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As Quackity guides his latest client around Las Nevadas, he can feel his personality tuck itself into a little ball, crouching next to his old, abandoned suit and the stores of protein powder he hasn’t and never will get to use.
He strips away Alex; scrubbing off layers of word-impact and scar tissue, he becomes a secondhand Tommy Hull, more Death than Fool in the major arcana, a royal flush instead of an abandoned third of a three-of-a-kind. Alex was a bright-eyed dumbfuck. Alex shattered in Schlatt’s hands and died on a stage next to Tubbo and sometimes feels like giving up.
Not doing something drastic, not so dramatic, just... stopping.
Quackity doesn’t have time to stop. He can hardly even weasel his daily visits to the prison into his schedule, between showing around clientele and handling all core affairs of his soon-to-be-flourishing country.
Success is about confidence, as his, well, nobody, always says. But if he says it enough it’ll catch on at some point.
Point is, he’s Quackity. Full stop. No baggage or names or voices and the puckered skin around his defunct eye is just a tiny hitch in the plan, a rock in the wagon wheel, a fucking shithole of an engagement in a long and prosperous life. It’s fine. It’s all gonna be fine.
He’s doing great, thanks for asking.
Quackity gestures to the club and then to the casino in turn, explaining their functions. He’s done this many times now - to Sam, Foolish, Fundy - the pattern is familiar; the words sit, rehearsed, under his tongue. A half-truth for every wide-eyed question. Lying in wait.
Everyone he’s shown has been in awe of the area - for good reason, he didn’t put effort into building this stuff for nothing - and he’s found himself a little posse of semi-employees and visitors from it. Everyone loves a good gamble, after all. High stakes, low stakes, it doesn’t matter; the thrill isn’t actually in winning, it’s in knowing you could lose.
Thrill for them. Fun for them. Risk for them. Quackity isn’t one to take chances, not anymore. He’s precise. He’s the house this time around. They’re in his domain.
Quackity points at the fountains, hardly aware of the words that are coming out of his mouth as the latest of the “they” in question murmurs agreement and nods along. He’s mastered the art of looking deliberate while his mind wanders. It’s a useful skill. One of many.
It’s actually, well - Schlatt used to yell and he’d yell more when Quackity would start to slip, so he learned; that’s what he does, he learns from experience - anyway, the fountains, yes. They’re ornate, very beautiful. Sam fixed a mechanism in them the other day.
The tour pauses in front of the Eiffel Tower and Quackity looks at the hotel instead. The thing’s finally complete, it deserves to be admired.
He needs to talk to Jack about the one in Eret’s territory, needs to complete the pieces of a stacked deal from that day in the rain... or was it Tommy, now that he’s back? Makes sense, if so. The kid got power once; it’s an addictive thing. Quackity reminds himself to check his papers later.
Most people probably would go for hotel ownership before control of an entire nation, but it’s not like people around here ever do things the right way anyway.
It doesn’t matter. Quackity walks the road he paved with determined steps, as though he is taller than he is, as though he’s less tired. It’s part of the trade, the illusion, the magic. Las Nevadas is about glamour and part of that is peeling back the thick desert air and clouds of dust to reveal an unrivaled experience. Available soon.
Looping back around to the entrance, Quackity’s heading toward the giant sign - which took way too much time to get right with the scarlet sun in the corner and the letters all in order - when the guy pauses and points.
“What’s that, over there?”
“That’s- ah.” Quackity hides a grimace in the thin white fabric of his sleeve. “That’s the wedding venue.”
Flower petals scatter in the wind, cutting through heat and pristine marble but not quite making it to them. Quackity inclines his head and leads the way.
As their feet hit the rustic oak of the bridge, he allows himself three seconds of weakness exactly.
He takes these moments in moderation - like alcohol, or exercise - and right now, he can feel the fear flitting around his brain. If he lets out a little bit, it’ll be like a heavy sigh, a resistance to poison, some other stupid metaphor about a little bit going a long way.
He times it, pragmatism still at the forefront of his awareness even as his body slumps. Bile lurches to his teeth and gets swallowed back down just as swiftly. The big hand ticks over to the three and in Quackity's peripheral vision, his client’s multicolor jacket becomes a blur in the bushes before solidifying back into a rigid spiral.
Karl Jacobs’ fashion sense hasn’t changed in the slightest.
Quackity fixes his smile before tapping him on the shoulder. It’s all plastic, self-studied from days of Schlatt accusing him of this or that, Wilbur calling him a morose fucking bastard, Dream’s smooth, unshifting mask.
Bad comparison, Dream. Quackity’s not in prison. He’s not the -
Well.
His wrist itches at the vein and he twists it so it pops before clapping his hands together. “So, any interest?”
“Definitely.” Karl laughs; his hair’s grown, it hangs over his ears now. “I have to talk about it with my fiancé, but I’m sure Kinoko Kingdom would love to make a deal.”
Quackity hums in the back of his throat. “Nice, having a co-owner, in this political climate.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without him,” Karl agrees, a fond, distant look on his face. He catches Quackity’s silence and offers an encouraging smile. “You got anyone?”
“I used to,” Quackity answers tightly.
Karl mistakes Quackity’s curtness - it’s not bitterness; he’s an expert liar - for hurt and rests a hand against his shoulder blade. Placating. Soft.
Quackity bites down so hard on his own tongue that he tastes the sharp sting. He doesn’t sink into it. He won’t. He can’t.
He can’t say thank you either, because the question then is for what and the answer lies somewhere in the back of his needle-room, where that pain-in-the-ass slime once slunk up and asked after.
A box with three rings, a weakness that lasted way too long.
They both can feel the moment Quackity shies away and Karl’s arm hangs for a bit, confusion strung across his brow.
“Sorry, I’m not used to physical contact,” Quackity covers breezily, definitely not at all thinking about the living furnace of Sapnap’s warmth and Karl’s cold feet on either side of him in a too-small bed. That’s in the past. They left. “I’ll call you?”
“I didn’t give you my number,” Karl protests, extending the last syllable like a question.
Quackity beats down whatever sentiment exists inside of him. He’s better than this. He’s done this a hundred times before. He’s done a lot worse. “Yeah you did, you just forgot.”
“Oh, sorry,” Karl’s response is immediate and sheepish. “I’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
“No worries.” Waving, Quackity steps back onto the sand, out of the roof and into the scorching sun. It pulls at his skin and he welcomes the rush, sets it next to his heart to chase out the chill, relaxes his grin to match. “Have a good day.”
Karl hesitates, something flickering behind his eyes, and for a second Quackity wonders which part of the jig is up. Anything from weren’t we in love or something? to so how do you feel about the ethics of torture? - Quackity stares back for so long that his eyes start to water a little, but he blinks and Karl shakes his head and the moment is gone.
“You too,” he says.
Amicable. Neutral. The tail end of a business deal; they should’ve sealed it with a handshake, but this was the small dose, this was the trial run, this was to learn that he needs someone else to deal with this bullshit because Quackity has enough to deal with already.
Karl wanders off, back to his joke of a country - Foolish’s work is impeccable, but out of the remains of El Rapids only one of them ever had a drive for government - and Quackity rolls his neck before heading toward his casino.
He doesn’t bother looking back; Karl isn’t, and he’s wasted enough time.