The twenty-sixth of September of the year 2020, better known as Saturday. Less than a week ago, three friendly rivals constructed a half-baked hulk of a White House. Now one lay lifeless at the bottom of the river, one withered away in the fiercest wilderness, and one sat in the pretty little cage he had made, too blind to see the bars.

Just before noon, four sharp knocks rattled the patched-up door of the Off-White House. A minute passed, and they came again, louder and more obnoxious.

"Karrrrrlossssss!" Quackity hollered from his bedroom, deep into a preening job. "Karlos Jacobos, abre la puerta!"

"He's on vacation," Schlatt droned from the bathroom down the hall, trimming his beard. "Wonder why you slept in this morning? He's taking Tubbo's measurements so we can get him his own little suit. You answer the door, Duckie."

Ignoring this last part, Quackity threw a shirt on and swooped to the door, but it had already fallen off its hinges thanks to the heavy rapping. There stood Punz, tapping his foot. "The borders are quiet and the commodities are secured," was all he said.

"Good to know." What borders? What commodities?

Quackity motioned for Punz's dismissal. Instead of leaving, a smile crept upon the mercenary's mouth as he stared down the little vice president.

"Oh, right." Quackity grumbled down the hall to the White House treasury. The corridor felt more menacing than usual; maybe a few candlesticks were missing? He scrounged up an unwieldy amount of emeralds from the treasury chest. These he took back to Punz, who at last freed him from his wintry presence.

"Do you know that guy, Pres?" Quackity called.

"Nothing besides business," Schlatt called back. "Do you?"

"Just that he's...expensive."

Too true. Since Manberg's naming, Punz and Sapnap had acquired for themselves the roles of official presidential bodyguards and watchmen. Meaning, they paraded about, flashing their pretty swords and armor, and got paid for it, something not even poor Karl could boast. Best of all, President Schlatt had approved the construction of apartment buildings inside Manberg so they could work from home. The rest of the citizens had felt a tad exposed since the loss of the walls, so most favored the protection and accepted the watchmen. Not to mention those new apartments. The tollgate, never once used before to monitor visitors into the country and now made useless by the lack of walls, wallowed by itself beyond the trestle bridge.

All morning, the citizens toiled as they did every day, shoveling mountains of debris or building the apartment buildings or working on a huge hotel on the other side of the river. All except Niki (and probably Eret). So far, Niki had remained in her place in the sea cliffs. It was clear she had no intention of paying the fine, despite being one of the few people there with an actual working business. The bakery stayed open and folks could still order their stroopwafels and chocolate cream puffs, but for how much longer, no one knew. Sometimes Fundy haunted its premises, other times he purposely avoided it. As if he was trying to suck it up to both Niki and Schlatt.

One day, as Quackity ambled through the plaza, acting like he had things to do, who should come sauntering up from the bakery but Karl, squeezing an armful of goodies, though it wasn't his lunch break. "Yo, Karl!" Quackity bounded up to him, and he almost dropped it all. "Evading your valet duties, huh? To visit the nice baker lady?" He tried to sound playful. "What did you two conspire about?"

Karl laughed it off. "What, I don't conspire!" No kidding.

Quackity edged closer. "So you agree with everything Pres has been doing around here?" He interrogated himself more than Karl. He didn't really suspect Karl. Really, what would Karl do?

Sweat rolled down Karl's neck into the depths of his hoodie. "Maybe not everything-everything, but he's the ruling power who was put into charge, so I will do as he says so long as, so long as–"

So long as...?

"So how long was Tubbo's arm? Or should I say, how short." J. Schlatt appeared out of nowhere. Ever since the tower incident, Quackity stiffened whenever he saw him, and chastised himself for it.

"Oh, good morning, Mr. President!" Karl waved, dropping a basket of rolls. "Yeah, as for the measuring, I couldn't find Mr. Tubbo, so I've been working on financing, and, uh," he looked down at the goodies, "shopping."

"What do you mean, you couldn't find him? I need that guy. Where has he been?"

"Uhhh, bees...?"

This was Quackity's moment. He stepped in front of Karl, upright and excellent before his superior. "Pres, whatever you need Tubbo for, I'm here to carry out your wishes!"

Schlatt's dark eyes gleamed. "Hey, good idea! Why don't you go and tell someone to look for my right-hand man Tubbo."

The duck-boy wilted. "Yes...yes, Pres. Karl?"

"On it!" Karl scurried away, baked goods and all, leaving a trail of appleflaps after him.

"And then fix our front door!" Quackity called, ultimately unheard. He glanced at Schlatt, who was still staring at him. No, something behind him. Quackity avoided his gaze, drawing his wings closer to his body.

An autumn breeze sailed past the president and his vice president in the middle of the cobblestone plaza. A leftover flier from the election rode upon it, swept down, and caught under Quackity's foot. He stared down at it, at the bold letters leering back at him:

Vote SWAG 2020

President Quackity and Vice President George

Why choose those who reject you when you can be free?

For some reason, Quackity found himself angered by the slogan. He kicked the paper away.

"Where do you suppose that boy is?" Schlatt pondered.

Quackity looked up from the ground. "Tubbo? I mean, I dunno."

"We haven't seen him for hours. I don't suppose he's–" Schlatt's voice lowered, "Do you think he's a spy, Vice?"

"Spy?!" Quackity exclaimed. Schlatt's expression hardened. "Spy f-for who? Wilbur and Tommy are gone!"

"Did we ever find their bodies?"

Quackity swallowed. Why do I feel guilty? I'm Schlatt's loyal subordinate. His heir, his...left-hand man.

"It's chilly out here," Schlatt decided. "Let's go back inside."

So they turned, coming face-to-face with a bee boi startled out of his socks. "H-Hey, Mr. President! And VP," he warbled. "What's up guys?"

All was right in the world after all. Schlatt gave the kid a sunny slap on the back, making a suspicious twig fall out of his hair. "Hey, Tubbo! How you doin'? I just wanna make sure everything's going to plan. I haven't seen you around lately, so I'm, you know, just checking in on ya! 'Cause you are my right-hand man!"

"Yeah, yeah," Tubbo coughed. "I was just, you know, taking a stroll, reminiscing on past times."

"Reminiscing? Okay, I mean, that's fine."

"Yeah, I was thinking about the revolution...and what we accomplished..."

"That's fine." Schlatt continued nodding, albeit slower now. "There's a–a time and place for everything, but, Tubbo–"

"Yeah?"

The dark side of his voice took the wheel. "You are on the clock and so I expect you to carry out your duties as secretary of state. And those duties do not include reminiscing."

"Sorry, sir. I–I wait on your command."

"Good, good!" Bright and sunny again. "That's what I like to hear! Now then, about going to Tommy's place."

Tubbo seized up so suddenly, he vibrated. "T-Tommy's place? Who said anything about going to Tommy's place?"

Schlatt didn't seem to notice. "That's just it. For the secret service reasons, we need to go check out Tommy's house. You know, the one just west of here. We don't know what that man has–ahem–had."

Tubbo visibly relaxed.

"He could have some stuff stashed away, that's true," commented Quackity, wanting to get in on the important stuff.

"Don't you think that would be a bit disrespectful?" Tubbo tried. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground.

"To what?" Schlatt began to mooch about the plaza. Quackity trailed him. "To a fugitive?"

"No, to L'Man–to Manberg's embassy."

Quackity stopped. "Wait, what? Embassy?"

"Tommy's house is this country's embassy." Tubbo pursed his lips and waited for the president's reaction.

But Schlatt just shrugged. "You can look through it regardless. I mean, if it's the embassy, technically it's mine now, right? Loot out whatever treasures you find. They'll do no good to rot."

Tubbo should've hopped to it right there and there, but he remained, tightening his little fists. It looked like it took him a lot of effort to say the next words. "I'm gonna be dead serious with you, man. I'm not sure...I'm really not sure that's the best idea. As your right-hand man, I want to be someone you can lean on. A voice of reason."

Schlatt chewed on his lip. "Okay..."

Tubbo squeaked the next part. "I really don't know if this is worth it, you know."

"You don't think it's worth it?" Schlatt's voice rose, sparking with wrath. "You don't think it's worth it?!"

"That's not what I said!" came Tubbo, all too frantic. "I'm sure what you have planned is amazing, but I just think the history might be more valuable to the people still." There's that history again.

"Oh yeah, I have big plans, Tubbo. I have big plans."

"Also the people's opinions of you. And your new presidency."

Schlatt actually considered this. "I guess...you know, I guess you do raise a good point. Yeah, you don't have to pillage it. Not yet, at least."

"Okay! Thank you, Schlatt. Thank you."

Quackity gawked at the two of them. Schlatt isn't a dictator as people have been saying. He hears out our concerns. Sometimes. It was all so confusing. Quackity didn't know what to think anymore.

But Schlatt was not finished yet. "Uh, Tubbo?"

"Yeah?"

"I have one more thing I–I wanna talk to you about."

"What? What's up, man?" inquired the perplexed Tubbo, rightly so.

Schlatt glanced about, looking very much uncomfortable. "You know, this is kind of awkward. And it's not a conversation I wish to have." He sighed, tediously. "I don't know, it's the strangest thing. It feels like–"

"Schlatt?" said Tubbo. "What are you doing, man? I'm kinda worried." Even Quackity was starting to sweat and he didn't know why.

Schlatt went on at his own dragging pace. "You–you know like when you're on a beach and you see a conch shell?"

Tubbo nodded, slowly. "Yeah, yeah."

"You know, you pick up a conch shell and put it up to your ear and you can, like, hear the sounds of the ocean?"

Tubbo's face beamed with beach-time memories. "Yeah! Yeah, I've done that!"

"Yeah, so it's like, the craziest thing. Whenever I get close to you," and Schlatt leaned agonizingly close to Tubbo, "it's kinda like one of those conch shells. I can almost hear–"

"Wait," said Quackity. "You can hear the ocean through Tubbo?"

"Well, no, not the ocean. But I can hear a bunch of...a bunch of whining toddlers."

Tubbo flushed. "Schlatt, that's–"

"A bunch of whining toddlers that are somehow upset with me? And the great things I'm doing for this nation? You tell me what is going on, Tubbo."

"All I suggested was that you just didn't tear–"

Schlatt's volume increased once more. "A bunch of whining, stupid little brats, Tubbo!"

Quackity stepped up. "Pres, don't you think–"

But his president blocked him out. "Tubbo, I see it with my own eyes! They work, mind you." He withdrew, allowing Tubbo to unwind. "But, I mean, you got to help with the rest of this stuff. You know you'd do anything I request of you, right? And if I hear one more peep–if I put my ear up to you like a conch shell and all these voices aren't just singing my praises, then we're gonna have another conversation. Do you understand, right-hand man?"

"Yes, I understand, Schlatt." Tubbo stood like a statue, fixed on Schlatt, yet betraying a glance or two at the vice president.

"And YOU!" The president whipped a pointing finger at Quackity. "Shut your whole face. Your stupid squawking hurts my ears."

Quackity recoiled, giggling, because it hurt so much.

Quackity gazed into the spinning world of his whiskey glass. He didn't like the taste of it at all, really. He didn't know why it'd taken him so long to finally realize that, and why he'd kept drinking it all the while.

How different everything looked. How empty it felt. Here in the biggest room of the Off-White House–the drawing room those Brits called it–Quackity gazed out the wall of glass into the night, Manberg's little lights flickering like dying torches. Something was missing from the room itself–maybe a framed painting or two? Or the tablecloth was an inch short? Or the president himself looked different.

Across the table, Schlatt licked the rim of his glass, leafing through a boring black book. "Looks like that wench hasn't paid off her fines. I say it's time we take action."

"But the sun hasn't come up yet," Quackity responded listlessly. "You said the deadline was the dawn of the twenty-seventh."

"Yes, and it's past midnight, so as far as house rules go, it's already the twenty-seventh." He tucked the book in his jacket, stood up, and stretched. "Cut the excuses and do what I tell you to do. Fly down to her pitiful cave and get her into the plaza."

Quackity should've jumped on this opportunity to prove himself. But he hesitated, held back by more than the thought of arresting a lone woman in the dead of night.

"What are you waiting for? Fly!"

It was that one word. Fly. Schlatt was watching him. He'd been watching him since before the inauguration.

Like everyone else. They never looked at me, just the wings. It's why my brothers and sisters dragged me up rooftops to push me off. It's why I had to fight so hard against those jerks at juvenile detention who wanted to hand me off to a research facility.

"Is something the matter?" Schlatt had become all too comfortable strumming on Quackity's nerves like a harp.

"I–" Quackity started, and bit his tongue. What was the best way to explain it? There was no best way. Schlatt is not like the others. He's my real family. All the walls have to come down. He lowered his head, so he wouldn't see Schlatt's expression. "I've been lying to you, Pres. I'm sorry, I–I can't fly. I never could." Silence. "I taught myself how to do everything: scrounge for crumbs, tailor my own clothes, avoid the bigger kids on the block, but never...fly. I don't know," he shrugged, wings tensing, sweat glazing his brow, "it just never happened and I don't think it ever will. I didn't want to tell anyone because, well, I didn't want to look weak. But that's why I'm telling you now! I am your loyal servant, and I–I promise I won't keep anything else from you." Quackity squeezed his eyes shut, feeling Schlatt's shadow descend upon him. "Honestly, I've considered cutting off these stupid wings. They serve only as a burden, reminding me that I'm not as good as I could be, as I should be."

A hand fell on his shoulder, making Quackity shudder. "Thank you, Vice," said the man before him. "Thank you for telling me. The way I see it, this only proves how strong you actually are."

Quackity raised his trembling gaze. He did not see the expected disapproval in his president's face, but rather something closer to pride. At least, that's what he hoped it was.

The bakery slumbered in the shade of the cliffsides, so tranquil, just in that one moment. Quackity's polished shoes tapped the cobblestones receding into grass and sand, down the hills up to the rocky walls leaning over the water. He halted in front of them, his watchmen on either side, hungry to do his bidding. "Drag her out," he said. "If she resists, do what you have to do."

Sapnap and Punz, in all their armor and equipment, marched up to that pretty little door. They didn't bother knocking; Sapnap kicked it once, kicked it twice. The delicate wood painted with dainty flowers shattered into a spray of shards. Sapnap and Punz charged inside. The crash of furniture. A scream. Then the two ruffians emerged, dragging a writhing Niki between them. She screamed, kicked, wearing little more than a nightgown, her strands of blond hair falling out of a high bun.

"Town square," ordered Quackity, voice betraying no feeling.

Niki stared at him, and what a bitterness flared in those wrathful brown eyes. "Quackity, you coward! You can't let that tyrant control you!"

"This is not the time to bad-mouth the emperor," Quackity growled. "If you know what's good for you, get on your knees and beg him for mercy."

"Like you?" she hissed. "He doesn't respect you. I have seen it. He pushed you off a tower because you're his plaything! He treats you like a circus animal–a caged bird!"

She kept shouting as Sapnap and Punz pulled her away, up the sandy banks, into the plaza at the foot of the podium. Quackity watched them go, and only now did he realize how hard he was breathing.

You're wrong. Schlatt is my president. Schlatt is my family. The only one I've ever had.

The guards tossed Niki into the center of the plaza like a wilted lily. The skirt of her champagne-colored nightgown rippled in a delicate circle around her. "All right, J. Schlatt," she seethed. "You said you wanted to talk."

Schlatt meandered atop the podium. "No, I didn't. Well, yeah, I did, but I changed my mind. I actually just wanted to arrest you. You look kinda cute right now."

"You will pay for this, I promise you."

"No, I'm pretty sure you are," he said nonchalantly. "As of now, your bakery, house, and everything in there belongs to me. Dodging gets you nowhere but a jail cell."

The commotion had awakened the citizens, and now a few came wandering over to see what it was all about. Ponk proudly sported his fuzzy, lemon-patterned pajamas, but most wore the same nasty clothes they always did.

"Niki? Niki!" Fundy, still putting on his revolutionist's coat, came hastening up the path to the plaza. Immediately, he whipped off the coat, and, shoving Sapnap aside, draped it over Niki's exposed shoulders. "Where's your decency?" he snapped, and Sapnap reddened.

"You never fail to disappoint me," said Schlatt, staring down at the fox-boy.

Fundy's ears quivered and he lifted his eyes to the podium, as if he hadn't seen Schlatt there until now. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, one moment it looks like you're on our side and cool and everything, and the next you're sticking up for treachery."

"Whatever did Niki do that you liken her to–to–"

"All right, tune in, fellas!" Schlatt whipped out the mic. "I want you to listen and look really hard. This little lady has failed to properly serve her country, preferring instead to ridicule it and its leaders (democratically-elected, might I remind you). We gave her the chance to make it all right, to pay her dues, but she shirked it, knowing very well what would happen today. So let me show you. This is what happens to dodgers, to insurgents, to those that promote treachery." And then he pointed directly at Sapnap of all people. "You. Show the thing."

Sapnap zoned out until he remembered. He disappeared into his half-built homestead, then emerged, now holding a metal stick on a handle, topped with two perpendicular strips of iron. Schlatt came down into the plaza, and Sapnap handed the menacing-looking article to him. Schlatt brandished it lovingly while everyone else hoped it wasn't what they thought it was. "Yes," he said, hugging the thing. "If anyone's curious, Subpoena over here makes custom branding irons. Last person to guess what the 'T' stands for is an idiot."

Something ignited inside Fundy. "Schlatt!" he exclaimed, fangs bared. "You wouldn't dare! I won't let you do it!"

Schlatt almost looked offended. "What, I'm not gonna put it on her face or anything. She's too pretty for that. I was thinking the back of the neck or something..."

"Lay one hand on her, and I'll–"

"You'll what? Bite it off? Isn't this the 'sticking up for treachery' I was just talking about?"

At last, true loyalties surfaced. Fundy stopped, clamped his teeth together and growled like a rabid dog. "It's not...we don't..."

"I actually object," Quackity peeped from an insignificant corner. "This might be going just a little too far, don't you think, Pres?"

But he was invisible to Schlatt. "So what will it be, Fondue? Loyalty or treachery? A good Manberg citizen, or another rebel? Anyone here know what happens to those people? Anyone wanna see?" Schlatt's gaze wandered across their bare faces. Fundy switched between the president and the girl on the cobblestone. The longer he dawdled, the more flustered he looked. Quackity felt bad for him.

Until Schlatt got impatient. "I don't have time for your indecisiveness." He caught Punz's eye and gestured–not to Niki, but to Fundy.

"Wait–no!" Fundy had no time to react before Punz struck him across the jaw with the hilt of his broadsword and kicked the fox-boy onto his knees. Niki started forward, but Sapnap held her fast.

"Keep him there," Schlatt ordered. "And you," he turned to Quackity, who wished he really was invisible, "if you would be so kind as to do the honor." And he extended the branding iron.

Quackity shimmied backwards. "Woah, hey, I'm–"

"You're what? Chicken?"

"Stop it, I just don't–"

"How about penguin?"

"That–doesn't make sense."

"Then ostrich? Emu? What's that other thing called? Kiwi?"

"What are you..." Then it hit him, what Schlatt was doing. Quackity pulled his president aside, hissing in his ear. "What are you doing? Why now? I thought you were proud of me for telling you."

Schlatt laughed and rolled his eyes. "What am I gonna do with you if you can't do anything I ask?" He spun the rod in his fingers, making Quackity flinch.

It's all right. Schlatt wouldn't harm me.

Except he's mocking me. No, it's my own fault for not being good enough.

"You don't really need to do this," whispered Quackity, feeling so many gazes cutting through his skin. "We don't need to hurt people."

"I don't think anyone taught you what discipline means." Schlatt forced the iron into Quackity's little hands. "Do what I do. First we heat it."

He guided Quackity into the kitchen, where the range was already simmering. Schlatt handed a pair of thick mitts to Quackity. The trembling duck-boy slid them on over his fingerless gloves. Schlatt then covered his vice president's hands with his own, and moved the iron into the fire. The rod seared until the end glazed a blinding orange. It hurt just to look at. The two re-entered the plaza, heading to where Fundy knelt.

"No, stop!" Niki cried before Sapnap clamped her mouth shut.

Punz forced Fundy's head down, knocking his hat onto the cobblestone. "I–I'm loyal to Manberg!" the fox-boy sobbed.

"Liar," droned Schlatt. He waited for Quackity to make his move.

Punz brushed Fundy's hair away from his neck. Quackity stared at it, Schlatt's hand keeping his own from shaking. His president's fingers tightened over his own, and he knew he didn't have much time until they had to reheat the iron again. So he brought it down, not blinking once as the scalding metal scorched Fundy's flesh. Everything else blacked out–Sapnap racing over to help Punz restrain the victim, Niki following to claw at the guards, only for them to swat her away like a paper doll. "Please refrain yourself, Miss Nihachu," he heard Punz say. Then there was Tubbo fetching a bucket of water, Schlatt laughing once again, and Fundy, poor Fundy, in all his agony.

Quackity backed away from everything, dazed. The iron clattered to the ground, sizzling. He'd never hurt someone like that before.

"All right, that's enough fun for me tonight," said President Schlatt, his gaze sweeping over to Niki's sobbing form. "Lucky you, I'll let you keep your pretty neck. Guards, take this girl to one of the towers! Lock her up!" He walked toward the podium, away from Fundy. "He can stay here. You're still a citizen, Fondue, but next time you wonder what that means, think about that mark on the back of your neck. You know, how much that hurt."

Sapnap and Punz forced Niki away, leaving the coat behind. Quackity vaguely noted that Sapnap was limping, though he didn't remember him limping before. Everyone cleared the plaza, all except the one man–the fox-boy–bowed on his hands and knees. Suffering alone.

Quackity couldn't sleep that night. Autumn moonlight flushed his room, blazing the castle mural in skeleton white, with not a curtain to shackle it. He hid his face beneath a wing. Where did the curtains go?

The next few days lumbered by. Quackity arose each morning with the sun and a headache, consumed whatever dubiously artful breakfast his valet prepared for him in a fog before going out into the town. He waved to the toiling citizens in his flashy suit and sunglasses, showed off his wings on Schlatt's goading, maybe ordered some folks about. He enjoyed only the nation's finest cuisines for lunch and dinner (ransacked from the bakery and whoever possessed decent farmland), and spent the evening in the drawing room, leisurely sipping a glass of liquor with his president. Everything I could ever want. Through it all, he couldn't help feeling like something was detestably off. Maybe it was the garish White House interior and its gradual chipping away. Maybe it was the fox-boy skulking shamefully through the streets. Or maybe it was the lonely woman locked in the western tower, weeping for her long-dead revolutionary.

He recalled Dream coming to pay visits, usually after the sun fell below the horizon. Punz would escort him to the White House, where President Schlatt welcomed the mysterious green man in for a drink. The two then locked themselves away in a secluded room for a private talk. At least, it would've been private had it not always ended in a shouting match. Despite the noise–and for all his eavesdropping–Quackity couldn't decipher the reason for their arguing, though he imagined it had to do with the expanding borders. Dream always left the country in a fit, never stopping to say hi to Sapnap.

Quackity craved time away from the emperor, something he wasn't supposed to have. He avoided most other citizens, especially George NotFound, someone he'd never forgive, even though that moron rarely visited Manberg. No, Quackity would rather spend his few spare minutes with Karl. The two of them would banter, in the deepest rooms of the Off-White House, a breath of laughter in this dark reverie of life. If Karl was busy, Quackity took walks in the countryside, though he could never go far before Punz came to retrieve him. Then he hid himself away in his room, where he'd do nothing but preen his useless feathers. At night, when he should've been sleeping, he'd keep preening until it hurt. Sometimes, while Schlatt was off getting "completely ripped," as he called it, in the underground gym that didn't exist, Quackity scrounged enough time by himself to try scribbling some lyrics, something he hadn't done in far too long.

Something to sing when there's too much to say,

About the nation that wrote its own name.

That wrote its own name? That made its own name? Wilbur was always better at this kind of thing. He also had a captivating voice that didn't send everyone into conniptions for him to shut up. No one would tell Wilbur to shut up. Not when he was the perfect man to lead the country.

No. He's dead. It's better this way. Everything is better.

Then why was Quackity now slipping out of the Off-White House in the dead of night? He could escape the mansion easily enough, finding the keys stashed just outside the scullery. He put on his sunglasses as he always did when he was outside, nighttime or otherwise, masked against a thousand demeaning stars. He found himself roaming toward Eret's western tower. The massive thing bowed over him while he crossed the trestle bridge. His feathers prickled as he recalled his recent fall from this very tower.

"Punz," he addressed the lone sentry, "you heard nothing, you saw nothing, and if anyone makes a stink about it later, I've got you covered." And Quackity handed a pouch, bursting with no less than ninety genuine emeralds: Quackity's life savings since his position as heir had gained him nothing in cash. Punz nodded and stepped aside, after handing him a pair of keys. Quackity could've done anything he wanted in that moment–murdered the prisoner, burned down the tower–and Punz wouldn't have lifted a finger. The truest of watchmen.

Eret should really think about installing stairs in this place, Quackity thought as he scaled the hundred-foot ladder inside the tower. The walls narrowed as he reached the first level. Then the second. Just a little higher, and he came up just below the topmost room. He twisted the key through the padlock, and pushed through the trapdoor.

He didn't see her off the bat, and for a moment he wondered if she'd escaped. It wasn't a bad prison cell: clean with just a few sticks of straw here and there around rough wooden furniture. It resembled a rustic, unfinished attic, what with the beams crisscrossing the walls and flat roof. Next to the slit of a window, sat Niki on a stool. A kind soul had provided her spare clothes, probably from her house. She now wore a knitted black sweater with many a sign of wear and repair over loose cotton pants and open-toed shoes. She didn't look at him, gazing at something so far off, it might not have existed. A notebook and a pencil lay on the ground beside her, words scribbled on the paper as though she had been writing.

"How's Fundy?" her monotone voice stabbed through the silence.

"Traitor to the country," he said without a thought.

"Which country?"

He glared through his sunglasses, though she wouldn't turn her head. "Manberg. It's a beautiful land open to everyone; all who come can live a prosperous and peaceful life." A liar's poem.

She waited, and he thought she'd never answer, when she said, "Funny as it is, I think you're more imprisoned than I, in so many ways."

"N-No," he stammered, trying hard to keep his cool. "I'm finally home. I'm not some pet like you say. I'm President Schlatt's loyal follower. I'm his heir, I'm the vice president, I'm–"

"And why are you the vice president?"

"Come again?"

She folded her arms on the window sill, rested her head on them. "How come J. Schlatt is the president and you are the vice president when you got twice as many votes as he did?"

"Well, Niki, that's because–look, we had an agreement. It was his idea. We flipped a coin and used that to determine who would be president. And I–I lost, so I'm vice president."

"The way I see it, he had you caged long before the inauguration. You lost the moment you agreed to flip that coin, the moment you decided to play by his rules."

The house always wins.

He had no comeback, because she was right. But he'd never admit it to her.

"Why are you here?" she murmured into her sleeves.

"I came...to let you go."

A pause, then, "You'd defy your president's orders? What happened to that loyal follower just moments before?"

He reached for his sunglasses, almost ripped the stupid things off and threw them away, but he didn't. Instead he carefully removed them and tucked them into his coat pocket for later use. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe he's not...who I thought he was. Schlatt, I mean. Maybe I threw myself at someone I didn't really know, and ended up trapping myself."

Then she turned around, her eyes met his, and he saw something like understanding in her face, as if she'd done very the same thing. What it was, he'd never know.

The night wouldn't last. Quackity urged Niki to leave with him, except she held back, and rightly so. He assured her, multiple times that he meant no harm, that he wouldn't have her dragged into the plaza a second time. And at last she agreed. Together, they sped down the ladders and fled past Punz, who didn't blink an eye. How many emeralds would I have to give him to buy my own freedom? Quackity shook the thought out of his head.

He ran his plan through Niki–that he'd take her to the eastern side of Manberg and she'd run from there, away from all other civilization–her best chance of safety at this point. They stole away into the mossy tunnel–the western Manberg exit–and paused there, to take a breather. Even as the town slept, it never felt hostile. Every light was a threat, especially the glow emanating from the White House's second floor. Not once did Quackity tear his gaze from it.

"All right, Niki, let's–"

But just then, something came over her, making her drift back toward the town, into the moonlight's field of vision.

"What are you–hide! Get out of view!" he hissed, yet still she lingered in plain sight on the path. He ran after her and almost tackled her, when he saw it too.

It looked like a serpent made of fire twisting around the flagpole. It climbed higher until it batted at the flag, playing with it before it finally leapt up and devoured it in a splash of sparks. The banner struggled, but what could it do in the end? Keep waving, blazing brighter than ever. Quackity had seen that painting before.

"No! Fundy, what have you done!" Niki screamed just before Quackity lunged at her and slapped his hand over her mouth.

Fundy glanced their way, but if he had heard her–which surely he must have–he ignored her. There the fox-boy stood at the foot of the great pole, fires smoldering in his eyes and on the torch in his hand. No more tacky revolutionist getup–his long black coat flapped in the fervid night, matched by his hat with golden decals. The expression on his illuminated face could only be described as undaunted, almost enthralled. "A new era is upon us!" he cried, his voice unfaltering for the first time. "There is no L'Manberg. Only, only Manberg." The mark of the traitor had only branded determination into the fox-boy, something Quackity felt slipping away from himself. Still, he thought he saw a glitter of anguish in those green eyes, but maybe it was just the lights.

Niki writhed and tossed in Quackity's grasp, and he let her go before she twisted his arms off. Only she didn't yell this time. She staggered two steps forward, as if mesmerized by the beacon of flame–as if it was Wilbur himself–then crumpled to her knees.

This is our chance! The perfect distraction. Quackity tried to pull her back again, but his hand slipped away upon seeing the grief beading on her eyelashes. Each one was a fiery orange. He'd never hear the unspoken words behind those tears.

"Listen." He didn't touch her, but whispered, "You have to go now. There's nothing but enemy bases to the west and south so you're gonna run east, around Manberg–" he felt like he was talking to nobody "–and you're gonna keep running through the woods until you can't see the eastern tower–"

"You're not sending the lady into the wilderness alone, are you?"

What now? Quackity turned around, and the imposing figure of a man blackened his view. One glance at the pretentious crown and the blindfold beneath it told him who it was.

"Eret?" Quackity sputtered. "Why aren't you in your castle?!"

"Why aren't you in yours?"

Don't you dare. I won't let you ruin everything.

Quackity lunged at Eret, senseless and weaponless. The taller man effortlessly spun him around into a chokehold. Quackity's arms, legs, and wings flapped about like an annoying bat. "You cretin! You shouldn't be allowed here!" Quackity gasped, no longer concerned about keeping undercover.

"Should've thought of that before you brought down the walls," said Eret. "Settle down, I'm not trying to stop you." When Quackity continued to squirm, Eret had no choice but to sweep his legs out from under him and slam him onto the ground. Eret left him as soon as he was down, approaching Niki's huddled form. "Are you okay?" he asked, his deep voice incredibly gentle. "It's a little ways to the embassy, but I can carry you if I need to. I'm sure you've been there before. We'll follow the railroad from the embassy, leading to a cottage where I guarantee you'll have a safe roof over a warm bed."

"You saw nothing, Eret. You saw nothing!" Quackity insisted, unable to find his feet or the sense in the situation–only his insufficiency in it all. Manberg's perfect little vice president had cracked. Stealing away in the dead of night to free a prisoner, then failing even in his misdeeds. Will it always be this way? Will I never be good enough?

Eret rose with Niki beside him, and she smeared the tears off her cheeks. "I saw a flicker of resolution today," Eret stated. "And it wasn't Fundy's." Then he took Niki's hand and raced with her into the night.

"Wait–" Quackity started up, but stumbled back upon the path, his flicker of resolution too weak to make a move. So he watched them go, longing to run after them, to fly, to join them in freedom. He stayed behind in his cage. And he didn't know why anymore.

When will we never need to ask why?

The flag smoldered like a massive torch, lighting up the town, bringing out the inhabitants, but, besides maybe Punz, no one had noticed the scene at the tunnel–at least Quackity hoped. Everyone was too distracted watching the fox-boy. Fundy threw his revolutionist garb upon the ground and burned that as well, making sure everyone could see him do it. Such a showy, unreserved scene. It made Quackity feel close to nauseous.

The vice president slithered back into the Off-White House, feeling like the letter "T" was branded into the back of his neck. Schlatt was most likely in the drawing room. Quackity simply needed to stay out of view and make it to his bedroom on the third floor. Chances were, Schlatt hadn't even seen the three at the tunnel; it was all situated at an awkward angle from the window, and Fundy should've been more interesting regardless. I'll come up with an alibi for Pres, but I don't need to tell him about Niki's escape, not right now. He'll find out with everyone else tomorrow morning, and no one will know it was me.

"That's not the Dutch fox-boy I branded, is it?" mused the president, standing at the drawing room window, his ever-present drink in one hand. The warm and wonderful furnishings were almost all stripped away, gutted, just like the treasury. The window pulsed red and orange in the flag's last agonized moments, colors spreading across the floor all the way to where Quackity tiptoed by. "What was his name? Fondue? Perhaps he deserves a promotion," Schlatt continued. "Don't you think so, too...Vice?"

Quackity froze. Schlatt didn't turn, content with talking to his fiery reflection.

"Y-Yes," stammered Quackity. "It looks like he's finally one of–one of us."

Even after his humiliation in the square, Fundy's the loyal follower. Everything I'm supposed to be.

"Where have you been all this time?" Schlatt's voice didn't sound suspicious or anything, rather light and airy, like bubbles in sparkling wine.

I should just tell him now. While he's in a good mood.

Quackity began, slowly. "I've been out there, investigating. You see, as it turns out...I've just been told Niki has escaped." No reaction from Schlatt. "I don't know how it happened. I–I searched the surrounding areas, but she's most likely far away now. If you want, we can send a search party to hunt her down."

In the torturous silence that followed, Quackity couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but await Schlatt's next action. A minute passed. Three. Only the glowing wisps of ash moved, drifting across the glass wall. Quackity decided to leave; as soon as he took the first step–

"Escaped?"

Quackity jumped. "Yes, Pres."

Schlatt then turned around, face unreadable. He placed his glass on the table, and then walked forward, staggering ever so slightly.

He's tipsy; that explains it. Esto será un juego de niños.

Quackity darted for the stairs, but Schlatt was faster. He grabbed Quackity not by the arm, not by the collar, but by the wing, and swung him around in the opposite direction. It was too easy–his weak wing muscles didn't stand a chance. "Why..." Schlatt rasped, "can't you do anything I ask of you?"

"I–" Quackity edged backwards, toward the giant window, floundering for words. "I definitely do what you ask. I'm your most loyal subject, Pres!"

Schlatt only chuckled at this, and slowly walked forward. Quackity desperately looked for a way out when Schlatt said: "You wanna know why you're the left-hand man?" This made Quackity stop. Schlatt noticed, and smiled wider. "Sure, I'll tell you. You see, I've got Tubbo in the spot where he can do all the official business–the important unimportant stuff. As for you..." already Quackity did not like where this was going, "that's a little more–" Schlatt winced; hand clenched over his heart, and Quackity wondered if he was in pain. "That's a little more personal. You see, I liked you by my side 'cause you made me look real cool. Like an exotic pet."

"Stop, please stop..." Quackity continued back, but still, Schlatt advanced.

"But that only goes so far. I had no choice but to give you the brooms and dustpans. The dirty work we don't like to talk about. You gotta earn your way around here, besides smiling for the cameras. 'Cause sometimes being the poster child doesn't work because..."

Quackity held his breath.

"Because it can't fly."

Then he slammed Quackity against the windows, elbow stabbing into his sternum. The glass rattled, reflected fire dancing upon Schlatt's crazed face. The stench of alcohol strangled the air. He stood so close, one of his horns grazed Quackity's cheek. Had the glass not been there, he might've pushed Quackity right off the edge, just as he had done on the tower.

"I'm sorry, Pres," Quackity whispered, as that was all he could do.

Then, softly, Schlatt laughed, or sobbed, Quackity couldn't tell: "I finally get one...and it can't fly!" His fist closed around a handful of feathers and he ripped them out in a moment of rage. They twirled to the floor, broken feathers with bloodied shafts.

I never wanted power. I never cared who won the election. I just wanted to belong.

I finally made into L'Manberg, into power, into a family. It hurt so much, but maybe it was supposed to.

Quackity found himself crumpled at the foot of the glass, clutching his face, his chest. He would wait it out, for his president to stop striking him. But things didn't get better.

This isn't what I wanted.

He never felt so helpless, never knew such loneliness. A forsaken child who'd wandered into the wrong home. Outside the fires crackled and laughed until there was nothing left to laugh at.

That is the sound of a nation dying,

When dying becomes its own work of art.

Something to weep for, something to drink for,

Something to haunt an exile's heart.

Something to sing when there's no more to say.

The nation that forgot its own name.

Wait 'till you hear the loyalist's cry:

Let colors burn! Let lilies sigh!

Clip all their wings and tell them to fly!

Never again will we need to ask why.

That was the day the walls came down,

And we finally saw the sky.

That was the day the walls came down,

And we finally saw the sky.

Froggy: Ma sœur a écrit ces deux derniers chapitres! Merci pour l'encouragement. :) (Et vous êtes bienvenue!)

And this is the last chapter of part 2 of Book 1! Keep an eye out for the beginning of the third part next week! Thank you all for sticking with us through this crazy journey - we hope you will still be here by the time we get to the last book!

Also, I have been editing past chapters more, so don't be surprised if some details have changed!

God bless,

Unicadia and VAERYS