Work Text:
"Right." Sam says, eyes flicking across the open environment. "Explain to me why we have to build the casino here?"
Quackity either misses the somewhat rhetorical nature of the question, or he's had a speech prepared from the get-go, because he quickly launches into an elevator pitch. "The general biome is really optimal, 'cause in the day people are gonna want to be inside to escape the heat, right, and in the night they'll be pretty isolated to this location since it shines like a beacon in the middle of nowhere. I don't get what's not to like about the place—y'know?"
Sam's lips form into a line, and he hums, considering how he should phrase his next statement. "...I am not sure.. ah.."
He watches as Quackity only half turns his head to pay more attention, before quickly beginning to finish his thought. "You bring up a good point; however, I am under the impression we want people to be able to get out here, right?"
"Well."
Quackity swallows.
"It's just beautiful. I'm not sure exactly what else I've gotta say."
Sam gives him a sidelong glance as he takes in the scenery Quackity is so transfixed on, nodding after pressing it under his scrutiny. "Yeah, I think I understand."
They had originally set out shortly before sunset, but now it was dark, final lingering wisps of red and orange being smothered out by purple and a wave of deep nothing. Stars speckled across the sky in a blanket, little lights soon to be extinguished by light pollution, and beautiful silence fills the air, not yet drowned out by catchy music and ringing sound effects and the whir of slot machines. Sam takes it all in and refuses to let his eyes settle in one place.
The stars are too evenly proportioned in distance, and the silence is too overwhelming. He twists a foot in the sand, harsh crunch of noise giving temporary reprise from the nothingness filling his head.
Quackity's shoulders jump, only slightly, and he bodily turns. "We've got work to do," he says, landing a hand on Sam's shoulder. "This is gonna be our legacy."
They end up camping out in the desert that night, and the several following it. At least, Quackity does.
The others come and go, some more frequent than others as the planning and terrain cleaning move steadily along. Quackity remains though, he watches and waits in the time he spends alone, planning. He's focused, completely.
Legacy legacy legacy. That's the real goal here, beyond controlling the pockets of every person on the server. Beyond the petty present and snapping jaws of the ugly past. It's a plan for the future. The shining lights of neon signage and postcard-perfect views, singing music and unforgettable nights. He wants it all for Las Nevadas, nothing less for a masterful piece of art.
Sam camps out with Quackity when he can, worry growing at the edge of his mind as time passes.
Sam watches Quackity pore over documents and plans and designs for hours at a time, sometimes encouraging him to eat when it doesn't seem like a futile effort. The worry deepens with every passing minute, watching his focus grow into obsession faster and faster.
It's not a normal obsession—which is the reason Sam is even worried in the first place. He's seen the look on a number of people's faces over the course of a lifetime, he knows it's useless to fret over potential missed meals and lessened hours of sleep once he's done all he can. The real issue is the weird control problems Quackity seems to be having specifically over the results of his work. He trusts his plans to be fulfilled, it's clear in the way he talks to Sam and the others that he expects things to go over smoothly and issues to be brought up the second they happen. What Sam is seeing here though—it's as if he doesn't trust his own hand to design them well enough.
Over and over, lines rewritten while drafting contracts, illustrations of concept art and designs both being scrapped and cut apart, taped together like frankenstein's monster. Sam thinks that if he looks away long enough, he'll turn around to find Quackity becoming unsatisfied with the very paper he's using. That's what gets him to volunteer so much of his time to help edit and review everything Quackity does. Some twisted equivalent of reassurances fall from his lips like water from the tap.
"When you put it that way, I understand what you mean regarding isolation," Sam says, "but I don't want you to regret this, okay?"
Quackity wets his lips, a long pause as he considers this, "I'll sleep on it."
Sam nods, not pushing the issue further. "That's fine. We can talk more about this later."
Quackity doesn't respond as Sam rises, but there's a flicker in his eyes that implies a level of acknowledgement.
"Goodnight, Quackity."
Sam doesn't sleep particularly well in the tent he had set up, but it's better than nothing when nighttime winds send waves of sand whipping in your direction every few minutes. The soft whir of sand lapping at the sheets that made up the walls of the tent made for polite white noise, not cutting enough to prevent sleep but present enough to lull him into it.
Whoosh, shhhhh, whoosh, shhhhh, whoosh, shhk.
Sam bolts upright, head snapping in the direction of the noise.
Shhk shhk shhk.
Sam carefully moves a foot outward, lowering it into the sand like it might bite. It lands unceremoniously, with a wet thump that leaves Sam wholly disgusted. The ground is wet and sticky and Sam is entirely sure this is not how the ground should be right now—not when there isn't an ounce of naturally occurring surface water for miles. He looks down, and feels worse than he did a minute ago.
Disgusting and slimy, it wasn't wet sand his foot had come in contact with.
It's some kind of goo—green like a slime but certainly not alive in the way mobs were. In this instant, Sam suddenly feels hyperaware of his surroundings. The bed he laid down slopes to the side, sand oddly more firm in some spots and softer in others. The slime glistens in the darkness, despite no moonlight breaking into the tent. Outside, it's completely silent.
He feels gross.
Quackity stands, dazed.
He doesn't remember how he got here, but that's okay.
The sand shifts around him, quiet in the wind. He turns, gaze skipping across the rolling hills of sand. There aren't any clouds in the sky, and the stars stretch into lines, looking like they were captured in motion. He takes a step forward, and another, and another. The thin grains of sand give way beneath his feet, noiselessly parting under the weight of each step.
It's beautiful. This will be what children remember looking at in the late night; this will be what the future looks at, wondering if people from now admire it just the same as they do.
Something crunches loudly in the sand.
Belatedly, Quackity looks in the direction of the noise, seeing nothing but undisturbed sand. He turns back, continuing on his uncertain journey, step after step. He needs to find it. The perfect spot.
Sam stands in full, carefully avoiding the slimy patch on the ground and lifting the affected foot. Perhaps if it were blood, he'd be feeling something other than disgust.
The wind picks up again outside, but the rhythmic hum seems more mechanical than natural. Sam musters up the courage to poke his head outside only a moment later, spying a gradually fading trail of footprints leading up and over a distant dune. His eyes trail over the path, trying to pin the origin when it eventually traces back to—ah.
Sam had bolted before he even realized it, falling over himself to climb the massive hill of sand. Something is wrong with this place and it's about time he found evidence, chasing after Quackity's fading footprints.
He's tumbling down the other side of the dune, when he begins quickly realizing he'll be giving chase to a much longer path than he originally thought.
He keeps getting turned around.
Quackity doesn't know what keeps pulling him to this spot, but it's not right. He picks a direction and goes, despite all the times he looks back and every pang of something off in his gut. He goes and he goes, because he knows exactly what he wants and this is not it.
He circles the same paths over and over, deviating for not too long until he realizes he's back. Returned to the almost but not quite right dip in the sand, an already flat stretch that could easily be taken advantage of—the place that's over time become just a little less than the best.
Quackity walks, until he runs.
Sam follows the winding path of footprints for nothing short of an hour, watching it double back, spin in loops, and turn unnoticeably for too long.
His foot, by this point, had somehow lost the sludge completely. He's grateful, but it's a bit odd when he considers it at all beyond such a simple observation. There isn't time to consider it when he catches sight of something other than sand imprinted by a trail. He stumbles, feet crashing forward faster than he intended, a shout on the tip of his lips—
Quackity thinks that the desert might swallow him whole.
It's been kind to him, he realizes.
"Quackity!" Sam shouts, fighting his way to get closer faster than Quackity can move away. The head start was the only reason it had taken this long after all.
Quackity eventually finds the path of least resistance, practically squirming past the heavy feeling of the desert and out of its oppressive grip as he winds around the bends of sand.
A cool breeze meets his back, pushing him forward as he continues on his search. He's almost there. Sand is in his dress shoes, and small specks of dirt fill out the underside of his nails. He'd never let someone catch him like this if he could help it, but plenty of people have caught him in a worse state, blood pouring from his face and shrill noises of pain escaping him. He'd prefer if nobody could have seen it, but he'll have to make do with making people forget about it.
Quackity stumbles, suddenly falling into the sand beneath him.
This is it.
This is the place Quackity had been thinking of, all this time. It's the place that he thought of when considering the facts regarding the need to terraform. This was the place he thought of when he talked about controlling the water, the place he thought of when he talked about gorgeous views and shining like a beacon. This is where Quackity wants—this is where he wants ███████.
He begins digging, for some inane reason. He couldn't describe why, but he felt the need to dip his hands into the sand, curl his fingers, and pull back, moving as if he were trying to find something hidden away.
He's not.
Looking, that is. He isn't looking for anything, just preparing. He's going to be buried here one day.
That's the price of his legacy.
A hand lands on his shoulder. "Quackity."
Quackity whirls around, falling into the sand he was previously digging at.
"Quackity, are you alright?" Sam asks, worry coloring his tone as he watches Quackity slowly come back to himself. "Quackity?"
"Sam." It's not confusion, not even a question.
"Yes?"
"I'm gonna tell you something, okay?"
Sam is briefly taken aback, before saying, "Alright, I—alright."
"I'm sure you think something is wrong with this place." He says, fists widening marginally, sand slipping out between his fingertips. "I'm sure you've seen the same things I have. I'm sure you don't want us—me camping out here all the time."
Sam briefly stutters over a little noise of objection, before Quackity makes a gesture to silence him. He listens, of course, because even if the desert does strange things in the night and shockingly addictive rays of sunlight shine down during the day, Sam will follow his lead. Always.
"This." He makes a sweeping gesture, though the both of them are still crouched on the sand as he does it: "Right here, in the sand we're on. This is the place."
The conviction in his voice is something to behold, as Sam feels like he's falling over himself all over again to help Quackity build that future people would one day marvel at. The others would be irritated at the change in location, but it wouldn't be as bad as if they moved biomes completely. Moonlight shines on the both of them, illuminating what would one day be a sparkling light in the midst of nothing. Sam feels like they're being pulled into something more than just a simple business stunt—more than a pull to create for the sake of it.
He thinks they'll all die in this sand. Not as literally as it could be taken—maybe for some, but mostly as a metaphor for Quackity passing in the midst of poring over piles of paperwork in an office, pen still taut in the grip of rigor mortis. He thinks of that for himself, too, old enough to be long past all the insanity of what they're all still trying to escape right now, old and happy and finished with his work. He imagines Quackity is thinking of something like that too, not just for himself, but for Sam and the others.
They'll work themselves to the bone, and when they whittle those bones down into toothpicks, they'll somehow find more to work with.
He thinks that's alright—to do that for the future Quackity is so dedicated to carving all of their names into.
"Alright," Sam says, and he means it.