Poplar St. (OFFICIAL WATTPAD UPLOAD)

Press Space To Respawn

Everything was warm, Quackity thought, sighing as he stretched his aching wings just enough to get rid of the pins and needles.

Soft and warm.

He closed his eyes again, humming contentedly and sinking back down into the mattress, curling his fingers into what felt like an animal skin—

—he didn't use animal skins for blankets.

His eyes snapped open.

Quackity jolted upright, struggling to get his bearings, but as soon as he moved that awful cramping ache flooded through his back and he accidentally planted a hand on his wing.

He shrieked in pain as a few feathers were wrenched loose.

And that was when the headache hit him like a brick in the teeth, along with a wave of nausea, and Quackity barely made it to the window before he started to unceremoniously retch his guts out into what appeared to be a potato bed.

It was hard to tell, though, since he was at least a story off the ground and his eyesight had been fucked up since Techno had bashed his face in.

He slumped against the sill, groaning.

The aching in his damaged wings was worse than it'd ever been.

Maybe because he hadn't groomed them in weeks.

Maybe because they were underused.

He didn't care.

"Damn it, why?" He rasped out loud, sliding down to rest on the blissfully cool hardwood floor, squeezing his eyes shut.

His head spun.

He could barely remember anything after he'd blown El Rapids to hell, mostly because he'd promptly marched through the still-burning wreckage, found the nearest bar that was still standing, and drowned his suffering in booze. He'd been hoping he'd be able to drink himself to death and just make everything easier for everybody, but apparently the universe thought that ripping everything he cared about away from him wasn't enough.

Apparently he didn't deserve to die yet, even though he'd been fucking torturing somebody every day for the past few weeks.

Sure, he knew Dream deserved it, but Quackity always felt sick afterwards, deep down inside.

His stomach turned with guilt and agony.

Schlatt had been right.

He was just a plaything that everybody would get tired of and move on from eventually. He couldn't believe he'd actually managed to trick himself into thinking that maybe Karl and Sap loved him, that they cared.

God, I'm such a tool, he thought.

Numbly, he wondered if the distance from the window to the ground was enough to kill him.

The door creaked open.

Quackity couldn't find it in himself to care that somebody had just walked in, much less about his appearance, even though he was wearing nothing but a pair of ratty old sweatpants and his socks, which he hadn't changed in days.

"What are you doing on the floor?"

Quackity blinked.

He squinted, trying to make sense of the cloudy figure standing over him and get his bad eye—which had a tendency to go lazy—to focus.

Long blond hair... big feathery black wings... that stupid green and white bucket hat...

Philza.