Fresh Blood - Dandelion_bb - Dream SMP [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

The smell of intoxication follows him through the door as he collapses onto the couch. Dim, rosy lights give the parlor a reddish glow. The massive windows in the back wall – bulletproof glass, heavily tinted for privacy – display nothing but blackened void outside. Schlatt sighs heavily and passes a hand over his face as he turns onto his back to watch Quackity shed his coat and drape it over the back of an armchair.

“Why do you keep this house so hot?” Quackity complains, rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. He wanders past the couch toward the bar in the back of the room. Schlatt mutters something incoherent about his circulation and props himself up on his elbows.

“There’s a bottle of Jack Daniel’s under the counter," he slurs. Quackity stoops out of sight for a moment before reappearing, whiskey in hand. He finds a glass and returns to the sofa, noticing the way Schlatt's eyes linger appreciatively on the waist of his slim-fitting vest. He sits down on the other side of the low, glass table and begins pouring.

"You up for a hand of cards?" he asks, setting his deck on the table.

"Didn't we come here for something else?" Schlatt's brows furrow.

"To talk," nods Quackity, "Figured we could do that over a game."

He hands over the glass, and Schlatt takes a gulp before replying, "Deal 'em out."

Quackity obliges. "I heard about your meeting last night.”

"You pissed I went without you?" Schlatt says it like a challenge. Quackity huffs out a derisive laugh as he takes his first turn.

"You knew I would be," he mutters then asks, "You're going through with it, then? The alliance?" Schlatt grunts in affirmation. "And the price?"

"Nothin’ we can't handle," was the reply.

“The inner city is our territory.” Quackity’s one good eye flicks between his cards and the table.

“Part of our territory,” Schlatt corrects, “And the lowest earning area in Manberg. It’s no competition, Pumpkin. The new dealer is worth cuttin’ out some scraps.” Quackity bites back his usual ‘don’t call me that’ and stretches a smile across his lips instead.

“I told you I had plans, didn’t I?” he says, laying down a card. “I told you the inner city is a jackpot waiting to be unlocked, and if you sold it out, we would lose–”

“If you came here to whine,” interrupts Schlatt, “You can pass me that bottle and get outta my house.” Quackity shuts his mouth and reaches out to refill Schlatt’s glass. His movements are relaxed, but there is a distinct gleam of frustration in his eye. The other man’s mind is too far gone to notice. He downs half of the fresh glass in one go, and Quackity stares at him for a moment.

“...what are you looking at?” Schlatt wipes his mouth and throws a card onto the table. Quackity turns his eye back to his hand and doesn’t answer. “Manberg’s slipping. We have to collect what we can when we can, and I ain’t waitin’ around for a better deal than this one. We need new allies. Fresh blood.”

“That’s the one thing we agree on.” Quackity spreads out his cards in full view, a winning hand. Schlatt squints at them for a moment before dropping his on the table unceremoniously and finishing his whiskey. Quackity fills his glass again without missing a beat. “I think there’s something creeping up on us that no one’s realized. Things are changing, quickly and quietly, como las nevadas.”

“What are you talkin’ about…” Schlatt slurs, side-eying him irritably.

“Like snowfall.” Quackity gazes back at him, unwavering. “The city is falling asleep, barely feeling a chill in the air. But the silent snowstorm is on its way. It’s unstoppable. When they wake up tomorrow morning, everything will be different. And when they feel the bitter wind, they’ll wonder why they didn’t see it coming. Mind if I deal another hand?”

“Too drunk for this,” Schlatt grunts. “The hell you talkin’ about storms? This about that Soot guy again?” Quackity chuckles softly and gets up, taking his suit coat and the bottle of Jack Daniel's in his hands.

"No, not him," he replies, "You'll get it soon enough." He meanders back toward the bar.

"Get what?" Schlatt demands, twisting to keep Quackity in view. The ravenette simply slides his coat onto the counter and looks out the window into nothing.

"I don't like you holding stuff back on me." Schlatt's voice gets harsher when he isn't paid proper attention. "Tell me what the hell you're talkin' about, Quackity."

Quackity doesn't bother to fully face him. He simply leans gracefully against the counter, playing idly with one of his numerous golden rings. Looking over his shoulder, he offers,

"I've just been thinking about your new arrangement, that's all. You won't have much time on your hands from now on, huh?"

"Not any more than usual," says Schlatt.

Quackity chuckles to himself again. "True, true."

"What's so funny?"

"Ah, nothing. You got any food in this joint? I ate pretty light earlier."

"Prob'ly somethin' in the fridge," Schlatt answers. "Did you take the whiskey?"

"Why, did you still want it?" Quackity says innocently, as if he doesn't know the answer.

"Give it back here." Schlatt holds out a hand. " 'm not done."

"Oh, I think you've had plenty," Quackity says, knowing this presumption alone will rile up a reaction from the drunkard. He's not disappointed. Schlatt aims a few curses at him as he drags himself out of his seat and stumbles in his direction.

"Give it here," he grumbles, and Quackity watches in amusem*nt while he practically lurches over the counter to get his hands on the whiskey again. Schlatt straightens, throws his head back, and tips the entire bottle up. After a few gulps, he slams it back down on the counter and curses Quackity again. His eyes are thoroughly glazed over.

"You know, someone might get worried if they hear you banging stuff around in here," Quackity comments.

"No one else in the house, stupid," Schlatt slurs, and Quackity has to smile. Such a cautious man, when absolutely ruined by alcohol, becomes the most gullible idiot he's ever known. This is exactly why Schlatt's heavy drinking is only done behind closed doors, and why Quackity is so pleased to have gotten behind them.

"I know there's no one here, Jonathan." Quackity's clear diction on every syllable gets Schlatt's attention. "I just wanted to hear it straight from your own mouth."

Schlatt doesn't get to finish mumbling a confused response before Quackity is shoving him against the counter. A foot plants itself squarely in the center of his stomach, more warning than weight. Something flashes in Quackity's hand, and he's suddenly scowling, pointing the barrel directly in front of him–

"Don't. Move." The pistol in Quackity's hand zeroes in on Schlatt's skull.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

Quackity can see the fog swirling in Schlatt's head. It would only take one twitch of his finger to put a bullet through him.

"I told you, it’s the one thing we agree on," he says, dropping each word into the indignant void of Schlatt's eyes. "Manberg is slipping. We need… how did you phrase it?" He licks his lips before allowing himself a sharp grin. "Fresh blood."

"You're not gonna shoot me," Schlatt spits. "You're all talk."

"Hope you miss me in hell, Pumpkin," Quackity whispers hungrily. He doesn’t pause for any more theatrics before pulling the trigger. A BANG spatters blood across the counter, and Schlatt slumps.

Quackity looks down at his longtime business partner, a cold smile playing across his lips.

"You know, you should really stop drinking so much. You can kill yourself that way."

—

Dream’s knee bounces as he glances between the clock and the door. He’s not late, he reminds himself over and over, He’s not late, I’m just early. He’s cutting it close, but he’s not late. A large briefcase sits at his feet, and he occasionally reaches down to brush his fingers over the latch, as if to make sure it’s still there. He doesn’t like the emptiness, the way the two men who escorted him in here are just standing off to the side, not saying a word. The deafening silence is pressing in on him, and without really meaning to, he begins tapping his fingers on the table to create some sort of audible stimulation. It takes most of his focus not to begin making small noises or humming or something.

It’s exactly one minute after the agreed meeting time when the door swings open. Dream straightens up instinctively and adjusts the mask that covers the lower half of his face. Two more men in suits enter, stepping to either side to make way for–

“Where's Schlatt?" Dream blurts out.

Where he expected the mafia boss’s tall, heavyset frame and brown chops, he finds a stranger instead. The man is small and trim, with jet black hair spilling out from underneath a dark red beanie. A thin, jagged scar cuts across the side of his face from his top lip to the eyepatch over his left eye. His dark red silk shirt is open all the way down to where it tucks into a closely fitted black vest, displaying two gold chains around his neck. The sleeves are rolled up casually.

"Schlatt's a little indisposed at the moment," the man says, his one warm brown eye fixing itself on Dream's face.

"He's not coming?" Dream works to keep irritation out of his voice. The man strolls forward almost lazily, shutting the door behind him.

"He's busy turning into fertilizer. I wouldn't expect him back for a while."

Dream freezes.

"...I see." He clears his throat as the man sits down across from him. "So I assume you'll be acting in his place?"

"Big man, but small shoes to fill. I wouldn’t say I’m continuing in his place; things are gonna work differently around here now that ol’ Jonathan is shaking hands with XD. But that’s nothing to you, is it? You’re new to this organization.” The man reaches forward to shake Dream’s hand. His grip is just firm enough for Dream to feel each heavy ring pressing into his skin. “The name’s Alexis Quackity.”

“Dream,” the other introduces himself.

“Well, Dream, I think you know where this conversation is headed.” Quackity sits back. “You’ve got yourself a deal with a dead man, and the living don’t take kindly to that. I’m going to give you a chance to renegotiate.”

“Where does that leave the original terms? All void?” Dream’s knee is bouncing again.

“Of course. But don’t think you’re about to miss out.” Quackity’s lips curl up at one corner. "I think a new deal will prove much more beneficial for the both of us."

"And what kind of deal do you have in mind?"

"I'm keeping the inner city territory. Every route, building, local dealer, everything from the Manberg capitol building down to the El Rapids area belongs to Las Nevadas. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you and your friends around,” he adds quickly. “Quite the contrary. I’ll offer you all that Schlatt would have and more – not just new routes and buyers, but protection. A true alliance, in which you get free reign to operate in my city.”

“Why?” Dream is instantly wary. The exchange with Schlatt drew clear lines – telling Dream exactly where he could operate his business unbothered. Anything beyond that, and they were at odds. Now, he’s getting more freedom? “What do you want in return? I don't make commitments to any one distributor."

"I have no issue with that." Quackity waves a hand. "I understand you prefer to keep your options open, and I must say, a joint business isn't exactly what I'm looking for either. No, what I want is an account of your dealings here. That and, of course, your respect for our mutual clients and for my establishments.”

“I can’t compromise my buyers’ privacy,” Dream says.

“And you won’t,” says Quackity, “I don’t need specifics. I just need to know what’s being transported through my streets. You carry something in town, you record it. If the cargo is sensitive and you don’t want to violate your buyer’s confidence, record the weight and volume. Sound fair?”

Dream hesitates, then nods. It does sound fair.

“The only other thing I need from you is a seasonal report.” Quackity snaps his fingers, and one of the men standing by hands him several papers. “The inner city is about to become the most lucrative den in Manberg. I want you in on this because your business feeds my own. So as long as you’re working the area, I need an idea of how much you’re collecting off of it. Everything we’ve just discussed is in this contract.” He slides it across the table. “Sign, and you keep your money and expand your business into the richest city in the server.”

Dream takes the contract, glances at Quackity, and then begins to read it over. Quackity rests his cheek on his knuckles, utterly at ease. Silence hangs between them while he waits.

When he reaches the end, Dream looks up and says, “Got a pen?”

It’s the first time he sees Quackity smile. It won’t be the last.

—

The restaurant air hums with conversation upon conversation. Quackity tosses his head back against the cushion of his booth seat, laughing.

“...and then he just walked out!” fumes Sapnap, his face screwed up into a scowl. Beside him, Karl puts a hand over his mouth and tries not to spit out his drink through his giggling.

“Ohhhh, that sucks, man,” Quackity wheezes. He’s grinning so hard that his golden tooth – molded into a fang – is in full view. “What’re you gonna do when you see ‘im again?”

“Deck him,” Sapnap grumbles. Karl snorts again, his face growing pink with the effort of laughing so hard. Sapnap smiles a little despite himself and swirls the remainder of his beer around in his glass. Quackity sighs contentedly.

“Hey, speaking of work, how’d things go with your boss?” Sapnap asks.

“Great,” says Quackity, “I got the promotion.”

“No way!” says Sapnap.

Karl recovers from his laughing fit to say, “Congratulations!”

“Thanks.” Quackity’s good eye flicks around the room, surveying other tables and booths full of rowdy patrons. "That's actually why I wanted to go out tonight, because I'll probably be really busy for a while now. I'm really glad I got to spend my last free night with you two."

"Awww," Karl teases, "Is this Sentimental Alex?"

"Don't get that too often." Sapnap says it like he's scoffing, but Quackity can feel genuine warmth behind his words.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." He rolls his eye. "It's not like I'm gonna start getting all gushy with you jackasses."

"Wait, no, I like Sentimental Alex!" Karl protests, but Quackity is already shaking his head.

"Too bad, you missed your chance. He's gone. You might see him in four to five business months, but I wouldn't bet on it."

"Oh, c'moooooon," Karl prods, "I know he's still here. We love you, Alex."

"Nope." Quackity pops the p.

"What if Sapnap and I both say it? Will he come back then?"

"It's a lost cause, Karl. I'm only a cold, hard work machine that eats low-earning employees for breakfast and has never felt anything in my life except anger and haughtiness, " he declares solemnly.

Sapnap looks at Karl. "I'm not going on a quest with you to teach him the meaning of friendship," he deadpans, before finishing his beer. Karl slumps in defeat.

The waiter brings the bill, and Quackity insists on paying, as he does almost every time. Before long, their evening out is drawing to a close, and the three linger in the glow of lights on the outer facade of the restaurant to say their goodbyes. Quackity pats Sapnap firmly on the shoulder and goes to do the same to Karl, but the latter pulls him into a tight hug instead. With his face half-buried in Karl's soft brown hair – which smells of strawberry-mango shampoo – he feels a deep rush of gratitude. For Karl. For Sapnap. For the safe and happy lives they lead, and for whatever ridiculous force of nature somehow brought them into his life.

"I love you," he murmurs. Karl makes a happy noise and squeezes him before pulling away.

"There he is!" he says, beaming. "Goodnight, Alex!"

"Goodnight." Quackity waves.

"See you around," Sapnap says, and Karl throws an arm around his shoulders as the two turn to walk away.

Quackity watches them make their way through the parking lot. He whistles absently and turns as if to go back to his car. He only takes a few steps before detouring back inside the restaurant.

The night is still new, and the drink bar is crowded. Nevertheless, weaving between tables, he spots one particular patron who has managed to distance himself from the others. The man – the boy – is slouched over a beer. A fringe of blond hair peeking out of his purple hoodie shadows his eyes. Quackity casually slides onto the empty bar stool next to him and orders a mocktail.

The boy shoots him a look out of the corner of his eye, but that's the extent of his acknowledgement. He takes a swig of his beer.

"Aren't you a little young to be drinking alcohol?" Quackity mutters playfully, not loud enough to be overheard.

"Aren't you a little old to be ordering off the kid's menu?" the boy shoots back as the bartender slides Quackity his mocktail. He's in a good mood tonight, so he chuckles before taking a sip.

"You must be Purpled," he says.

"You figure that out all by yourself?" Purpled rolls his eyes.

"I was told you were young, but I didn't realize I'd be drinking with a high-schooler."

"I'm in college, smartass. And you're not even drinking."

"Touche." Quackity takes another sip and reaches into his pocket to find a folded slip of paper. "Care to tell me what a finance major with a fake ID is doing in the mercenary business?"

"Kicking ass and making money," Purpled replies. "What do you have for me?"

"I'm not sure, can you handle it?" Quackity challenges as he slides the slip of paper across the counter. "You've got a reputation, but I want a nice clean job."

"What have you heard about me?" Purpled accepts the paper and unfolds it discreetly. His sharp eyes flick back and forth while Quackity speaks.

"Other than how young you are and your trademark color? Oh, just the usual. That you're going to be legend someday, your hits are flawless, you appear and disappear so easily that people think you're some kind of cryptid, yadda, yadda," he says, laughing a little at the end. Purpled doesn't seem to take kindly to the laugh, looking up with a scowl.

"You think they're joking?" he demands, "Just because I'm young doesn't mean I don't know what I'm doing. They call me the Alien because I can get to places no human can go without being caught. I can vanish into the night like a UFO, there one second, gone the next. I can do this–" he jabs a finger at the paper– "in three nights."

Quackity holds his half-smile, but his demeanor shifts entirely, twisting into something dark and serious. The air between them tenses. He leans forward, and though Purpled doesn't lean away, his eyes betray a hint of wariness, like an animal that knows neither where nor what its predator is, only that it's coming.

"Don't compromise your precision for a dare," Quackity says in a low voice. "You take your time and do this right, or else I'll show you a vanishing trick of my own. Understood?" Purpled nods once, slowly, and Quackity sits back again, relaxing as he tips back his mocktail. "Good. That's all I have to say to you. I trust the information on that paper is enough for you to finish the job thoroughly?"

"Yeah," Purpled confirms, tucking it away somewhere under his hoodie.

"Then you'll get the money when the job is done."

"Half now," he argues, "The rest when I'm done."

"Cute, kid. But no chance." Quackity drains the rest of his drink under Purpled's indignant glare. "You do the work, you get the money. Buenas noches, asesinito."

Muttering something under his breath, Purpled gets up and slips away. He vanishes effortlessly into the surrounding noise, and Quackity is free to turn his eye to his third and final date for the night.

A tall, dapper man sits at a table, quietly enjoying his meal. This is the one appointment that was not planned in advance – not by the other man, at least. Quackity knows exactly who he's looking for, and he strolls casually over to the man's table and pulls up a chair.

The second the man's eyes land on Quackity's face, all pleasantly evaporates from his gaze.

"Get away from me," he hisses, glaring as fiercely as though he intended to light fires with his eyes. "I don't know who you are or why you're here, but you've come to the wrong place."

"Why the venom, Totem?" Quackity says, unphased.

"That's not my name," comes the sharp reply, "If you don't get up and leave me alone, I will call the waiter and have you removed from the building."

"You're parked in the third row from the street, five cars from the left," Quackity states. "It's a silver Porsche. The license plate number–"

"Okay, okay!" The man's emerald green eyes dart from side to side. He grits his teeth. "What do you want?"

"Well, Totem–"

"There is no Totem," the man practically snarls, "My name is Foolish. Mr. Gamers to you."

"Well, Mr. Gamers, I have a proposition for you to consider." Quackity places one elbow delicately on the tabletop.

"Not interested." says Foolish.

"Oh, I think you will be," Quackity presses, "When you hear what I have to offer."

"I'm. Out. Of. The. Business." The tension in Foolish's shoulders inadvertently displays the muscles in his neck. The man is no less of a mountain than Quackity remembers; his huge fists, now clenched around silverware, could surely snap a neck with ease. Despite the inherent intimidation of his physique, however, Quackity is not the least bit deterred. If anything, he feels all the more empowered to be sitting across from such a specimen, knowing he will not attack no matter how sorely he is provoked. Quackity can read that much like an open book; Foolish is all bark now. His biting days are behind him.

"Quite a business it was, though, wasn't it?" he says, leaning in. His voice is low as he goes on, "You were great once. The Totem of Death, an unstoppable assassin. You can get as comfortable as you want in your little domestic scene, but the dark side of the streets will always remember how you paid for that Porsche. You've got enough blood on your hands to paint every wall of your home red."

Foolish stares him in the eye. Livid outrage burns in every line and angle of his face, but when he speaks, his voice is almost soft enough to be lost in the noisy restaurant. "And what are you, some kind of avenging angel?"

"Oh, Prime no," Quackity scoffs, smiling. "I'd never dream of judging you. Your past is between you and your conscience alone. I only wonder how you get by pretending that your – ahem – illustrious career never happened."

"I was getting by perfectly fine until you clawed your way back over here to ruin my night," Foolish spits.

Quackity responds with a polite little hum of acknowledgement. He continues conversationally, "Good to know. I don't suppose then, with your old life so far behind you, that you'd still remember what mob you killed the most for? Or who used you to their advantage in the worst ways?"

"What is this?" Foolish looks close to breaking something. The vein in his temple bulges out. Quackity tilts his head innocently.

"I'm just curious, Totem," he pries, "If you had a say in the fates of some of your previous employers…"

Foolish grabs Quackity's wrist and slams it against the tabletop, pinning his hand down. "I'm not your hitman. Any idea you have about dragging me back into your world dies right now, because no matter how persuasive you think you are, I will not hurt anyone for you."

Quackity has to fight a smile off of his face at the show of force. That's the Totem he remembers.

"I'm not asking you to hurt anyone. Physically." With his unpinned hand, he slips a pen out of his pocket and taps it on the table. "All I'm asking is that you consider my proposition."

Foolish narrows his eyes before ultimately deciding that he’s only dragging this out by refusing to listen. "What do you want?"

"I need a director. A team leader," Quackity says, "For a very important job. All stealth, no confrontation. You wouldn't have to lay a finger on anyone."

"What kind of job?" asks Foolish, still not letting go.

Quackity's eye flashes. "A heist," he answers. "The Badland Gallery, the night before the grand opening. Do you know where they source most of their work and funding?"

Foolish shakes his head slowly.

"Do some research," Quackity advises. "I can tell you this much, it's not as philanthropic a program as the public would like to believe. The Gallery built its halls with blood money and filled them with stolen goods. It's only fair they get what's coming to them."

"And I'm supposed to believe that you care about justice?" Foolish raises an eyebrow.

"No," he says, "I wouldn't bother lying to you, I’m in this solely for my own gain. But I’d be willing to place bets that you’d rather the fortune fall to me than to… whomever else it may.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?”

Quackity smirks as he leans in for the kill: “The Badland Gallery is almost exclusively owned by members of the Red Egg Mafia.”

The effect is instant – Foolish tenses, breath hitching in his throat. His grip on Quackity’s wrist tightens until the latter can feel his fingers tingling and his pulse throbbing in his veins. Quackity twirls the pen in his fingers before placing the tip on the back of Foolish’s hand, the one that’s pinning his. Foolish doesn’t stop him from scrawling a phone number.

“When you make your decision, my secretary will be awaiting your call.” He reaches up and tucks the pen behind Foolish’s ear. “I hope this doesn’t bring up too many bad memories. After all, the Egg has always benefitted from your work, so I’m looking forward to evening the scales a little.” He taps on Foolish’s hand, then tries to pry one of his fingers away from his own wrist. It doesn’t budge.

“When I say no, you’ll leave me alone.” It isn’t a question. “If you send someone to bother me, you’ll regret it for the rest of your short life.”

“I thought you were a pacifist now,” Quackity challenges. Foolish squeezes his wrist impossibly tighter, until Quackity is subtly gritting his teeth in pain while still smiling slightly. Calmly, he notes that his wrist might dislocate if he’s not released soon.

“Just because I don’t kill for money,” says Foolish, “Doesn’t mean you’re safe if you push my limits.” He waits for Quackity to nod his acknowledgement before letting go of his wrist. Quackity rubs his numb hand smugly. Perfect.

“Pleasure talking with you, Mr. Gamers,” he says.

“Get out.”

“See you soon.”