The words ring in Quackity’s head. They bounce around his skull as he lays there. Laying there all alone. The casino is empty, Las Nevadas is empty. It’s empty. He is laying on the ground.
The ground is cool to the touch, a little sticky maybe, it feels a bit tacky even. It’s uncomfortable as Quackity lays on the floor. “Is it ever worth it?” There it is again.
Had anything he’d ever done been worth it? Or did it just perpetuate more violence more betray and manipulation. He tried to stop he, he tried to bring justice. But it didn’t work.
At some point it had been more about hurting Dream and fulfilling his own desires than it had ever been about bringing him to justice. Justice over what? An event he hadn’t even really seen in full?
Quackity hadn’t personally been really hurt by Dream. He hadn’t ever really had a say over what was right to punish Dream. And by hurting Dream, he’d hurt everyone else.
Everything was wrong. Nothing was right. “Has it ever been worth it?” Hot tears leaked out of Quackity’s eyes rolling down the sides of his face. Dripping down his chin, into his ears, his greasy hair. “…no. It was never worth it,” he whispered weakly. Voice rough.
He sniffled, “it was never worth it. None of it. Never worth it. It was always selfish and-” he cut himself off. What was it?
Building Las Nevadas what was it? What had it ever been? He stared upwards, looking at the ceiling. It was stained with cigarette tar, the entire place smelling of booze. “Was this self harm?” he asked himself quietly.
All of this had just been defensive. A useless urge to prove himself. A want for more. Power. And what showed power. This? Was this powerful?
Selling people’s bodies and alcohol? Using drugs to keep himself out of his own head? Was it ever worth it if he had to cope with sex and booze?
He convinced himself it was all for some big goal. A big plan. But what had that ever been? What had been the goal? Where had he been going? Where was he going?
And even if he had one, was it worth it?
That word again. Worth. What even defined worth? Quackity didn’t know. Quackity didn’t know if he wanted to know.
He peeled himself off of the floor. Walking up to his own bar. Sliding over the counter. Grabbing a bottle. Struggling the top open.
Finally getting free the top flying out of his hand. Landing in a corner of the bar. Sighing Quackity sat on a bar stood. Chugging down the alcohol. Feeling the burn in the back of his throat. Warmth settling in his stomach. The more he drank the more he felt alive. It was satisfying.
He glanced in the dirty mirror placed behind the bar for some reason, he looked like Schalt. He set the bottle down. The stubble on his cheeks. Sunken cheekbones. Scar running down his face. All he needed was some ram horns.
Quackity laughed manically. Falling onto the bar counter. Cool surface pressed against his cheek. Laughs dissolving into big sobs.
Sobs that ran down his face, eyes red and puffy. Body wracked with big sobs and hiccups. Snot running down his nose. He grabbed the bottle again. Spilling most of the alcohol down his shirt. Some spilling on the counter. Some of it getting into his mouth.
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