Chapter Text
Apollo sat surveilling his companions, his compatriots in arms. As the oldest of all of the ones who had earned their place to join up with the Golden Cub, he knew that it would fall upon him to marshall the pups and put them through their paces. After all, they were to be the Golden Pup’s personal Dog Army. They could not falter in their duty.
The winners of the competition varied in both age and breed, with two of them even being littermates. This meant they’d be able to work together easily and would (hopefully) set a good example for the rest. Apollo was the eldest of them, being a Chestnut wolf straight from the taiga biome just beyond the arctic banks. From there, their pack had a gorgeous Rusty Wolf from a sparse jungle, the two light brown Woods wolves from the L’Manberg forests, an ashen wolf born and raised here in the arctic, and a uniquely spotted wolf from a distant savannah.
“Alright!” Apollo began, pacing in front of the five chosen pups. “The six of us have risen to victory over our peers! Now, we must begin our grand pilgrimage to the land of the Players, to the side of our new Master!”
The five victors howled in unison, their voices filling the sky.
“We will be his guardians, his Dog Army. That means we need to be ready and prepared for anything. I expect nothing short of your best when it comes to protecting our Master!”
More howls filled the sky. A creak caught Apollo’s attention and turning his snout slightly to the right, over near the barn. There, he could see the Ender formerly known as Edward, along with the Golden Pup’s Mooshroom. Both were exiting the barn, making their way over to the gathered pups.
“So many…” the Mooshroom said quietly. He seemed to be a shy thing, quite skittish. “Are all of you going to join Tommy?”
“Yes.” Apollo had inherited his former master’s distaste for wasted words. “The Golden Pup will need all the aid he can get if the rumours on the winds are to be believed.”
A nudge to his shoulder drew his attention to one of the pups, the one with the rusty coat, who looked at him curiously.
“What is the best way to get to the Golden Cub? If I remember correctly, there is an ocean between us and the rest of the players and we cannot travel by that means with the Ender with us?”
“Indeed,” the Ender muttered, vwooping in concern. “Plus Mushroom Henry cannot swim as well as you pups, and without a player, a boat would be difficult.”
“Easy!” the spotted pup barked excitedly. “We will just take the Nether! No water there, and we’ll get to our new Master that much quicker!”
Apollo rumbled, impressed by the spotted pup’s clever thinking. “An excellent idea. Ender, will this plan suffice?”
The Ender paused for a second, turning the idea over in their head for a second. “Yes, it would be wonderful to get there as soon as possible. And I can ask my nether kin to aid us in crossing any lava pools the players have not connected. Mushroom Henry?”
Everyone turned to the Mooshroom, who seemed to be shaking in his hooves. The mushrooms on its back almost seemed to be wilting.
“Will… will it be safe? I was told never to go into the nether…”
The Ender looked down at the Mooshroom and rested one clawed paw on his head. “For us, it will be perfectly safe. The nether is not usually such a guaranteed thing and if it was red-loud-gold who warned you, they were right. However, because we belong to red-loud-gold, we will be able to pass through.”
“Promise?”
One of the woods wolf siblings made their way over to the Mooshroom, rubbing against their leg. “We’ll keep you safe. You’re our Master’s precious Mooshroom. Nothing will happen to you.”
Seemingly comforted by the young pup’s assurances, the Mooshroom straightened up. “O-Okay… Let’s do it.”
Apollo grinned, then barked once to gain everyone’s attention. The pups got into formation around the two other creatures, something drilled into them during their training under their former master.
“Dog army! Forward… MARCH!”
-----
Tubbo scooped up a handful of water from the large basin set up near the training area, splashing it over his face. The savannah biome was always hot and dry, and the daily training always left the goat hybrid feeling sweaty and sore. Still, he couldn’t deny that he was undergoing some positive changes.
Looking at himself in the reflection of the water basin, Tubbo almost didn’t recognize himself. He’d always been scrawny and small for his age, something he’d been mercilessly teased about for as long as he could remember. However, now he had visibly filled out, his body tanned and toned from the constant training. Even his horns had grown a bit, beginning to curl out of where they poked through his hair.
Perhaps the most noticeable change was in how Tubbo felt physically. He knew he was stronger, not to mention he could go longer in his training with each passing day. And, with the consistent meals and a stable sleep schedule, he felt… healthy. (How long had it been since he could claim that?)
A loud noise from behind him snapped Tubbo from his reverie. He looked up to see a pair of Vindicators standing before him. In almost perfect sync, they growled and waved their hands in a clear command to follow them. Immediately, Tubbo stepped into place between them, allowing himself to be escorted.
During his stay as a Pillager prisoner, Tubbo had seen pretty much the entire camp. Even with his training, he was still taken on his “walks”, likely so he could get some fresh air and exercise outside of the arena. As such, he recognized the path leading to the camp’s smithy.
Passively, he wondered why he was being taken to the smithy, but he didn’t allow that to concern him. Whatever the Pillagers wanted from him, he would give it. After all, he was a shield. A weapon. Nothing more than a tool.
The smith looked up as Tubbo was escorted in, eying him a bit before gesturing to a simple, wooden stool. He took the offered seat, then felt his two escorts place their hands on his shoulders. Their grip was firm, almost like restraints. If this were training, Tubbo would have used the various moves he had been taught to break free. However, he just took a breath and braced himself, curious as to why he was being restrained.
The smith reached over and grabbed his left arm, holding it up and taking some string and measuring it around his wrist. Tugging the string tight, the smith tied the string around Tubbo’s wrist and cut the ends short before untying it. Setting that piece aside, the smith repeated the procedure to his right wrist. After seeming satisfied with what they’d found, attention was directed to Tubbo’s ankles.The process was repeated there, both on the left and right ankle. Finally, the smith brought the rest of the string up to Tubbo’s neck, wrapping it snuggly but not enough to impair his airflow.
Tubbo’s breath hitched slightly, but not from the string. It finally dawned on him what was going on. He was being measured, likely for some very specific accessories. His eyes darted over to the nearby Ravager pens, seeing the thick bands of metal wrapped around their limbs and horns. Like him, they were tools and weapons, and their bands marked them as such.
Swallowing hard, Tubbo felt the grip of his captors tightening. Likely they had been restraining him for this very reason. They didn’t want him to fight them or try to run off. And perhaps, if things had been different, he would have tried. But… Why would he run?
In the weeks, closing in on months since his capture, no one had come for him. No one was looking for him, and likely no one even cared that he was missing. He didn’t think about the fact that he had driven away the one person who would have. Here, he had the chance to finally do something right. Here, he may be little more than a tool they were honing for another, but he’d never been healthier or stronger.
Here he could finally redeem himself and do what he should have done a long time ago.
As the string around his neck pulled away, Tubbo took a deep breath and relaxed. Whatever the Pillagers chose to do, he would accept it. Choices were out of his hands now, which given his presidency, might have been for the best. Let someone else decide for him. He would simply do as he was told, serving as a faithful and loyal shield. Just like he deserved.
Yes, he was much better suited for being an unthinking, obedient tool.
-----
L’Manberg was going to the dogs and Quackity hated it. After Schlatt’s presidency, then Tubbo’s farce in office, the duck hybrid was losing any and all respect for his fellow players. They were idiots. Disloyal, scheming idiots.
Everywhere he looked, there was someone glaring at him. Judging him. Whispering when they thought he couldn’t hear. But he could. He always heard them. He knew what they thought of him, but he didn’t care. They were the ones who did this. They were the ones who ruined everything. They were all traitors! Useless traitors!!
He couldn’t stand to look at them anymore. To hear them whining and complaining.
“You’re acting crazy, Quackity.”
“You can’t accuse everyone you see, Quackity.”
“Quackity, maybe you should take some time off.”
“I don’t want to work with someone as unstable as you, Quackity.”
Screw them all! He didn’t need them! He didn’t need anyone! He was going to do everything himself! Starting with finding Dream’s mole.
Puffy had disappeared not long after Tubbo, then everyone else had split off. They didn’t care about what was going on anymore. They’d given up on the hunt! But not him. Not Quackity. He had a clue, a lead on one person who had been conspicuously absent this entire time. Someone whose loyalty lay with the highest bidder.
Punz.
He knew better than to try and recruit anyone else. They’d shown where their loyalties lie, and he refused to be backstabbed again. So, geared up in his Butcher Army outfit, Quackity prepared to storm Punz’s tower.
Surprisingly, it looked like someone had beaten him to it. The door was broken down, there were chests everywhere with items scattered across the floor, and an ominous chair covered in chains and blood. Lots of blood.
It stained the entire space, having long since dried in place, with no attempt made to clean it. The chains looked to be still locked in place, as if the person bound to the chair hadn’t been released, but had been forced to respawn.
A Canon Death… and not a kind one.
“Punz!” Quackity shouted, kicking over the bloody chair while brandishing his axe. “Show yourself, you spineless coward!!”
A snort sounded behind him, causing Quackity to whip around. From the staircase leading up, a man descended. For a moment, the duck avian didn’t recognize him. That is, until he saw the familiar golden pendant hanging around the man’s neck.
“Punz?” Quackity lowered his axe in shock. “What the fuck happened to you?”
To say Punz looked rough would be an understatement. His normally white hoodie was almost grey with dirt and dust, with his left sleeve just gone. No… not just the sleeve… his whole arm. It was just a ragged, bloody stump that had scarred badly. He was gaunt, pale, his hair was greasy, he had a five o’clock shadow across his face, and the bags under his eyes were so dark they looked like bruises.
“I died,” the (former?) merc snarled, summoning what looked to be an awkward potion from his inventory before downing the whole thing. When he threw the bottle aside, Quackity flinched as it shattered. “Now get lost.”
Quackity lifted his axe back up, shock fading into the back of his mind. “Not until you tell me what you know about where Dream is.”
Punz rolled his eyes, summoning a fresh potion before ripping the cork out with his teeth. He spat it out, then went and plopped down on a torn couch.
“Funny, that’s what cost me my arm to the last guy.” He took a hearty swig of the potion. “I’ll tell you what I told them: I don’t know. I lost touch with him in the Nether and haven’t heard from him since.”
“Bullshit!” Quackity slammed the axe into the couch, grinning when Punz flinched at the blow. Prime, it felt good to be the one on this side of the intimidation. “I know someone is feeding him information! How else has he avoided capture this long?! So stop lying and confess!!”
Punz let out a long breath, then looked Quackity straight in the eye. Their gaze remained locked for a good minute, the duck hybrid growing more and more uncomfortable. Eventually, he was forced to look away, which made the one-armed mercenary smirk.
“You know… that look in your eye. That hunger for power, that willingness to do whatever it takes to get what you want… it reminds me of someone.” That smirk grew wider. “All you’re missing is a mask.”
Quackity snarled at the implication. He was not like Dream, he was a far better person than Dream. What Punz was saying was just baseless words to get under his skin. He was the good guy! The hero of this story! He was going to save the server by destroying that worthless, disgusting monster!
“Tell me where he is…” Quackity tightened his grip on his axe, “or I’ll-”
“You’ll what? Kill me?” Punz snorted hard, downing the rest of the bottle before throwing it away. He then got back up, taking a step toward Quackity. The duck hybrid stepped back, the hairs on the back of his neck raising. “Been there, done that, got the missing limb to prove it. Besides, you don’t have the guts.”
“Shut up…”
“You’re trying to play it tough, but I see right through this bravado bullshit of yours.” Another step forward for Punz, another step back for Quackity. “Always in the shadow of bigger men, always striving to stand on your own but always faltering. The closest you could get to power was as Schlatt’s Vice.”
“Shut up!” He hated that word. Vice… An assistant with barely any power to call their own. He was no one’s Vice!
“You knew you couldn’t beat Wilbur on your own, so you cozied yourself up to that old drunk.” Another step and Quackity could smell the potion on Punz’s breath. (He hated how just the smell made him want to curl up and cry.) “Even when you rebelled against him, you just rode on Wilbur’s coat tails throughout the civil war. And even now, you’re struggling in vain to grasp at power, but all you can do is emulate the truly powerful Players.”
“Shut UP!!”
Quackity swung his axe. He should have hit. Punz was right there! He should have cleaved the man in two! He didn’t even have both arms to defend himself! But as he opened his eyes. Punz’s remaining arm had easily caught the axe, wrenching it from the duck hybrid’s hands.
“Face it, Quackity. You’re a follower. A pawn. A walking second-place medal. Even if by some miracle you managed to find Dream, it wouldn’t change anything. You’ll fade into the background like you always do, unwanted and unneeded.” Punz threw the axe aside, sneering at the duck hybrid with undisguised contempt. “Now get the fuck out of my tower.”
Quackity, now sans axe, felt utter terror run down his spine. He turned away and bolted out of the tower, wanting to put as much distance between him and that one-armed drunk.
-----
Punz snorted in amusement as Quackity fled like the coward he was. His little display had been pathetic, especially after Sam and Ponk’s interrogation. Those two knew how to inspire compliance and following through on their implied violence. Sure, it cost him an arm, but he did, darkly, admire them for committing.
Picking up the fallen axe, Punz tossed it into one of the looted chests, then summoned a fresh bottle of awkward potion. With any luck, Quackity would be the last Player he would have to deal with for a while. He was sick and tired of drama and fighting, and he had nothing left to offer them. No, he was done with this server and their nonsense and he would be keeping well away from it all, no matter what the pay was.
Downing the bottle, Punz let out a groan as he flopped onto his couch. His eyes fluttered closed and he slipped into a drunken stupor.