Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What did the deafening crack of a bullet cutting through the air, the panicked gasps and bloodcurdling screams of the dying, and the almost silent plunge of a knife into flesh have in common?

Quackity had long found a dangerous sense of familiarity—of home—in these sounds, long before he truly understood what they meant.

In this moment, though, with blood oozing out of his side and the smell of iron overwhelming his senses, he knew exactly what each sound meant.

The teen had pushed himself up against the farthest wall, harsh exhales and pained noises leaving his mouth all at once. His chest felt as if it were so close to bursting with how frequently his heart was pumping. His eyes that were once so sharp and observant could barely keep up with his surroundings.

Graffiti-ridden brick walls surrounded him, each not spared from people's creativity and need to disobey. The moon barely dared to bless this place with its shine. Small rodents scurried about in the darkness, seeming not to mind the lack of light. Trash littered across the floor despite there being a dumpster.

His eyes widened, not because of what he saw but instead because of what he didn't.

Where had the predator gone...?

His hand gripped even tighter onto his last line of defense.

A gun.

A stolen gun, to be more precise.

He managed to steal this one from his past father. Not biological, of course, the man had large horns upon his head and hooves instead of feet. However, it didn't stop an aged three Quackity from showering the man with love and calling him dad.

His body trembles, losing the battle against the cold breeze. Even his wings shake uncomfortably from under the wing restrainer and jacket. But the unforgiving weather doesn't interfere with his focus on the entrance to the alleyway. Instead it strengths it, he would rather be taken out by the earth than some man.

Is this really how he dies?

He's going to die...?

No, he's currently dying.

Slowly, painfully in this alleyway.

His blood is staining the concrete floor below him, falling from the bullet hole in the side of his stomach. The frigid weather is slowly getting to him.

Which will get him first?

Will he have bled out against the alleyway wall, dying because of losing what was once inside his body? Or will he feel nothing but the harsh weather around him and succumb to its soft, dangerous needs? "Let us grace you with the feelings of numbness and let us change the color of your skin," the breeze whispers as it hits his ears.

"Dad—" The words don't escape his lips as easily as words used to. Yet he needs the message out.

"Save me..." he pleads, hating how quiet his words come out.

Dad? Huh...I haven't called Schlatt that in so long. I miss him...

He missed the ram's warm embrace and the times when Schlatt obliged Quackity's need for guidance and attention. Maybe he would do the same for him again...maybe he would save Quackity like he once easily did before.

"You think this world is forgiving to your kind? To fucking avians!?" The man always said the last word with such disgust and hatred.

It made Quackity want to rip his own wings out. What cruel God made him such a horrible creature?

"Fuck no! Yet I still took you in and fucking took care of you. And what, you want to leave!?" The man's grip around the bottle tightens as he chucks it right at Quackity.

"I'm sorry if the room I've given you and the meals I've had cooked for you aren't enough! You fucking spoiled brat. And if you think out there is so much better than this roof I've put over your head. Then go!!"

No, Quackity didn't miss Schlatt, even in his dying moments. He held nothing but pure hatred for the man.

The deafening sound of a gunshot was all it took to snap the dying teen out of his thoughts. Schlatt wasn't here, and even if he was, Quackity would still have to save himself.

He watched as a mysterious figure came into view. The figure leaned against the wall, struggling to correctly inhale and exhale air into their lungs. Despite how injured the person already looked. Quackity kept his gun pointed at the struggling person.

He could barely make out their appearance in the dark, yet his eyes caught onto the person's wings.

"No one cares for avians; not even I do. Yet you, duckling, are the exception."

Quackity struggled to keep his chirps trapped within his throat. This only worsening when he saw a bullet hole deep inside the person's left wing. Was this person also shot for what they were…?

A feeling of understanding and empathy took over his thoughts, despite all the warning signs in his head. He pushed down thoughts of saving himself and lowered his gun.

He didn't know the avian, and they didn't know him, yet Quackity knew the feeling of being prey, and this sparked an odd sense of kinship within him. They would always be looked down upon as an easy kill.

He wanted to say something, anything, to the other avian. Yet was quickly shut up by another person entering the alleyway. This time he knew this person.

Predator.

His gun was back clenched in his hands, his finger lightly over the trigger, ready to shoot. Yet as he went to aim at the predator, he noticed his target had moved.

The predator had pounced and easily overtook the weakened avian. Quackity watched in horror as the man raised his clenched fists high before then hitting downward at the avian.

Over and over. Again and again.

The blows only growing stronger after each hit.The blood splatters mixing perfectly with the already dirty alleyway. The avian screams full only of agony and pleading. Quackity struggled to keep his eyes on such a horrific scene. Which felt off because he had seen worse.

"You poor winged creature.."

Yet this poor winged creature.

The predator made it obvious to both him and the injured avian that he was enraged and every avian had to feel his wrath. The brutality of his beating showed the man's hatred for Quackity’s kind, like the mere existence of avian angered the man. This hunter sought not the kill but the torment that came before it.

Quackity needed to do something.

"That's my son!" His dad cheered, lifting Quackity into the air, the action done so quickly the boy barely had time to react. The man's wide grin made Quackity smile. Joyous, booming laughs came out of the man's mouth. "Not even my men can shoot like my son can!"From day to day, Jschlatt would brag to any person nearby about his seven-year-old son's ability to never miss a shot. It gained him the nickname-

"Birdseye." He managed to muster the name weakly through his struggling lungs and trembling voice. The tremble in his hands felt unnatural; he always held a gun with such accuracy. But the shot? The shot was instinct. A weak smile graced his face; every time he shot, he further proved the nickname right.

Including this moment, with a pull of the trigger and a roaring bang, was the cleanest head shot anyone might've seen.

The predator's now lifeless body collapsed and hit the floor with a loud thud, similar to how a puppet would when you cut off its strings.And as he watched the sight before him, he felt pride bubble up within his stomach. The man with a deadly gaze and threatening presence now met his demise because of him. He was nothing but small, meek prey. It reminded him of Schlatt once more, and dangerous questions formed in his head.

Schlatt, would you be proud of me for that shot?

Would you stare at me with such happiness again?

And would you carry me despite my wings?

His gun was the next to fall to the floor. Quackity struggled to even blink at this point, yet his smile remained plastered on his face.

The world before him began to mesh and blur together as tears fell from his eyes. Though he was in excruciating pain, his tears came from his realization that finally, he did something good.

Yeah. This is fine.

He could die like this, knowing that despite everything, he was still Schlatts pride and Birdseye.

Chapter Text

Somewhere—unreachable to him—is an enraged crow. His talons sharper than ever, his wings stretched wider than usual, and his heart held more hatred than normal.

At his side is an equally infuriated piglin hybrid, unable to contain himself with all the instincts coursing through him and the voices in his head overpowering his own.

And here is the youngest member of their flock is.

Here he is, pinned under the weight of not just clamoring fists but the predator itself. Each brutal punch was deteriorating his already fragile ribs, grinding his wings further down into the concrete, and forcing broken, wheezing chirps through his lips. Thus, waves of tears fell from his blurry eyes and mixed with his blood.

He was in so much pain. The feeling completely overtaking him, wanting to be heard and acknowledged. So, it screamed and roared at him.

"Do something!" His wings beg as they tremble underneath the overbearing weight.

"Fight back!" His fractured ribs plead, as they creak even more under each blow.

"Stop just crying!" His lungs scream as they continue to sizzle with every burning breath of air he takes.

His body felt like fireworks, crackling and bursting seamlessly to soar into the sky and create such immaculate sights. Yet there was only the booming sound and the explosion within. No breathtaking sight or mesmerizing colors. The only colors he could see were the dark shade of the night sky, blue hues from the city, and poignant amounts of crimson red.

Oh, that must be his blood.

He should fight back; it was unlike him not to. In every fight he yelled insults, made dangerous threats, and threw grenades like they were mere toys. But now? He couldn't command his body to do anything. He tried and kept trying to beg his limbs to do something, anything, to stop the pain. Yet they betrayed him.

A memory flickered in his head, almost like a light bulb. It buzzed and created both light and warmth in unison.

A hand cupped his face; the touch felt nothing less than genuine and sweet.

Flock. Safe.Trust.

"You're not alone anymore." He spoke soft and quietly. These words were for his ears only, and this thought made him melt.

"Wherever you go, we'll follow, and whenever you fall, we'll be there to lift you up."

He wasn't alone. Even now, as the world was sinking around him and his distance to death was becoming nonexistent. He didn't need to fight his own battles anymore; his flock would gladly do it for him. Just—

Just a bit longer. He only has to hold out for a bit longer.

"They'll be here soon." He whispered through bloodied lips, a weak, defiant smile formed on his face.

"My family is going to fuck you up." He spat, false confidence lacing his every word.

He watched as the predator above him froze and simply stared down at him. A mix of confusion and fear present in the predator's eyes, that it made him almost look like prey. Yet the sudden hesitation and second of mercy had twisted into something even darker.

Cold fingers coiled around his neck, the hunter's grip tightening like his life depended on it. The air he was already struggling to breathe was getting squeezed out of him.

Nope.

He can't wait anymore.

He can't

He can't—

A booming crack slices through the air. He's heard this sound before, even been the cause of it sometimes. A gunshot. It was all he needed to hear to get tied back to the moment. His hope that once wavered was now stood still.

His flock has arrived!

He tries to laugh, shake the whole thing off, as if he hadn't been so close to death mere seconds ago. Yet what escapes his throat is ugly noises full of a need for attention.

The sight of the man he had known and feared for so long, collapsing to the floor. Was a wondrous sight to behold and was also so fucking funny.

Slowly, he propped himself upward, barely managing to sit up on his own due to the shakiness of his elbows. His vision still not fully there, but he didn't care; he needed to see them—his flock.

Despite his excellent eyes and gift of night vision, no familiar faces were present. No faces.

Just one face.

A person, one he had never seen before, lay sluggishly against the farthest wall. A discarded gun lay beside the body, accompanied by a quickly expanding pool of blood.

His flock didn't make it in time.

"S-sir," he croaks, hating how his voice trembled in the frigid air.

No. This person was way too young to be a 'sir.'

"Hey!" He calls out once again, this time his voice managing to be louder, yet this costs him some pain in his lungs.

Nothing but silence fills the alleyway.

"Shit- I'm coming!" He drags himself forward, the harsh floor grazing against his elbows. He bit down on his lip trying to restrain the pained noises he was making. All his movement made his body burn with fresh pain. Yet it doesn't stop him.

"It's—it's okay!" He spoke through gritted teeth."Just hold on—" his own pained noise cut his own words off. "Hold on for me, please..."

He continues the painstaking motion of placing his elbows flat on the ground and then shoving his limp body a few inches forward.

"I'll get there!" He promises, his voice full of false cheer. He wasn't the best at helping others, yet he had to try.

He's not dead.

He's not dead.

Just... just— he just doesn't want to speak!

Yes, that's it! He's just such an asshole that he refuses to answer!

Another drag forcing him forward and another. It hurt to repeat such a pain-inducing task, yet this was necessary.

"Everything's going to be okay." Guilt began to gather in his mind. Who was he to make such false promises...?

After what felt like an eternity, with a final harsh grunt and a pull closer, he made it.

"Its—It's okay! I'm here! I'm going to help you!" The words flying out quick and unsteady. He had to pray his lungs could hold out for just a few minutes longer.

He examined the teen, trying his best to replicate the way the family nurse had always examined him. Yet with most of his skin covered and the darkness blanketing the two. It was hard to check for any other injuries. His eyes, though, could easily spot the bullet wound in the teen's side.

He winced just looking at it, not wanting to remember his own bullet wound.

His heart sank; he didn't know shit about fixing a bullet wound, nor did he even have any equipment. The fear of also doing something wrong and worsening the wound, forcing him to give up on it.

"You're fucking freezing right?" It was a struggle to get his coat off, yet after a minute of awkwardly fighting his own clothing, he managed. "Here, this should help." He muttered, as he draped the coat over the freezing, helpless teen. A chirp sounded... from— from his own lips.?

What the fuck instincts?! This human didn't want to hear that shit. Nor would he find an ounce of comfort from it.

"S-sorry mate, I—I don't...don't know what came over me." The words muttered quietly, full of embarrassment.

He waited for a response.Yet got none.

"Just. Just please answer me. Say something! Please don't be dead."

His hands laid on top of the boy's shoulders and shook him gently.

"Come on. You—you can't be gone. Not after saving me."

His begging falling onto nothing but deaf ears. Yet still he pleads and begs, by some miracle, maybe he would get a response.

Tears fell like rivers from both eyes; he didn't think he had any more tears left in him. He wrapped his arms tightly around the other, only for the body heat he might give off, of course. Not, no, not because he—

He covered the boy with his right wing and collapsed onto the teen.

"You're not dead." He whispers into the air, hoping that his words were the truth.

"You're okay now. You killed the threat, and now you're safe." He continued on.

The weight in his arms still would give no response.

A long moment of silence filled the air, as the only one capable of making sound stopped doing so.

The truth crashing down on him rapidly, its waves reckless and violent, ensuring it causes the most damage.

"You're dead!"

He screams through frustrated sobs. The one who had ended his suffering and saved his life was gone...

Loud sobs broke through his screams; he laid his head against the teen's chest and screamed.

He screamed so loud that he didn't hear the car braking nearby, the sets of footsteps approaching, or the downpour of rain begin to fall.

The only sound that managed to break through his grief was—

"Tommy...?"

The cost of failure was a hefty price to pay and a heavier burden to carry. It was why his father used unyielding and brutal words when warning them of failure. Yet those descriptions failed to capture what failure truly meant and why it was so heavy. His father didn't warn of its pain or cruel nature.

This was what failure looked like.

Techno's gaze fell upon his youngest brother, who looked less like his chaotic brother and resembled a victim of a dragged-out war. Tommy's face contained bruises and was streaked with blood and tears. The boy's wings, which had always been well preened and full of color, were matted with dirt and looked lifeless. His brother had looked like a mess of crimson, tears, and pain mixed with grief, suffering, and agony.

Techno would describe his brother as a fire, with roaring flames that could only grow larger. His brother always had an unwavering spark of cheer and hope. Yet Techno couldn't find that spark in his brother anymore, nor the flames. All that was left of Tommy was broken embers scattered across the floor.

This is what failure smelt like.

A strong scent of metallic blood hung in the air, overpowering his thoughts. It felt like he was suffocating because of the stench. There was so much of it, yet he could decipher Tommy's blood from the two strangers easily. He knew his brother's scent, practically had it etched in his mind.

Normally he enjoyed the rotten smell of the dying and their blood oozing. He enjoyed seeing his enemies fallen onto the ground, their bodies ripped of their past life. He made sure to take a whiff of the air, enjoying and appreciating the smell. Yet now with his own brother surrounded by the smell, he felt his stomach churn and his mouth threaten to vomit.

This is what failure sounded like.

His brother's screams pierced through the chaos; it would be hard to not hear them. The screams were raw and full of begging. It was evident that Tommy wanted to save the stranger more than he wanted himself to be saved. Though Tommy disregarded his own pain, Techno could make out the boy's want to be healed and taken care of. He hated the sound of Tommy's pain.

The storm mirrored Technos's fury and hatred perfectly. Thunder cracked violently and peeked through the dark clouds above. The lightning, with its loud booming and roaring, demanded everyone to hear its rage.

This is what failure felt like.

It felt like broken ribs and battered wings. It felt like humiliation, and as if his feathers were being ripped out one by one. As he stared at his brother's fragile body, he felt his brother's pain.He felt the stinging sensation of a bruised face and exhausted lungs. He felt the annoyance of having unpreened wings and being covered in bruises.

It was as if he too had been shot in the wings and beaten to a pulp.

"Never again" he promised.

Never again would he fail.

Chapter Text

If this was death, Quackity no longer wanted any part of it. He envisioned death as nothing but peaceful—serene, kind. Death to him was a release of life's heavy chains. He thought death would cradle him, maybe run fingers through his hair and whisper reassurances into his ears. Or maybe Schlatt was the only one capable of showing him such affection.

The ram had been tender in the beginning. Younger Quackity would say that Schlatt was never capable of violence or bloodshed. He was simply a man with too big of a heart.

On nights when sleep wasn't easy for him or times when he would have a nightmare, he would sneak into Schlatt's room and lay on the bed beside the other. The rustle of his wings and uneven breathing would alert Schlatt of his arrival. Though every time he invaded the other's personal space, he was welcomed with open arms. The man would wrap soft blankets around him and undo tangles present in his messy hair. Schlatt would spend time preening his wings until they were golden again. When the ram felt Quackity was asleep, he would pull the kid close to him and wrap a protective arm around the boy. Quackity would receive a small forehead kiss before soothing humming filled the room.

Every action was methodical, slow, and full of care.

Every hummed lullaby and forehead kiss felt like safety itself.

Quackity still regrets not seeing through that illusion of safety. He hates his naive self for failing to notice the sharp, jagged edges of the man beneath all his kind actions. There had to be signs he missed. Maybe if he had seen it earlier, he could have prevented all of his worst injuries from happening. Maybe he could've stopped it all...

Still...a sick and twisted part of Quackity wanted to go back to those moments and wrap himself in blankets. He wanted nothing more than to feel fingers fix and adjust feathers.He wanted to live through the lies again. He thought death would give him his sad desire of affection. He thought dying would be exactly like closing his eyes and drifting off into a sweet dream.

But it seems Quackity asked too much of death and knew too little of her methods.

For she was merciless and immense, this pain coursing through his body felt far too cruel.

It was as if sharp blades were being pushed through his skin, twisting and dragging into his side. Every time he inhaled, fire would start burning within his lungs, and every exhale would fan the flames. His body felt as if it were turning on itself, a war breaking out within his every organ.There was a heaviness in his chest, as if something was settled on top of him, crushing his ribs. His fingers twitched involuntarily, and nerves were firing like faulty wires. His body felt foreign—unrecognizable—to him, as if he hadn't spent fifteen years of his life within it. His senses felt as if they were amplified.

The glowing white light was relentless and mocked him from above. It felt no pity for him as it shined impossibly bright. The bland and pristine white blinding him and burning his retinas. His eyes shut quickly, yet still he felt the light scorch through his eyelids. He swore, in that moment, he would destroy every light he ever came across after this.

His heartbeat was louder than normal within his chest. He could hear its beats echo through his ears, thrumming with an angry rhythm. His heart had no right to be this loud nor hurt him this much! Then near him was the humming of machinery; it was low and vibrating, as it grated against his nerves. If he had the energy, he would tear this whole room apart.

It was like his body was struggling to adjust to existing.

Living had never felt this foreign to him before.

He hadn't noticed how cold he was until he felt his own body shiver. The freezing air that filled his body to the brim caused him to tremble violently. He felt wrong to describe it as cold. No. It was more than that. It was a freezing, bone-deep absence of warmth, like he had been hollowed out and left to freeze. He missed those warm blankets way more now.

He felt his stomach twist violently; bile rose up to his throat. He let out pained gags and dry heaved until his ribs screamed in protest.

A sharp metallic taste lingered on his tongue; it was far too bitter and unpleasant. He felt himself almost gag again due to the taste. Yet somehow he held it in, which weirdly felt worse. He wanted to spit the taste out, but his body was already so exhausted.

He simply lay there, shivering, aching, taking in air too heavy to breathe. He felt tears form near both his eyes.

This was too much.

He wanted Schlatt again.

The thought made him force his body up. Every movement caused winces and groans to escape, yet the feeling of being defenseless hurt him more. His breathing was slow and unsteady, and so were his actions. Even blinking and examining the room around him took him a while. He watched the room go from smudged blobs of color to somewhat recognizable shapes.

The bed beneath him was pristine and freshly clean. It bothered him; this was no bed of his. The mattress knew nothing of restless nights or true exhaustion. Except now that he was laid upon it. But still, it was too nice for him. A thin blanket had been tucked to cover his legs.

It was nothing compared to Schlatt's blankets. They weren't placed with that same false love.

He glanced at the machines humming next to him; he would punch them, but they weren't worth his time.He felt the room strangle him with how bland and suffocatingly white the walls were. His eyes caught onto the two doors at the opposite ends of the room. They were noticeable due to their dark brown color against the white surrounding them.

The doors, walls, machines, lights... it all felt so wrong.

The room reeked of alcohol and antiseptic, a recognizable hospital scent. But somehow it didn't feel like a hospital, seeming more like a set up. The undeniable feeling that something was wrong shook him to his core.

He needed to do something.

His mind sprung into action, cycling through past memories, yet his mind came up blank when it tried to think of anything significant. He tried to imagine a before.

Before all the pain and this room.

But it was almost like there had never been a before.

Quackity knew he would never turn to hospitals when he had sustained an injury. No matter how deadly it was. It was too high of a risk to take. He couldn't risk being found out as Schlatt's son. He couldn't risk Schlatt finding him and forcing him back. Not after everything he had done.

No more soft blankets, much-needed preening, or a loving dad.

He pushed those thoughts away, immediately. He didn't need those. What he needed was to leave wherever he was. Maybe...

Schlatt had finally caught up to him...

The thought made his mind burst and his chest along with it. As it heaved up and down, rising and falling, growing quicker after each breath. No. No, Schlatt couldn't find him. Not here, not like this. Not so vulnerable and weak... He has to leave.

Panic clouded his head, yet he carried on. Throwing the blanket off him and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He ignored his body's desperate pleas to lie back down. He felt the coldness of the floor wrap around his bare feet as he struggled to stay upright.His eyes fixated on the closest door, and his body listened to the silent command. Though it took him longer than he would like to admit to reach said door. Yet after stumbling and harsh breathing, he leaned against the door, pushing all his weight onto it. He felt dizzy and watched as the world before him slowly began to spin. He counted 5 seconds before then deciding he needed to continue.

His trembling hands wrapped tightly around the doorknob before then twisting it. As he sluggishly opened the door, the room inside was revealed to be—

A bathroom.

He felt his hopes decline drastically. He knew it would be too convenient and unrealistic, yet he didn't care. He just wanted an escape. No, he needed one. Regardless, he stepped inside and quickly slammed the door shut behind him. He felt his body ache, the pain catching up to him now that he was leaned against the door, his back pressed against it. He turned and fidgeted with the lock embarrassingly before finally successfully locking the door. He let his breathing calm down a bit before then taking small, shaky steps towards the sink. Without meaning to, he caught a glimpse of his reflection.

It forced him to freeze.

A nauseous wave of emotions crashed into him all at once. Pain, anger, disgust, hatred, confusion. He felt his stomach churn and reacted by placing a hand over his mouth. He hoped to keep the chaos contained within.

Something wasn't right.

He slowly uncovered his mouth and instead used his trembling fingers to pry his mouth wide open.

His canines.

He leaned closer towards the mirror and stared critically at them. Hoping that he had been mistaken, but he wasn't. His teeth were sharper and longer. Not a huge difference but a noticeable one. He looked away from his teeth and stared into his own eyes. He looked the same as before. Before what...he didn't know. What he knew for certain was that foreign and unfamiliar feeling that this wasn't him.

Yet it undeniably was.

A sharp pain emerged from his wings as they struggled and fought with his wing restrainer. It caused him to stumble back and lose his focus on his new teeth. Panic sprouted from his chest as he desperately clawed at his shirt and jacket. Demanding they be taken off quickly, he was too caught up to do anything but throw them to the floor. He fumbled with the clasps at his chest, the panic causing him to struggle. After a few clicks, finally he heard the satisfying snap and let the restrainer fall to the floor.

His wings broke free and automatically stretched outward. At their every movement, an audible bone crack could be heard. Every loud pop made him more fearful than ever. How long had they been restrained like that for?

He didn't get time to register just how nice it felt to spread his wings once more, as his eyes caught onto feathers. His feathers—his feathers were—falling...

A mix of matted yellow and brown covered the floor quickly. The feathers all looked so dead. He dropped to his knees. He knew keeping them restrained would damage them, but... he never—

It was never supposed to get this bad.

He grabbed at the feathers, pressing them tightly to his chest. He let out pitiful sobs and occasional accidental chirps. Shame and embarrassment were all he could feel. But then it hit him. A sharp, searing pain erupted from both wings, forcing a scream from his lips. He doubled over and stared right at the floor. His arms unsteady, carrying his upper weight as he screamed out in pain. His wings ruffled and shook behind him, and his knuckles turned white as they gripped onto the floor. His heavy breathing would be interrupted by harsh groans, pained chirps, and whimpers that happened to slip through his clenched teeth. He turned his head and stared at his wings.

His eyes were blurry, yet still, he saw the golden color… New feathers were emerging and growing quicker than ever, sprouting from both wings. He watched in horror as the slow, painstaking process took place before his eyes.

Fresh, pristine plums pushed their way through damaged quills, and they shimmered in the light. He stared back at the floor and held onto the cold tiles as if they would save him. Avoiding his wings seemed to be the only thing grounding him from the overwhelming sensations.

Then. It somehow got worse; he swore he could feel new bone emerge and sprout upward. And his screams almost tore through his throat.

A thought pierced through it all.

Were his wings...growing…?

His breathing hitched as his gaze lingered back on his wings. He couldn't seem to stop staring at the shiny gold color that overtook old feathers so suddenly. He felt pity for the matted feathers that still remained. They stuck out and ruined his wings from looking their best. It made Quackity sour at the thought; he couldn't appreciate the sudden growth of them either. He knew keeping them contained was going to be harder now that his wings were a bit larger. These gold feathers were destined to look like the old matted ones anyway; he couldn't maintain them. He needed proper care and preening to do that.

His own wings seemed to mock and ridicule him now. Shame and anger bubbled within. He didn't remember how his feathers looked taken care of. It had been so long since he saw them shine as brightly as the sun. Schlatt may not have had wings of his own, but he sure knew how to correctly care for his.

He gave a pitiful look to his wings. He didn't want to admire them anymore. He felt bitter, like their only purpose was to remind him how far down he had truly fallen.

Three knocks echoed from the door.

Quackity flinched, his head staring at the door with scrutiny. Fear exploded within him as he glanced around him. He was sitting on the cold restroom tile, his discarded shirt and jacket laid out on the floor, hideous unhealthy feathers caused the tile to no longer be visible, and his large wings outshined the sun itself and took up space. Everything would be impossible to ignore.

"No!" He screeched as he jumped to his feet. His talons quickly tore through his shirt's material as he rushed for it.

No wait. His restrainer. He needs his restrainer on first.

More knocks sounded from the door, each increasing in their volume and impatience. The sound tore through his skull.

"I'm just doing a routine check." The voice explained, yet Quackity didn't care for whatever explanation the other had. As he swept feathers into the trash can and pushed some out of view. He felt more and more defeated.

"Fuck off!" He snapped, becoming annoyed at the persistent knocking. The anger caused his wings to stretch out higher, as if to make him seem larger and scarier. "Who the hell are you!"

"I can explain everything when you're back in your bed. Please, I promise you I'm just a nurse that works here. The boss will kill me if you are injured even more."

The words made him shrink down. Boss? As in a mafia boss? Did Schlatt really catch up to him? This soon too...

His throat felt tight, and his mind spun. He wanted to cry again, yet he couldn't. Not when he was already so weak and fragile-looking.

"I-I'll be out soon." His tone was quieter and less angry than before. This was just some worker, who had no choice but to remain loyal and serve. Rebelling or failing an order would result in...

He couldn't bring himself to linger on the thought anymore.

"Just need to freshen up..."He added, trying to sound reasonable despite the paper-thin excuse he just replied with. Not that he felt it mattered anymore.

"I already know."The voice was steady and deliberate. Stated so confidently that Quackity froze and stared at the door.

"I know you're an avian."

Every muscle in his body tensed. His wings twitched against the restrainer, demanding they leave. His thoughts raced all at once.

He didn't trust the other.

He couldn't.

They knew.

Knew too much.

They could tell someone.

Anyone...even Schlatt.

He needed to strike first.

He has the chance to silence them before word gets out. Before they—

No. No. Killing them would just put him in more trouble. Whoever was in charge would dispose of him next...

He needed to keep what was given to him and take advantage of it. He needed answers, and here was his only opportunity to obtain those answers.

The silence stretched on as Quackity wandered through his thoughts.This caused the voice to pip up and speak. This time the other held an uneasy tone.

"J-just let me help. And I won't tell anyone!"

Quackity kept quiet and weighed his options in his head. Which there weren't a lot of. Finally, he forced himself to move and sluggishly made his way over to the door. He ignored the screams of his mind telling him to rethink his decision.

Bad. Dangerous. Scared. Help.

His bird brain barely spoke to him anymore, so the simple words shocked him. Yet he didn't have time to think about them. He never did. So he shoved the tiny duckling back down and slowly undid the lock.

His fingers struggled to wrap around the knob and twist it in the opposite direction. He hesitated opening the door, but with one final shaky breath, he pulled the door towards him.

A face greeted him.

This face caused his head to throb instantly.

He couldn't pinpoint who this was, but he knew. He knew he had seen this face before.

A faint recognition tugged at his brain.

Where had he seen them before?

And more importantly, who were they?

His questions struggled to keep up with his racing mind. No thought stuck to his head anymore as his vision worsened.The face before him turned into a blob of yellow. He tried to fix the issue by blinking rapidly, but it had done the opposite instead.

He finally noticed how every movement he took became slower than the last. His knees struggled to keep him upright anymore as the world tilted and warped suddenly. He felt like he was losing control of his own body. Every limb felt too light as though he were lifting off the ground.

No. Not lifting. Falling.

He felt the floor getting closer than ever to his face.

He was falling back.

The only thing that saved him from hitting the floor, was the sudden darkness that had engulfed him and with it took his consciousness.

Chapter Text

Quackity’s eyelids felt too much like lead, heavy and unyielding, as if an anchor was dragging them down. He could feel the bright light burn his vision. The pain forced him to awaken; it told him it wouldn't allow him to dream of better days or hide from the cruel world. Instead the clawing pain ordered Quackity to confront his unfamiliar situation. He didn't want to, though; every moment he spent living slapped him in the face and told him he didn't just become helpless; he had always been. He just didn't have that false sense of freedom to lift his spirits up anymore.

Slowly, as if for his first time ever, Quackity opened his eyes and adjusted to being alive once more.The world around him seemed to only appear in pieces, which took him a while to even put together: its quiet, repetitive beeping of machinery, the strong smell of iron and antiseptic, the dreadful color of clean white, and lastly the faint taste of blood lingering on his tongue.

His surroundings felt oppressive and dangerous; the room felt alive, like it had a will of its own. Its appearance articulated its message loudly. "You're weak. You're prey."

Quackity tried to move; he forced all his remaining strength into his arms as they struggled to support his body weight and push him upwards. The immediate wave of nausea worked against him and slammed him back into the bed. The mattress felt suffocating as it trapped him once more. His trembling arms never stood a chance.

He gritted his teeth; frustration was slowly boiling beneath his skin. How could he lack this much control? His body felt foreign and detached from his own brain. The small efforts to move all felt like too much. He could no longer bear the burden of trying and failing.

"You're awake."

A voice cut through the growing fog of his scattered thoughts. It quickly captured all Quackity's attention. He could make out the awe and surprise that seeped into the other's words. His eyes latched onto the teen sitting beside the bed. The look of the other made him immediately aware that...

He knew this face, had seen it once or twice by now. Though the first instance was vague, the second he could remember so clearly.

The details floated to the surface of Quackity's mind.

His body had been different; it no longer felt like his, but it was. His canines were longer and more dragged out from his other teeth. They were sharper, somehow, more predator-like. His wings sprouted feathers he never thought were possible. The quiet bird within him had also made an appearance. It was the instinct part of his head, which normally he suppressed so much he no longer had a tiny duckling within him. Yet it spoke...His confusion and fear of his own body were halted by knocks from the door. Words were said, but Quackity can't recall what they were. And then he approached the door and opened it carefully. There was the other, a teen who looked close to his own age.

Quackity pushed the memory away and tried to force himself upright once more. He didn't make it far before a pair of hands were at his shoulders; it was a firm yet gentle push back down as they were careful to not apply too much pressure.

"Whoa! Whoa!" The boy shouted as he pressed down on Quackity's already weak body; it had a cheerful tone yet a subtle hint of concern. "Take it easy for a bit!"

He hated how the kid pushed him down with ease. His body gave in to the light pressure too easily for Quackity's liking. A resurgence of shame and vulnerability threatened to show itself, yet Quackity hid it with a venomous glare. Despite his attempt to elicit a reaction from the kid, the other instead gave an amused smile.

A dull throbbing ache repetitively hit the back of his head. Instinctively his hand moved to the source; he tried applying pressure, yet it made the pain increase in its intensity. His fingers brushed through messy strands of hair and tried to soothe the pain, yet to no avail. His memories rushed back once more.

He could remember the floor growing ever so closer to him, the quick rush of air, and the suspense of waiting to hit the ground. He knew he was headed straight for it, yet he couldn't recall a thud or the pain of it.

Before Quackity could continue to piece his memories together, he was once again interrupted.

"You here, kid?"

A hand waved over his face trying to gain his attention. It was done in such an impatient and playful way that it made Quackity want to hiss in annoyance. It had felt dehumanizing; he wasn't some dog who needed orders, and he was certainly no kid. His eyes narrowed as he took in the boy beside him.

The kid's hair was all blonde, excluding the white streak present in the front. The hair looked soft, fluffy almost; it matched with the bright red feathered ears. Quackity had never seen such bright blue eyes. They were so full of life; there was a glowing spark present within them. It made him jealous; he wanted that ever-growing flame of living, not surviving.

"Where... where am I?" Quackity's words had a certain weight to them, at least to him, as they struggled to claw through his throat. It felt like he was admitting his naiveness to this new place. Still the words wouldn't stop bothering him until he spoke them aloud. He needed answers; he no longer wanted to be stuck in the unknown; it was one of his biggest fears. Not his first, as that one belonged to Schlatt.

"Somewhere safe." The teen answered; it sounded reassuring, almost like a promise of safety.

"You're in a medical wing—uh, you know, a place the Syndicate owns. I work here as a nurse and shit." He rambled on, growing quieter as he spoke. Then the boy's face looked as if a light bulb went off.

"Oh shit. I forgot to introduce myself." The boy said, to which it made Quackity want to laugh.

"I'm your nurse here. My name's Tommy, but I'll give you the luxury of calling me Toms!" The boy had a cheery and welcoming tone as he sat up straighter and dramatically offered his hand for Quackity to shake.

It took a second for Quackity to process the words and the hand that waited patiently for his. As much as the duck wanted to shake the hand and have a friend. Everything screamed at him that this was no friend. The lingering feeling that something was wrong made him shove the hand away and give a glare to the other. This one wasn't as angry as his previous one. It seemed he couldn't muster that same rage anymore.

"You look the same age as me."Quackity explained flatly. "No fucking way you're a nurse."

Tommy had been dressed too casually to be a nurse. He looked more like some kid who snuck into a hospital. No place would accept such a pitiful display unless something wasn't being said.

Tommy was quick to defend himself; he crossed his arms and puffed out his chest as if he wanted to appear taller. "Hey! The boss makes everyone pull their own fuckin weight! And for the record, I'm a man, not some scrawny little boy like you!" Quackity wanted to laugh at the absurdity, yet his attention had been fixated on something more important.

The boss.

The Syndicate.

The words were relentless with their punches to his gut. Dread overtook him as the pieces began to finally fit together.

Schlatt hadn't found him. Instead, Schlatts greatest enemy found him.

The Syndicate operated like shadows slipping through cracks; the mafia had been veiled in secrecy. Unlike Schlatts, infamous mafia, known notoriously around the world for its influence and power. The Syndicate mafia was mere whispers in the dark; rumors spread throughout the black markets. Not to say they lacked Schlatt's power; it was the opposite. The Syndicate yielded more power than any mafia could dream to achieve. Their motives, names, faces, and ideals were kept a mystery to everyone except their dead victims. Schlatt loathed the Syndicate with every fiber of his being. He had cursed the name more than he cursed Quackitys. The man made it apparent of his hatred as he always chose to provoke the Syndicate in any way possible. Schlatt once claimed that the mafia would not stay out of his affairs. Quackity didn't know how or why; Schlatt never shared confidential information unless he was drunk. Even then it was hard to gain a cohesive sentence from an intoxicated fool.

He didn't know whether he should feel better or worse about this new development. It didn't matter anymore; he knew he could survive. He had grown up ensnared in the mafia, his childhood defined by violence and control. Survival had been deeply rooted in his veins by now. He knew when and how to follow orders and how to turn a blind eye to certain things. The sight of blood and mangled bodies no longer made his stomach churn. He had gotten out once. He could easily do it again.

Tommy seemed to notice the calculative look in his eyes and the sudden silence that encased the two. He could tell it unnerved the kid.

"I, uh...I don't know all the details..." Tommy admitted scratching the back of his neck. "But I heard it straight from the boss himself. You saved his son, right?"

"Its... impressive; you know the boss doesn't take in strangers, so you've clearly made an impression."

Quackity blinked, the words unable to fully sink in. It felt strange; was he meant to take pride in his supposed actions? Tommy seemed to think so. But he struggled to imagine such a thing ever occurring. It was like the idea itself was intangible.

"H-huh.?"

He was so lost in confusion that it was all he could muster. But he wanted to poke and prod the boy on what he knew. He needed to know why he was here; what happened? The past events felt close, yet they were just out of reach. then almost like a flash of lightning striking through the dark sky. It hit him.

The way the gun trembled in his arms due to his own weak state. Still, he managed to hit his target, the bang echoing throughout the alleyway and hurting his ears. He could feel the shivering temperature trap itself around him. Someone fell to the ground a few seconds later. Their body stripped of whatever life they once owned. Another figure was also present; this one was on the ground struggling to breathe. But this second person was still alive, only because of his actions.

His chest tightened. "O-oh." was the only sound that fell out as the memory hit him. Still he felt this dread at having an uncompleted memory. He was missing something. He knew he was.

"I—I guess I did do that..." He added, still letting his thoughts slip through his lips. Even to him, his words seemed more like a question than a statement. He just couldn't shake the feeling that he was forgetting something important.

Then Tommy's words came back to haunt him.

"You're telling me that was his son? That I—"He shouted before being cut off by his own panic.

"Fuck!"

Of all the people he could've saved, it just had to be a mafia boss's kid. If he wanted to have a mafia boss's attention, he would've just stuck with Schlatt.

Schlatt?

If the Syndicate knew he was Schlatts, he would just be used as bait. The sudden thought forced fear to erupt from him.

"No, I don't belong here."He couldn't breathe correctly anymore; instead, his breaths were sharp and erratic.

"I need to leave. How-"He felt like he was fighting to live with how uncontrollable it was.

"How do I—"

"Stop."

Tommy's deadpan command caused everything to halt and made Quackity stare at the teen.Quackity couldn't move, only watch in horror as Tommy's face twisted into something unrecognizable. The cheerful facade melting away, revealing an evil within.

Tommy's lips curled into a grin that didn't reach his eyes, and a loud, booming laugh escaped from the kid's mouth. Quackity couldn't find it in himself to show the little anger he had at being laughed at. What was so funny about Quackity’s fear that made the idiot laugh!? He could only feel a chill run down his spine; he was scared.

The teen leaned in, his gaze locked only on him. Tommy stared with a grin that tore into Quackity's courage. Those bright blue eyes that once held that spark were cold and malicious.

"Don't you know the boss has a bad habit of not letting what's his go?"

The room felt so heavy and suffocating; Quackity felt like Tommy's words were a choking hazard. The sentence didn't settle in his brain well at all. He fought against Tommy's warning. He let his anger take over.

"What the fuck!""I'm not—" He tried to go on, but a hand clamped tightly over his mouth.

"You don't have a choice."Tommy interrupted, his voice low, a dangerous murmur. It worsened Quackity's unease at how the boy managed to keep such a low tone. Quackity did nothing but stare in the teen's eyes. The other seemed to hold his gaze before then leaning back and removing his hand from Quackity’s mouth. Every action seemed more deliberate than the immature kid from before.

Tommy looked away and gave a stare to the door. A bitter chuckle sounding from the other before then speaking again.

"I'm in the same boat as you. Stuck here proving my worth to some ass of a boss, appeasing him so he doesn't decide I'm not worthy of living."

Quackity listened to the short story, his emotions mixing together. It was hard not to relate to the kid, even harder not to sympathize with him.Tommy continued this time with a softer tone.

"I'm the only one here who cares about you. Everyone else thinks you're a lost cause. So it's in your best interest to trust me."

He didn't trust Tommy—not yet. Quackity felt like the kid had grown delusional, been brainwashed by the toxic and manipulative environment. The poor kid couldn't fathom leaving or escaping. He just seemed to accept whatever he was handed. Quackity was once like that, in his younger years.

He couldn't reminisce on the past anymore. He pushed those thoughts away, a bit of shame at how quickly such thoughts seemed to haunt him. No. There was a way out; he could escape this. But still he couldn't help but see his and Schlatts relationship within the other.

"They're nice." Tommy added after staying silent too long. Speaking only to make Quackity feel the need to speak.

"The Boss and his kids, I mean." The other added, trying to paint the situation in a different light. Quackity wasn't sure if he heard a tiny defensiveness in Tommy's tone.

"It's not so bad here, you know?"Quackity didn't believe a word of what the kid was saying. It was apparent now how brainwashed the kid was. He too would tell himself such things when he lived with Schlatt. It was his way of convincing himself of Schlatts love and genuine care. Though now he knew neither ever existed.

There was always a way out. He just had to find it. For both his and Tommy's sake.

"You don't have to lie to yourself anymore." Quackity spoke quietly yet with a firm tone. He needed the other to believe it, despite how hard of a truth it was to swallow.

"I'll find a way. I'll find a way out of here. For both of us." He reassured, allowing a tiny smile to form on his face.Quackity's words were meant to be comforting and soothe the others worries, but they seemed to have the opposite effect.

"No!" Tommy snapped, almost like an angry kid who was mad that things didn't go his way. He watched Tommy clench his fists and stand up tall.

"You can't fucking leave! You're not leaving; my dad made sure of that. You can't just leave after saving m-" The boy's voice faltered. His eyes widened, and his hands clasped tightly over his mouth. But it was useless; Tommy already said what Quackity needed to remember.

Tommy's wings were flared out; they were bright red. Quackity's gaze specifically fixated on the bandage wrapped around one of Tommy's wings. It was there because of the bullet that once ripped through them. Despite the darkness of the alleyway and his fleeting vision, he was certain those wings were the same. He saved Tommy. He saved the Syndicate Boss's kid.

Rage erupted like a volcano inside him. His heart felt heavy as the realization burned in his mind. He turned away from Tommy, not having the strength to stare at the other.

Quackity was more upset at himself. He wanted a friend, a family member, so badly that he saw this kid and could not contain himself. Tommy was terrible at manipulation, but he fell for it anyway.

"I saved you." Quackity finally found his voice again; the words came out like a growl. His face showed his uncontrollable disbelief.

"You fucking bitch—I can't even—you asshole!"

"I saved you, and you're fucking lying to me?" Quackity shouted with his fists clenched.

The boy simply stared at him with indifference, his past anger fizzling out, though he still pouted like a kid would and crossed his arms.

"Wilbur's better at this manipulation bullshit than I am." Tommy muttered beneath his breath.

Quackity was ready to snap again, but Tommy seemed not to want any of it.

"You want to stay alive, yeah? Then listen to me." Tommy ordered, though a small hint of worry was present in his features.Quackity bit down on his tongue, shutting himself up to hear the information. He needed it, no matter who he got it from. Tommy had lied to him, but it was obvious that he still wanted Quackity alive. So he obeyed silently and listened.

"Tomorrow," Tommy began, "an actual nurse is going to come in and let the boss know you're awake. He's been waiting for you to heal up so he could figure out your worth."

"My worth?" Quackity spat without thinking. He hated the thought of appeasing yet another mafia boss.

Tommy ignored the jab and pushed forward. "It's a short interview. Where he decides whether to keep you or not. No one else should bother you. Luckily you've got a bit of time."

"And if I don't pass his test?"

Tommy gave a look full of sorrow and grabbed onto his shoulders. Quackity was surprised at the sudden desperate move but stayed quiet and stared into the blue, teary eyes.

"Don't. Just don't fail—please—promise me you won't." Tommy's voice couldn't stop cracking as he pleaded with Quackity.His bird brain and instincts all betrayed him in the moment. A chirp sounded from his own lips. This was some mafia boss's kid, not his flock or anything. It was just the amount of sadness and worry Tommy showed in his eyes and actions. It tugged at his heartstrings.

Quackity was good at catching manipulation (minus Schlatt) but not when it came to children. And Tommy looked like nothing but some lost kid.

It surprised Quackity when he didn't hear a laugh or mocking voice. Instead a warm chirp soothed his ears. Quackity struggled to stop another chirp from leaving his mouth. Tommy gave a small smile and eased the pressure on Quackity's shoulders.

For a second, all the tension melted away.

Quackity gave a small nod, which angered his bird brain as it so badly wanted to respond with another chirp.

"I have to go now, sadly. I got rid of all your feathers, and your stuff is on the desk over there." Tommy said, removing his hands from Quackity's shoulders and pointing at a small bag laid neatly on a desk. He simply watched as Tommy walked toward the door. But his hand hovered over the doorknob in indecision, hesitating. Finally Tommy turned around with a smile to Quackity.

"I meant what I said earlier." Tommy started and raised a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture.

"I won't tell anyone about your wings."

Quackity could hear the sound of locking come from his door after Tommy left. Of course, Tommy would keep him stuck here; the kid was messed up. It was so blatantly obvious who Tommy's father was.

Despite Tommy's reassurance, Quackity didn't trust it. He dragged himself out of bed and searched the room for any feathers. Tommy could be lying again; he didn't know whether the boy really wanted to keep his secret. Him being an avian could be what ends him.

But there was nothing, no feathers or evidence of an avian to be found.

He turned to the desk and found his shirt and jacket neatly folded. Quackity ignored the kind gesture of folding his clothes. Convinced that It was another lie Tommy was telling. He slipped them both on quickly.

Quackity had looked for a while, tearing the room apart with his eyes. Yet there was nothing that could protect him from Tommy or the boss. So he lay back in bed, exhausted from it all despite the fact he had just woken up. His mind was the only thing he could control anymore.

His freedom had been ripped away from him.

Freedom was scavenging the streets for food, constantly looking over his shoulder, running from men like Schlatt. It was never easy or kind. But it had been his.

Here in this tiny cage, he was captured prey. He had no control or choices. Nothing but the small sliver of hope that he would escape soon.

Freedom, it was what he longed for so badly in this moment.

Before

Tommy had learned from a young age that love was a complicated—finicky—thing. It was consuming and overwhelming with the way his family fiercely protected one another. At times, like when he nearly got kidnapped, he resented the emotion. He hated seeing his family lose themselves in panic and desperation. Yet he knew he would lose it too if any one of them faced danger. Love was what made his family his family. He was indebted to love, as it gave him a flock that he could never even fathom was possible.

But gaining love was a different story. He knew other people gained it through ridiculous and mundane ways, like gift giving or shared moments. But a family bond? A family bond was difficult to gain unless you were biologically their child. Which his flock had not been, but still, Tommy firmly believed it made their bond even stronger.

He remembers how his dad had welcomed him to the family. Of course, a defiant Tommy fought back, rebelled, and demanded to leave until he couldn't anymore. He can't help but laugh at those past memories, regretting how he didn't just accept his flock sooner. It would've been easier for everyone, even himself.

The process had taught Tommy what it took to forge such a powerful bond.

Love—obviously—two cups of manipulation, a pinch of violence, one deadly situation, and desperate need.

When his dad had finally allowed Tommy to visit Quackity, he ran to his room. He spent days just watching the other asleep on the bed, waiting for any sign of life.It had been during one of those long nights—nights Tommy never stayed for due to his family pestering him to sleep in the nest—that everything changed. His family was off on some important mission, and no matter the puppy eyes or pleading he had done, his dad was adamant on not letting him go.

So he sat carefully on the end of Quackity’s bed. Sinking into his thoughts and daydreams when he heard it.

A chirp.

Nothing but fear and sorrow present in its sound. It made Tommy give the room a once-over; had someone else entered? Did his brothers come back to mock him more?Yet his surroundings hadn't changed, and it was only him and Quackity.

Quackity?

He stared down at the teen; he was sure no human could come close to mimicking such a sound. Maybe his mind was making things up, or he had been mistaken. He chalked it up to him chirping on accident.

But then he heard another. And another.

The chirps fueled the room with helplessness and vulnerability. It ripped at Tommy's heartstrings and made him turn quickly to give Quackity his full attention. Tommy let out a surprised gasp as he saw the other's mouth open and chirps escaping.

It never dawned on Tommy that maybe Quackity was an avian. But it explained everything. He had to be an avian in order for Quackity's actions to make sense. No human would dare to put some avian's life before their own.

Still, he wanted concrete evidence.

Tommy slipped off the bed quietly and crept closer to Quackity. With careful hands, he reached for the navy beanie over the other's head. Slowly he pushed it up and off the teen's head. His breath caught in his throat.There it was.

Matted yellow feathered ears.

Tommy wasn't an avian expert like his father was, so despite the feathers, he couldn't pinpoint what avian he was. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was that Quackity was his flock. His older brother. They were family.

A smile fell across his lips as he placed the beanie back in its place. Originally, Quackity would be a well-trusted ally to his flock. Yet now, the thought of sharing him with anyone made something twist in Tommy's stomach. He couldn't stand it. He wanted his newest older brother to himself. No, he needed the other to himself.

It seemed fate also wanted them to be, as Dad and Wilbur so far only wanted the 'human' as a loyal servant. He didn't tell Techno or Mum yet, but he was certain they also wouldn't care. Because all they knew was that Quackity was just some ordinary human.

And that was all anyone needed to know.

His brother's weak chirps made Tommy's chest ache. His brother sounded so scared and afraid, but he shouldn't be. Because Tommy was right here, and that should be enough.

Tommy responded instinctively, chirping back and gently combing through messy strands of jet black hair. It made Tommy want more; he wanted to preen and take care of the other. Yet he calmed his instincts down, patience.

Within minutes, Quackity was settled and calm again. His breathing returning back to a normal pattern.

Tommy knew things couldn't stay this way. The situation needed to be different; he needed it to change. Right now, he had power over Quackity, full control over the other's fate—and that power imbalance wouldn't work. Quackity couldn't see him as he was, his captor. No. He needed Quackity to trust him. He needed the two to be equal. The two of them needed to be in this together.

So Tommy lied.

"I can explain everything when you're back in your bed. Please, I promise you I'm just a nurse that works here. The boss will kill me if you are injured even more."

The words fell into place so easily that it made him ecstatic. Wilbur would be so proud that his teachings were being put to good use.

He managed to stop a laugh from leaving his lips. The thought of his dad killing him was stupid enough to be funny. Quackity didn't need to know that, though.

The sight of Quackity losing conciseness again made Tommy wince. He hadn't been able to catch his brother in time. He could only imagine the immense pain Quackity was already suffering from.

Still, Tommy got to work; after a few clumsy, embarrassing attempts to carry the other, he finally managed to get Quackity back in bed.

His eyes couldn't help but linger on the wing restrainer placed tightly around Quackity's chest. He so desperately wanted to see his brother's wings. To know what they looked like and to preen them. But he would have to wait. He would see them later, no matter if he had to tie the other up and force them out. He just had to be patient, but his family would be the first to know that patience didn't exist for Tommy.

This, though, was worth all the wait.

For now, he could sit and wait for his brother to awaken once more. 

Chapter Text

There was a battle raging in Quackity's head. His instincts fought relentlessly against aching limbs and heavy eyelids. His tired muscles were screaming for him to sleep. But the inner duckling within was louder than his exhaustion.

Not safe. Prey. Weak. Watch.

His eyes were fixated on the door ahead. He had to keep watch. Anyone could unlock it. Anyone could come in. Even Schlatt. They could already have contacted Schlatt, arranging for him to return.

Thoughts like these sent frigid ice down his spine; it forced him to bite down on his tongue. He wouldn't stop biting harder down until his newly sharpened fangs were stained with blood. This pain he knew would keep him wide awake.

He lay on his stomach, the only pillow tucked beneath his chin, his face tilted just enough to see the door. Before this, he had pressed himself into the farthest corner of the room, hands trembling and legs shaking. But his body betrayed him once more and let his fatigue win. His knees buckled, and a thud echoed through the room once he hit the floor.

—What good are you if you can't even stand?— Schlatt sneered in his head, the hatred ever so present in his voice. It made him get up. Made him try again. And again. God, he had tried so hard, but it didn't matter. His limbs ached, and his eyes began to blur. So he had no choice but to settle.

He hated this position. It felt like a silent admission of guilt. A confession. Because if his wings weren't contained by the restrainer, they would've been out on display.

Avians slept on their stomachs to avoid crushing their wings; it was the only comfortable way for a winged creature to relax.

He hated lying like an avian; it made him feel vulnerable. Hated that it felt comfortable. Hated that it reminded him of what he was cursed to be. He felt like he was exposing himself. By simply lying down this way, he was telling the world of his appendages and feathers.

One mistake was all it would take for them to know.

To know that he wasn't a human like they thought. His jaw clenched. He bit down his discomfort, his shame, and his disgust. He couldn't let it win. He needed to be alert, not asleep.

He went back to watching the door, tracing its frame so many times, he was certain that by now he had the grain of dark wood memorized. He could imagine the sound of locks being undone and made up what it might sound like for his door to open. It never prepared him for when steps actually sounded from outside his door. None of them ever lingered or stayed for long.

Yes! He thought.

Be uninterested! A tablespoon of relief would fill his bones.

But then another set of footsteps would come, and his panic would return.

He would never be safe. Not while he was here.

In these moments he thought of Tommy, who he was, what he had done, and the dangerous mafia that kept him trapped.

People like them could never ignore something they had interest in. It wasn't in their nature.Especially in the mafia.

You don't let anything go—unless you kill it.

It was what he saw Schlatt do so many times; something so sick and inhumane became normal. Almost as routine as breathing.

Schlatt would laugh himself sick when people begged him for mercy.

And the worst part?

Quackity would join in the laughter.

Just to make Schlatt happy.

Time became meaningless.

It didn't matter how long he had been here for. It didn't matter how many hours he didn't sleep for. Time didn't change the white walls that encased him. Neither did it unlock his door.

Once he wished there was a clock in the room—something to ground him and keep him sane.But now he knew watching the clock hand move and seeing time slip by. The sight would only drive him closer to insanity.

The amount of time alone made him realize that unwanted memories crept up on him easier when he was nothing but vulnerable and full of anxiety.

Like the times when Schlatt spoke in a high-pitched, sugar-coated voice to offer him praise that he so desperately yearned for.

Like the times when Schlatt's hand clutched tightly onto his shirt collar, lifting him off the ground, forcing him to be at the man's mercy.

Like the times when Schlatt's face would twist into pure anger and cruel hatred, letting Quackity know his patience had worn thin.

Like the final time Quackity barely avoided dying by Schlatt's hands.

It always took him at least ten minutes to force himself back to the present.Count the number of tiles on the ground. Count the number of squares in the room. Focus on your breathing. Make it steady. Even. Calm. Wait till your heart isn't threatening to leave your chest.

Click—

He felt his feathered ears twitch and brush against his navy beanie. They honed in on the faint sounds of footsteps coming from his door. The soft click of a knob being grabbed onto and turned.

Someone was coming in his room.

His body tensed. His fingers gripped onto his pillow even tighter. Pathetic. Normally he held a gun or knife, but here he was only fueled by adrenaline and fear, clinging onto a pillow like it were a lifeline.The door creaked open, and soft footsteps entered the room.

A woman. She wore blue scrubs, had short pink hair, and had a warm smile on her face.

It was far different than what Quackity had braced himself for. He expected weapons and armor. A dark suit. Ram horns. Someone who smelled like they were made of alcohol and smoke.

But this woman was none of these. No alarms rang in his head. No immediate signs of danger were present.And yet despite this, she was still a threat.

She closed the door behind her, still smiling at Quackity. But there was something else written on her face. A flicker of...

sorrow? Did she feel pity for him?

His fists clenched, he didn't want her pity. He didn't need to be pitied. She could save it for someone else.

She studied him, her eyes full of focus. Almost like a switch went off and she was in routine mode. Then she stepped closer to him.

"Quackity, right?" She asked, her voice laced with sweetness and dipped in honey. It was too sweet—in a sickening way. It sounded like she was talking to a normal patient.

Not a prisoner.

He narrowed his eyes. Fake kindness. He wouldn't fall for it. He knew not to make the same mistake twice. She was acting like she wasn't working for the same people that kept him trapped here.

He ignored her question. The bird inside wanted him to hiss and bite her with his new sharp teeth.He felt cornered, threatened despite how nice she was acting. Trapped.She didn't seem bothered by his silence and instead let out a lighthearted chuckle before then sitting down in the chair beside his bed.

He turned his head towards her, watching as she pulled a tiny notebook out from her chest pocket. She let out a disappointed sigh as she began scribbling things down on the paper.

What was she writing!? Curiosity gnawed at him; it asked him to snatch the notebook away. Instead he bit down on his tongue and refused.

He forced himself to look away, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of him being interested.This was hard, though; it was stupid to turn your back on a predator. Especially one so close to him.

"I can only imagine how much pain you're in." Her words were gentle. So carefully measured.

"I promise I'm not here to hurt you; you should rest."

"Fuck off."

The words spilled out, bitter and sharp. He hated this sudden pity. This fake care.

She blinked suddenly, caught off guard. But she didn't argue and instead kept her mouth shut for a while, shifting her attention entirely to her notebook. She let the silence encase them for a few minutes.

"I'll prescribe you some painkillers. They should be coming in tomorrow, so I'll be seeing you more often." The sweetness in her voice is gone and replaced by something monotone.

Quackity didn't respond; she wasn't worth his time.She didn't deserve it because she didn't care.She was just carrying out orders.If she were told to kill him, he would be dead.

She was stronger than him—it was blatantly obvious. He could just tell by her looks.Though everyone was stronger than him.

He was malnourished and meek. Strength is what you lose out on when you live on the streets.

Scratch. Flip. Click.

It's what currently filled his ears as she flipped through pages and began to write again.Then came a series of routine questions—how was he feeling, was he experiencing nausea or dizziness, any severe pain?

The answer to every single question was yes.But he was careful. Kept his replies short.They didn't need to know everything.

He didn't need to describe how every bone in his body ached in pain or how he felt like needles were piercing through every inch of his skin. Instead it was a simple "pain? a bit."

After the small checkup, she closed her notebook and returned it to her pocket.

"I—" she hesitated.But then she turned away from him. This was the first time her eyes were off him. She swallowed whatever words she wanted to say, keeping them to herself.

Fine. Quackity didn't want to hear it anyway.Though he would be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued.

His eyes stared her down and tracked her every movement. He caught onto every unsteady breath and tremble in her hands.She wanted to say something. Maybe even had regrets of not speaking earlier.Even Quackity could tell.

The room was silent except for her light footsteps approaching the door.Then it finally creaked open once more.

A part of him wanted to move.

The door was open.

She was outside the door.

A clear way out.

All he had to do was shove her down and run. But the eyes of guards outside burned his skin and extinguished the flame that told him to leave.

They were watching. Waiting for him to run out and try it. But he knew better than to give in to his instincts begging for him to flee.

The woman didn't seem to pay any attention to him as she left and reached for something just out of view.

The confidence she had—to leave the door wide open.Made him want to scream. She knew he wouldn't make it far. She knew he couldn't even make it out of this room.

She walked back in, this time with a plate and a cup of water. It was placed meticulously on the nightstand beside him.So full of care. So deliberate.

It made something in his heart ache.

It made him think of Schlatt.

And of how Schlatt used to do that.

Not now. Not near the end.

But before all the blood and tears.

Before Quackity grew up.

When he was nothing but a small duckling. He used to sneak his hot dinner plate onto Schlatt's bed. Schlatt watched him—not out of irritation or anger but out of worry.He never scolded Quackity or forced him to go eat alone at the dinner table.

Instead he watched him, worried that Quackity might burn himself because of how hot the plate was.

For a second, Quackity felt like that tiny duckling once more. Wrapped in comfortable sheets, with a plate in his lap. Schlatt sat right beside him, running fingers through his hair while he ate.

He couldn't tear his gaze away from the food despite his instincts telling him to watch the woman. The shut of the door and sound of metal told him she left him once more.

On the plate was a loaf of bread, some kind of meat, and a glass of water. His mouth watered. His body ached to devour the food, to swallow it all in one desperate gulp.

But he knew better.

He was thirteen when he first rebelled against Schlatt.Thirteen when he was locked in his room. His eyes were fresh with tears, and his knees were pressed so close against his chest. He was whispering endless apologies as if Schlatt were in the room with him. When a tray was brought into his room by one of Schlatt's men.All his crying and screaming made him so hungry. His throat ached for the water, and he wasted no time getting it in through his throat.At the time, he was grateful.Grateful that Schlatt still fed him. That Schlatt still loved him, despite all his mistakes.

It took him twelve days of uncomfortable coughing fits, relentless headaches, and weak limbs to realize. He was being poisoned.

He wasn't stupid. Not anymore.

The plate hit the floor with a loud clatter as he threw it. The glass broke into small pieces, and the food was now scattered across the floor. It brought a small smile to his face.

It would take more than that to break him. 

Quackity sat stiffly on top of the mattress, with his wings pressed against the cold wall. When that familiar sound of locks being undone grated against his ears. Sharp ringing filled his head, his instincts crawling upward to warn about the danger. But He didn't need his instincts to tell him something was wrong.

Keep. Them. Out. Predator.

Metal shifting and hitting against the door. These noises were his only warning that someone was coming in.

No. Not just one person this time..

He couldn't tear his eyes away from the people that walked through the doorway.

The first man had a unique haircut; his hair was short in the back, and in front were two large braids that framed his face perfectly. Even his hair was adorned with riches.

That was a luxury Quackity knew he would never experience. He never even got a proper haircut.

Not just his braids looked priceless, but so did his outfit. The fancy suit looked specifically made for the man; Quackity couldn't explain it. But the way the suit screamed power, riches, and control was fitting for a mafia boss like him. It seemed it was fate that the man was always meant to hold such power. Quackity wished fate were that nice to him.

It was the man's wings that got to Quackity the most. He was enraptured by them. They were a deep and rich shade of black; it was like his wings were blessed by the midnight sky itself.

They were larger and far more pristine than Quackity could ever be. Nothing like the filthy, matted feathers currently being hidden by the restrainer. He felt shame remembering his feathers taking over the bathroom floor. The sight of such wings felt more torturous than anything they had done to him already.

Trailing close behind was something equally as terrifying.

A piglin hybrid.

The first man had this air of silent authority wrapped around him. Every breath he took sounded like a threat itself. He was dangerous, but it was a question as to what way he was dangerous.While the hybrid, with a red glint in his eyes and a large, all-encompassing build, screamed that he could tear someone apart in mere seconds. This hybrid was pure, unfiltered violence. The air around him was heavy. Even in formal attire, this man exuded raw, brutal strength.

Quackity didn't linger any longer on their appearance, as his eyes caught onto bright green.

The two had matching emerald earrings that were perfectly cut and a deep, rich green. Glistening even in the dimly lit room.

Shiny. Pretty. His. Please, let me have them!

His instincts clawed within, wanting him to take. To steal. To hoard. More than that, they wanted control. Always yearned to be preened and build nests. Yet he would rather die than let his bird side take control. Never would he embrace that part of him or even indulge it for a second.

"Your kind is an insult to humanity! You should all fucking die!"

Schlatt yelled in his head.He shoved his instincts down, like always.

He wanted to move—to run or hide. Anything to get out of the two predators sight. But the room was too small, and both their presence was too suffocating. Their gazes alone kept him frozen in place.His breathing grew quicker every time they took another step forward.

The clack of polished dress shoes rang impossibly loud in his ears, and closely behind them were the piglins hooves.

He heard many predator hybrids footsteps in his time on the streets, but he never heard ones this loud and deliberate.Neither of the men had been loud at all when they approached his door, so why were they torturing him even more? Didn't they know their presence alone had been enough to haunt him?

He always hated the quiet. And he feared its counterpart, silence, even more. Yet now in this moment he was petrified by the oppressive footsteps approaching ever so close to him.

A small chuckle left the blonde man's mouth, a pleased smirk forming on his face as he turned to look at his companion.

"Just look at how scared it is."

Quackity's fingers curled into fists when he was referred to as "it."

"Would you believe me if I said I haven't even done anything to it yet?"The piglin seemed uninterested in what the man was saying and simply continued to stare at Quackity, unwavering and intense. He finally turned his attention back to him.

"You're not meant to be this scared. At least not yet."His tone was light, almost amused. It made Quackity want to cry.

"Come now. Get off that bed and greet me correctly."The command interrupted his thoughts and immediately made him tense. Even though he said it in a nice tone and even smiled at him. Quackity could see that threatening glint in his eyes so clearly. He could hear its warning. "Try and disobey me." It challenged.

His body seemed to move without him even having to think about it, legs shaking as he struggled to stand. He could bite down the strain he felt so loudly for the predators currently waiting to pounce.

Even though he stood up and was supposed to give a greeting, he kept his distance from the two looming figures. He couldn't muster the courage to get close to either of them. Still, though, he pulled his hand out instinctively, waiting for a handshake. This was how normal people greeted each other, right? He didn't have time to question it, but still he was struggling to even keep his hand up.

The man crossed his arms and tilted his head, showing he was unimpressed.

"I'm not shaking hands with someone who doesn't tell me their name first."

If Quackity were granted the right, he would be angry. He felt words burn in his throat, a fire roaring within. You kidnap me and keep me trapped in basically a cage, and you think you deserve a proper handshake like you're some fucking prince? Fuck you, asshole!

But alas, Quackity knew better than to say how he truly felt.

"I'm Quackity, sir." He spoke quietly, his fear ever so present with the way his voice wavered.

At that, his smile widened. "No pleasantries, please; you earned the right to call me Phil with what you have done for me." Phil then was amused enough to approach Quackity and shake his hand.

Phil's hand was strong and rigid in its movements, but the opposite could be said for Quackity. As his hand barely moved, the small movements it did make were uneasy.

'With what you have done for me.' The words repeated in his head. Was he referring to the guy he shot in the alleyway? Quackity swore he would never save any stranger ever again after this. At least not without checking who they were first.

Then before he could even process it, a warm hand grabbed his chin. He could feel the talons clinging to his skin tightly. His breath hitched. When had Phil gotten this close!?

"You sure are a peculiar thing." Phil mused as he tilted Quackity's face to the side. Examining every inch of his skin. Talons traced over old scars and fresh bruises, every imperfection. It made him squeeze his eyes shut, the shame flooding his head.

Three hard clicks sounded from Phil.The sharp sounds opened Quackity's eyes.As they sounded, he caught the piglin's gaze tearing away from Quackity and softening as he looked at Phil. It was weird to see such a dangerous thing show a sliver of emotion. Especially care.

The piglin then noticed Quackity looking at him and turned away quickly. He felt a bit of satisfaction at making him embarrassed.

"How many times can someone get their ass kicked?" Phil said aloud, almost in a teasing tone. He gritted his teeth, a part of him jealous at how someone so powerful was belittling him, poking fun at his terrible situation. Just wait till I kick your ass, he wanted to reply. Finally, Phil let him go and took a step back. It still wasn't enough space to let Quackity freely breathe.

"Techno." The piglin, upon hearing its name, quickly straightened up and stared at Phil.

"Let's leave the human; such a weak thing needs its rest."

With that, it was over. He watched Phil and Techno both walk towards the door.

Quackity hated how clear a view he had of Phil's wings. They were so clean, and he imagined just how soft they were to touch. They had a welcoming yet also deadly edge to them. The bird within wanted to touch them, to preen them, and to lie near them. But more than anything, they wanted to have wings like those.

Clean. Pretty.

And as he watched the door slowly shut, sealing him alone once more, a terrible thought began to spread in his mind.

Some part of him wanted them to come back.

The same white walls. The same lights. The same fear. The same ache in his limbs. The same weak feeling. It was all there still, but daily he would forget it all when the nurse returned to tend to him.

She wasn't unkind.

In fact, she seemed like the least threatening presence he had encountered so far. She worked with steady and precise hands that spoke years of experience. Who else had she tended to? How many times was she ordered to wrap bandages around a dangerous mafia worker? How many people had she witnessed die before her eyes?A million questions floated through his head; the loudest one, though, was, why become a mafia's medic?

She never spoke more than she needed to.

She would first do a routine check of his injuries and ensure he was healing properly, then she would ask how he was holding up. Finally she would tell him something like "You're all good" or "Everything seems fine" with a smile that faded the more she saw him.

It unnerved him.

But he didn't ever ask why; he thought not knowing was better.

More than once the urge rose in his throat, Lie for me. Tell them I died. Please let me go. He wanted the pleas to slip out of his mouth. But from how willing she was to obey orders, it was obvious she was theirs. So he kept his mouth shut.

One day after her checkup, she couldn't muster a smile anymore. She looked at him, her eyes full of nothing but worry.

"You healed quicker than I thought." Her hands were as still as ever, and fear flooded her face.

Quackity tensed.

"I'm just going to rewrap your bandages and then..." She trailed off, staring at him, but it was clear she drifted off into her thoughts.

A pause. A heartbeat.

"And…then what...?" He asked, his voice hoarse; he was beginning to regret asking. He preferred to be an idiot, to live in ignorance. He didn't want to know what she knew.

His words made her snap out of her daze, and she approached him quickly with fresh bandages. Her touch is as careful as ever. She treated him as if he were made of glass. Fragile. Breakable.

If she weren't in the mafia, maybe they could've been friends.

Maybe in a different timeline they met under better circumstances.

But in this life she was forced to tend to him and kept her mouth zipped closed. She was a part of the place that kept him trapped.

She finished her work in silence. And left the room quickly after.

This should've been his warning that something was going to change soon.

Very soon.

Later that same day, the door creaked once more as it was pushed open.The familiar rhythm of polished dress shoes hitting the floor told him that despite him begging for it to just be the nurse again.

It was Phil. And behind him he was followed by yet another set of familiar footsteps.They were the last two people he wanted to see.

"Get up."

Phil ordered, his facade of kindness gone from the last encounter. Quackity preferred the pleasantries and sweet tone over the icy command.

Phil was not amused.

Whether it was because of him or something else didn't matter. Because the man could take anything out on him. At least that's what Schlatt would always do.

The duck within was happily flying around his head. It brought an unwelcome sensation crawling up his spine. The duck seemed almost happy with Phil's presence and orders.

Why?

Quackity had spent his whole life shooting a bullet in between people's eyes when they threatened or tried to boss him around.Except Schlatt. But with Phil, it was getting harder to resist or argue back every time he was given a new order.

Still, he obeyed. Rising from the bed felt easier than the last encounter with Phil. This time he was able to stand stiffly in place. His head remained bowed; he felt better staring down at the floor. Maybe he could convince himself two predators weren't staring him down currently.

A sharp, deliberate click sounded from the air and broke through the encompassing silence. Quackity's head snapped up before he could stop himself. Behind him Techno kept his focus solely on Phil.

The clicks are an avian thing, he realized. He had to stop responding to them.

"Let's go." Phil turned and stepped through the doorway.

Quackity didn't move at first. His feet felt glued to the ground below. He noticed then that he was able to stand and walk without struggle. A part of him wanted to be weak. Then they would know he wasn't worth all the trouble and kill him off already.

Techno huffed, the low, irritated sound making the hair on Quackity's arms rise. He felt Techno's eyes burn into him, watching him with scrutinizing eyes. The piglin was growing madder with every step Quackity didn't take.

The piglin shifted, about to move towards Quackity's direction.

And suddenly his legs proved they worked. He was out of the room catching up with Phil before Techno could even act.

He walked just behind Phil, too afraid to look back. It made his skin crawl to think of the predator trailing closely behind him. He didn't need to feel Technos heavy presence looming, watching, towering. Red lights flashed in his head.

Danger. Run. Go!

It took everything in him to keep his legs moving at a steady pace. He bit down on his lip, using the small pinch of pain to resist running.He needed to focus his attention elsewhere to ease his fear. He looked at the corridor Phil was currently leading him through.

The walls had light green wallpaper with a dark wood accent. Decorative vases overflowing with bright assortments of flowers. Framed photos lined the walls; some had Phil and Techno in them, and others had Tommy. The rest of the people he didn't recognize. One was a short woman with long, dark brown hair; another was a teen with short brown hair and a white streak in front.

Not at all what he expected from a mafia base. It was different than Schlatt's.Schlatt's home and base were both oppressive and claustrophobic. With empty hallways and dark-colored walls. Schlatt only felt the need to decorate his office, but even then it was hard to call it "decorating." Schlatt simply picked whatever the most expensive furniture was and shoved it in his office. Schlatt's home was always missing that lived-in cozy feeling. But this place radiated it everywhere.

"You're the guest here." Phil stated that false warm smile was etched back on his face.The words snapped him back to reality as he was met with Phil's eyes staring back at him.

Guest? Him?

"Walk beside me."

He hesitated for a second before then quickening his pace and awkwardly slotting himself beside Phil. A second later, Techno followed and walked right next to him. Quackity swallowed hard. He felt surrounded, forced to walk between two predators.

The three were now walking side by side; the realization made him tense. Trapped. That's what this was.

But the avian within couldn't see it that way and whispered something else.

Protected?

It asked instead.

He bit down on his tongue, suppressing the chirp that threatened to slip out. He needed to get away from these people now. Because he didn't know how much longer he could suppress the stupid duck.

They moved in eerie synchronization, footsteps bouncing off the walls and echoing throughout. At the end of the corridor, a door loomed, taller than the others. Dark wood, iron accents, expensive. Phil pushed it open with familiar ease, as if he owned the world beyond it. Which he obviously did.

Quackity tensed at the room now standing before him. The room was lavish, with shelves overflowing with priceless treasures. Every one of them had glowed in the bright light above. The grand chandelier provided an orange glow from above. Anything that said wealth or power could be found in this single room. Gems, artifacts, rare metals. It flooded his senses and pleased his avian instincts. His eyes darted across the room, drawn to every shimmer and glow present. His fingers twitched at his sides.

shiny.glow.take.steal. hoard.

It was a mistake to let his instincts take in all the shinies and sparkles.A light chuckle filled the room and broke his trance.His happiness was taken away from him the second he turned to where it was coming from.

Phil simply sat with his legs crossed in an upright posture. He watched with a smile as Quackity stood starstruck by the room. He stiffened suddenly, feeling exposed.

"Sit down already."Phil didn't have to tell him twice. He practically ran to the empty chair in front of the desk. His eyes stayed lowered, now glued to the wooden surface. A moment later, heavy footsteps approached, and pink entered his vision.

Techno. His presence itself made him flinch.Then it got worse. A rope. A harsh gasp tore from his lips as the rough fibers wrapped around his torso, binding him to the chair. His breathing quickened as panic clawed up to his throat. His wings twitched from beneath the wing restrainer; he could do nothing as they cried in pain at being pinned down even further.

He couldn't move. Couldn't try to escape or even flee if something happened. He hadn't even realized he was zoning out until he looked up and saw both of them watching him. Techno had already returned to his seat beside Phil, his expression unreadable. Phil kept his smile.

"To start off," Phil began, voice smooth, almost lighthearted.

"I hope everything has been to your liking. Though, humans lack exquisite taste, so I'm lying when I say that." He teased as he lifted a priceless teapot and tilted it gently. Steam curled from the spout as golden liquid poured into a fragile teacup. He did nothing but watch the delicate process in front of him in silence. The way the tea filled the cup, the way the pot was placed back onto the desk with deliberate gentleness.Then Phil nudged the cup towards Techno.

"Please, drink up. I wouldn't want to force you to speak so much without an ounce of drink."

The moment the words left his mouth, Techno's entire demeanor shifted.

The piglin's grip was careful as he took the cup, his fingers wrapping around the delicate handle with surprising precision.

Then he stood.

Quackity felt defenseless watching Techno approach him; it made him tense. Now with Techno standing right beside him. Slowly, deliberately, Techno raised the cup and tilted it to Quackity's lips. Humiliation burned in his stomach. Powerless. Dehumanized. Schlatt could accomplish this same feeling by wrapping his hands around his throat, kicking him to the ground, and spitting cruel words between sharp grins.

But this was worse.

Phil wasn't the heartless brute that Schlatt was. His every action was calculated and elegant. Somehow Phil was precise with his torture. It made his stomach twist. This was cruelty disguised as hospitality.

Still, he let warm liquid slip down his throat and drank. It was tea, somehow the best tea he had ever tasted. He drank the cup till it was empty and pulled away from his lips. Techno then returned back to his seat and left the empty teacup on the desk.

Phil's smile widened. "Now then, who exactly are you?" He mused while lacing his fingers together.

Quackity swallowed; his throat was still warm and refreshed from the tea.

"I-I am Quackity, sir." then quickly correcting himself, "or I meant P-phil..."

Phil didn't blink. Didn't waver.

"Quackity's just a name." He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming—cold, calculative.

"Who are you?"

Silence. It filled the space around them as he went into his head. It echoed in his mind as he tried to search for an answer that was honest and would also not get him killed. Who was he? In truth, he was a nobody.

He lived off the streets his entire life, barely scraping by. Then Schlatt found him and took him off the streets and into his mafia as a loyal lackey. A disposable tool. So at one point, he was technically Schlatt's worker. But then he had escaped.So... was he back to being nothing…?

Phil was patient throughout the long silent pause and waited with an unwavering smile. He didn't rush Quackity for an answer. Techno, on the other hand, was less forgiving. A low grunt rumbled from the piglin's chest as he crossed his arms, watching Quackity with open irritation. That only heightened his fear and made it harder for him to breathe.

"I'm no one." Quackity finally muttered, fighting for the words to get out. "I live off the scraps and trash from the streets. I don't have expensive trinkets, and if I did, I wouldn't flaunt them like you."

He bit down on his lip; he regretted letting the obvious jealousy slip. Quackity's words made Phil's smile sharpen and his eyes darker.

"Is that why you keep eyeing them so much? Think you can steal some?"

His stomach dropped."N-no, of course not. I'm not stupid." He stammered.

"I know that one wrong step from me and you would have my head."

Phil chuckled, "Spot on, mate."Then his voice dropped, and something sinister twisted on his face. "You're mine and only mine."

Quackity visibly tensed at that. He'd heard similar words before.When Schlatt first found Quackity, he said the same things. Every mafia boss needed to take control and own. And Quackity was tired of being owned. He was tired of being yanked around and taken. It made him physically sick.

"Quackity," Phil spoke, gaining his attention immediately.

"I could've left you for dead in that alleyway. You would've died being nothing and no one. Yet I took you in and gave you a bed, ordered whatever was needed to fix your injuries, even though I hadn't caused any of them. Had my family nurse personally look after you."

Phil leaned forward slightly.

"Do you know why?"

Quackity swallowed hard. "Because I saved your son?"

Phil went back to smiling. "Yes, exactly. Mate, you're surprising me. I didn't know a human could be this smart."Then his tone shifted almost mockingly,

"Do you know who that guy you killed was?"

Quackity blinked. "No?"

Phil exchanged a look with Techno—something unreadable passing between them. Like, Quackity not knowing who that was was shocking. Phil turned his attention back to him, his expression thoughtful.

"You seem tired of being a nobody." He mused."I can give you power and riches; you too could own anything you wish."

Then with a knowing smile, baiting him."How would working for me sound?"

"No!" The answer was immediate. "O-Or I mean—"

Despite this, Phil didn't falter.

"Wasn't it nice to have food and a bed for once?" He asked in a voice as smooth and soft as silk. "Didn't it feel nice to not be some stray?"

Quackity clenched his jaw. "Yes—"

"Do you honestly think you could survive any longer without my help?"

The words stung. But they were true. Quackity gritted his teeth. He had nothing, and he was nothing. It's why he was quick to say no. He wanted his freedom and liked the title of nothing better than being some mafia tool. But Phil cornered him in every way.

"Fine!" He snapped, frustration spilling over. "I'll work for you."

The words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Phil didn't seem surprised or shocked; instead, he seemed more amused than ever. His smile twisted into something darker. It was the kind of smile Schlatt himself wore when he easily got what he wanted. Quackity wanted to be in his shoes. He wanted to triumph. He wanted to win. It made him hate it even more.

He envied Phil and his riches. He envied Techno, who could easily appear so terrifying by just existing. Techno could probably not just survive the streets but rule them. He envied the power and control both had. He envied everything they owned and who they were.

"Words mean nothing." Phil began to speak once more, this time with a hint of excitement ever so present. He then tapped Techno's shoulder, and with that single touch. Techno was standing once more.

"Let's see if your actions add up, mate."

He didn't get time to process the words. As he watched, Techno approached him again.Silence, as he felt the rope loosen and watched Techno grab the now broken rope. He was set free once more.That same dagger used to cut him loose was then placed in his hands against his palm.

His breath hitched. The weight of the dagger felt all too familiar. He felt shame for knowing how to use one so well. Schlatt's lessons are forever etched into his head.

Techno then backed away from him and Phil, leaving space between the two of them. Quackity looked at Phil, his face full of confusion. What did he want him to do? Why give him a weapon?

Then cold and casual."Go on." Phil answered.

"Take your shot, mate."

"Kill me." The words were spoken in an icy tone.

This was a test. A twisted game of sorts. One that Quackity wasn't familiar with. Schlatt would've just stabbed him or beat him outright. Never this.

His fingers tightened around the dagger. He knew what to do. He knew what he should do.

"Drive that blade through that bitch's throat." Schlatt's words resurfaced in his mind. He imagined doing just that to Phil. And as he stared at the crow avian, he noticed that he kept the same at-ease posture as before and stared at him with an uninterested gaze.

He was disappointing Phil by not doing something already...

This was his only chance. He didn't want to be owned by anyone. He wasn't going to be used or taken advantage of anymore. He was going to be somebody.

He tightened his grip and was prepared to move.

Until he saw the photos again. The ones that took over the corridor walls. Phil, his children, and his wife. He had a family. One that was probably awaiting his return or thinking about him right now.

Quackity would rather be known as nobody than known as someone who would take a father away from his kids.He wished someone would have done the same for him.

He let the dagger slip from his hand. It fell with a thud to the ground. And with that, Phil clapped his hands together and stood up.

"Good job." He said, pleased.

"You'll make an obedient pet, minus the hesitation, of course."

Quackity felt so useless at his words. Obedient pet. That's what Schlatt thought of him too. His vision grew blurry as his eyes watered. Was he really cursed to never be free? What did he do to deserve this?

"Techno, you may leave." Phil ordered in a light way, but still he could tell it was a command.

Techno hesitated, looking as if he wanted to protest or argue back. But Phil gave him one disappointing click, and Techno was out the door.

"Now then, let me show you your new room."

Quackity walked obediently beside Phil as he led them through twisting hallways. The air was rich with a strong sense of polished wood and a mix of floral. He tried to avoid staring at the photos hung on the walls, but they were everywhere. He tried his best to focus instead on the sound of his own footsteps. They were always light and careful, maybe because he was used to sneaking around the streets or Schlatt's home. It was unlike Phil and Technos.

Despite Techno being forced to leave, he could still imagine those same heavy footsteps trailing behind him. Could still feel the men breathe down his neck, threatening him without any words. His absence was heavy.

Eventually, after sinking into his thoughts, they stopped in front of a thick wooden door with iron reinforcements.

A trap, his mind yelled. Somewhere safe to store him. Somewhere he couldn't escape. Yet somewhere deep down, a part of him felt giddy at having his own room. He never had something like that before.

Phil walked up to the door and pushed it open with familiar ease, revealing a bedroom more extravagant than any place Quackity has ever slept in. It was wealth that he had only ever seen from the outside looking in.

The walls are lined with dark wood and gold accents. A canopy bed with silk sheets sits at the center, too large for one person. A chandelier glows softly above, casting warm light on polished furniture and expensive rugs. There's a fireplace, a wardrobe full of clothes, and even a tray of fresh food waiting on a table.

It’s… nice.

It’s too nice.

It might be the most expensive trap in existence.

Quackity didn't move. Instead he kept his feet down on the ground, a part of him refusing to step inside. He watches behind the sturdy door frame as Phil walks in easily. The crow takes his time pacing around the room, touching priceless furniture, almost like he was showing off. Suddenly he looked up at Quackity, a smirk overtaking his face.

"Your new home."

The word home left a sour taste on his tongue. This wasn't his home; this was a cage, one that, despite how much money was poured into it, didn't change the fact that it was a cage.

He wasn't meant to be here. It was far too lavish to even be his.

He hated seeing Phil stop walking just to stare at him.The crow stood with his arms crossed, head tilted, and a look full of curiosity. The man was studying him, dehumanizing him from afar somehow.

"I made sure everything suits your needs," Phil said, "Fresh clothes, warm food, even some entertainment should you get bored."

Quackity didn't respond, but he did finally step into the room. His eyes roamed across the room, desperate to find something. He’s scanning, searching for weaknesses.

The windows—nailed shut.

The door—iron lock, reinforced hinges.

Phil's smile makes Quackity's stomach twist. "Don’t worry. No one’s coming in without my permission. And you won't be getting out either." Phil's chuckles seemed to echo throughout the room. It was as if even the walls were mocking him.

Quackity felt his skin begin to ache at how deep his nails were digging into his arm. Still he didn't care about the pain; he just wanted a way out. He couldn't be owned anymore.

"You should rest," Phil said, while moving toward the door. "Prepare for tomorrow."

Then, just before stepping out, the man gave one last look over his shoulder—smiling.

"Sweet dreams, mate."

The door shuts.

Click.

Locked.

Silence.

Quackity exhales, long and shaky. His obedient self slowly slipping away. And once it does, he snaps.

He rips the tray of food off the table, sending it crashing to the ground. His breathing is uneven and ragged. His fingers shake as he grips the edge of the dresser. He kicks a chair over, sending a glass bottle shattering against the wall. He can't stop himself from screaming. He couldn't stop the ugly, broken sobs that tore from his throat.

This isn’t happening.

This isn’t real.

Phil owns him.

Schlatt once owned him. And Schlatt, who dragged him by his hair like he were some doll, who tore into his wings and laughed when he cried. Who caged him like some animal and trained him to be a loyal pet. Who fed him nothing but cruel lies and agonizing pain.

All his efforts to not be owned just went down the drain, and with it seemed to take Quackity's last ounce of hope.

Though this time he was smarter, he would escape immediately instead of waiting so many years to even try.

He anxiously paced the room, hands tugging at his hair, his wings twitching against his back.

He needs a way out.

Now.

He checks the windows again—sealed tight.

He presses his ear against the door—nothing but silence. His breathing quickens.

No escape.

No escape.

No escape.

No es—

His eyes land on the bed.

The canopy sheets. The pillows. The blankets.

The nest-building instinct hit him hard and fast, and he hates it. The duckling, though, loves it. His body aches for it, for the safety it promises, the comfort his mind is screaming at him to take. He didn't know how long it had been since he last slept. He needed sleep if he wanted to leave this place—

No. No. That's just excuses. Sleep leaves him vulnerable.

He began to chip away at his nails as he rocked back and forth uncomfortably. Slowly trembling, he moved towards the bed. He gripped the bedpost so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"I’m not safe here," he whispers to himself. "I need to keep looking." And yet. His body betrays him.

Slowly, he crawls into the bed, hands trembling. He rips the pillows from their place, yanks the blankets from the mattress, stacking them into a comfortable pile.

Nest. The bird whispered calmly.

Quackity had never made himself a nest before. It was always Schlatt who ordered his men to make one for him. They were ordered to gather pillows and stack up something comfortable. None of them, though, knew the significance of nests, nor were they either avians themselves. He never liked the nests, no matter who came in and built them. They always had this essence of someone he didn't know tainting each 'nest.'

"Why make a nest?" He once asked Schlatt when he was still young. Schlatt barely glanced down at him.

"Why not? You're an avian; your kind loves them. Don't ask me why." Then sent him straight into an uncomfortable bundle of jumbled blankets and pillows.

But this felt different.

This felt like the nests written about in avian care books he used to read.

Lying in this makeshift pile of pillows, blankets, and soft sheets made him smile. There was an unfamiliar, odd sense of safety and comfort that he had never once felt before.

His breathing slowed just slightly as he settled in and curled into himself.

His wings begged louder than ever to be let out of the restrainer. They wanted to feel the warmth of the blankets surrounding him. Desperate to wrap around him like a blanket.

He knew he shouldn't have, but he reached under his shirt and undid the clasps carefully. His wings were quick to peek out from under his navy jacket. He slipped the jacket off quickly and let the wings stretch out wide. Absorbing the warmth and light from above. It was nothing like natural sunlight, but it would work for now.

Then he lay down once more and tucked himself in with a blanket.

He hates the safety he feels.

He hates that he feels at ease and calm. He hates that, for the first time in a long time, he’s warm and comfortable.

And he hates that Phil was right.

He was tired. No- exhausted.

His eyes flutter shut, but his last thought before sleep drags him under is—

I have to get out of here.

Chapter Text

Quackity would never admit it. But he snores and he drools. Not every time! But during those rare moments when the world seemed too heavy on his shoulders and his body was drained of all its energy.

When his eyes were far too heavy and his mind couldn't stop spinning.

He would find the antidote to these symptoms was sleep.

He would snore softly with his mouth slightly open. Droplets of saliva would stain his blankets and pillows. But he was far too deep in his slumber to notice. It wasn't until one night, when Quackity had endured hours of relentless insults and punches from Schlatt. His eyes were wrung dry of tears, and his body blossomed with newly formed bruises.

All of which was his fault. If he hadn't missed that shot, he would've been left untouched; maybe Schlatt would've even given him a reward.

He could still hear the ram's voice echo throughout his head. Still feel the phantom pain of punches hitting his skin and pressing against bones. Schlatt's anger was always like a tornado. Relentless with its damage, leaving no place untouched, launching things across rooms and was deafening.

Quackity had been locked in his room; Schlatt locked the door shut. With nothing else to do, he decided to oblige with his body's pleas to rest.

Before he could, though, he spotted the nest built by one of Schlatt's servants. He hated it. All the avian books he read said these were things made of nothing but comfort, love, and gentle care.

His hands grabbed onto a pillow and threw it towards the opposite wall. Angry squawks left his lips as he disassembled the nest completely. After it was all torn apart, he lay down on the cold floor, refusing to use the pillows. He kept one, though; it had been his favorite; its gold color reminded him of his wings. They were near the same shade, though his wings shined in the light and had more life in them than a pillow.

Shiny.

He thought as he fluffed the pillow out and laid it on the floor. Once his head hit the pillow, he was fast asleep. Hours passed, and as they did, his body seemed to grow more comfortable with the ground, as he freely moved and shifted ever so often. His mouth slowly opened, letting quiet snores and drool escape his lips. A sudden warmth grew from above him, and he felt gentle hands run through his jet-black hair. Still, the heavy fog of sleep kept him from fully reacting to the new presence and kept him weighed down.

He focused all his attention on the familiar hands; they were soothing and slow with their movements. A soft humming flew through the air and into his ears, further calming his brain down. He kept his eyes shut, not wanting to end the sweet moment; he knew he was being greedy, wanting to have all the love and gentle care he could get. But he couldn't find the strength to fight against his urge to be loved once more.

He noticed then that his mouth was open, a taste of salt and bitterness coating the corner of his lips. He couldn't seem to close it or stop the drool from his mouth. He was stuck in a sleepy haze, unable to break free from it.

But maybe he didn't want to.

Maybe he wanted Schlatt to stay proud of him and love him, instead of violent hands beating him to the ground.

"I didn't know you snored, pumpkin."

Quackity could barely hear the words; they felt faint and like they were said from a far distance. But even though he didn't quite catch the words, he caught the fondness and pure delight that wrapped around the sentence. It made his eyes open slowly and blink a few times. He rubbed at his tired eyes, fixing his blurry vision.He looked up at the man sitting beside him. Schlatt's hands had halted their gentle movements and seemed to wait for Quackity to stop shifting.

Quackity looked away, the previous shame and disappointment re-entering through his veins. He sat up crisscross and kept his hands in his lap awkwardly, fidgeting with them to try and ease his nerves.

The missed shot replayed in his head. He knew he was going to miss even before he had pulled the trigger. His hands were trembling far too much, his nerves were through the roof, and the target was quicker than he was used to.

He felt his eyes become watery and his vision blur.

"S-sorry if I snored too loud..." He apologized quietly while keeping his head locked onto his hands.

"No, no—quite the opposite!" Schlatt's voice was light, almost teasing, as he chuckled.

"You snore quietly, pumpkin. Almost like a cat." Schlatt added as he ruffled through Quackity's hair once more and patted him gently.

He didn't respond nor react, barely even catching onto the words being said. All he could think about was how he was going to apologize for missing that shot and how he failed his father.

Instead he simply reached for the now stained pillow, desperate to toss it aside. But two hands were quick to grab onto his arms.

"No, let me wash it for you." Schlatt spoke softly as his hold on Quackity's arms loosened and moved down towards the sides of his pillow.

"I know it's your favorite one." Schlatt added as he carefully pulled the pillow away from him.

Quackity couldn't move, or even think anymore, as he stared into the face that only seemed to know love and care. A tear trickled down his face suddenly. He let go of breaths he didn't know he was holding. And like a dam, he broke, and out went his ugly sobs and longing chirps.

Why was Schlatt being so nice to him now? He didn't deserve it. He deserved more bruises and blood. He deserved cruel insults.

Hands wrapped around him and pulled him to a warm chest. Schlatt kept whispering reassurances and telling him to breathe.

Quackity became weak in Schlatt's embrace and let himself be in the moment. He spoke nothing but genuine apologies and pleas to forgive him.They spent the remainder of the night like that.

He regrets being so vulnerable, so easily open. No wonder Schlatt had no issue manipulating him. Even though he was a kid, he still beats himself up over it.

Quackity was back in that drifted-off state, with a cover of a sleepy haze engulfing him currently. He knew he could still feel the softness of blankets and the warmth of pillows encased around him. But his mind felt lighter, like it was somewhere else entirely. He could feel his mouth agape and a small trickle of drool drip out of his mouth. Vaguely could be heard his quiet and peaceful snoring.

He had never slept this soundly in a nest before. He never slept this soundly at all. So his body urged him to stay, and he did.

Even though he could hear banging and angry knocks sounding from outside his door. Banging that only seemed to keep growing louder, a handful of annoyance being added after every knock.

"I only have so much patience, Quackity."

These words tore him apart, dragged him out of solace, and threw him back into the harsh reality. He forced his body up and examined the room.

His anxiety only seemed to build and build after every pillow he saw. Every blanket he saw encased him and kept him warm. The vulnerability made him want to gag. He just had to make a nest!

It took no time for him to kick, throw, and push pillows around the room. He did everything to make sure that stupid circular shape would never be seen. When he noticed his wing restrainer tossed to the floor, he scrambled for it and clung it to his chest. Not that he should be proud of this, but he binded his wings so often that he could probably hold a world record for it.

Shoving his wings back into their rightful place (hidden from the world) and doing the front clasps were easy. But oh so painful.

He snatched a blanket off the ground and wrapped it around him, then sprinted to the door.

Tiny creaks sounded from the door as it widened and gave him a perfect view of anger.

Phil stood with his arms crossed and had a look that said everything it needed to. He clearly pissed the man off. Fuck.

"S-sorry..." was all he could muster.

Phil's eyes met his, and they stared down with a vengeance. Then the crow's eyes moved to stare inside the room. It made him visibly tense; he was screwed. He looked up at Phil and waited for a hand to hit his face, or an insult that stabbed through him like a knife, or something like that. But instead he couldn't believe his eyes...

The crow's anger faded away, and what took its place had been a warm smile.

He had seen Phil smile many times, but those held malice, hatred, and violence. He didn't know it was possible for Phil to even be capable of caring, let alone smiling like that.

Though it wasn't for long, as eyes caught back onto Quackity, and there was no trace of that past smile. It slipped off Phil's face at the mere sight of him.

For some peculiar reason, that stung. Like a needle had been pressed into his skin. Something had to be deeply wrong with his avian side.

"Be ready in an hour." The man ordered as he offered Quackity a small pile of neatly folded clothes. He hadn't noticed them before, but held between Phil's arm had been fancy attire. And now they were held out in front of him.

He took it, deciding to remain an obedient pet. Who knew how many more chances the man would give him...

"One of my boys will pick you up." Phil continued, and he noticed how a tiny spark filled the man's eyes at his own words. Family. No, Flock.

He remembered how every avian book he read seemed to highlight the importance of an avian's flock. It meant more than the world to them. Quackity never felt that strong bond, except for with Schlatt.

Phil seemed to be a proud family man. Schlatt wasn't.

Quackity gave a simple nod as he politely accepted the clothing and held them carefully. Just brushing his fingertips over the material, he could tell these clothes were priceless. He could tell he wasn't worthy of them.

Phil then grabbed onto the door, about to shut it once more, but then paused. And he fixated his focus solely on Quackity.The familiar feeling of being sized up as prey emerged once more. He swallowed his thoughts, freezing suddenly.

"Don't try anything." Phil warned, as he leaned closer towards Quackity.

"My kids may not act like it, but they're smart."

He gulped and quickly nodded, not like he was planning to do something, but still it shook him to his core.

An alarming thud came from the door as it was clamped shut. He couldn't move or even breathe anymore. Instead, his feet stayed glued to the ground.

Quackity couldn't pry his eyes off the shadowy silhouette that peeked out from beneath the door. It just stood there, its existence menacing. Phil was still at his door.

Why?

He already heard the sounds of the locks being done once more.

So why?Leave me alone! He wanted to scream. Needed to scream to stop his fear from overflowing.The two seemed to stay there for a while; a few minutes or so seemed to pass.

Then a miracle: the clack of polished dress shoes, Phil's shoes began to sound throughout the hall. His adrenaline lowered every time the sound grew more distant and quiet.

When Quackity turned around, his stomach dropped.

He already knew he threw things. Maybe broke expensive decor all in the heat of the moment. But this?

The room looked as if it was the aftermath of a storm. Glass littered across the floor seemed to mock him from below. A chair lay on its side, and his pillows and blankets were everywhere except the bed. His jacket also joined the glass by staying on the floor, tossed to the ground. Phil should've dragged him by his collar and thrown him out.

No, worse. Phil should've had his head for this.

"You disgusting animal," Schlatt shouted in his head.

Maybe Schlatt had been right.

He let out a relieved sigh as he thanked whatever God above let him remain standing here untouched. In an attempt to forget about his mess, he looked down at his clothing.

Picking each piece up carefully and examining them closely. A dark formal suit, a crisp white button-up, and a tie. These simple items left him in awe. To say he was enamored was an understatement. As he let out a happy chirp and traced over every fragile stitch with his eyes. These items cost more than he ever would. And to be currently in his possession was unbelievable.

He would be wearing these.

A round of chirps left his lips, and he felt his wings try to flap excitedly.

He folded the clothing back into their neat squares, with more care than he ever gave himself. Then set it in on a nearby drawer. A soft smile graced his face.

Then, without another thought, he slipped into the restroom.The moment his eyes landed on the massive shower, his face lit up.

Quackity, being a duck avian, not only liked the water, but he adored it with every fiber of his being.

When he was younger, a daily visit to the nearby beach was mandatory for him. No matter what day or time it was, the water was a necessary craving he couldn't shake off.

He remembers the feeling well: submerging himself into the glimmering blue water and letting himself sink further into its large depths. He would stare from above at the sunlight trying its best to break through the water's surface. It never was able to, and he was glad for that. As he loved the dark blue that encased him. He used to dive for hours, holding his breath until his chest ached. and his lungs begged him for air. Racing fish and chasing bubbles, filled with glee that he now had long forgotten. As he moved his arms and easily maneuvered himself through the ocean, he felt free.

Untouchable. Safe.

While the water had been too icy for others, and their lungs struggled to adapt to being underwater. The water always treated him nicely and welcomed him back every time.

His body was made for this, built for this, born for it.

But as he grew older, his time was taken from him. The ocean, its waves, and its kindness all faded in the background. The world dragged him away, and Schlatt would ignore every request he made to go back. Every time a gun was pushed into his hands, or forced into another mission. He neglected the water and forgot about it even more. What was once a joy became a luxury he couldn't afford.

The sight of the large tub made him pause. It was clearly made for avians, evident by its larger size. Made for avians, with large wings that couldn't fit inside a normal tub.

Something about it tugged at a long-forgotten part of him. Without thinking, he switched the shower setting to a bath.

Now he sat curled within the cold, arms resting on his knees and hands wrapped loosely around his legs. The water rose to his neck, and he welcomed its familiar icy temperature. His wings, normally restrained to his back, now fully spread out. Soaking up every moisture it could reach. Greedily chugging the water down as if they were a parched man out in the sun. He didn't know when he would next get a time like this, so he let his wings act freely.

He shifted, sending ripples across the surface, watching silently as they fanned outwards and bounced gently off the tub. His every movement were almost quiet commands, and the water willingly obeyed him.

He hoped the water remembered him, longed for him, and yearned for him, like he always did.

He exhaled through his nose and let his body slide lower, resting against the bottom of the tub. The water washed over him and eased every ache and exhaustion present in his muscles. As water began to fill his ears, the outside world muffled into silence. Everything outside the tub faded, the chaos, the bloodshed, and the cruel mafia that kept him trapped. All no longer existed.Under the water, nothing existed except for his calm heartbeat and the echo of his breath.

And for the first time in years, he felt safe.

Here in this space of peace, nothing could reach him. Not Schlatt. Not Tommy. Not Phil. No one.

Here, he couldn't be forced to grip onto a gun or ordered to kill someone. Just him and the water. He let his eyes drift shut. If he could stay like this forever, he would. Floating in silence, away from the world.

If this was where he died, he would be fine with it.

With a towel wrapped securely around his waist, Quackity stepped out of the restroom.

Rummaging through nearby drawers, he was surprised to find they were overfilled with comfortable shirts, pants, boxers, and shorts. Everything was folded with meticulous care. It looked way too considerate for a prisoner like him.

He used another towel to gently dry his wings, thankful for duck wings being easier to dry than other wings. Patting his feathers carefully, watching with sorrow as some feathers fell to the floor. Occasional winces left his lips due to patting some sore feathers.

His wings were gradually returning to their matted state. He chewed his discomfort, hoping to swallow it down and ignore it.Once his wings were dry, he moved onto his hair. Piece by piece he was assembling together the look expected of him. The formal dark suit slipped over his frame with unfamiliar ease. The button-up hugged his arms, and the tie felt tight and foreign around his throat. Finally he slipped his navy beanie over his head; it hung snug over his feathered ears like a blanket of comfort.

He knew they didn't expect him to wear his beanie and would probably be angry at him even wearing it. But he didn't care.

Schlatt gave him this beanie when he was young; the two laughed at how it was too big for his head. Schlatt told him he would grow into it eventually. And like with most things, Schlatt had been right. It fit his head perfectly,now.

He turned to the mirror, and for the first time, he liked what he saw. He never took the time to focus on his appearance, only really seeing himself through large puddles on rainy days or his reflection in windows. And when he did see himself, there were always bloodstains, rips, evident signs of abuse, and violence.

Through the mirror he wasn't staring at someone broken, hunted, or kidnapped.

He saw someone calm and elegant. Like Phil.

He couldn't stop looking at himself; his silhouette was too smooth, and his wings were too well hidden. Too human. And although that was the look he meant to achieve, now that he had it, he hated it.

He turned away instead, shifting his attention to a clock. Still time.

So he busied himself with cleaning. He first gathered his feathers and hid them inside a pillowcase. Too worried that they would fall out of a trash bag or be found somehow. Then collected all the blankets and pillows, rearranging them into their respective places. He swept up the glass pieces carefully, moving them into one huge pile for him to pick up.

Then a bang.

He flinched, another hit against the door. And another. No pauses between them, just relentless pounding.

This wasn't Phil. He knew not only because Phil told him it wouldn't be him but also because of the difference in the knocks.

These knocks carried impatience. Malice. Rage.

He stepped forward and quietly tapped against the door once- a signal.

"I hear you."

The door creaked open then with a groan, revealing the teen behind the annoyed banging. There on the other side was a tall brunette with a streak of white in his hair. Even his posture and breaths screamed pure hatred. Anger was ever so present on his face.

"Phil ordered me to escort you." He said already, turning on his heel like Quackity wasn't worth the second glance.

But then—the boy stopped.

He turned back slowly, and his eyes met Quackity's with a glow that wasn't natural. Hate. It became obvious to him then that the teen seemed only fueled by loathing.

"The only reason you're still alive is because of fucking Tommy." He growled and gripped his shoulders tight, eyes now burning into him.

"If I had it my way," he continued, "your body would be mere ashes. So don't push your luck, prick."

The words hit like a punch. He gave a trembling nod, fear crawling up his spine like frostbite. His heart thudded in his ears.The teen finally let him go.

"Follow me."

Quackity obeyed silently. He was grateful that he didn't demand more from him. Luckily he wasn't like his father, who gave him a ridiculous request to walk beside him or anything. Instead he simply stayed behind the teen and walked.

The walk has been dead silent and heavy with tension. It felt awkward, uncomfortable, and suffocating all at once. But he swallowed it all down and tried his best to maintain his calm steps.

They passed through hallways and walked down stairs, all unfamiliar to Quackity. He was somewhat certain he had never walked through these ones before, but he couldn't be sure. Half the time he was too absorbed in his thoughts to even notice he was walking. Eventually the two arrived in front of a small door. It wasn't the office from his interrogation.

Something about this place felt different. He noticed as they walked there were fewer decorations around. The air seemed to grow more uneasy.

It felt off.

The teen's hand rested on the doorknob, and a slow, sinister grin curled across his face. That smile said more than words ever could. He was in danger.

Whatever was inside the room, he wasn't going to like.

The door slowly creaked open. And the teen kept it held open for him.

"Go ahead. Ladies first."

Quackity forced a smirk.

"I'd rather be a lady than be you."

It wasn't much, but it shut the teen up and wiped that horrifying grin off his face. So to Quackity, it was a lot.

Quackity submerged his fear so deep inside his head that he convinced himself it didn't exist. Instead he turned his fear into fuel, and let it push him through the door.

It was a small room, stone-cold walls, uncomfortably bright lighting, and an unsettling sight in front of him. In the center of the room was a table with two chairs placed beside it. One was empty. the other taken by a bloodied man tied to it. Tape was wrapped tightly around his mouth.

It wasn't like he hadn't seen something similar before; Schlatt always kept people tied up and used similarly suffocatingly designed rooms to torture people.

Phil stood off to the side, leaning against the wall, until he noticed Quackity's arrival.

He stepped away from his spot and walked up to him, speaking low into his ear.

"This man traffics avians." Phil whispered. "I need names of buyers, locations of still-captured avians, everything. You have ten minutes to get me that information. Do what you have to do." Phil instructed.

And then brushed past Quackity without a second thought.

But Quackity, without thinking, grabs onto Phil's sleeve; a quiet and desperate "wait!" leaves him before he can take it back.

Phil stopped and turned, annoyance flickering in his eyes. Still he waited.

Quackity leaned in slightly, voice quiet. "You don't trust me to get him talking, do you?"

His gaze wandered onto all the bloodied tools laid out across the table. All stained with blood, the man's blood. They had already used every single one. But still haven't gotten a word out of him.

That was the problem with people like Phil. Mafia types relied too heavily on violence to get them what they needed. Schlatt had always been prone to violence, as if that's all he was capable of. And it seemed with the state of the bloodied man that Phil might've been the same in some way. Sure, using torture to get answers did prove effective. But it never was efficient.

Quackity had seen beaten skin, tongues ripped out, and pools of blood before. Schlatt was an expert in physical torture, so good at it that it terrified Quackity.

He found that all the gruesome acts weren't necessary. People talked more when they felt as if they had a choice.

"You're expecting me to use those?" He asked, gesturing to the tools. Then his eyes locked onto Phil. "But that's not really what you want, is it? You want him to break without even having to raise a finger."Phil's expression shifted from annoyance to intrigue.

"I only care for results." He spoke, "I don't care what needs to happen in order to get them."

The answer stunned him for a second, the words and attitude being so close to Schlatt's it caught him off guard.

Schlatt was always rougher on avians; he was more eager to tear them apart due to his flawed bias. Maybe Phil was the same way, except instead of avians, it was humans.The fact that this man did sell and traffic avians only made the man's situation worse.

He looked back at the man tied up. He was barely hanging on.

"Results come from making someone think they're in control." Quackity murmured, "You should know that, Phil. You can get more out of someone without ever getting your hands dirty."

The silence that followed was thick. Quackity didn't know why he was suddenly giving Phil interrogation advice, not like he wanted to help them. Not like he actually wanted to work for them. He didn't even want to be here. Yet his mouth couldn't seem to close itself.

Phil's voice finally broke the silence. "You think you know how to get better results than I do?" No malice is present in Phil's voice, just a quiet curiosity.

"That's not what I said." Quackity replied. "I just think you're going about this the wrong way; you're letting your vendetta against humans do most of the work." Quackity answered.

Phil paused, seeming to let his advice simmer in his head. Then a small smile formed on his face. Quackity always liked being helpful; he more so loved being listened to. He never got through to Schlatt, but it seemed maybe he did get through to Phil. Maybe now was not the time for helping, but still. It made him smile back.

"Then show me what you would do." Phil said.

And just like that, he turned once more and continued his way to the door. Wilbur still lingered by and watched the whole interaction quietly. The teen blinked at Phil's final words almost like he had just been smacked in the face. He stared at Quackity for a second before then following quickly after his father.The door shut, and he could hear Wilbur's muffled shouting through the door. He chose to ignore it for now. As he had a bigger issue to deal with.

He glanced at the clock, reading it's time, and then turned back towards the man.

10 minutes.

"Are you another one of his pets?" The man croaked. "Here to beat the shit out of me too?" Rugged coughs, exiting his mouth right after. His voice had been so dry and hoarse. Like he didn't even know what water was. It made Quackity instinctively swallow, throat tightening.

"No. I'm your last chance." Quackity answered as he walked slowly to the empty chair. He dragged it across the stone floor. The screech it made was so agonizing and sharp that it hurt his ears. Damn his sharp avian hearing.

He sat down, legs crossed and arms folded.

Schlatt sat like this all the time; he made sure to sit up straight and make himself taller. The ram explained how it was some intimidation tactic. Power through posture.

Phil also seemed to sit in a similar way, though with a touch of more casual dominance.

He stared at the man, examining every bruise that blossomed across his skin, every speck of blood that covered his body.

"You barely look human anymore," Quackity said softly, just loud enough for the man to hear. "Your left eye doesn't even look usable anymore, and your skin is so miscolored. All this pain..." He tilted his head.

"For what?" His voice grew sharper and louder as he leaned in closer.

"Do you think your boss is going to come save you?" He asked, his tone clipped and cold. "You think he'd waste a cent on someone dumb enough to get caught?"

The man looked away, jaw clenched. It made Quackity relieved; he made him angry; now he just had to reel it back.

Quackity shifted his tone, made it softer. "Sorry—I'm not trying to insult you." He gave a faint, pitying smile. "I just want to know...is this business really worth dying for?"

That made the man look back. A flicker of something glowing brightly in his eyes, hesitation and fear.

9 minutes.

He let the silence settle around them once more before then snapping it again.

"You see avians every day, don't you? Beaten. Bruised. Ripped feathers. Cut wings. Maybe you're the one that does it." He paused, letting the words hang."And now here you are beaten and bruised, but instead of cutting wings, we'll cut a limb. How does it feel—to be the same as the thing you hate most?"

This got a rise out of the man. And Quackity found so much joy in this man's suffering. People like him, who cut wings and tortured avians, deserved to rot in hell.

"I'm not like those things!" The man roared, fury booming through his voice.

Quackity leaned back, unbothered. "Really? Because right now I can't tell the difference…"

"You think your fucking insults would work on me?"

Yes. Quackity did. But the man didn't need to know that.

"No." He shrugged, "But maybe logic will." His voice dropped. "I could pick up a few tools, break some bones, cut something off. You might survive. Most likely won't. But either way, you won't ever walk out of this room. Never lay a finger on another avian. That's your future if you stay quiet."He leaned in slightly. "So why not start looking after yourself for once instead of your boss?"

The man didn't seem interested in the slightest. Fuck.

8 minutes.

He took a slow breath and pushed forward. He had to.

"I'm only saying this for your sake," he continued. "I want you to be smart. Make it out alive. So you can help keep this world in order and keep avians in their place."

The words tasted like bile in his mouth. He wanted them out. He wanted to gag and vomit until he could forget what he said. It felt as though he just grew ram horns and facial hair. As though he was not Quackity, but Schlatt.

"That's my son!" Schlatt's words echoed through his head.

No. No.

He wasn't Schlatt's son nor the man himself.

But maybe he was. Maybe he was always destined to be like him...

"Liar." The man spat. "You're just following orders like some dumbass avian."

Not the response Quackity had wanted, but it made the man talk again. He could work with this.

"Then so are you." Quackity snapped back. "Keeping quiet to save your boss's ass. Protecting someone who wouldn't waste money or time to save you. Unlike you, I hold power in this place. I own this place; that avian you saw leave the room did so under my orders. So no. I'm not some avian; I'm a human. More human than you ever were."

Lies spilled out of his mouth so easily. He knew Phil was probably watching on some hidden camera or voice recorder somewhere. The crow was probably thinking of different ways he could rip Quackity apart. He couldn't fixate on that, though; he needed to focus.

He tilted his head, a mocking smirk playing on his lips. "It seems even in your last moments you're still letting someone else pull your strings. What a submissive pet."

He let that hang in the air before softening just a little.

"I'll let you walk out of here. Have your injuries tended to, give you money, a way out. Maybe even a clean slate."

He looked him straight in the eyes. "But only if you give me what I need."

7 minutes.

The man let out a dry chuckle, bitter and broken.

"You don't have any power." He rasped, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. "You're just a bird playing dress-up."

Quackity had to stop his face from revealing his fear. If only the man knew how much weight his words had. He felt his feathers twitch uncomfortably from under their restrainer. He took a deep breath and steadied himself once more. This was his game, not the man's. The man didn't know anything, just... was lucky with his word choice.

"You're one to talk about power." He spoke with his smirk returning once more. "I could kill you. Right here. Right now. Yet you're choosing to piss me off?"

The man opened his mouth to speak, but instead came out harsh coughs.

Quackity began to laugh, loud and booming. He tried his best to mimic a laugh that made him tense. A laugh that he used to hear daily. Schlatt's laugh.

That struck a nerve. As soon as the man was finished with his pathetic coughing fits, he turned away from him once more.

6 minutes.

Quackity let the silence linger like poison, giving the man time to feel the weight of every bruise and labored breath. The man reminded him of a dog about to be put down. But instead of it being a sorrowful thing, it would be the opposite. It would be a disgusting man getting what he deserved.

"Let me guess." He spoke at last, his voice low. "You never thought you would get caught, captured, and tortured by avians. Could you ever imagine being here? Bleeding in some room with a 'bird' who has more power than you?"

The man didn't look at him, didn't even flinch. But Quackity could notice the air around him becoming more uneasy. As the man became more fidgety and bounced his leg up and down.

"You're starting to realize it, aren't you?" Quackity leaned forward. "You're not important. You're not feared. You're not anything."Then he made a frown and looked in the man's eyes with a look of sorrow.

"At least not to them. But to me, I see potential; I see a man who deserves a second chance. And I'll give it to you if you help me."

"I don't need your fucking pity." The man shouted suddenly, almost scaring Quackity.

"Is this a pride thing? Because if so, you've already lost it. So stop wasting my time."

5 minutes.

The man shut up once more. Quackity exhaled and brushed a hand through his hair.

"You want me to respect you? to believe in this whole martyr thing you're doing? I'll respect you once you start fucking talking. At least die with some meaning. Give me names. Help me kill the machine you're so desperate to be chewed in."Quackity stood up and grabbed the chair, shoving it aside with a violent thud.

The sound made the man wince.

Good. Stop belittling me and start talking. Quackity thought.

"You think silence gives you power? He said pacing. His voice rising. "No. Silence gives them power. The ones who left you here to rot. You think you're loyal, but you were always just a pawn."

4 minutes.

Now pacing around the room, he let his fingers run against the walls. Feeling their cold and rough texture rub against his fingertips. Panic began to slowly rise in his chest. Time was running out, and this man hadn't said anything valuable. He glanced at the tools, debating in his head whether he should give up on his useless talk and give in to the violent ways he knew so well.

No. He wouldn't be like Schlatt.

"You treat avians like pets. Used them as if they existed solely for you to kick when you were angry. You starved them to teach a lesson. Did they ever learn or let you do something willingly?"

He paused. No answer, just ragged breathing.

"Of course not. They fear you even more. After you do one cruel thing to them, they become more distant. More defiant and rebellious. Those things could never be obedient. Always ruining everything."

He stole his words from Schlatt.

"Fucking shit! Your fucking avian kind and their stupid wings. We should've clipped that one when we had the chance! Always ruining everything!" The ram rambled on while he threw the now-empty bottle at Quackity."You think you're all that just because you were born with stupid wings! Fuck you! You shouldn't exist!"

"Avians seem to think they're all that just because they're born with some stupid wings. They shouldn't exist." He spat angrily and punched the wall.

He missed the water, missed being in the shower. He missed his freedom and false safety. After this, he would never get that back.

"Well now you're a fucking avian. Abandoned by your owner, left here with nothing."

Quackity could hear the man's breathing become louder, more erratic.

3 minutes.

"I'm offering you a way out. You should be kissing my fucking boots."

Quackity continued pacing the room silently; he wanted to punch the man, grab him by his collar, and shove his head in a wall. For all he had done to avians. He knew their pain all too well. Experienced their pain too many times.

This man and Schlatt would have gotten along nicely.

"Your only way out of this is me. And I only have so much patience."He stole that line from Phil; it's what sent him spiraling this morning. Though he knew it wouldn't have as strong an effect on the man as it did on him.

"I can help you disappear, help you go back to selling avians and torturing them. Make yourself the boss of your own business. Doesn't that sound better than dying in here?"

Still, he was only met with long silence.

2 minutes.

"Now I've tried to be nice, offer you a chance to walk out free. But you won't even answer me?"

The man remained silent once more, but fear and worry covered his face. Beads of sweat and the pitiful look in his eyes. He was almost at his breaking point.

Just one final push.

"Alright." His voice now devoid of emotion. He made his way to the table and eyed all the tools.

"Hmm...which one..." He muttered but made sure it was loud enough for the man to hear."You and I both know you'll die if I even try and use any of these tools on you. So why don't you choose which one to end you?"

Quackity had no intention to use any of the tools, but the illusion that he was going to made the maid tremble.

"Y-you're bluffing!" The man shouted , fear laced in his every word.

Quackity chose not to respond and instead gave a small shrug before then leaning down and picking up each tool.

"I like the blade on this one, but this one seems sharper. No, maybe this one instead." He rambled on, trying his best to conceal his own fear. He was panicking internally; his mind would stop screaming.

1 minute.

Quackity plastered a smile as he picked up a scalpel and approached slowly, letting the cold metal glint under his eye.

"W-wait! You—you better let me go! I want a car out of here, and I want money! A ton of it!" The man stammered, desperation dripping off his tongue as he scrambled for anything to say.

Quackity found it laughable that this man thought he was in such a position to make demands.

"Of course, of course. You'll get all that and more," he said sweetly. "Once you start talking."

The man stared down at the floor, chest heaving.

"The...docks... It's at the docks... They transport the avians there... all of them wear black masks with that red symbol on them. M-Marcus Wells... He's the one who runs the business!…"

Quackity didn't interrupt. He let the man spill everything, voice shaking and wet with panic. Rambling. Names. Locations. Schedules. Everything he could possibly remember, clawing for his life one broken word at a time.

Every word sounded like music to Quackity's ears.

He had done it.

He watched the clock pass ten minutes with a smile.

Phil probably kept him in here longer to get all the information.

So he probed the man with more questions. Asking for things he thought would be useful in the future.

Then once the man began asking about his money or to leave. He heard the door click open behind him. That was his cue to leave.

Quackity spent no more time in there than he had to. Nor did he even spare the man another glance. Even when the man screamed curses and useless threats and demands.

He soaked the man dry of all his use. Now Phil could do whatever he wanted with the leftovers.

He stepped outside, shutting the door behind him. And the moment it clicked shut, everything collapsed.

His false confidence, snarky remarks, and composure dissipated.

His legs felt like lead. His throat tightened. He pressed a hand to his chest and let out shaky breaths. Almost like he didn't remember how to breathe.

"I—I was lying about everything! The avian and-and the power thing- and I'm s-sor-!"

His desperate shouting was stopped by a familiar, disapproving click.

Phil stood beside the door and watched him. "I know, mate." He said it calmly as ever.

Quackity glanced up. "E-everything he said...did you already know it…?" He asked pathetically without thinking.

Phil's smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth.

"Plenty I didn't."

Something in Quackity—something small and broken and tired—sighed with relief.

And when the little duckling inside him chirped “Father bird,” he didn’t argue.

There was something deeply, horribly wrong with him, because somehow… that smile and those words made him feel safe.

Chapter Text

Two avians were currently walking side by side through a long hallway. The two were similar in many ways.

For example, both had wings—though they were in completely opposite conditions—and feathered ears, which made the sound of a pen echo louder than it should have. They also shared a history of unpleasant experiences with humans. Though one of them didn't know of these similarities. Because that's how the other wanted it to be.

They had many differences too, and not the simple ones like their ages or favorite colors, but real, carved-in ones. Quackity's steps were unsteady, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

There was no blood on them, but they felt soaked. Every breath he took burned his throat. His head was only capable of hearing the man's screams and bitter words from the interrogation.

He may have been out of the room, but he could still feel the cold metal floor underneath his shoes. Could still see the man bound to the chair. Could still feel the way he changed from a victim to the very thing he feared.

He doesn't think he'll ever leave that room. Schlatt wouldn't want him to. As the experience only showed one thing. That Quackity had learned far more than he thought from his time with Schlatt.

Phil, though, had his mind elsewhere, and his steps were even and steady.

Quackity didn't dare look at him. He didn't want to. Or rather, he didn't want to be seen by eyes that only hated him.

Guilt trailed behind him as he remembered Phil's quiet approval. He hated how that approval brought a small smile to his face. Hated how Phil reminded him of Schlatt.

The weight of Schlatt's expectations had always been a heavy one. Resting heavy on his back, crushing his wings, hurting his spine, and dragging him down. Pained breaths and harsh wheezes escaping his lips were the price he paid for attempting to reach impossible standards. He had faced so much and tried so desperately to make Schlatt proud. To hear praise, to earn anything that resembled love.

But Phil's expectations were the opposite—low and easily attainable. The crow's quiet approval brought the same warm feeling to his chest. He felt as if Schlatt was staring at him again and giving him a wide grin. Telling him he was proud to have Quackity be his son. It felt wrong to miss such a thing. But it was undeniable. Still a tinge of guilt clung to his smile, because showing happiness to someone who wasn't Schlatt was a crime. Phil wasn't Schlatt. He was his enemy.

Quackity could only imagine that wherever Schlatt was, he still thought of him as family and would be infuriated if he even thought he could replace him.

Quackity might've escaped Schlatt. But he didn't do so to replace him.He didn't need another father.He didn't need another family. Not when Schlatt was the only person who could ever consider him family or showed him kindness at all.

His head pounded again. The man's face flashed in his mind. The tools, the bruises, the bloodshed—all in that one room. The violence inflicted on the man scared him. The scene is a reminder of the Syndicate's power; that could've been him in that chair.

Though the Syndicate didn't scare him as much as his own words did.

A shudder slipped from his lips as his body trembled. Unfortunately for him, Phil picked up on his discomfort immediately.

"Mate? Is it too cold?"

The question pulled him away from his scattered thoughts. As he looked at the avian, who was now carefully studying him.

"N-no…" he answered, though his words wavered and fear dripped out.

"Then what's wrong?" Phil asked, the edge of annoyance in his voice crystal clear.

What isn't?, he wanted to say. But he found that angering his captor wouldn't end well. Especially since said captor was in charge of a well-known mafia.

"Nothing…" he muttered and forced his gaze to look straight ahead instead of idly staring at the ground.

"My family doesn't like liars." Phil said, his voice sharper than before.

"Well then...it's nothing important…" Quackity answered quickly as he let out a breath, hoping it would lift the stress off his shoulders somehow.

"If it stops you from focusing on the next test," Phil began, "then it's of the utmost importance to me." My employees must push aside their feelings to get their jobs done. Are you not able to?" Phil questioned.

"I am. I-I can—" His voice picked up quickly, panic rising in his tone. He needed this job. Because if not, then he would be useless. And useless things got disposed of.

Phil let a small, unreadable smile fill his face."We'll see…"

Was all Phil said before continuing the walk in silence. Only this time, though, he seemed to focus less on where the two were headed and more on Quackity.

The quiet wasn't comforting, but it was what he preferred. His voice was tired anyway. Exhausted even from having to spout such lies on a whim and having to entertain Phil for his own life. It was getting harder to say all the right things, and his tongue could only handle getting bit so often.The silence, though, came at a cost. A hefty one. The lack of conversation made the pain in his head pulse louder and made his words come back up.He didn't notice he was trembling again until—

“You did well on the last test. Even if you looked ready to faint.”

It wasn’t a compliment. Just an observation. That only made it sting worse.

Quackity didn’t respond, a part of him taken aback at the sudden conversation being forced upon him. He wasn't used to being addressed unless something was about to be asked of him.

“You don’t like violence much, do you?” Phil asked next.

Quackity wasn't sure whether this question was a trap or not. He never liked violence. Violence was an easy, non-permanent solution that only cowards and idiots took advantage of. Excluding Schlatt and Phil, of course, unfortunately for him and the whole world, the two were dangerously smart in their own ways.

He knew better than to speak his mind. As a loyal employee would do anything for their dangerous mafia boss, he knew he would be required to get his hands dirty.

“I do what I have to,”He finally said, voice low.

"People like that are always the best ones." Phil replied. There was a strange softness to his words, like fondness. "Though even they have their breaking points."

Quackity wasn't sure how to take in Phil's words. They could've been a threat he wanted Quackity to remember or something Phil hadn't meant to say to him.

The man was a mystery, which made Quackity's job of appeasing the boss harder and scarier. It felt as if he were walking on a tightrope every time he was near the man. One wrong move and he would slip.

They turned a corner. The air shifted. The walls here were sterile and blank—no photos, no color. Just washed-out blue steel and the faint smell of sweat and blood. They stopped in front of a heavy metal door with a keypad inside it.

Quackity watched closely as Phil typed in a code, making no effort to shield it from him. He memorized the numbers; they might be useful to him somehow, someday.

The door gave a low mechanical hiss as its lock disengaged. Phil pushed it wide open.

Quackity was quick to take in his new surroundings before entering. Inside, the room looked sterile and bare—floors concrete, walls plain, lights bright and unforgiving.

In the center stood a reinforced training dummy, tall and solid, its torso marked with a fading red target. The dummy was worn and faded from so much impact inflicted upon it. The paint was chipped, and its metal base was scuffed and dented. This thing had been through war.

"Once you work for me," Phil spoke low and sharp. "You'd do your best to avoid this room." It sounded like a warning that only made him hesitant to step foot inside.

Though he shoved his fear down and made his first steps onto the cold floor. He flinched when the door shut behind him with a loud clang. Phil didn't seem to notice, too busy pacing slowly around the room, hands behind his back.

“Discipline. Technique. Power. Strength." Phil listed each trait off like a scripture. "That's what all my men are built on."

Then he turned and looked Quackity over with scrutinizing eyes.

“You don’t exactly scream any of those.”

Quackity’s jaw clenched. He knew he didn't. The streets left him starving, and even when he was living with Schlatt, he would have to earn his food. Though it's not what Quackity wanted to be perceived as. He wanted to be strong. To fight his own battles. To look at a man twice his size and still know in his heart that he could easily kill him. But Quackity was prey, through and through. He had matted wings and feathered ears. He was a duck avian.

And he hated it.

“You’re small. Underfed. Your arms look like they’d snap if I pushed you."Phil said flatly, as if making an inventory list.

It made him wonder, had Schlatt seen him that way? Despite how many times Quackity completed his missions and won impossible battles. Did Schlatt still see him as expendable, like it was a miracle to see him return alive? Was a fragile kid all he ever could be?

He had always been envious of the way Schlatt, prey like him, turned himself into a predator. Schlatt was a name that shook people to their very core. Specifically avian people. Specifically Quackity.

“Punch it,” Phil said. “Just once. Show me what you’ve got.”

The words ripped Quackity out of his thoughts. Phil now stood beside the dummy with his arms crossed and a dangerous smile on his face. It seemed the crow found this intriguing. Like, it was enjoyable to see him suffer.

Quackity stared at the dummy, then stepped forward. His fingers curled into a tight fist. Schlatt’s voice cut through him like a knife. Sharp and cruel.

“If you want to eat, hit harder.”

“Again. We’re not done until you bleed.”

He blinked hard and shook his thoughts away. He braced himself. Planted his feet. Drew his fist back—and swung.

He swung like he had every night under Schlatt's roof, when acceptance was only earned when he had proved himself. When dinner was only given to him if he could punch a man double his size. When love wasn't guaranteed.

As his arm lifted away from his body, he no longer saw the dummy with an x on its chest but instead saw every unfortunate person Schlatt had forced him to punch. He saw their beaten faces and tears slide off their cheeks.

He ignored them. Just as he always did.

When his fist made contact with the dummy, pain shot through him instantly as it bloomed on his knuckles and his hand. A harsh crack rang up his arm.

But the dummy moved.

It shook.

A loud creak rang out from the base.

It didn't fall, but it staggered.

Quackity stumbled back, getting away from the dummy and cradling his fist, which felt like it was burning. Searing from the pain. He kept his mouth shut, biting down the hiss that wanted to leave his mouth. Phil didn't need to hear him whine.

The bruise would be ugly. But what hurt worse was the humiliation forming in his stomach.

Schlatt would have laughed. Would've forced him to try again.

And again and again.

Until his fist split open.

He knew it wasn't a good punch. It could have been better.

No noise came from Phil's direction. The lack of a reaction made Quackity look up at the other, Phil's face unreadable as ever.

There was no approval, no disgust—just a blank face. There was nothing. And that made it worse.

Quackity stood frozen, hoping the other saw what he wanted to see. Though he doubted it.

Phil simply walked past Quackity without another glance or word. Gaze only focused on the door.

“Come on. You’ve got people to meet.” Phil said over his shoulder, and just like that, the two were back in the hallway.

Phil led him to a hallway warmer in both tone and atmosphere. Pictures lined the walls, with bright-colored flowers inside equally charming vases and personal bits of life flourishing and blooming across every inch. He had only seen a hallway like this back when he had to walk with Techno and Phil. A part of him was grateful that Techno was nowhere to be seen this time.

He had to climb a staircase to get to the less threatening hallway, though.

Which surprisingly told him a lot.

Downstairs must be for guests, prisoners, and other unfortunate people the Syndicate captured.

Upstairs was for the real members of the Syndicate. For the trusted. For the family.

They stopped at a door. Less terrifying than the last one they stopped at. This one was smaller, wooden, and light brown. The kind that didn't look like it led to anything dangerous. Muffled chatter slipped out from the bottom of the door and filled his ears. Through the laughter and voices, he could feel how each word had its own warmth and fondness. It was the kind of conversation he rarely had with Schlatt. As Schlatt seemed to only laugh at him, never with him. Like his flaws were the only thing visible to him. He shook those thoughts away and focused more on the muffled noise.

He could make out Tommy's obnoxious voice, and maybe Techno's low, bored drawl, and the sharper bite of the brunette from earlier.

Phil gripped the doorknob and opened it. The room fell instantly silent.

Quackity froze, his wings bristling from underneath their restraints. Feathers shifting in reflex, making themselves ready to fly if need be. Despite their matted condition and lack of ability to fly.

Guilt swept over him, fast and hot. He hadn't even spoken, hadn't done anything, and yet he knew the silence was his fault. The cozy feeling of home had died, and he was its killer.

Phil stepped forward, voice loud and clear: "He passed."

"I knew he would!" Tommy shouted with a grin. Quackity could hear the brunette groan from somewhere in the room.

Phil turned to look at him and gave him an annoyed look. A look that said, "Get in here." So he did.

Quackity stepped inside—and stopped. He could feel three pairs of eyes fall onto him.

Tommy was beaming with excitement and buzzing with energy. Pride shining on his face and a smile that looked as if it were Christmas.

The brunette glared at him with crossed arms and visible annoyance. Disapproval oozed off him in waves from the corner of the room.

Techno finally looked away from him, focusing instead on sharpening the axe that was currently in his lap, quiet and unbothered. The motion alone made Quackity take a step back. The sight triggered his flight or fight even more.

The door shut behind him with a click. He felt then that his fate had been sealed.

"Didn't I say so?" Tommy added, swinging his attention back to the disgruntled teen. "Willburrrr! You owe me my money back!"

"You're really setting the bar low, Dad." Wilbur shot back, choosing to ignore Tommy and instead shift his deadly glare to Phil.

"Wilbur." Phil warned, "I will not tolerate your arguing."

This only made him scoff and turn away, muttering under his breath, "I bet he won't survive an actual mission." Though the sentence was loud enough for everyone to hear.

"How much do you want to bet?" Tommy's eyes lit up, a dangerous spark of excitement in them.

Quackity found himself oddly grateful for Tommy's confidence in him. He didn't know where it had come from, but he would be a fool not to hold onto it like a lifeline. A part of him liked gambling anyway; maybe he got that from Schlatt, but still he would make sure Tommy won that bet.

Wilbur rolled his eyes and looked away, clearly showing he was done with the conversation.

Tommy hesitated, the smile faltering for a second as he glanced between everyone else. The teen sunk into his thoughts, being conflicted for a few seconds before then deciding to return his gaze to Quackity with newfound determination. He dragged a chair away from the table and waved him over.

"C'mon, sit, Big Q! You're a part of the team now!"

"Don't call me that." Quackity muttered, embarrassed. The name made his skin crawl, not because it was cruel. But because it felt too close. Too familiar. Nicknames carried an immense weight—connection. And he didn't want to carry that kind of weight with these people. Not when deep down he knew he didn't belong.

"Too late!" Tommy grinned. "Everyone on the team gets a cool nickname. That's how you join!"

"Then I'll just leave—" Quackity tried to joke, a half smile tugging on his lips.

"You can't leave." Techno's voice cut through the room like a sharp blade.

The room went back to its deadly silence.

"I-I know!" Quackity rushed to say, " … I was just joking... N-no, of course…" He was a mess of pointless rambling as he rushed to sit down in the seat Tommy offered him earlier. As if the movement might keep the tension from settling in. Though it already had settled like a thick, suffocating fog around the room.

No one said anything.

Techno stared Quackity down with his unsettling red eyes. Sharp. Cold. Emotionless.

Wilbur remained near the corner, refusing to acknowledge him, with his arms still crossed and eyes hyper-focused on the wall.

Tommy looked at Quackity with a hint of worry, as if silently asking, Are you okay?

The silence only seemed to grow and consume every ounce of warmth that had existed previously.

Then finally Phil spoke. Calm. Amused.

"Reminds me of when I first tested these three." Phil began, eyes flicking towards his sons. Nothing but fondness in his voice and a smile on his face.

"Techno didn't even have to speak in the interrogation like you did, Quackity. His presence alone got the human to talk." Quackity's gaze lifted from the ground and went towards Techno—still sharpening his axe with steady, practiced motions.

Though this time the man had a small smile on his face, one that was actually genuine and not the same smile only meant to scare him earlier.

He had heard many stories of 'The Blood God' and how terrifying his appearance was. He used to not believe such stories. How could someone look so scary? But ever since his first few encounters with the man, he knew all too well of Techno's sharp fangs, dark red eyes, and demeanor.

"Wilbur, on the other hand..." Phil began with a chuckle.

"Dad!" Wilbur cut in, flustered, finally turning back toward the group, though more at Phil. Phil only laughed louder before continuing.

"He had no strength at all when he started. But he was smart. Knew just how to push a person to the brink without killing. Got what he needed in two minutes."

Quackity looked at Wilbur then; the teen had a small smile on his face, though barely visible.

Something sharp pierced through Quackity's chest. He wondered if Schlatt had ever talked about him that way. If he was ever so proud of him that he told others stories like this.

"And Tommy," Phil continued, glancing at his youngest. "was the most determined of all. He didn't get answers that day, but he was eager to try again. He wanted to improve, and he did."

Tommy's playful smirk softened into a real, genuine smile. "Good times." He said, looking at his father.

"Speak for yourself; I nearly got disowned." Wilbur muttered with a grin.

Phil's expression shifted as he turned back to Quackity—serious now.

"Know your place here." He said, voice low but firm. "I don't take kindly to people messing with my family."

The words sank deep. A warning. A line drawn in blood. Quackity nodded, "Understood."

"Good." Phil replied, the smile returning, but it was colder now. Sharper.

"Now let's get to business." Phil stood, moving toward a nearby cabinet. The metal creaked open as he pulled out a thick, battered folder—its corners bent, spine fraying, but still sealed shut with a heavy clip. He returned to the table, the air shifting with the weight of what he held.

“This is Mission Emerald.”

The words alone seemed to drain the heat in the room. Everyone sat closer to the large table than ever. All eyes locked onto the thick folder. Phil set the folder in the center of the table but didn’t open it yet. His fingers rested on top of it, tapping once.

"We've been tracking him for years." Phil continued, "If not for his cloning ability, he would be dead by now. As far as we know, there are 3 of them."He unfastened the clip and opened the folder. Inside, he pulled out four photographs and laid them out on the table. Quackity's breath caught in his throat.

He knew that man.

Not well—only from Schlatt's drunken ramblings.But he remembered the name. Remembered how frustrated Schlatt got whenever he came up. When Schlatt first met the man, he tried to work with him, but it seemed he only cared for his own personal benefit. He would go against anyone who didn't serve his own agenda. When he showed up, their missions always seemed to fail. Quackity never saw him in person nor knew about his cloning ability. But he did know he wasn't someone to be messed with.

"Dream…?" he whispered before he could stop himself.

Three heads turned toward him at once. The weight of their stares hit him like a wave. He swallowed hard.

What did the Syndicate want with Dream?

Phil tapped the first picture. "This is his normal form."He slid his finger to the next one—this clone of Dream had longer hair and exposed its face more. "Tommy picked out the codenames," he added with a dry, amused tone. "That one's Drista, the third one is Mexican Dream, and finally...DreamXD." Tommy snorted under his breath at the silly names, but Phil silenced him with a look.

"They all operate under the same goal and only listen to Dream. We think the clones have their own abilities, but they don't seem to use them often. They don't die like humans do. We've seen them take injuries that should have killed them and instead be nothing but a bruise or limp. Nothing more."

Quackity swallowed hard. Schlatt tried to kill Dream a few months back. It didn't go so well...

Schlatt kept Quackity hidden from the world, but more importantly, from people like Dream. He would tell him to avoid the man. And whenever Dream was supposed to visit, Schlatt would tell Quackity, "Don't leave your room until I come get you. You're not meant to meet him." And lock him in his room.

Phil's voice pulled him out of the memory like a rope tightening around his throat. “We’re going to kill them all,” Phil stated it like a fact. As if Dream's fate were already set in stone.

“Eventually. But for now... we plan. Strategize. Position ourselves. You want freedom?" His gaze pierced through Quackity.

"Then earn it. Help us. And maybe we'll talk." He could hear Tommy make a bitter noise at that, but it didn't matter. What mattered was freedom. The word itself sounded angelic and pure. Like church bells or Schlatt's voice when he said something nice. Freedom no longer was a craving. But a necessity. He needed it like he needed oxygen.

Phil lifted the folder and extended it out towards Quackity like an offering.

“All the details you need, all the files, blueprints, names, patterns—we’ve compiled them here.”

Quackity's breath caught, and his eyes fixated on the folder.

His hand reached slowly, reverently.

Then-

SLAP

Phil snatched the folder away and dropped it farther down the table, just out of reach.

“Nuh-uh."Three sharp, disapproving bird clicks snapped from Phil’s throat, crisp and cold. The sound went straight into his bones. His wings twitched beneath the bindings. Obedience etched into marrow. He bit the inside of his cheek, stopping the sorrowful chirp that tried to escape.

Obey. Stay still. Don’t reach.

The words echoed in his head. Phil tilted his head slightly, watching him with something between curiosity and cruelty. "You flinch like someone who's been trained well." A pause.Then smoothly "I don't give out sensitive intel to anyone. You’re on trial, still. That hasn’t changed.”

“I—” Quackity caught himself. Lowered his eyes. “Understood.”

“I’ll start you off with smaller missions first,” Phil said, folding his arms behind his back. “Fetch runs. Observations. Things I can afford to let you screw up. Prove yourself. And then..." He gestured toward the folder again, a slight smirk on his face. "We'll see…"

"You'll get your first assignment soon. For now, settle in."

Quackity hesitated."W-wait!" He said quickly. "That man in the alleyway, the one who attacked Tommy and me—was that Dream?"

The photos reminded him a lot of the man who almost killed him in the alleyway. Though it had been dark, he could never forget the appearance of his almost killer.

Phil paused, his eyes narrowed just a bit. then softened falsely warm. "Oh? he said. "That stuck with you?"

Quackity said nothing, but the silence answered for him.

"Yes." Phil finally confirmed. "That was him."

"But what happened after?" Quackity pushed. "If he doesn't die like normal humans do, then—"

Phil's smile faded. Slowly. And he cut him off. "We don't know."

Quackity blinked. "What do you mean you don't know!?"

Phil's voice didn't rise. Didn't shout. But the silence between his words chilled the air. "Quackity,. he said with a warning edge. "You seem to be forgetting something."

Quackity's mouth clamped shut.

Phil's gaze locked onto him like a predator watching its prey squirm.

"You're here because I let you be here. Because my son asked for it. Not because I trust you. Not because you've earned anything."

The room fell still.

"You'll speak when spoken to. You'll learn what I let you learn. Do you understand me?"

Quackity nodded quickly. His voice caught in his throat.

Phil's smile returned."Good."He turned to Tommy. "Escort him back to his room."

Tommy stood and walked to the door.

Quackity didn’t move. His fists sat clenched on his knees. He didn’t trust himself to speak. A part of him was annoyed; he needed that information; it would help him learn more about his targets. And he could finally leave. But he was being forced to wait?

He decided to follow Tommy; it seemed he had angered the crow too much already. So he left, getting farther and farther from the folder he desperately wanted.

They walked in silence.

Tommy didn’t talk this time, which Quackity appreciated. He couldn’t handle more words right now. His throat felt too tight, like a scream had dried up inside it and turned to stone.

The walk back to his room felt longer than before. Maybe it was the weight of the folder that wasn’t in his hands. Maybe it was the way Phil’s bird clicks still echoed in his skull like a trigger. Or maybe it was the burning reminder that even when he tried to belong—when he obeyed, when he passed their tests—it still wasn’t enough to earn his freedom.

Tommy finally stopped in front of his door and turned to look at him. His usual grin had softened into something quieter. “You did good, y’know," he said.

Quackity didn’t answer. He didn't want praise for actions he hadn't been proud of. Especially when such actions had been forced onto him.

Tommy shifted awkwardly on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dad doesn’t say stuff like that usually. Or at least not all the time. If he told you, you passed, he meant it. Doesn't mean he likes you yet, but it means you earned something."

Quackity looked at the floor.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Tommy blinked. "No, I just...thought you should know."

A beat passed. Then...

"Wilbur's always kind of a prick at first." Tommy added his tone lightening. "But you'll get used to him. He warms up eventually. He just—he doesn't like change."

Quackity felt like Tommy's words were nothing but him trying to come up with excuses for his brother. Wilbur obviously hated him. It was as simple as that. For what reason? He didn't know, but he didn't care to. He was going to get out of here. Whether they wanted him to or not.

"I'm not here to make friends." Quackity said flatly, a bit of anger slipping into his words.

Tommy blinked, shocked by the sudden hint of malice and annoyance.“I just mean—” Quackity looked away from the sad, confused look Tommy was giving him.

"What he says doesn't bother me. I'll—I'll warm up to him just like you said." The words spilled out of him quickly, so quickly he couldn't stop them. Something in him couldn't bare to see Tommy upset.

There was another pause. Then Tommy spoke up, quieter now. “Don't try anything. At least not now. If you mess up this early, then I can't protect you. Not from Techno. Not from Wilbur. But especially not from Phil."

The words left a sick feeling in his stomach.

Tommy knew. He knew how badly he wanted to be rid of this place. Phil must have known it too, the way he dangled freedom like bait. Just enough to make Quackity sit, obey, and listen like an obedient pet.

And Tommy, Tommy confused him more with every word.

If Quackity were to escape, would Tommy be the one helping him, or would he be the one snitching to Phil?

"So what?" Quackity muttered. "You're the good guy in all this?"

Tommy didn't smile this time. Just looked at him, eyes tired.

"I wish I was sometimes."

Then he turned and unlocked the door, holding it open.

“Goodnight, Big Q." He said, voice lighter, smile trying to return to normal.

Quackity hesitated to step through the door. It felt like the room had been waiting for him. Waiting to trap him in a golden cage once more. But he shoved it all down and stepped inside.

"Goodnight, Tommy," he answered. He watched as Tommy gave him one last sad little wave and shut the door.

The sound of the locks clicking into place was loud.der than it should have been.

The room was dark and cold. Exactly the way he left it. Like the walls had been waiting for him, eager to wrap around his lungs and squeeze. His footsteps echoed too loudly. The silence was worse now—after hearing laughter, seeing warmth. It left a sting in his chest.

He walked over to the bed and sat down slowly. He needed a moment. He needed everything to just stop—to give him time to process it all. But this place was determined to tear him apart.

His knuckles were bruised. He turned his hand over.

Just flesh.

Just weakness.

He was about to lay back against a pillow until he remembered he was in a suit. Expensive. Immaculate. He felt like the suit was already damaged by him simply wearing it. But still, he wanted to take great care of it. So he picked out a plain grey set of shorts and a blank shirt from the drawer. He made sure to fold the suit carefully, though he was hesitant to even keep touching it. He never had to care for something so extravagant and rich. He didn't know how to but he tried his best. He smoothed out the creases and set each piece gently on top of the dresser.

His body ached for rest. He changed clothes, turned off the light, and crawled into bed.

His avian instincts tugged at him—whispers to gather blankets and make a nest—but he shoved them down. Those feelings had no place here.

He lay in the dark staring at the ceiling.

One test done.

Who knew how many to go?

He didn’t know if he’d survive long enough to get that folder.

He didn’t know if freedom even existed anymore. Or if it was just another lie someone dangled in front of him to see how long he’d chase it.

Quackity turned to his side, wings aching beneath the restrainer.

He shut his eyes.

And hoped for a better day tomorrow.

Because that was all he could do.

Hope.