Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The end of Charlie’s rowboat bumps into the coast of Eggxile. Charlie releases both oars with a long exhale, his forearms and biceps burning from the non-stop rowing. Despite how tired he is, Charlie wastes no time before he stands from the rowboat and steps out onto the beach. As soon as he steps out, the boat is pulled back into the water by a creeping wave. He doesn’t move to save it— it wasn’t his to begin with. It was a lifeboat on the side of the ship that got him and the surviving islanders away from Purgatory.

He wouldn't need the boat again. God knows he was never going back.

The sand squelches beneath his boots as he climbs the hill, breath sitting in the back of his throat.

“Flippa?” He calls out to the air, fingers brushing against the dirt as he climbs the steep landscape, “Flippa, I’m home!”

Charlie pulls himself over the ridge, stumbling onto his knees as he heaves in breath. He looks up, heart beating so fast that he can hardly hear anything else.

“… Flippa?”

His heart sinks at the scene before him.

His little wooden shack, which used to be the only man-made structure on the island, is surrounded by bright yellow caution tape that extends to the surrounding landscape. The strange, black and green infestation that he noted before he left has spread, so much so that nearly all the grass surrounding his house has been replaced by the strange black material that buzzes with bright green digits.

“No,” Charlie chokes, his heart pounding harder than it had the entire two weeks he had been in Purgatory, “No, no, no-"

Charlie moves into action, sprinting towards the remains of his home with all the energy he has left.

“Flippa, are you here?!”

He throws open the rickety old wooden door, seeing that the walls inside are nearly all black with the spread of the malevolent code-like substance. He does not take a moment to question it, nor does he realize how the rash along his arms burn as he grows nearer. He simply darts into the house and quickly descends the ladder leading to his basement. Charlie whips around, bloodshot eyes scanning the room at an alarming rate.

He sees the opened green present at the back of the room, surrounded by the only light source down here. He sees the shriveled, unmoving corpses of cockroaches sitting in cages labelled with the names of his enemies. He sees lines and lines of chests that he had attempted to organize, but quickly stopped caring about how tidy they were when Flippa returned. He sees a ticket, his ticket, sitting in a frame on the wall untouched. He sees a small bed where Flippa had slept. Next to it there is a chest where he placed a message for her before he left.

But he finds no sign of his daughter anywhere.

Charlie immediately slumps and places a hand against the wall, letting out a distraught breath.

‘This doesn’t mean she’s dead. She does this all the time.’ Charlie tries to tell himself, ‘She’ll turn up. She always does. She has to.’

….

But what if she doesn't?

‘She always comes back.’

What if she’s dead? What if he’s lost her again?

He can already feel tears burning in the corners of his eyes as his fingers instinctively claw into the wall, trying to reach for emotional support that just wasn’t there.

No spouse. No friends. No daughter.

He slams his fist against the wall in a vain attempt to make himself snap out of it. A sharp, cold shock runs up his forearm in response, making him inhale sharply through clenched teeth at the sensation. He pulls his hand away, whipping around to see flashes of green spread through the black substance like a spiderweb in response to his touch.

His jaw sets as a shock of rage whips through his system.

He barely even registers cocking back a fist.

Charlie’s fist slams into the wall, causing that bright green flash to happen once more.

“WHERE”

The pins and needles stabbing into his hand becomes a distant feeling as he hits the wall again.

“IS”

And again.

“MY”

And again.

“DAUGHTER?”

An explosion of sharp pain shreds through his arm as if he had stuck his hand into a box of broken glass and shrapnel. He pulls away from the wall with a shriek, one hand clutching the other as green streaks through his ‘rash’, mimicking the pattern of circuit boards as it races across his skin. He bites back a series of curses, greeted with the unfortunate feeling of razor blades carving distinct lines into his skin. He pulls the hand to his chest, hangs his head, and breathes through it.

“I’ll find her.. I’ll find her..” His own whispers ring out, the only presence around to reassure him.

But the image of her lifeless body remains in the forefront of his mind, reminding him of the many times he failed her before.

And he’s failed her yet again.

Charlie feels tears quickly approaching and does nothing to fight them back.

And just as they are about to fall, he hears something shuffle from behind.

He spins around, searching wildly for a threat to his life.

But he finds none.

Instead, standing in the back of the room in the shadows is a little girl.

“.. Flippa..?” Charlie whispers, the word slipping between his lips like a prayer. The figure steps into the light, their bright emerald eyes meeting his own.

His daughter.

She stands wearing her usual outfit, a yellow long-sleeve shirt tucked into a red skirt with boots. A scaly green dragon tail flicks from behind her as she instantly recognizes him. A somewhat sinster smile comes onto her face, allowing that one little fang to poke out. Her hair is neat, collected into two braids that fall down her shoulders, tied off with red ribbon. From her scalp, green dragon horns poke out, just starting to curl back. A crack splits across her face as if it were made of eggshell or porcelain, sneaking between her eyes at the bridge of her nose and connecting with her scalp.

Juanaflippa does not even hesitate before she throws out her arms and sprints towards him.

“Fippa!” Charlie calls out, dropping to his knees and opening his arms to receive his daughter. Juanaflippa throws herself at her father, wrapping her arms tightly around him. He goes to return the hug, to wrap his arms protectively around the only person he stays alive for. As soon as his hands make contact with his daughter, a white, sharp pain runs through his hands and up his arms in warning. Charlie instinctively pulls away, hands shaking at the sudden pain as the constant static that runs across his infected limbs swells and intensifies.

“Shit— are you okay?” Charlie exclaims, leaning back from Flippa, “God- I’m so sorry Flippa, I don’t know what that was. Did you feel that?”

His daughter shakes her head.

“Good, okay, I’m glad,” Charlie drops his hands to his sides, wincing as the pain spikes and retreats once more, “I think it’s something to do with this weird rash.. I don’t want to spread it to you so it’s best if —“

Without letting her father finish, Flippa closes the space he made and embraces him without question. Charlie flinches at the action, letting out a happy sob as a tear slides down his cheek. He shakily returns the hug, wincing as the same, otherworldly pain fills his limbs. Despite feeling as if his arms were being ripped apart into particles and scattered to the wind, he holds on.

He'll hold on as long as Flippa wants.

He doesn’t care about the green digits and lines that run up his rash, mimicking his heartbeat.

He doesn’t care that it feels like his skin is being peeled off of his bones.

He doesn’t care that he hears a strange, static growl at the back of his head

His daughter is here and she is safe.

And that is all he ever asked for.

When she pulls away, his entire body is shaking from the prolonged torment. He clenches his fists and forces himself to still as Flippa pulls out her book and scratches out a message with her quill.

‘Wh3re h@ve y0u be3n?’ Is written across the page.

“Oh Flippa, I am so sorry I was gone for so long,” Charlie immediately apologizes, “They trapped us all on this awful island. I did everything I could to get back to you.”

Flippa’s gaze drops to her book as she flips a page, writes another message and turns it around.

‘Wer3 y0u hurT?’

“Ah.. no,” Charlie lies, absently touching the back of his neck with a small laugh, “But are you okay? Have you been hiding?"

Her hand moves quickly across the page, putting together another message.

‘Th3 Fed3r@ti0n wa$ h3re. They were l00kIng f0r më.’

Charlie immediately stands to his full height, the pain lacing his body quickly forgotten at the mere implication of Juanaflippa in danger.

“Did they see you?” He asks, his voice eerily low.

She shakes her head.

“We can’t stay here. They must be monitoring this whole site,” Charlie says as he steps to his tools chest and rummages through, retrieving the only diamond blade he owns. He slips its scabbard across his back and grabs a knife from the chest to tuck into his boot, “Phil can help us, okay? We became really close over the past 2 weeks, he was the leader of our team. They are like a second family and I know they’ll be there for us.”

Flippa’s eyes flash with an eager, artificial glimmer as she nods.

“Okay, come on, I know where he lives,” Charlie says, walking quickly to the ladder. He climbs up the ladder as fast as he can, the unfortunately-familiar feeling of fear coming over him. When he makes it to the main floor, Flippa seems to flash into existence before him as if she teleported.

“Stay behind me, okay?” Charlie instructs, watching his daughter nod in understanding and creep into his shadow, her eyes glowing an eerily bright green in the shade.

His hand grips the wobbly knob of his door as he glances behind one last time, giving her a reassuring nod. She returns it with a smile.

Charlie turns back around just as he opens the door and takes a step out—

— And nearly walks right into Cucurucho.

Charlie takes a stifled breath, slamming the door behind him shut to keep Juanaflippa out of view. He lets out an anxious laugh, now noticing that Cucurucho is flanked by a dozen Federation agents that surround the perimeter. Cucurucho itself is unmistakable: cloaked in an eerily perfect white suit with a sharp black tie. Its head resembles a white plush bear’s but is missing all of the whimsy and love of a stuffed animal. Its eyes resemble perfectly shaped coals dug into the white of its face, unmoving and unfeeling. Its smile is stitched and stagnant, seemingly frustrated that it cannot grin wider to take in the pleasure of terrifying another victim on the island. The workers that it has brought are all faceless. Most of them wear sharp grey dress shirts with a yellow badge, marking them as the guards and soldiers of the Federation. 4 or 5 of them wear long white labcoats with the symbol of the Federation on the breast. And one of them is a worker, distinguishable by his orange vest and hardhat.

An anxious laugh comes from him as he presses his back into the door, the knob digging into his spine.

“Hello.” Cucurucho speaks in the same feminine pre-recorded voice it always uses.

“Cucurucho! So wonderful to see you again,” Charlie greets cautiously, keenly aware that he is entirely outnumbered.

“Oh?” Cucurucho replies simply, its head tilting to the side.

“Yeah, um, you’re here about all the weird black stuff on my property, right?” Charlie asks, taking a step away from the door hesitantly, “I think its concrete. If you want me to relocate while you guys clean this up or something, just let me know and I’ll get out of your—“

“There is an entity on your island that does not belong here,” It cuts him off, barely pausing before continuing, “Have you encountered this entity?”

‘Shit.’ He thinks absently to himself as he keeps the fear from reaching his face.

“Gegg? Well, there was a copy of him but I’m not sure where he ran off to. Maybe the main island?” He deflects immediately.

“No,” Cucurucho denies, lowering its head and pointing to his arms, “What is that?”

“Oh,” Charlie raises his blackened hand and shrugs, letting it fall to his side, “That’s nothing. Just a weird rash from that Purgatory island, I think. It’s getting better, so no need to—“

“Arm.” Cucurucho does not let him finish, raising a hand to receive his forearm. Charlie immediately folds his arms behind himself, trying to hide them from view despite the very obvious remnants of the infection on his shoulder and forehead that remain visible.

“Really, it’s nothing. It’s not painful or—“

Charlie loses his voice as Cucurucho steps closer, leaning its face down to his own so that it towers above him.

“Arm.” It repeats.

After a couple of long silent seconds, Charlie swallows loudly and slowly raises his right arm. He hisses air through his teeth as Cucurucho’s hand closes around his forearm, the pins and needles that are in constant motion across his skin growing colder and more painful at its contact. Its gaze lingers far too long on his face before it looks down, head tilting as it studies the infection.

“Yeah this is.. its a little weird,” Charlie mutters with a forced laugh and tries to pull his arm away, stopping when Cucurucho’s grip tightens, “They had us doing some weird shit in Purgatory. It’s probably from that..”

“Come.” Its robotic voice orders without looking back, causing the worker wearing an orange vest to immediately move to Cucurucho’s side. Charlie watches its worker advance, his heart beating so fast that it is all he can hear.

Inches behind this door was his daughter.

If they saw her.. if they knew she came back to life..

Would they take her away from him again?

“Do you have, like, a hospital or a lab to go to where we can talk about this?” Charlie inquires, pushing away an inner dialogue of terror and paranoia. He just needs to get them away, keep them distracted.

Hell, they can do whatever they want to him. Just as long as Flippa is okay. As long as she is safe and alive.

Cucurucho looks to its worker and, still clutching onto Charlie, leans down to inspect the worker’s ankle. Charlie follows Cucurucho’s gaze, eyes widening at what he finds.

A black rash, just like his own, has eaten away at the worker’s ankle. It flashes with bright green lines and digits, much like Charlie’s does. Cucurucho’s gaze travels back up to Charlie’s arm, head tilting before it looks up to him.

“It is here.”

Before Charlie can ask “who?”, Cucurucho tugs him away from the door in one brutal motion, nearly dislocating his shoulder.

“Hey- HEY!” Charlie shouts, digging his heels into the ground and grabbing at Cucurucho’s hand, “What the hell are you—“

Cucurucho’s grip abandons his arm to curl into the collar of his shirt. Charlie’s hands find Cucurucho’s wrists as it pulls him to the side, dragging him from his home. Before he can offer further vocal resistance, Cucurucho pushes hard, throwing Charlie back several feet. He falls into the hands of two guards, who immediately hook their arms under his own and hold him in place. He watches helplessly as a group of 8 guards step towards his door, wielding strange weapons that crackle with white electricity. 2 of them hold rods with thick metal collars at the end. Cucurucho steps into the house first, followed by its army.

“FLIPPA, RUN! LEAVE ME!!” Charlie cries out so loud that his voice cracks, fighting back against his captors with everything he has left in him, “FLIPPA YOU HAVE TO RUN!”

Cucurucho and its army disappear into his humble home.

Charlie fights harder once Cucurucho is out of sight, pulling and twisting away from the two that hold him. He tugs his right arm forward abruptly, breaking one hand free. He doesn’t waste the small amount of freedom he’s gained, spinning around to claw deeply into the other’s face. Thin beads of red appear in a line across the faceless being as it jerks its face away in pain, incapable of voicing its rage. Charlie pulls out of his weakened grasp, freeing his other hand to reach for his weapon and—

From behind, the other guard wraps an arm around his throat and pulls his head back. Charlie chokes at the sudden headlock, both infection-riddled hands grabbing and clawing into the guard’s arm as his airways are entirely cut off. His chest burns with desire for air as he watches the guard he scratched approaching, drawing a baton from its belt as it tugs the sword away from him and throws it to the ground. He kicks out at the approaching enemy, screams for his daughter never making it past his lips. The guard pulls the baton back and slams it into Charlie’s abdomen, knocking the remaining air out of his body in one calculated motion. He tries to double over, feeling bile burn at the back of his throat, but cannot move at all being held as he is. The guard hits him again, slamming the metal weapon into his right side. A barely audible groan comes from him at the instant sharp pain, his body ringing with alarm at the sudden violence.

The guard half-choking him from behind releases his choke hold and shoves Charlie forward onto the ground. Charlie’s fingers claw into the grass beneath him, his gaze lifting to meet the door of their house.

“Flippa ru—“

His daughter’s name transforms into a shriek of pain as he is kicked, the steel-toed boot landing between his ribs. Anticipating another hit, Charlie throws his arms over his head protectively.

And much like in Purgatory, Charlie is kicked while he is down again

and again,

and again,

and again,

and again.

His breaths are heavy as week-old injuries are renewed. He pushes up against the cold wet grass, blurry vision fixed on the door as strands of his brunette hair fall into his eyes.

He spent 2 weeks being thrown from cliffs, drowned, stabbed, shot, blown up and beaten.

If they want to hurt him, they’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that.

His hand creeps to the blade he tucked securely into his right boot, his palm finding the leather handle.

He had learned it from Cellbit: Never be caught without a knife.

In one seamless motion, Charlie draws the knife as he abruptly rises to his feet. Before the guards can think of defending themselves, Charlie spins around and plunges the blade into the nearest creature's throat. Hot, red ichor seeps from the wound immediately, coating his fist in blood. The guard’s hand clamps around Charlie’s wrist fraily, a weak attempt at fighting back. It lets go instantly in shock as Charlie drags the blade towards himself, nearly decapitating the soldier. The guard drops to the floor without a sound, clutching the gaping wound in its neck as it is drained of all of its blood.

Charlie whips to face the other soldier just in time, blocking a hit from a baton with his forearms. Without hesitation, he lowers his arms and throws himself at his enemy, dragging them both to the ground. The guard immediately attempts to kick Charlie off of him, but Charlie quickly climbs ontop to sit directly on its torso. With an inhuman glaze of insanity in his eyes, Charlie raises his knife with both hands and thrusts it down. White hands lock around his wrists, resisting the knife that hangs over where the creature should have a face. The end of the blade creeps ever closer to its target, shaking in Charlie’s grasp as the creature below him fights tooth and nail to stay alive.

He is consumed in protecting his daughter, consumed in ending this guard’s life.

And that is exactly why he does not hear footsteps approaching from behind.

The first thing he feels are two sharp pangs in his neck, almost like someone had jabbed the end of a stapler into his flesh. That sensation is quickly forgotten as a blinding, sporadic pain surges into him all at once. His vision flashes bright white as a scream shreds through his throat. Charlie’s entire body contracts as liquid fire courses through his veins, suddenly losing the feeling of his knife in his hands as he rolls off of the guard onto his back on the floor. His back arches up from the grass as his screams no longer sound human, melding into the sharp, robotic noises of a glitching machine. Bright green flashes in his vision like a computer with a virus. Clumps of grass are torn from their roots as his heels kick into the ground, his legs seeming to move on their own. His entire body feels disjointed as if he has been split into pieces: pieces that all move independently from one another with no coherent purpose.

And just as quickly as the pain had come, it was gone.

Charlie shakes against the cold grass making the small, quiet groans and hums of a tortured soul. He blinks repeatedly, clearing tears that had formed without his knowledge. Swimming into his vision are 4 figures that stand over him: the guard he tackled and 3 Federation members dressed in lab coats. His eyes meet the source of his sudden torment: one of the scientists is holding a hand-taser.

But that can't be right. Charlie had been tased many times before at the hands of his friends. It was funny, moderately painful, and entirely harmless.

But the pain he had just felt was nothing like it had been before. It was unlike any pain he’d ever experienced, and he had been unfortunate enough to experience quite a lot in his childhood and on the island. In his delirium, he wonders briefly if the Federation has special tasers. The burn that ebbs across his hands, right shoulder, and a patch on his forehead tells him that the taser wasn’t different: He was.

He had felt the electrocution worse where his infection was.

Despite the state he’s been reduced to, Charlie still fights back when two of the Federation employees hook arms under his own and tug him to his feet. They force his hands in front of him and clamp heavy, mechanical shackles onto his wrists. Once closed, the green light on the cuffs blinks red, beeps audibly, and tightens around his hands until it can’t go any further. Charlie groans at the pressure as he attempts to wriggle out of his restraints, only to find there is no room to move at all. The last standing guard stands at his side, clutching his bicep so he does not move.

The faint sound of a door opening drags his gaze back to the shabby wooden shack Charlie built on this solitary island. A glimmer of hope flickers in his chest, promising that Juanaflippa got away. Promising that she was okay.

But that hope is immediately dashed as Juanaflippa walks out.

“Flippa—?”

Charlie’s eyes widen, the metal collar around his daughter’s throat now visible as she is pushed through the door. The collar is attached to two rods, held by two guards that walk behind her. Cucurucho is close behind, hands folded behind itself casually.

And at the sight of his daughter locked up like cattle, Charlie’s rage blooms once more.

“What are you doing to her?!” Charlie hollers at Cucurucho, attempting to step forward before his captors jerks him backwards by his biceps once more. Cucurucho’s lifeless eyes meet his own.

“Hahaha,” a cold, prerecorded laugh comes from the being. He looks over at his daughter, his daughter who now looks at him.

And she’s crying.

Crying.

At least, he thinks she is. Her face is difficult to comprehend as her features flicker in and out of existence like a shutter strobe.

“Flippa, are you okay?!” He cries out to her,  tugging harshly away from the guard to the best of his ability. Juanaflippa shakes her head erratically, her entire body shaking as her being glitches like it doesn’t belong in this plane.

“What have you done?” Charlie cries out, his teary, wide eyes meeting Cucurucho’s, “What have you done to my daughter?!”

Cucurucho’s head cocks to the side. It studies Charlie’s expression intently, eventually motioning for its servants to bring him closer. It takes two Federation guards to drag him to Cucurucho.

“Daughter?” It asks in that empty, mechanical voice.

Charlie blinks in confusion, eyes narrowing, “Are you joking? Just look at her! She’s my daughter, Juanaflippa, the one you took away from me.”

Cucurucho stares in silence at him, unmoving.

“Where and when did the entity first contact you?”

“I don’t know, a few months ago on my birthday?” Charlie says. His voice drops in volume before he continues, leaning closer to the malevolent entity, “Look- I won’t tell the other parents you guys messed up and let her out of wherever she was. Nobody has to know.”

Charlie looks to the side at her once again, his heart breaking in his chest at how she shakes. Her figure seems to glitch in the very fabric of their reality, shards of green and black flashing from her form. Whatever device is holding her must be causing the strange digital breaks that shimmer at the edges of her silouhette. Her eyes remain that uncanny green, locked on her father’s face. And when he makes direct eye contact with her, he hears that voice again.

That voice at the back of his head. A cacophony of strange audio malfunctions, as if a voice had been run through an audio processor so many times that it lost every element of being human. It doesn’t resemble words at all but he can almost feel the words the voice wants to speak.

“RESIDENT #0028, known as SLIMECICLE, your daughter is deceased.” Cucurucho's voice pulls his attention back.

“Yes she was, but she’s back. See?” Charlie instantly argues, gesturing with his head over to his daughter, “She’s right there. She came back and she’s alive. And you cannot— you cannot do this to me again.”

Cucurucho stares long and hard at him, watching the desperation sparkle in his eyes.

“Curious.” Its feminine, prerecorded voice chimes.

“This weird virus is why you’re here, right?” Charlie asks, pulling from his restrainers to try and show Cucurucho his infection again, “She has nothing to do with this, so you can let her go, okay? You can just pretend you never saw her here and— and me and her will stay here on this island alone forever.”

Cucurucho does not move or make a noise.

“We won’t cause any trouble,” Charlie pleads, a crazed laugh coming from him, “That’s one less resident for you to worry about, right? We can work something out!”

“Ha ha ha.” Cucurucho’s recorded laugh chimes once more as it leans into Charlie’s face, “That is not your daughter.”

Charlie can’t help but laugh. Why does everyone keep saying that? She’s right there. She’s right there and she’s alive.

“No, you’re wrong,“ Charlie exclaims in a crazed voice, a high cackle coming from him, “You’re wrong. You can admit you guys fucked up, I’m not going to tell anyone!” 

“That entity” Cucurucho’s generated voice begins, looking over to Juanaflippa, “is a mistake.”

“I always said she would come back and — and she did!” Charlie’s voice raises with mania, looking between the faceless beings surrounding him in disbelief, “Sure, it might’ve been a mistake that she escaped your afterlife or whatever, but we can let that slide, right? We can make a deal— whatever you want, I’ll do. You want a spy? I’m your man. You want someone dead? I’ll do it in a heartbeat—”

“It is a failed experiment that escaped from containment. It is not your daughter.” It replies, cutting off his list of bargains.

Charlie’s manic smile twitches downwards, “She’s real. I know my daughter, okay? She is real.”

Cucurucho directs its attention away from Charlie to look at its surrounding employees.

“Retrieve the binary entity, bring it to the lab,” Cucurucho orders, gesturing to Juanaflippa, “Ensure its enclosure is entirely sealed.”

“Wait- wait you can’t do that! She didn’t do anything wrong!“ Charlie tries to interrupt, looking over to his daughter. A low, static is emanating from Flippa as she grips the collar around her neck in resistance.

“RESIDENT #0028,” Cucurucho addresses Charlie without even looking back at him, “you will be detained for the foreseeable future for quarantine.”

“What?” He exclaims as he worriedly looks between the two Federation employees holding onto him, “But we didn’t do anything!“

His claims fall on deaf ears as Cucurucho steps away and brushes past him entirely, “Take Resident #0028 to the Headquarters and place him in the isolation ward down in the lab.”

“NO! LEAVE HER ALONE-!” Charlie screams, his voice joining the same frequency of her technological shrieks, “FLIPPA!”

His cries become incomprehensible as the two workers begin dragging him towards the waystone. His bones bark with pain as he kicks at the ground relentlessly. His screams ring into the darkness with no one to hear them, no one to respond to them. His body burns with overexertion, begging for rest that he cannot allow it. Through burning, strained eyes, Charlie looks to his daughter.

And his daughter is struggling with everything she has left. Her body is jerking and tugging in ways that shouldn’t be possible, moving in motions that are abrupt and wrong enough to dislocate limbs. Her head snaps in angles that seem lethal.

And yet, despite this strange seizure-like state she’s in, Juanaflippa is reaching out a hand for her father.

She’s reaching for him.

The world slows as he stares at his daughter’s panicked, horrific expression.

And there’s a voice that speaks in the back of his mind.

A memory of a question that someone once asked him.

‘If someone tried to take Juanaflippa again, would you do what it takes to save her?’

It was Cellbit who asked the first time as they sat on that bench during Dia de los Muertos.

And now, as his mind fractures from time around him and he lives in this world between worlds, that question is asked again. This time, it is not Cellbit’s familiar voice. This time, it is the voice that has been whispering in the back of his head ever since Juanaflippa has returned.

But now, Charlie can make out its words.

It speaks in a dialect that sounds forbidden to even listen to, like it should have been censored and lost to obscurity, or like it never should have been spoken at all. Its words peaking and dissolving into sharp static like a radio left out in the rain.

It speaks the question like it already knows what Charlie will say.

“If someone tried to take Juanaflippa again, would you do what it takes to save her?”

And really, what else could he say?

He’s lost Juanaflippa so many times. So many times he’s cried out her name, watching her bleed out in front of him until her eyes glaze over and her skin goes white with death. So many times he has begged for her to return to him, willing to offer every part of himself just so she could come back.

He can’t lose her again. He won’t lose her again.

So when it asks the question

Charlie does not hesitate to reply,

“In a heart beat.”

It all happens in a fraction of a fraction of a second.

His body feels like it splits apart completely, like he had been made of glass and had been shattered at his core. Screams, twisted with agony and machinery, ring in the empitness of his consciousness as he feels every part of himself being torn in different directions. And for a moment, all he knows is pain. Terrible, gut-ripping, bone-breaking pain. And with the small amount of awareness he has left, Charlie wonders if this is hell, if this is his afterlife. If this is his punishment for all he’s done.

And then it changes.

He is moving faster than he has ever moved before or ever will again. He hears the noise of bodies shredding apart, guts thudding to the ground as they are split from their owner without thought. He can feel his hands puncture into something warm, immediately covering them in hot liquid as they tear out once more. Another thud, like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground. He can hear gunshots ringing out in the night air, thudding into the damp wood of his home.

His visions flicker like a shutter strobe. He sees himself hurdling towards a faceless worker. When the light flashes again, the worker is split in half on the grass, its innards spilling from a gaping hole in its torso.

Then he sees code spreading across the earth like a parasite, devouring anything natural as he flies towards a group of 3 soldiers. The next time his vision returns for that single breath, they all lie dead in a pool of their own viscera.

One after another, after another, after another

hearts are ripped from chests, bones are split in two like twigs, heads without faces are crushed like soda cans, limbs are torn, sinew is snapped.

Charlie feels himself shattering from within, feels his own body, his own sense of self, cracking like the bones his hands are snapping. His head pounds as if there isn’t enough room for his mind. The shrieks coming from within him get louder and louder until he can hear nothing else.

He can feel the skin peeling from his body, his bones breaking from within, his limbs dislocating and setting repeatedly, his left eye gauged from the socket.

And just when the static in his mind gets the loudest, just when he thinks he is dead—

Charlie sucks in a painful breath like being awoken from deep slumber. His eyes snap open, finding his hands in front of him, clutching the ground as his entire form shakes with torment and adrenaline. His arms are coated in dark blood that cakes under his fingernails in thick clumps. On one of his wrists is the lone half of a shackle with a broken chain hanging from it. His breath comes quickly and painfully, each inhale setting his chest aflame.

He hesitantly raises his head, bated breath sitting in the back of his throat in anticipation.

And he is greeted with true horror. Every single Federation employee has been shredded to ribbons, dismembered, and eviscerated beyond recognition. Limbs surround piles of organs with no home, letting off steam in the cool night air.

He pushes himself back onto his knees with a groan, tears dancing in his eyes at the movement, “—Flippa-“ His daughter’s name croaks between his lips as he ignores the slaughter and looks to where he last saw her.

The metal collar that had been around Flippa’s neck is empty and lying in the remains of the guards who tried to take her away. There is no blood from her, no corpse, no sign of her at all. He hadn’t accidentally killed her during the massacre (again).

She must have teleported away.

His breath, light and shuddering, forms a quiet, relieved laugh at the realization that she was okay. She got out of here just like he told her.

She was safe.

She

was

safe.

A choked laugh of disbelief comes from him as tears burn in his eyes.

He did it. He saved her. For once in his damned life, he saved his daughter. He grins as he imagines what the other islanders will say once they find out what he did. They’ll admit that they were wrong to make fun of his daughter’s death, wrong to suggest that everything he touched died. They would finally see that he is a capable parent and always has been, just like them. They’ll finally stop tip-toeing around him and whispering behind his back about how delusional and insane and dangerous he is.

He would finally fit in.

They could finally be—

Two cold, metal pincers snap around his throat and connect at the front, tightening into a collar. He chokes into an empty chest, hands immediately curling around the collar as he whips around to face his attacker.

Cucurucho towers over him, holding a rod that connects to the collar around his throat. Charlie stares up in disbelief, making the wheezing noises of a man on the brink of suffocation. Sucking in air becomes as difficult as screaming through a straw.

Whatever Charlie had done, whatever thing he became, it was not enough to take down Cucurucho. It stands unscathed, silently staring down at the man it has by the throat. Its gaze turns away from Charlie as it studies its surroundings, its black eyes sweeping what remains of its army. Charlie’s shoulders raise as Cucurucho examines the gore and viscera of Federation employees.

“Curious.” It speaks simply in that dull voice as it watches Charlie’s lips peel back against his teeth in a pained grimace. He groans and tries to stand, but the moment he moves, Cucurucho pushes down harder on him, keeping him trapped on his knees.

“Let me go or I swear to God—"

Charlie trails off as he hears footsteps suddenly approaching from all around. He looks around as much as he can with his head locked in place like it is.

More Federation employees surround him, stepping over the bodies of their fallen comrades without a look in their direction. Each one is armed with an assault rifle as they creep towards him, keeping their aim locked on his head. Behind the soldiers stand more scientists, some of which are frantically writing notes as they look at him, and some who stand awaiting orders.

“RESIDENT #0028 has developed a bond with the code far more intricate than we expected,” Cucurucho speaks, dragging Charlie’s panicked gaze back to itself.

“Code?”

There is Charlie’s confirmation. He has considered the possibility for a long time that his infection was from the code monster somehow, but he never truly accepted it. Maybe he didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to accept that this ‘rash’ was more than it seemed.

The code saved his daughter, it made him strong enough to protect her. So really, how bad could it possibly be? Is it not the malevolent entity that everyone thought it was?

But now that he’s looking at his hands and thinking about his infection, he has noticed that the code did help, but not for free.

The rash has devoured his entire right arm up to the spot where his shoulder meets his neck. He can feel tendrils crawling into his back and up his throat like veins as the code reaches further. His left arm has been covered in the black-green substance up to the elbow as well. He notices that a part of his left vision is blotted out almost like the spot that grows before a migraine. And from the pins and needles that surround his upper eyelid and climb up to his scalp, he knows that the patch on his forehead has spread down to his eye. He can see that code has now swallowed his right leg up to the shin and his left foot up to the ankle. His limbs are filled with the stable and disconcerting sensation of static, almost like his entire body had fallen asleep and never woke up.

But maybe this was the price of being a good parent.

If this is what it takes to protect Flippa, if this is what it takes to not lose her again, then he’d gladly be consumed by the code.

It is better than mourning her again.

Anything is better than that.

Charlie groans in protest as Cucurucho forces his head up further to meet its eyes, breaking the internal monologue.

“Sedate the subject,” Cucurucho speaks, its face incapable of portraying the amount of deranged joy it must feel. Charlie fights back as hard as he can, gritting his teeth and tugging helplessly at the collar. He watches in silent terror as a faceless scientist leans over his shoulder with a syringe in its hand. Charlie releases the collar and claws at the scientist in one last action of resistance. Someone from behind grabs both of his arms and holds them behind his back, allowing the scientist to lean in.

He flinches as feels the painful prick of a needle enter his neck, right above where the collar jabs into him. A burn immediately develops where the drug had been injected and spreads down his spine. His hands are freed, assumedly because they realize there is nothing he can do to hurt them. He immediately grabs the end of the rod that connects to his collar, staring up at Cucurucho in defiance despite the immediate grogginess that falls over him.

Cucurucho leans down, watching Charlie fail to lean away after several seconds of delay.

“Congratulations, RESIDENT #0028,” It speaks, cocking its head to the side mockingly as it watches Charlie’s eyes start to close and his head start to tilt down, “You are now useful to the Federation.”

Charlie feels the metal edge of the collar dig into his jugular as his neck gives out. It takes every ounce of energy he has left to raise his head, his dazed gaze settling on Cucurucho

Cucurucho’s features become a blur. Unimportant. Nonexistent. Irrelevant. White figures surrounding him become nothing but smudges of white gouache against a charcoal background. The black of the night sky seems to expand and expand until it fills his vision. The stars sit in the black, shifting and shaking like grains of static.

He can faintly feel that metal collar biting into the sensitive skin on his throat again, but he does not move. He can feel hands come under his arms, feel his feet dragging from under him as he is dragged, but these sensations fade from his awareness.

The last thing he feels is a small smile tugging at his lips.

Because, even in this state of dreams between dreams, he knows he saved his daughter.

Charlie did what he needed to do.

She got out. She is safe. She is out there. She feels. She laughs. She talks.

She is alive.

And as he slips away from the waking world

he holds onto the fact that somewhere on this god-forsaken island,

his little girl is breathing because of him.

Chapter Text

He's running. He's running so fast that he can't feel his legs anymore. Breath comes steadily in and out, stinging in the back of his parched throat like he was inhaling smoke and ash. Sweat sticks to his bare skin hungrily as damp cave air whips past him. 

"Flippa?" His feeble voice rings out in the emptiness of the cavern, catching in the moss and ivy covering the stone walls, "Juanaflippa, where did you go?!" 

He searches and searches until his bones ache, until his breath tastes sour in his mouth, until daylight becomes a distant memory of a better time.

That's when he hears it.

Shuffling. Movement. Breath. A scream?

"Flippa, no." The words come quietly like the beginning of a prayer. A prayer that no one will hear.

Charlie whips around, moving slowly as if swimming through liquid time.

"Flippa--?"

The pain of his aching bones vanishes from his mind. Breath evaporates from his chest like he's never breathed before and never will again. Memories of sunny days turn bitter and painful as he stares before him.

His daughter.

Laying in a pool of her own blood.

A sword wound in her side.

His husband stands across from her, the blade dropping from his hands.

An accident. It was an accident. 

And as he stares at the corpse of his child, her skin paled with blood loss, her eyes void of light, 

he screams out-

"FLIPPA!!" Charlie shrieks, abruptly sitting up as his eyes fly open to greet the scene of his daughter's death.

But he finds an empty room instead.

Panicked, shallow breaths come from him as he looks around in a blind panic.

He is in a small room with white walls and grey, ceramic tiled flooring with flecks of white and black. There is one light, but it is bright enough that no area of the room is in the shade. There is one bed, big enough for a single person, with a thin mattress, blanket, and pillow. On the other side of the room is a metal toilet and sink. Looking up he can see cameras in every corner of the room, leaving nothing unseen. The front wall, where there is a metal door with a slot at the bottom, is made entirely of reflective glass. In front of him to the right of the door is a white, metal desk with chipping paint, two chairs at either side, and a camera on a tripod that is aimed at the desk.

Charlie raises a hand to place against his sweat-glazed forehead, but stops when he hears the clinking of chains and feels the weight of something against his wrists. He looks down to see his hands bound by thick metal handcuffs attached to a chain that is fixed to the wall he leans against.

At the sight of the sickly restraints, everything comes screaming back to him.

An ambush.

Cucurucho.

The code.

Flippa.

Charlie immediately stirs into action despite the deep-set exhaustion that sits heavily in his limbs. He pulls against the chains in a pathetic attempt to free himself.

"Hello?" He calls out to the room as he shifts against the floor, forcing his legs under himself so he rises onto his knees. Without the use of his arms, Charlie shakily stands to his full height. He swallows hard as he slowly raises to his feet, using the wall behind him for support as his legs constantly threaten to give out from beneath him. He steps cautiously towards the mirrored wall in front of him, moving only the few steps that his chains will allow before it pulls taut from the wall, gaze fixed on his reflection in bewilderment.

His glasses sit askew on his face, which he immediately corrects. The only thing he is wearing is a pair of black shorts that reach his knees, leaving his bare chest and legs visible. Flashes of light and numbers sparkle in the blackness of his infection, which now consumes every limb so that it feels like he stands on needles and clenches his hands around razor blades. He eyes strange blue lines at the edges of his black rash. Looking closer, he can see that the margins of his code infection has been marked with blue marker all over his body -- including the patch on his forehead that has crept down to his inner eye. He blinks repeatedly, trying to clear the fuzzy spot in the upper corner of his left eye but it remains stubbornly in his vision.

"What the hell?" He asks hoarsely, studying his reflection as if it were a stranger.

Suddenly, the door in front of him swings open in one abrupt motion.

Cucurucho stands in the doorway. 

He inhales sharply and jumps back against the wall, hearing his chains clank against the floor at his movement.

"Ha ha ha," that signature laugh comes from the white-clad entity. In its hands, it holds a pen and clipboard with what looks like a checklist, "Hello," It greets in that classic artificial voice, head cocking to the side at his new positioning, "What are you doing?"

"Where am I?" Charlie immediately interrogates, barely letting Cucurucho finish, "What are you doing here?" 

Charlie raises his hands, gesturing to the handcuffs binding his wrists so tightly that they dig into his skin, "And what the hell are these?!"

Cucurucho stares silently at him.

"Rabid dogs should be muzzled," Cucurucho says cryptically, "don't you agree?"

Charlie's jaw clenches at the vague answer it gives him, eyes flicking down to his restraints. He inhales sharply as Cucurucho starts to move again, closing the door behind itself and approaching him. Charlie presses back against the wall so hard that his spine aches. His eyes start to burn as he refuses to blink and let the notoriously dangerous entity out of his sight.

"Hey- stay back." Charlie warns the entity, unfortunately aware of his vulnerability. Cucurucho advances regardless until it stands inches from him, watching him silently as he squirms against the wall as if trying to fade through it to get away. Cucurucho reaches into the pocket of its white suit jacket and pulls out a small black remote, pointing it at Charlie's hands. It presses a button and the chain connected to the cuffs releases.

Charlie watches in bewildered silence as Cucurucho turns and walks back to the desk.

"Oh, great. Much better," Charlie says, voice practically dripping with insecurity masked by sarcasm, "You're not gonna take the whole thing off?"

"No," It says as sets the clipboard down, pulls out a chair, and sits down. It folds its hands neatly on the table and looks to him

"Sit down." It repeats in the same cadence, same tone.

"Why?" 

"Classified."

"'Classified' -- are you kidding me? This is how we are going to do this?" Charlie snaps at the entity in a blind panic, "You drugged me and- and what, kidnapped me?"

Cucurucho sits so still, so lifeless, that it could be mistaken for a marble statue.

"So stop it with this 'classified' bullshit and tell me what the fuck is going on!" He shouts with a threatening step in Cucurucho's direction, his heart beating rapidly against his ribs like a songbird trying to squeeze through the bars of a cage.

"Sit." Cucurucho says shortly, breaking the silence with one word -- one command.

And despite the fact that Cucurucho's voice has not changed and remains that stagnant, robotic voice, Charlie can somehow hear the threat behind its words.

Charlie swallows hard, watching Cucurucho like a little kid watching the shadow in their closet for the monster they know is already there.

He glances around for another option, a way out, but there's nothing else. No answers. No escape. 

He lets out a sharp exhale through his nose and slowly advances, never looking away from Cucurucho. Maintaining eye contact, he pulls out the seat across from it with his foot and slips into the chair. He suppresses a shiver as the cold metal presses against his bare legs.

Cucurucho takes the clipboard in its hands and readies its pen.

"Please state your name." 

Charlie blinks hard, "What?"

"Please state your name." It repeats, peering at him over the clipboard.

"But you know my--"

"Please state your name." 

Charlie lets out a long exhale, the static lapping at his hands and feet growing almost itchy with irritation.

"Charlie Slimecicle," He relents to Cucurucho, biting back the desire to start screaming at it again.

If he goes along with all of this, maybe they'll let him go. Maybe this is just a precaution.

"Please state your age." It asks, writing down his answers in an eerily perfect font.

"25."

"When did you arrive on Quesadilla Island?"

"I don't know.. 11 months ago? A year maybe?" Charlie shrugs, his eyes flicking to the table beneath him, "Its hard to keep track." 

"Have you experienced hearing disembodied voices, objects appearing and disappearing at will, or unexplained teleportations?" 

He replies without looking up, "I guess." 

"Have you heard of the Binary code entity?" 

Charlie looks up in frustration and disbelief that it would ask something so trivial. He gestures to the code that takes over both of his arms, "Obviously. What kind of question is that?" 

"Do you know where the code entity is?" Cucurucho replies without acknowledging Charlie's obvious disdain and annoyance.

"No." Charlie says, his gaze returning to the table.

"Have you personally encountered the code entity?" 

"No." 

"Note that the Subject is lying about coming into contact with the code entity." Cucurucho narrates as it writes a side note on the checklist. Charlie sits up in defiance.

"I'm not--" 

"Do you remember where you first met the code entity?

Charlie lets out a short exhale through his nose, lips pressed together, "I just told you that I've never met it."

Cucurucho crosses something off and writes another short note beside it before continuing to the next question, "Do you regret your decisions?"

Charlie stiffens, watching Cucurucho look up from its clipboard innocently at his silence.

"Do you regret your decisions?" It repeats as if he did not hear.

Charlie shuffles uncomfortably in his seat, a trail of ice cold water trickling down his spine as the air around him grows heavy with the weight of his past.

Tilin.

His marriage.

Losing his daughter--

"No," he says, interrupting his own train of thought before it consumes him.

Cucurucho makes yet another note, flips a page over to hide the answers it wrote, and sets the clipboard to the side.

"Do you know why you are here?" It asks simply, giving him its full, undivided attention.

"No, I keep asking you that," Charlie hisses back as more and more of his patience is tested, "Look, if this is about all this code stuff, I really don't know anything. You're wasting your time. You might as well let me go!"

"Ha ha ha," it lets out a laugh, "You are not afraid?" 

"Afraid of what?" Charlie scoffs nervously, "You?"

"Yourself," Cucurucho corrects as it folds its hands together on the table. Charlie's jaw clenches as his gaze travels away from the intense stare from the entity across from him, "Do you not know how dangerous you are? Do you remember what you did--"

"- You threatened me, that's different!" Charlie cuts it off, forcing back a grimace of disgust as he is reminded of the feeling of entrails squelching between his fingers as he ripped into torsos, "What did you expect me to do? Let you take my daughter away? Again?" 

Cucurucho leans forward on the table, "You can’t control it. We know you can’t. The next time it takes over, my staff might not be the ones to get killed."

"What do you mean?" 

"It might be another islander," Cucurucho warns, its unmoving smile making it sound more threatening despite the dullness of its voice, "Maybe a friend, maybe your husband, Mariana.."

"Yeah, for him to get hurt, he'd actually have to be around," Charlie dismisses, leaning back into his seat, "So, I don't have to worry about that."

"It might even be an egg."

Charlie abruptly stands, hands slamming against the table. Cucurucho looks up at him complacently, watching his lips peel back against his teeth.

"I would never harm my daughter."

"No. The others," It corrects with a playful cock of its head, "The eggs have been rescued and given back to their parents." 

Charlie stares blankly down at Cucurucho as something cold and painful grips in his stomach. He slowly sinks back into his seat, eyes fixed on the table as his eyebrows furrow.

He should be happy for everyone. He is happy for them.

... but it's not fair.

He fought tooth and nail for Juanaflippa. He went through hell waiting for her to come back. He never slept, rarely ate, -- he barely breathed until she was back. 

And now, what? They get their children back? That easily? That quickly?

They are all out there. Phil with Chayanne and Tallulah, Fit with Ramon, Badboyhalo with Dapper.

And he's in here. Trapped. Away from his daughter.

It's. Not. Fair.

Charlie sets his jaw, his hands curling into fists on the table.

"I wouldn't hurt a child," Charlie says despite the fury that licks at his insides hungrily.

"Your track record says otherwise," Cucurucho mocks him, forcing a tight exhale to come from him, "How can you be so sure?"

Dapper.

Tilin.

Flippa.

Charlie squeezes his eyes shut tightly, forcing away that self-destructive desire to let himself spiral.

“What do you want?” He asks lowly, finally speaking the question he’s wanted to ask this entire time.

“My priority is to ensure the happiness and wellbeing of the residents, and that involves eliminating potential threats.” Cucurucho replies, "The code is a threat, which makes you a threat.”

“So, what, you’re just going to keep me here?” His voice peaks strangely as he starts to feel incredibly claustrophobic.

“You will be put through a series of experiments until the code is purged from your body and from the island." 

Experiments.

Charlie has heard stories about what the Federation does to its prisoners and enemies.

'Experiment' is far too kind a word. 

“But I...“ Charlie's argument trails off as he watches Cucurucho push out its seat and stand from the table. It looks over to one of the cameras in the corner and nods.

As if on cue, he hears a beep as a light on the door turns from red to green.

“Wait- you’re just leaving? That’s it?”

"No."

"Then what are you--"

Charlie's attention is drawn to the door as it suddenly opens, revealing 4 faceless Federation guards. They each wear light-grey quarantine suits made of a canvas material, long black gloves and boots, and protective hoods with clear plastic windows they can see out of. He stands from the table so quickly that the chair falls over behind him, staggering backwards as he eyes the intruders wearily.

Cucurucho looks to its employees and nods.

And at its command, they all draw their assault rifles and take aim at him.

"Shit," Charlie mutters to himself in a blind panic, flinching as the cold cement wall meets his back. His wide, petrified gaze flicks from his approaching enemies to Cucurucho, who steps causally around the desk and advances towards him. He presses back against the wall until his spine aches and his fingernails bruise from how hard he tries to clench his fists inside his restraints.

"So, this is how we're going to do this, huh?" Charlie says breathlessly as a cold sweat breaks out across his skin, the idea of bullets ripping through his skin making an unfortunate appearance, "No chance we can just talk this through?"

"Follow." Cucurucho orders, hands folded professionally behind itself as if it were about to enter a board meeting. It turns without waiting for a response from Charlie. The soldiers part, allowing their leader to pass. Charlie understandably hesitates, watching Cucurucho exit the cell and turn right.

One of the faceless guards steps forward, jabbing the barrel of its gun into his bicep and motioning with its head to follow Cucurucho. 

"Fine, okay, I'm going, alright?" Charlie raises his bound hands slightly and walks forward, the pins and needles in his feet spasming with each step.

A rush of warm air hits him as he exits the cell, making him realize just how cold he was. He has been forced out into a room with bright lighting and a hallway to the left which Cucurucho has started down. Charlie stops abruptly in his tracks as he looks to the right, seeing a horde of faceless Federation employees wearing long, white lab coats standing infront of a window that peers directly into his cell. And thats when Charlie realizes that the mirror that had been on the frontmost wall of his cell was two-sided.

Some scientists sit in white desks with computers, the screens filled with an x-ray of a human skeleton. Others stand by a standing bulletin board that has photos of his infection pinned up with bright blue marker outlining the margins like measuring the growth of a tumour. And four others are scrubbing through camera footage of his cell, taking extensive notes as they do so.

"What the hell..." Charlie says under his breath, shoulders raised in intense discomfort as he realizes that they had been watching this entire time, "What the hell." 

One of the guards behind him grows impatient and grabs him by the side of his right arm and pulls him away. It roughly jabs the barrel of its assault rifle into his spine, forcing him to stagger forward with a sharp breath. He keeps his head down and keeps following Cucurucho. Two of the guards stand close at his side, so close that their arms nearly touch his own. The other two walk closely behind, boxing him into a claustrophobic rank. 

He walks down the hallway, seeing countless other identical cells pass on either side in his peripheral vision. He makes an effort to look into each one, selfishly hoping to find a familiar face. His hopes of escaping get smaller and smaller as he realizes each cell is entirely empty like this entire section had been cleared out specifically for him. Him. Not Cellbit, who is openly insurrectionist against the Federation, not Philza who preaches anarchy, not Roier who spied on Cucurucho. 

Charlie used to be so insignificant. Everything was so inconsequential before.

It's funny. He always wanted attention, always wanted to feel like he's worth more than what he is, always wanted to feel important.

But not like this.

Cucurucho leads them down another hall to the right that opens into an big open area with an elevator at the far back wall. The entire room is lit artificially, much like his cell, making him deduce that the entire facility must be underground. Despite four impressively large pillars, the room is entirely empty - no furniture, no decor, nothing. Just a big, white, empty area with an elevator and doors lining the walls. 

Cucurucho turns and approaches one such door, hand dipping into the chest pocket of its suit and pulling out what looks like a key card. It taps it against a card-reader. The screen flashes green and beeps, and the heavy industrial door slides open. Charlie is pushed through before he gets the chance to resist.

He is greeted with a scene that makes his heart drop. There is a large, glass cage that takes up most of the area of the room. Even the door is glass, leaving no area of the cell unseen. Cameras hang in every corner of the room. Surrounding the cage are at least one dozen Federation scientists sitting at computers and other machinery expectantly.

"Prepare the subject." Cucurucho orders to the nearest scientist, who nods in silent response.

"Subject-? Come on, this is crazy," Charlie says, immediately backing away. He flinches as he backs right into the two guards behind him.

They barely give him a chance to plea before they hook their arms under his own and drag him forward. 

"Hey- hey wait!" Charlie shouts at them, kicking at the tiled ground and pulling from their grasp to no avail. As the two hold him, one of the scientists in the room approaches him with gloves on holding wireless electrodes A third soldier has to come up from behind and grab his head to hold him in place as the scientist carefully sticks the electrodes on his forehead, temples and the nape of his neck. His breath comes quickly and shallowly as he is held firmly in place, flinching every time another electrode is pressed onto his skin.

The scientist steps away and gives Cucurucho a nod.

"Is the machine functional?" It asks to a group of 3 workers huddled around a big screen. One leans forward and presses a button beneath the screen, allowing it to flash to life. 

Appearing on the TV are rows and rows of lines that consistently write themselves in strange  wavy patterns, jumping and peaking like an inconsistent pulse. He stares at it for a couple seconds before he realizes that it is measuring his brain activity, receiving input from the strange wireless electrodes they stuck to him.

"Good. Put the subject in the observation cell." 

The scientist steps forward and unlocks the glass door with a keycard. Charlie stares bewildered as everyone in the room turns to look at him.

Cucurucho waves him forward with one hand. When Charlie doesn't step forward, the soldiers to either side of him do it for him, dragging him towards the open cell.

"Wait, wait come on- is this really necessary?" Charlie stammers nervously, but they don't listen.

Nobody ever listens.

"Wait- just hold on- WAIT!" 

Two sets of gloved hands force him through the door. He rolls repeatedly, ending up on his back with the artificial light above him searing into his eyes. Static nibbles and bites at his arms and legs in warning, immediately motivating him to sit up.

Much to his horror, the four soldiers wearing quarantine gear have followed him inside and shut the door behind him. They stand unmoving across from him, almost like they are waiting for something.

Charlie scrambles to his feet, which proves difficult considering his hands are still bound. He glances around worriedly and finds Cucurucho standing to his right on the other side of the glass, watching.

"Begin experiment." Cucurucho orders, that dead gaze fixed on Charlie as his expression breaks into one of confusion.

He doesn't get the chance to question what it means before one of the soldiers is running at him, baton drawn.

Charlie whips around, throwing his arms up just as the baton is about to slam into the side of his head. It strikes against his forearms, causing lines of code to flash in his infection as the pain reverberates across his skin. Questions are caught in his throat as someone else grabs his shoulder and forcefully turns him. 

A gloved-fist slams into the side of his face before he can react, making him stagger to the side as his head spins from the impact. Adrenaline roars through his system as he whips around, throwing an elbow into the stomach of the one who hit him. The soldier doubles over, clutching its gut. His bound hands dig into the smooth skull of the soldier and jerk it down to meet his knee. The creature recoils, clutching its head with both hands. Charlie grabs one of its wrists and--

From behind, an arm wraps around his throat and pulls him until his back meets the other soldier's chest. Both of his hands wrap around the creature's forearm that presses against his trachea

The one guard he managed to hit looks up, lacking the features to truly portray its rage. It steps towards him with the two others, tilting its head to the side as it watches him struggle harder.

But its no use in fighting back. 

It pulls back a fist and hits him as hard as it possibly can. His head is thrown to the side at the sudden impact. He barely gets the chance to look forward before he is hit again, and then again, and then again.

Every hit drags tears from his eyes and groans from his lips. His head hangs down, damp hair falling into his eyes as blood dribbles from his mouth. The soldier curls a fist into his hair, jerks his head up abruptly enough to make the world spin. It slowly reaches to its toolbelt and pulls something out, raising it in front of his face for him to see.

Charlie's eyes widen as they fix on the metal baton dangling in front of him. He immediately starts kicking at the soldier, the burn of suffocation creeping up his throat as the one behind him tightens the headlock further, silencing his curses and rushed pleas that yearn to come from his bleeding lips.

It pulls back the baton and snaps it against his face, the metal end cutting into his cheek hard enough to make a welt.

Shaking, he is dropped to the floor. His face burns with pain as if bruises are already swelling beneath his skin, aching to be seen. Bitter metal sticks to his tongue as blood from his mouth and nose creep down his chin. His breaths are haggard, shallow and fast, throat burning from how long he had been choked. He can feel the pins and needles in his fingers and toes get sharper and more aggressive until they twitch with pain.

From the corner of his eye, Charlie sees movement. He lifts his head quickly with a fearful grunt, ready to find his attackers on top of him again.

Instead, he comes face-to-face with Cucurucho, standing on the other side of the glass.

"Get up." Cucurucho orders him. A shuddering breath comes from Charlie as he stares back at it in pained confusion. Humiliation burns in his face as he rises onto all four, eyes scanning the other side.

All of the people in the room watch him intently with bated breath. 

Waiting for something to happen.

Charlie looks over his shoulder and sees all four soldiers idling. Waiting. 

"Get. Up." Cucurucho repeats, slower this time.

"You're-- you're sick-" Charlie hisses, his voice twisted with static that burns at the back of his throat like bile. Much to his frustration, he hears typing as one of the scientists records what he said, "This is--" 

"Continue the experiment." 

The soldiers immediately move into action from behind. Charlie whips around and scrambles away as they approach, backing against the glass. Two of the faceless soldiers grab his arms and yank him off of the floor. He digs his heels into the floor and pulls as hard as he can to get away, but their hands remain locked around his biceps, holding him tightly in place.

Small noises of effort and struggle come from him as he twists in their hold, tears of frustration building in his eyes. His heart drops as he watches the two soldiers in front of him draw their batons. One swings it forward, snapping it against his bare torso. Charlie clenches his teeth to keep the scream from coming out. Another hit drags a whine from him and makes his vision flicker strangely. 

And that's when he sees it.

A flash of someone standing behind the two soldiers in front of him. 

Another hit to his side successfully drags a yelp out as his ribcage rings with pain. Despite that, his attention remains fixed on the strange flickering figure of someone else in here with him.

And between the two soldiers stands a young girl wearing a yellow sweater and red skirt. A green tail flicks side to side behind her.

She glitches in and out of existence, her edges fuzzy with neon green and black pixels.

The name spills from Charlie's lips before he realizes who it is.

".. Flippa--" 

Her name twists into a shriek as the baton lands a very divisive strike to his left side. Agony blooms and beats at his insides like an animal trying to climb between his ribs. His screams of pain are cut off as one of his abusers harshly wraps an arm around his throat again. In his daze, he registers a baton being cocked back, ready to snap against his bare body again.

But he's not focused on that.

He's focused on his daughter.

He saw her.

She is here with him. She is here and she is in danger. When they're done with him, they'll hurt her next.

They'll hurt her and take her away from him. He's going to lose her.

He is going to lose her.

Charlie's jaw opens and snaps down on the arm wrapped around his throat, his teeth clamping hard until he feels skin underneath its uniform and quarantine suit. The soldier immediately releases him and tries to pull its arm away, but Charlie refuses to let go until his teeth tears through its sleeves and the creature's bitter blood greets his tongue.

The soldier finally gets free and shoves Charlie, causing him to collapse onto all four with a groan. He doesn't get a moment to breathe before the other three are rushing toward him. His legs go numb beneath him as he forces himself onto his feet and whips around to greet his attackers.

One throws a punch which he just narrowly avoids, but he's not quick enough to dodge the baton headed for him. It clips against his shoulder, dragging a course shriek from him. In the corner of his eye, he can see the baton raising again.

His vision becomes a blur of white and grey as he throws himself at his attacker, sending them both rolling across the ground. Charlie ends up on top, hands curled into the front of its quarantine suit. It immediately starts to struggle, pushing and scratching at his face, pulling at his hair to get him off. Charlie's hands wrap around its throat, squeezing hard enough to feel the creature's trachea creak under his grasp. 

Roaring static fills his ears as he watches it struggle beneath him, aware of its impending death. Something hungry flares at the back of his mind, something that craves for these Federation workers to suffer and bleed and break like they had done to so many. 

But he doesn't get the chance to do so.

From behind, one of the soldiers still standing whips the baton across the back of his skull. His vision swims around him as he falls off the other guard and onto his side. Shaking, cuffed hands reach up to clutch his head as his eyes squeeze shut, his brain throbbing inside of his skull so hard that he vaguely fears it might crack and spill from his ears. The pain races down his neck and tingles along his spine.

He can hear footsteps gathering around him.

'Protect her,' That hungry voice demands, a voice that no longer sounds or feels like himself.

And he obeys, whining as he opens his eyes again and tries to roll onto his front.

A steel-toed boot lands between his aching, bruised ribs, dragging a scream from him.

'Protect your daughter.'

His entire chest cavity rings with agony, making him quiver against the floor. Despite that, he still tries to get up, still tries to get his arms underneath himself.

'They've hurt her.'

He groans in effort, arms quaking as he pushes off the floor. Another kick to his side drops him back onto the ground, blowing the wind out of his lungs abruptly.

'You will get revenge.' 

Charlie can do nothing but curl into himself as they all descend on him, steel-toed boots slamming into his back and chest. Each hit drags a guttural grunt from him as blood, his own and his enemy's, drips down his chin onto the floor.

'But not yet.' 

"Stop." Cucurucho's voice cuts through the static pulsing in his ears. The attack on his body ends as soon as the command comes.

Charlie shakes against the floor, his eyes reluctantly opening as he hears the whirr of machinery and panicked footsteps. 

Smoke billows from one of the screens on the other side of the glass. He grimaces as he raises his head to get a better view.

The biggest screen, the one that displayed his brain activity, has a large crack in it. The machine next to it is smoking and spitting sparks. 

"Curious." Cucurucho remarks as it looks at the damage, "More invasive measures will need to be taken." 

He can hear the sound of the glass door unlocking and opening. 

"Get the subject."

Arms come underneath his own. This time he does not struggle as they lift him off the ground. With haggard breaths, he looks over his shoulder to see where the other two guards are.

The one he bit is kneeling, shakily clutching its forearm which has a huge chunk of flesh ripped from it. Charlie swears he sees pixels of green flash against the edges of the wound. The other one, the one he tackled, lies unmoving, unbreathing.

Charlie is taken out, grimacing with each step. He looks up as Cucurucho approaches him, looking down at him with that awful, stitched smile.

"Take the subject back to his cell."

Charlie is pushed unceremoniously back into the cell he woke up in, just managing to catch his balance before he collapses. He slowly turns around, hunched over to avoid irritating his bruised sides, and sees Cucurucho lingering in the doorway.

"Enjoy the island," It mocks him with that iconic voiceline before it turns to leave.

"Wait-" Charlie croaks, the cut on his bottom lip flaring back to life as he speaks.

Cucurucho merely looks over its shoulder.

"Somebody- will notice I'm gone," He insists with enough conviction to make himself belief it, "They will come looking for me."

"Ha ha ha," It laughs, the stitched face it wears making it somehow worse. 

Charlie watches as it turns back around and steps through the doorway.

"No. They won't." 

The door closes behind it.

---

Mariana idles in front of a smooth spruce door adorned with doodles of flowers in colourful paint.  He raises a red-gloved hand and, hesitating at first, gently knocks against the wood.

Small footsteps rush up to the other side of the door. The golden knob turns and the door slowly creeps open. 

A young girl stands in the doorway. She wears a true purple hat that resembles a mushroom cap. Her curly hair creeps out from beneath the hate, covering her forehead and obscuring one eye before cascading in one long braid down her back. She wears a light grey long-sleeve sweater which she pulls her hands into, and a long purple skirt. Her horns poke out subtly from her forehead, peaking between strands of hair.

“Hey Tallulah,” Mariana greets her warmly, instinctively kneeling to her level, "It's so good to see you back! Is your father in by any chance?"

Talullah nods with a smile and steps to the side, motioning for him to follow.

“Great, thank you so much,” Mariana steps in, immediately greeted by the warm scent of another’s home. It smells of homecooked meals and firewood, but also of dense dirt and fresh flowers as the wind carries the smell of the patio garden inside. Tallulah disappears down the hallway in front of him, turning around a corner into the rest of their house. Mariana idles in the front hall, nervously plucking at the ends of his gloves.

"Mariana," A voice calls to him from down the hall, drawing his attention up.

Philza walks towards him, flanked by Tallulah and Chayanne. Chayanne wears his iconic bird skull mask that hides half of his features. His blonde hair, the exact same shade as his father's, is messy and unkempt. He wears a green striped sweater and shorts, revealing his knees which are covered in bandages, the tell-tale signs of play. Phil wears his usual outfit: a jade-green robe with his right-sleeve pulled up, ready to defend with a sickly looking black sword at his side. His dark crow wings uncharacteristically sag behind him, feathers poking out of place like he had flown into a tree.

"Hey, good to see you, man!" Phil greets him, patting him on the shoulder, "Glad to see you safe off that island! Everything alright?"

"Yeah, oh yeah absolutely! Everything is good. I met Pepito and that's going really well," Mariana's smile sours a bit as he rubs the back of his neck, "Um, sorry to barge in like this. I was just wondering if you know where Slime is staying these days? I need to talk to him and I haven't seen him."

"Oh, Charlie?" Philza looks off to the side, "I don't think I've seen him since we got back. When we all woke up on the boat, Charlie was already gone. He must've left early that morning. I wouldn't worry, its only been a week since we got back. He'll turn up." 

"Do you know where he might've went?" Mariana asks, "I checked our old place but it doesn't look like he's been living in it."

"He probably went back to his house at Eggxile." 

"Eggxile?" Mariana shifts his weight, "What is that?"

"It's that island he went to after Tilin died," Phil says, looking to the side briefly as Chayanne and Tallulah run off back into the house, "He must have told you, right?"

"He's--" Mariana stops, blinks and starts speaking again, "He's still living there?"

Phil nods slowly, "He, well, he never agreed to move back to the main island. We talked about getting the BOLAS team back together and making a new house for him if we ever got out of Purgatory, but I haven't heard from him since."

"Oh my god," Mariana says under his breath, running a hand through his neat hair, "He's been living alone for that long?" 

"Not completely alone," Phil begins hesitantly, "Uh, your daughter lives with him. Juanaflippa."

"That is not my daughter," Mariana quickly corrects with a snarl, "I don't know what that thing is. But it is not her." 

Phil lets out a breath that he's been holding this entire time, placing a hand over his heart, "Good, alright. I'm glad you know that. I wasn't sure."

"Slime still thinks its her?" Mariana asks, already knowing what the answer will be. He exhales in dread as Phil nods his head.

"I'm sorry, Mariana, I..." Phil trails off, sets his jaw, and continues, "I've tried to get him to see that she is a code. But he won't listen. He won't listen to anyone." 

"He'll listen to me," Mariana insists with conviction, nodding to himself as he realizes what he has to do, "He has to." 

"I hope he does, I really do," Phil replies sadly, absently placing one hand on the hilt of his sword, "He was doing better in Purgatory when she wasn't around, but now that he's back..." 

Philza doesn't finish his sentence, deciding that it is better to let Charlie's fate remain unsaid.

Besides, Mariana knows. 

They all do. 

They've seen how Charlie shambles about from place to place, glitching like he's being ripped from his own reality. They've heard how his voice peaks and growls like a machine. They've seen how the code has eaten away at his arms, slowly taking over him piece by piece. 

"Will you show me to Eggxile?" Mariana asks, breaking the thick silence.

Phil looks up at him, seeing a familiar glaze of dread in the man's eyes. It's the same look he saw in the mirror every day that Tallulah and Chayanne were missing. It's the same look the sun gives when it notices that the moon has disappeared below the horizon.

"I'll come with you." Phil says, "We'll go tomorrow."

Mariana looks surprised at his proposal to join him, smiling in slight relief and gratitude.

Phil places a hand on his shoulder, gripping it comfortingly.

"We'll find him, Mariana."

Chapter Text

Charlie lays shivering on top of the paper-thin mattress on his bed, covered with a threadbare blanket that does nothing to keep him warm. He keeps his arms above his head, holding a pillow to his face to block out the painful light in some vein attempt to get his head to stop pounding. His body aches with echoes of the beating he was subjected to hours ago, like ghosts of his attackers were still kicking his rib cage in.

He can't help but run Cucurucho's last words through his head over and over again after he warned that someone would come looking for him.

'No. They won't.'

And he can't help but wonder if Cucurucho was right.

Will anybody come for him? Will they even realize he is gone? 

Sure, he'd grown closer to the other islanders during Purgatory. But he distinctly remembers how each of them rushed to their eggs and left him behind in the last moments of Purgatory. 

He remembers standing there alone, eyes desperately scanning the room for Juanaflippa as parents tearfully reconnected with their children. He saw the way Pomme pressed her hands against the glass of her cage as Baghera came to her. He watched how Chayanne banged his fists against the glass, trying to break through to Phil while Phil did the same. He heard Foolish crying for Phil's help when he saw Leonarda trapped, screaming so loudly that his voice cracked in a way that Charlie had never heard before.

And Charlie stood back and watched. He watched with tears burning in his eyes, hands clenching at his sides, feeling more alone in that moment than he had during his entire hellish experience in Purgatory.

Now, the eggs were back home, rescued from Purgatory. He knows the feeling of losing a child, and he knows the feeling of getting one back. Ever since Juanaflippa came back, he has refused to let her out of sight. He doesn't eat or sleep until she is back with him, safe. He doesn't care for anything else than keeping her safe. And the other parents will be the same, they will obsessively watch over their children to make sure they don't lose them again.

Why would they notice Charlie was missing when they've got someone so much more important to protect again?

Charlie presses the pillow harder against his face as the urge to cry grows, painfully aware that the cameras will see if he choses to have a mental breakdown. 

Cucurucho was right. Nobody is coming for him.

Nobody is coming for--

Something pokes into his shoulder, sending a shock of pain through his code rash that races up his neck and burns at the back of his skull. Charlie lets out a startled yelp as he sits up abruptly, the headache he has been nursing growing infinitely worse as his eyes snap open to find the threat.

A young girl wearing a yellow sweater and red skirt stands at his bedside, her eyes flashing with an eerily bright green colour. 

"-- Flippa-?" He croaks, eyebrows knitting up in the inner corners. He blinks, waiting for the hallucination to clear, waiting to be alone once again.

But she doesn't vanish. She gives him a wide smile and nods rapidly.

"Flippa-!" Charlie cries out to her, immediately pushing himself off of the bed to collapse onto his knees at her level. His torso contorts in a way that sends sharp pangs of agony ringing through his bruised ribs, but that doesn't stop him from reaching for her with handcuffed hands.

She immediately embraces her father, who flinches at her touch as his infection flares to life. He bites back a whine and holds her close like he would lose her again.

"God Flippa- I missed you so much, I'm so glad you are okay, I..." Charlie stiffens, suddenly remembering where he is and what has happened to him. He inhales sharply and grabs Juanaflippa by the sides of her arms, pulling her away to look into her eyes, "Wait- Flippa, you have to get out of here. There are cameras everywhere in here and they will come to take you away and-"

Juanaflippa stops his quick, hushed rambling with a pat on his forearm. She looks over her shoulder and points up at one of the cameras. Charlie follows her finger to see that the camera attached to the ceiling no longer has a red, blinking light. His jaw hangs open as he quickly scans the other 4 cameras, seeing that each one had been turned off with ease. 

Charlie lets out a laugh of disbelief as she turns back around with a pleased smile, "How did you do that-?"

Flippa takes her notebook into her hands and writes down a reply:

'Ar3 Y0u Ok@y?'

Charlie tilts his head away to hide the bruises that colour his face, "Oh, yeah this was.. it was nothing. Don't worry about me, okay?"

Her face scrunches in suspicion as her pen scribbles against the paper once more.

'D1d ThEY hûrT YoU//?'

"No, really, its okay," Charlie insists, placing a hand on her shoulder and wincing at the immediate burn that races across his palm, "How did you get in here? Did Phil break you in? Or another one of my friends?" 

She shakes her head and writes 'N0. 1m scARed 0F ThheM. I d0NT Th1Nk th3Y Tru$$T UŠ.'

"Hey, that's okay. I know, they are a little.. weird around you. Where have you been staying?" 

'th3 CÆVe UNder 0uR hoME.'

"I'm sorry, Flippa, I'm so sorry," Charlie says as he watches her expression turn sour and sad, "This is all my fault, I should've been there for you. I should've tried harder to get away before they took me." 

She shakes her head rapidly and writes a very quick message before flipping the book around,

'N0T Y0Ur F@ult. YOu Sav3D me. Th3 FedERati0N t0ok yoU aWAy. It 1s the1r faULT.'

Charlie fights back the urge to cry as he reads her message -- and rereads it again. She flips to another page and writes another sentence,

'1 WisH I coULD T3LepoRT y0u oUT WWitH m3. 1m s0RRy I cantt SAVe Y0U fr0m thE F3DerAt1on l1Ke yoU s@v3d mee.'

"Hey, don't worry about that," Charlie comforts her, giving her a reassuring smile, "I'm just glad I got to see you again."

She frowns again, scribbling against the paper, 'I WaNT YÖu t0 coME Homee.'

"I'll be out of here as soon as possible, okay?" Charlie swallows thickly, his throat tightening with despair at her sadness, "I'll try to find a way out. I'll do whatever it takes."

She nods sadly.

"While I'm in here, why don't you go stay with Mariana?" Charlie offers, "I'm sure he'll step up for you, you know. He loves you more than anything."

Juanaflippa looks at Charlie, looks back down at a blank page and hesitates before writing another message,

'H3 ha$ A NEw Fam1ly.'

Charlie blinks, rereads her writing at least 3 times, and lets out a laugh, "What? No, that's.. that's crazy. He wouldn't do that."

Juanaflippa nods reluctantly she writes another sentence below the first,

'TH3 fedeRAti0n ga@v3 h1M A neW eGG thEY F0unD. H1s NAMe is pEPit0.'

"Oh," He says, failing to keep the hurt from his face, "Right, yeah. I kind of hoped that we could all.. be a family again after Purgatory. Or at least try. I mean, I thought we were happy -- or had happy moments at least but.. yeah. That's fine. We don't need him, right?"

He looks up to fake a smile, but Flippa's eyes are trained on the floor, avoiding his gaze.

"It'll be okay, Flippa. We have each other, that's all we ever needed, right?" He encourages his daughter as she starts to write again.

'W0u1D y0u 3vER RR3pla1ce mee?'

"What?" Charlie exclaims with a confused laugh.

Her expression of dread and sadness does not shift.

"Oh Flippa," Charlie leans closer to her, "No, I would never ever replace you. Don't worry, you'll always have me. Even if Mariana has.. moved on."

Flippa still won't look up at him.

Charlie continues regardless, "You are everything to me, Flippa. I'd do anything for you." 

Flippa looks up to him, a smile twitching onto her face. She writes a single word on the page and turns it to him,

'AnYTH1ng??'

"Anything." He echoes with a firm nod without a thought, not noticing the pleased growl that hums at the back of his mind as the word leaves his mouth.

Beaming widely, Flippa runs to him and embraces him once more. He bites back a scream and hugs her back.

He'd gladly take the strange pain of his infection flaring to life all over his body than handle the agony of her absence.

"Thank you for coming to see me," He says, shutting his eyes to savour the moment before she is inevitably gone again, "But you have to go. Cucurucho will be back and if they see you they'll take you away." 

Flippa pulls away and writes down a message,

'I d0nt W@nt T0 gooo.'

"I know, I don't want you to go either," Charlie says with a small, sad laugh, "But its not safe for you here. They could come back at any moment." 

She frowns as her pen scratches against the paper,

’CAn 1 st@Y wìTĦ Y0u UNt1l mørnINğ?’

”Flippa, it’s too risky! What if they walk in while we are both asleep? Or what if you can’t teleport out?”

’ŤrUŞt mēê. Ǐ w1LL LEÆve if tħEY wALK iń,, I c@n s3nSE TH3m.’

“But Flippa-“

His daughter places a hand over his own, maintaining pleading eye contact as she writes with the other.

‘1 dóNT h@@ve ǍNyoN3 Elsě.’

The stern expression that Charlie has been keeping up falters at his daughter's words. He exhales slowly through his nose as he shakes his head with a chuckle.

He could never say no to her. 

"Okay, okay," Charlie concedes, watching Flippa jump up and down in joy, "You win. But you have to promise to leave as soon as they come in - no exceptions. Don't try to help me, okay? I can.. I will get out on my own, its just going to take some time." 

With the biggest smile, she nods rapidly -- so fast that it almost looks like her facial features flicker in and out of existence. She excitedly writes down something and turns it over.

'C@n Y0u t3ll meE a BëDT1m3 St0RY?'

"Of course," Charlie says as he stands, wincing at the movement and choking a whimper that begs to be released from him, "Here, come lay down. I'll come up with something," He says, patting against the small bed. 

Juanaflippa claps her hands together and jumps up onto the bed, quickly slipping beneath the thin blanket so only her horns and eyes peek out.

"Okay so, once there was a bunny" Charlie begins to tell her as he slowly lowers onto the edge of the bed, smiling to keep a wince from reaching his face as his torso immediately objects at the motion, "Who lived under the sea, and--"

Charlie stops as Flippa shakes her head and pulls herself out from under the blanket to write him a message.

'N0. A $ToRY ab0uT YoU.'

"About me?" Charlie laughs and looks off, "Yeah, I can." 

He scootches closer to his daughter, tucking a lone brunette curl behind her ear.

"Once, there was a boy who came to an island. A bad, lonely island," He begins, "He came to the island running from his past. Instead, he became a father to the sweetest little girl."

Flippa smiles widely at him, the edges of her grin flashing with those green pixels as he continues.

"Life wasn't easy. Food and resources were hard to come by. The other islanders always seemed so far ahead of him, always seemed to have more food, more resources, more life," he says as he pulls the blanket up for her, tucking her in, "And his home life wasn't easy either. He fought night and day with his husband. He never found a way to tell his husband how much he meant, how much he loved him, how much he needed him. But none of that mattered because he had his daughter."

Flippa sinks into the bed further, eyes trained on her father's face as she absorbs every word he speaks.

"But things changed. His daughter passed away," Charlie's gaze trails away from her, eyebrows furrowing, "He lost her, and he lost himself. His husband drifted away. He declared war on the world who took his daughter away, but the world didn't care."

Flippa's eyes close, a smile remaining on her face.

"He kept losing, no matter what he tried. The other islanders thought it was funny and so they joked. And he laughed despite how bad it hurt. He laughed when they told him that it was his fault she died. He laughed when they made jokes that he would kill another child. He laughed when they said everything he touched died. He laughed because he didn't have anything else to say... He laughed because they were right." 

Charlie blinks away collecting tears, only now realizing how badly he was shaking. 

"And then one night, on his birthday, the boy wandered into a cave looking for a present," He looks back to his daughter, smiling at her restful guise, "And instead, he found everything he ever needed. He found his daughter."

He discretely wipes away a tear as he watches Flippa's smile fade as she drifts away.

"And the world could do whatever they wanted to him. They could take him away, they could hurt him, they could lock him up," He says as he stands from the bed, the pain of his bruised ribs fading into the back of his mind, "But they would never take her from him again."

Hee leans down and kisses her on the forehead and says, "And eventually, the boy and his daughter will live happily ever after."

He makes sure the blanket covers her so she doesn't get cold in the night. He makes sure her head is on the pillow. He makes sure she is comfortable and warm and safe.

And then he lowers himself onto the floor next to the bed, muffling a curse as he lays down on his side. The cold tiles kiss against his bare skin, chilling him to the bone. He is shivering against the floor, the pain of his injuries making a full appearance.

He slowly closes his eyes, but his senses remain alert and awake, ready for the smallest indication of danger.

He knows he won't sleep much.

But it was worth it.

The first thing he hears is multiple sets of footsteps that fall into perfect order with one another.

"-- is wrong with the footage?" 

He hears a voice faintly, and in this state between reality and dreams, struggles to piece together who it belongs to.

"Open the door."

The voice's dulcet, manufactured tones cause a rain of pins and needles to fall over him as he immediately recognizes it.

Cucurucho.

Not more than a a breath later, there is a beep and the sharp noise of a metal door sliding open.

Charlie sits up so fast that it feels like knives plunge into his sides and twist. Tears burn in his eyes as he snaps them open too quickly, the light worsening his growing headache. He pushes away the pain with a series of shallow, panicked breaths, looking to the door in a feverish stupor.

Cucurucho stands in the doorway, head tilting as it looks down to him on the floor.

"No," Charlie's head whips around to look at the bed, "Flippa--"

But she's gone.

Just like she said she would be.

"What?" Cucurucho's voice greets him again. 

"What?" Charlie parrots, turning to look up at his captor. 

"What are you doing?" It asks, its gaze looking to the empty bed and back to him on the ground.

"Oh, I must've fallen in my sleep," Charlie lies as best as he can in his state, "Small bed."

"Ha ha ha," It laughs coldly, "No. What are you doing?"

Charlie keeps silent as he struggles onto his knees without the assistance of his hands, still cuffed together in front of him. His knees quake from beneath him as he stands to his full height, head spinning even at the slowest movement.

"Sit." Cucurucho orders, pointing to the desk.

Charlie lets out a slow breath through his nose and moves forward, hunched over to protect his beaten body. He pulls out the chair with some difficulty, grabs the corner of the desk and lowers himself into the chair. Goosebumps erupt across his body at the cold metal against his skin.

”The cameras froze last night. What did you do?” It immediately begins to interrogate him, leaning forward with its clean white hands folded on the table.

”I didn’t do anything, how could I?” Charlie replies, gesturing to his bound hands, “I think you guys just need better internet in here.”

”No.” Its automated tone doesn’t change, but somehow Charlie can still hear the frustration in its voice, “What happened last night?”

”Before or after your goons beat me half to death?" 

Cucurucho stares silently at him for too long, dead gaze burrowing into his own in some twisted version of a staring contest.

"This will be easier if you cooperate," Cucurucho finally says, "We do what we must to protect the island."

Charlie scoffs, "Funny way of describing torture." 

Cucurucho abruptly stands from the table, fast enough to make Charlie flinch at the sudden movement. His careless, joking demeanour melts into one of reluctant fear as he looks up.

"You do not know torture," Cucurucho corrects coldly, its words causing a shiver to crawl down his spine, "But you will." 

Charlie sets his jaw and leans away as Cucurucho walks around the table, hands behind itself formally.

"I will do whatever it takes to get what I need from you," It says as it beckons a hand towards the mirror, motioning for something to come inside, "It is in your best interest to not waste my time."

A quiet, shuddering exhale comes from Charlie at its words as he keeps a cautious gaze on Cucurucho, like a half-dead rabbit watching a vulture circling from above. 

How much worse was this going to get?

As he hears footsteps gather outside his cell, he grimly concedes that he was about to find out.

The door opens, revealing a large group of soldiers fully kitted in quarantine gear. 2 walk in and approach him where he sits.

They don't give Charlie a chance to try to stand before they lock their arms under his own and jerk him onto his feet. He curses and groans under his breath as pain hums through his body, unprepared for the movement they force onto him. 

"Alright- easy!" Charlie hisses at them as they drag him out of the cell, forcing him to move so quickly that he trips over himself multiple times before they even get outside.

Cucurucho walks behind him as Charlie is walked out of his cell and down the hall, flanked on all sides by guards. As he walks with them, he studies his surroundings for anything that looks like an exit or way to the surface. Something he might've missed yesterday. But he is greeted with the same scenery. Cells on all sides, opening into a large, eerily-empty foyer. He can see the door they took him through yesterday, reminding him of the way they had to drag him out bloodied and nearly unconscious. The memory makes him instinctively twist his wrists in his restraints, wincing as the metal cuts deeper into his flesh.

He is led to different room this time. Cucurucho walks to the front and swipes a keycard across the card reader. The door slides open obediently and Charlie is brought in.

This room is smaller and more intimate. The walls and floors are just as white as the last, almost glowing under the unbearably bright fluorescent lights. A dozen Federation scientists stand off to the left side, some holding cameras, some holding empty notebooks, and some working at computers against the wall. 

What catches Charlie's eye in particular are two long chains that hang from the ceiling with shackles at the ends of them in the centre of the room. At the sight of them, Charlie halts, causing the soldier behind him to walk into him. The arms under his own tighten their lock around his, sensing further resistance.

Cucurucho pays him no mind and approaches the crowd of scientists.

"Are we prepared to begin?" It asks, its voice filling the far-too-empty room.

It goes on to say more, but Charlie doesn't hear it. His eyes remain fixed on the shackles hanging from the ceiling -- shackles he is sure he is about to be forced into. His heart beat pounds in his skull, shaking his vision with every pulse as his eyes wildly scan the room for a way out. A quick glance over his shoulder shows him that the door hasn't closed yet.

If he doesn't move soon, it'll be too late.

Charlie subtly takes a step back and--

"Let us proceed."

He is pulled forward harshly by the two holding on to his arms, moving so abruptly that his shoulders are nearly dislocated out of place. 

"Wait- can we just slow down?" Charlie says more to himself than anyone else, knowing his pleas were meaningless but somehow unable to stop himself from trying. He digs his heels into the ground so hard that static shoots up his shins. The gaurds keep pulling him forward with little effort. He can hear the chains rattling above them as two other soldiers snap the shackles open, preparing them for his wrists. Another soldier from behind him circles to his front and takes hold of his bound wrists, pressing a small fob against the center until the light flicks green and the cuffs snap open. 

And the second that his hands are freed for the first time in days, Charlie slips his right hand out of its grasp and clocks the guard holding his left arm as hard as he possibly can. His fingers ring with pins and needles at the impact, flashing bright green pixels in the darkness of his rash. The soldier grabs him harder in response to his sudden attack, but is not prepared for Charlie's fingers to suddenly rip into the side of its face with the ferocity of a cornered cat, biting through its quarantine hood. Green sparks and pixels flash in the scratches he made agains the white of its face as it immediately releases him to clutch its new injury in surprise.

Breath burns at the back of his throat in desperation as 3 or 4 sets of hands grab at him all at once from all sides, wrapping around his biceps and forearms, and clutching his shoulder with enough force to bruise his skin. A gut-wrenching cry of exertion comes from him, echoing in the far-too-silent room as twists out of their hold.

It becomes a blur as his body focuses on one simple function: to survive. He can feel his elbow jab into one's gut. He can feel his teeth clamp down against gloved fingers as one tries to cover his mouth from behind.

But it is ultimately no use.

One grabs him by the throat and clocks him hard enough to ignite the concussion that sat dormant in his skull. The bruises from his beating yesterday are renewed as he is hit again, causing a ring to sound in his right ear from the impact. 2 sets of hands clamp around his forearms and tug him forward despite how he continues to kick and pull from them. Another 2 have to hold under his arms as they attempt to shackle him, managing to withstand his frenzied movements long enough to get it done.

Cold metal cuffs clasp around his right wrist first, and then his left. When all of the guards step away, he is left dangling from the chains, his toes barely able to touch the ground. He pants out exhausted breaths as his wrists twist uselessly against their new restraints, his chest growing tight with despair and desperation. The pain in his head has doubled from his very brief fight, making his eyes squint in response.

The muscles in his lower jaw tighten as he lifts his head to watch Cucurucho walk to stand across from him. Next to it, a couple of scientists have set up a camera on a tripod and aimed it directly at him. He can feel his face light with embarrassment as the light next to its lens turn on.

"Recording start. Experiment 2 with Resident #0028." It speaks aloud. To its left, another worker wearing a lab coat is transcribing its words as it talks, "Engage the stimulus." 

Charlie watches as one of the workers who set up the camera steps away and retrieves something from a nearby cart before stepping back.

In its hands, it holds a long, black leather whip, folded so it fits in both hands. He watches in near disbelief as the worker passes the weapon over to one of the faceless soldiers, who takes it by the hilt and lets it unfurl to its full length so it drapes across the floor. At the end of it is a long rectangular strip of leather with sharp edges.

"Please state your name." 

Charlie's attention snaps back to Cucurucho as it asks him a question. His eyes flick from the whip to Cucurucho in clear disbelief.

"You can't be serious," Charlie laughs nervously, eyebrows furrowed as he keeps looking back to the weapon fearfully, "You're not serious, right?"

At his lack of an answer, Cucurucho nods to the guard holding the whip. The guard nods back and immediately circles around Charlie.

Despite how he strains his neck to look over his shoulder, he can't see it fully as the soldier walks to stand directly behind him, "Hey, what are you--"

His words morph into a startled yelp as the whip suddenly strikes across his back. He arches against the sudden hot line of pain that spans from his right shoulder down to his left hip.

"What the fuck?" Charlie hollers at anyone -- everyone-- in the room, his chains rattling from over him as he twists wildly, "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

"Please state your name," Cucurucho repeats over his incessant screaming. 

"No, no, I am done with this- okay?" Charlie hisses at it, hands clenched into shaking fists from over him, "You can go to hell, I'm not playing your stupid games anymore. I'm not answering your stupid questions aga--"

That bright pain greets him again as the sound of the whip cracking against his back fills his ears. Another shriek comes from him at the sudden sensation of leather against skin.

"Please state your name." 

Charlie is already shaking as flames lap at his back hungrily from the two. His breaths are harsh and quick as his eyes train on the floor, a blush blooming into his cheeks from shame or exertion.

They won't stop until he gives in.

He should know that by now.

If he gives them what they want, this can end and they'll leave him alone.

And he'll go back to his cell and Flippa will be there. And everything will be okay.

"Charlie." He winces as his name comes from him, grimacing at his own obedience.

"Full name." Cucurucho says without missing a beat. 

"Charlie Slimecicle." He replies through clenched teeth, fighting hard to ignore the feeling of dozens of pairs of eyes on him.

"Please state your age."

"I'm 25."

"When did you arrive on Quesadilla Island?"

"A year." 

"Have you experienced hearing disembodied voices, objects appearing and disappearing at will, or unexplained teleportations?" 

"Yeah, I--"

Another cry comes from him, this time louder, as he is whipped again without warning. 

"What-- WHY?!" Charlie howls, straining his neck to look behind at his attacker, "Why-? I answered the fucking--"

It pulls the whip back and cracks it against him again. His head jerks up to let out a shriek as the slash crosses over the first three.

"Have you ever experienced a traumatic loss?" Cucurucho continues the questions regardless.

"No, I'm not answering that fucking question-- you can go to hell-" He stammers as he keeps looking side to side over his shoulder, shivering with anticipation that it was going to happen again, "I answered your- stupid questions and it didn't matter!" 

He hears footsteps approaching him from in front and snaps his head to meet the sound.

Cucurucho steps closer until they are face to face. Charlie usually has to tilt his head up to meet its gaze, but hoisted up like he is, they are at the same level.

"This experiment will not end unless you answer the questions," Cucurucho speaks closely to him, its terrible, monotone voice filling his ears, "Have you ever experienced a traumatic loss?"

"Experiment?" Charlie spits, "no, call this what this is. This is torture. You don't get to pretend like--"

He bites back another scream as another hit comes, nearly dragging tears into his eyes. He blinks them away before they fall, fighting to keep a grimace from his features as he watches Cucurucho cock its head to the side.

"Ha ha ha," it laughs coldly at his furious and pained expression, "The faster you give in, the faster this can be over. Have you ever experienced a traumatic loss?"

"Fuck you." He says between ragged breaths, forearms starting to ache with how hard he tenses against his restraints.

Cucurucho stays inches from him as he is struck again from behind. His eyes squeeze shut as he tries to steadily breath through it.

In through his nose, out through his mouth. 

In through his nose, out through his mouth. 

He could do this. 

"Have you ever experienced a traumatic loss?"

His entire body flinches as the whip slashes across his back, a yelp dying in his throat as he unconsciously holds his breath. He is shaking limb from limb, carving crescent-shaped indents into his palms from how hard he clenches his fists. He has barely any time to recover from the first as another hit comes, dragging a moan from his tightly pressed lips. He can feel blood trickling down his back, following the curve of his spine. He can still feel Cucurucho's presence before him. 

'Keep it together.' He thinks absently to himself, swallowing hard as he keeps his eyes shut to avoid the smile he knows Cucurucho is wearing.

"Have you ever experienced a traumatic loss?"

The whip cracks horizontally his back, hitting his spine. He can't keep his back from arching against the pain, his shoulder-blades rolling against his skin as he starts struggling against his shackles again. He vaguely becomes aware of how the pins and needles filling every infected part of body start to intensify like millions of cold, sharp needles stabbing into him all at once. His fingers and feet flex in response.

The leather bites into his skin, crossing across the slashes from before, digging deeper and deeper. A very noticeable whine comes from him, one he cannot keep inside anymore as the fresh wounds sting in the open air like millions of wasp bites. Another slash comes a mere breath after, making him pull against the chains so hard that he nearly dislocates his own wrists. 

And another calculated crack of the whip across multiple bleeding strokes drags a full-fledged scream from his peeling lips. 

"Have you ever experienced a traumatic loss?" Cucurucho asks, barely being heard over Charlie's screaming as another 4 strikes come in quick succession of one another. His entire back feels like the skin has been flayed off and doused in salt that sticks hungrily to exposed muscle and tissue. Some small part of him is so ashamed of his cries of pain that he snaps his mouth shut-- only for his silence to be immediately broken at the next hit. His shrieks have become twisted with strange noises of audio glitches and the gravelly-growl of static. His arms and legs start to burn so badly that it hurts just as much as his back, which has been cut into so many times that it resembles a cutting board at the end of its life. Bright green flashes at the back of his eyelids at the next whip, flickering in time with his racing heart.

"Have you ever experienced a traumatic loss?"

Another hit, another cry of pain that no longer sounds human. He doesn't even notice the feeling of tears running down his face or sobs hiccuping in his chest. Every slash of the whip against his skinned back sent waves of hot agony rippling across his entire body like the leather was cutting directly into his nerves. Every hit gets worse and more and more skin is torn away, as more and more of his blood is spilled, as more and more of his dignity is ripped from him.

And eventually, he has to admit to himself that 

he just can't take it anymore.

"Have you ever--"

"YES!" 

He screams his answer with a voice raw and cracking from constant howls of torment. His eyes have snapped open, but tears obscure that stitched smile hanging before him.

"YES-- OKAY-? YES! I lost everything -- I lost my husband, my house, my DAUGHTER- I lost EVERYTHING! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?!"

That sour, metallic taste of blood coats the back of his throat. 

And finally, the constant whipping stops. Long enough for him to gulp down desperate breaths. Long enough for him to blink the tears from his eyes and acknowledge the burning pain that races across his infections with a confused whimper.

"Have you ever been directly responsible for the death of a child?"

He stares at Cucurucho's blank, unchanging face for a moment, his shallow breaths melding into choppy, dry sobs. His head lowers until his chin rests against his chest, eyes fixed on the floor stained with his blood beneath him.

"... yes--"

Charlie cries out sharply as the whip is struck against his back as soon as his answer leaves his mouth.

"Explain." Cucurucho demands without further explanation.

"Tilin," Charlie chokes out her name between quivering lips, tears immediately filling his eyes at the memory of his sword plunging into her side.

It was a mistake.

"It was a mistake-" 

He didn't mean to.

"I didn't mean to. I didn't." 

"Explain."

Charlie looks up, head spinning at the movement, "You already know. Don't make me--"

His shuddering voice breaks into the familiar sounds of his howling as the soldier whips through his exposed flesh again. Once his screams melt into the small moans of something broken and tortured, he starts to speak again. He just wants it over. He just wants it to end

"We were-- we were surrounded by skeletons," Charlie speaks, his voice breaking with audio glitches, "and one of them was going for Flippa-"

He can still see that night so clearly. Despite how hard he tried to forget.

"and I struck out for it blindly but Tilin- she got in the way" 

He can remember the feeling of his sword thrusting into something made of flesh, not bone.

"-- and I hit Tilin by mistake" 

He can remember how Tilin dropped to their knees, their red bow sagging as their head dropped to their chest.

He can still hear the wail that Juanaflippa let out as her best friend fell face-forward onto the ground. He can still remember how Juanaflippa kept screaming in despair as Charlie killed the last of the skeletons. He can still see how Flippa looked up at him in fear- -fear of him, of what he had done.

"It was a mistake."

"Have you heard of the code entity?" 

Charlie shuts his eyes, waiting for the next whip to come as he nods and says "yes." 

"Do you know where the code entity is?" Cucurucho continues.

And despite the fact that he had been waiting for it, he flinches dramatically in shock as the whip slices across his back again. He lets out a sharp yelp in response, finding it harder to gather the energy or breath to scream as loudly as he yearned to.

"--no, I don't." He tells Cucurucho between heaving, shallow breaths.

"Have you personally encountered the code entity?" 

"Yes." The word comes from him without a single thought, like it hadn't come from him at all. He blinks hard at his own response, "... what? No.. I haven't. I--"" 

His correction becomes unimportant as the leather hits him again, creating a new slash that cuts horizontally across the rest. He cries out again, his voice weaker and more hoarse than before.

"Do you remember where you first met the code entity?" Cucurucho asks, head titled to the side like its interest had been piqued.

The voice that replies is not his own, morphed by machinery and lagging like retro technology.

"ʜɪs ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ." 

Charlie's head suddenly drops back down to his chest as a severe and all-encompassing fatigue clouds his mind.

Cucurucho's hand comes under his jaw and lifts his chin back up, but his eyes do not open. 

"Where are you?" Cucurucho demands, its gloved fingers digging into his lower jaw.

"ꜰᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜ." His lips move with their own purpose, their own intention.

"We will find you," Cucurucho promises, threat lingering in its tone despite its inability to change, "We will find you and we will bring you back."

"ʜᴀ ʜᴀ ʜᴀ." a cold, robotic laugh comes from his unsmiling, paled face, "ɴᴏ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ."

"I will break your host," Cucurucho warns the entity its been searching for for months, "I will do whatever it takes."

"ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴛ."

Cucurucho releases his face roughly and takes a step back. It raises a hand and gestures for the soldier to continue, its gaze fixed on Charlie's non-responsive expression.

He can faintly feel the pain of the whip greeting him again, but does not make a sound.

But as the whip finds his bleeding, raw skin, a voice rings from all around him.

'ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴜʀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ.' it says.

And Charlie recognizes the voice. It is the one he heard yesterday as he was beaten until he could no longer fight back. It is the voice that asked him what he was willing to do to save his daughter again. But this time, it has more form. It is less consumed by static and technological screams. It is robotic and dull - but somewhat stable and discernible.

'Can you make it stop?' He asks it with the small amount of consciousness he has left, grimacing at the feeling of leather splitting deep into exposed muscle.

'ʏᴇꜱ.' it replies, 'ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ɢᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀᴇ.'

A faint, quivering smile creeps onto his face at the mere thought of escaping. 

No more questions. No more pain.

'ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴇᴛ.'

'What? No, no you have to get me out.' He starts to beg to it, his very brief freedom immediately slipping through his fingers, 'Please, I can't do this. I can't take this anymore.' 

'ʏᴇꜱ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ. ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ. ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ.'

The whip hits him again. But this time, its impact is dulled and distant. Numbness starts to fall over him like cold water, soothing the constant fire that eats at his back. 

'I want to get back to her.'

'ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ɢᴇᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ. ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ.'

His breaths become slow and easy as his entire body relaxes.

'Please. Don't hurt her.' He pleads as the burn lacing his infection grows warm.

'ᴡʜʏ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴜʀᴛ ʜᴇʀ?'

'Because I know what you are,' He admits, both to it and to himself, 'and because I know what you have done to the other eggs.' 

'ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀꜱᴋ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍʏ ʜᴇʟᴘ.'

'You helped me and Flippa before.' Charlie reminds it, remembering the feeling of his hands tearing his enemies limb from limb.

'ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ʜᴇʟᴘ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ.' it replies, sounding like it speaks from all around his head, 'ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇ ɪᴛ.'

'But I..' His internal voice melts away into a cacophony of static that fills his mind until it becomes impossible to think of anything.

'ᴡᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋ ꜱᴏᴏɴ.' Its voice can be heard over the all-consuming, almost soothing white noise.

As he feels hands grabbing at the shackles around his wrists, and the relieving feeling of those shackles releasing him, the world slips away from him.

And he lets it.

-----

Ethereal, otherworldly wind roars in Mariana's ears. His stomach lurches like he's falling from the sky, filling him with that brief shock of adrenaline like he was falling out of bed.

And in a mere breath, he can feel grass under his boots. The wind against his face grows soft and smells of salt and sea. He blinks and he is no longer at spawn,

he is standing on an island. 

Mariana's hand slides off the waystone and raises to shield his eyes from the bright sun above. Beside him, he feels a gust of air and hears the woosh of a teleportation. 

Phil stands beside him, one hand on his sword as his blue, tired eyes sweep his surroundings almost instinctively. Behind him, Tallulah and Chayanne also appear. They are both wearing dark, enchanted armour, and have weapons at their sides. 

Mariana's gaze leaves the two children to take in the island they warped to. 

Clear, blue water surrounds them on all sides. From the water rises enormous stone spikes and mounds, their peaks covered with moss and ivy that drips down their sides. There is a particularly impressive natural stone archway with curtains of ivy that hang so long it grazes the water. He seems to be standing in a stone gazebo where the waystone had been placed. To his right along the shore, there is a cobblestone firepit with three chairs of mismatching wood surrounding blackened logs.

"Okay, now remember our rules," Phil says to his kids, "No wandering off, stay next to us. And if the code shows up, you warp away. Do not try to help, right? You let us handle it." 

Tallulah and Chayanne nod, the latter of which does so reluctantly.

"Come on, his house is this way," Phil says as he steps out from the gazebo with Mariana close behind. His attention is dragged briefly to a mine entrance which has lanterns that have burned out long ago. 

And standing directly in front of them with the natural stone archway framing it from behind is a small wooden shack. The structure itself is made of two different kinds of wood, oak and acacia, placed haphazardly with no real concern about how stupid it looked. There is a small window that is curtained with cob webs next to rickety old door that is almost off of its hinges.

".. this is it?" Mariana asks Phil, wide eyes still fixed on the structure built by his husband.

"No, no the basement is better," Phil promises, hearing the dread in the other man's voice, "He just never got around to renovating I guess. Come on, lets see if he's home."

Mariana nods and falls into step behind Phil as he approaches the door. Phil raises his hand and knocks against the wood, causing the door to push open slightly.

"Charlie?" Phil calls out loudly, "Charlie, it's Phil and Mariana. Are you home?"

They wait for a moment.

Birds sing from nearby trees and the waves lap against the shores with soft noises that mimic a breeze.

But no response comes.

Phil grabs the silver knob, which is just barely connected to the door, and pushes the door the remaining way open. It opens with an ominous creek, inviting them into the rest of the house. Phil keeps one hand hovering over the hilt of his sword as he steps inside. Mariana steps to the side and lets Tallulah and Chayanne enter, and walks in after them.

The interior is truly no better. The floor is stained with muddy footprints that overlap one another. There are a couple chests in the corner and a flower pot that sits on top of it, with a flower that used to be pink now wilted and drooping down the side of the pot. Phil takes out a torch, lights it and uses it to light the other two in the room. 

"Alright, Charlie if you're here, we're coming down," Phil leads them to the back of the tiny room where there is a ladder down to the basement. With one hand holding up the torch, Phil turns and descends down the ladder, his boots making the wood creak under their weight. Mariana keeps an eye behind them as Tallulah and Chayanne follow. Once they reach the bottom, he turns and follows them downwards.

Phil has already started lighting the extinguished torches along the walls, letting a warm, crackling light fall onto the room. 

Mariana feverishly scans the room and feels his heart drop when he does not see Charlie anywhere inside.

"It doesn't look like he's been home yet," Phil says as he swipes a finger along the layer of dust that cakes the tops of the chests.

Mariana stays silent as he walks around the basement, hugging his arms close to himself. This room was better than above, but it was still smaller than he had expected. Chests lined the walls, labelled with signs that detailed what was inside in Charlie's messy handwriting. Mariana opens one with a sign that says 'Food' and immediately covers his nose as the smell of rot and mould seeps from it. Looking inside cautiously, he can see scraps of toast that have turned blue with age and a couple onions that have long white growths. Bugs skitter to the edges of the container at the sudden light. He closes the chest, clenching his jaw.

The wall indents at the far back wall, where a green, opened present has been left on a small table. Hanging above the chest are 4 or 5 empty cages with signs hanging from them that say odd things like "CuCURuchO" and "The all-consuming grief I felt without you."

"That was an egg task, apparently," Phil explains, noticing how Mariana reads the signs, "Collect a bunch of cockroaches in cages and label them your worst enemies."

Mariana's eyes widen as he sees one cage with a sign that reads 'My bitch wife.' He makes the sour, screwed up face of someone swallowing a difficult emotion.

He forces himself to look away and sees to his left there is a bed with thin green blankets that are ripped at their ends. And next to Charlie's bed is another, a smaller one that no adult could possibly fit in. 

Chayanne tugs on Phil's sleeve, who turns to look down at his son, "Hmm? Find something?" 

Chayanne nods and leads Phil to Tallulah, who is holding a leather-bound book. She hands it to Phil, who opens it. His eyes move back and forth across the pages, eyebrows pinching downwards.

"What is it?" Mariana asks as he walks away from the beds to approach them. Phil hands him the open book.

"From Charlie to Juanaflippa," Phil says, "He must've wrote it before he left for Purgatory." 

Mariana quickly reads through the small passage his husband wrote, wincing at the clear despair and reluctance to leave his 'daughter.'

"So, he would've come right back here when he got back, right?" Mariana asks, closing the book, "He promised he'd come back to Flipp-- um, the code entity thing, as soon as Purgatory was over. And he wouldn't have broken that promise." 

Phil shrugs, "I don't know, maybe he came back and they left somewhere together?"

Mariana wears his concern on his face as he looks back to the two beds, "... he's been living like this all this time?"

"Hmm?" Phil hums, turning to his companion.

"This is just.. this is so small and isolated and he's got no food and, and..." Mariana's throat tightens to the point where it becomes hard to speak, "... Why didn't he ever tell me it got so bad?"

".. I think he knew you'd try to help," Phil speaks solemnly, "and he didn't want help." 

Mariana exhales through his nose and runs a hand through his hair. He feels a small hand clasp his own and looks down to see Tallulah smiling sadly at him, softly patting his hand in some small action of comfort.

"Thanks Tallulah," He says to her with a quivering smile, "Thank you." 

"... wait. This isn't right," Phil suddenly says, glancing around the room, "Something's different." 

Phil slings his backpack off of his shoulder and kneels to shuffle through it. He pulls out a stack of polaroid photos he took and stands as he sifts through them. 

"Here, yeah," Phil picks out a photo and studies it, his features crinkling in confusion, "What?"

"What?" Mariana asks, looking over his shoulder to try to see the photo, "What is it?" 

Phil hands him the picture, which he takes with both hands and looks at.

Its a photo Phil took of this exact room. 

But there are splotches of code on the walls and floor that sparkle with those sickly green digits.

"I took that before we left for Purgatory."

Mariana's eyebrows furrow as he looks back up at the basement around him that has completely clean walls and floors. 

"That's... good?" Mariana says hesitantly despite something cold and unsettling gripping at his insides. 

"Come outside," Phil orders as he quickly climbs back up the ladder and half-jogs outside once more. Mariana follows and steps outside with him, watching Phil pull out another picture.

A picture of the outside of Charlie's home, which is absolutely covered in that same strange black substance.

Phil moves to a spot where the photo shows used to have code and digs his foot into the sand, moving it to the side. 

But no matter how far he digs, there is no code anywhere.

Phil looks back up and scratches the back of his head, "Charlie mentioned to me that he couldn't get rid of whatever that stuff was."

"Maybe the code moved on while we were all gone?" Mariana speculates as a shiver crawls down his spine in defiance.

"Maybe, yeah," Phil says, chewing on the inside of his lower lip as he turns towards the mine, "Maybe he's down in there. That's where he found her the first time so he could've gone back."

Mariana nods and joins Phil in walking to the entrance of the mine, Tallulah and Chayanne following close behind. 

"Alright so, Charlie told me and Cellbit that he came here on his birthday and the entire mine had been changed," Phil explains as they reach the mouth of the entrance, dodging the thick cords of ivy that hang from the ceiling, "and that's where--"

Phil falls silent as they both look down to where a cave should be,

but all that remains is an untouched stone wall.