BLIND | DreamSMP

XXXIV - Lambs to the Slaughter

The twine around his wrists chaffed painfully as Quackity led him through the winding streets of L'Manberg. The thin cord cut into his skin, abrading the sensitive flesh with every harsh tug on his arms. It stung, and then stung again as the twine shifted back, the friction burning like a candle flame.

"You know what's really sad, Phil?"

He didn't answer. Regardless of whether he contributed to the conversation, Quackity would continue gloating for as long as he liked.

"You thought you were so close to getting that key. You thought you were only an hour or two away from being on your merry little way back to that cottage with your kids. And you could have been too. But you wanna know what your mistake was?"

He leaned in close, breath tainted by the vinegary stench of tobacco.

"Trusting that weasel to tell you the truth. I guess you thought since you were family at one time or another he'd fold and go running off into the sunset with you. But you're not kin, not in the way that matters. Blood's thicker than water, and your make-believe family is just as flimsy as a reflection."

Quackity leaned back, laughing.

"You can't get people to do what you want by using love as an incentive. Fundy's loyal to me because he's scared. It's that simple; fear is the best motivator. And you were close to learning that in my office. You had him against the wall, but it's too little too late. You had your chance to escape, and you failed. How does that make you feel? Do you feel like you've let down Techno? Do you feel inadequate? Worthless, even? Is this the latest let-down in your long line of defeats? When will it become too much, I wonder? When will you finally realize how few and far between your successes have been? When are you going to start seeing how futile your actions are? How little they mean?"

The pointed questions bit into Phil with sharp fangs and burrowed under his skin, making a nest for themselves within the stone-faced man. He found he was unable to answer them, and their mumblings grew louder and more insistent. Why had he trusted Fundy?

"Have you always been such a poor father, Phil? Tommy and Tubbo have only told me about your 'relationship' with that icebox, but I'm sure you've had other delusions. Perhaps an affair with the stove? A steamy romance with a kettle? Your boys didn't seem too happy when they confided in me about your hallucinations; I wonder if you're aware of how deeply they were affected by having an unstable father. That really shook their trust in you."

"Don't lecture me about my own goddamn family," Phil snapped. "You don't know shit, Quackity."

"Calm down old man!" Quackity said with mock surprise. "No need to get so defensive!"

They turned a corner, and Phil was shoved forwards into an open doorway. It took him a moment to recognize the dreary walls as belonging to the armory. Quackity took two sets of manacles from the wall, locking the first around his ankles. He removed the twine before shackling Phil's wrists, this time in front of him, and pocketing the key. Then he was led back out onto the street, his pace considerably slowed by the short chain between his legs.

The rest of the walk was made arduous by his hobbling footsteps and Quackity's near-constant chatter. The questions under his skin tunneled deeper, and while he tried to ignore the buzzing uncertainty, he knew some had already begun to dig in their hooks and barbs, tightening their grasp on their new host.

"Do you consider yourself a good father, Phil? I wouldn't if I were you. You don't keep your children in check. You're losing them, one after another: first Wilbur, now Techno, and I'm sure if you still had control over them Tommy and Tubbo wouldn't be far behind. You're not good at caring for children the same way some people aren't good at watering their houseplants. Look at everything they've been through, and ask yourself how much of it you're responsible for. You've caused so much suffering that it would've been better for them if you'd left early on. It's a good thing Dream and I have stepped in to help."

"You're the one who's planning the murder of my son," Phil said. "Don't act like you're not just as much to blame as I am."

"Techno is only going to be executed because you didn't control him. You knew he was playing with fire, and now he's gotten burned and you're trying to pin it on me."

Phil's residence came into view. The house seemed to sag as they approached, shuttered windows bending in sympathy with the bound man. Quackity brought him inside, the room lit by the afternoon sun's lazy tendrils. The golden-yellow hue would normally have lent the space a warm aura, but it seemed sickly and cool to Phil. He wasn't sure if the twisting in his gut or his present company had prompted the change.

"Well, this is where we part ways," Quackity said. "The execution is scheduled for this evening; I'll be seeing you then. Take this time to think things over, alright?" With that he departed, flashing a grin at Phil before slamming the door.

He was alone again. The shackles clattered noisily as he sat down on the floor, tucking his legs beneath him. He couldn't see the town square, but he faced in its direction anyway, tormenting himself with images of Techno being beaten, tortured, and crucified.

His son's bloody face flashed before his eyes and he felt vomit rise in his throat. He turned to the side as his body rejected what little food he had eaten, forming a puddle of murky liquid on the wooden floor. He spat out the remaining bile in his mouth and wiped his lips with fettered hands. He didn't have the energy to clean the sick, so he continued to sit and stare and think as the acidic smell lingered in the air around him.

The sun's rays slanted, the shadows growing longer and covering Phil's lap. The light turned from yellow to orange, and then from orange to a deep ochre that tinted his vision and awoke him from his stupor.

Now he could hear the clanking of chains from a distance, interspersed by Quackity's taunting. An adolescent voice interrupted the mockery, exchanging insults before a speaker with a much lower pitch intervened. He felt nauseous once more as he listened to his children's voices.

It was not fair that an innocent man be put to death, that his brother and father be forced to watch, and perhaps even more egregiously, it all be done to please a power-hungry lunatic. None of it was fair, and yet there was no feasible way to prevent it from occurring. Phil had been stripped of his weapons, his tools, and his pride.

He had nothing now but remorse.

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Hey!

So, it's been over a month since I last uploaded. I'm sorry about that; I haven't been feeling very motivated to write, and I don't want to force myself to create something I'm not proud of. I plan to go back to uploading a chapter every two weeks, but I won't make any promises in case things get hectic again. All that being said, I do intend to finish this story, so stick around if you want to see how it ends.