a hundred red flags too late, my dear
It is a sword, the glow of its enchantments muted beneath the blood that coats its surface. Quackity can only see a fraction of the blade, the part closest to the hilt, because the rest of it— the rest of it is—
His stomach twists itself into a sickening knot, all the air escaping his lungs in a punched exhale.
The sword is embedded in the person's chest. The sword is embedded in—
Quackity inhales sharply and all he can smell is blood, blood.
Wilbur's blood.
-
Quackity leaves Las Nevadas, expecting to have a fantastic time ridding his territory of Paradise’s desolate ruins. What he isn’t expecting is to find Wilbur, bleeding out on the dirty ground.
Turns out they both have a lot of healing to do.