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The north treats Quackity well.
The air feels fresher here, cleaner. It’s quieter too, and far from the clutches of where his former ghosts lie. Las Nevadas means freedom, and when Quackity’s here, the bone-crushing weight of his future lessens, ever so slightly.
Out north, Bad’s eyes have never looked clearer.
They travel side by side in silence, but Quackity can't help but sneak glances at him as they walk, bitter wind biting at his face. He prides himself on reading people, but Bad has always been difficult to dissect.
Quackity wants to press him for answers so badly. He thinks it’s one of his fatal flaws, the way he’ll run his mouth until someone clocks him. But he knows it’s through sheer luck that he managed to convince Bad to come with him, and that, even out here, the voice of the Egg must still be whispering in Bad’s ears. Once they reach Las Nevadas, they’ll be further up north, Bad will be distracted by work, and Quackity can get through to him.
So instead of nagging, he settles on small talk. “We’re almost there,” he comments, stepping over a fallen log. “It’s past this forest, and then into the desert.” He wishes Ossium were here to carry him through the final stretch of the journey, but he hadn’t wanted to bring the horse anywhere close to the Egg.
“Las Nevadas, you called it?” Bad’s words are careful. The last time they talked, his voice had been honeyed, but after Quackity had seen through him--seen through the Egg’s bullshit--he’s been treating Quackity as a threat.
“Got a ring to it, right?” Quackity flashes him a smile. Bad doesn’t return it. That’s fine. He’ll work on it.
“It’s all right, I guess.” Bad’s eyes flicker to the trees, the skyline, the grass under their feet. He looks like something’s about to pop up from the shadows and drag him away--or maybe drag him back. “I never expected you to establish a nation of your own.”
“It’s more than a nation,” Quackity laughs. “It’s a business empire. And trust me, Bad, money speaks volumes over an egg.”
Bad’s fangs are beginning to show, so Quackity quickly backtracks. “Sorry, sorry, you know I hate that thing. Just--come with me and you’ll see, okay?”
“How about you stop talking,” Bad says coldly, “and I don’t bite your face off.”
In another world, Quackity would laugh and sling an arm around Bad. In another world, Bad would scold him with a language and wrestle him off. In another world, their bickering would be laced with laughter.
The world Quackity is in, however, is harsh and unforgiving. He stops talking and they continue the journey in silence.
When they reach Las Nevadas, Quackity has to tamp down his pride as Bad stalls in his steps to gawk up at it. Even unfinished, it’s his best work yet. Better than the White House he built with Wilbur, better than his cow farm he once tended to daily, better than El Rapids, which fell at the hands of its own citizens.
“Come on in,” Quackity ushers him inside, towards the large double doors that mark Las Nevadas’ entrance. When Bad side-eyes him, he replies, “It’s not a trap, Bad, come on.”
“That’s exactly what someone who made a trap would say.”
“I need something from you,” Quackity reminds him, and Bad sighs, and steps in. Debts, favors, deals—that’s a language they can both speak in.
Inside, the lights are low, music shut off. It feels like a ghost town, the shadow of something grander. At a poker table, Quackity pulls out a chair and gestures to Bad to sit across from him. Bad does so gingerly, still looking around with eagle-sharp eyes.
“You better have brought me out here for something good,” Bad warns him. Quackity leans back lazily, assessing the demon. He’s still not the Bad Quackity knows, but he sounds more lucid. Still devoted to the Egg, but less deluded about it.
Quackity wants to burn that thing to the ground.
“I know you have your duties,” Quackity makes air quotes with his hands, “but I have a proposition to make, and I think you’ll be interested in it.”
Bad frowns, but he nods anyway. “Go on.”
“Las Nevadas was built for gambling.” Quackity taps the table. His engagement ring glints in the dimming lights. “But it’s not just money we play for here, and I would like to play a game with you.”
Bad tilts his head. “What do you mean by that?”
"I put my life on the line." Poker chips clink against each other as Quackity shuffles them with trained hands. "You can sacrifice me to the Egg if you win. If you lose, you have to come work with me for one month."
Bad eyes him coldly. Everything--from the way he holds himself to the way he talks--is so distinctly off, in a way that makes Quackity's stomach turn. . "One month? Doesn't sound like a very wise deal on your end."
Quackity leans forward and grins at him, all teeth. "Want to bet on that?"
“The reason why I lost is because I’m brainwashed,” Bad says sullenly as he fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeves, staring down bitterly at the poker chips. “The Egg didn’t grant me gambling skills.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why you should stick with me instead of that stupid red shit,” Quackity replies, ignoring the affronted look sent his way. “Listen Bad, you’re gonna get a taste of what true power is real quick.”
“True power,” Bad replies dryly. “What, a closed casino?” He gestures around the place. “There isn’t anyone here.”
“I know.” Quackity sweeps the poker chips to his end, absentmidedly stacking them. “It’s not finished yet. I plan to open it in exactly one month.”
“You’re making me do unpaid labor?” Bad cries. “This isn’t about the Egg at all!”
“Nonono.” Quackity laughs, waving his hands. “It’s all so you can understand the behind the scenes. To prove we can work well together.”
“I should’ve formed a union with Foolish while I had the chance,” Bad says mournfully. “Maybe I shouldn’t have let Ponk blow up his statue.”
Quackity doesn’t even want to ask what that means, so he doesn’t. Instead he places a tentative hand on Bad’s shoulder and ushers him to stand up. “Unpaid labor is a bonus,” he admits. “We’ve got some building to do.”
“Uh-huh,” Bad says, unimpressed, but, to Quackity’s delight, he humors him. “What do you need to get done?”
Quackity gestures for Bad to follow him outside. As they step out, sunlight washing over their skin, he carefully steals a glance at Bad, trying to deduce if the Egg has reached out to him. But Bad’s expression is uncharacteristically serene as he watches a few birds dart past.
“As you can see, we’re in the stages of construction,” Quackity explains. “That structure over there,” he points to a scaffolding-encased building, “is meant to be my own Eiffel Tower. Over there is the beginnings of a hotel. The casino is already finished, of course, but there’s still a lot to be done.”
Quackity begins to walk the hastily paved path around Las Nevadas, Bad following close behind, until he arrives at makeshift stables, made mostly of fence posts and hay bales. This is Ossium’s temporary home, although the skeleton horse seems content to just have a roof over his head.
“We need more materials,” he explains, stepping forward to stroke Ossium on nose. “I figured we start early. We’ve already got a good supply of concrete and stone, but we’re low on wood.” He nods out towards the woods. “I was thinking we could take Ossium out and collect some.”
“Ossium?” Bad asks, watching the horse curiously. Ossium notices his stare and balks his head, pawing at the ground anxiously. Animals, Quackity has found, are sensitive to the presence of the Crimson. “I remember him being named something…distinctly less appropriate.”
Quackity smiles bittersweetly. Bad had been one of the few people he had shown Ossium too, he remembers. He had given Bad access to a vulnerability of his, he realizes, and Bad had never used it against him. Still hasn’t, but Quackity doesn’t want to bet on that anymore.
“I thought Ossium would sound cooler,” he hedges. “More intimidating.”
“More intimidating, maybe,” Bad says, “but less on brand for a Quackity.”
“I guess,” Quackity mumbles, because, for some dumb reason, the thought of Bad still remembering him, still remembering that kid he used to be, makes a lump form in his throat. He coughs. “He still responds to Boner, actually, better than Ossium.” He cracks a smile when Ossium lifts his head. “See?”
Even with Quackity there, Ossium is getting more skittish by the second in Bad’s presence, so he shushes the horse and leads him out. Bad watches as he saddles Ossium and rigs him up to a wagon. “Do you have an axe on you?” Quackity asks.
“No.” Bad scowls. “You made me come out here unarmed.”
“I did do that, didn’t I?” Quackity taps his chin. “I have spare iron, we’ll craft along the way.”
The walk to the spruce forest is short, but Quackity still feels the weight of their shared silence. He needs to choose his words carefully, build Bad’s trust up, and that includes letting Bad choose when they speak and when they don’t.
He has to play on their former friendship, but their former friendship gives him nothing to work with--it was built off of teasing and jokes and failed netherite mining trips. Not to mention how Bad’s unstable mind is near impossible to predict--he isn’t easy to get through like Sam was. Quackity has always prided himself on his way with words, but he’s never prepared for red egg brainrot.
When they reach the forest, Quackity crafts them each an axe. “We’ve got a lot of work to do,” he mutters, handing one off to Bad. Physical labor will be the second death of him.
“I haven’t built in a while,” Bad admits, cutting down a tree with surprising ease. Quackity takes a moment to back away from Bad a little as he does so. He’s not in armor, and he doesn’t doubt Bad could easily kill him with an iron axe. “I might be a little rusty.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Quackity hefts his own axe, and begins to hack at the base of a tree, taking considerably more effort than Bad. As he swings for a third time, Bad has already cut down two more trees. “Sam built most of this, anyways.” The tree finally falls, and Quackity stands back, relieved.
“Sam did?” Bad doesn’t sound surprised. “How much did you pay him to do so?”
Quackity shrugs. “I didn’t pay him upfront, I just promised him a stack of diamond blocks. I’ll make the money back once the casino opens.”
Bad lowers his axe to stare at him incredulously. “And he agreed just like that? Sam? That’s not like him.”
“I’m a very smooth talker,” Quackity replies easily. “And if Sam trusts me, you should too.”
“Sam also chose you over the Egg.” Bad sounds a little petulant. “I’m not sure how much I trust his judgement anymore.”
That’s because Sam’s not fucking possessed, Quackity thinks to himself. For the third time today, he reminds himself that Bad can’t be swayed by reason. He has to take this slowly, to crack into the possession piece by piece.
“Sam is still a member of the Badlands,” Quackity says idly as he chops down another tree. He’s finding his rhythm, now. “He’s always wanted what’s best for you."
A quick glance towards Bad tells Quackity that the demon isn’t convinced. “The Eggpire is more important than the Badlands, now. If Sam truly cared, he’d join us.”
Quackity opens his mouth to argue, but Bad cleaves a tree in one strike of his axe. Conversation over. Noted.
They work until the sky threatens to turn a rosy red, and Quackity’s arms start to shake from exertion. The blade of his axe is chipped at the edges, and there’s a crack in the flimsy wooden handle. He discards it on the ground, and slumps against a tree, catching his breath.
“I cut down around ten trees.” Quackity wipes the sweat away from his forehead. “I think that’s good enough, right?”
He looks over at Bad, who’s already loading up double the amount of wood onto the cart, cut perfectly into logs. “Oh--”
“How are you so bad at this?” Bad says, astonished.
“Manual labor is not my forte,” Quackity spits back. He takes a moment to examine his hands. They’re calloused, covered in dust, and chipped at the nail. “I was supposed to have two beautiful husbands taking care of me.”
Bad scoffs. “Like Karl and Sapnap would let you slack off.” He pauses. “They’re not here, are they? The last I heard from Sapnap, he was moving to a flower forest--”
“We have to get back before sunset,” Quackity interrupts him, pushing himself up. He forgets he can’t joke about that anymore, that the loss of his fiances hurts more than he wants to admit. “I need to visit the prison tonight.”
“The prison?” Bad stills. “What are you doing there?”
“Some business talk with Sam,” Quackity lies quickly, remembering Dream and Bad’s past friendship. “I visit often.” Now that Bad’s here, future trips would have to be done covertly before dawn.
“Oh.” Bad, miraculously, doesn’t press him for details. He helps Quackity transport the rest of the felled trees to the wagon (as in, Bad does most of the heavy lifting while Quackity watches), then lets Quackity lead Ossium out of the forest.
Snowflakes begin to fall as they walk, big and fluffy and white. Quackity blinks a few out of his eye, and resists the urge to rub his arms together. He doesn’t like the cold; it reminds him too much of the arctic. Even the desert can get below freezing, much to Quackity’s chagrin. He had thought they were all supposed to be hot and dry.
Bad reaches up to catch a snowflake in his hand. It’s a strikingly childish gesture for such an ancient demon. “So Quackity--” Bad starts.
“No, Bad,” Quackity sighs. “Having hot, steamy sex with me was not part of the deal.”
Bad splutters, and it almost feels like old times. “Lang--no! Nononono, that’s not what I was about to say.” He takes a breath. “I was going to ask if the rest of the month would be like this.”
“You mean if we’re going to spend it working on Las Nevadas?” When Bad nods, Quackity answers, “Yeah, that was the plan. I want us to be equal here, Bad. I don’t want to treat you like I do Sam--like a business partner working for money. We’re friends.” He makes sure to emphasize the word. “I want you here because I care about you. I want you to work with me, not for me.”
“You want to help me,” Bad says slowly. “You think I...want help.”
“You’re a puppet of an egg, Bad,” Quackity sighs. “Your possessed little mind quite literally doesn’t know what it wants.” He pats Bad on the shoulder. “And that’s exactly why you should stick with me. I can help you figure out who you are again.”
“I don’t need to be cured.” Snowflakes stand out a stark white against Bad’s black hood and skin. “I know who I am, and why I’m...I’m like this.”
“Wait for the month to be over,” Quackity promises. “I will change your mind.”
Bad is a good worker, when he’s not egg-obsessed.
He’s quiet and dutiful, and he listens to Quackity’s instructions, then adds advice of his own. His builds aren’t as grand or complex as Sam’s tends to be, but when given a blueprint, he can follow it perfectly.
Right now, they’re working on the interior of another building, Bad silently setting up tables and chairs while Quackity finishes the stage. What’s a casino without a club, after all? Quackity can’t envision himself partying--not anymore, at least--but he might as well allow his citizens a good time.
“We might need some more quartz,” Bad calls to him. “I think this build will run our supplies dry.”
Quackity smiles at the word our. Bad may not see Las Nevadas as home yet, but he certainly is becoming attached. “I’ll head to the nether and do some mining. Sam can probably sell me some as well.”
“I can go too,” Bad offers and Quackity shakes his head.
“You’re staying in Las Nevadas,” Quackity reminds him. “You lost the bet.”
“Fine.” Bad looks down sullenly down at the quartz stair he’s crafting. “Just wanted some change of scenery.”
“I’ll take you out some other time,” Quackity placates him. “Just...not the nether.” Bad is much more skillful than he is in navigating cliff sides and lava pits, and he doesn’t want to risk losing him to the call of the Egg again. Not when they’ve been making so much progress. “I’m not trying to keep you captive here.”
“But you are,” Bad counters, and well. Fair point.
“For your own good,” Quackity repeats, for what feels like the hundredth time. “You’ll thank me later.”
Bad clucks his tongue, clearly unconvinced, but he doesn’t bother arguing. They both know it gets nowhere, and Quackity has the upper hand here.
“Help me finish this, and we can go hunting later,” Quackity suggests, making his voice go gentle. “Is that a good compromise?”
Bad sighs. “Sure.” He sets up another quartz chair, and stands up, brushing off his hands. “I think the charis and tables are finished. What’s next?”
“This looks great.” Quackity spins in a circle, surveying their work. “We just need to add in the poles, and we’re done.”
“Poles--” Bad jerks back as if he were burned. “Quackity! What’s this building for?”
Quackity just cackles, and marks the strip club as finished on his notes.
“What is he doing here?” Sam’s voice is low and urgent as he grips Quackity’s sleeve and drags him into the restaurant. “Did he take you down to the Egg? Did he bring any spores with him?” His green eyes, wide and worried, are just barely visible behind his gas mask.
“Relax.” Sam had swung by for a visit, and inadvertently caught sight of Bad working on the fountains. He immediately panicked, meaning Quackity now has to calm him down instead of discussing business and trade agreements.
(Bad, thankfully, is blissfully unaware of Sam’s presence. Quackity doesn’t need another headache to deal with.)
“I have it under control, he just gambled away a month to be here,” Quackity replies, leading Sam towards a table. “Want some water?”
Sam sits down, still looking overwhelmed. “Sure,” he says warily, and Quackity ducks into the back kitchen. The restaurant is pretty barren as of now, but Quackity manages to find a not-to-dusty bottle on the back shelf and fills it up in a nearby cauldron.
He sets it next to Sam, then slides into the booth across from him. Sam fiddles with the bottle, like he isn’t quite sure whether it’s safe to drink, before taking a sip. “That doesn’t explain anything,” Sam finally says. “What do you mean, he gambled?”
“We played a game, and he lost,” Quackity says, a bit impatient. “I won his help in Las Nevadas for a month.”
Sam balks, setting down the bottle. “Quackity, are you insane? He’s...it’s Bad.”
“The farther he is from the Egg, the looser it’s influence is on him,” Quackity explains. “He’s still dedicated to it, but he’s less violent. He sounds more himself. Once the month is over, he might even be convinced to stay with me.”
"I don't want you to keep him here," Sam says tightly. "He's possessed, his mind isn't the same."
"You think I don't know that?" Quackity scoffs. “I’m well aware of what I’m dealing with.”
“Chaining Bad to Las Nevadas will not stop the Egg’s possession,” Sam implores. “He doesn’t need someone else filling his head with false promises. That’s just...not fair.”
Quackity pauses and eyes Sam, notices the way his hands fidget together, the way his jaw sets despite the worry lining his face. "You’re not worried about me,” Quackity says slowly. “You’re worried about him. You don’t trust me around him.”
Sam dips his head down. “I’ve known Bad longer than you’ve been on the SMP,” he murmurs. “He’s done horrible things to me ever since that Egg showed up. He planted Crimson seeds in my base, he used our friendship to trick and imprison me, he drove me to eat my own flesh. But the Badlands stay together no matter what. I’m not letting you keep him here. He’s not going to become part of Las Nevadas.”
“You’re part of Las Nevadas,” Quackity points out. “What makes them any different?”
“All Ant wants to do is tend to his animal sanctuary when he’s not out for blood,” Sam replies calmly. “Bad is too soft to go through with any of the plans he lays down. When it comes to business, I take the fall for them, every time. That’s how it’s always worked.” Sam presses his palms down on the table. “It was his choice to gamble, so I won’t fight you on this. But when the month’s up, just remember...I’d like to find a different way to stop the Egg’s possession, that doesn’t involve trapping him up here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Quackity concedes. “Just...trust me on this one.”
“That’s what I’ve been doing haven’t I?” Sam looks weary, tired. Quackity heard he sleeps in the prison now.
“And you’ve been doing great,” Quackity promises, smiling at the way Sam seems to relax under the reassurance. “So, about this bank you’ve been building…”
“Right.” Sam sends one last nervous glance outside, where Bad can be seen dutifully building the city. There’s something wistful in his gaze, unusually soft despite his history with the Egg. Then, he turns back to Quackity, and he’s slipped effortlessly into the persona of a level-headed businessman.
“The bank,” he says, laying out hastily bound books of blueprints and contracts, “will be a great asset to both the Badlands and Las Nevadas…”
It’s midday, and the overhanging sun beats mercilessly down on Quackity as he walks alongside Bad through a birch forest.The two were out past Las Nevadas, trying to hunt down a nearby village. Quackity had already gotten them turned around three times, until Bad wrestled the map out of his hands and realized they had been looking at it upside down.
(In Quackity’s defense, he’s been pulling all-nighters with Dream at the prison. His mind isn’t exactly in it’s proper state.)
While they walk, he’s been putting up half-hearted advertisements of Las Nevadas on the trees with the spare signs he has leftover from building. They’re more for the hell of it than anything--Quackity doubts anyone from the SMP will venture out here, and villagers don’t stray too far from their homes. It’s partly to annoy Bad, to try and get a reaction out of him. The more he scolds Quackity, the more Quackity’s convinced the Egg is losing its grasp on him.
"Once Las Nevadas comes to fruition, you’ll see how we can eat the world whole," Quackity vows, tacking on a sign crookedly to a tree. He steps back to admire his handiwork. The sign is scribbled in that messy scrawl of his, and advertises Las Nevadas in loud letters to whoever stumbles across it.
He glances back and grins at Bad. "You're thinking about how smart and hot and sexy I am, right? Don't be shy."
"I'm thinking about how you're so annoying," Bad replies dryly, "that I prefer having a brainwashing egg nag me about consuming human flesh."
“Oh, you’re no fun.” Quackity sighs and picks up the pace, glancing down at the map just to make sure they were walking the right way. “The village is just over this river. Maybe we can do some advertising over there as well.”
Bad frowns. “I doubt villagers would want to venture out to a casino.”
Quackity shrugs. “It’ll be good practice for you anyways.” As the birch forest begins to thin out, they approach a winding river. “If you decide to stay in Las Nevadas, I’ll probably have you convince your fellow, ah, cultists to visit as well.” And to perhaps develop a gambling addiction, he doesn’t add.
“Not staying,” Bad says immediately, and Quackity pretends not to hear.
They reach the river, and Quackity luckily finds a fallen log for them to cross over. He doesn’t feel like bridging across today, and wants even less to get his clothes wet. He makes it across a little unsteadily (smooth movement, unlike words, has never come naturally for him), and when he reaches the other side, he realizes Bad hasn’t followed.
Bad’s head is cocked like a cat as he peers down at the fish, crouched over with one finger in the water to gently coax them over. One salmon swirls curiously near his finger and Bad smiles fondly.
It’s a gentleness Quackity has forgotten, one that makes him feel nostalgic despite himself.
Quackity clears his throat, snagging Bad’s attention. “I have a bucket on me,” he says, nodding to the salmon. “Do you want to keep one?”
“No.” Bad shakes his head and pushes himself up. “I try not to keep many attachments anymore.”
“Smart,” Quackity says, and watches as Bad crosses the river in a few quick strides. “You’ll find yourself happier that way.”
The cheaply paved dirt path feels like salvation under Quackity’s sore feet as they approach the heart of the village. It’s larger than Quackity had expected, complete with a blacksmith and a church. Perfect for trading.
“I’m going to go bully some villagers for emeralds,” Quackity tells Bad. “How about you go around and see if anyone wants to work for Las Nevadas? We need a chef for the restaurant.”
Bad stares at him incredulously. “Me? By myself?”
Quackity pushes him forward and Bad stumbles on ungainly legs towards a group of farmers clustered around a composter. “Yeah, go on! Advertise! You’re charismatic, you’ve got this.”
Bad shoots Quackity a betrayed look over his shoulder as the farmers notice him, before offering them a tentative wave and smile. Quackity watches him for a bit, just to make sure he doesn’t start killing them, before leaving the demon to his devices.
He hunts down a fletcher, haggling a bundle of sticks for a few emeralds. It seems like a terrible deal, but Quackity knows the villagers need resources more than they need precious gems. After he thanks the fletcher, a farmer is willing to sell him a good amount of emeralds for some spare potatoes, and the cartographer is more than eager to trade for a stack of paper.
Twelve more trades and an arguing match with a librarian later, Quackity’s inventory is laden with emeralds, and he’s honestly pretty proud of himself. He bids the villagers farewell, then goes to track down Bad before the sun sets, and zombies flock in.
A pitch-black demon doesn’t take him long to spot, in this world of wood and cobblestone houses. He finds Bad outside the church, chatting with a cleric, hands gesturing excitedly as he talks.
“--will give you anything you desire,” Bad is saying. “And it’s all for the low low cost of some of your mortal flesh.”
Quackity coughs loudly, effectively cutting off Bad. who jumps and looks at Quackity guiltily. “I’m so sorry about him,” Quackity apologizes, firmly steering Bad away. “He gets a little cult-y if left unsupervised.”
The villager simply grumbles to himself in that language Quackity can’t understand, and turns back to tending to his potions.
“Asking for flesh?” Quackity asks Bad, once they’re out of the village. “Really?”
“I’m sorry!” Bad protests. “I saw the opportunity and I took it!”
“I’m gonna dunk you in holy water when we get back,” Quackity mutters, and Bad nearly shoves him in the river.
(He’s laughing as he does it though, and Quackity can just think: progress.)
Quackity’s bed is far too big.
Built for three people, it only holds one now, and Quackity curls around a pillow as he tries to keep himself warm. The sheets feel thin and uncomfortable against his skin, and he’s hyper-aware of the sound of his own breathing, the rise and fall of his chest.
He can’t sleep. His mind is too loud.
He closes his eyes and tries to imagine Karl and Sapnap on either side of him, wrapped close around his body. Sapnap smiles softly as he reaches out to tangle their hands together. Karl, gentle as always, brushes a strand of hair away from his face. They’re home, they’re safe, and they’re together.
Quackity sits up, pushing the covers off him. He feels sick.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his left eye. The scar itches, even now. He needs to get out of this room.
Quackity steps out into the hallway, a little unsure where to go until his eyes catch on Bad’s room. His room is opposite of Quackity’s, and it had originally been designed for George, since Quackity assumed they’d all move in together. The door is hanging wide open, room clearly abandoned.
Quackity steps forward, heart dropping. Did Bad leave? Did something happen? Could the Egg reach him, even here? Did he fail again and fuck everything up and--
Oh.
Bad is curled up against the wall on the floor, knees tucked in and head lolling back. He’s fast asleep and Quackity cracks a smile as he takes a step forward. He still doesn’t quite know why Bad refused to fall asleep inside the room, but all that matters is that Bad is here.
“Bad.” Quackity leans down to shake his shoulders. When there’s no response he repeats, louder, “Bad. Wake up.”
Bad’s eyes fly open in a panic and he pushes himself up messily, startling Quackity back. “Where is he?” His breathing is ragged, hands desperately searching the ground around him for something that isn’t there. “I can’t--I can’t find him.” He turns his gaze to Quackity, and Quackity flinches at the intensity behind it. “Where is he?”
“Where is who?” Quackity crouches down, trying to hold onto Bad’s shoulders to keep him in place. Bad shakes him off roughly, clawing at his own arms, his face. Quackity makes another grab for Bad’s wrists. “Bad, snap out of it.”
One hand shoots out to wrap around Quackity’s throat, slamming him into the opposite wall. Sharp fingernails dig into his skin, forcing him in place and pressing down into his windpipe. Quackity gags, kicking out as he struggles against Bad.
“You took him.” Bad’s voice is frenzied, borderline hysterical. “You took him, you took him give him back.”
“Bad.” Quackity chokes for air, scrabbling at the fingers around his throat. “Bad, I’m--” The pressure around his throat tightens. His vision starts to go blurry. “Bad.”
And suddenly the pressure drops.
Quackity falls to his knees, gasping for breath. He hacks, painfully, and tries to suck in air as his chest heaves. Blinking harshly until the black spots fade from his vision, his breathing starts to even as he begins to calm down. That could've been his second life.
“Oh my goodness.” Quackity risks a glance up to see Bad staring at him in shock. “Quackity, I’m sorry, I was caught up in a dream, I thought--I didn’t know that was you.”
“Prime, Bad.” Quackity coughs. “Who did you think it was?”
“I’m sorry.” Bad covers his face. “I had a nightmare and I just--I didn’t realize I was awake.”
“And you choked me out in response.” Quackity rubs at his throat. He doesn’t think Bad’s claws drew blood, but he knows he’s going to have nasty bruises tomorrow. “What were you doing up?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Bad mumbles. “It’s been a while since I’ve slept in a bed. Still feels weird.”
Quackity stands up, a little shakily, and Bad immediately offers an arm for him to steady himself on. “Where do you usually sleep?”
“Near the Egg.” Bad looks away. “It’s safer there.”
Quackity grimaces. The Egg has messed with Bad’s head more than he suspected. “I need some air,” he decides. “Let's get out of here.” He nods at Bad, who looks shaken. "Hey, if you're still feeling guilty, help me climb up onto the roof?" His heart rate is just now slowing. "It's been a while since I've seen the stars."
The cool night wind rustles Quackity’s hair as they sit on the edge of the casino’s roof, night sky opening up above them. The stars seem brighter out in the desert. Maybe it's because he never noticed them in L’manberg, but he can’t help but find them so much more beautiful.
“I have a question,” Bad says suddenly. It’s rare for him to initiate conversation, so Quackity is quick to nod in encouragement.
“Why me?” Bad asks. “Why would you come to me of all people?”
“I dunno.” Quackity shrugs. “Maybe I’m just into dilfs.” The joke isn’t as funny without Sapnap there to playfully knock him on the side of his head.
Bad furrows his eyebrows. “You’re into what?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Quackity swings his feet over the edge. Then he continues, serious this time, “I don’t know why I came to you. You’ve always been a good person, I guess. When you arranged Schlatt’s funeral, you were respectful to him even when he didn’t deserve it. You even helped get me a full netherite set even when you barely knew me.”
“You lost it so quickly,” Bad murmurs. “I remember that.”
Quackity huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not good with that sort of stuff.” He clears his throat. “I don’t know, I just thought you’d be a good ally to have. The way that Egg has you in a chokehold--I’ve been in that position, Bad. I know how it feels to be so close to power, only to have it ripped away from you. Las Nevadas can help you.”
“It’s not that simple.” Bad looks like he wants to say more, then just sighs, slumping his shoulders. “It’s not that simple. I don’t think I can be who you want me to be.”
“I’m not a hero, I’m too far gone for that.” Quackity purses his lips. “But you can be, Bad. The Egg’s got you all fucked up, but I know that without it, you can help me save this server.”
“You’re making yourself out to be some kind of villain,” Bad says wryly. “It’s not like Las Nevadas is Manburg, or you’re the next Schlatt.”
“Schlatt was a piece of shit.” Quackity tilts his head up, stares at the stars. “But he taught me how to use people, and that’s what gets you places. Friendships are nice. Peace is good. But none of that is efficient.”
“He didn’t treat you well,” Bad says softly. “Hurting people is not who you are.”
Quackity flicks a glance over to him. “Pot calling the kettle black.”
Bad’s claws curl into the palms of his hands. “I’m trying to be kind and understanding,” he protests. “I really am. But they just won’t listen when I say the Egg can give them their desires--”
“So we’re both in the same position.” Quackity shrugs. “Fucked over by our place in this hellbent society. You at the beck and call of an egg, me at the very bottom of the pecking order. But if we join forces--”
“No, Quackity.” It’s more resigned now, more wistful. “Maybe--maybe if you asked me before, I would’ve said yes. But not now. Not when I have my duties. I have a goal, and that goal is all that matters to me.”
“Yeah, I know,” Quackity mutters. “You want the fucking Egg to take over the SMP.”
Bad’s eyes gleam. “Not the Egg’s goal,” he corrects. “Mine.”
Quackity tilts his head. “Your goal,” he says slowly, “is to follow the Egg, is it not?”
Bad’s lip curls. “Whether the Egg likes it or not, I’m using it for my own gain. Sometimes my mind gets muddled. Sometimes I lose sight of who I am. But I will never forget what it first offered me.”
“And I can offer you something better,” Quackity says immediately. “I can offer you the world, Bad.”
When Bad looks at him, Quackity doesn’t know what he expects to see, but it’s certainly not grief--the soul-crushing kind, the kind that makes you scream until your voice goes raw, the kind that makes you lost to the earth. It hits him like a punch to the stomach.
“The world?” Bad repeats dully. “If only he were that easy to have.”
Quackity has been preparing for this moment for months, and he still doesn’t think he’s ready.
Sam had rigged all the Las Nevadas redstone to turn on at the mere flick of a switch, located outside the casino. Quackity’s hand rests on it now, alit with nerves and anticipation. The culmination of his hard work is about to come into fruition, and it feels to good to be true.
Quackity curls his fingers around the lever, then looks towards Bad, a cheshire-esque grin spreading on his face. “Ready?”
Bad nods, standing a few feet away from him, and looks up at the casino. “Ready.”
Quackity takes a breath, pulls the lever, and--
Las Nevadas comes to life.
Music blasts from the speakers as lights switch on and machines whir into motion. LAS NEVADAS flashes proudly on the sign at the city’s entrance, loudly welcoming anyone who stumbles its way. Quackity slowly turns in a circle, soaking it all up. The potential the city holds feels tangible enough to touch, thrumming through his bones, lighting up his veins. This is powerful. He is power.
“Bad,” he breathes. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is,” Bad says softly.
Quackity turns towards him. “You see it now,” he urges. “You’ve worked on this land. You know what I can do. What this city can bring. While your bloodvines may have latched onto this SMP, Las Nevadas can rule it from the inside out.”
Bad is quiet, casino lights reflecting off his eyes. There’s no longing in his gaze, no envy or awe. He just looks...empty.
“Join me.” Quackity steps forward. “Leave the Eggpire. Las Nevadas already has a place for you.”
Bad smiles, a little sadly. “You’re strong now,” he agrees. “You have money, you have land. But if I leave the Crimson, I will still have nothing, no matter where I go.”
“You’ll have this,” Quackity insists. “No one will be able to touch you. We’ll be unstoppable together.”
“Power is wonderful.” There’s a faraway look in Bad’s eyes. “I won’t say I don’t desire it. But I didn’t sacrifice myself for power; I’ve never struggled to fight for it before like you have.” He sighs. “The Egg grants desires, and I only desire what I have lost, not what I’m yet to gain.”
A cold weight settles in Quackity’s stomach, the sinking realization that he has been reading Bad all wrong. No--he’s been tricking himself that they were similar, that they had been cut from the same stone. The music suddenly feels too loud in his ears, the lights too bright.
“He’s never coming back to you, Bad,” Quackity says lowly. “He’s as good as dead.”
“He doesn’t love me as much as he used to,” Bad admits, tilting his head. “But I can be close to him, and that’s what matters. There’s one thing you don’t understand about me, Quackity. You once said I was the one person here you could trust to be good.” And his voice goes quiet now, almost gentle. “But, Quackity, if it means being with Skeppy once more, I would let this server burn to the ground a thousand times over.”
“One person cannot cost the entire SMP.” Quackity’s voice rises before he can help it. “Are you hearing yourself right now? I know how to count my fucking losses Bad, and Skeppy is lost. I need power so this shit stops happening. People like you, like Dream, like Techno, keep fucking everyone else over for their own benefit. Let him go, Bad. He’s not worth it.”
“He is,” Bad growls. “There’s no reason for this world to live if he can’t be in it. You’re right, there aren’t any good people left on the server. So tell me, why should they be the ones alive over him? Why should I care if bloodvines cover the server?”
Bad takes a breath, and seems to calm himself down. “You said it yourself,” Bad murmurs. “You’re not a hero, but I’m not a damsel in distress.”
Quackity’s going to scream, he’s going to rip his hair out, he’s going to shake Bad by the shoulders until he understands. “You’re sick, Bad, you need help. You need to be saved. And, yeah, I’m not a fucking hero but you’re one of the only people I have left now.”
Bad looks apologetic. Quackity hates it. “I don’t like it out here,” Bad whispers. “It makes me think too much. It makes me remember how much of myself I gave up. And it doesn’t have--it doesn’t have the other half of my soul. This--you--will never be enough.”
Quackity doesn’t fight him. He can’t. He only has his words, and his words have failed. He's lost again, let another slip out of his grasp. He’s back in El Rapids, and Dream is tearing up the very land he loved. He’s in New L’manberg and it’s being bombed under his feet. He’s in the prison, and Dream’s blood is on his firsts, and Tommy is dead, and none of his punches make him feel better.
He’s in Las Nevadas and he feels--helpless.
The Crimson welcomes Bad back with open arms.
Vines snag on his hood as he descends into the statue room. The moment he stands in front of the Egg, washed in its warm red light, the noise in his mind quiets. He closes his eyes, and lets himself become a pawn.
Instead of whispered instruction, the vines around the Egg part. Bad inhales sharply as a figure steps into view.
His eyes are cold and red. The diamonds embedded in his skin have turned to rubies and bloodvines curl around his arms possessively. He’s beautiful.
Bad can only stare, drinking in the sight of Skeppy, corpselike yet more alive than Bad could ever hope. It’s been too long since they’ve seen each other, even longer since they’ve talked. His fingers twitch, desperate to hold onto him, but he doesn’t want to risk it.
Skeppy tilts his head. “You can come closer. I don’t bite.” He smiles, almost cruelly. “You can give me a hug, if you desire.” His words are carefully measured. It’s a rare invitation.
Bad takes a step forward, then another, then another, and suddenly he’s wrapping Skeppy in his arms and sinking to the floor with him. He’s stiff and unresponsive under his grasp, but Bad doesn’t care, this is enough.
His presence isn’t a gift from the Crimson. It’s a reminder. A warning.
Bad presses his face into the crook of Skeppy’s neck. His skin is cold; it’s like hugging a dead body. “I won’t leave again.”
Skeppy’s hands come to rest at Bad’s shoulders, like he wants to push him away, but he doesn’t. “Good. The Egg wouldn’t want to be disappointed.”
Skeppy is good and pure and wonderful, and the Crimson gave him back Skeppy. That means he must view the Crimson as good and pure and wonderful, even if he has to do so with gritted teeth. These are the simplicities of Bad’s world, this is all he needs to know.
He shudders and holds Skeppy tighter. If this is the closest he can call happiness, he’ll take it.
Quackity downs half a drink--the way Schlatt’s done so many times--and grimaces at the taste.
Emotions, he thinks bitterly, and washes it away with another swig, have no place in Las Nevadas.
Bad left, with music swelling in the background behind him. Bad left, and the lining on his hood stayed drained of its color. Bad left, and Quackity has never felt more alone.
Las Nevadas. A city built from cinders. Home to no one but himself and the skeletons in his closet. He should've known that tying Las Nevadas to his past would lead to nothing but failure. He should've severed those connections the moment he laid his city's founding bricks on the ground.
He swallows. The liquor on his tongue tastes more like the thick, metallic tang of blood. He had eaten Schlatt’s heart when he died, had bitten into it like an apple in front of the funeral attendees. The taste is familiar--grounding, almost--in a morbid sort of way.
He’s not the same lost, scared kid as he was back then. He’s not going to crawl back to Bad, to beg those with more power to protect him. He has a business to run now, and a business that must continue on as normal. There's an appointment waiting for him at the prison. Whatever frustration he feels can be taken out on Dream, then locked away to be never addressed again.
He stands up, sweeping the bottles off to the side. Emotions have no place in Las Nevadas. The mantra protects his heart like steel bars, prevents it from cracking under its own weight.
The north treats Quackity well.