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Summary
“Slime,” Quackity murmurs, his voice papery as his throat remembers. He’s only just been put back together, all the pieces of him getting reacquainted. “I didn’t…” I didn’t think I’d see you again. I don’t know if you’re here to kill me. I don’t know what it means that you did, or if you will again. “How long has it been?”
“I pushed you off of the balcony twelve and one half hours ago,” Slime says. His face is still and expressionless, his voice subdued.
Quackity’s heart is beating fast, a panicked bird inside his chest.
or
Quackity, Slime, and the question of what you leave behind.