Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Since the prison break Techoblade helped to happen, his life has been… Normal. Following a comfortable pattern he doesn't really care enough to change. Wake up, have breakfast, feed and care for the animals and mobs around his farm and lands, guarantee that the villagers in his basement do not try at any cost to start a revolution -listen. He might  be an anarchist, but he's also lazy as hell-, lunch break, ignore his chat as much as he can, talk to Philza, be a father figure to Ghostboo and a… type of grandfather figure and also the only piglin Michael has any contact with. Have dinner, and sleep. All day. Everyday. No exception… Until…
Until that damn chest showed up out nowhere, right at his front door. And considering the great, if not obvious, possibility of being a trap. There it stayed.

Techno had no plans of moving it any soon, even less to try and open it. If it was anything important, the person who put it there would've talked directly to him. Tommy barging his door down, Niki to have lunch, Eret for a tea, and Phil would have came at any fucking hour because “I'm your dad, more respect”. And because there was no one else in this shitty place that interacts with him… It shouldn’t be important, so yes. The chest stayed where it first appeared for a minimum of a week, snow now covering it, and every day a different note from Philza calling his ass out to get rid of it already.

Until finally he had no more choice than to actually see what is inside, otherwise Phil would “accidentally” let his villagers escape. That old bird brain… Then like that, Technoblade found himself looking annoyed to that damn chest at two in the motherfucking morning. Philza was sound asleep from the looks of his cabin and lack of crows flying around. Just like everything else in this Kristin forsaken server should be, asleep. The voices mumbled in his mind, thankfully they were calmer than usual, maybe it was because he had been awake for a long while by now and they probably were equally tired

“Look chat, it’ll be quick, alright? Just a quick peek, if it blows up in our faces, we’ll just blame Phil for it, kay’? Yeah perfect...” Technoblade mumbled under his breath, kneeling down and putting his hand over the chest’s lid. Mentally counting to three, or was it chat? Meh, whatever. And at three dot ninety million, he opened quickly and closed again, jumping back waiting for an explosion…. Explosion that never came.”Eh?” there it was, the chest intact and exactly as it was seconds before. “Oh. Bruh… It’s just a normal chest? What a boomer” and the piglin walks back towards the chest, one more time opening and seeing its content… Just “a letter? are ya’ kidding me?”

Letter letter LOL LUL AHAHAHA Blood God afraid of a paper Technofail Technofail

“Shut it, chat.” mumbled Technoblade before grabbing that piece of paper, checking it. A normal envelope really. A bit too fancy? A red seal with a coat of arms of something similar to a compass rose. Along with the initials L.N. engraved in gold right under the south point. Clearly uselessly expensive.
Going back inside his house, Techno just drops himself onto his couch, wolves and their pups making themselves comfortable all around his cabin. And while looking at that envelope, he found himself thinking. Or maybe listening to the Voices, at this point in his life he already doesn’t know anymore. Scattered words, phrases, single letters and even songs he’s quite sure he hadn’t heard before. Muffling his own inner voice, muffling instincts. Screaming for blood or just being annoying. That’s how his mind has been for as far as he remembers. And that is not much he can do.

Open it!! Letter! Eat it! DON'T EAT PAPER! I did it once, it wasn't cool.... Why the fuck would you eat paper? How did you eat paper?! We're voices!!

Yeah… Not the smartest ones. Ignoring the chaos inside his head, with his finger he breaks the seal, finally reaching for the letter itself. Grabbing his reading glasses from the small wooden table in the middle of the reading room, Techno finally reads the letter that has been waiting for a week.

My good friend,

Though my letter may come to you as a surprise, possibly a mere power play of some sort, or may you interpret this as an up coming attack. I have only the genuine intention in my heart to assure you that I leave our past feuds behind.

I only have one thing to say. No man learns from his constant accomplishments. For the road to wisdom is a rigid path. In life, we tend to shun and hold grievances towards those who teach us our toughest lessons.

Some leave emotional scars where others leave physical ones. All I know is that retribution does not supply me with more wisdom, but it damages my soul, filling it with detestation and darkness. It would be silly to clarify the specifics of our feud. I simply want you to know that, wherever you may be, I extend my personal gratitude for your mere participation in my life's path to wisdom, and I encourage you to be a part of it once more, leaving all our differences behind.

Sincerely,

Quackity from Las Nevadas.

:]

Surprise and disbelief washed over the piglin’s eyes, taking his time reading it again and again and again. Unsure if it was true or if it was a trap. A mere trick? Or was it sincere? It was hard to tell when talking about Quackity. The duck almost a master of lies, worse than the admin himself. Technoblade wasn’t one too… Attached to emotions, or at least he wasn’t the best at expressing and reading them. So he went to the only person he could ask this and that probably wouldn’t make fun of him…

Chapter Text

“Well, to me it seems legit.”

“But- Phil! Its Quackity! How are you so sure?” Technoblade exasperated, sat on Phil’s couch tapping his hoove against the wooden floor, looking around and trying to find something else to distract his mind with.

But quickly enough his attention was back to the sneering crow, who came back to the living room from the kitchen with two cups of tea “Oh I’m not! That’s your nemesis or whatever. Your problem, not mine.” he stated, handing the cup to Technoblade’s stupidly large hands. It was funny, it made the cup look like a toy, one for Michael to play with.
But even after drinking it almost in one sip -camomille, he sees what Phil was trying to say- he still took a deep breath, shutting the voices, just like he was ignoring the crows, those little pest scattered all around his father’s cabin “Might need to borrow one of them later …” he mumbles, feeling those eyes on him. Too many to count, it somehow manages to feel worse than the Voices in a blood thirsty situation. Maybe because these are physically there.

“Oh? And why, if I may ask?” Philza tilts his head to the side, eyebrow raised, drinking his tea, accommodating himself in his poltrone. In a way Techno new was less harsh in those already much damaged wings.

“Need to send a response.”

“... WHAT?” 

Later that day, Technoblade finally got up from his chair by the window, putting a letter inside a simple envelope, without a fancy seal, just plain droplets of white wax from the nearest lit candle and a press of his hooved thumb to make sure it stuck where it should. The piglin tucked the letter into his inventory, careful not to crumple it or lose it in that magic void-pocket. He found himself walking back to the door, and making the same path he did early that day. It was short, almost door to door, but even though he preferred to put on his cape.
Opening the door to Phil's cabin, he entered without thinking twice, listening how that old crow was laughing his ass off thanks to the crows who were cawing and flying around the kitchen and living room. Carrying every type of trinket or shiny object. A true chaos.

"Oh! Finally mate, was starting to think you had chicken out" Phil's voice was giggly from moments before, looking at his son with calm eyes but a mischievous smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. His fatherly personality mixing with his chaotic one. He is Wilbur's, and technically Tubbo and Tommy's, father after all.

"Hullo. Can I borrow one of your crows now?" Techno asked bluntly, causing Phil to blink a couple of times and the crows to stop their fuss to line up on the couch, coffee table, and chest. The crows looked expectantly at the blond man, waiting for an answer. The voices growing louder and louder inside the piglin's head, bored by the sudden silence. Silence that the CrowFather finally put an end to.

"Sure mate. But… But are you sure?" Phil sounded unsure himself, maybe it was not a good idea to let Techno and Quackity in this weird situation. The damn duck tried for a truce! And probably Technoblade would screw it up with whatever shit he wrote in his response letter.

“Have nothing else to do, so… Why not?”

Phil hummed, and with a wave of his hand, one of the crows flew to his shoulder, and reached for the pink haired man, asking for his response letter. "Fine then, I'll trust your judgment, mate" he sighed seeing as Techno gave him a small smile, and reached for his void-pocket, better known as Inventory, taking the letter, which surprisingly enough wasn't crumpled, and handed it to Phil, who took it and gave it to the crow on his shoulder. "Take this to Quackity, don't mess up, okay chat?"
The crow cawed, and took the letter with their talons, flying out of the cabin through an open window, exactly for the crows, being followed by what looked like to be at least seven more crows, with the chance of being more. Crows never travel alone.

"Well! What about we lunch, hum?" Philza said with a clap of his hands, turning around and walking to the kitchen.

"Can it be-"

"No Techno, it can't be potatoes, you had those yesterday! And the day before!... And I'm pretty sure the one before too!" with Phil’s answer, Techno grumbled, crossing his arms and sinking into the couch, pouting.

Flying far away from the Arctic, there was this little bunch of crows, a murder. Cawing and singing, echoing words, songs and lullabies they heard with the pass of time. Years, decades, centuries. Some older, some younger. As a crow of the lady herself, their life expectancy was much different from a normal crow’s one.

We would already be there hours ago if SOMEONE didn't decide to stop by Niki's to steal cake! But it's cake! Was tasty! Focus!!! We have a mission! Like James Bond! Not like James Bond! We're just being Techno's postmen! Postbirds?? Postbirbs!!! Where is Las Nevadas?? Yeah! Where is it?? Mumza took us there, remember?? Mumza! Mum! Focus! Yeah! Focus! Look!! Sand!!! Oooh no! Don't let crime lady see it! He's in Utah, remember? Oh true :( :( :( Fucking Utah

Just some minutes more, and the black birds were passing by the shining sign in all its glory, flying around buildings and luxurious attractions of Las Nevadas. Searching for a certain duck hybrid. And it was not hard to find him, sitting on The Needle’s balcony, looking up to the sky, at all cost avoiding to look down.

QUACKITY!!! BIG Q!!! GRANDE Q!!! QUACKITY FROM LAS NEVADAS!!! QUACKITY! QUACKITY! QUACKITY!! :] :] :]

From where Quackity sat, he could already hear, faintly, the multiple pair of wings flapping, getting near him at each passing second. He looked a bit down, with the ground still out of his peripheral vision. The murder coming at his direction being… Quite a surprise.

No. Really.

Quackity actually fell with his back to the balcony’s floor, never in his life expecting to have Philza Minecraft's crows in his country. Even less coming to him! Directly at him "Heeeey..." He greeted awkwardly, still with his back pressed to the floor, legs to the air, resting against the handrail’s glass and feeling the phantom pain of his wings being crushed onto the floor, and then the crows began to land around him. At the floor, on the railing, some shamelessly even on top of his body.

"What are you guys doing here?... Please tell me Technoblade isn't mad at me if I insulted him in some way! Or if Philza is mad at me for not stopping Eva from going to Prime be damned Utah, just explain to him that I wasn't even in Las Nevadas that day!!" He exclaims uselessly, supporting himself on his elbows, crows getting comfortable at his lap, chest and belly.
He felt when one landed on the top of his head at that moment, and looking up, without moving much his head, he noticed how the crow was with their head upside down. They opened their claw, letting a letter fall into the mexican's chest, scaring away the crows that were there. The ones in his lap and belly didn't even move.

"Oh... Techno's... Right?" He didn't receive an answer, not that he expected or needed it, he couldn't understand the crows even if he wanted to. Deciding that there wasn't much to do, he just got comfortable, laying on his back again, noticing how the crows were actually curious of the letter content, the one in his head now at the side of it. And some others going back to his chest.

Quackity finally opened the letter, cautions to not rip it accidently, and took the paper in his hands. Unfolding it, and started to read it out loud.

Quackity,

To say that I wasn't surprised to receive your letter would be a lie. But if this calms your thoughts, I accept your apology, same for the truce. An opportunity so both of us do not have to worry about a possible threat. Or more so you do not worry that I go after you looking to hunt you.
But I must remind you that Las Nevadas, your government, is only protected as long as you command it, out of respect. I still have my principles.

I'm willing to put our pasts behind us, and if our fates meet again, I hope it's on the same side of the battlefield, not as adversaries.

PS: Please feed the crows something, and be careful that they don't steal anything, if they bring it, I don't guarantee returns.

Technoblade

As Quackity ended reading the letter, he was between relieved and offended. He stayed quiet for some minutes, processing the letter. "How can someone be so polite but such an asshole at the same fucking time?! This bitch!"
The raven haired man got up, scaring some of the crows that had fallen asleep on his lap, mumbling a "sorry" to them, and running back inside his office. Sitting on his chair, and starting to write another letter, why?... Because Quackity is a stubborn person who will not accept being humiliated in the slightest, even if not on purpose.

The crows started to enter the office, making themselves comfortable, some sleeping, some stealing food or shiny trinkets, some of them even landing at Quackity's table, shoulders and head.

"All of you are lucky to be birds! Otherwise you all would be stuck outside in the cold!" Alexis complained, and if he didn't move to shove them away, that's his problem.

Chapter Text

There's a story from the outside world, away from everything people think they know...

A real story. A story given as a lesson, an example. Of the purest loyalty, of the purest love.

Nearly a century ago, in the Land of the Rising Sun, there was a puppy like any other. An adorable Akita.

Loyal to its owner for as long as it had memory, the dog would accompany its human to the train station every single day. Where it would sit near the lawn in front of the train station and wait for its human to come back, it would wait all day long, sitting still, being it a sunny or rainy day, until its human returned from his job at the end of the day.
This repeated every time, during oh so many years… until one day, the dog's owner didn't get off the train at the end of it... Nor the next... And not the following. The poor little dog remained there, sitting on the edge of the lawn, in front of the station, waiting for its owner. Years passed, until a decade was completed. The dog grew old, and said goodbye to this world, joining his human after ten years.

The dog's name is Hachiko , a symbol for loyalty and fidelity.

You see, when Tommy was left behind at that beach, he was sure he could pull himself up and keep going on all alone. Just like he had been doing since he was 8 years old. He was sure he could do it!... So why is he in this same Prime forsaken beach even after days since Evangeline is gone? That-... That bitch left him! She abandoned him, once again! Once fucking again. 

Laying on the edge of a beach, back against the warm sand and wind blowing his hair, the smell and sound of the ocean impregnating his senses, Tommy felt like Hachiko. Waiting for someone who would never come back, but his blind loyalty, his dependence , kept him from realizing it.

Tommy knew Evangeline wouldn't come back, his so-called sister made it clear as the water in front of him. But still, Tommy couldn't bring himself to leave that place.
He couldn't remember the last time he saw his best friend. Or his nephew. Not even his therapist. Nor any of his "father figures", not Philza, nor Sam or Technoblade, and not even the Admin, which he's glad for! He really is! Is he? They were all living their own lives, and he should do the same... But he just can't... He's...

I'm your friend Tommy! I would never leave you :)

With a shake of his head and a tired breath, he looked back towards the shiny country, Las Nevadas. Maybe there was someone who would be happy to see him, that he could rely on... At least for a bit, until he finds his own person, his own self… Does he have his own self? Does he know who he should be?

“ What am I without you?”

“Yourself?”

Looking around the marvellous country, he was blinded by the shining neon lights, the music, the tourist traps, the laughs and chatting of all those tourists. Tommy sincerely asked himself how did Big Q managed to bring so many outsiders without the knowledge of anyone who hasn’t visited the country,

Seeing himself without any other option, he walked towards The Needle, where he would find the president’s office. After passing through his secretary who just greeted with a nod of her head and let him pass without any trouble, Tommy found himself going up the elevator. There weren’t too many floors, just six he thinks he heard Eva mumbling one day as she was trying to invade the place once again. So he knew that the tower was just tall for the sake of being tall. Just tall enough for Tommy to regret his decision and wanting to go back, something he could not do, already too late when the elevator’s doors opened. Like that giving him the sight of the pristine president's office... Well... It should be pristine.

But all he saw was way too many black feathers scattered all around the office. And... Wait. Black feathers? Crows?... Were those Phil's crows?

"WHAT THE FUCK?" Tommy shouted exasperated, waking up Quackity, who jumped on his seat, sitting and straightening up his back, quickly brushing his face with his hands as to clean the feathers stuck to it and the line of saliva running down the corner of his mouth. The sudden move scared the crows that were sleeping on top of the mexican before, they were actually the reason why Tommy didn't see Quackity at first, there were many, many crows.

“Heeey, kid, Wat’cha doing here?...” Quackity asked groggily, still trying to look fully woken up, uselessly considering how his face looked crumpled and he could barely open his eyes.

The flock landed at some spots of the office, cawing.

Morning morning! It's evening! Good evening then! Who the fuck woke me up!! Was dreaming ;-; Me too! It's Tommy!!! Tommy! Tommy!! Problem child!! Racoon boy!!

Tommy was out of words, his eyes traveling from Quackity to the crows than back to Big Q. With a frown in his face, not understanding shit of what was happening. "Big Q... Why the hell are those fucking birds doing here?! You know they're Phil's crows right?! What if they are spying on you?!"

Quackity was just looking straight to Tommy's face, still half asleep, blinking slowly a couple of times. He yawned, covering his mouth with his hand and got up from his chair. "Calm down man, they're just here to bring and give some letters, nothing more.

"But-"

"Even if they were spying on me, there isn't much to see, I'm trying to get rid of the grudges from the past..."

That made Tommy blink a couple times, looking between the black birds and Quackity, trying to make sure he heard right "Oh... Like… Like apologizing?..."

Quackity snorted, but nodded anyway, looking through the window, back towards Tommy "Yeah, kinda"

"O-oh that’s-... that's good! Yeah... Yeah! Uhum! Really good! Hah! Hahahah..." Tommy started to babble, nervous, looking to the floor picking at the skin of his finger. His vision getting blurred. Hearing someone talking other than himself, but he couldn't understand what was said, his memory was bringing him back to the moment at the beach weeks ago.

"I'm sure at some point we'll see each other again...

Maybe... And I-I hope... and you know we can start another... Heh... Start more hijinks...

Oh... wait!

Before I go Tommy...

Can you hear me?..."

"Yeah"

"Don't trust those americans!"

"- mmy ? Tommy! Kid, please! Are you with me?"

Tommy snapped out of his memories, and his eyes focused again. Quackity was in front of him, holding his face with both his hands. "B-big Q, are you going away?..."

The ravenette had his eyes wide open, holding his breath for a second. Then closing his eyes and sighing, Alexis rubbed his thumbs on the blonde boy's cheeks, warm and red from crying. Tommy only noticed he was crying after feeling Quackity brushing his tears away. "Is that about Evangeline?..." With trembling lips and more tears threatening to spill, Tommy nodded his head weakly. With a small but kind smile, Quackity pulled Tommy into a tight hug, surprising the boy. "No Tommy, I'm not going away... I'm staying right here... I'm not leaving… I’m not leaving you."

That was enough to break Tommy's self-restraint, causing him to sob and cry harder, hugging Quackity as if the man would fade as dust if he’d let go. The Mexican moved one of his hands to the blonde's hair, caressing and undoing knots, pulling leaves and twigs. Carefully he pulls the younger one onto the couch, sitting with the kid next to him, Tommy still with his head resting on Quackity's shoulder. "It's okay, you can cry... I'm here for you... I won't let you go, I promise you Tommy"

They stayed like that for sometime more, was it minutes? Was it hours? They couldn't tell. Neither did the crows, who had gathered around the two.

"I'm so-"

"Don't apologize Tommy, it's not your fault..." Quackity said when Tommy had tried to apologize for something that wasn't even in his control. 

The boy had passed for so much. He wasn't a saint, oh no. Tommy did have his pack of sins and crimes. But he didn't deserve half of the things he had to endure in his childhood and teenage years. A crucial chunk of his life, ripped away from him. Replaced with fights, destruction, torture and trauma.

The blonde lifted his face from the Mexican's shoulder, looking him in the eye. His own puffy, with wet and red cheeks. He was a wreck. "Why don't you stay for the night, hum?... Is quite late already" The older offered, which the racoon hybrid hesitantly accepted with a single nod of his head.

"Hey.... Big Q?"

"Yes Tommy?"

"If Phil's crows are here... Who are you exchanging letters with?..."

Quackity just blinked sometimes and scoffed, turning his head towards his desk where an unfinished letter sat, with a bunch of crows reading it and... Were them laughing? "A stupid pig who thinks OH SO MIGHTY about himself!"

Tommy looked at Quackity, without blinking, and then bursted in laughs, making the duck hybrid look at him startled, completely confused. "You're exchanging letters... With Technoblade?! THE Technoblade!!"

"Uhh... Yeah?"

"I thought you hated each other!!"

"Yes, well. I'm trying to change that! But he HAD to be an asshole and threaten Las Nevadas! Saying that it would only stand up while I'm alive! And that I'm not a threat to him, so I'm the only one who wouldn't have to worry about a possible threat to my life by the other's side!! Can you believe this?! He just said that I'm not a threat!!! FOR FUCK'S SAKE I'M ONE OF THE MOST POWERFUL MEMBERS OF THIS SHIT SERVER!"

"Pfft... That's Technoblade for you" Tommy was giggling, seeing as Quackity complained and threw a tantrum at Techno, who wasn't even there!

"-nd I didn't even finish my damn letter! Those little shits started to sing and lulled me to sleep! Urgh!!!" Tommy was full ass laughing now, he didn't even notice how Quackity and the crows looked at him with amusement in their eyes. The duck hybrid had a phantom feeling of his wings fluttering. "Yeah yeah! Keep laughing at my disgrace! I'll finish this shit and send those birds on their merry way!" Quackity said trying to hold back a smile

The crows weren't too happy with that, flapping their wings and cawing.

NOOOO!!! NO!!! PLEASE NOOO!!! LET US SLEEP HERE!! IT'S COLD OUTSIDE!!! IF YOU KICK US OUT WE'RE CARRYING YOUR SHIT WITH US!! Do you guys think we can carry the Las Nevadas sign? If we call the others?... yes

Quackity smirked and sat on his chair, going back to write the damn letter. Tommy was rambling about something and everything, while messing around the office together with the birds. After the Mexican finally finished the letter, he put it inside the, stupidly expensive,  envelope and sealed it.

"Okay! Who's the one carrying it?" He looked up to the crows, who were all looking other ways, some even bending their necks in an awkward back angle. And there was some even whistling! Fucking WHISTLING!

"I don't think they want to go Big Q" Tommy said with a small smirk, which took a tired huff from the latino.

"Okay. Okay! Fine! Y'all can stay here for the night! And the night only! But soon as the Sun is up, you little shits take the letter to Mr. Peppa Pig!"

The last part stole a laugh from Tommy and the birds, more like caws but you get what it means.

He had woken up with Phil knocking on his door asking if the crows had already come back and if they were staying at his cabin, which wasn't the case. Techno and Phil stayed outside, waiting for the flock to arrive. Not even an hour later, the sound of wings flapping made the piglin and the Crowfather look to the sky, seeing a bunch of crows flying towards them, cawing and imitating some different sounds.

They landed on Phil's shoulders and wings, they were eating?

Are those nuggets?? Noooo they had breakfast before us!! Big Q fed them?? Not fair! I want nugget! There are some of them eating pie!! I WANT PIE!!! >:^ >:v >:(

Techno ignored the Voices and felt how one of the crows landed on his shoulder, letting a letter slip from their beak to Techno's hand. The pink-haired man recognized the red seal and huffed, opening the envelope without care if it ripped the paper or not and read the letter.

Technoblade,

It's really BUT REALLY bold of you to answer it just like that! You literally mention our truce like it's just a way that I'M THE ONE FEELING SAFE! Like really?! How much of an asshole can you be?! You know really well that I'm capable of taking you in a fight! That time with the Butcher's Army was a slip in my judgment!

I'm just expliciting some things from the past, please do not take this personally.

Sincerely,

Quackity from Las Nevadas.

:] 

Techno was laughing loudly from its content, some oinks escaping from how hard. Making Philza look at him confused and startled, the crows that delivered the letter were unamused, while the others that stayed were trying to read it too.
What amused Technoblade the most was how easily he was able to read Quackity's emotions, even through a paper. In the first few lines the letters were squiggly and almost italicized as they were so thin and slanted, obviously sinking into the paper the moment they were written. But the last paragraph was written with a delicate and well-behaved hand, clearly written moments, perhaps hours, later. With a totally opposite formality from the beginning of the letter. He sure hit a nerve without even realizing it.

He looked up, feeling Phil staring at him. The piglin just shrugged, a small smile that didn't go unnoticed by Phil, who only chose not to comment. Both of them decided to just go along with the day.

And if at the end of that day, Techno stole those same crows and asked them to deliver another letter?... That's his problem.

No Phil, we are not exchanging threats though letters...Yet.

Chapter Text

The morning sun struck Las Nevadas, turning its skyline into a line of blazing white gold. Night had bleached the garish neon from the air, leaving the city-state looking almost pristine, its glass and steel towers reflecting the clear, pale blue of the desert sky. From his office at the pinnacle of The Needle, Quackity watched the last of the night's revelers stagger towards the border, their laughter a faint, tinny echo rising from the streets below. The city was in that brief, quiet hour between the decay of night and the bustle of day, a fragile calm he usually savored with a strong coffee. But today, the peace was shattered before it could truly settle. A familiar, swirling smudge darkened the horizon, growing steadily larger. "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me…" Quackity hissed, his knuckles whitening around his plain white mug.

The new presence in the sky snapped the room's fragile tension like a twig. Fundy, who had been nervously outlining a proposal for a new, fox-themed blackjack table, immediately fell silent, his papers forgotten. Across the room, Tommy, who had been commandeering the president's chair and idly torturing a Rubik's Cube, stilled his fidgeting, his casual slouch tightening into alertness.

"What's happening, boss?" Fundy asked, his voice a careful neutral, though his fluffy orange ears swiveled forward, betraying his sharp curiosity.

From his throne of black leather, Tommy let out a dismissive snort. "None of your business, furry boy!" he snipped, not even looking up from the scrambled colors in his hands, the picture of performative boredom.

Quackity didn't turn from the window. He took a long, slow sip from his mug, the contents of which Fundy strongly suspected were more tequila than coffee,  his gaze fixed on the approaching murder. The calm of the morning was officially dead, replaced by the impending chaos of black feathers and a certain piglin's infuriating correspondence. "Tommy." Quackity's voice was a low crack of thunder, stern and final. He still hadn't turned from the window, but his reflection in the glass was a clear, unyielding portrait of authority, his tired eyes locked on the two boys in the room. He took another long, deliberate sip from his mug. "Play nice." Finally, he pivoted, the movement slow and measured. The deep, purplish bags under his eyes seemed to carve shadows into his face, but his gaze was sharp as it landed on Fundy. "To answer your question," he said, the words laced with a weary anticipation. "Do you remember Philza's crows?"

The fox hybrid’s blood ran cold. "Uhh, yes?" he managed, his voice tight. He nervously sidled up to the window, his tail puffing up slightly despite his efforts to control it. The smudge was no longer distant, it was a swirling, living storm of black feathers and discordant caws that grew louder with each passing second. His grandfather's birds. The man who had disowned him from the family. The thought sent an instinctual tremor through him, a primal fear of the Angel of Death's ever-watchful eyes. A cold knot tightened in his stomach. "Is that... a good thing?"

A slow, mischievous, and utterly sharp-toothed smile curled onto Quackity's lips. It wasn't a smile of joy, but the baring of teeth from a man who saw an incoming challenge and felt a spark of grim excitement. "That," he declared, setting his mug down on the polished desk with a definitive clack that echoed in the sudden tension, "is what we're about to find out." He strode toward the large panoramic window, his movements suddenly energized. "Help me open these before the little shits break the glass. The last thing I need is Philza adding 'property damage' to his criminal record in Las Nevadas."

As they wrestled the heavy panes wide, letting in the dry desert morning air, Tommy remained a study in contrarianism, sprawled in the president's chair like a discarded coat. His posture was a masterpiece of teenage insolence, one leg hooked over the armrest, but the performance faltered in his eyes. They tracked Quackity and Fundy with keen, calculating interest, the Rubik's Cube now completely still in his hands.

Then, the crows descended. It wasn't an arrival, it was an invasion. A cacophonous whirlwind of black bodies and beating wings flooded the office, their caws merging into a deafening wall of sound.

Quackityyyyy

Big Q!!!

Tommy!!!

TOMMAAAAAS

Raccoon Boy!!

THE CHILD!

THE FURRY IS HERE!!

FUNDY!!!

FOX BOY!!

WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY??

NO!!

AAAAAHHH

OLD MEMES NOOOOO

The cacophony was a physical assault. Tommy and Fundy flinched in unison, hands clamping over their ears as they ducked their heads, twin whimpers escaping them. It was the sound of pure, unfiltered chaos, and it struck a chord deep within Quackity, a primal, protective instinct that shattered his patience.

He moved without thought. His palm slammed down on the polished wood of his desk with a crack that cut through the noise like a gunshot. A raw, piercing screech, more avian than human, ripped from his throat. For a fraction of a second, the air behind him shimmered, and a magnificent, terrifying pair of golden wings, woven from light and sheer will, flared into existence, enveloping the room in a silent, powerful command. Protect. Stop. Enough.

The effect was instantaneous.

The whirlwind of crows froze, then fell into a hushed, disciplined order. They descended onto the couch, landing in a perfect, shamefaced line like soldiers who had disappointed their general. Heads bowed low, they emitted soft, guttural coos, a chorus of avian apologies. The sudden, profound silence was almost louder than the noise had been.

Slowly, Fundy and Tommy lowered their hands from their ears. Their eyes were wide, pupils dilated with shock, their tails, one fluffy and orange, the other thin and raccoon-like, giving a few tentative, involuntary wags of stunned relief.

"Finally," Quackity breathed, the word a long sigh as the golden phantom wings dissolved back into nothingness. The tension bled from his shoulders, leaving behind only a weary authority. He moved to sit at his desk, only to find Tommy still rooted in his chair, staring at him with a new, unreadable expression.

Fundy seemed to snap out of his trance, blinking rapidly as he looked around the suddenly serene office, awkwardly shifting his weight. He didn't know where to put himself until a low, sharp whistle cut the air. He turned to see Quackity looking directly at him, giving a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head towards one of the chairs facing the desk.

A wave of something warm, gratitude, validation, washed over the fox hybrid. His tail began a slow, happy sway, and he quickly crossed the room to take the offered seat. Quackity rewarded him with a small, proud smile, a flicker of genuine approval that was immediately met with a low, jealous hiss from the blonde still occupying the president's throne.

:0

:0

:o

:O

Found Family beginning??

Big Q scary

Poor Techno

Hot

AAAH!

AAAH!!!

HORNY MOTHER*UCKER!!

OUT OUT OUT!!!

DISGUSTING!!!

"Alright, the performance is over," Quackity announced, his voice cutting through the lingering tension. He fixed a severe look on the line of penitent crows. "Can I have my letter now, before one of you gets any brighter ideas?"

As if on cue, from the line of crows, one brave soul fluttered up and landed on Quackity's shoulder, depositing a crumpled envelope into his lap before nudging its head against his jaw in a gesture of trust.

"Who's it from?" Fundy asked, ears perked once more.

"Technoblade," Quackity said, tearing the envelope open with a single, practiced motion. "You can tell by the complete lack of care." He began to read, his expression shifting from weary annoyance to cold, simmering fury.

Quackity smoothed the parchment on his desk, his expression one of weary annoyance. Then he began to read.

Quackity,

I expected a little more class in your words, considering your first letter. All pompous and with meticulously chosen words.

And when did I threaten you? I just stated the fact that I'm the biggest threat in this truce. I believe the beautiful scar adorning your face was a clear sign of that. Did I blind you in more ways than just that eye?

An error in judgment you say, so you've been making mistakes for so long it has become common, has that scrambled your moral balance? It wouldn't surprise me. A creature like you, a simple duckling, is natural prey. It is more than normal for it to squawk and raise its wings, trying to be a threat.

Simply... cute. A duckling playing as a predator.

Sincerely,

Technoblade.

The silence in the room became heavy, punctuated only by the soft rustle of the paper as Quackity’s grip tightened. Tommy and Fundy watched, mesmerized, as Quackity's eye twitched, his jaw tightening with each damning line.

His voice was dangerously low, a mere tremor before the quake. He let the letter fall to the desk with a quiet, damning finality. Then, he shot to his feet, his composure shattering completely.

"¡Ay, este pinche cerdo! ¿Quién chingados se cree? ¿Que soy un patito? ¿Su juguetito? ¡Para que me venga a menospreciar! ¡Ya con la muy perra de Evangeline tuve bastante, con sus aires de grandeza, creyéndose la última coca del desierto! ¿Y ahora éste? ¡NI MADRES! ¡De este pinche puerco con corona no lo voy a aguantar! ¿Quiere jugar? ¡PUES QUE JUEGUE, HIJO DE SU PUTÍSIMA MADRE!"

Fundy and Tommy recoiled as Quackity snatched a fresh piece of paper, his quill scratching across it with violent intent. The meaning was clear, even if the words weren't. This was not a man who had been merely insulted, this was a man whose entire history of being looked down upon had been triggered, and the response was a declaration of total war.

Seizing the opportunity, Fundy darted forward and snatched the discarded letter, Tommy scrambling to read over his shoulder. A moment of silence, and then the office echoed with their reactions: Tommy's loud, wheezing guffaws mixed with Fundy's high-pitched, yipping fox laughs.

Quackity glared at them, his pride visibly wounded, but a new, determined smirk settled on his face. Let them laugh. He was already crafting his retaliation, a perfectly aimed volley designed to get under the piglin's thick skin.

Technoblade,

Thank you for your latest… clarification. It has been most enlightening. My apologies for expecting a shred of nuance from a creature whose entire philosophy can be summarized as ‘government bad, potatoes good.’ It was my error to assume you could comprehend anything beyond the most literal threat.

Let me be equally clear, since subtlety is lost on you. I am not ‘squawking.’ I am stating a fact that your ego seems to eclipse: you are a hypocrite. A walking, talking contradiction wrapped in a royal cape. You preach anarchy from a throne of gold, a crown nestled in your pink hair. It’s a fascinating aesthetic choice. What exactly are you the king of, I wonder? The Antarctic Empire? Your own delusions?

Ah, I remember now. Pogtopia. All that revolutionary fervor, and your most enduring contribution was an underground potato farm. It’s almost poetic. Not a king of men, or of nations, but of root vegetables. Technoblade, the Potato King. It has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?

Truly, it is an adorable image. Un cerdito cuidando su granjita. A little piggy, tending his little farm. How fearsome.

With the utmost sincerity,

Quackity from Las Nevadas

:]

Chapter Text

The silence left in the crows’ wake was profound, a tangible thing that settled over the office like a blanket. The frantic energy of the murder was replaced by an almost eerie calm. Seizing the rare moment of peace, Quackity had managed to coax a semblance of normalcy from the two boys, a shared joke about a tourist’s ridiculous hat, Fundy’s triumphant solving of the Rubik's Cube Tommy had abandoned. For a single, blessed hour, the three of them existed not as a president and his troubled charges, but as something almost like a family. Quackity even lost himself in the mindless rhythm of paperwork, the scratch of his pen a lulling counterpoint to the quiet sounds of Las Nevadas waking up below. He let himself believe, just for a moment, that it could be this easy.

It was a costly delusion.

The sound that shattered the peace wasn't just loud, it was visceral. A raw, wounded scream that was less a word and more a guttural explosion of pain.

"WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO SELFISH?!"

The door to the stairwell slammed with the force of a detonation, the glass in the office windows vibrating with a high, dangerous pitch. Quackity jolted upright, his pen skittering across a contract. His eyes darted around the room. Fundy was gone. The space where the fox had been standing now felt like a vacuum.

Only Tommy remained. He was curled into the padded chair as if he’d been struck, his arms locked around his torso, holding himself together. His shoulders shook with silent, ragged breaths, his face was a mess of flushed skin and angry tears carving paths through the grime on his cheeks.

The shift was so abrupt it left Quackity disoriented. One second, a fragile peace. The next, a boy breaking apart in his chair. The paternal instinct that had been quietly simmering beneath his presidential facade roared to the surface. These were his boys. And one was missing, while the other was shattered.

He was at Tommy's side in an instant, his voice a low, steady anchor in the storm. "Mijo, what happened?" His hand found the boy's trembling shoulder, a solid, grounding weight.

The touch seemed to break the dam. "It was Fundy!" Tommy choked out, the words a torrent of hurt and fury. "We were fine! It was just you and me! And then he came in and-and he just intruded! We started arguing about... about Eva." He spat the name like it was poison. "He said I took Eva from him! That I think the whole fucking world revolves around me! That I'm selfish! Can you believe the audacity?!"

Quackity’s hands came up to cradle Tommy’s face, his thumbs gently wiping away the hot, furious tears. He saw it then, not just Tommy's pain, but the deep, festering wound of a rivalry for a mother's love that neither of them had ever truly won.

"Kid," he said, his voice firm, layered with a compassion that brooked no argument. "I'm going to be really honest with you, and you might not like it. But you need to hear it. Ok?"

Tommy gave a weak, jerky nod, his lower lip trembling as his wide, wet eyes finally met Quackity's gaze, searching for an answer he didn't want to find.

Quackity didn’t let him look away. His voice softened, but it lost none of its gravity. "The hurt you feel is real, Tommy. No one can take that from you. What was done to you was a terrible, ugly thing, and you carry scars that no child ever should." He brushed a fresh tear away with his thumb. "But people who were hurt… they end up hurting people. It’s a cycle, and you’re stuck in it." He took a slow breath, making sure the boy was truly listening. "You were just a child when this started. A loud, chaotic child who made mistakes, yes. But you were supposed to be guided, not shattered. The problem is, you grew up in the middle of a war, and you never learned how to put down your weapons, even with the people on your side.” he takes a deep breath, this was… a conversation he had hoped he never had to have “You have to understand, mijo, your pain isn’t a crown that makes you more important than everyone else. Fundy’s pain is different, but it is just as deep. He spent his whole life begging for a glance from a father who only had eyes for you. That doesn’t make your suffering less. It just means his is real, too."

The duck hybrid looks at the raccoon in the eyes, making sure he listens to every word "When you call him a bitch for that pain, you become just another person in his life telling him he doesn’t matter. You become like the people who hurt you." Quackity’s voice was a heartbreaking mix of sternness and sorrow. "I know you don’t want to be that person. The Tommy I know has a heart that’s too big for his own good. But right now, it’s buried under all that anger, and it’s pushing everyone away." He finally released Tommy’s face, but his gaze held fast. "You are not the villain of this story, but you’re not the only victim either. Until you see that, you’re going to keep having the same fight, and you’re going to keep losing the people who try to love you." The smile Quackity gives his kid is painful, but sincere and loving "It’s not about who’s right. It’s about stopping the bleeding. For both of you."

A deep weariness settled in Quackity’s bones, the kind that came from caring too much. "You think being strong means being hard, that you have to be the loudest and the angriest to survive. But that’s not strength, Tommy. That’s just a different kind of cage." He sighed, a soft, tired sound. "Real strength is being able to look at your own pain, and then… to be brave enough to look at someone else’s."

He gestured vaguely toward the door where Fundy had fled. "What you said to him in there? That was you swinging a sword at a ghost. You were trying to hurt Evangeline by hurting her son, and all you did was make another orphan bleed." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, thick with emotion. "We have enough orphans in this damn server. We don’t need to make more."

"I’m not asking you to be best friends. I’m asking you to see him. Really see him. Not as Wilbur’s disappointing son, or as your rival, but as Fundy. The boy who was never good enough, who was always second best in his own father’s story. Does that sound familiar to you?" He let the painful parallel hang in the air between them. "You have a choice now. You can keep clutching your wounds like they’re the only thing that’s real, and you will die a very lonely, angry old man. Or you can try to understand that the boy who just ran out of here is just as lost and scared as you are." His expression was pleading now. "You don’t have to forgive him. But you have to stop fighting him. The war is over. The real enemy isn’t in this room."

He reached out and gently tapped a finger over Tommy’s heart. "The healing has to start in here. It’s the hardest fight you’ll ever have, but you won’t have to fight it alone. I’m here. But I can’t help you if you’re determined to push everyone into the trenches with you."

Quackity finally leaned back, giving him space. "You don’t have to have all the answers right now. But you need to sit with this. Really sit with it. Can you do that for me?"

Tommy didn't answer right away. He stared at the floor, Quackity's words sinking in like stones in a still pond. The angry, defensive fire in his eyes guttered out, replaced by a dawning, painful clarity. He saw it then, not just his own reflection in the polished floor, but the ghost of Fundy's heartbroken face. He had worn that same expression too many times himself.

A shaky, ragged breath escaped him, and the fight finally left his body, leaving him boneless and exhausted in the chair. "It's not fair," he whispered, the words hollow and defeated, stripped of their earlier venom. "It's not fair that it's so... so fucking hard." He wasn't arguing anymore, he was confessing.

Quackity's hand returned to his shoulder, a steadying presence. "I know, mijo. I know it is. No one said it wouldn’t be."

Tommy finally lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed and weary. "I... I don't know how to stop," he admitted, his voice small. It was the most vulnerable truth he'd offered in a long time. "The anger... it's just there. It's easier than... than all of this."

"That's because it's a shield," Quackity said softly. "And putting down a shield when you've been in a war your whole life is terrifying. But you're safe here, Tommy. You can put it down here."

For a long moment, they sat in silence, the only sound their shared breathing. Then, Tommy slowly, stiffly, pushed himself to his feet. He didn't look at Quackity, his gaze fixed on the door. "I... I need some air," he mumbled, not as a dismissal, but as a plea for space to process.

Quackity simply nodded, his expression one of deep understanding. "Okay. Just... be where I can find you."

Tommy gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. He didn't storm out. He walked, his steps slow and heavy, towards the elevator. The doors closed with a soft sigh, leaving Quackity alone in the office, hoping the seeds of a difficult truth had found fertile ground.

The soft chime of the elevator felt like a verdict. Quackity stood alone in the sudden quiet of his office, the ghost of Tommy’s shattered expression hanging in the air. He had planted a seed of hard truth, but one of his boys was still broken, and the other was now missing. The paternal anxiety, momentarily focused on Tommy, now swung like a compass needle towards Fundy.

He needs time to think. I need to find Fundy.

The thought became a drumbeat in Quackity's skull, quickening with every second Fundy was gone. He bypassed the elevator, spilling into the stairwell and taking the steps two at a time. His descent was a clumsy, frantic rhythm, his feet skidding on the metal edges as he fought the dizzying urge to look down. His mind raced, a reel of worst-case scenarios. The last time Fundy had a breakdown over Evangeline, he’d tried… He jumped from a bridge, L’Manburg’s Crater bridge. The memory was a cold stone of fear lodged in his chest.

Bursting into the gilded entrance hall of The Needle, he didn't break stride. He exploded onto the sun-baked streets of Las Nevadas, breaking into a full sprint. "FUNDY! MIJO, DONDE ESTÁS! FUNDY!" His calls echoed through the garish, empty avenues, swallowed by the facades of casinos and clubs. No answer came.

He became a whirlwind, combing every building, throwing open doors to back rooms and storage closets. His initial worry began to curdle, fermenting into the sour tang of pure panic. The president was gone, replaced by a creature of pure, desperate instinct.

Hours seemed to blur together. When his search of the city center proved futile, he began to roam the desolate borders where his neon kingdom gave way to stubborn desert. And it was there, in the silence, that his instincts screamed the loudest. His inner duck was in a frenzy. DUCKLING MISSING! FIND THE DUCKLING! DANGER!

Then, a second, stranger instinct surfaced from a deeper, wilder place within him. It was not a thought, but a command that bypassed his conscious mind entirely. SHIFT. CALL FOR THE KIT.

A violent, full-body shiver wracked him, a sensation like his very soul was being realigned. This was not the subtle, controlled shift of his hybrid features. This was something deeper, something primal that had been sleeping within his bloodline, a legacy he rarely acknowledged and never invited. His inner shapeshifter, a force as wild and untamable as the End itself, had been awakened. Because another one of his… His kids. Had disappeared.

The pressure on his scalp was immediate and intense, the fabric of his beanie straining as new cartilage and nerve endings forged themselves. A pair of large, sensitive fox ears sprouted from his head, twitching and swiveling, pulling in the desert sounds with startling clarity. Simultaneously, a new weight settled at the base of his spine, a limb of pure instinct twitching into existence, a bushy, orange-furred tail. The feeling was profoundly alien, a violation of his known self, yet it felt more right in that moment than his own skin ever had.

His human voice was gone, commandeered by a need older than language. His throat worked, and a low, high-pitched howl, unbidden and raw, tore from him. It was a sound of pure, searching anguish, a siren call for a lost kit.

He stood there, panting, the echo of his own cry hanging in the air. Ten seconds. He counted the agonizing silence, his new ears straining for any sound beyond the frantic beating of his own heart.

Then, an answer, faint, distant, but unmistakable. A mournful, answering howl, threaded with the same despair, came from the direction of Paradise.

Fundy.

Chapter Text

The howl led Quackity to the skeleton of Evangeline's old burger van, a place that stood as a monument to abandoned dreams. Paradise was a ghost town, its festive parasols and tables standing in silent mockery. The van itself had been picked clean by Foolish, leaving behind only hollow echoes and the lingering scent of rust and regret. Inside, curled against the grimy wall, was a heap of ginger fur and misery. Fundy was folded in on himself, his sobs not silent, but punctuated by soft, pained yelps that spoke of a hurt too deep for human words.

He didn’t burst in. Quackity stepped into the van’s dim interior with a predator’s quiet grace, his new senses hyper-aware of the grieving fox before him. The floorboards creaked under his weight.

"Q?..." Fundy’s voice was ragged, torn from a raw throat. He didn’t look up. "Wha-" His question died in his mouth as his tear-filled eyes, lifting finally, locked not on Quackity’s face, but on the space behind him. They widened, clouded with a fresh layer of confusion that momentarily overshadowed his grief.

Understanding dawned on Quackity. The shift hadn’t been a fleeting impulse, it had taken root. He reached up, his movements slow and deliberate, and pulled the beanie from his head. The released pressure was a relief. A pair of large, yellowish-orange fox ears twitched into the open air, swiveling instinctively to capture the faint sound of Fundy’s shaky breath.

Fundy stared, his own russet ears pinning flat against his head in a mix of shock and instinctual response. "What?" he breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "How... You're a fox?"

"Not quite," Quackity said, his voice softer than Fundy had ever heard it. He moved carefully, settling onto the dusty floor beside the younger hybrid, close but not crowding. As he did, their tails, one a deep, vibrant orange, the other a phantom copy born of pure empathy, brushed together. The contact was electric, a silent language of shared form. "But for now," he murmured, "I sure am."

He let the silence settle around them, thick and heavy with unspoken pain. It wasn't an empty silence, but a patient one, filled with the simple, profound fact of his presence and his impossible, shifting form. Only when Fundy’s breathing hitched again did Quackity ask, his voice a low rumble, "Hey... do you want to talk about what happened up there?"

Fundy looked down, his gaze fixed on his own claws as he fidgeted, the sharp points clicking softly together. "I had given up," he whispered, the admission so raw it seemed to scrape his throat. "I really thought I was over it. I had accepted that Evangeline was just... incapable. That she couldn't love a son. That her 'little brother,' Tommy fucking Innit, was the only one worthy of her attention, her stories... her love." A wet, ragged sob broke through his fragile composure. "So why does it still hurt so much? Why do I still feel like that little kit waiting for a mother who never came home? Why do I still cry?"

"Because you have feelings, Fundy," Quackity said, his voice unwavering in its gentleness. "And that is not a weakness. It is the bravest thing a person can have in a place that tries so hard to grind them out of you."

The words, spoken with such simple conviction, seemed to be the final key that unlocked the vault holding Fundy's pain. He turned his face towards Quackity, his expression completely shattered, and a fresh wave of tears streamed down his cheeks, silent this time. Without a second thought, driven by a need for comfort that overrode all pride, he surged forward, burying his face against the older man's chest.

The action shocked them both, a frozen moment of shared vulnerability. When Fundy tensed, beginning to pull away in a flush of shame, Quackity’s arms came around him, firm and decisive. He pulled the fox hybrid back, holding him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head while the other rubbed slow, soothing circles on his back.

"It's okay," Quackity murmured, the words a soft litany. "Está bien, mijo. Está bien."

And with that final, absolute permission, Fundy broke. The dam shattered completely. He wept, heaving sobs that shook his entire frame, his claws clutching desperately at Quackity's shirt as he screamed a lifetime of neglect, of conditional love, of never being enough into the fabric. He was a lost child, finally found, and he was crying for every version of himself that had ever been left behind.

And Quackity held him. He didn't offer empty platitudes or try to fix the unfixable. He simply held on, his own fox-ears twitching at the sounds of grief, his presence a silent vow. He offered the low, rumbling purr of comfort that rose unbidden from his own chest, a primal sound of safety and shelter, creating a small, warm world where one broken boy could finally fall apart without being lost.

The storm of grief could not last forever. Eventually, the violent sobs subsided into shuddering breaths, and the desperate grip on Quackity's shirt loosened, though Fundy did not pull away. He remained there, head resting against the steady beat of Quackity's heart, listening to the low, comforting rumble that still vibrated through the man's chest. It was a sound he had never known he was missing, a frequency that spoke of a den and a pack and safety.
Quackity didn't rush him. He simply continued the slow, rhythmic motion of his hand on Fundy's back, a silent signal that there was no hurry, that this shelter was not temporary. The fox tail he had manifested gave a soft, gentle swish against the floor, its fur brushing against Fundy's own. It was a grounding touch, a constant reminder of the impossible bridge that had been built between them.

After a long while, Fundy's voice, hoarse and muffled against Quackity's shirt, finally broke the silence. "She never looked at me like that." The words were not filled with fresh anger, but with a weary, aching finality. "Not once. Not even when I tried so hard to be perfect."

"I know," Quackity replied, his chin resting on the top of Fundy's head. His voice was heavy with a shared understanding. "And I am so sorry that you ever had to try. You were never the one who needed to be perfect, Fundy. You were just a child."

He felt Fundy take a deep, shaky breath, as if breathing in that truth for the first time. "It's just... so exhausting," the fox hybrid confessed, the admission leaving him like a sigh of surrender. "Being so angry and so sad all the time."

"That's because you've been carrying it all alone," Quackity said softly. "You don't have to anymore. You can put it down. Not all at once, but piece by piece. I'll help you."

Finally, Fundy leaned back, just enough to look up at Quackity's face. His eyes were swollen and red, but the frantic, shattered look was gone, replaced by a profound and weary calm. He glanced again at the fox ears atop Quackity's head, a flicker of awe in his gaze. "You... you really did this for me?"

Quackity offered a small, tired, but genuine smile. "A kid was hurting. A part of me I don't often listen to knew exactly what that kid needed to see to feel safe. So, yes. For you." The simple truth of Quackity’s statement seemed to settle the last of Fundy’s tremors. He let out a long, weary sigh, his entire body going limp with an exhaustion that ran deeper than bone. The fight was finally over. Seeing this, Quackity shifted, moving with a quiet determination. "Come on," he murmured, his voice a soft command. "You're spent."

Before Fundy could protest, Quackity was moving, one arm sliding under the fox hybrid's knees, the other supporting his back. He lifted him with a grunt, adjusting his hold. Fundy, too drained for pride, instinctively curled into the warmth and solidity of his chest, his head finding a niche against Quackity's shoulder. The world outside the van, with all its sharp edges and painful history, seemed to blur into insignificance.

Quackity carried him away from the ghost of Paradise, his steps steady and sure. He didn't head towards the glittering towers of Las Nevadas, but towards his own private cabin, a place that was less a presidential suite and more of a den. It was a silent declaration: You are not coming back as an employee. You are coming home.

Halfway there, a flicker of movement in the periphery caught Quackity’s heightened senses. He didn't startle, his new ears twitching slightly as they identified the scent of ozone and unwashed teenager. He didn't turn his head, didn't break his stride, but his hold on Fundy tightened almost imperceptibly. Tommy was there, lingering in the shadow of a pinball arcade, having clearly followed the sound of the earlier howl.

Tommy watched, his own anger and hurt momentarily frozen in his chest at the sight before him. He saw the absolute trust in the way Fundy was curled, utterly boneless, in Quackity's arms. He saw the protective, almost possessive way Quackity held him, the fox ears atop his head a stark, impossible symbol of a sacrifice Tommy couldn't fully comprehend. The fight in the office felt cheap and distant now.
As Quackity passed without a word, Tommy found himself falling into step a dozen paces behind, a silent, ghostly escort. He didn't know why. He told himself it was just to see where they were going, but the truth was, he was drawn by the raw, unvarnished picture of a family he was no longer at the center of, and the terrifying, quiet realization that he desperately wanted to be a part of it anyway.

Quackity, aware of the shadow trailing them, felt a complex pang in his chest, a mix of sorrow for Tommy's loneliness and a fierce, protective hope that the boy was learning a lesson no lecture could ever teach. He didn't lead them to a dusty cabin, but to the private elevator that ascended to the pinnacle of his casino, to a penthouse that was his true sanctuary. The doors opened directly into the living space, and the sight that greeted them was the antithesis of the cold, garish luxury below.

The penthouse was a testament to Quackity's war on loneliness. It was all rich, warm woods, deep sapphire velvets, and shelves overflowing with books and trinkets collected from every corner of the server. Thick rugs covered the floor, and the entire far wall was made of panoramic windows, offering a breathtaking, silent view of the Las Nevadas lights and the vast, dark desert beyond. It was cozy, layered, and lived-in, a nest built high above the world.

Quackity carried Fundy to a sprawling, plush sofa, laying him down amidst a nest of throw pillows. He moved with a reverent care, tucking a soft, woven blanket around the already sleeping fox. The city's neon glow painted gentle stripes of color across Fundy's peaceful face, the frantic energy of his breakdown finally spent.

Only then did Quackity straighten and turn. His gaze found Tommy, who hovered in the elevator doorway, silhouetted against the opulent interior. The boy looked small, his usual bravado stripped away, leaving only a hesitant uncertainty. Quackity didn't smile, didn't scold. He simply looked at him, his expression an open question. Then, he took a single, deliberate step back from the doorway, his movement a clear gesture that shifted the space from a threshold into an invitation. The sanctuary was open, its warmth spilling out into the hall, and the silent offer to step inside echoed louder than any scream.

And after a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, Tommy took a single, shuffling step across the threshold.

Chapter Text

Technoblade,

Thank you for your latest… clarification. It has been most enlightening. My apologies for expecting a shred of nuance from a creature whose entire philosophy can be summarized as ‘government bad, potatoes good.’ It was my error to assume you could comprehend anything beyond the most literal threat.

Let me be equally clear, since subtlety is lost on you. I am not ‘squawking.’ I am stating a fact that your ego seems to eclipse: you are a hypocrite. A walking, talking contradiction wrapped in a royal cape. You preach anarchy from a throne of gold, a crown nestled in your pink hair. It’s a fascinating aesthetic choice. What exactly are you the king of, I wonder? The Antarctic Empire? Your own delusions?

Ah, I remember now. Pogtopia. All that revolutionary fervor, and your most enduring contribution was an underground potato farm. It’s almost poetic. Not a king of men, or of nations, but of root vegetables. Technoblade, the Potato King. It has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?

Truly, it is an adorable image. Un cerdito cuidando su granjita. A little piggy, tending his little farm. How fearsome.

With the utmost sincerity,

Quackity from Las Nevadas

:]

Technoblade read the letter with a sort of detached amusement, right up until the moment Quackity decided to be a son of a bit-

Oh. That's it. That little sh-

LANGUAGE!!

NOT POG

TECHNOBLADE!!

NO CURSENOBLADE!!

TECHNOCURSE?!

NOOO!

BAD TECHNO!!

"For the Goddess' sake!" Techno snarled, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples as the Voices' chastisement spiked into a full-blown migraine. He forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath. The audacity. The sheer, unmitigated gall. No one talked shit about his potatoes! And what if he had something called, he didn't know... STYLE?! Aesthetic was not a crime!

His morning had been bad enough, waking to the sound of crows ransacking his kitchen, their beaks full of his precious golden crops. He’d managed to kick the feathered thieves out, but his kitchen was now a disaster zone of scattered black feathers and upturned bowls. And sitting there, pristine and taunting on his flour-dusted table, was the cause of it all: a single, stupidly expensive envelope.

He’d opened it without a care for the fancy seal, and now this. This stupid letter with its stupid words from its even more STUPID writer! Who did Quackity think he was?!

His ego smarting and his pride deeply wounded, Technoblade stormed to his desk, snatched a quill, and began to write a reply with violent scratches of ink. It was time to remind a certain duck exactly who he was talking to.

Outside, the flock of crows had reunited with their master, circling Philza as he emerged from his cabin with a knowing smile.

"So? What happened today?" he asked, settling on his porch steps. The crows descended in a chattering heap.

Quackity spanishing!!

Spanishing?

Big Q cursing Techno in spanish!!

Fundy!! Fox boy!

Grandson!

Disowned, so not grandson!

That's why we didn't tell Phil about Tommy!

Dadza disowned Tommy too!

Tommy was never Dadza's child!

Oooh what a lovely family!

Sounds like mine!

That caught Phil's attention. "Tommy? And Fundy? How so?" He leaned in, his full focus on the birds now jostling for space on the railing.

Big Q scary!

Cause' we scared Tommy and Fundy!

Almost like Mumza!!

He was protecting them!

From us? What could we do??

We didn't get to see much more!

Big Q sent us away! 

:( 

:( 

:(

Before Phil could press for more details, the door to his own cabin was slammed open with such force that the walls shuddered and a small potted plant wobbled off a shelf, shattering on the floor. The crows scattered into the air with a unified shriek.

Technoblade stood framed in the doorway, his broad chest heaving, a storm of indignation rolling off him in waves. His eyes, however, immediately darted from Phil’s unamused expression to the scattered soil and ceramic shards on the floor. The righteous anger seemed to deflate from his shoulders, and he seemed to shrink, his hulking form suddenly looking more like a scolded puppy than the Blood God. "...Sorry," he mumbled, the word gruff and foreign on his tongue.

Phil didn't move from his seat. He simply raised a single, slow eyebrow, the feathers of his wings subtly ruffling and then settling in a clear sign of irritated patience. He let the silence hang for a long moment, a classic and timeless parental tactic. "May I know the reason for this little show?" he asked, his voice deceptively mild.

The mildness only made Techno more flustered. "I already said sorry!" he defended, a hint of a whine creeping into his voice, the kind that belongs to someone who is used to being forgiven too easily.

"That," Phil said, his voice dipping into a tone that was dangerously calm and carried the weight of centuries, "is not what I asked you." It was a reminder that apologies are for the aftermath, not an excuse for the action.

Techno grimaced, his ears flicking back. He looked down, scuffing a hoof against the floorboards, and slightly waved a sealed envelope as if it were a white flag. "I need them to send thi-"

"No."

Techno’s head shot up, startled by the immediate, flat refusal. "Wha-" he began, genuine confusion on his face. He was so used to his demands being met, especially by Phil.

"That's your punishment for nearly putting my house down," Phil stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. It was a final decree. "I'll let the chat take your letter tomorrow, first thing." He then delivered the domestic sentence that always grated on Techno's pride the most. "Now, leave it on the table and go see if you broke my doorframe. And clean up that mess. Properly. Not with your cape."

Technoblade didn't argue. The fight had gone out of him, replaced by the sullen acceptance of a consequence he knew was fair. He placed the letter on the table with uncharacteristic care, as if handling a live explosive, and slunk outside to inspect the damage to the doorframe, the crows' mocking caws from the rooftop echoing behind him like the laughter of siblings who’d just watched him get grounded.

The next morning, one of the first things Philza did was send the letter through the same, now-forgiven, crows.

The next morning, one of the first things Technoblade did was peer out his window to ensure the crows had, in fact, taken his message.

The next morning, one of the first things Quackity did was open the vast window of his penthouse office, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, patiently awaiting the fiery response he knew was destined to arrive.

Quackity,

It appears your newfound position has clouded your memory regarding the company you keep. I am not some upstart you can taunt from your glass tower. I am the sum of my conquests, a title earned in blood, not bestowed by a popular vote.
I am the Blood God for a reason. Nations have fallen to my hand. Men, far more powerful and far less foolish than you, have been erased from this world for daring to speak to me with half the disrespect you now scrawl onto this expensive paper. You should count yourself fortunate that our last encounter left you with nothing more than a scar and your life. Many were not afforded such… mercy.

My adherence to anarchist principles is a choice, a philosophical stand against the tyranny of men like you who believe power is a right to be seized. It is not a weakness. It is the very reason souls walk free today, liberated from the chains your kind of government forges. You may dismiss me as a "bipedal pig in a bourgeois outfit," but history, written in the ashes of fallen states, remembers differently.

Do not mistake my current restraint for weakness. Do not test me, Quackity.

This truce is an act of grace extended to you and your fragile little nation. Do not make me reconsider it.

Technoblade

PS: And do not ever speak of my potatoes again. My "absurdly gigantic farm" in Pogtopia is the only reason you didn't starve in that ravine. Your ingratitude is as profound as your foolishness.

Quackity was laughing, a low, genuine rumble that started in his chest and shook his shoulders. He was, against his every instinct to remain professionally offended, truly impressed. The letter was a masterclass in thinly veiled threat and historical grandstanding. It offered a brief, tantalizing glimpse into the centuries of conquest that forged the piglin, a history Quackity could only ever guess at. It was almost… respectable.

And then he reached the last paragraph. The postscript.

The carefully constructed image of the stoic, untouchable Blood God shattered, and what was left was a deeply petty, prideful man whose most sensitive nerve was, apparently, a root vegetable. Quackity’s laugh broke free, loud and unrestrained, and he had to press the heel of his hand to his mouth to keep from waking the household.

The scene around him was the antithesis of Technoblade’s frigid Arctic. The shapeshifter was lounging on his plush sofa in the warm, cluttered comfort of his penthouse. Fundy was a dead weight against his side, head a warm pressure on his lap, finally sleeping off the emotional exhaustion of the previous day. On the thick rug before them, Yogurt, Fundy’s kit, was carefully stacking blocks next to Kyle, Quackity’s own duckling, who was babbling cheerfully and trying to eat them. The sound was a peaceful counterpoint to the chaotic cawing and clatter coming from the kitchen, where the murder of crows was shamelessly helping themselves to his pantry, their breakfast conversation a symphony of stolen sounds and gossip.

It was chaos, but it was his chaos. A family, messy and stitched together from broken parts, but whole.

And he, Quackity from Las Nevadas, had managed to get under the skin of the most unflappable man on the server from the heart of it. The realization was a heady, intoxicating thing. They were mirrors, he and Techno. Two sides of the same worn coin: prideful, stubborn, and fiercely protective of what was theirs.

With a final, soft chuckle, Quackity carefully lifted Fundy’s head, replacing it with a cushion. The fox hybrid mumbled in his sleep but settled instantly. Quackity rose, his movements fluid and silent, his gaze sweeping over the two playing children before he padded into the kitchen. The crows barely acknowledged him, too invested in a heated debate over a stolen piece of bacon.
He paused by the large, stainless steel refrigerator, a slow, mischievous smile spreading across his face. An idea, perfectly petty and utterly brilliant, began to form. He reached for the handle, the cool metal a promise of the delightful war of attrition he was about to escalate.

Quackity stood before his refrigerator, the cool air washing over him as the door swung open. His eyes scanned the contents, but his mind was miles away, in a snow-blanketed cabin. He could picture the piglin, fuming, surrounded by the chaotic chorus of his Voices, pride smarting from a wound Quackity had so precisely inflicted.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. He had tried grand words, formal insults, and political barbs. But this? This was so much better. He had found the chink in the Blood God’s armor, and it was, impossibly, agriculturally based.

He didn't need a lengthy rebuttal. He didn't need to match Techno’s historical grandstanding or his threats of divine retribution. All he needed was two words. Two words that would dismiss the entire epic, reduce centuries of conquest and philosophical principle to a single, ridiculous title.

He closed the fridge, his decision made. He walked to his desk, the crows watching him with curious, beady eyes. He took a single, pristine sheet of paper, the most expensive he owned, and dipped his pen.

He didn't write a letter. He wrote a verdict.

He crafted the two words with a calligrapher's care, making them elegant and perfectly centered. Then, he added the final, infuriating touch: the smile. The same one from his first letter. It was no longer a symbol of truce, but a weapon. A signature of pure, unadulterated smugness.

He folded the paper, sealed it with a drop of crimson wax, and handed it to the nearest crow.

"Take this to him," he said, his voice dripping with amusement.

The note contained only this:

Okay, Potato King.

:]

Chapter Text

Technoblade stood frozen on his doorstep, the crisp evening air doing little to cool the simmering confusion in his veins. What was this? Sheer, unadulterated audacity? A death wish masquerading as confidence? Or was Quackity from Las Nevadas genuinely the most exquisitely infuriating entity to have ever drawn breath in this godforsaken server? The classification didn't matter. The result was the same: his carefully cultivated, potato-filled peace had been irrevocably shattered.

The Arctic commune was steeped in the deep blues and purples of dusk. Inside his cabin, all was quiet, Michael would be long asleep, and Boo was likely a silent, melancholic specter drifting through the halls. The only other signs of life were the soft, muffled sounds of conversation drifting from Phil’s cabin next door, Niki, who had come for a visit and decided to stay, was now sharing what he suspected was a thinly veiled code about teas and cakes with the Crowfather. Techno knew better. When Phil and Niki spoke in such dulcet tones, they were usually planning the subtle downfall of some poor, unsuspecting soul.

He was just crossing the threshold into his own home, seeking the solace of his fireplace and a good book, when the sound hit him, a familiar, yet suddenly ominous, rustle of countless wings. He looked up, his pointed ears swiveling to pinpoint the noise. Against the bruised violet of the twilight sky, the murder of crows descended like a living shadow. Most broke off to settle on the roof of Phil’s cabin, a cacophony of caws and gossip. But one bird detached itself from the flock. It didn't circle or call out. It shot directly through his open window like a black arrow, a blur of intent, and was gone just as quickly, rejoining the others without a backward glance.

Techno frowned, the motion pulling at the scar tissue on his snout. That was… different. Unnervingly so. The crows were many things, chaotic, thieving, loud, but they were never subtle. They always delivered their payload directly into his hand with a demanding caw, expecting immediate payment in shiny trinkets or food. This silent, drop-and-dash operation felt calculated. Clandestine. It put him on edge.

He pushed the door fully open, the heavy wood groaning on its hinges, and stepped into the warmth of his cabin. He shut the door, bolting it against the creeping chill, and shrugged off his heavy, royal cape, hanging it on a familiar antler by the door. The main room was a picture of domestic tranquility. Steve, his polar bear, was a great white mound of fur asleep next to the crackling fireplace, a pile of wolf pups using his massive bulk as a living furnace. The scene should have soothed him.

But his eyes, sharp and discerning, were instantly drawn to a stark anomaly in the comfortable chaos. There, sitting in the exact center of his rough-hewn kitchen table, as if placed by a careful, mocking hand, was a small, neatly wrapped package.

It was too deliberate. Too pristine. A square of plain brown paper, folded with crisp, sharp edges, tied with a simple twine knot. It looked utterly innocent. And that, in itself, was the greatest warning. Suspicion, a cold and familiar companion, warred with a spark of igniting curiosity. He approached the table slowly, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He pulled out a chair, the scrape of wood on wood loud in the quiet room, and sat. For a long moment, he just stared at it. Then, with a deliberate slowness that belied the sudden tension in his shoulders, he reached out and began to carefully untie the knot.

"Son of a b—"

LANGUAGE!!!

OWWW, MY EARS!!

IT'S CUTE!!

A GIFT!! A GIFT FOR THE BLOOD GOD!

EAT IT! EAT THE CROWN!

Nestled inside a bed of absurdly soft white tissue paper, as if it were a jewel, was a single, perfectly average-sized potato. But it had been… violated. Carved into its starchy flesh was a crude, lopsided, yet unmistakable pig face, a cartoonish parody of his own. And perched atop its lumpy head, held in place by a single, defiant piece of scotch tape, was a crown. A tiny, meticulously folded paper crown, crafted from what looked like gilt-edged stationery.

The sheer disrespect was breathtaking.

Potatonoblade!!

ALL HAIL POTATONOBLADE!!

LONG LIVE THE KING!

POTATO!

POTATO!

POTATO!

"Chat, I am begging you, for the sake of my dwindling sanity, do not call it Potatonoblade!" he hissed, his voice a strained whisper as he argued with the gleeful cacophony in his head. His hand trembled with a mixture of rage and something dangerously close to horrified fascination as he lifted the offending vegetable. As he did, a slip of lurid pink paper fluttered out from underneath and drifted to the table.

He didn't need to read it. He already knew. The two words were branded onto his soul. But his eyes dragged across the elegant script anyway.

Okay,
Potato King.
:]

The smiley face was the final, masterful twist of the knife. It was no longer just an insult; it was a signature. A brand. The sheer, concentrated insolence of it all, the high-quality paper, the hand-carved mockery, the tiny, stupid, magnificent crown, coalesced into a single, undeniable truth. This wasn't just a taunt. It was a masterpiece of psychological warfare, and Quackity had signed his name with a smirk.

The fragile dam of his composure shattered.

"YOU LITTLE SH—"

"TECHNO, STOP YELLING AND TRYING TO CURSE OR I'M GOING TO CRAFT A BELT!" Phil's voice, sharp and clear and wielding the power of a thousand disappointed fathers, cut through the log walls from the cabin next door.

The effect was instantaneous. Techno shrunk in his chair, his broad shoulders hunching, his ears flattening against his head. "...Sorry," he mumbled to the empty, judging room. He watched Phil's window, saw the light flick on in a silent, interrogative demand, and then, after a moment of weighty, judgmental silence, snap off again.

He was left alone in the dim firelight. Alone with the potato. Alone with the chanting Voices. Alone with a burning, all-consuming need for a retribution so perfect it would echo through history.

His mind, a tactical supercomputer usually devoted to the overthrow of governments, began to race through scenarios with frantic, vengeful energy. He could reduce Las Nevadas to a smoldering crater. He could catapult a thousand potatoes over its walls. He could have the crows steal every single left shoe in the country…

And then, it happened. The chaotic noise in his mind stilled, the raging fire of his anger banked into the cold, hard coal of a truly brilliant idea.

Oh.

Oh.

He looked down at the potato. Then at the pink note. Then back at the potato, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face, far more terrifying than any scowl. He knew exactly what to do. It was petty. It was passive-aggressive. It was so utterly beneath the dignity of the Blood God that it looped back around to being sublime. It wouldn't just prove his point, it would escalate their conflict to a level of sheer, absurdist artistry that no show of force could ever hope to achieve. The game had changed, and Technoblade had just decided to become a grandmaster.

The next morning, the serene silence of the Arctic commune was shattered by a sound entirely foreign to its usual rhythm: the frantic barking of wolves, the purposeful crunch of heavy footsteps on packed snow, and the general, unmistakable clamor of someone preparing for a journey. Niki, curled on Phil’s sofa, was pulled from sleep by the commotion. Her lynx-like ears, twitching beneath her half-black, half-pink hair, swiveled instinctively to track the noise. She rose, her movements silent and fluid, and pulled the blanket around her shoulders like a cloak before stepping out into the biting morning air.

Phil was already there, a steaming mug of tea in his hands, leaning against the porch fence with the air of a man watching a particularly entertaining play. The early light caught the frost on his wings, making them shimmer.

"Phil?" Niki’s voice was soft, her soft blue eyes wide with curiosity and sleep. "Good morning, but... what's happening?"

The Crowfather turned, his smile a knowing curve. "Mornin', Niki. Well... I'm not entirely sure, but take a look for yourself." He gestured with his chin towards the yard.

Her gaze followed his. There, in the center of the snowy clearing, was Technoblade. He was a whirlwind of grim purpose, loading a medium-sized backpack onto his horse, Carl, and securing several smaller, lumpy burlap sacks to the saddle. The sacks bulged in a way that was deeply familiar to Niki, a former resistance fighter turned baker. They were the shape of potato sacks.

"Hum... Techno?" Niki called out, her voice cutting through the crisp air. "What are you doin'?"

The piglin froze mid-motion, his entire body going rigid. He turned slowly, like a predator caught in a lamplight, his shoulders hunched. "Oh. Erhm..." he stammered, his eyes darting anywhere but at them. "I'm going on a quick trip."

"Should we accompany you, mate?" Phil asked, his voice dripping with feigned innocence. A small, mischievous smirk played on his lips. He knew. He absolutely knew.

Techno huffed, a cloud of steam puffing from his snout as he busied himself with tightening Carl's bridle. "There is no need for it, Phil... But could you maybe... let those crows come with me?" The request was grudging, forced out between clenched teeth.

"Those crows?" Phil's grin widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "The ones who delivered a certain... royal decree last night?"

Techno's ears, already a vibrant pink, flushed a deep, mortified magenta. "Yes," he ground out, the single word laden with immense suffering. "Those crows."

"Sure, mate! Good luck!" Phil chirped, far too cheerfully. He turned to go back inside, but paused at the door, his tone shifting to one of grim prophecy. "You're gonna need it!"

The door slammed shut, leaving Niki alone in the yard with a visibly agitated Technoblade. Her tail gave a slow, curious flick beneath her blanket. "Where are you goin'?" she pressed, her lynx instincts keenly aware he was hiding something.

"Somewhere."

"What are you going to do?!" she tried again, her patience thinning.

"Something incredibly stupid and utterly necessary!" he declared, finally swinging himself up into Carl's saddle with a definitive creak of leather. He gathered the reins, his posture that of a king riding to war.

Chapter Text

"Something incredibly stupid and utterly necessary!" he declared, finally swinging himself up into Carl's saddle with a definitive creak of leather. He gathered the reins, his posture that of a king riding to war.

From inside the cabin, the sound of Phil's muffled, wheezing laughter was just audible. Techno ignored it, his focus already miles away. He nudged Carl into a steady trot, leaving the Arctic commune and its judging silence behind. The Voices, for once, were united not in chaos, but in grim, anticipatory purpose.

FARM!

FARM!

FARM!

POTATO EMPIRE!

SHOW HIM!

SHOW THE DUCK!

GROW THE ARMY!

He didn't head south, towards the desert and the garish neon lure of Las Nevadas. That would be a concession, a reaction. Instead, he turned Carl east, guiding the steadfast horse away from the familiar tundras and into the treacherous, razor-backed peaks that served as the server's spine and its most effective natural barrier. They rode for hours, the world narrowing to the crunch of Carl's hooves on permafrost and the whisper of the wind scouring the stone around them. The landscape grew severe and silent, a kingdom of ice and isolation where nothing and no one could thrive.

Unless you knew where to look.

Techno guided Carl towards a cliff face that appeared utterly impassable, a solid, weeping wall of ancient blue ice and black rock. With a practiced hand that spoke of countless secret journeys, he pushed aside a curtain of frozen vines, so perfectly woven into the environment it was invisible until it moved. It revealed a dark, narrow passage, a mere slit in the world, just wide enough for a man and his horse.

This was his sanctum. Not just a hiding place, but a temple. The one location on the entire server utterly devoid of the voices of others, where the only chatter was the one inside his own head. Here, there were no prying eyes, no crow-borne gossip, no expectations. Just silence, and soil.

The passage opened up, and the world fell away.

Before him lay a vast, hidden valley, a secret cupped in the hands of the mountains. Sheltered from the Arctic's biting winds, the air within was still and cold, but not cruel. And here, under the pale, wide eye of the northern sky, lay Technoblade's true masterpiece, his life's work in progress. It wasn't a farm; it was an empire. Acre upon acre of meticulously tilled soil, a geometric tapestry of earth and life, arranged in perfect, military-straight rows that defied the chaotic wilderness surrounding it. Every row was a vibrant, triumphant green, the leaves of countless potato plants drinking in the weak sun. The scale of it was staggering, an almost insane monument to agricultural might and sheer, piglin-blooded stubbornness. A lone, sturdy cabin, built from the valley's own pine and stone, stood sentinel at the far end, a thin, welcoming line of smoke curling from its chimney.

This was where the myth of the Potato King ceased to be a story and became a tangible, overwhelming reality.

For the next week, Technoblade worked. This was his meditation, his prayer. The methodical thump of the hoe breaking the earth, the careful, discerning pull of a weed, the patient, satisfying rustle as he harvested a mature plant. The rich, cold soil was a balm on his wounded pride, the rhythm of the work a counter-melody to the chaotic symphony in his mind. With every potato he pulled from the earth—each one a plump, unblemished, perfect testament to his dedication and skill—Quackity's little, carved mockery seemed smaller, more trivial, a fleeting insult against the permanence of what he had built here.

He wasn't just growing potatoes. He was stockpiling ammunition. He was cultivating his rebuttal, and it was going to be biblical.

Finally, when a new, dedicated section of his storage warehouse groaned under the weight of bulging burlap sacks, he knew it was time. The harvest was in. The arsenal was prepared. He walked into his cabin, the scent of woodsmoke and earth clinging to him, and sat at his rough-hewn table. He took out a single piece of paper. The letter he wrote was short, almost dismissive. It needed no grand words, no historical references, no threats. The sheer, overwhelming mass of the payload would speak for itself with a volume he could never achieve with ink.

Quackity,

You seem to be under the mistaken impression that my title is an insult. It is a statement of fact. Enclosed, please find a small sample of this year's harvest. A token of my… esteem.

Use them wisely. Or don't. I have plenty more.

- Technoblade

He didn't seal it with wax. He simply folded it and walked outside, towards a small, dedicated coop where his most reliable, potato-transporting crows were roosting. A dozen of them looked at him, their heads cocked.

He held up the letter. Then he pointed to the mountain of sacks.

"Alright, chat," Technoblade said, a slow, terrifying smile spreading across his face. "You know the drill. It's time for the “Potato King” to collect his dues. Let's make it rain."

The next morning, Quackity would open his penthouse windows to a truly apocalyptic sight: a murder of crows, each struggling under the weight of a single, massive potato, beginning an endless, relentless bombing run on the gleaming streets of Las Nevadas.

The first potato struck the Las Nevadas welcome sign with a solid, resonant thwack, startling a group of early-rising tourists. They looked up, bewildered, as the offending tuber tumbled down to land in the manicured shrubbery. Before anyone could process it, a second hit the pavement with a wet smack. Then a third landed squarely in the fountain, sending a plume of chlorinated water into the air.

Quackity, sipping his coffee on his balcony, lowered his mug slowly. His eye widened as he took in the scene unfolding below. The sky, usually a clear desert blue, was darkening. But it wasn't with clouds. It was with crows. A veritable legion of them, a swirling, cawing storm of black feathers, and each one was clutching a potato in its talons. They flew with the grim determination of bombers on a strategic run, releasing their starchy payloads with indiscriminate precision.

For a moment, there was only the sound of wings and the rhythmic, percussive impact of potatoes hitting glass, metal, and concrete. Then, the screaming started. Not screams of terror, but of pure, unadulterated confusion. A man in a suit shrieked as a potato exploded against his briefcase. A woman dove for cover as a volley of spuds rained down on the blackjack tables, sending chips and cards flying.

Quackity stood frozen, his mind struggling to categorize the scene. This wasn't an attack. It was… an agricultural nuisance of epic proportions. It was the single most ridiculous, over-the-top, and yet somehow perfectly Technoblade thing he could have ever imagined. A disbelieving laugh bubbled up in his chest, warring with a surge of sheer, unbridled fury. The audacity. The resources. The commitment.

He watched as a crow, struggling valiantly, dropped a potato that was comically large directly down the chimney of Foolish’s summerhouse. Another expertly landed one in the driver's seat of a parked convertible. They were systematic, relentless. This wasn't a random shower, it was a targeted potato-based infrastructure assault.

His communicator began to buzz incessantly on the glass table beside him. He ignored it, his gaze fixed on the carnage. The pristine, gleaming streets of his nation were becoming a lumpy, brown battlefield. And in the midst of it all, a single crow broke from the formation. It wasn't carrying a potato. It carried a familiar, unsealed envelope. It flew directly towards his balcony, dropping the letter neatly at his feet before joining the chaotic aerial ballet.

Quackity slowly bent down and picked it up. He didn't need to open it to know who it was from. The message was written across his entire country in messy, potato-shaped script. The war was no longer one of words. It was one of tubers, and Technoblade had just fired the first, overwhelming salvo.