Chapter Text
The moon over the island didn't look natural tonight. It hung like a bruised eye, casting a pale, sickly light over the jagged peaks of the Federation’s towers. But for Quackity, the real problem wasn't the sky. It was his own skin.
He stood in front of a cracked mirror in the corner of his room, his breath hitching in his throat. He pulled back the sleeve of his suit jacket, his fingers trembling. There, tracing the lines of his veins like a glowing map of a city he didn't want to visit, was the Green. It wasn't just a color; it was a pulse. A low, rhythmic hum that vibrated in his marrow, singing a song of decay and evolution.
Radiance.
He’d spent his whole life building walls, running from the ghosts of the previous island, from the shadow of the federation.
“God damn it” he whispered, the sound cracking in the empty room.
He needed to move. He couldn't stay in the sterile, white halls of the Federation’s influence. His feet moved before his brain could catch up, leading him away from the center of the island, toward the sector that smelled of pine, gunpowder, and a strange, defiant sort of hope.
The Polish Cave.
The walk was a blur of shadows. He passed the banners of the Polish Hussaria. A place that for a few past weeks felt like a home. He knew everyone were likely asleep, or perhaps deep in the mines, but their presence was everywhere. It was in the reinforced walls, the intricate carvings, and the sheer audacity of their architecture. They didn't just build houses; they built statements.
Quackity stopped in front of the reactor. The memories of the church hidden inside hits him. His feet found their own way there. It wasn't a place of worship for any god the Federation recognized. It was a monument to a different kind of power.
Quackity pushed the heavy doors open. They didn't creak - Multi maintained his hinges too well for that. The interior was vast, filled with the scent of incense and cold stone. And there, illuminated by a single, flickering lantern, was the poster that had been haunting Quackity’s dreams for weeks.
“LET ME BE YOUR GOD.”
Multi’s face stared back at him from the parchment. It wasn't a threat, not exactly. It was an invitation. A challenge. If the world is burning, the eyes seemed to say, wouldn't you rather burn with me?
“It’s a bit narcissistic, don't you think? Even for you.”
Quackity spun around, his hand instinctively flying to the hilt of the netherite sword at his hip. But his heart didn't settle when he saw who was leaning against a stone pillar in the shadows.
Multi.
He looked different tonight. The usual chaotic energy, the loud jokes, and the “shitposting” persona had been peeled away, leaving something sharper and more dangerous underneath. He was wearing his combat gear, the hair messy. But it was his eyes that caught Quackity off guard.
They were glowing. Not with the light of the lantern, but with the same Green that was currently eating Quackity alive.
“You’re late for the sermon” Multi said, his voice dropping an octave. There was no translator clicking in Quackity’s ear - they had been doing this long enough now that the words started to bleed together, the intent clearer than the syntax.
“I didn't come here to pray, Multi” Quackity spat, though the venom lacked its usual sting. He stepped into the light, intentionally pulling back his sleeve to reveal the glowing lattice of his forearm. “I came because you told me I was sick. And it turns out, for once in your life, you weren't lying.”
Multi straightened up, his gaze fixing on Quackity’s arm. He didn't look disgusted. He looked satisfied. He walked forward, the spurs on his boots jingling rhythmically, until he was standing just inches away. The air between them tasted like ozone and static.
“It’s not a sickness, Quackity” Multi murmured, reaching out. His fingers hovered just over Quackity’s skin, warm enough to radiate through the fabric. “It’s a signature. The island is writing its name on us. We’re being claimed.”
“I don't want to be claimed!” Quackity hissed. “I spent my whole life making sure nobody—not Schlatt, not the Federation, not anybody—could claim me.”
“And look where that got you” Multi countered, his smile thin and sharp. “Alone in a white room, watching your reflection fade. You’re terrified because you can't control the atoms in your own body anymore.”
Multi stepped even closer, forcing Quackity to look up at him. The height difference had always been a point of mockery between them, but now, it felt like a cliffside he was about to fall off.
“I told you today on the comms” Multi continued, his voice a low vibration that seemed to sync with the humming in Quackity’s veins. “You’re worried about being a God. You’re worried that if I’m a God, there’s no room for you. But you’re thinking like a human. You’re thinking about borders. About limits.”
Quackity felt his breath hitch. The church felt smaller now, the ceiling pressing down on them. “There can only be one person at the top, Multi. That’s how power works. I’ve seen what happens when people try to share a throne. It ends in blood and obsidian.”
Multi laughed, a short, barking sound that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. “That’s the past, the sound of people whispering into ur ear. But look around you, Quackity.”
Multi gestured to the empty pews, to the banners of the uranium hanging in the rafters.
“My people... the Hussaria... they don't follow me because I have a crown. They follow me because we share the same ideals. We are a collective. A storm. And a storm doesn't have a single leader—it just has a direction.”
He leaned in, his forehead almost touching Quackity’s.
“There doesn't have to be one God. We can be a Panteon. You with your ability to gain people trust, to bring everything on the fire, u gain people who arent afraid to die for a joke or a dream. And me... well, you know what I bring. I bring order, strategy, cold brilliance.”
Quackity’s heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. “Why? Why me? You could have anyone. You could have anybody, you have the whole damn Polish Hussaria. Why drag me into your cult?”
Multi’s expression softened, just for a fraction of a second, something genuine breaking through the mask of the jester.
“Because” Multi whispered, his hand finally closing around Quackity’s glowing wrist, “I’m infected too. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the only God burning out in the dark. If we’re going to turn into something else, something more... I want it to be with the only person on this island who’s as ambitious and broken as I am.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Outside, a distant explosion echoed—probably a creeper, or perhaps one of the Federation’s drones monitoring the perimeter. But inside the stone walls of the church, time felt suspended.
Quackity looked at their joined hands. The green light from his arm and the green light from Multi’s palm met, swirling together in a vibrant, deadly violet hue where their skin touched. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.
“If we do this” Quackity said, his voice steadying, “If we actually try to... to be what you say. The Federation will come for us. They won't let two 'Gods' run their experiment.”
“Let them come” Multi said, his eyes flashing with a predatory hunger. “Let them see what happens when the Polish spirit meets your desperation. We’ll build something they can't translate. We’ll build a lore they can't control.”
Quackity looked up at the poster one last time.
Let me be your god.
He finally understood. It wasn't a command to the masses. It was a plea to him.
“Alright” Quackity whispered, his fingers tightening around Multi’s hand, accepting the heat, the radiation, and the chaos. “But if you betray me, Multi... I won't just kill you. I’ll make sure the history books forget you ever existed.”
Multi grinned, showing too many teeth. “I’d expect nothing less from u, Quackity. Now, come on. We need to start building. If we’re going to be Gods, we’re going to need a throne that can withstand a nuclear winter.”
As they walked out of the church, side by side, the radiation in their veins pulsed in perfect unison. The Green wasn't a sickness anymore. It was a coronation.