Chapter Text
The curtain falls, only to rise again in a second. The play hadn't ended yet and it seems like the final act will never actually come.
The show must go on.
And so Quackity's cold body falls to the ground for the hundredth time.
In this act, at least, he was spared the pain of having his body morph into something inhumane. Of feeling his own bones melting with an unbearable burning sensation, his muscles being torn and his vocal cords breaking due to the agonising screams he let out.
No, this time it was a peaceful passing.
And that's what made it all worse.
Multi would rather watch Quackity turn into a goop of despair- a disgusting monster, once again, than watch him die with that soft, comforting smile.
The storm caries on, Walpurgisnacht keeps on laughing in the background, like the fool it is.
Helplessness... how fitting.
Yes, Multi too, can't help but feel helpless, while watching the skin of his beloved be assaulted by the rain. The body is probably freezing to touch at this point. How ironic. Before, it was the avian always complaining about the others cold hands, he always ran hot, especially compared to Multi.
One might think that the countless rehearsals of this very scene would make the actors expect it; and yet it's not the case, at least not in this performance.
The clowns, like the royal familiars of the fool they are, keep on destroying the world around, somewhere in the distance, he can hear the last of the hussars fall.
Multi couldn’t care less, he knew that they were going to die sooner rather than later. It was a miracle in itself that Graf managed to hold up for as long as he did- he always was the most fragile and gentle out of their little family. It's no wonder that once only Multi, and he were left on the battlefield, he'd given up on the fight on his own accord.
Quackity did that too.
He also gave up on the fight, on the plan, leaving only broken promises and hopes behind.
In his pale hand lies a gun that he took from the scientist, right before he turned the rifle on himself.
The blood is being washed away by the rain- or maybe it's just Multi's tears.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is Quackity's cold body, which, if one tried hard enough, could pass as a silhouette of a peacefully sleeping person.
The smile forever engraved on his face. The soft lips that the other loved to see stretch into silly grins and petty pouts, won't move no more.
The last thing Quackity ever said was a plea to finally let him die.
Multi is going to be sick
Nothing that occurred here was written down in the script. This was not a part of the plan. That’s not how it was supposed to go.
It's all wrong.
The fool continues to giggle, the clowns- the poor souls of the dammed- play their parts.
The soulless eyes on his back continue to stare at him without blinking. Multi knows that if he were to look behind, he'll be met with that ever-present smile on white fur. A mockery to Quackity's gentle uplifting of lips.
The gaze reminds him that he too, is a clown.
But his master isn't Walpurgisnacht, no, it's the federation.
The play goes on.
Multi reaches for his watch.