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Purpled never meant to become an informant.
At first he was just trying to help a friend- Ponk needed someone to help him with his underground doctor gig, and, it paid better than any minimum wage job could. It was a pretty sweet deal: he would play doctor’s assistant and get a 15% cut of whatever the patients paid. It’s not like he needed a degree- they were already working outside of the law treating villains and vigilantes alike, what’s a degree matter when Ponk’s help was probably the best they could get without immediately getting thrown in jail?
Working with Ponk gave Purpled a certain set of skills. The kind that lets you catch onto what makes quirks - and people - click.
When it came time, why exactly would he have refused when someone came to him offering a generous sum for some info about one of Ponk’s more recent patients? It’s not as if what happened to them afterwards was any of Ponk’s business. Their job wasn’t to make sure these people kept on living; their job was just to treat them when they came- for a price of course.
One patient’s info became two, three, and so on. He was making more by selling information about the patients rather than treating them.
To Ponk, his clients might be considered allies of a sort. To Purpled, they were nothing more than a source of income.
Soon enough, he’s caught.
An unconventional deal for information in exchange for some real estate: an empty apartment building in the shadier districts of the city. It was a bit run down, but it wasn’t about to collapse in on itself.
He figured being a landlord would be a nice side gig. One he couldn’t get stabbed for.
He offered Ponk a spot in his new place to continue their doctor thing. They’d been working in a shoddy basement cellar under one of Ponk’s buddies’ workshop until now. Purpled figured he owed it to them since they’re the only reason he even got the place. Unfortunately, that’s exactly how he got caught.
Bringing up the fact that he scored a whole building they could work out of brought up the question of how, and as far as Ponk knew, Purpled’s main source of income was being their assistant, and Ponk wasn’t making nearly enough to afford a whole building.
“PURPLED YOU CAN’T JUST DO THAT- WHAT ARE WE TREATING THEM FOR IF YOU JUST SIGN AWAY THEIR LIVES LIKE THAT?!”
“Chill, it’s not like what happens to them is really any of our business anyway. Besides, with the things we’re part of, death is to be expected. I’m just speeding up the inevitable.”
Needless to say, that conversation didn’t go the way Purpled hoped. Ponk wanted him to stop, else he’d “fire” him. Fine by Purpled’s standards- he’d make more doing his informant thing than working for Ponk.
Getting fired by Ponk brought up an issue he didn’t account for- without their patients, there’s no one to collect info on.
There certainly wasn’t a lack of clients though. The guy who gave him the building was increasingly persistent in asking him for more. “Requests” were becoming “demands” and soon enough “threats”.
Purpled wasn’t a killer, but he refused to let himself be used the way this guy was hoping. He sets a trap, and his hands are stained for the first time.
As he cleans up after, he runs into some thing in the dumpster.
“Dap me up!”
He stabs out of reflex. He can’t leave a witness to his crime. He refuses to be caught for such a stupid reason.
Unfortunately, his knife does little to whatever - or whoever - just popped out of the dumpster. His arm slides through a jelly-like liquid and right out the other side.
Purpled let go at the sensation, knife clattering inside the dumpster while he pulls his hand out of the goo.
“The hell are you?!”
“I am a human like you! With lots of bones! Definitely not a slime.”
“You didn’t see anything, got it? Keep your mouth shut and you won’t end up like that guy. Slime or not, I’ll find a way to end you if word gets out.”
“I am not a slime! Purpled from Ponk’s clinic, why did you kill that man?”
“He knew too much, and from the looks of it, so do you.”
With that, Purpled throws fist after fist trying to do more damage than his knife, but to no avail. Nothing he does hurts the thing in front of him. His blows sink into the green goo while “Slime” continues unaffected.
“Is this a new game? Dap me up fellow meat brother!”
After a bit, he stops, unwilling to continue wasting his energy on a fruitless endeavor. He changes strategies, sinking into casual conversation, poking and prodding for information on this guy’s quirk.
“Yeah yeah sure it’s a game- speaking of which, it’s cool how you can do that- how exactly does it work? You’re made out of some kinda slime right? What’s that made of?”
“I am not a slime! I am very human! With lots of bones!”
“Human yeah- but how exactly does your quirk work? I don’t see anything supporting you structurally like a skeleton-“
“I have MANY bones!”
The more he asks, the worse it gets. They’re talking in circles, with the “Slime” repeating his claims of being human. It’s more frustrating than it’s worth at 4am.
“I GIVE. Just- remember, don’t tell anyone about me. You never saw me, got it? Stay quiet and you’ll keep your life.”
With that final threat he turns to leave- but halfway back home, there’s a distinct sound of something following him. There’s no footsteps, but he’s certain he’s being chased.
Purpled bolts, making roundabout patterns and doubling back to lose his tail. It takes him another hour to get back to the apartment, and he collapses onto his bed in exhaustion.
Before long, the comforting feeling of sleep overtakes him, and he’s gone.