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Quackity’s first memory is his mother laying him down at the beach—nondescript, hazy; could have been anywhere—and telling him to look up.
“Somos solamente una parte pequeña de algo mucho más grande que nosotros,” she said. “¿No lo ves increíble?”
The sky was a mouth, waiting to swallow him. He burst into tears.
“That’s stupid,” says Schlatt. He’s eighteen, and he’s going to die young. Quackity would put money on drunk driving. It’s stupid to be so obsessed with him. Quackity—freshman, dead mother, walking cliche—obsesses anyway.
“I know it’s irrational, man. I’m not saying I think I’m gonna fall into the sky or something, I’m just saying that small dizzy feeling freaks me out,” Quackity says. He rolls his eyes, grasping for even a thimbleful of the too-cool apathy Schlatt could drown the world in.
Schlatt scoffs, and Quackity feels his apathy slip through his fingers like water. He’s too sincere. Schlatt always says so, and if it weren’t true, then saying it wouldn’t sting so much.
“I didn’t say it was irrational, pumpkin. I said it was fucking stupid with two O’s.” He’s on his ninth beer of a twelve pack on a Tuesday afternoon. Not a word is slurred. “You’re not afraid of a little dizziness. You look up and you feel all small and it’s not the dizziness you’re afraid of.”
He’s right. That is not what Quackity is afraid of.
“Jesus,” Schlatt scoffs. Quackity feels small. “You’re fuckin’ cute. It’s like you think you’re the first kid to discover nihilism.”
Schlatt does die young. Two months after that conversation he trips down the stairs and breaks his neck, perfectly sober.
The funeral is not-quite-overcast. The sky isn’t blue and it isn’t gray. Quackity is wearing his cousin’s hand-me-down suit. The crowd is thin. He doesn’t know anyone here but Schlatt’s friend Conner. There’s a priest droning on about god’s plan, and how they’re all a part of it, and probably something about dead teens being god’s bravest little soldiers. Quackity’s borrowed suit itches. His skin itches. He scratches at his collar and no one looks at him.
Something about the whole thing feels surreal. He thinks that everyone looks bored. Then he thinks that everyone looks like they’re playing a part. Then he thinks he could probably shout or sing or tell rude jokes or scoop Schlatt’s heart out of his coffin and eat it right in front of them and it wouldn’t make a difference.
Small parts of something bigger. Big plan.
He looks up.
The sky is huge and open and alive and watching him. For the second time in his life, he sees colors that don’t exist.
It’s easier than he thought it would be to pretend he isn’t losing it. Quackity is adaptable, quick on his feet. He adapts to life without his mother. He adapts to the cousins he barely knows and the town that will never be his and English as a first language. He adapts to Schlatt and then the absence of Schlatt, and to school, and to twisting his personality and his body into shapes, fitting in where and how he has to, chameleon, contortionist.
His cousins, awkward sons of bitches that they are, get him a long-distance grief counselor. Grainy blue conversations over bad wifi and a balding man who sits too close to the camera. Quackity endures it for two sessions before announcing that he feels better. His cousins don’t question it.
Days and then years and Quackity adapts and adapts. Mostly the sky is just the sky. When it isn’t, Quackity doesn’t look up, and pretends that it is.
Quackity now, adapted: funny and boisterous. Debate club and student government. Only one suspension under his belt. Good grades. Stellar grades, actually. Walks to school with Tubbo, the only cousin he can stand. Part time job stocking shelves. Failed his driver’s test on the first try because the instructor was a racist piece of shit, but passed on the second because he didn’t complain. Shitty friends he tolerates. Coworker, Charlie, who he likes. Normal and well-adjusted and definitely doesn’t see colors in the sky that don’t exist.
Somehow, in the last two months, the jock he sits across from in chemistry has become his best friend. His name is Sapnap; he’s on the wrestling team. Quackity knows him, obviously, graduating class of one hundred, but he wasn’t part of Quackity’s survival plan when he moved here, and that made him irrelevant. Chemistry isn’t the first class they’ve shared but it’s the first class Sapnap leaned over and pssted while the teacher droned on at the front of the room. No secret that Sapnap was struggling. He clutched a failed quiz in one thick fist. Quackity expected him to ask to copy his homework, or cheat off the next test.
He said, “Dude, I’m not getting a word of this. You think you could give me some study pointers?”
If it were one of his shitty friends, Quackity would have said no. But Sapnap was disarmingly earnest. And he offered to pay Quackity with a blunt, so.
The routine, two months later: go over to Sapnap’s refurbished chapel-house, help him with chem homework, eat a quick dinner with his gross-but-cute toddler brother and his funny new-age preacher dads who grow weed on the porch. Then they’re free. Town is small and boring and less fit for being a teenager than being a divorced dad with a hunting lodge, but they find shit to do. Hang out at the elementary school playground. The library. The sump that gets flooded with water when it storms and so choked out by weeds when it doesn’t that they swear someone could hide a body in it. The diner near the highway. One of the million farmers’ fields to chill with the cows. The railroad where they shout at the passing trains and stick pennies on the tracks.
He’s a sweetheart. Obnoxiously overconfident about some things and endearingly shy about others. Unapologetically gay and willing to punch anyone out about it. Sometimes they do stupid shit, and sometimes they just talk. Sapnap doesn't mind when Quackity is a prick. Not something he can say for most people. Adaptable means being well-liked, means being likeable, means fun and loud is okay but angry and mean is not. Sapnap likes him when he's fun, and he likes him when he's mean, and he even likes him when he's too sincere. He thinks Quackity’s the smartest, funniest person in the world. Quackity feels like the smartest, funniest person in the world when he’s with him. When they’re together he doesn’t feel like he’s being watched as often, except when Sapnap sometimes glances his way when he thinks Quackity isn’t looking.
“You should come to one of my matches,” Sapnap says. “And I’ll go to one of your…debate…matches.”
“You can just say debates.”
“I’ll be the loudest guy in the crowd,” Sapnap insists.
“Crowd of like, three people—”
“I’ll be like fuck yeah, Big Q, kick that nerd’s ass with your big thesaurus words!"
“I’ll boo you,” Quackity says. “I’ll heckle you to give you motivation. You call that a pin? Bring out the steel chair! Where’s John Cena?"
So Quackity goes to a match. He hollers and wolf whistles instead of booing. The looks he gets from students and parents are funny, and the way Sapnap beams at him, all sweaty and mouth-guarded, is—well. It’s pretty nice.
Sure enough Sapnap is there at Quackity’s next debate. He’s quiet and respectful all the way until Quackity wins his round, when he whoops so loud he gets kicked out.
Through the big gymnasium windows the sky is watching Quackity. He’s laughing too hard to care.
He almost tells him. He almost tells him a dozen times. The closest he gets is one night balancing on the train tracks. Sapnap, athlete, poised as a dancer; Quackity wheeling beside him, more than happy to take the excuse to hold his hand.
They’ve had too many brownies. Quackity knows because the sky is bearing down on them and he only wants to stare back and fall upward. He feels so terribly small. Sapnap’s hand won’t let him slip away.
The train, a million miles down the track. Quackity turns to look at its unblinking white eyes and still he’s looking up, at the sky looking down. Sapnap, obediently, lets go of his hand and steps off the tracks. Instantly Quackity feels unmoored. His feet are barely on the ground. He’s a blip, he’s barely here at all.
“You know that feeling when you look up at the sky, and you get all dizzy and small?” He’s breathless.
“Yeah?” Sapnap says.
The sky swallows the words. He says, “Yo yo yo, we should play chicken. See who stays on the tracks longest.”
“What?” Sapnap laughs. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah, come on. They do it in teen movies all the time. Don’t you wanna be a teen played by a thirty year old?”
“You’re not making any sense. Come on, get down.” Sapnap holds out his hand, glances at the train. Quackity doesn’t need to look. Quackity can feel it thrumming through the tracks. The sky is so many colors. Quackity feels like he’s dreaming or like he’s a dream.
He says, “Fine, I’ll play alone. I bet I’ll last three seconds.”
The train thrums. “Quackity.”
“I win. I bet I’ll last another three seconds.”
“Q, come on. This isn’t funny.”
“You’re so fucking cute,” Quackity sneers. Sapnap bristles. Quackity thinks, why did I say that? and he says, “Three more seconds.”
The sky is indifferent. The sky is so many colors, all watching him. It’s unbearable how small he feels. He wants to scream. He wants to stamp his feet and say I’m here. He is so small.
The horn blares and the light is hot and white and Sapnap’s hands are on him. They’re on the ground. The train is a thunderstorm. There’s gravel in Quackity’s mouth and Sapnap’s panting breaths on his scalp.
The train recedes into the distance, and they lay there.
“You’re right,” Quackity rasps. “That was dumb. Let’s go back.”
They get up. They trudge home. Sapnap is pale and dazed. After five minutes his eyes well up, and he says “Shit,” and he starts to cry.
“Shit,” Quackity parrots. “Aw, don’t. I’m fine, Sap. I was just high, I didn’t realize how close the train was. But look! I’m fine!”
“Yeah. Yeah, I—” Sapnap hiccups. “Sorry, I just got scared.”
They keep walking. For the first time Quackity feels too big for his skin, too seen, too much. He lightens his voice, he makes dumb jokes and does dumb impressions, he begs Sapnap with all the wrong words to let it go and make something wispy and light and forgettable of it. He doesn’t know how to say you care too much. You never learned from Schlatt’s school of apathy. You shouldn’t let me hurt you. It scares me that I hurt you.
Sapnap tries. He laughs thick and snotty and every block or so he turns his head and rubs roughly at his eyes, as though Quackity won’t know if he can’t see.
Sapnap walks Quackity past the library and past the sump all the way to his cousins’ house, where they linger in the driveway. Quackity’s throat has run dry of jokes and Sapnap still looks despondent.
“Thanks,” Quackity says, lamely. “Let me return the favor, I’ll grab my cousin’s keys.”
Sapnap sniffs, then clears his throat. He squares his shoulders, all bravado with nothing behind it. “’s fine. I want to walk.”
Quackity hates the thought of the roiling thing in the sky watching Sapnap when he’s so vulnerable. “You sure? My cousins never say no to me, I’ll just drive you and come back.”
“My dad’ll be on me if he sees me like this. I need time to, you know, fix my face or whatever. Ugh. I’m sorry for being so—” He gestures vaguely to his head and his puffy eyes. “I know it freaked you out.”
“Don’t, man. You’re fine, it’s all fine.” He feels compelled to say, “I was just being stupid, Sap. It wasn’t anything serious.”
Sapnap’s eyes well up again. His mouth wobbles. He sets his face hard and he pulls Quackity into his arms.
“You’re my best friend,” he croaks. “I—you’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”
Over his shoulder, Quackity stares up at the sky. “I’d tell you,” he lies, because he doesn’t want it to overhear the truth.
Rumor is the new kid’s loaded. Quackity wouldn’t guess it to look at him: ratty converse with the soles wagging like tongues, right lavender and left teal, both doodled half to death. He switches between the same two pairs of unflattering jeans and he always wears this eye-searing 90s colorblock windbreaker. 80s? Whichever decade popularized the ugly three stripes coming together in a V pattern.
His name’s Karl. He’s quiet and kind of skittish. He and Quackity have art and gym together. He keeps to himself for the most part, but in art he befriends Tina, and when he thinks no one is looking, Quackity makes a fascinating discovery.
Karl, by nature, is charming. He tries to hide it, but he is. He chats to himself, he always starts to raise a hand to answer questions in class before pulling it back down again, he bounces on his toes and plays with Tina’s hair and talks with his hands. Tina brings him into conversations with their classmates, sometimes, and he shrinks like a violet, but Quackity sees him bite his lips to keep from smiling or answering or laughing.
He doesn’t have any friends in gym.
They’re running the track, which is really just a loop of packed dirt behind the school. The sky is a clear blue, and it’s just the sky. That’s good. The gym teacher is a sadist who doesn’t let them walk or even jog, so that’s less good. He’s also the kind of sadist who singles out a student to bully, and Karl, a veritable noodle, is today’s unlucky target. Dick.
In one of the brief moments the teacher’s back is turned, Quackity runs up to Karl, already half-melted into the dirt.
“I’m going to trip you,” Quackity says.
“What?” wheezes Karl.
Quackity jerks his head at the teacher. “I’m gonna trip you, come on.”
Karl catches on fast. He goes down comically hard, yelping and clutching his ankle. Quackity apologizes loudly, throwing in some oh shits for color, while the teacher stomps over.
“Shit, man, you think you can get up?” Quackity asks.
“I don’t think so, it—it really hurts. I think I might have sprained it?” He tries to stand on wobbly foal legs and tumbles back down. His eyes are teary and everything. Quackity is impressed. The teacher is not.
“Walk it off, Jacobs, this act isn’t fooling me.” He folds his arms over his be-whistled chest.
Now Karl looks like he really might cry. Quackity slaps Karl’s very, very sweaty back. “No worries, dude, if you need to amputate I’m sure the lawsuit will cover it. You can get a robot leg or something.”
Karl smiles bravely. “That’s fair. I mean, my parents have sued for less.”
The teacher’s face darkens to a ruddy purple. Quackity helps Karl stand, spots him while he limps on for three, four more steps, then goes down again. He flops into Quackity’s arms with the back of his hand to his forehead like a Victorian maiden. Quackity will not blow this by laughing, he will not.
The teacher snarls in disgust. He lets them go.
Once they’ve hobbled into the building, Karl collapses into giggles. Just folds like a lawn chair, right in the middle of the empty hallway. Quackity catches it like a cold and starts giggling too. Karl glances at him and laughs harder. So does Quackity. They’re working each other up into a cackle. Every time their eyes meet it sets Quackity off again. It’s incredibly stupid. He can’t stop.
“Stop, stop, I’m gonna pee,” Karl gasps.
“Do it, coward,” Quackity says, and Karl flops flat on the floor like a starfish, howling.
Minutes later, still plastered to the floor, Karl says, “Oh my god, you saved my life? Like you actually saved my life?”
Quackity is nursing a cramp as he crouches against the wall of lockers. He snorts. “I think I actually did. You looked like overcooked pasta thrown at the wall. I’m Quackity, by the way.”
“I know, dude. We have art together. I’m Karl.” Karl sits up and scoots back into the lockers to sit next to him. He pulls his knees to his chest; the thin skin of his kneecaps is bright pink. Elbows too. His gym clothes clash, just like the rest of his wardrobe. He’s smiling, eyes on the floor, and he opens his mouth like he’s going to say more. He closes it. He picks at his nails. Bites his lips. The smile fades.
Quackity remembers what it was like to be new, shipped off to live with cousins he didn’t know in a town populated by kids whose fathers and fathers and fathers had all gone to the same school. He racks his brain for the right words he wishes someone said to him.
“George is colorblind too,” he says.
Karl’s eyes flash up to him, for just a second. Dove gray.
“What?”
“I’m just saying. George, colorblind guy in our grade, he still manages six-out-of-ten fits on average. He could give you some pointers.”
“Because I must be colorblind to wear what I do,” Karl says slowly.
“Yep. Just looking out for you, Karlos,” Quackity says. He grins. He thinks it comes across more teasing than mean. He hopes it comes across more teasing mean.
“Thanks,” Karl says. “That means a lot coming from a Sopranos cosplayer.”
Quackity, delighted, launches into a passionate defense of track suits. Karl’s smile is blinding, even aimed at their shoes.
Karl’s funny, when he’s willing to talk. He’s sweet even when he’s bitingly mean. If you get him going he could prattle on forever. He might have insomnia. One of his hobbies is swiping his parents' credit card and donating obscene amounts of money to charity so they're too embarrassed to take it back. He never talks about why he moved.
Quackity likes him a lot. He always goes along with Quackity’s bits, and his jokes are so dumb they loop right back around to being funny. Within a week of friendship they're calling each other babe. He’s touchy like Quackity is. He’s a good listener, and deceptively intuitive. He loves art and history and creative writing and clarinet, and he’s really only good at one of those things but he doesn’t care. Quackity, who has to be the best at everything he does or he’ll explode, admires the hell out of that.
He’s scared of something, like Quackity is. He avoids reflections. Neither of them talk about it. Sometimes Karl paints their nails and they’re quiet together, each knowing the other is afraid, and somehow just the not being alone in it is a comfort.
He’s really really cute, also. Quackity cannot fucking juggle whatever he sees in the sky and two soul-shattering crushes, so he’ll settle for being Karl’s best friend.
“The guy on the wrestling team? You hang out with him a lot.”
Whenever he’s not hanging out with Karl, basically. They’re on the school bleachers, each other’s shoes in their laps, trading markers out of a ziploc bag Karl brought. The metal of the bleachers is freezing under their socked feet. Quackity writes dirty words in Spanish in what little space is left on Karl’s sneakers. Karl draws dozens of spirals in tight, queasy patterns that seem uncomfortably familiar to Quackity in a way he can’t place. Also a duck. The duck is cute.
The sky is just the sky today. It hasn’t been just the sky in a long time. Quackity avoids looking up just in case. He says, “I know he seems like a big dumb jock, but that’s only because he is. He’s the lucky son of a bitch that gets to call himself my best friend.”
Karl is scandalized. “I thought I was your best friend.”
“You can have two best friends, dumbass. You have Tina, right?”
“I do! Tina’s the best. I said I was your best friend, not that you were mine. Awkward? Yikes for you?”
“I’m going to push you off these bleachers.”
Karl laughs. It’s maybe Quackity’s favorite laugh. In a platonic way. “Sapnap likes anime and weed like you do,” Quackity says. “Match made in heaven. You’re both degenerates.”
“Degens is a funny old-timey term for delinquents. It’s used for crypto crime now,” Karl says. He rattles off some more funny old-timey terms, JDs hoodlums punks, reefer doobie roach, and by the time he wends his way back to the subject at hand his marker has migrated from Quackity’s shoes to the inside of Quackity’s arms, spirals and stars and a line of ducklings. He blows gently on the skin so the ink doesn’t run, which is totally fine and platonic and cool. Coolcoolcoolcool.
“Sapnap sounds neat,” Karl says. “His name is dumb. We should all go to the diner sometime.”
“The new kid,” Sapnap says, squinting. “Artsy. Hangs out with Tina?”
“That’s him,” Quackity says.
“Got fuckin’. Cotton candy hair.”
“Yeah, I guess he does,” Quackity muses. “You’d like him. He’s cute.”
Sapnap hones in on him. “Cute, huh? You got a crush?”
His eyes are slate blue and bloodshot. His headband is askew and his breath is overly sweet. Does he know? He has to, right? They’re lying out in one of this town's million identical fields and everything smells like shit and they’re definitely coming out of this with ticks. The sky is a spiraling gray that isn’t gray. Quackity’s going to fall into it, and not only because he’s high. Sapnap has to know the only reason he’s enduring all this is for him.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Quackity says. His voice comes out weaker than he means to. He rallies. "Cotton candy hair. Sounds like you’re the one with the crush.”
“I’ve noticed him, is all I’m saying. No way not to when he’s rocking that ugly-ass jacket.”
“Mm. Nope, I’m not buying it. Methinks the lady doth protest too much and all that shit.”
“Shut up, man.” Sapnap reaches over to rap his knuckles against Quackity’s chest. He’s laughing. His hand stays there, lax against Quackity’s sternum. It pins Quackity to the earth like a paperweight. He will not fall into the sky tonight.
“Tina’s cool, I trust her judgment,” Sapnap says, what feels like hours later. “Guess it could be cool to hang out with Karl.”
Quackity scoffs. "Tina’s judgment? What about my judgment?”
Sapnap takes a hit of the blunt dangling in his other hand, smiles with his eyes. “Nah, you’re a nerd.”
Quackity snatches the joint. “Oh, fuck all the way off. You wrestle guys in spandex. You’re lucky I deign to look your way.”
Sapnap’s face has gone soppy with fondness. He says, “Hey, you won’t get any arguments from me.”
Quackity hangs out with Sapnap and hangs out with Karl and concocts a way for them to hang out together—absurdly difficult, their schedules are polarized magnets—and he tells himself he just has synesthesia, and that’s why he’s seeing the not-gray in the sky so often. More days than not. Almost every day.
He thinks that grainy blue grief counselor would be proud of him. He thinks his mother would too. He thinks Schlatt would laugh and say you’re fucking cute. It’s like you think you’re the first kid to discover love.
The sky is a sea, rippling and churning. Things swim just past the surface.
Quackity can bear it alone. He knows he can bear it alone. Today’s just a bad day, but he’ll be fine. Synesthesia, right? He’s doing fine.
Karl wasn’t in school today. Tubbo will be catching a ride with his friend Tommy. A storm is coming in. Quackity can’t stand to walk by any of the windows. He can bear it. He can bear it, but the sky is so low and so vast and the colors are watching him, and—and Sapnap doesn’t make him feel small. He makes Quackity feel like a skyscraper. He makes him feel safe.
He asks if he can bum a ride home in Sapnap’s passed-down-for-generations pickup to avoid the incoming squall. It’s a believable excuse. Sapnap says of course, dude, you never have to ask. Sapnap cups a hand around his elbow and says hey, are you okay?
Quackity is fine. He doesn’t have to walk home under that shifting canvas of eyes that are mouths that are colors that are watching him that aren’t real so he’s fine. Sapnap will be there. Quackity will be fine.
Except just before last period, Quackity’s phone is bombarded by frantic, angry, apologetic texts. Sapnap got into a fight. He has to stay after school for detention. I’m so so sorry, Q, I’ll get you a ride home I promise, I’ll text George or Sam or something just don’t walk home alone it’s crazy outside.
Quackity says it’s fine because it is. It’s fine. He’s adaptable. He’ll be fine.
He walks home alone. He ignores Sapnap’s worried texts and then George’s, and then he turns off his phone. Rain lashes down at him. He keeps his hood up and his eyes on the asphalt. He almost gets hit by a car. The sky is so so low.
He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t look up.
He’s so drenched that his teeth have stopped chattering by the time he passes the sump. It’s already half-flooded, boiling over with mud and branches. He marches past and in the corner of his eye he sees a flash of lavender and teal.
Karl might be falling or he might be walking. Quackity only knows that he sees him go under.
There’s water in his hair in his eyes in his teeth in his lungs. The mud is sucking him down. He can’t breathe. He can’t scream. He tries, when he breaks the surface, but he can’t scream.
Karl’s eyes are blown wide and spinning. His hair is plastered into his face, his head barely above the water. He’s looking at Quackity like he’s never seen him before.
“Quackity,” he says.
Quackity tries to drag them out of the sump but can’t get a grip. The sky is ravenous. Quackity sobs. The rain is burying them alive.
Karl slips under. Quackity finds his voice. He screams, he screams, he pulls Karl back up. Karl’s irises are a gray that does not exist.
“Oh, Quackity,” Karl says. “Are you still dreaming?”
Karl’s house is a massive thing, solitary and far out from the rest of town, like his parents didn’t want to be bothered with neighbors. There’s three cars in the driveway. They aren’t home.
Karl buzzes through the house with nervous energy, talking a mile a minute and flinging mud everywhere, splattering the white marble with muck. Quackity shivers in the foyer. The storm rages outside. The sky watches.
“This is cute, I think it’s your style. I mean, it’s the most muted thing I own, anyway. Like I know it’s more royal blue than navy, and it’ll probably be too big for you because you’re kind of tiny, like pocket size, like I could fit you in my pocket like a tamagotchi, no offense, but that’s a style right? I think you’ll look nice. You always look nice. I was kidding about the track suit thing, you pull it off and it’s really really cool. Your beanie is my favorite—I don’t have any beanies to replace yours, but we can throw everything in the wash and until it’s done we can shower and make towel hats! Mine is the purple one but I didn’t know which color you wanted so I brought all of them, here—”
He dumps an armful of towels at Quackity’s feet. Tucked into his other elbow is a bunched up ball of clothes, already growing damp where they’re pressed against his body.
Quackity cracks open his jaw. He waits for something to fall out. “Where are your parents?”
“Cabo, I think. Or maybe Tuscany, or the Douro Valley. They’re scared of me, but at least they always bring back a tee shirt.”
Karl laughs too brightly. He holds out the crumpled ball; a jewel blue Bermuda tourist shirt lays on top. Quackity peels it from the pile and stares at it.
“You think BERMUDA MAKIN' ME CRAZY is my style?”
“Maybe it’s more my style,” Karl concedes. He tries for a smile.
“That’s because your style is shit.” Quackity forces a smile too.
They split to two of the maybe twenty bathrooms to change. Quackity peels his clothes off mechanically. The shower alone is as big as the bathroom in his cousins’ house. He steps in and watches the dreck run off. He steps out. Dresses mechanically. At first he thinks the mirror is fogged. It’s covered by a sheet.
Karl is bustling around a fancy kitchen with an island like a giant marble brick. He’s still dripping but now he’s clean, his hair twisted up into a towel. He stirs two glasses of chocolate milk and then sticks an electric whisk in them to froth them up. One glass slides in front of Quackity. Quackity stares down at it.
“Karl,” Quackity starts, and Karl takes the muddy clothes out of his arms.
“I’ll throw these in the wash, be back in a jiff!” And he runs out.
Quackity tries to think of what he wants to say to Karl when he gets back but he can’t get a grasp on his thoughts. The house is so big it eats up the quiet. He feels unwanted here, like an exclusive and antiseptic modern art museum. He can’t say he loves living with his cousins, or even really likes it, but he can’t imagine weeks and months alone in a place like this. No one to talk to. Karl loves to talk.
Quackity’s eyes are hot and itchy. He’s still rubbing them when Karl gets back.
The manic energy has left him. His face is collapsed in on itself, shoulder slumped. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He takes the stool two down from Quackity and pulls his own glass of chocolate milk toward him. He takes a sip. He pushes it back.
“I wasn’t trying to—you know,” Karl says quietly, tapping his fingers on the glass. The color is peeled back from his nails. There’s still mud in the nailbeds. “I really wasn’t. I just slipped.”
Quackity doesn’t know what to say. He feels clammed up inside himself.
“I felt like I wasn’t awake,” Karl insists. “Or like I was, and I wished I wasn’t. It was…do you ever sleepwalk? It was like that.”
“Why were you out there, Karl?” Quackity asks. His voice is hoarse. He wants Sapnap, just then. He wants to say that he’s sorry for the train tracks and for ignoring his texts. He wants to hug him really bad.
Karl’s lips seal shut. He avoids Quackity’s eyes.
Quackity says, “Is it why your eyes are the wrong color?”
Chalk it up to shock, because he'd never mention it otherwise. He starts to take it back, but all the blood drains out of Karl’s face, and his head snaps up, and—and—
Quackity tells himself it’s synesthesia because the only other option is that he’s losing his mind. There’s never been another way out. Never.
But Karl’s eyes are a color that doesn’t exist.
“You won’t believe me,” Karl says. “No one believes me. You’ll be scared of me.”
“I could never be scared of you.” Quackity stands up and closes the distance between them. Karl looks like he wants to bolt, but he doesn’t. Quackity's throat burns. He pulls Karl close. “You’re my best friend. You can tell me anything.”
“You’ll think I’m crazy,” Karl whispers. His hands ball up in the back of Quackity’s borrowed shirt.
“Oh, dude, you don’t even know,” Quackity says. “My crazy could kick your crazy’s ass. You’ll be like damn, my thing is bland white bread compared to whatever that freak’s got going on."
Karl laughs. Even nasally and damp, it’s still Quackity’s favorite laugh in the world. “Okay. Okay, bet.”
Quackity sees things in the sky. Karl sees what the sky sees. They both see slithering, unreal colors. It’s the same secret, separated by degrees. Karl calls it a he. He says he doesn’t have a name. He says he’s always watching. He says he’s hungry.
“So it’s all real,” Quackity slurs. Somewhere between spilling their guts to each other they transitioned from chocolate milk to the expensive wine collection Karl’s parents keep in their honest-to-god wine cellar, and somewhere between all that Quackity borrowed Karl’s laptop to email his cousins that he was fine but he dropped his phone down a drain and he was staying the night at a friend’s house. They emailed back a series of thumbs ups.
“Sure seems like it,” says Karl. He’s cradling a fizzy bottle of white on a couch that's bigger than Quackity's bed. The wine makes him giggly, all his words musical.
“And this thing I see is gonna like—end the world.”
“Yep. Fun!”
“Fun.” Quackity paces back and forth, throttling his nearly-empty pinot by the neck. At any given moment his emotions pinball between gleeful and terrified and disbelieving. If Schlatt’s apathy lurks anywhere down there the wine drowns it out. “Why us? There has to be a reason, right? And for us to end up in the same ass-crack of nowhere town—I mean, there has to be a reason.”
“Probably. Maybe. No idea,” Karl says.
Quackity flops on the couch next to him. “I’ve spent like my whole life telling myself I was crazy, so I’m gonna need like, seventeen more years to internalize this.”
“I think the world might end before that,” Karl says.
“I’m gonna need like two more bottles to internalize this.”
Karl laughs, then hiccups. He crawls over and molds himself into Quackity’s side. The cool weight of him is grounding.
“I was lying when I said Tina was my only best friend,” Karl says. He's soft in every sense, from his voice to his worn anime tee to his ruddy cheeks to his hair, dried in a frizzy cloud. “It’s just that you’re special.”
Quackity’s stomach flips. He tells himself it’s the wine, or the end of the world. “You’re special too.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We’re gonna tell Sapnap,” Quackity says. Alcohol emboldens him. His resolve steels. “I promised him I would. Then we’re gonna—fucking, save the world, I guess.”
The storm and the sky beat to be let in.
They tell Sapnap at the diner two days later. It’s a Friday. Karl’s eyes flicker between dove gray and not-gray. Sapnap has eaten all of their fries. Quackity’s heart is in his throat.
Sapnap believes them, of course. His greasy hand is clasped in Quackity’s, and Quackity knows there was never a world where he didn’t.
Step one, once Karl’s eyes are his eyes again and they’ve relocated to the library with their second order of fries in a paper bag, is: figure out what they know so they can figure out what they don’t.
The thing can see through Karl’s eyes; Quackity can see the thing; neither Quackity nor Karl know exactly how much time they have, but they both know it’s not a lot; the thing in the sky’s plans for the world are…unclear. Karl’s best interpretation is a hivemind fearscape sort of situation.
“So it’s gonna like, eat the world?” Sapnap asks. He’s flipping through an illustrated Lovecraft novel that Karl fished from the shelves, frowning down at the monstrous, be-tentacled illustration like he’s trying to figure out how to wrestle and pin it.
Karl wags his hand, so-so. “Ehhh, kind of.”
“Does he want to come here?” Quackity asks. “Bring his dimension—”
“He is his dimension,” Karl corrects. Quackity and Sapnap grimace.
“Right. Does he want to, what—manifest his dimension—himself—here? So everyone can see him and go…crazy with fear, I guess?”
Karl nods, wobbles his head, nods again. “I don’t think that’s exactly right, but it’s close. I think it’s close.”
Quackity thinks hard about his next question. “Has this happened before?”
For a second, Karl’s eyes unfocus.
“Yes,” he says. “A long time ago. Before us. In a dream.”
A librarian older than time rolls a squeaky cart of books past their table. Karl blinks, and his eyes clear up. He flushes. Glances at Sapnap.
Sapnap shuts the book with finality. “That’s fucked. Don’t know how to punch a dream, but I’ll figure it out.”
In degrees, Karl relaxes. He and Sapnap reach for the fries at the same time. Karl says well now we have to get married, and Sapnap, straightfaced, says I’ll protect your womanly virtue til the day I die.
Quackity has to remind himself that the world is ending. It’s not the time to say I told you so, even if he’s thinking it, very loudly.
Step two: research. Quackity knows, a kernel of truth inside him unearthed by being believed, that his curse can help them. He just has to figure out how.
Unsurprisingly, there’s nothing useful in their tiny backwater library, and the internet isn’t much better. A couple cheesy horror short stories. Spooky myths and legends. Some forums about Lovecraft monsters and how to beat them, including cult rituals, ancient relics, a magic space-time lamp—useful and actionable shit like that. Usually the answer is that the Old Ones can’t be beaten. Quackity tries to ignore that.
(“What about, like, the dark web?” Sapnap says, and Karl and Quackity coo at him until he reddens to the roots of his hair.)
Karl scrolls back up to the cult rituals. Quackity raises an eyebrow. “You think there’s a ritual that might help?”
Karl’s curls bounce with a shake of his head. As Quackity watches, the other gray bleeds into his eyes.
“I think a ritual is what he wants.”
The lack of results is disheartening. The colors in the sky pressing down is worse. Every time Quackity feels too small to breathe, he reminds himself that he’ll explode if he isn’t the best at what he’s set his mind to, and what he’s set his mind to is saving the world, so he’s just going to do it. Sapnap and Karl are counting on him and he’s going to fucking do it.
He finds something.
An offhand question about lost history deep in the archaeology subreddit, met with a succinct answer. Miskatonic University, a forgettable liberal arts college in Arkham, Maine, home to the archaeology and anthropology communities’ best kept secret. Quote: A university dedicated to the arcane.
“This is drivable,” Quackity says, eyeing the route between them and Maine. “It’ll take a while, but it’s a pretty straight shot.”
“Archaeology and anthropology do seem like the right studies for this kind of thing,” Karl agrees. “And the arcane. Like, obviously.”
Sapnap, changing his little brother’s diaper, is unconvinced. “I don’t know. This feels less like finding a needle in a haystack and more like finding another haystack halfway across the country. And this guy’s username is technoblade, how much could he really know?”
“Your name is Sapnap, I’m not sure you’re one to talk,” Karl says. Quackity cackles. Sapnap rolls his eyes.
From downstairs: “Pandas! You know the rules, if you and your friends want snacks, you have to help make them!”
“I’m literally changing your son’s diaper!” Sapnap bellows.
A third, stern voice: “Hey, no talking back to your father. That’s my job.” And then quieter: Geppy! Tittering middle-aged giggles. Sapnap gags. Quackity watches Karl pinch his lips to keep from laughing.
Sapnap hikes baby Eryn over his shoulder like a sack of flour and thunders down the stairs. While they wait for his return Karl takes Quackity’s new phone to peer at the map, then leans over to peer at Quackity's AP chemistry homework.
“Wild that school is still a thing. It’s like they don’t even know the world is ending,” he says.
“Dude, I know. I was this close to just taking a week to crack this, my grades could take the hit. Not like my cousins would call me out on it.”
Karl hums. He’s zoned back in on the phone and the map.
When Sapnap comes back with a plate of muffins, Karl says, “I think Q is right, Sap. This feels like the right direction. I can’t explain it.”
Sapnap shrugs. “I’m the muscle, not the brains. If you think this is a good call I’m all for it. But wouldn’t it be faster to fly?”
“I’m not getting in the sky with that thing up there,” Quackity says. Karl nods rapidly.
“Road trip it is then.” Sapnap hands them each a muffin, then pops a whole one in his mouth. He speaks around steam and chocolate crumbs. “Spring break is next week. You think the end of the world can wait until then?”
Karl’s parents are absent. Quackity’s well-meaning cousins are too awkward to press for details when he says he’s taking a spring break road-trip with some friends. Sapnap, cursed with doting fathers who check in regularly, is the weak link.
Quackity and Karl sit in the bed of the truck, legs swinging, sharing not-so-secret looks as Sapnap paces back and forth and shoves his hand into his hair. His headband is still on, so now his hair looks like shit. His crisis of conscience shouldn’t be half as endearing as it is.
“Yeah, dad. Yeah, dad. Miami’s—Miami’s great. Karl’s parents are cool, I guess. No, uh—I don’t think Facetime’s a good idea right now, Quackity and Karl are—yeah, they’re napping off the jet lag. What? What the hell, no, I’m not—you know what, dad, yes, Quackity’s actually shoveling cocaine up my ass and Karl’s organizing a rich people manhunt of the lower class. Jesus.” He scrubs a hand down his face. Quackity hopes he washed up after using the chlamydia-riddled rest stop bathroom. “Tell Skeppy he’s a bastard. Yeah. Yeah. Love you too. Squish Eryn’s face for me.”
He hangs up. Then he throws his head back and shouts into the night. Some birds take off. A family on a pit stop shoots them dirty looks. Karl whistles, impressed.
Sapnap shuffles over, and Quackity expects him to sit between them like a normal person. Instead he flops forward and pins them under his weight like a freak.
“This sucks. Skeppy expects me to act out, but Bad trusts me. He’s such a loser.” Sapnap grumbles through their winded protests. “I hate lying to my dads.”
“Probably because you suck at it,” says Quackity. He pats Sapnap's back in equal parts comfort and condescension. “Why’d you tell him we were going to Miami? Why not Portland? At least then we might be in Maine by the time your dad checks your location.”
“Shut up, it was the first spring break place I could think of,” Sapnap says. He thumps his forehead into Quackity's shoulder. “He won’t check my location. Dad believes in healthy boundaries between parents and teens. Privacy and all that shit.”
“Imagine having a good relationship with your parents,” says Karl, reaching up to play with the ends of Sapnap's hair. “Couldn’t be me.”
“Imagine having parents,” Quackity says.
Sapnap snorts.
“Are you laughing at my trauma, Sapnap?” Quackity demands. “Wow, canceled. Doxxed. I’m going to text Bad your location, I’m gonna say hey Bad, from one excellent ass to another—"
“You said you wouldn't do this again,” Sapnap groans. He tries to cover Quackity’s mouth. Quackity wiggles out from under him and leans farther and farther out of his reach.
“I will not be silenced—from one excellent ass to another, I just thought you should know your son told the stupidest lie in existence and he’s actually in Maine trying to stop the end of the world, also I am shoveling coke up his ass, also you and I should get dinner sometime—”
Quackity tumbles out of the truck bed. Karl is hyena cackling and Sapnap is pointing down at him.
“That’s it, Q, I told you if you kept hitting on my dad I’d revoke your weed privileges. I fucking warned you.”
“What! Dude, come on!”
“Nope. Get fucked.” Sapnap pulls a baggie of freshly rolled joints out of his back pocket and shakes it. “More for me and Karl.”
“Yay!” Karl claps his hands and tucks into Sapnap’s side. The flush that climbs Sapnap’s throat does not go unnoticed by Quackity, from his vantage point on the ground. “I can’t believe you’d say that about Mr. Halo, Quackity? That’s literally so disrespectful of you? Just because a man’s got cake doesn’t mean you should say it.”
Sapnap snatches the baggie out of Karl’s hands. “Karl!”
“Some people have an aura,” Karl says sagely. “Your dad gives fat cake. I would never say that to you though, because I have some class.”
Quackity laughs so hard he falls back to the ground, legs kicking. Sapnap huffs. He digs Karl’s keys out of his back pocket and tosses them for Karl to fumble-catch. “One of you two chucklefucks are driving the next leg. I’m getting baked in the backseat.”
“He’ll share later,” Quackity stage-whispers to Karl once Sapnap has harrumphed his way into the car.
“I can tell,” Karl says. “He’s cute!”
Quackity grins like he’s the one receiving the compliment.
Later comes when they miss the last rest stop for sixty miles, so they end up taking a random exit into a random suburb, where they park in the lot of a random playground.
“Are we sure this is a good idea? There are no lights and no witnesses. Anyone could get the jump on three dumbasses passed out in a truck.” Quackity lays out some blankets in the bed of the truck. The sky is clear. He still hates the thought of sleeping under it, but there’s not enough room in the cab. “It would be so lame to die from something that isn’t the eldritch god in the sky.”
“No one’s going to get the jump on us. I’ll suplex anyone who tries,” Sapnap says, and narrows his eyes like a guard dog at the nearest house to the playground, a cheerful little cape. “I’d be more worried about getting arrested for loitering or whatever.”
“Cops won’t catch us,” Karl says.
“How do you know?”
“I’ll see them coming. Eyes in the sky.” He rolls himself up in the blankets, ignoring Quackity’s swears. From the depths of the burrito he extricates a hand and makes grabby-fingers at Sapnap. “Doobie please?”
As Quackity predicted, Sapnap gives in.
“What does it look like?” Sapnap whispers.
He’s got a hand caught up in Karl’s curls, carefully working through tangles. Karl is out for the count; weed makes him sleepy, which is probably a good thing, given that he hasn’t slept in weeks. It probably doesn’t hurt that he’s snuggled up to Sapnap “Human Space Heater" Halo. Quackity is man enough to admit he’s jealous of the way Karl is tucked into Sapnap’s side. He’s more surprised by his jealousy of Sapnap’s hand. Karl’s hair looks soft.
He swallows. End of the world. Focus. “Like—like shrimp colors, like Karl said.”
“I didn’t get that then and I don’t get it now. Use more words.” Sapnap pokes him in the side.
“Okay, but don’t—no judgment, right?”
Sapnap lays a hand solemnly over his heart. Coincidentally this puts his hand right over Karl’s.
“Of course, dude. Safe space.”
“I regret this already. So it’s—it’s actually kind of pretty?”
“So you’ve been brainwashed by the eldritch god, cool,” Sapnap says, and Quackity throws up his hands.
“Why do I tell you anything? Your cute meathead brain can’t comprehend anything more complex than sport-punch-fire.”
“Hey, all I heard was you think my meathead brain is cute.”
“Case and point,” Quackity says, and Sapnap says, “No tell me, the cosmic bastard trying to destroy the world is pretty, tell me about it.”
Quackity resists for a minute, but only for show. “It's like—like an oil spill, you know? Like a rain puddle in a parking lot, with that sort of rainbow sheen? It’s all…iridescent. It’s a lot like that.”
“Or like a pigeon,” Sapnap says.
Quackity sputters. “What?”
“Like a fat fucking pigeon,” Sapnap doubles down. “Like a fat fucking rat with wings pigeon with filthy oily rainbow feathers, like that.”
“What do you have against pigeons?” Quackity tries to stifle his laughter, but his body shakes and the car shakes with him. Sapnap is grinning with his whole face, with his whole body.
“I’m glad you told me,” he says.
Quackity’s eyes are dewy; he blinks, still smiling. “About the colors?”
“About all of it. The end of the world, the monster in the sky, the colors. Just…what you’re going through. I’m glad you told me. Thanks, for telling me.”
“I—” Quackity swallows. “No problem. I mean, it’s not a big deal.”
Sapnap gives him a funny, almost frowning look. “Yeah, it is. Of course it is.”
Of course it is. It’s the end of the world, of course it is. Quackity thinks that’s not what Sapnap means.
Sapnap lifts the arm not wrapped around Karl in wordless invitation, and Quackity’s ribs constrict around his heart. He feels like some skittish animal as he hesitates, then curls up in the hollow of him, eager and cold. Sapnap, kindly, doesn’t call him on it.
The sky is bright and dark and brilliant and pulsing. For a second or for years Quackity doesn’t know if he’s awake or if he’s dreaming.
He turns his head. Sapnap is snoring against him, breaths tumbling over Quackity’s collarbones. Karl is gone. Across the street, the door to the cape hangs open, a toothless mouth.
He wakes Sapnap. He’s drowsy, and then he’s alert, and then he’s swearing. They scramble out of the truck and up to the house. Quackity wants to say Karl might not be in there, he could be anywhere. But he isn’t. They both know he isn’t.
Sapnap doesn’t give him time to chicken out. He rushes into the dark, and Quackity steps in after him.
Through the windows the sky paints the walls in lurid unreal colors. Framed photos of a picture perfect family, mother-father-daughter-dog. The colors leave their faces warped and twisted. Quackity waits for someone to start shouting, but the house is still and silent.
“It’s too dark, I can’t see anything,” Sapnap hisses. Quackity grabs his hand and leads him.
They creep through the house. Around the corner there’s the sound of water, rushing and violent. A hall and an open doorway. Water spilling out.
The light from the sky doesn’t reach here. Quackity feels flayed open and watched anyway. Water starts to soak through his shoes. He reaches for the lightswitch and his hand shakes.
They’re standing in a small bathroom with a pink porcelain tub, overflowing. Karl lays limp over the side. His head and his arms are hanging in the water. He’s dead.
Sapnap drops Quackity’s hand and runs to him. Quackity drifts behind.
Karl’s not dead. His face hovers just above the water, his nose skimming the surface. His eyes are wide open. His jaw hangs slack. The curls of his hair dangle like deep-sea tendrils into the water.
Sapnap jostles him by the shoulders. Karl doesn’t move. Quackity is afraid to touch him. “Karl?”
“He likes the cold,” Karl whispers. “He likes the deep dark.”
A woman upstairs starts screaming.
“Shit,” Sapnap says. “Get him to the car, now.” He dashes out of the bathroom.
“Karl, we—we have to go, man, we have to leave.” Quackity forces himself to grip Karl’s shoulder. “The guys who own this house are freaking out, we have to go—”
“It’s only that they’re waking up. We are the dreaming dead,” Karl says.
A shiver closes its teeth on Quackity’s spine. He doesn’t know what to do. He turns to call for Sapnap, but his voice is a rasp. He turns again.
Karl is looking right at him.
“He sees you, Quackity,” Karl says. His eyes are not his eyes. “He sees what you’re trying to do.”
“I’m—I’m not doing anything,” Quackity says, and Karl draws his hands from the water. They’re blue with cold, swollen and soft when he lays them on Quackity’s face.
“He sees you.” His eyes swirl and pulse. His face is utterly empty. “Don’t worry, Q. I think we're still dreaming.”
Through the ceiling a man starts screaming. A child. A dog.
“Karl, let’s go. Come on, baby, let’s go.” Quackity pulls and drags at him, and Karl follows as though through tar. Screams and screams and screams vibrate through the walls. Sapnap thunders down the stairs and meets them at the doorway. In the bleeding light of the sky Quackity can see the whites around his eyes.
“They wouldn’t wake up,” he says. “They’re all still in their beds. I didn’t know what to do, they just keep screaming, their eyes are wide open but they—they won’t wake up.”
“They are awake,” Karl says dreamily. “They can’t figure out how to go back to sleep.”
Quackity feels a sob claw at his chest.
Neighbors’ lights start coming on just as they peel away. The screams follow them. They follow Quackity. He can still hear them, ringing, even as they hit the highway.
The sky is alive above them.
Quackity tries to rub some warmth back into Karl’s arms, and Karl watches vacantly. He wipes water from Karl's face, murmurs softly, combs back his hair. His hands pass over his eyes. Karl stills.
“Karl?” Quackity moves his hands to Karl’s cheeks.
Karl’s eyes are gray. Karl screams.
“Come on, baby, let me see.”
Karl whips his head from side to side. Quackity and Sapnap send each other tight-lipped frowns.
“Drink some water, K,” Sapnap suggests. “You’re crying out all your fluids. We’ve gotta stay hydrated to save the world.”
He holds out a crinkly water bottle. Karl, after a second of sniffling, peels one hand away from his eyes with a pop of suction. His quaking fingers close around the plastic and brings it to his lips, and Sapnap cups a hand under his chin to catch any spill.
When he’s done, he’s not trembling quite so bad, but his eyes are still closed. A car passes them on the shoulder, kicking up dust and dry air. Sapnap takes the water bottle. Quackity touches one flushed cheek. He slips Karl’s hair behind his ear. Karl turns his nose into his palm and Quackity’s heart hurts.
“Karlos? Can I take a look? Just a peek, I promise.”
Karl shudders. His lashes flutter and crack open.
Dove gray. Quackity opens his mouth to say so, just as something mesmerizing starts to spiral deep in the depths of his iris.
On instinct Quackity reaches for Sapnap’s hand. Karl makes a pitiful noise and screws his eyes shut.
“Oh, Karl.” Quackity’s throat clogs up.
“I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t mean to. That family—” Karl whimpers. “It was like I was asleep, it was like I was—like I was trying to stay asleep. I’m so tired."
“We know, baby, we know. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“It’s not okay. He’s here all the time now.” The hands sealed over Karl’s eyes curl into fists. “I can’t get him out of my head. I just want him out of my head.”
“We’re going to.” Quackity sounds surer than he feels. He considers stopping there, but Karl said the thing in the sky knew what they were up to. The secret’s already out. “We’re going to get him out of your head, Karl. You said he knows what we’re doing, that has to be why he’s checking in more. You know what that means? The bastard’s scared. He’s scared because we’re going to figure out how to beat him and Sapnap’s going to kick his ass.”
Instead of the fervent agreement Quackity is expecting, Sapnap says, “Can I try something?”
Quackity glances back at him; he’s reaching up into his hair.
“Maybe we can use my headband as a blindfold, if you don’t wanna open your eyes. At least then you can use your hands.”
“Gross.” Karl sniffles, thick and wet. “You mean it?”
“Take your hands off your eyes, K.” Sapnap adds gently, “You can keep them closed.”
He unties his headband with deft fingers. Dark hair tumbles into his face. He wraps it around Karl's eyes and tilts his head down to secure the knot. Karl says, “Ow,” when his hair gets caught, and Sapnap says, “Sorry,” and then he tilts Karl’s head back up and kisses his forehead, just above the bandana.
Karl startles. Quackity empathizes, it startled him too. Sapnap looks startled to have done it.
“Sorry,” Sapnap says again, glancing quickly between Karl and Quackity.
“It’s okay,” Karl and Quackity say at the same time.
Sapnap blinks. Karl blushes pink against the blindfold. Quackity has no leg to stand on, because he can feel the heat glowing in his cheeks, but still he says, “Wow, Karl, what the hell? We’re trying to save the world from the horrors, is now really the time to snipe Sapnap out from under me?”
Karl giggles, and Sapnap laughs a breathy, shocked laugh, and Quackity snickers a little too, because that’s what he does when he’s nervous. There’s no need to be. Well, there’s every need to be, the horrors and all, but Sapnap is looking at Quackity with such fierce adoration that Quackity can’t even look back.
After a few minutes, he asks, “How you doing, Karlos?”
“Better. I can’t really feel him like this. Not as much, anyway.” Relief makes his voice wet. "Where are we?"
Quackity looks around. "Not sure. Indiana, maybe? I think this whole state is just corn."
"We should get back on the road." Karl nods, once and then again. He starts to fumble with the tie. When he fails to pick the knot loose he just drags it off his head and holds it out, hair wild, eyes shut. “Thanks, Sap. I’m okay now.”
“No, take it. If you feel better with it, take it.” Sapnap pushes the bandana back into Karl’s hands. Karl laughs without humor.
“The only way I’d feel better is if I wear it all the time. You’d have to lead me around.”
“Then we’ll lead you around,” Sapnap says. He takes Karl’s hand and squeezes it. Quackity needs no prompting to do the same.
Karl chuckle-sobs, “That’s kinda gay.”
“Karl, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you are gay. You are very very gay,” says Quackity.
“Who, me? I’m as straight as a maypole,” Karl says, and bursts into tears. Quackity holds him, and Sapnap holds them both.
They iron out the kinks of their new system in fast food parking lots and fading strip malls and gas station aisles. Step here, car incoming, follow my voice. Turn left. I said left, dipshit, your other left.
It looks goofy as hell when they try to run, Karl’s long loping gazelle legs tripping them up more than once, but they get better at it. They trace letters into the backs of hands with thumbs, work out rudimentary one-two tap signals just in case.
Karl’s hands are long and cool and thin. His skin is soft, and Quackity can see all the green-purple veins there, trace them like a roadmap. When he leads, he does it with their fingers interlocked. When Sapnap leads, he does it with his big hands engulfing. It works best when Karl is holding one hand each, three linked together, red rover red rover, unbreakable.
Quackity knows Karl is feeling better when he starts making shitty end of the world jokes.
“Cosmic horror? I hardly know 'er!”
“At the next bathroom break I’m going to lead you into a wall,” Sapnap says.
“Call of Cthulu? More like cthu-lick deez nuts!”
“Or traffic.”
“No, I like that one,” Quackity says. “Gotta respect deez nuts, Sap.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Sapnap says, and Karl says, “Oh, I’ve got one: she love my craft til I…” He trains off.
“Finish it,” demands Sapnap.
“Til I…H…Pee?”
“Hear that, Q? She love his craft til he pee.”
“Hot. Didn’t know you have a piss kink, Karl.”
“They can’t all be bangers,” Karl says, pouting audibly. “Some of them are gonna be piss jokes. If you don’t love me at my piss jokes you don’t deserve me at my deez nuts.”
Sapnap wriggles from the front seat to the back, where he and Karl start up a game of hand slaps. Sapnap loses three rounds in a row and Karl declares himself Daredevil. In the driver’s seat, Quackity listens to the swearing and the slapping, and he stares down the barrel of a swelling iridescent sky, and he tries to keep his hands from shaking on the wheel.
Bad news: they get to Maine long after dark. Even if they drove the last three hours in one shot, the library would be long closed. They stay the night in a motel that has seen two dozen murders at least.
Good news: between Karl’s (parents’) shiny black credit card and Sapnap’s non-patchy beard and brick-shithouse build, they’re given a room without question.
They get two queen beds, pick the least filthy one, and pile in. SpongeBob is playing on the TV when Quackity turns it on. Karl is able to recite the whole episode by heart.
They say they’ll sleep in turns. They leave the lights on.
Quackity isn’t sure if he’s awake. He isn’t sure if he’s dreaming.
His face is burrowed into Sapnap’s breastbone, his head pillowed by the crook of his arm. He wants to stay here. He’s safe here. He’s loved.
His arm is thrown over Sapnap’s hip; he pats around for Karl.
“How are you doing, Quackity?” Karl asks.
He’s a ragged black cut out on the edge of the bed, silhouetted by the bluish white glow of the TV. Oh. Someone turned out the lights.
“Karl?” Quackity slurs.
“I got my breakdown, but you haven’t had yours yet. And you’ve been through a whole lot. I don’t know how much longer you can go on like this.” His voice is airy. Empty. “You should go back to sleep, Q. You should go back to dreaming.”
Quackity sits up. Sapnap sighs but doesn’t stir. “What’re you doing, Karl?”
“Just watching TV. Couldn’t sleep.”
The TV is awash with static. The blindfold is in his lap.
Quackity crawls to him, slowly. The springs squeal beneath his knees. He reaches for Karl’s limp hand, pauses, and then laces their fingers together. Taps against the fine bones, one-two, one-two. “You need to sleep, baby. Can I put the blindfold back on?”
“We’re not talking about me.” Karl keeps staring at the static. He doesn’t blink. “I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. I’m fine. The blindfold, Karl—”
“Of course I worry. You’re so strong, Quackity, but I see it weighing on you. So does he. He knows you’re trying to stop him. He knows you can see him. He didn’t care before, but now he’s paying attention. He is a dimension unto himself, and he doesn’t want to manifest here, I said that, remember? He doesn’t want to be made real here. He wants the opposite. And you’re a threat to that. I don’t know how, but you are.” Karl looks at him. Quackity already knows what he’ll see in his eyes. “I think you’re in danger, Quackity. I don’t think I believe you when you say you aren’t scared.”
“I never said I wasn’t scared.”
Karl’s brow twitches, a ghost of himself. “Are you scared of me?”
Quackity cups his cheek. “I’m not.”
Karl’s eyes shut. His breath skips like a rock on the water, sinking to stillness.
“I think you should be.”
Morning brings rain, watery coffee, and stale donuts. At least they’re complimentary.
“You two look like shit,” Sapnap says. His hair is tied back with a rubber band.
Quackity drags his beanie down over his eyebrows. “Shit bed, shit sleep. What do you expect.”
Karl, gray-faced, chews his donut mechanically. Sapnap looks between them with narrowed eyes.
“Dunno, I slept fine.” He shoves the last of his donut in his mouth, guzzles some coffee to wash it down, and crumples the paper cup. “I’ll drive. You two nap in the back.”
Quackity musters a smile. “That’s sweet of you. You’re sweeter than this shitty donut.”
“Not to downplay Sapnap’s sweetness but I think they used salt in it,” Karl says. His voice scrapes with exhaustion, but at least he sounds like himself. They pack up their things and head outside, heads ducked against the rain.
There’s a man by the truck. A long rope of poorly dyed hair hangs down his back like a noose. He’s solid and monolithic and Karl stops dead.
Sapnap keeps going, letting Quackity take lead with Karl as he pushes in front of them both and broadens his shoulders. “Hey man, can I help you?”
“Which one of you is the bleed through?” the man says.
That is fucking concerning. “You need to back off,” Sapnap says, stance squaring, knees and elbows bending. Karl sucks in a ragged breath, pulling hard at Quackity’s hand.
“Q, we have to go—”
The man looks right at Quackity.
He says something that Quackity doesn’t hear. No, that’s not right. He hears it, he just can’t make sense of it. It’s gibberish. It doesn’t fit the shape of his mouth. Color rolls from the man’s mouth like fog, and Quackity’s brain—itches, he can’t—
Sapnap wheels around and clamps his hands on Quackity’s throat.
Quackity’s skull bounces against asphalt. He’s pinned in seconds. All of Sapnap’s weight on his chest, driving out what little breath is left in his lungs. All of his weight on his throat, crushing. Quackity fights—he tries to fight. It’s laughable. He can hear Karl screaming. Then he only hears the rush of his own blood.
The world pares down. Sapnap’s blank eyes and slack mouth. Blood and color dripping from his ears. The sky writhing. Quackity’s throat crumpling like a paper cup.
It stops.
Quackity is aware, distantly, that it stops, and is convinced that he’s dead anyway, that his windpipe is already winched irreparably shut. Air leaks in like a slashed tire in reverse. Quackity’s corpse inflates slowly, a sad blow up doll. Then he’s hacking, rolling over to one side, gagging, sobbing and oh, alive. Sound comes in. Karl crying, Karl’s hands on him, the blindfold pushed up on his face. Sapnap begging from a million miles away, is he okay, is he alive, oh god, oh god—
“He was like me,” Karl whispers. “I could tell he was like me. And he was like me when I was—when I was sleepwalking.”
Quackity has no memories of the last few minutes. They exist only as a list of facts in his head: Karl dragging them into the truck. Karl driving over the speed limit until they hit a beach. Karl parking across three spaces. Karl clambering into the back seat, and that’s where Quackity’s brain kicks back online. The rain leaves the sea rough and the beach nearly empty, the nearest people being a man and his dog and the teen manning the beach stand a ways down. All three of them are sardine-packed into the back of the cab. Karl sits in the middle, blindfold back in place, clutching each of their hands to his chest. Quackity’s throat is a molten ball of glass, throbbing and scalding hot. Tears prick his eyes every time he tries to swallow.
“What did he do to me?” Sapnap’s voice is hoarse like he was the one strangled. He won’t look at Quackity, won’t even lift his head.
“He was like me,” Karl says again. “He channels him. The words he spoke were his."
“I could taste— color behind my eyes,” Sapnap says. “I could feel them, wriggling through my ears into my brain. I knew what was happening but I didn’t even…I felt wide awake.”
“Wasn’t your fault,” Quackity rasps.
Sapnap snarls. “How can you say that? I almost killed you. I saw my hands around your neck and I thought you were dead.” He drops Karl’s hand and scrambles out of the backseat. “You need ice, I’m gonna—I can’t—” The door slams behind him.
Karl takes Quackity’s other hand. He knots all their fingers together. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Quackity says again.
“I know. I’m just sorry.”
The rain comes down in bolts. Lightning cracks the sky, the wrong shape. The man and his dog jog off to their car. Through the windows Quackity can see Sapnap talking to the girl at the stand, who is pulling on her jacket and packing up. Quackity wants to yell at him to get back inside, away from the sky, even though the roof of the car feels like aluminum foil against it.
Quackity croaks, “Why did he stop?”
Karl takes a quivering breath, and then recounts the events slow and even, like he’s reading from a book. “I tried to hit him at first, but he just ignored me. It was like I wasn’t even there. Then I thought about what you did for me, so I covered his eyes, and when that didn’t work I covered his mouth, and then his ears, and he…he became a person again. I yelled at him, and then he stopped. He told Sapnap to stop.”
Quackity turns his face into Karl’s bony shoulder, feels the tickle of hair against his ear. Karl makes a sad little cooing sound. He disentangles one hand to skate down the swollen side of Quackity’s throat with the pads of his fingers, cool and feather light. Quackity shudders and shuffles closer. “My hero.”
Karl exhales a laugh, self-effacing. “Do you know what I yelled at him?”
Quackity shakes his head.
“I said he was helping a monster end the world. He said he knew. I said isn’t there anything you want to save, and he said his book club.”
A chuckle scrapes at Quackity’s throat, more surprise than humor. “Deadass?”
“I know. Nerd alert, right?”
The door opens. Sapnap ducks inside. “They, uh. They didn’t have ice to sell, so I just…”
He’s soaked through, head hung like a dog. In his arms he’s cradling half a dozen ice cream bars.
Quackity takes one with his free hand. “Thanks.”
Silence overwhelms. Lightning fissures the sky, lighting up the convulsing shadows behind it. Sapnap’s eyes flick up, then down, then up again; he fixes on the bare side of Quackity’s throat.
“You should ice that side too.” But Quackity’s other hand is clutched between Karl’s. Sapnap’s frown carves up his face, deep and sad. “Can I…?”
He looks small. Quackity can’t stand how small he looks. He nods.
They hold the ice cream to his throat for five minutes, then ten. When the bars have melted to liquid and popsicle sticks, they swap them out for two more, already soft in the plastic. Sapnap dashes at his eyes with the heel of his palm twice. I don’t blame you, Quackity wants to say, but he thinks Sapnap might run again, so he doesn't.
On the third round of ice cream bars, Sapnap says gruffly, “That guy. His…powers. Karl, will you be able to do that?”
“I don’t want to,” Karl says. “I don’t want to.”
“Then you won’t,” Sapnap says.
Quackity tries to locate that same simple confidence within him, or something like it to pass as the real thing. His throat feels sealed shut. Speaking takes a crowbar to it. “If he—if he tried to have me killed, we must be going in the right direction.”
Karl’s hands twitch hard in his lap.
Sapnap says, “What is it, Karl?”
“Before that guy left. He said.” Karl curls in on himself. “He said if we were going to Miskatonic University, don’t bother. He already tried. There’s nothing there.”
They go to Miskatonic University. We can’t trust the word of some fuckin’ loser who works for the eldritch fear god, Quackity says, when he can stand to speak again, but what he means is, if Miskatonic has nothing for us, I have no idea what to do.
The last leg of the trip is three hours of silence and dreary New England landscape, eventually winding down into the rural valley from which the school gets its name. Sapnap drives the whole way, and Karl coaxes Quackity’s head into his lap. He cards his fingers through the hair at Quackity’s temples. Quackity doesn't sleep.
Karl’s parents’ money gets them into the library, and it gets them no questions, and it gets them access after hours. “Thank god for the one percent,” Sapnap mutters. Quackity zips his tracksuit jacket up to his chin to hide his throat.
The library is a treasure trove of firsthand accounts and raw data. Interviews, transcripts, memoirs, art, new and old and ancient. Nameless cults and dead religions. Phenomena ranging from weird to esoteric to occult.
They find nothing.
“Maybe we should call it for the night,” Karl says gently. “We can come back tomorrow.”
“Yeah. You’re right, you’re right.” Quackity cradles the hollow of his stomach to ward off any pangs or growling. “After I finish this paper, man, you got it.”
Sapnap pushes away from the table, wobbling a precarious stack of books. “I’ll get the snacks from the car.”
Karl removes the blindfold and cracks open the next book on the pile.
It’s two am. Quackity’s eyes are starting to cross from so many turn of the century texts on cults and sailing and mythology and stars, and Karl says, “I’ve got a joke for you.”
“Thank fuck.” Though Quackity is nursing a cup of tea Karl rooted out of some back closet, it does more for his throat than his wakefulness. Karl’s jokes, on the other hand, are so universally terrible they’re like a refreshing slap to the face. Quackity shuts the pulpy memoir of an Arctic voyage gone south, knuckles at his eyes, blinks them open again. Sapnap is passed out on the table across from him, sprawled out and drooling onto his book in a way that would send little old librarians into a fury. The sight of him so soft and unguarded hurts Quackity deeply. He turns to Karl—pale and wan and smiling, with his hair matted down and his eyes bruised from lack of sleep. That hurts just as bad.
Karl spreads his hands, setting the scene. “What happens to a dream when you wake up?”
Quackity rests his cheek on his fist. “I don’t know, what happens to a dream when you wake up?”
“It disappears. It stops being real.”
Quackity waits, but Karl just grins at him. He’s cute when he’s excited, even if he’s being dumb. Quackity exhales through his nose, amused. He plays along. “It was never real.”
“No, it wasn’t. But do you think the dream knew that?”
Quackity doesn’t have an answer to that. Karl keeps going, animated in hands and face.
“So to keep a dream from not being real, the dream has to stop the dreamer from waking up. How does a dream keep a dreamer asleep?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “It doesn’t. There’s nothing it can do.”
“Okay?” Quackity says.
“That’s us,” Karl says. “We are the dream, dreaming itself. Tasting itself. When he wakes, poof! That’s it. And it won’t make any difference. Ta-da!”
Quackity stares.
Patiently, Karl says, “Look at it this way. You know how a word starts to sound like gibberish when you say it too many times? That's the truth. It’s like that, but with everything.”
Quackity’s palms are cold with sweat. His hand creeps across the table, reaching for the blindfold, reaching for Sapnap, but Karl grabs his fingers and vices them. “Karl, that hurts—”
Karl’s other hand darts for Quackity’s throat. Quackity’s breath goes thin, arrested in his seat as Karl veers into him and skates a thumb down the cartilage.
“You ever think about how the alphabet is arbitrary, Quackity? It doesn’t have to be in the order it’s in. It doesn’t have to look the way it does. Spin that thought out and it’s like, oh, words are arbitrary too. Meaningless sounds we attribute to things. Spin that out and it’s like oh, the things are arbitrary too. And the people. And thoughts. And beliefs. Matter. Light. Time. Physics. Grief. Loss. Joy. Fear. Reality. It’s all gibberish. We’re all just a collection of gibberish, cobbled together in a gibberish shape. Schlatt understood. He knew it wasn’t the dizziness that scared you. Small part of something bigger, right? So small it might as well not exist. When he died, it unnerved you, didn’t it, how random it was? There was no point, no symbolism. It should have been the drink that killed him, then he’d be a cautionary tale. But he tripped and died and it meant nothing. When you die, that moment will be the exact same as any other. Do you understand?”
Quackity’s vision blurs at the edges. Karl’s eyes are not gray.
“That’s the joke, Q. Even if you did understand, the understanding is the punchline, because the understanding is meaningless. It’s nothing. It’s nothing looking at nothing comprehending nothing. It’s gibberish. You look into the abyss and the abyss looks back because the abyss is looking into a mirror. When I see those things moving in the mirror I’m not seeing him, or his dimension, or some incomprehensible deep-space horror. I’m seeing us, the true us, how He sees us, stripped of the veil of meaning. Stripped of the arrogance of thinking that my skin means anything and my organs mean anything and my keratin hair and nails mean anything and the granite bathroom sink means anything and the polished glass means anything and my screaming means anything. I’m seeing my own face, and I’m thinking how horrible, make it stop what is that gibberish in my face make it stop make it stop I don’t understand make it stop I’m scared please Quackity Sapnap mom someone make it stop but even as I’m thinking those thoughts I can’t understand them, because the thoughts are gibberish, and the fear is gibberish, do you get it? It’s all nonsense. It’s all arbitrary. It’s all atoms and meteors and dust motes screaming in the dark and the empty and failing to touch each other, and oh,” he’s weeping, he’s laughing, "oh, the hubris of us. The hubris to think that the collection we think of as a name and a being means anything. The hubris to think that anything we do is—anything we are is—is— is. It’s so funny. It’s so funny, to think of imaginary gibberish scribbles just fussing around in the dark, thinking they’re real, thinking they’re thinking, while the nothing that dreams us only has to wake up and then poof, the dream of reality is over. Isn’t that funny, Quackity? I love you. Isn’t that so funny? It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Everything doesn’t mean anything,” Quackity says.
“Exactly.” Karl's face is filled with relief and grief and ecstasy and terror and nonsense and nothing and colors. “Exactly. Do you know why we were chosen? Do you know why we were cursed? I do. I’ll tell you.” Rapturous whisper. “There is no reason. There never was. I am a host chosen at random and you—every time He wakes there’s spillover, bleedthrough. One or two creatures that can comprehend the shape of him. It was just as likely to be you as it was an ant, and you are just as powerless. Do you see? There could be nothing less intentional than us. We don’t mean anything. Everything doesn’t mean anything and He is the nothing that is everything that means nothing.”
“That’s so funny,” Quackity says. His forehead is knocked to Karl’s forehead, and his nose, and his teeth, and his eyes, and he’s laughing, and Karl is laughing, and there are squirming things in their mouths and their mouths are squirming things and their faces are portraits of squirming writhing horrors.
“Everything everything everything everything. Nothing nothing nothing nothing,” Karl says.
“Nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing,” Quackity says.
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a ⍊ᒷ╎ꖎ ꖎ𝙹∴ᒷ∷ᓭ ʖᒷℸ ̣ ∴ᒷᒷリ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷᒲ. Sᔑ!¡リᔑ!¡ ⋮ᒷ∷ꖌᓭ kᔑ∷ꖎ’ᓭ ⍑ᒷᔑ↸ ʖᔑᓵꖌ, ℸ ̣ ╎ᒷᓭ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ʖᔑリ↸ᔑリᔑ ⍑ᔑ!¡⍑ᔑ⨅ᔑ∷↸ꖎ||. Kᔑ∷ꖎ ᓭᓵ∷ᒷᔑᒲᓭ, !¡ᔑꖎᒲᓭ 𝙹⍊ᒷ∷ ⍑╎ᓭ ᒷ||ᒷᓭ, ᔑリ↸ q⚍ᔑᓵꖌ╎ℸ ̣ || ╎ᓭ ᔑᓵ∷𝙹ᓭᓭ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ∷𝙹𝙹ᒲ, q⚍ᔑᓵꖌ╎ℸ ̣ || ╎ᓭ ᔑℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ꖎ╎ʖ∷ᔑ∷╎ᔑリ’ᓭ ↸ᒷᓭꖌ, q⚍ᔑᓵꖌ╎ℸ ̣ ||’ᓭ ⍑ᔑリ↸ ╎ᓭ ᓵꖎ𝙹ᓭ╎リ⊣ 𝙹リ ᔑ ∷𝙹⚍リ↸ ∴𝙹𝙹↸ᒷリ ⍑ᔑリ↸ꖎᒷ. Sᔑ!¡リᔑ!¡’ᓭ ⍑ᔑリ↸ᓭ ᔑ∷ᒷ 𝙹リ kᔑ∷ꖎ’ᓭ ᓵ⍑ᒷᒷꖌᓭ. Sᔑ!¡リᔑ!¡ ꖎ╎⎓ℸ ̣ ᓭ ⍑╎ᓭ ⍑ᒷᔑ↸ ᔑリ↸ ᓭᒷᒷᓭ ⍑╎ᒲ.
sᔑ!¡リᔑ!¡ ╎ᓭ ℸ ̣ ᔑᓵꖌꖎ╎リ⊣ ⍑╎ᒲ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ⎓ꖎ𝙹𝙹∷. Sᔑ!¡リᔑ!¡ ╎ᓭ ᓵᔑℸ ̣ ᓵ⍑╎リ⊣ ⍑╎ᓭ ⍑ᔑリ↸ᓭ ᔑリ↸ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ᓭ⍑ᔑ∷!¡ ℸ ̣ ⍑╎リ⊣ ⍑ᒷꖎ↸ ∴╎ℸ ̣ ⍑╎リ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷᒲ. Q⚍ᔑᓵꖌ╎ℸ ̣ || ᓭリᔑ∷ꖎᓭ, ⋮ᒷ∷ꖌᓭ ⍑╎ᓭ ⍑ᒷᔑ↸ ⚍!¡ ᔑリ↸ ⊣リᔑᓭ⍑ᒷᓭ ⍑╎ᓭ ℸ ̣ ᒷᒷℸ ̣ ⍑. Sᔑ!¡リᔑ!¡ ᓵ∷╎ᒷᓭ 𝙹⚍ℸ ̣ , ᓵꖎ⚍ℸ ̣ ᓵ⍑ᒷᓭ q⚍ᔑᓵꖌ╎ℸ ̣ ||’ᓭ ∴∷╎ᓭℸ ̣ ᓭ ╎リ 𝙹リᒷ ⍑ᔑリ↸ ᔑリ↸ ᓭꖎᔑᒲᓭ ⍑╎ᓭ 𝙹ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ∷ ⍑ᔑリ↸ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 q⚍ᔑᓵꖌ╎ℸ ̣ ||’ᓭ ⎓𝙹∷ᒷ⍑ᒷᔑ↸, !¡╎リリ╎リ⊣ ⍑╎ᒲ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ⎓ꖎ𝙹𝙹∷. Q⚍ᔑᓵꖌ╎ℸ ̣ || ∴∷╎ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷᓭ. Sᔑ!¡リᔑ!¡ ↸𝙹ᒷᓭリ’ℸ ̣ ⚍リ↸ᒷ∷ᓭℸ ̣ ᔑリ↸, ⍑ᒷ’ꖎꖎ リᒷ⍊ᒷ∷ ⚍リ↸ᒷ∷ᓭℸ ̣ ᔑリ↸, ⍑ᒷ ᓵᔑリ’ℸ ̣ ᓭᒷᒷ ∴⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ╎ᓭリ’ℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ∷ᒷ, ᔑリ↸ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ’ᓭ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ∴⍑𝙹ꖎᒷ !¡𝙹╎リℸ ̣ 𝙹⎓ ╎ℸ ̣. W⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ╎ᓭリ’ℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ∷ᒷ ↸𝙹ᒷᓭリ’ℸ ̣ ᒲᔑℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ᒷ∷ ╎ᓭ リ𝙹ℸ ̣ ⍑╎リ⊣ ╎ᓭ ᒷ⍊ᒷ∷||∴⍑ᒷ∷ᒷ. S𝙹 ᒲᔑリ|| ᓵ𝙹ꖎ𝙹∷ᓭ.
“sℸ ̣ 𝙹!¡ ᓭℸ ̣ 𝙹!¡ ᓭℸ ̣ 𝙹!¡, q ᓭℸ ̣ 𝙹!¡,” sᔑ!¡リᔑ!¡ ᓭᔑ||ᓭ. Q⚍ᔑᓵꖌ╎ℸ ̣ || ↸𝙹ᒷᓭリ’ℸ ̣ ⚍リ↸ᒷ∷ᓭℸ ̣ ᔑリ↸. Q⚍ᔑᓵꖌ╎ℸ ̣ || リᒷᒷ↸ᓭ ⍑╎ᒲ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ꖎᒷℸ ̣ ⊣𝙹. Hᒷ ᓵᔑリ’ℸ ̣ ⎓ᔑℸ ̣ ⍑𝙹ᒲ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ᓭ⍑ᔑ!¡ᒷ 𝙹⎓ ⍑╎ᓭ 𝙹∴リ ℸ ̣ ⍑𝙹⚍⊣⍑ℸ ̣ ᓭ. “d𝙹リ’ℸ ̣ ꖎ╎ᓭℸ ̣ ᒷリ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ⍑╎ᒲ, q⚍ᔑᓵꖌ╎ℸ ̣ ||, ↸𝙹リ’ℸ ̣ ⎓⚍ᓵꖌ╎リ⊣ ꖎ╎ᓭℸ ̣ ᒷリ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ⍑╎ᒲ, ╎ℸ ̣ ∴ᔑᓭリ’ℸ ̣ kᔑ∷ꖎ, ╎ℸ ̣ ∴ᔑᓭリ’ℸ ̣ —╎ℸ ̣ ’ᓭ リ𝙹ℸ ̣ リ𝙹ℸ ̣ ⍑╎リ⊣, ╎ℸ ̣ ’ᓭ リ𝙹ℸ ̣ !¡𝙹╎リℸ ̣ ꖎᒷᓭᓭ, 𝙹ꖌᔑ||? w⍑𝙹 ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ⎓⚍ᓵꖌ ╎ᓭ ⍑ᒷ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ℸ ̣ ᒷꖎꖎ ᒲᒷ i ↸𝙹リ’ℸ ̣ ᒲᔑℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ᒷ∷? i’ꖎꖎ ꖌ╎ᓵꖌ ⍑╎ᓭ ᔑᓭᓭ, 𝙹⎓ ᓵ𝙹⚍∷ᓭᒷ i ᒲᔑℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ᒷ∷. O⎓ ᓵ𝙹⚍∷ᓭᒷ kᔑ∷ꖎ ᒲᔑℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ᒷ∷ᓭ. O⎓ ᓵ𝙹⚍∷ᓭᒷ ||𝙹⚍—⍑ᒷ|| ⍑ᒷ|| ⍑ᒷ||, ᓭℸ ̣ 𝙹!¡, ᓭℸ ̣ 𝙹!¡, q⚍ᔑᓵꖌ╎ℸ ̣ ||—”
q⚍ᔑᓵꖌ╎ℸ ̣ || ℸ ̣ ⍑∷ᔑᓭ⍑ᒷᓭ. Sᔑ!¡リᔑ!¡’ᓭ ᔑ∷ᒲᓭ ᔑ∷ᒷ ℸ ̣ ∷ᒷᒲʖꖎ╎リ⊣. H╎ᓭ ʖ∷𝙹∴ ʖᒷᔑ↸ᓭ ∴╎ℸ ̣ ⍑ ᓭ∴ᒷᔑℸ ̣. Iリ ᒷ⍊ᒷ∷|| ᓵꖎ𝙹⚍↸|| ↸∷𝙹!¡ꖎᒷℸ ̣ q⚍ᔑᓵꖌ╎ℸ ̣ || ᓵᔑリ ᓭᒷᒷ ᒷ⍊ᒷ∷|| ᓵ𝙹ꖎ𝙹∷ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ↸𝙹ᒷᓭ リ𝙹ℸ ̣ ᒷ ̇/╎ᓭℸ ̣. Iℸ ̣ ’ᓭ ᔑꖎꖎ ⍑ᒷ ᓭᒷᒷᓭ. Iℸ ̣ ’ᓭ ᔑꖎꖎ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ╎ᓭ ᔑリ↸ ╎ᓭリ’ℸ ̣. Hᒷ リᒷᒷ↸ᓭ ╎ℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ᓭℸ ̣ 𝙹!¡. Sᔑ!¡リᔑ!¡’ᓭ ⎓ᔑᓵᒷ ╎ᓭ ╎リᓵ𝙹ᒲ!¡∷ᒷ⍑ᒷリᓭ╎ʖꖎᒷ ⍑𝙹∷∷𝙹∷. Hᒷ リᒷᒷ↸ᓭ ╎ℸ ̣ ᔑꖎꖎ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ᓭℸ ̣ 𝙹!¡.
“l╎ᓭℸ ̣ ᒷリ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ᒲᒷ, ꖎ╎ᓭℸ ̣ ᒷリ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ᒲᒷ—i’ᒲ—i’ᒲ 𝙹リꖎ|| !¡ᔑᓭᓭ╎リ⊣ ᓵ⍑ᒷᒲ╎ᓭℸ ̣ ∷|| ʖᒷᓵᔑ⚍ᓭᒷ 𝙹⎓ ||𝙹⚍, ↸╎↸ ||𝙹⚍ ꖌリ𝙹∴ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ? t⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ᒲᔑℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ᒷ∷ᓭ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ᒲᒷ. Y𝙹⚍ ∴ᔑꖎꖌ t⚍ʖʖ𝙹 ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ᓭᓵ⍑𝙹𝙹ꖎ ᔑリ↸ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ᒲᔑℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ᒷ∷ᓭ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ⍑╎ᒲ. T⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ↸⚍ᒲʖ ᓭ!¡ᒷᒷ↸𝙹 ᓭℸ ̣ ⚍リℸ ̣ ||𝙹⚍ !¡⚍ꖎꖎᒷ↸ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ⊣𝙹ℸ ̣ ||𝙹⚍ ᓭ⚍ᓭ!¡ᒷリ↸ᒷ↸, ||𝙹⚍ ᒲᔑ↸ᒷ ||𝙹⚍∷ !¡𝙹╎リℸ ̣ ᔑʖ𝙹⚍ℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ᓭᓵ⍑𝙹𝙹ꖎ ↸∷ᒷᓭᓭ ᓵ𝙹↸ᒷ, ∷╎⊣⍑ℸ ̣ ? t⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ᒲᔑℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ᒷ∷ᓭ.”
iℸ ̣ ↸𝙹ᒷᓭリ’ℸ ̣ ᒲᒷᔑリ ᔑリ||ℸ ̣ ⍑╎リ⊣. Iℸ ̣ ↸𝙹ᒷᓭリ’ℸ ̣ ᒲᒷᔑリ ᔑリ||ℸ ̣ ⍑╎リ⊣.
“e⍊ᒷ∷|| ↸ᒷᓵ╎ᓭ╎𝙹リ i’⍊ᒷ ᒷ⍊ᒷ∷ ᓭᒷᒷリ ||𝙹⚍ ᒲᔑꖌᒷ, ᒷ⍊ᒷリ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ᓭℸ ̣ ⚍!¡╎↸ 𝙹リᒷᓭ, ||𝙹⚍ ᒲᔑꖌᒷ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷᒲ ∴╎ℸ ̣ ⍑ ╎リℸ ̣ ᒷリℸ ̣ ╎𝙹リ, ||𝙹⚍ ᓵ⍑𝙹𝙹ᓭᒷ ℸ ̣ 𝙹, ||𝙹⚍’∷ᒷ ᓵ⍑𝙹𝙹ᓭ╎リ⊣ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ⎓╎⊣⍑ℸ ̣ ʖᔑᓵꖌ ᔑリ↸ ᓭ𝙹 ᔑᒲ i ᔑリ↸ ᓭ𝙹 ╎ᓭ kᔑ∷ꖎ, ᔑリ↸ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ’ᓭ リ𝙹ℸ ̣ リ𝙹ℸ ̣ ⍑╎リ⊣. Iℸ ̣ ’ᓭ リ𝙹ℸ ̣. Y𝙹⚍’∷ᒷ ⊣𝙹╎リ⊣ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ʖᒷ ⍊ᔑꖎᒷ↸╎ᓵℸ ̣ 𝙹∷╎ᔑリ. Y𝙹⚍’∷ᒷ ⊣𝙹╎リ⊣ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ꖎᒷᔑ⍊ᒷ ℸ ̣ ⍑╎ᓭ ∴⍑𝙹ꖎᒷ ᓵ∷⚍ᒲᒲ|| ℸ ̣ 𝙹∴リ ╎リ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ↸⚍ᓭℸ ̣ , ||𝙹⚍’∷ᒷ ⊣𝙹╎リ⊣ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ʖᒷ ᓭ𝙹 ⎓⚍ᓵꖌ╎リ⊣ ᔑᒲᔑ⨅╎リ⊣, q, ᔑリ↸ ᒷ⍊ᒷリ ╎⎓ ||𝙹⚍ ∴ᒷ∷ᒷリ’ℸ ̣ , ||𝙹⚍’↸ ᓭℸ ̣ ╎ꖎꖎ ᒲᔑℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ᒷ∷. Y𝙹⚍ ᒲᔑℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ᒷ∷. Y𝙹⚍’∷ᒷ リ𝙹ℸ ̣ —||𝙹⚍’∷ᒷ リ𝙹ℸ ̣ ⊣╎ʖʖᒷ∷╎ᓭ⍑, ||𝙹⚍’∷ᒷ リ𝙹ℸ ̣ リ𝙹ℸ ̣ ⍑╎リ⊣, ||𝙹⚍’∷ᒷ ∷ᒷᔑꖎ, ||𝙹⚍ ᒲᔑℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ ᒷ∷, i ꖎ𝙹⍊ᒷ ||𝙹⚍, please.”
Sapnap’s face is just his face.
Quackity stares at him. He isn’t awake and he isn’t dreaming. He feels halfway to nothing, that slick and hazy in-between place where he doesn’t recognize his surroundings, or the things in it. His head is cracked open. Colors bleed together.
“Sapnap?”
“Quackity,” Sapnap grunts, “you have to stop fighting me, you have to—please, baby, just—”
“I’m not fighting you,” Quackity slurs, and as he says it the amorphous shapes of the world resolve. The popcorn ceiling of the library. The ugly green walls. The wooden shelves sagging with books. Karl crying in periphery. The bookbinding awl clenched between Quackity's fists, inches from his eye.
“What—jesus, what—”
His arms go slack. Sapnap pries the awl from his fingers. There’s a ringing clatter as it skips and skids across the floor.
Quackity can't get air into his lungs. “What was that, what the fuck—”
Sapnap crushes him to his chest. Quackity clutches at him, claws at his heaving sides and shoulders. The familiar, Sapnap-shaped borders. He’s real, Quackity keeps thinking. He’s real, I’m real, I’m real. He marvels at the thought, that he can recognize the shape of it.
“Karl,” Quackity says. They drag themselves to him, shoved into a corner, hands on his eyes, keening I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.
“It’s okay, I’m okay,” Quackity says, and Sapnap babbles an echo, “it’s okay, we’re okay—”
“It’s not, it’s not, it’s not. We can’t beat it. It’s not real, it’s going to wake up and we’re going to stop being real. We’re all just dreams and I’m too awake, I’m too awake. I hurt you.” Despair robs Karl’s voice. “You have to let me go or I’ll hurt you again.”
“No, Karl, no.” Sapnap looks to him, helpless. And Quackity—
Quackity has no idea what to do.
“I’m dangerous,” Karl sobs. “You should be scared of me. Please be scared of me.”
They bracket him between them. At some point, Sapnap starts crying. At some point Quackity does too.
Hours and windowless hours. Quackity is wrung-out and empty. Karl is shell-shocked. Sapnap moves.
Quackity watches him right chairs and shove books on shelves. Sapnap's tears have dried. His brow is set and firm. Something inside him has been washed clean by the rain. He throws out their trash and locks the closets and offices and puts back the keys they swiped. He crouches in front of Karl and cups his jaw, pets his hair, whispers do you think you can stand, baby? and scoops him up when it becomes clear that he can’t. To Quackity he says I’ll be right back, and then he is, between one blink and the next, and Quackity realizes he might be more out of it than he thought.
Sapnap touches him, slow and cautious but unafraid. Quackity knows these hands were around his throat less than a day ago—maybe a day ago—but he can’t connect it with the reality of the warm, rough-skinned hands cradling his head. These hands would never hurt him.
“Q? Can I carry you?” Sapnap asks.
“I can stand.” And he does. He wobbles all of two steps before he has to brace himself against a bookshelf.
Sapnap opens an arm. “Here, lean on me.”
They stagger outside. Dawn rises through the trees. The storm has broken and the sky is a liquid, drippy gray, the colors rolling within like distant thunder. The library is going to open soon.
“At least you can look at me now,” Quackity mutters.
“I needed some time to freak out after I almost killed you.” Sapnap squeezes his hip. “Now you and Karl get to freak out. I’ll hold down the fort while you do.”
They tromp through puddles with oil-slick surfaces. Quackity thinks of pigeons. “I don’t know what to do, Sap.”
“That’s okay.” Sapnap opens the door to the back seat, where Karl is curled away from them, his hair mashed against the window. He’s muttering to himself; around his eyes the blindfold is damp and dark. Sapnap helps Quackity in, and then reaches past him to take both of their hands and clasp them together, Sapnap-Karl-Quackity-Sapnap. “Both of you. It’s okay that we don’t know what to do right now. It’s okay that we’re scared. We’ll figure it out.”
“I should go,” Karl murmurs, and Sapnap presses on their hands, firm.
“Karl, listen to me. None of what that motherfucker made you say is true, okay? None of it. It’s not hopeless. Quackity was right—if it wants him dead so bad, that means he’s a threat, and that means we can hurt it. We’ll regroup, we’ll brainstorm. We’ll get a real meal and some real goddamn sleep. We will figure it out. The end of the world will wait until then.”
“You think the nothing god will go on hiatus just because you told it to?” Quackity asks.
“It fucking better.” Sapnap smiles for him. Despite himself, despite everything, Quackity smiles back.
Sapnap gets in the front seat. He twists the key in the faithful old truck and peels out of the library parking lot, spraying old rainwater behind them.
Quackity says, “When did you get so optimistic?”
“I’m not optimistic, I’m pissed,” Sapnap says bluntly. “This fucking guy. Where does he get off, huh? He thinks he can just hop in your heads and tell you you’re nothing? I’ll piledrive his ass.”
Quackity thinks he loves him, then.
Karl says nothing. Quackity squeezes his hand. His skin is cold.
Sapnap takes the time to find them a nice Hilton. On the way he asks them inane questions to get them out of their heads: which Taylor era is your favorite, what are you going to study in college, what do you want to eat. It even seems to work. Quackity’s a Reputation girlie, Karl likes Lover; Quackity is thinking poli sci track to law school, which Sapnap already knew, and Karl is interested in library studies or history or art; Quackity is craving pasta and carbs and Karl wants pancakes. Sapnap trawls local restaurants online and orders it all on Karl’s card, and a steak and eggs breakfast for himself. When they pull up to the hotel he heads in alone to get them set up, and returns minutes later with a key card. Karl is quiet as they lead him by the hand, through the lobby, the hallways, the elevator to the second floor, the door of their new room. Key card beeping, I think they give us cookies here, K, only the best for you. The door shuts behind them and Karl darts to the bathroom. Click goes the lock.
“I just need some time to clear my head,” he insists when Quackity and Sapnap call through the door. “Please. Just until I’m sure you’re safe.”
“Can we get you anything?” Quackity asks. He holds onto Sapnap with one hand and flattens the other to the door. He wants Karl’s cool fingers interlocked with his.
A pause. Then close, whispered, like lips against Quackity’s ear. “Barricade the door.”
He dreams that the gray sky descends on the world, as a fog, almost, and he dreams that the world unravels to ribbons of color, shapes of things he knows but robbed of the lexicon of reality. He dreams of everything Karl said to him and everything that came after, all boiling in his head like a broth, thick and clouded and rolling. Occasionally something will rise to the surface, and then tumble back under, out of sight.
He dreams of nothing. He dreams of Karl. You have to let me go.
Quackity wakes with the words caught in his lungs. “Where’s Karl?”
For several seconds he’s disoriented, doesn’t know where he is. The hotel. The bathroom door, barricaded by the loveseat. Dozing off in Sapnap’s arms. Takeout boxes from three different restaurants strewn around. What time is it? The electric clock on the nightstand says 5:13. Light filters through sheer curtains, late-afternoon golden. The sight unnerves him.
Sapnap, winded from Quackity pushing off his chest to sit up, says, “Showering. What’s up? What’s wrong?”
From the bathroom: the hissing of the shower. Quackity presses both hands to the door and calls Karl’s name. There’s no steam through the cracks, no light. They drag the loveseat out of the way. A few well placed rams of Sapnap’s shoulder reveal the empty shower, the cold water pooling on the tile, the curtain torn from the rod and fed through the open window. Sapnap’s bandana sits folded on the sink.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” Sapnap says, tripping in his rush to the front door and his shoes, but Quackity is staring at the window again, pinned by the sight. His skin crawls. He doesn’t know why until he does.
The light is just light. There are no colors at all.
They dash outside as though they might still catch him. They won’t. Quackity knows they won’t. Karl is long gone.
They run around the parking lot anyway, shouting his name, accosting strangers to ask if they’ve seen a gangly teen in a colorblock windbreaker. Sapnap shoves his hands in his hair, one fist clenched around the bandana. “Shit. Fuck."
“Where would he go?” Quackity turns in place, scanning the sky for hints of unreal color, of fleeing wisps, of—anything, anything at all. “He wouldn’t go home. He—I think that thing wanted him to go somewhere, but he didn’t say.”
Sapnap shoves his phone to his ear. It goes to voicemail, just like the last three times. “Fuck!”
“The hotel, maybe the hotel has cameras.”
Sapnap is calling again, and again. “Will they let us look?”
“They might if we report him missing. We should report him missing.”
“What? No one’s going to believe—”
“We won’t say anything about the world ending. But if we can get more eyes out for him—”
“Yeah. Shit, yeah, okay.”
The truck is untouched, outside and in. Quackity hoped to find a clue in what had been taken, but everything is as it was. Karl didn’t come back for supplies. He didn’t leave a note or speak to anyone. He’s just gone.
“Shit.” Sapnap has fumbled the keys. His hands are shaking.
“We’ll find him,” Quackity says to the fear in Sapnap’s face. “We will.”
“Yeah.” Sapnap gulps down a breath and blows it out, stuttering through his teeth. “We will, yeah.”
There’s a knock on the passenger side window. Sapnap shouts. Quackity turns and stares at the face of the man who tried to kill him.
“Need to talk to you,” the man says.
Sapnap jams the keys into the ignition and the truck roars to life. He throws the car in reverse but the man already has the door open, his huge hand knotting in Quackity’s collar; the car peels away from under him, and Quackity’s feet are left dangling a foot above the ground. He’s helpless. He’s going to die.
“Hey, so,” the man says, “If we could talk for a second—”
"Hijo de puta, hijo de puta de mierda, pinche pendejo, culero culero culero—” Quackity’s mouth runs without his say so. He kicks desperately; it’s like kicking a wall. "Me cago en tu puta madre, motherfucking bitchass son of a bitch—please don’t kill me, man, I’m trying to save the world, think about your book club—”
“Bruh.” The flat intonation is disapproving. “Come on. I’m tryin’ to have a conversation here. That’s big for me. Not really one for conversations.”
Sapnap barrels in with a tackle. Quackity hits the ground at an angle, his shoulder jamming into his neck, the pain so nauseating that the world whites out. He swallows vomit. The world swims back, and Sapnap and the man are grappling. Sapnap isn’t losing but he isn’t winning. Quackity tries to call his name and chokes.
Sapnap gets the man in a half nelson, and for a second Quackity hopes. Then the man pulls out some kickboxing shit and his leg swings backward like a hammer. Sapnap loses balance, the man twists, one of his headphones pulls out—why the hell is he wearing headphones? His face tightens and his nostrils flare. He pulls out a knife.
Quackity is on the man’s back, suddenly, clawing at the braid and yanking, scraps of flesh in his teeth and biting. He hears himself screech like a barn owl. "Get off him, get off him!"
The man grunts once. He reaches up and hauls Quackity over his shoulder, slamming him directly into Sapnap. They fold like a table.
The man gets his knife under Quackity’s chin and says, slowly, “Alright. Now let’s all take a deep breath.”
He demonstrates, barrel chest expanding as he puts his dangling headphone back in. Sapnap breathes shallow and fast through the nose. Quackity doesn’t breathe at all.
“I can’t help but think you did not take a deep breath,” the man says. “But you may have noticed that I’m not trying to kill you.” He pauses for an answer that doesn’t come. “Right. So, if we’re all on the same page, I’m going to put away my persuasive instrument.”
He folds his knife away, and Sapnap helps Quackity to his feet. Quackity can hear his heavy breathing, can see the rage in his face. The man says, “Guess I should introduce myself. I’m—”
Sapnap decks him. The man takes it on the chin, then wallops Sapnap in the stomach. Sapnap crumples.
Quackity cries out. He ducks down, holds Sapnap around the shoulders while he gags. The man looks uncomfortable. “Uh. I’m Technoblade. As I was sayin’.”
For a split second, Quackity’s hatred and fear are put on pause. “Wait, you’re—like on reddit?”
Technoblade blinks, then cringes. “Archaeology or potato farming?”
"What?"
“You went to Miskatonic, so I’m guessin’ archaeology. Find anything useful?” By the look on his face he knows they didn’t. “Tried to tell you. L.”
“What the fuck do you want?” Quackity snaps.
“Your friend,” Technoblade says. “The Eyes. I know where he’s going.”
It takes convincing, but they agree to hear Technoblade out, with the caveat of a public setting of their choosing. Still, as they turn into the lot of a local diner, Technoblade’s sensible Subaru following them in, Quackity’s prey-instincts flare back to life. It’s not like he wouldn’t be able to kill them in public, is the thing. Just whisper an unreal word and watch them gut each other with butter knives. For all Quackity knows he might be able to drive the entire diner to madness.
Inside it’s nothing like the diner at home. Quackity still finds himself scanning the tables for a head of cotton candy hair. The hostess seats them at a booth near the back, far from any windows, though he can still catch a sliver of blue sky at a distance. Sliding in across from the man who tried to kill him sets all his instincts screaming. Sapnap fumes beside him, every muscle in his body poised for action. The waitress hands them menus, says she'll be back with coffee.
“Are you going to kill us?” Quackity blurts.
“Heh?” Technoblade sounds genuinely surprised. “What would be the point of that, I could’ve killed you hours ago. Days ago, actually, none of you are any good at noticing when you’re being followed.”
He says it like it should be a reassurance. Quackity is not reassured.
“How do you know where Karl is?” Sapnap demands. “Did he talk to you?”
“Nah. We’re going to the same place.” He squints down at the menu.
"And?" Sapnap growls. “Where is he going?”
“North,” Technoblade says. That’s all he says.
“Fucking okay?” says Quackity.
A one-shouldered shrug. “That’s where chat is tellin’ me to go.”
“Chat,” says Quackity.
“Voice of the extradimensional entity,” Technoblade says. “Dunno how your friend hears it. Gets stronger the closer we get to zero hour. We’re assimilatin’. Transmuting. Homogenizing. Been trying to think of the right word. Good news is we know more of what it’s planning, bad news is we’re more susceptible to letting it take over. Didn’t realize it took the wheel until your friend snapped me out of it.” His eyes flicker up to Quackity’s throat. “Sorry about that, by the way.”
“Zero hour,” Quackity says, ignoring the apology. “The ritual?”
He nods.
The waitress returns. Coffee is poured. Technoblade orders a lobster roll, gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder. Quackity says he’s fine with water. Sapnap glares.
She walks away, and Sapnap says, “So the thing is ordering you to go north. If you don’t want the world to end, why don’t you just not go?” Quackity can see in his face he wishes he was asking Karl this instead of the man who tried to make them a murderer and a victim. He wishes that too.
“It’s less an order than a compulsion,” says Technoblade. “Individual identity gets consumed by the legion. No one else is not gonna go, I bet.”
Quackity startles. “There are others?”
“A couple. Not sure how many. Your friend is the Eyes. I’m the Voice. Hosts, randomly chosen. We get together, do our wake up call, call it a wrap on all this.” His eyes flicker around the diner as though that will encompass the all this of reality. Then he looks right at Quackity. “That’s not what you are. You’re—”
“Bleedthrough,” Quackity says.
“Bleedthrough,” Technoblade says. “Sometimes one or two people can see the thing before it wakes up. A harbinger. Just a fun little quirk of the end of the world.”
“Because this has happened before,” Sapnap says. “That’s what Karl said too. So how are we supposed to stop it?”
“You're not,” Technoblade says bluntly. “You won’t find any record about how ancient peoples stopped it because they didn’t. Every time it woke up, reality ended. When it goes back to sleep a new reality starts. Those people don’t exist anymore, bro, and they never did.”
The lobster roll arrives. Technoblade digs in immediately, not looking at either of them.
“So you’re saying it’s hopeless.” Sapnap’s face is red and his jaw is set. He stands up. “Come on, Q, I don’t know why we’re listening to this freak. We’ll find Karl and save the world on our own.”
Technoblade seems nonplussed by the insult. Quackity narrows his eyes at him, and watches his eyes in turn flicker somewhere by Quackity’s ear. He has rectangular wire glasses, perched on a nose that's been broken at least twice. His eyes are deep-set, dark, and colorless. No colors over Quackity’s shoulder, either; just the booth seat, a family eating, and a blank yellow wall. Technoblade isn’t seeing anything—he hears it, that’s what he said. He just doesn’t like eye contact. It’s remarkably human.
"Is that what you’re saying?” Quackity asks.
“I mean. That’s what I thought, for a while. Then I got to thinkin’, hey, if this deepspace loser wants me to kill a literal child so bad it’s willing to rob me of my autonomy,” the barest twitch of an eye betrays how he might feel about that, “maybe there’s a reason.”
“So you stalked us to see what the reason was.” Sapnap still looks on the brink of storming off, but at least he sits back down.
“Eh. I prefer the term reconnaissance. Turns out you guys know even less than I do.” He takes the last bite of his roll and wipes his hands and mouth on a napkin, more precisely than his size would belie. “But the voices are still afraid of you. Timeline’s movin’ up. We’re heading north.”
Quackity remembers: it likes the cold. It likes the deep dark. "It's still cold up there."
Technoblade nods. “Thing is, if it really wanted cold, it would go south. Antarctica is colder. And it fits the whole vibe, right, have you ever seen an Antarctic strawberry feather star? But it’s tougher to get to, takes longer, and the entity wants this ritual done like yesterday, bro.”
“And you think that’s because of me?”
“I know it is. Bleedthrough doesn’t make you a threat on your own, you’re literally just some guy who can see things. But you met the Eyes. That freaked it out. Look, I’m going to stop this thing, one way or another.” He pulls out his knife and places it on the table between them, and Quackity’s mouth goes dry. “But I thought I should check in and see if you have any other ideas first. And if you don’t, I figured I should at least offer to bring you to your friend. To make up for the almost murder.”
“We’re not going anywhere with you,” Sapnap says, at the same time that Quackity says, “I have an idea.”
Sapnap whips to face him, eyes wide. “You do?”
Quackity gives a single tight nod.
Technoblade sizes him up, considering. Then he nods back, stands, and pulls out his wallet to pay.
Quackity blinks. “You don’t want to hear it?”
Technoblade hooks out one headphone. A sluggish trickle of color leaks out of his ear. “Think it’s best if I don’t.”
Quackity swallows hard.
“I’ll be in my car. If you want me to take you to your friend, come knock.”
And he leaves. Only after the bell jingles and the door closes does Sapnap turn back to Quackity. He looks hopeful, and stressed, and disbelieving. “You have a plan?”
Quackity laughs. Even to his own ear it sounds hysterical. A plan. He has the outline of one, anyway. More of a feverdream. He woke with the pieces floating and disparate in his mind, but Karl’s disappearance took precedence. Now the outline is starker, a patchwork quilt sewn together from the things Karl has said and the thoughts Quackity has lingered on, confirmed by Technoblade. “You won’t like it.”
“I don’t like any of this,” Sapnap points out. “Come on, tell me.”
He glances up for that sliver of sky. Still blue.
“It’s about the breakdown of reality,” he says, carefully, low. “This thing is a god of nothing, right, it isn’t real. And it doesn’t want to be real, it doesn’t want to be brought into our reality, that's what Karl said. It wants to make us unreal instead. But when I look at it, I see it. I see its shape, I see what it really is. I’m defining it by our terms of reality. I’m making it real. Does that make sense?”
By the look on Sapnap’s face, it doesn’t. He says anyway, “I guess so.”
“So that bothers it, right? That’s why it doesn’t like me. I’m like a flea, I’m annoying it whenever I look at it, but I’m not a threat. I’ve got no power. Like Technoblade said—and let’s be clear, I do not like the guy! He fucking sucks, I’m with you on that one—but like he said, I’m literally just some guy. So when Karl left, it left. It didn’t have to worry about me anymore. But if someone with actual power could do what I do…”
His voice peters out. Sapnap stares at him, confusion turning to concern, but Quackity can’t force himself to finish. He takes a sip of water for something to do with his hands, then shoves them in his lap and clenches them to quell the shaking.
Sapnap covers one with his own. His voice softens. “What is it, Q?”
Quackity takes a deep breath. “Sapnap. You’re not going to like it.”
Sapnap hears it in his voice. He blinks, rears back a little, and Quackity watches it sink in, the severity with which Quackity means it. Fear curdles the edge of Sapnap’s expression, and Quackity hates it, but—Sapnap should be, is the thing. He should be afraid. Quackity is terrified.
“Will it hurt you?” he asks.
Quackity presses his lips together. He nods.
A muscle in Sapnap’s jaw jumps. “Will it—will it kill you?”
“No,” Quackity croaks. “I don’t think so, no.”
“Okay.” Sapnap swallows, nods, says more confidently, “Okay. Then—maybe we’ll keep your idea as a last resort. It involves Karl?”
Another nod.
“Okay. Then we’ll follow this guy, we’ll find Karl, try to convince him to come home. Drag him if we have to. If he’s not part of the ritual, maybe they can’t go through with it. And then we don’t have to do Technoblade’s weird plan, which probably involves murder, and we don’t have to do…whatever you’re thinking of doing.”
Quackity nods again, faster this time. Sapnap squeezes his hand.
“Last resort,” he says. “Okay?”
“Last resort,” Quackity echoes, sick with the certainty that the last resort will be the only.
They tell Technoblade they’ll follow him in their own car, at a distance. Technoblade is unbothered by this.
Shortly after starting they stop again at a big-box store, where they pick up thick winter coats and snow boots and gloves, all on sale for the waning winter. While Sapnap picks up food Quackity heads to the section with cookware and kitchen appliances and utensils. He considers his choices carefully, and walks out with a pretty silver set of grapefruit spoons tucked under one arm.
The plan goes smoothly until it becomes clear they’re going to cross the border. Quackity always carries his passport on him; Sapnap doesn’t. They're debating what to do when Technoblade says calmly that he can get them in, but it will probably be easier from the same car. Sapnap doesn't trust him to drive his truck, so they squeeze into the Subaru. When Sapnap demands they hold onto Technoblade's knife for security, he agrees. Quackity is getting annoyed at his unflappable attitude. It reminds him of Schlatt, in a weird way.
Unease mounts to horror when Technoblade rolls down his window and tells them to cover their ears. A ribbon curl of color leaves his mouth; the border agent’s jaw goes slack. Color bubbles from his ears. He waves them through.
“The fuck!” shouts Sapnap.
“You said you could get us through,” Quackity hisses.
“I did.” He has the audacity to look confused.
“I thought you meant you know someone in border patrol!”
“Dunno why you thought that,” says Technoblade. “Look, I’m not saying that’s what he gets for working for the government, but I am saying he would’ve avoided it if he wasn’t working for the government.”
Quackity and Sapnap stare at him. He clears his throat.
“Joking. Ha ha. He’ll be fine. He’s just awake. In a few hours he’ll go back to dreamin’.”
Quackity thinks of a family, mother father daughter dog. Awake and screaming.
Courteously, Technoblade asks if he can plug his phone into the aux cord. Quackity and Sapnap look at each other, and Quackity says, “It’s your fucking car.”
Technoblade takes out his headphones and audiobook after audiobook blares through the car. The Conquest of Bread. The Art of War. The first book of the Iliad. For bookclub, he says by way of explanation. The seats vibrate with dry narration.
It occurs to Quackity that he has no idea how old Technoblade is. His face is a cliffside, and from one angle he could be in college, from another he could be thirty five or older. His combat boots are a size thirteen at least. The utilitarian clothes and awkward personality suggest some kind of mountain hermit. Quackity thinks he might be an ex marine. When he asks, Technoblade says, dry as a bone, “That’s me, dog of the US military.” Quackity cannot fucking tell if he’s joking.
They drive out into rural fields with poorly paved roads, and keep driving long after dark. Out here there’s still snow; Technoblade’s Subaru barely trundles along. The breadth of the stars is unending. It still feels wrong to be under a sky so clear. The moon is out and watching them.
They stop in front of a house that stands alone in an open field. Technoblade turns off the car, cutting Potato: A History of the Propitious Esculent short as he puts in his headphones. “Stay here.”
He steps out and walks up to the door, and Sapnap takes the time to grab the keys he left on the front seat. He presses the knife into Quackity’s hands and tells him to be ready to run. Quackity says you don’t have to tell me twice.
The front door opens. Technoblade and the owner of the house are silhouetted in a cutout of orange light. Quackity can't hear what they're saying but he can hear his own heartbeat, thudding in his head.
The front door closes. Technoblade comes back. “We’re borrowing this guy’s plane. Chat says it’s in the back.”
“His what?" says Sapnap, and Quackity says, “Did you do it again? The—the goddamn voice thing?”
Technoblade looks uncomfortable, if not contrite. “I mean. I asked first.”
Behind the house is a large shed, and in the large shed is a small plane, and as Technoblade prepares it, Sapnap says, “If we don’t crash and die, we’re going to jail.”
Quackity laughs shrilly. “Not if the world ends first.”
Technoblade hands them giant pairs of headphones and a small package of Dramamine.
“You really don’t think the fear god is going to strike us out of the sky because I’m with you?” Quackity asks.
“I don’t think it can do that,” Technoblade says. “Not that I’m claimin’ to know what kind of magic tricks an extradimensional deity can or can’t pull off. But also I don’t think it knows you’re with me yet. And also it needs me for the ritual.”
Quackity looks up at the plane. The first word that comes to mind is rickety, which is not a comfort. There are enormous skis in the front. It definitely doesn’t look like it was made for three people. “And you’re sure you can fly this?”
“Yes,” Technoblade says, like it’s obvious.
“Dos Equis Most Interesting Man in the World over here,” Sapnap grumbles. He inhaled sharply through the nose. “For Karl.”
Quackity straps his headphones on. “For Karl.”
The flight is interminable. Quackity clutches at Sapnap and clutches at his seat belt and clutches at his headphones and fights to keep the Dramamine down. He feels every rattle like thunder in his bones, and he swears that as soon as they land he’s kissing the ground and never getting in the air again.
They do land, a few hours later, and Quackity does kiss the ground. But it’s only to refuel. Then they’re in the air again. Sometimes they hear voices in the headphones. Quackity imagines they're asking for identification or clearance. Technoblade tells them to take the headphones off, whispers something into his mic, and when they put them back on, it's to an empty sea of static.
When they coast to their final landing, several refuels later, the sun has risen and is starting to sink again, deep into the afternoon. Snow makes for a long, smooth runway. Quackity can see his breath in pluming puffs of white. Sapnap, arms around his shoulders, is shaking.
Technoblade opens the cab to a blast of cold air. He thrusts out a hand. "Knife."
Quackity hands it over.
“Put on your snow boots. Stay here until I get back.” He swings into the snow and doesn’t look back.
“Where are we?” Sapnap asks, hoarse from hours of silence.
“North,” Quackity says.
They shiver together.
“Would be pretty messed up if this was Technoblade’s long con. Let us freeze to death in the middle of nowhere,” Sapnap says.
“I should tell you plan B,” Quackity blurts. At Sapnap’s blank look, he says, “What to do if plan A doesn’t work. If Karl doesn’t come with us, and he keeps going for the ritual.”
Sapnap’s face hardens. He exhales, a measured and steady stream. “Okay. Tell me.”
Quackity tells him. He pulls the pretty grapefruit spoons out of his pocket.
Sapnap looks between the spoons and Quackity’s eyes. A faint laugh falls out of his mouth. “You’re joking, right?”
Quackity presses one spoon into Sapnap’s palm. “I told you you wouldn’t like it.”
Sapnap’s face falls. “Q, that’s—no. No, that’s fucked, no.” He grimaces down at the spoon, disgusted, like he’s not sure how it got in his hand or how to let go.
Quackity reaches for sternness, for apathy. “We said it before. This is a god of unreality. When I look at it, I turn it real, but I’m not strong enough. With this, with me and Karl together, we might be strong enough. If we use its own power against it, and mine, maybe it’ll—I don’t know, pop like a balloon or something.”
“Or,” Sapnap hisses, “It’ll just bring some fucked up fear god into reality, where we live! And that’s if it works, which it won’t, because I don’t think this is even biologically possible!”
“I don’t think the god of unreality cares about what’s possible, Sapnap!” Quackity snaps, apathy crunching between his molars. “We’ll do it at the same time. You get Karl, I’ll do me. Then we’ll—we’ll swap, I guess, pop them in.”
It might be funny if it weren't so terrible. Sapnap is shaking his head rapidly. The anger has gone out of him. He just looks scared. “This is crazy. This would hurt both of you, this could—we’re in the middle of nowhere, could we even get you to a hospital? This could kill you. It could kill you both. You can’t ask me to do this. No.”
“We probably won’t have to,” Quackity lies. Anything to get that look off his face. “This is just plan B. Last resort, right?”
Sapnap shakes his head. His knuckles are white around the spoon. Quackity reaches for his hand and feels him jump.
“I need you, Sap,” Quackity says. Sapnap’s breath twists high, then stops all together. He pulls away, and Quackity’s heart plummets. But he’s only shoving the spoon deep into his pocket. He reaches for Quackity again and squeezes his hand until they’re both trembling.
“Last resort?” he says, like it hurts him to say.
Quackity lifts their hands and kisses them. “Last resort.”
Sapnap sniffs miserably. He pulls out his phone and scoffs.
“Shit,” he says. “I’ve got no service. My dads are gonna have a fit.”
“Have you spoken to them the past few days?” Quackity asks, though he knows the answer.
“No, but with everything, I wanted to—I thought I could Facetime Eryn and say, you know, just in case—”
He chokes off. Quackity looks at him, his red nose and his scruffy unshaved beard, his chapped lips all bitten to hell, his eyes rapidly growing red. “Oh, Sap. You’ll see them soon, I promise. Everything’s going to be okay. If you cry now I’ll cry, and then our tears will freeze to our faces and that’ll be a bitch.”
Wetly, Sapnap chuckles. “You’re right. What was I thinking?”
“You weren’t. You’re lucky I’m here.”
Sapnap tips their temples together. “You won’t get any arguments from me.”
They stay that way until Technoblade tromps back for them.
“One of the hosts came to take me to the trawler,” he says gruffly. His focus is unblinking and honed like a blade. “Not your friend. You can get in the back of the truck. He won’t notice you if you don’t draw attention to yourself.”
“Trawler? Like a boat?”
Technoblade doesn’t answer. He turns and starts to head back.
Quackity leans on Sapnap as they help each other with the climb and the drop. He draws his hat low and his jacket high. The snow comes up to his knees. They follow the tracks of the skis, and even then they follow in Technoblade’s broad boot prints.
Quackity has never seen a sky so vast and achingly blue. There are no other colors here. If he looks straight up, he knows he will still be arrested by that old feeling of smallness.
There’s a truck with chains on the tires waiting, and a man in a fur-lined blue parka standing beside it. Looking at him hurts Quackity’s eyes—there are strange fractals of color crackling from his head, like lightning, like antlers—so he doesn’t. He ducks behind Sapnap and keeps his head down.
The man says nothing at their approach. He says nothing as Technoblade opens the trunk and they pile in. He says nothing as he gets in the driver’s seat, and Technoblade in the passenger, and nothing for the whole drive, hours and hours of dreadful silence.
This time, when they stop, Technoblade does not come to let them out.
Through the snowstruck rear window: an icy coast. A trawler, as promised. Technoblade and the man trudging toward it.
“Shit,” Quackity breathes. He starts scrambling over the seats toward the doors, ignoring the cramps and dead limbs rushing with blood. “Sap, come on, I think we’re going to have to sneak onto that fucking boat.”
“Jesus.” Sapnap boosts over the seats after him. “I’m going to need another Dramamine.”
They sneak onto the boat just as it rumbles to life. They’re not exactly quiet about it.
The other man doesn’t look their way once, gaze fixed on the graying horizon. Technoblade skate over them with the barest hint of recognition. His eyes are dark and intense and something they have not been in the time Quackity has known him. Something vicious.
Quackity can hear his audiobook playing at full volume, tinny from his headphones. The Art of War.
He grabs Sapnap’s hand and drags him down into the belly of the boat, past the kitchen, past the bunks, past the hold, down into the engine room, without a word.
The Dramamine has kicked in, and so has the cold. Quackity has no idea how long they’ve been sailing. He and Sapnap are folded into each together. Even next to the thrumming heat of the engine, the cold aches in the roots of Quackity’s teeth.
He chatters through blue lips.
“When I was a kid, like really little, three or four maybe, my mom and I went to the beach. I think we found sea shells, made sand castles, whatever. It’s all really hazy now. We got down in the sand and looked up at the sky, and she said something like we’re all parts of something bigger, and that’s cool, right? She probably meant it like, ooh, we’re all part of Catholic God’s grand design, we all have a purpose, blah blah blah. But it was the first time I ever saw the colors in the sky. It felt like they were going to eat me.”
He takes a breath.
“It would have scared me even if I didn’t see the colors. The sky was so big, and it made me feel so…dizzy. Small.”
You’re not afraid of a little dizziness, says Schlatt. You look up and you feel all small and it’s not the dizziness you’re afraid of.
“Not small,” he corrects. “Insignificant. It was overwhelming how insignificant I was. How little I mattered, in the end.”
“You matter.” Sapnap holds him close. “You matter.”
The engine dies a quiet death. They’re here.
The trawler is pitch black. They ascend slowly, bumping things, breathing too loud. The sea laps. Their footsteps creak. Under their feet the boat bobs like a cork. There’s a buzzing in Quackity’s head, a pressure, like he can’t get his ears to pop.
Out on the deck, the sky is alive.
“What’s…” In the open doorway between the deck and the cabin, Sapnap stares. “Are those the northern lights?”
Quackity snaps to him. “You can see it?”
Sapnap nods absently. His eyes are wide and growing wider, glued to the sky. He takes a step out. “What is that…?”
Quackity yanks him back inside. He puts his hands on his cheeks, blocks his eyes.
“Sap, look at me, come on. We’re here for Karl, right? We’re here to save your family and my dumb cousins and the whole world. I need you with me, are you with me?”
Sapnap blinks. His eyes spin into focus. “Always.”
Relief shudders out of him. “Good. Don’t look at the sky, okay?”
Sapnap nods between his hands. “Okay.”
From their limited view of the deck, Technoblade and the other host are nowhere to be seen. They peer through the windows. All around them is open water that stretches on forever. No land no ice no stars. The sea is a mirror. A window. Color glows in the depths of the deep dark, distant and monstrous in its vastness. It rises slowly, cloudy but getting clearer. It reaches up toward itself. It reaches down. Hungry. Waking. The sky looks close enough to touch. It is.
Quackity feels the visceral, primal fear of unmaking. They are witnessing the end.
“Don’t look,” he whispers.
Not far away at all, there’s a second boat, and another behind it. On the closer one there are at least six people standing on the deck. One of them has a head of matted cotton candy hair.
Quackity’s heart leaps into his throat. Karl.
He’s a specter of himself, gaunt like he hasn’t slept, ate, drank in days. Maybe he hasn’t. His windbreaker is smeared and torn. As they watch, a ladder is lowered to the surface of the water. Karl starts to climb.
When his foot touches down, color blooms up to greet him, a curling tentacle, a cloud of mushroom spore, separated by the delicate skin of the surface. It ripples like fabric, like silk. Karl does not sink.
“That’s not possible,” Sapnap says.
The others follow Karl down. Three more emerge from the boat behind them. They glide across the water like sleepwalkers, where Technoblade and the host in the blue parka are already waiting. They don’t greet each other, don’t speak, don't even seem to see. Quackity thought he knew what Technoblade meant when he called himself the Voice and Karl the Eyes, but he sees them now. The formless shape of them, the negative space whenever he blinks. With his eyes open Karl is Karl, and then his eyes close and the lack of his outline is something that could be approximated to be Eyes. Technoblade something that could be approximated to be a mouth or a Voice. The man in the parka with lightning arcs for antlers, reaching endlessly above and below. And the others—what he sees when he closes his eyes isn’t human. It isn't animal. It isn't real. Quackity has no words for them. He’s helpless to imagine it as one being—eyes and mouth and tentacles and color and soft, bulbous head and—he can’t grasp the whole of it, can’t cobble the image together—
“Can we do that?” Sapnap asks.
Stand on the water, he means. Quackity shakes himself. “I don’t know.”
They push one of the windows open, and Quackity peels off his glove and drops it out. It lands silent and still, without a ripple.
They look at each other. No other way to test it. No time.
“Plan A,” Quackity says, fear sour and slick on his tongue, “we go get Karl, bring him here, peel the fuck out. Plan B—”
His bare hand clenches the ice-cold handle in his pocket.
“We won’t get to plan B.” Sapnap fixes him with a look. “You should stay here.”
Quackity gapes. "What?"
“Let me talk to Karl alone. If that doesn’t work, you jump down for plan B.”
“Have you fucking lost it? No, I’m not letting you go there alone—”
“Q, I don’t think they can even see me. As soon as they see you—as soon as you step out under that sky—they’ll tear you apart.” Quackity opens his mouth to protest, but—he can’t think of anything. All he can grasp is the fear. “Think about it. This is our best chance.”
“I don’t want you to,” Quackity says. His voice is a whine and he doesn’t care. “I don’t want you to go alone.”
“I’ll be okay. I won’t look up or down, I’ll just focus on Karl’s crazy hair. And I’ll have you watching my back.”
Quackity means to grab his ears and shake some sense into his skull, but outside a sound starts up. The hosts stand in a loose circle, swaying. Whispering something that carries across the silence. Quackity can almost understand it, and the closer he gets to understanding, the more he understands that it is not to be understood. It is a language that does not exist. Gibberish. Quackity tastes iron. The world starts to hum, the small bones in his ear vibrating. His brain itches—
Hands close on his shoulders. For a second he has no idea what he’s looking at. Sapnap. His nose is bleeding. “Q, there’s no time. This is our best shot at getting the jump on them. I’m going.”
Quackity opens his mouth to say—what? Don’t. Stop being an idiot. I love you. You’re my best friend. None of it comes out.
Sapnap hugs him once, hard, and then he’s gone.
He slinks across the deck, ducked low, and without a second’s hesitation swings over the railing and out of sight. Quackity scrambles back to the window.
For an eternity of a second, Quackity can’t find him. He’s sunk, he thinks. He’s drowning. That thing is eating him.
And then—there he is, rounding the trawler, creeping up on them. His legs shake like he doesn’t quite believe they should be holding him up, but his weight holds steady. He was right; the colors don't rise to meet him, and no one, not even Technoblade, looks his way. Not even as he comes up behind Karl and gently, carefully takes his hand. Quackity sees him tapping with his thumb, one-two.
Karl turns his head as though through water. His eyes are lidded and shining. Sapnap touches his cheek, and Quackity watches Karl smile. He watches the name on his lips: Sapnap.
Sapnap whispers to him. He pulls on Karl’s hand, and Karl’s body sways forward but his feet stay fixed. The chanting grows louder. Sapnap reaches up and undoes his headband, and before he can tie it around Karl’s eyes, Karl kisses him.
Quackity sees Sapnap falter. He sees his eyes fall shut, for just a moment. Then they snap open. He tries to pull back, but Karl’s hands are on his face, nails in his skin, and he doesn’t let go. Sapnap’s jaw unhinges. Color floods his mouth and his eyes and his ears and spills over.
Quackity doesn’t see anything else because he’s sprinting across the deck. He flings himself over, lands hard enough that he feels it crunching his vertebrae. Spiderweb cracks ripple out across the surface of the water, and already—already there’s shrieking, yowling, inhuman, and the sky roars and reaches for him and the sea writhes and reaches for him and two of the hosts are splitting away and reaching for him—
He gets his feet under him and runs. Sapnap is right there, convulsing, frothing at the mouth. He’s staring at the sky. One eye rolls back in his head.
Quackity tackles Karl. Karl screeches; Quackity’s head cracks with migraine. He pins Karl under his weight and feels blood well up in the back of his throat when he meets his eyes.
He gets the spoon under Karl’s eyelid. He saws and scoops. Something severs. Karl screams, and so does Quackity.
There’s a horrible sucking sound as he pulls the spoon free and turns it on himself, but animal self preservation stays his hand. He tries again. He can do this, he can do this, he has to do this—
The hosts are on him. He’s hauled back and thrown to the solid surface of the water, pinned down by limbs and faces he can’t fathom. The spoon knocks from his hand. Karl is over him. His right eye is a swarming pit of color. His left eye dangles by the root.
His hands clamp on Quackity’s head and start to squeeze. It hurts. It hurts. Pressure and pain from the inside and out. Color bears down and up. He can hear the hosts chanting, ╎ℸ ̣ ↸∷ᒷᔑᒲᒷ↸ 𝙹⎓ ᓭ⚍リꖎ╎⊣⍑ℸ ̣ ᔑリ↸ ℸ ̣ ∷ᒷᒷᓭ 𝙹⎓ ⎓╎∷ᒷ ᔑリ↸ ∴ᔑℸ ̣ ᒷ∷ ╎ℸ ̣ ↸∷ᒷᔑᒲᒷ↸ ╎ℸ ̣ ᓵ∷ᒷᔑℸ ̣ ᒷ↸ ╎ℸ ̣ ↸∷ᒷᔑᒲᒷ↸ ╎ℸ ̣ ↸ᒷᓭℸ ̣ ∷𝙹||ᒷ↸ ╎ℸ ̣ ↸∷ᒷᔑᒲᒷ↸ ╎ℸ ̣ ⍑⚍リℸ ̣ ᒷ↸ ᔑリ↸ ∴ᔑᓭ ⍑⚍リℸ ̣ ᒷ↸ ╎ℸ ̣ ↸∷ᒷᔑᒲᒷ↸ ᓭ⍑ᒷꖎℸ ̣ ᒷ∷ ╎ℸ ̣ ↸∷ᒷᔑᒲᒷ↸ 𝙹⎓ ∴𝙹∷ꖎ↸ᓭ ∴╎ℸ ̣ ⍑𝙹⚍ℸ ̣ ᓭ⚍ᒲᒲᒷ∷ ᔑリ↸ ╎ℸ ̣ ᓭ⍑╎⍊ᒷ∷ᒷ↸ ⚍リ↸ᒷ∷ ᔑ ʖꖎᔑᓵꖌ ᓭ⚍リ ᔑリ↸ ╎ℸ ̣ ∴ᔑꖌᒷᓭ ⎓∷𝙹ᒲ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ ꖎ𝙹リ⊣ ↸∷ᒷᔑᒲ ᔑリ↸ ╎ℸ ̣ ∴ᔑꖌᒷᓭ ᔑリ↸ ╎ℸ ̣ ∴ᔑꖌᒷᓭ ᔑリ↸ ╎ℸ ̣ ∴ᔑꖌᒷᓭ ᔑリ↸ ╎ℸ ̣ ∴ᔑꖌᒷᓭ. Quackity is going to split open, and—and what will come out? What is inside him? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Karl’s thumbs find his eyes. They dig.
Someone throws Karl off him. A face Quackity knows but does not recognize takes up his vision, picks him up by the collar, and then a flash of silver—
No no no nonononononononono—
There is a knife carving into his eye. Then there are fingers. In his eye. In his eye. Ripping.
He’s on the water again, this time outside himself. He feels the pain, hears himself screaming, but the idea of both and the idea of himself are abstract. The world is disintegrating at the edges, or he is. Someone grabs his head and jerks it back. Something is shoved into his eye. The pain reduces him. He screams and screams.
He chokes into silence as power surges through him, roots itself like disease, ancient and unnameable and unreal. The hand in his hair jerks his head up. Tears blind his good eye; his bad eye opens, and beholds nothing, nothing at all.
The world shrieks and shatters.
Quackity does not know if he is awake or dreaming. The sky is clear.
He sits up—he thinks he sits up, even though his vision is so flat it makes the act feel fake. He can’t see out of his left eye. Dull pain throbs through him, sourceless, thoughtless. He’s wet, so he thinks he must be cold. He doesn’t feel it.
People are screaming, he thinks.
He turns his head and sees a boy he knows, bent over on the track and being bullied by the gym teacher. He needs help. Quackity needs to help him.
He crawls over. They’re not on the track. They’re on the deck of a boat. Karl is curled over Sapnap as if in prayer. He’s holding his face and he’s crying, dripping blood and seawater and tears onto his cheeks, kissing him desperately. Not kissing him. He’s pushing stuttered breaths into his mouth. “Please, please, please —”
Quackity collapses beside them. Everything jags behind a second later, the pain and the cold and the world. “What’s…”
“He’s not breathing,” Karl wails. One of his eyes is gushing blood, completely swollen shut. “He’s not breathing, Quackity, he’s not breathing.”
Quackity pushes him aside and Karl rocks back into a ball, crying so hard it renders him silent. Sapnap’s eyes are open, empty glass. One is opaque red like every vessel popped at once. Foam and blood at the corner of his lips. His skin is blue. His pulse is kicking but Karl is right. He’s not breathing.
The noise Quackity makes isn’t human. He jerks Sapnap’s head back, pinches his nose and seals their mouths together. He exhales hard, again and again and again and again. He feels for Sapnap’s pulse. It's weaker. Quackity breathes, and breathes, and sobs, and breathes. He feels for Sapnap's pulse. He can’t find it.
Heavy, uneven footsteps behind him, and then a meaty hand is hauling Sapnap up. Sapnap’s head lolls. Quackity is hollowed out by a sob.
Technoblade is listing violently to one side, sallow and sickly, drenched in sea water. He growls something in Sapnap’s ear. The last tendrils of color leak between his teeth and die out.
Sapnap chokes, gurgles. He gasps to life.
Technoblade drops him and stumbles back against the railing. Quackity doesn’t see. He’s on Sapnap, cradling and kissing his face, holding Karl close to them as they cry.
The boat, the engine room. Huddling under every blanket on the boat. Kissing wherever he can, whoever he can, choking through the blackouts and the pain and the shock that it’s okay, you’ll be okay, we’ll be okay.
No time passes at all, until suddenly hands are on them, pulling them apart. Quackity kicks and bites and snarls. His bad eye throbs until it explodes, a wash of color that drags Quackity under into the cold, and the deep, and the dark.
North, apparently, is Greenland.
The military coast guard receives a distress call from way out past the uninhabited planes of ice. Aboard a fishing trawler that should never have been there are two men, beaten and ill, and three boys, barely alive at all. They were reported missing in the US, a little under a week prior. One of the men says there were others on the water. The coast guard searches, and finds nothing.
It’s an international clusterfuck. No one knows how they got out there, or why, or what happened to leave them all so close to death. They can map the boys' path on a credit card to a hotel in Maine, and a camera reveals them getting into a fight with a man in the parking lot. His face is unclear. The boys themselves are a dead end. One says they were on spring break when their friend vanished, and they went looking for him; the rest is hazy. The other says the same. The one who disappeared remembers nothing at all.
The media runs with it. The internet is worse. In no time at all the story is on a dozen different subreddits about unsolved mysteries and unexplained phenomena. To make the clusterfuck all the fuckier, the two men rescued from the boat vanish in the chaos, right under the noses of the hospital and the reporters and the police.
Quackity hopes Technoblade’s book club is happy to see him. He also hopes that he never fucking sees him again.
Getting home would probably have been a lot more diplomatically fraught if Karl’s parents were not the suspicious kind of rich. They’re all transferred to a top notch hospital back in the states, where they eat gourmet jello and dodge endless questions and sneak into each other's rooms when they can.
Physically, Karl had it worst, malnourished and dehydrated and hypothermic. Emotionally, he’s bouncing off the walls. He’s friendly and cheerful, makes small talk with the nurses and cooperates with the doctors. No wonder the staff loves him. He honestly might be a little too happy. It's bordering on manic. He preens in the mirror whenever he can, holds eye contact a little too long like he relishes it. He blinks like blinking is an afterthought. He’s louder and a metric ton more obnoxious than he ever was, and Quackity adores it.
Karl’s parents don’t feel the same. Despite the lengths they went to to retrieve him, reconnecting with their missing son is less like a reunion and more like identifying a body. His father is stony. His mother cries. They apologize to both Quackity and Sapnap for the trouble their son has caused them. Karl sits quietly, eyes on the floor.
Quackity throws his IV pole at them, and blames it on the meds.
Sapnap hasn’t regained sight in his left eye yet, but for the most part he’s himself, stubborn and bullish, arguing with the doctors, trying to get up to hold his baby brother and pouting when he collapses. When he sees his family, Bad already in tears and Eryn balanced on Skeppy's hip, he cries like a baby. Quackity pokes fun, and ignores the fact that when he saw his awkward fucking cousins he burst into tears.
Sometimes Sapnap goes far away. He drifts off in the middle of a thought, and Quackity will turn to see him gazing out the window, a lost look on his face. Karl has these moments too, though not as frequent. Quackity can only assume it has to do with the fact that he and Karl were born to the things they saw, used to it. Sapnap was never meant for their world. Quackity wonders how that family is doing, the border patrol agent, the man with the plane.
There’s no help for it but to hold Sapnap's hand and wait for him to come back. When he does he smiles faintly, bitterly, and he says, “Sorry. Was just feeling kind of small.”
“You’re not,” Karl will say, with his head on his shoulder, and Quackity says, “You matter.”
Quackity feels fine, but he knows, objectively, he’s fucked. He’s angry, though he doesn’t feel angrier than normal, and he’s jumpy, constantly scanning gray skies for hints of something other, which he thinks is perfectly reasonable. They tell him he’s suffering from PTSD and acute paranoia. Quackity tells them to fuck off. He’ll admit he has less of a filter than he used to.
He prided himself on his adaptability, he remembers that. For the life of him he can’t figure out why. It feels so stupid now. He saved the world, why should he have to fit himself to anyone’s perceptions or expectations? He’s tired of being charming and palatable and well-liked. He wants to be more, and less, and do whatever the fuck he wants. He cares less. He cares more. He feels closer to Schlatt than he ever did when he was alive.
Sometimes all he wants is to run out in the rain and howl at the sky until his throat gives. He does it once. The hospital staff is pissed, not least because Sapnap and Karl sneak out and join him.
They come into his room one night, Karl reeling Sapnap along by the hand, and they crowd into Quackity’s tiny cot, and they hold hands, and they share the same air.
Sapnap asks if they’re sure it’s gone. They are, but they can’t tell him it’s dead, because it isn’t. It turned tail and ran like a little bitch, Quackity says, and Karl adds, as long as we have these peepers, I don’t think it’s coming back any time soon.
In the dark, Quackity catches Karl's eyes. He imagines he can see something unfathomable simmering in the depths of one gray iris. But then, he imagines Karl sees a mirror in him.
No one can explain the eyes.
The diner by the highway is still one of Quackity’s preferred haunts. In part because the location means a lot of strangers pass through, and strangers don’t know to stare. Mostly because the fries are killer, though.
Quackity, some months after saving the world: Thoroughly himself. He tells his shitty friends to take a hike. He starts hanging out with Charlie outside of work. He runs student government like a tyrant, mostly because it’s fun being toxic. He invites Tubbo to join, because he’s clever and ambitious and deserves to know it. Quackity speaks Spanish more and apologizes less. He’s still on track to be valedictorian, though it seems less important than it used to. He's considering just completely imploding his grades for shits and giggles. He hasn't decided yet.
He's planning a gap year with Karl. They’re on their way to convincing Sapnap to join them, whose previous plans for a wrestling partial scholarship are shot now that his bad eye has fucked his depth perception. Quackity knows it upsets him, but he waves it off whenever it comes up. Says it was worth it.
Quackity still scans the sky. He thinks he always will.
He reads while he waits and finishes a basket of fries by himself, then orders another for his tardy best friends. The waiter is a kid from his school who avoids his eyes when he drops the basket on the table. Eating the whole thing would probably give Quackity a heart attack, but if Sapnap and Karl are any later, he’ll suffer it just to spite them.
The door jingles, a voice sings, "Quackity!" and Quackity’s cholesterol levels are saved.
Karl practically dances over, heedless of the looks he gets, followed by an amused Sapnap. “Quackity, angel, ducky darling. I thought I’d die before I ever saw you again.”
“I saw you this morning, Karl.” Breakfast at Sapnap’s, where Karl has been staying. If Quackity’s not on his game Karl will become Bad and Skeppy’s favorite.
“Too long!” Karl throws himself into Sapnap’s lap, who catches him dutifully.
“Then maybe you should have been on time. What were you even doing?”
"Each other, nasty style in the backseat—"
“We were finishing up our nails,” Sapnap explains. Karl pops back up and throws his arms across the table. Sapnap shows his hand off too. Karl’s are lavender. Sapnap’s are orange and black like Halloween.
“We had to wait for them to dry so they wouldn’t smudge on the drive over.”
Quackity rests his cheek on his fist, grin squashed into his knuckles. “I’ll forgive you if you paint mine next.”
Karl squeals, grabbing Quackity’s hands and fussing over how pretty they are, which colors would go with his skintone, whether or not they should paint tiny dicks on his thumb nails. Sapnap leans over to see what book Quackity was reading. Quackity snatches it off the table, but by the vicious grin spreading across Sapnap’s face he’s too late.
“No fucking way,” Sapnap says. Karl perks up.
“What? Share! Come on, secrets secrets are no fun.”
“Secrets are very fun, actually, fuck off,” Quackity says, futilely.
“It’s the potato book! He’s reading Technoblade’s potato book!”
“Potato book?” Karl makes crab claws of his hands, and Quackity grudgingly hands it over. "Potato: A History of the Propitious Esculent. Aww, Quacky! This is so weird!”
“It’s a shockingly compelling narrative, okay?” Quackity defends. Karl and Sapnap immediately mimic him in piping voices. “Whatever, you guys suck. When the next potato famine hits I’ll be the only one prepared.”
“You and Technoblade,” Sapnap says.
“Exactly, asshat, and I’ll beat him at his own game. I won’t be caught off guard if I ever see this fucker again, which I do not plan to do.”
Karl thumbs through the book and reads potato fun facts at them until the waiter kid comes back to ask if Karl and Sapnap want anything. Somehow he’s even more unnerved than before. Quackity and Sapnap roll their eyes, but Karl smiles beatifically, happy to make smalltalk for the table. The look on Sapnap’s face goes from annoyed to goofy and besotted, listening to Karl hold their waiter hostage with a meandering anecdote when all he really had to do was order a coffee. After a moment he feels Quackity watching him and meets his eyes, blue and silver to brown and gray. His smile gets a million times goofier, and then he looks away, starting to flush.
Quackity considers this. Since returning to the world they’ve held hands, cuddled, slept in the same bed. Karl flirts incessantly. But they haven’t kissed since the boat, and they haven’t spoken about it once.
As soon as the waiter leaves, Quackity says, “So at the library.”
There’s no question which library he means. Sapnap’s eyes go solemn and hard and Karl winces, but he forces himself to meet Quackity’s gaze.
Quackity allows a pause for gravitas, then says, “Did one of you losers say you love me?”
Sapnap’s cheeks light up like Christmas, and Karl laughs with his whole belly. Quackity feels a hundred feet tall.
: