Bad’s neck. At least, that’s what it feels like. On this cliff, the day has just started and the clouds drift lazily across the sky but Bad doesn’t feel the joy of springtime nor the luxury of a whole day to play around. Only when Quackity prods him for answers does he feel a little alive again, like somehow Skeppy’s little quips and clingy hands have broken free of his poisoned enclosure.
”Bad. What if, we found a way to control the Egg,” Quackity starts, low and soft in the same way he starts every damning business proposal that Bad has ever stood on the sidelines to watch. “And therefore- therefore, it doesn’t control you anymore.” It never works out for the other side, he knows this from experience. “And once you gain control of the Egg, the people it controls? You control them too.”
Ah. There it is. Somewhere in his mind, a part of Bad remembers a time before Quackity cared about the power. Such a valuable, valuable thing to mortals. Unfortunately, demons know better than anyone about how power changes hands quickly and the ones who have the trump card rarely show their full deck in advance. The real power waits in the shadows, manipulating the outcomes and relying on their god-given luck for the next favorable event.
“What if you found the source of power for this Egg,” Quackity presses on. “And we could - I’ll help you- and maybe we could use this power for the ultimate well-being and the betterment of this server.”
The whites of Bad’s eyes scrunch together. It’s almost laughable that the younger is banking on the fact that he might still feel tendrils of sympathy for the inhabitants of this world. He’s always had a heart too big for demonspawn, a bleeding one that could never stop giving and giving. He has no more to give, though.
“The Egg wants power not me,” Bad scoffs. Prompted by this, the voices start to murmur in excitement. "Good Conduit... the best, the best, the best!", they whisper in their warped, rumbling manner.
“That’s bullshit, Bad. That’s fucking bullshit.” Quackity says as he rummages through his inventory, mind already wandering somewhere else.
“Oh my goodness, listen,” Bad groans. “Skeppy got infected by the Egg and he needs my help. So I got infected also and the Egg promised it could bring him back, get him back to... I don't know. Normal.
“Nothing else worked, Quackity. Nothing. Do you understand now? Do you get it? I had to make a choice.” Faintly, he registers how harsh and cutting his voice has become. But he can’t stop now. Quackity is the only one who’s stopped by, offered his time and attention to Bad, though he knows it’s only an investment for the other’s schemes. Quackity might never return so Bad pushes on.
“My friend was suffering and I guess, I just realized that joining the Egg was better than losing my friend.” The trident in his hand feels a little heavier. Everything feels heavier, from his cloak and his paper-bearing satchel, down to his black boots and red laces that Skeppy gave him, years ago.
“It’s been nice talking to you, Quackity.” Bad turns to leave. He’s been here too long, wasting time that could be spent grinding bonemeal for the Egg’s vines or drawing more runes by Skeppy’s side. “Maybe if you play your cards right...”
“Who knows?" The slit of Bad’s mouth curls with glee at the idea, a wrinkle in his otherwise smooth, obsidian-black skin. "You might even get to beat Schlatt at his own game.”