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If Sam had to choose a part about his time with the Egg that stuck with him most, it would have been the heat. Not the obsidian box, not the pain, not the whispers; it had been the lingering, ever-present heat. If it had been cold, would if have been better? Worse? Would he have simply frozen to death instead of staying in that feverish state, sweating and miserable in a tiny obsidian box. Who knows.
On the first day, he’d been angry and violent and so very hopeful. On the second, he’d grown tired. On the third-maybe-fifth day Sam had curled up in a ball and cried. By the fourth-maybe-sixth day he’d starting sobbing for someone, anyone to let him out. Around the seventh day, the whispers had begun. It hadn’t spoken like people did, more like… an underlying thought, an impulse, an apple that looked perfect and red on the outside but was rotted all the way through. I can get you out of here, it had sung, just give in.
Maybe if he’d given in, it would’ve been better. Maybe the heat would’ve gone away. Maybe Sam would’ve been at peace, sated and thoughtless. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Sam had never told anyone this, but he’d nearly given in. He’d been eating his own flesh— nobody could hold out for long after that, absolutely nobody. He was lucky he’d been freed when he had been.
It had been the twenty-somethingth day when his saviours had arrived. Tommy and Puffy— people he hadn’t been very close to but they were there. They’d take him home, surely, they weren’t allies of the Egg. They’d had netherite and diamonds, golden apples and the countenance of young gods.
They won’t save you, the Egg had hummed, delighted in his misery. They don’t care.
But they do, Sam had thought. Because they’re kind.
And they were kind and loud, mostly loud. They’d been so loud compared to the quiet— not that it was truly silent in the Egg— there was no ringing that true silence holds— because there’d always been the kind of sound that you have to focus to hear, the sound of something growing and oozing and making spongey noises like rotted meat.
Their loudness had been both a curse and a blessing. It’d hurt his sensitive ears, but it meant there were people, real people, not the hallucinations the Egg had begun to show him.
“Tommy?” he’d asked, praying, praying, praying and Tommy had looked down at him in his hole and said, “Oh hey.”
After that it’d been a feverish blur for Sam. He only remembered bits and pieces— he remembered making himself say “It made me eat myself,” just so maybe they’d understand, just so that they’d remember if he didn’t.
“What the hell?” Tommy had laughed, uncomfortable and Sam had wanted to start crying again. His scales had been scuffed and his limbs so heavy and he’s so, so tired. The Egg hadn’t let him sleep and it was all just too much— he just wanted this pain to end.
But he had to continue onwards. They’d led him to the ocean, but he doesn’t want to swim. He wants to go home to Fran and sleep forever. Puffy and Tommy are two shiny figures dancing and flitting about, careless.
“I jus’ wanna go home,” he’d slurred out again, slumped against Puffy, “Please.”
He’d had a headache, his arms had deep gouges, he’d been shaking and he’d just wanted to go home.
“Yeah, we’ll get you home big man.”
“Okay,” Sam whispered, “Okay.”
“Sam?”
Sam wiped at his eyes and squinted. He was in the restaurant at Las Nevadas, Quackity sitting across from him. When had he gotten there? “Quackity?”
Quackity cocked his head slightly, “Are you okay? You uh, spaced out there for a minute. Weren’t responding.”
Sam exhaled shakily, “Yeah, Big Q. I’m fine. Just… it’s nothing.”
“Alright,” said Quackity, “alright.”
Why was it so cold here? It was meant to be a desert, wasn’t it? But it’s a manufactured desert, built on tundra and snow. He knows this, damnit. There’s no insipid heat here, settling deep within your bones. He hates the heat, Sam decided, hates it.
“Hey,” said Quackity, tapping Sam on the arm and snapping Sam out of his thoughts, “C’mon, you know you can talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Sam picked at his long-healed scars, “Nothing, Big Q, it’s fine.”
Quackity leaned back, unsatisfied. “Does it have to do with—“ he lowered his voice— “…the prison? Because if you’re feeling unsure about our partnership—“
Sam shook his head, “No, Quackity, it’s not that. Seriously, it’s nothing. Just drop it.”
Quackity got that look on his face that he gets when something or someone was being frustrating and he hadn’t quite figured them out yet. He opened his mouth and closed it before opening it again, hands fiddling with a poker chip he’d pulled out of his coat, “You know, when we started this partnership, I was in a pretty bad place, Sam. Lot of bad things had left me pretty messed up. Most people would’ve left me, but you didn’t, Sam. You stuck around and stayed with me, even when I was fucked over by everyone else. We’re friends, mi hermano. You stick with me through my bad stuff, I’ll stick with you through yours. So what’s bothering you? Is it Ponk?”
Sam was quiet for a moment, looking past Quackity to the sands of Las Nevadas. “Do you remember the Egg, Quackity?”
A flicker of understanding flitted across Quackity’s face, “Oh, Sam…”
“It uh, had me for a while. Tommy and Puffy eventually got me out but… I just…”
Quackity came and sat next to him, “You can tell me, man. I won’t judge.”
Sam shuffled, uncomfortable as he feels his eyes start to prick with tears, “They just— they uh, joked and stuff and I know it’s stupid but I— I had to eat myself and my friends left me to die and… and Tommy and Puffy— they just didn’t understand.”
And it’s true, they hadn’t understood. Puffy had tried to be sensitive, but it was awkward and stilted and Tommy hadn’t even tried. Sam just… Sam just wished someone understood, and he knows he’s crying and he expected Quackity to laugh at him, so it shocked him when instead Quackity hugs him. It’s an awkward movement where there are too many limbs and odd angles and they’re both wedged in a booth but Sam practically collapsed into the man, sobbing, “It’s so fucked, Big Q. I was in there for weeks and they made it a joke. Why didn’t they listen, Quackity? Why didn’t they just take me home?”
Quackity held Sam close to his chest, crooning soft platitudes as Sam cried, “It’s okay, Sam. ‘S all in the past now. We’re your home now— you and me and Purpled and Fundy and Foolish and Slime. All of us at Las Nevadas, we’re family. We’ll always be there for you.”
Sam sniffled and wiped his eyes, “Thanks, Quackity. Really, thank you.”
Quackity stood up, wiping his shirt, “Come on, I want to show you something.”
Sam followed Quackity out of the restaurant and up the tower. They stood on the balcony, Quackity leaning on the railing and Sam standing at an awkward parade rest.
“Look at this,” Quackity said as he gestured to Las Nevadas, “Look at what we’ve created, Sam! All this, you and me. We’ve made the greatest country in the world. Aren’t you proud?”
Sam looked over Las Nevadas, watching the sun set. He saw Purpled and Foolish working on some structure in the distance, saw Fundy laughing at Slime’s interactions with a sheep. He saw Quackity, standing beside him with a soft smile on his face, the politics of the past falling away as they watched their city stand tall and proud. Finally, Sam saw himself, finally at peace with this makeshift family.
“Yeah Big Q, I am.”