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"Dude, what the fuck?"
Quackity stares across an unfamiliar hallway. He's not sure how he got here, but whatever this place is, he's gotta say, the design looks pretty great. Really has a classy kind of vibe. The casino tables are a nice touch; whoever built this place has to be pretty good at redstone.
Whoever built this place has to have made it. That's what Quackity decided when he first woke up inside. This is a good thing, given the person who built it appears to be—
"What the fuck! Shit! Fuck!"
—himself.
"Eyy, what happened to your face?" Quackity asks.
"What the fuck," him-but-not-him says, this time much quieter and higher-pitched than the first two time. He's kind of ruggedly handsome, but to tell the truth, he's not nearly as handsome as Quackity always thought meeting him-but-he-made-it would be. There are bags under his eyes (some makeup could solve that image problem at least), and his hair is a bit greasy (really, Quackity thought he'd take better care of himself when he made it), and that nasty scar over his eye makes it hard to look at anything else on his face (yeah, Quackity doesn't know how to fix that one). On a clone fucking scale, a solid 5/10, which is very disappointing, if Quackity must say so.
"I don't know either dude, but I think I'm having a real weird dream. Looks like a sign the universe is telling my campaign will succeed if you've got a place like this. When did I learn redstone?"
"I didn't," other-Quackity says after a long moment. "Sam did it."
"Sam? He a friend?" Quackity asks.
"…yeah," other-him says. "Sure."
"Pretty sweet, pretty sweet. And a pretty sweet place you got here! Man, this place is practically gilded! I didn't even know the SMP had a desert close to anything, but leave it to Quackity to find it, amirite?"
The other him raises an eyebrow before nodding. Weird. It draws attention to the giant ugly thing on his face again, too. He really shouldn't judge people by appearances; the thing is, appearances are the first thing anyone will judge, and if anyone knows that, Quackity knows that. He's young and pretty and that's the main thing anyone who wants to make it needs—young and pretty and cunning. The cunning is the most important part, but being young and pretty is important to it to.
By god, this succesful version of himself has wrinkles, he realizes, and gray hairs.
"You said this is the universe telling you your campaign will succeed?" the other-him asks.
"Gotta be a good vision. Except for the face. What happened to your face?" Quackity says.
Other-him laughs. "Yeah, yeah, well, I think it adds to my mysterious aura. Makes me look dangerous."
"Us? Dangerous?" Quackity says incredulously. "And people believe that?"
Other-him is silent.
"Yeah, yeah, that's what I thought, that's what I thought!" Quackity says, laughing. Dangerous. Now that's a look he knows he can't get away with. Dangerous means he won't ever be accepted in this stupid country unless he can back it up, and oh man can he not back it up at all. Nah, better to be smooth, and pretty, and talk fast, and get in and out of places with personability as long as he can.
Besides—what would he ever need to be dangerous for?
"But yeah. Pretty great vision. Gotta make sure I stay close with this Sam guy, yeah? And find the desert—hey, if you're me, does that mean you've got some great subconcious wisdom? That's what the stories about this stuff are always like?"
"Subconcious wisdom," other-him repeats. "Yeah, sure, I've got some fucking wisdom."
Quackity waits. The other him, however, doesn't actually say anything else. Instead he opens his mouth and closes it again three times, each time with a different expression. Quackity tries to read each one, but it's difficult to decipher his own emotions, apparently. Must have to do with not looking at them in the mirror enough.
Looking at the other him try and fail to come up with some 'fucking wisdom', though, Quackity looks again at the eye, and the wrinkles, and the gray hair, and the bags under his eyes, and the way he stands, and the idea of 'looking dangerous' as a fallback, and everything else, and then reconsiders why he would be standing in a place like everything he's ever dreamed of looking at a man who's nothing like that at all. He comes to one conclusion:
"Oh shit," Quackity realizes. "Is this supposed to be a cautionary tale?"
"Excuse me?" the other him says.
"Because like, you're the Ghost of Christmas Future! Quackity Future! Where my face gets fucked up and I'm in a casino and stuff! Well, I'm not Scrooge! I'm like, way fucking cooler, I'm not going to get greedy and shit, not more than I should. Am I supposed to avoid this Sam—"
"It was Technoblade!" the other him says. Quackity shreaks.
"Technoblade is fucking here?"
"No! No, not—not anymore, he's not—not here anymore," other-him says. His voice cracks as he says it.
"Thank fuck," Quackity says.
"I really used to be fucking terrified of him, huh?" other-him says quietly.
"See, see, if that's your wisdom, ohohoh, I'll, I'll remember he's supposed to be here. Yeah, I'll remember he's supposed to be here and poison the well in advance! Technoblade, Technoblade, he's scary. And an American, so even though I'm getting L'Manburg opened all the way up, he shouldn't be allowed in! How's that sound, huh?"
The other him stares at him silently. He looks out the window. Quackity squints. It's started snowing in the desert. The wind blows it across the sand. There are no footprints, and the car lot is empty, not that anyone really drives on an SMP anyway.
"Seems like the kind of place Schlatt would like," Quackity finds himself saying. "That drunk went through with the deal, right?"
"I figured out my goddamn wisdom," the other him says.
Quackity turns to look at him again. "Oh? Give it here, man! I could use some big wisdom—"
He stops. The other him has an expression that makes Quackity understand, suddenly, why he'd decided to look dangerous instead of pretty. He's smiling, horribly and serenely, teeth bared. Gold glints between his teeth. His hands are in his pockets. He's leaning back in the way only people who understand fundamentally how to fake being relaxed and how to not have to fake being in control can.
"Don't change anything."
"Eh? What kind of fucking advice—"
Quackity wakes up, and the election's tomorrow.