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Charlie knows this guy.
He tries, surreptitiously, to stare from across the counter as he makes the drink, to figure out where he knows this guy from, but he can’t think of a damn thing. The mutton chop sideburn things are pretty distinctive, and yet…
He looks down at the cup in his hand. “Name?”
“Schlatt.”
He stares.
“… Charlie?” He blinks, looking at his coworker. “Hello? You good?”
“Yeah! Yeah, no, I’m fine.”
“Need help spelling that?”
“… no. I’m good.”
Holy shit, they actually spelled your name right. You show your teeth.
Fuckin’ knew it.
It’s happening again.
The only thing that’s catching Charlie’s eye this time is the guys hoodie— dark blue. And maybe a little how the guy moves. Who are these people?
Above the clouds, four figures are fighting. Blue, and Green, and Red, and— Black, mostly. Below them, a storm rages, as the creatures on earth tear into each other with newfound teeth. One could call it Hell.
It was certainly an accident.
(Of a kind.)
Charlie fills another cup of coffee, and thinks idly about the strange dreams he’s been having recently. Those familiar strangers keep showing up— although that’s how dreams work, isn’t it? He thinks he read that somewhere, that the subconscious never really creates anything, just uses elements from your waking life.
He wonders when he was a waking god.
A single vivid image— two figures huddled in a half missing shack, the floor dropping away into the earth where the other wall should be. A third, standing out in the storm reaching out towards The Devil Himself, hovering resplendent in white with a grin, offering an apple.
The pit in your stomach reminds you how this ends.
Charlie recognizes this guy from his dreams. Which is not how this is supposed to work. He could believe that he saw this guy at some earlier point, recorded his face, and then used it in a dream— except for the fact that he has that same “I know you” feeling, the one that keeps eating at him. That’s four, now.
Who the FUCK are these people??
He dreams of exploding fish and volcanoes, meteors and ravenous crocodiles filling the streets. He dreams of half rotted corpses smiling at him, beckoning him towards them, and of machines that rip him from one universe into another.
He dreams of a Pyrrhic victory.
He dreams of a man in a white suit.
The man in the white suit is back in his fucking coffee shop. Charlie stares at him.
He turns, grin slashed across his face, and makes eye contact, and Charlie remembers.
Hot coffee spills across his legs and shoes, and he doesn’t even notice.
Charlie tries to think of some way to contact Bizly, Grizzly, Condi, but in this world he has no idea where to even start. Usually they just— meet.
So he’s forced to wait until they come back into his place of work (which they do— of course they do) and write his number on their coffee. Which is weird. But it’s the best he’s got.
Bizly remembers. He calls Charlie, accuses him of flirting, and Charlie laughs with relief, apologizing through his thick throat and watery eyes. He’s not alone anymore.
(He thinks Bizly might be crying, too, but it’s hard to tell over the phone.)
Schlatt keeps coming in, the bastard. He always orders the same thing (a seasonal drink; candy apple latte, the fucker) grinning as he stares at Charlie. Politely requesting his drink be made by the same guy every time. He’s gotten really good at putting it together, at this point.
Charlie can most often see his horns now.
He’s able to hug Condi when he remembers. Which is good, because part of remembering is the deaths, and Charlie— he needs a hug too. The memory of watching his oldest friend get torn apart, unable to intervene…
He’s just happy they come back.
Grizzly is the last to remember, to be reminded, but that’s okay. The three of them hover around, acting friendly, willing to wait for their friend.
Their final part.
Condi comes in eating an apple.
“Are you serious?”
“What?” He swallows, looking innocently at Charlie. “Am I not allowed to bring in food?”
“Oh my god, that is not the problem and you know it.”
His face shifts from innocent to smug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sing songs.
“Get out.”
And then Grizzly remembers.
Everything they were pretending to be falls away, like standing up from under a pile of leaves. You couldn’t move without giving away your position, but once you’re found, there’s nothing holding you down.
Their humanity twists in the air, like fallen leaves.
Schlatt smiles. Finally, he thinks, we can move on. Forward, to another adventure.
Whatever that may be.