Chapter Text
Quackity doesn’t wake up until noon on a good day. Part of it comes from his crippling insomnia and part of it comes from the copious amounts of drugs and alcohol that haunt his nights. When Quackity does wake up, generally well into the afternoon, he does not learn anything from his mistakes the night before. He groans at the ceiling some mornings. Screams into his pillow others. Eventually, Quackity will drag himself out of a bed where the sheets hadn’t been changed in months, smelling like he’d gone dumpster diving, and instead of making any attempt to fix these things, he’d proceed to stumble down the stairs and find the nearest illegal substance to drown out the pounding headache behind his eyes.
Today is a screaming day. Quackity gulps a greedy breath after a minute, having briefly contemplated just suffocating in the pillow this morning. Afternoon. Whatever. He’d spent too long with his face buried in fabric and feather down. His lungs f*cking hated him as it was. The pleasant burn of oxygen deprivation certainly wasn’t helping his case, and Quackity begrudgingly chose not to kill himself just yet. Instead he sat up. Pain shot up his spine from god knows what he’d done the night before. It’s unpleasant, unwelcomed, and Quackity digs the palms of his hand into sleep blurred eyes like his first instinct wasn’t to knock himself out again. He’d already concussed himself last week. It wouldn’t be smart to do it again so soon.
“Good morning, sleeping beauty!”
“No,” Quackity groans. “Shut up.”
“It is three ‘o clock in the afternoon. We were starting to think you’d died.”
Wilbur chuckles from the opposite side of his bed. Quackity continues to impress upon his eyelids as if that would get rid of the two men in his room. It wouldn’t. He knew, but he tried every day anyway.
“You gonna get up at some point?” Schlatt continues. “Your boss is in the living room.”
Quackity’s eyes shoot open at that and he hissed out a quiet, “What?”
Schlatt has a stick of beef jerky in his hand. Where he gets them from is beyond Quackity, and it didn’t matter enough to ask. All Quackity cared about was how annoyed he got every time Schlatt bit off a piece and chewed instead of making himself useful. Case in point, he doesn’t elaborate at all. Just shrugs like Quackity could figure it out himself and, yeah, he could, but it would be easier if either of his squatters could be helpful once in a while. Rather than waste time prodding Schlatt, Quackity shoves the blankets aside and stumbles to his feet. He’s acutely aware of how trashy he looks in an oversized shirt, sweatpants, and slippers, but the way he saw it, you can’t be picky about presentation if you’re breaking into someone’s house.
Someone with manners might have stopped by the bathroom to straighten up or swipe some deodorant on. That wasn’t Quackity. Quackity made one stop and it was to the dresser where he’d tossed his cigarettes the night before. He lights up and takes the stairs two at a time. Wilbur meets him at the bottom, mock frowning at the cigarette, the brand of which he’d directly suggested to Quackity, and says, “You probably shouldn’t smoke so much, darling. Cancer kills.”
“So does idiocy,” Quackity mumbles, taking the corner too quickly and adding another bruise to the mural on his shoulders. As Schlatt had said, Sam was there in his living room, looking around and trying uselessly to keep the concern off his face. It only gets stronger when he catches sight of Quackity although he’s quick to paste on a smile. Quackity had to hand it to him. Sam kept it there even as Quackity bit out, “Why the f*ck are you in my house again?”
“You weren’t answering your phone,” Sam answers as if that perfectly justifies breaking in. Knowing Sam, he probably thought it did.
He’s not going to bother pointing out all the other things Sam could’ve tried before B&E. It’s a waste to make small talk. Instead, Quackity drops unceremoniously onto his couch; a ratty thing with several holes that he’d lugged home while drunk from some curb. He doesn’t bother opening a window or waving away the smoke quickly surrounding them. Quackity had disabled the smoke alarms pretty much immediately upon buying the place. He could smoke where he liked and if Sam had an issue with it, well, he could get the f*ck out then, couldn’t he? In fact, Quackity would prefer that. It’s why he goes straight for, “What do you want, Sam?”
It’s fortunate that Sam is as familiar with Quackity as Quackity is with him. He sits hesitantly in a bright white arm chair stained all kinds of odd colors and says, “We need a consult.”
Quackity whines something unintelligible.
“I know,” Sam sighs, “but we’re desperate. It’s a direct request from the captain, so you can’t really turn me down.”
At Quackity’s disgruntled look, Sam tosses him a stack of files. He fumbles the catch. Drops them pretty recklessly onto the couch and cautiously opens the folder on top. The words swim on the page, refusing to come into focus despite Quackity’s being awake for five whole minutes now. The lingering sleep in his eyes fights back and he drops it closed just as quick as he’d opened it. Sam shakes his head, something fond on his face when he adds, “cheer up! It’s a serial killer. You love those.”
“Oh, I do love a good serial killer,” Wilbur hums, leaning over the back of the couch to get any peak he could of the files. “Ask him what their fun little thing is. All serial killers have one.”
Quackity does not do that. He just sighs and asks, “When do you need me?”
“ASAP?” Despite the sheepish smile on Sam’s face, Quackity felt murderous. “Think you can be ready in five?”
“You’re f*cking kidding.”
Which he wasn’t. Quackity winds up in the passenger seat of Sam’s squad car way sooner than he’d wanted to. A light duffel bag of overnight sh*t sits between his legs making the ride both uncomfortable and unfixable for the still aching Quackity. He’d blown through another two cigarettes already and it was becoming not enough. Sam always pulled this sh*t. You’d think he’d expect it by now, but Quackity still managed to be surprised every time the deputy broke in and dragged him into an investigation the police were too stupid to solve. It was made worse by the fact that Sam was right. He couldn’t even turn them down. It was technically a violation of his parole and while this sucked, jail sucked more.
Wilbur and Schlatt weren’t helping either. Quackity wished they were alive so he could f*cking throttle them. The pair idled in Sam’s backseat, chattering on about everything under the sun. It was all they ever did. Talk and talk and talk. Quackity could humor them on a good day or under the influence. Today, he wanted nothing more than to commit re-murder of his constant companions. Sam had no doubt noticed the asynchronous twitch of Quackity’s fingers or the tight set of his jaw. He’d refrained from pushing conversation because of it. One small blessing in an otherwise sh*t Thursday. Quackity was pissed enough just having Wilbur trying to drag him into ispy of all things. Any prompting from Sam and he was throwing himself out of the moving vehicle.
“Uh oh,” Schlatt comments. “Downtown Manberg. That’s never good.”
Quackity doesn’t acknowledge that. He’d realized where they were headed as soon as the Manberg sign came into view. Downtown was crime central. Of course their serial killer would take them here, and Quackity was half tempted to remind Schlatt that he’d grown up in Downtown Manberg. Wilbur beat him to it.
“You ever piss in these alleys, Schlatt?”
“Oh yeah, most of ‘em.”
Quackity massages his temples in vain. His fourth cigarette is quickly leaving him behind and Quackity was not above propositioning Sam to steal him something stronger from the evidence room. It would probably make him even more pathetic in Sam’s eyes, but Quackity’s pride had checked out years ago. He didn’t give a sh*t about people’s opinions so long as he didn’t have to stay sober longer than an hour at a time.
Wilbur lets out a low whistle, followed by a tight, “yikes.”
And Quackity is smart enough to keep his eyes on the dashboard and not the windows. Being sober comes with the unfortunate downside of seeing way too clearly. Wilbur had no doubt spotted some particularly grim specter on the streets and Quackity wasn’t awake enough to deal with that right now. He’d kept his gaze trained on his shoes, or his bag, or just the backs of his eyelids the entire forty minute drive just to avoid the inevitable. He doesn’t plan on changing that anytime soon either. Not even as Sam warns him that they’re pulling onto the scene. He still hasn’t opened the case files. Hasn’t so much as asked for a summary because Quackity really didn’t give a sh*t. He was only here because he had to be and no doubt the victim would be waiting to tell him all about it anyway.
His refusal to look up continues even as Sam parks and slides out of the car. Quackity doesn’t follow immediately. He sits in a quiet irritation in a silent car as Sam goes about briefing the people on scene for Quackity’s presence. It was an important part of their routine. Most of the police force knew Quackity by now, but there were always new faces when he came around. It was important for Sam to warn them about the crackhead he’d be dragging around for a bit, assuring his colleagues that the crackhead would actually, eventually help them solve their case. They never really believed him at first and Quackity couldn’t blame them. He was nothing impressive.
He hadn’t changed before they left. Hadn’t washed his face or brushed his teeth, just pulled his beanie tighter to his head, threw on some sunglasses, and grabbed the to-go bag that he kept by the door. Sam had made him go back for deodorant at least. He still smelled more like a smoke shop than anything else, but Sam had seemed satisfied, so Quackity was too. He sneakers were white at one point, now a dirty mess of browns that Quackity kept swearing he’d clean. Sam hated them. Wilbur did too, but Quackity refused to buy new shoes when these ones didn’t have a single hole in them. Schlatt was on his side for that one. At least he understood Quackity’s scarcity issues and the need to hoard.
“Can we read the case now?” Wilbur pouts, appearing in Sam’s seat now that it was vacant. “I wanna know more about the serial killer.”
“I can’t read.”
Schlatt snorts and Quackity continues to stare deadpan at the dashboard.
“Fine, you don’t have to read. Just turn pages for me,” Wilbur fires back. It’s not an unfamiliar request. Wilbur liked to read. Like, a lot. Quackity had bought him a kindle and set up automatic page turning just so Wilbur would stop asking him to do it manually. It had turned into a days long rant from Wilbur on how paper books would always trump technology and how insulted he was by the dismissal of a kindle. Eventually he’d taken a liking to it though. Quackity just had to deal with the occasional purchase request now. It was much better overall unless Wilbur got particularly interested in something. Something like Quackity’s new case. He tried again, begging, “Please? C’mon Quackity, indulge me. I’m dead. Have some sympathy.”
“You know that doesn’t work when you say it about everything right?”
Schlatt chimes in with, “You killed yourself anyway. Last thing you need is sympathy.”
“Here we go,” Quackity mumbles to himself as the argument starts up. They have it at least once a week. Wilbur says something dramatic. Schlatt brings up his suicide and looks down on him for it. Wilbur gets defensive and they go at it for however long it takes for Schlatt to admit that he doesn’t actually think that Wilbur’s less than or weak for killing himself. It’s f*cking exhausting and Quackity’s actually grateful for Sam’s quick return.
The deputy pulls his door open, startling Quackity into looking up for the first time. He squints up into the sun behind Sam, waits for the inevitable behave spiel Sam always gives him and is not disappointed. It’s a short one today.
“This is a big case, Quackity. I’ve given everyone on-scene a heads up, but try to be respectful of the police and of the victim. Please.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he sighs, pulling himself out of the car with far more effort than it should have taken.
Quackity wishes slamming the door behind him shut the argument out, but of course, Schlatt and Wilbur were at his side again the second he started walking. It became little more than background noise as Quackity started paying attention. He did a careful scan of the area. Did his best to keep it locked onto just the supermarket parking lot where, if he was lucky, only the victim’s spirit would be waiting. It seemed to be decently safe for now. He got one full swoop in without something bloody or eyeless appearing, so that was a win. Quackity relaxed a bit, let himself take in the scene for what it was.
Several Manberg cops lingered around. A couple still taping off the scene, alerting Quackity to the fact that this scene was beyond fresh. A couple talking to civilians, witnesses, or to their coworkers with their thumbs up their asses. It’s about what he expects from the MPD. Sam was one of the only cops he could stand and it’s only because Sam was first and foremost a veteran. Civilian law didn’t always make sense to him and Quackity could appreciate that. He follows Sam to the taped off area, taking in the forensic team hard at work with their bags and their q-tips. They don’t look up when Quackity ducks under the tape, but two men in suits do. It’s the first set of people that Quackity doesn’t know here. Two distinctly higher ranking individuals that he completely ignores.
If the case was bad enough to be brought to Quackity then it didn’t surprise him that feds were involved. He’d met a couple on cases before. Never these two, but Quackity wasn’t concerned with them. Sam was the one who headed over to shake hands and make nice. Quackity just strode across the bloody asphalt to a yellow body bag that they hadn’t gotten to carry out yet. It’s a good thing, really. Quackity couldn’t often tell the living and dead apart. Sometimes he’d get lucky and the traumatic death would manifest in something horrific standing in front of him. Most of the time though, he just got normal looking idiots like Schlatt and Wilbur. Schlatt did have a small hole in the side of his head and Wilbur was a little bluer than the average person to be fair, but they weren’t obviously dead by any means.
All that said, Quackity appreciated the presence of the body. He needed to know who he was looking for if they wanted to get somewhere today. The forensic zipping it up is one familiar with Quackity. She doesn’t look happy about it, but she complies when he asks her to undo the top and let him get a look at the face. It’s a young man. Indian, if he had to guess, and very obviously not a peaceful death. The man’s jaw sits open in a silent scream, frozen in time by the bitch that is rigor mortis. He’s sure his face isn’t the proper reaction to a dead body because the woman scowls and zips it back up as soon as he straightens. Quackity would be bothered if he wasn’t already so annoyed about being dragged out of the house.
“Found him!” Wilbur cheers almost immediately. Quackity follows the finger over his shoulder to the hood of a car. It’s an expensive looking beast, all custom paint and rims. The only indication that it belongs to their victim is his presence on the hood. Quackity observes for a moment. The ghost isn’t one of the gory ones. However he’d died, it wasn’t immediately visible, and it would’ve been easy to pass the guy off as another gawking civilian. Upon closer inspection, Quackity could see the haunted look he wore. The man sat there, completely still, eyes never straying from the line of police tape and the body that used to belong to him. He’s in shock, it seems. Quackity isn’t looking forward to snapping him out of it.
“Are we talking to him?” Schlatt asks. “Can we hurry? I’m missing the game.”
“What game? Quackity never puts football on for you.”
“The neighbors do though. They got a big ass TV too.”
They’re off again. Quackity tunes it out with practiced ease. He’s still staring at the man on the car. Just the car, to anyone else. Despite his absolute distaste for anything that required both movement and sobriety, Quackity can’t help but find himself interested. He’d seen all kinds of death in his life. Ever since he was a little kid, Quackity was plagued by living nightmares of gore, and horror, and unrelenting specters. He’d seen many things he wished he hadn’t seen. Heard the worst stories and seen the haunted looks. This one though, this one had the potential to be something new. He wasn’t sure how he knew that. Quackity just felt it as he continued to watch the ghost and hope for movement. It came, but not from the car, from behind him.
“Quackity,” Sam greets. A firm hand on his shoulder earns Sam a quick look, then an uninterested flick to the two feds he’d brought with him. “These are agents from the FBI here to help us out for a bit. This is Agent Halo and Agent Lore. Gentlemen, this is Alex Quackity. He’s a consultant on the case.”
Quackity doesn’t spare them a greeting. He crosses his arms over his chest and continues to stare down the ghost. He’s willing the other to make the first move. Hoping he could avoid having to approach because Quackity knew what kind of poltergeist sh*t could happen when you snapped a specter out of shock. He wasn’t going to do it. Either the dude would snap out of it, or he’d send Wilbur over.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Agent Lore offers in a tone that says it is anything but. “Are you retired PD?”
It’s a stupid question and they all know it. Quackity is too young to be retired PD. He doesn’t grace stupid questions with stupid answers which earns him a smack from Sam and a stern, “be polite, sh*thead.”
Quackity glares, but does offer a vague, “something like that,” in response. He doesn’t concern himself with how they explain his presence to the government. Quackity was more than willing to get put on a hit list anyway.
“Right, well, you’ll likely be interacting with us and our team more than anything. This has been escalated beyond the MPD.” Agent Lore continues.
Quackity ignores that in favor of his assistants.
“His name is Vik,” Wilbur supplies. “Caught it off the witness over by the door. Vik Star. Worked here, apparently.”
Quackity hums in response. Vik is entirely frozen in his position. He never looks away from his own body. Never does any compulsory blinking or breathing like most of the newly dead. It’s curious. Intriguing in a way that Quackity hated because it meant that he was actually going to work on this case. He couldn’t say no to a good mystery.
“He looks traumatized,” Schlatt observes.
The tell tale crunch of beef jerky follows and Quackity remembers why they have to ask for him to be sensitive on scenes. It was hard for him to focus on tragedy when Schlatt was chewing obnoxiously in his ear.
“He must be,” Wilbur adds. “Murder is traumatizing.”
Schlatt makes a noncommittal noise.“I’m not traumatized.”
“Well yeah, you got shot in the head. You can’t remember it. You’d be traumatized if you died with a brain.”
“‘Scuse me for dying efficiently,” Schlatt huffs. “Not like I got a say in the matter, suicide.”
“Okay, f*ck you.”
“Shut it,” Quackity mutters. “Who’s moving in?”
“Excuse me?” The agent who hadn’t spoken yet, Agent Halo, said, confusion evident. Quackity ignored this too.
“I don’t wanna do it,” Wilbur whined. “I woke up the last one and they literally threw their intestines at me.”
“Oh grow up. It’s just intestines.”
“You do it then.”
“No. Gross.”
Quackity let’s them argue it out as Sam and the agents pick up on whatever niceties they were making in the background. Quackity noticed that Agent Halo doesn’t rejoin the conversation. He can feel eyes on the back of his head.
“Fine, rock paper scissors for it,” Schlatt says.
“One game or best two out of three?”
“One game. Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!”
There’s two separate conversations happening in Quackity’s immediate vicinity and the pulsing headache he’d woken up with comes back with a vengeance. His fingers itch for another cigarette, or better yet, a fat blunt.
“f*ck, I changed my mind. Two out of three,” Schlatt says after losing.
“Cheater,” Wilbur scoffs but complies regardless. “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!”
They tie enough times that Quackity gives a curt, “speed it up, would you?”
They ignore him, but the feds don’t. Agent Lore ceased conversation now too to stare at him. Quackity didn’t need to turn back to feel the curious judgment he was being regarded with right now. He was very used to it.
“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot! Yes!”
“Anyones game. Keep going.”
“No,” Wilbur cries, losing for a second time and being faced with the unfortunate responsibility of waking up Vik Star. “Why is it always me?”
“Because you suck,” Quackity offers.
Schlatt snickers which of course prompts Wilbur to send a scathing look his way. He gives the other man a shove, starting yet another short feud that Quackity doesn’t have the patience for. He would snap at them except Agent Lore decides to ask, “who are you talking to?”
Now Quackity had a lot of practice with this question. He’d grown up with ghosts. Had to learn the hard way that talking to them in public made him the resident f*cking nutcase and raised questions better left unanswered. Quackity had had a lot of time to figure out how to handle his situation as a seer. He’d tried pretending they weren’t there, ignoring the ghosts around him and pretending his nightmares were gone. Tried begging to be believed only to be locked up in the nuthouse until he learned to lie better. He’d tried a lot of things, and now Quackity was pretty confident in his decision to embrace his gift. He no longer shied away from the question. Didn’t shrink into himself or let the judgment bother him. He offered little more than a shrug and a casual, “Im schitzophrenic.”
It comes naturally at this point, so he isn’t sure why he turns and looks for their reaction. He’s not even sure what he wants to see but what he finds is only vague surprise and empty evaluation. It’s the best reception he’s had since starting as MPD’s case consultant, so he takes it as a win. Quackity lingers on them for only a moment and then he’s refocusing on the idiots and Vik. Vik, who was frozen on the hood of his shiny new car when he looked away, but was nowhere to be found now. Wilbur notices as he does. Pulls into the same concerned scowl on Quackity’s face as he heaves a sigh.
“That’s probably not good is it?” Wilbur muses.
“No, dumbass. I’d imagine not.”
