Quackity's thumb danced over an old picture frame, tainted by dust, a small crack reflected in the glass over his eye. So much had changed... both in a physical and internal sense, so had he. As his gaze focused on his reflection in the frame, differences hit him like a hurricane.

Back then he hadn't been cursed with this vile, jagged scar down his face. Back then the corners of his lips would manage to curl into a smile. So bright, full of hope, now moping behind his desk as President of a country he'd slaved away to build with his own broken hands.

When Quackity's attention shot back over to the doorway after an unexpected knock, he swore he had seen the ghost of his younger self, as dumb as that sounded. Though alas, it was just his intern.