Ducks don't Belong In Crowns [DSMP AU] (REWRITTEN)

1 | THERE ARE NO MISTAKES | A Duck Walks Into The Nether

ACT 1 of SEASON 1
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"The whispers and the screams
The stereotypical profiling ritual
Vicious and obscene."

[DEVIL, ATTENTION ATTENTION, by SHINEDOWN)

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AUGUST 17TH, 20XX.
THE NETHER

Each ring from Quackity's pending phone massages his brain with irritation. The cover inches down his palm, skin slippery from sweat. Adjusting with his moist fingers dapples the case with splodges of his fingerprints. His opposite hand is busied refreshing his flushed face. With how long he's been fanning himself with the beanie, it wouldn't surprise him if he gained carpal tunnel by the time he passed through that damned portal.
He feels his heart jump as a bleary snort resonates in his ear, the buzz of waiting for his call to be picked up shutting off.*
Clinking and striking of glass bottles clatters on the other end, followed by the ragged groan of a bed creaking.

"Quackity—ugh shit, fuck this damn headache—it's four in the fucking morning, why in the hell are you calling me."

"I've called you THREE TIMES for the past day and you didn't pick up once," Quackity huffed at Schlatt, despite the rammy human hybrid's voice curling warmth in his chest.* "Anyway. I left," the drake states. "I'm going to the DreamSMP island—the one South West of the Netherlands."

One of many droplets of sweat budding down his hair catches him in the eye, and he curses, using his beanie to dab his slick ebony bangs and cursing again when his sunglasses clatter to the ground. When it did little, and he picked up his shades, he bounced his already fanned out wings, —each feather separated to not carry more heat than what was already blistering on his skin, in his blood, suffused in his clothes— trying to catch a soothing breeze. What came, tickling his figure, was sweltering, helping to make his outfit more uncomfortable than it already was and failing to relieve him.

"I just had to tell somebody," he told Schlatt solemnly.

Shuffling forward as the line moved, Quackity took the place of a person once in front of him. An apology was quickly uttered as the person behind him bumped into him. He told her it was fine, nudging his suitcases closer to himself with his foot. Ignoring the fatigue pressing on him where bags were strapped over both of his shoulders.

He heard liquid swish as Schlatt picked up one of the many glass bottles he could imagine scattered about his room. "Are we talking about the same shitty island with absolutely, completely no access to the internet, with no phones or ipads. You do know you're going to rely on old-school dust-infested rectangular VHSes and circular pieces of plastic, "dvds." I rather say that's out of date, no one even uses those anymore–"

Quackity rolls his eyes. Yet, he's unable to stop the smile creasing his face. He knows exactly where this is going to go, what he's going to say.

"Guns aren't even aloud! Who in their right mind doesn't allow guns!"

Quackity laughs shortly. However, even smiling and grinning with Schlatt's "convincing" reasons why the DreamSMP island was a shit place to move to, it doesn't chuckle away the obdurance hard in his core. "Thirty-nine people are scattered all over the island!" the drake says. "There's plenty of people who want to make a new life for themselves like I do. And I can build whatever I want on all the open rural land, and no one can tell me not to. You're the one who told me that."