Chapter Text
Quackity had been gone for too long... suspended somewhere between breath and oblivion, where time lost its edges and memory unraveled into nothing. Then it came back all at once. A violent, blinding light cut through the dark behind his eyelids, sharp enough to sting. A low hum followed, mechanical and constant, like something alive pretending not to be. Voices lingered at the edge of perception, muffled, distant, yet no one was speaking. The silence pressed in heavier than any sound ever could. There was pressure at his waist. Boots. Someone standing over him, unmoving, watching.
He tried to open his eyes. The moment he did, pain surged water rushed in, cold and invasive, forcing them shut again. It burned, like it didn’t belong there, like it was forcing its way into places it shouldn’t reach. His body lay half-submerged in shallow water, but it felt endless, suffocating, as though it could swallow him whole if he let it. The figure above him stood untouched, the water only brushing their thighs, steady and unaffected.
He tried again. This time, he didn’t flinch away.
Water flooded his vision, blurring everything into shifting shapes and fractured light. It stung, clawed, insisted but he forced himself to keep his eyes open, to focus, to see. The silhouette above him began to take form, slowly peeling itself out of the distortion, piece by piece, until
Clarity.
Wait. I’m in water.
The realization hit like a gunshot.
He surged upward, violently, lungs seizing as if they had forgotten how to work. Air or what little he could drag in, scraped down his throat, raw and burning. No, not just his throat. It was everywhere. His chest, his lungs, his veins—it felt like the water was still inside him, devouring him from the inside out. A cough tore through him, sudden and brutal. His hands flew to his throat, nails digging in, scratching, desperate to rip the feeling out of himself, to claw out whatever had been forced into him. Arms caught him from behind. Firm. Unyielding.
The figure pulled him back, forcing him to bend forward, steady pressure guiding him as more water spilled from his mouth in ragged, choking bursts. It went on longer than it should have, longer than made sense, until finally, his body stopped fighting itself.
All that remained was breath. Heavy. Shaking. Painfully real. He stayed hunched over, water clinging to his clothes, dripping, seeping into everything. His thoughts came slower, tangled, but one of them burned brighter than the rest.
Please. No. Not again.
Anything but this.
Anything but the federation.
Anything but being dragged back here, reduced to nothing more than a specimen, a body to be opened and studied and broken again. Death had been kinder. Death had been quiet. Ever since they brought him back to the island, that fear had rooted itself deep inside him, growing, festering, impossible to ignore. But then. Slowly, too slowly he lifted his head. At first, he thought the light was still playing tricks on him.
Then his stomach dropped. Because the face staring back at him was his own. Not just similar. Not close. But exact.
That same sharp grin, stretched just a little too wide. That same formal attire, pristine and deliberate. Every feature aligned perfectly, as if copied with obsessive precision. His posture mirrored Quackity’s in a way that felt wrong, uncanny—like a reflection that moved on its own. Even the hair fell the same way, every strand in place.
But it wasn’t him.
ElQuackity.
Something deeper twisted beneath the surface, something off in a way he couldn’t name. An absence, or maybe a presence that didn’t belong. The air around him felt heavier, wrong, like it carried something rotten just beneath the surface. The smile on the other’s face didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened. And suddenly, drowning didn’t seem like the worst thing that could happen to him anymore.
“No… fuck.. you’re dead.”
The words tore out of Quackity like something dragged up from deep underwater, raw and unwilling. His voice shook, thin and uneven, horror flickering openly in his eyes. Goosebumps rippled across his skin, sharp and sudden, every nerve on edge. He couldn’t tell if it was the cold water clinging to him or the presence in front of him—maybe both, tangled together into something unbearable.
Because this wasn’t possible.
It wasn’t.
“And who decided that?”
ElQuackity’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened, curling into something quieter, more deliberate—like he knew a joke no one else was allowed to hear. He crouched down slowly, controlled, until they were level, their faces far too close. Side by side, the resemblance became suffocating. Every detail matched. Every line. Every expression. Was just like a mirror... A mockery.
“Surely not you?” he added lightly, voice smooth, almost playful. Then he laughed—soft at first, but hollow underneath, like it echoed from somewhere it shouldn’t. “Oh, Alexis…”
The name rolled off his tongue with unsettling familiarity, like he had every right to say it. Like it belonged to him just as much.
“No one decided I would die.”
His gaze sharpened, something colder slipping through the cracks of that perfect expression.
“I disappeared, yes…” he continued, tilting his head ever so slightly, studying him like a scientist rather than a brother. “…but I didn’t die.”
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Even the water stilled around them, heavy and watching.
And up close, too close. Quackity could see it. That subtle wrongness beneath the surface. Not in the face, not in the body, but in the way he existed. Like something wearing him. Like something that had learned every movement, every expression, except the parts that made him human.
The smile stayed. Unblinking. Waiting.
Quackity forced himself up before the words could sink any deeper, before that voice could coil any tighter around his mind. His legs betrayed him instantly... weak, trembling, barely holding his weight—but stopping wasn’t an option. Not here. Not with him behind him.
He staggered forward anyway.
Each step felt wrong, like his body had forgotten how to move properly. His hip screamed in protest, a dull, throbbing ache that flared sharper every time he put pressure on it. His hand flew to it instinctively, gripping tight as if he could hold himself together through sheer force. The other reached out blindly, catching on anything... walls, edges, air. Just anything that could keep him upright for just a second longer.
He didn’t dare look back. If he did, he knew he wouldn’t move again.
Water dragged at him with every step, clothes heavy, clinging, pulling him down like it wanted him back where he started. Like it remembered him. Like it refused to let go so easily. His breathing came in uneven bursts, sharp and panicked, each inhale scraping his throat raw, each exhale shaking out of him like something breaking apart.
Just a little longer. The thought looped, fragile, desperate. Ahead, there was the door.
Blurry at first, warped through water and exhaustion, but real. Solid. An exit. A promise.
He locked onto it like it was the only thing left in the world.
His fingers brushed against the wall beside it, slipping before finally catching hold. He leaned into it, nearly collapsing, vision flickering at the edges. Black crept in, slow and suffocating, but he forced himself forward anyway, dragging what little strength he had left through his limbs.
Anything was better than turning around.
Anything was better than staying.
He almost made it. The door was right there, so close it felt like reality was finally giving him a way out, his fingers scraping the wall as he forced himself forward through shaking breath and collapsing strength. Then everything shattered in an instant as impact ripped through him and he was thrown across the room like he weighed nothing at all, crashing face-first into the ground hard enough to knock the air clean out of his lungs.
Pain flared instantly, sharp and invasive, and for a second his body just refused to understand what had happened. He tried to move, tried to turn his head, tried to orient himself toward the threat behind him, but his movements were slow, broken, already failing him.
His hand went to his nose on instinct, aching and warm, while the other clawed weakly against the floor like it could somehow pull him back into control. Then a grip locked onto the back of his neck and everything went still for a fraction of a second before he was yanked up and slammed forward, his face colliding with the glass of a nearby aquarium.
The impact rang through his skull, disorienting and sickening, water and movement blurring behind the surface as fish scattered in panic like they could sense something wrong in him too.
He pressed his hands against the glass, trying to push away, trying to breathe, but his breath came out uneven and broken, fogging the surface in desperate bursts while darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. That sound came back again, low and wrong, crawling into his ears like it belonged there even though nothing about it should.
Then he was pulled away again, suddenly, violently, and air hit his lungs too fast as his body completely gave out, strength draining in an instant like someone had cut the thread holding him together. He collapsed forward but didn’t hit the ground because ElQuackity caught him as if it was expected, as if this was always how it was going to end, holding him upright while Quackity hung there limp and unresponsive, his legs dragging uselessly beneath him with no real control left.
He was moved then, gently but completely without choice, arranged into a position that resembled a dance like his body was something that could still be shaped into meaning. His arms hung under ElQuackity’s, his posture slack, swaying faintly as he was guided step by step without resistance, without weight in his decisions anymore. The world narrowed until there was nothing but motion he didn’t choose and breath he could barely keep hold of. The faint music in the distance grew clearer, closer, as if it had been waiting for this exact moment to finally arrive. ElQuackity hummed along softly, almost tenderly, like this was something familiar and rehearsed and right.
And Quackity, drifting at the edge of consciousness, could only exist inside the movements forced through him, unable to stop it, unable to escape it, unable to be anything other than something being led.
“You know” he said, continuing to move them both through the rhythm like it was the most natural thing in the world, “I’ve been watching you for a month… ha, maybe longer. Your behavior, your relationships, your reactions, your life. And you know what? I kinda want. I want to take it all away from you.” ElQuackity spoke with an eerie calm, voice smooth and almost peaceful, eyes closed as if he didn’t even need to look to control every step, letting himself be carried by a one-sided dance that Quackity had no power to refuse.
Quackity’s breath hitched, his body barely holding itself together as he was forced to follow, every movement dragged out of him like he was something borrowed, something temporary. His vision flickered, anger and exhaustion mixing into something unstable, something raw. He tried to lift his head, to meet him, to resist even in the smallest way, but it barely worked.
“Eat shit.”
The words came out broken, hoarse, almost swallowed by exhaustion, but there was still something in them, something sharp, defiant, refusing to disappear even now. For a second, the rhythm didn’t change, ElQuackity still guiding him effortlessly, still calm, still composed, like the insult didn’t matter at all. But the air between them shifted anyway, subtle, like a crack forming in something too carefully maintained. And Quackity, still dragged through every step, held onto that one fragile piece of resistance like it was the only thing left that belonged entirely to him.
“Yeah… I expected that. But you know, I don’t need your permission.” ElQuackity laughed softly, like it was all just another step in a routine only he understood. The dance stopped mid-motion, the rhythm dying in an instant, leaving only silence and tension hanging between them. Quackity’s head slowly lifted despite everything, his body trembling, lips shaking as his hands clutched tightly at his brother’s clothes like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to reality. His breath hitched, uneven and fragile, eyes wide with something between disbelief and fear that hadn’t fully formed into words yet.
Then it happened.
“Fuck!” Quackity choked out, the word breaking apart in pain as his gaze dropped. There was a blade, already there, already buried deep enough that his mind didn’t even register when it had arrived. It sat too cleanly, too precisely, like it had always been meant to be there. The realization didn’t come first, the pain did, sharp and consuming, flooding his body in waves that stole everything else from him. ElQuackity’s hand tightened around the hilt again, and instead of hesitation, there was repetition. He pulled it out, and drove it back in. Again. And again. Each motion controlled, deliberate, almost methodical, as if he was correcting something that hadn’t been done properly the first time. Quackity’s grip on him weakened with every movement until there was nothing left but weight, collapsing forward into the ground as the fight drained out of him completely.
Silence settled in after that. Not peaceful. Just empty.
ElQuackity stood over him, knife still in hand, breathing uneven now. His movements slowed, no longer precise, no longer controlled. The blade hung loosely between his fingers as if he had forgotten what to do with it. Then, almost absentmindedly, he wiped at his face with his sleeve. His hand came away wet.
He didn’t know when he started crying.
It didn’t feel clean enough to be grief. Not sharp enough to be guilt either. Anger flickered somewhere under it, tangled and unresolved, burning without direction. And maybe something worse than all of it combined, something quiet, almost gentle in a twisted way. Not happiness exactly. Not satisfaction either. Something hollow that mimicked both when looked at from the wrong angle.
Above the still body on the floor, ElQuackity stood frozen, knife lowered now, as if even he couldn’t decide what part of himself had just been speaking through him.
Minutes, maybe hours passed like the island itself forgot how to measure time. Quackity’s body stayed where it fell, unmoving, abandoned to the cold floor as if it had simply been set aside and no longer mattered. In the same building, ElQuackity moved with unsettling calm, as though nothing had truly ended—only shifted into a different scene.
He stood before a mirror, washing off the remnants of what had just happened, adjusting his appearance with careful precision. His hair was fixed, his clothes straightened, his yellow wings arranged more neatly than before, as if even chaos could be corrected with enough patience. He stared at his reflection for a long moment, silent, searching, until something in his expression settled. A smile formed—small at first, then steady, confident, almost satisfied, like he had reached a conclusion only he could understand.
When he finally left the Federation building, the island felt different under his steps, or maybe it was just him. He moved freely, almost lightly, as if weight no longer applied the same way to him. He wandered without urgency, almost playful, jumping slightly as he walked, smiling to himself for reasons that never needed explaining. At some point, he stopped long enough to leave marks on the world—graffiti painted across Żabka, bright and careless, like a signature carved into reality just because he could.
Then a voice cut through it.
“Quackity? Long time no see! Glad you’re here...” he said.
He didn’t turn immediately. Instead, he looked at the graffiti once more, as if finishing a thought, and slowly set the spray can down. Silence stretched for a moment, thin and deliberate. Then he turned.
A smile was already waiting on his face. Different now. More stable. More certain.
“Multi.”