Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Click.

The projector flashes to life, images of a crime scene splayed before the rows of seated trainees. A woman splayed onto the ground, eyes frozen and glazed over. Blood douses the left side of her shirt, spilling from a bullet wound in the neck. Another photo: the woman’s husband on the stairs, his blood splattering across the wall. Wilbur Soot turns to face the crowd, arm resting on the podium. His glasses are askew, and the remnants of too little sleep pierce his sunken cheeks, unruly hair and eye bags. The remote dangles flimsily on his fingers. 

“We’ve all thought about killing,” he says and glances back over his shoulder towards the screen. “It’s natural. You’ve wanted somebody dead before, thought it in the depths of your mind. Now, become that. Become the killer. Why did this couple deserve this?”

A woman in the back raises her hand, carefully, calmly. He nods in her direction. “A personal grudge. It could be why the killer chose to strike her husband in a way that would kill him almost immediately, but killed her in a cruel manner. She could’ve done him wrong recently, or in their teenage years. Either that, or it’s your average Tuesday break in.”

Wilbur hums and begins to close the binder. There is a man standing in the center of the exit to his right, his arms crossed on his chest. He is waiting patiently, and Wilbur knows better than to keep him waiting. “Good. You’ve just excused yourself from thinking later tonight. The rest of you, tell me your design.”

The students gather their belongings, shuffling out of their respective seats one by one. They file through the door, making way for the man standing, ready to speak. Wilbur turns off the projector, and leans forward on the podium.

“Wilbur Soot,” the man says and finally makes his way towards him. He holds out his hand to shake, a smile of white teeth greeting him. He has blonde hair that falls down to his chin, a stubble, and a trench coat falling to the length of his shins. “Phil Watson.”

“We’ve met,” Wilbur says, but still shakes his hand. He begins to stack up his own books and binders. He can still recall Phil across a desk from him, and his badge pushing across the mahogany furniture. He remembers the gentle click of the clip in the standard–issue gun as he set it down. He was unstable — is unstable.

Phil hums and nods slowly, then clears his throat. He reaches out with a careful hand, and Wilbur barely reacts as the man in front of him fixes his glasses on his nose for him. He knows better than to retaliate against a member of the FBI. Especially if it's Phil Watson. 

“I see you’ve hitched your horse to a teaching post,” Phil observes slowly, eyes trailing along the expanse of the room. He notes the presentation board, the rows of empty seats. “FBI training. How curious that you still remain somewhat close to the FBI even after everything.”

“Crime isn’t just something I can leave behind so easily.”

“Even after what it caused?”

“Yes,” Wilbur hisses, lips curling into a sneer. “Forgive me for rushing this, but what is this about?”

“We have a case —”

“No,” he spits. “No, no, I’m done with cases.”

“Seven girls have gone missing,” Phil emphasizes and plants a firm hand onto Wilbur’s stack of belongings. Wilbur looks up at the man through his lashes with a glare. “Eight as of this morning. I want to catch this man before anything else happens to these girls.”

Wilbur narrows his eyes. “Where?”

“Minnesota.”

He scoffs in almost disbelief, “That’s a long way from Virginia, Phil.”

“I’ll fly you out. You’ll be back by tonight.”

Wilbur rubs at his eyes, fingers digging into the sockets. It pushes up his glasses to lie crooked on his face again, despite Phil’s effort to fix them previously. He blows out a long, heavy sigh, and his shoulders slump when he nods. Somehow, he looks more tired than before. “Fine. I’ll look into it.”

Phil seems to brighten. “I’ll walk you down.”

Wilbur stuffs his belongings into the hand–held suitcase, closes it with two soft clicks, and makes a large swooping gesture with his hand. It doesn’t match his blank stare — this isn’t something he ever wanted to return back to doing again. “Lead the way.”

There is, for a moment, a smidgen of hope for this case. The pastures of the university are green and large, stone paths carving their mark in the courtyard. From Wilbur’s classroom, it’s about a thirty minute walk down to the exit. Even then, who knows where Phil has parked his car? Phil walks with purpose, chest out like he’s never lost a war, his chin up and proud. His suit is tailored to his form, and it makes him look a hell of a lot scarier than he is. Wilbur self–consciously reaches up a hand to slide a button into its respective place — he might as well try to seem formal when investigating a case.

“Eight girls have gone missing in Minnesota,” Phil says as they clamber into his car. “All from different universities, different places.”

“So, naturally, you need me?” Wilbur deadpans and debates grabbing onto the handle of the car roof when Phil hits a rough bump in the road. 

“Yes,” he answers shortly. “Naturally,” he adds after a brief pause, smiling slightly.

“Okay,” Phil sighs and opens the door ahead of them. 

Ahead, a wooden board marked by thumbtack holes is propped onto the wall. There is a large map of Minnesota in the center, standing out along all else. Surrounding it are photos of what Wilbur supposes to be the eight missing girls. There are notes on the sides of the photos—weight, age, where they went missing—and it somehow makes the reality of the situation set in. These girls had families. Lives.

“The first went missing about two months ago,” Phil says and comes to take a photo off the board, and hands it to Wilbur. “That’s our latest victim.”

Wilbur holds it between his forefinger and thumb, pressing his lips into a thin line. “No bodies?”

“No,” he says. “That’s exactly why they’re missing. They’re not dead until I’ve seen it.”

“When did she go missing?” He asks and gestures to the photo in his hand.

“This weekend. She was coming back home for the weekend to babysit her parents’ cat. She never made it home.”

“Ah,” Wilbur sighs. He pins the photo back onto the board and takes a step back.

“So, what do you make of all this?”

“They’re all around the same,” he starts. “Around the same weight, they look the same. I would say they’re substituting for somebody. A special someone. A … golden ticket, if you would like an analogy.”

“Has he already caught this special someone?” Phil hums, crossing his arms across his chest. Somehow, he still manages to look proud of himself. Even when standing in front of a board of eight missing girls.

“No. No, he would make that known. She would be a spectacle to behold.” Wilbur grabs his suitcase again, and Phil startles. Wilbur stops him before he can even speak. “No. I’ve already done my part, I don’t investigate anymore.”

“Soot, I need you on this,” Phil pleads. He is not one to resort to this, but if he has to, he will. “I’ve let enough parents down with our lack of information. And you — you make jumps you can’t explain —”

“The evidence explains,” Wilbur emphasizes with a finger stabbing the air. “You just aren’t looking close enough.”

“This is the last thing I will ask of you,” he says and takes a step forward. “Come to the house with me. Talk to the parents. Help me sort out this case, Wil.”

Wilbur’s chest stutters with a long, deep breath. His fingers spasm into anxious fists, nails biting into his palm. He knows he shouldn’t. It’s for the best that he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t even be thinking about it. But, there is something in Phil’s eyes that is enough to change his mind. That horrible, desperate look. It makes him sick. He parts his lips to answer, but doesn’t manage to get any sound out. He just nods instead, and that is all Phil needs.

The house of the eighth girl’s family is plain. Plain walls, plain furniture. Her parents sit at the dinner table, and her mother is cupping a mug in her fingers to keep them from shaking. The father has his hands flat on the table — maybe he was a convict, and supposes they would like him to keep his hands in view. There are pictures on the wall of their dearest daughter, in her highschool graduation outfit, down to her very first picture in the hospital as she was born.

“She likes trains,” the father says, and his fingers drum on the table. “We just needed her here for the weekend. I guess she didn’t make it here in the first place.”

Wilbur turns to look over his shoulder. “How’s the cat?” The couple — and Phil — give him this funny look, and he senses he’s done something wrong. “She had to feed it, right? Must’ve been hungry.”

Her parents share a glance. A conversation happens in a few moments. “I didn’t notice,” the mother whispers, and her voice trembles.

Wilbur looks at Phil, and jerks his head a little. They step away, their voices hushed and quiet. “She was taken from here — she fed the cat. She probably took a train home.”

Phil nods and fishes his phone from his front pocket. He dials a number, and presses it to his ear. “The Nicoles’ house is a crime scene. I want Baghera, Charlie, and Roier.”

“Can you show me to her bedroom?” Wilbur asks, and the father nods quickly, bouncing to his feet. He is also eager to solve the case, it seems. He hates to admit it, but it makes him a little suspicious. He follows the man up the stairs regardless, and the latex gloves snap against his wrists as he tugs them on. He can’t be contaminating a crime scene after all — he still remembers all of his training. The father reaches for the knob of the door, and Wilbur thrusts out a hand. “Please, don’t touch anything, Mr. Nicoles.”

“But, we’ve been in and out of here all day,” he protests as if to say ‘what good will that do now?’.

And, Wilbur doesn’t have an answer for that question. The cat is pawing at the door, and he steps away from it. “You can hold the cat?” He offers with a grimace. The father blinks, but scoops up the cat in his arms.

Wilbur swings open the door, and he hears the man gasp beside him, and choke out the name of his daughter. There she lies, pale and still, under her covers. It’s like she never left. Wilbur acts quick, grabbing the man by the shoulders gently. He guides him out of the room, and alerts Phil, who quickly makes his way up the stairs to the site. The father stands in the hallway, stock still, and the cat leaps from his arms. Wilbur picks up the cat and holds it gently. It paws at his arms with soft meows, and he guides it back into the arms of the man.

“Go downstairs with your wife. It’s best you two find a hotel,” Wilbur instructs gently. The father nods, a struggling movement, but rushes down the stairs.

The sirens sound.

“Are you sure?” Phil asks, a hand bearing down on Wilbur’s shoulder. His voice is as kind as ever. Wilbur stares at the ground, hands twitching. He gives a stiff nod — a short dip of his chin. “Alright. Okay, clear the scene. Nobody gets in until he gets out, understood?”

The people file out, and before the door closes, Wilbur hears the firm instructions repeated and questioned. Then it clicks shut, and all sound fades away, leaving a muffled chorus of voices. The evening breeze files through the open window, rustles the curtains. The girl’s body is still, quiet, calm. Like she’s just asleep. Wilbur walks to the side of the bed. He lets the wind cool the back of his head and seep into the fabric of his thin shirt. It’ll help keep him grounded. His fingers curl into his palm again, and he flutters his eyes shut. The sounds begin to fade.

She lies, still, her chest rising and falling with each breath.

There is almost an ounce of regret. 

Even then, he leaps onto her, pinning her down with two hands on her throat. Instinctually, she thrashes, eyes wide and bulging from her head as she claws at his arms. No flesh catches — he knows better than to let that happen. Yes, he knows much better. Years of practice have built to this moment, a rifle in his hands and a stag formed this for him.

She chokes and takes gulps of air that won’t ever make it into her lungs. Not as long as he is shoving his fingers into the skin and forcing it out. He —

“You’re Wilbur Soot.”

Wilbur jolts, startled out of the trance. He stumbles back into the wall. He takes in a shaky breath, and forces words out of his throat. The swallow burns his throat like acid. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he manages.

“You wrote that book, right?” She asks, as if he never said anything at all. She has blonde, wavy hair. She’s wearing a leather jacket, an odd choice for protection against the cold. “I found antler velvet in two of the wounds. You’re not a real FBI agent?” She glances pointedly at his chest, where a badge should be.

“I’m … a special investigator.” Teacher. He’s a damn teacher, and that’s where he should be.

“You’ve never been an FBI agent before?”

“I was,” he says, still quiet. His eyes dart back and forth along the room, desperate for a way out of this. “There were strict screening rules I couldn’t pass.”

“Yeah. They detect instability.” Baghera cocks her head to the side. “Are you unstable, Soot?”

Phil swings open the door, eyes fixed in a glare. “You’re not supposed to be in here, you know that damn well,” he hisses. He looks at Wilbur briefly, then back at her. “What are you doing?”

“I found a trace of antler velvet in the wounds, like she was gored. I was trying to get more,” Baghera explains calmly. “I got interrupted.”

“Antler velvet?” Another enters, and he has poorly dyed green hair, and his glasses are rectangular. Charlie. “She was killed by deer antlers? Pretty brutal way to go out.”

“Hold on,” the second says, and he has to be Roier. There’s a white streak in his hair, but Wilbur knows he’s not exactly graying. “Deer and elk pin their prey. They suffocate them.”

“So she was strangled,” Phil says. “Her ribs are broken, after all.”

“Antler velvet has healing properties,” Wilbur murmurs and looks at Phil instead of anybody else in the room. He doesn’t know them, and he doesn’t plan to. “He wanted to undo it. Whatever he did to the others, he couldn’t do to her. This is an apology.”

“An apology?” The man repeats in something like disbelief.

“Is this our golden ticket?” Phil asks,

“No,” Wilbur says. “No, not yet. We’ll know when it is. I’ll know when it is, I suppose.”

Her body floats towards him, the three wounds on each side spilling blood. There is a void of darkness around her. Wilbur is helpless to watch as the antlers pierce the wounds once more. Her body jolts with the force, limp and just as helpless as him as they pierce through the skin.

In the depths of the woods, a stag stands.

Wilbur wakes with a startle in a cold sweat. He pants softly, and pushes himself to sit up. His head spins, and he reaches back to paw at his shirt before his fingers catch in the fabric, and he pulls it up over his head. 

Fuck.

The water surrounds him. It bubbles around his face, from his nose. There is some sort of comfort in the effort of drowning — the helplessness means you don’t have to fight. And then his lungs start to burn, and the instincts kick back up again. Wilbur pulls back sharply from the bathroom sink, the water falling in droplets down his face. He brings up his hands to wipe at his cheeks, digging the heels of his palms into the sockets of his eyes. The water drips from strands of hair, and Wilbur yanks a paper towel out of the dispenser.

It’s infuriating. This whole building, this whole case — infuriating. His nightmares are back, and it’s the price of all the good that he does, isn’t it? The others get their medals of honor, and he gets sweaty shirts and nights too dark for his own comfort.

The bathroom door slams open, and with one look in the mirror to see who, Wilbur heaves a sigh and crumples the paper towel. He yanks the stopper out of the drain, and it gurgles as the water floods into it. “What?” He deadpans.

“You know what crazy is, don’t you?” Phil asks immediately, eyebrows raised. “You’ve studied this. And you’re here to draw up a profile, and help with the damn investigation. You haven’t been able to do that!”

“Because I don’t know,” Wilbur shouts in retaliation to Phil raising his voice. “They don’t fit the definition of any psychopath. They aren’t shallow. They aren’t insensitive. They’re compassionate, they have empathy, they — they —”

“You know something. What are they apologizing for?”

Wilbur groans beneath his breath and paces, running shaking hands through his hair. “They couldn’t honor her, they feel bad.”

“That defeats the purpose of being crazy.”

“Exactly.”

“Then what kind of crazy are they!?”

“I don’t — They couldn’t show her they loved her, so they put her back. Whatever that is.”

“He loves them?”

“One of them. Yes — yes maybe some kind of love for the other ones.”

Phil stares at him for a moment. “There was no semen, saliva —”

“They wouldn’t disrespect her like that!” He shouts, like he’s been offended somehow. “They don't want them to suffer, Phil.”

“Why would they risk getting caught to tuck her back into bed?”

“I don’t fucking know,” he hisses through gritted teeth. He buries his face in his hands and they are trembling, he is trembling. “I told you I wasn’t doing this anymore. I told you that I was done. I tied my horse to the teaching post, and you undid the goddamn lead!”

“So tie it back on!”

“I can’t,” he protests, throwing his arms out. “You know I can’t, you’ve let me get this far, and you know damn well there’s no going back. I’ve run too far from the fence, Phil.”

Phil pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you respect my judgment?”

Wilbur blinks. He nods hesitantly. “Yes. Of course.”

“Then you know I need you in this case.”

He nods, tightening his lips into a thin line. “Okay.”

Charlie gently takes the tarp off of the body, casting it aside. Roier and Baghera stand around him, observing carefully. Charlie heaves a sigh. “Okay. No fingerprints. We got a hand spread, though.”

“Anything about nails?” Baghera asks, grinding her teeth.

“They were smudged when we took the scrapings,” Roier points out. “They were from her palms. She never scratched him.” 

“I found a trace of metal, is that seriously all we have?” Baghera scoffs, and takes a few steps back from the table where the body is displayed.

Wilbur clears his throat, and forces himself not to flush at the sudden focus on him. “We should look at plumbers, steamfitters, tool workers, that kind of thing.” He heaves a sigh, chest rising, and when he looks a little too far into the cloth, her body still lies there.

“—Other injuries were post mortem, she probably wasn’t gored,” Roier’s voice rushes in through the static.

Baghera takes the lead just as easily. “She has piercings caused by deer antlers. I never said the deer put them there, Roier.”

“She was mounted on them,” Wilbur mutters. 

“Her liver was removed,” Charlie says, and leans over where they’ve cut open the stomach. “And then they stitched it back in.”

“Something was wrong with the meat.” Wilbur’s heart feels like it’s dropped to his knees.

Roier looks at him curiously, eyebrows furrowing together. Then, they lift in a moment of clarity. The world seems to stop. “She had liver cancer.”

Wilbur feels sick. His stomach rolls. He opens his mouth, and for a brief moment, nothing comes out. He chokes. “They’re … eating them.”

At a long dinner table, Quackity Nevadas delicately cuts open a slice of meat.

Quackity’s office is nothing short of extravagant, and Phil knows this to be true as he enters the room with hands in his pockets. Up on the higher walls, books line the shelves, and a ladder allows one to get up and browse. The floor is tiled and engraved with designs, and the ceilings above are painted. A fireplace sits neatly at the far wall in the center, and its flames dance on the wood. It is nothing short of a mansion.

“You’re not a client, are you?” Quackity asks, an expectant look on his face. His dark hair has been slicked back and gelled. His suit is a fine dark red, a black shirt beneath it, and a red the same color as the blazer down his chest. Phil is standing in the upper area of the large room where the books are, and the doctor has to tilt his head up to look at him.

“No, I’m not. Jaiden recommended you,” Phil says and reaches into his dress pants pocket. He fishes out his badge, and holds it in his palm, clasped in his fingers for the man to see clearly. “I have some questions for you.”

“I’m not under investigation, am I?” Quackity jokes, and when he smiles, a sharp golden tooth reflects the light.

Phil chuckles, “No. No, not at all. Quite the opposite.”

“How so?”

“I need assistance with an investigation,” he says and stuffs the badge back into his pocket. “I’ve heard great things about you, Dr. Nevadas.”

“I’m flattered,” he says. “How can I assist with the case?”

“I need a psychological profile drawn up. You’ll be meeting with Wilbur Soot — the other man I hired.”

Quackity perks up a little. “I know that man. Quite a topic in psychologist circles.”

“I bet he is.”

“What time?”

Phil works his jaw, then checks his watch. He shrugs. “Now.”

“Done deal.”

Phil grins. 

Wilbur watches as Quackity stands in front of the board of victims, his hands in his pockets. “How many confessions do we have?” He asks absent–mindedly, still staring at the doctor as he meticulously stares at each photo of the girls.

“Too many,” Phil sighs. “Not enough details. Not until this morning, at least. Then, they all had details.”

Wilbur furrows his brows together. “How? We haven’t released any major things to the press yet. Much less the public.”

“Some genius in the police department took a photograph of her body with his cellphone. He shared it with his friends, I’m guessing. Bad Halo got a hold of it and uploaded it to TattleTale.com.”

“Tasteless,” Wilbur mutters, chest heaving as he draws in a heavy breath.

“You have trouble with taste?” Quackity asks a little too quickly, one eyebrow slightly raised as he turns to look at Wilbur. 

Wilbur does not look at him. “My thoughts aren’t tasty very often, Nevadas.”

“If you don’t build your mind, you have no effective barriers,” he points out.

Wilbur scoffs and brings the mug to his lips. “I build forts.”

“Friends come quickly, you’ll find.”

“So do forts.”

Phil’s eyes dart between them nervously, his hands wringing atop the desk. As Quackity comes to sit beside Wilbur, he tears his eyes away and suddenly prefers the mahogany desk in front of him. Then, his coffee is far more intriguing. 

“Not fond of eye contact, huh?” Quackity asks, a smile playing at his lips as he takes a drink from his own mug as well.

“Eyes are distracting,” Wilbur says through gritted teeth, working his jaw furiously. “It’s hard to focus when you’re looking at how white the whites of the eyes are, or wondering if one has central heterochromia. Phil?”

“Yes?” Phil perks up, seemingly desperate to get out of the two’s current conversation.

Quackity begins to speak once more, and Wilbur rolls his eyes. “I imagine what you see and learn has an effect on everything else in your mind. You’re appalled by your very own dreams. There’s no fort in your skull for the things you love, Soot.”

Wilbur draws his eyebrows together, lips curling into a sneer. “Whose profile are you working on?” He whispers. He whips his head to Phil. “Whose profile is he working on?”

“Observing is what we do,” Quackity excuses easily and leans back in his seat. He shrugs, “I can’t turn it off.”

“Please,” he starts off furiously. He looks directly ahead, jaw still twitching with the effort of containing some words. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“Wilbur —”

“Excuse me,” Wilbur says and shoves himself out of his chair. He grabs his jacket and flings it over his arm, and pushes the chair back in. “I have to go give a lecture on psycho–fucking–analyzing,” he spits.

Phil drags a hand down his face. “Let’s not poke at him like that anymore, Doctor.”

“He has pure empathy,” Quackity leans forward a little, clasping his hands together on the desk. “It’s an uncomfortable gift, Watson. It’s a double edged sword.”

Wilbur is back in Minnesota sooner than he would’ve liked. He watches as Charlie runs to the body, waving his hands about to fend off the crows pecking at the flesh. He shoves his hands into his pockets. This isn’t right, it’s not right at all.

“The stag head was reported stolen,” Phil says from beside him, and takes in an audible, long breath.

“Only the head?”

“Minnesota Homicide has already made a statement. They want to call our killer the Minnesota Shrike.”

“Shrike’s are a perching bird,” Charlie calls out from where he’s crouched by the body. “They impale animals on branches or wire and rips the organs out, then eats them later.”

Baghera grimaces. “Gross.”

“They wanted her found like this,” Wilbur mutters and carefully steps forward. “It’s like they’re mocking her, in a way. Or us.”

Phil huffs, “And you said he had love.”

Wilbur furrows his brows together. “This isn’t our killer. This isn’t the person who tucked her into bed.”

“The lungs are gone,” Roier says. He swallows. “I think she was alive when they took them out.”

In a lovely kitchen, a man with a dark red shirt and hair that spills down in dark waves grinds the heels of his palms into meat. Makes it easier to cut. He picks up the knife and carefully slices through the tissue, tugging it apart into small pieces. Distantly, he thinks that Wilbur will love this.

“No, no, our cannibal loves women,” Wilbur emphasizes. “They don’t destroy them for a reason. They — They want to consume them, keep some part of them inside. This girl’s killer thought she was disgusting. No better than a pig.” He shoves himself to his feet. He needs to go home, he wants to go home.

“You think it was a copycat?” Baghera shouts after him.

“Our actual killer had a place to do it. They weren't interested in field kabuki, Phil. So maybe they have a house, or a cabin. Something with an antler room.”

Wilbur seems to pause, and stop short of himself. His arms go slack by his sides. Everything is connected, all at once, in the same moment. He swallows roughly, and brings his hands up to drag them down his face.

“They have a daughter,” Wilbur whispers. He says it again, louder, like his voice failed him the first time. “The same age as the others. Same everything—”

A girl gets out of her car, brown hair tucked into a beanie, curls falling into her face. She swings her bag over her shoulder and waves, grinning wide.

A person in the construction yard waves back, the hat yellow and bright on his head.

“—Maybe she’s leaving home. They don’t want to lose her.”

“She’s the golden ticket?”

Wilbur nods, and his legs shake. There is a pounding beneath his eyes, in his temples. “I need — does anybody have some aspirin?”

Phil stutters for a moment. “Yes, but what about our copycat?”

“They might never kill this way again. You know what, have Dr. Nevadas draw up a profile. You seem very impressed with his opinion,” he snaps.

Wilbur grumbles softly, twisting in the motel bed at the fist pounding on his door. There was another nightmare last night, the image of the girl in the field. He knows they’ll get more common the longer he does this. He grabs for the covers and flings them off, swinging his legs over the lip of his bed. It’s pitch black, but he still knows his way around.

The light is near blinding as he opens it. Wilbur squints and brings a hand up to shield his eyes. It’s enough to make out Quackity’s figure carrying to tupperwares, the slightest of smiles on his face. “Good morning. May I come in?”

Wilbur looks behind him, to his side. “Where’s Watson?”

“Court. I guess we’ll have our own adventure,” Quackity explains easily. Wilbur stares blankly. “May I come in?”

Wilbur hesitates, but he nods. He opens the curtains to allow the smallest amount of light in by the small table against the window. He fixes the covers of the bed, because something about a man in a suit at his door at seven in the morning makes him want to seem neat.

“I prepare most of my meals myself,” Quackity says as he unstacks the tupperwares. With two soft clicks, they open. “Protein scramble to start the day. Eggs and sausage.” 

Wilbur drags the tupperware closer and stabs the fork into the mix. He bites it off quickly. He hums in approval, the burst of taste spreading into his mouth. “It’s delicious,” he acknowledges quietly. His voice is still hoarse and rough from having woken up. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Quackity grins. “I would want to apologize for our first meeting. My … psychoanalyzing, as you would put it.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Because I would be apologizing again soon, and you’ll get tired of hearing it,” he replies.

Wilbur shrugs, and swallows down the food in his mouth. “Keep it professional, Nevadas.”

“Or we could have a conversation,” he offers. “God forbid we become friends.”

Wilbur scoffs and reaches for the steaming mug of coffee. He stares into it for a moment, and darts his tongue out to wet his lips. “I don’t find you very interesting.”

“You will.” Wilbur seems to pause, and stares at him over the lip of his mug. “Watson says you have a knack for killers.”

Wilbur crosses his arms and leans forward. He knows he’s right about this. “I don’t think the Shrike killed the girl in the field.”

“Well, what didn’t he do?” Quackity asks. “What gave it away?”

“All of it,” he says, and wipes at his mouth with his hands. Quackity notes that Wilbur is very easily irritable. He watches as the man struggles to say something, then as he tugs at his hair briefly. “It … it was practically gift wrapped.” Wilbur frowns and reaches for the thermostat, pouring more coffee into the mug to make up for the lost portion of the drink. He’ll need it for today, he thinks. He grinds his teeth, working his jaw furiously. 

Quackity's brows draw together. “You’re reconstructing his fantasies?”

“Yes,” he mumbles. “It’s what I do, Nevadas.”

“How many problems does he have?” He jokes.

“Quite a fucking few,” he scoffs.

“Do you ever have problems?”

Wilbur touches a hand to his chest in theatrical drama. “No," he gasps mockingly.

“Hm. We’re alike in that way. Problem free.”

“Sure,” Wilbur huffs and stabs the fork into a sausage, grabbing egg with it too, and scarfs it down.

Then, he laughs, a smile tugging at his lips. Quackity chuckles in brief astonishment, because whatever way he pictured Wilbur laughing, it did not sound this melodic. He watches as Wilbur leans back in his chair, grinning wide. He’s still trying to catch his breath as booming laughter fades into soft giggles.

“Finish your breakfast,” Quackity laughs.

The car rumbles onto the gravel, bumps disturbing Quackity’s sort of trance. He’s smiling, ever so softly, eyes alight.

“What is it?” Wilbur asks and glances to the side at him, not being able to help his own smile.

“I’m behind the scenes,” he grins. “I’ve always wondered how you do this when you’re not kicking a door in. Speaking of, why are we here?” 

“We found metal in her clothes. It was a shred from a pipe threader,” he explains as he turns the key in the ignition.

“There must be hundreds of construction sites,” he points out almost incredulously. Smugly, almost.

“It had a certain kind of pipe thread and pipe coating, so we’re checking the sites that use that kind,” Wilbur says. “Narrows it down a hell of a lot.”

“What are we looking for?” Quackity asks, almost eagerly, turning his head to look at him expectantly.

“Anything, really,” he sighs. “Mostly anything strange.” Wilbur shoves open the door with a soft grunt, and beckons for the other man to follow. Quackity hums and follows dutifully. 

The muddy gravel squelches beneath his loafers, and Wilbur notes that he’ll have to clean them later. The knock on the door is gentle, and with an easy explanation and a mention of the Shrike, the lady lets him in immediately. Still, she talks on the phone in a soft murmur, to presumably a higher–up.

Wilbur holds the files neatly in his hands, flipping through with nimble fingers. They sort them into boxes — files, paper, anything of use. Just as she asks their names, he stops. “Cucurucho?” Wilbur inquires and holds up the file slightly.

She nods carefully and hangs up the phone. “One of the pipe threaders. Those are the resignation letters,” she says. “It’s required when a job is finished.”

“What is it about him you find so strange?” Quackity asks, recalling the conversation in the car. 

“He didn’t leave an address,” Wilbur sighs, nearly doubting himself. “All the others did. He missed work for several days — do you have an address for this man?”

The woman nods, and makes her way down to the computer. She finds it for them, and Wilbur stuffs it into his pocket. She is even as kind as to assist them with loading the boxes into the car. Wilbur takes them with gentle hands, sorting them neatly so they all fit. Quackity leans over the railing of the stairs and passes it down to her, only, it slips from his fingertips, and the files go tumbling down.

“I got it!” Wilbur calls out before Quackity can even move to help. He kneels down, picking them up from the ground. He curses under his breath. Note to self: don’t ever let a rookie on site with him again.

Quackity snatches a tissue from the box and flings it over the phone. He delicately picks it up, fingers pressing onto the cloth and presses the corresponding digits with his knuckles. It rings once, twice, and then stops. A girl answers the phone. Ah, Wilbur was right. “I would like to speak to your father,” he says. A man with a monotone voice answers. “This is a courtesy call. They know.”

He hangs up the phone, and grabs a box of files.

Wilbur brings the car to a steady stop. The gun is stabbing him in the side, and the summer is hot. Quackity shuffles in the seat beside him, but they still get out just as calmly. Only, as soon as they do, and Wilbur’s feet meet the gravel driveway, a man dressed in white shoves his wife out of the door. 

Wilbur races forward, feet practically flying to the ground. He slides onto his knees beside her, pressing his hands desperately against the bleeding wound on her neck. It stains his hands, his sleeves. She clutches onto his arms, grabbing at him, trying to convey words she cannot say. Wilbur holds her hand, grasping it in his, and the blood smears on his skin. The first mistake. She chokes and gasps, and his mind is tripping back and back and back until she goes limp. There’s a scream from inside. 

The blood is all over him.

Everything is going much too fast. The world is spinning. Wilbur snatches the gun from the back of his pants and cocks the hammer back, making sure it’s loaded. Quackity kneels by the woman, and Wilbur takes the opportunity to walk into the house, gun out and safety off. He’s ready. When the time comes, he’s ready.

Cucurucho stands there, a knife held to his daughter’s throat. She has hair like his, and sun kissed freckles. She struggles in his grip, eyes wide. Wilbur can’t even begin to discourage him before the knife is slicing through her skin.

Wilbur pulls the trigger before the blade can slice through the entirety of her throat. The blood on his arms splatters into his face with the kickback. Again, again, again, again. He doesn’t stop. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven — Cucurucho stumbles back into the kitchen counter, slumping down and sitting limply there. The girl is dying. She’s dying. He stumbles forward, pressing his hands against her neck. The blood bubbles from the wound, flowing between his fingertips. He needs a cloth, he needs something to stop the bleeding, he —

“See?” Cucurocho rasps with his last breaths. “You see?”

Wilbur thinks he might pass out. The blood is on his clothes, on his face, and Cucurucho is smiling at him. His head spins. He can’t breathe, he can’t do anything at all. This is what they meant, he should’ve stayed in the academy, he never should’ve let Phil convince him.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” he mutters over and over, just trying to stop the bleeding, just trying to save her. A second pair of hands joins him. Quackity gently moves his hands and uses one to elevate her head, and the other wraps around her neck to apply pressure. She is still choking and gasping, and she grips onto Wilbur’s hand that still hovers near her.

Wilbur tries to breathe again, drawing in shuddering, gasping breaths. He’s trembling. His whole body is shaking. He doesn’t know how to make it stop.

Wilbur isn’t back at the podium in the academy that day. When Phil asks, Jaiden only hisses, “you said he wouldn’t get too close.”

The hospital walls are bleak and pale. The smell of the sick and the dead infects Wilbur’s nose. It’s disturbing. All the nurses fixing up the stacks, walking in and out of rooms so calmly. He swallows roughly, and his fingers twitch at his sides. He rounds the corner, past the pictures and the doctor talking to a family.

The door is already open, and for a moment, his heart spikes. Still, he forces himself to just walk, and breathe. The girl — Tallulah, it turns out — is still lying in the bed. A tube is connected to her oxygen mask. The monitor beeps steadily. She’s alive. She’s just asleep.

Wilbur blows out a breath he never realized he was holding.

His gaze trails over to the beside, where Quackity lies in the chair, slumped back. His head is on his chin, eyes shut. He’s asleep, his hand lying over Tallulah’s. Wilbur settles for the seat beside the bed.

Chapter Text

The bullet shells clatter gently to the ground. With each pull of the trigger, they fall in careful ceremony. One after the other. If Wilbur is going to have to kill again, he might as well practice. The headphones are snug over his ears, and the muscles of his arms jerk each time the gun kicks back. He needs to know if he can handle it. He needs to know he hasn’t let himself get too close.

With a frustrated huff, he reaches over and yanks on the lever. The whirring fills the air as the fake body rolls towards him. Wilbur barely spares a glance upwards as he reloads, but he looks up enough to see a man in white.

His hands fumble with the clip when he shoves it in. He fires almost impulsively, desperately, and watches at the blood spills from the bullet wounds in the flesh. He fires again, again, again, again, again, again—

Phil taps his knuckles against the glass of the car, and Wilbur jolts awake. “We’re here,” he says, voice muffled by the barrier. Ah. Maryland. At least it’s not Baltimore.

Wilbur blinks the sleep from his eyes and rubs at them harshly, shouldering open the car door with a soft grunt. This job is going to kill him. The autumn leaves crack beneath his feet, dried up from lack of rain and harsh weather. The sun is still up, and the heat sinks into Wilbur’s clothes almost as soon as he steps out of the car. He can’t remember the last time it was this hot during summer, surely it must’ve been cooler last year. He doesn’t remember a lot of things. His fingers twitch in the mimicry of holding a mug around his flashlight before he corrects himself. He is not home, he is standing in front of Cucurucho’s cabin, and Phil is tearing down the yellow crime scene tape and shoving open the door.

The house is dark, and the only light spills through what little is available from the windows and the twin pairs of beaming flashlights. Animal heads decorate the walls — typical for a hunter, and Wilbur mentally praises himself for being right. A deer carcass lies on a table, chains hanging around it, its eyes frozen. He doesn’t bother to find the wound, he doesn’t want to.

Phil places a hand on his back, and makes his way towards a set of stairs in the right corner of the cabin leading to the attic. His feet are heavy against the wood, and it gives way under his weight like it’s rotting. It doesn’t snap, not yet anyways, and allows them to climb up. 

It’s even darker in the attic, and Wilbur almost wishes that he never stepped foot in this place. He knows it’s for the better. It has to be. He swallows, and stares at the antlers on the wall. Not one or two, but hundreds. They decorate every inch of the walls and the roof, leaving for little space in the middle to walk through. On the right, the antlers in the center are coated in dried blood. Wilbur shines his flashlight on it, and crouches down. 

“This would’ve been a lot of work,” Phil points out and gestures to the room around them. “Somebody would’ve had to help him.” Wilbur glares. “Somebody who went on hunting trips with him.”

“Phil.” 

“Somebody who is currently in a coma.”

Wilbur huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Cucurucho worked alone.”

“We’ve been doing house to house interviews,” Phil says. “Tallulah went here with him often on hunting trips.”

“He worked alone,” he insists sharply. “This wasn’t — he wouldn’t share this with anybody.” Wilbur peers behind the pillar the antlers have been mounted on. His brows draw together, and he reaches out with a hand covered with a latex glove. A dark hair, almost pin straight, shows through the beaming flashlight. He scowls, “Somebody else was here.”

In an apartment downtown, a man with black hair and pale eyes downloads a file. Water drips down his back and shoulders, a towel flung over the back of the chair. Once it finishes uploading from the USB, he takes it out, and drags the file over to the layout of a newspaper. A photo of the antler room in its entirety. 

The headline? INSIDE THE SHRIKE’S NEST.

Written by Bad Halo.

Wilbur takes a deep breath before he goes into the classroom. It is almost foreign in a way: the act of stepping into the room and gazing at the rows of trainees. After so long in the field — after killing a man — it seems so stupid to go back to teaching. But, Cucurucho has been caught, and there are only a few more things to worry about. He clutches the briefcase a little tighter, and shoulders open the doors. The sound of clapping fills his ears. He flinches. 

“Stop,” he calls out and waves his hand around, and the clapping falls silent. He refuses to celebrate taking a life. However evil or innocent it was. He will not be applauded for this. He flicks open the briefcase, and turns on the projector. “This is a picture of Cucurucho’s resignation,” he says and turns to face them, hands propped on the podium. “This is how I caught him. Does anybody see the clue?”

About ten hands go up after a few minutes. He allows the others time to look over the letter once more. Wilbur draws in a deep breath and shakes his head. He locks eyes with a cadet, and points to him. The cadet jolts in gentle surprise, but answers anyway. “There’s only a phone number.”

Wilbur nods, and his chest swells with pride despite barely having talked to the kid. “It was just bad bookkeeping and dumb luck.” 

He turns behind him to change the slide, and a photo of Cucurucho and Tallulah, dressed in their hunting gear, smiling like nothing is wrong, shines on the screen. His stomach churns. In his eyes, he can see them pale and frozen in shock, the blood spilling down his test. He feels his throat constrict. Wilbur blinks rapidly and turns back around, and his chest tightens like a fist.

“Cucurucho is dead. All that’s left to do is figure out how to stop those his story will inspire,” he says, barely audible to the students, but still heard. “He already has an admirer.” The slide changes to the girl in the field. Her body pierced with the antlers, lying naked in the middle of the lone area. “A copycat.”

Jaiden weaves her way through the crowd of exiting students. They make room for her as they go, realizing her presence. But she isn’t looking for any of them, and they know that. Wilbur is sitting at his desk, the projector off, fiddling with papers and his briefcase — getting ready to leave. She hates to bring this on him, but she has to. The last student leaves, and Jaiden leans on the desk.

“Hi,” Wilbur says, sparing her a single glance.

“How are you doing?” Jaiden asks, her smile still ever present and seeping with warm invitation.

Wilbur frowns and shrugs. “No idea,” he laughs breathily and shuts the briefcase with a soft click.

“Well, I didn’t want you to be ambushed,” Jaiden grimaces, and shifts on her feet. “And as soon as Phil comes in, that’s what’ll happen.”

Wilbur looks behind her. “Hi, Phil.”

“Hello, Wilbur,” Phil greets dryly. “How was class?”

He scowls, “They clapped, it was inappropriate.”

“Well, you’re up for a commendation. They okayed your return to the field,” Phil smiles and claps his hands together. “Isn’t that great news, Jaiden?”

Jaiden narrows her eyes. “Wilbur, do you want to go back to the field?”

“I want him back,” Phil insists and turns back to Wilbur, finally welcoming him back into the conversation. Wilbur blinks. “I’m recommending a psychological evaluation.”

Wilbur frowns, and then scoffs. He grabs the briefcase and winds around the desk to move past them, “No. No, I don’t do therapy, Phil. You know I don’t like people inside of my head. Besides, I know all the tricks.”

“Maybe it’s time to unlearn them,” he offers.

“Wilbur, you killed somebody,” Jaiden whispers, like it’s a secret, like he isn’t up for an award for it. “You’ve never done that before. It’s a lot to digest.”

“I used to work homicide.”

“Yeah, you used to,” Phil points out easily. “Because you couldn’t pull the trigger. You just pulled the trigger ten times.” 

Wilbur pauses on his way out, and turns on his heels. “This isn’t a formality?”

“No, I need to sleep at night,” Phil sighs loudly. “I need to know you didn’t get too close. How many nights have you spent in Tallulah’s hospital room?” Wilbur doesn’t answer, preferring to stay silent and bite on the inside of his cheek. “Have one conversation with Quackity. He knows what you went through, he was there.”

Wilbur takes off his glasses and folds them, hanging them on the loose collar of his flannel. He turns and walks out of the door.

Holy fuck, Quackity Nevadas has a lot of books. It’s not hard to miss the second Wilbur steps in from the upper door where he’s higher than the rest of the office. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and peers over the railing down below to Quackity, who flags a paper at him.

“You’re completely sane,” Quackity says and places the paper down again.

Wilbur blinks. “Did you just fucking rubber stamp me?”

“Yes,” he shrugs. “Now, our conversation doesn’t have to be blocked by paperwork, and Phil can sleep at night.”

Wilbur continues to walk along the platform and stops when he figures Quackity might be tired of spinning to look at him. He leans on the railing and stares blankly at the shelf across from him. “Phil thinks I need therapy. Do you think so?”

“You need something to help you get out of dark places when Phil sends you there.”

“Last time he sent me into a dark place, I brought something back.”

“A daughter?”

Wilbur’s breath hitches in his throat. He looks down to Quackity, lips parted, eyebrows furrowed together. “What?” He whispers.

“You saved her life and orphaned her at the exact same time. It comes with responsibility, whether you like it or not..”

“You were there,” he points out and works his jaw. “Do you feel responsible?”

“Yes,” Quackity laughs softly. “I feel a staggering amount of responsibility.”

Wilbur nods and pushes himself off of the railing, continuing to pace along. “Phil thinks that Tallulah helped Cucurucho kill all those girls. What’s your opinion on that?” He needs something else, he needs someone else. He can’t be the only one who believes in this girl, can he? If anybody, Quackity will agree with him. He wants him — needs him — to agree.

“I think it’s vulgar.” Wilbur opens his mouth to agree, and is quickly interrupted. “I also think it’s entirely plausible. Phil is going to ask her questions when she wakes up. She can’t escape this.”

Wilbur groans beneath his breath and bows his head, going back to leaning on the railing of the platform. He rubs at his eyes, then his temples. He shakes his head, then leans back and sits against the bookshelf, legs splayed out in front of him. After a few moments of staring at the ceiling, head tilted upwards, eyes fluttering, Quackity comes up the ladder. The man sits beside him, and says nothing. They sit in solemn silence.

“It’s not fair to her,” Wilbur mumbles, and brings his knees close to his chest. “She wouldn’t do a thing like that. Not — not willingly, she’s just a kid. How does a kid do something like that, Nevadas?”

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. He knows these types of questions. He will not let him inside of his head. “Do any of us really know?”

He frowns and turns his gaze forward. “I don’t need therapy.”

“This doesn’t have to be therapy. It’s whatever you need it to be. I can simply be an outlet of stress and anger, if you so wish.”

Wilbur nods and heaves a sigh, then slumps forward until his forehead lies against his knees. By the end of today, he’ll be back in the hospital, back by Tallulah’s side. He just can’t help it. It’s like a magnet. “I think I do feel responsibility for her. Like a father. Is that strange?”

“No,” he says. “It happens to me, too. Perhaps we’re more alike than you think.”

“...Perhaps we are.”

Wilbur wants to go back to the field. After a week or two away, it started to become this tightness in his chest. He can’t stand by knowing that he can do something about this. There are killers, and he can help. Maybe he’s the only one who can. And, the action starts after only the second day he decides he’s going back.

He shoulders open the car door, and the grass is soft beneath his feet. The air chills against him almost immediately, a sharp contrast to just a month ago, when the summer was hot and unbearable. He blows out a long sigh, and ducks beneath the crime scene tape.

Several hands in rows stick up from beneath the dirt, a small plastic tube connecting from a syringe up into the trees to a source of water. Mushrooms are growing here. Each hand is covered in dirt and growing fungus, the bodies having previously been buried beneath the ground. Everything is covered in mushrooms. It’s hard to tell where each grave starts and stops.

The officers are removing each body from their places. The skin is covered in dirt and fungus. It’s impossible to identify them at first glance. Wilbur watches as they load up to the bodies into the bags, and carry them away. Only one remains, his body uncovered. Baghera crouches down and uncovers his mouth with a latex glove. The flesh comes with it, leaving the muscle and teeth visible. She grimaces, and stands back up.

“Local police found tire tracks nearby on a service road,” Phil says and lingers behind him. “Some small animal traps in the surrounding area, too. Maybe to lure people away from their garden.” 

Baghera, Roier, and Charlie work diligently at the bodies with brushes and the like. Anything to gather up fingerprints or something to help catch this man. Wilbur’s fingers spasm into fists. “How many bodies?” He asks, glances towards Roier for a brief moment.

“Nine,” Roier says and rises to his feet. “Each of them are in various stages of decay. And, obviously, well fertilized.”

“He buried them in nutrient-rich compost,” Baghera says. “It encouraged decomposition. They were buried with the intention of keeping them that way. For a little, at least. Long enough for the fungus to get rid of any distinguishing characteristics.”

“Line and rebar were used to distribute fluids after they were buried,” Charlie points out and sighs. “He was feeding them something.”

“No restraints?” Phil asks.

“Nothing except dirt,” Charlie nods and shrugs.

“The other end of the air supply comes up over there,” Baghera points to the tubes the boys who initially discovered the place had first seen. “It’s not clean, but it wasn't a priority. I mean, he definitely wasn’t lazy.”

Wilbur swallows. “No, he is not,” he mumbles. 

All at once, heads turn. The three leave the crime scene, content to leave the man alone so he can figure this out. Do whatever he needs to do. Phil stops by his side, lies a hand on his shoulders, and nods. He wanders off beyond the crime scene tape, following the others. The rest of the officers clear the scene as well.

Bad Halo stands in the midst of a crowd surrounding the perimeter of the tape where officers are stationed. He watches them leave Wilbur to himself, and furrows his brows together. He holds the small camera between his hands, zooms in, and snaps the picture. He puts it back in his pocket just as easily and steps forward to the closest officer.

“Excuse me,” he starts out and clears his throat. “I’m one of the parents of the boys who found the bodies. Is it alright if I ask a few things? The boys are going to have questions, I want to be honest with them.”

The officer nods and gives him a warm smile. “Of course. I’ll try my best to answer.”

Bad nods towards Wilbur, stood still in the midst of the tape and bodies. “What is that man doing out there by himself?”

The officer shrugs. “He’s a special consultant of some kind. He works for the FBI.”

Wilbur stares at the bodies, traces them with his eyes. He shuts his eyes, and rolls out his shoulders.

The shovel is heavy in his hand, carried with a firm grip so firm his knuckles are white. He buries the man in a shallow grave, naked, lying still. He doesn't bind his arms or legs, merely lets the dirt hold him down. The dirt thumps onto the body until it covers the man entirely. 

He’s alive. But, he will never wake up again. He doesn’t know he’s dying. He doesn’t need him to know that.

He places a tube inside his mouth and duct tapes it over, allowing the rest of the tube out of the mouth to feed him. He raises the arm and holds it down with a nail, and the skin is already dirt–covered. He stabs the syringe in, and works quickly. He tends to his garden.

This is his design.

His eyes trail back to the man buried. He expects to see dirt. He expects to see all of his wonderful work. And he is met with a man in white.

Wilbur recoils, startled out of the trance. He is kneeling by the grave. His heart is pounding inside of his chest. He curls his hands into fists on his knees, and squeezes his eyes shut. He wills his heart down to a regular beat, his breathing evening out by force. He lets the darkness behind his eyelids swallow the rest of the world. He is fine. He is fine. He is —

A hand shoots up out of the dirt and grabs his wrist. Wilbur damn near screams and clutches onto the hand instinctively. He retracts it immediately, and pulls away from the hand. The man groans with wheezing breaths. His chest rises and falls with the effort of it all. 

“I need an EMT,” Wilbur yells, and stares, eyes bulging. Holy shit. The man’s mouth is opening and closing, teeth clicking together audibly as he fights for breath.

The team rushes over, and Wilbur stumbles out of their way, pressing himself up against the tree nearby. He worked homicide. He worked homicide, but that was five years ago. That was far behind him. It’s been a long time since he’s seen something like this. He presses a hand to his chest, and forces the panic down to his feet, where it can stay hidden.

Fuck.

Wilbur tosses the signed papers — his clearance, his psych eval — onto Quackity’s desk. “This might’ve been premature,” he mutters.

Quackity draws his brows together. “What did you see?”

Wilbur puts his hands on his hips and inhales long and deep. “Cucurucho. It was a hallucination. I saw him lying there in someone else’s grave.k

“Did you tell Phil?”

Wilbur outright laughs, “Fuck no.”

Quackity shrugs. “It’s probably stress. It’s not worth reporting. You replaced the victim of another crime with somebody that could be considered your victim.”

He only seems to get more offended, and scoffs. “I don’t consider Cucurucho my victim, Quackity. I just consider him dead.”

Quackity steps forward. “Do you find it harder to imagine the thrill of killing now that you’ve done it yourself?”

Wilbur wraps his arms around himself, and lets his gaze drop to the ground. He nods, quickly, quietly, drawing in a deep breath. He leans further against the pillar. “Mhm,” he mumbles, and twists his fingers in the fabric of his jacket. “I do.”

Quackity sighs. He decides not to dwell on the subject too much. It’s not worth discussing, he can’t help with this. He winds around the desk, “Why did he leave their arms exposed? To hold their hands?”

Wilbur watches him and drops his arms to his sides, reaching back to hold the sides of the pillar as Quackity steps closer. “No,” he says, eyes darting around the space. “It’s too obscure for somebody who took the time to bury his victims in a straight line.” He moves away from the pillar, because Quackity is too close, and it’s making his chest swell with something he doesn’t want to place.

“He was cultivating them.”

“He was keeping them alive,” he insists. “He was feeding them intravenously.”

Quackity watches as Wilbur sits on the edge of the desk, merely leaning against it, with his arms crossed. He comes to stand in front of him, hands in his pockets. “But he let them die — except for the one that didn’t.”

“The one that didn’t died on the way to the hospital,” Wilbur mutters. “They weren’t crops, though; they were fertilizer. The bodies were covered in fungus.”

“Fungus mirrors the structure of the brain,” he says. “A web of connections.”

Something comes alight behind Wilbur’s eyes as he lets his gaze drift away from Q down to the ground again. “He admires the connection fungus can make that human minds can’t.”

“Yours can,” Quackity laughs, and Wilbur joins him.

He smiles wide. “Yeah, uhm … yeah, not physically,” he laughs.

Quackity hums and stands up straighter, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Is that what your killer is searching for? A connection?”

Quackity shows Wilbur out, hand sweeping in a gesture as he smiles. He shuts the door behind the man and crosses the room to the other door. He stops, and hears the rustling of somebody putting something away. He frowns, then sets his face into a neutral expression as he swings open the door.

Dark hair and pale skin — oh, he knows who this is.

“Mr. Kimball?” He greets, and steps aside. The man nods. “Come in.” He watches as the man takes his time in appreciating his office. A swell of pride fills Quackity’s chest. He has worked hard on this place. He’s made it his home.

“I’ve never been to a psychiatrist before,” the man says, his grin small and sheepish. “And unfortunately, I am very thorough. You’re one of three doctors I’m interviewing. It’s more of less a bake–off.”

Quackity holds his hands in front of him neatly. “I’m very fond of bake–offs,” he says dryly. “May I ask why you’ve just now decided to look into a psychiatrist?”

Just what he wanted. The man freezes. And he changed the subject. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions first? Before we get into any of that.”

Quackity nods and gestures to the open space around them. “Go right ahead.” He bites back a grin.

“You’ve written so much on social exclusion, that’s actually why I’m here. I was wondering —”

“Are you Bad Halo?” He interjects and stuffs his hands in his pockets with a tilt of his head. He grins, and his golden tooth shines. Bad hangs his head in defeat, a scoff on his face. “This is unethical. Even for you.”

Bad grinds his teeth. “I’m so embarrassed,” he groans and grimaces.

He nods. He should be embarrassed. “I need to ask for your bag.”

“What?”

“Your bag,” he emphasizes and holds his hands out. “Hand it over, please.” His gaze is firm and harsh, even for a therapist. “I’d really rather not take it from you.”

Bad frowns, but hands it over with surprising cooperance. Quackity undoes the clips on the bag and pulls it open. He huffs, and reaches inside to pull out the recording device. He holds it out for Bad to see, eyebrows raised.

“I was recording our conversation.”

“Our conversation?”

“Yes.”

“No other conversations?”

“No.”

Quackity scoffs and puts it back, clicking it closed. He does not hand it back to Bad. “You were incredibly persistent about your appointment time. How did you know Wilbur Soot would be here?”

Bad rolls his eyes. “I might have also recorded your session with Wilbur Soot.”

“That wasn’t my question,” he says. “How did you know?”

“I can’t answer that.”

Quackity stares at him a moment longer, the bag still in his hands. He holds it a little more firmly, eyes narrowing. And then, he sits on the white couch at the far wall and pats the spot beside him. Bad knows better than to refuse. He goes bitterly though, his hands balled into fists.

Quackity takes out the device once more and hands it to Bad. “Delete the conversation you recorded. Now.”  Bad grinds his teeth, but Quackity watches him delete it, and takes it back to put in the bag. He sets the bag on the side opposite to the journalist. “You have been terribly rude,” he says. “What’s to be done about that?"

“I believe Wilbur Soot knows exactly what goes on in his head, and it’s why he doesn’t want anybody else in there,” Phil insists and stabs into the loin decorated with a red sauce. He bites into it and hums in gentle appreciation for Quackity’s cooking.

Quackity leans forward. “Are you not used to broken ponies in your stables, Phil?”

“You think Wilbur is a broken pony?” He asks, twisting the question, and looks over at Quackity in soft surprise.

“Oh, no. I think he’s brilliant, I’ve rarely come across a mind like his,” he says and leans back again, cutting into his own meal. “Have you ever lost a pony?”

Phil chuckles bitterly. “If you’re asking me if I’ve lost someone in the field, the answer is yes. Why?”

“I want to understand why you’re so delicate with Wilbur. It’s like you’re constantly walking on eggshells around him,” he clarifies. “He’s not a bomb, Phil.”

Phil narrows his eyes. “I’ve already had my psych eval.”

“Not by me,” he laughs and reaches for the red wine beside him. 

Phil does the same with a hearty laugh, and the glasses clink together.

“What were they soaked in?” Wilbur asks incredulously, standing with one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cup of coffee as Roier and Charlie work.

“A mixture of hardwood, shredded newspaper, and pig poop,” Charlie explains. “It’s perfect for growing mushrooms and fungi.”

Roier points down to the body lying across the two. “It was not the mushrooms that killed them, though.”

“They died of kidney failure,” Baghera says, staring down at her clipboard, and raises her head up. “Every single one of them. Dextrose in the catheters. He most likely used dialysis or peristaltic of some kind to pump fluids after the circulatory systems broke down.”

Wilbur furrows his brows and leans forward on his toes to get a better look at the mushroom–covered corpse. “He was force feeding them sugar water?”

“Mushrooms love sugar water,” Roier calls out. “So do recovering alcoholics. If you feed sugar to the fungus in your body, the fungus creates alcohol, so it’s like friends helping each other out.”

Wilbur holds his coffee a little tighter. “Not only alcoholics have compromised endocrine systems,” he points out quickly, before Charlie can say something. “They died of kidney failure, right? Death by diabetic ketoacidosis.”

Baghera looks at Charlie and Roier like they’ve offended her somehow. “Did you know they were diabetics?”

“No, we don’t,” Charlie protests.

“They are,” Wilbur insists. “He induces a coma and puts them in the ground.”

“How?” Baghera asks.

“Changes the medication — he’s a doctor, or a pharmacist, or somewhere in medical services,” he says.

“He buries them and feeds them sugar long enough for the circulatory systems to soak it up,” Charlie whispers.

“So he can feed the mushrooms!” Roier exclaims, and claps his hands together.

“We dug up his garden,” Baghera murmurs.

“He’s going to want to grow a new one,” Wilbur breathes. He raises the cup of coffee to his lips and takes a long sip. Distantly, he thinks he’s going to need to change this to wine if he’s going to survive this career.

In the local pharmacy, a man works behind the counter with a white lab coat. He works diligently, and serves his customers. He serves a woman named Gretchen Speck, who is lively in asking for her prescription.

“Gretchen Speck,” he mutters and loads up the computer. He already knows who she is. He’s known this for weeks. “Horowitz?”

She laughs and shifts from side to side. “Oh, just Speck. We got divorced.”

“Insulin,” he hums and walks down to the back, crouching down to the cabinets to grab it. He furrows his brows together. This is his design. “Oh, it’s the wrong one.”

“Is that bad?” She asks.

“No, no, it’s alright,” he insists and walks back to the stored insulin. He places down her prescription and grabs another bottle. He puts it in his pocket, and in the bag goes the false one. He folds the bag neatly, and hands it over to her from across the counter. He offers a smile, “There you go.”

He gives her the paper to sign like clockwork, and it doesn’t add a tightness to his chest. It is like every other day. He double checks the address with her, and watches her finish signing the papers. She walks off with the bag, just as intended, and he keeps his face neutral.

Outside the pharmacy, SWAT travels with the FBI through the parking lot. It is dark in the evening. Wilbur travels in the midst of them as they walk through the lot, down to the building, and the only light is that on the walls triggered by motion. Phil walks right beside him.

“She’s the 10th diabetic customer to disappear after filing for an insulin prescription. The second to disappear from this exact place,” Phil explains as they walk into the building itself. 

“What about the other eight?” Wilbur asks, and feels the chill of the store, and hears the thudding feet of the soldiers they walk with.

“From all over the country,” he sighs. “One pharmacist all over the country.”

“A floater?”

A worker gets down on his knees and puts his hands behind his head.

“Well our floater is still here. He’s logged into his work station.”

They round the corner in view of the counter. Phil holds up his badge and calls out, “Everybody stop what you are doing.” He approaches the first man he sees, whose hands go up instantly. “Special Agent Phil Watson. Which one of you is Eldon Stammets?”

The man looks at his coworkers. “He was just here.”

Wilbur looks up. “Is his car still in the parking lot?”

“I mean — maybe?”

“Go, let’s go,” Wilbur encourages and rushes off the way they came in, outside to the parking lot. The car is still there, just like the man said. He reaches out to the soldier behind him. “Give me your baton.” 

They hand it to him without hesitation. Wilbur flicks it open and holds it with both hands. He presses his back to the front of the car and swings beside him to break the glass of the driver seat’s window. He gives it back, and reaches in to pop open the trunk. Phil watches, silent.

Wilbur rushes to the trunk, and gags. He presses his sleeve to his nose, face wrinkled in disgust. He recovers quickly and pushes aside the dirt. He sees the oxygen mask first, then cradles the woman’s head and brushes the dirt off of her hair to see her clearly. 

He presses his fingers to her neck and shouts over his shoulder, “She’s alive!”

Phil does not take the stench lightly and covers his nose and mouth, coughing roughly with the smell. Wilburs steps back for the EMTs to get to work. He reconvenes with Phil where the smell doesn’t reach them.

Charlie jogs up to them, panting softly. “Hey, we just checked the browsing history on the computer.”

“Do I want to hear this?”

“Probably not. Just — follow me.”

Baghera has pulled up the computer, and turns it to them the moment they approach. Roier heaves a sigh. “Bad Halo. TattleCrime.com.”

Baghera reads aloud. “The FBI isn’t just hunting psychopaths, they’re headhunting them. They’re offering pay and benefits in the hopes of using one demented mind…”

“Keep going,” Phil urges.

Baghera looks at Wilbur, scans his face, but she keeps reading. “One demented mind to catch … the point is he goes into a lot of detail.” 

Wilbur stares blankly ahead. No matter what he does, the world will always see him as a twisted mind. He’ll never be normal, will he? Like a dog wandering in the dark, he is lost, and he is sick. He is sick.

Bad Halo heaves a sigh as he hears the knock on the door. He shuts his computer, and reaches for the knob. Before he can even grab it, the door is shoved open by a swarm of officers. They throw him onto the bed nearby and pin his arms behind his back, even as he cries out with the sudden force. Cuffs click onto his wrists. They force him up, and sit him down onto the bed.

Phil crosses into the room, hands behind his back.

“You can’t arrest me for writing an article,” Bad protests as soon as he sees him.

“You entered a federal crime scene without permission,” he says, leaning forward. 

“Escorted by a detective —”

“Under false pretense,” he says over her, much louder.

“It’s as good as permission, Watson.”

“You lied to a police officer.”

“You can’t arrest me for lying, either.”

Phil works his jaw, glaring down at him. “You got all of that from a local detective, Halo?”

Bad shrugs and smiles, almost smugly. "There's a lot going around about Wilbur Soot. A local police detective interested in a pissing contest with the FBI might have some information.”

Phil points a finger in his face, the other reaching into his pocket. “The timing of your article allowed a murderer to escape. You realize that, don’t you?” He takes the hands out of his pocket, carrying a pair of tweezers. He reaches out and plucks a strand of hair from Bad’s head, even when he winces. “You were in Minnesota. You were in the Shrike’s Nest. Wanna know how I know?”

Bad scowls, and Phil takes that as an invitation to continue.

“You left a strand of hair behind,” he chuckles. “You contaminated the crime scene. That’s obstructing justice. I can arrest you for obstructing justice.”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t,” Bad whispers.

“You don’t write another damn word about Wilbur Soot, and I won’t have to,” Phil hisses, lips curling into an ugly sneer.

The hospital room is dim, lit only by the overhead lighting by Tallulah’s bed. She hasn’t woken up. The bandage is still wrapped around her neck. But her chest rises and falls with the tell–tale sign of breathing. It sends a little ease in Wilbur’s body. He listens to the clacking of hooves (heels), and turns his head to the stag in the hallway.

Jaiden crosses into the room, where Wilbur is curled onto the couch. His jacket is under his head in a makeshift pillow, his breath slow and steady. She smiles fondly, the softest curve of her lips.

Wilbur rises from the small couch, and walks out into the hallway. There is an undeniable chill in the air, rattling down to his bones. The stag’s hooves click against the tiled floor, and rounds the corner out of sight. The hallway fades into darkness, and it consumes him. It sinks down to his skin. There is nothing.

“— He and the Grandmother discussed better times,” Jaiden reads aloud, her voice a steady, soft tone. It is inviting and warm. Wilbur flutters his eyes open, and feels the blanket across his body, tucked up to his chin. His eyes are half–lidded, and he quickly decides not to sit up. She’s sitting on the edge of the hospital bed. “The old lady decided that, in her opinion, Europe was entirely to blame for the way things are now. She said —”

“What are you reading?” Wilbur asks in a soft mumble.

She startles, and looks over her shoulder at him. His shoulders and rising and falling with his breath. His hair is tousled on his forehead, curly and undoubtedly tangled. He looks so incredibly tired, and it makes her heart ache. She glances down at the book. “Flannery O’Connor. When I was Tallulah’s age, I loved this book. I tried to raise peacocks because she did.” Wilbur hums in gentle acknowledgment, smiling softly. “But they’re really stupid fucking birds.”

Wilbur laughs and tries to get comfortable again, shifting around on the couch. He moves his head on the makeshift pillow, and groans softly, blowing out a long breath. “You could be reading to a killer,” he points out through a sigh. He pulls the cover up more, pulls his legs closer to his chest.

“Innocent until proven guilty,” Jaiden defends and shrugs. “I’m about to come across the subject of the ‘Takes One to Know One’ article.”

Wilbur grunts in response. He shifts again, back arching slightly like he’s trying to engrave himself into the couch. “Did Phil send you?”

“No,” Jaiden says simply.

“Right,” he sighs and uses his shoulder to push himself up to sit. He cracks his neck and brushes his hair out of his face. Still, he keeps the blanket around himself.

“I don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“No, no, let’s talk about or not talk about whatever you want to. I don’t mind.” He tries to smile at her, and it comes off weaker than intended. He’s still fighting off sleep, after all.

Jaiden hums and looks at the book, then back to him. “Tallulah was a success for you.”

Wilbur frowns, because even though he said they could talk about anything, he would rather not talk about this. His gaze falls to the girl in the bed, in a coma, with blood still staining her neck and jaw. “She doesn’t look like a success.”

“Don’t feel sorry for yourself because you saved this girl’s life.”

“I don’t,” he says incredulously, eyes widening and brows furrowing in offense. “I don’t feel sorry for myself at all. I feel, um … I feel good.”  His face twitches, like he isn’t quite sure that’s the word for it, but he doesn’t take it back.

Phil looks over the crime scene just outside of Bad Halo’s apartment. The car is stained with a splatter of blood, and a local detective — the one that granted information to Bad in the first place — is dead. His body lies beneath a bloodstained, white tarp. He looks over the report with another detective, brows pressed together.

“Watson.”

Phil twists around, and rushes forward to the ambulance. They’ve cleaned the blood off of Bad’s face, but seeing somebody shot in the head in front of you has to stick beyond the skin.

“Stand down officer,” He says, and the officer near Bad steps away to leave them by themselves. “Are you alright? You weren’t harmed?”

“No,” he mumbles and looks up at him, and there is that horror in his eyes. “Where’s Wilbur Soot?”

Phil frowns in confusion. “We have an eyewitness for the crime, we don’t need him —”

“That’s not why I’m asking,” Bad insists and leans forward, drawing the blanket closer around himself. He's shaking. He's afraid.

Phil freezes. He looks over his shoulder, “Somebody find me Wilbur Soot!” He turns back, and lowers his voice pointedly. “This is about Wilbur?”

“He was talking about people having the same properties of fungus,” Bad says. 

“Well, what does that have to do with Wilbur?”

“Someone who understands him,” he says. “Soot was right. Stammets is looking for connections.

“What did you tell him?” Phil asks again, and Bad turns away. “I need to know what you told him. Now.” 

“I told him about Tallulah.”

“What did you tell him?” 

“...Everything. He wants to help Soot connect with Tallulah. He’s going to bury her.”

Stammets steps out of the elevator and nods gently at two passing nurses. He turns into a room labeled STAFF and comes out in a doctor’s outfit with an illegitimate name tag around his neck. He doesn’t check over his shoulder as he walks down the hallways, only once to make sure nobody saw. He grabs a stretcher and pushes it down the hall as he walks. He’ll need it.

Wilbur waits for the elevator doors to open patiently, and steps out with ease. He brushes a hand through his hair — it’s still unbrushed and tousled. He hasn’t gotten much sleep, not since he started seeing the stag. Something about it sets him off.

He jolts as his phone vibrates in his pocket and reaches for it. He presses it to his ear with a heavy sigh. “Hello? … Yes, I am.” 

Shit.

Wilbur hangs up, stuffs it in his pocket. He walks a bit faster down the hall, reaching back for the standard issue gun in the holster on his hip hidden beneath his coat. His finger twitches around the trigger. He speeds to a jog, because she’s in danger. He needs to get her, needs to make sure she’s safe, he needs —

He stops by the door to Tallulah’s hospital room, the gun tight in his hands. He peers in, steps in slowly.

Gone. She’s completely gone.

The blankets have been tossed aside.

No. Oh, no, no, no. She will not die because of him. She won’t, she can’t. Not when he hasn’t even said hi to her, not when he hasn’t apologized for all that he’s done to her. He orphaned her, she has no right to just die now. 

Wilbur runs down the hall and finds the nearest nurse. His heart is slamming in his chest. “Where’s Tallulah? The girl in 408? Where is she?”

“They took her for tests.”

“Who?” She doesn’t answer. “Who took her!?”

And it’s clear she doesn’t have an answer for him at all. He curses, and he wishes it was under his breath, but he shouts it out and slams his hand on the desk. He sprints down the hall, faster, faster, and faster. The gun is still in his hand, and he’s ready to use it, he has before.

Wilbur slams open the stairwell door with his shoulder. He takes them two at a time until the yellow light fades in. The hallway is narrow, and he doesn’t think for a moment before turning right and running that way. His feet slam onto the ground, and he bumps into the wall with the panic and fear, fear, fear of it all.

And he sees him.

He shouts out, and Stammets doesn’t stop, merely looks at him. Wilbur pulls the trigger, and hits him in the arm. Stammets cries out and clutches the wound, falling to the ground by the wall. Wilbur kicks the gun away and stands over him, gun still pointed at his face.

“What were you going to do to her?” Wilbur grits out.

“We all evolved from mycelium, I’m only reintroducing her,” Stammets explains nervously, pointing towards Tallulah, who is still in the hospital bed.

“By burying her alive?” He scoffs.

“The journalist said you understood me!” He grimaces and clutches the wound a little tighter.

“I don’t,” Wilbur hisses.

“You would have. You should have,” he pleads. “If you walk through a field of mycelium, they know you’re there! The spores reach for you as you walk by. I know who you’re reaching for, Wilbur Soot. I know.”

Wilbur grinds his teeth. No. He won’t let this man get to him. He won’t. Not even if a flash of dark hair flashes across his memory, quickly replaced with another. With hair like his, and a face twisted in agony.

“You should’ve let me plant her,” Stammets hisses.

Wilbur is back in the office. Quackity is behind him at his desk, and Wilbur stands in front of the mahogany furniture. His hands are in his pockets, and his eyes are brown, wide, and empty. He swallows roughly, and waits.

“Who did you see when you shot Eldon Stammets, who did you see?” Quackity asks and watches him from the desk. The back of his head, somehow, is still just as beautiful as the rest of him.

“I didn’t see Cucuruho,” Wilbur says. He does not look at him, content to trace the spines of books on the shelves. “If that’s what you’re implying.”

“So, it’s not his ghost haunting you,” he decides. “It’s the inevitability of there being somebody so bad that killing them felt good.”

Wilbur looks over his shoulder at him, just barely, his eyes half–lidded. “Killing Cucurucho felt like justice."

His mind traces back to the man jolting with every bullet marking his skin. The blood that splashed onto his face, the pull of the trigger, and the recoil jerking his shoulders.

“That’s why you’re here,” Quackity says. “To prove that sprig of gusto you felt is from saving Tallulah, and not by killing her father.”

Wilbur works his jaw furiously and turns on his heels to face him entirely. “I didn’t feel a sprig of gusto when I shot Stammets.”

“You didn’t kill Stammets,” he points out.

Wilbur takes a deep breath. It’s shaky when it leaves him, and his lungs spasm. “I thought about it.” And the shame creeps up to his neck, and his throat constricts. “I’m still not sure that that wasn’t my intention when I pulled the trigger.”

Quackity winds around the desk, and places a hand on Wilbur’s lower back. Wilbur startles, but he doesn’t step away. The touch, if anything, is warm and it’s safe. Quackity gently lowers him to sit on a dark leather seat.

“I should’ve stuck to fixing boat motors,” Wilbur chuckles half–heartedly and slumps forward, bringing one hand up to cup his forehead.

“A boat engine is easy to fix. If you fail there’s a paddle. Do you have a paddle with Cucurucho?”

“You were supposed to be my paddle,” he shoots back instantly. Almost desperately, in a way. Maybe angrily. Wilbur isn’t entirely sure what he’s feeling anymore.

“I am,” he insists. He furrows his brows, and bites on his bottom lip. “It wasn’t the act of killing that got you down, was it, Wilbur?”

Wilbur looks at him. Quackity looks back.

“Are you that upset because killing Cucurucho felt that good?” Quackity tilts his head, like he’s asking how the weather is. Wilbur’s breath hitches in his throat.

Wilbur stares, and his eyes are glassy. His lips tremble, and he looks at the ground instead. He wrings his hands in his laps. “I liked killing Cucurucho.” His voice is shakier than he intends, and it cracks, and neither of them point it out. He inhales, and bows his head.

Quackity leans forward. “God kills all the time, it must feel good for him too. Are we not created in his image?”

“That depends who you ask,” he mutters.

“He dropped a church roof on thirty–four worshippers last Wednesday night in Texas, while they were singing a hymn.”

“Did God feel good about that?” He asks bitterly and swipes his knuckles across his nose.

“He felt powerful.”

Chapter Text

Cucurucho lowers the binoculars from his face, and passes them over to Tallulah, who stands behind him with the rifle over her shoulder, dressed in camouflage. She takes them and follows his line of sight to the deer in the midst of the woods, grazing on the autumn leaves. She raises the rifle — she knows this. She’s been taught over and over.

“Be patient,” Cucurucho whispers and lies a hand on her shoulder. “Wait for your shot.”

The first gunshot echoes through the woods. It rattles Tallulah down to her core, and the deer runs, taking its chance at survival. She grimaces, and shoots again. She hears the thump, and her organs play a chord.

They prop the deer up on the hood of the car as they make their way back to the cabin. It is lonely out here in Maryland, but it’s worth it for the time away with her father. Right? The car rumbles to a stop, and she helps her father take off the carcass from the car and place it on the table inside.

Tallulah runs a gloved hand across the deer’s fur. “She was so pretty,” she whispers. It’s really meant for herself to hear, but her father does anyway.

“She is so pretty,” Cucurucho corrects effortlessly.

“Aren’t deers supposed to be complex emotional creatures?” She asks, deciding to carry on the conversation after it’s already started. “They care about each other. They care about their environment. They tread through the grass lightly because they don’t want to hurt the plants.”

“They’re a lot like us,” Cucurucho says, eyes trained on his daughter. “And we’re going to honor every part of her. Her hide will make a rug, we can make the leg bones into knives. We won’t waste any of her.” Cucurucho reaches into his pocket, and pulls out the hunting knife, the weapon balancing on his fingers. Tallulah flinches and averts her gaze, arms coming up to cradle each other. “Just like we talked about. Start at the sternum. Keep the blade pointed up.”

She takes the knife with gentle hands. Hands too gentle to be doing any of this at all. She presses the knife to the sternum like told, and takes a deep breath. Cucurucho stops her with a hand on the arm. “If you damage the organs, you ruin the meat,” he warns.

Tallulah pulls the knife with some resistance, and the skin gives way underneath the blade. “I don’t know how I’m going to feel about eating her after this,” she mutters.

Cucurucho grabs her and spins her to face him, suddenly cross. She recoils instinctively, clutching the knife a little harder. “Eating her is honoring her. Otherwise it’s … it’s murder.”  She closes her eyes when he kisses her forehead, and his hand on her wrist leaves a bloody mark behind. He lets her go, and she returns the knife to its place.

Tallulah wakes up in a startle, her eyes flying open. She can’t breathe with the tube in her mouth. She can’t breathe. The machines are beeping, the IV is in her arm, and she flails. She needs to get it off, she needs it off, she needs —

Wilbur flings open the door, and the dogs rush out before him, scrambling to get a taste of the fresh air. As soon as they see Jaiden they’re greeting her, who bends down to pet them enthusiastically. She grins when she sees him. She’s dressed for an occasion, and it sends off warning signs. Something is happening. “Morning.”

Wilbur squints at the sudden assault of light, but walks to her anyway. “I didn’t hear you drive in.”

Jaiden shrugs. “I have a Hybrid. It’s a great car for stalking.”

Wilbur laughs and wraps his arms around himself, suddenly very aware he is still in his pajamas. He walks backwards, over to the stairs leading up to his front door. “Do you want coffee? Uh, more importantly, why are you here?”

Jaiden follows dutifully. “Yes, and Tallulah woke up.”

He stops entirely, and turns on his heels. The wood of the porch is cold through the cloth of his socks. It seeps into his skin, down to his bones, up his arms. That, or it’s something else. He chuckles. “You know how to bury the lead.”

“You want me to get you that coffee?”

“I would actually love to grab my coat.”

“Let’s have coffee,” she insists.

Wilbur heaves a sigh. “Okay. Yeah, alright, come in,” he mumbles. He opens the door for her and lets her come in first, then the dogs once they see the welcoming sign back inside, then shuts the door behind him. Like always, it is dim in his house.

They sit across from each other at his dining table, and Wilbur leans back. He watches Jaiden wrap her hands around her mug of coffee. He raises his own to his lips and takes a long sip. He’s going to need it for the rest of the day, he supposes. The phone is ringing, and it’s Phil, and Wilbur doesn’t care to answer. Jaiden tightens her lips into a thin line, and taps her nails against the porcelain of the dish in her hands.

“How many times is he going to call?” Wilbur wonders outloud, eyeing the phone.

“He wants you to go see her,” Jaiden says.

“And you don’t.”

“I think you should eventually,” she answers slowly, like each word weighs a ton. Maybe they do. Words are meager things. “Phil thinks Tallulah was an accomplice,” she sighs. “I don’t want to get in the way of him, but I would like to be a buffer …”

“Please,” Wilbur blurts maybe too quickly. “Phil respects you too much to yell at you.”

She grins and takes a  sip of her coffee. “I take advantage of that.”

Wilbur shifts in his seat and leans forward, placing his mug on the table in favor of putting his elbows on his knees. He covers his face, and shakes his head, “Tallulah doesn’t have anyone.”

Jaiden looks up, her face firm. “You can’t be her everyone.” Wilbur groans from behind his teeth and sits back up, dragging his hands down his face. One of his dogs brushes against Wilbur’s legs, and he reaches down to pet him, clicking his tongue softly. He pushes up into his hands and leans against his leg, putting his weight on him as he lies down. “Dogs keep a promise that people can’t,” he whispers.

Wilbur glares at her through his lashes. “I’m not collecting another stray.”

“Tallulah can’t talk to somebody about what happened with somebody who was there, Wilbur,” she says. “So no Quackity either.”

“Much less the guy who killed her father,” he mutters. He rubs his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He rubs his hands on his knees and works his jaw. God, he hates this. He shouldn’t have let emotions get the better of him. Now he feels responsible for the girl he orphaned. He feels like a father — something he isn’t. He doesn’t know how to take care of teenage girls, just stray dogs.

“I’ll try to talk to her,” Jaiden decides.

They drink their coffee in solemn silence, and the phone rings, and Wilbur decides he is fucking sick of that noise. He grits his teeth, grabs the phone, and throws it across the room.

Tallulah is, hopefully, comfortable in the psychiatric hospital down in Baltimore. Still, Jaiden’s heart aches when she sees her. The thick bandage is still around her neck, but she looks up at her anyway. Two lights are positioned on either side of her above two nightstands. Tallulah puts down the book, and gives Jaiden an awkward smile. Neither of them are quite sure what to do here, it seems.

“I’m Jaiden Plays,” Jaiden introduces herself calmly, and carries the two bags in her hands over to the bed. She sets them down, and straightens up with a soft sigh.

Tallulah furrows her brows. “Are you a doctor?”

“I’m a psychiatrist,” she grins and retreats for a brief moment to pull a chair up beside the bed. “I specialize in, among other things, family trauma.”

Tallulah takes a deep breath, her chest rising. “The nurse wouldn’t tell me if my parents were dead,” she mutters, and her voice shakes. “They said I had to wait for you.”

“I’m sorry you had to wait,” she whispers.

“I already know the answer,” she shrugs. She tries to smile to show she’s unbothered, but it shows more watery than intended. She looks down again. The red beanie is still on her head, and her curls flow down her back, some strands crossing her face. “Who buried them?” She asks.

“Your mother was cremated according to her will,” Jaiden starts out slowly. This girl deserves all the answers she can get.

“And my Dad?”

“He’s a bit more complicated,” she winces.

“Because he’s crazy.”

Jaiden furrows her brows and leans forward slightly, shifting in the chair. “They said you didn’t remember.”

Tallulah only shrugs. “I do. I just didn’t want to tell them.” She takes a deep breath and puts her hands on her laps, her gaze firm. Jaiden cocks her head to the side. There is that settled, unsettling silence between them. Jaiden counts in her head until Tallulah starts speaking again. Tallulah bites on her cheek, and her eyes dart along the room. Neither of them are sure what to say anymore. Were they ever sure to begin with?

“I brought you some clothes,” Jaiden says finally, and gestures to the two bags by Tallulah’s bed. “I just guessed your size. Anything you don’t want, you can give back to me with the tags on. I can return them to the store.”

Tallulah nods slowly, and sensing the static air between them, reaches for the book on the nightstand. Jaiden thinks she’ll be counting for a long time.

Phil clasps his hands together on the desk. “I have seven families demanding to know what happened to their daughters. Tallulah is the only person who knows the truth,” he says emphatically.

“You can’t ask her now,” Jaiden protests, eyes narrowing. “We need to create a safe place first. Otherwise, you won’t be getting anything.”

“I appreciate your sympathy for her,” Phil starts out slowly, like he’s slightly scared. “I pray that one day you’ll understand my lack of it.”

Jaiden glares. “Do you seriously think she helped her father kill those girls?”

“It needs to be ruled out,” he says. “If she didn’t do it, maybe she knows who did.”

Quackity hums and turns to Jaiden, a small exhale leaving him. “How was she when you saw her?” Maybe it’s a professional curiosity, or something thrumming in his veins. Either way, he needs the answer. The question hasn’t left his mind since she woke up.

“Practical,” Jaiden answers.

“Practical,” Phil repeats incredulously, with a loud scoff.

“You can be practical without being a murderer,” Quackity suggests.

“I think she’s hiding something,” Jaiden says.

“It could be her trauma,” Q points out easily.

“It could also be something else. She has a liking for manipulation.” She looks at Phil when she says it, her gaze neutral. Withheld information to get some. She only demonstrated enough emotion to prove that she had them.”

“Are you starting to understand my lack of sympathy?” Phil says, and leans back in the chair smugly.

“You’re questioning the involvement of Tallulah in her father’s murders,” Quackity says bitterly.

“I’m questioning her state of mind,” Jaiden shoots back.

Phil huffs. “I want Wilbur to talk to her.”

Jaiden turns her head to him with a sharp glare. It’s terrifying, in the slightest. “Phil. Not yet.”

“Unfortunately for you, you’re not his psychiatrist,” Phil turns to Quackity, and taps his fingers on the desk. “What do you think, Nevadas?”

Quackity and Phil step into the lecture room, where Wilbur paces back and forth in front of the screen. A photo of the girl killed by the field presents itself behind him, large enough for the students to see. Quackity puts his hands in his pockets and tilts his head, watching and listening intently.

“—The killer who did this wanted us to know he wasn’t the Minnesota Shrike,” Wilbur says, continuing on even though he’s already seen the pair in his doorway. “He’s better than that. He’s an intelligent psychopath, and a sadist.” Quackity feels the swell of pride grow inside of his chest. “He will never kill like this again.”

Wilbur takes a moment to look at the pair, and holds up a finger. It’s a quiet gesture for them to wait with a firm glare. It’s clear he doesn’t take being interrupted in his lectures lightly.

“This copycat is an avid reader of TattleCrime.com. He had intimate knowledge of how these girls were killed. He had enough to be able to know the motive, patterns, and killings. It was enough to be able to recreate them, arguably, well.”

Quackity watches, transfixed. Wilbur is indirectly praising him, and it makes him want to keep his cards close to his chest. It’s wonderful, seeing the best FBI profiler he’s ever witnessed fumble to figure out who this copycat is. Even if he’s standing right in front of him.

“There’s only one last question. How well did he know Cucurucho? Did he watch from afar, or engage himself in his life? Did Cucurucho know this copycat as well as he was known?”

Wilbur turns and changes the slide to a photo of Tallulah’s mother, the knife wound open across her throat. “Before killing his wife and trying to kill his daughter, he received an untraceable call.” The students wait for him to continue. He seems transfixed by the photo behind him. He turns forward with a long breath. “I believe our unidentified caller was the copycat.”

Quackity grins, and their eyes meet.

Wilbur nods towards the rows, and they hear the bustle of students gathering their belongings into their arms.

“Nice lecture,” Quackity says as Wilbur steps forward towards him, and reaches out to shake his hand. “You did a wonderful job.”

“Is that why you were smiling so much?” Wilbur jokes and shakes his hand firmly, a crooked smile on his face. It’s a rare sight, but it’s beautiful all the same. He greets Phil in a more formal manner, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “What is it?”

“We want you to come see Tallulah,” Phil says first, before Quackity can do much but part his lips. “We think you’re ready to talk.”

Wilbur furrows his brows and leans back slightly. “I was always ready. When do we leave?”

“Now,” Quackity says and holds out his arm. Wilbur hesitates, but hooks his arm in his, and lets the doctor lead him down the halls to the parking lots.

“So, you’re not a nurse, a doctor, or a therapist,” Tallulah says with narrowed eyes.

“No, I’m a journalist,” Bad says, his smile warm and inviting. Something about it is still off. “I want to tell your story. If you tell me what you know, I can help fill in the blanks.”

It doesn’t help his case, because all Tallulah does is stare. “How about you tell me what you know?”

Bad nods. “Your father was the Minnesota Shrike. He killed eight girls. Eight girls that looked exactly like you.

Tallulah already knows about the girls, of course she does. It’s been surrounding her ever since she woke up. She can only conjure up one question she doesn’t know the answer to. “Why do they call him the Shrike?”

“It’s a bird that impales its prey and harvests the organs to eat later,” he explains. “He was very sick, Tallulah.”

“Am I sick?” She asks, her voice small, eyebrows drawing together.

“You’re going to be faced with that question a lot,” Bad says and winds around the foot of the bed to sit at the edge. 

“I don’t care what anybody thinks,” she mumbles.

“You better start,” he warns. “What you remember and tell everyone will define the rest of your life. Let me help you, Tallulah. I can help you tell your story.”

Tallulah opens her mouth to speak. She only ends up taking a heavy breath. “How did they catch him?” She asks instead of agreeing to anything, because that makes her heart pound.

Bad straightens up, his gaze dark and grim. “A man named Wilbur Soot. He isn't the FBI, he just works for them.” The door creaks, and Bad hears it, and he continues anyway. “He catches insane people because he can think just like them.” He looks over his shoulder at both Wilbur and Quackity standing in the doorway. “Because he is insane.”

Wilbur steps into the room, hands balled into fists. His steps are slow. “Special Agent Wilbur Soot,” he greets Tallulah, glaring at Bad.

“He’s not really an agent. He didn’t get past the screening,” Bad says smugly. He whips his head back around to Wilbur. Tallulah’s eyes dart between them, wide and frantic. “He was too unstable.”

Quackity places a hand on Bad’s arm, and sees the sparks set off in the journalist’s brain. “I must insist you leave the room, Mr. Halo.”

Bad reaches into his pocket with his free arm and holds out a card. “If you ever want to talk —”

Wilbur snatches it from his hand the second it enters his line of vision. He puts it inside his coat pocket. He listens to the sound of footsteps, and the shutting of the door. He stands in front of the foot of the bed and takes his glasses off, folding them neatly and putting them in his pocket. 

“This is Dr. Nevadas,” he mutters once he meets Tallulah’s eyes. There is fear behind them, and it makes his heart ache. He tries to keep his voice as level and soft as he can manage. “Do you remember us?”

Tallulah looks at Wilbur. “I remember you.”  She bites on the inside of her cheek. “You killed my Dad.”

Wilbur tries not to flinch. His fingers spasm at his sides. He glances towards Quackity, then the ground. There it is. That oh so familiar, painful shame that squeezes at his heart. And he knows it felt good, and he knows that this will ruin him.

Quackity clears his throat. “You’ve been in bed for days. How about we go for a walk?”

Tallulah nods, and blinks rapidly.

The gardens are lush and beautiful in the hospital. They walk beneath a glass dome and in the midst of plants. Tallulah’s arm is hooked around Wilbur’s for balance. Quackity lingers behind, his coat flung over his arm, his other hand in the pocket of his dress pants. 

Wilbur chews his bottom lip. “I’m sorry we couldn’t save your mother. I tried my hardest, but it was too late.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I saw it. Him killing her, I mean.” She comes to a stop and Wilbur gently hovers his hands over her as he helps her sit on a chair surrounded by the greenery. “He was loving until he wasn’t. He said he was sorry, to hold still, that it would all go away.”

Wilbur crouches down in front of her, and sees himself in her eyes. He sees himself in the curls on her head and the red beanie snug around them. He places a gentle hand on her knee. “You say he was loving, and I believe it. You brought that out of him, Tallulah.”

“That’s not all I brought out of him,” she mutters bitterly. Her bottom lip trembles. “I’m going to be messed up, aren’t I?” Her eyes dart between them, wide, brown, and terrified. “I’m scared about having nightmares.”

“We’ll help you with the nightmares,” Quackity offers.

Wilbur hoists himself to his feet and sits beside Tallulah on the bench with a soft groan. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, head turned to look at her. “I worry about nightmares too,” he confesses, his voice a breathy, kind whisper. Like it’s a secret between the three of them.

“So killing somebody, even when you have to, feels that bad?” Tallulah asks, looking towards him.

Wilbur seems to snap out a trance when he realizes she’s looking in his direction. He blinks once or twice, then looks back at the ground. His head turns forward, and his lips twitch in the effort of turning the words over in his mouth to make sense. They’re an endless string, and he could tell her exactly how it feels. And all he can conjure up is, “It’s the ugliest thing in the world,” with a grimace on his face.

Wilbur and Quackity walk along the gravel pathway down to where the car is parked. Wilbur fiddles with the keys in his hands, his voice quiet in the midst of their conversation. It’s nice to be able to speak to him outside of the office. Wilbur doesn’t think he would be able to live without being able to see him outside of the large space. Even if he does end up spending more time than necessary there. Even if he does think about bringing Quackity lunch sometimes. Then he remembers he isn’t an excellent cook, and the thought goes back into smoke.

Quackity abruptly places a hand on his shoulder and leans in to whisper in his ear. “Don’t get pissed.”

“Why would I — oh, you’re fucking joking.” 

“Wilbur Soot,” Bad grins and steps forward, hand outstretched, like Wilbur wouldn’t slap it away the second he gets the chance. “I never formally introduced myself. I’m Bad Halo.”

“Are you trying to salvage yourself?” Wilbur asks, lips curled into a sneer. He blatantly ignores the hand outstretched between them. 

“I want to apologize for the way I acted,” Bad says. “It was hurtful.” Wilbur holds in a laugh, and it’s not hard to see.

“Mr. Halo,” Quackity grits out. “Now isn’t the time.”

Bad ignores him. “Look, we both genuinely care about what happens to Tallulah.”

Wilbur’s glare, if possibly, becomes even sharper. Like daggers. “You told her I was insane,” he spits cruelly.

“I can undo that,” Bad shrugs.

This time, Wilbur does laugh. “You want me to help you with online ad sales so that way Tallulah doesn’t think of me as just her father’s killer?”

“I can undo what I said,” he says again, slower this time. “I can also make it a lot worse.”

Wilbur scowls and takes a few languid steps forwards. Bad backs away until he hits the car behind him, and is effectively cornered. Wilbur leans down. “I wouldn’t advise pissing off the guy who thinks about killing people for a living.”

Phil clears his throat very loudly and reads the sentence aloud. “I wouldn’t advise pissing off the guy who thinks about killing people for a living.” He leans forward on the desk, tongue in his cheek. He turns his head. “You let those words come out of his mouth?”

“I trust Wilbur to speak for himself,” Quackity shrugs. In a way, it’s like a parent–teacher conference. Wilbur is in the middle of Jaiden and Quackity, and Phil is the only one behind the desk. Wilbur is even slumped back with his arms crossed like the class clown who took it too far.

“Evidently, you shouldn't,” Phil scoffs.

“I’m just glad the story wasn’t about Tallulah,” Jaiden says.

“Well, then it’s a fucking victory, isn’t it?” He spits sourly. 

There is a long moment of silence between all three of them. It is only broken by Wilbur shutting his eyes and sucking in a deep breath through his teeth. He fiddles with the neck of his shirt, undoing a few buttons, because the room is uncomfortable and hot and he would really rather not be here.

“Look, Tallulah wants to go home,” Phil says. “Let’s take her home.”

“She can’t just have what she wants,” Jaiden protests quickly. “It could be reckless taking her out of a controlled environment.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you said she was practical,” Phil says.

“She could respond aggressively, have intense emotions, or she could even re-enact it without realizing it.”

Phil turns his head to the other psychologist in the room. “Where do you weigh in on this?”

“Jaiden is right,” Quackity shrugs. “Still, it could help Tallulah heal and prevent denial.”

Phil grins and spreads his hands out to either side of him. “Well, I’m going to choose the opinion that benefits my agenda. Let’s take Tallulah home.”

The car ride is long. Painfully, horribly, long. Going from Maryland to Minnesota isn’t fun in the slightest. Wilbur stares out of the car window for the most part, letting Quackity do the work of driving them down to Tallulah’s residence. When they finally press to a stop on the gravel driveway, he can’t help but sigh loudly in relief.

Wilbur looks into the backseat, where Tallulah is slumped against the window, breathing steady. He undoes his seatbelt and reaches into the back to pat her leg with two fingers. “Hey, we’re here,” he says.

Tallulah blinks awake with a heavy breath and pushes open her car door. She’s ready. She is more ready than she ever has been. She fixes the beanie on her head. Only, she stops in the action, her feet freezing in the act of walking. Wilbur sees it too. So does Quackity and Jaiden. How can they miss it?

CANNIBALS is spray painted on the front door.

Wilbur turns around to look at her, his gaze full of nothing but concern. “We can —”

“No,” she says and tilts her chin up, walking up towards the front steps. Her fingers curl into fists. She stops at the top of the stone steps, a crimson stain splattered onto the ground. This is where her mother died, on the steps, gasping for air, clinging to Wilbur’s hands and squeezing them desperately. “I thought there would be chalk or something.”

“They only do that if you’re alive and need to be taken to the hospital before they can finish the crime scene,” Wilbur mutters.

Tallulah nods and she hesitates in the slightest before opening the front door.

Wilbur never really got a sense for the home when he first stepped inside — that day, when Tallulah choked on the ground, and the blood dirtied his hands. Deer heads hang on the walls, a decoration that’s sort of ironic now that they know what Cucurucho has done. Now that they know exactly what’s happened in the cabin, and in this house. Wilbur’s fingers spasm by his side.

It is horribly homey. Like nothing wrong happened. There are paintings on the walls, and the blinds on the curtains, a coffee machine with stains around it from mugs too full.

There are boxes of evidence on a nearby table. Probably where they ate. There are some on the kitchen counters. Tallulah’s stomach churns.

“If you want to leave just say the word, and we can go,” Jaiden offers quietly, upon sensing her discomfort.

“I don’t want to go back to the hospital,” Tallulah says, running her hand along a box. She touches her hand against the fridge, and her brows draw together at the sight of cheap magnets against printed paper. “They turned the photos around.”

Jaiden nods, and works her jaw. “The crime scene cleaners do that a lot.”

“They did a good job,” she whispers. Tallulah scans the ground, and her hands rush into her pockets. She looks pale, but she doesn’t show it. “Is that where my blood was?”

Wilbur's eyes trace where she looks, and he nods hesitantly. “Yes.”

Tallulah swallows and turns her body to face him, her chin up like she’s trying to be sure right now. Like she’s certain all the world will hold for her, and her red beanie and brown curls, and her gorgeous eyes, and all the questions she will face. “You pretend to be killers right?”

“Mhm,” Wilbur offers and steps forward a little.

“So you pretended to be my dad?”

“And … other people like him,” he says softly. He isn’t sure where this is going, but he is sure of the pain behind Tallulah’s eyes, and how sad she looks, and how he wishes he could make her feel a little better.

“What was it like?” She asks quietly, her voice a mere breath. “To be him?” She clarifies.

Wilbur swallows roughly, and his breath catches in his throat. “It felt like talking to his shadow suspended in dust.” Tallulah raises her eyebrows and continues along the counters, taking her time walking through the kitchen more than any other space. “His attacks on you and your mom were different,” he offers up almost desperately. “He knew he was out of time. Somebody told him we were coming.”

Tallulah whips her head to Wilbur, brows furrowed. “The man on the phone?”

“Yes,” he blurts. “Did you recognize the voice?”

“No, I’ve never heard it before.” Quackity doesn’t miss how she glances at him once or twice. Considering it. “I swear.”

“Did he have anybody he was close to that he talked about to you?” Jaiden asks.

Tallulah glances between them helplessly, and she shakes her head softly. “I can’t remember. I really can’t, I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Quackity reasures and places a hand on her shoulder. “Would you mind sifting through some evidence for us?”

Tallulah hesitates, but she nods. She wants to do everything she can. Maybe it is the desire to remember, or to just allow herself to believe she isn’t just like her father. They guide her into the living room, where Jaiden and Quackity set boxes down in front of her. They are full to the brim with papers and items that could possibly damn her father. She opens the first box in front of her and sifts through the papers, and her heart is pounding in her chest. She can feel the blood rushing through her, the vertigo swimming through her head. She feels horribly sick. 

“Can you catch somebody’s crazy?” Tallulah wonders aloud while she continues to work through the papers. 

Jaiden hums. “There’s a French psychiatric term. It means madness shared by two.”

Wilbur’s eyelashes flutter. In the corner of the room, the scene replays. Cucurucho grinning wide at him, the blood spilling from his chest. See? You see? And his heart is pounding in his chest. He feels the tremble run up his spine like fleeting fingers. He feels the world crumble around him and clenches his hands into fists.

“Somebody can’t be delusional if it’s supported by their friends or other people around them,” Quackity says as he comes inside with another box. He tilts his head up to look towards Tallulah, but his eyes go straight through her to Wilbur. “Or family.”

Tallulah furrows her brows and straightens up her back. “My father didn’t seem delusional.”

“What your dad did do is hardly leave any evidence,” Wilbur murmurs, and rises to his feet.

Tallulah’s eyes snap from Quackity to Wilbur. “Is that why I’m here? To find evidence?”

“It was a consideration,” Quackity hums.

Tallulah jumps. Not in fear or anger. Something like enthusiasm. It makes Wilbur’s head spin. “Are we going to reenact what happened? Wilbur can be my dad, Jaiden can be my mom, and,” she looks to Q, “you can be the man on the phone.”

Quackity’s face drops, turning all the more serious. Tallulah looks up at him without ill–manner. She just wants to help. And yet, she is perfectly right. It makes the air in his lungs freeze, and the chill sends down to his feet in a wave. She knows. She knows. She doesn’t realize it yet, but she knows. It is all Quackity needs to reason with himself that her neck would be easy to snap, her breath would fade quickly. And then Tallulah looks to Jaiden as she begins to speak, and her eyes are wide and full of innocence, and anything malicious is instead replaced with horrible amounts of love.

“You’re not going to find any of those girls, you know,” Tallulah whispers, lips tugging into a frown. She fiddles with the paper in her hand, finger tracing the edge, up and down. Her eyebrows twitch together, and her chest rises with a shaky breath. “He would’ve honored every part of them. He used to make pipe putty out of elks. The bones of those girls are probably holding pipes together.”

“Where would he make it?” Quackity asks.

“The cabin. I can show you tomor—”

“Tallulah, somebody’s here,” Will calls, eyes trained on a girl with dark hair, a scarf wound around her neck, and a red bow in her hair.

“Hi, Lulah,” she smiles.

Tallulah jumps up and wraps her into a hug. “Tilin,” she says happily.

Wilbur shares a glance with Quackity, then Jaiden. Jaiden nods, and his shoulders slacken. That doesn’t stop him from trailing after them from a distance as they begin to step outside. Jaiden stays inside to sift through the boxes, and Quackity follows him outside, where they watch the two girls walk down to the yard. Wilbur stuffs his hands into his pockets and settles onto a bench just outside the house, chest heaving as he sighs and watches.

Tilin and Tallulah walk down to the stream, where the woods start on the other side. “They interviewed everybody on the block,” Tilin says, rubbing her hands together. “And everybody at school.”

“Did you talk to the news?” Tallulah asks, slightly afraid. Bad did say that the news thinks it was her, she’s a suspect. Prime suspect, probably. Who else could’ve done it?

“No,” Tilin says and crouches down, dipping her hand into the stream. “Everybody thinks you did it.”

Tallulah furrows her brows and shuffles on her feet. “Figured,” she mutters and ducks her gaze down. “You don’t though, right?”

“I don’t think you’re the type,” she answers. The trees rustle, and a branch snaps somewhere. Tallulah jumps, and her fingers twitch, but she bites back the instinct. “I also didn’t think your dad was the type to murder–suicide. I guess the hunting was a clue, though.”

“My hunting or his?”

“Both.” There’s a pause, the pair staring at each other. “I don’t think you did it.”

The twigs snap, and a man with long, dark hair with an eyepatch and an explosive scar steps into view. “I do,” he hisses, coming to stand by the edge of the creak. Tallulah and Tilin stumble back, eyes wide. “You were the bait weren’t you? Lured them in so Daddy could come fucking kill them?”

“Back off!” Tilin snaps and grabs a rock from the stream, holding it in her fist firmly.

“—Did you help take out her lungs while she was still fucking using them!?”

Tilin throws the rock, and it nicks the skin of the man’s forehead. He clutches the spot and stumbles back. And then he looks past the girls to where Wilbur comes down the hill, making quick work of himself as he races towards them. The man shoots a glare to Tallulah, and races into the woods.

Quackity guides the girls away while Wilbur leaps over the stream, water splashing up onto his pants. He shoves past low–hanging branches covered in leaves, and lets nothing but his eyes guide him. He can see the man ahead of him, and pushes himself to go faster, and faster. And then his foot rolls the wrong way on uneven land, and he is tumbling down onto the ground below him.

“Fuck!” He curses and pushes himself to stand. Only, when he looks back up, the man is gone. Completely out of his sight. Wilbur leans on a tree instead and clutches his ankle awkwardly, attempting to give some relief to his foot.

Quackity jogs forward and holds him by the shoulders. It’s a warm, gentle touch. “Are you alright?”

“He’s gone,” Wilbur seethes. “He’s gone because I fell. Goddamnit —”

“It’s not your fault,” he insists. “You can’t control how you land on the ground, Wilbur.” Quackity guides his arm around his shoulder to help him back along to the house. “Come, let’s get back, and we can report this. Yes?”

“Yes,” Wilbur breathes out and leans onto him, limping back through the woods towards the small house. “Yes, that’s okay.”

A woman with dark hair like Tilin’s comes rushing into the field, her face a flurry of motherly worry and panic. “Tilin?” She calls briefly. And then she sees her child and rushes forward. Tilin can barely resist the grip on her arm. “Tilin, come home, right now.” Tallulah opens her mouth to say something. Tilin shakes her head, and goes off with her mother.

“Okay, let’s go inside, Tallulah,” Quackity urges. “Would you please help me carry him?” Tallulah nods, and Wilbur lets her wrap his arm around her shoulder. 

“I can walk by myself.”

“I won’t risk anything,” he says firmly.

They get him up the stairs and into the house. Finally, they settle him onto the couch, where Wilbur brings his ankle up onto his leg to hold it. Like that would make the pain go away, if only for a moment. Tallulah describes the man that had come. Dark hair, mid–20s, and an eyepatch.

Wilbur is back in Minnesota, just as planned, that next day. His ankle is still sore, but he can walk just fine. He merely rolls it every few steps to work out the ache in his foot.

The cabin is dim, and they let Tallulah step inside first. She balls her hands into fists and gazes out at the empty space. “He cleaned everything,” she says, voice strained and tight. She won’t cry, but everything is rushing back. The gutting of the deer. “He said he was scared of germs, but now I think he just didn’t want to get caught.” She reaches a hand out towards the table, then retracts it in the remembrance of this being a crime scene. “He made everything himself. Butter, pillows, knives, all of it. He said he had to honor every part of them. Otherwise … otherwise it was murder.”

Wilbur watches carefully, eyes trailing over the open space. They had removed anything that could obstruct their view to the cabin after thoroughly checking for anything relating to somebody other than Cucurucho under Phil’s orders. He works his jaw, and watches as Tallulah twists around, some sort of pained expression on her face.

“He was feeding them to us, wasn’t he?” She asks, and this time she does cry, a tear coursing its way through the hollows of her face. “Wasn’t he?”

“It’s likely,” Quackity suffices for saying, and Tallulah reels back, eyes wide.

She scrubs away the tear and sniffles harshly, her face contorted into something like grief. “He said that he was killing those girls so he wouldn’t have to kill me when he had that knife to my throat. Does — if he had just killed me instead, nobody would’ve died.”

Jaiden rushes forward and holds Tallulah by the shoulders. Gently, but firmly. “You are not responsible for anything your father did, Tallulah. Do you understand that?”

Tallulah is in the beginning of shaking her head when a drop of something dark splatters onto her forehead. Wilbur narrows his eyes, and tilts his head up. They all do. A pool of fresh blood is dripping like a water leak from the above floors.

“I’ll check it out, everybody stay here,” Wilbur orders and fishes out his flashlight, his grip around the handle firm. Jaiden holds Tallulah, because she knows just how impulsive the girl can be. Quackity watches him go up the stairs, the beam of light disappearing with him.

Wilbur shines it towards the only source of blood. He feels the bile creep up his throat and then swallows it down. A girl with dark hair is stuck onto the antlers, blood dripping down her body, her head hanging low. He steps forward slowly, the floorboards creaking, and takes a tissue in his hand. Slowly, he lifts the head up —

“Tallulah!”

He doesn’t look over his shoulder. But Tallulah does scream the girl's name out — Tilin — as her body slams against the cabin wall with the force of flinching back. Quackity jogs up the stairs and holds her, guiding her back into Jaiden’s arms as she continues to gasp and cry.

Wilbur presses his phone to his ear. “I need ERT at the Cucurucho cabin, now.”

“The man by the stream wasn’t just anybody’s brother,” Wilbur says, standing by the body with his hands by his sides. He snaps on latex gloves, but otherwise, he doesn’t do anything else. “Tallulah said he asked her if she helped Cucurucho take out his sister’s lungs while she was still alive.”

“The woman on the stag head?” Quackity guesses. (He knows he’s right. He always has.)

“Yes, Cassie Boyle. She had a brother, Finnigan. But — Cucurucho didn’t kill Cassie Boyle.”

“I know.” For a moment, Wilbur’s heart stutters, and he glances towards Quackity. How do you know how do you know how do you— “Cucurucho would’ve honored every part of her.”

Phil marches up the steps, grinding his teeth. “So you brought Tallulah back so that she could help with her father’s murders, and another girl died.”

“Yep,” Wilbur says through his teeth. He lifts Tilin’s head back up and pulls down her lip with a small pen. “He scraped his knuckle on her lip.” He tries not to focus on how Quackity leans forward beside him. “There’s foreign tissue and what could be blood.”

“You said the copycat was an intelligent psychopath,” Phil says, his voice getting louder with each word. “You said he wouldn’t kill this way again. You said it, Wilbur.”

“I might have been wrong,” he mutters simply.

“Yes, because Cucurucho never struck his victims. So why would the copycat?”

“Maybe he was provoked,” Quackity speaks up for the first time since Phil got here. “I think Finnigan Boyle killed this girl and his sister.”

Wilbur looks towards him. He wants to say You can’t just make a jump like that. Why would Finnigan do that? And then is stopped by Phil speaking just as he opens his mouth to say something.

“With or without Tallulah?” Wilbur flinches, just barely, because of course that is his question.

“Without,” Wilbur insists.

“Well, do you think that she knew Finnigan or Cassie?” Phil asks, steps forward with slow, careful steps.

“No.”

“You don’t think so? Or you don’t want to think so?”

“She said she didn’t know them,” he hisses. He stares forward, then dips his head to the side, opting to look at Quackity’s shoes instead of anybody else. He thinks it might be the only way he can stop his hands from twitching into fists. That would just prove he’s unstable. 

Phil comes closer anyway, right by his side, his trench coat hanging around his shins like it always has. “Jaiden says Tallulah has a penchant for manipulation. Is she manipulating you, Wilbur?”

“Agent Watson,” Quackity warns, shifting on his feet.

Phil shrugs innocently. “He said he was wrong about the copycat, I want to know what else he’s fucking wrong about.”

“Whoever killed Cassie Boyle killed Tilin, I’m right about that,” Wilbur snaps, finally turning his head to look at Phil. “He knew how to mount the body, there are almost identical wound patterns. It’s the same design, the same humiliation.”

Phil draws in a deep breath, his chest rising. “I think it’s time Tallulah left home permanently. Doctor Nevadas, could you be so kind as to gather her belongings and escort her out of Minnesota?”

The officers separate the police line for them, and reports reach out with their microphones. They’re screaming her name. Tallulah. They want answers, they want something to feed to the public. Tallulah shuts her eyes and waits until they’re in front of the house and the lines are back up to open them. It doesn’t help, because the people are still just as loud. Jaiden opens the door, and the sounds rush in, and the headlights are blaring in front of the house. When did the sun set? The sky is dark, but the stars have yet to come out.

Jaiden places her hand on Tallulah’s back and wraps an arm around her, carefully guiding her towards the house. Quackity follows closely behind them, and steps in front of them to open the door to the house. Tallulah steps inside first, sits on the couch, and Q and Jaiden spread out upstairs to gather up anything Tallulah might have left behind.

Tallulah cradles a pillow close to her chest, eyeing the boxes of evidence. Tilin. Tilin is dead because of her. If Tilin didn’t visit her, would she be alive? Would she be well? Would she still be pinned to a stag head? She holds the pillow tighter, rests her chin on it, feels the stuffing inside—

The stuffing.

He used to make pillows. 

No. No. 

Tallulah lunges forward for one of the boxes and unwraps a knife. She cuts away the sewing, and the pillow case falls apart in her grasp. She shoves her hand in and—

Oh God.

Oh God, no.

Brown hair. Brown hair as stuffing for the pillow. It doesn’t stop. She yanks it out clump by clump and it doesn’t stop. She feels her throat close up. She feels her heart start to race, and her head spins, and her stomach swoops, and she gags.

A clang in the doorway, something has fallen. Tallulah flinches, expecting it to be Quackity. It’s not. She is horribly wrong. Finnigan stands in the doorway, his hands outstretched before him. “I’m not going to hurt you, just listen to me.”

Tallulah bolts to her feet, eyes darting to the staircase. And he must know, he has to know she’s going to shout for somebody. Finnigan rushes forward and grabs her, pushes her against the wall. The knife is still in her hand, and without thinking, while he’s still rushing out an explanation, the blade sinks into his gut. Finnigan freezes with a small grunt, eyes trailing down to the knife in his stomach. He looks back up to her, and his hands shake. He staggers back as she rips it out, hands coming to clutch at the wound as he falls to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Tallulah babbles, crouching beside him. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Quackity?” Tallulah’s small voice comes from the stairs. 

Quackity steps out from the room, tugging on his blazer. He sees her first, the blood on her hands, the look on her face. Jaiden is in front of him. Tallulah will come up here and won’t even know what’s happening when they put the cuffs on her wrists. 

Quackity takes a risk he thought he would’ve never taken. He grabs Jaiden’s head and slams it against the wall, knocking her unconscious almost immediately. He leans over her and cradles her face briefly, tilting her head from side to side. No other wound than a small cut on her forehead.

“She’ll be okay,” he says as the creaking of the floors stops. He looks up to Tallulah. “Show me what you did.”

Tallulah nods hesitantly, and takes him down the stairs to the living room. The hair is still on the floor from the pillow, and she flinches. She feels the sting hit her eyes at the sight of the body on the floor. A cut is dragging from the initial wound on his stomach up his chest.

Quackity kneels beside the corpse of Finnigan, and looks back up at Tallulah. “This isn’t self defense, Tallulah. You’ve gutted him.”

“I didn’t,” she whispers, half–heartedly.

“You killed a man.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

Quackity bites his bottom lip and stares back down at the body. He heaves a sigh and reaches over to close his eyes. “I want you to listen carefully. You can either call Phil, tell him what’s happened and he will take you to jail as an accessory to your father’s crimes. Or,” he looks up at her, gaze set on her’s, “I can help you hide the body.”

She blinks. “What?” She whispers.

“I will help you hide the body. Say the word, and this can go away,” Quackity says, gesturing to the corpse in front of them. “I’ll make it go away, Lulah.”

Phil comes towards the ambulance parked outside the house. They had come as soon as Quackity called them, who was trying his best to be calm after being attacked. Wilbur sits on the edge of the ambulance, legs kicking softly, and Jaiden is inside, a bandage on her forehead.

“What happened?” Jaiden asks first, perking up at the sight of Phil.

Phil shoves his hands in his pockets, gaze lingering on Wilbur. “Finngian Boyle came and attacked both you and Quackity, striking him on the back of the head. Tallulah scratched him on his way out of the door, we got DNA from the flesh beneath her fingernails. As far as we know, he’s run off for now.”

Jaiden furrows her brows together. “So, what? He just gets away? He just gets to … roam around like this?”

“We don’t have much to work with besides Tallulah’s stuttered words. So, as much as I hate it, yes.” 

“And … where’s Tallulah?” Wilbur asks, tilting his head up to look at Phil.

“Quackity took her back to the hospital.” Wilbur’s face scrunches up in something like distaste — or worry. It’s hard to tell the difference with Wilbur Soot. He frowns and pushes himself to his feet. Phil places a hand on his chest. Wilbur stumbles, and shoots him a half–hearted glare. “Where are you going, Wil? I need you here.”

“I wanna go home,” he whispers and gently pulls Phil’s hand away.

Quackity can feel her gaze on his back. It’s been like this for an hour. She’s been quietly watching from the shelves above while he fills out paperwork and finishes notes on his clients. Wilbur Soot is beginning to intrigue him to the point where he has begun to keep notes. He writes down whatever he can, and tries to avoid anything amongst the lines of how stunning he is. Instead, he keeps to professional curiosity, his jaw working as he taps the ballpoint pen against the page.

He stands from his chair. “I know you’re here.”

He feels the hesitation in the air, and then, “How?”

“The hospital called me,” he shrugs. “They said you climbed the wall.” Quackity turns to look at Tallulah, lips curving up in the slightest of smiles. “Where else could you have gone? Home isn’t an option.”

Tallulah stays quiet, opting to lean against the bookshelves with her tongue in her cheek. She picks at her nails, and Quackity sighs. He makes his way up the ladder, foot by foot, until he is stood beside her. Eventually, he sits with her, sinking down until his legs are splayed out in front of him.

“I don’t want to go to sleep,” Tallulah finally offers up, her brows pressed together, a frown tugging at her lips as she grinds her teeth. She doesn’t look at Quackity, opting to stare at the other end of the room where more books line the shelves. “I’m afraid I’ll dream of Finnigan.”

“You can’t anticipate your dreams,” Quackity points out gently, slightly leaning to nudge her. “You can’t block them either, or repress them.”

“I didn’t honor him,” she says emphatically, almost desperately, her fingers twisting into her pants. “I didn’t honor every part of him. It’s … it’s murder.” 

Quackity hums, and looks ahead of him.

Tallulah turns her head to him, and draws back. “You’re glad I killed him.”

“What other option did you have?” He points out — hesitantly, he’ll admit. “He would’ve killed you. Most people would agree.”

“Not the public?”

“Most people, Tallulah.”

Tallulah stands to her feet, and stumbles back a few steps, her eyes wide. Quackity follows her actions. What did he do? What —

“You were the one who called the house,” Tallulah accuses, face scrunched up in disgust or fear. 

Fear. Such a horrible little thing. It could control her so easily.

“Yes, I was,” he starts off, slowly, like Tallulah is an injured animal. “I was asking about an interview he had done.”

“No,” she whispers, and shakes her head, still looking at him like that. “No, I think you called as a serial killer. I think you warned him.”

Quackity sucks in a deep breath, his chest rising. He works his jaw furiously, then simply … nods. “It was a mistake,” he says. “An act of misconduct. You killing Finnigan Boyle was not a mistake. You did not gut him by mistake, Tallulah. We both know that.” Tallulah tenses, her shoulders rising, and scans his face for something that would tell her if she should run. Quackity reaches out and places a hand on her shoulder, firm but gentle, something that screams you’re trapped, there’s no getting out of this. “You keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours.”

Tallulah swallows roughly. She’s trapped, she can’t get out of this. “Okay,” she croaks.

Quackity smiles and draws her in for an embrace, wrapping his arms around her, a hand on the back of her head. “No more climbing walls, Lulah. Okay?”

She hesitantly brings her hands up to rest on his back, and nods in his hold. “Okay.”

“Good.” He pats her back and lets her go, then steps aside to gesture to the ladder with a theatrical swoop of his hand. “I’ll drive you back.”

Chapter Text

Wilbur and Quackity, like so many times before, are sat across from each other in the leather seats. Wilbur is leaned back, hands on the arm rests, and Quackity is leaned forward, hands clasped with his elbows on his knees. He is tilting his head — listening.

“Sometimes,” Wilbur mutters, and clears his throat. “I’ll leave the light on in my house. And … I’ll walk across the fields until I’m far away. And then I look back, and it’s like a little boat on the sea.” He heaves a breath, and brings a hand up to rub at his eyes. “It’s the only time I feel safe.”

Quackity thinks for a moment, then chooses to direct the subject elsewhere. “You stood in Cucurucho’s home, the very spaces he walked in. Did they speak to you, Wilbur?”

Wilbur grimaces, “With noise and clarity.”

Quackity nods. “You could sense his madness.”

“I tried so hard to know him,” he hisses. “I tried to know him beyond the slides under a microscope and the police lines, between the pixels of printed pictures of dead girls.”

(See? You see? He sees. He can see now.)

“How did you feel seeing Tilin in the antler room?” He inquires, tilting his head.

Wilbur thinks for a moment, then flinches at his own thoughts. “Guilty,” he croaks.

“Because you couldn’t save her?”

“Because it felt like I killed her,” he mumbles, like he’s ashamed. He leans forward as well, face twisting into something like anger. “I got so close to him.” His breaths are trembling and shaking — afraid. “Sometimes, it was like I could feel him. Like we were doing things at the same time. Showering, sleeping, cleaning.”

“Even after he was dead?” Quackity says.

“Even after he was dead,” Wilbur repeats grimly.

“Like you were becoming him,” he whispers, like it’s some sort of dirty secret. Maybe it is.

“I know who I am,” he hisses, even as he remembers the dream he had of slitting Tallulah’s throat in front of the deer. “I’m not Cucurucho, Doctor Nevadas.”

Quackity stares. Wilbur stares back.

Neither of them are quite sure if it’s true.

Blood is splattered onto family photos, baby pictures, and the bodies of the family are at the dinner table. Each one of them is limp, their heads face down in what must once have been a delicious meal. Bullet holes mark their heads. The blood is soaking the table cloth, and the food has been eaten away by flies, and maggots crawl amongst the meal.

Wilbur sits at the head of the table, and closes his eyes.

The table has been set. It’s a family dinner.

He wasn’t invited.

He takes his seat at the head of the table, adjusts his coat so he can sit properly. His seat. His place next to Mrs. Turner as the guest of honor. Nobody has eaten yet. They haven’t even touched their food. The little girl hesitantly eats the broccoli on her plate with a single sentence from him. He slams his hand on the table — nobody leaves, not until he says so. And they’re all afraid to move, even the children behave.

He has brought his own family to this home invasion. He controls the Turners with threats of violence. Threats that soon twist into action. And every single one is dead, bullets in their heads, limp on the table. Executed simultaneously. Except for Mrs. Turner, who is the last one alive, and her breaths are heavy and panicked as she stares at him.

This is my design.

He shoots Mrs. Turner. Her blood splatters onto the photos.

A voice, a voice, a voice — “What do you see, Wil?” —

Wilbur snaps his eyes open and heaves a sigh, dropping his hand from where it was once outstretched. Phil is leaning on the doorframe to the dining room. Damn you, he wants to spit out, and holds back. “Family values,” he says instead, through his teeth, with barely veiled frustration.

“Whose family values?”

“Shit, I don’t know,” he mutters sarcastically. “The killer, Watson.”

“Don’t use that tone with me,” Phil says, reeling back, eyes wide.

Wilbur grumbles, but nods, hanging his head as he pushes himself out of his seat. “I’m going to take another look at the evidence with Roier and Charlie,” he says. That is all the explanation he gives. They gather in the living room, where Phil steps inside, restating what the others have told him. 

“Alright, so Karen and Roger Turner, highschool sweethearts. They’re the pillars of the community. They have three children —”

“Minus one,” Wilbur butts in.

“Jesse,” Phil says, pointing to him enthusiastically. “He disappeared last year. His last confirmed sighting was getting into an RV at a rest stop.”

“Where?” Wilbur asks, taking one of the photos of Jesse in his hand.

“Route 47. Possible runaway, possible abduction.”

“Or both,” Wilbur shrugs. “Where misery rains, it pours. These are false faces in family portraits. Layers and layers of lies betrayed by a simple look in a kid’s eyes.”

Phil clears his throat, and clasps his hands together. “Any signs of forced entry?”

Baghera shakes her head, leaning back up from where she was intently focused on pictures she had taken along with the other photographers. “No broken windows or screen doors. It’s all sealed up tight. They probably rang the front door. Besides any of that, there are bullet holes on the upper sections of the walls, and over there.”

“Okay, pull slugs for ballistics,” Phil instructs towards Charlie, who nods.

“They’re tangible, it shouldn’t be a problem,” Baghera says.

“Elevated termination points make sense for the height of the bodies,” Roier says. “It’s an angular cranial impact, paired with exit wounds. Shooter went low to high, so probably crouching.”

“When was Jesse abducted?” Wilbur asks quietly, looking up from a photo.

“A little over a year ago,” Phil says.

“Okay,” he whispers.

“I can’t hide what happened to me,” Tallulah says. “But a scarf is all I need, right?”

“Hiding what happened defeats the purpose of you being here,” Jaiden points out easily. “Sharing it will help normalize it — to the best of your ability, at least.”

“But I’m not normal,” Tallulah shoots back.

“What happened to you was …”

“Look, some of these women don’t even share anything. They tell everyone what was done to them without saying a single thing about it.” Tallulah reaches out to brush her hand against the plants of the greenhouse.

“Certain traumas have vocal restrictions,” Jaiden counters. “Some victims show their victimhood without even realizing it.”

Tallulah bites on the inside of her cheek, fiddles with her scarf, and comes to a stop. “I like to think I don’t. Then again, somebody asked me if I kept my stained clothes.”

“How did that make you feel?” Jaiden asks, turning around to face her once more.

She furrows her brows together. “Like I wanted to go home,” she whispers. “But I don’t have one anymore, do I?”

“You will,” she insists gently, bringing a hand onto her shoulder. “I’ll help you find it.” Tallulah stares, and Jaiden takes her hand away, drawing in a deep breath. “I want you to give the support groups another chance.”

“They’re sucking the life out of me,” she protests.

“Isolation can suck just as much.”

Quackity doesn’t startle at the knock on his door. He knows his appointments have just started, and he knows someone must’ve forgotten something. He swings open the door, his hand on the door frame, and cocks his head to the side. “Do you have an appointment?”

Jaiden grins. “Do you have a beer?”

Quackity comes back later, beer in hand as promised, along with a glass of red wine. His smile is soft as he settles in the seat next to Jaiden on the couch and eases the drink into her hand. She takes a long, grateful sip. “Interesting day with Tallulah?” He prompts, and stares at her over the lip of his glass as he drinks.

She nods. “Full of grief work, trauma, and intervention. It’s all on course.” She shrugs, and crosses one leg over the other, leather jacket squeaking with the movement. “I think she might be suffering from low–grade depression.”

Quackity tilts his head. “You think?”

Jaiden smiles, “Nothing wrong with a little self medication, Doctor.” Quackity laughs and tilts his glass up in gentle invitation for a cheers. The glasses clink together, and they drink. Jaiden grimaces. “I know I’m supposed to be … professionally neutral. But, it’s so hard seeing somebody so bright go so adrift.”

Q nods, and shifts in his seat, leaning back slightly. “I think she should be released from a clinical environment.”

“Released where?” She scoffs. “Back out in the wild where reporters will practically hunt her down?”

“They’ll hunt her down anyway,” he points out. “Spending each day immersing herself in tragedy could be doing more harm than good, Jaiden. She should be out there, finding her footing. It could give her the confidence to move forward.”

“She’s in no condition to tackle those issues. Where would she even live?”

“I’m not suggesting abandonment,” Quackity interrupts gently, raising his tone slightly to be heard over her. They meet eyes, and he raises his eyebrows, and Jaiden heaves a sigh.

“Quackity, this was a girl who was very attached to her parents. You being a surrogate would only be a crutch,” she says. “I think she needs to figure things out for herself in a safe, clinical environment. That will give her the confidence to move forward.”

Quackity smiles crookedly, and mocks a bow from where he sits. “I defer to the passion of my coworker.” He rights himself once more, and brings the glass to his lips, then pauses. “Passion is good,” he remarks, and takes a sip of the wine. “It gets your blood pumping.”

“I’m glad we didn’t have guns in my house,” Roier sighs from where he is leaning against the wall. Phil lifts the cover on a body to peer under, then takes a gentle pause before covering the face back up, where the wound is still gaping. “I would’ve shot my siblings just to get them out of the bathroom.”

“I like being in a small family,” Baghera shrugs.

“Let me guess,” Charlie raises a finger into the air and dramatically lowers it down to point at Wilbur, who blinks himself out of a trance from the corner. Wilbur holds his coffee a little tighter. “Only child?”

He brings his gaze over to Charlie, and furrows his brows. The light is dark in the corner, casting shadows over his face. He looks so tired. “Why do you say that?”

“Because family fighting is usually a factor of personality development,” Charlie says.

“Like how all the responsibilities are pushed onto the eldest child,” Phil offers up. “It prepares them for success in the future.”

“My babysitter got away with murder,” Baghera laughs a little too loudly for the subject she speaks of. “She had everybody fooled.”

“I thought middle children were the issue,” Roier butts in.

“Middles are the sweet spot,” Charlie says.

“They’re always trying to figure out where they fit in,” Wilbur mumbles. Roier turns his head to him, and Wilbur forces himself not to shrink back, and instead come forward towards the bodies with a final sip of his coffee. He tosses it into the trashcan on his way over. “They can make great politicians. Or shitty ones.”

Charlie furrows his brows and leans towards Roier to whisper poorly, “I think he might’ve been a middle child, on account of them ‘always trying to figure out where they fit in.’”

“I was an only child,” Wilbur grins. “You were right the first time, Charlie.”

“All the victims have defensive wounds except Mrs. Turner,” Phil says whilst handing him a photograph.

Wilbur takes in a shaky breath, and draws his eyebrows together, and he frowns. Her face is not contorted in fear, but something much more gentle than that. Something kind. She didn’t have defensive wounds, so she didn’t fight back. “There’s forgiveness.”

“What kind of victim forgives their killer?” Phil spits.

“A mother,” he croaks.

“Tell me about your mother,” Quackity says, leaning back slightly in his chair.

“Lazy psychiatry, Nevadas,” Wilbur chuckles half–heartedly. “It’s low hanging fruit.”

“I actually suspect it’s on a high branch. Difficult to reach.”

“So is my mother,” he scoffs, and frowns. “I never knew her.”

“It’s an interesting place to start,” he offers gently.

Wilbur heaves a sigh. “Tell me about your mother, let’s start there, huh?”

Quackity laughs, but nods, and crosses his legs. “Both of my parents died when I was young. Six or seven. I was an orphan until adopted by my Uncle Fit at sixteen.”

“You have that in common with Tallulah,” Wilbur mutters.

“You’ll find that we have a lot in common with her. She’s already demonstrated an interest in psychology.”

Wilbur sighs again, rubbing his hands up and down his pant legs, tilting his head back and to the side. He grits his teeth. “Family is so foreign, like a suit that doesn’t quite fit. I never connected to that concept.”

“You’ve made your own family.”

“Of strays,” he corrects. “Thank you for feeding them while I was away, by the way.”

Quackity nods, and raises his eyebrows subtly. “I was referring to Tallulah, Wilbur.” Wilbur’s face falls, and he gets that funny urge to sink into the seat, and disappear. He crosses his arms, and barely manages to not bring his feet up onto the seat and curl himself into a ball. Quackity must notice, because he quickly changed the subject. “Tell me about the Turner family. How did they live?”

“Like they had money,” he says, the uncomfortable, strained tone not leaving his voice.

“Did your family have money?”

“We were poor, and I followed my father to the boatyards in Greenville, to the lake boats in Eerie.”

“Always the new boy at school, always the strangest.”

“Always,” he repeats grimly, in some sort of acceptance. He smiles sarcastically, tilting his head.

“What grudge did the killer of the Turners have against them?” Quackity asks.

“Motherhood,” Wilbur whispers, and his face twitches into something like grief, then back to normal. It is so brief Quackity is sure he’s imagined it, but the expression leaves everywhere but Wilbur’s eyes. “Or at least some perversion of it.”

The dinner table, as always, is long and dark, and candles are lit. Quackity settles the dish onto Phil’s plate, and then his own. The wine glasses are narrow, in order from tallest to shortest. Phil makes a questioning face, and as Quackity lowers himself into his seat at the other end of the table, he answers it. 

“Modified version of Boudin Noir.” He settles a napkin onto his lap and clears his throat. “You promised to bring your wife to my dinner table.”

“One day, Quackity, one day,” Phil chuckles. He stabs his fork into the meal, and pauses before bringing it into his mouth. “What am I about to eat?”

“Rabbit,” he smiles.

“He should’ve hopped faster.”

Quackity laughs, and shakes his head softly. “Yes, he should’ve—”

The man crumbles to the ground in the woods, eyes pleading before the knife digs into his bones, and the liver is removed. 

“—Fortunately, he didn’t,” he continues.

Phil hums in agreement, and speaks through a small mouthful. “Wilbur seems … haunted today.”

“We don’t know what nightmares are coiled under his pillow,” Q points out, cutting into his meal.

“Children killing other children isn’t foreign to him,” Phil argues.

“He still suspects Tallulah in her father’s crimes.”

“Maybe the nightmare under his pillow is that he was wrong.”

Quackity’s lips tug into a frown, and he brings the food to his mouth, chewing while he thinks. “Children bring us back to our childhood. Wilbur could feel the tug of life before the FBI, before you. Simpler times with his father. That life is an anchor behind him in heavy weather. Wilbur needs an anchor, Phil.”

Wilbur rubs at his eyes with one hand, and pushes open the door. The dogs rush past him out into the yard. The night sky is full of stars, like a dark cloth has been flung over the world, and has salt sprinkled on top. He tilts his head up to look at it, then steps down the porch. The grass crunches beneath his feet, and he sits on one of the steps.

Winston, the newest addition to the family of dogs that he had found on the road the first night back to the FBI, comes running up to him. Winston pushes his snout into Wilbur’s hands, and Wilbur smiles.

“Hello,” he whispers and ruffles the fur on his head, leaning down to kiss his snout. Winston licks his cheek in return, and Wilbur groans, wiping it off. He laughs, and reaches his hands out as some of the other dogs come bounding up to him as well.

Wilbur needs an anchor. 

“Found a size six sneaker in the Turner house,” Baghera says, examining it carefully, even if she’s already run her tests. “The tread on the left foot indicates uneven leg length.”

“Is that normal?” Charlie asks, almost hesitating to say anything.

“Yep,” Roier calls out from the other side of the room where the bodies are. “Especially for a twelve year old. You’ve got a foot that’s bigger, a leg that’s longer. Puberty in full effect.”

“What about Jesse Turner, how’s he turned out? Nobody’s seen him in a couple of years,” Baghera shouts towards him.

Roier shrugs. “He would be four and a half feet tall, eighty pounds tops.”

“How’d you figure that out, genius?” Charlie shouts, grinning.

“I calculated a lot of shit I don’t remember!”

Charlie laughs loudly. He settles back into work easily, examining the sneaker in his hand. “Man, there are fingerprints all over this thing. Not any matches, but they’re so, so gorgeous.”

“I got seven pairs of shoes,” Baghera says. “I filtered out the Turners’ and Jesse’s. Sizes are three and a half, seven, and a boy’s eleven.”

“The lost boy’s?”

“I think I found one of them,” Charlie says and heaves himself out of his seat towards the computer.

“—For some killers, biting may be a fighting pattern, as much as a sexual behavior,” Wilbur calls out, pacing along the floor behind his desk. He opens his mouth to say something, and startles when Phil’s voice booms across the room. He didn’t even see him.

“Class dismissed, everybody out!” Phil shouts, and watches the students file out, sitting on the edge of Wilbur’s desk. He sits with his arms crossed. His face is grim.

Wilbur slams down the papers that were in his hands, and shoves his hands in his pockets. “You make it really fucking difficult to provide an education, Watson,” he grits out.

“We pulled a match from prints found in the Turner’s home,” Phil says instead of commenting on the snarky tone that left Wilbur’s mouth. “They’re from a thirteen year old boy in Reston, Virginia. His name is Connor Frist.”

“Another kid?” He says incredulously.

“Another missing kid,” Phil answers. “He vanished ten months ago. The case was never solved.”

“How many kids in his family?” He asks, and tugs at his tie to loosen it, because it is suddenly choking him.

“Three, just like the Turners,” he says. Phil pushes himself up from the desk and turns to face him. “We’re ready to go when you are, and you’re ready now, so let’s go.”

Wilbur takes in a shaky breath, and his voice trembles when he speaks. “You’re expecting a crime scene,” he breathes.

And there is a crime scene.

Wilbur hears the Christmas music playing. He doesn’t hear voices, he doesn’t hear people as he follows behind the officers. He covers his mouth with his elbow at the stench in the room, coughing into his sleeve. Phil does the same near instantly. He turns into the living room, and shuts his eyes.

The family lies across couches and the floor, gunshot wounds to the head. There is a charred body in the fireplace, burnt to dark. The Christmas tree stands tall, and the presents are clustered beneath it.

“Shit,” Wilbur whispers, and turns back into the hall to run his hands down his face. He hears the click of the camera, and the rush of sounds. He presses his hands over his ears and leans against the wall, head hanging low. Shit, shit, shit.

A hand is on his shoulder. “Are you alright?” Baghera. Ah.

Wilbur pushes his hands into his hair, and does not look at her when he shakes his head. “Uhm … do you have any Advil? Ibuprofen?”

“Yeah, do you have a headache?” She asks, reaching into her bag that carries her camera.

“Something like that,” he mumbles. He holds out his hand for a pill and tips his head back to swallow it. He brings a hand up to rub at his mouth, and cups it over his eyes.

A kid. A child did this. What child does this?

“Mr. Frist and the children were killed first, and Mrs. Frist was saved for last,” Phil lies out for them with his arms crossed as he walks along the room. “The same as the Turners.”

“Not exactly,” Wilbur calls out, his voice hoarse. He sits on the counter, hands resting loosely in his lap. He watches as the three work, and Phil observes. There is that distant look in his eyes. “Something went wrong.”

“There weren’t any presents for Mrs. Turner under the tree,” Baghera points out.

“He took her presents. He took her motherhood.”

“Shooting her once wasn’t enough,” Roier points out. “The first bullet goes beneath her scalp, to its resting place at the base of her neck. But that didn’t kill her.”

“The shock from the shell hitting the skull would’ve caused brain damage,” Baghera follows along.

“She started convulsing,” Wilbur explains, and Roier finishes it off.

“He shot her again. Put her out of her misery, different gun.”

“Somebody else put her out of her misery,” Charlie says.

“So who is our corpse in the fireplace?” Phil asks, pulling back the tarp to reveal the charred body, curled like a baby cradled. It makes Wilbur’s stomach swoop.

“I would say Connor Frist,” Wilbur guesses, tilting his head up to count the lights on the ceiling, and how many twinkle with the need for repair. “He was prepped to shoot his mother, not to watch her suffer.”

“Connor couldn’t control his panic and ended up getting shot,” Phil finishes.

“Whoever shot him disowned him,” Wilbur concludes, and heaves a breath.

The Ibuprofen is helping, he thinks.

The only light in Wilbur’s lecture room that isn’t dim is his computer. The light beams onto his face, and he only barely looks up when the door opens. He lets himself smile at the sight of Baghera, shoulders slumping with his posture. Then, his face settles back into the determined look.

“You ever heard of Willard Wigan? He was this artist that did micro sculptures. Like putting Obama in the eyes of a needle,” she says. She slides a cup of coffee towards him.

Wilbur’s eyes brighten and he takes it with gentle hands, curling his fingers around the cup. The warmth seeps into his skin. “Ohhh, thank you,” he whispers, trying not to strain his voice. He takes a small sip, and directs his attention back to the screen in front of him, licking his lips with a soft sigh.

“He gets so focused he can work between the beats of his heart,” Baghera continues. “I guess archers do the same thing — Jesus, what are you looking at Wilbur?” She winds around the desk, leaning beside him to look at the screen.

“These kids are small, underweight for their age,” Wilbur murmurs, propping his chin in his hand. He has the missing posters of Jesse Turner and Connor Frist pulled up.

“Do you think there’s a connection?”

He shrugs. He rubs his eyes with his hands. They feel dry from looking at the screen for so long. “I think there’s probably an ADHD diagnosis for both of them. Ritalin, Focalin, any medication containing Methylphenidate can affect your appetite and slow long–term growth in children.”

Baghera nods. She hoists herself up to sit on the desk. “Another thing about Willard Wigan, he used his tiny sculptures as an escape.”

Wilbur looks up at her and blinks. Once. Twice. “Who the fuck is Willard Wigan?”

Baghera laughs to herself, and shakes her head. “Charlie got a hit on the ballistics matching program he’s been running on the murders. The bullet that put Mrs. Frist out of her misery is the same one used in a murder in Bangor, Maine a year ago. The mother of a thirteen year old boy was shot to death with her own gun.”

Wilbur swallows, and looks down to the ground. “Thirteen year old milk carton material,” he murmurs.

Wilbur, Baghera, Roier, Charlie, and Phil have gathered themselves together to look at the screen. C.J Lincoln’s missing poster is on display in front of them. Wilbur looks at the weight information first.

“C.J Lincoln disappeared half a year before his mother’s murder,” Phil says. “He hasn’t been seen since then. He had no characteristics of a sadist or a sociopath. No shoplifting, no destruction of property, no assault, no battery. He was kind to animals, for fuck’s sake.”

“According to the firearm, we’re looking for the leader,” Wilbur points out.

“But it takes a good amount of manipulation to convince young boys to kill their family in cold blood.” Phil sighs.

“And kindness to animals doesn’t really suggest that kind of sophistication of manipulation, does it?” He mutters.

“Well, he is older. He’s been out in the world. Perhaps he’s picked up a few things,” he suggests.

Quackity opens the door, his smile welcoming and warm, like it always is. Dressed in a suit, like he always is. He doesn’t wait for permission to come in. Wilbur shoves himself up out of his seat in a hurry, rushing into the room. He narrowly misses slamming into Quackity’s shoulder. There’s a bag in his hand. He tosses it onto the couch, and blows out a frustrated, angry breath. He pushes his hands into his hair and tugs, wincing softly, eyes squeezing shut.

“Has Christmas come early or late?” Quackity asks, trying to ease humor into the tense air. A gift already wrapped is inside the bag, just barely peeking out.

Wilbur shucks his jacket off of his shoulder, gaze trained on the ground, his jaw clenched. “It was for Tallulah.”

“Was?” He questions, tilting his head.

“I thought better of it,” he grumbles and lets his jacket settle onto the couch behind him, over the bag. “I wasn’t thinking straight, I was upset when I bought it.” He brings his hands up to drag them down his face, walking across the room to Quackity’s desk, even though Quackity is still by the door. “Maybe I still am.”

“What’s in it?” Q wonders and takes the gift into his hand.

“A magnifying glass — it’s fly tying gear,” he mutters.

“Teaching her to fish,” Quackity hums and lowers himself onto one of the seats. “Her father taught her to hunt.”

Wilbur looks over his shoulder at him. “Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s why I thought better.”

Quackity chuckles beneath his breath, and smiles fondly. “Pretty paternal, Wil.”

“Aren’t you?” He snaps, turning on his heels.

“Yes,” he answers proudly, tilting his chin up. “Though, our friend Jaiden has advised us to not take a personal interest in Tallulah’s welfare.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he hisses.

“Why are you so angry, Wilbur?” You haven’t even sat down. He presses his brows together, and resists the urge to get up from his seat and tug the man into a hug. He knows that’s not what Wilbur needs right now. 

Wilbur needs an anchor.

“Because … I know when I find those boys, I can’t help them,” he says almost desperately, and his eyes are glassy, and Quackity thinks his heart shatters. “I can’t — I can’t give them back what they just gave away. Don’t they understand that not everybody has what they had? I just — fuck.” 

He presses his brows together. “You’re talking about family.”

“I’m talking about a mother,” he whispers, like he’s afraid to say it. He is. This is the most vulnerable he’s ever been. It’s sickening. It makes his head spin, and it makes his hands tremble. He doesn’t tell people these things, he doesn’t know why he is telling Quackity these things. He had sworn that therapy doesn’t work on him, and it is a dreadful thing to be wrong. “They killed their mothers.”

“And you're angry because they don’t appreciate what others lack? What you lack?”

Wilbur grimaces, and squeezes his eyes shut. He wishes Quackity was more gentle, that he didn’t say things so outright like that. Maybe that would get rid of the shame bubbling up in his chest. “Uhm — we call them ‘the lost boys.’ The killers, I mean.” The word killers feels like hot acid on his tongue.

“Tallulah is lost, too,” Quackity points out softly, nodding his head towards the gift on the couch. “Perhaps it’s our responsibility to help her find her way.”

Tallulah chuckles from where she sits on the bed. “I don’t think I’m allowed to leave after I climbed the fence,” she admits.

Quackity smiles, “I’ve made arrangements. You could say that I’m … one … of your guardians.”

It would be impossible to deny the fact that Q scares Tallulah. There is something unsettling in the air around him, how he so openly admitted he was the one to call her father. She sees him, and her brain sends off warning signs, and her chest gets tight like a fist. She swallows it down. “Where are we going?”

“My home,” he smiles wider, and it is a soft thing. “I thought you would like it if I cooked for you. I can have you back before curfew, if you like.”

“Can I stay the night there?” She asks, maybe too eagerly, and looks down at the sheets on the bed. “I don’t like sleeping here. I get nightmares.”

“You need to sleep in your own bed, Lulah.”

“This isn’t my bed.”

Quackity reels back, ever so slightly, at the harshness in her tone. For only a moment, he is stunned. And, sensing the topic isn’t very welcome, he changes the subject. “Tell me about your dreams,” he requests.

Tallulah sits straighter, then moves against the wall of pillows, bringing her legs up to her chest to hug them. “I had one where Tilin was sending me pictures. They were … crime scene photos of Finnigan Boyle. Gutted.”

“Like how you left him,” he finishes.

Tallulah blinks rapidly, and nods, just barely. “I know — I know that Marissa is dead. But I’m scared she’ll tell everybody and they’ll all think I’m just like my dad.” She pauses, and climbs out of the bed, grabbing her coat. Quackity takes that as his sign to stand, and push the chair back into the nearby desk. “Sorry, I can’t really talk about this in group. I guess I have to get used to lying.”

“You only have to lie about that one thing,” Quackity says. “And when you’re with me, you don’t have to lie about anything.”

“It’s important to know when to turn the page,” Quackity speaks, more to himself, as he slices open an onion on the cutting board. His hair is tied back into a neat ponytail, dark red sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He glances up at Tallulah, only for a moment. “Have you thought about any schools you want to apply to?”

“My dad killed girls at all the schools I applied to,” Tallulah says.

Quackity blinks. “Well, I guess that can wait, then.”

Tallulah leans onto the counter, careful not to touch any of the ingredients Quackity will use. “I want to work for the FBI,” she states, her chin up proudly.

“I would certainly feel safer,” he grins, lifting his head up to look at her. “You would be protecting my interests.”

“Would they let me? With what my dad did?” She asks sourly, working her jaw.

“Only if they think it’s in your nature as well,” he answers. 

“Nature versus nurture,” she shoots back.

“You aren’t your father’s daughter anymore,” Quackity says, stopping all action to plant his hands onto the counter. He looks at her intently, even as she dips her gaze to the tiled floors beneath them. He furrows his brows together. “What if it wasn’t so painful to think about him?” She blinks. “Have you ever tried Psilocybin?”

“Mushrooms?” She repeats incredulously, and looks at the clear pitcher. “Is that what’s in the tea?”

“Yes,” he says, with no shame, and it astounds her. “There are psychiatrists who believe that altered states can be used to access traumatic memories.”

“I have access.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He lifts the top off of the pitcher, and checks the temperature of the tea. “But it’s also why we need to associate them with positive things.” He tilts the pitcher, and pours some into a glass. “No more bad dreams, Lulah.”

Tallulah gapes as he pours it in, and laughs. It’s a short, abrupt, loud sound. “You want me to do drugs.”

“No, I want you to do this drug,” he corrects. “With my supervision. It’s safe.”

Tallulah scoffs, but she takes the glass, and takes a sip.

Phil is standing by a map, the laser pointing at each item he directs to. In this case, the names of cities. Each city has a red marker connecting them, and thread attached to thumbtacks. Each thread tacks on a picture of the missing child, and information.

The room is larger than it should be, and the four have spread out amongst themselves. Baghera has pulled up a chair near to the map.  Roier is standing by the table in the middle. Charlie is closer to the door. And Wilbur is sitting at the far wall, on top of the printer, his arms crossed and head against the wall with his eyes shut.

“Bangor, Maine,” he reads out, one by one. “Stamford, Connecticut. And Reston, Virginia.”

“All of these are maybe five hundred miles apart,” Charlie observes, tilting his head. 

Roier scowls. “So, you’re trying to establish a pattern in terms of geography, when each of these murders are weeks apart.”

“Other patterns are there, too,” Wilbur speaks up, and clears his throat. He lists them out, counting on his fingers. “The shooters are minors, middle children, and from affluent families.”

“We know that they’re moving south,” Phil says. “So, we’ll cover the border of North Carolina and Georgia. I need files on every missing boy within two hundred miles of North Carolina.”

“The pattern is less to do with geography than psychology,” Wilbur murmurs.

Phil furrows his brows, continuing on for him. “What kind of kid does this …”

“...And what kind of kid follows a kid that does this?”

“There isn’t any indication that the kids came from abusive families,” Phil contradicts once he sees where Wilbur is going with this. His voice is loud and frustrated, and then so is Wilbur’s.

“No, no, that’s not what I’m talking about,” he insists and sits up, gesturing with his hand. “Capture bonding, Phil. It’s a passive psychological response to a new master. It’s been a survival tool for millions of years. If you bond with the captor, you survive.” He sighs, leans his head back, and shuts his eyes again. “If you don’t, you’re breakfast.”

Quackity tilts his head up, and smiles softly, a welcoming face. Tallulah looks far away, but her gaze is every present on his as she tries to tilt her lips up into a smile anyway.

She is in the woods, and the rifle is heavy in her hands, jabbing into her shoulder. The trigger squeezes under her figure, the doe goes limp. The fur is gentle beneath her finger and—

The knife sinks into his belly, a contorted face of pain and shock.

She drops the teacup, and it shatters onto the ground, She reels back just barely. Her head is spinning. “Dr. Plays said this was okay?”

“Not at all,” Quackity says. He winds around the counter to the shattered porcelain, gently guiding Tallulah out of the way. Tallulah braces herself on the counter, and watches the fruit bowl swim in her vision. “We often have different opinions.” 

“More secrets for us,” she hums and grabs an orange. She walks back and falls onto the chair in the corner, twirling the fruit in her hand. Her vision is slanted, and everything is hazy.

“Oh, we’ll have many secrets,” he assures, and picks up the larger pieces of porcelain to form into a small pile. He glances over at her, then directs his attention back to the teacup. “When you infuse psilocybin into the bloodstream before psychotherapy forms a positive, and sometimes spiritual, experience for patients. Psychological trauma is an affliction of the powerless.” He rises to his feet and crouches down in front of her, lying a hand on her knee. “I want to give you your power back.”

Tallulah blinks, her eyes darting along the room. “I don’t feel very good,” she mumbles.

“That’ll pass,” he nods. Quackity reaches out and takes her face into his hands. His face is kind and welcoming. She tries to look for malicious intent. She doesn’t find it. “Let it wash over and through you. Let me be your guide.”

She directs her attention to the kitchen counter and presses her brows together. “You’re … making breakfast for dinner.”

Quackity grins and stands to his feet. She follows dutifully, even if her legs shake beneath her. He winds back around the counter. “High Life eggs,” he beams. She watches as he tosses one of the ingredients into the air, and catches it on the blade of the knife. “Taste is psychological as much as it is biochemical.”

Tallulah looks at the pan. “Sausage and eggs was the last meal I had with my parents.”

“I know,” he hums. “It’s also the first meal you’re having with me.”

“Without the interference of a leader, these kids wouldn’t even think of killing their families,” Jaiden says as she sorts through the files with Baghera and Wilbur. They’re missing children posters from around North Carolina, just like Phil had wanted. Wilbur rubs at his eyes harshly, a hand on the table, his face scrunched up.

“Our missing kid is a boy,” Wilbur says, leaning over the table. “A paradox in a normal family. He’s an outsider that doesn’t look like one.” He picks up a stack and begins sorting through them, speaking absent–mindedly. “He would … have a vocation, something that’s mechanical or inventive.”

“Here’s one,” Baghera declares and pulls the poster closer to read it. “Moved from Bilozi to Charleston to Fayetteville in the last three years. Won a junior high award for his work on a computer circuitry.”

“Why do you think these kids are vulnerable to C.J. Lincoln?” Jaiden asks.

“They might have a brother, but their ages and interests are set apart,” Wilbur explains. “So, he’s a brother without a brother.”

“Brothers looking for a mother,” Jaiden says, slowly, like every word matters. “They’re killing the mothers last, aren’t they?”

Wilbur presses his brows together, and stares off at the wall. He draws in a deep breath. “I’ll tell Phil.” He winds around the table, files in hand, and pushes open the door. He walks down the hall, his heart pounding in his chest. This case is fucking him up, he can feel it, he knows it. He reaches Phil’s office, and raises a hand, tapping his knuckles against the door.

“Come in,” Phil calls out, and when Wilbur enters, he is bent over his desk, his head in his hands. He looks up at Wilbur, and his gaze softens. “Yeah?”

“It’s not just C.J. Lincoln,” he mutters and gestures to the file in his hand. “There’s an adult with formative sway. It’s a woman, a mother figure, I think.” He grimaces. “She’s looking to form a family.”

Phil rubs at his mouth with one hand, dragging it across his face. “Family can have a contagion effect on some people. It influences them to adopt similar behavior, and attitudes.”

Wilbur steps further into the office, taking Phil’s response as an invitation to continue the conversation. “Whoever this woman is, she wants these children to … burst with love for her. But, she has to erase their family to do that.”

“So, she abducts them,  convinces them no one can love them as much as she has, and then makes damn sure of it.”

Wilbur nods hesitantly. He flips through the file, and places a hand in his pocket. “A security camera in a convenience store in Alexandria, Virginia caught footage of Chris O’Hallaran this morning. He was with an unidentified woman.”

“Where’s this kid's parents?” Phil wonders.

“Fayetteville, North Carolina.”

Chris walks up the stairs to his front door, his feet feeling like lead. Everything moves in slow motion. His jacket is too big for him, and he has to push the sleeve off of his hand to ring the doorbell of his home. He steps back, and crosses his arms around himself for some semblance of warmth. The door creaks, and he comes back forward, and looks up at the woman who opens it.

“Christopher?” She gasps.

“Hi, Mom,” he smiles. 

She rushes forward, crouching down to pull him into a hug. Everything feels distant. She kneels in front of him, holds his arms like he isn’t real. “Oh my God, Chris.” She sounds tearful, but happy. It makes Chris’s heart break.

The cars speed down the road towards the house, and Wilbur is clutching onto the handle of the car roof with Phil’s reckless driving. As soon as they pull in, he yanks off his seatbelt and shoves open the door. This boy won’t damn himself like the others, Wilbur won’t let it happen. He will not let another family die. It will break him.

The SWAT team files out first, feet crunching the grass beneath them. Baghera, Charlie, and Roier follow close behind, and Wilbur reaches for the holster on his hip. The team breaks in the door, and files out through the house. They move through every room, some go upstairs, and Phil follows closely with the rifle in his hands. (Wilbur still isn’t sure who the hell let him bring that.)

They move out into the backyard, and the family is around their pool. They freeze near instantly. Wilbur sees Chris first, eyes narrowing. Around him are the other missing boys, and one of them raises a pistol.

“No, no, no!” The mother cries, shielding her family with her arm.

They shoot the boy with the gun first, and he falls over with the force of it ripping through his shoulder. The gun clatters, and Chris breaks off into a sprint. Wilbur shoves through the crowd after him, and the others surround the other boys and the family.

Chris pushes through a picket fence gate where the backyard goes through to the pool, and Wilbur jumps the fence, hand tight on his pistol. It’s more instinct if anything, and he immediately holds his hands up placatingly. “Chris, wait!” He calls out. Chris pulls the gun from his jacket, and Wilbur does the exact same, stumbling to a stop. “Don’t shoot,” he holds out a hand to the officer behind him, eyes fixed on the boy. 

“It’s okay, you’re home now. You can put the gun down, Christopher,” he says warmly.

The unidentified woman from the store steps out from the pool house, and she comes behind Chris to lay a hand on his head. “Shoot him, Chris,” she orders. Her own gun is pressed to the boy’s head, and her arm is wrapped tight around him.

Wilbur feels his breath falter, and his hands tremble. He crouches down slowly, setting the gun down beside him. He holds his arms out in front of him. “Christopher, please,” he whispers, emphasizing every word. I need to help you. 

A gun fires, and Wilbur flinches back. He brings his head up, expecting to see a dead boy, but the woman is on the ground. Baghera comes running out from the trees. Wilbur picks up the gun and shoves it back in the holster. He takes Chris into his arms, and gently guides him away, bending over slightly to reach his height.

“As someone who makes such a big fucking deal about common courtesty, I’m a little taken aback — a lot taken aback — that you would take my patient out of the hospital without my permission," she shouts. Quackity merely averts his gaze. “I’m not a profession scold, but don’t you ever put me in the fucking position again.”

“I’m sorry,” Quackity offers up.

Jaiden laughs cruelly. “Rude. You are shockingly rude, Quackity.”

“You have every right to be upset with me, I overstepped my boundaries,” he says.

“Where is she?” Is all that Jaiden says back, her eyes narrowed and glare sharp.

“The dining room,” he answers. “And Jaiden … you were right.”

“Often am,” she deadpans. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“She wasn’t ready to leave the hospital, and she experienced a little anxiety. So, I gave her a sedative.”

Jaiden reels back. “A sedative? What the fuck did you give her?”

“I gave her half a Valium, but she may be a little hazy,” he says.

Jaiden curses under her breath, and shoves past him to the dining room. Tallulah is sitting at the table already, her food in front of her. There are three filled plates, and she presses her brows together. “You were expecting me?”

Quackity nods, and pulls out the chair for her. She sits, slowly, hesitantly, and Tallulah smiles wide. “Quackity made breakfast for dinner.” Quackity reaches out for the pitcher of orange juice, pouring the glass for Jaiden. Tallulah blinks slowly. She looks awestruck. 

“What is it?” Quackity asks, pausing in his action, eyes furrowed. Tallulah doesn’t answer. “Tallulah? What do you see?”

Tallulah’s eyes grow glassy, “I see family.” 

Quackity and Jaiden share a glance, and Jaiden still looks fucking pissed. 

Chapter Text

The pavement is rough beneath Wilbur’s bare feet. Still, he keeps walking, eyes half shut. A stag follows close behind, hooves clopping on the ground in time with his footsteps. He presses on, that distant look in his eyes. And then he comes to a stop. The stag brushes its snout against his arm, its small huff materializing in the cold air. He isn’t shivering, why isn’t he shivering? His body feels weighed with lead.

There are blue and red lights — too bright, blinding —

Wilbur winces, lips twitching, and raises a hand to shield his eyes from the bright onslaught. The siren is loud, and the car comes to a stop in front of him. He grumbles, and takes his hand down. He looks at the ground to avoid looking at the bright lights. Two officers step out of the car, and the cold really begins to sink in. Wilbur wraps his arms around himself, and flinches as the flashlight beams into his face. 

“You lost?” An officer asks.

Wilbur furrows his brows together. “What?”

“What’s your name?” He asks instead.

“Wilbur Soot,” he mumbles.

“Do you know where you are, Mr. Soot?” The other officer looks around them for any sign of a landmark, and so does Wilbur.

He shakes his head, “No. No, I don’t … really … know.”

“Where do you live?”

“Wolf Trap, Virginia.” Wilbur coughs into his fist, and holds himself tighter, like that will fight off the cold. It doesn’t, far from it. He stares into the woods again, like that might explain the stag, or anything that is happening to him right now.

“We’re in Wolf Trap, so that’s good. You haven’t wandered far.” The officer nods to the space beside Wilbur, and shines his flashlight down to the road. He raises an eyebrow, “That yours?”

Wilbur hums, but looks down. He smiles softly, and reaches down a hand. “Oh. Hi, Winston,” he whispers. Winston whines in return, and stands to his feet. Wilbur blinks, his lips twitching. “Uhm, can I sit down? My feet are sore.”

“Why don’t we take you home?”

“Okay,” he mumbles.

The officers guide him into the car, along with Winston. They wrap a blanket around his shoulders and put him in the back. Wilbur draws the blanket tight around himself, and watches as Winston curls up beside him.

“Are you on any drugs or medication? Have you been drinking?” The officer asks, leaning in through the window.

Wilbur shakes his head. “No — uh, yes to the drinking. Not excessively, I just had two fingers of whiskey before I went to bed.”

“Do you have a history of sleepwalking?”

Wilbur reaches his hand out to push into Winston’s fur. Winston leans into the touch. “I’m not really sure if I’m awake now,” he answers honestly. Winston yawns, and leans onto his lap.

“Is it safe to assume you’re not sleepwalking right now?” Quackity asks from where he pours a cup of coffee. He’s wrapped a robe around himself, clearly still in his pajamas. There is still sleep clinging to his eyes.

“I’m sorry it’s so early,” Wilbur mumbles. “I just — I couldn’t go back to sleep.”

Quackity looks up, and there is that sparkle in his eyes, and the warmth of his smile. “Never apologize for coming to me, Wil. My kitchen is always open to my friends.” Wilbur watches as he pours in the sugar and the cream, and hands it to Wilbur. He takes it gratefully. “Sleepwalking is less common in adulthood than in childhood.”

“Could it be a seizure?” Wilbur asks, and takes a long sip of the coffee.

“I’d argue post–traumatic stress,” Quackity answers. “Phil has gotten your hands very dirty.”

“I wasn’t forced back into the field,” he protests.

“I didn’t say that. I do feel like you’ve been more ‘manipulated.’”

“I can handle it,” he grumbles.

“Somewhere between denying horrible events and calling them out is where the truth of psychological trauma lies,” Quackity sings.

“Okay, so I can’t handle it.”

Quackity nods. “Your experience might have overwhelmed ordinary functions that give you a sense of control. Sleepwalkers demonstrate a difficulty handling aggression. Do you?”

Wilbur scowls, and takes a small step back. “You and Phil see me as fine china used for special guests. I’m starting to feel like an old mug.”

Q hums. “You entered a devil’s bargain with Phil Watson. It takes a toll.”

“Phil isn’t the devil,” he mutters.

“When it comes to how far he’s willing to push you to get what he wants, he’s not a saint.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. Mutilated and displayed. I thought it might’ve been the Chesapeake Ripper, but there weren’t any surgical trophies taken.” Phil comes to a stop outside the room, and places a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder. “You’re going to need to prepare yourself for this one.”

“Yeah, I’m prepared,” Wilbur urges.

“Well, prepare some more,” Phil deadpans. Wilbur nods slowly, and Phil narrows his eyes. He guides him a little further away from the room. “Okay, the local police begged us to take this, there are no jurisdictional rivalries here. So, where’s your head at?”

“On my pillow,” he mutters and takes off his glasses to wipe them on his coat. “I didn’t sleep.”

“Well, this will wake you up.” Wilbur and Phil push through the officers into Room 23. When they step inside, Wil comes to a dead stop, and feels his stomach twist.

The couple is kneeling by the foot of the bed. They’re backs have been cut, and the skin has been pulled up to resemble wings. They’re strung up with fishing lines to stay righted. The spines are visible through the flesh, and Wilbur grimaces. “I’m awake,” Wilbur confirms.

“At least we know he’s a fisherman,” Baghera sighs.

“And/or a viking,” Charlie says.

“Vikings do this?” Roier asks and snaps a picture.

“Vikings used to execute Christians by bending them back, and draping the lungs over them to resemble wings. They call it the ‘Bloody Eagle,’” Charlie informs easily, like it comes off the top of his head.

Wilbur’s face twists. “Pagans mocking the God–fearing?”

“Then who’s mocking them?” Phil asks.

“No, no, he’s not mocking them,” Wilbur mumbles. “He’s transforming them.”

“I didn’t know if it was a good night’s sleep, but he slept here. There’s hair on the pillow, and the sheets are still damp,” Baghera calls out. “He threw up on the nightstand.”

“Couldn’t stomach what he did,” Phil whispers. “Flop sweat and nervous indigestion.”

“He wasn’t nervous. He felt righteous,” Wilbur corrects. “He thinks he’s elevating them somehow.”

“No mames moment,” Charlie whispers to Roier, who poorly contains his laughter.

Quackity slides the plate in front of Phil, then winds around the table to the woman with long, black hair that reaches her shoulders, her smile warm. “Foie gras au torchon with a late harvest of Vidal sauce, including dried and fresh figs,” he says. She hums in appreciation, and looks across the table to her husband.

“I didn’t know you were such an exceptional cook,” Kristin hums.

Quackity grins and slides into his seat. “Thank you.”

“I’ve been telling you how good he is,” Phil smiles. “You just keep underestimating the man.” He stabs into the food and takes a bite. He hums in soft approval. “Cold foie gras with warm figs. It’s very nice.”

“Would I be a horrible guest if I skipped this course?” Kristin asks, seemingly uncomfortable. Her shoulders have drawn up, brows crinkled together.

Quackity looks at her. “Too rich?”

“Too cruel,” she counters.

Phil looks up from his plate, “Kristin.” 

“Phil,” she says.

“First and worst sign of sociopathic behavior is cruelty to animals.”

“That doesn’t apply in the kitchen,” Phil says.

“I have no place for animal cruelty. I employ an ethical butcher,” Q explains softly to Kristin.

“An ethical butcher?” She scoffs. “Be kind to animals, then eat them?”

“I’m afraid I insist on it.” And he’s dead serious. It almost makes Kristin laugh. “There’s no need for unnecessary suffering.” Quackity takes the wine in his hand and takes a sip from the glass. He sighs softly, and sets it back onto the table. The clink of glass against wood seems to echo. “Emotions as humans are gifts from our animal ancestors. Cruelty is a gift humanity gave itself. The gift that keeps on giving.”

Phil laughs beneath his breath, and looks towards Kristin. “Quite the charmer, isn’t he?”

Kristin shrugs.

Quackity smiles and rises from his seat, fixing the suspenders on his shoulder overtop the dark red shirt. “Our next course is roasted pork shank. And I can assure you, Kristin, that it was a supercilious pig.”

Baghera uses a pair of tongs to peel the cut flesh away from the body’s back like how it was when they found the scene. She grimaces, and gives a glance to Roier beside her. She smiles, just a bit. “Death makes angels of all of us and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven’s claws.”

“Robert Frost,” Roier guesses.

“Jim Morrison,” Wilbur corrects. “Even a drunk with a flair for the dramatic thinks he’s God. Or the lizard king.”

“God makes angels. Jesus was fond of fishermen,” Baghera says as she manages to get a fishing hook out of the flesh of the “wing.”

“Are we talking hardcore Judeo–Christian upsetting, or upsetting in general?” Charlie questions.

“A very specific upsetting,” Wilbur crosses his arms on his chest and observes as Roier and Baghera examine the wounds on the body.

“Increased serotonin levels in the wounds is much higher than the free histamines, so she probably lived for fifteen minutes after she was skinned,” Roier winces. “There’s powder residue on the neck of the soda bottle shows Vecuronium, scotch and soda, and a paralytic agent. Kneeling in supplication of g–dash–g.”

“Supplication is the most common form of prayer,” Charlie says.

Wilbur drags his hands down his face and rubs his fist along his cheek in a gentle massage. It’s a motion the team has gotten familiar with. At first they believed it was him contradicting them, sighing because they were annoying, or because he thought they were stupid. During these weeks, they’ve learned that Wilbur is simply fucking tired.

“They weren’t praying to him,” Wil mumbles. “They were praying for him.” He swallows thickly, and his eyes get that distant look they get when he’s realized something that makes him — “scared. He’s scared.”

“What is somebody who could do something like this afraid of?” Baghera wonders.

Wilbur blinks slowly, and turns to Charlie. “What’s in his vomit?”

Charlie looks at his clipboard. “Dexamethasone, which is used for patients with tumors.”

Roier looks over his shoulder and presses his brows together. “Kepra … he’s epileptic. Radiation?”

“Gamma four,” Charlie says.

“Steroids for the inflammation,  anticonvulsants for the seizures, radiation for chemotherapy.” Roier leans forward on the table and looks towards Wilbur, who is still breathing hard and is chewing on his nails, eyes darting between the three. “Our guy has a brain tumor.”

Wilbur chews on the inside of his cheek for a brief moment. “He’s scared of dying in his sleep. He’s making angels to watch over him.”

“Mrs. Watson,” Quackity greets as he swings open the door. Kristin turns from where she waits in a dark trench coat. Her hair is tied back, and she doesn’t smile when she sees him, merely nods her head. “Come in.”

She settles herself into one of the leather seats, her hands folded on her lap, purse sitting on the floor beside her. She takes her time letting her eyes run over the office and the elaborate decorations. The fireplace catches her eye first, and the skull in the ground, but she tries not to linger on that too much. Most of the conversation flies through her head, answers spilling from her lips. 

That is, until Quackity asks — “How often do you see him?”

“Twice a week, at first,” She hums. “Now, usually just once.”

“Are you satisfied, then?”

“Enough to keep seeing him.”

“Your intention is to not tell Phil,” Quackity observes easily.

“I don’t see what good it would do,” Kristin sighs. Q tilts his head, and she tries her best to elaborate her reasoning. “Phil sees the worst in the world, all the time, that’s all he ever sees. I don’t need him seeing me like that. He already has a lot on his plate.”

“He has room for one more worry,” he assures. “I feel like you’re protecting him.”

“I am,” she insists. “I’ve had dinner at your home. You have a professional relationship with my husband. There’s no conflict of interest in my being here?”

“It’s unorthodox, but not unheard of,” he says. “Given the nature of your problem, seeing someone who knows Phil removes some of the guesswork.”

Kristin shakes her head almost ruefully. “This all started a misdirected stab at maintaining my dignity,” she sighs.

“There’s nothing undignified about being here, Mrs. Watson.”

“Not yet. I have indignity to look forward to.”

“The only indignity I see is resentment,” Quackity says. “Why do you resent your husband?”

“I resent that Phil has too many worries to worry about me,” Kristin mutters. Her voice breaks in her sentence, and Q takes care not to point it out.

“But that’s your choice, isn’t it?” He asks. “It’s not his.”

“Then maybe you should see us both for couple counseling,” she spits.

“I would recommend another psychiatrist for couples,” he says. “I wouldn’t want you to have the home–couch advantage.”

“It’s hard enough dealing with how I feel about all of this,” she says, and crosses one leg over the other. “I don’t need to deal with how Phil feels about it.”

Quackity nods, his lips thinning into a line.

“There is no one and only spiritual connection in the brain. Any idea of God comes from many different areas of the mind working together in unison,” Quackity explains and tosses down a book from the shelves. 

Wilbur catches it with ease and flips it open, balancing the spine of the book on one hand to use the other to flip through the pages. He skims the words, and hums. “How do you profile somebody who has an anomaly in their head changing the way they think?”

Quackity leans on the railing with his own book in his hand. “A tumor can alter brain function, and vivid hallucinations. But, what seems to be driving your angel maker to create heaven on earth is an issue of morality?”

Wilbur looks up briefly. “Can’t defeat God, become him?”

“You said he was afraid.”

“He feels abandoned,” he says.

Quackity looks down at him. “Do you ever feel a sense of abandonment, Wil?”

Wilbur laughs, “Abandonment requires expectation.”

“What were your expectations of Phil Watson and the FBI?”

“Phil hasn’t abandoned me,” Wilbur snaps and tosses the book onto Phil’s desk.

Quackity hums, “Perhaps in the way gods abandon their creations.” Wilbur sighs and leans back on the chair, arms behind him, head tilting back. Quackity watches the light from the windows spill onto him, and thinks he looks ethereal. “You say he hasn’t abandoned you, but at the same time you find yourself wandering around Wolf Trap in the middle of the night.”

Wilbur reels back just slightly and his eyes flutter. A smile spreads onto his face, sarcastic and wide, and beautiful. “Well, this should be interesting,” he laughs. He heaves a sigh and waves his hand invitingly. “Please, doctor, continue.”

“Phil gave you his word he would protect your headspace,” Quackity points out almost too easily. “Yet, he leaves you to your mental devices.”

Wilbur furrows his brows together, and tilts his head. “Are you trying to alienate me from Phil Watson?”

Quackity shakes his head. “I’m trying to help you understand the angel maker you seek.”

“Well, help me understand how to catch him.”

“If he were a classic schizophrenic, you could influence him to become visible.”

Wilbur finishes off the sip of his coffee and smacks his lips. “What, scare him into the daylight?”

“Might even get him to hurt himself, if he hasn’t already.”

Wilbur shakes his head. “If he were self destructive, he wouldn’t be so careful.”

Quackity tilts his head. “Unless he’s careful about being self destructive, making angels to pray over him while he sleeps.”

Wilbur stands in the center of the alleyway, where the blue and red lights shine behind him, and the sirens still sound as loud as they were thirty minutes ago when the body was discovered. In front of him is a set of metal beams at the very end of the alley, and strung up on the beams with fishing lines, is a man with his back skinned out to be wings. The blood trickles down the tarp behind the beams, staining it an irreversible crimson.

He hears Phil’s footsteps, and so he knows that he’s there before he even sees him. “Why angels?” Phil asks, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trench coat.

Wilbur shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders. “Well, it isn’t biblical. His angels have wings.” He quickly elaborates, hands twitching by his sides. “Uh — angels in sculptures and paintings can fly, but not ones in scripture.”

“He’s drawing from secular sources?”

Wilbur grits his teeth, and fights off a scoff. “His mind has turned against him. There’s nobody else left to help.”

Charlie calls out, “Hey, Phil, look at this. What — What are those?”

Roier kneels down beside the object and winces. “Somebody got a really cheap orchiectomy.” 

Baghera shines the light on the corpse and presses her brows together. “It doesn’t look like the victim's.”

“So they’re the angel maker's?” Charlie gasps, and looks towards Roier. He mouths ‘no mames moment,’ to which Roier nods enthusiastically.

Baghera’s hand falls back to her side. “He castrated himself?”

“So, he isn’t just making angels, he’s getting ready to become one,” Wilbur says. And at Phil’s face, he heaves a sigh, and elaborates again. “Angels don’t have dicks.”

Phil looks down at the ground, like he’s still trying to figure all of this out. “So, he was afraid of dying, and now he’s welcoming the concept?”

“He’s accepting it, or he’s bargaining,” Wilbur grits out, and scratches at the back of his neck.

“So does this mean that he’s done making angels, or is he just getting started?”

“I don’t know,” Wil sighs.

Phil scoffs, “Well, he’s not just killing them when he’s sleepy. I mean, how is he choosing them?”

Wilbur rubs his eyes, and looks at the wall. “I don’t know. Ask him,” he says through his teeth.

“Well, I’m asking you.” 

“You’re the head of the behavioral science unit, Phil. Why don’t you come up with your own fucking answers if you don’t like mine?” He snaps.

Phil scowls and comes to stand in front of Wilbur. “I did not hear that. Did I?”

The team shares a glance and quickly gets out of the way. They head back to the cars, where the two are left alone. Wilbur takes off his glasses and hits them on his hand, lips pressed together. “No,” he mutters. “You didn’t. I’m sorry.”

Phil waits until the team is far out of sight to frown at him, that disappointment written over his face. “What’s up with you, huh? Is it the case? Something at home? Are your dogs sick?”

“No, no, no,” he insists, and tugs at his hair briefly. “It’s not the case, I can do the case. It’s not — it’s nothing, I don’t know. I don’t sleep that well, I’ll get over it, it’s fine.” 

“Good,” he nods and claps him on the shoulder. He leaves him, alone in the alleyway, looking up at the angel tied to the bars.

Wilbur is standing by the Bruners’ corpses when Baghera gets there. There’s that faraway look in his eyes, again. He’s rid himself of his coat and glasses, leaving them God knows where. His back is against the empty shelves of bodies. Baghera stops on the side of him opposite the body, and leans on the wall, arms crossed.

“I’ve never heard anybody speak to Phil the way you did,” Baghera says, and Wilbur must look horrible, because there is this funny look on her face.

Wilbur blinks out of his reverie, “I was out of line.”

“You were out of your mind,” she corrects. “My ears rang like they did the first time my mother said fuck.” Wilbur spares a soft chuckle, and covers his face with his hands, heaving a long breath. “Are you okay?” She asks, and reaches out to lie a hand on his arm. He doesn’t bring his hands down. “I know that it’s a stupid question considering none of us could be okay doing what we do. But … are you okay?”

Wilbur sniffles and stuffs his hands in his pockets. His eyes are glassy, barely noticeable to the average person, but Baghera has always been observant. “Do I seem different?”

“You’re a little different, but you’ve always been that way,” she shrugs. “That way nobody ever knows if something’s up with you.”

“How would I know if something was up with you?” 

“You wouldn’t,” she answers. “But I would tell you if you asked me. Return the favor?”

Wilbur parts his lips to answer, and he almost does get it out. He starts with it, the first couple of words leave him (“I’ve been sleepwa —”), and then Charlie comes bounding into the office and hands him a paper. “Meet Roger and Marilyn Bruner,” he says. “You might recognize them from most wanted lists. He likes to rape and murder, and she likes to watch. We got a DNA match. They falsified the motel registry and were driving a stolen car, so it took a second to identify them.”

Wilbur looks like he’s reeling, his mind tripping back and back. “I wonder how long it took the angel maker to identify them.” He shakes his head softly. 

“He doesn’t choose them randomly. He knows something about them,” Charlie says. “The murdered security guard wasn’t actually a security guard. He was a convicted felon.”

Baghera’s eyes widen. “Could angel maker be a vigilante?”

“Vigilantes are pragmatic, they’re purposeful. They don’t lay down and sleep under their crimes,” Wilbur points out. “In his mind, he was doing God’s work.”

“That spells vigilante,” she deadpans.

“Playing at God has other advantages. One of them is always being alone.”

Baghera waves her hand around, “So he makes angels out of demons.”

“How does he know they’re demons?” Charlie wonders.

“He doesn’t have to know,” Wil mutters. “All he has to do is believe.”

“Has Phil begun to suspect?” Quackity asks. He is sat across from Kristin again. They’re meetings are becoming more frequent. “He’s a behavioral specialist. He must know you’re keeping something from him.”

Kristin nods. “Oh, he knows. He asked me if I was having an affair by reassuring me he didn’t have to ask.”

Q presses his brows together. “I doubt he believes you’re unfaithful.”

“And why do you doubt that?”

“It’s clear that you love your husband,” he hums.

Kristin sighs. “Women who love their husbands still find reasons to cheat on them.”

“Not you,” he points out. He leans back in the seat slightly, and feels his ponytail shift. “Still, you seem more betrayed by Phil than your own body.”

“I don’t feel betrayed by Phil.” Kristin shakes her head, and her smile has faded to something temporary. Something sad. “There’s no point in being mad at cancer for being cancer.”

“Sure there is.”

“Cancer isn’t cruel,” she scoffs. “Tiny cell wanders off from the liver, gets lost, finds its way into my lung, where it’s just trying to do its job: grow a liver.”

“Where it grows and where it is growing will likely kill you,” Quackity says.

“Not likely,” she corrects. “It will kill me. It doesn’t matter how many antioxidants I take. It doesn’t change anything.”

“But you blame Phil for his inability to cure cancer.” Kristin shakes her head softly, and looks down at her heels. “Should I have said his inability to save you? Would that be more accurate?”

“I am slowly shrinking, while this tiny thing grows larger every day. And yet I feel fine.”

“You will feel fine … up until the precise moment that you don’t.”

“It’s very dull isn’t it? The ending is always the same, and that same is that it ends.”

“So, you withdraw from your relationship with your husband? The one who strolled the streets and came to your home with flowers, and never honked his horn to tell you he was there?”

Kristin closes her eyes.

Wilbur’s eyes flutter open, and it is dark in his house. He rolls his head to the side to peer at his alarm clock.

11:02 —

2:05 —

5:-03 —

He really does shut them this time, and lets himself fall back into that sleep. He feels the warmth on his face from the sunlight, feels the breeze from … the window? He closed his window. The dogs are barking. He opens his eyes, again, and is met with the view of the fields in front of his house from his rooftop.

Shit.

Wilbur dumps the Ibuprofen into his hand, and dry swallows the pills, tilting his head back.

“It’s difficult to lie still and fear going to sleep,” Quackity says.

“What is there to think about?”

“You listen to your breathing in the dark, and the tiny clicks of your blinking eyes.”

Wilbur has begun to pace, and crosses his arms on his chest, staring at the drawings on Q’s table. “I dream more than I used to now,” he says, regrettably, and works his jaw.

“Your dreams were the one place you could be physically safe, relinquishing control. Not anymore.”

Wilbur laughs, “I thought about zipping myself up into a sleeping bag before I went to bed, but it sounds like a poor man’s straightjacket.”

Quackity watches him for a moment, counts the hair that flicks over his eyes and down the nape of his neck. He sits on the seats like before. “Have you thought about how this angel maker is choosing his victims?”

He sighs. “Well, he doesn’t see people how everybody else sees them. He knows if you’re naughty or nice. Or at least he thinks he can.”

Q hums. “So God gave this person insight into the souls of men.”

“God didn’t give him insight, God gave him a fucking tumor.” He steps forward towards a small statue up on a pedestal. It’s of a stag, with its head reared back and antlers glorious. It’s no bigger than his hand. “He’s just a man whose brain is playing tricks on him,” he mumbles.

“You aren’t unlike this killer,” Quackity says.

“My brain is playing tricks on me?” He reaches out to run his knuckle along the antler, feeling the texture of the small figure.

“You long for sweet and easy peace,” he points out. “The angel maker wants the same thing. He wants to feel his way cautiously inside, and then find it’s endless all around him.”

Wilbur laughs shakily, “He’s gonna be disappointed.”

“You accept the impossibility of such a feeling, whereas the angel maker is still chasing it. If he got close to it,  he will look for it again.”

“I’ve tried to reconstruct his thinking, find his patterns.”

“Instead you find yourself in a behavior pattern you can’t break. You realize you have a choice, don’t you?.”

“No, actually.” Wilbur, for the first time this session, looks over his shoulder at Quackity. His eyes are drooping, and the bags cling to his cheeks. His face is sunken in. “What is it?”

Quackity comes closer, stepping behind him, leaning over his shoulder. “Angel maker will be destroyed by what is happening inside his head. You don’t have to be.” Wilbur tries not to focus on how he is fully aware where their arms touch, and stares at the statue. He feels the air shift, and furrows his eyes.

He looks over his shoulder, “Did you just smell me?”

“Difficult to avoid,” Q whispers and rolls out his shoulders. “I really have to introduce you to a better aftershave. That smells like something with a ship on the bottle.”

“Well, I keep getting it for Christmas,” he chuckles.

Quackity hums. “Have your headaches been getting worse? More frequent?”

“Yes, actually,” he says and winds around him, because his throat is closing up, and he feels hot. He wanders back to the center of the room, and stands between the chairs, leaning back on Quackity’s desk.

“I would change the aftershave,” he advises half–heartedly.

Wilbur laughs, and then winces and presses a hand to his forehead, the smile still clinging to his face.

Roier walks with Phil, pointing down at the file in his hand, his voice rushed. It’s always packed at this time, officers and seniors of the units barreling through the hallways trying to get where they need to. “Elliot Budish: 25 year old truck driver. He also has a fishing license. The match came from the national cancer database.” Phil takes the file in his hands, narrowly avoiding slamming into an officer rushing down the hall. “He’s married and has two kids, they haven’t seen him in four months. He was diagnosed five months ago.”

Phil looks up, and nods. “Meet the angel maker.”

“We also got a hold of his wife, Phil,” Roier says. “We brought her in. She’s in your office.”

Phil nods and hands him the file, and he joins the sea of officers as he goes down the halls to his office. She is blond, and looks scared as she sits in a chair in the center of her room. She has her visitor tag on, and her eyes snap to Phil as soon as he opens his mouth. Wilbur is sitting beside her, his chair turned to face her. Phil is leaning on his desk.

“Have you heard from him since he left?” Phil asks. The first, most important question.

“I left him,” she clarifies nervously. “And, no, I haven’t.”

Phil nods slowly. “Why did you leave?”

“Because of his cancer,” she sighs. “It makes me sound like a terrible wife, doesn’t it?”

“I’m sure you had your reasons,” he insists.

“I took work off to be with him. I wanted to be with him. But what he wanted was to be alone. He just kept pushing us away. He made it clear he didn’t want me there … and then it wasn’t clear. And then it didn’t matter why he was acting like he was.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and takes in a shuddering breath. Wilbur watches as Phil’s face grows pale, and he sits down as well. “It was weird for the kids. What kind of mother exposes their children to someone who is losing their mind?”

Wilbur leans forward, seeing how Phil isn’t capable of leading these questions anymore. He hasn’t seen him like that. Ever. It scares him. “Was he ever violent, Mrs. Budish?”

She looks up at him, her gaze hard and cold. “He was angry. But he never hit me or the boys. It was hardest on them. To see him slip away, to see him lose himself. And they lost a father.” (Phil wipes at his eyes, and he doesn’t bring his hands away.) “I thought that as he got weaker, as the cancer got worse, that it would be less confusing for them. I hoped they could see him as just a sick man instead of somebody who was so terrified.”

Wilbur swallows. “And, did your husband’s faith ever falter after he found out about the cancer?”

She stares, unblinking, and looks almost offended. “Elliot wasn’t religious. Is he doing something religious?”

“He might think he is,” Wilbur clarifies.

Phil finally speaks, and his voice is hoarse even if he hasn’t yelled. She turns her head to him at the sound of his chair rolling forward. “Your husband is dying, Mrs. Budish. And soon. We’d just … we’d just like to find him before he hurts himself or anybody else.”

She nods, and blinks rapidly, then nods again. “He had a near death experience. He nearly suffocated in a fire as a boy.” She looks directly at Wilbur. “Fireman said he must’ve had a guardian angel.”

“Where did this happen?” He asks, somewhat urgently.

“Uhm, a farm where he grew up.”

“Okay, let’s go,” Phil urges and springs to his feet. “I’ll have somebody show you the way out, Mrs. Budish.”

Wilbur clambers out of the car before Phil even fully brings the vehicle to a stop. The farm is old, and the roof is rusting. The walls are made out of wood that is gray with time. A small hill goes up, and there is the open door at the crest of the hill, where the barn has been built. He’s already stepping up the hill when Phil gets out of the car in a much calmer fashion.

Wilbur steps inside, and turns on his heels to look outside again. He squeezes his eyes shut, and rubs at them with one hand. Fuck. He grits his teeth, and hears the wood creak under Phil’s footsteps.

Elliot Budish has strung himself up to the roof of the barn, his back torn out in wings.

Wilbur brings himself to turn around, and tilts his head up to look at the hanging body. He nods, hesitantly. “This will be the last one.”

“It’s Budish?” Phil almost sounds afraid.

“He made himself an angel,” he whispers. “It wasn’t God. It wasn’t man. It was his choice to die.”

“His choice?”

“As much as he could’ve made it.” Wilbur steps forward to stand next to Phil. He lets out a shuddering breath, and feels the unwelcome sting in his eyes. Phil is more put together than him. Wilbur resents him for it, as much as he can. He works his jaw. “I don’t know how much longer I can be all that useful to you, Phil,” he confesses like a dirty sin.

“Really?” Phil sounds surprised, turning to face Wil with his whole body. “You caught three. The last three we had, you caught. You did that, Wil.”

“I didn’t catch this one,” he mutters. “Elliot Budish surrendered.”

“You know, I’m used to my wife not talking to me,” Phil says. He heaves a sigh and turns back. “I don’t have to get used to you not talking to me, too.”

“It’s getting harder to make myself look,” he says, desperately.

“Nobody is asking you to look alone,” Phil tries to reassure, looking at him again, stepping closer to him.

“But I am.” His voice cracks, and he winces. “And you know what looking at this does.” He throws an arm out to gesture to Budish, eyes wide and pleading.

“I do,” he manages. “I saw it, Wil. I saw what happened to you. I also know what happens if you don’t look, and so do you.”

“I can make myself look, but the thinking is shutting down!” He staggers back, even if nobody has forced him to, and rubs at his head. Another headache is coming on.

He presses his brows together, and nods up to Budish. “What is it about this one?”

“It isn’t this one, it’s all of them. It’s the next one, it’s the one that I know is coming after that.”

“You wanna go back to your lecture hall? Read about this stuff on TattleCrime.com?”

“No, I don’t,” he practically yells. “But I have to. Phil, this is bad for me!”

Phil shakes his head, “I’m not your father, Wil. I’m not going to tell you what you ought to do.”

He scoffs, “Sounds like you’re about to.”

“You go back to your classroom,” Phil lowers his voice, even though they’re the only ones there. “Go back when there’s killings going on that you could’ve prevented. It will sour your classroom forever.”

Wilbur hates it, he hates it when Phil does this. But he finds himself lowering his tone as well, to something quiet and calm, something that aches. “Maybe. And then maybe I’ll find a job as a diesel mechanic in a boatyard.”

“You wanna quit? Then quit, Wilbur.”

Wilbur is left alone in the barn, with his thoughts, and his fingers that crumple into fists. He rubs at his eyes with the sides of his hands, and his shoulders jerk. He takes in a shuddering breath, and all at once, the tears go away. 

He hears the rustling of the hay, and looks over his shoulder. Elliot Budish has cut himself down from the strings, and Wilbur reels back, reaching for his holster. And then Budish kneels, a small dagger in his palm. Wilbur falters, and his fingers twitch on the handle of his gun.

“I see what you are,” Budish rasps.

“What do you see?”

“Inside. I can bring it out of you.”

“Not all the way out,” he says sourly.

Budish coughs, a weak sound. He looks up again, knelt in front of him. “I can give you the majesty of becoming.” His grip on the knife falters, and his hands shake. His eyelashes flutter, and he collapses onto his side.

Wilbur follows the body as it falls, and is met with the empty ground, full of nothing but hay. He looks back up, his heart pounding. 

Elliot Budish never came down from the ropes. He is still strung up.

He groans deep in his throat, and his throat feels thick. It was real, it felt so real. He swallows, and presses his hands into his head. What’s happening to me?

Phil is waiting outside of Quackity’s office when he brings out Kristin. He pauses for a moment, and glances between them both. “My wife and I need to talk,” Phil explains. “May we use the waiting room?”

“You can use the office,” Quackity invites and steps aside.

“Thank you,” Phil smiles and steps past him. Q takes the liberty of closing the door.

Kristin is already moving away from him, wandering deeper into the large room. “Are you here on official business, or did you follow me?”

“I called your office,” he answers. “They said you were at an appointment. I figured you would be here.”

Kristin stops. She swallows, and turns to look at him. She looks weary, now more than ever. “You know,” she chokes out. Phil nods, and her shoulders slump. “I knew you would find out.”

“When did you find out?” He asks.

“Twelve weeks ago.”

“Twelve weeks ago?” He repeats, and sounds horribly betrayed.

“Lung cancer,” she offers up, and bites her lip hard enough to draw blood.

“You don’t smoke.”

“The irony,” she laughs tearfully.

He swallows and lowers himself to sit on one of the couches, his legs shaking. She sits beside him. They don’t look at each other. “Is it treatable?”

She looks down at her feet. “It’s stage four.”

“Fuck,” he curses and drags his hands down his face. “You … when were you going to tell me?”

“Far enough into the future that I’m really not prepared to have this conversation right now.”

“Neither am I,” he huffs. “But we’re having it right now. I — were you just going to wait until you were in the middle of chemotherapy? When you couldn’t hide it anymore?”

Kristin shakes her head. Her gray hairs are stark against the black. This will break Phil, he knows that. “I don’t think I want to do chemotherapy.”

Phil flinches. “Well, do I have any say in this?”

“No,” Kristin snaps. “No, you don’t.”

He nods, and looks beside him towards her. He looks at the curve of her cheek, and her eyelashes, and the way her eyes get glassy. “Do you want to be alone?” His voice shakes, and he damns himself for it. “I don’t want you to answer that — Just … think about your answer. I want you to know that I don’t want you to be alone, not now and not ever.”

“We’ll beat this together?” She asks, and looks at him, and she thinks Phil has never looked older. She always thought he would be the one to go first.

He shakes his head ruefully. “No, this is your fight, but I’m in your corner.”

“I appreciate that, Phil. I do,” she reassures. But, she still shakes her head, and she still frowns. She lies a hand on his arm, and he lies his hand over hers and squeezes. “But I’m not comforted by it. I know that’s what you need, and you need to comfort me. But I can’t give you what you need —”

“Don’t worry about what I need.” He stares at her, tries to preserve her memory in his mind, like he is already losing her. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

Kristin’s bottom lip wobbles, and she heaves a sigh. “I thought if I kept it to myself, our lives wouldn’t change. I didn’t count on changing as much as I did.”

Phil is alone in his office, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He is staring at the far wall, sitting on the yellow couch on the opposite side. His hand is over his mouth. It is still dreadfully silent when Wilbur steps inside. Phil spares him a glance. “What do you want, Wil?”

Wilbur keeps himself from being offended. He knows Phil quite well. Instead, he sits down beside him and leans back on the couch. “I’m going to sit here until you’re ready to talk,” he says. He taps his fingers on his thighs. “You don’t have to say a word until you’re ready to, but … I’m not going anywhere until you do.”

The only sound after that is Phil trying to be silent when he cries.

Chapter Text

A group of officers and three nurses stand in front of the cell. Inside, a man lies face–down on the ground, and blood is spilling out of his mouth. “Dr. Schlatt, stand at your feet, or you will be restrained,” an officer calls out, his voice firm. After a few moments, he speaks again. “This is your last chance to comply. On your feet, Dr. Schlatt, or we will restrain you.”

Silence, and the officer nods towards the nurses with a soft sigh. They rush into the cell, and restrain Schlatt’s hands behind his back. Two officers hold his arm, and the third checks his pulse. “Get a gurney!” He shouts.

They get Schlatt onto the gurney quickly, and push him through the halls of the psychiatric hospital. Schlatt is bare–footed, with only his uniform, and an oxygen mask on his face. They take him down to the hospital room, where a nurse works on her own. She tugs open his shirt, and connects the wires to his chest. She slides the IV onto his finger, and the machine begins to beep in time with his heartbeat. She slides up the stand for the IV bag, and — the monitor flatlines.

She whirls around on her feet, and Schlatt stands in front of her, out of his restraints. 

She has no time to scream.

“Well, thanks to Bad Halo, there’s an unconfirmed story floating around that the Chesapeake Ripper is already in containment,” Phil sighs as he steps up the stairs of the psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane. They leave the car in the driveway, and Phil tosses the keys to one of the workers.

“Unconfirmed?” Wilbur questions. He frowns, his tone sour. “Fact checking for Bad Halo doesn’t —”

“You’re fact checking for me,” he corrects quickly, and steps inside the doors.

Wilbur groans beneath his breath, but steps in anyway, fingers twitching at his sides. He stares up at the walls of the building, the few windows, the wings holding inmates. His stomach swoops. “I always feel nervous going into these places.”

“Why’s that?” Phil asks, looking over his shoulder briefly.

“I’m afraid they won’t let me out,” he confesses.

“Don’t worry, I won’t leave you here.”

He scoffs, “Yeah, not today.”

“Ms. Plays just called me about you, Mr. Soot. Or should I call you Dr. Soot?” Etoiles asks, his glasses righted on his face, his smile wide and beaming.

“I’m not a doctor,” Wilbur mutters.

“You’re also not FBI,” he points out. “That’s a temporary identification.”

“Mr. Soot teaches at the academy,” Phil defends and reaches out to shake Etoiles’s hand. Etoiles smiles a little wider and nods.

“Oh, a teacher. What is it you need?” Etoiles asks, gesturing out with his hands to the seats in front of him. “Sit, please, I insist.”

“We’re going to need to see the crime scene while it’s still relatively undisturbed,” Phil requests as he lowers himself into the leather seat. Wilbur does the same, reluctantly albeit, but he does.

“I can assure you that for something so disturbing, it is left quite undisturbed,” he promises and fixes his tie absent–mindedly. It’s clear this case has affected him — especially as the head of the hospital.

“Why was a nurse left alone with a prisoner in a high–security psychiatric hospital?” Wilbur wonders out loud, looking up at Etoiles from where he is sitting.

“For the two years since he was brought here, Schlatt has behaved perfectly and gave every attempt at cooperating with therapy,” Etoiles explains. “As dictated by our present administrator, security around him was slightly … relaxed.” Wilbur nods with a soft shrug. It makes sense, sure, that after so long of this man being perfectly normal, that they would trust him more. Apparently not normal enough to avoid slaughtering a nurse. “I can’t help but feel responsible for what happened. He sat directly across from me—” he points in Wilbur’s direction, right at him, “—and I couldn’t see what he was hiding. And now one of our staff is dead.”

“I understand, doctor,” Phil says calmly, noticing how on edge Wilbur is, and how the man clearly just wants to leave. “Mr. Soot is going to need to see the crime scene with as much privacy as you can provide.”

“Oh, yes, that thing you do,” Etoiles smiles and looks in his direction. Wilbur stares at him. “You’re quite the topic of conversation at psychiatric circles, Mr. Soot.”

He reels back slightly, “Am I?”

Etoiles nods enthusiastically. “A unique cocktail of personality disorders and neuroses that make you a highly skilled profiler.”

“He’s not here to be analyzed,” Phil spits. 

Etoiles raises his hands up placatingly. “We would love to learn more about it, is all I’m asking.” He rises from his seat to stand by Wilbur’s chair. Wilbur works his jaw, grinding his teeth together. “Would you be willing to speak to —”

“Doctor.” 

“No, no, not this visit, Watson —”

Wilbur stands with all the grace of a coiled predator, and when he reaches full height, practically towers over Etoiles. “I’d like to see the crime scene now.”

“Oh,” he whispers, then nods. “Of course, yes. Follow me.”

Wilbur makes a point of walking beside Phil when they enter the hallway. After a moment though, Phil comes to stand beside Etoiles as they speak. “Was Schlatt restrained?”

“Yes, with handcuffs. He hid a fork tine in the palm of his hand and used it to pick the lock.”

“Where is he now?”

“In his cell.” Etoiles turns to Wilbur for a brief moment. They stop in front of the entrance down to the patients, which is locked and guarded with thick metal bars. Etoiles fishes out his keycard “You’ll note the removal of organs and the abdominal mutilations are consistent with the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“So is the brutalization of the corpses, but that doesn’t change the fact that the Ripper is still out there.”

Etoiles frowns. “Phil, what I’m about to show you suggests otherwise.” The door buzzes, and Etoiles steps through first, his mood obviously soured by Phil’s doubt. Etoiles comes to a stop at the first door on their right, and lets the two walk in first. The nurse has been impaled with several of the IV bag stands stored in the room, along with almost anything sharp and long that Schlatt could get his hands on. Her body is doused in blood, and her eyes have been removed. Wilbur curls his fingers into fists, and he draws in a shuddering breath. 

“The reason you failed and kept failing to capture the Chesapeake Ripper was because I already had him.”

Phil grits his teeth. “Let’s clear the room, Etoiles.”

The nurses wheel him through the hallway, a long and bump ride down to the nurse’s room. He’s awake. He has been for a while. He listens to the clinking of the nurse’s instruments, and feels the air on his chest, and the coolness of the wires against his skin. She slides the IV onto his finger. He listens to the monitor beep in time with his heart. 

He slides the fork twine out of his hand, and maneuvers it to his fingers. His eyes flutter open. The restraints cuffing him to the gurney come easily undone. He watches her fiddle with the IV bag stand, and undoes the next cuff. He slides off the oxygen mask, rising to his feet, setting it gingerly on the gurney behind him.

The monitor flatlines, and she turns, and he is standing right behind her.

He lunges forward, grabbing her by the neck and shoving her against the shelves before she can scream. His fingers twist into her shirt, eyes darting along her face. He throws her onto the ground, and she twists onto her back, face twisted in horror. She doesn’t scream. She merely makes choked sounds of agony and desperation.

He climbs on top of her, straddling her legs so she can’t kick. His fingers dig into her eyes. She grabs his arms, strangled wails leaving her. He shushes her, eyebrows pressing together. The blood fills up her eye sockets and goes spilling down the sides of her head, matts in her hair. He stands once more, and she rolls onto her stomach, fingers scrabbling at the floor. 

He watches her crawl for a moment, looming over her, before he hovers his hands along the IV bag stand. He huffs, and takes it into his palms. He walks beside her, coming in front of her easily. She feels his feet first, then clutches at his pant legs pleadingly. 

He tilts his head, raises up his weapon, and brings it down to impale her back.

Wilbur snaps his eyes open. His breaths are trembling and quiet. He rubs his eyes, and takes a few steps back from where he is standing beside the body. He looks over his shoulder towards Phil and Etoiles, who stand by the door, watching carefully. He tries to think that they’ve only just looked because he’s snapped out of it, but he knows that isn’t true. Not for Etoiles, at least.

Wilbur swallows. “It’s been over two years since the Chesapeake Ripper killed?”

“Correct,” Phil responds.

“When was Schlatt admitted?”

“Almost two years ago.”

“Chayanne, come in,” Phil beckons the boy forward, who steps into his office jittery and nervous. At least, that’s how it appears to the naked eye.

“Good morning, Agent Watson,” Chayanne greets. 

Phil smiles. “Sorry for pulling you out of class. There’s nothing wrong, so don’t be nervous.”

“Oh, I’m not nervous. More curious.”

He nods. “Your instructors tell me you’re in the top 10%?”

Chayanne smiles. “Top five, sir.”

Phil sighs, and gestures to the seat across his desk. Chayanne sits eagerly, but his face is still that perfect neutral. “You wrote me a letter when you qualified for the academy.”

Chayanna seems to be relieved, his shoulders slumping. “I wasn’t sure you got it, you never replied.”

“I never do. Odds are against any trainee completing the program,” Phil explains. “But I’m glad to see you’re still here. In your letter, you said you wanted to work for me in the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There might be an opportunity. I’m assuming you’re familiar with the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Chayanne swallows. Phil can see it in the bobbing of his throat. “Yes.”

“The Ripper is hot right now. Killed his last two victims in six days. There’s going to be at least one more body, and then nothing else for months.”

Chayanne shakes his head, “They say he’s a true sociopath.”

“What do you say?”

“I say they don’t know what else to label him,” he shrugs. “Sure, he has some characteristics — no remorse or guilt at all. He doesn’t have any of the other marks, or at least I think he won’t. He won’t be a drifter. He won’t have a history of trouble with the law. He’ll be hard to catch.”

Phil leans back, and nods with a smile on his face. “I’m assigning you to the Chesapeake Ripper task force. You'll be working under me.”

Chayanne narrows his eyes. “Why me?”

Phil answers simply. “You have a forensics fellowship, six years of law enforcement, a degree in psychology, and a doctorate in criminology. And what I don’t have are enough warm bodies. So, I’ll need your full attention on this.”

Chayanne nods, more enthusiastic when he stands. “Yes, sir.”

Wilbur is standing by the window, staring out, letting the sun spill onto him in the dimly lit room. Etoiles sits behind his desk, with Jaiden across from him. To get through this case, they’ll have to speak a lot. Maybe too much.

“The volume of Schlatt’s mail is becoming a nuisance. Sometimes I feel like his secretary rather than his keep,” Etoiles complains, running his hands down his face.

Jaiden nods along, tilting her head. “Are there any specific correspondences that stood out from the others?” She asks.

“It’s mostly researchers or PhD candidates requesting interviews. There are, of course, a dozen lonely hearts seeking his hand in marriage,” he sighs.

“He butchered his last wife and her family on Thanksgiving,” Jaiden points out sourly.

“There’s no account for taste — or intelligence.”

“Murdering his wife was impulsive,” Wilbur argues. “The Chesapeake Ripper is methodical, and meticulous. That’s why he’s so hard to catch.”

Etoiles points at him, “Was so hard to catch.” Wilbur nods sarcastically, raising his eyebrows and trying not to roll his eyes at the man. Etoiles turns back to Jaiden easily. “Will you be attending a joint interview?”

“Separate,” she corrects. “I want to compare and contrast.”

“I know you’re anxious to get on with it,” Etoiles chuckles. “You have talked to Schlatt before, for some length of time.”

“I saw him mainly in court. I wrote an article about him in the Journal of Criminal Psychology.”

“He is very familiar with you,” Etoiles remarks as he stands to his feet. “He’s given you a lot of thought.”

Wilbur furrows his brows. “You had some sessions with him?”

“Two,” Jaiden answers. “It was a couple years ago when he was first institutionalized.”

“I’ve read your notes, of course,” Etoiles says. “They were more or less helpful as I conducted my own interviews over the years.”

“Well, I’m glad I helped,” she smiles.

“More or less,” Wil mutters sourly.

Jaiden glances between them, watching as the smile fades from Etoile’s face. “I’ll go first,” she offers.

The prisoners approach the bars of their cells when Jaiden walks by. She keeps her head high, her gaze focused directly ahead of her. She has learned after many trials with these people to not look at them if she isn’t set to be talking with them. She goes down to the last cell, where a man dressed in the uniform handout is lying with his hands over his face.

He must hear her heels though, because he lifts his head up. Schlatt, who is curiously surprised to see her. He stands to his feet, approaching the door to the cell, wrapping his fingers around the bars. “Dr. Plays,” he marvels mockingly. “How wonderful to see you again.”

“You remembered,” she remarks. She turns to retrieve the chair from the wall, pulling it forward.

“I’ve met a lot of psychiatrists in the last two years. It’s hard to forget one so sublime,” he grins, wide and crooked.

“Thank you for your time, Schlatt. I won’t waste it,” she says as she sits.

Schlatt hums. “What is this about? I was caught red–handed. Literally. There’s no mystery as to who did it. I did it.”

“Let’s just begin, Schlatt.”

(Wilbur paces in front of the cell. He’s combed his hair back, gold–rimmed glasses on his nose. He’s made himself presentable for Schlatt. “The mystery is if you are who you say you are. Or not.”)

“I never liked being called the Chesapeake Ripper. Maybe something with a little more wit,” Schlatt winces.

“Is that why you didn’t take credit for the Ripper’s killings until now?”

(“Just watching the goose chase from the box seats,” he hums.

“Two years of goose chasing,” Wilbur scoffs. “You must be a very patient man.”)

“Are we just going to go down the psychopathic checklist here? I’ve had my personality inventoried by the Minnesota Multiphasic,” Schlatt scowls.

“Would you prefer a rorschach test?” Jaiden deadpans.

“Well, if you’re going to show me those pictures, maybe you should put a blood pressure cuff to .. my genitals. I find it gives a much truer gauge of a reaction.”

(“What effect were you hoping to have by killing Elizabeth Shell?” Wilbur asks, pushing himself off of where he leans on the wall. 

Schlatt tilts his head in mock thought. “The effect I was hoping to have was her death.” He holds up his hands, leaning back slightly. “Mission accomplished.”)

Jaiden drums her fingers on the back of the chair. “Brutalization of the body was done post–humously.”

(Wilbur stalks closer to the bars. “Chesapeake Ripper usually did that kind of thing during, not after.”)

Schlatt reels back, like he’s offended. “I don’t have to convince you that I’m the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Jaiden works her jaw. “Seems that’s exactly what you need to do right now, Schlatt.”

Quackity retrieves his jacket from the coat hanger by the door and flings it over his arm. He reaches up to undo the buttons of his blazer. On the way out, he reaches for the light switch, and opens —

“Phil,” he whispers, because Phil Watson is sitting in his waiting room. He decidedly flips the light back on and steps aside. “Come in.”

Phil gets to his feet, his gaze solemn. Still, it’s solid, like nothing ever affects him anymore. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I was just, uh …”

“In the neighborhood,” Quackity substitutes.

“Something like that.”

Quackity smiles, and closes the door. It clicks shut, but Phil doesn’t sit, merely stands overlooking the area. “How’s Kristin?” He asks in an attempt to get the conversation flowing.

“Yeah, that’s why I was in the neighborhood,” Phil says and turns away from him. “She’s fine.” He bites his bottom lip, then turns back around, his answer rethought. “Well, she tells me when she’s fine and when she’s not.”

Q frowns, ever so slightly. “You expect me to tell you more?”

“Look, Kristin is at a NATO conference. I can’t talk to her, she’s working,” he explains. “And I doubt I could talk to her if she was here.”

“About her condition?”

“Yeah, about her cancer — about her dying,” he spits. “She doesn’t want to talk to me about it.”

“Phil, I can’t speak about that with you. Doctor–patient confidentiality,” Quackity says.

Phil scoffs, “You talk to me about Wilbur Soot.”

“Wilbur Soot isn’t my patient. We have conversations.”

“And what do you consider this?” He asks, gesturing between the two of them with a hand.

Quackity lets the answer slip, even if it’s not appropriate. “Desperate coping.”

He turns, lips curled into a frown, and wanders deeper into the office. He stops, and looks over his shoulder. “You don’t think I have a right to know what’s going on with my wife?”

“No, I didn’t say that,” he attempts to explain. “I think you have every right, but not from me.”

“Well, I — I’m not just going to stand outside my marriage and watch this happen,” Phil exclaims. “She married the wrong man for that.”

Quackity heaves a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose briefly. “I’ll offer one insight.” He looks up, and stares at Phil, whose eyes are becoming increasingly glassy since he stepped foot in this office. “She doesn’t think she married the wrong man.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, and he blinks rapidly. He lowers himself to sit on one of the seats, and brings his fist to his mouth. His voice is strangled, like it’s an effort to push it past his throat. He cups his hand across his forehead. “I can’t stop thinking about when she’s going to die. I look at her side of the bed and think, ‘Is she going to die there?’. I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop.” 

Quackity sits across from him, “You’re dreading the loss of your wife.”

“Mhm,” he mumbles. “And — I’m thinking about other losses too.”

“Phil, you can’t save her,” he whispers. “She won’t let you. The cancer won’t let you. Who else couldn’t you save?”

Phil shakes his head, lips wobbling. He wants to say ‘my son’ and he knows that isn’t true. He knows that would just be a lie.

“Where is everyone?” Chayanne asks, staring at the body in front of them. Objects that are long and sharp have been stabbed through the flesh, and the blood douses the man’s body.

“It’s just you and me for the time being,” Phil sighs. “Take a look around here. Tell me what you see.”

He watches as Chayanne approaches the scene, leaning over slightly to peer at all the wounds and the body. He circles the table, brows furrowed. “He did it all here,” Chayanne notes. “Did it while he was alive. He was struck in the throat so he couldn’t call for help.”

Phil nods. “Do you think he was unconscious when The Ripper did the ripping?”

“No, he’d want him awake.” Chayanne leans in closer, just a bit. There’s a cut running on the side of the man’s abdomen. Blood drips from it. “Organs were removed. Not all of them, he was choosy. He took the liver, Thymus, but he left the heart.”

Phil stands on the opposite side of the scene from the boy. “What’s he doing with the organs?”

“Surgical trophies,” he answers. “He’s a medical doctor, isn’t he? That’s why you call him The Ripper?”

“Why do you say that?” He hums.

“Psychopaths are attracted to surgical fields. They require the ability to make objective clinical decisions without feeling.”

Phil stands beside him, eyes focused on Chayanne. A swelling in his chest is becoming present, and he knows that it is pride, and he curses himself for it. “White male? Forties? Fifties?”

“I wouldn’t say white,” Chayanne mutters. “I do know that you’re going to catch him.”

Phil raises his eyebrows. “I’m going to catch him?”

Chayanne laughs, “We call you the guru. You have a particular cleverness.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. You’ll spot him before anybody else.”

“Or you will.” Chayanne looks up, his smile soft and embarrassed. Phil clears his throat, “Now, I want you to take a look at this —”

Wilbur turns his head to Phil, arms crossed on his chest, watching the man carefully. He has been curiously reserved all day, keeping to himself, quiet. Phil isn’t quiet. Phil is loud and tough, and is always looking to butt into conversations. Charlie has carefully kept himself from making too many jokes, sensing the atmosphere in the room (mostly guided by Phil, anyways).

And Baghera? Well, she just does her job. “There’s no consistency that we can detect with the Ripper victims.” She lists them off on her fingers with an annoyed sigh. “He doesn’t hunt exclusively with his own ethnic group. He killed all kinds of creeds, colors, men, and women.”

“She has the exact same wound pattern as the last known victim of the Chesapeake Ripper,” Roier points out. “I mean exact.” 

“We never found the body of his last known victim,” Phil points out sourly.

Roier amends his mistake carefully, “The one before that, then.”

“I see the Ripper,” Wilbur begins carefully, face twisted into a frown. “But I don’t feel the Ripper. This is plagiarism.”

“We never made the wound patterns public,” Phil says.

Wilbur sighs and shrugs, shaking his head. “Maybe he is the Ripper, I don’t know. But if he is a plagiarist, then the real Chesapeake Ripper is going to make sure everybody knows it.”

Phil’s phone rings late into the night, on his bedside table, where it always is. Kristin isn’t in bed. He grumbles, and rubs at his eyes, hand reaching out for the device. It only hits his mattress, and he groans. He fumbles with the covers and rolls to the other side of the bed, and grabs the phone.

“Hello?”

“Phil.” Wait — no, no, no —

“Who is this?” He asks, the urgency filling his tone.

“Phil, it’s Chayanne.” He’s babbling, he’s scared, he’s crying — “Phil, I don’t know where I am, it’s so dark, I can’t see anything.”

“Chayanne?” He whispers, and scrambles to sit at the lip of the bed.

“I was so wrong, I was so wrong,” he whimpers.

“Chayanne?” 

“Please, you — please, you have to help —”

The call cuts off, and the tone is loud in Phil’s ear.

“I’m hooked into every carrier database and telephone provider in the United States,” Baghera sighs. She spins her chair to face Phil, who is sitting on the counter, looking weary. “Nothing.”

“Look again,” he insists.

“I did my agains,” she says. “And my again and again and again. I can’t find any electronic trace of any call made to your home at 2:36 AM.”

“I am telling you that the phone rang,” Phil hisses.

“Wake your wife up?” Roier asks.

“I was alone,” Phil answers.

“Whoever made that call could’ve made it from that little box outside your house, or a junction in the neighborhood,” Charlie points out. “Either way there would be no trace signal to track.”

Baghera chews her lip. “Are you sure it was Chayanne?”

“It was Chayanne,” he insists.

“You haven’t heard his voice in two years, Phil,” Roier winces.

Phil whips around. “Are you going to continue to fucking question me on this, Roier?” He points to the door, getting to his feet. “If so, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room while it’s still safe for you to be here.” Roier holds his hands up placatingly, and Wilbur pinches the bridge of his nose. Jesus, this is a mess. “The Chesapeake Ripper recorded Chayanne as he was killing him and played it on my phone.” His voice is getting louder, booming across the room. “Last night, he called my house at 2:36 am, and played that recording.”

Wilbur nods. “And we know that the Chesapeake Ripper isn’t Schlatt. We also know the call wasn’t made from Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.”

“That we would’ve been able to trace,” Baghera points out.

Wilbur takes a deep breath and steps towards Phil, holding out a hand placatingly. He pauses as he opens his mouth, then exhales sharply. “Are you … sure it was a recording? You said yourself there was no body.”

Phil scowls, and Wilbur flinches. “Chayanne is dead! The Chesapeake Ripper is making it very clear that someone is plagiarizing his work!”

“It was 2:46 in the morning, Phil. You’re in a deep sleep, you’re roused, you’re disoriented. You might not even know you’re still asleep,” Roier sighs.

Phil glares sharply, and if looks could kill, he would not want to be Roier. “I know when I’m awake,” he grits out.

Wilbur sits in the empty lecture room, the desk in the center and the papers atop his only company. He brings his hands up to rub at his face. He cups his forehead, heaving a long breath. The clop of hooves fill his ears, he covers his eyes. They get louder, closer, closer — 

He brings himself to peek out from between his fingers. The stag comes in through the doorway, and it ducks its head to fit its large antlers through the doorway. Wilbur lets his hand fall, his breaths coming in quick and heavy. It’s not real, it’s not real – it is real, it has to be real. It moves slowly and carefully, and it is so clear and he leans back in the seat and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Wil?” Jaiden calls out, her heels — hooves — clicking against the floor. He opens his eyes, and he must look horrible, because she has this concerned look on her face. Phil is walking beside her, his trench coat billowing out as always. “You look like you were dreaming.”

He rests his hands on the armchair, fingers twitching into fists. “I was thinking about something else,” he manages.

Phil comes to stand right in front of the desk, leaning on it carefully, the wood creaking beneath his weight. “Well, here’s something for you to think about.” Jaiden sends him a glare, Phil doesn’t mind it. “We have a direct way of communicating with the Chesapeake Ripper, and we want to see if we can push him.”

Wilbur blinks, and looks up at Phil, “Push him to what?”

“We want to see if we can influence him to become visible,” Jaiden clarifies.

“If we can enrage him,” Phil adds.

Wilbur drags his hands down his face, “To what purpose, Phil? I–I don’t understand what you’re asking me right now.”

“Do you think there’s a way to push the Chesapeake Ripper and focus his attention?”

“His attention is already focused on Schlatt as his adversary,” he says sourly. “Don’t fool around.”

“Schlatt is just a tabloid rumor right now,” Phil points out. “We think we need to make it the truth.”

Wilbur reels back, face twisting into something akin to offense, or disgust. Phil isn’t sure which one. “You might push the Ripper to kill again just to prove he isn’t in a hospital for the criminally insane,” he spits.

“I have to push, Wil,” Phil hisses.

Wilbur stares at him, then shakes his head feverishly. He stands up from his seat and laughs through a groan, a grating sound. “Are you seriously thinking about getting into business with Bad Halo?”

“It’s the only way to bait the real Chesapeake Ripper,” Phil defends.

“Oh my fucking God,” he says through his teeth and shakes his head. “Fine. Fine, we’ll work with him, whatever you fucking say, Phil. Yes Phil, we’re all at your service here. No, Phil, I don’t have any opinions about this,” he sings sarcastically. 

“Don’t use that attitude with me,” Phil snaps and points a finger in his face.

Wilbur heaves a sigh, and ducks his head down. “I’m tired. Excuse me.”

He grabs his papers and stuffs them in his binder, tucking it under his arm. He grabs his bag and winds around the desk, and storms out of the door. He doesn’t stop, not even when Phil calls out his name, or when Jaiden comes out after him.

“Good morning, Agent Watson, thank you for inviting me,” Bad smiles and reaches his hand out to shake.

Phil puts on a nice face, his greeting short. “Mister Halo, thank you for coming.” Wilbur says nothing as he trails into the room after Phil. He doesn’t spare Bad a glance as Phil begins to introduce Jaiden as well, merely takes his hands out of his pockets to pull out his seat. “This is Jaiden Plays, she’s one of our psychiatric consultants. And I believe you know Wilbur Soot.”

Bad reaches out his hand to Wilbur, “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Wilbur looks up from where he is getting out his seat, the pause brief. He sees Jaiden give him a pointed look. He decides against spitting out some words, ignores the hand in front of him — ignores Bad entirely — and sits. Bad doesn’t seem to take it to heart, merely smiles and awkwardly sits.

“Mr. Halo,” Phil begins as they all begin to settle in at the table. “You have all the qualities of a good reporter. You have intelligence, guts, and a good eye. So how is it you ended up where you are?”

Bad tilts his head, “Where I wound up being criminal justice journalism?”

“‘Criminal justice journalism’ being a euphemism for tabloid reporting,” Wilbur grumbles. He’s slouched back, his eyes distant, hands in the pockets of his pants. His voice is quiet enough that Jaiden doesn’t hear it, but Phil and Bad do.

Phil clears his throat. He presses his hands together and leans forward. “You ran an unconfirmed story on the Chesapeake Ripper. What I want is for you to confirm it.”

Bad lets himself smile, just barely, and leans back. “An exclusive story would be a coup.”

Phil hums. “Yes, it would. And you would get the satisfaction of seeing the Los Angeles times,” Wilbur rolls his eyes, “the sanctified Washington post, and even the holy New York times run copyrighted material under your byline, with a picture credit.”

Wilbur sucks in a deep breath and leans forward, speaking like he’s breaking to a child that Santa Claus isn’t real. He even puts his hands together and lets his fingers fall in the direction of Bad, softening his voice mockingly. “What’s against you, and by association us, is that your brand of journalism is obnoxious.”

Bad chuckles bitterly. “Yes, that’s an obstacle.” He turns to Phil and Jaiden. “I tried to get an interview with Schlatt, but I was denied. Something to do with my … euphemism.”  

Jaiden leans forward. “I’m friendly with the new chief of staff. I can get you an interview.”

“I do have one question,” he says and clears his throat. “Is he actually the Chesapeake Ripper, or do you just want me to tell everyone that he is?”

“He could be,” Jaiden says, expertly avoiding a clear answer. “Certain personalities are attracted to certain professions.”

“Do you know what profession psychopaths disproportionately gravitate towards?” Phil asks.

“CEOs, lawyers, the clergy,” Bad lists.

“Number five on the list is surgeons,” Phil says.

“I know the list,” he assures.

Wilbur scoffs, “Well, then you know what number six is.”

Bad turns to look at him, and glares. “Journalists,” he says sourly. “Know what number seven is, Mr. Soot?”

Wilbur darts his tongue out to wet his lips, and snaps his eyes over to Bad. “Law enforcement,” he hums.

Bad smiles. “Here we are, a bunch of psychopaths helping each other out.”

Quackity sits at the mahogany desk, his computer pulled onto TattleCrime.com. He reads the paragraphs following with a twisted frown on his face, the wrinkle in his brows ever present. A picture of Schlatt is in the corner, the headline in red and blaring colors.

His name is Schlatt, and strong evidence has suggested that he’s far more than a mild–mannered surgeon who murdered his wife. Maybe, just maybe, Schlatt is the most sought–after serial killer at large, a killer who’s eluded the FBI for years and has baffled their most gifted profilers. That serial killer? None other than the Chesapeake Ripper. This would explain why the Ripper has been silent for more than two years.

Quackity sucks in a deep breath, and shuts the tab.

“So, are you enjoying reading my mail?” Schlatt asks from where he has his arms leisurely hanging from between horizontal bars, head tilted.

“No,” Phil answers plainly. “Not particularly.”

“Looking for something instructional?” He guesses. “Diagrams? You don’t believe I can recreate one of my own murders from memory?”

Phil shakes his head, and shrugs. “You wouldn’t be recreating them from your memory, doctor. You’re not the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Schlatt gasps in feigned surprise. He lets his face drop soon after. “I have to agree to disagree.”

“Then why the surgical trophies?” He quizzes.

“Agent Watson, there are just some things you’re not allowed to do in a state–certified operating room,” he laughs.

“You didn’t take any trophies when you murdered your wife and her family on Thanksgiving. You didn’t put any of them on display, why not?” Phil pushes, eager for answers, for something. He needs something to tell him that this man isn’t who he thinks he is.

Schlatt shrugs. “Crime of passion.” His grin is crooked and wide. “You know how stressful holidays can get.” He pushes himself off the bars, leaning back against the wall. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to talk about my wife, or the nurse.”

“No,” Phil sighs. “What am I here to talk about?”

Schlatt eyes him. “Your trainee.” He watches as Phil’s face falls, just in the slightest. He smiles, just barely. “Chayanne, wasn’t it?”

Phil takes a deep breath. His fingers twitch, and he speaks slowly, like every word matters. “You’re telling me you killed Chayanne.”

“Yes,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to kill him, don’t get mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you,” he says. “I know where you are. I know how you got here. I read your file. I’m curious, why are you being forthcoming all of a sudden?”

“Well, what have I got to lose?” He shoots back. “You know where I am, and you know how I got here.”

“Why didn’t you put Chayanne on display?” He asks, again, his voice more urgent this time. 

Schlatt can hear it, and he smiles, again, that horrible smile. He leans forward through the bars, lowering his voice carefully. “What makes you think I didn’t?” Phil parts his lips to answer, and his phone rings in his pocket. He sighs, and peers at the ID caller. Home. Ah, Kristin. He looks up at Schlatt, and begins to walk down the halls. “The polite thing to do is to ask them to call back!” He calls out after him.

Phil steps through the main hall, out towards the door. He presses the phone to his ear. “You’re home early,” he hums. No response. Nothing but white noise. He stops. He stands before the doors. “Kristin? Is something wrong?”

The other voice floods in. Whimpering and crying, a boy’s voice floods his ears. “Phil, it’s Chayanne. I don’t know where I am, I can’t see anything. I was so wrong, I was so wrong. Please, Phil, I don’t want to die, please —”

Phil listens to the dial tone, and brings the phone away from his ear. Home. It came from Home.

Wilbur sits on the dresser in Phil’s bedroom, slumped back, his head against the wall. Phil stands in front of him, hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking. Wilbur hasn’t missed the jagged way his nails form — he knows a fellow nail biter when he sees one.

“In my bedroom,” Phil seethes. “In my house. Where my wife sleeps.”

Charlie peels off the tape from the phone. “I dusted the phone. I have a lot of usable prints.” He nods along, watching as the device finds matches for each fingerprint. “I have three lovely ones here. Your’s, your wife’s, and presumably the Chesapeake Ripper’s.”

“I can’t imagine the Chesapeake Ripper would start leaving prints at his crime scenes now,” Roier says as he wipes down the surface of the nightstand.

Baghera stands from where she was leaned over by the bed, her face grim. “The Ripper put his head on your wife’s pillow.”

Phil scoffs and rubs his eyes. He turns to look at Wilbur, the man who doubted him in the first place. “And now somebody’s sleeping in my bed.”

She reaches down with a pair of tweezers and hums. “There he — or she — is.” She looks up to Phil. “Was Chayanne a blond?”

He nods.

“I pulled his fingerprints from the VICAP database, Phil. I got a match,” Charlie says lowly.

“He’s dead,” Phil shouts and points a finger at Charlie. His voice cracks. “He wasn’t here!”

“Phil,” Wilbur starts off quietly, tilting his head up. “Did Chayanne know where you live?”

“If he wanted to know, he was smart enough to find out,” Phil answers.

Wilbur nodded. “He could’ve told the Chesapeake Ripper before he killed him.” He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “Did you know that you were sending Chayanne after him?”

“I sent him after information,” Phil insists.

“Whoever made that call thinks you were close to Chayanne and feel responsible for his death,” Wilbur whispers, like it’s a secret. Phil blinks rapidly, and ducks his head down.

“Don’t you have classes today?” Phil asks as soon as the door opens. He already knows who it is. “Aren’t you still in school?”

“Yes, sir,” Chayanne answers, stepping forward. “I thought this might be more important than ‘exclusionary rules of search and seizure,” he says.

“Is that what you thought?” Phil deadpans, glancing up from his paperwork for a brief moment.

Chayanne doesn’t seem to take offense by it, and if he does, he hides it well. He holds his hands in front of him, and nods towards the desk. “I left a report for you here last night. I didn’t know if you got it.”

“I got it.”

“Did you read it?”

Phil heaves a breath. “Go back to class.” Chayanne works his jaw. “You feeling frustrated? If so you should form some thick calluses, because frustration is going to wear you thin.”

Chayanne scoffs, “You could’ve at least read the report.”

“I read it,” he repeats.

Chayanne gestures to him with his hand. “Your assessment, sir?”

“My assessment is that instead of being here you should be in a lecture hall boning up on ‘good faith exceptions,’” he snaps. Chayanne stands still for a moment, then turns on his heels. Phil sighs. “What you’re suggesting in this report breaks confidentiality laws. You know that. You shouldn’t be so dismissive of what you’re learning here.”

Chayanne shakes his head. “If the Chesapeake Ripper is a surgeon, we should check medical reports for a history of victims. I knew we couldn’t get a warrant if we didn’t have something substantial.”

“It’s one thing for a trainee to go poking around in personal records without a warrant; better if the guru did it,” Phil says.

Chayanne steps back forward. “Better for a trainee to ask for forgiveness than for an FBI agent to ask permission?”

“In my experience.”

“Then I hope you forgive me for skipping class today.”

Jaiden crosses one leg over the other, hands on her clipboard. Like so many other times this week, she is sitting in front of Schlatt’s cell. “If someone were using manipulative methods to subvert your sense of control, you may not realize it until those methods are pointed out to you,” she justifies.

Schlatt nods slowly. “Which may be a manipulative method in of itself.”

Jaiden stares blankly. “You were a model patient. You behaved yourself for two years.” 

“No opportunity to be naughty,” he points out.

“You could’ve been pushed.”

“Well, that would be unethical.” He spits the words out like it’s personally wronged him, perhaps he’s heard it one too many times from journalists and doctors describing the murders of his wife and her family.

“I could help you find out.” She leans back and drums her fingers on the clipboard. “But I need your trust to do that.”

“I trust you, Dr. Plays,” Schlatt promises.

“To the Chesapeake Ripper,” Etoiles smiles, pouring himself a glass of the wine by the long dinner table. Jaiden sits across from him, and spares him a smile. “Schlatt is going to provide us with a singular opportunity to analyze a pure sociopath. It’s so rare to find one in captivity.”

Quackity carries the plates into the room, each dish carefully balanced in his hands. He slides them onto the placemats in front of them, his smile gentle and proud. “Inspired by Auguste Escoffier, we’re having Langue d’agneau en papillotes, served with duxelle sauce and oyster mushrooms.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had tongue,” Jaiden hums.

“It was a particularly chatty lamb,” Quackity says.

“The Romans used to kill flamingos just to eat their tongues,” Etoiles points out.

“Don’t give me ideas, your tongue is already feisty,” Q jokes, but there isn’t a smile on his face. He reaches for his silverware. “As this evening has already proven, it’s nice to have an old friend for dinner.”

They eat in silence, small talk scattered amongst the table. Albeit, things have seemed to grow tenser for Etoiles since the tongue joke. For a moment, it makes Quackity wonder if he’s been discovered. It makes his skin crawl, and the hairs on his neck stand up. After dinner is finished, and the three doctors have discussed long and hard, and the napkins are on their plates, Jaiden sets her hands in her lap.

“I see three possibilities,” Jaiden starts. “Schlatt is the Chesapeake Ripper, or he just thinks he is, or he knows he isn’t.”

Etoiles blinks. “He is, he knows he is, so do I.”

Quackity hums, making himself present easily, and turns to Etoiles. “Did you discuss the Chesapeake Ripper’s crimes with Schlatt before he murdered the night nurse?”

Etoiles nods. “Yes, when I began to suspect what he was. I fear exposing him might have, uh, spurred him into action.”

“It is possible you inadvertently planted the suggestion in Schlatt’s mind that he was The Ripper?” Jaiden asks, twirling her fork between her index finger and thumb.

Etoiles laughs bitterly. “You’re not suggesting coercive persuasion, are you?”

“No, I said inadvertently.”

“Psychic driving is unethical,” he argues.

“But reasonable in certain circumstances,” Quackity butts in. Jaiden and Etoiles share a look, a conversation happens in moments.

Jaiden sets her silverware down and leans back. “What circumstances?”

“It may have been useful trying to remind Schlatt he’s the Chesapeake Ripper,” Q says. Etoiles nods and hums in approval. “But he seems to have come to awareness all by himself.”

“Dr. Plays, if he has been unethically manipulated somehow, I need to know. I would love your insight,” Etoiles says.

Quackity clears his throat. “Etoiles, would you care to assist me with desert?”

“It would be my pleasure, Nevadas.”

“I love Norton grapes,” Quackity hums. “They’re the same color inside as outside.” He takes a knife in his hand, and slices off the top of the grape. “Peel it, and the inside is also purple. Not like other grapes where flesh is white, and the color comes from the skin.”

Etoiles chuckles, “A grape with nothing to hide.”

Quackity pops the grape into his mouth, and continues arranging the dish. He clears his throat, just enough to make sure Etoiles knows he’s going to speak. “If I were in your position, I would’ve attempted psychic driving. Perhaps you already have.” They stop, and Etoiles looks up at him. “I promise I am much more forgiving of the unorthodox than Dr. Plays.”

He lets the thought sink in, watches as the cogs in Etoiles’s brain move. He takes the dish into his hands and smiles with a gentle nod. 

“Shall we?” Q gestures for Etoiles to step in front of him, and they file back into the dining room.

In the halls of the FBI building, Phil’s phone rings, and the same boy pleads with him, and this time, Phil cannot bring himself to listen.

“The last call was made to Phil’s cell from a disposable phone traced here,” Baghera explains to Wilbur, who had been woken up from a power nap to come down to investigate. The sleep still clings to his eyes and his face. Officers travel between cars. It’s an observatory, small with a round and open roof. Wilbur looks up as they approach the building.

“What was Chayanne looking into?” Wilbur asks.

“Medical records,” she answers. “If the Ripper was a surgeon, Chayanne thought he might’ve treated one of his victims.”

“Have they retraced his steps?”

“The ones they could find. He made a jump somewhere that they can’t explain.” Baghera turns her head to look at Wil. “You make those jumps.”

“The evidence has to be there,” Wilbur defends.

“Any surgeon that came into contact with any of the Ripper victims has been thoroughly vetted or currently under observation,” Baghera says.

“Including Schlatt?” Wilbur asks as they come to stand in front of Phil, who is in front of the doors to the observatory.

“Schlatt wasn’t in my bedroom; the Chesapeake Ripper was. The last call left something the others didn’t.” Phil pulls out his phone to his call history and shows them the screen. “A phone number.” Baghera nods, and Phil calls the number.

A phone rings from inside. The officers nearby turn to look at the building. Phil sucks in a shuddering breath, and pushes open the door, Baghera and Wilbur following closely behind him. The observatory has yet to be completed, white tarps still hung around, the telescope unfinished. Admist the tarps on a table, is a hand holding a phone. A hand that quickly changes into a severed arm. Phil stands beside the arm, the phone wavering in his hands. Beside the limb, there is a note written in blood.

What do you see?

“What would be the benefit of making you believe your trainee was alive?” Quackity asks, and the firelight dances on their faces and the chairs they sit on.

“Hope,” Phil mutters. “The Chesapeake Ripper wanted to cloud my vision with hope.”

Quackity nods, “It can sometimes be a brave thing to allow yourself to hope.” And he knows what that feels like. He knows that false sense of security, the joy that comes with it, and the despair when it comes crashing down.

“Not the false kind,” Phil whispers and brings the glass to his lips.

Quackity turns to look at him, and studies the mourning on his face. “Don’t give up hope for your wife. Not yet, Phil. She’s lost hope, which means you can’t.”

“I don’t have any control over that.”

“Take control,” he insists, almost desperately. Phil looks back to the flames. Quackity does too, and watches them dance and lick at the firewood. He had never been one for false fire. “I’m sorry about your wife, Phil,” he breathes, voice thick. “I truly am. I believe the world is a better place with her in it. And I’m sorry about your trainee.”

Phil sniffs, and exhales sharply. His eyes are glassy in the firelight. “Whatever the Ripper was doing, it worked. I mean — I thought he was alive. For a moment, anyway. I actually let myself believe something I knew was impossible.”

Quackity shifts in his seat, turning slightly to face him. “Tell me about him. What was his name?”

“My name is Chayanne. I’m with the FBI,” Chayanne says from where he stands in the waiting room. “I would show you my credentials, but I’m actually just a trainee.”

Quackity smiles, “Never just a trainee. An agent in training. Please, come in.” He steps aside, allowing the boy to come into the office.

“I was hoping to talk to you about a former patient,” Chayanne gets straight to the point. Quackity appreciates that. “Not necessarily one of yours, but someone you may have come into contact with when you were a practicing physician.”

Quackity blows out a small breath. “I haven’t practiced medicine for quite some time, but fortunately I have a very good memory. Please, sit.”

Chayanne shuffles his jacket in his arms, and lies it across his lap as he sits. “His name was Jeremy Olmstead.”

Quackity winces and sits at his desk, fixing his tie. “Maybe not a good memory after all. I don’t remember a patient with that name, but it sounds familiar.”

He nods. “He was recently found murdered in his workshop. We think he may be a victim of the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“Ah, that’s why he sounds familiar. He was all over the news.”

“He had two old scars on his thigh,” Chayanne says. “Pathology checked with the local hospital. He had fallen out of a tree–blind five years ago while bow hunting — stuck an arrow through his leg.  The doctor listed was a resident surgeon, but you were on duty in the ER that night.”

Quackity tilts his head, “I was?”

“Your name was on the admission log,” he nods.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he sighs. “I saw so many people in the ER, but not so  many hunters.”

Chayanne smiles understandingly. What a shame. “It’s been a long time, but I thought you may remember if anything was fishy with the arrow wound.”

“If it’s the gentleman I’m thinking of, I vaguely remember a fellow hunter bringing him in. I don’t remember much else.”

He sighs, but nods. “Figured it was a long shot.”

Quackity furrows his brows together, standing with the boy. “I kept very detailed journals during those days. I can get them for you, if you like.”

Chayanne beams, “Yes, yes please. Thank you.”

“Of course, wait here.” Quackity winds around the desk to head further into the office, to the far wall. 

Chayanne takes the opportunity to explore the large office. He tilts his head up to gaze at the rows and rows of books, the shelves stacking high. He reaches out to brush his fingers along the spines, and finds the place well dusted. He hums, turning to look at a stack of drawings. Anatomy studies, the like. He shifts a page and —

He leans closer, narrowing his eyes. A medical drawing, one that he’s seen before. The wound patterns in this replication are the same as Jeremy Olmstead’s, each object peeking out from the skin. He knows, he knows, and Quackity knows he knows.

Chayanne never even hears the footsteps, just feels breath on his neck, and then a hand over his mouth and an arm wrapping around his neck. Chayanne kicks out, and the table of drawings goes tumbling to the ground with a crash. He can’t cry out before his air flow is cut off, and he is writhing in Quackity’s grip. He can’t breathe. He knows, he knows, he has to tell Phil, he has to —

His eyelids droop, his hands bang against the arm around him. And everything is heavy and far, and — is he dying? He must be dying.

Quackity feels it when Chayanne goes limp in his hold. He carefully lies the boy on the floor. He turns to the drawing. ‘The Wound Man’ lies uncovered, just as he suspected. He heaves a breath. He needs to pick up his drawings.

Phil sighs, “He was a very brave young man.”

Chapter Text

Wilbur is back by his desk, back in the classroom, with his glasses on and the projector behind him. The students, like always, give him their perfectly undivided attention. On the projector is the image of a kidney, bloody and torn from the body.

“The Chesapeake Ripper kills in sounders of three,” Wilbur says, his voice easily projecting amongst the rows of trainees. He steps around his desk, pacing as he lectures. “He killed his first victims in nine days.” Pictures of each victim click as he names each place the murders took place. “Annapolis, Essex, Baltimore. He didn’t kill again for eighteen months. Then, there was another sounder of three for as many days. All of them being in Baltimore.” He flips through images of severed flesh and organs. He turns to the projector, finding the image he wants, and turns back to the students. 

“I use the term ‘sounders’ because it refers to a group of pigs.” The students look at each other, soft whispering coming from among them. “That’s how he sees his victims; not as people, not as prey.” He changes the slide, because he knows which picture comes after this. A man in a chair, his head lolled to the side, skin pale with death.

“Pigs,” he says, again, his voice grim. “Eleven months after the sixth victim, there was a seventh. Two days later, the eighth is killed in a workshop.” He turns to a picture of Joe Olmstead’s crime scene. “Every tool on the pegboard they hung was used against him, and, as with previous murders, the organs were removed.”

He changes a slide to a medical drawing titled The Wound Man. It has the same wound patterns as Joe Olmstead.

“The removal of organs and abdominal mutilations means someone with an anatomical surgical know–how,” Wilbur says. He slides his hand into his pocket. “There,” he stops, trailing off in the slightest. He curses under his breath, because Phil is in his doorway. “There is a distinct brutality.”

He switches the slide, to a photo of a boy with golden hair outgrown and curling around his neck. His passport is cut off to only show his picture. He watches Phil flinch, and feels the guilt tug at his chest.

“An FBI trainee named Chayanne was investigating private medical records of all known victims when he disappeared.” Phil stares at the projector, shoulders bunched up. He blows out a long breath, remembering how Chayanne looked when he first came into his office, how he was just a kid. “He’s believed to be the Ripper’s ninth, but no trace of him was found. Until now, two years later, when his severed arm was discovered. Only because the Ripper wanted it to be.”

He changes to the image of Chayanne’s arm, careful to avoid Phil’s eyes. “True to pattern, the Chesapeake Ripper has remained consistently theatrical.”

The opera is a powerful thing. The vocals in themselves are difficult things to reach. The singer can reach out to them and attempt to grasp them, and conjure up something close to it. This singer, Quackity finds, is exceptionally good. She has no microphone, relying on her own voice to carry out through the auditorium. The balconies are high above her, and still hear her fine. Quackity sits amongst the rows of people, including one he knows from his own office, a boy with black and white hair, his eyes two different colors. He can sense the eyes on him.

When she finishes her last note, Quackity is the first to clap, and the first to stand as she deserves. She bows, her smile soft and bashful, despite her performance. Another stands, and then the crowd is rising to their feet. 

Afterwards, the reception is packed, and Quackity is easily surrounded by others. “It’s been too long since you properly cooked for us, Quackity,” one woman says.

“Come over and I will cook for you,” Quackity smiles, taking a small swig of his wine.

“I said properly,” she grins. “That means dinner and the show.” She turns to the man behind her for a brief moment. “Have you seen him cook? It’s an entire performance. He used to throw such exquisite dinner parties. Used to, it’s been two years.” 

Quackity laughs, “I will again, when inspiration strikes.” She tilts her head, narrows his eyes, and he holds his hand up. “I cannot force a feast. A feast must present itself.”

“It’s a dinner party, not a unicorn,” she laughs.

“Oh, but the feast is life. You put the life into your belly and you live.” The woman nods to the space beside him, and Quackity turns to see the boy from the crowd — his patient, one of many. “Oh, hello, Ranboo.”

“Hi,” Ranboo smiles, and reaches out to shake his hand. “It’s so good to see you. This is my friend, Technoblade.” He looks to the man behind him with pink hair tied neatly back, his gaze is firm and dark, and he reaches his hand out to shake.

“Good evening,” Q greets, and shakes it firmly.

The woman glances between Q and Ranboo, her brows furrowed. “How do you two know each other?”

Ranboo looks to Quackity, who looks at him, and then the woman. “There should remain some mystery to my life outside the opera.” He turns back to Ranboo. “Did you enjoy the performance?”

“I did, every minute,” Ranboo nods.

“His eyes kept wandering,” Technoblade says, a smile on his face, but his voice is carefully level and deeper than expected. “More interested in you than what was happening on stage.”

“Oh, don’t say too much,” Quackity warns. “You have to leave something for us to discuss next week.”

Wilbur groans and rubs at the back of his neck, rolling his head to try to soothe out the aches. Phil had arrived on his doorstep late into the night, when Wilbur was still trying to fall asleep after a finger or two of whiskey. The wind hums against the car as Phil drives, his hands holding the wheel firmly.

“The victim was found in a hotel room bathtub,” Phil explains, while Wil still isn’t quite there. “There were abdominal mutilations and organ removal on the scene.”

“Sounds more like an urban legend than the Chesapeake Ripper, huh?” Wilbur mumbles.

“I’ve had the room sealed. You’ll get it fresh.”

“Fresh?” He repeats, his voice still hoarse from the motions of getting himself together. “Fresh as a daisy?”

“Fresh enough to tell me whether or not it’s the Ripper,” Phil answers. “Then, you can go back to class.”

“Oh, you don’t want me in a classroom,” Wilbur laughs harshly, thumping his head back against the headrest, pinching his nose. “You want me to wrap my head so tight around the Ripper I won’t go back to class until he’s caught.”

Phil shrugs, “Your bad luck that you’re the best, kid.”

Wilbur furrows his brows. “I’m not your kid,” he whispers (it stings Phil’s eyes). The silence stretches for a few moments before he speaks up again. He’s never been too comfortable with silence. “Expecting another couple of bodies after this one?”

“If it’s the Ripper, yes, I am.”

“Don’t let the Ripper stir you up,” he warns, and turns his head to look at him. “The reason he left you Chayanne’s arm is so he could poke you with it.” (He may or may not have jabbed Phil in the side for effect.)

Phil blinks, and glances at him a few times. “Why not the rest of him?”

“His other victims, he wanted to humiliate in death,” Wilbur mutters. “Like … like a public dissection. Chayanne was different.”

“He was probably impressed that he was able to find him,” Phil says. He stares out at the road, and holds the wheel a little tighter, gritting his teeth. “He may be starting another cycle, Wil.”

“The Ripper contacted you directly. If he was killing again, he wouldn’t be subtle about it; he would just pick up the damn phone.” Phil sighs and nods reluctantly. Wilbur shifts in his seat, brows pressed together. “Have you been getting any more phone calls, Phil?”

“No,” he answers honestly. “Look, if this is the Ripper, there’ll be at least two more bodies and then nothing else for months, or a year. We’ll have a window of opportunity to catch him, and that window will close. The last time the window closed, I lost the Ripper, and I lost my — Chayanne. And I don’t intend to do that again.”

“Has anybody touched the body?” Phil asks when they enter the hotel room. There is blood scattered on the floor, leading into the bathroom.

“For once, local police behaved themselves,” Baghera hums, sounding mockingly shocked. The team is investigating the crime scene along with several other officers, laying down tape and markers.

“It’s fairly evident that the man’s dead just by looking at him,” Charlie states.

“I touched the body,” Baghera calls out after Wilbur and Phil. “There’s a lot going on with that body. Surgery was performed, and then un–performed.”

Roier stands with a soft groan, “Un–performed being with bare hands, sutures clawed open. I, uh, I also did a bit of touching.”

“Pieces of him were torn off from the bed to the bathroom,” Charlie says.

Wilbur nods and ducks into the hotel bathroom. The body is limp against the wall, blood staining the man’s shirt and the porcelain material of the tub. Phil, Charlie, Roier, and Baghera stand with him, and watch as he heaves a sigh and takes off his glasses, hangs them on his shirt, then sits on the (clean) edge of the bathtub.

“Surgery wasn’t performed here,” Wilbur sighs. “There would be a lot more blood.”

“If he’s moving his victims, he could be performing the mutilations in the same transport,” Baghera calls out from where she’s leaning on the door, her arms crossed.

Wilbur snaps on the latex gloves to reach out and grab the arm of the body, lifting it to peer at the forearm. He holds the back of the hand gently, and looks at the blood staining his hands and piled under his fingertips.

“He tore open his own sutures,” Wilbur mutters.

“It wasn’t the kidney, the Ripper already took it with him,” Baghera says.

“What did he take out of the chest?” Phil asks.

“Going for the heart,” Roier answers. “Probably interrupted. It’s intact. Traumatized, but it’s intact.”

Wilbur leans forward in the slightest, and Phil waves his hand to the team. The door clicks shut behind them, and Wil is left alone in the bathroom with the body. He hopes that he can do it.

He opens the door of the hotel, moving through carefully, his feet gently padding against the floor.

The stag travels through to the bathroom — the stag? A stag? No, no, no, it isn’t meant to be here —

He rounds the corner, and the man is clutching at his wound. Signs of struggle indicate he was suffering from a severe, violent emergence from deep sedation. He stands in front of the man, whose hands are shaking around the reopened sutures.

The man lunges for him, grabbing him by the shoulders, and Wilbur cries out as he is slammed against the wall. His hand gets covered with blood as he shoves back, forcing the man against the other wall. They tumble towards the bathroom, where Wilbur shoves him into the bathtub. Wilbur rushes forward to feel for his heartbeat, which has seized up.

Wilbur takes the scalpel in his hands, and slices open the chest wall. Blood spills as he reaches through and spreads the ribs. He takes his heart in his hand — internal cardiac massage.

Wilbur opens his eyes with a shuddering breath, standing by the bathtub. His head is pounding, and he presses a hand to his forehead. One that he was using to hold the arm before, and the blood smears on his forehead. He exhales sharply, and takes a step back.

“Phil?” He calls out, and doesn’t like how shaky his voice gets. The door opens almost immediately, and Wilbur turns to him, his hand pressed against his forehead. “This wasn’t brutal. The killer wasn’t killing, he was trying to save his life.”

Phil nods, and steps to come in front of him. He wraps a hand around Wilbur’s wrist, and takes his hand away from his forehead, met with little resistance. He frowns and fishes out a handkerchief from his front pocket, wiping the blood away. “Do you have a headache?” He asks.

Wilbur nods, “It’s small. It happens every time.”

“Okay,” he mutters, then pats him on the shoulder. “Ready to tell the team?”

“Yep,” he sighs, and listens to Phil call them into the bathroom. None of them step fully in besides Roier, who only gets as close as the doorway. Upon telling them, he is met with immediate denial from Roier. “It’s not the Ripper,” he insists through his teeth, and feels the headache pound with his frustration.

“There are too many similarities,” Roier points out.

“There aren’t enough,”  Wilbur snaps.

Roier seems to take it as a challenge, and huffs, counting them off on his fingers. “The knife wounds are cuts, not stabs. Anatomical knowledge, dissection skills, mutilation, organs removed, victim clothed, on display. We have twenty–two signature components all attributable to the same killer.”

“Twenty–two possible signature components.” Wilbur rises to his feet.

“It’s the Ripper.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he mutters and closes the door. He sits back down and fixes his jacket, like nothing has happened. 

Phil speaks up from where he is leaning on the wall. “Are you sure?”

“More or less,” he sighs.

“Tell me why you’re sure.”

Wilbur heaves a breath. “The Ripper left his last victim in a church pew using his tongue as a page marker in the Bible he was holding.” He grimaces, or something like that, “This isn’t that. This is a medical student or a trainee looking to make an extra buck in a back–alley surgery, and it went bad. Actively bad.” He doesn’t miss the grim look on Phil’s face, the disappointment etched into the furrow of his brows. “You’ll catch the Ripper eventually.”

“Yeah, well, I want to catch him now,” Phil spits. “And when I do, you’re not going to get the chance to shoot him. I will.”

Wilbur laughs bitterly. “You can’t just jack up the law and get underneath it.”

“Can’t I?” Wilbur looks down at Phil from where his head is tilted back. Phil looks to the body, and raises his eyebrows at Wil. “Tell me how you see the Ripper.”

“I see him as one of those pitiful things sometimes born in hospitals,” his voice is quiet and controlled, and each word comes out like it weighs a ton. “They feed it, nurture it, but they don’t put it on the machines. They let it die. Except, he didn’t die. Nobody really knows what he is.”

Cellbit opens the door after a few knocks, his hair neatly combed back. It has a white streak in the midst of brown, but he is in no way close to graying. He is wearing something neat, a button up and black dress pants. He opens the door, and pauses, if only for a moment, at the sight of an old patient.

“Come in,” Cellbit says and steps aside for Quackity to come in. They sit in the living room of his house, across from each other in two seats. Cellbit leans on the armrest, hooking an ankle over his other leg. “This always goes better if I’m perfectly honest with you.”

“What would be the point otherwise?” Quackity challenges.

“Well, one of us has to be,” Cellbit says sourly.

Quackity tilts his head. “I’m honest.”

“Not perfectly.”

“As honest as anyone can be, then.”

“Not really,” he shakes his head. He shifts in his seat, leaning back on the leather chair. “I have conversations with a version of you and hope that the actual you gets the help that he needs.”

“A version of me?” He questions.

He nods. “Naturally, I respect the meticulous construction, but you are wearing a very well tailored ‘person–suit.’”

Q smiles, “Do you refer to me as a ‘person–suit’ to your psychiatrist friends?”

“I don’t discuss patients with my psychiatrist friends.” His next words taste like acid on his tongue, cruel and very much bitter. “Especially since I only have one patient who chose to ignore my retirement.”

He heaves a breath, “A patient who wears a ‘person–suit.’”

“Maybe it’s less of a person–suit and more of a human veil,” Cellbit shrugs. Quackity straightens his spine and watches as the cogs in Cellbit’s head turn. “That must be lonely,” he whispers.

“I have friends,” Quackity assures him, almost offended. “And the opportunities for friends. You and I are friendly.”

Cellbit’s smile is not genuine. “You are my patient, and my colleague, you are not my friend. At the end of your hour, I will pour you a glass of wine. Nevertheless, you will be drinking it on the other side of the veil.”

“Why do you bother?”

“I see enough of you to see the truth of you,” he answers. He flips his sleeve back to check his watch, and smiles a little wider. “And, I like you. Red or white?”

Quackity watches as Cellbit rises from his seat and heads off to the kitchen. “I think something pink, don’t you?” He calls after him.

Wilbur is staring at the paintings on the wall when Quackity opens the door for him. He steps inside easily. Other times, it’s difficult to step foot inside the office. It feels like damning himself, like tearing down the forts in the bones of his skull. He slides off his jacket, and notes the wine on Quackity’s desk.

“You’ve been drinking,” Wilbur points out and shucks the jacket off of his shoulders.

“I had a glass of wine with my last appointment, yes,” Quackity hums and sits down in the leather seats across from each other, like so many times before. 

“Having a drink with a patient?” Wilbur asks and slides his hands into his pockets, pausing before he sits.

“He was having a drink with a patient,” he corrects. “I have an unconventional psychiatrist.”

Wilbur smiles, “Well, we have that in common.” He brings his hands out of his pockets to lie them on the armrests when he sits down.

Quackity darts his tongue out to wet his lips, and tilts his head. “Am I your psychiatrist, or are we simply having conversations?”

“‘Yes’ I think is the answer to that,” he chuckles.

Quackity raises a finger, his grin sharp. “Then having a glass of wine before seeing a patient is very conventional, I assure you.” Wilbur watches as he gets up and walks over to a large wooden storage for wine and reaches into the dark expanse. He notes the dark hair that spikes up along his neck, the way his shirt moves with his arms and his back. 

“How long have you been seeing a psychiatrist?” Wilbur asks,

“Since I chose to be one,” is the simple answer. Quackity pops open the cork, and pours two glasses for each of them. Wilbur thanks him as he takes the glass into his hand. “I read the Bad Halo article. Chesapeake Ripper has struck again.”

Wilbur heaves a rough sigh, and shakes his head feverishly. “No, no, no, it’s not the same guy.”

“Maybe it’s never been the same guy.” Quackity watches as Wilbur gets up, and immediately knows he’s struck a nerve somehow.

Wilbur outright laughs. This time, it isn’t the melodic sound that Q has come to know, but instead something harsh. “Oh, what, now he has friends?”  He slides a hand into his pocket and takes a sip of the wine, his back turned to Quackity.

“Any variations in the murders that might suggest there could be more than one Ripper?” Quackity asks. 

“Some,” he mutters.

Quackity nods and takes a sip of his glass, then leans forward, elbows on his knees. “All the victims were brutalized. What was the brutalization hiding?” 

“The careful surgical removal and preservation of vital organs,” he answers bitterly.

“Valuable organs.”

“Organ harvesters?”

“Phil’s looking for a serial killer he just can’t seem to catch. It’s a brilliant diversion,” Q points out.

Wilbur raises his eyebrows and brings the glass to his lips. “It’s an interesting theory,” he hums and drinks. He heaves a sigh, chest rising and falling. “I will keep that in mind in case another body drops.”

“Please do,” Quackity smiles.

“Any other infections?” The doctor asks as he presses the needle into Q’s arm.

“You seem convinced I’m diseased,” Quackity says.

“I was asking a broader question. A disease is an infection. An infection isn’t always a disease.”

“That is true.”

“You should just tell me now, because I am going to find out, and it will infect your insurance if you lie.”

Quackity presses his brows together. He stares at the back of the doctor’s head, and feels his heart spike. He smiles. “May I have your business card please, for my records?”

Quackity approaches his records book, and flips through to the first business card. He takes a card, then opens up the notes of his recipes, choosing the first to make. Crisp Lemon Calf Liver. He shuts the box.

He’s going to hold a dinner party, and inspiration has struck.

The first victim is an independent medical examiner named Andrew Caldwell — you should just tell me now, because I am going to find out, and it will affect your insurance if you lie. His car has broken down, the gas leaking from the tank. Quackity steps out of his car after carefully trailing behind him. “Do you need a hand?” He asks. 

Andrew sighs and gestures to the car. “I think I hit a rock or something, it gouged my gas tank.”

Quackity doesn’t stop walking, his face carefully neutral. His steps are languid and slow, clicking against the road. He doesn’t stop by the car, he keeps his eyes on the man in front of him.

He is going to have a dinner party. Inspiration has struck.

“Found him dead in a school bus, sitting across the aisle from himself,” Roier heaves a sigh, looking down at Andrew Caldwell’s body severed in half. “Not only did the Ripper take his kidney, but he also took his heart.” Roier looks directly at Wilbur. “Which, if you recall, is what he tried to do in the hotel, but was interrupted before he could paint his picture.

(At the dinner table, Quackity’s hands are getting stained with blood from slicing the kidney into thin slices, and handling the heart with washed hands. He’ll have to work hard to get the stains out.)

“The Ripper wasn’t painting a picture in the hotel,” Wilbur hisses. “Somebody else was.”

Roier gapes. “You still think he was ripping out a heart to save a life?”

“Yes,” he snaps.

“The Ripper painted this picture for sure,” Baghera points out. In big, broad, strokes.” She hands Wilbur photos of the scene that he takes into his hands carefully. Andrew was found sitting upright in one of the seats, his lower half sitting on the one next to him.

Wilbur winces, lips twitching. “Could any of the organs been harvested for transplant?”

Baghera shrugs. “Subtle variation on waking up in a tub missing a kidney?”

“I love a good urban legend,” Charlie grins. “You could put the organs on a ventilator long enough to coordinate the donation.” 

“At the hotel, the victim’s abdominal area and inferior vena cava — that’s like the kidney’s in–and–out for blood — were entirely removed,” Roier says.

Baghera deadpans at him, because that small explanation clearly wasn’t enough for Wilbur, who still looks lost. “They’re like USB cables,” she says. “You keep them intact for an easy reconnect.”

Wilbur nods and gestures to the body in front of them. “Were Mr. Caldwell’s heart and kidney disconnected for easy reconnect?”

“Yeah,” Roier nods.

“Other Ripper victims … Organs and USB cables missing?” He smiles at Baghera as a silent ‘thank you’ for the connection, because he certainly wasn’t going to say ‘inferior vena cava’ all the time.

Roier heaves a sigh. “It’s inconclusive due to the degree of mutilation, but yes, that is how the Ripper rips.” Wilbur sends him a half–hearted glare.

“Two different Rippers, same agenda?” Baghera says.

“Is the organ harvester disguising his work as the crimes of a serial killer, or is the serial killer disguising his work as an organ harvester?” Charlie proposes. (Quackity lies garnish and thin slices of meat atop the heart, holding it together with string as he lies it on a plate ready to cook.)

“The Chesapeake Ripper wants to perform,” Wilbur mutters, his eyes carrying that far–away look they know so well. “Every brutal move has … elegance, grace. His mutilations hide the true nature of his crimes.”

Quackity curls the tomatoes in on themselves to somewhat form roses, delicately arranging them on a plate. “I’ve been unspeakably rude,” he realizes. “I haven’t even offered you a drink.”

Jaiden pauses from where she is cooking at the other end of the room on a much smaller counter. She shrugs. “I appreciate beer more than wine.”

“It’s not what you appreciate; it’s that you appreciate,” Quackity says as he opens the fridge, abandoning his work for now. “Compromise?” He reaches into the fridge, and pulls out a bottle. “Beer brewed in a wine barrel. Two years. I bottled it myself.”

“I’m impressed,” Jaiden hums and takes the glass from Quackity after he finishes pouring it. She takes a gentle sip, and nods. “A cabernet sauvignon wine barrel.”

Quackity grins, “I love your pallet.”

“I love your beer,” Jaiden returns. She sets it down away from the food she’s preparing. “Are you serving this at your dinner party?”

He shakes his head, “This is your reserve.”

“My own private reserve? Why thank you,” she gasps.

Quackity laughs, and redirects his attention back to cooking. “I’m curious about something. Are you purposefully avoiding the subject of Wilbur Soot?”

“Absolutely,” she answers.

“Not on my account, I hope. I’d be happy to get your perspective.”

“No, it’s on Phil Watson’s account,” she sighs. “I don’t want any information about Wilbur that I shouldn’t have as his friend.”

“Did Phil ask you to profile the Ripper?” Quackity asks.

She furrows her brows. “Not since I consulted on the case with Chayanne before he disappeared.”

Q looks up. “Phil’s trainee?”

“Yes.”

“Very sad,” he whispers, and looks back down at his food. He remembers how it felt to have the boy writhe under his grip and lose the fight in him. It did, if anything, give him a touch of guilt.

“You had me examining PhD candidates that week,” Jaiden says.

“I’m grateful you were examining PhD students and not the Ripper,” he sighs. He changes the subject, again, trying to get his way out of the conversation he started. “I remember that even before I met Wilbur, you never spoke about him.”

“Probably because I want everybody to leave him alone,” Jaiden sighs. She frowns. “It’s not even about Wilbur. Phil’s obsessed with the Chesapeake Ripper and he’s grooming Wilbur to catch him.”

“And I sincerely hope he does.”

In Phil’s dreams, he wanders towards the mortician coolers, his briefcase clutched in his hands. Sometimes, a ringing will come from them, but not this time. Still, he opens D–008, expecting to find the severed arm of Chayanne. Instead, there is nothing. He almost breathes a sigh of relief, but then there is a rustling behind him.

He turns and looks, and Wilbur sits up from the stand, his body discolored and eyes pale from death. A stitched T shape is across his chest, reaching down to his belly. His arm is severed off, just like Chayanee’s (just like his son’s).

And then he is gone.

Quackity finds himself looking through the recipes and his records once more, fingers careful in choosing who will be used for what.

Chicken Liver Pate: Michelle Vocalson. She is found dead with her kidneys removed.

Braised Beef Lungs: Darrel Ledgerwood. He is found missing lungs and a heart.

Parmesan Crumbled Lambs Brains: Christopher Word. He is found with his head severed open, and the brain removed.

Quackity is having a dinner party, and inspiration has struck after all.

“They’re all missing different organs,” Charlie sighs. “Before, we were looking at a waiting list of hearts and kidneys. Now, we’re looking at hearts, kidneys, livers, stomachs, pancreas, lungs — this guy, he’s missing a spleen. A spleen! Who the hell gets a spleen transplant?”

“No mames moment,” Roier pitches in, and Charlie points at him enthusiastically.

“What Roier said! No mames!”

Wilbur winds around the observation tables. “Intestines were the only organs missing for this body?”

“Yes, right, so we’re either looking for someone with short bowels or … Ripper’s making sausage,” Roier says.

Phil crosses his arms on his chest. “He’s selling these organs to somebody.”

Roier throws his arms out, “We don’t even know if he’s transplanting them within the US. He could be exporting them to China.” 

Charlie nods. “The Chinese have a strict cultural taboo that restricts voluntary donation. You have to die with all your parts, or you dishonor your mother and father.” 

“I mean, you could still kill a guy for parts, that doesn’t break the taboo,” Roier mutters.

“I was agreeing with you,” Charlie says. Roier deadpans at him, frowning. “Well, I was!” 

“Your tone was a little —”

“Okay, okay,” Phil interrupts, and they clear their throats, suddenly back to normal. He looks at Wilbur, who is standing in the corner of the room, fidgeting with his hands. “How many killers?”

“Two,” Wilbur answers.

“Are you confident one of them is the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“Yes,” he nods. “At least one of them.”

At Wilbur’s usual appointment time, Quackity opens the door, smiling, ready to see him.

And the waiting room is empty. There is nobody to wear his person–suit for.

The room is small, but he still leans out of the door to check the corners, like Wilbur could be hiding somewhere. He checks his watch, even if he knows he has the time right. He presses his lips into a thin line, and retreats back inside the office, shutting the door behind him. 

He sits at his desk, and checks his phone for a missed call from Wilbur, maybe. Nothing. Still, he keeps it near him. He reaches over for his log book and checks to see if maybe he’s gotten the date wrong, but he wrote it in there himself, and he knows he didn’t. As suspected: Soot — 7:30 PM.

Quackity heaves a sigh, shuts the book, and rises from his seat. It’ll take an hour to get to the FBI academy.

In the back of Wilbur’s mind, he pictures him and Tallulah sitting across from another, Cassie Boyle’s corpse on the deer head between them. They are sitting in the woods, the wind blowing around them. He is wearing his vest and a flannel, and Tallulah smiles.

“It’s better that it’s just the two of us,” Tallulah says.

Wilbur smiles.

(“Wilbur?”)

Tallulah looks up to the sky, like she can hear it too, “Dad?”

“Yes?” He asks, tilting his head.

“There’s somebody else here.”

“Wilbur?” Quackity calls out as he walks through the halls of the FBI academy. 

He looks into the classroom. Wilbur is at his desk, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes wide and brown and empty. Quackity has to say his name again before Wilbur blinks, exhales sharply, and turns to face him. His eyes flicker across the room, like he isn’t really sure where he is. He swallows roughly, Quackity can see it in the bobbing of his throat. And Quackity knows from the trembling of Wilbur’s hands on his thighs that something is wrong. 

“I have a 24–hour cancellation policy,” Quackity states and steps forward. His voice doesn’t carry malice, just concern that isn’t quite unveiled in the right way.

Wilbur blinks again, presses his brows together. His voice is rough when he speaks, like he’s just woken up. “What time is it?” He whispers.

“It’s nearly nine o’ clock,” he answers.

Wilbur groans and pushes his hands into his hair. He tugs a little, face twisted into a frown and eyebrows upturned. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, his voice slurring a little.

“There’s no apology necessary,” Quackity assures.

Wilbur looks around him, disoriented and confused. He looks at the papers on his desk. “Uhm, I must’ve fallen asleep or something.” He looks up at Quackity, and his eyes are wide. “Was I sleepwalking again?”

“Your eyes were open, but you weren’t present,” Quackity says.

“Fuck,” Wilbur winces and rubs his eyes with one hand, cupping his forehead. “It felt like I was asleep. I need to stop sleeping altogether. Best way to avoid bad dreams.”

Quackity looks at the files on the desk, and is met with the images of the Ripper’s crime scenes — his crime scenes. He feels a small sense of pride at the knowledge that somebody like Wilbur is looking at his work. Admiring his work. “I can see why you have bad dreams,” is what he says instead of anything like that.

Wilbur gestures to the pictures with an open hand and rises to his feet, drumming his fingers on the desk. “What do you see, doctor?” He invites and stands beside him.

“Sum up the Ripper in so little words?”

“Choose them wisely.”

“Oh, I always do. Words are living things. They have personality, point of view,” he picks up a photo from one of the scenes, “agenda.”

“They’re pack hunters,” Wilbur whispers, hands propped on the desk.

“Displaying one’s enemy after death has its appeal in many cultures.”

“These aren’t the Ripper’s enemies, these are pests he’s swatted,” Wilbur corrects.

Quackity hums. “Their reward for their cruelty.”

Wilbur laughs, “Oh, he doesn’t have a problem with cruelty. Their reward is for undignified behavior. These dissections are to disgrace them. It's public shaming.”

Quackity nods along. “Takes their organs away because in his mind, they don’t deserve them.”

“In some way,” he murmurs.

Quackity shifts through the rest of the photos, and takes one in particular in his hands — oh, he remembers doing this. It is the image of a severed arm holding a telephone. “What’s this?” He asks anyway, just to hear the answer.

“It’s Phil’s trainee,” Wilbur answers. “He’s not like the other victims. The Ripper had no reason to humiliate Chayanne.”

“Seems to me he was humiliating somebody.” 

“Yes, he was. He was humiliating Phil,” he says bitterly.

“Did it work?”

Wilbur opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “I’d say it worked really well.”

“I’ve been looking for the kill truck. A van or an SUV, but it was a whole lot easier than that,” Baghera says as she pulls up the images on Phil’s computer.

“What am I looking at here?” Phil asks as the video of a police car and an ambulance appear on screen.

“One of the hotel security cameras,” Baghera answers.

“Kill truck?”

“It’s a private ambulance.”

“The city works with dozens of private ambulance companies,” Phil says.

“Including this one. But not as a first responder. A first responder driving away from the emergency?” She points at the screen as the ambulance begins to head off in an opposite direction than the hotel.

Phil stares at her, then gets up. “Have a seat.”

Baghera grins as she takes his seat, then leans forward to the computer. “An ambulance would be a smart place to perform surgery. If the cops show up, blend in and drive away.” She zooms in on the ambulance, and turns her head to Phil.

Phil takes a deep breath, and stands up straight. “Where the fuck is Wilbur Soot?” 

Baghera rushes after him through the halls of the FBI center. They have to practically run through the halls before they reach Wilbur’s classroom. Phil sees the lights on and practically rejoices right in front of her. Wilbur and Quackity are standing close beside each other, sifting through photos, talking amongst themselves. 

“Wilbur, there you are! And Nevadas, what a surprise. We have a lead.” Quackity smiles at Phil, and Wilbur looks up like he’s been caught doing something wrong, red spreading on his cheeks. He snatches his hands away from the photos, and crosses his arms on his chest, ducking his head down. “Would you like to help us catch the Ripper?”

“How could I refuse?” Quackity grins.

“That ambulance isn’t in rotation,” the worker says as he leads them through the warehouse. It’s a large building, stocked with ambulances in rows. Yellow pillars hold the ceiling up, and Q is intent on looking around as much as he can. It gets to the point that Wilbur has to gently hold Quackity’s sleeve to get him to keep up with Phil’s power walk. “It hasn’t even left the shed.”

“Surveillance footage says it has been,” Phil protests.

“Well, nobody’s signed her out. My road sheet’s got her down for repairs,” the worker counters.

“Who signed her out for repairs?” 

“Devon Silvestri. He’s one of our part–time drivers,” he says.

Wilbur butts in quickly, “Does he want to be a doctor?”

“He’s taking the MCATs,” he answers. The worker comes to a stop, and huffs. Right where the ambulance should be, it is empty. He justifies himself quickly. “It was there this morning!”

“It was there this morning,” Phil repeats bitterly. “Is Mr. Silvestri working today?”

The worker hums from where he’s scratching at his beard. “He’s not on the schedule.”

“Is there GPS on the ambulance?” Baghera asks. The worker nods. “Encrypted messaging, or remote tracking?”

The worker shakes his head. “We can’t afford that kind of hardware. We use consumer grade.”

Baghera nods, “Digital trunk system.” The worker smiles, and she turns to Phil. “If the ambulance’s radio is on, I can use a DF sweep to find it.”

Quackity, who has been looking around at the warehouse of ambulances the entire time, speaks for the first time since they entered. He leans forward to Wilbur, his smile soft. “This is very educational.”

They do find the ambulance, parked into a garage. The SWAT team files out first, red and blue lights flashing. Wilbur and Quackity clamber out of the backseat of one of the cars, and Phil and Baghera come out with them. Phil puts his arm out in front of him, and Quackity and Wilbur stay back whilst the others rush towards the ambulance. Wilbur already remembers — you won’t get the chance to shoot him.

They swing open the doors, and Phil aims his shotgun, his gaze cold and unforgiving. “Show me your hands,” he demands.

“I can’t,” Silvestri insists.

Phil cocks the shotgun. “Show me your hands.” 

“He’ll die,” he protests. 

Phil leans to the side, where he sees the man’s hand inside a wound on the patient’s side where the kidney is. He shouts over his shoulder. “Dr. Nevadas!” Quackity comes running forward with Wil on his heels nearly instantly. Wilbur pointedly does not look inside the ambulance. “I need you to assess the situation here.”

Quackity stops at the doors of the ambulance. He steps inside the ambulance, and leans over to look at the wound. “He was removing his kidney. Poorly.” He looks over his shoulder, a few strands of dark hair falling over his face. “I can stop the bleeding.”

“Do it.”

Quackity shucks the suit jacket off of his shoulders and tosses it aside, left with his vest. He pushes the sleeves of his button–up to his elbows, and pulls on a pair of latex gloves handed to him by Wilbur. He carefully moves his hand inside the wound, and doesn’t so much as flinch when he does. 

He knows how to do this, of course he does. He was a surgeon, he was in the ER, Wilbur reasons through the thoughts swimming in his head.

“Have you got it?” Phil asks.

Quackity pauses, then nods. “I’ve got it.”

“Mr. Silvestri, put your hands behind your head and exit the vehicle slowly.” Silvestri does as told, raising his hands and coming out of the front, where Phil is already waiting with his shotgun. “On the ground, on your knees.” The handcuffs click onto Silvestri’s wrists.

Wilbur comes to stand in front of the ambulance. Quackity is still by the body, stopping the bleeding with his hands. He looks over his arm to Wilbur for only a moment. They meet eyes, and for once, Wilbur holds the contact dearly.

Wilbur finds himself in Quackity’s kitchen that same evening, a wine bottle in his hand. It’s late into the night, and the crickets compose songs outside. He watches as Quackity removes the pitcher from the blender, and carries it over to the island where an empty glass bowl awaits. “I have a butcher who carries sow’s blood. Separate the matter from the water. Creates a transparent liquid.” He pours it in as a demonstration. He lifts the pitchers and catches a stray drop on his finger that he shakes off easily. “Serve it with tomatoes in suspension, and everybody will love the sweet taste.” He looks up, and frowns. “Are you sure you can’t stay?”

Wilbur drums his fingers against the wine glass, and dips his head down. “I’m not sure I’d be good company.”

“I disagree,” Quackity argues, but heaves a sigh. “Before you ago, what became of Silvestri’s donor?”

Wilbur hums, “You saved his life.”

Quackity looks surprised with himself. “It’s been a long time since I used a scalpel on anything besides a pencil.”

Wilbur tilts his head. “Why’d you stop being a surgeon?”

He sighs. “I killed somebody. Or more accurately, I couldn’t save someone. But it felt like killing them.”

“You were an emergency room surgeon, it has to happen from time to time.”

Quackity takes a large bowl into his hands to pour into a separate one. “It happened one time too many,” he says as he begins to pour. “I transferred my love for anatomy into the culinary arts. I fix minds instead of bodies, and no one’s died as a result of my therapy.”

Wilbur laughs, his smile soft, but the sound genuine. Quackity finds that he missed that. “I have to go,” he sighs and sets the wine bottle down onto the counter. “I have a date with the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“Or is that Rippers? Plural.”

“Devon Silvestri was harvesting organs, but not with the Ripper,” Wilbur says. “There’s no connection between them.”

He frowns. “Phil must be devastated.”

“I imagine he is. Enjoy the wine, Quackity.”

“Thank you, Wilbur.”

Quackity has his dinner party. The men and women gather around the table, clapping as he brings out the last course, his smile proud. Inspiration struck.

Chapter Text

Wilbur is lying on his side on the floor, attempting to fix the screw in his shoe rack. His dogs surround him patiently, lying together, sometimes getting up and having to step over his legs. Winston watches curiously, his ears perked up as he listens to the twisting of the tool. An animal snarls outside. 

It catches his attention just enough for him to look around. The dogs seem fine. He sighs and continues with the tools, muttering under his breath, and then a sharp whine comes from the animal, then growling. This time, he feels his heart spike with sudden worry.

He scrambles to his feet and gently steps around the dogs, who have risen to their feet with him. He grabs his coat from the hooks, and closes the door tightly behind him to keep the dogs inside. Wilbur blows out a sharp breath as he is met with cold air and snow. He slides on his coat, and tugs on his boots parked by the door. There is nothing but the expanse of a barren field in front of him, and the woods are far beyond that. Still, he hears the echo of the animal shrieking and yelping.

“These are harder to bow than the regular ones,” Ranboo remarks after his third mistake playing Minuet in G Major. He sighs, and stops playing, defeated. He looks up at his tutor, a frown on his face.

Technoblade shrugs, drumming his fingers on his coffee cup. “You have to learn to bow authentic strings to bow strings how they’re made today better.”

“Shouldn’t I learn to bow the easier ones first, and then the harder ones?” He asks. Technoblade shakes his head, and Ranboo glances down at the strings, fluttering his fingers over one. “Are they really made from cat guts?”

“Not always,” he hums.

(Technoblade makes good work of his strings. He works hard to stretch the guts just right, to thin them out and hang them in his basement. It is hard to transform them into strings, from something so unnatural. But if they could do it with cats, then why not —)

Wilbur goes out again later that day, dressed properly for the weather this time. There is a beanie snug on his head, a thick jacket over his body. The icy grass crunches under Jaiden’s feet. He can’t help the worry that comes with hearing an animal suffering like that.

“If it wasn’t a coyote, then the coyotes probably got it,” Wilbur calls out to her. He looks around him again, and grimaces.

Jaiden stops beside him and tilts her head. She tucks her hands under her armpits for some semblance of warmth, despite her thick gloves. “You’re not expecting to find it alive, are you?”

“We’ll be lucky to find a paw,” he says.

“So you invited me out here to collect animal parts?” She scoffs.

Wilbur shakes his head, a soft laugh leaving him. “I invited you over on the off chance we do find it alive.” They continue along the field, boots heavy. “It’s hard to wrangle an injured animal by myself. What, did you think it was a date?” He jokes, nudging her in the side.

“It never crossed my mind,” she shrugs.

“Oh,” Wilbur laughs. “Why not?”

“You don’t seem like the type to date.”

He presses a hand to his chest dramatically. “Too broken to date?”

“I didn’t say that,” she chuckles.

“Well, what’s your excuse?”

“For not dating?”

“No, for assuming I’m not dating.”

She hums. “Seems like something for somebody else.”

“Maybe I’ll be that somebody else someday,” he muses. He kicks a pebble from the ground, hands falling in his jacket pockets. “Right now I think too much.”

“So, what are you going to do?” Jaiden asks. “Are you going to try to think less, or are you just going to wait until it happens naturally?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” Wilbur admits.

Jaiden comes to a stop, and heaves a sigh. “Are you seeing anything?”

It takes Wilbur a moment for it to click that she’s talking about the animal. “No, I’m not even seeing tracks,” he mutters.

“I have a lot of respect for you,” Ranboo starts out, his voice soft as he speaks. Quackity sits across from him, tilting his head. “Since we can’t be friends, or you’re not comfortable with it, I found myself looking at a lot of my friends through your eyes.”

Quackity hums, and furrows his brows. “Who are you psychoanalyzing?”

Ranboo sighs, and looks a little uncomfortable all of a sudden. “My friend Technoblade — he, uh, also teaches me violin. I googled ‘psychopaths’, went down the checklist, and was a little surprised to see how many boxes I checked.”

“Why were you so curious to google?”

“Well, he’s been saying really dark things and then, ‘just kidding’ a lot. It started to seem kind of crazy,” Ranboo justifies.

“Psychopaths are not crazy,” Quackity corrects, like he’s been personally offended. “They’re fully aware of what they do, and the consequences of those actions.”

Ranboo nods in understanding and mutters an apology. “Would you diagnose somebody like Techno a psychopath? Wait — are you supposed to diagnose other people in front of me? Do you … would you rather just talk about me?”

“Not at all,” Q smiles.

It doesn’t seem to help the boy. “Are you bored with me?” He asks.

“No,” he says. “It’s your hour, Ranboo. We’ll talk about whatever you want to talk about.”

“Uhm, I’d like to talk about Technoblade,” he mutters. “I want you to help me —”

“I’m not analyzing your friend, I’m analyzing your perception of him,” Quackity interjects kindly. “It may help you know yourself better. You could be projecting onto him what could be considered your flaws.”

“Does that mean I’m a psychopath?”

“No, you’re not a psychopath,” he assures. “You could be just attracted — not romantically, necessarily — to them.”

On the stage of a grand auditorium, a man sits limply, his head thrown back. The neck of a cello has been cut into his mouth, but the killer had been careful to not get blood on the suit. The throat has been cut away just enough to reveal the vocal cords, the flesh hanging out like flaps.

“The victim is Douglas Wilson, a member of the Baltimore Metropolitan Orchestra’s brass section, a trombone player,” Phil says. He turns to Wilbur, who is carefully approaching the body. “He was killed shortly after the performance. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head.”

Wilbur circles the body, his hands in his pockets, and tilts his head up to scan the empty seats of the auditorium. “His killer put him here to … put on a show.”

Phil nods, his chest rising and falling steadily. He watches as Wil takes a few steps back, eyeing the body carefully, the exposed vocal cords. “Is it just me, or is it becoming easier for you to look?”

Wilbur shakes his head, “I tell myself it’s purely an intellectual exercise.”

“Well, in the narrow view of forensics, that’s exactly what it is,” he hums.

“They’re not any easier, Phil,” Wilbur snaps. He takes out the Advil from the inside pocket of his coat and pops two into his mouth. He tilts his head back to swallow them, and exhales sharply. “I shake it off, and keep on looking.”

“Good,” Phil says curtly. He stands beside him, and places a hand on his shoulder. “You shake it off. Get to work. We’ll come back in when you’re ready.”

Wilbur waits until the footsteps are gone, and the auditorium door shuts. He steps forward to the body, focuses on the neck of the cello poking out of his mouth.

He opens his throat from the outside to open the trachea and expose the vocal cords. The skin gives little resistance as he slices through expertly. He uses a hand on his jaw and a thumb beneath the corpse’s lips to carefully pry the mouth open. He opens his throat from the inside with the neck of a cello. 

There is powder on the wound — rosin from the bow. He wants to play him. He wants to create a sound. His sound.

This is my design.

The bow slides along the vocal cords, and Wilbur props his hand carefully on the cello neck. He looks up to the crowd, sees the empty seats, and a slow clapping echoes through the auditorium. Ahead of him, a spotlight shining on him, is a man dressed in white with bullet holes and blood marking his clothes.

Cucurucho sits there, his smile eerily wide, as he claps. It gets louder and faster as Wilbur looks at him in the eyes. 

Wilbur? No — no, this isn’t supposed to be him. He isn’t supposed to be here, he’s supposed to be substituting, he’s supposed to be thinking.

It’s not Wilbur, it’s not him, it’s not him, it’s not him —

“I’m worried I’ve made Ranboo feel powerless,” Quackity admits, crossing one leg over the other. He brushes his hair out of his face, and it falls in curtains. “He wants to be my friend. His obsession with me is interfering with his progress. I’m considering referring him to another doctor.”

“Referrals can be complicated,” Cellbit says. “I referred you to another psychiatrist. You refused.”

Quackity shrugs. “I’m more tenacious than Ranboo.”

“Why do you feel so tenacious, Quackity?” Cellbit asks, shifting in his seat, one of his arms falling limply across his body.

“I feel protective of you,” he confesses. “You support me as a colleague and a psychiatrist, and as a human being. I want to be supportive of you … after what happened.”

Cellbit flinches at the mention, just barely, but Quackity has always been observant. “I’m not the only psychiatrist who has been attacked by a patient.”

Quackity sighs. “I hesitated to even bring up the subject of your obsessive patient because of your traumatic experience.”

“Quackity,” Cellbit starts slowly, his voice low in warning. “I am your psychiatrist. You are not mine.”

Baghera hasn’t missed that Wilbur’s eyes look glassy as he sits against the wall, slouched forward. He has this desperate look on his face, like he’s silently pleading with an unknown person. His hair is tousled, and he’s wringing his hands in his lap anxiously. It’s like he’s barely there.

“Played him like a fiddle,” Roier grimaces through his teeth.

Baghera brings herself to look away from Wilbur to peer at the wound and give him some information. “We found sodium carbonate, sulfur dioxide, lye, olive oil, and bow rosin in the wounds.”

“What’s the deal with olive oil?” Roier wonders out loud.

Charlie hums, “Well, he definitely wasn’t making salad.”

“He removed anything non–muscular or fatty around the vocal cords,” Roier says. “The chords themselves were treated with a sulfur dioxide solution.”

“The sulfur dioxide has the effect of hardening the vocal cords,” Charlie explains to Wilbur, who still doesn’t quite look like he’s listening.

But, Wilbur still takes a deep breath that is too shaky, and speaks. “It made them easier to play.” His eyes slide to the corpse, and his gaze is suddenly cold. “Had to open you up to get a decent sound out of you,” he practically seethes.

“What?” Roier yelps, and Baghera hits him on the arm. Wilbur ducks his head down and works his jaw.

“You pick it up and can’t play it, he’ll put you down and play you,” Baghera adds on, watching as Wilbur covers his mouth with his hands and squeezes his eyes shut, brows pressing together.

“He took the time to whiten the vocal cords before playing them,” Charlie says. 

They hear Wilbur take another shuddering breath, his hands sliding up to cover his eyes as well. “It’s not about whitening them,” His voice is high pitched like he might cry. “It was about increasing the elasticity of them.”

“He treated the vocal cords the same way you treat cat gut strings,” Baghera nods.

Wilbur gets to his feet, and they make way for him to stand with the group around the observation table. They’ve removed the cello neck from the throat. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and curls them into fists to keep them from shaking. “This takes a steady hand. A confidence. He’s killed before.”

“Like this?”

“No, not like this,” he says. He presses his brows together in concentration. “This is a musician trying a new instrument.”

“Are you kidding me,” Roier gapes after a long silence. Wilbur looks up at Roier, scoffs, and turns on his heels. He snatches his jacket from the chair and shoves open the door. Baghera and Charlie look at Roier like he’s offended all of them. Roier puts his hands up, “I didn’t do anything! What did I say?”

“Your tone is always so … oh my God, Roier,” Baghera huffs and peels off her gloves, throwing them in the trash can.

Wilbur opens the door again, his voice practically a shout. “If you don’t agree with me, take it up with Phil for all I care! See where it fucking gets you, Roier.”

“I didn’t mean to —” Roier is interrupted by the door slamming shut.

“Among the first musical instruments were flutes carved from human bone,” Quackity says and lies down a sheet of paper on his desk, and Wilbur steps forward beside him, arms crossed. Quackity watches him and the way he looks ahead of him, his chin always up in that set confidence that he has around Quackity.

“This murder was a performance,” Wilbur says.

“Every life is a piece of music,” Q muses. “Like music, we are finite events, unique arrangements, sometimes harmonious, sometimes dissonant.” 

Wilbur winds around the desk, pacing, his hand gliding across the back of the desk chair. “Sometimes not worth hearing again.” His hair has been brushed back today, neatly combed.

“He’s a poet and a psychopath,” Quackity hums.

“And a craftsman,” he adds. “He was shrinking and tanning the vocal cords. Like turning iron wire into musical steel string.”

Quackity pauses. “Was there olive oil?”

Wilbur stops in his pacing as well, looking over his shoulder to Quackity before turning fully, his eyebrows raised slightly. “Yes,” he says.

“Whatever sound he was trying to produce, it was an authentic one,” he says. Wilbur tilts his head down and gives him a look, to which Q explains further. “Olive oil hasn’t been used in the production of catgut strings for over a century. It was said to increase the life of strings and create a sweeter, more melodic sound.”

Wilbur shakes his head. “No, I hear what he was playing behind my eyes when I close them.”

“What do you see behind closed eyes?”

Cucurucho there, smiling, clapping. “Myself,” he whispers.

“You said the killer was performing. Who was he performing for?”

“I don’t know. Um … patron of the arts? A fellow musician? Or another killer?”

“It’s a serenade,” Quackity guesses.

“No, no, this isn’t how he kills. He normally doesn’t kill for an audience,” he says.

“You believe he would risk getting caught for a serenade?”

“I believe, “Wilbur trails off, then looks down at Quackity. “He wants to show somebody how well he can play.”

Ranboo is sitting in Quackity’s office, like so many times before. His hands are in his lap, brows furrowed, his gaze dipped to the ground. “Uhm — do you remember when I said that Technoblade was saying very dark things?”

“I made note of it,” he nods.

“The other day he said he wanted to cut somebody’s throat and play it like a violin,” Ranboo whispers, like they’re in a room full of people, and not by themselves. “And then they found somebody whose throat was cut and played like a violin!”

Quackity reels back. “Do you think Technoblade killed the man at the Symphony?”

“I don’t know!” He exclaims and throws his hands up. The stress is wearing this boy thin. “Do I have to report it if I do?”

“What reason do you have not to?”

“What if I’m wrong?”

“What if you’re right,” he counters.

“I’m always wrong,” he protests. They stay silent for a moment, and then he heaves a sigh. “Why would he say something like that to me?”

“Why do you think?”

Ranboo’s face turns grim, his face blanching suddenly. He squeezes his fingers so tight they turn pale. “Because he knew I would tell you,” he whispers.

From outside the Chordophone string shop, Quackity can hear the sound of a violin, a bow elegantly sliding across strings. He opens the door, and touches a finger to the bell to stop it from ringing. He stops, and he listens. Only for a moment before he is shutting the door behind him. The inside is warm, and there is no need for the brown trench coat around him, but he will not take it off. This is not a casual meeting, after all.

The playing stops, and as Quackity examines the small trinkets on a corner table, he hears the footsteps stop behind him. “You’re Ranboo’s therapist, Dr. Nevadas,” Technoblade greets, his violin in his hand along with his bow. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Is it Technoblade?” He asks, and Techno nods. He smiles. “Your strings are all gut.”

“I also carry steel and polymer strings, if you prefer,” Techno offers.

“I prefer gut,” he says. “Harps with gut strings still play after two thousand years.” He reaches down to pluck a string on one of the cellos.

Technoblade suddenly pauses from behind the counter. “I didn’t hear you ring the bell.”

“I didn’t want you to stop playing. Was it an original composition?”

He nods, “Something I’ve been writing. Do you compose?”

“I’ve recently discovered I do,” he hums. He reaches up to brush his fingers through his hair. “Can’t impose traditional composition on an instrument that is inherently free form.”

“What instrument would that be?” Technoblade asks.

“The Theremin,” he answers. “It can generate any pitch throughout its range. Even those between conventional notes.”

“And so can a violin, or a trombone.”

“It seems we are both comfortable playing between conventional notes.” Quackity looks at him in the eyes, and sees Technoblade’s gaze shift. “I hear the Symphony’s looking for a new trombonist.”

“Altogether horrible what happened.” Technoblade chooses his words carefully, and they fall from his mouth like they mean the world.

“Not altogether,” he protests. “Yes, it’s an unfortunate way to die, but I can’t help thinking the orchestra would be better for it.”

“At least the brass section,” he grins. Here, they can understand one another. Here, they speak in tongues, but understand perfectly. “What brings you here looking for gut?”

“My harpsichord needs new strings, it’s making an awful noise.” Just like that, they are back to customer and provider. “Perhaps you could help me.”

Wilbur delicately ties the string around the fishing fly, leaning close to see. He grabs the scissors, and reaches out to cut it off. And then, he hears the animal again. A scratching at first, close. And then a chattering. The scratching is loud and rapid. It’s coming from the fireplace, where he knows the chimney is.

And yet, the dogs don’t react.

Wilbur ties off the string before getting up. He carefully maneuvers between the dogs, who show only slight interest in what he’s doing. He braces himself on the fireplace stones as he crouches down. The scratching continues. He stands slowly, and lifts himself up with his hands on the top of the fireplace, pressing his ear to the wall. 

The dogs don’t react, and the animal is inside the chimney.

Quackity stands from the table where he sits across from Technoblade. The meal is simple, and the wine is white, and everything is okay for now. “More wine?” He offers, and at a nod, holds the pitcher with gentle hands and pours. “A late harvest Vidal from Linden.”

“Oh, Virginia,” Technoblade muses. “I thought it was French.”

“The Virginia wine revolution is upon us,” he laughs. Quackity sits once more, and fixes his tie. “I apologize for being so blunt Technoblade, but I have to ask. Did you kill that trombonist?”

Technoblade sips from his wine, and tilts his head at him, his face neutral. “Do you really have to ask?”

“No. Just changing the subject,” he admits.

“Ranboo gave you my message.”

“The murder is being investigated by the FBI,” he warns. “They’ll find you.”

“Let them,” he shrugs.

“You want to get caught?” He attempts to clarify,

“I want them to try,” Technoblade laughs. “They’ll investigate me because I own a string shop. They’ll send men to investigate, and I’ll kill them. And then, I’ll find Ranboo, and I’ll kill him, too. Then I’ll disappear.”

Quackity frowns, and takes his wine in his hand. “Don’t kill Ranboo,” he says before taking a swig.

He scoffs, “I’ve been looking forward to it. Actually, I was going to kill you.”

“Of course you were,” Quackity sings. “I’m lean. Lean animals yield the toughest gut. What stopped you from wanting to kill me? Have you stopped?”

“I stopped after I followed you one night,” Technoblade answers. “Out of town. To a lonely road. To a bus yard.”

Quackity stops entirely. He feels his heart rate spike. Oh. Technoblade knows. He knows. “You’re reckless, Technoblade,” he huffs.

Technoblade holds his hands up. “I’m not going to tell anyone what I saw you do — and do well. So my recklessness doesn’t concern you.”

“It concerns me because you won’t be drawing attention just to yourself,” he insists.

Technoblade leans back. He drums his fingers on the table, and tilts his head. “I could use a friend. Somebody who understands me. Who thinks like I do and can see the world and the people in it the way I do.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” Quackity assures. “But I don’t want to be your friend.”

“Then why did you invite me for dinner? It wasn’t just to restring your harpsichord.”

Quackity answers honestly. “I was going to kill you.” Technoblade looks at the food, and Q laughs. “I didn’t poison you, Techno. I wouldn’t do that to the food.”

The doorbell rings, and Technoblade cocks his head to the side. “Expecting somebody?”

“No. I’m not.” Quackity pointedly looks at the back door, and turns to leave. 

He swings open the door, and Wilbur steps inside without warning, patting the snow off of his coat outside. “I think I’m hearing things.”

“Well, come in,” he muses and follows Wilbur into the kitchen.

“You had somebody over?”

“A colleague. You just missed him.” Quackity closes the back door gently. “Which benefits you, because I have dinner for two.” Wilbur follows Q into the kitchen dutifully, dragging his hands down his face — a growing habit. “What brings you to the conclusion that you’re hearing things?”

“There was an animal in my chimney,” he muttered. “I broke through the wall to get it out. As soon as I broke the wall, it stopped. And I’ve heard it before, loud and clear, and haven’t found anything — I haven’t even seen tracks in the ground! Ask Jaiden, she helped me look, and there was nothing.” 

Wilbur pauses, works his jaw furiously. He exhales sharply, and cups a hand over his forehead. “Jaiden came over to look at it. And … maybe her face changed, I don’t know. But she knew.” 

“What did she know?” He asks.

“That there was no animal in the chimney.” His voice cracks. They both ignore it. “It was only in my head.” He sniffs, and puts his hands on his hips. “I sleepwalk, I get headaches, I’m hearing things.” He pauses, briefly, and lets out a sound that feels like a sob, but isn’t quite it. “I feel unstable.” The word feels like acid on his tongue, and he wants to scrape it out.

Quackity looks up at him. “You said yourself that what you do isn’t good for you.”

“Well, unfortunately, I’m good for it,” he winces. “At least to Phil.”

“Are you still hearing this killer’s serenade behind your eyes?” Quackity asks.

Wilbur laughs. “Well, it’s our song.”

Quackity slides him his plate of dessert, and neatly folds the towel. He listens to the clink of silverware against the plate, and how Wilbur hums in delight, and mutters some form of praise. He goes to hang it on the oven handle, then pauses. “I hesitate telling you this because it borders on a violation of doctor–patient confidentiality.” Wilbur stops, and Quackity hangs the towel, then props his hands on the counter, leaning forward slightly. “A patient told me today he suspects his friend may have been involved with the murder at the Symphony.”

“Right,” Wilbur whispers, and rubs at his eyes, exhaling sharply. “What did he say about his friend?”

“He owns a music store in Baltimore, specializing in string instruments.” Q looks up. “Perhaps you should interview him.”

“For the first time in a long while, I see the possibility of friendship,” Quackity confesses to Cellbit, who is gathering his notebook and pen.

Cellbit turns, and his hair is gelled back and combed neatly like before. “Is there somebody new in your life?” He asks, settling himself onto the seat across from Quackity.

“I met a man much like myself,” Quackity sounds almost giddy about it. “Same hobbies, same worldviews, but I’m not interested in being his friend. I’m curious about him, and that got me curious about friendship.”

Cellbit tilts his head. “Who is this man?”

“A colleague and a patient, not unlike how I’m a colleague and a patient of yours,” he explains. “We’ve discussed him before.”

“Wilbur Soot,” Cellbit hums.

“He’s nothing like me,” Q says. “We see the world in different ways, yet he can assume my point of view.”

Cellbit looks confused, or offended somehow. “By profiling the criminally insane.”

“As good a demonstration as any,” he smiles. “I find it reassuring.”

Cellbit smiles, and nods his head. “It’s nice when someone sees us, Quackity. It requires trust. Trust is difficult for you.”

“You’ve helped me to better understand what I want in a friendship, and what I don’t,” Quackity says.

“Somebody worthy of your friendship.”

“Yes.”

“You spend a lot of time building walls, Quackity,” he says. “It’s natural to want to see if someone is clever enough to climb over them.”

Wilbur steps into the string store just as Technoblade is walking with a student to the entrance. Techno freezes. “Special Agent Wilbur Soot with the FBI. Are you the owner?”

“Yes. Technoblade,” he introduces himself briefly, then gestures to the boy beside him. “I’m showing one of my students out. May I have a moment?” Wilbur nods. He is with two other officers, and the boy scurries through them after being told what to practice. Wilbur looks at the string instruments first, his gaze scanning each one. “What can I help you with?”

“We’re investigating the death of Douglas Wilson. He was —”

“The trombonist.”

Wilbur furrows his brows. “That’s right. Did you know him?”

“I was aware of him,” Technoblade shrugs. “Baltimore is a small town, and the cultural arts community is an even smaller one.”

“Well, that’s why we’re here, sir,” Wilbur says.

“I heard somebody cut his throat, and tried to play it with a bow.”

He tilts his head up. “Why do you say ‘try’?”

“The strings have to be treated,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You can’t just open somebody up and draw a bow across their innards and expect to make a sound.”

Wilbur’s hands twitch by his gun holster. “The vocal cords were chemically treated similar to how catgut string is treated.” His voice grows louder, and he wanders further inside the building, Technoblade close on his heels. “We kept those details out of the press.”

“Are you looking for somebody who knows how to manufacture gut strings?” Technoblade asks.

“Anybody leap to mind?”

“Mine are imported from Italy,” he says as he hands him a small roll of string. “The best catgut is. The string section of the Baltimore Metropolitan Orchestra refuses to play anything else.”

“More authentic.” He hands the roll back, and Techno takes it with a smile.

“A richer, darker sound. Allows music to say what words can’t.”

Wilbur jumps as the sound of tires screeching, a crash, and a woman screaming outside fill his ears. The others look at him like he’s crazy. Maybe he is. He swallows, fingers twitching into fists. “Excuse me a minute,” he mutters and shoulders open the door. Wilbur rushes outside, and the sounds of the city fill his ears. He stumbles to a stop as an animal howls and moans in pain. It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real —

Fuck, there’s a horrid headache behind his eyes.

He scrambles for his Advil, and pops two into his mouth. And almost as soon as he does, the sounds fade away. He steps back inside, the door ringing. “Sorry about —”

He stops. The room is empty. Wilbur knows better than to call out. He reaches a hand underneath his jacket and unclips the holster, then slides his pistol out. He cocks back the hammer, and braces himself against the wall before shoving open the door to another room.

One of the officers lies limply on the floor, blood spilling onto the ground beneath him from his throat, where a sharp object has been shoved through. Wilbur presses his phone to his ear, keeping his voice quiet, and checks for a pulse. “I need ERT at Chordophone Strings, downtown Baltimore. Officer down.”

Wilbur quickly discovers the backroom, his feet padding against the ground slowly, carefully. He swings open the door, gun aimed in front of him. The door shuts behind him without his support. He goes down the stairs, listens to them creak under his feet with soft winces. He rounds the corner.

Wilbur is met with jars of intestines stored onto shelves. Another turn, and he keeps his back to the wall. There’s a craftsman station where a violin is in the process of being made. Just like at the shelves, untreated guts are nearby in a jar. There are some laid across small bars over water, thinning out with treatment.

Wilbur turns as soon as the sound of scratching meets him. This place is making his head spin. It makes his heart pound. Nothing. He turns again, and ahead of him is a concealed area. There, the scratching continues. He whips back the curtain.

The second officer is face down in the water, sharp strings cutting across his face, but he was already dead. Wilbur grabs the back of his jacket to pull him back and look at his face. It has been cut with strings tied across it, blood spilling from the wounds.

Wilbur doesn’t even hear Technoblade when he’s far away. Only when the strings appear in front of his face does he bring his hands up to block them away. His hands shudder with the force of struggle, and Techno holds the strings tighter like he’s done this a million times. He aims the gun between them, and fires.

It doesn’t hit any of them, but the ringing is loud and unbearable. Techno scrambles to his feet, pressing a hand to his ear. Wilbur shoves himself up, and shoots once, twice. The bullets ricochet against the walls, and Techno flees up the stairs.

Wilbur tries to follow, he really does, but the whining in his ear makes it hard to breathe, hard to think. He braces himself on a shelf, shoving a hand up against his ear. The sirens are faint, and he just hopes they’ve caught him as he stumbles up the stairs.

“Nine,” Ranboo emphasizes, and even holds up the number on his fingers. “Nine times. I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve been dumped by a psychiatrist.”

“I’m sorry, Ranboo.” And Quackity is. “I think you should see another doctor.”

“You’re giving me a referral?” He scoffs.

“Yes,” he nods.

“You were a referral!”

“I am also part of the problem,” he explains. “You focus too much on your therapist, and not enough on your therapy.”

Ranboo shakes his head. “You lost respect for me because I wouldn’t report Techno, didn’t you?”

“Report Technoblade for what?” Techno’s sour voice booms through the office. Quackity looks over his shoulder and frowns. Ranboo stands, and Quackity does with him. Techno shuts the door behind him. There is blood spilling from his ear onto his white collar, and stains his pink hair. “I came to say goodbye.”

“Say goodbye?” Ranboo repeats. “What do you mean — oh my God. Is that your blood?”

“I killed two men,” he answers simply. “The police came to question me about the murder.”

Ranboo stutters, then nods, obviously shocked. “You have to give yourself up right now. The plane is going down, let it have a controlled descent. There’s rehabilitation for everyone.”

“Ranboo, I want you to leave now,” Quackity says firmly from behind him.

“Stay right where you are, Ranboo,” Techno seethes.

Ranboo holds a hand out placatingly. “You’ve done a horrible thing, and I know that you wish you didn’t. But you can’t change that. The only thing that you can change is your future. You probably feel like you’re all alone.”

Techno shakes his head, “I’m not alone.” He takes a step forward, Quackity shuts his eyes.

“That’s right, you’re not alone,” Ranboo insists. “Nothing has happened in our relationship that you and I can’t —” Quackity steps forward, and snaps his neck.

Technoblade glares, taking a step back as the body falls limp on the ground. “I was looking forward to that.”

“I saved you the trouble.”

Techno lets his jacket fall from his hand to reveal a piece of long, sharp string. Oh. Oh, shit.

Quackity steps back in time as Techno steps forward. His movements are expert and delicate. He cracks the string, sharp enough to cut, and Quackity leaps back. It doesn’t matter, because Techno kicks him in the stomach and sends him launching backwards into the shelves. Techno doesn’t let up with the string, and Quackity shoves the ladder between them to give himself a bit of distance.

Quackity raises a hand to brace himself, and the string snaps around his wrist. He winces, and attempts to tug his hand back. It does nothing but tighten the string as Techno wraps the excess around his fist and pulls harshly. It draws blood, the cuts slicing through his sleeve and puncturing flesh.

Quackity leaps forward with a punch that Technoblade dodges. Techno uses a hand on Q’s back to shove him away, then yank him close. Quackity leaps away, and Techno grabs the small glass table. He crashes into Quackity’s head, and the glass shatters. It cuts his forehead, and he winces sharply.

He stumbles back, and the adrenaline proves vital in regaining control of himself. Q slams their heads together, yanks his wrist out of the string, and throws Technoblade at the desk. Techno grabs the letter opener, but can’t use it before Q is throwing himself at him and tackling him to the ground. They go tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs. 

Quackity jumps back, bracing himself on his hands to get up. Technoblade kicks him, and his boot strikes him across the face. He yelps as the ache spreads, and the blood fills his mouth. Techno throws himself at Quackity, who latches his arms around him and pushes him off. 

Technoblade reels his hand back, and stabs the letter opener into Quackity’s leg. Quackity screams, and is distracted enough that Techno seizes the opportunity to grab him by the throat and throw him onto the desk. Quackity stops the letter opener from crashing into his head with a firm grip on Techno’s wrist. He gasps and sputters, eyes bulging. He kicks out and grabs the scalpel on his logbook, stabbing it into Techno’s arm, who drops the knife with a sharp cry.

It’s enough for Quackity to get up, and slam his fist into his face. Techno slams his elbow into Quackity’s face, and kicks him back. His fist collides with Quackity’s cheek, then his jaw. Quackity blocks the next punch with his arm, and slams his free elbow into the small of Techno’s back, sending him stumbling forward. He knees Techno in the gut.

Techno lunges for him, and Quackity braces his head as he is slammed into the ladder. Techno steps back, and Quackity clutches onto the ladder behind him for support. He feels the blood trickle from his mouth down his chin, and knows it stains his teeth when his lips twitch up in a snarl.

Techno goes to punch him, and Quackity ducks out of the way. Techno’s arm goes through the ladder, and he quickly grabs it, yanking it back and breaking it. Quackity dodges the next swing, and hits him in the throat. Techno coughs and gasps, collapsing to his knees.

Quackity huffs and wipes blood on his sleeve. He fishes out the handkerchief from his pocket, and carefully grabs the stag statue with it. He stumbles, limping on one leg over to Techno, who is on his hands and knees, clutching at his throat, still gasping. He raises it up, and brings it crashing down on his head. Technoblade falls limp — dead.

He drops the statue, then tips over the stand for it. Panting softly, he folds the handkerchief and stuffs it back into his suit pocket.

The police arrive not soon after he calls, marking how the scene took place. They clean up the broken glass, and whatever could be used as evidence into bags. Quackity is sitting on his desk, a medical bag beside him. He rests a bloodstained hand just over the wound in his leg. He is still trying to catch his breath. The blood on his chin is still there, and there is a cut across his nose. A bruise is forming where the first punch had landed.

He looks up at the doorway as Phil arrives. His shoulders tense. They slump once more as Wilbur follows close behind him. Quackity finds it in him to exhale, and suddenly, his breath is even. Wilbur looks at him first, and then the scene before him.

“I was worried you were dead,” Quackity whispers in soft admittance when Wilbur steps in front of him. He looks up at him, and Wilbur reaches out his hand to brush the messy hairs out of Quackity’s face.

“I’m okay,” Wilbur smiles. Really smiles.

“I missed that,” he says.

He cocks his head to the side. His hand falls back down to his side, and Q finds himself mourning the loss. “Missed what?”

“Your smile.” It only serves to make Wilbur’s cheeks darken as he looks away. Quackity laughs, and stores the information that Wilbur is easily flustered into his head.

Phil clears his throat loudly, a fist against his mouth. “Technoblade killed two Baltimore police officers, nearly killed an FBI Special Agent, and after all of that, is here, at your office.”

“He came to kill my patient,” Quackity mutters. He looks at Phil, but not in the eyes, merely in his direction. He twists the fabric of his pants between his index finger and thumb.

“Your patient. Is that who Technoblade was serenading?” Wilbur asks.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, looking up at Wil through glassy eyes. “Ranboo knew more than he was telling me. He told Technoblade that he didn’t have to kill anymore. And then he broke Ranboo’s neck, and then he attacked me.”

Phil narrows his eyes. “You killed him?”

Quackity swallows roughly, and dips his head down. “Yes.”

“Could Ranboo have been involved in whatever Technoblade was doing?” Wilbur asks, his voice soft and patient.

Quackity shakes his head. He chuckles bitterly, and cups a hand across his forehead with a soft wince. “I thought this was a simple matter of poor choice in friends.”

“This doesn’t feel simple to me,” Phil shoots back, and turns to overlook the scene.

Wilbur lifts himself to sit on the edge of the desk. Quackity blows out a long breath and presses his hands around the wound a little tighter, massaging the area. Wilbur leans over to peer at Quackity’s face, then sighs. Quackity looks like him — lost and empty, on the verge of tears. “I feel like I’ve dragged you into my world,” he whispers.

“I got here on my own,” Quackity sniffles. He reaches out to lie his fingers over Wilbur’s, just barely, who takes the invitation and holds his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “But I appreciate the company.”

“Misery loves Company,” Wilbur muses, and runs his thumb over the back of Quackity’s bloody hand.

Chapter Text

What was once a peaceful beach by a cliffside has been sealed off by crime scene tape. The officers scatter around the scene, collecting evidence, analyzing the upset grains of sand. Wilbur follows dutifully behind Phil, the beanie snug on his head. It’s getting too cold for this. By the ocean, where the waves brush against it, is a tower of bodies pieced together by the limbs. Seven graves surround it, having been dug up.

“World’s sickest jigsaw puzzle,” Roier mutters as he snaps another photo, shutting one eye.

“Where are the corners?” Charlie asks.

Roier pauses and turns his head. “What?”

“My mother always said to start a jigsaw puzzle with the corners.”

Roier squints. “I guess the heads are the corners.”

Baghera shakes her head, “There’s too many corners. Seven bodies, too many heads.”

Wilbur and Phil circle the tower — more Wilbur looking over the scene, and Phil following on his heels. “The headpiece is the only recent victim.” Wilbur tilts his head up to look at the headpiece, which is a man with his feet beside his head, contorted unnaturally. “The others are years, even decades, old. And we know that seven of the bodies were buried out here.”

“Whoever dug them up knew exactly where they were buried,” Wilbur says.

“I guess it wasn’t enough for him to kill them once; he had to come back and defile his victims.”

He shakes his head. “These graves weren’t desecrated, Phil. They were exposed.”

Phil watches Wilbur for a moment as the man continues to examine the headpiece of the tower. He huffs, and claps his hands together. “Alright, let’s clear the scene, let’s go!”

The air is chilly against his back and coat. The tower leans on its side, the headpiece yet to be connected, the tower yet to be standing at its full, glorious height. He planned this moment. He planned his monument with precision, collecting all of his materials in advance. He slides each limb into its rightful place, tying them on with string and carefully woven knots. Peace in the pieces disassembled.

His latest victim writhes on the sand. He’ll save him for last, let him struggle against his binds and the duct tape on his mouth. He wants him to watch him work. Wilbur wants him to know his design.

(Not Wilbur, not Wilbur, this is not him, this is not him —)

He stalks forward carefully, the dagger in his hand. The victim freezes, eyes wide in horror. He kicks him onto his back gently, and straddles his hips, ensuring that he can’t kick him off, even if his ankles are tied. He positions the knife, and shoves it through the victim's chest.

After he arranges his headpiece, and he stands the tower to full height, he steps back to gaze at his work. This is his resume. This is his body of work. This is his legacy.

Wilbur is standing in Quackity’s waiting room. He blinks rapidly, brows pressing together. No, wait — he was just at the beach, wasn’t he? He turns to the door as it opens, then feels the panic set in when Quackity says, “I wasn’t expecting you.” Fuck, it’s not even his appointment time, why is he here, how —

“I don’t know how I got here,” he blurts and barrels past Quackity into his office. He tosses off his beanie in his jacket, because this room is too hot, and he tugs at his collar, because he can’t breathe.

“Your car is here, so we know you drove,” Quackity says in an attempt to calm him. He watches as Wilbur tugs at his hair, and can’t help but notice the fact that when Wilbur was unaware, he came to him.

Wilbur gestures to the door with an open palm, his eyes still wide. His voice is raising into a shout, airy and high–pitched with fear. “I-I-I was on a beach in Grafton, West Virginia. I blinked and then I-I was waking up in your waiting room, except I wasn’t asleep!”

“Grafton, West Virginia is three and a half hours away from here,” Quackity mutters, looking just as confused as him. Then, his face is perfectly calm once more. “You lost time.”

Wilbur holds his hands up, pacing along the office, his chest rising and falling in rapid movements. “There’s something wrong with me, Quackity,” he sobs.

“You’re dissociating, Wilbur,” he explains. “It’s a desperate survival measure for a psyche that endures repeated abuse.”

He holds out a finger, his face twisted in offense. “No, no, I’m not abused!” He shouts.

“You have an empathy disorder,” Quackity has to raise his voice to speak over him and his flurry of panic. He has to repeatedly turn to face Wilbur, who is walking in circles around his desk, hands in his hair. “What you feel is overwhelming you.”

“I know, I know, I know,” he stammers. He holds his hands together and presses them against his forehead. He sounds like he’s going to cry. He is crying.

“Yet you choose to ignore it,” he points out. “That’s the abuse I’m referring to.”

“What, do you want me to quit?” He spits.

“Well, Phil Watson gave you a chance to quit, and you didn’t take it. Why?”

“I save lives,” he hisses through his teeth, like it should be obvious.

“And that feels good.”

“Generally speaking, yes.”

“What about your life?” He argues. Wilbur stops in his tracks. “I’m your friend, Wilbur. I don’t care about the lives you save; I care about your life, and your life is separating from reality.” Wilbur looks at him for a moment, then unceremoniously collapses onto the couch behind him, burying his face in his hands.

Wilbur’s shoulders jerk with a harsh sound from his throat, and then he sniffles and reveals his face by brushing his hands through his hair. His cheeks are stained with tears that had silently fallen during his outburst. “I’ve been sleepwalking. I’m experiencing hallucinations. Maybe I should get a brain scan —”

“Wilbur,” Quackity stops his ramblings. “Stop looking in the wrong corner for an answer to this.” He steps forward, and Wilbur looks up at him from where he sits. “You were at the crime scene when you dissociated. Tell me about it.”

Wilbur grimaces. He swipes his sleeve across his nose. He knows it’s gross — he can see it in how Quackity frowns — but it’s all he has right now. Still, he takes the tissue box that Quackity offers and gingerly sets it beside him. “It was a totem pole of bodies.”

He nods and sits down beside him. Wilbur stops himself from reaching for his hand. “In some cultures, crimes and guilt are made manifest so that everyone can see them and their shame.”

“No, this isn’t shame, this is celebration,” he corrects. “He’s marking his achievements.”

“And faced with this killer’s achievements, your mind felt the need to escape, and you lost time.”

“Yes,” Wilbur whispers and ducks his head down, wringing his hands in his lap. Something about admitting to something like that makes the shame curl in his chest and scratch at his ribs. He doesn’t know what to do with this thing inside of him.

“I’m worried about you, Wil,” Quackity admits, turning his head to look at him. “You empathize so completely with the killers that Phil has your mind wrapped around that you lose yourself to them. What if you lose time and hurt yourself? Or somebody else?” Wilbur glances towards him, then the door, then back at him, his eyes glassy. Quackity draws in a deep breath. “I don’t want you to wake up to a totem of your own making.”

Tallulah sits in the greenery, her hair falling down her shoulders in gentle curls. It’s grown much longer since her father’s death. She still clings to her beanie, keeping it snug around her head, especially after the cold starts to really set in. Her eyes are glassy and distant as she speaks, wringing her hands together. The chairs are set into a circle. Other patients surround her.

“Every day I wake up, and I hear my dad. Like he’s knelt beside my bed. He whispers what he told me that day. He told me he killed girls again and again, so that he wouldn’t kill me. I wish he was alive so I could ask him what I made him feel? What was so wrong with me that he wanted to kill —”

“He should have.” A disembodied voice erupts from one of the girls. She looks like Tilin. She is Tilin — oh God. She is pale and discolored. “He should have killed you.” And around her are the corpses of the seven girls, each sat in their chairs, blood from antler wounds spilling from their chests. “So he wouldn’t have killed me.”

“So he wouldn’t have killed me.”

“So he wouldn’t have killed me.”

“So he wouldn’t have killed me.”

“So he wouldn’t have killed me.”

She slams her hands over her ears, bending forward, eyes squeezed shut.

“So he wouldn’t have killed me.” 

Another voice, this one new, this one painstakingly familiar. “He should have killed you,” Finnigan Boyle starts out, his face twisted into a scowl. “So that you wouldn’t have killed me.”

Tallulah startles awake, bolting upright. Her breaths come in heaving gasps, and the tears are cool against her cheeks.

Wilbur opens the glass door to Phil’s office, who is sitting at his desk with files in hand. Phil barely spares him a glance, and he thinks he might know why. He clears his throat, and steps forward. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” he mutters, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

Phil looks up. “Sorry about what?” He asks, then goes right back to his paperwork, pen scratching on paper.

Wilbur furrows his brows together. He stutters for a moment, then finally comes up with something. “I wasn’t feeling like myself,” he says.

Phil doesn’t seem to get the memo, because he just stares and moves his hands around in a vague gesture. “Well, not feeling like yourself is … what you do … isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he laughs, and Phil smiles at him. “Uhm, I didn’t seem … off to you?”

Phil tilts his head, notably more concerned. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Wilbur blinks, then shakes his head with a soft frown. “No. No, uh, no there’s not.”

He narrows his eyes and leans forward slightly. “Well, there’s clearly something you don’t want to tell me.”

“I just … I got a little lost yesterday, that’s all.”

“And where are you today?”

“It got to me, is all,” he explains half–heartedly, because he isn’t quite sure himself. He doesn’t think he should doubt what his therapist tells him, but he is. “All those bodies got to me, and, uh, I thought it was a little more obvious than it was.”

Phil frowns, and lowers his voice like there’s a crowd in the room, and it’s not just them. “If there’s a problem, you need to tell me.” Wilbur nods, blinking rapidly. It isn’t enough. “Is there a problem, Wil?”

Wilbur shakes his head, and smiles as best as he can, but it still doesn’t reach his eyes. “No.”

Phil nods, “Okay.”

“They sold my parents’ house,” Tallulah says with a deep frown as she closes the door to her room. She shrugs, “But murder houses don’t sell for much on today’s market.”

“Not that you’ll get any of it,” Bad remarks from where he sits on the edge of the bed, and Tallulah reels back. “The families of your father’s victims filed wrongful death lawsuits.”

“Wrongful death?”

“That means that they get everything, Tallulah,” he explains. “Every last penny.” Tallulah sits down on the bed, crossing her legs, and slumping slightly. “What you have here is all that you have.”

Tallulah sighs, and shakes her head softly. “Let them have his money. I don’t want it.”

“You can make your own money,” he points out.

“How much would I get if you wrote a book about me? About what my dad did to me?”

“Plenty.”

“Do you still want to tell my story?” She asks nervously, pinching the inside of her wrist.

Bad reaches over to her and lies a hand on her arm, his smile warm. “I think you need to tell your own story, but I’m the one to help you tell it. No one knows more about what your father did than I do.”

Tallulah laughs. “Not even Wilbur Soot?”

“Wilbur Soot is part of the story you tell, not the one to help you tell it,” Bad insists.

Tallulah’s bright face dies down a little, the light dwindling. She looks down to her lap, and picks at the skin around her nail. “He avoids me because I remind him feel like my father,” she whispers.

“Feeling like your father makes him a killer,” Bad says, plain and simple, like it doesn’t carry all the weight it has.

“People think I helped my dad kill all those girls.”

“You can change what people think,” he assures, and lets his hand drop back down to his side. “We can change that together. Everybody will know the truth.”

Wilbur steps into the lab, where body upon body is lined on shelves and observation tables, and a half of the tower is in the corner of the room. There is a diagram of the tower on a board that Charlie is staring at. Most of the bodies are covered with plastic to somewhat keep them intact. Large photos are plastered up against the wall of the scene.

Wilbur takes a deep breath, and fights off the sting in his eyes as he walks forward. “How many bodies?”

“We have seventeen in total,” Charlie says. “Meet our freshest one, Joel Summers.” He takes off a bit of the plastic covering the man’s body. Wilbur tries not to flinch. “Forty years old, and he ran a cell phone store in Tennessee. He was missing for three days.”

“Single stab wound to the heart,” Roier points out, gesturing to the wound. “Other injuries were post–mortem: broken bones, dislocated hips, shoulders.”

Wilbur nods, and exhales sharply. “He was special to him somehow. He held a place of honor.”

“Seven bodies from unidentified graves at the crime scene,” Charlie says. “Earth from the body parts matches the gravesites.”

“Blunt force trauma, stabbings, strangulations,” Roier lists off on the causes of death they’ve seen so far.

“There are at least eight other bodies,” Baghera says. “They’re from recent grave robbings all over West Virginia. No crimes attributed to any of them, they were natural deaths.”

Wilbur shakes his head, “They were all murders somehow,” he insists. He slides back his sleeve, and sighs. “I have to go teach a class. Excuse me.” And he is starting to feel nauseous, and he reaches into the inside of his pocket and grabs the Advil before leaving the room. He pops two into his mouth, and puts it back.

Wilbur doesn’t think that his classroom is sour. Not like how everybody thought it would become. He thinks it is a space for ideas, for solving, for shaping trainees into officers. He lists off names, the slideshow clicking between photos of those deceased received from obituaries. Natural deaths — at least they seem like it — through all seven of the victims. He stops at the last photo of the scene at the Grafton beach. The students look at him intently, computers lit, notes being written down hurriedly.

“Seven as–yet unidentified bodies buried at a beach.” He winds around the desk to stand in front of it, balancing the remote on his fingers. “Each death is different, made to look like something else. No sadism, not torture. The method of these murders was less important to the killer than the simple fact that these people die.” 

He skips forward to the image of Summers’s body contorted atop the tower, held by tough string. He turns to face the screen, staring up at the picture presented with a kind of hatred. “Joel Summers, killed with a single stab to the heart. Presented with great ostentation atop a display of all previous victims.” Next is an image of the tower in its entirety, and he lowers himself to sit on the edge of his desk, hands behind him flat against the wood. 

“This killer’s design was to remain unnoticed, a ghost. That is what excited him,” he emphasizes, his voice getting louder and booming across the classroom.” He gestures to the picture with a finger. “Until now. Why is he coming out into the light?” —

“Wil?” Jaiden calls out. She leans on the doorframe, and he snaps her head to him, a bit startled. “I don’t want to interrupt you if you’re rehearsing or …”

Wilbur blinks, and looks around him. The seats are empty. The projector is off. His heart races inside of his chest. “Uh … n … no, no. It’s okay.”

Jaiden slides her hands into her pockets and clears her throat. The tension is adamant. She tries her best to relieve it. “Very moody in here,” she remarks.

“Well, that’s me all over,” he chuckles in a poor attempt at a joke. It doesn’t seem to land. He wishes the earth would fucking swallow him whole.” He takes off his glasses, and heaves a sigh. “Come in. I promise there’s no animal in the walls.”

Jaiden comes into the light, and stands in front of him, still at a distance. It makes his chest ache. “I regretted leaving your house the other night.”

“Regretted?” Wilbur repeats and sets down the remote. “Implying that you’re no longer regretting, or are you still in a state of regret?”

“I’m criss–crossing over the line,” she settles for.

“What side of the line are you on now?”

“I’ve got one foot planted firmly on either side,” she laughs.

Wilbur shakes his head, and blinks. “Are you telling me that to confuse me?” He asks.

“I’m telling you that to be honest about how I feel,” she says, like it’s simple. “I don’t want to lie to you.”

“I won’t lie if you don’t,” Wilbur promises and looks down to his feet, then back up at her with raised eyebrows.

Jaiden takes a long breath, and her eyes grow teary, and she exhales sharply. She clears her throat. “I think you’re unstable, Wilbur,” she admits.

Wilbur flinches, and takes a shuddering breath. “Thank you for not lying,” he whispers.

“Do you feel unstable?”

He sighs, and blinks away the sudden, unwelcome burning in his eyes. It doesn’t work. “Mm,” he hums, and nods shakily. He smiles, and it is soft and solemn. “Yes.”

Jaiden says nothing. She just steps forward until she is wrapping her arms around him, and pulling him forward. At first, Wilbur just lets her hold him, and rests his cheek on her shoulder. And then the warmth sinks in, and everything is too much to hold onto. His shoulders jerk, and he brings his hands up to hold her close, and squeezes his eyes shut as he buries his face in her shoulder, wetting her shirt with tears. 

She doesn’t care. She rubs his back.

Wilbur cups a hand across his forehead, stray curls falling over his knuckles. His other arm has his jacket hung over it. Quackity merely stands by the plants, cupping some of the leaves in his palms. “I’m trying to understate it when I say this is a really bad fucking idea. Bad Halo is dangerous.”

Tallulah looks at him from where her arms are folded on the table, her face carefully neutral. “She said she wanted me to write about you guys in the book.”

Quackity turns and looks to Wilbur first, reaching down to button his suit. They share a look, and he clears his throat. “You would be forfeiting your privacy and ours.”

Wilbur tries to explain it better when Tallulah raises her eyebrows at Hannibal. He gestures to the space around them with an open hand. “This … all of this will change. Whatever you’re feeling now, it won’t last.” He lets his hand drop back down into his pocket. Things change. Things are changing for me too.” He takes small steps forward and slides up a chair to sit beside her. His voice is soft and sincere. “I’ve been doing a lot of accounting on what’s important in my life, and what isn’t. You are important, Tallulah.”

Tallulah frowns at him, and looks away. “Just because you killed my dad doesn’t mean you get to be him,” she spits out sourly.

Wilbur flinches, his eyes fluttering.

“Tallulah,” Quackity calls out. “We’ve all been through a traumatic event, and no one is more traumatized than you, Tallulah, but we went through it together. What you write, you write about all of us.”

“I don’t need your permission,” she snaps.

“And you don’t need our approval, but it would mean something,” Quackity points out.

She stands to her feet suddenly, and the chair scrapes against the floorboards. Wilbur follows her actions with wide eyes, like she might snap at him again, say something worse. “I know what people think I did, and they’re wrong. Why can’t I tell everybody that they’re wrong?”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Wilbur decides on saying. He reaches out a hand to her, then thinks better of it, and lets it fall to the table. “Yet,” he mutters inaudibly.

“But if you go through this door, you can’t control what comes out,” Quackity says. “Are you ready for that?” Tallulah scoffs, and rushes out of the room. Wilbur hangs his head, and rubs at his eyes. He glances towards him, and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Do you have a headache?”

“Yes,” Wilbur mumbles and fumbles in the pockets of his coat. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I forgot my Advil.”

Quackity smiles and reaches into the inside of his coat to offer him a small bottle of Ibuprofen. He’s made a habit of taking some with him when he goes with Wilbur.

“The display was built in Grafton for a reason,” Wilbur says, gesturing to the photo in front of him to the rest of the team. “Totem poles commemorate special events. They tell the story of a life. If Joel Summers is his finale, then the lowest body on the pole will be our killer’s beginning. His first.”

“Fletcher Marshall,” Baghera says. “He was beaten to death right in Grafton. His grave was robbed five days ago.”

“No one convicted of killing him?” Wilbur asks, looking over his shoulder at her.

“Not yet.” She shakes her head.

“So our guy got away with it forty years ago,” Wilbur hums.

“So he kept on going,” Roier adds on.

“There will be a connection between Joel Summers and Fletcher Marshall.” 

“Wilbur,” Phil’s voice interrupts him just as he opens his mouth to continue. “I need you in my office.” Wilbur nods and follows dutifully. The walk is quiet, even when they get into the office, Phil doesn’t say a word. Wilbur sighs and sits on the edge of the table against the far wall, crossing his arms on his chest. He taps his foot on the ground, and he waits. Only until Quackity and Jaiden file through the glass door does Phil finally come out with it. “Finnigan Boyle turned up in Minnesota dead. His body was found in the woods. He was frozen.”

Quackity shares a look with Wilbur, who looks just as caught off guard as Jaiden.

“They thawed him out fairly quickly, but they said they can’t tell if he died a week ago, six weeks ago, or the day he disappeared” Phil shrugs, pulling his lips into a thin line.

“How did he die?” Jaiden asks.

Quackity remembers. He remembers Tallulah’s face, and the blood on her hands. He remembers being the one to bury him in the cold. He remembers promising to keep her secret.

“—Knife wound. He was gutted,” Phil says. “I’ve had the body flown down here. I want Tallulah to identify it for us.”

“You already have a positive ID,” Quackity argues.

“You can’t put her in a room with Finnigan Boyle’s body,” Jaiden protests further. “She already has nightmares about him, Phil.”

“I’m curious as to why,” Phil counters.

Wilbur looks up from where he is sitting, his gaze somewhat offended. “You can’t think she has something to do with this?” He asks with an incredulous look.

Phil sighs. “I think Tallulah is the common denominator between her father, Tilin, and Finnigan Boyle. They all go back to her.” Wilbur grits his teeth and slams his hands down on the table behind him, holding onto the edge until his knuckles turn white. “My instincts tell me that Tallulah has answers that we have not heard,” Phil says, his voice getting louder as soon as he notices Wilbur’s frustration, eager to win this.

“What are the questions, Phil?” Wilbur snaps, voice raising in turn.

“Let’s start with where she goes when she climbs the walls of the psychiatric facility,” Phil counters. “Maybe she’s meeting Finnigan Boyle. None of us know what was going on between them.”

“I want to go on record as saying that this is a bad idea. Quackity?” She turns to him with an expectant look, eyebrows raised, arms crossed.

“Phil has the look of a man with no interest in any opinion but his own,” Quackity settles on saying.

“I want you observing this, Jaiden,” Phil says.

Wilbur stands fully. “If you’re putting Tallulah into a room with the body, I want to be there.”

Phil shakes his head and walks past him out of the door. “I’m not very confident in your ability to be objective with Tallulah right now.” He looks at Jaiden, and jerks his head to the door. “Jaiden. Now.” 

Quackity steps towards the desk, and hears Wilbur scoff loudly. He glances over to see his face of absolute hatred. “He could do Tallulah irreparable damage exposing her to this,” Wilbur rants, flinging an arm out towards the door they’ve just walked out of.

“Perhaps she’s stronger than we think,” Quackity mutters.

Tallulah hates this. She’s never hated anything more than the visitor tag on her shirt. She’s never felt more hatred for the way she pinches her forearm. She hates the sound of Jaiden’s clicking heels. She hates the hallway that she walks down, and she hates how Phil is standing by the table with a tarp draped over the body. They come to a stop, and she feels her heart pound. Jaiden rests a hand on the middle of her back to somewhat comfort her.

“Tallulah, I want you to look at this man,” Phil says before pulling away the tarp. Tallulah flinches back, and averts her gaze, swallowing roughly. She curls her fingers into fists. “Is this the same man that attacked you, Dr. Plays, and Dr. Nevadas in your home?”

“That’s him,” she blurts.

“Good,” he encourages, his voice notably softer. “I have a few other things I’d like to ask you.” Tallulah nods, and blinks rapidly with a sniffle. “Have you seen this man since the night he attacked you?”

“Can you cover him up?” She asks quietly.

“I just need you to answer this question first — Jaiden.” Phil holds his hand out as Jaiden reaches for the tarp. Jaiden sends him a sharp glare.

Tallulah feels sick. Her stomach swoops. Oh God, she can see the wound. She can see what killed him — how she killed him. “No, I haven’t,” she answers quickly.

“This man, Finnigan Boyle, was gutted with a hunting knife. You knew how to do that. Your father taught you.”

“Phil, I won’t be party to this,” Jaiden snaps.

“Then you can leave,” he says, his voice carefully calm. “You are here by courtesy, Dr. Plays. Don’t interrupt me again.”

Tallulah chews on her bottom lip. “You think I did this?”

“Where do you go when you escape the hospital?”

“Sometimes into the city, the woods, or just out,” she answers. She looks down at the body briefly before her stomach swoops and she has to look away again. “I get away from … this, to be alone where I can think and breathe.” 

Phil nods. “Did you ever meet with Finnigan Boyle on any of your getaways from the hospital?” She shakes her head. “Did you two know of each other before the night he attacked you?” She shakes her head, again. “Did he know your father —”

“No,” she interrupts.

Phil tilts his head. “And you know nothing about his death?”

“I know that he tried to kill me,” she answers sourly. “And when he was trying to kill me, all I could think was that I was going to die in that house after all. But I didn’t. I survived. Dr. Plays and Dr. Nevadas saved my life.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?” He asks, disbelieving.

“Only in my nightmares,” she spits. 

Phil nods towards her, then looks to the hallway. Tallulah storms out, wiping at her eyes. Jaiden’s glare is like daggers, and Phil scoffs. “You believe her?”

“I think that Tallulah is damaged,” Jaiden shouts. “There is something she is using every ounce of her strength to keep buried, but it’s not the murder of Finnigan Boyle, Phil!”

“What makes you so sure!?” 

“Because any reservations I have about Tallulah don’t extend to Quackity! He has no reason to lie about any of this!” Phil stays quiet, considering. Jaiden only scoffs, and walks away, following Tallulah down the halls with the same amount of anger in her veins.

Quackity works his jaw thoughtfully. He is standing by the window in Tallulah’s room, his jacket on his arm. The window is fogged by the rain, and he looks over his shoulder at her. “It can be a comfort to see the broken, bloated corpse of a monster, and know it can never come back.”

Tallulah closes her eyes. “Finnigan Boyle wasn’t a monster?”

He turns fully, and raises his brows. “Were you?” He counters, eyebrows raised.

“I sometimes feel like one,” she admits quietly, stepping forward towards him.

“Is that why you uncovered his body?” Tallulah flinches, and looks away with a soft scowl. She crosses her arms at her chest, gritting her teeth. “Will this be a chapter of your book, Tallulah?” He asks, stalking forward. This is it. This is how she will throw it all away, Quackity knows it.

“No,” Tallulah shakes her head. “Neither would killing Finnigan or you helping me hide the body.”

“There’s always an addendum,” he points out.

“The FBI already asked their questions,” she spits. “I answered them. I passed.”

“With Phil Watson’s attention.”

“You’re right. I opened the door. I can’t control what comes through it, but this time, I can control when,” Tallulah says lowly, tilting her chin up. “I am not afraid of them finding him anymore, he’s been found.”

“You betrayed my trust,” Quackity says, facing away from her, not even granting her eye contact as he stares at the wall ahead of him instead. “You risked my life, as well as your own. I deserve more than that.” Q finally turns, and walks forward until he is towering over Tallulah — Little Lulah, always so small, always the shortest in the classroom, who still cowers back when somebody taller is near. “I need to be able to trust you. What if I can’t?”

Charlie peels away the plastic over the body. There is a large bruise on Summers’s arm, and a knife wound is still ever apparent against his pale skin. Baghera clears her throat and leans forward slightly towards Wilbur. “Joel Summers, the headpiece of our totem pole, was adopted after his parents died. Guess who Dad was?”

“Fletcher Marshall,” Wilbur guesses with a sigh. “Joel Summers is Joel Marshall.”

“We did a DNA comparison between Fletcher Marshall and Joel Summers,” Charlie holds up the clipboard. “No match.”

Wilbur takes the chart and frowns. “So Marshall’s son wasn’t his son?”

Roier explains further. “The mom was killed in a car accident four years after Fletcher was killed.”

“Genuine car accident?” Phil asks.

“If she was murdered, she would’ve been on the totem pole,” Baghera says.

Wilbur shakes his head. “Unless he loved her too much to disgrace her that way,” he hums.

“Was anybody ever convicted for Marshall’s murder?” Phil asks.

“There was a man named Laurence Wells who was questioned twice. Never charged. Still lives in Grafton,” Baghera says.

Wilbur presses his brows together and works his jaw. “Fletcher Marshall was a crime of passion. It had something that none of the others had,” he says and looks towards Phil, who nods.

“Motive,” Phil answers.

Phil and Wilbur walk up the driveway together, coats snug around their bodies. Phil knocks on the door, despite it already being a crack open. It has beautiful stained glass on the window. Inside there are boxes, and an old man tells them to come in from his rocking chair.

Laurence Wells holds his hands up. “I’m unarmed,” he says as they enter the house.

Phil slides off his hat. “You were expecting us.”

“I had faith that you would find me,” Wells hums.

“And why is that, Mr. Wells?” Wilbur asks and steps towards the nearest source of light, which is the large window at the front wall.

Wells turns his head to Wilbur, and raises his eyebrows. He shrugs. “Because I let you,” he says. “That last one was … let’s just say it’s good it was the last one. I don’t have the fight in me anymore.”

“Are you confessing to the murder of Joel Summers?” Phil asks instead of anything else, or making a smart comment about how this man who had graying hair and wrinkles definitely wasn’t going to kill again.

Wells laughs, and nods, drumming his fingers on his knees. “And Fletcher Marshall. And fifteen others. I assume you’ve counted them up by now.”

Wilbur tilts his head. “So you killed Joel Summers just so you’d be caught.”

“Not just,” he shakes his head. “I killed Joel Summers because he was never meant to be.”

“What reason did you have to kill the others?” Phil asks.

“I had every reason to kill the others,” Wells snaps. “They just had no reason to die. They never saw me coming unless I wanted them to. I could wave at a lady and smile, chew the fat with her in church, knowing I killed her husband.” He sighs, like he’s remembering all the days. “There is something beautiful about the ball of silence at a funeral, all those people around you, knowing that you made it happen.”

Phil frowns and nods. “Now there’s something beautiful about knowing that you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison.”

Wells nods, and he seems strangely content. “Prison is going to be a luxury compared to the retirement home I can afford. I certainly won’t be forgotten there, either. I’m securing my legacy.”

“That’s one way to be remembered,” Wilbur muses. “No children to tell your story. Did Joel Summers remember his father?”

“Not anymore,” Wells grins.

“Did you have an affair with Eleanor Marshall before you murdered her?” Phil asks. Wells sighs deeply, and leans back. “From your silence, I’m taking that as a —”

“He was your son,” Wilbur blurts, turning on his heels to look at Wells, then rushing forward. He crouches down in front of Wells. His voice is cruel and unforgiving, because he has seen all kinds of murders, but none that get his heart pumping like this. “You thought the woman you loved was having Fletcher Marshall’s baby when she should have been having yours, but you got it the wrong way around. Eleanor chose to raise him as Fletcher Marshall’s child rather than yours, so maybe … she saw what’s in your heart.”

“You didn’t secure your legacy, Mr. Wells; you murdered it,” Phil whispers.

Wilbur rises to his feet, and scoffs. “In fact, your one act as a father was destroying your son.”

Memories haunt Wilbur Soot when he goes to bed. His eyes search the darkness behind his eyelids. He rests on his back, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath that leaves him. He is tormented by Tallulah’s face, who is just as scared as he remembers. 

Killing somebody, even when you have to, feels that bad? 

Wilbur squeezes his eyes shut. 

I’m worried about nightmares. 

Wilbur flutters his eyes open, and rolls onto his side. He grabs his pillow and buries his face in it, inhaling deeply and slumping. He won’t be getting any rest tonight, he knows that.

Finnigan Boyle sits up from where he is on the observation table, the tarp falling around him. He steps down, and he is himself again, dressed how he was that night. Wilbur’s gaze is cold and unforgiving as he plunges the knife into Finnigan’s stomach, then drags it down his skin. Finnigan’s face contorts in pain, and as Wilbur looks back up from the knife, he sees —

Tallulah. The burning pain in Wilbur’s stomach greets him as it plunges into his belly, then drags downward. He sputters and groans, gripping onto her wrists. He clutches her arm, snaps his head up, and she is terrified. She is terrified, she is a killer, she killed him, she killed — 

Wilbur staggers back, eyes snapping open. Finnigan Boyle is still a rotting corpse on the table.

Quackity sketches out the layout of his painting. The record plays smoothly in the background, welcoming to his ears. The only thing that interrupts is Wilbur pushing open the door. He looks distant and cold, but when is Wilbur really ever warm? Quackity sets down the pencil, and looks up at him, and he does not mention that it isn’t his hour.

“Tallulah killed Finnigan Boyle,” Wilbur rasps, like he’s been screaming for hours. He stands far away from Quackity, who is still sitting at his desk, and stares at him with something like accusation.

“Yes, I know,” Quackity says simply. There is no point in lying to him. He doesn’t think he wants to lie to him, either.

Wilbur nods, lips tugging into a frown. He pinches the bridge of his nose and mumbles something under his breath. “Tell me why you know.”

Quackity sits back, and sets down his pencil. “I helped her dispose of the body.”

Wilbur steps forward to stand in front of the desk and places his hands down firmly on the table. He leans forward until they are nearly eye to eye, his face twisted into a scowl. “Evidently, not well enough.”

“Have you told Phil?”

“No,” he admits and pushes himself off of the desk, circling the area between the two chairs before coming to a stop.

“Why not?” He challenges.

“Because I was hoping it wasn’t true,” he mutters.

Quackity nods, and stands to his feet, winding around the desk to stand in front of Wilbur with a dangerously casual shrug. “Well, now you know the truth.”

“Do I?” Wilbur tilts his head, fingers twitching by his side.

“Everything you know about that night is true, except the end,” Quackity says. “Finnigan Boyle attacked us, Tallulah’s only crime was defending herself, and I lied about it.”

Wilbur flinches like he’s been kicked. “Why?” He asks, and his voice breaks, and they ignore it.

“Because Phil Watson would hang her for what her father’s done, and the world would burn Tallulah in his place. That would be her story,” Quackity answers. “That would be what Bad Halo writes about.” Wilbur steps back, and Quackity follows him, even as Wilbur continues to step away. “Tallulah is no more a killer than you are for shooting her father, or I am for the death of Technoblade.”

“It isn’t our place to decide,” Wilbur argues, and looks behind his shoulder only to bump right up against the wall. He is cornered. He is cornered with a man who has killed before in this very office.

“If not ours, then whose?” Q counters, tilting his head, and crowds him in. “Who knows Tallulah better than you and I? Or the burden she bears? We have to serve her better than Cucurucho.” Wilbur turns his head away, staring down at the floor. “If you go to Phil, then you murder Tallulah’s future.” He stays quiet. “Wilbur, do I need to call my lawyer, yes or no?”

Wilbur looks down at him, then above him. He shakes his head, a jerking movement. “No,” he whispers.

“Good,” Quackity hums and takes a step back, and Wilbur can finally breathe. “We can tell no one.” Wilbur nods, like he doesn’t really believe it. “What we’re doing is the right thing,” he assures and lies a hand on his shoulder. “In time, this will be the only story any of us cares to tell.”

“I feel terrible, Mr. Halo,” Quackity admits as he walks into the room with a freshly prepared dish. Bad and Tallulah sit on the same side of the table, with Wilbur across from them. Q slides the dish onto the placemat in front of Bad, and takes his seat at the head of the table. “It never occurred to me that you might be vegetarian. A lapse on my behalf.”

“Research always delivers benefits,” Bad points out as he takes his fork into his hand.

Wilbur glares at Bad through his lashes. He still cannot find it in the deepest parts of him to get along. “But if it contradicts a good story, hell, publish it anyway,” he says, a direct jab at the journalist.

Bad shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Are you still angry I called you insane? The libel laws are clear, Mr. Soot.”

“Insinuation is such a gray area,” Wilbur mutters.

“Insane isn’t so black and white, is it?” Bad says. “We’re all pathological in our own ways.”

Wilbur scoffs a little too loudly. “You choose the version of the truth that suits you best and pursue it pathologically.” 

Quackity sips from his wine, and shares a glance with Tallulah.

“Everybody decides their own versions of the truth,” Bad shoots back easily. “I’m here because I want to tell Tallulah’s version of the truth.”

“See that you do,” Wilbur warns.

“I don’t have anything to hide,” Tallulah shrugs.

“Everybody has something to hide, but I won’t tell anything you don’t want me to,” Bad assures.

“You must understand our concerns,” Quackity says, clearing his throat. “We care very deeply for Tallulah. Our only thought is to protect her.”

Bad hums. “She’s already been exposed. Her silence until now has been taken as guilt. This book is about her innocence. I want Tallulah to have a future.”

“Well, we all want what’s best for Tallulah,” Quackity smiles.

Bad clears his throat, eyeing the other dishes around him. “This is possibly the best salad I’ve ever had in my life. Shame to ruin it with all that meat.”

Tallulah and Quackity work in the kitchen silently, cleaning the dishes in peace. That is, until Tallulah speaks up, her brows furrowed, and a small frown on her face. “Wilbur knows, doesn’t he?” She asks.

Quackity pauses from where he is drying a plate, then nods. “Yes.”

She sniffles and sets down the wine glass she was drying. “What am I going to do?”

“He’ll keep our secret,” he assures.

“You don’t know that,” she replies.

“He will keep it because otherwise the one good thing in his life is tainted,” Quackity insists. “He will lie to Phil Watson about you just how he has lied to himself.” He folds the towel neatly, and listens to Tallulah set down another glass. When he turns, she is bracing herself on the counter, head hanging. “You’re free, Lulah. Nobody will know what you did. Nobody will know the truth that you’re trying to avoid.” He steps beside her, and lies a hand on her shoulder. “The one that you can’t admit to yourself.”

Tallulah takes in a shuddering breath, and her voice is tight when she speaks. “I helped him,” she admits, and the tears go rushing down her cheeks. She wipes at her eyes with her sleeve, but it’s no use. “I knew what my father was. I knew what he did. I … I knew. 

“I was the one who met the girls, talked to them. Laughed and joked. I found out where they lived, where they were going, when they’d be alone.” She raises her fists to scrub away the tears that have already fallen, and the fresh ones that continue to spill. “Girls that looked just like me.

“They could have been my friend,” she cries. “I couldn’t say no to him. I knew … I knew it was them or me.”

Tallulah raises her head to look at Quackity. Quackity reaches forward, and brings her into his arms. She holds onto the front of his shirt as he holds the back of her head, and wraps his arm tight around her. He smooths out her hair, and kisses the top of her head.

“I wondered when you would tell me,” he admits.

“I’m a monster,” she sobs.

“No,” he promises. “I know what monsters are. You are a victim. Wilbur and I are going to protect you, Lulah. I promise.”

Chapter Text

A young girl pulls up to her house in her car, and locks it on her way out. The snow has fallen in gentle showers, and the wood of her old shed creaks with the wind. The light of the chandelier welcomes her as she steps inside with warm light. And so does her bird, who chirps at her presence.  She’s made a habit of whistling at the small thing when she comes inside the house.

She pulls the covers of her bed back and climbs onto the mattress. She reaches up and shuts off her lamp, rolling onto her back. The stars decorate her ceiling. It does nothing to distract her from the loud thump in the attic, or the leak in her ceiling. She grumbles and turns the light back on, watching as the damp spots in the ceiling leak water (like footprints) as they appear.

She climbs out of bed, because she definitely does not have enough buckets for this. She grabs a coat and flings it over her shoulders, then her flashlight out of her nightstand. She turns a light on in the hallway as she swings open the door that conceals the stairs to her attic. The draft is horrible in the small space, and she shudders.

What caused the leaks is apparent. A pile of snow has broken through the roof, which has a gaping hole.  She’ll fix it properly in the morning, but for now the best she can bring herself to do is staple on a spare piece of tarp. She sets a bowl under to catch any spare water.

She goes back down the stairs, and turns the light off in the hallway on her way back to the bedroom. Her bedroom, which is dimly lit. Even then, she pauses as she notices the wet spots on the floor. She shines the flashlight down on them, and follows them to the edge of her bed. 

A hand grabs her ankle. The first sound to leave her is a loud gasp, and then a piercing scream as she is dragged under.

The blood splatters on the floor in a curve.

“I can feel my nerves clicking like roller coaster cogs, pulling up to the inevitable long plunge,” Wilbur mumbles, each word that leaves him coming out slowly and weighed on his tongue. He leans back in the leather seat, and he does not look at Quackity.

“Quick sounds, quickly ended,” Quackity finishes.

“Tallulah ended Finnigan Boyle,” Wilbur sighs. He taps his fingers on his thighs, and grimaces. “Like a burst balloon.” He inhales sharply. “She took a life.”

“You’ve taken a life.”

“Yeah,” he laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, so have you.”

“You’re grieving, Wilbur,” Quackity says. “Not for the life you have taken, but for the life that was taken from you. If Tallulah could’ve started over, left the horror of her father behind, so could you have. You could leave the tangle of madness and murder.”

Wilbur takes a deep breath. “We lied for her.”

“We both know the unreality of taking a life,” he assures. “The people who die when we have no other choice, we know in those moments they are not flesh, but light, and air, and color.”

WIlbur smiles, just barely, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “Isn’t that what it is to be alive?”

“Do you feel alive, Wil?”

“I feel like I’m fading,” he answers honestly.

Quackity leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Have you experienced any further loss of time? Or hallucinations?” Wilbur rubs his eyes, and nods. Q hums, and reaches for his notebook, then offers it out to him. “I’d like you to draw a clock face. Numbered. Large hand indicating the minute, small hand indicating the hour.”

Wilbur blinks up at him, and takes it hesitantly. “Why?”

“An exercise,” he answers. “I want you to focus on the present moment. The now. As often as you can, think of where you are, and when. Think of who you are.”

Wilbur heaves a sigh, and draws out a rough circle that comes out more like an oval. He draws out the numbers, not determined to put too much effort into this as he places them in order of a regular clock, neatly inside the circle. “7:16 PM, I’m in Baltimore, Maryland, and my name is Wilbur Soot.” He roughly places the large and small hands down, and hands over the notebook.

“A simple reminder,” Quackity hums, taking it from him gently. “The handle to reality you hold on to. And know you’re … alive.” He trails off slightly at the sight of the clock. The numbers have been sketched outside of the circle in no determined shape, the clock hands lines on the side of the paper. 

He looks up at Wilbur, who raises his eyebrows like nothing is wrong.

Wilbur carries the fish back himself, fishing gear over his shoulder. He swings open the door to his shed, and places the gear inside. He only takes one fish to gut inside the kitchen. There, he rolls up the sleeves of his dark button up, then lies the fish horizontally across the counter. He takes the knife and slices it across the fish’s belly, and watches as the blood spills from the fish onto the counter. 

He finds himself staring into it, leaning over the counter. His vision gets out of focus and —

There is blood all over his face. He blinks, then trembles as he sees the woman gurgling blood beneath him, her face cut on the sides, her gaze desperate. She is gripping onto his arm, and he wrestles out of the grip. The blood is all over his fucking hands, his arms, the knife he is holding — why is he holding a knife? 

He scrambles to his feet and slips on the blood, barely catching himself on the wall. He presses his back against the door, watching the woman convulse as he fumbles for the doorknob. He shoves it open and leans on the doorframe, hyperventilating, his heart slamming in his chest.

Phil stands upright, and the team watches him with cautious eyes. Shit, shit, shit —

Wilbur turns on the faucet with his elbow, scrubbing the blood off of his hands. God, he is embarrassing. He’s freaked out in the middle of the scene, all because of his lost time, all because something is horribly wrong. Phil’s footsteps are heavy against the ground, and Wil spares him a glance over the shoulder as the man leaves the room.

Wilbur makes sure his hands are clean before he comes out of the room. He buttons his jacket up, and stares down at the ground.

“What the hell happened in there?” Phil demands, pointing to the house behind them where the scene took place.

“I got confused,” Wilbur excuses and fiddles with the last button.

“I’ve seen you confused, and I’ve seen you upset, but I’ve never seen you afraid like this,” Phil says firmly.

“I’m an old hand at fear,” he mutters. “I can manage this one. I just got disoriented. I can go back in.”

“I saw the look on your face when you came out of that room,” he snaps. “What did you experience in there that’s got you mute all of a sudden?”

Wilbur looks down at his feet. “I can see and hear better afraid, I–I just can’t … speak as concisely.”

“Wil, you contaminated the crime scene,” he says with an incredulous tone. “You’ve never done that before.”

Wilbur opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. He wraps his arms around himself. “I thought I was responsible for it.”

“What are you saying? Are you saying you thought you killed that woman in there?” Phil asks, seemingly offended all of a sudden.

“Sometimes with, uh, what I do —”

“What you do is you take all of the evidence available at the crime scene. You extrapolate. You reconstruct the thinking of a killer. You don’t think of yourself as the killer.”

Wilbur grits his teeth. “I got lost in the reconstruction,” he says sourly. “Just for a second, a blink.” 

Phil nods, unconvinced. “I know you don’t like to be the cause for concern, but I am officially concerned about you.”

“Officially?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Wilbur huffs and comes down the steps to stand in front of him. “I thought the reason you had me seeing Dr. Nevadas and not an FBI psychiatrist is so my mental well–being stays … unofficial.” 

“I just want to be careful with you,” Phil says, his voice admittedly softer now. “We don’t want to break you here — is that what’s happening? Have I broken you?”

Wilbur raises his eyebrows at him. “Do you have anybody that does this better unbroken than I do it broken?”

Phil scoffs, “Fear makes you fucking rude, Soot.”

Wilbur steps back into the room, no matter how hard it is. He watches Roier take photos, and listens to him as he gives him what information they have. Her face has been cut into a Glasgow smile, the edges of her mouth stretching too far. “Her name is Beth LeBeau. She drowned on her own blood.”

“What she didn’t drown on is all over the floor and under the bed,” Charlie says, gesturing to the pools and splatters. “She was trying to hide from him.”

Wilbur shakes his head, “He dragged her there.” He points to the area beneath the bed. “He was waiting under the bed for her.”

“Fought to claw her way out,” Baghera offers up as she uses tweezers to take a piece of LeBeau’s nail from the floorboards.

“He knew her,” Wilbur says as he stares at the shattered pictures on the bedside table. “He cared about her. Or, he thought he did, at least.”

“So we’re looking for boyfriends, ex–boyfriends, coworkers, the guy who bags her groceries,” Phil sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’ve got a clean set of prints on the knife handle,” Charlie calls out whilst examining the weapon with his blacklight. He looks up to Wilbur. “I assume they’re yours.” He mutters an apology, to which Charlie just smiles at him. “There’s other dermal tissue, presumably the killer’s, but the skin is so diseased or damaged it didn’t leave any useful prints.”

Baghera speaks up from where she’s looking at LeBeau’s hand, which has bloodstains on the fingertips. Flesh is caught under her nails in clumps. “The victim scratched deep enough to pile tissue under her nails, but she never drew blood.”

“Why didn’t he bleed?” Phil wonders.

“After he cut up the victim’s face, it’s like he was trying to pull her skin back,” Roier whispers, almost breathless.

Wilbur turns to face him, eyebrows furrowed. “Like he was trying to remove a mask?”

Wilbur brushes his hands through his hair, pacing along the office, an increasing habit. Quackity leans on his desk, sitting on the edge, watching as Wilbur makes lines in his carpet. “I still have the coppery smell of blood on my hands,” Wilbur seethes. “I can’t remember seeing the crime scene before I saw myself killing her.”

Quackity tilts his head. “Those memories went out of sight, but you still notice their absence.”

Wilbur points at him with both fingers, trying to elaborate further. “There is an impressiveness to the violence I imagined that feels more real than what I know to be true.”

“What do you know to be true?”

“I know I didn’t kill her,” he answers. Still, his voice is doubtful, and he continues his pacing, and looks down at his feet. “I couldn’t have,” he reasons. “But—But I remember cutting into her, I–I remember watching her die.”

Quackity frowns. “You must overcome these delusions that are disguising your reality.” Wilbur heaves a sigh, and his hand thumps down on one of the rails of the ladder to the bookshelves. Quackity fixes his blazer. “What kind of savage delusions does this killer have?”

Wilbur turns and leans his back on the ladder, crossing his arms on his chest. “It wasn’t savage. It was lonely. It was desperate. Sad.” He huffs, and his voice shakes when he speaks again. “I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I looked right through me — past me — as if I was just a stranger.”

Quackity stands to his feet and goes in front of him. In turn, Wilbur leans back further onto the ladder, dropping his arms, like he’s trying to keep their distance with a flush on his face. “You have to honestly confront your limitations with what you do. And how it affects you.”

“If by limitations you mean the difference between sanity and insanity, I don’t accept that,” Wilbur grumbles.

“What do you accept?”

“I know what kind of crazy I am, and this isn’t that kind of crazy,” he snaps. “This could be seizures. This could be a tumor. A … a blood clot.”

Quackity nods. “I can recommend a neurologist. But if it isn’t physical, then you have to accept that what you’re struggling with is mental illness.” 

Wilbur parts his lips to protest, then closes his mouth again. He nods hesitantly, and rubs at his eyes. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, okay.”

“So, Wilbur, these headaches,” Dr. Sutcliff starts off once they all sit down. Wilbur practically dragged Quackity to be here with him, and he already hates it. He hates how the man has his empty paperwork on the desk and a pen in hand ready to jot notes. He hates his white coat, and the tag clinging to the cloth, and his glasses. “When did they begin in earnest?”

Wilbur bites the inside of his cheek. “Two to three months ago.”

“About the time that Wil went back into the field, which is when I met him,” Quackity adds on.

“And the hallucinations?” Sutcliff asks, twirling his pen between his index finger and thumb.

“I can’t really say,” Wilbur answers honestly. He swallows roughly, and clears his throat. “I just slowly became aware that I might not be dreaming.”

Wilbur fucking hates brain scans, too. He hates the things they make him put in his ears, and the hospital gown that he has to put on. He hates lying back and waiting for them to finally pull him into the tunnel. He hates how Dr. Sutcliff and Quackity talk behind their glass box while the nurse gets him ready.

“It’s encephalitis,” Quackity states plainly.

“That’s your pre–diagnosis?” Sutcliff hums. “Based on what?”

“I could smell it,” he shrugs.

Sutcliff scoffs, his lips tugging into a smile. “So your sense of smell went from calling out a nurse’s perfume to diagnosing autoimmune disease.”

Quackity laughs, and nods. “He started sleepwalking and I noticed a very specific scent.”

“And what does encephalitis smell like?”

“It has a heat and a fevered sweetness.”

Sutcliff crosses his arms on his chest, and tilts his head. “If you suspected, why didn’t you say something?”

“I had to be sure,” he answers simply, looking towards the machine as the table Wilbur is lying on rises slowly. “Symptoms began gradually worsening. Yesterday, I asked him to draw a clock.” Quackity reaches into his bag and fishes out the notebook he had handed to Wilbur. 

Sutcliff opens it gently, and slides on his glasses. “Spatial neglect,” he mutters. “Headaches, disorientation, hallucinations, altered consciousness. It’s all the tell-tale signs.”

Quackity nods along, and puts the journal back. “It’s so rare to be able to study the psychological effect of this type of malady on a person’s mind.”

“It’s more rare still to be able to study the neurological effects,” Sutcliff replies, feeling out where this conversation might lead them.

“A doctor has to weigh the ultimate benefit of scientific study. Even in these times, we only know so much about the brain. There are great discoveries to be made,” he says lowly, like it isn’t just them in this room.

Wilbur takes a deep breath as they ease him into the MRI scanner. The red lasers go over his eyes and his mouth, and —

He slides underneath the bed, met with wooden frames.

Wilbur feels his heart race. He shuts his eyes, tries to block it all out. That’s not real, that’s not real. He’s in the hospital, in the MRI scanner, he is safe. He is safe, he is fine. 

And it doesn’t go away, because he can hear the water leaking and dripping onto the hardwood floor as he waits. He can see the flashlight beam, and the woman’s feet pad along the wet spots on the floor. He grabs her ankle, and he pulls her under, and —

Wilbur looks beside him in the tunnel, and he is met with LeBeau’s face cut up and bloody, her skin stretched back. He shuts his eyes, his mind is reeling back and back to every murder. To the nurse with her eyes gouged out, the man with the cello in his neck, to the tower, to —

“The right side of his brain is completely inflamed,” Sutcliff observes, gesturing to the photos produced. “It’s anti–NMDA receptor encephalitis. The symptoms are only going to get worse.”

“I know,” Quackity sighs and leans on the table beside Sutcliff. “It’s unfortunate for Wilbur.”

Sutcliff chuckles, glancing over at him curiously. “What do you smell on me?” He jokes.

“Opportunity,” he answers. Sutcliff looks at him, and nods.

“We didn’t find anything abnormal,” Sutcliff tells Wilbur when he steps into the office after changing out of the gown. Wilbur stares at the screens ahead of him, stares at his completely normal brain. “No vascular malformations, no tumors, no swelling or bleeding, no evidence of stroke. Nothing.” He looks up at Wil, and sighs. “There’s nothing wrong with you neurologically.”

Wilbur frowns, and takes in a shuddering breath. “So what I’m experiencing is psychological.”

Sutcliff shakes his head after a few moments. “Brain scans can only rule out medical illnesses, not mental disorders.” At Wilbur’s disappointed face, he speaks up once more. “Look, we’ll take more tests. We can take more blood samples. But I imagine they’ll prove to be just as inconclusive.”

Wilbur rubs his eyes,  “I think I’d just like to go home right now, Dr. Sutcliff.”

It’s been a while since Phil and Quackity have gathered like this — around the psychiatrist’s fireplace, their chairs pulled close to feel the warmth. The lights are cut, the only source being the orange glow from the flames. The wine sits on the table between them, and Quackity holds his glass between his fingers gingerly.

“You knew from the moment you walked into his classroom that you were putting him in a potentially harmful situation,” Quackity accuses easily, his face twisted into a frown.

“I had eight girls dead in Minnesota,” Phil defends. “Wilbur caught their killer.”

“He also caught that killer’s disease,” he hisses. He rights him against the chair and takes a thoughtful sip from the wine. “He can’t stop thinking about what it is to take a life.”

Phil scoffs. “I’d rather he go a little mad than other innocent people lose their lives. I think he would feel the same way, Nevadas.”

“Wilbur is innocent, too,” he points out.

Phil sighs — almost regretfully — and rubs his face with his hands. “Yes. He is. Wilbur will survive anything that I put him through. He will always crawl back to himself.”

“Not always,” he corrects. “So far.” Phil rolls his eyes, and sips from the wine. Quackity clears his throat. “He saw a neurologist today. They found nothing wrong with him. He was very upset, I could practically feel his anger filling the car like steam.”

Phil frowns. “Are you saying he wanted something to be wrong?”

“He wanted an answer that wasn’t mental illness,” he says.

“You think he’s mentally ill,” he whispers.

Quackity turns his body a little to face the man beside him. “Wilbur has too many mirror neurons. Our heads are filled with them when we’re children, they’re supposed to help us socialize and then fade away. But Wilbur held onto his, and that makes knowing who he is a challenge. When you take him to a crime scene, Phil, the very air has screams smeared onto it. He doesn’t just reflect. He absorbs.”

Wilbur pushes his car door shut. The drive was long and horrible, but he knows he has to do this. He knows this is the only way to truly figure out what happened here. He pulls out his flashlight, and walks up the creaky stairs of Beth LeBeau’s house. This is the only way he trusts himself to really know who he is — that he didn’t kill this girl.

The house is dark, but he doesn’t dare to turn the lights on, merely relies on the beam of his flashlight. It pans over an empty bird cage and the living room. He guides himself through the house down into the hallway, where the roof is slanted and he has to slightly lean to the side to fit into the small area.

The bedroom.

Wilbur shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath. He’s ready for this. The light switch doesn’t work when he tries it, and his chest tightens like a fist at the blood on the ground. They had yet to clean it up, he seems. He narrows his eyes, shining the flashlight on the crimson, because those splatters in the shape of footprints were not there before. 

He reaches the foot of the bed, and swallows. He pulls back his sleeve to peer at his watch, lowering his flashlight gently. “It’s 10:36,” he whispers, eyes fluttering. He shines the flashlight along the roof and the walls. “I’m in Greenwood, Delaware.” The light slides down to the bed. “My name is Wilbur Soot.”

The light shines upon the darkness of the bed. He sees the girl’s face before her hands. Wilbur stops breathing entirely, he thinks. She ducks back into the darkness, and he takes a small step back. He gets onto his knees, slowly, carefully —

Wilbur yelps when the mattress stands upright onto its side, and then comes tumbling down on him. He shoves it off and reaches for her arm. She cries out, and he holds the dead tissue in his hand, only barely catching a glimpse of the blood left behind. She runs down the hall, and Wilbur is —

In the woods. Shit, shit, no, no. He stumbles back, and all he can see is trees, and he snatches his sleeve back to just look at the time. 1:17 in the morning. It’s been almost three hours since he lost time, and where the fuck is he? He spins around, and he is met with trees, and oh God the girl, where is the girl?

“It’s 1:17 AM,” Wilbur shouts out, and his voice bounces off of tree trunks. The screaming scratches his throat. “We’re in Greenwood, Delaware, and my name is Wilbur Soot. And … you’re alive. If you can hear me, you’re alive!”

Baghera reluctantly follows Wilbur through the hallways of the house. He guides her into the bedroom, and she stares at the blood still clinging to the floor. She slides a hand into her pocket. “Why did you call me?” She asks suspiciously, brows furrowing. “Why not Phil? Why not the police?”

“Because,” Wilbur trails off, and shakily inhales. “I’m … not entirely sure what I saw was real.” 

Baghera nods in understanding once Wilbur smiles at her, trying (poorly) to ease the tension. “Then let’s prove it. What happened?”

“I grabbed her arm,” Wilbur starts out, and holds his hand out like he is holding an imaginary wrist. “And an entire layer of dead skin separated from the tissue underneath, like she was wearing a glove.”

“That’s why she doesn’t bleed,” Baghera whispers.

“Right. Because there’s no circulation,” he says. “And there’s nothing alive in the tissue to bind it.”

“What did you do with it?” She asks.

Wilbur thinks back, and only remembers empty space. He was holding it one second, and the next he was in the woods, and he didn’t have it. “I don’t know,” he mutters.

Baghera sighs, but nods and puts her hands on her hips. “It could be a staphylococcal infection. That, or leprosy.”

“Her eyes were discolored,” Wilbur lists on his fingers. “She was malnourished and jaundiced. Her liver was shutting down. She was … deranged.”

“So she mutilated a woman’s face because she thought it was a mask,” Baghera hums.

Wilbur’s eyes get that distant look, and he rubs one hand over his mouth. “She can’t see faces,” he whispers. “If she killed Beth LeBeau, she might not even know she did it.”

“Then why did she come back?”

“To convince herself she didn’t do it.”

“Is that why you came back?”

Wilbur steps forward towards her. “If I wasn’t clear on that issue, I know I didn’t kill her. I just want to know who did.”

“Me too.” Baghera sighs and purses her lips. “You’re the source of a lot of speculation at the bureau.”

“Oh yeah?” Wilbur scoffs, and crosses his arms over his chest. “What are they speculating?”

“That Phil pushed you to the edge, and you pushed yourself over,” Baghera mutters.

Wilbur flinches, and takes a small step away from her. He ducks his head down, and lets out a tearful breath. “This killer … can’t accept her reality. I can sometimes identify with that,” he confesses.

Wilbur is back at Quackit’s desk for the next visit. The notebook is in front of him. Wilbur pushes the sleeves of his button–up to his elbows, and takes the pen in his hands. He sketches out the clock, like he already has. He already knows it’s fine, Quackity has seen that his clocks are fine, and he doesn’t quite know why he’s doing this again.

“It’s 7:05 pm,” he drones. “I’m in Baltimore, Maryland. My name is Wilbur Soot.”

“Thank you for humoring me,” Quackity smiles, and takes it from Wilbur, who looks at him with dead eyes. Quackity looks at the notebook, and sees nothing but the numbers out of place, and the lines jutting across the paper unevenly.

Wilbur leans back in Quackity’s chair, and drags his hands down his face. “I feel like I’m seeing a ghost.”

“Regarding the killer, or yourself?” He asks.

“Both,” he replies instantly.

“Well, we know she’s real. You know that. There’s evidence,” he reassures. “When you found her, your sanity didn’t leave you.”

“Time did.” Wilbur watches as Q slides the band around the notebook.

Quackity looks up. “You lost time again?” Wilbur nods, and he looks so incredibly weary. “I spoke to Dr. Sutcliff. We discussed the particulars of your visit. Do you want to discuss them with me?”

“There are no particulars, we didn’t find anything wrong,” Wilbur grumbles at the reminder.

“Then we keep looking for answers,” he insists. “Would you permit me to run some tests of my own?” He asks and gathers three pencils into his hands.

Wilbur brushes a hand through his hair, narrowing his eyes. He tilts his head slightly, looking up at the other through his lashes from where he sits. “You wouldn’t publish anything about me, would you, Nevadas?” He asks, and the corner of his mouth curls into a smile.

Quackity hums thoughtfully. “If it were to be of therapeutic value to others, I would do it in a form that would be abstract enough to be unrecognizable.”

“Just do me a favor and do it posthumously,” he sighs.

He looks up. “After your death or mine?”

“Whichever comes first.”

Quackity nods, and sets his things down neatly. “Have you considered Cotard’s Syndrome?” Wilbur looks up curiously, shrugging. “It’s a rare delusional disorder where a person believes that they are dead.”

Wilbur reels back offendedly. “Are you talking about the killer or me?”

“The killer, of course,” he chuckles.

“Oh, of course,” Wilbur laughs dryly and rubs his eyes briefly. He presses his hands together, interlocking his fingers, and presses them against his forehead. “Uh, she couldn’t see the victim's face — or she was trying to uncover it.”

He nods, and slides his hands into his pockets. Wilbur can’t help but let his eyes fall on the scabbed wound over Q’s face from Technoblade. He thinks it is just as beautiful as the rest of him. “—To identify others is associated with Cotard. It’s a misfire in the areas of the brain that recognize faces, and also in the amygdala, which adds emotions to the recognitions. Even those closest to her would seem like imposters.”

Wilbur bites the inside of his cheek, and sighs. “So she reached out to someone she loved and trusted, felt betrayed, and became violent.”

“She can’t trust anyone or anything she once knew,” he adds. “Her illness won’t let her.”

Phil clears his throat from where they sit at the glass table. They face the girl’s mother, who looks disturbingly calm. Wilbur eyes her from where he slumps back in his seat. “We matched tissue from the crime scene to your daughter’s.”

The mother sighs, and rubs her eyes with one hand. “I thought you had found her and that she would be at … peace.”

Wilbur tilts his head. “You thought she might be dead?”

The woman chuckles sadly. “That makes me sound like a horrible mother,” she defends. “I tried to be a good mom. I tried to do everything that I could. I just don’t want her to be in pain.”

“Nobody is doubting your dedication to your daughter, Mrs. Madchen,” Wilbur assures with a gentle nod.

Phil makes his presence known once more by shifting in his seat. He clasps his hands together. “How well did she know Beth LeBaeu?”

“They were best friends,” she answers. “They went to school together. That is, until it was unsafe for Pomme to go to school.”

Phil nods. “When did you first recognize that your daughter was struggling with mental illness?”

She frowns, and leans back. “When she was nine, she told me that she was thinking about killing me, and that she was already dead.”

“What sort of symptoms did she have?” Wilbur asks carefully, speaking slowly to make sure she doesn’t take his words the wrong way like she had before. Maybe he wants to know if they’re similar.

The mother thinks for a moment, then lists them off. “She had seizures, hallucinations, and psychotic depression.” Wilbur swallows. She smiles. “I was grateful when she was catatonic.”

“Was she ever violent?” Phil asks.

“Sometimes,” she mutters.

“What did her doctor say?” Wilbur butts in, because he and this girl are much too alike. 

The mother turns to him, and tightens her lips into a line. “Not much. She spent months at a time in the hospital. Blood tests and brain scans, and all of them inconclusive. They could never tell me what was wrong.”

Wilbur’s breath catches in his throat. He slides the photo of Pomme closer to him, and works his jaw. He looks up at her once more. “And you still don’t know?”

The mother sighs tearfully, and her voice shakes when she answers. “They would just say it was this or it was that. They were just — sorry — they were just always guessing. I did my own research. I wrote down every word that the doctors said, I learned a lot. Mostly what I learned is how little is known about mental illness. It’s rarely about solutions. It’s more about managing expectations.”

Wilbur is practically seething when he steps into Phil’s office later that day. He tries to hide it, but his anger is visible in the way his hands slide into his pockets, and he steps forward with all the grace of a predator. Phil is sitting on the edge of his desk, and looks over to him.

“Managing your expectations?” Wilbur spits sourly.

“Changing my expectations,” he corrects. Wilbur heaves a sigh, and shifts his weight to his right leg. “You know, when Chayanne died, I had to come back to this office to pack up. But, that got to be too overwhelming, and I thought I should just leave, since I got a trainee killed. That lack of leadership on my part, that was my responsibility.”

“You didn’t kill Chayanne; the Chesapeake Ripper did,” Wilbur corrects.

“It didn’t feel that way to me,” he admits. “I pulled him out of a classroom, just like I did to you.”

Wilbur flinches. He parts his lips to say something, closes his mouth, and opens it again. With Phil, he never really does know what to say. “He was a student; I’m a teacher —”

“I’m still just as responsible for you as I was for him,” he says.

“I’ll take my own responsibility.”

“Well, not from me, you won’t! We can do it together,” Phil insists. “I broke the rules with Chayanne. I encouraged him to break the rules. I am breaking the rules with you now.”

“By letting an unstable agent do field work?” He snaps.

“Special Agent.”

“Oh, how could I forget?” Wilbur laughs dryly, and shakes his head. He pinches the bridge of his nose and turns away from Phil, brushing his hands through his hair.

Phil turns his back around with a hand on the shoulder, his gaze firm. “That means you represent the FBI. You represent me.” 

“How have I misrepresented you, Phil?” Wilbur shouts.

“No, no,” Phil shakes his head and briefly looks over Wilbur’s shoulder to make sure the door is shut. “But you have me curious. Why are you still here when we both know that this is bad for you?”

“What, do you want me to quit?”

“No, you had that opportunity. You didn’t take it. Why not?” Wilbur begins to speak, and Phil swiftly interrupts him. “You wanna know what I think? I think the work you do here has created a sense of stability for you. Stability is good for you, Wil.”

“Stability requires a strong foundation,” Wilbur quips sharply. “My moorings are on sand.”

“I’m not sand,” he snaps. “When you doubt yourself, you don’t have to doubt me too.”

The night is gentle and sweet as Quackity steps into the dining room, each dish prepared. Sutcliffe dines with him, his smile gentle as he watches the food slide in front of him. “The Jamon Iberico,” he introduces.

“You still love your rare treats, don’t you, Quackity?” Sutcliffe chuckles.

“The more expensive and difficult for them to obtain, the better,” Q grins. He cuts along the large ham, the meat proving to be slightly resistant as he saws into it. “It’s a distinction that adds an expectation to the quality.”

“Not always,” Sutcliffe hums.

“Well, with the Iberico, only a few thousand are selected each year. But is the pig, once fattened and slaughtered and air–cured, really superior to any other pig? Or is it simply a matter of reputation preceding the product?”

“It’s irrelevant,” Sutcliffe answers. “If the meat–eater thinks it is superior, then belief surpasses value.”

“A case of psychology overriding neurology,” Q muses.

“So, we know Iberico gets his pigs,” he says. “How did you get yours?”

Quackity pauses, and turns his head to him. “Are you referring to Wilbur Soot?” Sutcliffe’s silence is a yes, and Quackity’s frown deepens. Tasteless, to define Wilbur as a pig. That term is reserved for the men and women he takes business cards from, for the girls on stag heads. It is not for Wilbur.

“We both know you liked the rarified,” he mutters. “What makes him so rare?”

Q cuts into his meat, and heaves a breath. “Wilbur has a remarkably vivid imagination. Beautiful,” he praises. “There is nothing that he can’t understand, and that terrifies him.”

“So you set his mind on fire.”

He huffs. “Imagination is an interesting accelerant for a fever.”

“So how far does this go?” Sutcliffe wonders, and directs his attention to his food once more. “Do you put out the fire, or do you let him burn?”

Quackity sets down his silverware, and leans closer to Sutcliffe. “Wilbur is my friend,” he emphasizes. “We’ll put out the fire when it becomes necessary.”

Sutcliffe sighs. “He asked for more tests.”

Q takes his wine into his hands. “Now that we know what it is, it’ll be easier to hide it from him.”

Wilbur is back on the table, and the room is dim. He sits with his hospital gown on. Sutcliffe hands him the rubber to put in his ears with simple instructions. He lies back on the table, and takes in a deep breath. He still doesn’t like these things, he really doesn’t. They make him claustrophobic, and he has always been scared of the dark.

“This’ll be over before you know it,” Sutcliffe reassures gently.

Wilbur nods, and looks up as he is eased into the tunnel. He closes his eyes, because he really doesn’t want to hallucinate again. He listens to the mechanical knocking, and opens his eyes. He lies still until the table is eased out of the tunnel. It was strangely quick.

He looks beside him to where Sutcliffe should be, waiting for him like the nurse was. He isn’t. Wilbur sits up and swings his legs over the lip of the table. He looks around him, and reaches into his ear to take the rubber out. He goes into the area behind the glass, and the screens are dark, and there is no Sutcliffe. He leans out of the door where the light spills in.

Wilbur scoffs, and reaches for the back of his gown. He changes back into his clothes: his dark button–up and jeans. He slings his arm over his shoulder. He doesn’t intend on waiting for this doctor. He walks down the hallway, pushes his glasses onto his nose. The doors pass by easily, and he doesn’t see the doctor in the hallways.

Wilbur stops. He sees the blood on the doorknob before he even really sees the door.

He takes a deep breath, and covers his hand with his sleeve before opening the door. Sutcliffe is in his chair, his head hanging back. Blood is spilling onto his shirt and white coat. Wilbur winds around the desk and leans slightly to peer at his face.

Sutcliffe’s jaw is sagging, held thinly together by whatever skin is left. His mouth has been cut into a Glasgow smile, his tongue visible, as well as his teeth and his gums. Wilbur staggers back, and fishes out his phone. Phil, Phil, Phil —

Wilbur appreciates how Baghera runs her blacklight along his clothes. Realistically, he knows that he didn’t kill the doctor. He was in the scanner, he couldn’t have. Still, it’s in the back of his mind. He slumps forward, watching it move along his torso. 

Baghera looks up at him. “You’re clean,” she assures with a gentle smile. Wilbur’s eyes look as distant as they were when he called her to the house. She crouches down in front of him, and lies a hand on his knee. He lies his hand over it, and she turns her palm to intertwine their fingers, and squeezes. “You couldn’t have done this without getting something on you, and there is nothing on you.”

“I don’t feel clean,” Wilbur whispers in soft admittance.

Charlie uses a pair of tweezers to hook them into the hole of the bloodied scissors. “The murder weapon has the same sort of tissues we found out LeBaeu’s crime scene.”

“What has this guy got to do with the other victim?” Roier asks.

Wilbur clears his throat, and gestures to himself, “Just me.” Baghera lets her hand fall from his, and rises to her full height, walking over to the body.

“What do you remember?” Phil asks, and Wilbur doesn’t like that it feels like he is trying to rule out a suspect.

“I remember coming here, getting into the MRI, getting out, and then finding Dr. Sutcliffe’s body,” Wilbur answers.

“No confusion?”

Wilbur smiles dryly. “Well, not that I’m aware of.”

Phil nods with a soft hum. “Was Sutcliffe in the habit of seeing patients after–hours when he’s the only one in the office?”

“He was very … accommodating,” Wilbur says.

Phil huffs, and clears his throat. “Pomme followed you here, and while you’re ticking away in the MRI, she does this to your doctor. Why him?”

“She can’t see faces. Maybe she thought he was me.”

“While we’re at it, why you?”

Wilbur looks up to the ceiling, and works his jaw. “I don’t know.” He presses his hands onto his knees, hoisting himself to his feet. He looks over his shoulder to Phil, and shrugs. “I have a habit of collecting strays.” He paces the floor. “I tried to tell her the night I saw her that she was alive. Maybe she heard me. And maybe that hadn’t occurred to her in a while.”

It’s midnight when Wilbur’s dogs begin to growl. It steps from where the others are gathered, watching the bed. Wilbur flutters his eyes open — he wasn’t really asleep in the first place. Oh. Oh, shit. Wilbur’s breath catches in his throat. He moves slowly, carefully, and pushes aside his covers with the speed of a sloth. He balances himself with a hand on the edge of his bed, and leans over to peer into the darkness beneath.

He sees her face first.

Wilbur jumps down, rolling onto his stomach, and Pomme flinches, bringing her hands closer to herself. His eyes are blown wide, hands braced on the floor. “I see you, Pomme,” Wilbur calls out softly. “Think of who you are. It’s midnight. You’re in Wolftrap, Virginia. Your name is Pomme.” He speaks as if she is a fawn, who could easily be startled. And she could.  “You’re not alone. We’re here together.”

Pomme blinks at him, and takes in a small breath. “Am I alive?” She holds out her hand, outstretching it beyond the shadow of the bed towards him.

Wilbur’s gaze softens. He reaches out his hand, and intertwines their fingers. “Yes,” he whispers. “I promise.”

“Will she recover?” Phil asks.

Quackity frowns, and flips through the girl’s charts. “Risk of infection is high. She’s lost most of her vital fluids — even bone mass, as well.” He shuts the file, and slides it towards Phil. “She’s being treated like a burn victim.”

“But will she recover mentally?” Phil clarifies, taking the file in his hands.

“She has Cotard’s Syndrome. Almost all sufferers of this delusion recover with treatment. In extreme cases like this one, they’ll use electroconvulsive therapy.” Quackity purses his lips. “If I can be honest, I’m more concerned about Wilbur.”

“I thought you would be more worried about your colleague, Dr. Sutcliffe,” Phil hums.

Quackity nods. “I am grieving Dr. Sutcliffe, but Wil is still very much alive. He’s still desperate for an explanation that can make everything right again.”

Phil drums his fingers on the file. “I’m pretty desperate for some explanation myself. I would like to talk to her when she wakes up. How much do you think she’ll remember?”

Quackity sighs. “I sincerely hope, for her sake, that she doesn’t remember much.”

Pomme remembers a man with slicked back, dark hair in a clear hazmat suit. Beneath was a dark red shirt, and black pants with suspenders. She remembers stepping into the door. She wasn’t here for him. She was here for the man she met in the house, the one who somewhat understood.

She remembers watching the man peel back the doctor’s jaw, and use scissors to cut along the skin. The man had turned, and he had tan skin, but she couldn’t see his face. She remembers it all being blurred out, and all that remained was his scar through the haze.

She remembers taking the scissors from him, because what else could she do?

Chapter Text

“Somebody who already doubts their own identity can be more susceptible to manipulation,” Quackity points out with Etoiles on his tail as he carries the course to the dinner table, carefully balanced in his hands and arms. “Schlatt is a psychopath. Psychopaths are narcissists, they rarely doubt who they are.”

Etoiles watches him set down the dish and begin to gently stir it in preparation. He fiddles with the cuffs of his suit briefly. “I tried to appeal to his narcissism,” he defends.

“By convincing him he was the Chesapeake Ripper,” Quackity adds.

Etoiles huffs, and leans to the window, where the snow falls and makes gentle clumps on the ground. “If only I had been more curious in the common mind,” he mutters.

“I have no interest in understanding sheep, only eating them,” Q hums and separates the dish onto two plates. “Kudal. A South Indian curry.” Etoiles turns and settles into the seat Quackity has pulled out for him. “Made from sheep of course, in a coconut–coriander chili sauce.”

“It feels like a last supper,” Etoiles sighs.

Quackity looks up from where he sits. “You’re not the only psychiatrist to have a patient accuse you of making them kill. Poke into a psychopath's mind, bound to get poked back.”

Etoiles nods towards him, hesitantly picking up his silverware, because his stomach is still swooping nervously. “What would you do in my position?”

“Deny everything.”

He laughs briefly, and shakes his head. “I thought psychic driving would be more effective in breaking down his personality.”

“Psychic driving fails because its methods are too obvious. You were trying too hard, Etoiles. If force is used, the subject will only surrender temporarily. Once a patient is exposed to the method of manipulation, it becomes less effective,” Quackity explains, and cuts into his food.

“When Schlatt began to suspect he was being pushed …”

“He pushed back,” he finishes. He takes his wine glass into hand, and raises his eyebrows. “The subject mustn't be aware of any influence, Etoiles.”

Wilbur is standing on the beach, with the tower in front of him, limbs contorted into form. A glacier ahead of him breaks off its pieces. They go tumbling into the water beneath, splashing up in large waves. The beach extends beyond him, and the waves climb high. He watches them curl up until they block the sun, spill over the tower. He tilts his head up, and he does not run when they —

Wilbur gasps awake and turns his head to the clock, his breathing heavy and shallow. He watches it melt away, feels his sheets dampen with water. The water spills up onto his arms, and to his chest, and up to his ears, and he cannot move. The waves are violent, crashing, and tumbling. 

He can’t move he can’t move he can’t —

The water comes up over his mouth, and it burns in his lungs.

Wilbur tries to breathe when his eyes snap open, and he flings himself up to sit upright, like his very mattress has burned him. The dogs startle, and Winston climbs up onto the bed. Wilbur peels off his sweaty shirt, and lets Winston press his snout into his side. Wilbur sighs, and presses his forehead to the dog’s back, running his hands through the fur. 

The dogs don’t sleep in his bed. They know that. They go to their beds, they curl up, and they rest on their own. Tonight, however, Wilbur sleeps with his fingers in Winston’s fur, forehead against the dog’s back.

Schlatt barely winces at the strong grip of the officers guiding him up the stairs. He sees Etoiles first, in a warm coat and hat, his glasses askew. “You get to dress up, and I don’t?” He pouts mockingly. “This might affect how well my testimony goes over with the judge.”

“Testimony speaks for itself,” Etoiles mutters, leaning on the side of the van.

“Oh, don’t look so worried,” Schlatt chuckles. “I forgive you your trespasses.”

“What trespasses are those?”

“You made me kill the nurse,” he scoffs. “I take responsibility for my wife and her family, but the nurse was your fault.” 

Etoiles steps forward, shaking his head. “I cannot accept responsibility for your actions, Schlatt.”

“Au contraire. That’s why I’m suing you,” he sings. “You made me think I was somebody else. And now, who knows what I’m thinking?”

Etoiles furrows his brows. “You told me you were the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“Dr. Etoiles, you told me I was the Chesapeake Ripper,” he hisses. “And that’s what I’m going to tell everyone.”

The men load him into the truck. The road is bumpy and the drive will be long. Schlatt hates silences, he always has. The two officers in the back with him look straight through him, like he’s not even there. Schlatt heaves a dramatic sigh and looks to the officer in front of him.

“You married?” He asks. Nothing. He looks to the other officer. “You married?” Nothing, again. It’s hard to get a word out of these people. But he can see from the look on the first officer. “Oh, you’re married. How long?” The officer stays quiet. Schlatt gasps, “That long?” 

He leans forward like he’s about to tell him a secret. “Regarding divorce — not that you’re getting one — word of advice: it’s easier to just kill them.” He shrugs, a smile pulling at his lips. “Kill her, kill everyone at the table. It’s a lot less paperwork. I mean it worked for me, and I’m doing okay.”

Schlatt shakes his head as he is met with the sound of the wind rushing by the truck. “I’m sure your wife is fantastic,” he muses. “My wife was horrible, so maybe I’m not meant to be in a relationship.”

He sighs and looks at the other officer’s coat. He whistles in appreciation. “How do you keep those whites so clean? Always amazes me.”

Silence. Again. He’s getting a little sick of that.

“Well, you two are no fun.”

Schlatt presses down on his thumb, dislocates it, and pulls his hand free.

Wilbur is back on the field. He had taken a break, however small, thinking it would help with the headaches and hallucinations. There hadn’t been any changes, if anything, it felt like it just got worse. And now he is standing in front of the crashed van, back doors flung open. The officers crowd around the scene, until Phil calls for them to clear out. 

And they do, leaving Wilbur with his own devices. He blows out a small breath, and ducks into the back of the van. He sits, and he closes his eyes. 

He looks at the two officers, sitting in silence. One ahead of him, the other beside him. All he needs is one hand free. He cracks one thumb, and the officer lunges for him. Wilbur — no, not — shoves him off and slams a fist into his jaw.

The other just barely rises before he is kicking out and knocking him back. The first officer has quickly recovered, and Wilbur falls onto his back with the force of a rough shove. The officer is over him in moments. The other approaches, and he kicks him back.

Wilbur shoves the other off, and yanks off the other handcuff. He slashes the other man’s cheek with them, and he goes tumbling to the other side of the van with the momentum he used. The officers are on him in seconds, one over him, and the other grabbing his legs. 

Wilbur hooks one foot onto the officer’s neck, and uses the leverage to slam his head onto the roof of the van harshly. Once, twice, and he’s down. He rolls the other man onto the ground until he is over him, and uses the handcuffs to slit his throat. 

Wilbur’s eyes flutter open, and he climbs out of the van. The officers head in once more from where they were waiting. Phil approaches him, standing beside him. “So, does Schlatt still believe he’s the Chesapeake Ripper?”

Wilbur hums. “Schlatt is having a difference of opinion about who he is.” Wilbur follows Phil’s gaze to a low hanging tree, where hearts and kidneys hang on the branches. “The man who escaped from that van was not in the same state of mind when he did this.”

Baghera comes forward, the snow crunching under his boots. “He took a uniform, a police radio, two 9mm handguns, pepper spray, taser, and handcuffs.”

“Well, it’s what he didn’t take,” Wil says.

“He hung the organs with veins from the victims,” Baghera informs.

“He even tied little bows with some of them,” Charlie calls out.

“It’s really impressive,” Roier laughs out to them, then catches the mood from Wilbur, and flicks his expression back to one of neutrality.

“The Chesapeake Ripper wouldn’t have left organs behind,” Wilbur mutters.

“Well, if Schlatt isn’t the Chesapeake Ripper, he’s certainly trying to get his attention,” Phil sighs.

“Local PD picked up a foot trail leading out of the woods,” Baghera says. “Boot soles are consistent with the ones we found at the scene.”

“How fresh are the tracks?” Phil asks.

“Two, three hours old.”

“What direction?”

“Back to Baltimore.”

Etoiles heaves a sigh as Wilbur and Jaiden enter the room. Wilbur is, as always, the more moody of the two, his gaze dark and his hands in his pockets. He always has a funny, distant feel about him. Jaiden, on the other hand, is dressed in her suit and carries a more professional air to her.

“Is this my fault, too?” Etoiles drawls.

The pair steps further into a room, and Wilbur shrugs. “You did dodge a bullet. Schlatt’s escape foregoes a trial and a very public humiliation for you.”

Etoiles leans forward, hands clasped together, and tilts his head. “And now you’re hosting a private one.” He laughs quietly. “Are you going to accuse me of arranging his escape, too?”

Jaiden holds her hand out placatingly. “Nobody is making that assumption.”

“If we were tossing around assumptions, you would have your fair share of them,” Etoiles remarks, snapping his eyes to her. “You were the one who planted the idea that I was unethically manipulating him.”

“Schlatt said you were,” she defends.

“After you told him that. You think I manipulated him? He manipulated you, Jaiden.”

“You were pushing him,” Jaiden hisses, pointing a finger at him.

Etoiles narrows his eyes. “He gave me informed consent, and said that he was grateful for my help in understanding who he is.”

Wilbur tilts his head, raising a brow. He shifts his weight on his feet. “What exactly did you help him understand?”

Etoiles stands to somewhat match his height, even if he knows that he is shorter. “That he wasn’t insane when he killed his wife. It was killing her that drove him insane. I didn’t convince him he was a serial killer, I just reminded him of it.”

“Schlatt is not the Chesapeake Ripper, even if he thought he was under your care, doctor,” Wilbur snaps, his voice steadily crescendoing.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” Jaiden speaks over both of them, interrupting swiftly. “If he thinks he is, or if he’s confused on the matter, he’ll kill again.”

“I hope he doesn’t, for your sake,” Etoiles hums. “I can’t imagine how that would sit on your sleeping shoulders.”

Her face twists into a frown, her eyes furrowing. She takes a small step forward, and all Wilbur can think is oh shit. “How did you sleep when your nurse was killed? Perfectly fine I bet, you righteous fu —”

“Jaiden,” Wilbur grits out and rushes forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. She shakes her head with a frustrated laugh, fingers twitching into fists, turning away. He quickly changes the subject, because they did not come here to argue. “Look, what does Schlatt want?”

Etoiles lowers himself back into his seat, tapping his pen on his desk. “The last thing that Schlatt said to me is that he intends to tell everybody that he is the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Phil paces in front of the bulletin board, where a picture of Schlatt in his ID as a doctor is pinned up on the center. “Our fugitive is Schlatt, a transplant surgeon.” 

Ahead of him are rows and rows of trainees, gazes pinned on the front. And at the far wall, leaning against it with his side, is Wilbur, his head ducked low, glasses askew. 

“He was convicted in the first degree for the murder of his wife and her family. Institutionalized at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, where he killed a nurse and claimed to be the Chesapeake Ripper. Schlatt disappeared this morning after killing three people, he is armed and dangerous.”

Wilbur blinks rapidly, squeezing his eyes shut.

Phil’s voice is booming out across the room. “—In the first degree — Institutionalized in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.” They are in the antler room, they are sticking out of the walls, surrounding him. 

His mind is tripping back and back, what is happening —

“Insane,” Phil repeats.

“Armed and dangerous — escaped this morning — you escaped this morning. He escaped this morning. He is armed and dangerous. You escaped — You are armed — You are —”

Wilbur wipes at his eyes, feeling the sweat running down his face, and the back of his neck feels hot. He can’t think, he can’t breathe — He sees the points of the antlers.

“What kind of crazy are you!?” Phil screams. “You kill! You will kill again!”

Phil looks at Wilbur from where he is meeting with other officers. They meet eyes, and Wilbur ducks his head down. Wilbur’s breaths are quick and heavy, his chest stuttering.

“What did you see?” Quackity asks upon Wilbur reporting what had happened earlier that day.

Wilbur takes in a shuddering breath. “A thicket of antlers,” he mutters. He looks up to the roof, and blinks. “All I could hear was my heart … dim, but … but fast. Like footsteps fleeing into silence.” Wilbur looks at Quackity, and his gaze is horribly pleading and teary. His voice cracks when he speaks. “I don’t know how to gauge who I am anymore,” he admits. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, and then the words are spilling out of him like a dam broken. “I don’t feel like myself. I feel like I’ve gradually become different for a while.” He shakes his head, and runs his hands down his face. “I feel like somebody else.”

“What do you feel like?” Quackity asks gently, trying not to pry.

No matter how soft the words come out, Wilbur’s chest still heaves, and he blinks rapidly. The tears come flowing. “I feel crazy,” he cries.

“And that is what you fear the most,” he offers.

“Mm–mm.” Wilbur shakes his head, and his fingers dig into the cushions of the armchair. “I fear not knowing who I am.”

Wilbur suddenly realizes what is happening. Oh, God, he is embarrassing. He wipes at his eyes and stutters out a soft apology. “Uhm — that’s what Schlatt is afraid of, isn’t he?” He asks, trying to get this back to how it was. He wants conversations that were nothing more than solving cases. He doesn’t want to be this weak anymore. He works his jaw, and stares off to the painting on the left wall. “He’s like a blind man. Somebody got inside his head and … moved all the furniture around.”

Quackity feels his chest ache. Still, he will play along, as long as Wilbur wishes. As long as Quackity can take it for, that is. “I imagine Schlatt would want to find the Chesapeake Ripper and gauge who he is, and who he isn’t.” Quackity furrows his brows. “Wil,” he calls out, and Wilbur startles, snapping his eyes to him. “You have me as your gauge.”

Wilbur nods, and feels the sting become overwhelming, and he tries to make it go away. He can’t in the end, and feels the stains on his cheeks become fresh once more. He raises his fist to swipe them away. “Sorry, I’m sorry —”

“Don’t be,” Quackity whispers and hands him the tissue box. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay.” It tastes like a lie.

Wilbur is fucking sweaty, Charlie notices. His hair is all tousled, and his eyes are darker than before. He’s incredibly out of it. Still, he is listening. Charlie doesn’t bring it up, because he would really hate to crack a joke at the wrong moment. Phil doesn’t seem to want to bring up the fact either. In fact, it seems like Charlie is the only one really somewhat bothered by the man’s state.

Baghera clears her throat, and Wil startles. “Schlatt didn’t leave a manifesto. We collected all correspondences from his outside admirers. We’re searching everything now.”

“Good,” Phil nods.

“Any secret communications or coded messages written in bodily fluid or anything else like that, we’ll find them,” Charlie reassures.

“You won’t find anything,” Wilbur mumbles. “Whatever is going on with Schlatt, it’s in his head.”

“Well, there’s not much left in these heads,” Roier says and gestures to the body in front of them. “All organ removal was done postmortem, including the transorbital lobotomies.”

“It wasn’t a lobotomy, technically,” Baghera corrects. “He didn’t remove any of the brain, he just scrambled them around. Went in through the top of the eye socket …”

Water trickles from the mortician coolers, dripping down rapidly. Wilbur follows it down to where it pools at his feet, and the ripples shake through the puddles —

“Okay, okay, tell me something,” Phil calls out, waving his hands around. Wilbur looks back to the coolers, the perfectly dry, intact coolers. “Why remove all the other organs from the bodies and leave them intact, and just scramble the brains?”

Wilbur blinks himself out of the haze of his mind. “That’s what they did to him,” he says.

Phil looks between all of them. “What who did to him?”

“Dr. Etoiles, every psychiatrist and PhD candidate who gave him any kind of therapy, pushed and prodded, gave him tests, told him who he was, who he wasn’t,” Wilbur clarifies softly, his words tumbling out like he’s in a race, and Phil can barely hold onto it.

Still, he nods. “Alright. I want a list of every therapist, doctor, any kind of psychiatrist professional that worked with or talked to Schlatt.”

Wilbur pinches the bridge of his nose. He thinks his heart drops to his knees. “Jaiden Plays will be on that list.”

Wilbur makes his way through the crowd of students filing through the door. He slides his hands into his pockets, and leans on the side of the rising seats. Jaiden looks up from where she is packing her things at her desk.

“Are you my protective custody?” She jokes.

“You heard?” Wilbur hums.

“I heard I get an armed escort until Schlatt is apprehended,” she explains.

Wilbur chuckles. “Well, you’ll have a real FBI agent, not a teacher with a temporary badge.”

“Too bad,” Jaiden sucks in a breath through her teeth. “It would’ve been nice to cozy up with your dogs by the fireplace.”

He laughs, his face brightening for the first time today, even if it is barely noticeable. “You don’t need protective custody to cuddle with my dogs. Or me — hang out with me, I mean. Sorry, that was weird. You don’t need protective custody to hang out with me and my dogs, Jaiden. I just need more … stability … on my part.”

Jaiden winds around the desk, her brows furrowed. She looks funnily concerned, and it makes Wilbur want to take a step back. He doesn’t flinch when she puts her hand against his cheek. He lets it rest there. She huffs. “You’re really warm.” 

Her hand falls, and Wilbur mourns the friendly touch. “Yeah, I tend to run hot,” he blurts. “They say stress raises body temperature.”

Jaiden crosses her arms on her chest, watching as he walks around her and back to the front of the desk. She knows that avoidance of his. “Maybe you should take an aspirin.”

Wilbur flashes the bottle in his hand. “Waaaay ahead of you,” he drawls as he pops two into his mouth.

She shifts her weight on her feet, gaze dipping down. The thought comes barreling into her, then tumbling out her lips. “They’re going to kill, Schlatt, aren’t they?”

Wilbur snaps his head up. He turns to face her, stuffing the aspirin back into his pocket. “Whatever happens to him has nothing to do with you,” he reassures, because he knows that look in her eyes. He’s been there before.

“Schlatt can’t be completely responsible for his actions if he was subjected to an outside influence,” Jaiden worries.

“What, like Etoiles telling him he’s the Chesapeake Ripper?” He asks.

She sighs and rubs her eyes. “Like me telling him he’s not in the state of mind to know who he is.”

Wilbur shakily lowers himself to sit on the edge of the desk. “He's going to want somebody to tell him who he is, and I think he’ll be looking for the Ripper to do that.”

Jaiden sits beside him. “What do you think will happen if Schlatt finds the Ripper?”

“The Ripper will kill him,” he answers honestly. He grimaces. “He took credit for his work. The Ripper will consider that rude.”

Bad’s phone is already ringing as he slides into his car. He shuts the driver’s seat, and checks the caller ID. Unknown. He answers anyway, listening to the soft white noise on the other end. “This is Bad Halo,” he hums, propping his phone up while he digs through his bag.

“Hi, this is Paul Carruthers. I’m a psychiatrist,” the caller introduces. “I’ve read your article on Dr. Schlatt.”

“And I yours,” Bad marvels. Paul Carruthers. He never thought this would happen, but it’s not an unwelcome event. Carruthers is a journalist and psychiatrist he’s admired the work of for a long time. It makes his chest swell with pride.

“So you’re aware of my work?” Carruthers says.

Bad nods to himself. “I found your paper on narcissistic personality disorder insightful, especially as it pertains to your opinion on Schlatt. Are you calling about his escape?”

“Well, yes,” he hums. “I’d like to collaborate on an article I’m writing for the ‘Journal of Abnormal Psychology.’”

“You want a writing partner?”

“Could we meet?” He offers.

Bad fetches out a notepad, and clicks his pen to life. “Yes, of course. Where?”

The building is large and full of offices on all floors. It is still eerily quiet as Bad steps through the halls. The lights are dim and yellow, feeding into the old look. The only light on is the door with blurry glass labeled CARRUTHERS. He flings open the door, and stumbles to a stop.

Oh, no.

Oh, God.

Bad thinks he might vomit. He feels the bile creep up his throat. He can feel the blood drain from his face at the sight of Schlatt with a crooked grin, standing behind the body of Dr. Carruthers. The doctor in question still has a look of horror on his face, stock still in his chair. Connected to him are IVs full of blood.

“Now, you wrote in your Tattle Archive that the Chesapeake Ripper once removed a man’s tongue and used it as a bookmark for the Bible he was holding,” Schlatt grins and gestures to the display on the body before Bad. Dr. Carruther’s tongue has been exposed at his throat, the blood staining his shirt and coat. Schlatt flattens out the still–moving muscle, and hums in soft approval.

He takes a step back, and the gun in his hand flashes in the lamplight. Bad flinches. 

“What do you think?” Schlatt asks proudly, flinging his arms out.

Wilbur can’t help but remember what Etoiles had said that day in his office when Jaiden mentioned that Schlatt would be killing again. I hope he doesn’t, for your sake. I can’t imagine how that would sit on your sleeping shoulders. The remark had been snappy towards Jaiden, but now it pangs true to Wilbur as he stares at the body of Paul Carruthers, whose tongue has been exposed to them.

“Dr. Paul Carruthers wrote an article for the Journal of Criminal Psychology in which he described Schlatt as a pathological narcissist who suffers from psychotic episodes,” Phil reads out as Baghera, Charlie, and Roier step into the scene with their gear in hand.

Wilbur scoffs. “I hope he got some satisfaction in being proved right.”

Phil looks towards the body with a frown. “I think this is more than just getting the Chesapeake Ripper’s attention.”

“Schlatt’s mind was dissected by psychiatrists and, as a surgeon, he is applying his own skill set,” Wilbur says and steps closer to the body, leaning forward slightly. Roier looks up from where he is examining the wound the tongue is protruding from. “He gave you something better to do with your tongue than wag it,” he grits out. 

Roier tries very hard not to make a face at that, because Baghera is already glaring at him.

“That’s not how he died,” Roier explains. “He drained him until his heart stopped.”

“He got a little on his collar, but other than that, he didn’t spill a drop,” Baghera marvels.

“That’s because it’s all in here,” Charlie calls out and holds up an IV bag of blood. “Four and a half liters packed into ice.” He picks up a note that was beside the cooler, and can’t help but let out a soft laugh. “Please donate to the Red Cross,” he reads aloud.

“How considerate,” Baghera deadpans.

“He’s peacocking for the Ripper,” Phil realizes.

“This is like flowers and chocolate before the first date,” Wilbur mutters. He narrows his eyes, because there is a computer mouse beneath Carruther’s hand. He snaps on a latex glove, and presses down until there is a soft click.

The computer chimes to life, and they are met with a TattleCrime.com article. It is headlined: CHESAPEAKE RIPPER RIPS AGAIN. Phil scoffs, and shakes his head. “How is this already news?”

“Somebody from the Baltimore PD must’ve taken a picture with their phone and sold it to TattleCrime,” Roier reasons out.

“The photo was taken before the photo was put on ice. Schlatt was here,” Phil notices.

“He has Bad Halo,” Wilbur whispers.

“You must be looking for the emergency exits, or you’re considering them,” Schlatt sings as he steps forward to where Bad is sitting at the desk with his computer. He claps his hands together, and the journalist jumps. “Let me just tell you that there are three, and they’re all terribly locked down.” Bad narrows his eyes in a sharp glare as Schlatt crouches down in front of the desk, drumming his fingers. “This relationship between you and I could do us both some good.”

“I could write a big story about you,” Bad offers. “Anything you want to say.”

Schlatt hums. “I did enjoy the article that you wrote about the poor nurse that I killed, but it didn’t seem like genuine Bad Halo.”

Bad nods. “Phil Watson told me to write it.”

“Oh, of course he did.”

“To flush out the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“And flushed out he was,” he sings. He pushes himself to his feet and makes a theatrical gesture of moving his arm around above his head. “That’s why he waved Phil Watson’s dead trainee’s arm around his head, right here like a flag in this very room.”

“Aren’t you the Chesapeake Ripper?” Bad tilts his head mockingly.

Schlatt turns on his heels, his face suddenly grim. “Mr. Halo, I might be fuzzy in this area, but there is on need to patronize me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, sincerely.

“It’s like remembering something from your childhood … and you’re not sure if it’s your memory, or a friend’s memory,” he sighs. “And then you just realize that it’s a photo from an old book.”

The ends of Bad’s lips curl up into the slightest of smiles, almost proud. “You’re waiting for the Chesapeake Ripper to come back here.”

“Let’s hope he gets the invitation. That’s one thing we know about your writing: he is an avid fan.”

There is another body the next day, and it makes Wilbur’s head spin with how fast the killings are catching up. One after another, and it is bearing down on his shoulders. Jaiden’s too, as she states the man’s information. The body has his tongue protruding from his neck like the Carruther’s, whose body is displayed beside the other one.

“Dr. Carson Nahn,” Jaiden sighs. “He’s the psychiatric attending at West General. He interviewed Schlatt for the same psychopathy survey I participated in two years ago.”

“Total frenectomy. Webbing under the tongue; even the connective tissue all the way into the throat is cut free and pulled through for the, uh, desired effect,” Roier mutters.

Phil shakes his head. “Still no word from Etoiles?”

Jaiden shrugs. “He hasn’t answered his phone since yesterday, and didn’t show up to work today.” 

Wilbur takes a deep breath. “Schlatt wants to lure the Ripper. He’s going to offer up the man who disrespected both of their identities,” he says.

“Every detail of Dr. Carruther’s murder as described meticulously in Bad Halo’s article has been faithfully reproduced.” Phil holds up a finger. “Except for one.” He moves the tarp enough to see Nahn’s severed arm. Wilbur’s eyebrows twitch together.

“What’s different about Carson? Why amputate his arm?” Jaiden asks.

“Did Bad write anything about this?” Phil turns to Charlie.

“Not that I know of, no,” Charlie says.

Wilbur speaks up, his lips twitching as he opens his mouth in something like hesitation. Phil has never known Wilbur to hesitate before. “Schlatt didn’t kill this man, the Chesapeake Ripper did.”

“You said the Chesapeake Ripper would want to kill Schlatt for taking credit for his work,” Jaiden says.

Wilbur squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Schlatt isn’t alone anymore, and the Ripper isn’t going to risk exposure, so, no, he’s … um … telling us where to catch him.” Wilbur presses his lips into a line and squints one eye, lips tilting up as he opens his mouth. He looks up to Phil. “Uhm, actually he’s telling you.”

“Me?” Phil deadpans.

Wilbur winces. “Where’s the last place you saw a severed arm, Phil?”

Bad is helpless to the situation before him as Schlatt pours sanitizer onto his hands, and pulls on latex gloves. Curiously careful for a serial killer. Old habits die hard, he supposes. Etoiles is on the table before him, a tarp over his torso, strapped down.

“With experience, I have found that surgeries are best performed on local anesthetic or epidural with the patient awake,” Schlatt explains. Etoiles blinks awake at the words, his world hazy before he focuses on the man over him. “It reminds me there’s a real person entrusting me with their life rather than a lump of meat I’m about to reorganize.” The scalpel catches the light in Schlatt’s hand, and Etoiles still looks awfully far away, sweating and taking long blinks. “And in this instance, I would like to see the look on your face.”

“You’re not the Chesapeake Ripper,” Etoiles manages, his voice thick and hoarse.

“You got inside my mind, Etoiles.” Schlatt clicks his tongue. “It’s only fair that I get inside your belly.” His eyes light up like he’s remembered something, and he gestures to Bad. “This is Bad Halo, who of course, you know. He will be assisting me today — or assisting you — by manually pumping the ventilator should you stop breathing.”

“Oh my God,” Etoiles croaks in return. He watches as the scalpel slices down the expanse of his belly, and Schlatt uses retractors to keep it open. His head spins.

“The real Chesapeake Ripper keeps surgical trophies,” Schlatt hums. “I’m going to leave him a gift. In fact, I’ll be leaving a gift basket.” 

Bad watches in horror as Schlatt gets to work with his tools. His head is spinning, his stomach is swooping. He is going to vomit, he is sure. And yet, he doesn’t. Not even as Schlatt takes out guts, and drops them into a silver bowl, bloody and crimson. He takes out the kidney next, and the blood stains his gloves. 

Schlatt sighs in something like appreciation. “You know, it truly is wonderful how many organs the body can offer up before it begins to suffer.” He drops the kidney into the bowl, and Etoiles’ eyes flutter when he catches a glimpse of it. His head rolls to the side, eyes rolling back. 

Schlatt frowns and slaps him on the cheek. “Come on, stay awake, Etoiles!” He hovers his hands over him, tapping them together. “I need you to hold a few things.”

The road rolls past them, and Wilbur presses his head against the window as he watches the headlights clear the way. It’s only slightly bumpy, and they haven’t turned on the sirens yet. The night is dark, and he doesn’t really know what to make of that. He listens to the wind outside.

“—wait outside.” Phil orders, but his voice is gentle.

Wilbur hums, and nods. It’s a weak sound. He blinks slowly, and leans his head back against the car seat. “That’s probably best.”

“You look like hell, Wil,” he whispers.

“I feel like hell,” he shoots back. “Actually, no, I feel … fluid. Like I’m spilling.” He cups a hand over his forehead. “I must’ve come down with something. Fuck, I hope it’s not contagious.”

“This work that we do,” Phil starts out slowly, glancing towards him, “will compromise your immune system, if you allow it.” His chest is aching with worry, because Wilbur really does look like hell. His hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat, and he looks so incredibly tired. “You’ve got to keep things in perspective. You’ve got to keep yourself in perspective.”

“Well, myself is a little hazy at the moment,” Wilbur mumbles.

“You need to start taking better care of yourself,” Phil sighs. He tries to keep his voice level and firm, because Wilbur is not his son, and Phil knows what would happen if he even thought of him that way. Phil doesn’t want to find another severed arm.

“Build up my resistance?” Wilbur hums.

“You can’t take it all in,” Phil insists. “You’ve got to let go of as much as you can.”

“It’s hard to shake off something that’s already under your skin,” he slurs.

When they get there, Wilbur does as told. He waits outside, in the midst of the silent police cars. He watches Phil load his rifle, and signal the officers. They head in a single file line to the observatory. Wilbur follows for a little, then stops at a shift in the air. 

He hears a huff. He turns his head carefully. A stag stands waiting to his left. Wilbur gets the helpless urge to follow it. Before he can think otherwise, his feet are carrying him across the snow–covered grass into the woods. He follows it down into a car, where he clambers into the backseat.

Schlatt watches the policemen file into the observatory. He knows what they will find. Etoiles will be holding his own organs, and he will still be breathing. He stuffs his hands into his pocket, and brushes through the wood onto an empty road. He clambers into his car, and switches the key in the ignition. He glances into the rearview mirror, and —

Oh, man.

“I was expecting the Chesapeake Ripper,” Schlatt hums. He twists into the backseat, where an agent he knows from TattleCrime.com sits in his backseat. “Or are you he?”

Wilbur is slumped back, his gun wavering in his hand. But the barrel is still pointed towards him. His lips twitch into a frown, and the words get caught in his throat for a moment. His eyelids are drooping. “Turn around. Don’t look at me.” His mind is tripping back at the sight of Cucurucho in the front seat, staring at him with pale eyes. 

Schlatt turns around as told, fixing his hands on the wheel. “You are looking a little peaky, Mr. Soot, if you don’t mind my saying. I may be crazy, but you look ill.”

“Drive,” Wilbur grits out.

Wilbur shoves Cucurucho up the steps to Quackity’s house, where he slams his palm against the doorbell. He holds Cucurucho in front of him, gun pressed to the back of his head. He feels dizzy. He looks up to Quackity when the door opens. Quackity meets his drooping eyes, and steps aside. Wilbur pushes Schlatt into the dining room, forcing him into a seat at the head of the table. He comes to stand near Quackity at the side, his gun never leaving his hand. He lets his arm drop to his side. 

“I’m having a hard time thinking,” Wilbur admits shakily. His eyes are distant, and he doesn’t look at Quackity. His eyes are scanning the floor, and he is trembling. “I feel like I’m losing my mind,” he mutters. “I–I don’t know what’s real.”

Quackity does what he knows how to do. He peels back the sleeve of his suit to look at his watch. “It’s 7:27 PM.” Wilbur flinches, his lips twitching, eyes screwing shut. “You’re in Baltimore, Maryland. You name is Wilbur S —”

“No, I don’t care who I am!” Wilbur shouts, shaking his head feverishly. He points the gun to Schlatt once more, raising it slowly. Schlatt watches the barrel, and his breath catches in his throat, for just a moment. Wilbur’s breathing is unsteady and shallow, his chest heaving. “Just … tell me if he’s real.”

Quackity tilts his head, keeping a watchful eye on the gun. He looks at Schlatt. He looks at his copycat. “Who do you see, Wil?” He asks gently, and his fingers twitch.

“Cucurucho,” he confesses, like a sin. “Who do you see?”

“I don’t see anybody,” Quackity says. Schlatt’s brows furrow together, but he remains silent.

“No, he’s right there,” he whimpers, eyebrows upturning, face scrunching up. His breathing is coming in fast and heavy

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, hecan’tbreathehcan’tbreathe —

“There’s nobody —”

“No, you’re lying,” he gasps.

“We’re alone,” Quackity insists. “You came here alone. Do you remember coming here?”

“No, please don’t lie to me!” Wilbur sobs, and the tears go spilling down his face as he staggers back into the wall like he’s been shot.

“Cucurucho is dead.” Quackity’s voice is like a mantra. It repeats the same thing over and over, his voice careful in how it rises and falls. “You killed him. You watched him die.”

“What’s happening to me?” He cries, and covers his eyes with his hand.

“Wil,” he calls out gently, but firmly. “Wilbur, you’re having an episode. I want you to hand me the gun. I want you to …” Wilbur’s hand falls from his face to his side, and his eyes roll back, his body trembling violently in seizes. “Wil?”

Wilbur doesn’t respond. Quackity places a hand on his shoulder and puts his hand over the gun. He holds his finger to remind him, in some way, that he is there. He takes the gun from him, and sets it on the fireplace as the man continues to pant harshly and shake. He tilts Wilbur’s head up with gentle hands, and looks at his eye, and how he can only see the whites of it. He presses his hand against his forehead, cupping Wilbur’s jaw. 

Quackity holds Wilbur’s face, watching as the trembling calms down. He sighs, and steps back, taking the gun into his hands. “He’s had a mild seizure.”

Schlatt hums, and tilts his head back. “That doesn’t seem to bother you.”

Quackity looks up, his gaze sharp. “I said it was mild.” He sits down at the foot of the table, directly across from Schlatt. “Are you the man who claimed to be the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“Why do you say ‘claimed’?” He asks.

“Because you’re not,” Quackity says, like it’s obvious. He puts his finger into the trigger and spins the gun on the desk. Stray locks of his hair fall over his face. “You know you’re not, and you don’t know much more about who you are beyond that ideal.”

“Are you the Ripper?”

“It’s a terrible thing to have your identity taken from you,” he sighs, instead of answering. 

“Well, I’m taking it back, one piece at a time,” Schlatt lifts his chin up proudly. His face cracks into a grin, and he laughs. “You should see the pieces I got out of my psychiatrist.”

“Jaiden Plays was one of your psychiatrists, too,” Q hums. Schlatt nods, and Quackity looks towards Wilbur. Wilbur, who still stands trembling. He stops spinning the gun on his finger, and clasps his hands together. “I can tell you where to find her,” he decides.

“Wilbur, can you hear me?” Quackity’s voice fades into Wilbur, just as kind as he remembers. Wilbur’s eyes flutter, but they don’t open. His hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his body is slumped. He’s exhausted. There are hands holding his jaw — Quackity’s hands. “Repeat after me, okay? My name is Wilbur Soot.”

“My name is Wilbur Soot,” he whispers, barely audible. He leans into the hands on his face, into Quackity entirely. He sways slightly when the man steps away.

“Raise both of your arms,” Quackity requests softly. Wilbur raises them slightly, and Q’s hands hover under his arms. “More.” 

Wilbur holds his hands up like he’s under arrest. 

“That’s good,” he praises, and guides Wilbur to let them drop to his sides with his hands on his inner elbows. Wilbur holds onto his arms, fingers twisting into the fabric. “I know you might not feel like it, but I need you to smile.”

Wilbur stares at him for a few moments, blank. He heaves a sigh, and the corners of his lips twitch up into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Good,” Quackiy hums. “It wasn’t a stroke.” He guides Wilbur to sit down with his hands on his arms. After they sit, and Q moves to pull away, Wilbur only holds on tighter. Quackity doesn’t resist. “You might’ve had a seizure. Tell me the last thing you remember.”

Wilbur startles, and turns his head to the table. Then he flinches, and presses a hand to his head, face scrunching up in a grimace. “I was with Cucurucho,” he mumbles.

Quackity reaches out and holds Wilbur’s face in his hands. As expected, the man does nothing but lean into him and hum quietly. Quackity presses a hand to his forehead, pushing beneath his curls. “You have a fever. You were hallucinating. You thought he was alive, here in the room with you.”

“I saw him,” he insists weakly. He brings his hands up to clutch at Quackity’s wrists, wanting to keep at least one hand against his cheek. He thinks of it as a grounding gesture — or, he tells himself that.

“He’s a delusion disguising reality,” Quackity says. “Don’t let that let you slip away. You killed Cucurucho once. You can find a way to kill him again.” 

He rises to his feet, and Wilbur reaches out to him before letting his hand drop while Quackity’s back is still turned. “Where are you going?” He asks, and tries not to sound totally pathetic.

“Schlatt is still at large,” Quackity says and shrugs on his jacket. “He mutilated Etoiles. They found him clinging to life. I’m worried about Jaiden.”

“Jaiden,” he repeats softly, and pushes himself to his feet.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Wilbur.” Quackity winds around the table once more and holds him by the shoulders, forcing him to sit once more. Wilbur holds onto his jacket, eyes pleading. He has no choice but to let go as Quackity leaves. “You’re in no state to go anywhere but the hospital. I’ll call Phil and tell him where you are.”

And the both of them are fully aware that the gun is still on the table.

When Quackity spins back around, the back door is open, and the gun is gone. He slides off his jacket, and smiles to himself. He knew Wilbur would go running.

Wilbur stumbles through the snow, and in the distance a small house sits with its lights on. Like a ship on the sea. And there is a man standing, looking into the window. The field is open, and Wilbur nearly trips on his feet anyway. He fishes out the gun from his holster with fumbling hands.

He comes to stand beside Cucurucho, the gun at his side, finger twitching against the trigger.

“I don’t know if I will ever be myself again,” Schlatt confesses, his breath materializing in the air. “I don’t know if I’ve got any ‘self’ left over. I spent so long thinking I was him that it’s gotten really hard to remember who I was when I wasn’t.”

“Who are you now?” Wilbur asks, turning his head to him with heaving breaths.

Cucurucho looks at him, too, with pale and dead eyes. “Now I’m you. We’re both here, looking at her, just those kinds of people that shouldn’t be in a relationship. It’s hard to be with another person when you can’t get out of your own head.”

“I want to get out,” Wilbur croaks.

“Yeah, well, we all want things we can’t have,” he mutters. “But if I kill her like the Ripper would kill her, then maybe I can understand him.” Cucurucho looks at him, his gaze cruel. “I wonder if you would finally understand what you’ve become.”

Wilbur shakes his head feverishly. His hands tighten on the gun. “I won’t let you — no, no, no, I won’t let —”

Jaiden flinches at the sound of the gunshot ringing through the woods. She runs to the window, and sees the body on the ground first. Schlatt’s body on the ground, blood staining the snow. And then she sees Wilbur, who is swaying on his feet, and then collapsing onto the cold ground.

“They will be sewing up Etoiles until the morning. That is, if he makes it through the night,” Phil huffs. He turns to look at Quackity sitting at the desk, glass held gingerly in his hands.

“At least Wilbur is in one piece,” Quackity whispers. He leans forward with his glass as Phil pours them a whiskey. “His temperature is at 105. White blood cell count is twice as normal, and they still can’t identify the source of his infection.”

“They will,” Phil insists and takes a swig from his whiskey.

Quackity hums. “You seem confident.”

“I am,” he says. “Even with a temperature of 105 degrees, Wil brought Schlatt down. I told you, he’ll be fine.”

“Phil,” he sighs, and purses his lips, thinking for a moment. “I recommend suspending his license to carry firearms.”

“Well, we’re just going to have a difference of opinion about who Wilbur is, doctor,” Phil mutters.

“I know who Wilbur is,” he assures, like he’s been offended. “Wilbur knows who he is.”

“Yes.”

“But our experiences shape us, Phil.” Phil takes his glass into his hand again, and watches how the drink moves with it. “How is this experience going to shape Wilbur?”

Quackity sits by Wilbur’s bed at the hospital. The lighting is dim, and he knows he shouldn’t be here. Wilbur is a patient. And still, he finds himself here. Wilbur is lying on his back in the hospital gown, one arm by his side, the other flung over his stomach.

Quackity reaches over, and intertwines their fingers. He squeezes gently, and uses his free hand to brush stray hairs out of Wilbur’s face.

Wilbur blinks groggily in the motions of waking. “Hm?” He mumbles, leaning his head over.

Quackity takes his hand away. Or, he tries to, but Wil doesn’t let his fingers fall open when Q tries to retract it. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mhm.” And just like that, Wilbur’s eyes are shut once more. His body slumps into the mattress with a heavy sigh, chest falling. The monitor beeps steadily. Quackity smiles to himself.

Quackity looks down to his feet, and crosses one leg over the other. “Wilbur Soot is troubled,” he murmurs.

“And that troubles you?” Cellbit asks, tilting his head. “Beyond a professional concern for a patient?”

He takes a deep breath, and stares out of the window by Cellbit’s head. “I see his madness and I want to contain it, like an oil spill.”

“Oil is valuable,” he points out. “What value does Wilbur Soot’s madness have for you?”

He tilts his head. “Are you suggesting I’m more fascinated with the madness than I am with the man?”

“Are you?”

“No.” Cellbit doesn’t believe him. It is adamant in the way his shoulders slump and he leans back slightly. “He realized early on that he saw things differently than other people. Felt things differently.”

“So did you,” Cellbit hums.

“I see myself in Wil,” he admits, licking his suddenly dry lips.

Cellbit nods, and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Do you see yourself in his madness?”

“Madness can be a medicine for the modern world,” he deflects the question easily. “If you take it in moderation, it’s beneficial.”

“You overdose and it can have unfortunate side effects,” Cellbit finishes.

“Side effects can be temporary,” he protests. “They can be a boost to our psychological immune systems to help us fight the existential crises of normal life.”

Cellbit tilts his head, and smiles fondly, almost imperceptible. “Wilbur Soot doesn’t present you with problems from normal life.” 

“No. He doesn’t.”

“What does he present you with?”

Quackity sighs, his lips parting. He stares back out of the window. “The opportunity for friendship. Something more, maybe.”

“He is still your patient, Quackity,” Cellbit reminds him. “Where Wilbur Soot is concerned, if you feel the impulse to step forward, you must force yourself to take a step back.”

“And just watch him lose his mind?” He asks sourly.

“Sometimes that’s all we can do.”

Chapter Text

Wilbur, despite his state, manages to get out of bed. He still feels tired, and his movements are weighed by lead. He wraps a fluffy robe around himself, and his bare feet pad along the floor, IV rolling beside him. He pushes open the door to where they are holding Pomme. She sleeps comfortably inside the glass tube. Still, she blinks awake at the sound of the door creaking open.

She shifts to lie on her side. Her lips form around a word, and Wilbur furrows his brows. He leans towards the machine and all its buttons. He smiles at her, “You look better.”

“Do I look alive?” She asks, her lips curling up into a smile.

Wilbur nods. “You look pretty,” he hums.

Pomme smiles a little wider and shrugs. “It must be all the oxygen.” Wilbur laughs with her, and she props her head up on her hand. “Did they say what’s wrong with you?”

He shakes his head. “No, just the fever. They’re trying to find out what else.”

“They won’t find anything,” she mutters. “They’ll keep looking, take tests, keep giving false diagnoses, bad meds. They won’t find out what’s wrong. They’ll just know that you’re wrong. I hope you have good insurance.”

He spares her a puff of air from his nose. “So do I.”

“They’re going to give me shock treatment,” she sighs. “It’s called Electroconvulsive Therapy. Shock treatment sounds nicer, doesn’t it?”

Wilbur nods, and smiles briefly. “People who have what you have recover with shock therapy.”

“You know how many times I’ve been told I could recover with treatment?” Pomme frowns. She looks at Wilbur, and blinks rapidly. “They said I might remember what I did. I don’t want to remember,” she admits.

Wilbur leans a little closer to the glass. “You know what you did, Pomme.”

She shakes her head. “But I don’t remember it. It just feels like a horrible dream where I killed my friend.”

He narrows his eyes, and tilts his head. She didn’t mention the doctor. “Do you dream about killing anybody else?”

“I dreamed that you killed the doctor.” She looks down and shakes her head softly. “But I couldn’t see your face.”

Wilbur wakes up slowly, his vision fuzzy with the remnants of sleep. He listens to the sound of tupperware lids clicking open. The first thing he sees is Quackity dressed in one of his suits, a nice trench coat over his shoulder. Wilbur watches him open the tupperwares.

“Smells delicious,” Wilbur sighs, and tilts his head back against the pillows, because his neck hurts.

“Silkie chicken in a broth,” Quackity smiles. “A black–boned bird prized in China for its medicinal values since the 7th century.” Wilbur mumbles something and pushes himself to sit up with his elbows, groaning softly. “Wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates, and star anise.”

Wilbur rubs his eye with the back of his hand, and squints. “You made me chicken soup?”

Quackity looks up. “Yes.” He takes the tupperwares over to a small table by the window and reaches for the blinds. 

“Oh, no, keep those closed,” Wilbur grumbles. “‘S too bright outside, Quack.”

He laughs, but nods and helps Wilbur get out of the bed. They shuffle over to the table, and Wil lowers himself into a seat. It’s like the first time they ate together. Quackity is dressed nicely, and Wilbur is still in his pajamas. The lighting is dim, and they are eating out of tupperwares. Quackity pours Wilbur some water.

“The nurses told me you’ve been wandering, Wil,” Quackity hums and watches as Wilbur practically scarfs down the soup.

“I was awake … and wandering with purpose … and good intentions.” The pauses are full of the man swallowing down his food.

“You visited Pomme, didn’t you?” He guesses.

“She’s my support group,” he reasons through a mouthful.

“And I hope you’re hers,” Q says. “Nothing more isolating than mental illness.”

Wilbur pauses at that. He puts down his spoon, and leans back in his seat. His arms fall into his lap, and he heaves a sigh. “The hallucination, the loss of time, sleepwalking … Could that have … all … just been a fever?” He asks, rubbing at his mouth.

Quackity blows on his soup before swallowing it down. “Fevers can be symptoms of dementia. Dementia can be a symptom of many things happening in your body and mind that can’t be ignored any longer.”

Wilbur nods and looks down to his feet. He thinks he might’ve lost his appetite, because his chest suddenly feels tight like a fist. “Does Phil know?” He asks, his voice just above a whisper.

“That this could be more than a fever? No, I haven’t told him,” he shakes his head.

He blinks. “Shouldn’t you?”

“Not until we know for certain,” he replies. “What we have to do now is continue to support and monitor your recovery. Speaking of, how is Pomme’s recovery?” He gestures to Wilbur’s food with a raised eyebrow, and Wilbur reaches for his spoon again.

Wilbur hums. “I don’t think she wants to recover. She’s afraid to remember what she did.”

Quackity looks up from over the lip of his coffee. “I can’t say I blame her.”

Wilbur can’t help the sting in his eyes when he steps into Pomme’s room, only to be met with firefighters and a charred body on the observation table. Phil is there, and he doesn’t look at him. He lets out a shaky breath, and Phil stands by his side.

“The hospital speculates that it was a short–circuit that started the fire,” Phil explains to him gently.

Charlie speaks up from where he is peering at the machine. “Unit looks well maintained. No exposed wiring.” He rights himself and looks over his shoulder to them. “There was a kid in Italy in one of these things. A spark of static electricity from his pajamas set it off. Two cubic yards of oxygen suddenly became two cubic yards of fire.”

“Is it possible that she set the fire herself?” Phil asks.

“She wasn’t wearing her grounding bracelet, which prevents the build–up of static electricity,” Roier says, and points to the charred thing in his hand.

“She took it off,” Wilbur mutters.

“She was facing two murder charges,” Phil reasons.

Wil shakes his head. “No, she wasn’t suicidal, Phil. Sh–She was sick. I was here. I spoke to her.”

Everybody looks up at that. They stare at him with raised eyebrows and gawking faces. Phil turns to him, face firm. “Why were you here?”

“Because I know how she felt,” he whispers.

Phil sighs. “She’s a murder suspect. She tried to kill you. Your trying to be her friend impacts the case against her.”

“Well, the case against her doesn’t fucking matter anymore, does it?” Wilbur snaps. He mutters an apology soon after and swipes his sleeve across his nose. “I can’t — I’m sorry, I can’t be here right now.” He shoves his way through the officers with muttered apologies. Phil watches him leave with narrowed eyes.

Bad lies out files of the girls that had been victim to Cucurucho in front of Tallulah. “We could use the headliners of each article I wrote about the murders as chapter headings,” he offers. “The chapters themselves could be you telling your story. Where you were and what you were thinking when, one by one, eight girls just like you all over Minnesota were disappearing.” 

“What are we going to call it?” Tallulah asks as she stops her pacing around the table, crossing her arms over her chest.

Bad looks up. “I was thinking of The Last Victim, but there’s already a book about serial killers titled that.”

“Was it a bestseller?” She hums.

“Absolutely,” he chuckles. “Especially after the guy who wrote it killed himself.”

Tallulah blinks and lowers herself into a chair with Bad. “Wasn’t really my dad’s last victim anyway, was I?”

Bad tilts his head. “Who was?”

“Tilin,” she answers.

“Tilin was killed by the copycat. So was Cassie Boyle.”

“I still blame my dad,” Tallulah interjects sharply.

Bad leans forward, narrowing his eyes curiously. “Do you blame him for Finnigan Boyle’s death?”

Tallulah huffs. “I blame Finnigan Boyle for Finnigan Boyle’s death. He killed Tilin. He got what was coming to him.”

He shakes his head. “Finnigan Boyle didn’t kill Tilin.”

“Then who did?” She replies sharply.

“Better question is: who killed Finnigan?” Tallulah stops herself from flinching as she remembers the blade sinking into Finnigan’s gut and dragging down. Her gaze slackens. “Finn Boyle was just a dumb kid who was really messed up because his sister was murdered. He wasn’t a killer. I’ve interviewed enough killers to know one when I see one.”

She grimaces. “What gives them away?”

“A very specific brand of hostility,” he answers. He smiles too wide and fiddles with one of the files nearest to him. “I see it every time I look at Wilbur Soot.”

“He did kill my dad,” Tallulah points out.

Bad sighs. “As far as I’m concerned, he killed Finnigan Boyle as well. He and Phil Watson told everybody that Finn was the copycat, and then somebody murdered him for it.”

Tallulah blinks, and shakes her head. “You don’t really think he did it.”

Wilbur blinks awake, rising from his bed. The air is cold around him, and the dogs are curled up on their beds. He sees Pomme before anything else, and she moves in glitches. Like she’s lagging, somehow. Once he wakes, she pulls open the door, and looks over her shoulder. Her face glitches in and out.

Wilbur follows, and he doesn’t find the pull hard to resist. He steps outside, and the cold air rushes to greet him. He shivers, and watches as she stands in the field.

“See?” Pomme rasps. “You see?”

Wilbur flinches back as the antlers pierce through her chest. The blood stains them crimson, and her body lights into flames. He stands, watching as the fire makes the air glow orange and blows his hair back with the sudden ignition.

From the flames, a stag emerges, head shaking off the remaining fire.

Wilbur jolts awake in the hospital bed.

Phil tilts his head up at the door, expecting Baghera or Charlie or Roier. Instead, he is met with Wilbur Soot, dressed in warm attire. He pauses in the motion of assorting a file, his glasses perched on his nose. He frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“I checked myself out of the hospital,” Wilbur states.

“Well, check yourself back in.” Phil turns to slide the file into his drawer.

“The fever broke.”

“I don’t care.”

“Pomme didn’t commit suicide, and whatever happened to her wasn’t an accident,” Wilbur interrupts, trying to get Phil to let him stay. After all, every time it has something to do with a case, Phil’s attention isn’t hard to grab.

Still, Phil turns on his heels towards him. “I’m gonna have Roier come down here and stick a thermometer in your mouth, and if you’ve got a temperature over 99 —”

“She was murdered, Phil,” Wilbur hisses.

Phil pauses. He takes off his glasses, slams down the file, and throws his glasses on top of it. One hand goes to his hip, the other to his desk, and Wilbur knows that he’s won. “By who?”

“By whoever killed Dr. Sutcliffe,” he says.

“Pomme’s blood was all over him,” Phil protests. “Her DNA was all over him.”

Wilbur steps forward, pointing a finger at him. “She told me there was somebody else there. She couldn’t see his face,” he emphasizes, almost desperately.

“Yeah. Dr. Sutcliffe,” he huffs. “She couldn’t see his face, because she cut it in half!” Wilbur heaves a sigh, and Phil winds around the desk. “Wil, I understand. You’re looking for an explanation, one that makes all of this okay.”

Wilbur staggers away from him, shaking his head and waving his hands in front of his face. “No!” He spits. “No, no, no. I don’t.”

“You —”

“That is not what I want!” Wilbur shouts over him, jabbing into his chest with an angry finger. “Listen, something went wrong, and we’ll never know what it is, but for all the doctors she saw, for all the help she received, she was fighting that wrong alone.” 

“There is nothing you can do about that.” Phil grabs his wrist and forces his finger off of him, but doesn’t let him go.

“All her life this woman was misunderstood, and what I can do is make sure her death isn’t,” he snaps and jerks his arm, trying to wrestle it out of the iron grip. “She did not kill herself, and this wasn’t an accident. Let me go, Phil.” He yanks his hand away, only because Phil lets his fingers relax, and holds it to his chest.

Phil looks at him for a moment and nods. Maybe it’s the guilt from holding him too tight, or forcing him into this in the first place. Would Wilbur even have a horrible fever like this if not for Phil bringing him back? “Okay. Fine, we can look into it.”

Wilbur nods, a stiff movement. “Good,” he says, because ‘thank you’ doesn’t feel quite right.

Roier pulls Pomme’s body out of the mortician coolers, black and charred. “We dismantled the oxygen chamber to see if anybody had tampered with it, or even a short circuit, but nothing.”

Phil stands in front of Roier and Charlie, arms crossed. “So what started the fire?”

“Inconclusive, but —”

“Not conclusively inconclusive,” Charlie interrupts. “Found this.” He hands Phil a small, clear tube. “I thought it might’ve been equipment, but the mass spectrometer said it was celluloid plastic. And they don’t use plastic in those things.”

“Right, right, right,” Wilbur speaks up, pointing to the object. “They cause static electricity.”

“Her hair was melted right in there,” Roier points out. “It’s preserved in there like amber.”

Wilbur remembers the comb sitting beside Pomme when she had smiled at him. He opens his mouth to speak. “Could it have been a plastic comb?”

“Well, static charge from a plastic comb in a highly oxygenated environment would be a powerful accelerant,” Charlie hums.

“Anything combustible in there would combust,” Roier adds.

Wilbur points to the object in Phil’s hand with a nod. “You’re holding the murder weapon.”

Phil tilts his head. “Or whatever she used to kill herself, yeah?”

Wilbur holds his hands out to Phil. They spasm into tight fists before he is turning on his heels. He gets several exclaims of protest from Roier when he flings open one of the coolers and yanks out Sutcliffe’s body. He points at the corpse. “Whoever killed Dr. Sutcliffe wanted to kill him how Pomme killed her victim, but … but not exactly how. Correct?” He turns to Roier for support, gesturing to him with an open hand.

Roier nods hesitantly. “Pomme carved up her victim’s face. Sutcliffe was, uh, nearly decapitated at the jaw. I mean …”

“So she went further the second time,” Phil reasons out. “Serial killers often do that.”

“She was copied,” Wilbur’s words come out like he’s barely restraining a shout. “Like—Like how whoever killed Tilin and Cassie Boyle wanted to copy how Cucurucho killed his victims.”

Phil holds his hands up. “Wait a minute. Are you saying that Dr. Sutcliffe was killed by Cucurucho’s copycat?” Roier and Charlie turn their heads to him.

Wilbur takes in a shaky breath. His mind is reeling back to Cassie and Tilin, their bodies pinned onto antlers. He shudders, and nods. “And so was Pomme. Be … Because he thinks she saw his face.” He sways on his feet, his eyes wide and empty.

“You said Finnigan Boyle was the copycat,” Phil says. “His blood was on one of the victim’s. He’s dead.”

“Then I was wrong,” Wilbur hisses. He turns away and pulls on his hair. “I was — fuck — God, I was so stupid.”

“Could this be more than a fever?” Phil asks Quackity that afternoon in Quackity’s broad office. “Wilbur is connecting murders that previously had no connections.”

“Beyond his involvement in the investigations?” Quackity asks, crossing one leg over the other.

“That’s right,” he nods.

“So you’re wondering if the lines are blurring, or if he’s on to something.”

“I’m wondering all sorts of things,” Phil mutters. He cups a hand across his forehead. “What’s his relationship with Tallulah right now?”

Quackity’s lips twitch into a frown. He leans forward to lie his hand over a notebook, fiddling with a pen. “You think he’s protecting her.”

“He’s been doing it ever since he shot her father,” Phil says. “I just don’t know from what.”

“I can’t imagine that he would hide anything criminal from you,” Q reasons, furrowing his brows. “I’ve only ever known Wilbur as a man striving to be his best self.”

“You haven’t known him that long,” Phil grumbles. Q reels back slightly in offense. He sighs. “But we both know him well enough to know that he hasn’t been himself.”

Quackity swallows. “He needs our support, whether mental illness is involved or not,” he says simply.

“Mental illness,” Phil repeats in a soft whisper, looking down to his feet. He looks back up to him, squinting. “Is it really mental illness, or is it just that his mind works so differently from other people’s that we don’t know what else to call it?”

Quackity heaves a breath, and his eyes dart down. “There are days that Wilbur doesn’t understand his own thinking,” he sighs.

Cellbit opens the door upon hearing the knock. He tries not to flinch at the sight of Phil Watson. He knows who he is, he knows quite well. He had been investigated by Phil with the death of his patient. He protectively stands by the side of the door, his hand clutching the knob.

“Hello, Cellbit,” Phil smiles, and takes off his hat. “I’d like to talk with you about a patient of yours.”

Cellbit nods and steps aside for him to enter. He leads him through the modern house to the sitting area, where he pours them a glass of wine. “Do you have a court order?” He asks, looking over his shoulder at him.

Phil grimaces. “Well, I’d rather not get one if I don’t have to,” he shrugs.

Cellbit stops, and places a hand onto the counter. “So it’s not an official inquiry?” 

“Not yet,” he nods. “I’d hate to damage anybody’s reputation unnecessarily.”

Cellbit steps to the table, holding his glass to his chest. “And whose reputation would that be, Phil?”

“I suspect that Dr. Quackity Nevadas may be withholding pertinent information involving a murder investigation.” Cellbit stops and walks back to the counter, and offers him the bottle of wine. “Oh, no thank you.”

He nods and sets it back down, then lowers himself onto one of the couches. He hooks one ankle over his leg. He hums. “So, he hasn’t confided in the FBI. You are hoping that he’s confided in his psychiatrist and that I will tell you.”

“Yes. I’m concerned about one of the relationships with one of his patients, a man named Wilbur Soot,” Phil clarifies.

Cellbit’s gaze hardens. “Without consent or a court order, I would be in breach of confidentiality.”

Phil nods and takes a small step forward. “Yes, that’s correct. So, if we can’t discuss Dr. Nevadas, perhaps we can discuss you.” Cellbit tilts his head. “You were attacked by a patient not too long ago. I read the report. I know there was a statement given by Dr. Nevadas.”

“The patient who attacked me was a former patient of Dr. Nevadas.”

“And he was referred to you by Dr. Nevadas?”

“Yes.”

“And this patient tried to kill you.”

Cellbit leans his head back, chin tilting up in defiance. “He swallowed his tongue when he was attacking me. That is the only thing that saved my life.”

“Well, thank God for small favors.”

“Yes,” he says carefully. “Thank God, Phil Watson.”

Phil takes a deep breath and brings his hat back up to his head. “You should know there was another attack recently in Dr. Nevadas’s office, involving a patient. Two dead, including the patient.”

Cellbit scoffs, and tilts his head. He drums his fingers on the side of the glass. “That’s not bad psychology, Agent Watson. Putting me in a position to have to defend or not defend Dr. Nevadas.”

“You have to admit he’s had some pretty strange relationships with his patients,” Phil hums.

Cellbit stares at him. “Complicated patients are conducive to complicated relationships.”

Phil heaves a sigh and adjusts his weight on his feet. “How far do you think Dr. Nevadas would go in therapy to treat a patient? Specifically, Wilbur Soot.”

Cellbit places his glass in the sink and leans on the table. “Quackity refers to Wilbur Soot more as a friend than as a patient.”

“Then let me rephrase. How far do you think he would go to treat a friend?”

“Well, he doesn’t have many of them, so I imagine he’d be loyal,” Cellbit replies honestly. “I know that he’s concerned about Soot and wants to help him.”

Phil nods slowly. “Well, I consider Wilbur a friend, and I would like to help him too.”

Cellbit smiles, but it is too wide, and more of a grimace than anything. “I think Soot would do well to have more friends like Quackity Nevadas.”

Phil gathers around the body of Dr. Sutcliffes, and stares at the stretched back jaw. The cut is deep enough to just barely not decapitate the man. He isn’t bothered by it, not by the exposed muscle and rows of teeth. He’s been in this business long enough to be unphased by organs hanging from a tree.

“Wilbur Soot theorized that the copycat killer and Cucurucho were somehow connected.” He approaches Charlie and Roier, who are standing by the covered body of Pomme. “That he may have had insight into Cucurucho’s personal life, that they may have met, known each other, maybe even killed together.”

Roier’s mouth tilts up in distaste. “See I would call that less of a theory, and more of a hypothesis.” 

Charlie nods towards him. “Mhm. Theories require evidence.”

Phil blinks. “Let’s play jeopardy, shall we? The answer is that these people were killed by the copycat, who is connected to Cucurucho. You tell me how.”

Roier gapes, then fixes his face at a look from Phil. “You mean, uh, beyond the application of supposition and unexplained leaps?”

“Yes.”

Charlie pumps his fist. “Oh, I’ve been yearning for a return to the fundamentals of investigation.”

“Right?” Roier grins.

Phil sighs and cups a hand across his forehead. “Where’s Baghera?”

“Jury duty,” Charlie answers at the same time that Roier says, “Disposed in court.”

“Get her out of court,” Phil retorts. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I want to look at train stations, airports, toll roads, hotel details. I want to track Cucurucho’s using license plate capture from security footage. I want to know every phone call he made and where he made them from.”

“I’ll see if I can get R&I to loan us a couple of clerks to help us cross–match,” Charlie offers.

“Good,” Phil nods. “I also want to know every place that he went that wasn’t home. I want to know how long he was there for, I want to know who he was there with, and I want to know the time travel to the nearest missing girl in the Minnesota Shrike Case. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” Roier nods and hurries off with Charlie down the hallway. As soon as they’re out of earshot he leans closer to Charlie and whispers, “Did you write that down?”

Charlie sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth in response.

Tallulah and Wilbur sit across from each other in the Psychiatric Hospital’s room surrounded by plants and natural light through large windows. “You told me that killing somebody was the ugliest thing in the world,” Tallulah says and leans forward like it’s a secret. In response, Wilbur leans forward as well, elbows on his knees.

Wilbur nods, “One of them.”

Tallulah’s gaze drops down briefly. “I finally get it.” She sniffles and swipes her knuckles across her nose. “I thought that there was something wrong with me because I didn’t feel ugly when I killed Finnigan Boyle. I felt good.” Wilbur’s gaze hardens in the slightest, and then softens again as he tilts his head. “That’s why it was so easy to lie about it.”

She turns her head to look at one of the nurses. Wilbur turns his own too. Nobody is looking. Nobody is listening. He turns his head to her, his eyes slowly following. “Like you didn’t do anything wrong,” he adds.

“Did you feel like you did something wrong when you killed my dad?” She asks.

Wilbur’s eyes search her’s. He swallows roughly. “I was terrified,” he admits, his voice hoarse. “And then … I felt powerful.”

“It felt good to get it to end. To stop it all,” Tallulah mutters, and she ducks her head down. “I thought I had finally gotten away from him.”

“Oh, Lulah,” Wilbur sighs sadly. “I don’t think either of us have gotten away from your father.”

Tallulah shakes her head and looks back up to him. “I wish I had killed him. For killing my mom, for killing those girls, for making me …” She trails off and shakes her head, frowning and leaning back.

Wilbur only leans closer, brows furrowing in the slightest. He looks her up and down. “Make you do what, Tallulah?”

“Part of it,” she hisses. “Part of any of it.” She gestures around them with an open palm. “This wasn’t supposed to be my life.” Her bottom lip wobbles, and she meets his eyes. “It feels like my dad’s still out there.”

“In a way, he is,” Wilbur says.

Tallulah frowns. “You mean the copycat.”

Wilbur nods slowly, and parts his lips to speak. “I think I can catch him.” He reaches over and brings her hands into his. “But I’m going to need your help.”

Quackity stands by the window, light spilling onto his broad shoulders and illuminating the dark hairs that spike from his head and down his neck. Cellbit comes down the small stairs into the seating area in his black button up and pants, hair slicked back. Quackity turns to face him, his body going first and his head following. He tilts his head at the nervous look on the man’s face.

“Phil Watson came to see me,” Cellbit blurts simply. He crosses his arms on his chest. “He asked me questions about your relationship with Wilbur Soot.”

“Phil Watson was here?” Quackity says, reeling back slightly.

Cellbit steps closer to him, his eyes narrowed just barely. It is enough to tell Quackity that Cellbit is lacking trust that he once had in him. “He had enough doubt in whatever it is you told him about your patient to feel the need to verify it.”

Quackity nods. “Phil believes that Tallulah was involved in her father’s crimes, and he suspects that Wilbur is protecting her.”

“Evidently, he suspects that you are protecting Wilbur,” Cellbit shoots back. “Are you?”

“Are you asking to be my psychiatrist?”

“I’m stepping out of my role as your psychiatrist and I’m speaking to you now as your colleague,” Cellbit clarifies and lowers himself into a seat. “Whatever you are doing with Wilbur Soot, stop.” 

“Wilbur needs my help,” Quackity hisses.

“You’ve crossed professional lines, Quackity.”

“By making a friend?” 

Cellbit tilts his head. “You cannot function as an agent of friendship for a man who is disconnected  from the concept as a man disconnected from the concept.”

“I’m protecting Wilbur from influence,” Quackity spits. “He has flaws in his intuitive belief about what makes him who he is. I’m trying to help him understand.”

Cellbit looks up at him, eyes shining the light. “You may not be able to.”

He sighs and turns back to the window, working his jaw furiously. He doesn’t look back to Cellbit when he speaks. He will not give him that privilege. “I’m not comfortable telling Wilbur that my very best attempts to help him might fail and that my loyalty to him and his treatment could be compromised.”

“Then tell him something else,” he suggest. His eyes track Quackity as he begins to pace along the front of the window, his hands trembling in his pockets. He takes a deep breath, and peers down at his hands as he starts picking at the skin around his nails. “Agent Watson also asked me about my attack.”

Quackity stops. He turns to face him, face set in careful neutrality. “What did you tell him?”

Cellbit’s eyes grow distant as he stares at the seat in front of him. “Half truths,” he mutters. “That a violent patient swallowed his tongue while he was attacking me. I did not tell him how or why or who was responsible.”

Quackity scoffs, and shakes his head softly. “You protect your patient from Phil Watson, yet I can’t protect mine.”

“Not anymore,” he looks back up to him, gaze cold and unforgiving. “Even the very best psychiatrists have an inherent limitation to their professional abilities.” Cellbit rises to his feet and folds back his sleeve to peer at his watch. He hums. “You might find that difficult to accept.”

“You’re right,” he says. “It is.”

Cellbit’s eyes dart to him for only a moment. He frowns. “You have to maintain boundaries, Quackity.”

Q turns on his heels to face him and takes a slow, careful, step forward. “When the pressures of my personal and professional relationships with Wilbur grow too great, I assure you that I will find a way to relieve them.”

Wilbur hangs his head, elbows on his knees, hands laced together. His hair covers what could be seen of his face. Quackity gets the unexplainable urge to lean forward and brush it away like he has so many times before. But, those times, Wilbur had been resting, and Quackity believes that he is too much of a coward to make that step at any other moment.

“I’m much better now,” Wilbur nods. There is a desperate tone in his voice. “I feel clearer. It had to be the fever. I am finally thinking clearly about the copycat.”

Quackity nods, and thinks to himself for a brief moment before he speaks up. “The murders you’re attributing the copycat to have suspects, whose DNA was found on the victims.”

Wilbur scoffs in disbelief. He places an elbow on one armchair and uses that as leverage to lean back, hands falling on the armrests. “So what?” He shoots.

Quackity narrows his eyes, tilting his head in almost disbelief. “You’re choosing to ignore that?”

“Both of those suspects are dead,” he snaps. He shoves himself up from the seat, and the words come spilling out of him at an almost incoherent rate. “I’m choosing to factor that into my psychological profile of a killer. Pomme followed me into Sutcliffe’s office, she witnessed his murder, she saw the copycat.” He turns away, hands sliding into his pockets.

“Why not kill her then and there?” Quackity asks from where he sits on his chair.

“Well, maybe h–he didn’t have the time. You know, she was an unreliable witness, so that bought him time,” Wilbur explains, but he doesn’t sound like he truly believes that.

“So he framed her for the murder.”

Wilbur’s head snaps up like he’s realized something. “But he wasn’t planning on framing her,” he mutters. He turns to Quackity just barely. The words come out shaky. “He was planning on framing me.” 

Quackity hums. “You believe this is personal?”

“If it wasn’t before, it is now,” Wilbur settles on, stepping in front of Quackity. “This could be somebody at the Bureau, someone in the police department, someone who knows the crimes and has access to the investigations.”

“Someone like you,” he offers.

Wilbur shakes his head, making a sound that sounds like choking. “There’ll be evidence.” He steps closer, until Quackity has to crane his neck to look up at him from where he sits. “I found a pattern, and now I’m going to reconstruct his thinking.”

“How do you intend to do that?” Quackity asks.

“By taking Tallulah back to Minnesota. Start where the copycat started when he called Cucurucho.”

Quackity’s mind reels. If Wilbur does this, there will be no going back. If Wilbur does this, he might know. He takes a deep breath, quickly regaining himself. He looks up to him carefully, speaking as calmly as he can muster. “Wilbur, this is venturing into the paranoid. I can’t allow you to pull Tallulah into your delusion.”

“This isn’t a delusion!” He snaps. “I’m not hallucinating. I haven’t lost time. I am awake and this is fucking real.”

Charlie and Roier present their findings to Phil in his office, and Charlie shuffles on his feet nervously. He simply can’t help it around Phil, the head of the Bureau, who looks like he can snap his neck within a couple of seconds. Phil gestures to the chairs across from him, and they settle in carefully. 

“We found train tickets purchased by Cucurucho,” Charlie states.

“Tickets?” Phil repeats. “Plural?”

“Two,” Roier adds. “From the same train line that his victim was using.”

“Elise Nichols?”

Charlie nods. “Found more instances of Cucurucho interacting with the victims.” He flips through what they’ve written down. “Dinner reciepts for two, and two hotel rooms near the same campuses. So, we know he wasn’t traveling alone.”

Phil’s brows press together. “He was with his daughter?”

Roier nods hesitantly. “They were both registered for the same orientation program at St. Cloud state on the Mississippi, which is where the Nichols girl was going to school.”

“Tallulah attended orientations at every school where a girl was abducted by the Minnesota Shrike within days of the kidnapping,” Charlie says.

“She was with him when he was choosing those girls,” Roier adds.

“She was the bait,” Phil mutters. “She was helping him choose the girls.”

“The connection between the copycat killer and Cucurucho might’ve been family,” Roier says.

“She killed Cassie Boyle to impress her father?” Phil inquires. “She kills Tilin in memoriam, then kills Finnigan Boyle to cover her tracks?”

“Then why kill Dr. Sutcliffe?” Roier shoots back. “Or Pomme?”

“Because she’s got a taste for it now,” Phil answers. Then, he pauses. “Or … she wants to impress somebody new.”

Bad has easily learned to recognize people by their footsteps. As he gathers up his things, he hears the loud click of shoes behind him, coming to stand in front of him. He looks up briefly, confirming his suspicion before he speaks. “Hello, Agent Waston,” he hums. He was right.

Phil nods, and two officers come following behind him. “Bad Halo.”

“You look like you’re here to arrest somebody,” he remarks. “Is it Tallulah or Wilbur Soot?”

Phil tilts his head. “Wilbur was here?”

“Oh, then it was Tallulah,” Bad corrects himself easily.

“Where is she?” He asks.

“One of the girls said Special Agent Soot snuck her out,” Bad shrugs. He tries to kill the smile that threatens to form. “I don’t know why he would feel the need to be sneaky. He is registered as one of her guardians.”

Phil stares at him for a moment, sizing him up. He turns to the officers, and nods. The officers file out of the room, and they are left alone. They sit across from each other, and Phil drums his fingers on the wooden table. “How’s the book coming along?”

Bad shrugs loosely, with a soft hum. “There’s plot holes.”

Phil gestures to him with an open palm. “Tell me how you’re filling them in.”

Bad looks down to the table, then back to the Agent. “Did Tallulah kill Finn Boyle?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Tallulah is one of those very smart girls who hasn’t quite figured out that very smart girls grow up and know all the moves they’re making when they’re trying to hide something,” Bad sighs. He stares at Phil and narrows his eyes. “What is Wilbur Soot trying to hide?”

Phil barrels past Quackity at the door with a brief apology. “Sorry to barge in on you, Doctor, but it couldn’t wait.” Quackity blinks, stunned, and shuts the door, frowning slightly. Phil marches through the office down towards the desk before he spins around on his feet. “Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on between Wilbur Soot and Tallulah?” He blurts.

Quackity chooses his words carefully, approaching Phil with even breaths and slow steps. “Wilbur has been a victim to unusual and irrational thoughts.”

“Has he acted on them?” Phil asks, raising a brow.

“Not that I’m aware of. Or, he’s aware of, for that matter,” Quackity shakes his head. He heaves a sigh. “But he has experienced periods of lost time.”

“Yes, I’ve seen him confused at crime scenes.” Phil’s voice is loud and strained, like he’s barely holding back an anger of some sort. Maybe it’s because Quackity likes to talk like he knows Wilbur better than Phil does. “I’ve seen him disoriented.”

“He may have been confused because he was waking up,” he explains. “He might not have known where he was, or how he got there.”

“Waking up?” He repeats.

“From a dissociated personality state,” he elaborates. “He would appear perfectly normal, and then not remember a thing. But a fractured part of him would.”

“How long have you been aware of this?” He snaps.

“He only recently started discussing these episodes with me,” he replies.

“Well, unless recently means just before I walked into your fucking office, you failed to mention anything to me,” Phil shouts.

“I was trying to determine if it was trauma and stress from the work he’s doing for you, or mental illness,” Quackity retorts. “I thought it wise to be sure before making any kind of claim on Wilbur’s sanity.”

Phil sighs, and his hands fall onto his hips. He hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s taken Tallulah. Do you have any idea where this might be going?”

“No,” he lies.

“We have evidence that she was involved in some of her father’s crimes. We just don’t know how involved. Is it possible that Wilbur knew what she was doing? Is that why he’s protecting her?”

Quackity’s gaze hardens. He stares out to the wall, and the window. For moment, he debates it. Does he betray Wilbur, throw away the man’s life with ease? Without this, Phil could know. He could figure out exactly what is happening here. Quackity’s freedom could be thrown away within a moment. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“There’s something you should hear,” he mutters.

Phil watches as Quackity fishes out a recorder from a small box by the bookshelf. He slides it between them onto the center of the desk. He hits play.

“How did you feel when you saw Tilin’s body?” Quackity asks.

“Guilty,” Wilbur answers.

“Because you couldn’t save her?”

“Because it felt like I killed her.”

Quackity stops the audio. Any further could ruin the illusion he is attempting to create. Phil stares at the device. They both choose to ignore the shine of his eyes in the light. Phil’s fingers twitch into fists by his side. “Where was Wilbur the night Tilin was killed?”

“He was supposed to be in his hotel room,” Quackity says, and swallows. “I knocked on his door. He didn’t answer.”