Poplar St. (OFFICIAL WATTPAD UPLOAD)

A Metaphorical Omelette

Quackity spent the rest of the day sulking in the guest room.

Unfortunately, there was nothing to do in there, and he was starting to get antsy.

He growled, pacing irritably. He had to get away from here, somehow, but knowing Phil, he'd probably track him down.

"Stupid," Quackity hissed to himself, shoving his hands under his beanie and gripping his hair in frustration. "Stupid stupid stupid."

Well, if he wasn't dying just yet, he might as well get that damn book from Dream, Quackity decided. If he was going to hell, he definitely didn't want to share it with... him.

And as if the mere thought of the bastard had summoned him—

"Aww, would you look at that, you got yourself trapped by an old man and that Piglin freak. Thought you were better than this, sugar pumpkin."

Quackity whipped around, instinctual panic making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and then he growled, the terror fading as familiar, bitter rage welled up to take its place.

Schlatt was leaning casually against the wall next to the door with a sickening smirk on his face.

He didn't look much different from when he was alive, really, except that his spectral form was as monochrome grey as a thunderhead like Ghostbur—being dead apparently sucked all the color out of you—and blood oozed from his mouth and nose and ears. His irises glowed a sickly white, and the sight of how Schlatt's head tilted awkwardly from the uneven weight of his damaged right horn—which had been broken off not far from the base—made Quackity smirk in bitter satisfaction.

The memory of tearing that horn off Schlatt's head and driving it into his throat before he'd defected to Pogtopia was certainly a fond one.

"The hell do you want?" Quackity spat.

"Where's the book?" Schlatt demanded.

Quackity snarled.

Schlatt's eyes narrowed threateningly.

"Keep your fucking mouth shut," Quackity snapped, ignoring the fear prickling up his spine. "I'll get you the damn book, just fuck off."

He wasn't actually planning to use the Revive Book to bring Schlatt back when he got it, though. Once he pried the old tome from Dream's bruised, bloody hands, he'd use the magic to get rid of Schlatt's spirit permanently, and he'd feel real fucking good about it.

"Better make it quick, sugar," Schlatt scoffed, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one. "You know, I liked having Dream on my side because he's a real game-changer. A... well, the best word for it is that he's a real harbinger of chaos, baby. He's willing to do what's necessary. He'll raise hell to get what he wants, and I have to admit, I admire him for it."

"Get out of here," Quackity growled, and his feathers puffed up, despite the pain. "Now."

Schlatt just laughed.

"You know, I know things about you," he remarked. "Like how Dream hasn't caved."

"Look," Quackity hissed, whipping around and flaring his wings (which made him grimace). "I'm doing everything I can, but that obstinate green fuck's a stubborn bastard. I'll rip it out of his cold, dead hands if I have to, but I need time."

Schlatt smirked, taking a drag on his cigarette and blowing out a puff of smoke. "And that's something that you don't have, sugar pumpkin."

"Oh?" Quackity sneered.

"There's a storm coming, and you're gonna be in the center of it, Quackity," Schlatt remarked. "You know why I agreed to work with you during the election? You have potential, and with what's gonna be at stake after tonight, you won't wanna waste it."