Chapter Text
When Purgatory ends and everyone else is scrambling for their eggs or for safety, Slimecicle is calm.
He walks up to the nearest camera, fallen to the floor along with a chunk of the wall, and taps it on the side. It doesn't need to be connected, the Demon played up the eye motif enough that these things are probably growing on trees at this point. He speaks quietly, he doesn't want to risk the others hearing him even through their panic.
"I'd like to have another talk."
He then steps out of the room and into the hall even as someone pushes past him, finally leaving their egg.
He waits in the hall for a few seconds before he pushes open a random door and steps into Schlatt's parlor.
It's similar to what it was in the zombie apocalypse, minus the drugs- never mind, there they are. The outside noise cancellation, the relaxing lounge music that sets you slightly on edge, the counter that's however tall it needs to be and changes when you look away. The disappearing door. Warm tones and wooden floors, completely at odds with the laboratory setting Slime just walked in from. And of course JSchlatt, the Drug Guy himself.
This time he appears in a form more typical to their game, a human face with a thin beard and pupils only elongated enough that they could pass as just being dilated from the drugs. His horns are completely hidden in his hair, only poking out now and then like an omen. His suit is relatively messy although still basically perfect, only having the tie untucked and slightly loose to give the slightest effort towards the druggie persona of the setting.
Schlatt greets him with a smile while polishing a heroin needle with a rag like it's a bar glass.
"Charlie! What's this about?"
Slimecicle speaks quietly.
"Flippa's not real, is she."
It's not a question.
"She is real, Charlie, you know that: she walks, she talks- or writes, and you have confirmation from practically everyone on the island that you're not just hallucinating her."
"But it isn't Flippa."
"Well of course not! And be careful there, she still uses she/her. I never thought I'd have to correct you on your own daughter's pronouns."
"She isn't my daughter. She's just... a construct."
"She's pretty complex, much more than the other code monsters. I figured you, of all people, would appreciate the ingenuity, Industry."
"Which means you broke the agreement."
"Did I? It hardly matters whether she's real or not, she made you happy, didn't she?"
"But she can't anymore. Not now that I've figured it out."
"Yeah?"
"So I'll need alternate compensation."
Schlatt sets the needle down on the table.
"Finally learning how to bargain, huh? Whaddya want? You can't get much in the way of safety given how you've already eaten the apple."
"I know. At this point, I just want familiar company. So why don't we make things a little different this time?"
"And how's that?"
Slimecicle bares his teeth in a malicious grin.
"As compensation for breaking your word and as refulfillment of the terms of that deal, I demand that you, JSchlatt, God of Misery, join me in Eggxile in a mortal form."
Charlie reaches his hand out over the counter for a handshake but Schlatt chuckles, eyes flashing gold as he reaches under the counter and pulls out a plastic grocery bag filled with cocaine.
"If we're doing this, we're sealing the deal my way, Charlie. I hope you know what you've signed up for."
Slimecicle laughs in surprise, then empties the bag out onto the counter.
"Sure, man! For old time's sake, I guess!"
Charlie and Schlatt dunk their heads into the pile together, sealing the deal.
Just like every time he parties with Schlatt, his life seems to smash cut from that moment to him waking up in the morning (doesn't matter which morning, sometimes its weeks before he truly regains consciousness) and receiving flashes of memories of his missing time as he goes about his day.
Unlike every time he parties with Schlatt, he wakes up at home, in his bed.
And unlike every time, he can still see Schlatt when he wakes up. This time, Schlatt is also asleep, passed out on the floor with his tie tied around his head and shreds of his suit jacket spread around the room in a probably intentional and definitely unintelligible way. He didn't mysteriously disappear when Charlie looked away, and if his current state is any impression he might be experiencing the consequences of his actions for the first time in decades, if not centuries.
He was really mortal.
He was really here.
Charlie wasn't alone anymore.