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Quadrant -4513.55, 130.122
Stardate 117157.9
Captain’s log, entry 245;
Oxy’s running low. Engine’s ship-shape. Shields are fifty/fifty, but that’s hardly news. Hull’s a bit bumped up from that scrape with the Elysium ship and that fuckoff massive robot. Apparently, George was fine with sticking those coordinates in, but not willing to dish for a paint job. Prick.
Friend’s still pissing everywhere since Phil messed around with their programming. They also don’t seem to be able to tell when they’re bumping into a wall? We’ll have to find an engineer somewhere, since we can’t bring them to Elysium repairs for… obvious reasons. A ‘violation of the end-user licence agreement’? Fuck off. Maybe the pricks should’ve considered —
What? It’s literally just the two of us, Techno — that’s ridiculous. You don’t even like using the — oh, yeah, I was just getting to that. Hm? Sure, go ahead. I’ll catch up. Get me a quantum burger, will you?
Um, where was… ah, right. We’ll be brushing by the Zeta system soon enough, and we still have that delivery for Neo-London on board… but considering our current, uh, time limit, Techno and I have decided it’s safer not to divert course.
It’s full steam ahead. Metaphorically, of course. We need to speed up. At this rate, we’ll both blow up before we even reach Las Nevadas.
This is Wilbur Soot, end log.
End log.
…
Quadrant -4720.981, 199.2
Stardate 117159.6
Actual Captain’s log, entry 246;
Reminder for future Techno: ask Phil to install some sort of identification verification check for the logs. Wilbur likes to say it’s his ship just because he stuck that… just, truly ugly thing on top and set up shop there, but it was mine first. I’ve gotta start askin’ him for rent.
Uh… what was I… right, yeah. We were slowed down by an Elysium blockade around Terminal Juno. Something about a security breach at the nearby labour colony, or something, so we had to loop around the other way before they fined us for ‘unauthorised modification’. Just because fixing their crap isn’t in ‘accordance’ with their ‘policies’. Lame. And cringe.
We also stopped at a wayside station to recharge our oxygen tanks, so levels are back up. They already had the posters up, but we asked around anyways. No new info on that front.
I tried to find some of those vitro-farmed bionuts to bring to Phil when all of this is sorted, but they said they didn’t sell them — he says he used to buy some every morning when he was doing the terraforming thing, but I’ll be real, I don’t think they exist, because I’ve been looking everywhere and askin’ folk around about it and not a single person has ever heard of ‘LigmaNuts’.
…
Wilbur’s laughing at me.
End log.
…
Quadrant -6109.29, 213.333
Stardate 117163.4
Captain’s log, entry 247;
Glad to say we’re making good time! Phil called in just in time to warn us about the forecast, so we avoided getting caught up in a magnetic storm just due east off of Churion XI. It steered us off course a little, but we ended up coming across a planet that wasn’t registered on the starmap. Then again, this thing must have missed a dozen software updates since Phil dismantled it.
In any case, a place as invisible as that seemed as good a bet as any for finding the child — especially since it appears to be utterly untouched by Elysium. Completely out of the way. It was habited by a single dominating species, but it had a wide selection of fauna and flora in a co-habitable relationship with the rest of the planet. Like a massive ecosystem. Phil would’ve lost his shit. The locals were very kind and directed us to some sort of communal building, and we met with someone who appeared to know some universal sign language. They didn’t recognise the poster, but they let us take some plant samples to take back to Phil the next time we stop by Azaleop.
We have just over three days left. I like to think we’ll find our way out of this one before the worst happens.
This is Wilbur Soot, end log.
…
End log.
Quadrant -6789.101, 748.12
Stardate 117164.6
Actual Captain’s log, entry 248;
We’re approaching Las Nevadas now.
Truly, the galaxy’s ugliest business. It’s incredible people don’t get headaches just looking at it. They don’t even have any parking space, it’s —
…
Wilbur says they do have parking space. He’s downloading an app to pay for our docking ticket. Future Techno: we parked in docking bay G. The one under the really ugly neon sign with the duck. I don’t like how it’s looking at me.
We’re going now — last thing: Phil checked in a few hours ago, gave us an update. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Will thinks he’s lonely.
I’ll see if I can’t get him a souvenir or something.
End log.
Techno supposes he should’ve known things wouldn’t go smoothly as soon as it became apparent that Las Nevadas didn’t have any sort of adequate parking space. Which is sort of embarrassing for a place that takes pride in being the singular largest and most successful Elysium-independent business in this sector of the galaxy.
The casino exists as a floating city of sorts, interlinked discoid platforms holding up masses of overlapping and intersecting buildings, all colourful glossy plastic, glass, and steel framing, every inch of it highlighted in neon signs and advertisements. Techno reckons he’d like to meet whoever designed this monstrosity, because they appear to have done so with the intent to make Las Nevadas as difficult to navigate as possible.
When Wilbur finally figures out how to buy their docking ticket and does so, they head inside through a pair of massive glass doors — an egregious standard ship’s size in length — and into the lobby, where the lights don’t get any dimmer and the colours no duller. It’s all nauseating carpet pattern, flashing lights, blaring music, and a set of high-roofed rooms and hallways unravelling out before them. Techno can tell the instant they set eyes on it that the inside is, if anything, going to be even more headache-inducing than the outside.
“Wilbah!”
“YOOO! Quackityyy!”
Techno narrowly avoids getting smacked in the face as Wilbur throws his arms up, and sure enough, from who knows where, Alex Quackity appears. All decked out in a chequered suit and a Cheshire grin, which is a sure upgrade from when Techno last saw the man.
He’s also accompanied by two large robots on either side. As he enters their orbit, the space around them clears.
“I didn’t know you were coming!” he crows. “How can I help you fellas today?
“To get straight to the point, we’re looking for someone,” Wilbur answers, and on cue Techno pulls out the poster. The shimmering profile of a young man’s employee ID photo flashes in Quackity’s direction. “We heard someone by the name of Tommy may have come through here?”
The other man hums to himself, squinting at the picture. “Tommy who?”
“Well,” Wilbur pauses, “I… I'm not exactly sure. It’s just… Tommy, innit?”
“Well, fellas,” Quackity clicks his tongue, straightening up. “I’m very sorry that I can’t be of help, but I’m at no liberty to share any information on my clientele.”
“So he is one of your clientele,” Techno affirms, and stuffs the poster back into his coat. Quackity scowls. “Look, man, it would really speed things along if you’d just —”
“No, no, no no no,” the man cuts him off. “No bueno. Cannot do. Why are you looking for this kid, anyway? He looks like he’s barely gotten through puberty.”
“That’s private business,” Wilbur replies, and Techno decides he’s bored of this.
“I’ll be real with you, if you’re not gonna tell us where he is, then I’m just gonna go look for myself,” and he pushes past, making for the main floor, only to be blocked off by the pair of securitrons.
“Hey, hey,” Quackity placates, hands up like he’s trying to tame a wild horse. Techno rolls his eyes. “I can’t let you go stomping around, bothering the lovely people who’ve come to Las Nevadas to relax —“
And gamble all their cash away, Techno decides not to say.
“— but, say, if you were to get a room pass… well, as one of my esteemed clientele, I’d be more than happy to let you peruse the premises.”
Wilbur and Techno share a look.
“Rooms come with free refreshments,” Quackity coaxes.
Techno makes a half-hearted shrug in Wilbur’s direction. His friend turns to casino boy.
“What’s your cheapest option?”
“A bronze pass will be two hundred Quackbucks — now, I’m more than happy to level you up to silver passes on the house, but of course, you’ll still only have entry to floors one to six.” Quackity motions with his hands. “Now, if you’re interested in floors seven to twelve, that’ll be a gold pass. Basement’s premium; off-limits. Hotel’s over on the platform directly north of here, and there’s a vertitube right ahead that should take you straight to the lobby.”
“And… what are Quackbucks?” Wilbur asks, vaguely amused.
“The new money! Haven’t you heard? It’s the only exchangeable currency here in Las Nevadas.” Quackity flashes a wad of what looks like little paper slips. “You wait and see, give it a year and it’ll be more valuable than Elysium credit.”
“Very flammable,” Techno notes.
“Very vintage,” Wilbur observes, already pulling out his card. “So what’s the exchange rate like on Quackbucks?”
“Quackity seems to be doing well for himself,” Wilbur hums as they walk down the hall, significantly poorer than they were before.
Techno makes a noise of acknowledgement. They’ve certainly both changed a lot since the Games. Different directions, though. Now he’s in a grubby ramshackle spaceship, and Quackity’s… rich. Class traitor, he grumbles to himself.
“I still don’t think we should’ve handed our weapons over,” he complains. “Watch, it’s going to come back to bite us.”
“Aw, don’t worry,” Wilbur grins, tapping his boots. “At least he didn’t think to search the rest of us.”
They’re walking down a large hall, of which there are many, though this one has been split into two lanes by various arcade machines lining the walls and centre alley. Techno’s got half the mind to tether Wilbur to himself, because in the hustle and bustle of high stakes and chance and flashing lights, he’s thinking it wouldn’t be difficult for a lanky human like Will to lose himself in here. It’s so disorientating, it’s a wonder anyone ever gets out.
They end up walking down many rooms. At one point, they walk past a spot in the centre of a Pai Gow hall that has been cleared out to give room to a strange looking hovercar, mounted on a slow rotating platform. A crowd of people have gathered around it, as a man — who looks… remarkably like Quackity except wearing a different suit — shouts down at them through a megaphone.
“A real, gen-u-ine vintage Earth-era Tesla! This old beauty runs on wheels and gas — buy now and mount it in your home! Let your good taste show!”
It occurs to Techno, as they squeeze their way through and reach yet another intersection, that neither of them may know where they’re going. A place as big and crowded as this, and they have to find a single specific person... who might not even still be here.
“Hey, can I be real with you?” Wilbur says, suddenly.
“Hm,” Techno adeptly replies. “Maybe?”
“Listen, I’m… beginning to become very aware of how little time we have left,” Wilbur continues. His eyes stay pointedly focussed straight ahead. “And I’m — I’m concerned we may need a change of tactics. I… completely honestly, Technoblade, I’m just a bit scared. I hate to give up hope, but I don’t — I don’t think it’s likely we’re going to find him in time and I’ve… well, I’ve been thinking about what happens… after.”
The gravity of Wilbur’s words is unsettling, a sure steer away from the usual casual amusement that his friend’s voice tends to be laced with. Techno can only focus on how sweaty his hands are, on how loud the room is, on how much he doesn’t want to be having this conversation.
“Bro, I cannot relate at all.”
Wilbur goes quiet.
And Techno shifts, guiltily, uncomfortably. (He swears he sees another Quackity through another room, dealing a game of poker in yet another truly atrocious suit.) The cease of chatter between them is markedly Wrong, capital W for Wilbur, because Wilbur loves to talk.
But Techno doesn’t.
“I…” he starts, aborts. Chews on his tongue. “I don’t know, man. I don’t see any way we can do anything more than… whatever we've already been doing, y’know?”
“I realise that,” Wilbur sighs, less out of aggravation and more out of a thawing despair. “But by the looks of things, we’re going to blow up before we even get our eyes on the kid.”
“Three days isn’t bad,” Techno half-heartedly defends.
“Three days to find this guy, convince him we’re on his side, and bring him back to Lieutenant Prick and his guard dog?
“Or three days to figure out how to trick them into thinking we got the child. Long enough to get them to take the bombs out.”
“Nanoexplosives…” Wilbur mumbles under his breath, before dragging his hand down his face. “Fuck, man. Should’ve just listened to Phil.”
“You should always listen to Phil,” Techno replies, because it’s all he can really think to say. Their conversation comes to a close as they approach a crossing where the hall splits off either way, a set of vertitubes before them that seem to have been designed to look like old Earth-era style elevators.
“Right, well,” Wilbur asserts, clapping his hands like that’ll burst the tension. “I’m going to go to… whichever platform he said the hotel is and start looking for the kid. You search the bronze and silver floors… and, Techno,” he leans in conspiratorially, grin creeping up his face. “See if you can’t sneak past those securitrons and get a look at the basement level.”
Venturing through these halls, Techno takes the time to observe. The obvious is that Quackity appears to have stuffed any and all sorts of games he could find into his casino — anything that can be bet on, there’s bound to be a hall for it. In a morbid sort of musing, Techno wonders if he’s included an arena.
It’s a mixed crowd, very species diverse, and yet Technoblade feels a little out of place — and not just because he’s the only piglin in sight. He’s lived the majority of his life with a long list of felonies and petty crimes trailing behind him, one that’s certainly gotten longer since he started marauding with Wilbur, and it’s simply gotten to the point that sneaking into places and getting chased back out has become somewhat natural to him.
But here, outside of Elysium’s jurisdiction, they’re free to go as they please and do as they want.
No one’s chasing them. No one’s hunting them down. No one’s been posted guard and instructed to look out for the seven foot piglin with the plasma axe and the lanky human with the revolver.
It’s… certainly a change of pace.
And the lack of Elysium shows itself in other ways, too: no ‘ennobled by labour’ slogans flashing in your face everywhere you look, no militia, no rent or permits or bureaucracy. Not even a Crimson Egg — instead there’s some place called a ‘Planet Duck’ selling knockoff quantum burgers.
He knows why Elysium is absent here, of course. Everyone does — it’s common knowledge that Alexis Quackity has a long, personal, and troubled history with the megacorp. Or more accurately, its chairman. And ultimately, it’s a good thing that he hasn’t let himself be swallowed up by the company like every other place in the galaxy, but Techno shudders to speculate what other measures he’s taken to keep a place like this afloat.
Feeling quite directionless for perhaps the first time in his life, he eventually ends up entering what must be a poker hall. Sweeping these rooms for a sign of someone he’s never even seen in person before feels like a shot in the dark — and he hates to even think it, but one of those creepy little Elysium face scanner drones would come in really handy right about now.
“Techno,” Wilbur’s voice buzzes.
He picks up his communicator; “How’s the room thing going?”
“It’s fucking massive over here. I’m at my wit’s end, I mean, I can’t possibly search all of these rooms. It’s ridiculous. I honestly can’t even find ours, which is unfortunate because I was really looking forward to those refreshments.”
“Would it help if I asked one of these robot guys for directions?” Techno half-jokes, tracking a securitron as it whirrs past and tases some rowdy guy at the nearest table.
“You could always give it a go. Ah, well, how are you doing? Found any clues for where our little nuisance might be?”
“Uh… not yet.”
Wilbur makes a noise of thought, though it sounds more like scrambled static through the communicator.
“Tell you what, I’ll come back and join you. Where are you?”
“I’m going to be real with you. I have no idea.” Techno revolves on the spot. “These guys really built this place with the goal to make it as difficult to navigate as possible. Um… there’s a lot of poker going on. That help?”
“I’ll figure it out. See you soon!” The communicator cuts off, and Techno finds himself, for the first time, at a dead end.
Whereas every other hall has split off into two more, here there’s simply a gap between the last tables and the wall, where a space has been cleared to make room for what appears to be… a massive floor to ceiling statue. It’s made entirely of glass, and filled with some kind of liquid by a pipe from the ceiling leading into the top of its head. It looks like a giant lava lamp.
Techno is almost certain it’s meant to be Quackity. Truly, the pinnacle of interior design.
But the thing that catches his attention is the very unexceptional door in the wall behind the statue — when everything else has been as flashy and grandiose as possible, something made as mundane and invisible as that strikes him as a little odd. As he draws closer, he finds himself almost completely certain that he’s not meant to go in here. Which means he absolutely has to.
A quick glance around tells him that the nearest securitrons are on the other end of the hall, and everyone else is much too occupied with their games to care about him trespassing. The only obstacle, really, is the one guy standing stock still a few feet away. They’re not human — on closer inspection, it’s clear that they’re an ectopolymorph (or a slimecicle, in common man’s terms) except they’ve been stuffed into a clear plastic orb and set on top of a mechanical body.
For as long as Techno watches them, they do not move. So he makes his way to the door. When he’s directly in front of it, the slimecicle looks up at him.
“Um. Hello,” Techno says. They do not answer. “Uh,” he continues, “Do you —”
“How can I help you today!”
“I’m… good. Uh, if I were to ask you where someone who wanted to remain hidden would go in a place like this, would you be under any legal obligation to report that?”
“Nope! What a strange thing to ask!”
“Cool. Cool… um, so where does this door lead?”
“Basement! Staff-only! You do not have permission to go there!”
“Thanks, man. Now that I know it’s off limits and staff-only, I’m going to respect the house rules and stay away and definitely not try and sneak in anyways.”
“What a strange and suspicious statement to make!”
“Goodbye,” Techno waves, and makes a few deliberate steps back towards the centre hall before doubling back and kicking the slimecicle in their mechanical knees, immediately going for the door. He pulls the handle. It doesn’t open. He jossles it. It still doesn’t open.
“I didn’t think this through,” he says. The slimecicle stands back up but makes no move to pull him away from the door — instead, it brings its arm up like it’s checking the time.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that!” They exclaim, and Techno doesn’t process the comically big red button fastened to its mechanical wrist in time to stop them from pressing it down.
He waits.
Nothing happens.
“Welp,” Techno breaks the pause. “That was underwh —”
“What are you doing.”
He spins to face Quackity from wherever he’s suddenly appeared from — the guy’s back in the black-and-white chequered suit, looking up at him like he’s trying to appear intimidating or something. Techno’s not impressed.
“Heyy, man, uh — so, this looks suspicious, but you gotta believe me, I was just —
“Listen, I think I was being very polite earlier, because I respect Wilbur, but don’t think I feel the same way about you.”
“Oh, no. You don’t respect me,” Techno drones, “What ever will I do?”
“You know what, Technoblade?” Quackity spits, “You think you’re so much better than everyone else, but don’t think that I’ll tolerate anyone coming in my place of business thinking they own the place. So if you don’t leave right now, I’ll be more than happy to throw you out myself. Do you understand?”
“There’s no reason to get unpleasant, now,” Wilbur says, stepping in between them. Techno blinks.
“Where do you guys keep —“
“Are you going to keep lying to me too, Wilbur?” Quackity snaps to his new target.
“Pardon?”
“Don’t think I can’t tell when I’m being bullshitted. I want to know what you’re doing in my casino. I want to know why you’re looking for Tommy-innit. Is he a bounty?”
“It’s — it’s complicated, man,” Technoblade tries, but the statement falls on deaf ears.
“The thing is, Quackity,” Wilbur starts, “He’s — well, you could say that, I suppose. He’s a bounty… just, we don’t want him dead, you see? Nice and alive as possible would be — would be ideal, really.”
There’s only a brief pause before something shifts in Quackity’s expression.
“He’s an employee,” he says, voice strained, and more to himself than them. “Isn’t he? He escaped, and you’re...”
“Well,” Wilbur tries, and fails to think of something to salvage this. And Techno watches Quackity’s demeanour shift, like a shadow falling upon him — posture stiffening, fingers curling around his stick, that disgusted downward curl of his mouth folding his face.
“You know that Elysium business is strictly prohibited in Las Nevadas. I’d advise you to get the hell out of here whilst I’m still feeling forgiving.”
“What?” Wilbur laughs, forced. “ Alex, come on, this is ridiculous! You don’t have the full story here, this is genuinely —”
“What happened to you?” Quackity interrupts, eyes hard, pinning Wilbur back. Techno’s beginning to feel a little like a third wheel. “You finally get on top, so now you want to step on the little guy to stay there?”
“There’s more to it than that, Alex,” Wilbur replies, quietly.
“Then tell me,” Quackity urges.
What follows is a terrible, silent pause.
Techno and Wilbur share a glance, and in that is the mutual and awful awareness of the nanoscopic devices that have been implanted into the both of them. Smaller than the eye can see, chock-full of the most explosive substance, and encased in a hull that will slowly and precisely degrade over the course of the next few days until the powder is released into their bloodstream, and they are very quickly reduced to blood splatters on the walls.
They have three days left to find Tommy and bring him back to Elysium to be reinstated in his job.
It’s him or them.
“I’m afraid,” Wilbur swallows, “That we are not at liberty to disclose that.”
Whatever softness had been there before vanishes from Quackity’s face. He scowls, straightens his tie, and glares at the both of them.
“Fine. Then get out.”
“Alex —“
“Guess what, Wilbur? I’m sick and tired of people, my entire fucking life, not fucking listening to me! So I am giving you two minutes to collect your things and get the hell out of my house. Do you understand me?”
And with that the securitrons on either side make a grab for them — “Oi!” Wilbur yelps, as a mechanical hand latches around his wrist and jolts him forwards. The one going for Techno misses him by an inch, too bulky to really keep up with his lifetime of combat, and he makes a move to free Wilbur. The frustrating realisation that he can’t chop the securitron’s arm off without his axe catches up quite quickly.
Wilbur really ought to start listening to him about these things.
His train of thought is interrupted by Quackity throwing a truly pathetic punch that Techno easily catches — “That was just terrible,” he mocks, and the man turns so red he swears he sees steam pouring out of his ears. Techno throws him away just as Wilbur tears himself out of his securitron’s grasp, and they both back up, instinctively side by side… and as they face down Quackity, the two securitrons, the countless more in the halls ahead and the impossible labyrinth that is this nightmare casino, it’s easy to reach the consensus that if they don’t get out of here right now, things are going to get very bad very quickly.
So Wilbur pulls off his own boot, tips the smoke capsules he keeps in the hollow heel out into his hands, and tosses them onto the floor.
And they don’t burst.
Techno only really processes what exactly happened much, much later, but as they’re thrown out from Wilbur’s palm, the smoke capsules that are not smoke capsules bounce off of the floor and begin ricocheting off of the walls. Like a miniature natural disaster, the hail of balls smash off of the securitrons, the tables, people’s bones, the surprisingly resilient plastic of the slimecicle’s helmet, and then, finally, off of the surprisingly unresilient glass of the statue. The one containing the liquid from the pipe.
It cracks.
“Wilbur, I’m not trying to put you down, but that was… truly terrible,” Techno says, watching the fissure spider all the way up.
“Oh fuck,” Wilbur agrees.
They run.
Hurtling down the alley, vaulting over the tables and weaving through the throng of people out the hall, even as the sound of something very, very big shatters behind them. Techno leads the way if only for the virtue of being faster, Wilbur following, though he hopes his friend realises he has no idea where he’s going. Securitrons begin intercepting them, tailing after them as they hopelessly try to navigate their way through the halls, liquid crashing in behind them, a cacophony of yelling and vague laser sounds and then, just as he thinks things can’t possibly get any worse, a siren begins to scream.
“If you happen to have a secret life-saving plan,” Techno shouts over the chaos as they make their way out from yet another hall, “Now would be the time to use it!”
Wilbur doesn’t answer, and Techno is so lost in his speeding thoughts that he nearly misses the hall — the hall he recognises, that is, the Pai Gow hall. He skids back, runs through, about to ask Wilbur if he remembers where to go from here when his friend shouts; “Get in!”
Techno turns around to see Wilbur hopping into the car on the platform.
“What!?” He yells back, even as he’s already falling beside Wilbur in the passenger seat. “Do you even know how to drive this thing?”
“Um,” his friend says, staring in stark panic down at the controls.
“Bro,” Techno supplicates, definitely not panicked.
Wilbur pulls a lever.
The sudden burst forward sends Techno into the back of his seat. They speed off the platform, out the hall, down the next hall — surprisingly fast for such an old car, though maybe that’s not a good thing because Wilbur’s barely making these corners. The massive tide of liquid swallows up the space behind them, gaining ground even as Wilbur slams down on the gas.
What must be a full minute of dodging various games tables, arcade machines, and people later, they turn down a hall that has, at the end of it, a very familiar reception.
They hurl at maximum velocity down towards it, and the Quackity standing behind the desk there (and at this point, Techno’s convinced there must be some sort of weird clone thing going on here) turns to them as they launch towards him.
It’s a myriad of emotions — shock, anger, terror. Not necessarily in that order. Techno doesn’t have the time to notice nor care before they screech to the right, barely avoiding crushing the Quackity under their wheels, and crash through the glass doors. A look back gives Techno the pleasure of watching the guy get slammed against the wall by a massive force of ambiguous liquid.
They launch out onto the docking bay, speeding towards their ship as a wave of securitrons pour out from the shattered remains of the entrance towards the, angrily beeping. A pool of the liquid begins flooding the bay area, and a very distant and thoroughly soaked Quackity (this one in the chequered suit), ankle-deep in it, staggers out the entrance. He’s screaming at them, and though he’s too far for the words to be discernible, Techno reckons he can make a pretty good guess.
Wilbur skids to a stop next to their ship, leaping out and clambering in through the hatch as Techno unlocks it from its docking station. As the vessel begins to rise, he grabs onto one of the sticky-out parts, pulling himself inside as they tear off and away, crashing through the neon duck sign as they go. The duck catches onto another of the sticky-out parts of their ship and stays there, not falling off even as they begin to pick up speed.
And as he wonders if Phil has any need for a neon duck, Techno finds relief in the quiet dark of their ramshackle ship and the inky abyss of space around them. He joins Wilbur in the pilot’s cubby, and they watch as they leave the fluorescent superficial lights and colours of Las Nevadas behind.
“That’s certainly a record for fastest time to be banned from a place,” Wilbur sighs, adjusting their thrusters. Techno hums in agreement, just as their radio transceiver LED lights up.
“Oh, hey, someone’s calling us.” He pushes the answer button.
Quackity’s voice comes yelling through the other end;
“— and if you ever and I mean EVER even — even DARE show your faces here again just know that, to fucking god, I’ll have you shot on sight! On SIGHT! How’s that sound!? Don’t think I am scared of you, Technoblade, because guess what? I’ll fucking —
Wilbur smacks his head off the steering board. Techno turns it off.
“Welp,” he says. “Next planet?”
(“Wait,” Techno says as they’re pulling into a wayside station, a good many space kilometres away from Las Nevadas. “We need to go back.”
“What? Why?”
“Our weapons. We forgot to take our weapons back.”)