Chapter Text
The hardest thing about being incorporeal, Quackity has learned, is the effort it takes to switch back.
Stepping back into the shadowed overhang of a building, an alley at midnight, the dark corners of a room with the lights out - letting go of the edges of himself, feeling the way the darkness creeps up at his sides and his fingers - skin melting into shadow, consciousness going hazy as the whole rest of him disappears. It’s easy. It’s too easy sometimes, like closing his eyes or breathing out. A natural state of being.
He never lets himself slip too far. He doesn’t meld with the darkness for a second longer than necessary, doesn’t ever fully lose his grip on his own body, or on his own mind. He’s still in there, somewhere, in a motionless blur of darkness and shadow.
Because that’s the hardest part. Rearranging the pieces of him he’s given up, catching them like a sieve out of a downstream current, and sewing them all back together bit by bit. Re-forming a body where one used to be.
That’s the tough part. The coming back.
Quackity only has one shot at the thing ahead of him, and he’s not eager to fuck it. So he’s pushing himself a little further, letting himself drift a little longer, guiding himself into limits he hasn’t tested in a long, long time.
It’s worth it, he tells himself. For this, it’s worth it.
Now, he presses his shoulders - real, tangible - back against a brick wall. Grounding. Something real in the shifting darkness surrounding him. It reminds him he still has a body, even if he’s starting to lose grasp of it.
In the window above him and across the street, a light flickers out. The room is empty.
That’s what Quackity is waiting for.
He waits for one moment and then a second longer, waiting to be sure the light has gone out for good, and then he moves. He dashes from one side of the alley to the other, willing the shifting edges of his body into place, to take the shape of limbs and feet that propel him across the street, and then melt back into shadow on the other side.
Just a few minutes longer, Quackity wills himself. He’s already been holding himself together like this for longer than he’s used to. Just a little longer.
There’s no sound, no reaction. Carefully, he inches his way forward, shifting in and out of shadow as he goes - never enough of him formed to be seen. Using the darkness as literal cover to swing himself up onto a window ledge. He balances on the edge of it, two half-formed boots and one hand feeling for the lock. The camera he’s been keeping an eye on - the tiny one, hidden in the corner of the window with one red light blinking steadily - points towards him, but no alarm is triggered. Or at least, none he can hear.
Good. It doesn’t see him.
He’s just gotta keep this up a little longer.
The window’s locked from the inside. Quackity fits his fingers under the edge of it, just above the sash, but it doesn’t budge.
Shit, he thinks, glaring with a formless face through the glass. There’s nothing he can see from here, obscured by the blinds on the other side. Fuck. Couldn’t have been just a little more careless, could they? Annoyance curls up in him.
Focus.
Quackity takes a slow breath through lungs that only halfway exist right now. He hasn’t pushed himself like this in awhile, hasn’t wanted to risk it, but he’s holding control together pretty well now. He can pull this off.
So he lets go of the form of his hand, lets it dissolve into shadowy mist and then more. He leans into the darkness. Lets it catch him like a soft pillow, like a blanket over his shoulders, coaxing him in.
Easy part is done.
He lets his mind drift, consciousness filtering into inky threads as his mind goes fuzzy. This is the part that’s going to fuck with him later, but right now, he rests in the in-between moments. It’s only his arm, anyway; the rest of him is still here, formless but real in some capacity.
One dark thread of his mind filters through the shadow, under the seams of the window, brushing against the blinds on the other side. He wrangles a semblance of control out of it, shadow-like-fingers feeling for the lock, and—
There it is.
It clicks, and Quackity withdraws as quickly as he can. Pulls the threads back into one tangle, back into one piece. He slides the window open and slips inside, a breath of wind against the blinds as he drops to the floor.
He untangles himself from the mess of shadow, pulling out one thread at a time. Boots on the floor, hands on wrists on arms on shoulders, and he blinks real eyelids, takes a breath with fully formed lungs.
His mind is harder to reel back - fuzzy and floaty, like some part of it is still caught in the empty space. Or the empty space is still tangled up on it. It’s hard to know where the line is, to know what exactly separates him from the darkness he uses.
(It’s hard to know where the line is between the past and the now. Quackity is not lost in the dark, he reminds himself; he is here. He is real. He can close his eyes and dig the palms of his hands into them, and he feel - he is real, he is real, he is real.)
The camera blinks steadily on.
It starts three weeks before Quackity breaks into a dark office.
He sees the name by accident. A casual glance through his news feed one morning is what starts it all. He’s scrolling through his phone with his thumb while his other hand is occupied eating handfuls of dry cereal out of the box, and his eyes fall across one story sitting third from the top, under some celebrity scandal and the latest political uproar.
Two killed in train collision, one injured.
He’s not even going to click on it. That’s how close he comes to not even noticing; his finger is poised above the screen and he’s shoving frosted flakes into his mouth, and then the opening lines of the article catch his attention.
A collision of a train and a vehicle killed two, including 18-year-old Ash Masters and their foster father–
And that makes him stop. It makes his mind spin, thirty seconds of remembering, thirty seconds of placing the name amidst fractured memories. It makes his blood run cold.
He reads the rest of the article - no sign of foul play, a simple accident. The driver hadn’t noticed the train, hadn’t gotten across the tracks soon enough. That’s it. There’s a funeral happening later this week. Well wishes to Ash’s loved ones, expressions of comfort in troubling times.
Quackity can’t quite feel his fingers.
He texts Sam. There hasn’t been communication between the two of them in weeks. The conversation is made up of unanswered texts from Sam, along the veins of “Is your new stove working okay?” and “Is Tubbo at your place?” and, now a month old and never acknowledged again, “Would you like to join Tubbo and I for dinner tonight?”
(9:21) Quackity: What happened to Ash
(9:23) Sam: Good morning! Ash?
He sends the link. Sam types, deletes, types again, judging by how often the message bubble appears and reappears.
(9:29) Sam: Oh. I’m sorry, Quackity. Did Tubbo know them? Should I tell him?
(9:30) Quackity: I don’t know. He might remember. How did this happen?
It takes Sam awhile to reply again. Quackity thinks he knows what’s coming. He’s a little less fuzzy, coming back into his body in bits and pieces, holding himself together.
(9:35) Sam: It was an accident. That’s all there is to it.
Quackity leaves him on read.
Kids like them don’t just die to accidents.
It’s Rachel next. Sam texts him the day it happens, which is considerate, at least. He’s keeping an eye out, or something. It does the same thing to Quackity, though - his head goes dark, turns into shadow and fuzz and makes his fingers feel like they’re unraveling one thread at a time. He can’t even hear his own breathing.
A house fire this time. There was a wiring issue in the kitchen, apparently, and nobody made it out before the whole thing went up in flames. It’s a tragedy, the news says, and it’s an accident, Sam says. There’s another funeral that Quackity doesn’t go to. There’s another tick of something wrong, wrong, wrong, because this - this isn’t right. This isn’t an accident.
He tells Sam as much. Sam says he’ll look into it, which Quackity knows is an empty promise that he only makes because he can’t say anything else. He never says anything else.
So Quackity looks into it himself.
It’s one dead end after another. One night spent poking around the streets outside what’s left of Rachel’s fire-scorched house, another snooping through the trainyard at the edge of the city, each night turned into two, three, more, stretching on without any leads. Nothing comes of it.
It goes quiet again. As if nothing had ever happened.
Tubbo’s quiet about it too. There’s a night that Quackity considers asking him, passing the information over to him - he’s a hero, after all. He’s someone who’s supposed to save others, even if nobody ever did save them but themselves - but in the end, he doesn’t. There’s enough on Tubbo’s shoulders. Nova’s more public, out in the action and in the media’s eye, and Tubbo’s quiet but Quackity sees the way it hangs on him. Tired lines under his eyes, texts that come through at 4 in the fucking morning.
Neither of them have a good sleep schedule, sure, so he doesn’t call it out. But he notices. He tucks it away, and he deletes an unsent text.
The next straw settles down on the pile while he’s at work.
He’s bussing one table when a customer at the next calls him over - and it’s not even his goddamn table, and he’s already working thirty minutes past when his shift is supposed to end, and if his manager gives him shit one more time tonight he’s going to fucking one walk - and he pastes a smile onto his face and turns to the guy with the fakest possible customer service voice he can summon up.
“Something I can help you with, sir?”
“Yeah, please,” the guy says. He’s older, middle aged, alone. Sitting in the booth with a half-eaten burger on the plate ahead of him and a plastic cup with only ice left in the bottom of it. “I was just wondering, could I get a refill on the coke?”
Quackity keeps his smile firmly on as he sweeps up the cup onto the tray already in his hands. “Absolutely. It’s a dollar per refill.”
“Thanks,” the man says.
When Quackity gets to the kitchen, he shouts across it, “Keep your fucking tables happy, Purpled,” and the kid in question flips him off across the room. Quackity dumps his dishes, grabs a cup to fill with coke, and brushes back outside.
When he gets there, the customer’s putting his coat on and standing up. Fucking asshole. Quackity momentarily considers dumping the thing down his shirt and walking out, but before he has a chance, the man holds out his hand.
“Sorry,” he says, voice short despite the apology. “Something came up.”
Quackity takes the wad of ones offered to him. Yeah, sure, he’ll steal Purpled’s tips. As his fingers close around the cash, they slip a little, and there’s a white piece of paper tucked in between with a–
With a few digits of a phone number visible on the fold.
Jesus Christ.
He’s going to dump the drink on the guy and he’s going to walk out and he’s going to shout at Purpled again and–
The guy’s hurrying to the door before Quackity has a chance to act on any of his angry impulses, though, and it’s only then that Quackity wonders if the guy even paid for his meal. Whatever. He’s clocking out in thirty seconds, whether his manager likes it or not, and then it’s not his problem anymore. Not even his customer.
He does keep the tip, though. He pulls the slip of paper with the creep’s phone number out, and right as he’s about to crumple it up in the palm of his hand to dump in the nearest garbage bin, something catches his eye.
Heard you’re looking for someone. I can help. Text me. :]
He stares down at the note. Okay. That’s not what he was expecting this to say.There’s a note with the number, scratched out in a scribbly sort of print.
And signed at the bottom of it is a symbol that sits on the tip of Quackity’s tongue, like a memory he can’t quite put his finger on. It’s a P, but the loop of it curls in on itself like a spiral. And with the note that goes with it…
It falls into place in a split second. He has seen it before. His hand curls tightly around the note, heart leaping to his throat, holding it against his chest as if someone else in this shitty fucking diner at dead-hour might be trying to take a peek, and he rushes to clock out. He runs the whole way home.
Pythia is a name he’s only heard in passing, mentioned here and there by the occasional vigilante that Quackity’s come into contact over the last few months. They’re an enigma to most - faceless, distant. Nobody’s seen them, nobody’s so much as heard their voice, but if it’s information you’re looking for, Pythia is the one you go to.
Or, rather, you make yourself known until Pythia comes to you.
There’s something terrifying that runs through Quackity like an electric pulse as he holds the note between his fingers, a cheap burner phone open in his other hand. The number is already typed in. All he needs to do is write the message.
Pythia is a seemingly limitless source of information. Quackity’s got his hunches that Pythia might be a name for an organization rather than just one guy who happens to know fucking everything, but it’s not like he’s got proof. No one does. No one knows who this guy is. Just that they’ve got eyes everywhere, and for the right price, they’ll happily share their findings.
Unless you’re a hero.
You so much as breathe a word about the Hero Force, the rumors say, and Pythia disappears without another word. You’ll never track them down, and you’ll never get a second offer. It’s the one thing off-limits
And, hey. Quackity can work with that. Just because his brother’s working with the fucking SBI doesn’t mean he’s got any love lost for the heroes.
He takes a deep breath, and he starts to type.
(11:04) Q: how did you know where i work?
A response comes in less than a minute later.
(11:05) PYTHIA: That’s a silly question. You are not so invisible as you fancy yourself, Blindfire.
(11:06) PYTHIA: You’re looking into the lab kids. What are you looking for? Lab reports? History of powers?
Quackity doesn’t even have time to truly sweat at the first message when the second blinks on his screen. A pit of unease sits in the bottom of his stomach. He gnaws at his lip. Part of him considers calling this off before it begins. Pythia already knows too much about him. If he knows where he works - where he works as Alex Quackity, not as Blindfire - then it’s safe to assume Pythia knows the rest of his identity too.
(11:08) Q: no. i don’t need to know anything about the lab. what i want to know is if anything strange happened to ash and rachel, or if there are any other cases like theirs. any other kids connected to the lab that might’ve had something happen to them.
(11:10) PYTHIA: I’ll dig into it. :]
(11:11) PYTHIA: Make a wish.
(11:11) PYTHIA: Just kidding. You can leave my payment in the empty warehouse off of 11th and Current. The backdoor is unlocked, and there’s a silver box inside. Just put it in the slot.
Pythia sends a number along with it, and Quackity grimaces. There goes his savings.
(11:13) Q: how do i know you won’t scam me?
(11:14) PYTHIA: I mean, you don’t have to take the deal. Your choice.
(11:16) Q: fine.
(11:17) PYTHIA: Text me when you’ve left it, then delete this number. I’ll contact you from another one when I have the information. Pleasure doing business with you, Blindfire. :]
(2:10) UNKNOWN NUMBER: Bad and Skeppy Halo. They used to be scientists on the Force until they recently parted ways citing “scientific differences.”
(2:11) UNKNOWN NUMBER: Anthony Frost. He and his boyfriend, Velvet, both went missing six months ago.
(2:13) UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hannah X. College student, or she was until she unofficially dropped out by disappearing without a trace eight months ago.
Quackity stares down at the burner phone, scrolling through the accumulated texts. His confusion grows as they continue, alternating with photos attached to the messages. They start off with screenshots of old social media posts, photos of people he’s never seen before in his life - a smiling woman with dark hair, a young couple with a cat in their arms. A news article dated three years ago, featuring a photograph of the two scientists in question.
They’re not familiar. The timeline adds up frighteningly close, but Quackity’s never seen either of them before in his life.
Then, the nature of the messages change. The photos attached start to take a more specific turn.
(2:15) UNKNOWN NUMBER: Word of something called “Crimson” first began appearing one year ago. I’ve been keeping an eye on it. The Halos were working on some sort of Super Serum before they abruptly left the Force.
(2:16) UNKNOWN NUMBER: These were taken a month ago.
There are three images attached this time. The first looks like handwritten lab notes, neatly scrawled on a folded piece of notebook paper and photographed flat on a desk. Quackity zooms in for a few seconds, skimming over the notes on chemicals and compounds he doesn’t understand a word of, and then he swipes to the second image. It’s a photo, blurry, taken on a dark street corner, and standing on it is a woman with dark hair, pink sweater. Normal enough, except for two thing. The first are the green vines and red flowers growing out of the ground at her feet as if they’ve just erupted there. The second is the fact that Quackity recognizes her immediately as Hannah X, the woman from the earlier photos. There isn’t much else visible, too dark and blurry to make out anything else save the elbow of some other person, just out of frame.
The last photo, though, makes Quackity’s heart pause in his chest.
It’s clearly taken at the same time as the first. A tangle of the same rose bush vines cover the ground, but there are a few new figures in this one. Quackity recognizes them all. Front and center, the focus of the phot, is a man glitched into two separate people. It’s as if Short-Circuit and Icarus are spliced together, black wings sprouting from the young hero’s body.
But Quackity’s attention goes to the side of that photo. He sees Nova.
Pythia has photos of Tubbo, too.
The knowledge makes his blood run cold.
(3:16) Q: what the fuck? this isn’t the information i asked for.
(3:17) UNKNOWN NUMBER: Oh, right. There’s nothing suspicious about the kids you asked me about. They died in two separate accidents. Sorry for your loss. Anyway, take the freebie, and if you find any Crimson, let me know. I’ll pay for the information, or we can make a… different sort of deal.
(3:18) Q: is that supposed to be a threat?
(3:18) UNKNOWN NUMBER: No. Why, do you feel threatened? :]
The smiley stares back at him from the screen, one mocking face looking back into his own. Quackity doesn’t know what to say in response.
Part of him wants to block the number. He knows that’s not going to stop Pythia, knows it won’t solve anything. Pythia hasn’t even directly threatened Tubbo. The photo was definitely supposed to be of the half-shifted person. Nova just happened to be there. That’s all it meant. It’s just a coincidence.
Why was Nova in the picture?
(3:21) UNKNOWN NUMBER: I’m sorry. It genuinely was not meant to be a threat. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.
(3:22) UNKNOWN NUMBER: I will pay for information regarding Crimson, the Halos’ science project, and/or Hannah and Ant. In currency, or in a trade of information. It is up to you.
(3:23) Q: fine.
(3:34) UNKNOWN NUMBER: :]
(3:45) big q: hey turbo. plans tonight?
(4:12) turbo: uhhhh not aftter seven
(4:31) big q: i’ll order pizza if you want to eat it
(4:35) turbo: pepperoni pls
Tubbo breaks into his apartment through the window again. Quackity heaves a sigh when he hears the window scrape open.
“I have a front door,” he says. There’s a thump as Tubbo hits the floor, the creak of the window closing behind him.
“There were people out front the building.” When Quackity glances back over his shoulder, Tubbo is pulling his helmet off. Still in his suit. “That was easier.”
“You’ve gotta stop showing up in uniform,” Quackity chides. “What if someone sees you?”
“No one will see me,” Tubbo says with a barely suppressed roll of his eyes. “You’re paranoid. Did you get the pizza yet?”
There are always people watching, Quackity wants to say. Tubbo should know that. What kind of secret identity etiquette are they teaching him in the fucking training he’s been doing?
Instead, he gestures to the table behind him. “Yep. Still hot.”
“Fuck yeah.” Tubbo makes a beeline to it, shedding his jacket as he does, sleeves knotted around his waist in a rush. He flips up the lid of the pizza box, and as he does, something catches Quackity’s eye.
Nova’s logo is emblazoned on one sleeve of his jacket - a four pointed star, bright gold against the dark fabric. It’s a symbol echoed in other places on his suit too, on the front of his shirt and patterned along his helmet. Quackity’s well acquainted with it.
When Tubbo turns, Quackity catches sight of the other sleeve of his jacket. There’s a new patch on it. Another familiar logo. Three letters - SBI.
He’s wearing their logo. On his suit.
Tubbo’s looking up at him, pizza folded in half in his hand and blowing on it. “You good there, Q?”
Quackity shakes himself out of it, forces his lips together in some semblance of a smile. “Yep. Sorry. Lost in thought. How’s the pizza?”
“Eh,” Tubbo says. “Is it from that place down the street? They’re shit.”
“They’re cheap,” Quackity grumbles. “And they deliver. Enjoy your free pizza.”
“I’ll buy it next time,” Tubbo says, easily, as if it’s nothing at all to offer. “There’s this pizzeria near HQ, it’s fucking heavenly. I’ve gone there a couple times, I’ll bring you a piece next time.”
Quackity huffs, grabbing his own pizza. “What, and let my little brother pay for my shit? I don’t think so. I got it.”
“Q, I make, like, four times what you do, I think.” Tubbo lets out a short laugh. “I got it, okay? It’s no big deal.”
“Oh.” Quackity stands still with a paper plate in one hand. Somehow, he’d forgotten that a job with the Hero Force meant Tubbo would be so well-off. In his head, he’d just been imagining Tubbo using Sam’s money. He forgot to consider that it was Tubbo’s too. “Oh. So you’re fuckin’ rich now, huh?”
“Yep,” Tubbo says, popping the P. He drops down onto Quackity’s couch, the new one from Sam that doesn’t even have a single stain or loose spring on it yet. “Billionaire, actually. I’m the richest person in this entire city. You ever think you’d see the day?”
“Never.” Quackity flips the lid of the pizza box shut again. He sits beside Tubbo on the couch. “I can’t believe you’d betray me like this. My own brother, part of the one percent.”
“Don’t worry, you can use some of my money too.” Tubbo takes a too-big bite of pizza and then sits breathing with his mouth open. “Ow.”
“Nice,” Quackity says.
“Shut the fuck up,” Tubbo says. Quackity barks a laugh.
“You’ve gotten rude,” Quackity says, teasing. “What’s with the attitude? Having a teenager moment?”
“Bad influence friends,” Tubbo jokes. Except, maybe it’s not much of a joke, because what he says next is, “It’s Tommy, definitely. Sam should ground me from spending time with him, except he doesn’t, because I told him I was skipping dinner to hang out and he almost did a dance right there in the kitchen.”
Quackity blinks. “Tommy?”
“My friend,” Tubbo says, like it’s that simple. “I think he’s my best friend, actually. Do you know I’ve never had a best friend? It’s fuckin’ weird.”
“Huh,” Quackity says. And then, teasing again, “Not even me?”
“You literally don’t count,” Tubbo says. “Shut up. I can have friends beside you.”
“I know, I know.” Quackity’s joking. But there’s something about the way Tubbo is talking, and the way the SBI patch is still sewn onto the shoulder of his jacket, and the casual ease with which he talks about everything in his life. It makes the pizza in Q’s mouth hard to swallow. He shoves it down anyway. “I’m glad you have a best friend. I am glad you’re happy, Turbo.”
Tubbo stops. He blinks down at the crust of his pizza. “Oh. Huh. I guess I am.”
And that–
That shouldn’t sit in Quackity’s stomach the way it does.
He’s happy for Tubbo. He is. Tubbo’s healing, Tubbo’s growing, Tubbo’s finding his own place in a world that’s only ever been shit to both of them, and Quackity is glad for it. If anyone deserves a life that makes them happy, it’s Tubbo.
But it’s fucking hero work. It’s the goddamn force, the one that’s fucked them both over more than once. That’s what’s making Tubbo happy.
It’s a bitter taste in the back of his throat. The whole reason he invited Tubbo over tonight is because of something Quackity’s doing that’ll get him wanted by the heroes the moment they hear about it. Because Quackity is terrified that if this goes badly, Tubbo will be caught in the crossfire. And here’s Tubbo, telling him in all but words, how well he’s doing because of a job that goes against everything Quackity is doing.
Maybe there’s still a chance. Tubbo is - what had he said the last time he was here? Everyone has their secrets, don’t they? Tubbo is no loyal lapdog. Maybe…
In his defense, he tries to bring it up subtly.
“So,” Quackity says from his seat on the couch, grease-stained paper plate propped up on his knees while he blows on a slice of pizza. Tubbo sits opposite, glancing up as Quackity speaks. “Any cool new hero stuff lately?”
Tubbo looks up now, eyes squinting ever so slightly. Immediately caught. “Huh?”
“You know.” Quackity gestures vaguely, trying to save the situation. “Just… anything new and exciting you feel like sharing?”
The silence stretches out between them. Finally, Tubbo breaks it.
“Oh,” he says. “You heard about the SBI thing.”
Quackity almost says, “No, not that,” but he stops with his mouth open. “What?”
“That I’m on the team,” Tubbo says. He reaches one hand down to the sleeve of his jacket, fingers touching the logo there. “Circuit gave me it. Guess it’s gonna be like, official-official soon. We might rebrand, add in a few new letters for me and him.”
Quackity stares at him. “You’re actually part of SBI?”
“Yeah,” Tubbo says. “Wait, is that not what you were getting at?”
“No,” Quackity says, “but–no, no, keep talking. You agreed to join SBI? Like, official member of the team, signed contracts, full proper joined the team?”
“Yeah?” Tubbo shrugs. “Why not? We work well together. I’ve done all my training with them, and they’re–I mean, they’re cool, Q. They’re nice.”
“They’re heroes,” Quackity says.
“So am I.” Tubbo’s eyes glint with something guarded. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means.” Quackity crosses his arms across his chest, fingers digging into the skin of his forearms.
“I don’t, actually.” Tubbo snaps the words out, quick and sharp. “I don’t know what it means, because you talk - you constantly talk like, oh, the heroes, they’re secretly evil, you can’t–you can’t trust them, they’re all doing horrible things behind the scenes, and they’re just not, Quackity. They’re just fuckin’ people.”
“They literally are. Do you want me to pull things out? Do you need fucking reminders?”
“I remember,” Tubbo says, hissing, “I remember the lab. Okay? I get it. I’m not–I’m not dumb, I’m not naive, I get it. But that’s not – that wasn’t the heroes. You know they’d have given you a job too?”
“I know,” Quackity says, evenly.
“Ever since we got out of there, there’s been people looking out for us. Looking out for me, and for you too, if you’d give them a goddamn chance. Sam is trying. He’s not your enemy. He wants to help.”
“He left us there,” Quackity growls.
“He got us out,” Tubbo snaps back. “Have you just, like, fucking forgotten what happened that day? Maybe it’s you who needs the goddamn reminders.”
There’s something fuzzy blooming in Quackity’s head. Threads of darkness crawl down his throat, in his veins, unraveling in his fingertips. Nightmare-memories peek from under the shadows of the back of his mind, threatening to push out even further. His hands are heavy.
Slowly, he takes a shaky breath. He runs a hand through his hair - real feeling, real fingers. Lowly, he says, “I remember.”
Tubbo’s sitting back in the corner of the couch. He has his arms crossed over his knees, curled into himself, his eyes dark. Something stiff and heavy lines his shoulders, the way they’re set, pulled up and hunched into his chin.
He doesn’t say anything. Neither does Quackity, both just sitting there looking at one another.
“Why are we talking about this?”
Tubbo’s voice comes out quiet, but steady.
“I don’t know.” Quackity digs his fingers back into his arms. “Do you want to not talk about it?”
“I don’t know,” Tubbo echoes. “It was three years ago last week, you know.”
Quackity hadn’t paid attention to the date. He didn’t even realize. “Huh.”
“Feels like longer,” Tubbo admits. “Feels like we weren’t ever there.”
“Yeah,” Quackity says, faintly, as if he doesn’t get stuck back there every night. Every time he stands in shadow for a little too long.
“I’m sorry,” Tubbo blurts out, suddenly. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
“Oh.” Quackity drops his arms, rolls his shoulders down until he forces his chest to breathe out the air that’s caught in it. “It’s okay, Tubbo, it’s–it’s fine. I’m sorry. I brought it up.”
“I still think you’re wrong,” Tubbo says. “About the heroes. I don’t think it was their fault. I wouldn’t be working with them if I did.”
And Quackity knows he believes that. He knows Tubbo wouldn’t go along with them if he thought there was any chance that something so awful could still be going on, because he’s Tubbo. Because he’s a good kid who just wants to help people. Because he’s better than Quackity, a lot of the time.
But there are things Tubbo doesn’t know. There are things Quackity does.
He says, “Did you know they were trying to develop their own super serum shit? Trying to replicate what the lab did.”
Tubbo’s quiet for a long moment. “They were?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Two scientists in particular. I can send you the reports if you want. The timeline adds up pretty damn close too. They left the Force right after the lab got busted.”
Tubbo drops his chin to his arms. “Well, they left, then. That’s–it’s not happening anymore.”
“Sure,” Quackity says. “But they were paying for it, Tubbo. They sponsored that shit. They’re just people, yeah, but people are–they’re selfish. They want money, they want power, and a lot of the time, they care more about how it looks to other people than they do about who it hurts.”
Tubbo says, half muffled by his arm, “SBI’s not like that.”
“I’m not saying they are. I’m just saying–” Quackity shrugs. “You can’t really trust them, Tubbo.”
After a long moment, Tubbo speaks up again. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“There’s… Other things have been going on.” Quackity shifts on the couch. “You heard about Rachel and Ash.”
“Yeah,” Tubbo says. He doesn’t say anything else.
“People have been going missing,” he says. “Kids like us are dying. Other people are coming back with powers when they didn’t have them before. And nobody’s looking into it.”
Tubbo says, “Nobody except you, I’m guessing.”
“Nobody except me.”
“And you’re sure none of the heroes are looking?”
“None but Sam.” Tubbo looks up at that, and Quackity raises an eyebrow. “I’m trying, Tubbo. Okay? I did it your way. I told Sam, and he told me it was an accident. Told me he’d look into it, and then didn’t.”
Tubbo sighs. “Sam’s busy lately. New job.”
“Exactly,” Quackity says. “They’re always fucking busy. Nobody looks where it matters.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Help me,” Quackity pleads. “Get them to look. You can see where I can’t. I can–I can go in guns blazing, yeah, I can sneak in and I can find what I can, but there’s–there’s places I can’t touch. There’s information you have that I don’t.”
Tubbo stares at him, blue eyes dark and unreadable. “You want me to funnel classified information to you.”
Quackity shrugs. “If that’s what it takes.”
“I’d get fired if they knew. You’d get arrested if they found out.”
“Then don’t let them find out,” Quackity says. “You’re on the team. You’re on the fucking Force. Do something with that, and help me get to the bottom of this. Dig for information. Keep an eye out. Push your team into looking into this, I don’t know, just—“
“How much power do you think I have?” Tubbo lets out a sharp laugh. “I’m not even a real hero, Q, I just do what I’m told and that’s it.”
“Yeah, and that’s the fucking problem,” Quackity says. “Stop. Stop doing what you’re told. Do something better.”
“No.” Tubbo unwraps his arms finally. He gets to his feet, unties the jacket from around his waist. “Listen, if you want to be out there digging yourself an early grave making enemies with every hero and villain in the city alike, be my guest. You wanna do this alone, keep cutting yourself off from everyone who cares, fine. Just leave me out of it, okay?”
Quackity stares at him as the words cut out of his mouth, sharp and accurate. It slices open something in his chest. “What? Tubbo, I’m–that’s the fucking opposite of what I’m asking. I’m trying. I’m fucking trying, okay, I’m asking you, I asked Sam, what the hell do you want from me–”
“I’m happy,” Tubbo snaps, “I’m finally happy! Why can’t you just let me have this? Why is it that now is when you bring all this shit back up?”
“I’m not bringing it up.” Quackity’s chest stings. Dark threads unravel in his head, tangled knots and woven clumps. “Jesus Christ, Tubbo, this isn’t even about you.”
“Then what’s it about, huh?” Tubbo snatches his helmet from the kitchen table. “I’m doing something you disapprove of, right, and I’m doing well at it, and you–now you’re asking for my help, trying to reel me back from it. I thought you were happy for me.”
Something burns in Quackity’s stomach. “Okay. I see how it is.”
Tubbo glares. “You see how what is?”
“We’re on opposite sides, right?” Quackity knows he’s pushing lines he shouldn’t be, but he can’t stop himself now. “Stupid of me to ask.”
“We’re not on opposite sides. We’re not–I’m not your fucking enemy, Q.”
“You’re sure not my fucking ally either.” Quackity lets out a harsh laugh, and Tubbo’s eyes flash.
“I’m not your enemy,” Tubbo says, frustration dripping out of his voice.
“Oh, really?” Quackity stabs a finger towards the new emblem on Tubbo’s jacket. Three letters. “You were already signed onto the force, and that’s—that’s one thing, but now you’re on the fucking flashiest team you could’ve possibly found. You can’t play this forever, Tubbo. Pick a fucking side.”
Tubbo glares. He takes a slow breath before answering. “You really want me to pick a side? Because I will. I fucking will, and you’re not gonna like it when I do.”
“Go ahead.” Quackity crosses his arms.
“Fine,” Tubbo spits. He shoves his helmet on and storms across the room. “Goodnight, Quackity.”
“See you, Nova.”
He regrets it the moment he says the name, and he’s going to keep regretting it for the rest of the night, but what’s done is done. Tubbo flips him off on his way out the window.
The rest of the night is spent in guilt alternating burning and unraveling in his head, in his fingers. Sharp words, dark threads, an awful heavy weight in the pit of his stomach.
So when he gets another text, it’s easy to gather his own things. A hood and a helmet of his own, lacing up dark boots, and one last glance at the address delivered by an unknown number displayed on his screen.
He isn’t going to be sleeping tonight anyway.
And that’s how Quackity ends up breaking into a dark apartment off of a shady fucking alley at one in the morning on a Tuesday.
That’s how he ends up pushing himself a little further than he should - further than he has any right to be doing, considering how mixed up his head already is tonight - and how he finds himself standing in the middle of a place that looks halfway between office and cluttered chemistry classroom.
He grabs anything that looks even remotely useful. A notepad covered in scribbled handwriting he recognizes from the notes Pythia had sent him - into the bag it goes. On the desk is a framed photograph, an image of two men he recognizes as the scientists from the photos Pythia had sent him. Between the two, however, is a third person - a dark-haired teenager, caught mid-smile while Bad ruffles his hair.
The kid’s young in the picture. Quackity wonders if it’s an old photo, or if there’s a fucking teenager mixed up in this shit. He’ll have to ask Pythia.
Another glance around the room, searching for anything he missed. His eyes flicker over cluttered shelves, equipment he recognizes but couldn’t begin to explain - and a locked cabinet.
It’s easy to get open. He’s already pushed himself too far tonight, so he does it again. What’s a few more tangled threads on a night as fucked as this one already is?
On the shelf inside is a row of capped vials. Something red and thick swirls inside of them.
Crimson, Quackity thinks.
He hesitates for only a moment before pulling off his hood, wrapping the glass vials in the fabric, and stuffing the whole thing in the bag.
Pythia gets one. Quackity’s destroying the rest himself. He eases the cabinet shut, and right as he’s about to turn, something creaks behind him.
“I’m gonna stop you right there.”
Quackity whirls around at the sound, heart leaping into his throat and pistol leaping into his hand. There’s a new figure in the window, crouched slightly as he lets himself in. Moonlight outlines the edges of his shoulders, gleaming white shirt sleeves - horrible for stealth, Quackity thinks, lip already curling in distaste - the collar of a deep red cape, silver highlighting against long, dusty-pink hair.
Just his fucking luck.
“Blade,” Quackity says through gritted, smiling teeth. His voice is distorted through the mask he’s wearing. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Got a nice tip,” The Blade says. “Somebody saw some masked and hooded figure sneaking through the shadows and breaking into an apartment.”
“You’ve got the wrong guy, then,” Quackity says. He gestures to himself. “No hood. Better luck next time, though.”
The Blade huffs, not quite a laugh. “I’ll give you points for the joke. Put the stuff back, and I’ll let you off with a warning.”
“Hm,” Quackity says. He glances to the window behind the Blade, trying to calculate if he could squeeze out of it fast enough. “No thank you. I think I’ll keep it.”
And he steps back into the shadows.