Long Live L'Manberg

Chapter 38: In Schlatt We Trust

Something wasn't right.

From the moment that stupid blue pen met the sheet of paper he signed a few nights prior, nothing had internally sat right with Quackity. Sure, he was completely ecstatic about coming out on top with the election results, but something was just nagging at him. Only he couldn't pinpoint what. He truly admired the bold strokes Schlatt chose to take on L'Manberg, how every aspect of their country could be up for renovation- but it all seemed so sudden. Everything just kept rolling, one needless change after another. It almost felt as if Schlatt's actions were just petty jabs at their enemies instead of services for the betterment of their nation.

"Where is that damn kid?"

Quackity was abruptly ripped from his conscience by Schlatt, practically scaring him out of his skin. He stood like a soldier next to the president, slowly re-entering reality. "No idea," was all he managed to muster up. It was the truth. He hadn't seen Tubbo once all morning. Though he would never say it, he wished Schlatt would cut the kid a break these first couple of days, the banishment seemingly hitting him harder than most.

"Never here when I need him, always here when I don't. It's like he has some kind of fucked up radar," Schlatt jammed his right hand in his pocket and pulled out his pocket watch. Half-past noon. Things weren't looking too good for Schlatt's newest scapegoat. Quackity gave a brief side-glance in Schlatt's direction in an attempt to pry into his mind, but it was no use. An unreadable expression was plastered across the president's face as the two of them watched L'Manberg's beloved walls turn into mountains of rubbish.

"You should put a tracker on him," Quackity joked, expecting Schlatt to laugh along. Instead, he feared he had just given him an idea.

"Not bad. Maybe there is more to you than just a nice ass."

Quackity parted his lips to speak but nothing came out. Instead, he was left with nothing but an amalgamation of confusion, distaste, and that sticking feeling of discomfort. "What?" His words were barely audible, completely taken aback by such a remark. He watched as Schlatt pulled out his wallet and slipped him a one-hundred-dollar bill, Schlatt's face being the centerpiece of the paper bill. Somehow, a simple piece of paper added salt to the wound. It was so difficult to process- the whole situation felt like a slap across the face.

"A hundred bucks says it never happened," Schlatt teased, waving the bill in front of his face. Rolling his eyes, Quackity snatched the bill from the air and jammed it in his pocket. It was a half-assed apology, but money was money. He decided it was best to keep his mouth shut. After all, he had gotten what he wanted. Power, wealth, and adoration all wrapped up in a pretty little bow. Before he could give it any more thought, Tubbo was spotted weaving in and out of the crowds of workers, completely out of breath. He looked like he had just ran for miles on end, sweat pouring down his face.

"My apologies, Schlatt," the boy folded over to catch his breath. "I'm afraid I slept in late this morning."

Quackity watched as Schlatt's gaze retraced Tubbo's path, realizing that he entered through the forest which lie in the opposite direction of his home. Quackity silently wondered if Schlatt would catch Tubbo in a lie. To his surprise, the president's eyes gleamed, his mustache curving into a smile as he gently pat Tubbo on the back. "Glad you cared to pay us a visit, kid! Now, grab a pickaxe and get to work." Tubbo stood puzzled, calculating the logistics in his head.

"But I'm a minor, sir," he tripped over his words. "I believe that would be considered child labor."

Schlatt stood unbothered. "And? You're lucky I didn't make you a chimney sweep, Tiny Tim."

Tubbo stammered in disbelief. "Wouldn't that be illegal?" Certainly, this was pushing it a little far. Schlatt rolled his eyes, completely ignoring the concerns of his right-hand man. Quackity raised his brows as his prediction played out, Schlatt dropping the 'mister-nice-guy' façade a little sooner than expected.