Poplar St. (OFFICIAL WATTPAD UPLOAD)

Old Weapons, Older Legends

"Here's the autopsy results," Ponk said, still in his blood-stained medical smock as he handed a paper to Tubbo. "They're... well, they're very odd."

Quackity felt numb.

He felt like somebody had replaced his bones with blocks of lead, and every ounce of him wanted to scream and sob with guilt and rage but there was none, and that terrified him.

He didn't feel guilty, he thought, staring dully at his hands as he sat in the meeting room with the others, minus Wilbur who'd ran off somewhere after the fighting had died down and he'd elected Tubbo as L'Manberg's new president (which had certainly struck everyone as odd).

Quackity felt good about what he'd done today.

Happy. Fucking overjoyed. He'd do it again in a goddamn heartbeat if he got the opportunity.

That made him feel sick.

"Heart attack," he heard Tubbo huff. "Heh, I had a feeling that the bastard would do enough drugs that his heart would give out eventually."

"Well, that's the odd bit," Ponk said. "Schlatt has no history of heart conditions in his family, and despite his... habits, there was not nearly enough cocaine, alcohol, or heroin in his system at the time of his death to cause heart failure. Then I noticed the hemorrhaging of his other organs, and even his brain. The only thing I could think of was that he'd been poisoned, but there was no trace of anything to cause his symptoms in his blood. It was like his organs just... popped, literally. Like a balloon put under too much pressure."

"So what you're saying is that we have no idea what killed him?" Tubbo demanded.

Ponk scowled. "Do heart attacks make people bleed from every orifice in their head and foam at the mouth before drowning in their own blood?"

Discontented murmuring filled the room.

Tubbo blinked.

Quackity felt like he was going to throw up.

He could still hear the residual ringing, the red film of rage covering his eyes as Schlatt taunted him and laughed and called him a fucking whore and a slut and then the man was frozen in place, twitching violently and clutching his chest as he choked on his own saliva.

Quackity remembered staring him down, shaking with rage, a dull roar like distant ocean waves rumbling in his ears.

He hadn't realized he'd been doing it. By the time he did, Schlatt was gurgling and shuddering violently, eyes wide with fear as blood started to pour out his nose and ears and his already foaming mouth, and in a daze of vicious, twisted glee at finally getting his revenge, Quackity had pushed past the breaking point without a moment's hesitation.

It had felt good, feeling Schlatt's veins popping, his arteries and ventricles bursting under the pressure of his vengeance—

—He jolted awake in a cold sweat.

Quackity groaned.

He felt like his mouth was full of cotton balls.

He grimaced, licking his lips. Honestly, this wasn't surprising. He always felt out of whack after not tapping into his powers for a while, and the last time he'd used them was the attack on Manberg, when he'd...

Quackity shuddered

"Don't think about it," he muttered to himself, massaging his temples, but the image of Schlatt twitching on the floor of the van with a disgusting froth of blood and saliva pooling next to his open mouth and the horrified looks from the others was burned into his mind like a cattle brand.