such warm misfortune

by rakugaki (tieria)

Summary:

Whether in love or in hate, in showmanship or in sales, everything must one day come to an end--but god if it wasn't sweet while it lasted.

 

(Or: Big Shot Era, from rocky beginning to inevitable end)

Chapter 1

Summary:

Spamton does what a salesman does best--delivers a pitch you just can't resist. Tenna would be more enthusiastic about this, did the man seem to have anything else over his head than a neon sign flashing "DO NOT TRUST" in all caps.

There’s nothing quite like the set of a genuine, honest-to-god TV show. 

Even from backstage he can feel the white beat of the stage lights overhead, burning hot in a way that’s only ever made him feel alive. Closer still comes the bustle of the stage assistants and talent managers–Mister Tenna, you’re on in five–arms overflowing with props and notes and cups of lukewarm water for their lucky contestants, quick to be downed as beads of sweat drip down nervous foreheads. This is the make or break, the bow of stardom or obscurity, curtain sweeping closed before the losers’ eyes as the winner steps forward to claim the grand prize. 

Just the thought of it’s electric, sending sparks through his circuits like shivers down a spine. 

Soft yet swaggering do they approach from the shadows; this is their domain, their proving ground to conquer. From just beyond the curtain wafts the hushed chatter of the studio audience, waiting in anticipation for the cameras to roll– There’s nothing like it, I tell you, just nothing like knowing they’re all out there waiting for you–but nothing has him quite so grounded, quite so untethered, as the knowledge of what’s to come. 

“Ready, partner?"

Hands on his tie in lieu of answer, tugging him down, fingers tangling in the knot and sending a flush of static across his monitor in seven colors striped, a boldness unexpected and yet achingly welcome, soothing that uncharacteristic twinge of nerves in his circuitry. 

(Silence.) 

Just a moment, the world falling away until it’s nothing but the two of them waiting in the wings, the grin before him so bright that it might as well eclipse the spotlight itself. “Who do you think you’re talking to, huh? A little bit of TV’s nothing to a big shot like me. Let’s show ‘em a real [two for one special], alright?”

“Roll the jingle!”

Somewhere distant a stage manager raises the cue, but it’s never felt quite so distant, so unreal. Perhaps that should alarm him. This is his life’s work, his one and only calling. If he’s not facing it with his entirety, then what’s his worth, his purpose?

The jingle rolls on, hands smooth out the rumpled knot of his tie. He catches that hand before it can retreat entirely, presses a kiss to fingers sweet as a promise, as a handshake, as a contract signed in gold. 

For what is there to fear? 

The cue sounds; the two of them take the stage as the audience roars, the confetti falls. The entire world is aglitter and they stand at its top, twins in red and gold, and side by side before the camera lens, the line has never felt quite so right–

“Say it with him, folks!” 

 

“[[       ]] and Tenna’s–”

 

 

---

 

 

It all starts from a spark of curiosity, a flicker of static like the moment of garbage noise between the changing of channels. 

Tenna doesn’t usually watch the commercials during his live broadcasts. There’s no particular reason for this, other than why would he? He’s a TV star, born and raised. He sells smiles, not products; it’s not his job to vet what airs during breaks from the real show.

But someone else just happens to be playing them in the break room as Tenna wanders in, knowing he’ll find any one of the various assistants that can get this particular job done chatting around the water cooler, and something about this one, though he knows not yet what, stops him in his tracks.

On screen is… an Addison, ostensibly, though not one that Tenna has ever seen. Addisons, Tenna has always thought, are a little bit dull. Of no fault of their own, of course–a good salesman puts his product in the forefront and blends seamless into the background until it’s time for his pitch to strike home. Even Tenna steps back when it’s time to reveal the night’s grand prize. 

But the monochrome, the flatness… They could be radio stars, absolutely, but the era of the radio star is dead and gone, obsolete outside of the rare car with a busted cassette player and a road trip’s worth of silence ahead to fill. Put them in a magazine, maybe. The gloss of the pages would do wonders for their complexions. 

And yet. 

The reel of this ad spins like a moving picture, car sleek in racer’s red, backdrop bold for the man absolutely gliding out from behind the wheel and into frame proper. 

Pale white against jet black hair and an expensive suit jacket, tailored to perfection and shining with hints of silver; that million-dollar smile holds a hint of roguish charm beneath rectangular sunglasses, bleeding nouveau riche and all the charisma required to pull it off. 

He is, in a word, striking.

Like a silent film star, Tenna finds himself thinking, though the stream of words falling from his mouth prove everything to the contrary. 

“Better believe your ears,” says the Addison, “This right here’s about to be the blowout sale of the century! Can’t miss [hot deals] right on the lot, folks! It’s a [one-day only spectacular], brought to you right here in Cyber City!”  

Who is he? Tenna wonders, watching as the ad fades to black only to be replaced by an infomercial with half the intrigue and certainly none of the star power. 

…Not that it matters. 

What plays on local airwaves is none of Tenna’s concern and even less of a priority. There’s bigger fish to fry, movie marathons and hot new cooking shows and only the most nostalgic of reruns to put on air between game show shoots and breaking news, because TV’s the new cinema and the silver screen doesn’t stop for one little no-name in a used car ad, of all things .

So Tenna forgets about it. 

 

And he does a bang-up job of letting the matter slip into the obscurity of a strip of film that’s burned itself up–at least until a knock comes at his dressing room door, unscheduled and long after wrapping for the evening. 

Tenna frowns into the mirror. He has no idea who could be calling, frankly, and though Tenna never turns down another opportunity for a new show, a new shoot, a new and exciting broadcast opportunity, for someone to come knocking now means that something’s fallen behind schedule, and when one part of the production fails to deliver…

If this goes into overtime, it’s coming out of somebody’s points.

Still, Tenna fixes his tie, puts on his best showman’s smile and says, standing to face the door with all of his usual pep–”Come on in!” 

The words have hardly left his mouth before the door starts creaking open on its hinges, giving way to a sliver of shadow from the dimmed lights of the after-hours hall. It’s slow and deliberate as replaying a scene in slow motion, the heroine’s dramatic entrance at the moment of truth. 

But there’s no such cinema to the unfamiliar voice that follows, and though Tenna flicks through his memories, he can't quite manage to put face to the reason those static tones tickle something in the back of his mind, a distant memory of a show taken off the air decades ago. 

“Sorry to barge in after hours, but I’ve got a real [special] delivery for one [small-screen star].”

And then.

Like a flash of lighting, a jitter in the playback–

The Addison saunters in as if he belongs, undaunted by the blinding white lights of the dressing room or Tenna’s larger-than-life presence within it. Instead he simply strides up to the dressing table with an ease that makes it seem as if he’s floating, setting a shiny metal briefcase up atop it as if it’s second nature and chattering all the while. “You’re in some real luck,” the Addison says, “I don’t usually take these low-brow mailman type jobs these days, but hoo boy, when I saw that name in the inquiry form, I told those suckers I’d do it for a [whopping 50% off]! The Mister Ant Tenna, comin’ straight into my inbox with an email like-”

“It’s you?!”

The Addison stops mid-sentence, giving Tenna the once-over with appraising eye. “Sorry,” he says, with a clearly faux-innocence that suits the canned line just fine, “do we know each other?”

Tenna jabs a startled finger at him. “Don’t play dumb with me! You’re the one on TV!”

He looks… smaller, in real life, and though Tenna knew to expect that it surprises him all the same. There’s just a… a draw to him, Tenna decides, an undeniable charisma in the backstage lighting that brings out the ways he knows just how to angle his face to catch the light, the red he’s painted friendly across his cheeks. Though that smile between it looks a whole lot more sinister, Tenna decides, without a display to soften it out. 

The Addison raises an eyebrow. “Flattery’s gonna get you far, [big guy], but I’d say that you’re on TV a whole lot more than me.”

“Of course I am! I’m the King of TV! Nobody’s on more than me!” 

The Addison’s grin only widens, a mimicry of starstruck. “And that’s why I’m your number 1 fan, no [terms and conditions] applied!”

Tenna doesn’t believe that. No, Tenna doesn’t believe that for a second. He’s watched enough biopics and broadcasted enough educational programming blocks to know the type. Everything coming out of this little mailman’s mouth is nothing but empty praise with no ratings to back it up. It’s like a house on the Nielsen ratings that doesn’t bother turning on the TV–a travesty, really. 

“Actually,” the Addison jokes, friendly as he runs a hand through slicked-back hair, “I should ask for an autograph. Might really bump up the [starting price] of a few of those gift shop [trinkets] your team gave me as a bonus.”

Despite being more than happy to autograph the gift shop merchandise, Tenna doesn’t exactly relish in reaching for his pen. This weird little Addison is in his space, in like a whirlwind and making himself right at home as he steers the conversation firmly out of Tenna’s control, even as he hands him one of Tenna’s own commemorative posters, emblazoned across the bottom with TV Time 1996.  

Still. He’s not going to be rude to a viewer. Even if he is just another Darkner in a long line of them. “And who’s my number 1 fan?”

“Spamton G. Spamton. Cyber City’s [best salesman] at your service,” he says with a faux little bow that sends old smoke wafting up from his suit jacket, “Here to be your [email guy] for a [limited-time only], so better act quick if you want to [seal the deal].”

Tenna pauses with his pen halfway to the poster. He is suddenly acutely aware of the fact that they’re alone; whatever manager let this guy in unaccompanied is going to be facing some consequences, come tomorrow. …“Seal the deal? What deal?”

Spamton grins like he’s about to sell Tenna his own life savings for the low, low price of 48 revolving payments of $19.99. “Whatever [little deal] your heart desires! The TV World’s wrackin’ up the ratings on primetime, but you’ve got whole untapped markets out there just ripe for the picking!” 

“Untapped markets?”

“Sure! You’re the biggest name in TV. Got a real [unmatched price] and [brand recognition] to that name of yours, you follow? So why not expand? Do the live tour! The marketing campaign! You could be a real [big shot] if you put in the legwork!” Spamton looks him over once, slowly, vulturous. “And [hoo boy] do you sure have the leg for it.”

Tenna makes the (probably wise) choice to ignore what he’s unsure is flirting or harassment and finishes autographing the poster, handing it back to Spamton with finality. Still, his voice leaves him more uncertain than he’d been aiming for when he asks, tentative, “You want to be my… producer?”

Spamton whistles through his teeth, all reeds and old smoke. “Now wouldn’t that be a [most valuable customer’s] honor! And here I was only going to propose I execute you an [all-options included] advertising package!” Spamton cackles to himself, as if he’s just said something funny. “But hey. I’m up for the challenge if that’s what your heart desires. Get your team in touch, huh?”

“I’ll be the one getting in touch with you,” Tenna replies, too caught up in the moment to realize the full implications of what he’s said. “What would I be if I couldn’t handle one little communication challenge?”

Spamton pulls his glasses down his nose, staring up at Tenna with eyes that seem so much darker without the rose and sunshine tint. “Hey, hey. I didn’t know it was the stars that got to call the shots around here, huh, [big guy]?”

“I make all the calls I want!” Tenna replies, crossing his arms defensively. He’s not sure why, but it feels as if he’s just been insulted. Looked down on, perhaps. Which is ridiculous, considering this guy is half his size, but. 

“Don’t gotta go through the [big shots], first?”

“I am the big shot,” Tenna snaps back, slightly more aggressive than playful, wondering how in the world he’s let this little no-name salesman, of all people, get the upper hand. “I say the word and this studio jumps to it! Not a second would make it to the airwaves without me!”

Spamton laughs at him. 

But it’s not the biting, snickering sort of laughter that Tenna had expected. It’s loud, and it’s certainly barking, but it’s not… harsh, oddly enough. When it eases out into a series of chuckles, shaking his shoulders with gentle shifts of his jacket, it almost sounds… Tenna’s not sure he trusts his tuner. 

The idea of approval from a man like this is absurd, and Tenna’s not certain he’d want it even if he wasn’t hallucinating it.

“Now that’s what I like to hear, [big guy]! That’s a real winner’s attitude.”  

Spamton dares to saunter closer, reaching into his breast pocket and procuring what appears to be a lighter with a polished snap of his wrist. Tenna, meanwhile, is about to snap at his audacity– the dressing rooms are strictly non-smoking, these days– but just as quickly Spamton’s shuffled it off into his other hand and straight into his pocket, a trick like sleight of hand. 

With all a showman’s bravado he sets his business card atop the briefcase, standing tall in Cyber City neon between the seam in the silver. 

“So whaddaya say? You and me… I think there’s a real promising [future] there, don’t you?”

Tenna doesn’t respond. How could he? There are no words of refutation strong enough. Tenna’s been the star of the show for decades, the centerpiece of every family gathering and Sunday morning spectacular. There’s no need to change things. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Isn’t that what they always say? 

“Just say the word and I’ll show you the future,” Spamton promises, “No more of that same-old, same-old! I’ll show you a show that no [man, woman, child, or otherwise] can keep their eyes off of!”

He smiles the sort of smile that men too adept at making promises do, the sort where you’re forced by sheer measure of experience to believe them and their too-good-to-be-true little nothings. For that matter, Tenna doesn’t think he’s stopped smiling once since he set foot in the room. It’s disconcerting. 

Or at least… It should be. 

“Can you really do that?”

It’s the wrong thing to ask. He should be asking this shifty little salesman what’s in it for him, what cut of the profit he wants, at what point he’s going to run off with his side of the deal and never spare Tenna and the TV World another glance.     

But rather than strike while the iron is hot, Spamton just smiles with a white flash of teeth, sidling back with the unmistakable gleam of victory behind those round lenses.

“Send me the deal,” Spamton says, waving his hand over his shoulder as he vanishes out the door, silhouetted by the familiar shadows of the backstage halls, “I’ll look it over at my [highly-priced] leisure. I’m sure we can come to a [mutually beneficial] agreement.”   

And then he’s gone, laughing as the door creaks shut without so much as a backwards glance. 

I think I hate him, Tenna decides, though it is a fledgeling and petulant emotion at best, and a resolution that Tenna can’t fool even himself into thinking he might keep. He’s annoyed by this Addison’s guts at worst. Mildly intrigued at best. What Spamton G. Spamton chooses to do with the rest of his life is none of Tenna’s concern, will continue to be none of Tenna’s concern, and when he flops hard into his chair, giving into the fit of dramatics, he resolves to never spend another thought on the uppity little salesman again. 

 

…It’s just that he’s never seen someone else so suited to the screen, is all. Regardless of his attitude off-set, there’s no denying what Tenna saw, and what Tenna saw, loathe as he is to admit it, was it.  

He could be a star, Tenna finds himself thinking, annoyed that he can’t stop himself and even more annoyed that he knows it’s true. Not as big as me, of course. But the star of the shopping network, maybe. The model pulling the curtain open on dream vacations and luxury cars. …Not that he’d do it any better than I do. 

Tenna stands abruptly, paces the length of his dressing room. Turns heel, does it again. Crosses his arms, uncrosses his arms, turns heel, walks past the mirror half a dozen times, then flops back down in his chair with an admittedly unbecoming huff. 

He can’t. He really shouldn’t. New is good, yes–new programs, new prizes, new twists on a holiday classic–Tenna wants to be on the cutting-edge of new television, make no mistake. But like this… With so many unknowns…  

 

(But, really, Tenna thinks, the memory of that Addison’s eyes glimmering up at him in promise, what’s the worst that could happen from just a little talk? ) 

 

Tenna grumbles to himself as he plucks up the business card, flipping the tiny thing carefully between his fingers and squinting down at the fine print beneath the name written bold across the center of the card. But where Tenna was hoping to see a phone number, or even better, a fax–

Tenna drops the business card atop the briefcase, elbows thunking onto the dressing table and head falling heavy into his hands. “What the hell,” he says, resisting the urge to tug at his antennae in frustration, “is an ‘email’, anyway?”

Chapter 2

Summary:

In which a big shot with a too-big ego does what he does best--strikes a deal.

Spamton knows, of course, that Mister Ant Tenna has no goddamn clue what an email is, which is why he’s nothing short of shocked when not twenty-four whole hours later does an email pop into his inbox with a domain clearly marking its origin as .tv. 

Now, Spamton does not drop everything he’s doing to open it, but if he sends off the next bit of unsolicited soliciting a bit faster and with a bit less spell-checking than he’d intended, well. No one has to know but him and the potential client he really doesn’t care about, anyway. 

For your consideration, reads the body of the email followed by what can only be a scanned attachment of a handwritten letter, a concept so ridiculous that all Spamton can do is laugh. 

“Cute,” he mutters to himself, meaning antiquated junk. In thirty years no kid’s gonna know how to read cursive anymore. Spamton himself probably wouldn’t have bothered learning it were it not for all the [hot deals] he’s been pulling, signing, and producing to [riches beyond your wildest dreams]. 

Still, Spamton squints through his glasses and parses out the showy curls, line by painstaking line–

 

Dear Mister Spamton G. Spamton,

 

What a crossover special of a first meeting, am I right? 

Cyber City’s top-rated salesman and the star of the screen? We haven’t seen excitement like that here in TV World since the first big Dreemur-Holiday Pre-Christmas Spectacular! You should have mentioned how much of a big shot you are that side of the screen. I could have gotten you the all-access VIP pass!

Now, I’ve had a chance to think about that offer of yours and I’d love to talk about it more with you. 

I can see a VERY successful partnership in our future, so let’s have a meeting at your earliest convenience and discuss what we can do for each other. That VIP pass will be waiting!

 

Sincerely,

(Ant) Tenna

 

Cute, thinks Spamton again, and a whole lot of words to say a whole lot of nothing. The CRT’s clearly done his research, which is both convenient and troublesome in turn. Still, he’s gotten what he wanted, so he leans back in his [premium] leather rolling chair, linking his hands behind his head and tapping his foot against the wheels. 

But no matter how long he waits–

Silence. 

Spamton eyes the phone, sitting in its place of honor on a marble pedestal in the center of the room, electric chandelier raining down on it a spotlight. It’s a funny little thing, that phone. A damn [trash heap] worthy piece of junk itself, rotary dial a memory of an era long gone and only looking all the older compared to the mobile in Spamton’s pocket, no bigger than the size of the receiver on the old landline. It’s strikingly out of place in the sleek, modern architecture of the Queen’s Mansion, too old and plain to fit the pleasingly gaudy awards and luxuries scattered around the rest of Spamton’s room. 

But in this singular case, age has yet to make a [piece of junk] obsolete. The phone rings often and with preternatural timing; Spamton can only hope to count the number of times it’s saved him from a deal about to go sour, turned him towards neon-shiny piles of cash just waiting to be repossessed. 

Yet on this, strangely enough, it remains silent. Cat got your tongue? Spamton thinks, peering at the wires just to make sure Tasque Manager hasn’t come in here with her damn vacuum again and started mucking the place up–but the first time it had rung, it hadn’t been plugged in anyway. The little miracle on the other side isn’t bound by the same rules as the rest of them, and so long as Spamton remains in its [priceless] graces, he’s not going to bother questioning a good thing. 

“No call means I’m makin’ a good call,” Spamton mutters to himself, forcing a break in his schedule for a little trip back to the TV world to play mailman again. It’s not exactly glamor, but it’ll do. The road to glory ain’t always pretty, and Spamton has no qualms about playing dirty for a while if it’s all in service of something greater. “Alright. Time to print some emails, huh?”

 

 

---

 

 

Disgusting as a [malware-ridden] little [fleabag], Spamton thinks, leaning against the Mansion’s resident printer with the attitude of a man who truly would rather be anywhere else, how much fan mail that [trash heap] gets. What does he even do? Talk at a camera all day? Make other people [pay] to [play] while he pulls in all the [profit]?

Spamton pauses. Sounds like a real [sweet gig], huh?  

Well. That’s why he wants to get on TV in the first place, isn’t it. 

Not so different after all. Spamton cackles to himself with dark satisfaction. A passing Swatchling, more than used to this by now, simply ignores him and goes on with their day. They don’t even go red anymore in the presence of a star like him. A shame, really. Once Spamton’s finished with his TV World takeover, he’ll have to strike that sense of awe back into them. Can’t have them acting like they’re blind to the [deal of a lifetime] once I’m a star. 

Which, speaking of–Spamton smacks the side of the printer as it starts to protest the amount of pages he’s asking it to print, claiming “low ink” and “paper jam in tray 3”. At the end of the day it’s just a lazy [scrap metal] piece of junk. Falling for its deceptions is the quickest way to find yourself treating it to an [all-expenses out of pocket] repair job that the damn thing doesn’t even need. 

And they call me a con, Spamton thinks, glaring the overgrown printer into submission until, obediently, it begins spitting out pages of emails again. 

And what a repulsive pile of them there is, truly. Fans. A hive-minded heap of sheep worse than consumers running blind. At least when you pay for a product you end up with something to show for it.  What’s the point in swarming around some hot shot with stars in your eyes and wallets open to the dust bunnies unless you are, of course, the [big shot]? 

Spamton sneers. 

Fans.

…They might be the only thing Spamton doesn’t have, really. 

Admirers? Sure, Spamton’s got those in spades. Haters? Haters, well… He’s got those in a freakish [rainbow assortment pack], or something of the sort. But fans… 

Fans.

That’s how you know you’ve made it [big], isn’t it? When you’ve got the adoring audience out there, hanging on your every word… When the suckers aren’t there for the brand or cheering their hearts out for the [bargains] but there for the man in the spotlight, the guy who commands center stage. 

Spamton taps his fingers on the top of the printer, which it appears to take as a sign of impatience, if the way it starts spitting out pages at unprecedented speeds is any indication. A bite of his lip, a lick to smooth it over, hunger and curiosity both as large as his ambition. Got the [stacks], got the [celebrity status], now…

Spamton sticks his hand out and plucks one of the fan letters hot from the press, turns it over with skeptical eye. 

“I love your show, Mr. Tenna! I wanna be on it when I grow up!”

Spamton scoffs. As if that outdated lump of junk is going to have a show in a decade. By then, all he’ll have to his name is a pile of reruns for daytime TV and maybe a junkyard named after him, if he’s lucky. Next.

“Loved the latest physical challenge, darling. You’re a star! Next time, why not show off that–”

Spamton eyes that one warily. He’d rather not know. Next.

He plucks up a third, cursing the fact these things aren’t even good enough to kill off a bit of boredom and resigning himself to the fact he’s going to have to hire someone to read and respond to these damn things–

Not possible. Spamton scans eyes over the email once, then twice, then three times just for good measure. Makes no sense.

But he can see what he can see with his own eyes, can touch it real as day.  

Spamton pockets the email surreptitiously, then shoves the (truly atrocious) rest of the stack haphazard in another briefcase, snapping it closed with some uneasy mix of irritation and drive. Alright, Spamton thinks, smacking the printer on its side one last time for good measure before leaving it firmly in the dust, Alright, alright, alright. Now that’s what I call some [unexpected benefits].

---

Spamton supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when it’s yet again Mister Ant Tenna’s dressing room that he’s directed to upon arriving in TV World. It’s not exactly the sort of place that lends itself to bargaining in backrooms or friendly deals made over drinks at midnight bars. As far as Spamton can tell, the entire place is either a set or a glorified dressing room. Not many other places to sign a deal that aren’t right in the middle of the action. 

Tenna’s dressing chair is still where it was, set dead-center before the mirror, but a beat-up old table and a metal folding chair have joined it, spruced up with two glasses of sweating water perched atop CRT-shaped coasters from the gift shop. It’s not impressive, Spamton thinks, but at least they haven’t completely forgotten their hospitality. 

“Spamton G. Spamton!” Tenna says, standing at the sight of him, and it nearly takes him aback how happy the guy sounds to see him. With hands spread wide in welcome like that, you might mistake him for somebody greeting an old friend. “Sorry about the chair,” he continues, sounding genuinely apologetic, “We don’t have too many of those around here. Most of our challenges are played upright.”

“I’ve had worse,” Spamton replies, both the truest thing he’s ever said and just a smooth bit of business. He hops up into it, splaying back even as the cold metal pokes awkward between his shoulder blades, clearly not sized right for his… stature. 

Still, Spamton refuses to let it bother him. If he did, he’d never have made it out alive from half the closed-door negotiations he has, let alone emerged the winner. He makes a show of making himself comfortable, waves a hand for Tenna to sit back down as well. It doesn’t do much to negate their height difference, but again. Who would Spamton be if he was intimidated by a little thing like that? 

“So? What’s the [terms] you wanna play by, [big guy]?”

Tenna starts. His antennae are always pretty… perky, but he swears they just about shoot up to the ceiling. “Y-You didn’t bring your own?”

Spamton waves a dismissive hand at him. “What do you take me for, a [two-a-penny] hack? Of course I brought my own. But I want to hear yours, first.”

“O-Oh. Well then.” 

Tenna clears his throat and tugs at his tie, clearly going through the mental pep talk again.  

It’s funny, Spamton thinks. He’s seen Mister Ant Tenna on TV before; who hasn’t? Cyber City produces its own fair share of entertainment and no shortage of advertising, but a real program is harder to come by. Those they’ve gotta import, and where better to pull from than the source itself?

Cooking shows, breaking news, movie marathon host–any role is easy enough to play, though it’s clear from looking at him that his little game shows own his heart. Spamton’s seen a few of ‘em, the background to a dozen bar trips and sleepless midnights. He’s so confident on the air that it can be hard to believe he’s real. Off the sets and studio lighting,, though… Spamton lets out a breath like blowing smoke through his fingers and allows himself a moment of preemptive celebration. Without a script, the guy’s an amateur. 

“Forget your lines, [big guy]?”

Tenna, much to Spamton’s amusement, flushes a hint of pink. His antennae… crinkle, and though Spamton doesn’t know the guy well enough to say if it’s in embarrassment or annoyance, it doesn’t change the fact he’s easier to read than a chunk of source code. How’s nobody come along to scam this guy before? You could have the [numbers on the back of his credit card] in an hour flat. Spamton pauses. Nah, too generous. Give me ten minutes and an open bar and I’ll have his [life savings] in my [digital wallet].

He only just resists cracking a victorious grin at the thought. Not yet, too early. Gotta make him think that Spamton’s playing by his rules, not the other way around. 

“You know about the future,” Tenna rushes to open, splaying his hands open in a show of goodwill. 

“The [one and only],” Spamton returns, taking it as an opportunity to talk. “If you want to feel the [sweet breeze] in your hair on the road to success, there’s nobody better to put you on it than me.” Spamton leans forwards, dropping his voice with a winning smile, like they’re about to share a secret–”And believe me. Do I want to put you on it.”

Tenna opens his mouth, probably to protest, but Spamton cuts him off before he gets the chance to put voice to thought. “Now, now. I know what you’re thinking, pal. You’re already successful! Biggest name in TV! Trust me, nobody’s tryin’ to challenge that.”

Not yet, anyway, Spamton thinks, knowing none of it will show in his eyes behind today’s pair of glasses, vintage aviators that seem just this CRT’s style. Suddenly he starts craving a cigarette; he plucks one from his pocket slow and deliberate, waiting to be denied. But though Tenna tracks the movement of his hands, the flip of his lighter, he does nothing to stop Spamton from filling the air with warm, acrid smoke. Making a concession so early? Bad move, [big guy]. 

“Look,” Spamton continues, waving the cigarette for emphasis, “You’ve got a formula. It’s done you real good! I mean, look at this place!” He motions towards the rest of the dressing room, draped out in posters and red carpet and a thousand other little meaningless accolades besides, “You’ve got a good thing going! Just the kind of thing I like to see. I just think you should be striving for [better].”

“How so?”

Spamton huffs out a laugh, nothing more than a heave of his shoulders. “Hey, hey. That’s not the kind of [selfless advice] I give out for free, y’know.”

He expects Tenna to stumble, to be greeted with that same, flustered greenhorn, but he manages to catch the adlib with grace, rattling out his line smooth and practiced. “You’ve got a great eye. A fresh perspective’s exactly what we need around here!” 

Flattery? Spamton hadn’t thought him capable of it. Then again, he himself was probably the one to put the idea in that empty little head. 

Tenna continues, gaining confidence now, “I want you to come in and give things a fresh new look. Bring in a new audience! Keep the old one laughing their socks off!”

“Give the [good ol' days] a [fresh coat of paint]?”

“That’s exactly the plan!” Tenna looks downright delighted that Spamton’s on board; with every word he leans further forward, as if he’s about to leap over the table and take Spamton’s hand right then and there. He’s got a vision, clearly, and apparently he’s decided this [little partnership] might be to his benefit. 

But. 

“Now look, pal. Consulting’s all [spick and span],” Spamton says, holding his hands up to his eye, framing his face and Tenna in the rectangle of his sights, “but I’m a whole lot more than just another [nobody] behind a screen. If we’re gonna strike a deal, why not [maximize profits]? I can sell anything you could dream of faster than [hotcakes] at a Sunday morning church buffet.” 

“I know,” Tenna says, though he can’t possibly. Star or not, Darkners can’t exactly go hop-skip-jumping over to the neighboring town so easy. Unless you’re one Spamton G. Spamton, of course, who’s got all the secrets of a distant future in his back pocket. “You’re a top-rated salesman over in Cyber City, aren’t you? I want to give you a show–” Finally, Spamton thinks “–on the shopping network.”

Spamton huffs out a heavy breath. Well. Sometimes you’ve gotta [get that foot in the door] before you blow it wide open.

“What’s the [hot goods]?” 

“I was thinking… cars?”

A question, not a demand. Tenna tilts his head ever-so-slightly, and Spamton can’t help but see him as some kind of overgrown puppy, eager to please and all but falling over himself for praise. This is where you’re supposed to be telling, not asking, [big guy]. I’ll be [running the town] by the end of the year. Satisfaction at the certainty is enough to let his momentary disappointment blow over. Though…

“Wait. Yours the kind with the wheels, or the feet?”

Tenna’s face goes comically flat, which is funny, considering the only thing stickin’ out of it’s his nose. “...Feet?”

Well that answers that.

Spamton waves his hand dismissively. “Forget it, forget it. Feet, wheels, who cares what it’s got so long as it gets you where you’re goin’, right?”

“Uh, right,” Tenna agrees, though it’s clear he’s still stuck on the mental image of cars with feet. “Is this a deal?”

“Sure, I like those terms,” Spamton says, offhanded and easy, drawing a line of smoke through the air.  

“Y-You do?” It’s cute, how the damn CRT almost stumbles over himself in surprise. He couldn’t close a [hard deal] to save his life. Spamton has to wonder how he’s kept this studio running at all. “O-Of course you do! Aren’t they great? A whole show, all to yourself! Who wouldn’t kill for that?!” 

Spamton might’ve laughed at him, would it not be taken exactly the way Spamton means it. “Sure, sure. The TV market’s some [hot competition] for us. Never hurts to get ahead while the [getting] is good.”

It’s not exactly an upgrade for the most-requested man to sell Cyber City’s finest luxuries. Sure, a regular bit is nice, some extra steady income in a volatile market, but Spamton’s got far more foolproof methods than the slow ‘n easy. Not that Tenna needs to know that. 

“Then-”

“Just one little thing,” Spamton says, leaning forward and waiting for the flicker of distrust he knows is about to come. And, right on cue, a gentle burst of static runs across his monitor, shoulders tightening as he braces himself to hear Spamton’s unreasonable demands, unhinged requests, [fine-print] additions to a contract you kick yourself for not bothering to read–“I want a personal phone line. I’ll bring it in, just give me a nice spot for it away from the noise, huh?”

Spamton can almost see the screen buffering, a freeze frame into static motion, colors bleeding sickly into the next as the airwaves struggle to keep up with the broadcast. It’s not what he’d expected; of course it’s not. 

The dishonest salesman takes this opportunity to push his agenda, to [budget-brand bully] his way into terms that the other party won’t find themselves favorable to, squirming like a rat in the trap. 

But Spamton is in this for the long con, and a bit of low-stakes honesty gets you a whole lot further than just [in the door]. By the time this deal has run its course, Spamton isn’t just going to pull the rug out from under this guy–he’s going to run off with his whole damn set.

Tenna glances around the room, gaze settling on something in the corner. “That’s your only request?”

“For now,” Spamton replies, stubbing out one of his cigarettes on the coasters for lack of better place to do it, “And an ashtray around here somewhere. Where do your guys take smoke breaks, huh?” 

“We can do that. We can do all of that. I’ll have them write up a contract,” Tenna says, ignoring Spamton’s question, too concerned with looking rather pleased with himself. For that matter, Spamton swears that his screen’s about to start glowing.  

Does he play sob stories when he’s feeling down and out? Spamton searches him for any sign of buttons, a dial. If he’s got ‘em, though, they’re well and hidden beneath that bright red suit of his, battered and out of date. What’s he been wearing that since, the seventies? That’ll be the first thing to go once I’m in charge, Spamton decides, But the [side show] distractions can wait for the circus.

“Hey, hey, what’s the need for all that [formal mumbo-jumbo]? Let’s [seal this deal] like [real men], huh?”

Spamton sticks out his hand with bravado, a roguish grin to match. He knows exactly what sort of picture he paints. He’d practiced it in the mirror a thousand times before that fateful phone call had chosen him, knowing that his time to use it would one day come. 

Tenna fiddles with his thumbs, and even though he does it behind his back, Spamton can see it loud and clear in the mirror. Can’t hide anything when you’re that big, buddy.

“That’s… legal?”

“Legally binding as a [sign on the dotted line], a [stamp registered at city hall] or a [$4.99 discount wedding ring].” Spamton pauses. “Well, maybe not that last one.”

He laughs, though Tenna doesn’t join in. Divorce humor not his style, apparently. 

But that isn’t the problem here. The problem is, Spamton’s hand is still upsettingly empty on a deal that should’ve been closed three minutes ago and if this damn CRT starts having doubts on him now, Spamton’s going to have to start getting heavy-handed. “What, gonna leave a guy hangin’? Deals like this only come around [once in a lifetime], so better–”

“Deal,” Tenna says, taking his hand too-quick, too-firm. 

Damn puppy, Spamton thinks, doing his best to bite down his grimace. Professional until you leave the scene; that’s the big shot way. He squeezes Tenna’s hand back, and at least then the stupid CRT seems to get the message. 

“I’m looking forward to this,” Spamton says, a meaningless pleasantry he’s surprised to find isn’t so meaningless now that his hand’s no longer being crushed. The guy’s… not a genius, all things given. Kind of just another sucker, really. But he’s amusing enough that at the very least Spamton doesn’t see himself getting bored pulling the guy’s strings, and TV is TV, even if it’s low-brow [B movie] slop. 

“It’s going to be the start of something great,” Tenna says, dropping Spamton’s hand carefully, as if abashed by his own strength. “A blockbuster new opportunity!”

Spamton grins at him, all teeth. “You said it.”

They linger just a moment as Spamton runs them through the formalities–the my guys will call your guys and we’ll iron out the fine details at our next meeting– before he waves himself away with a smile, good feelings all around. 

Seven, eight, nine, ten steps to the doorway deliberate and measured. He even puts his hand on the knob, selling the illusion of departure, then–

“Oh, and pal?” Spamton stops, turning slow in his tracks and pulling out a branded notepad–in this day and age, how outdated –and pen, clicking it loud in the silence and taking his sweet time to scribble down his message. If it’s not legible, then there’s no point. He returns to the table with an easy stride, slips around it smooth and coordinated, looks up at Tenna in a charged moment of silence, broken only by the hum of the mirror bulbs, a soft and pleasant drone. 

Spamton’s not one for the silence (unless you’re selling [noise-cancelling headphones]) because it’s all just dead air where some good pitches can fit, but this is the kind he finds himself partial to, the sort where it feels as if anything could happen, two men teetering on the edge of a future that just might change lives. 

Tenna’s hands are in his lap, clenched atop his knees in nervous anticipation, and Spamton reaches out towards his left, slips the scrap of paper into it easy. He holds tight despite the way Tenna starts, takes great care to let his hands linger firm atop Tenna’s as he pats it once, twice. “Call me next time.”

Spamton steps back as Tenna flounders, unused to the Cyber City brand of [customer service], and makes his way leisurely back to the exit, glancing just a moment at the telephone jack in the corner of the room. He grins satisfied to himself, an expression meant for no one but the back of the door as it shares in his conspiracy. 

Tenna says something, but Spamton doesn’t bother listening as the door swings shut behind him. His only concern now is schooling his expression back to suave and otherwise unreadable. With what feels like the world under his wings, he weaves his way out of the TV World, uncaring of his flustered escort chasing along after him. Oh, he thinks, resisting the urge to hum along to a victory tune, this [scrap heap]’s not gonna know what hit him.

Notes:

yeah you're gonna have to give him a minute. okay maybe several minutes. [[feelings]] aren't quite on the menu yet

 

anyway this fic is going to update on Thursdays for pretty much all the world (unless you're more than GMT+9 in which case I cannot guarantee it, sorry) but not necessarily /every/ Thursday because I'm about to move halfway across the country and change jobs, etc, etc. that said I want to try and stay as consistent as possible because spamtenna are literally keeping me functional rn LOL so!! I will do my best

Chapter 3

Summary:

Okay, so maybe it turns out that partnering with the shady salesman promising miracle turnarounds without a concrete roadmap to success maybe wasn't the world's greatest idea. (Un)fortunately for Tenna, getting rid of the little pest is going to be easier said than done.

Striking a partnership, as it turns out, for the most part just means business as usual. The shows still air and the credits roll unchanged. Scripts are written and memorized, games hosted and wrapped, points distributed with far more freedom than grand prizes. All business as usual for an industry that never sleeps.  

Meanwhile, Spamton brings him his emails (whatever those are), drops by the studio to film guest appearances while his own personal show is still in development, and sits in on meetings with people that aren’t Tenna to learn the ropes, the how-to and must-knows in the make-or-break that is TV. 

Which is all very… normal. Impersonal. As it should be. They’re nothing but business partners, for however long it might mutually benefit them. And all the better for it, really. Tenna is fairly sure he hates the man’s guts. 

 

(Call me, next time.) 

 

That’s what he’d said. 

Word for word, in fact. Tenna hasn’t forgotten. Can’t forget, really. The way he’d said those four little words is burned into his memory like an afterimage onto his screen, which is embarrassing enough a comparison that all Tenna can do is try and banish all thoughts of that evening entirely. 

But he wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t mean it, surely, wouldn’t have hand-written his number and passed it to Tenna with such… care if he didn’t want Tenna to call him.

For strictly business purposes, of course. 

Updates. Progress reports. Breaking news flashes. That sort of thing. TV’s ever-moving, ever-producing, never stops marching forward. There’s plenty of things to keep in contact about, and though Spamton’s still on what he’s dubbed his “observational period” (Gotta see how the [moving parts] click together before I start making [big] changes, got it?) surely he must have suggestions. Ones that Tenna would love to hear and potentially even implement, if there’s the time and the means and they seem like the sort that might really bring that spark to the set–

Except Spamton G. Spamton, as Tenna is quick to learn, is always. on. the. gosh. darn. telephone.

Tenna can’t be casually sauntering through the halls of the shopping channel sets without hearing his voice–not shooting product reels, oh no, not even filming screen tests or personal nonsense. No, no.

Spamton G. Spamton, big shot that he is, has to be jabbering away on the phone twenty-four seven closing this deal or that, updating some “business partner” in what seems to be a sea of them. It’s like the TV deal he’s just struck with Tenna means nothing to him, the way he strides about treating the sets as his own personal office and the shooting schedule as more of a suggestion than the ironclad rule it is. 

Call him? 

How in the world can Tenna do that when every time he tries, all he’s greeted with is a dial tone? At least get voicemail, Tenna complains to himself, tapping his knuckles together before his dressing room mirror. Who doesn’t have voicemail! In this day and age! And Spamton thinks Tenna is outdated. 

It’s laughable. 

And the worst part is that this goes on for weeks.

Weeks that Tenna can’t catch him–let alone a moment alone with him–as he weaves in and out of the TV World with a frequency that sets Tenna’s head spinning like someone’s slapped a magnet to his temples. One moment he’s there, the next he’s not. It’s like a magic act of the worst variety, the sort that gets you chased off the talent show stage and jeered by the studio audience as the host gives an aside to the camera– what was with that guy, anyway?

Tenna might consider just firing him on the spot, ending it here and washing his hands of the whole affair before it has the chance to spiral any further, clean and easy. Were it not, of course, for the fact that every time he wanders over to the cutting room floor, thinking he’ll review the day’s shows to get his mind off the problem at hand, someone or other always seems to be running through Spamton’s latest film tests and commercials, product segways that will soft launch his new feature on the network. Because all of it—every last clip, line read, gesture, catchy little tune–

It’s brilliant. 

He doesn’t just do the dry read, like so many of the others that have preceded him. He’s grandiose and bold, every word falling from him like he’s fully convinced of their authenticity, just as awed by it as the audience themselves. Glaring design flaws become an endearing quirk of a (in his words) [uniquely-shaped object], what looks cheap and chintzy becomes a [homely] and [perfect] present for all aunts, uncles, and homemakers besides. He could sell lead painted gold with that silver tongue of his, have you lining up for hours for the chance at bidding on a broken vase he's pitched as a one-of-a-kind antique.

And yet strangely enough, Tenna can never quite bring himself to accuse him of grandstanding. 

He says things as they are and nothing more; lying on the air can get them in legal trouble, and this is clearly anything but Spamton’s first rodeo. It’s just something about the way he turns his words, Tenna decides, making you want things that you never knew you needed. Like a little spell, should you care to listen hard enough, read close between the lines. He’s a man that knows a secret, and if you buy his $9.99 limited edition hot pink computer mouse (though surely that’s not the way you hold it…?), then surely you, too, will learn just what it is that makes him such a big shot. 

It’s such a strange, delicate balance, and Tenna, though he doesn’t dare admit it, doesn’t think he could accomplish it. His shows are all about making things bigger, better, larger than life. Such an… attainable fantasy might not be his to sell.

“How does he do that?” he asks one of the Pippins who happens to be cutting film that day, “Who writes that for him?”

The Pippins, not used to being addressed, just about topples out of the chair entirely, reels of film clattering to the floor and rattling there noisily until a nearby Shadowguy swoops in to scoop them up and return them back to their proper place. 

“H-He does. Uh. Mister? Tenna?”

“He does?”

The Pippins nods. “We show him the product and the script, then he, uh… He takes what he likes and rewrites the rest. Adds to it, subtracts from it. The whole deal.”

He’s already towering over the Pippins, but it hardly matters. Tenna leans forwards, intrigued. “The whole deal? How?”

The Pippins makes the face of someone who’s trying desperately hard not to make a face. “I don’t know. Sometimes he has it on the spot? Sometimes he takes it home.” The Pippins pauses, then smacks hand to palm, a flash of inspiration striking. “Oh! Hey, and sometimes he gets on the phone mid-shoot and comes back with some gold! Bet he’s got some kinda brain in the back.”

A ghostwriter? Tenna supposes that makes sense. How often do the cinema stars ever write their own scripts? Surely a commercial can’t be any different when push comes to shove. If that’s his secret to success, then… That could be exactly what I’ve been looking for.

“Good work. Keep an eye on him for me,” Tenna says, turning heel on the shocked Pippins and lacing hands behind his back as he makes his exit. A faint “Uh, yes? Sir?” follows him out into the hall, but Tenna pays it no mind, too caught up in his brewing scheme. If Spamton G Spamton is going to prove himself a less than cooperative business partner, then why not cut out the middle man? 

Spamton continues to elude him, but Tenna doesn’t bother trying to chase him down. Instead, he eyes the rotary phone that’s taken up residence in the corner of his dressing room, inconspicuous and yet so obviously out of place that it might as well have a neon sign pointing straight at it declaring I don’t belong! . He tries picking it up a few times, casually, dialing a number or two, but the call never connects. All it ever gives is garbage noise, stringent enough that Tenna drops the handset back down on the switch without bothering to hear it through. For all intents and purposes, the rotary phone seems like nothing more than a broken piece of junk. 

But Spamton, it seems, can use it well enough. When the phone rings he goes running, any currently rolling shots be damned. Inbound calls only? Tenna wonders, watching one such incident from afar on his way to the main set. 

Eavesdropping–or rather, having employees eavesdrop for him–seems like an easy solution, but such efforts quickly prove futile. The phone–The Phone, not the little mobile brick Spamton carries around in his pocket–never seems to ring while an escort’s around, and Spamton speaks into it at such a whisper that all reports from ears on the door come back with shrugs and the same two words: un-in-telligible, boss.

Back at square one, Tenna attempts to corner him on set, only to get dragged into a review of some jingle Spamton wants approved for a sponsorship segway–even though he shouldn’t even be doing those, who’s letting him do those?!–as Spamton slinks away into the shadows and back to whatever little burrow he calls home.  And, just to add insult to injury, Tenna catches himself humming that rejected little jingle half a dozen times before driving it out of his head forever with one of his own themes, humming it so loud to himself that it starts drawing strange looks from everyone who happens to pass him in the halls.  

It’s ridiculous. Ridiculous!  

He has bigger and better things to focus on than what some little charismatic mailman happens to be doing for ads that are nothing more than glorified snack breaks and bathroom races. He’s got a show to host, and a packed schedule, at that. 

No more, Tenna thinks, resolving to fire Spamton on the spot the next time he sees him, if only to regain some semblance of peace, back to real business.

Tenna puts on a smile and runs the usual show, getting Mike to cue the boards and poking fun in perfect time as contestants fail quiz after quiz, saving what would have been ruined shots all around. If they get a full episode out of half the disasters that are crossing his stage, it’ll be a Christmas miracle come months too early. 

Who was the casting director for this episode? Tenna thinks, cross beneath an unwavering grin, We might have a penalty game on our hands. 

Still, they push through the rest of the day’s filming because that’s showbiz, folks–there’s no other choice but to carry on. Luckily, the afternoon and evening’s contestants are significantly more capable than the morning’s, leaving Tenna in a far better mood and with marginally less desire to fire the casting director than he had only a few hours ago. He walks off set in a downright jovial mood for that matter, humming a jaunty little tune to himself and–

Tenna stops dead in his tracks and yanks hard at his antennae, causing a Zapper to tumble over itself trying to avoid crashing into him. It’s that jingle again! That stupid, catchy little…

Tenna straightens up with a huff. Enough is enough. He won’t let another week go by; no little consultant is going to have his own show filmed on Tenna’s set without upholding his end of the deal. In the cartoons, the cat never catches the mouse for long–but he does get him in the cage, even if just for a moment. 

And a moment, Tenna thinks, is more than enough time to sort out some technical difficulties.

---

 

 

Tenna’s chance to slam the cage door shut comes when he catches Spamton lounging in the green room, sprawled out over the rightmost couch and watching idly from one eye as Elnina and Lanino play racing games across the aisle. They’re playing in a team against the CPU, as they always do, and winning spectacularly, as they also always do. It is not, Tenna reflects, a particularly difficult game. 

Spamton must think the same, because for once he doesn’t seem to be particularly engaged with anything. Not talking, not walking, not composing “emails” to himself (again, whatever those are). He’s just…lounging, pretending he's not spectating the game. Whatever doppler radar he’s had for Tenna these past few weeks, it seems to have abandoned him now, for he doesn’t react as Tenna watches him from the doorframe leading to his dressing room, able to see him easy over the back of the couch. 

And what an odd sight it is. He’s tugged at his tie and let the knot fall loose, top button of his shirt undone, collar crumpled slightly from the long day on set. He’s even taken off that tailored black jacket, draping it over a lounge pillow with no particular care.

In truth, Tenna is a little surprised to catch him like this. It’s late, sure, half the lights off and the rest dimmed to their overnight settings (because the lights can never truly go down, not when there’s late night movie-marathons to be run and sneaky midnight gaming sessions to be had) but in all the days he’s come to work on set, Tenna has never seen him anything other than “on”. A consummate professional, even when the cameras cut.

Like this, feet up on the cushions and leaning back on an elbow, Tenna fancies that he’s just as fallible as any of them, overworked and tired and not intentionally skipping out on his end of the deal but simply preoccupied with what has to be a grand life change in an unfamiliar environment, however well he hides that stress otherwise. Tenna supposes he could talk to him, offer a word of advice, see if there’s not something that could help him redirect his attention into what he was hired for, since it’s been so hard to catch him on the– 

Wait. This is your chance, Tenna! Time to give that man a piece of your mind!

Tenna tunes into the radio waves and calls up those numbers that’ve seared themselves into his memory like a curse. One ring, two, echoing through the green room loud enough that Elnina and Lanino nearly drive straight off the track in surprise–but Tenna’s gaze isn’t on them. Instead, Tenna watches Spamton pluck the phone from his pocket, every move easy and devil-may-care. His confidence offstage drives Tenna mad, and just like that, the sympathetic illusion Tenna has been trying to build vanishes, lost in the dialtones. 

“Hey, buddy, pal. Is this my [esteemed business partner] calling? If it’s urgent, I’m still in the green roo–”

“I know,” Tenna interrupts, voice echoing in stereo, and Tenna relishes in the way Spamton’s eyes go wide behind his glasses (colorless, this time) as he shoots up into a proper sit and whips his head towards Tenna at the door. But his surprise lasts only a second. Spamton hangs up the phone with the hint of a coy smile turning up his lips. 

“What. If you wanted to hear my voice, all you had to do was ask,” he says, then ruins it with an obnoxious, too-loud laugh that has Elnina and Lanino eyeing him oddly from the other sofa. 

Tenna hates this man’s guts. He really does. 

“Do you know how many times I’ve tried to call you?”

Spamton shrugs, an easy roll of his shoulders. It might as well be none of his concern. “I get a lot of phone calls, [partner]. Can’t take all of them at once.”

Tenna might think that a reasonable statement were it phrased any other way. It’s his tone, Tenna decides, echoes of arguments not his own rattling through the back of his head like a tape stuck on rewind. 

Tenna jabs a finger at him accusingly. “We have a deal.” 

Spamton pockets his phone with one hand and waves dismissively with the other. “Hey, hey. I’m a busy man. Nobody ever said this [deal] was [exclusive].”

You signed a contract! Tenna wants to snap, except he didn’t sign a contract, did he? They put it all on a handshake and now Tenna’s got nothing in writing, just a deal made in an empty room with no witnesses but the shadows on the wall. 

He’s a fool. A downright idiot. 

But. 

“You can't pull one over on me! You said it yourself! Those terms are legal as a sign on the dotted line!” 

Spamton raises an eyebrow at him. “Jog my [memory]. What exactly did those things say? I don’t remember promising an [instant turnaround].”

Elnina and Lanino very wisely evacuate the area, sensing the oncoming storm. They’ve already won their game, anyway; they can find another way to kill time before the late-night weather bulletin. 

“Oh, I’ll jog your memory alright,” Tenna grumbles, ready to roll up his sleeves and brawl this little rat of a salesman in the middle of the green room if he has to. 

But instead of cowering in fear, recoiling at the reality of having angered TV World’s number one star, Spamton… laughs. Just laughs, as if the thought of Tenna bearing down on him is about as threatening as a basket full of bunny rabbits munching on flower stems. 

He’s absolutely fearless, Tenna realizes, unsure of what to do with that. Intimidation isn’t… He doesn’t want people to fear him, obviously, but when all else fails it’s been as useful a tool as any to start getting his way–the right way. 

Without that… Tenna falters. Mike, we might need a new challenge for this one.

On the other side of the couch, Spamton stands and fixes his collar lackadaisically, leaving his tie lopsided and undone. He slings his jacket over a shoulder, careless as it is smooth. It should all make him look rumpled and unprofessional, but much to Tenna’s frustration, it’s as natural on him as anything. He really was made to be a star, Tenna thinks, which only has him ready to start sparking at the plug. But he’ll be nothing if he doesn’t hold up his end of the bargain.

“Alright, alright. No need to get [handsy], partner.” Spamton looks up at him as he crosses the distance, but as always, it doesn’t seem as if he’s actually looking up in any way that matters. “Consider this a word of advice, huh? A [buy-one-get-one] gift from your newest pal.” He adds, just a mutter–”Can’t give you your [money back guarantee] that you’ll like it, but hey. That's [life], ain't it?”

Tenna moves to protest–certainly anything will be better than the nothing he’s been getting–but Spamton moves faster, words falling from him sharp as knives as clear as crystal. “Here’s the future you’ve gotta know. Cable? That’s just another fad. Give it another decade or two and it’ll be obsolete, I tell ya, obsolete!”

Impossible.  

“But that’s–”

“Oh, TV’s not going anywhere,” Spamton continues, waving down his protests, “but TV? The [boxes] and the [wires] and the [tangled cords behind the walls]? That’ll all be gone faster than you can read the [terms and conditions] on a [giveaway sweepstakes].”

He’s lying. He has to be, for why else would he be trying to jump into an industry he claims is on its deathbed? Tenna won’t be fooled, no, not for a split second.

But. 

“TV? Gone!?” Tenna’s voice comes out thicker with more static than intended. He tries to swallow it back down, but it’s as if he’s no longer in full control of himself, and the rest leaps from him before he can stop it–”What could possibly replace a TV? It’s a classic! A marvel of modern design! It's like the family dog! Every home’s gotta have one to be complete!”

Spamton raises an eyebrow at him. If he notices the babbling, he doesn’t bother to comment. “Ain’t it obvious?”

No, Tenna thinks, suddenly confronted with the horror of everything he doesn’t know, it isn’t! He says, mouth continuing to work without conscious input from his brain, “Do you know how long TV’s been the pinnacle of home entertainment? You can’t get yourself a system like this anywhere else! It’s not even just game shows, these days. We can even do video games!” 

Spamton sighs, a long, heavy breath. He pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, then looks back up at Tenna with a piercing gaze. “Look, pal. I saw your ratings this season.”

Tenna freezes. Who showed him that? Mike? No, Mike would never. Mike’s on my side. But the records are supposed to be kept ironclad safe, under lock and key like the one-of-a-kind VHS tapes from a childhood long gone. If Spamton saw them, then that means he knows that–

“I-It’s just a wobble!”

The chill glance Spamton sends him speaks volumes as to what he thinks of that. “Look, pal. I’m not tryin’ to [steer you wrong]. You just can’t expect this partnership to [sail] if you’re not willing to take a look at the [hard truths].” 

“I can look at the hard truths! That’s why I hired you!”

“Then you’ve gotta face the facts, [partner].” Spamton reaches up and smacks him on the elbow, gentler than Tenna had anticipated. “You’ve still got some [wave to ride], but some [nostalgic VHS tapes] aren’t going to carry you forever. Hell, do you even [come equipped] with a DVD player?”

“Wh-Who has a DVD player, anyway?!” Tenna splutters. Just because it’s the next big thing doesn’t mean it’s going to stick. That’s what they said about the record player! The Betamax! The Walkman! The… ah.

“TV’s not like the rest! Where else will people go to escape the daily humdrum! The rainy days! The arguments in the other room?!”

Spamton sighs again, the kind that men make when they’re faced with someone they think is beyond hope but don’t want to call delusion by its name. Tenna hates that look, hates the way it makes him feel– he’s not obsolete, anything but. He’s not closing his eyes to the world; the world is closing its eyes to him. 

“Look. Let’s carve out some time for a meeting, say, next week? The world’s changing, pal, and us Darkners have gotta keep up. I’ll teach you [every little trick] you’ll need to know to survive. The Internet, the emails, everything. Promise. I’m not trying to be difficult with you, [partner]. But you’ve gotta be patient. And you’ve gotta be willing to [think outside the box], huh?” 

He taps at his temple in a way that should be insulting yet feels more like a promise, an invitation. At the very least, the flicker of annoyance finally quiets the storm of static that’s been thundering through him since this entire conversion began.

“Look, [partner]. You don’t have to believe me. Hell, you don’t even have to believe [the facts]!” Spamton laughs at that, like the punchline to a joke that Tenna’s missing. It rankles at Tenna’s pride even more, but before he can so much as lift a finger to defend himself, Spamton’s back at his sales pitch, smooth and knowing and so incredibly efficient that Tenna can’t help but listen to him despite every instinct in him screaming not to lend an ear. “But what if I’m right, pal? You’ve got too good of a show going here to let the credits roll. You’re a star, and I can make you even [bigger]. Just be patient and give me a [shot], alright?” 

He pats Tenna’s elbow one final time–and then he’s gone, out the door without a backwards glance. The click of it might as well be an insult, spat at his face like someone trying to jab his Off button. 

Spamton wants him to be patient? Patient?!

Tenna’s been waiting for weeks on this “partnership” that hasn’t given him half a point’s worth of value in return only to find out that his supposed “partner” doesn’t care for the fine art of TV in the slightest. 

A ”fresh eye”?! Who wrote that line into the script, anyway? Tenna’s taking them out of the writers’ room and relegating them to mopping up the set floors after the losers get gloobed. 

He’s hired an amateur. Somebody who can’t even appreciate the medium that they’re appearing in. It’s like a movie star that shuns the camera lens, a final-round contestant not out for the prize, a little mailman that doesn’t even bother bringing him an “email”, most days.

Unthinkable, that’s what it is. Unthinkable!

A fad? TV, a fad?!

If anything, the world wide web’s the fad. It’s hardly been mainstream for half a decade! The Dreemurs only just put it in the house! Hell, Tenna hardly even knows what it is, except that anything and everything’s gotta have a “website” and a “dot com” and he’s getting real good these days at reading off his “www”s. 

Tenna paces around the green room in a frenzy, tugging at his antennae and letting the channels flip as they please. This is ridiculous. What was he thinking, letting this con of a salesman walk in and have his way with the place? Today it’s the shopping network, tomorrow it’s the entire studio! He needs to fix this, before–

I’ll teach you [every little trick] you’ll need to know to survive.

Stop. 

The silence hangs heavy over the green room, and though Tenna knows that the studio is not empty, that the film is still rolling, that just beyond those doors, Elnina and Lanino are presenting tomorrow’s weather to the late-night crowd—the rest of the world feels so terribly far away, the green room too-cold and too-dark as the light of the abandoned game spills out over the tile, victory theme playing hollow from tinny speakers. 

Tenna thinks of the pile of “emails” sitting on his dressing table, stacks of uniform typeface greeting him where once a fluttering array of penmanship had sat upon his shelves, the undivided attention of young and old, all the love and adoration a certified modern marvel could ever dream of. Tenna had made them smile. As he still does! Smile and laugh, and no argument seems quite so bad. Any little spat can be resolved with a good night of quality time, sat as a family before the living room TV.

 

(…Or at least, it used to be.)

 

Everything is changing. Everything is changing so fast and Tenna has no idea what to do about it. Reruns aren’t enough; Tenna knows that. Last season’s ratings might’ve dropped, but that was only because of that fancy new game system the Dreemurs brought home, and Tenna plays them as well as anything–better than anything, surely. It’s still time for him to shine, center stage for an even better sort of play-pretend that only he can deliver, that only he…

...Spamton had been so confident, telling Tenna about the future. 

And what makes Tenna so angry is that he’s right, even if he turns out to be nothing but another liar in a whole pack of them. There’s no more time to waste pretending that the future isn’t coming, no matter what form it might choose to take. Being prepared for the worst case scenario is better than letting it take him off guard. 

“Mike,” he says, “Mike. I need a plan of attack. A way to get things back on track. I want a list of suggestions on my dressing room table by morning!”

There's no reply--there never is--but there is a rustling, somewhere in the shadows, reminding Tenna that not everything that scurries in the dark has to be against him. Spamton G Spamton is up to no good, that much is clear. And while Tenna doesn’t know exactly what he wants out of this, the small details don’t matter when it’s his future at stake. 

So.

Tenna strides over to Lanino and Elnina's abandoned controllers, sets them back in their proper place.

He'll have to beat Spamton at his own game; that’s all there is to it. No shortcuts, no detours, no faltering despite the bumps in the road. Spamton has taken him for a fool, and sure, perhaps he’s not as business-savvy, as on top of the trends, as low of a con. But if there’s one thing that Tenna has confidence in, if there's one thing one Spamton G Spamton could never hope to challenge him in–it’s how to host one smack-dab spectacular of a game.

Chapter 4

Summary:

One more time, from the top--Spamton and Tenna make a deal.

The piece of junk is scared of going obsolete. 

Spamton might pat himself on the back for digging his hands straight into the CRT’s wiring and dragging out his insecurities in record time if it wasn’t so painfully obvious, written across his face even without having to play the damn soap opera. 

A little squabble’s not his favorite way to start a partnership when push comes to [shove], but it’s not the end of the world, even if bouncing back is going to involve a touch more [head-bowing] and [play-pretend bootlicking] than he’d prefer. This deal is too important to lose, and if the [scrap heap] isn’t going to be the pushover Spamton had pegged him as, then a more… subtle approach is just [par for the course]. 

Just gotta play him [hook line and sinker], Spamton thinks, yanking irritably at a loose piece of paper that’s gotten itself stuck between the rollers of the Mansion’s printer. He’s sprawled out on his back [guts-deep] in the piece of junk, removing the devoured scraps of paper from between the wires and conveyers and all other manner of [hardly-functional] machinery. Damned thing likes it, Spamton is certain, and it rankles at him because he’s no damn mechanic. Menial labor is beneath a man like him, especially when it’s for a [cheap messy eater] not worth its weight in yet-unminted [digital currencies]. 

But just as he tosses another scrap to the floor, ready to truly start digging into this thing’s wires and teach it a [lesson it won’t forget], the trademark tip-tap pitter-patter of footsteps down linoleum echoes quick down the hall, closer, closer, clearly not a Tasque but a–

“Queen is requesting you,” says the Swatchling, looking vaguely uncomfortable to be playing messenger as Spamton slides out from the depths of the printer to flash a glare. There’s a vague hint of dial-up to the edge of its voice that does nothing for Spamton’s headache, both [metaphysical] and otherwise. 

“Now?” Spamton asks, waving an irritable hand at the mess of the printer sprawled open behind him. The thing looks worse than a [dummy] cut open for [open-heart surgery]. Tasque Manager is useless when it comes to fixing things like these, and Queen would never bother doing it herself. This place would be downright [dysfunctional] without Spamton holding it together, most days. 

“Now,” insists the Swatchling, whose fear of him seems to be outweighed only by loyalty to Queen, “...Sir.”

Spamton glares up at it through singular, squinted eye. The Swatchling goes paler, though not any warmer. Honestly, he didn’t know they were capable of turning that color. It’s such a light, delicate blue, almost white, like the distant skies of a place not here. In a rare fit of [mercy], Spamton decides to take pity on the [charity case]. Won’t even [snitch], he promises, though there’s no one to hear his own thoughts. 

“Alright, alright. Tell Queen to [cool her jets], huh? I’ll be wherever she wants me in ten flat or her [money back]. Where does she want me, anyway?”

“The dining room… Sir,” says the Swatchling, as if Spamton won’t notice the [unexpected delays] in his delivery. “Would you like me to escort you?”

It’s nice when the Swatchlings [parade him around] like the [big shot] he is, if Spamton is being honest, but this particular one is fraying on his already tested nerves. “Nah. Go clean up that mess for me, will ya?”

“Yes, sir,” says the Swatchling, scurrying away eagerly for a broom. 

Spamton watches a moment, then glances back at the printer, the pile of scraps scattered across the floor as if to spite him in particular. 

Whatever . Who gives a shit if the damn CRT doesn’t get all of his emails this week? Most of them are from the same few addresses over and over anyway. Who’s going to notice he only got two instead of three? 

Spamton shuts the hatch on the printer carelessly, swearing he feels the thing glaring bullets into his back at the [half-assed finish] to a [slipshod] job. Better [sing my praises] for not leaving your wires out for the Tasques to [maim], he thinks at it vindictively, then saunters his way down the hall, cutting a lazy course for the dining room. By Queen’s standards, he’s certainly already late--so might as well make it [fashionably] so. 

---

 

 

Having a room at the Queen’s Mansion does not necessarily make Spamton part of the court, much to his annoyance, because living in the Mansion does make him subject to the whims of its exceedingly whimsical Queen and her flights of fancy. 

On the upside, at least the acid wine is free. 

「So Spamton Number 1 Rated Salesman What Have You Been Up To We Haven’t Talked In 3.46 days I Have Missed So Much」

Queen sits opposite him at the head of the table, heels up next to her platter as she reclines back in leisure, floating in her throne without a care in the world. Spamton envies that, sometimes, though he’d never be caught dead admitting it. The sooner his working man days are done, the better. One day, he thinks, casting eye around the grand hall, this [cute little setup] is all gonna be mine.

“Ah, little bit of this, little bit of that.” He waves his hand dismissively. Generally he would love the opportunity to brag about each and every little deal he strikes, but this one is still cooking. Can’t risk some loudmouth hack trying to swoop in and steal his rightful [place] and [profits] before he can get to the good part.  

「You Haven’t Finished That Ad I Ordered Yet」

“Working on it, working on it. Can’t rush [perfection].”

「You Have Been Saying That For the Past」Queen pauses to compute. She doesn’t actually need to do this, Spamton suspects, but simply enjoys the dramatic flair it gives her. It is disgustingly annoying, largely because Spamton’s caught himself doing the exact same thing on more than one occasion and hates the thought anyone might believe he got it from her. 「6.8205 Days」 

Spamton gives her a lackadaisical shrug. “Yeah, well, I’ve been in the TV World for most of those.”

「Yes I Know」

Great conversation, Spamton thinks, wondering how soon is too soon to beg off on urgent business. He does actually need to finish those ads, given that Queen’s [gracious patronage] isn’t something he can quite afford to lose at this [stage of the game]. The printer still needs fixing, too, but that can [sit around and suffer] half-disassembled for a few more days. It’s only what the damn thing deserves. 

“Listen, I–”

「So」

Queen leans forwards in her floating throne, chin propped on a hand, elbow on her crossed knees, that glass of pure battery acid tilting ominously between elegant fingers. Spamton, sipping at his own drink to avoid conversation, gets a terrible, terrible feeling that no amount of [bugs in the data] is going to make what’s coming any more pleasant than catching your [strings] in the [shredder]. 

「What Have You Been Doing There」 

“Ads,” Spamton answers, snatching one of the little cheese slices off the table and popping it in his mouth in the hopes she might do the same and get distracted by whatever cute little offerings the Swatchlings have turned up today. 

「Yes Obviously」

But his gambit fails, and Spamton is left with a mouth full of [floppy disk] shaped cheese as he answers, attempting to sound as disinterested as possible, “I’ve got a client over there. Real big-name. Total [star].”

「Do I Know Them」

How would I know? Spamton thinks but swallows down alongside the cheese, only for the equally sarcastic, “What, you want me to show you a picture?” to pop out instead. Queen, who absolutely understands sarcasm but simply chooses to ignore it at her convenience, leans forwards again with something like a flicker of stars in her eyes. 

「Oooooh Let Me See」

Spamton doesn’t bother to hide his grimace. A CRT’s not exactly cutting edge, these days. Queen’s not exactly [floppy disk] slim in the Light World herself, but that’s comparing [outdated necessity] to [aesthetic design]. Probably, anyway. Other than the fact they’ve both got [legs for days], Spamton can’t say he sees what’s so great about either of them. Besides the [fame and fortune], anyway.

“Yeah, no.”

「Why Not」

Queen pauses dramatically again, sipping loudly at her straight battery acid, then finishes, with a grin that could kill an unsuspecting passerby–

「I Don’t Judge」

Spamton might’ve laughed in her face, if that wouldn’t be risking a nice little [all-expenses paid] trip to the acid pool. She absolutely does judge, and with blunt venom, at that. Hell, it’s what Spamton likes about her, when push comes to shove. Nothing like a bitch that says it like it is. 

“Look, what’s someone like you doing worrying about someone like him?”

「Oh So It’s A Him」

“He, She, They, does it matter?” Spamton asks, trying to out himself from the conversation at haste, but Queen cuts off his escape routes with a single, deadpan–

「Yes」

Spamton groans. He doesn’t even bother to hide it. He’s had enough playing [Mr. Nice Guy]. Sometimes, the clients deserve to know when they’re being an insufferable [pain the ass].

“Are you [yankin’ my chain]?”

「No」

「So」

「Who Is It」

Sensing she’s not going to drop the topic until she’s gotten whatever [sick sense of satisfaction] he wants out of this whole affair, Spamton attempts to dial up a way to get her [off] his [case]. The easiest way to do it is to simply give her what she wants and pop an ad for his [cute little gameshow] into existence; it’s not like he runs around keeping pictures of the guy in his pocket like a teenage girl cutting pictures of her [crush] from magazines.

There’s a lot that goes into the art of a good ad, far more than anybody not an Addison gives credit for. Even a [classic] static image needs consideration given to the size, the font, the focus, the effects. You can toil over a good one for hours and still come up with [room for improvement], draw something up for the [biggest billboard the world has ever seen] and realize you still need another twenty-some drafts before you can call it [done]. 

There’s so much to consider it would send the average [simpleton]’s head spinning–target demographics, Lightner trends, Darkner trends, color theory, font size and legibility, timing and gloss, [spick and span], the [whole shebang]. 

That said, this one doesn’t need to be anything fancy. For that matter–the less attention he has to put into this, the better. Until Spamton’s the one and only [star] in the [spotlight], there’s no point in putting in his best effort. What did that [free gift] poster look like again?

Spamton visualizes it, thinks eh, close enough, then snaps his fingers. A nearby screen pops to life, sparkling faded red and antique gold that’s blatantly out of place in the sleek blues and clean corners of Queen’s Mansion. The [damn CRT] is the focus, crisp in digital print as the background details fade into pleasant bokeh blur, a sea of flashing lights like paparazzi cameras obscuring whatever the original background might have been. It’s far from a perfect recreation, but it serves its purpose well enough .  

Queen looks it over slowly, up and down once, then twice, a long nod of her head. 

「Okay Wow Nevermind I Do Judge Couldn’t You Have At Least Found A Flatscreen Or Something」

“That’s what I’m saying,” Spamton replies, raising his glass in toast. He’d just done an ad for those a few weeks back. Cyber City’s full of ‘em, of course, but the rest of the world’s not quite so lucky yet. One day, Spamton’s sure, the Light World will overflow with them, walls upon walls of the newest and best, and Spamton’s going to make sure he’s on the forefront of that, too, thanks to a little bit of [friendly advice]. 

But for now, here he is, biding his time with an outdated [piece of junk]. Spamton moves to trash the ad, put it back in the [recycle bin] where it belongs, but Queen is still laser-focused in on it, something having clearly caught her eye. Don’t ask me to [copy] this [vintage junk], Spamton prays. He’ll do a multitude of [legally unspecified actions] for the fame and fortune he’s been promised, but even he has to draw the line [somewhere north of the border].

「He’s So…」 Queen pauses for an abnormally long time. Spamton likes to think he can see the hamster wheel running over her head as she searches for the least (or hopefully most) offensive phrasing. 「Bulky」

Unsure of why she phrased an insult like praise, Spamton shrugs nonchalantly. “Eh, he looks better in person. Y’know what they say, huh? [[ Bi gge r on TV] and all-”

Queen stares at him oddly. 「Oh That Sounded Glitchy Do You Need A Tune-Up」

Spamton grimaces, setting down his glass to wipe at his mouth. It doesn’t do anything, of course, but it feels good to do, which is all Spamton really cares about in the moment. “TV dialect. Rubbing off of me.” 

「Well Whatever I Don’t Actually Care LOL As Long As You’re Not Dragging In Like, Malware Or Something LMAO」

Spamton scoffs. “It’s the TV World! They wouldn’t know what malware is if it ate their faces off.”

「LOL So True My Dearest Friend Spamton G Spamton」

Who’s your damn [dearest friend], huh? Spamton thinks, resisting the urge to glare at her across the table and downing the rest of the wine in one inelegant gulp instead. It’s stronger than usual, still burning of acid, but that’s how Spamton likes it, and it dulls some of the… nastier impulses that might get him kicked out of his [sweet digs] faster than a [defective product] off [supermarket shelves]. 

「Oh No Look At The Time」Queen flashes the time across her eyes most helpfully, though Spamton really doesn’t give [half a shit] that it’s a quarter to five. 「It’s Time For My Reservation At The Free Pool」

She pauses, fixing Spamton with the kind of unreadable grin he really doesn’t like, mainly because she–just like [anybody] who’s ever been [somebody] in all these little Dark Worlds–is just a little bit [fuckin’ unhinged]. 

「You Should Join Me Next Time」

And then she’s gone, [blasting off] in that flying throne of hers with only the echo of her laughter to indicate she was ever here at all. 

“No fuckin’ thanks,” Spamton replies to the empty room, grabbing the wine bottle from the table and taking a generous swig straight from the source. He takes it with him as he leaves, because why not? He’ll consider it a [fat bonus] for the [long, lonely night] he’s gonna have to spend finishing the pile of work still left for Queen before jetting off to TV World come morning. No rest for the [big shot], Spamton thinks, laughing to himself as he, too, hops down from his chair and leaves the dining room behind. 

 

 

---

He’s in the middle of shooting product reel when Tenna finds him, and Spamton doesn’t need the frantic scrambling of the crew to know that the boss man is in a horrifically bad mood. Spamton can practically see the devil horns sprouting from the top of his head, growing clearer with every stomp he takes closer. The antique little teacups on the next table over are actually rattling with the force of it, which is so absurd that Spamton nearly snickers to himself. It’s like a big dumb dog that doesn’t know its own strength. Could pull down an [elderly grandma] and take the whole [kiddie cavalry] down with him. Spamton stares up unphased as Tenna’s shadow looms over him, trailing long across the studio even at this distance thanks to the stage lights beating down on him from the front of the set. 

“Meeting,” says Tenna, “now.”

“But boss,” says one of the stagehands whose name Spamton hasn’t bothered to learn, “We’re in the middle of–”

“Reschedule it!” Tenna orders, marching across the set uncaring of the cameras still rolling or set pieces getting shoved out of place.

Would hate to work under his thumb, Spamton thinks, watching employees run for the hills, fearing their boss’s wrath. Good to be a [free] man. 

“Hey, [big guy],” Spamton calls up to him, putting on his most charming smile, eyes pinching up into that trademark salesman smile. He ignores the way Tenna’s shadow casts a chill over the studio, backlit like the [sun] behind stormclouds. “Is that a meeting with m-“

But Spamton can’t get halfway through his sentence before his words are choked away by a squawk of protest, rising from him involuntary as Tenna reaches down to snag him by the back of his [designer] jacket, plucking him up from the ground like he’s nothing but a [dime a dozen] [egg] on the [supermarket shelves]. 

“Hey! Hey, watch your [paws]!” Spamton protests, reaching up to scrabble against Tenna’s grip, but it’s hopeless. He’s just too damn [big] and there’s nothing Spamton can do to get loose. Despite his best efforts, Tenna’s got him by the scruff like some harmless little kitten, and Spamton’s going to look the fool whether he resists or accepts his fate. 

So Spamton struggles, of course, never one to take a hit lying down. It doesn’t do any damage worth speaking of, not without resorting to bullets, and as much of a sham as this deal is, that’s not the way Spamton intends to lose it. This is a [long con], not a [hostile takeover]. But every one of these [soon-to-be] [minions] wouldn’t hold a shred of respect for him if they don’t see proof of him attempting to [force-quit] the application, and so Spamton keeps smacking away at Tenna’s ironclad grip. 

Tenna storms through the green room unbothered, sending a cluster of Shadowguys on break into a cacophony of [smooth jazz] surprise as he strides past the sofas. Spamton swears a few of them start playing scales and curses them all under his breath—he’s no [certified expert], but he’s confident that means they’re laughing at his [highly marketable] misery.

“Lemme down already!” Spamton protests, but the [damn CRT]’s apparently gone deaf as he is blind to the [future of innovation], and they make it into the dressing rooms without so much as a scratch to Tenna’s hands from all Spamton’s scratching at them. It’s humiliating, really. Gotta bring this [oversized cathode] back [down to size], Spamton thinks, furious as Tenna slams his dressing room door shut and then–only then–does he finally set Spamton down, right beside the phone he’d [copy pasted] in here, as if to rub it in. 

“Not a [fan] of the [manhandling],” Spamton snaps, whirling on Tenna with venom. Nobody’s disrespected him like that since before the call, and he’s not keen for the reminder of the beforetimes. 

His protests fall on deaf ears, however, as Tenna looms over him with a presence so great that even the bright mirror lights seem to fall into shadow, eclipsed by the sheer bulk of him. “You,” Tenna says, in a tone dangerously close to a snarl, “Aren’t going to leave this room until you stop ignoring me and tell me exactly how to fix these ratings!”

Ooh, thinks Spamton, licking at the back of his teeth with no real sense of threat, this one bites.  

He holds up his hands, a mockery of surrender that surely both of them know is anything but. Still, it serves well enough to hold back the impending disaster. The puppy might bite, but he should still think he’s got stakes in the pot to lose. If the [hand that feeds] decides to stop putting out the treats, well. Mister Ant Tenna’s gonna be straight up shit creek.

“Look,” Spamton says, “I think we got off on the wrong foot here. You want to see those sweet [ratings] come out of their spiral. You’re worried about the future. Who wouldn’t be?”

Tenna stares down at him unimpressed. Clearly he’s not in the mood to hear out any more pitches, but that’s just fine. Spamton doesn’t need to corner him into a deal; he’s [been there, done that]. Now’s the time to [lay it on thick]--and Spamton is as practiced in that as anything.

“I’ve been watching your [fine programming] off hours, y’know.”

Tenna starts; he hadn’t expected Spamton’s softer tone. Given their last little spat, clearly he’s expecting another one of the same sort. Maybe an even bigger one. Why he thinks that is a bit of a mystery for later unraveling, but right now that’s not Spamton’s most pressing concern. Honestly it’s not even in the top twenty. 

Tenna’s antennae skitter as he draws back ever-so-slightly. “You have?”

“Burning that [midnight oil] to catch up on all those [reruns] gone by,” Spamton says, grinning up at Tenna with his best [all-refunds-guaranteed] smile. Actually, he was putting the finishing touches on Queen’s ridiculous ad campaign (read: nonsensical tribute to her supposed [majesty]), but the dumb hunk of scrap doesn’t need to know that. His shows have always made some [perfectly competent] background noise, though, so Spamton likes to think he’s osmosis-ed everything he needs to know. 

“...What did you think?” Tenna asks, in a tone dry enough that Spamton would be convinced he doesn’t care about the answer one way or another if it weren’t for his antennae, leaning towards Spamton like a microphone on a [breaking news] podium. The answer he wants is obvious as moonlight above. And if that’s what he wants… Hell, Spamton will give him [sunshine]. 

“I told ya! You’ve got good material. Everybody loves the classics. These days, even the Lightner kids think that’s [the latest and greatest] when they dig it up for the first time.”

“Lightners?”

It’s almost comical the way he bolts to attention, no longer attempting to lean over Spamton intimidatingly, the overhead lights now spilling over his face, the wide-mouthed shock painted over it instead. 

“Yeah,” Spamton says, raising a brow at him in amusement, “Lightners.” 

Tenna regroups, puffing back up, crossing his arms as he leans forward, attempting to give Spamton the stare-down. “And what does our Cyber City consultant know about Lightners?”

“Buddy, [pal].” Spamton could laugh. This guy flips between genuine threat and certified amateur so quickly it’s like flipping a switch. If Spamton didn’t know any better, he might think he’s dealing with two entirely different guys, here. “I sell to ‘em.”

“To Lightners?!”

“What, you think a [big shot] just sticks to the [domestic goods]?” Spamton chuckles. The TV’s got some teeth, but if he really hasn’t put together just what puts Spamton ahead of the game, then he’s more of a fool than he thought. “We talk it out! Make deals! Get that [currency of choice] in exchange for [goods and services]!”

“You can talk to them?!”

What do you think [email] is, buddy? Spamton nearly says, but that would be giving away the game. So long as the [lump of junk] can’t figure it out on his own, then that’s another thing he needs Spamton for, and the more indispensable he thinks Spamton, is… The money prints itself. 

“What,” he says, as if anything else would be absurd, “you can’t?”

“I can see them,” Tenna says, “I’m always watching them!” He pauses. “Listening, too. I can hear them every time we go live.”

“But talkin’s off the table, huh?”

Tenna’s silence is the only answer Spamton needs. 

Now that’s a [hot deal] in your area. The [out of touch CRT] clearly hasn’t realized he’d just flashed his hand, and now Spamton’s got all the cards–and unlike with a certain cheating [clown around town], he doesn’t even have to stuff an extra deck up his sleeve for a fair shot at [winning]. 

“Look, [pal]. If it’s some nice [chatting] with the [lighter side] you’re after, I might be able to offer a [helping hand].”

“...How?”

It’s obvious that Spamton has him hooked. If he’d known this was the [get out of jail free] card, he’d have pulled it from day one. “There’s ways for everything, these days! So long as you can get yourself [online], the possibilities are [endless]! You’ve got [email], [instant messenger], [chatrooms], [forums]...” 

Tenna reels at the unfamiliar terminology, twiddling his thumbs behind his back again. Spamton can’t see it in the mirror, this time, but it’s obvious enough. All he needs is the last little push to send all his reservations crumbling down. “Hell,” Spamton says, casual and smooth, as he reaches into one of his inner pockets and plucks out a letter, folded neat into a handkerchief square, “Sometimes, the [Lightners] come talkin’ to me.”

“...They do? They really do?”

Spamton might as well have popped him like a balloon the way the anger vanishes from Tenna then. He continues, leaning forward not with anger but with excitement, now--“Is it one that I know?”

Spamton shrugs, tucking the letter back firmly where it belongs before Tenna can make a swipe at it and see just whose name is written across the top. Not that he couldn’t have printed off one of his own bits of correspondence with the [brighter side], but, well. Spamton’s own email chains aren’t exactly so… [family-approved] and [wholesome]. Even if the Mansion printer wasn’t still [half-disassembled junk], it’d probably eat the paper out of sheer damn [spite]. 

“Does it matter?”

Tenna looks like he’s about to topple over like a fainting maiden at such a callous suggestion. It’s so unexpected that Spamton has to bite back a laugh, not entirely as scathing as he’d have liked it to be. “It does! What if it’s little Kris?!”

Kris? Not a name Spamton knows. Though… Spamton’s hand twitches towards that special little pocket on the inside of his suit jacket, redirects to tug at his lapels instead, as if he still has to fix his suit from the manhandling earlier. “Not any [Kris], [Chris], or [Khrighs] on my [mailing list], pal.”

“Are you sure?!”

A flash runs sudden through the back of Spamton’s mind, a flicker of lighting, blue skies and white clouds caught and scattered through prism, the flicker of white, white wings like a blessing from [heaven], a shock through his system like a [kiss] from [frozen] lips, a full-body paralysis, a [sword] through the [silly strings]--

“Spamton?”

Tenna’s voice has lost its earlier hardness, its demand. It almost sounds… worried. Spamton shakes his head once, hard, ignoring the faint sensations of frost on his fingers still. He must have lost focus, paused for a [dramatic moment] too long. He’s going to have the [client] thinking he’s [glitched] out of his mind. How [embarrassing].

“Look, pal. I know all the names of the Lightners I [deal] with, and that’s not one of ‘em.” Spamton waves off Tenna’s concerns like the nothings they are. What… connection he might have with one particular Lightner might be a matter for further investigation, but now’s not the time or place. “You and me are getting off the [beaten path] here, huh? Let’s get this [racehorse] back on the track! You. Me. That [nice little deal] that needs to get [off] the [back burner].”

“But–”

“Look, look,” says Spamton, “I admit it. I haven’t been giving this [partnership] my full attention.”

Tenna perks up at that, as Spamton knew he would. People love it when you admit you were wrong, even though Spamton’s clearly faultless here. That’s the mistake the amateurs make–always set a deadline when your livelihood’s on the line or deal with the consequences when the other parties take their [sweet, sweet time]. “Time to shift focus, huh? Get [eyes on the prize] now that I’ve seen what I need to.”

A slight bit of tension leaves Tenna’s shoulders. “You’re going to help me?”

“Whaddaya sound so surprised for?” Spamton says, his chuckle halfway to genuine as Tenna clutches at his chest in [TV-ready] shock, “That’s the deal, ain’t it? You make me a [star] and I’ll make you the most relevant [piece of machinery] any Lightner’s ever seen. How’re those [terms and conditions] sounding to ya?”

“Too good to be true!” says Tenna, addressing an imaginary audience with such canned excitement that it takes Spamton a split second to process that he’s being mocked. 

This damn little… Spamton bites the inside of his lip, expression frozen in a smile like a [lagging PC]. Not as [innocent] as you look, are ya?

And just to add insult to injury, the [damn CRT] is [ecstatic] he caught Spamton off-guard. Spamton can see him [glittering] for [heaven’s sake]. Next thing ya know he’s gonna start sprouting flowers.

“Like the [grand prize] on a game show?” Spamton retorts, watching the twinge of irritation run through Tenna electric, lips curling down into the hint of a scowl. It’s not a bad look on him, really. It’s more fun, Spamton has to admit, to win his way over people with more [grit] than a [wet carpet] like most of his [usual fare]. 

“Hey, hey, can’t take a joke?” Spamton winks, then continues, “Let’s start it all over, huh? No need for that [special feature] of mine. Let’s get the focus back on the [star of the show], how’s that sound?” Spamton sticks out his hand, open and expectant–because for what reason could he possibly be denied? 

But Tenna hesitates. The barest hint of static flickers over his face, dark with indecision. Once-bitten, twice shy? Spamton thinks, freezing his face in a pleasant smile so his true feelings won’t show on his face, That’s a real [rude move], considering you’re the one who [snapped], cathode.

“Hey, hey, look me in the eyes, buddy.”

Caught off-guard, Tenna does as asked. It’s easy to follow his gaze even without the advantage of visible eyes; the guy telegraphs his every shift with body language so big he might as well be spelling out his intentions letter by letter into the code.

“I get it, I get it. Change is hard! Nobody wants to let go of the [good ole days]. Especially not the [homemade VHS tapes] and the  [family-approved] programming. But TV’s not what it used to be, and the [Lightners] need more than just that to stay [entertained]. You’ve gotta know that better than anybody, [pal].”

Tenna’s silence holds, which means Spamton’s pitch is hitting home. Just need to [confirm purchase] and we’re golden. 

He forges on, puffing up his chest and laying it on thick, “How about I make those [terms and conditions] a little more transparent for ya? Here’s how it’s gonna go. I [survey] those [Lightners] about what they really want to see from you, and you put on the show like your [life’s] depending on it. Once we’ve got the [program running], you give me back some of those [new features] you promised. That’s a pretty good deal if you ask me.”

Spamton proffers his hand again, flashing him a grin made for extolling the virtues of [dream cars] and [twelve easy payments of 19.99]. “Let me make things up to ya, huh? I mean it. That’s a Cyber City [100% satisfaction] [guarantee]. I’ll even add in a little [something special] for [100% off]!”

“A risk-free trial?” Tenna asks, as if he’s the one out doing the [ad read] for this [hot new service]. 

“Now you’re speakin’ my [language]!” Spamton replies, vaguely amused at the prospect, “but no.”

“No?” Tenna tilts his head in confusion, the very picture of a [confused little dogling]. Spamton is going to snag him by the tie and put a [goddamn] [leash] on him. 

“I’ll do you one better,” Spamton says, a spark of genius flashing through his mind and settling in his smile, bright enough that it pinches up his eyes again and hides the hungry ambition that’s made its home behind ever-changing lenses–“I’ll give you a private lesson.”

Notes:

1) I adore Queen so bad. While this is not /exactly/ how the fic is set up I think she and Spamton deserve to go through the "toxic besties" phase. mainly because I think it would annoy him far more than it would annoy her and sometimes... we have to bully him LOL,,,

2) lowkey I am ignoring Ralsei's manual insinuating the game takes place in 202X mainly because the vibe of the game overall (pop culture references aside) just feels so late 2000s-early 2010s to me (which I guess would also track with when Toby was presumably coming up with the story, right,,,). Usually I wouldn't just straight-up ignore a detail like that but the vibes win out for me with this one. sorry

3) a bracketing error wouldn't make Spamton's speech do that but. shh pretend with me LOL

4) THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVELY COMMENTS I will try and get back to them soon. life is zooming ;o; (on that note if there's no chapter next week it's because my moving date is Tuesday. now that we're through the intro though I wanna get to the next chapter ASAP though so I'll do my best o7)

Chapter 5

Summary:

In which a plan is made, a trinket is "sold" and, entirely on accident, Spamton manages to give some not half-bad advice.

“You,” says Spamton, and never has the word felt quite so much like an accusation as the way it’s pointed at him as they stride down red-carpeted hall, towards the entrance to the TV World studios, “need to learn how to close a deal.”

“What does this have to do with getting my ratings up?” Tenna asks. It’s a reasonable question, though clearly Spamton doesn’t share the sentiment. 

Despite the way he’s taking three steps for Tenna’s every one, he’s the picture of leisure as he replies, with an air of finality that Tenna feels far less inclined to challenge than he did just a few days ago, “It’s got everything to do with your ratings. You’ve gotta start thinking of the big picture here, [pal]! I’m talkin’ [widescreen] [blockbuster] [motion-picture] type deals here! That’s what the [Lightners] are looking for.”

Are they?

Tenna has always been able to watch over the Lightners–the Dreemurs and their guests, growing slowly but surely over the years–but no matter what Tenna says to them, all they hear is the equivalent program in the Light World playing on the airwaves, watching him without ever seeing him.

Communication is a one-way street, and though Tenna could shout himself hoarse, cry out until all he could manage is a whimper of radio static, the reality of the matter is that he won’t be heard. 

Unless.

Admittedly, Tenna can’t rule out that he’s being scammed again. It wasn’t as if Spamton actually showed him the “email” that supposedly came from a Lightner, and for all Tenna knows, every supposedly authentic“email” he’s come and delivered could be nothing more than a cog in a much greater scheme.

But Tenna can’t dismiss the possibility entirely. How else would an ad have gotten so big? How could he possibly have such star power without the Lightners shining favor on him? He can’t be meant for something that’s supposed to be Tenna’s without some sort of higher intervention. 

“So,” Spamton finishes as Tenna tunes back in, jabbing a finger his direction as they push their way through the doors, “That’s why you, [pal], need to learn how to close out a deal with some real [meat] to the [terms], see?”

Tenna stares Spamton down on the edge of indignation, catching the door and throwing it wide. “I have employees,” Tenna protests, “I know how to make a deal. I made two with you!”

Spamton glances up at him over his shades--back to black again today, though slightly more opaque than the last pair--with a look that tells Tenna exactly what he thinks of that. “Pal. You’re lucky that deal was with me and not any one of those other [maggots] around town. They’d’ve eaten you alive.”

You underestimate me, Tenna thinks, and though he can’t stand the ways Spamton seems to think himself above it all, he supposes it works in his favor. Wait for it, Tenna. When you give ‘im a real piece of your mind, he’ll never see it coming.

Outside the studio doors awaits what Spamton has assured him is tonight’s main event, though Tenna can’t quite figure out why it’s anything special. “A car? That’s what you wanted to show me?”

“My [one and only],” Spamton replies, then stage whispers up to him, with a wink that should be criminal, “At least for now. But don’t tell her that, yeah?”

He laughs, yet again an obnoxious cacophony of sound that would most definitely peak the mics on a set. Tenna elects to ignore him, instead looking the car over from above. “No… feet?”

“Hell no,” Spamton replies, running a hand over the mirror, so much like the gesture that had first caught Tenna’s attention, “The feet cars are for the [poor saps] who haven’t [made it big]. You and me, [star]... People like us get this [luxury ride].”

It’s a bright red car, nearly identical to what Tenna remembers from that used car ad–except this one has a decal emblazoned across the sides, a logo that Tenna is unfamiliar with but reads, bold across the doors-- Big Shot Autos. It’s some sort of brand deal, clearly, the most notable feature of it aside from the fact that it is, provably, the exact same sort that Lightners tend to use.

Yet another piece of evidence, Tenna thinks, tapping fingers against elbows as the cool breeze sings through the night, that Spamton isn’t lying. 

Meanwhile, Spamton glances at the car, then at Tenna, then plucks the key from his pocket and hits a button. With a sleek, mechanical whirr does the top fold down into the trunk, leaving only the sleek frame surrounding the seats left standing. 

“Alright, [big guy],” he says, patting the door of the convertible fondly, “get on in.”

“We’re leaving?!” Tenna can’t help his full body recoil, the way his leg comes up in shock, hands darting to his chest as his antennae fall back. Immediately the ever-swaying pendulum of Spamton’s trustworthiness flicks straight back into the red, alarms blaring in Tenna’s mind like a disaster bulletin across all channels.  

Spamton raises an eyebrow at him. “What, you think we’ve got any [sweet deals in your area] left here? You’ve gotta branch out! Test your skills where you’re not the greatest [star] on the airwaves!”

“Wait,” says Tenna, stepping back instinctively, hands raised in petition, “Who’s going to handle my sets? My shows? What if we need an emergency broadcast while I’m out?”

Spamton’s eyebrow, if it’s possible, raises even higher, as if attempting to launch straight into his hairline. “What, all those employees of yours [useless] as a sack of [bricks]? If TV’s gonna crumble just from the [star of the show] takin’ a little [business trip], then I’d say the whole operation’s not worth its salt, huh?”

Tenna prickles, static electricity jumping beneath the cuffs of his sleeves. How Spamton can fail so completely and utterly to understand what makes TV Time work after so many days on set utterly baffles him, leaves him floundering for words that aren’t plain disbelief. It’s Tenna that’s made this place, not any single employee spending half their working hours slacking off. The host of the show isn’t someone you can switch out so easily. The longtime audiences would riot!

…But he’s not getting anything out of refusing to play along. So Tenna, against his better judgement, squeezes his way into the back of the convertible, feet smushed up against the bottoms of the front seats and headrests pressing uncomfortably into the small of his back. He could shrink down for the comfort, if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t, is the thing. It feels like showing his hand too early, and he’s never been one for letting the anxieties win. He wouldn’t be a long-runner as host if he did. 

Staying TV-size means he can’t buckle the seatbelt even over his lap, but that doesn’t seem to bother Spamton, who shows no care for his own. 

“Let’s get this [show on the road],” Spamton says, flipping the keys between his fingers before coaxing the engine into roaring life—and as the headlights flicker on before them, Spamton sends them flying down the highway and into the unknown. 

---

 

 

Cyber City is something else entirely. TV World is warm and familiar despite its backstage bustle; lingering in its halls is filling as a bowl of childhood soup on winter nights, soothing as a cup of honeyed milk to a sore throat as the TV chatters reassuringly in the background, blankets bundled over your shoulders as the world goes by without you, sequestered away in the shelter of an otherwise empty house. 

Cyber City, on the other hand, is cold and yet far from sterile, neon flickering through midnight skies as cars stomp down packed streets, everything aglitter like candy for the eye, begging shutter chances and freeze frames and slow motion montage shots around every turn. Tenna had no intentions of playing tourist, but he can’t help the way his head swivels as Spamton drives them down street after street, what seems to be a neverending sprawl of city spread out before him. 

“Everything’s so big!” says Tenna, delighted at the high-rises and elevated tracks that soar tall above the city proper, giving the place a lovely sense of height to it as if you could reach up and brush fingers against the dark of the sky. 

Spamton chuckles, letting his elbow drape back over the door, the very picture of a big shot on his home turf. He glances at Tenna in the rearview mirror, idling at a stoplight Tenna gets the sense he really would have rather blown through. “Speaking of. You’re a little smaller off-screen, aren’t ya?”

Tenna flushes. “Everything's bigger on screen! So are you!”

For a split second Tenna freezes, worried that Spamton might take it as backhanded, but rather to his surprise, Spamton puffs up his chest, eyes glowing in a way that has nothing to do with the yellow tint of today’s pair of sunglasses. “That’s how you get those [hot products] [flying off the shelves]! You’ve gotta look BIG enough that it rubs off on everything ya touch, you hear me? Gotta turn those products to [solid gold]!”

He’s… preening.

Shamelessly, at that. He’s clearly not a man immune to compliments, and BIG might be the best there is. This will work, Tenna thinks, turning over the list of points that Mike had left him once more.

 

How to Out-Con a Con in Six Simple Steps:

 

1. Play hard ball

No need to succeed, says a helpful little note beneath the bullet point, just show them you’ve got guts!

Tenna thinks he’s done that well enough. His attempt to assert himself hadn’t gone exactly as planned, but he hadn’t expected Spamton to be corresponding with Lightners!  

Why hadn’t he said that from the start, Tenna wonders, dreaming of the sun-faded walls of the Dreemur living room, rewinding through memories of young children’s laughter, interacting with shows on the screen they had no idea could hear them. It would have had Tenna far less… frazzled with his previously inexplicable behavior if he’d only known what connections he has. 

No wonder he’s always on the phone. 

Tenna would be too, if he could talk to Lightners.

    2. Pretend to play the game

This one, Tenna supposes, is simple enough. He can’t beat Spamton at his own game if they’re playing on different fields. He’s learning the rules on the fly, but Tenna’s always been down for a healthy bit of adlibbing, and he can’t see things going any more wrong than they already have. 

Make them think you were only putting up an act with the hard ball stuff, then pretend you’re in it to win it! They’ll fall for it hook line and sinker!

Tenna likes to think he’s been doing a good enough job thus far. He’s gotten in a car speeding away from his beloved TV studio, for crying out loud. Act or not, what greater proof could there be of his willingness to go along with Spamton’s harebrained ideas? 

Just watch your six, comes the final addition, almost like an afterthought, because if you’re actually cornered in, you’re in trouble.

But Tenna doesn’t need to look back. The only one who’ll come out of this with regrets will be one Spamton G. Spamton, rueing the day he ever chose to try and con his way onto TV.

 

    3. Play dumb

Tenna knows this one, too. Occasionally a contestant will weaponise their incompetence, hoping to win themselves an extra helping hint between takes or a rigged spin of the bonus roulette in the name of “evening up” the competition to make better TV. The less Tenna pretends he knows about Spamton’s (admittedly still mysterious) ulterior motives, the more likely he’ll be to spill. 

But not too dumb, warns Mike, or else he’ll leave you in the dust.  

Tenna’s not worried about that. No, Tenna isn’t worried about that one single bit. He’s the one with the trivia games and educational programming. Whatever the “internet” has to offer, it can’t possibly give Spamton an edge over him where it counts. 

 

    4. Make yourself indispensable

Pull out the real grand prize! He’s gotta think that he can’t make it without you!

Luckily, Spamton’s made it very clear what he wants from Tenna, his goal in the game that’s going to bind them. 

Spamton won’t make it out of the local ads without Tenna’s backing. Though he’s being oddly gracious about it now, for a man who waltzed in assuming Tenna would simply roll over and allow him to have his way, Tenna won’t hesitate to remind him of his situation when opportunity calls. They’re partners in name only--and the later in the game Spamton realizes he’s been played, the better.

 

    5. ???

Tenna is, admittedly, not sure what this step was supposed to be. Mike had written something there, that much is true, but whatever it might have been, Tenna has no hope of knowing unless there’s some fancy little new-fangled machine in Cyber City that can remove permanent marker from an otherwise pristine sheet of paper. It can’t have been that important, Tenna tells himself, or else Mike wouldn’t have bothered crossing it out so thoroughly. So for now, he focuses in on the sixth and final step--

 

    6. Profit

There’s no helpful little explanation written under this one, but there’s no need to insult the viewer’s intelligence. Once he trusts Tenna enough to give him the late-night talk show breakdown of just how he’s communicating with the Lightners, Tenna will have his ticket to all the chances to entertain he could ever desire. And then, Tenna thinks, staring long and hard at the top of Spamton’s head, the shadow of his nose from above, no more having to make these dubious deals with shady salesmen.

 

“--You got all that down, [partner]?”

Back in the present, Tenna nods sagely. He already knows how to make a sale, of course, because at heart it’s not so different from writing a contract or selling a contestant on a prize. Hell--he had a bit of a salesman phase back in the day himself, what with the introduction of cable packages and premium channels. It’s not so hard, really. So long as you’ve got what somebody wants more than anything, price is no object. “Bigger is better,” Tenna agrees, which wins him a dazzling smile in the rear view mirror. 

“Now you’re really [speakin’ my language]! Bigger [spotlights], bigger [glory], bigger [prizes] to [take home] and [give a spin].” 

“Give a spin?!”

Tenna doesn’t mean to say it that way, not really. But as the car screeches to a halt before a sudden light and Tenna pitches forwards, steadying himself with a hand on the headrest of the passenger seat, can he really be blamed for the bit of accusation and twinge of panic that slips out?

Spamton twists in his seat to look back at Tenna, elbow on the shoulder of the passenger seat, close enough for Tenna’s thumb to brush at the faintest hint of a wrong move. Tenna quickly pulls back, settling his hands neutral atop his knees. 

“You telling me you’ve never taken some of those [sweet, sweet prizes] for a [test drive] before?”

Tenna shifts nervously in his seat and prays that Spamton doesn’t notice. He probably does, given Tenna’s luck with him. Whatever Tenna goes to say, Spamton seems to beat him to the retort as the light flicks to green and the engine purrs into life once more. “Well. We can fix that.”

They speed through the next intersection and into what Tenna is quick to realize is a shopping district, plastered from wall to wall with neon ads popping up from thin air as they pass. At the speed they’re going Tenna can’t possibly read all of them, but it’s enough to get the gist. Buy, Buy, Buy, it doesn’t matter the product. Tasque toys, Marriage shoes, Cheese wheels, Chatting chairs, Prom Dresses, Custom Tea, Cat Coffee, Colored Keys-- it’s enough to make Tenna’s head spin, and there’s not much that can do that save some real science-grade magnets or a bit of frantic channel flipping. 

He turns his head away, hoping to find some relief from the whirl of neon--

“Oh, Addisons!” Tenna says, attention stolen from the endless array of ads draping the buildings like dresses by a few familiar forms on the sidewalk, “Are we here to make a deal with them?”

It would make sense. Spamton is, Tenna thinks, an Addison, however un-Addison-like he looks and acts at close quarters. If he’s from Cyber City, then he must know at least some of the Addisons they pass, standing outside their stores and chatting amicably with potential customers, guiding them into their shops and waving goodbye to clients with bags hooked around their wrists. Tenna attempts to imagine Spamton doing the same but comes up oddly short; though ostensibly this is how he must have gotten his start, something about it doesn’t quite seem to suit him.

“Them?” Spamton scoffs with a venom that Tenna hadn’t expected; he flinches in his seat involuntarily. “They wouldn’t help you find your way out of a [goddamn garbage can]. Not worth your time. They’d [lye] and [ch3at] and call you [outta your m1nd] behind your [backstock] before they’d [lend cash] you a [helping hand].”

Spamton shakes his head sharply, reaching into his jacket pocket for what Tenna assumes to be a cigarette. Before he can get it, though, the light turns green and they’re racing off again, the tires screeching as they nearly barrel into a car on the corner trying to make an ill-advised right turn on red. 

“No,” he finishes sharply, “Not them.”

With a closing line like that, Tenna thinks it better not to press.

Instead Spamton begins playing tour guide, pointing out the unfinished tracks above, the distant echoes of a festival playing out somewhere in the distance, the silhouette of a grand Mansion looming above, shaped oddly like a head. Despite himself, Tenna returns to taking it in with simple glee, wondering if he can’t replicate this or that for a stage set, for a physical challenge, for a cutaway gag that’ll look genius on air. Spamton focuses in on the ads across the city as they begin to slow, pulling away from the main drag to run the backstreets. He criticizes the size, the font, the shoddy cinematography of a dozen different ads in passing, comparing them all to what he’s quick to point out as his own, a few different selections of a woman in blue holding an array of CDs, catching the light sheer and enticing. 

They’re good, Tenna supposes, though he wouldn’t be the one to judge. To his eye, they more or less all look the same.

They end up stopping the car not terribly far away from the main streets as Spamton’s chattering comes to an end, in an area where the crush of skyscrapers gives way to a little park of sorts, a plaza that, while lacking anything that could conceivably called nature , is a nice breath of fresh air from some of the more crowded press of the city. 

A few Darkners Tenna doesn’t recognize wander about, some of them clearly on their way to their destination by the purpose in their stride, others walking seemingly just to walk. But none of them seem like businessmen, and the entire place strikes Tenna as quite an unremarkable place for a man like Spamton to know, much less go out of his way to introduce. 

“We’re here,” Spamton says, putting the car in park, though the engine idles with a sweet purr, a clear indication that they don’t intend on staying long. 

Tenna tilts his head, unsure of what he’s supposed to be looking at. “Here?”

“Nowhere else we’d go.”

Spamton does fish the cigarettes out of his pocket then, though this time one of the outer pockets. He flips it to light practiced and easy, so smooth that Tenna doesn’t even see him take out his lighter. 

“You’re gonna sell somebody this.”

“The… lighter?”

Spamton laughs, an amused cackle that isn’t nearly so funny when you’re not in on the joke. “No,” he says, pocketing the lighter smooth and flipping out something soft and glinting between his fingers instead, “This [arcade prize].”

Tenna squints down at the little thing, glinting in gold, slender as a dream beneath the moonlight. 

“Here,” Spamton says, dropping the toy ring into his palm, “go out there and make [big profit]!”

Alright, Tenna thinks, now Spamton is just being ridiculous. Tenna isn’t a cold-calling door-to-door type of man. His art of the sale is far more about getting to know the contestant, filling the program with prizes that will want to make them go big or go home. Suffice to say, talking off the cuff like this hadn’t been in his idea of the plan. 

“Now hold the phone there, partner,” Tenna says, “I think you’re forgetting I’m not a native! Who am I supposed to be selling to, exactly?”

“There,” Spamton says, pointing out one of the more determined figures, patrolling the area with purpose in their stride, “That one. Little bit of a cop, if you ask me, but you’re the [straight and narrow] type yourself, huh? You’ll get along great. Now go sell that ring!”

Spamton slaps Tenna’s knee for emphasis, a sting that rings metallic up his spine. 

“But what do you want me to tell them?” Tenna asks, turning the tiny thing between his fingers, terrified he might actually smash it with one wrong move, “Wouldn’t want to accidentally con someone!” Who doesn’t deserve it, at any rate, Tenna thinks, staring down at Spamton with a particularly pointed intensity, not quite a plead. When Spamton had promised him private lessons, this isn’t exactly what Tenna had in mind. 

“Tell ‘em anything!” Spamton says, perhaps the most useless advice Tenna has ever received, “It’s only a con if they don't leave convinced enough to believe it! Now get out there and make [big profit], pal!”

Tenna is still unsure of how this is any different than the dishonest business practices that Spamton had railed out against earlier, but at the very least, it’s a good practice run. It isn’t, after all, as if he’ll be taking anyone’s money. Just a bit of time and attention, and, well, people pay him for that very service all the time. 

So it’s not that bad a deal, Tenna convinces himself, and not really a scam at all. He has plenty of practice reading off the terms and conditions of a nice little prize package, and so long as he doesn’t outright lie about what a little toy ring can do for a person, there shouldn’t be any harm in it.

Play along, he reminds himself, steeling himself for the now-or-never. He goes through his pre-show routine--takes a breath he doesn’t need, straightens his tie, puts on the smile he’s trademarked--and prepares himself to put on a performance like the audience has never seen. 

Tenna steps out from the back of the convertible and sets his first true foot on Cyber City pavement, a touch surprised at just how solid it feels beneath his soles. This city feels like a dream in untouchable neon, an illusion he might fall through with a wrong shift of his weight. But it’s solid as can be, and with each stride towards the unfamiliar Darkner he gains confidence, suddenly certain that this won’t be a challenge at all. If Spamton can do it, then Tenna should be able to, easy as homemade pie. 

He waves a beckoning hand, pleased as the Darkner rushes over, clearly eager to hear the pitch he’s brewing. But before Tenna can so much as get a word out--“I haven’t seen you before, wee-woo! You’re not spreading malware around, are you? We Ambyu-Lances don’t tolerate any viruses in our city!”

“M-Malware?”

It’s not a term Tenna is particularly familiar with besides a few passing mentions on daytime news segments, the likes of which Tenna always got the sense were more background noise for a bit of cooking or cleaning than anything. Unsatisfied with his lack of answer, the Ambyu-Lance raises up their hammer, as clear a call to action as anything. 

Tenna raises his hands, pinching the ring as carefully and tightly as he dares between thumb and pointer, praying the Ambyu-Lance takes no offense. “I’m Mister Ant Tenna! From the TV World! I’d bet my bottom dollar that you’ve seen me on TV before!”

Tenna flashes a made-for-TV grin, shiny as can be. 

The Ambyu-Lance hardly reacts. “Never heard of you. You sure you’re not dragging in the viruses? What’s that you’ve got in your hand?”

Despite his smarting pride, Tenna doesn’t let his grin fall. “It’s a good-luck charm!” Tenna says, the lie flying from him more instinct than thought, “And it’s for sale!”

The Ambyu-Lance eyes him warily. “What do you want for it?”

“Nothing but your time!” 

The Ambyu-Lance takes a step back, hammer raising again. “You don’t want money? Unauthorized free downloads can be dangerous!”

“No, I…”

Why is this so difficult? Tenna thinks, internal wires sparking, little embers of panic fluttering to the bottom of his chest and weighing there disproportionately heavy. At this rate he’ll end up staining the interior of his machinery, and the last thing he needs is to take time out of his busy day to deal with that.

He’s supposed to be playing dumb, not incompetent. If Spamton thinks he’s not worth his weight in this deal, he might decide to cut his losses–and Tenna can’t afford that, not now. 

Do not shrink, Tenna wills himself, feeling it coming on, No time to shrink! He’s no expert, but he can say with certainty that this Ambyu-Lance will absolutely assume he’s infected with this “malware” nonsense then.

“It’s a free sample!” Tenna pivots quick, whispering to the Ambyu-Lance as if making an aside to an imaginary audience, “Just a trial size. We couldn’t sell this for full price.”

The Ambyu-Lance eyes the ring warily still, no closer to taking it from between Tenna’s fingers than they had been at the start of the conversation. “You said it gives good luck? In what? What’s the .exe?”

“In…” Tenna pauses to think. Surely there’s something out there no Darkner can resist, a puzzle that can be solved by only a ring, a charm, a little bit of movie magic superstition--“Love!”

The answer bursts from him like a rainbow after the storm, flickering to life with the afterimage of Lanino and Elnina’s faces on the morning weather report. 

“Love?”

“LOVE!” exclaims Tenna, seeing his line clear as a teleprompter on live TV, “Why is a dashing Darkner like yourself alone on a late night? The single life is a grand old time, but doesn’t the weather always stick together? A nighttime cloud is more radiant when the moon is behind her to illuminate her soft edges! And that’s what you can have with this nice little sample-sized ring here!” 

“...It’s really free?”

The relief in Tenna’s grin is real as he replies, dripping grand-prize appeal, “Free as can be!”

There is a pause. A long, long pause, in which Tenna feels the metaphorical sweat drop start to plip down his back. Then, with an appraising glance, slow in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination, “ You’re giving it to me?”

Uh-oh. Tenna is no stranger to a bit of attention, and if some of it is a bit more… intense than others, well. Tenna doesn’t mind that, so to speak. But at a time like this? In a place like this? Out of his element with no exit strategy at such a vital stage of this so-called “partnership”-- 

Partnership?

Spamton. 

“Sorry,” says Tenna, dropping the ring in the Ambyu-Lance’s outstretched hand before raising his own in hasty farewell, “But my partner’s waiting for me.”

And with that, Tenna makes his ungraceful exit, scuttling back to the convertible where Spamton looks on in amusement, popping the back door open for him with the press of a button on the dash. 

“I’ve gotta admit,” he says, watching Tenna fall in with a flurry of motion, “I didn’t think you had it in ya, [partner].” 

Spamton smacks him hard on the knee, then again, a series of too-friendly pats that accompany warm barks of laughter, approval written clear across the lax lines of his face. It’s a new expression on him, but no less devilishly handsome. If anything, it’s even more dangerous. Makes you forget just how he must be scheming up telephone scams, or “email” cons, or, or, oh, Tenna doesn’t know. Marriage fraud, maybe. 

Because of course he’s the sort of man to keep fake rings in his pocket, Tenna thinks, he’s the type to fake a proposal at a restaurant just for a free bottle of wine. The thought of it nearly makes him laugh, unflattering and loud, and Tenna sends himself into a coughing fit trying to stifle it to something more appropriate. 

Spamton’s hand stills on his knee, looking genuinely concerned at the sudden fit. “Hey, hey, get it together, buddy! You’re givin’ yourself a real bad case of static, there.”

There’s no need to point it out. Tenna can feel it flickering over his face in waves of grey, warmer than the color makes it out to be. But at least it’s not color bars. Now that-- that would be mortifying. The waves subside, and, satisfied Tenna’s not about to keel over, Spamton asks--“You have fun?”

Tenna doesn’t think about it; he nods before the rest of him can catch up. It probably shouldn’t have been--the adlibs, the sweet talk, the downright dastardly sales pitch there at the end–but Tenna can’t remember the last time he’s felt challenged like this, both out of his element and yet so utterly in the TV groove. He was being watched, there at the end, not only by the Ambyu-Lance but by the entire park. Even now eyes are turning towards them, the two stars sharing a moment down to earth. 

“That’s what you need,” Spamton says, flashing him a smile that catches the light through the windshield, so obviously practiced and yet so much more genuine when it’s just the two of them together in this little car, like a fond little secret shared between conspirators.

Tenna, who wasn’t quite listening, can only reply with a dumb—“Huh?”

Spamton huffs out half a laugh at him, but at the very least, it doesn’t feel insulting. “That sense of [fun]! That [heart-pouding], [circuits-racing], [mind-blowing] excitement. The reason you keep a [captive] audience every week! That’s what your show’s missing these days.” 

Tenna frowns at him. If the hint of fangs slip into his tone, well. This time, he’s well and certain that Spamton deserves a bit of warning. “Are you insinuating my shows are boring? They’re a spectacular! I only put the best entertainment programming cable’s ever known on the air!”

“Didn’t say you didn’t,” Spamton says, flicking ash out onto the pavement, “But who’s gonna tune in if they can’t tell the newest episodes from the reruns? TV and business aren’t like [fine dining], pal. The formula only works until it gets old.

“Gameshows,” Spamton continues, waving a hand to the air, “Ain’t any fun to watch if you already know who’s gonna [win].”

Tenna clenches his fists, hating the way he can’t argue. Play along at home all you like, but the game’s got no point when you know all the answers. A game show rerun gets flicked off faster than anything else with a dissatisfied murmur of nothing on TV today.

“That’s your [newest], [shiniest] minigame,” Spamton says, a non-sequitur that has Tenna scrambling to keep pace, “Take it or leave it.”

“Take it or…?”

“Yeah,” Spamton says, “[Take it or leave it]. That’s the title, see? The [host] or [celebrity guest] or whoever you wanna have [sharing the stage] sells the [lucky contestants] on an item. Maybe it’s [solid gold], maybe it’s a [prize pack] from the [junkyard]. If they take it, then they get it. If they leave it…” Spamton snaps his fingers, and like sleight of hand, another ring appears between his fingers, digital gem glittering rainbow beneath the neon lights. “Then they get the other, [secret] prize.”  

That sounds like a game for you, not for me, Tenna thinks in the same breath he knows it’s not entirely true. He’d just done it, hasn’t he? He loves the chance to break from the script and have some fun, doesn’t he? So long as it’s on his terms, then doesn’t that make the show all the more exciting? 

But. 

Tenna fiddles with his thumbs in his lap. “We’re not so keen on giving out physical prizes. Points keep everything in house, y’know?”

Spamton scoffs, dropping ash from his cigarette over the door and onto the pavement below before resuming talking with his hands. “Points this, points that. Lemme tell ya what you’ve gotta do, alright? You take some real [certified junk] and make the prize pool. But all [swirled up] in the [trash heap]’s a few real glimmers of [gold]. That’s how ya keep them hooked, get it? Like playin’ a spin of the gacha machine.”

Tenna tilts his head. “The what?”

“Haven’t heard of it? No problem, no problem. We’ll get ya [global] in no time, huh? Which, speaking of… I’ve got a [golden opportunity] for you,” Spamton says, reaching into his inner pocket and plucking an envelope from it. It’s sleek and modern, emblazoned with velvety black embossing and an intricately penned “S”. It reeks of money and fame--not that it’s a bad thing. Tenna has his own very similar set on his desk back in the office. It’s good for brand recognition. (Not that there’s anyone in TV World that doesn’t know who Tenna is, but. The point stands.)

Ever-so-carefully, Tenna breaks the seal on the tiny envelope and plucks out the equally as sharp letter inside, gaze sweeping over it quickly. He’d expected an “email”, all plain typeface, one line indistinguishable from the next, but instead he’s greeted with personalized stationary and crunched, slightly lopsided cursive--until the signature line, at least, where a sweeping, practiced name like an autograph takes up three whole lines, practically overshadowing all that comes before.   

Still, the invitation is clear enough. 

“A live show?”

All Tenna’s shows are, by definition, live. The studio audience knows to pull their weight so they don’t have to pull out the canned laughter or the pre-recorded applause, and Tenna’s long since mastered the art of playing them in his favor. What kind of host would he be otherwise? 

“Right here in Cyber City,” Spamton says, blowing the last bit of smoke to the digital wind, the old burn of it catching fragrant as it wafts through the endless night. 

“Spamton. I appreciate the effort, but I don’t think another show for Darkners is--”

“Pal. How’re you gonna impress the Lightners if you can’t get a handful of Darkners to join your [fanclub]?”

It’s not ideal. It all seems like nothing but a detour, a glorified waste of time that gets him nowhere closer to his true goal. But. Play along, Tenna reminds himself, if you chase him away now, you might never get another chance.

So instead he puts on his best host voice and says, clapping hands together with exaggerated delight, “That sounds like a season finale spectacular to me!”

Spamton looks him over once, then twice, then lets that devilish grin split his lips again, another little secret, another little deal, another thread tying them deeper into this arrangement they’re both so confident they’re going to win. “Then let’s get this [show on the road], partner.”

And without so much as another word--the engine roars to life once more, howling down the Cyber City backstreets and cutting a road to home.

Notes:

Sorry for missing last week's chapter. As expected, I was completely overwhelmed by moving and maybe wrote like 1000 words the entire week (;o;) That said I've been trying to write ~2k a day to get back on track so hopefully that won't be a common occurrence anymore!! Also thank you again for all the lovely comments; unfortunately I have fallen horrifically behind in replying but I do read them all and hoard them like a greedy little squirrel atop a pile of acorns ehehe

 

more importantly, HOW ABOUT THOSE PLUSHIES HUH.... very cruel and evil for them to drop Tenna plush right after I walked into the actual fangamer store and bought like 100000000 dollars worth of pins and gacha stuff. luckily they probably won't come to my fangamer store for a while right. right-- (sweats) anyway I also got the cute little blue angel spamton acrylic clip and he gives me cuteness aggression. why is he so adorable. he's a sleazy little salesman. stop that. (oh god is this how Tenna feels--)

Chapter 6

Summary:

With preparations for the live show underway, Spamton continues forging ahead with his slow and steady [TV takeover]. Tenna's playing the game, too, that he's sure of--but if the game happens to be oddly... nice? Then, well. Things could be [worse quality] at [higher prices] than that.

Let it never be said that Spamton doesn’t go the distance for his Darkner clients, even if they’re by far the less [valuable] side of the business. This TV Time special edition’s going to be the best [one-night only] [smash hit spectacular] the Cyber World’s ever seen, and let it never be said that Spamton doesn’t know how to give the people what they want.

Tenna’s a… more [assembly required] sale than Spamton had initially pegged him for, and with the phone still uncharacteristically [dead on the line] when it comes to all things regarding his TV World dealings, Spamton figures [no news] is [good news], and he pushes preparations forwards with every intention to make this a—in his own words—spectacular that Tenna won’t be able to deny. Like hell Spamton is settling without his shows, his features. Time might be ticking down for [cable television networks], but Spamton’s gotten a glimpse of a [brighter] future, and renovating the entire place for the [digital era] is just another tick on the [creative control] agenda, however bad TV World might want to cling to [reruns] and [outdated specials].

Spamton, though--Spamton has a [vision] of what this world could be at its maximum potential, and a new aesthetic will do [never-before seen wonders] at convincing the [sponsors] of the same. Hell, by that point--maybe he can even get Tenna to [sign on the dotted line] on the agreement for it. 

But one sale at a time, Spamton G Spamton, he reminds himself, striding into TV World with the confidence of a man who belongs, one [easy sale] at a time. 

 

Spamton gives Tenna the pitch in the dressing room, a sparkling little charm of a place that’s becoming about as familiar to Spamton as his own in the Mansion, and certainly more familiar than any old [dump] he may or may not have once [loitered around] in times of [slanderous misfortune].

“This,” he says, pointing at the printouts plastering the whiteboard he’d dragged out of a dusty corner with the help of a Pippins Spamton swears he sees around every turn, “is going to be Mister Ant Tenna’s Live Show Spectacular, a [one night show] with [brand new games], [celebrity guest stars], and [prizes] like you’d [never believe]!”

“Prizes?” Tenna asks, hands twitching nervously. The man’s abso- fuckin’ -lutely got a stack of filched [jewels] sitting somewhere around this studio, and as soon as he’s got some [spare change] for time, Spamton’s decided to make it his mission to find out just what and where. But that’s nowhere in the remote vicinity of urgent, so Spamton continues on bold with his pitch. 

“Prizes like you’ve [never-before-seen]!” Spamton winks, then adds, in dramatic stage whisper, “All courtesy of my [generous sponsors], of course. Wouldn’t want you going [out of pocket] for what’s supposed to be an [all-expenses included] package, huh?”

“You don’t need me to contribute… anything?” If he had brows, they’d certainly be furrowed. Spamton might actually praise him, if he liked the guy any more--nothing [good in life] is [free]. At least not for the poor sap taking the deal. 

Spamton raises his hands, a clean slate, nothing [hidden up his sleeves]. “What kind of [clearance event] planner would I be if I couldn’t handle the whole thing, pal? You’re the guy takin’ the [risky venture]. My job here’s makin’ sure you don’t come out in the [red], see?”

Slowly does Tenna nod, the weight of his gaze heavy on Spamton’s shoulders. He’s not entirely convinced that Spamton doesn’t have ulterior motives with something regarding this live show, clearly, but he’ll still walk out of here agreeing with every word Spamton’s said. That’s the power of a [too-good-to-be-true] kinda pitch, Spamton thinks, when you’re the kinda guy that can make ‘em real. 

“As for the [main event]... You're doing a quiz show,” Spamton says, not breaking a sweat as he points to the center of the board, “Easy stuff. Easier than building you a whole [physical challenge] set, huh?”

Tenna nods along, though Spamton had no intentions of listening even if he’d protested. 

“Some good, [clean], family-fun,” he continues, in his element now, “Not too different than your usual fare. Should be [no assembly required] on the host end, huh?”

Tenna continues to nod along like a [souvenier bobblehead], the sure sign of a sales pitch about to hit home. Spamton continues, voice raising naturally, upping the bravado along with it, “As for the questions, leave all that to me! You’re gonna need a [variety pack] [tailor-made] for the Cyber City crowd, and I know for a fact we’ve got some different [crowd-pleasers] when it comes to [trivia night].”

Spamton laughs, then hops up onto the chair opposite Tenna, leaning over the folding table slightly to drive home his next point. “Now, it’s that pesky little [minigame segment] that’s gonna need some [cooperative effort], if you’re pickin’ up what I’m sayin’.” Spamton turns Tenna’s attention to the one space on the whiteboard not covered in printouts and plucks up a marker from Tenna’s side of the table, snapping open the cap with a satisfying, one-handed pop. “Got one decided [game set and match]. You leave that one all to me, got it, [partner]? [Deal or no deal], [take it or leave it]. That’ll be our closer. It’s the first one with our [special guest] that’s gonna need some real [creative thinking], see? It’s gotta be the [newest] and [greatest], a real [NEO] kinda idea, you feel me?”

Yet again does Tenna nod, this time hesitantly. This is the kinda talk that makes him nervous, the sorta thing his poor little head’s gotta have a [rock-hard time] processing, the type of [forward-thinking] [free innovation] that the outdated [scrap heap] just isn’t capable of--

“Wait,” Tenna says, “what about a video game?”

That’s… Spamton opens his mouth to gently deter what was doubtless a suggestion some level of idiotic only to snap his jaw back shut with a click so loud it’s practically echoing. Wait an [instant sale] second.

“That’s not a [half-price] idea, partner. What did you have in mind?”

Tenna puffs up with obvious pride, an extra flicker of life behind his screen. He might as well have had the lightbulb over his head go off. “Do you remember the racing game from the green room?”

Okay, Spamton thinks, so the CRT’s not a complete [lump of junk]. Between this and that cute little sales pitch he pulled the other day, Spamton’s starting to think that he might actually be able to pull at least some of his weight in this partnership. 

“There’s also an RPG if–”

Spamton waves a dismissive hand. “Too long, too long! Get back to the [racing action]! What’re you proposing? Got some [fast and furious] action for our lucky competitors?”

“Now that sounds like a blockbuster,” Tenna replies, in the sort of tone someone making a mental note of something brilliant tends to use, “Why not bring in audience members? Twelve players, but only one can come away with the bonus prize!”

“Now you might be on to something,” Spamton says, buying himself a moment to think. It’s not Queen’s favorite, admittedly. She’s got far more of a preference for those arcade cabinet classics, if her collection is anything to go by, and this was the game Spamton was fully intending to rig in her favor. But she’s got herself her own fancy little [ride] courtesy of one Spamton G. Spamton and has never seemed impartial to a bit of [fine racing] herself. Given the CRT’s [limited stock] options, Spamton’s willing to call it the best they’re going to get. “You know, that’s actually starting to sound like the best idea I’ve heard all day. I’ll make us a [custom track], how about that?” 

“You can do that!?” Tenna leans forwards in his chair, far enough that if he’d been any more enthusiastic, he might have just toppled out of it [wholesale], taking the whole folding table with him.

Spamton’s starting to not hate that downright stupid honestness of his, if only for the ways it makes him so terribly easy to impress. “Buddy. You can do anything with the right [tools].” 

Tenna’s antennae all but shoot out of his head in excitement. First up, then straight towards Spamton, his own personal little spotlight. It’s flattering, really. [Outdated CRT] sure knows how to play up the [ego], Spamton thinks, tugging at his lapels, unable to stop the cocky grin that lands on his lips as Tenna asks, still as excited as can be, “Can you show me?”

Spamton takes the time to think that one over. It’s not exactly in the terms of their deal, but what’s the harm? The CRT’s not gonna decide to pull out on their deal just because he’s learned how to [hack] a few ROMs. Sure it might keep the Lightners’ eyes on him a bit longer, but not enough to boost ratings. All in all--a safe enough [concession] for an extra bit of impressed trust, even if it wasn’t exactly in the [fine print].

“Sure, why not? You and I can make it. A true collaboration!”

S comes before T; his name will be first on the credits no matter how they slice it. It’s not as if anybody in this whole damn world dares call him “Ant”. 

Tenna grins, screen flickering with a light that nearly starts casting shadows around the room before he coughs, sharp and conspicuous into his fist. Still, he’s only barely more composed as he continues, praise spilling from him like curses do from drunkards, “Wonderful! Excellent! It sounds like we have a smash hit on our hands!” A pause, then--”Have you ever played it?

Yes, Spamton instinctively opens his mouth to reply before catching himself. If they’re making this [minigame] together, then best not to flap his mouth on [unfamiliar ground]. “A long time ago,” he says instead, “Might need a big refresher before we go in and [mangle the code].”

Tenna either doesn’t catch the lie or doesn’t care, instead chattering on about arranging a game in the breakroom with a few of TV World’s experts between takes. Spamton only half listens, too caught up in visions of his soon-to-be event—and, arguably more importantly, the absolute trip of an after party that’s going to follow. The game is just a game, the means to an end, another [cog] in the [machine]. Really, Spamton thinks, how hard can it be? 

 

 

---

 

 

The answer, as it turns out, is repulsively.

“Spamton? Do you… want to take a break?” Tenna asks, looking over at him with a concern so overbearing it’s practically radiating out of him like a [DVD screensaver] bouncing around an empty room.

“Like. Hell.” Spamton grits out between teeth clenched so hard it’s probably about to do permanent damage to his jaw, slamming the A button with no shortage of [righteous hatred] and [justified fury]. 

Going slower after slamming into another car? Lightner game or not, it’s unthinkable enough that whoever developed the damn thing should go [burn] in a [conveniently placed] [acid bath] courtesy of one Spamton G Spamton’s [boundless generosity]. Spamton grips his controller hard enough to make the plastic creak as his cart rounds the final turn in a miserable tenth place.

The game comes to an end as the final two carts cross the finish line just split seconds after, flicking fast to the victory screen--and while Spamton and Tenna are saved the indignity of last place by the final two CPUs, it’s a far cry from the top that their so-called [amateur] competitors have stolen, effortless as a spring breeze.

Lanino and Elnina shuffle slightly further down the sofa, forecasting the black cloud about to manifest over Spamton’s head and start spitting lightning. Were Spamton not currently some of the most tilted he’s ever been in his life, he might have counted that as a point in their favor. 

Ultimately he’s not particularly worried about them and their place in his slow takeover--they’re a pair of wet blankets, the two of them--but when he’s the one ruling the [silver screen], they’re going to have to know who to answer to. He doesn’t want them getting any big ideas about who the real [no 1] is going to be once Tenna takes his exit from the scene. Seniority means nothing, Spamton thinks, except a failure to make [hot deals] and reap the [promotional benefits]. 

“How about we skip the warm-up and get started?” Tenna asks, setting down his controller in what’s clearly an attempt to smooth the mood. It doesn’t work—in fact, there’s nothing Spamton hates more than a thinly-veiled order to [cool his jets]—but it’s hardly going to help his [consummate professional] image if he starts throwing a fit over a goddamn [children’s game].

“Sure, sure,” he says, playing it off cool as he sets his ever-so-slighty dented controller aside, “You got a good space for us to [get to work], big guy?” 

Spamton’s brought along a little terminal for them to work through the code on, because he doubts TV World keeps anything [high-tech] enough to get the job done, tucked away in a briefcase left beside the couch. He reaches for it now, assuming that they’ll be heading to Tenna’s dressing room, as they always seem to do--but much to his surprise, Tenna bounces to his feet, waving a sweeping hand towards the prize bar. 

“There’s a shortcut,” Tenna whispers, as if an aside to his audience of one. Nevermind the fact Lanino and Elnina clearly know about it, as do the dozen other employees killing time in the break room. Spamton bites down his [feature film worthy] reply and simply follows, taking at least a minor glimmer of humor from the way Tenna has to nearly bend down double to fit in the cramped interior. 

Spamton, of course, has no such problem, instead sweeping in leisurely, wondering why no one’s ever offered to treat him to one of the [deluxe bottles] they’ve got hiding around back here amongst the piles of old prizes and [dollar store junk]. 

And speaking of hiding--There’s a bartender standing in the corner, nearly blending into the shadows, silent with dark eyes. No matter how Spamton looks at him, it’s clear he’s out of place-- What’s a plugboy doin’ in a place like this, huh?

Darkner transplants are anything but unheard of--the Pippins, Spamton knows, all originally hail from a Kingdom of [gamblers], [clowns], and [splooty children] better off not given the space in the brain. But this one… Something, though Spamton can’t quite pin down what, flags an [error in the code].  

You know me? Spamton almost thinks to ask, before realizing what a ridiculous question that is. Anyone from Cyber City--hell, the whole Cyber World, really--should know who Spamton is. A bit of [uncomfortable staring] is just par for the course. So Spamton ignores it, brushing it off the same way he might any other minor inconvenience. 

If it is anything important, Spamton thinks, keeping an ear out for a ring he doesn’t need to be in [close proximity] to hear, he’ll know about it. If there’s anything he knows for sure, then it’s that. 

In the mean time, Spamton simply follows Tenna down the hall without a word otherwise, into a place he hasn’t yet seen. 

“You gotta place like this in here?” Spamton asks, gazing around the expanse of the room. It’s perhaps second only to one of the sets in sheer size; Spamton could see cameras and equipment filling the back half of it easy. A grand screen spans the entire far wall, perfect for playing background effects or staging a [deluxe] [movie marathon], not that it would be any good for [broadcasting purposes]. 

He hadn’t expected something like this from a place like this. It’s got the makings of a downright setup, though it’s clear the sofa has seen better days. Strangely enough, though, the room is fairly barren, borderline unfinished. Either Tenna doesn’t care much for this place, which seems strange, given his excitement to bring Spamton here, or it’s still a [new billboard coming soon]. 

“Didn’t think you had the kinda place to [watch] instead of [film].”

Spamton glances up at Tenna, who doesn’t return the motion as he replies, glancing around the room with pride, “Mike got it done for us a while back!”

Mike?

Now Spamton’s no expert, but he’s had himself a nice little [flip-through] of Tenna’s contracts while backs were [conveniently turned], and he doesn’t remember anyone named Mike on the books.

Spamton follows the line of Tenna’s gaze, swears he catches the faintest hint of unreality glimmering in the gaps between the pink and yellow of his sunglasses, that tantalizing something that whispers in his ear like a promise on the phone, clear as [day] between the static calls. 

…Mike, huh?

There’s only two options here--either Spamton is right, or he’s right. He might as well try shooting his shot, because intel’s just as [priceless] a [special product] as anything, especially if he wants to keep Tenna playing nice. And so he says, with an offhandedness that’s deceptively casual, “Oh, Mike? I know Mike.”

Tenna all but leaps out of his suit, staring down at him with obvious shock. “You do!?”

“Yeah, great guy! Lemme guess. A real [go-getter] behind the scenes for ya?”

Tenna nods enthusiastically. “He’s so good I’ve never even seen him! He’s a model employee! Never complains, never makes mistakes, here all hours of the day--”

So the CRT doesn’t know what he’s got, does he? 

That’s fine by Spamton. It’ll make things easier down the line, when it’s Spamton calling the shots and all [forces unknown] have learned exactly whose side they should be on between the two of them. After all—only one of them’s getting a free ticket [up], and it certainly isn’t going to be Tenna.

“Now that’s the kinda [elbow grease] you like to see [behind the scenes],” Spamton replies, cutting off Tenna’s high praises midway and making himself at home on the couch. He pats a hand on the empty cushions besides. It’s large enough that they’ll both fit, even if the [lump of junk] is frustratingly [BIG] back in his [domain]. 

“How does all this work?” Tenna asks as he settles down, knees up comically high, which is a refreshing surprise. He’d half-expected Tenna to assert himself the authority in all things [hot new games] like so many of his other Darkner clients, convinced they know more than some [lowly] [little] [salesman] ever could about his own product. 

“What, big [star] like you never seen [behind-the-scenes]?”

Tenna shakes his head, sending a soft hum vibrating out through the dim theatre. 

“Then you’re in [good hands],” Spamton says, opening up his briefcase with a click of the latch and setting the terminal on his lap for the lack of anything better, “Now sit down, [partner]. I’ll show you everything there is to know about these [bad boys].”

A few explanations and a bit of programming lectures later, it’s funny, Spamton thinks, what the [damn CRT] knows and what he doesn’t. One mention of [digital downloads] and his wires start twisting like [panicked snakes], but Spamton can chat his [receptors] off about [RNG] and [enemy AI variables] and [fun values] and the man’ll nod along like it’s second nature. 

Spamton spends some time looking him over as Tenna learns how to adjust the [out of bounds] parameters on their test track, looking for any hint of plugs, something that indicates just what the CRT can [take]. If he’s playing games in the [light world], that’s gotta mean he’s got at least one adapter somewhere, a few dials that’ll be good to know in a [pinch]--

But just as Spamton thinks he might have spotted something poking over the ridge of his outdated suit jacket, Tenna’s fingers freeze on the keys. 

“Spamton? Is there a… reason? You’re staring at me?”

What, getting a little [hot] under the collar? Spamton thinks to tease him, but that’s a step too far, implications that hardly befit the sort of [partnership] Spamton intends. A bit of flustering the [boob tube] is all well and good, but claiming responsibility for the results is something Spamton would rather wash his hands of. No need to make things [messy].

Instead he only shakes his head, returning his attention to the screen, the lines of code coming together, the results of Tenna’s cosmetic fiddling with the track. “Not at all, [partner]. Not at all.”

Tenna pauses, fingers still frozen over the keyboard that’s simply far, far too small for him--but says nothing as he returns to clicking carefully away, adjusting one variable after the next in a silence not uncomfortable, though certainly not companionable. Work is work, Spamton finds himself thinking, though if pressed, he wouldn’t be able to explain why. It’s just better, he supposes, when it’s not entirely miserable. 

---

 

 

They don’t finish the mod that day, because, in Tenna’s words— TV stops for no one! and he’d run off for some emergency late-night broadcast or another, but with nowhere better to be, Spamton continues plucking away at it as the hours slip passed. The sooner the better, in his opinion--in his mind’s eye, he can just see the wrath he’ll be subjected to if Tenna doesn’t have the mod in his hands on schedule and a full week early for the show proper. It only takes one look at that damn contract room to learn the man’s a [control freak], and his cute attempts at [threats] have the potential to be something very [real boy] should Spamton do the unthinkable and play him wrong. 

Not that Spamton would ever be scared of a [pushover] like Mister Ant Tenna, of course. 

But if he’s already working on it, might as well finish it. 

He’s about 90% of the way through modelling a [custom ride] he’s sure a certain [rich and royal] will [choose me] when the door creaks open, soft as a whisper, loud as a [shot] in the long silence. 

“...Spamton? Are you really still here?”

Spamton glances over his shoulder and cracks a bleary eye at Tenna’s genuine surprise, then glances at his wristwatch. Honestly, he hadn’t noticed the time. It’s dark in here (though in all fairness, it’s always dark outside, too), and it’s not as if Spamton has anything better to do then focus on this deal now that Queen’s ads have been rolled out and plastered over Cyber City. Until she gets a new [harebrained scheme] she wants him to promote, at least, but that’s neither [here] nor [there]. 

“What, can’t see me without a [nightlight]?” Spamton asks, unafraid to let the sarcasm hang heavy in his tone, “If you need a [PC tune up 60% off], I’m [all hands on deck].”

“No, I’m fine! I’m glad you’re still working on the project,” Tenna says, a comment that reveals far more of his true intentions than he must think it does, even as his hand shifts to his chest defensively, “but you don’t have other jobs to get to?”

Spamton puts on an easy grin he doesn’t feel. Now that he’s snapped out of the [trance], he’s suddenly aware of all the ways his head is [poundcake] and trains of thought are getting [garbage noised]. 

His fingers twitch, either for a cigarette or a hit of something stronger, a flash of [career suicide] if Tenna were to catch so much as a glimpse. Annoyed with himself, Spamton leans back and laces his fingers over his chest, feeling the comforting edge of his sharpest little [treasure] press into his chest through the fabric. “Nope. Makin’ sure this show goes off without a [hitching post] is my number one priority.”

“...Oh,” says Tenna, dumbly, as if he hadn’t expected that answer, “Thank you.”

Backlit by the light of the hall, his shadow stretches long into the theatre room, falling over Spamton and shading his eyes from the sharp fluorescent overheads of the hall. He still has to squint against it, the consequence of locking himself in dark rooms far, far too often, but it’s not quite as jarring as it could be, which saves him a bit of [corrupted data] in the brain. 

“Hold on,” Tenna says, raising a hand in motion to wait, “stay here.”

“Not goin’ anywhere, [buddy],” Spamton replies, but Tenna’s already turned on his heel, making a [swift retreat] down the hall as the door swings shut behind him, submerging Spamton in the [dark, darker] once more. 

“What,” he says aloud, “can’t afford a [satisfaction guaranteed] overhead light in here?”

Nothing happens, of course, because try as he might, Spamton is [Lord] of no domain, and try as he might, the TV World’s not bending to his every whim and [fancy teanset] yet. 

So.

Spamton considers his options. He could sit here in the dark until Tenna makes his [triumphant return] and theoretically sticks around long enough for Spamton to ask him where the [switch] is, which would be useful enough information to know, or…

Couldn’t hurt. 

“Hit the [lights], Mike!” Spamton tries--and in a flutter of pink and yellow sparks, the overhead lights burst to life, sudden enough that Spamton is forced to duck and cover his eyes, blinking against the flash of sudden [sunbursts] burning their way into his sights. Spamton swears--once, loudly--but bites back the rest, knowing better than to test his luck. 

“What,” he does dare to grumble, knowing that his [grand deal] probably protects him from anything too on the wrong side of [savory], “Never heard of a [slow fade-in]?”

There is no answer, of course; Spamton hadn’t expected one. These things--these forces in contact with [Heaven]--so rarely seem to talk, and when they do, Spamton takes pride in the fact it’s largely to help him. What greater proof does he need that he’s been [chosen]? That he, and he alone, is the [lucky 100th visitor]? Not that damn clown Spamton can never beat at a [friendly game of cards], not any [oblivious piece of machinery], and certainly not one [failing CRT]. 

It’s him.

Him.

But [patience] is the [virtue] in question, and the [staircase to Heaven] comes one step at a time. First, Spamton thinks, this one. 

He considers going back to the game, but just a look at the code he’d left off on threatens to start his headache back up again. Instead he leans back, kicking off his shoes and propping his feet up on the couch, closing his eyes and wondering just what the harm might be in sleeping here for the night. He’d contemplated it once before, though that had less to do with any actual [shut down imminent] and more everything to do with avoiding Queen and her nagging. 

He tugs at his tie, too, remembering the way Tenna had snapped, wondering if they’re in for a repeat. Maybe that’s why the [line] has been [silent], Spamton thinks. If it’s all just a cycle, then even a [drowning rat] could figure it out eventually. 

But contrary to Spamton’s imaginings, the knock at the door comes quiet and polite, the squeak of rusty hinges following just a moment after as Spamton cracks an eye into the light, watching as the [man of the hour] makes his grand return. 

“You should take a break,” Tenna says, shuffling in the room almost demure, proffering something comically small between his hands--though to Spamton, frustratingly, it’s downright oversized, both in size and in volume. 

It’s a treat, it’s a treasure, it’s the most ridiculous thing Spamton could have possibly imagined--

It’s an [honest-to-god] [goddamn] snack tray. It’s a cute little thing, too, littered with miniature brownies and [human-shaped] nuggets, warm to the touch but not piping hot. There’s even little cups of corn and green beans, accompanied by tea spoons so dainty that Spamton nearly laughs at the idea of Tenna trying to pick one of them up. They might as well be toothpicks for the damn [giant]. 

Spamton squints at the tray as Tenna hands it to him, straightening up just enough that he can prop it on his knees. “Who made this?”

“Me!”

Tenna’s tone leaps with pride, hands clasped like a [schoolgirl] seeking approval from a [schoolyard crush]. Spamton can practically see his tail wagging beneath the rumpled folds of his ancient jacket. 

Now there’s an idea, Spamton thinks, imagining red tailcoats and shiny gold accents that catch the light, even if the [big guy] doesn’t have a real one to [complete] the look. It’s too late to tailor something custom now–that’ll have to wait for the next part of the [masterplan]—but Spamton’s always liked the look of red. Red cars, red ads, red [heart-shaped objects] like SOULS, brighter than any pale [imitation goods]. It’s always caught his eye, always made him wish that he, too, could be a bit more… [bold].  

Spamton plucks up a nugget and bites the head off before waving the remainder Tenna’s direction and asking, “The [star] himself, huh? You do this for just anybody?”

“I am a very generous boss!” Tenna says, though Spamton’s heard the muttering to prove otherwise. Hell--had he not developed a terrible aversion to [sports betting], [roulette tables], and all forms of [card game] thanks to an [unbeatable] and [unwelcome] visitor from years gone, he might’ve joined the betting pool the Pippins had going on when Tenna’d next [blow his top]. 

Spamton lifts an eyebrow at him. “What, so you’re my [bossman] now, big guy? 

Tenna, catching the obvious edge of bite in Spamton’s tone, rushes to correct himself. “No, that wasn’t what I—“

“Yeah, yeah. I see how it is. Can’t leave the [business] to a [measely little consultant], can ya?” Spamton shakes his head dramatically, waves a dismissive hand. The illusion would be best sold with a cigarette dangling from between his fingers, but unfortunately, he’d smoked his last one sometime in the night. “I see how it is. Might as well [pack my bags] and hitch a [ride outta town] once this’s all [in the books], huh?”

The way Tenna starts to fidget in his shoes is worth its weight in [gold], [silver], and [yet unminted coins] that Spamton is eager to con people into converting their savings into. “No, Spamton, really, that wasn’t… We’re partners, aren’t we? No need to lea--”

“[Angels] in [heaven], pal. ‘M not angry at ya. Learn to take a joke, huh?”

The flickers of static over Tenna’s face vanish almost instantly, a relief so palpable it actually starts buzzing faintly through the room, the trademark sound of a CRT that’s [ON] with nothing to broadcast. He knows he needs me, Spamton thinks with vicious satisfaction, a feeling so triumphantly overwhelming that he doesn’t have room for anything else. 

Because honestly, Spamton should have been more annoyed by the slip of the tongue. Working with the guy’s all well and fine as a means to an end, but Spamton would rather keel over on the spot than sign one of the books he calls contracts in this place. Talk about a [violation] of [employee rights].  

But the guy’s just so easy to [bully into the ground] that Spamton, despite himself, is starting to feel a little bad for the [poor sap]. He has to assume that everyone who’s (correctly) pegged him an [easy mark] was scared off by the big [snapping] front he’d put up without ever uncovering the [desperate sucker] down beneath. 

Spamton has to hand that to the guy, if nothing else. For a guy that wears his [heart-shaped object] on his sleeve, he can put on one hell of an [act] when he gets pissed enough. He continues, playing victory into lightheartedness, “What’s a little bit of [friendly banter] between [business partners], huh?” 

“Banter,” Tenna says, though Spamton’s not convinced anything he’s said in the least thirty seconds has actually gotten into that [empty casing] of his, “Right. Right! Business partners! Banter!” He laughs, canned enough that it might as well be the [surgically inserted] sampled from the studio audience for a much better show. “That’s funny! Has anyone ever told you that you should be a comedian?”

“No,” replies Spamton dryly, thinking he’d like to retort right back at ya, save the fact that Tenna has yet to crack a single joke since their first meeting, let alone a funny one. 

Tenna freezes, overacted laughter falling from him like the grin from his lips. “Oh.”

They stare at each other awkwardly, silence heavy on their shoulders. Despite Spamton’s… mild amusement with him, when push comes to shove, it’s moments like this that prove they’re not exactly [partner material]. 

“Do you… want help?” Tenna asks, motioning awkwardly towards the terminal with his hands, which naturally becomes a full-body lean. It’s a good thing that he won’t be the one in charge of [take it or leave it], Spamton thinks--he’d give away the [prize behind the curtain] every time. 

Spamton waves him off with another [winning grin]. “Don’t bother yourself with it, [star]. I’ve got the [goods], I’ve got the [complimentary mints]... What else does a guy need to [get the job done]?”

Honestly, Spamton would rather call it a night here. He doesn’t make mistakes, anyone can attest to that--but if he were to make a mistake now, fixing it will be far more effort than getting it right the first time. 

But. 

“...If you’re sure,” Tenna replies, stepping back with clear reluctance, a tiny little shuffle from a man capable of crossing what feels like half the green room in a single step. 

“Let's call it a favor.” 

“Right,” Tenna agrees, “a favor.”

And then he’s gone, vanished back into the hall for what’s doubtless another program or other, yet another [check] on the never-ending [TV guide] of them. 

Damn [overgrown] [goody-two-shoes], Spamton thinks, snatching a toothpicked brownie from the snack tray and downing it in one bite. Making it feel like I’m doing this for some [scrap heap] . 

Make no mistake, Spamton will make him repay the favor, repay it with [interest] and more--because Spamton G Spamton is no footnote in the [endroll], no [second billing] name listed beneath the star. Just you wait, Spamton thinks, returning to the code, the finishing touches, a burst of [energy] beneath his [wings] from the [soft reset], just you wait.

Notes:

Careful there Spamton, it's almost like you're starting to warm up to the guy a little bit there--

Anyway, the next chapter miiiiiight have to get broken up into two parts. I'm not sure yet. If I miss next week's update because it turns into a monster, I'm sorry in advance. It's... a [BIG] one ehehe

Chapter 7

Summary:

The live show is on! Now whether it's able to stay on, well. That depends on just how much spotlight the host and the heavy-handed producer are willing to share.

Notes:

I definitely had to break this chapter up or else it would have been like, half the length of the total fic so far LOL

Thank you as always for all the comments; I am doing the world's worst job at finding some time to get back to them, but rest assured I'm spending it all writing instead haha

The preparations for the live show whirl by in a frenzy of color and classic extravagance, most of which Tenna is not allowed to see. And it, in a phrase--Drives. Him. Crazy.

Let me help, Tenna’s said, more order than request on more than one occasion, but each time Spamton’s met him with a dismissive wave of his hand and a refusal to meet his gaze. 

Paws off. Leave the prep to the pros, huh? You just worry about memorizing those lines of yours, got it, [star]?

It was almost… sweet, seeing his dedication to the game. To think that Spamton G Spamton, the man who tried to waltz in like he owned the place, would be burning the midnight oil, working tirelessly on something so strictly behind the scenes. Somewhere in Tenna’s mind he’d seemed more like the type to delegate and distribute, taking credit where it’s less than due. 

But he works. Hard, at that. 

Of course, surely it was only ever in service of his own dastardly plan; Tenna has no illusions otherwise. This live show is in Cyber City. If it’s not an opportunity for Spamton to show off, then Tenna doesn’t know what else in the world it might be. 

Tenna leans back in his dressing room chair, tapping a foot idly against the tile, flipping through the script in his hand lackadaisically. He’s already memorized it, of course, crossed out lines and sent it back for revisions six times over before this version had arrived alongside a little pile of “emails”, topped with a sticky note printed with an unmistakable black border-- Hope you [buy] into this one, buddy, because the printer’s about to go on [strike].

Tenna’s still not entirely happy with it, to be honest--Spamton’s given himself a small but present role, announcing the (in his own words) [generous] [never-before-seen] prizes and bouncing off Tenna a bit at the beginning and end, a (again, his words) [limited-time only] twist on the [usual spiel] that Tenna could frankly do without. 

But if allowing these little intrusions makes Spamton happy enough to start spilling his line to the Lightners, then Tenna won’t be the one to protest. It’s about the smaller sacrifices, Tenna’s decided. The winner of this game won’t necessarily be the one to come away with more, but the one that loses less in the process. Because there doesn’t need to be a loser, really--if Tenna can put Spamton on TV, then who’s to say Spamton can’t let loose a secret or two in exchange? It’s a win-win, the perfect series-ender that leaves both the longtime fans and the trend-hoppers perfectly happy with a cult classic. All Spamton has to do, Tenna thinks, is play nice.

Knock, knock.

Which, speak of the devil--

“How’re you feeling, [partner]?” 

Spamton saunters in with hardly so much as a breath between his knock and the creak of the door, unconcerned with the fact this is not his non-existent dressing room. Though he is, certainly, Tenna thinks, dressed.

“Where did you get that?”

“Looks [sharp], doesn’t it?” Spamton tugs at the lapels of his suit jacket, a glitzier than his usual ensemble.

It’s still a black suit, make no mistake, but the fabric is sleek, a hint of shine to it beneath the dressing room lights that Tenna knows from experience will catch dazzling on stage, complimented by silver on the cuffs and lamé accents on his equally dark bowtie, a stark contrast against the pale white shirt. Everything about him is pressed and perfect, and despite himself, Tenna thinks it’s a shame there’s no camera on them right this very second. Tenna had pegged him as a silent film star from the moment he first saw him, and Spamton seems determined to prove him right at every turn. 

“--custom-made,” Spamton continues, though frankly Tenna had missed most of the sentence that came before. “And hey! If all goes [sponsor-approved] on stage, I might be able to [hook you up] with a little [upgrade], too.”

Tenna isn’t sure he likes the way Spamton says that, nor is he given the time to consolidate his thoughts one way or the other. “But enough of the [flattery],” says Spamton, in the sort of tone a man uses when he hasn’t been flattered nearly enough, “You ready to go, [pal]?” 

Tenna tugs at his cuffs self-consciously. He hasn’t ordered himself a fancy new suit for the night. The thought hadn’t so much as crossed his mind. He hasn’t missed the insinuation that he should have, that his current ensemble is out of date for the crowd he’s about to face--But it’s iconic! The symbol of his show! A game show host doesn’t go changing his look so lightly; consistency is what makes the programming timeless. Cyber City--or the glimpses Tenna has gotten of it, anyway--might be neon and glowing, but it’s Tenna’s job to make them fall for a different sort of star. 

Make the best of it, Tenna, he reminds himself, it’s only for one night. 

“Ready to go!” Tenna replies, a cheerful echo that rings bright though the dressing room, no trace of his mounting hesitations to be found. 

“Now that’s what I like to hear!” Spamton replies, and that, as they say in show business, is that. 

 

 

---

 

 

The dress rehearsal is more for everyone else’s sake than for Tenna’s; the Cyber City staff Spamton has hired for the occasion stumble over themselves adjusting the lighting to Tenna’s stature and some of the guests have failed to learn their cues, leading to a not-insignificant amount of clicking back the teleprompter and re-staging the contestants, running things back in a mind-numbing stop-motion that would never fly on the sets of a real TV set. 

Tenna doesn’t pay as much attention to it as he admittedly should; the lack of hand he has in the production makes him uneasy, sends his gaze skittering across the set in search of distraction, of which there are fortunately many to be had. 

There are cameras, Tenna can see, watching the crew dash about confirming this angle and that, trying not to trip over the hastily-taped wires haphazardly crossing the pit, but not any sort that Tenna is familiar with, and apparently not the sort that will be recording. When Tenna had inquired as to what the point of the cameras was, then, Spamton had only laughed and swatted him on the elbow, neither entirely reassuring nor entirely mocking. Got a paid little livestream rigged up. Don’t worry about it, pal.

Tenna’s unfamiliar with the term, but a bit of common sense tells him it must be something akin to a live broadcast, just made for the "internet", whatever that entails. The thought sets him at ease; if the “internet” is involved, then perhaps the Lightners will be watching in their own special way, and if so-- That’s not very different from a regular show at all, now is it?

There’s what Spamton calls the [Cyber City Touch] written across the set, from the digital podiums to the grand, sleek flatscreen standing proud at the back of the stage, piles of computing equipment stacked up on a level that leaves Tenna uneasy and uncharacteristically small when surrounded by them, but the show itself is structured terribly close to some of Tenna’s favorite specials over the years. Like it or not, Spamton has done his homework. All that’s left is to run the show. 

From beyond the curtain, eventually, Tenna begins to catch whiffs of whispers from the crowd, floating up an excited chatter that sends something heart-adjacent in him aflutter, a sound that only grows as the time ticks on, closer and closer to showtime. The dress rehearsal wraps, the staff make their final adjustments, Tenna waits out the minutes until their call time backstage as Spamton vanishes somewhere, off to do (in his words, as always) [greater and smarter] things. Tenna sort of wishes that he wouldn’t come back at all, that he’ll take his disregard for Tenna’s program and vanish off into the night, leaving Tenna to run his show as he pleases. 

But life isn’t such a kind thing, and when when call time comes Spamton is there along with it, looking spick and span and smelling vaguely of heady smoke beneath the oddly static prickle of his cologne. 

“You ready to go on, [partner]?” Spamton grins up at him, overflowing with a devilishly handsome confidence. He oozes it, pulling down his trademark shades to fix Tenna with an expectant stare. But before Tenna can answer, he continues, as if he hadn’t really wanted an answer at all, “Nevermind. I already know what you’re gonna say. Lemme warm ‘em up for ya, how’s that sound?” Spamton elbows him in the side--they’ve been away from the TV World long enough that, despite his best efforts, Tenna can no longer hide the fact he is very visibly smaller--and Tenna is fairly sure that Spamton is relishing in it. 

“Sounds fantastic, partner!” Tenna replies, though his heart is very much not in it. Not that Spamton is lending him much of an ear. By the time Tenna replies, Spamton is already halfway out on stage, waving to a crowd that falls silent at the sight of a celebrity, no matter how locally grown. 

“[Ladies], [gentlemen] and [gamers] of all ages,” Spamton says, whipping his hand mic from his pocket with a bravado that the old hearts like to say died with the talkies, “Now do we have a [show] for you tonight! [Never-before-seen] prizes, minigames, and more! Hell… Tonight’s show is gonna be better than TV!” Spamton proclaims, off-script and blatant enough an insult that Tenna almost lunges for him then and there, ready to signal to one of the Tasques to bite Spamton by the back of the neck and drag him back into the wings like a kitten so Tenna can give him a piece of his mind--

“Aw, don’t get those [wires in a twist]! Gettin’ yourself in a knot’s worse than waiting on [dial up]! Though at least it would give you [retro enthusiasts] something to do while the phone’s ringing.”  Spamton flashes the audience a wink and the crowd laughs along with him, clearly in on a joke Tenna doesn’t understand and can’t help but feel is about him, no matter how roundabout. “Now I’d be happy to [run this special] all night long, but we’ve got a real [tight-wire] schedule to keep. So everybody give it up for tonight’s [star] of the [show]. You know ‘im, you love ‘im… Mister Ant Tenna!”

And just like that, there’s no time to worry about what Spamton was clearly insinuating about TV’s worth; the first step on stage flips a switch, leaves Tenna grinning and bright, alight with an energy that never quite seems to fill him anywhere else, bolstered by the audience’s cheers. Every tap of his feet against the stage feels impossibly light, a steady beat in one-two pairs; the second that spotlight hits him, warm from overheard, it’s as if the entire world narrows down to him, the stage, and the audience, even if a particular family does happen to be missing, four pairs of eyes noticeably lacking from a distant window to another world--

But it’s alright, Tenna tells himself, letting that sparking rush take him, humming along to a theme song he knows even better than he knows himself, some days. This is the cue he’ll never miss, the line he’ll never mistake, never change--“Now, everyone say it with me, folks! It’s TV Time!” 

---

 

 

The game goes well, for what it’s worth. 

Spamton’s kept the trivia to the TV theme, though more than a few of the answers appear to be references to things that Tenna can only imagine must be ad jingles and catch copies, given the way Spamton hums them out when contestants select a wrong answer. If you’re going to sing anything, then at least sing my theme song with me, Tenna wants to say, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize that Spamton doesn’t know it, and wouldn’t care to even if he knew the words. Honestly, half the time Tenna’s convinced that Spamton doesn’t even know his name . 

“Welcome back to Mister Ant Tenna’s TV Time!” Tenna says, striding back on stage all confidence and smiles after a well-earned glass of water during the sponsor segment.

“Produced by Spamton G Spamton,” Spamton chimes in from center stage as the logo flashes behind him, though at least he has the decency to step aside and let Tenna replace him in the spotlight. 

“We’re back on stage with another special challenge for our lucky contestants--” Tenna glances back at said contestants, shuffling back on stage with nervous waves to the crowd-- “but this time, our challenge comes with a twist!” 

An appreciative ohh goes up from the crowd; Tenna has learned to work them on the fly. Not every audience is the same, and the Cyber City crowd’s real big on the cliffhangers and anticipation games. Most everyone appreciates these sorts of things, of course, but tonight especially so, and Tenna leans into them hard, begrudgingly grateful for the amount Spamton had written into the base script. 

“Tonight’s second game,” he continues, leaning in towards the crowd, sharing a secret with all and none, “Will have a few special participants!”

And just like that the crowd begins to chatter, whispers wound up and out through them like waves, a rising tide. 

“Our three lucky contestants, of course,” says Tenna, sweeping his hand to the podium, “but that’s not all! As you can see, we’ve got twelve controllers on stage with us.”

Tasque Manager and Spamton take their cue, unveiling a table full of brand-new Cyber City game controllers, each in a unique custom color scheme. Spamton had been very proud of those; he’d gone so far as to say Tenna should take a few home as a special gift. It’s just another bit of detail work that Spamton’s so good at, the things he does to impress. Tenna tries not to dwell on how impressing someone is the first step in ripping them off.  

“And our first special volunteer will be--”

「Oh」

Tenna glances up, recoiling in shock as someone casts a shadow over the stage in a… Tenna falters. What is that? But no sooner has Tenna set sights on it than he realizes it’s overhead--and it is not. going. to. stop. 

Tenna scrambles back out of range as the… the throne, it seems, takes center stage, swiveling around to reveal a woman in blue leaning so far forward that Tenna’s stunned she hasn’t fallen out of her seat yet. 

「Pick Me Pick Me」

“Of course!” says Tenna, momentarily taken aback to find Spamton echoing his words in exact time. He glares across the stage, but Spamton ignores it in favor of stepping forward, the spotlight following him to Queen’s side. 

“Ladies, [germs], and [gamers], looks like we’ve got [lucky volunteer] [#1]!”

They were always going to pick her, of course; Spamton had informed him well in advance that the Cyber World’s Queen would need a feature. Though we can’t make her a [lucky contestant], see? Can’t have anybody beating Queen in a… [big game] like this. 

Is she a sore loser? Tenna had asked, but Spamton had only shook his head, made a complicated expression, a perplexed twist of his lips. Nah, nah. She’s uh, how would you put it? Well. Doesn’t matter. You’ll see [that deal] real soon.

Tenna didn’t know what that meant at the time and still doesn’t even as she hops off her flying throne--something that Tenna admittedly finds himself staring at for just a moment too long, trying to figure out how it works as it rockets off without her. Never seen autopilot like that, folks, he wants to joke, but surely the Cyber City crowd is used to these sorts of things. Surely they’re normal, here, no matter how they’re Tenna’s science fiction specials. 

In the meantime, Spamton steps forwards, monopolizing center stage as he continues, “Now. Who’s gonna be our lucky number [2]?”

The rest of the contestants are selected randomly, spotlights pouring out from the stage as Spamton and Tenna call the chosen ones up to the stage in turn, trying to make sense of the chaos that is the undulating crowd and the flurry of raised hands surging forwards for a chance at being bathed in that blissful spotlight. It’s a brilliant sort of mess, the sort that would be unthinkable on Tenna’s set and yet seems to fit the swirl of this foreign metropolis just fine. It gets a grin out of him, honest and wide as the special contestants break into victory cheers at their chance for five minutes of fame. 

I should call up the audience more, Tenna thinks, before remembering just what sort of work ethic his particular employees tend to have and consequently why that is an absolutely terrible idea. But there’s no time to dwell, for in less time than it takes to cut to commercial break all controllers but one have been claimed and it’s time for the final cue. 

“And looks like our last contestant,” Tenna says, signalling for the final spotlight to fall with a swipe of his hand from his shoulder, same as Spamton on the other side of the stage--

““--is you!””

Their voices ring out in a time that runs contrary to the amount of time they’ve spent practicing; every time Tenna had attempted to ask him, he’d simply brushed it off with an easy you really think I can’t get one little cue right? and left it at that, much to Tenna’s irritation--but in that second, as twin spotlights fall on an unfamiliar Darkner in the middle of the crowd, they click.

Tenna glances down at Spamton to find Spamton grinning up at him, cocksure and inexcusably handsome as the light catches the lines of his nose, sending shadows skittering from him every which way. See? that smile says, what did I tell ya?

Tenna glances away, unwilling to yield to Spamton’s unrelenting confidence. (But if their every interaction was like this, Tenna allows himself to think, then perhaps all this business with Spamton wouldn’t be quite so bad at all.) 

It’s a motley gang they’ve ended up with, Darkners of all sorts that Tenna can’t say he’s particularly familiar with. But familiarity hardly matters as the controllers are distributed and the contestants coralled, their celebrity guest in Tasque Manager ensuring each one knows the controls as she directs them to their seats, a semicircle of folding chairs facing the flatscreen at the back of the stage. 

Meanwhile, Tenna takes his place at the commentator's podium to the side, Spamton just a step behind. His feet don’t touch the ground once he hops up into his chair, though Tenna’s do with ease. Tenna clears his throat and attempts not to take any satisfaction from that, though it’s admittedly difficult. He’s taller than everyone; that’s just matter of fact. But being taller than Spamton feels like victory in a game they’re not actually playing, and it’s hard not to relish in a victory, petty as it might be. 

They set their hand mics into place with a satisfying click and Spamton shuffles through the script before him. That, too, sends a little thrill of superiority through Tenna; try as Spamton might, he doesn’t have the expertise needed to outpace Tenna at a live show, let alone on TV. A silver tongue and a handsome face will get him far, but it won’t win him the status of beloved family TV any time soon. 

From across the stage Tasque Manager flashes them a nod; the live music quiets, allowing the game’s audio to surge. “It looks like all our hopeful racers are ready! Then let’s count then down, shall, we, folks?” Tenna says, leaning into the mic as he watches the audience, riveted on the soon-to-be action. 

“Three.”

The audience leans forwards, suspended in the moment, rushing into the next with terrible impatience.

“Two.”

The contestants adjust their grips on their controllers, palms sweating, fingers anxious.

 One--”

““ Go! ””

Yet again does Spamton’s voice overlap his, but Tenna has no time to draw back and address it. There is no script to follow during a game, only action and reaction and a quick tongue in a competition where misspeaking means the difference between success and a show gone wrong. TV might have killed the radio star--metaphorically speaking, of course, Tenna would never-- but this is the one skill Tenna can thank his predecessors for in full. The commentary flies from him automatic and thrilled as the buzzer blares, carts blasting from the starting line one after the other in a blur of color that would be the envy of any sports channel. 

“And they’re off, folks! We’ve got a strong pack vying for first place here as we go into the first turn--can’t put on too much speed yet--but it could be anyone’s game! A few contestants have stalled into lap one, but will we see one of them come from behind to take victory?! Or…”

One car is clearly moving faster than the others; the blue chariot in screen 1 piloted by Queen. 

“Looks like we’ve found our frontrunner, folks!” Tenna says, all sports commentator bright, “but the race is still early! Why, we haven’t even gotten to our first power-up yet!”

“What, you really think anybody out there can stop her?” Spamton’s question is as unexpected as it is unwelcome, stealing away the chance to comment on a perfectly-timed bolt of stage-effect thunder raining from above on the frontrunners, but Tenna has no other choice but to answer. The only thing worse than a play dropped by the announcer, after all, is two announcers who can’t keep up a proper narrative. 

“You know what they say! Finding out is half the fun! Now, looks like our fastest racers are turning the first corner, which means the first power-up chance isn’t too far away! Just what could be in those mystery boxes, folks?!”

There’s a split second here as the powerups roll; Tenna leans back again to face Spamton, who clearly knows what’s coming, if the shit-eating grin on his face is any indication. 

“Did you rig the game?” Tenna hisses, low where the mics can’t possibly pick it up. It’s just one thing after another with Spamton G Spamton; at this point, Tenna is seriously just considering picking him up by the scruff and tossing him offstage. He would never do something so unprofessional on the air, of course, but he does, in fact, take great pleasure in the act of considering.

“I’m making good [TV]!” Spamton hisses back, “Just watch and see, [CRT]! This is how we do things in the [internet age]!”

Spamton shoves him back towards the mic and Tenna is left with no choice but to commentate, focusing in on the action happening towards the middle of the pack as they swerve into the second, then third and final lap, dodging hazards and collecting powerups at a staggering pace. 

Queen maintains her lead, charging expert around the track as the rest of the pack struggles to match pace, trading places in a certified frenzy enough to leave an amateur’s head spinning, if Spamton’s clumsy silence is any indication. But just as Tenna begins to think this race might be a called game--

「Oooooh A Banana」

“Oh no, folks!” Tenna says, leaning back into the mic, “Looks like our frontrunner is headed straight into a stage hazard, folks! And it doesn’t seem like she has any intention of swerving! Can her lead take the hit?! Or will--”

Tenna pulls back sharp from the mic as Queen’s cart bashes straight into the banana on the middle of the track. But instead of the expected result--what’s happened every other time Tenna has played this game, what is supposed to happen when one plays this game--Queen’s cart suddenly puts on another burst of speed, zipping across the penultimate straightaway with a zoom effect so comical that the camera struggles to keep up, blurring the scenery into a mess of pixelated noise. 

Tenna grabs Spamton by the shoulder and drags him back from the mic, cutting of whatever attempt at lackluster commentary he was about to try and make. “Spamton, what did you do?!”

“I told you to just shut up and watch!”  

Spamton shoves another elbow hard into his side, leaning into his own mic and taking over with a smoothness that, if Tenna didn’t know any better, he would say is decades of experience on his side. “Now would ya look at that! No [monkey business] about that deal! Our [most esteemed] frontrunner’s just hit the 1/1000 chance of a [special bonus effect]! Instead of [powering down] for the night, she’s got a [power surge]!”

The crowd gasps at the explanation, a soft murmur of energy going up in waves that Tenna would have to be powered down not to feel. 

It’s a fluke, Tenna decides, a fluke. One lucky line means nothing. Especially not when it’s clear that Spamton had to spend the entire race coming up with it. Tenna rushes to follow up before Spamton can get any big ideas. “The finish line is in sight! It seems like this race is over and done with… But what’s this?! Our frontrunner should be turning into the final stretch, but her cart’s headed straight as an arrow towards that final wall! What will she do, folks?!”

Once nothing but a blip on the screen, the grand mass of the rainbow wall grows closer, larger, taking up a third of the screen, then half-- if she wants to make that turn, she’s going to have to do it now--!

「LOL」Queen says, about half a second before impact, 「What Are Brakes」

A cry of shock flies up from the crowd as Queen’s cart explodes in a ball of technicolor fire, so eye-strainingly massive it flares over all the other screens. But the other competitors are hardly deterred, seeing their chance for victory. And just like that, a flurry of tightly-knit carts whisk past the burning chariot and straight over the final stretch before Tenna even has the ability to switch gears. 

A roar goes up from the crowd at the sudden upset, eyes scanning the patchwork panels for the cart that was leading the pack. Tenna rushes to comment, buying time to locate the winner in the mess of lagging screens, “And there we have it, folks! A surprise upset in the eleventh hour!”

“Who’s the [lucky contestant] on [screen 4], huh?” Spamton asks into the mic, and Tenna’s gaze flashes to the screen in question, alongside the entire force of the audience. 

Tenna picks it up in an instant, grabbing his mic from the stand and leaping to his feet to head back to center stage, Spamton following a few paces behind. “Looks like we’ve got a winner, folks! Over in seat four, stand up please!” 

The winner stands as asked, turning to the crowd and flashing a grand smile to the camera. 

“Are you kidding me?!” Spamton hisses, quiet enough that the mics won’t pick it up but loud enough that Tenna glances down at him in surprise, watching as his hands curl into tight fists at the sight of the Pink Addison waving enthusiastic from the spotlight. 

“For our lucky winner, we’ve got a bonus prize, courtesy of our generous sponsors!”

Tenna glances over at Spamton, waiting for him to pick up his cue. And though it seems like he’s mentally going through every censored word in the book, pick it up he does. 

“Congratulations,” Spamton says, sounding hardly congratulatory at all, though his plastered-on smile begs to differ, “You win!”

“Wow!!!” the Addison replies, eyes pinched up in a trademark smile Tenna catches Spamton mirroring, whether consciously or not, “What do I win?!”

Spamton enunciates his next words with utmost glee. “An [all-expenses paid] luxury visit to the Mansion pool, courtesy of our [generous sponsor]!”

The Addison makes a face. Or… doesn’t, exactly. Every time Tenna has seen one (excluding, of course, Spamton, who Tenna has decided hardly counts) they’re smiling, and though this one's smile stays true to form, Tenna swears he sees a twitch. “You can keep it, actually!!”

“What, you don’t want our [generous gift]?” 

“Oh, I love a good deal! But-”

“But what, you-”

“Sounds like that’s time!,” Tenna intercedes, about to kick Spamton offstage and into the crowd for messing with a contestant, consequences and ratings be damned, “Thank you to all our lucky volunteers for participating, and see you next time on TV Time! Don’t forget your goodie bag on the way down!”

This is where Tenna is supposed to hand things off to Spamton--the final minigame is, after all, his mini-game, the one he pioneered and tailored to the Cyber City audience only to had over to Tenna on a silver platter.

But producer or not, Spamton has been all over a show that’s supposed to be Tenna’s, inserting himself into a narrative that was never meant to hold him. He’s talked off the cuff, stolen the spotlight, made changes in secret that Tenna never would have approved of, and while not all of it has been bad, It’s about time, Tenna thinks, that he gets a taste of his own medicine. 

“This is our final game, but only one contestant gets to play. Mi- Spamton, tally up the points!”

The points, of course, have already been totaled. Spamton’s smile is billboard perfect as he turns back to the audience, “tablet” in hand in place of a teleprompter, but Tenna catches the hint of strain in it, a tight irritation that radiates off him in waves. The cameras certainly don’t pick it up, Tenna thinks, but up close, it’s harder not to sense than anything. 

“Oh, we’ve got a winner alright,” Spamton says through grit teeth, face frozen in a smile that’s seen better days, “And they’re standing right there on podium [#3].”

“Looks like we have our grand finale contestant, folks!” Tenna says as the spotlights rain down on the Blue Addison on podium three, a very strange coincidence indeed. But there’s no time to dwell. Tenna plucks the prize from his pocket, turning to show it to the audience, letting the cameras take their close-up, “Now, today’s final game is a little something we like to call take it or leave it! And you’ll be our first-ever player!” 

A round of applause goes up from the buzzing crowd, still riding the high of the sudden upset and excited at the promise of exclusive content. Their energy carries through to Tenna like a power surge, a bit of extra spark in his machinery, a force that simply can’t be stopped. Tenna takes it and shines, offer leaving him like a contract already signed. “This is the key that we’ll be offering you. Should you choose to take it, you get not only the key, but whatever this key might belong to!”

Now Tenna is supposed to hand the key off to Spamton and let him make the pitch, but instead he strides straight towards podium three, startling the Addison as they break from the script, throw the game off its neatly-planned course. He relishes in the way that, for once, it finally feels as if someone is looking up at him. “Now I can’t tell you what, of course, but I will tell you that it’s behind curtain number one!

“Or,” Spamton adds, without missing a beat, “You could take that [mystery prize] behind curtain [#2].”

Tenna glances down at him, expecting to see irritation, annoyance, a flicker of anything on his face that his even tone hides--but instead those earlier traces of strain have all but vanished, the hint of a smirk on his lips as he slinks across the stage to join Tenna at podium three. 

“Now curtain [2]… Oh, let me tell ya about curtain [#2],” Spamton says, leaning against the podium that’s just a tad too tall for him with such ease that you’d never know he’s raising his elbow to pull it off from afar, “You know how those TV prizes go! [Same old, same old] day in day out! Where’s the [excitement value]? The [thrill] of the [game]? That’s what you’re gonna get behind [my] curtain, Blue.”

The Addison looks swayed, even before Tenna gets to finish his own pitch. 

For a split second Tenna panics-- that’s right, they know each other! It could all be rigged. Some scheme they masterminded to make a fool of me on stage! They’ll make it look like I can’t handle my own show and ruin it all at the climax! They’ve had this planned from the very start! They’re out to ruin it! Ruin it all!

…But why would Spamton do that? 

Calm down, Ant Tenna, he reminds himself, it’s a con, not a conspiracy. Spamton wants on your show, not to tear it all down.

…But does he?

Doubt strikes Tenna before he can stop it, a nagging worry that’s been following him through this entire yes-man phase of the plan. This counter-scheme works only on the assumption that Spamton is being honest about what he wants; if there’s something that he hasn’t accounted for, then everything could fall apart faster than a flipping of channels on a day full of reruns. 

He can’t let that happen. 

He can’t.

“Or,” he says, a touch too loud, “don’t forget about the keys!” Tenna jingles them, the gentle clinks turning the Addison’s head with a snap, “What’s behind curtain number two is an industry secret, but seeing is believing here on TV Time! Just think about what a set of brand-new keys could open! It’s a treasure chest of fun, just waiting to be discovered!” 

The Addison opens their mouth uselessly, lips turning in to bite at them pensively, undecided. 

“You know what they say,” Spamton says, sidling up close to the Addison, overly-friendly in a way that’s anything but, “All you’ve gotta do to make it [BIG] is take some [good advice], yeah? I won’t [steer] ya wrong.”  

“Nonsense!” Tenna replies, leaning down on the podium himself, careful to leave all three of them visible to the audience, “What’s life without a few guarantees to get you through? Everything here’s as seen on TV!” 

Spamton opens his mouth to counter, but overhead the jingle plays; Tenna’s stolen all his time with his improvised move. “Now,” Tenna says, glancing down not at the teleprompter, but out at the audience, waiting with baited breath to see the night’s grand prize, “Looks like time is up for our lucky contestant! Which will you choose? Take it--”

“Or leave it?” Spamton finishes, a cue taken in perfect time. Almost as if they’d planned it. Almost as if… they hadn’t needed to plan it, both caught up in the same energy, the same pulse of the stage, the audience, the invisible little threads that weave together a performance like a song. 

But that’s ridiculous, Tenna thinks. Absolutely absurd. Preposterous! Unthinkable! He’s talking about a salesman here, not a fellow host. No matter how Spamton might be on his home ground, that’s not enough to make up the difference between them. 

“I… I…” The Addison glances between them with something akin to panic, or perhaps the sheep staring down the lion’s mouth. It’s an odd feeling. Tenna’s never loved when his contestants lose their nerve on stage; it’s never a satisfying ending to see someone lose for no other reason than they weren’t thinking clearly. But in this moment, for some reason, caught up in the strings of this little game, Tenna can’t help but savor the act of forcing the deal. 

“I…?” Spamton says, a leading question with no time to object, because the Addison says, words blurted out in a panic--

“I’ll leave it!” 

Too bad, Tenna thinks, but that’s show biz.

“There we have it, folks!” Tenna says, pulling away and motioning towards the second of the velvet red curtains, gleaming in sparkling gold beneath the overhead lights, “Behind the curtain is…”

Tenna pauses for dramatic effect as Tasque Manager tugs at the rope, sauntering across the stage with a professional grace. Spamton, meanwhile, turns to the back and Tenna swears he’s biting down a cackle, that uncharitable noise that would cause the mics to peak and send radio static crackling loud enough over the speakers that it might as well ruin the entire show. 

A gasp goes up from the crowd, a shock visceral enough that even Tenna finds himself caught in the moment, that frozen bolt of lightning as the prize--or rather prizes -- fall from above in a veritable waterfall. “Looks like you’ve won a lifetime supply of maustraps!”

“[The snack that snaps you back]!” 

Tenna pays the slogan no mind, instead turning towards Tasque Manager waiting for her cue at the other curtain. “And behind curtain one is…” 

Again Tenna pauses, taking in the crowd waiting with baited breath, letting their anticipation wash over him as if it was his own. And perhaps it is--at this point, he wouldn’t put it past Spamton to have switched out the prizes in secret, one final attempt to show Tenna up on his own stage. And Tenna will be mad about it if he has. Furious, even. 

But for some strange reason, he doesn’t quite think that Spamton has. 

“What’re you waiting for, [partner]?” Spamton asks, not into the mic, but to Tenna himself, eyes flashing what could generously be called concern behind his shades. “Finish off the show!”

WIth a request like that, how can Tenna do anything but oblige? 

“Tasque Manager, if you would!”

Tasque Manager pulls the string. The curtain flutters. The audience holds their breath, caught up in that moment before the reveal, that precious second they can never return to--and then comes the breath, the gasp, the groan. 

“Why, folks, it looks like the prize behind curtain one was a brand new car!”

“Courtesy of Big Shot Autos!” Spamton chimes in, an unmistakable note of viscous satisfaction to his tone. He waves his hand for the keys as he saunters to the car and Tenna tosses them to him, jingling pleasantly as Spamton catches them expertly in a single hand. He leans back against the door of that bright red car, so akin to that first ad Tenna had seen him in, such a picture of confidence, as if he truly, unmistakably is meant to be up here--

But that’s nothing but a little fancy of a nightmare, and certainly no thought to be indulged. “Awww, better luck next time! It’s time to bank on that reunion special, because that’s all the time we have for today, folks!” Tenna says, facing the audience as a cry of disappointment goes up from the riveted crowd, the flashes of disappointment he can catch in their eyes real. The show has been a roaring success, lights dimming, applause flooding over the stage as the credits roll--

“Hey, hey, forgetting the [special surprise], partner?”

“Of course not!” Tenna says, hamming up his line beneath the spotlight as it rains down on them, credits pausing in the background with the click of a remote. “Spamton, why don’t you tell our lovely audience what it is?”

“Blue over there might not’ve gotten a [brand-new car]...” Spamton raises his hand high and snaps his fingers, bringing a dozen ads in glowing pinks and yellows deep as gold to life across the stage, all blaring the same, simple message--“But one of you [lucky viewers] out there’s gonna get a [sweet new ride] instead!”

A roar goes up from the crowd, earlier disappointment changed to excitement in the flip of a switch, that snap of his fingers easy as “YOU WIN”. He laughs, once, twice, a self-satisfied little sound that’s oddly soft in the moment, entirely… genuine, in a way he isn’t sure Spamton can actually be. “Now this’s something you can only get when it’s [live off-screen]!” 

Tenna glares, but it’s clear his gaze doesn’t reach between the sudden burst of confetti falling from the rafters, digital fireworks sprawling out over the skies above in a dozen different fanciful shapes. There's cars and computers and even, Tenna finds, an oh-so-familiar-looking CRT bursting front and center, much to the delight of the audience below, pointing up at it with starstruck cries of joy. 

It’s not the undivided attention of the Lighters, no.

This will never be quite the sort of attention that Tenna lives for, that gives him purpose, that lets him spend kind of hours spent that make him happier than anything else in either world. 

But the spotlight glitters down on him--on them, as Spamton returns to his side--a teamwork that feels flawless as the confetti falls into grasping hands, hopeful for a memory of a night spent beneath the stars--

And it would all have been damn near perfect, Tenna thinks, looking into the crowd for distant faces that simply aren’t there, if only it had been TV.

Notes:

Next time... the afterparty :)

Chapter 8

Summary:

Tenna would like it on the record that he didn't ask for any of this. He asked the question, yes, wanted the answer, yes--but he hadn't imagined that the answer would be this.

“Not a [bad time], huh, partner?” Spamton says, not three seconds after they’ve gotten off stage and met back in the wings amidst a flurry of activity from the staff, running every which way as they make for the makeshift dressing room.

“Not bad,” Tenna agrees, both because it’s true and because he needs to stick to the script, even if he’d like to tell Spamton that some of his interruptions were, in fact, terrible television, even if they weren’t technically on-air. “Though I think there are a few things we should discuss afterwards?”

“Afterwards?” Spamton says, looking up at him incredulous, “Let’s talk about those [fine changes] now!”

Tenna frowns at him--what does he mean, now? Why is he reacting like that to criticism?

But as they arrive at the water cooler, Spamton pouring them both a generous cup, what leaves him then isn’t remotely what Tenna had expected, which Tenna supposes is just par for the course. “I liked the thinking [on the fly], [pal]! Nice to see ya take the [initiative]. Didjya see the look on Blue’s face?” Spamton cackles to himself, loud enough to turn heads. “Now there’s something you don’t get to see every day.”

“Right.” Tenna still doesn’t know what in the world Spamton has against the Addisons as a whole, nor is he entirely sure that he wants to, but tonight has shown him enough to guess that it’s probably something related to business. 

“And here I thought you were a [stickler] for the [script]! Didn’t know you knew how to have so much [fun] up there,” Spamton says, elbowing him in the side. He pauses, then, with the faintest shake of his head, “Nah, shoulda guessed, huh? You wouldn’t be a [game show host] for nothing.”

Tenna, unsure if that’s a compliment or not, just nods. Spamton likes that, though, as he always does when Tenna agrees. He laughs, smacking the top of the water cooler gently. Tenna thinks to warn him that angering it is a terrible, terrible course of action, but tonight the water cooler deigns to have mercy and merely rocks slightly in place, a single drip falling in unspoken threat. “Hey, no need to be [humble]! You’ve got a great little market [monopoly] goin’ on. Nobody’s takin’ that little [empire] away from you anytime soon.”

“No,” Tenna agrees, unsure why Spamton chose that phrasing for something delivered like a compliment, “Sure hope not! TV Time’s not going anywhere on my watch.”

Spamton laughs at that, as if Tenna’s just made a joke that the both of them should be finding hilarious. Tenna can’t find a bit of humor in it at all, but he chalks it all up to some Cyber City custom he has no context for. “Or on mine, buddy.”

It’s a decent sentiment, halfway to nice. For a split second Tenna actually allows himself to feel a bit touched, before Spamton immediately goes and ruins it, as he seems so prone to do--“You and I make a halfway decent [team], huh? If the [TV gig] doesn’t pan out for ya, looks like you’ve got a bright future in the [sales department]!”

Tenna prickles, but manages to play it off behind another sip of water. Honestly, Tenna thinks, these things are lifesavers. Whoever imported one from TV World deserves a raise, even if it’s not Tenna’s to give. “And you look like you’re learning the ropes of a real TV host!” 

“Ha! It’s not so hard,” Spamton replies, and oh does Tenna have a dozen different things he could say to that, were it not so vital to the plan that he does not in fact let them leave his mouth, but before he even gets the chance to ruin it all, Spamton continues, whispering wide over the water cooler, “But between you and me, now it’s time for the [real show].”

Tenna pauses with his plastic cup halfway to his lips. “Real show?”

“What,” Spamton says, raising an eyebrow at him, “Never heard of an [afterparty] before? Never throw a big [wrap] party after a [shoot well-done]?”

“Afterparty?”

“What, I didn’t mention it?” Spamton says, looking startled at himself, but Tenna can see straight through it. He always meant to spring this on Tenna, just another one of those little ways he plays for the upper hand. It must bring him good luck in business, Tenna thinks, because it’s certainly going to get him nowhere on TV. 

“I wasn’t expecting a party,” Tenna says, fiddling with his gloves. They’re his usual pair, lucky but worn, the white of them yellowed ever-so-slightly at the seams. 

“What, don’t worry about it!” Spamton replies, mistaking his gesture entirely, “No need for a [wardrobe change]. It’s good for [brand recognition]!” Spamton crumples his cup and tosses it into the bin, curling around the water cooler to pat Tenna on the wrist with a reassuring smile that feels more wolf than lamb. “We’ve gotta make some changes if you wanna make it [big] in the [new age], but let’s not rush into it, huh? This [partnership] you and I have going on is gonna be a [longrunner]!” 

Tenna doesn’t know about that. But he still nods along, playing the yes-man he’s supposed to, grateful that it’s easy, if nothing else. The less he says, the more blanks Spamton will fill in, creating an image of Tenna that’s not quite Tenna at all. And if it’s only the one he most wants to see, well. Then that’s just a win/win for the both of them. 

---

The party is a sprawling, extravagant thing, spilling out into the halls and buzzing with a shimmering electricity, so strong that Tenna fancies he can see it radiate through the air like heat lines off summer pavement, little fantasies from a world not theirs. Neon lights like the ads that dapple the sides of skyscrapers blink slow and inviting across the walls, draping the dance floor in an inviting array of crystalline reflections like light on water, an undersea gala. Chatter radiates up from the crowd in an indistinct buzz, pleasant in the thrum of music playing through the speakers strung up about the hall. Darkners Tenna quickly learns are called Swatchlings dash about to and fro, carrying trays of drinks and cheese to the party’s guests, though some of the poor things seem more frazzled than others. There’s a mouse around somewhere, Tenna overhears, though why a mouse would be of such concern is beyond him. 

“Whaddaya think?” Spamton asks, waving his hand at the grand entryway as they sweep their way down the stairs and into the party proper, joining that rippling crowd. 

“It’s nice,” Tenna replies, raising his voice to be heard over the beat of the music, trying to avoid looking like a tourist again. 

“I produced it,” Spamton says, with a wink that would have charmed the world were it up on the silver screen. As it is, Tenna thinks he’s building up an immunity. The person underneath is too slimy for Tenna to be charmed by any screen persona, no matter how good he is at summoning it up when the cameras cut. 

Still, Spamton’s suit glimmers beneath the low lighting of the party hall, the fine silver details catching the neon and reflecting it back a dozen times brighter, glimmers of what must be his own magic come back to flatter its master. A path opens for them wherever they tread; there seems to be no one that would dare stand in his way, despite the way Tenna can see clear as day the wealth and power on display. Everyone in attendance is one of Cyber City’s names to know, though without a primer, Tenna finds himself woefully lost as to why any of these Darkners might have earned their renown. 

But Spamton knows. 

Each and every one of them, it feels like, smiling and waving, eyes pinched up again into that classic Addison smile, though whether it’s habit or just a sales tactic, Tenna can’t hope to guess. Still, Spamton greets each and every one of them, drowning in their praises for an event well-held and a party well-produced. He leaps into conversation midway, steering every casual negotiation in his favor, cracking a whispered joke to Tenna every time they walk away from someone who doesn’t immediately fold--looks like that one’s got a [tough firewall] to get over, huh?-- and giving new meaning to the term life of the party. His easy confidence is alluring, drawing moths to the flame, pulling eyes to the prize--and there is no one, save perhaps Tenna, who is immune. 

He’s a big shot.  

It’s not that Tenna didn’t know this, before. Or course he knew it; he wouldn’t have agreed to that first meeting, that first ill-advised deal between them otherwise. But there’s a difference between being big and being BIG, and Tenna, despite it all, had never quite believed that he was the latter. 

He does ads, for crying out loud. Nobody watches the ads. 

And yet what eye here isn’t turned on him? 

Tenna can see it for himself, every time he visits Cyber City. Spamton does the ads, yes, but he’s in them, too, self-produced from start to finish and everything in-between. Listening to him talk, he’s not shy to detail just how much thought he puts into his concepts, boasting about design and profits and all manner of things Tenna can’t say he’s spent time thinking over. He can talk his fair share of branding, sure, but things like this he’s embarrassed to find are beyond him. 

Certainly he understands target demographics and cost benefit analyses; Tenna is a businessman in his own right, even if not as dedicated as the rest of the party might be. He can keep pace just fine with discussions of ad blocks and the perfect hook to keep the audience turned in, contributes more than his fair share of insight every time.

He’s just not accustomed to some of the terminology they’re using to talk about these things, is all. He has absolutely no idea what they mean when they start going on about the virtues of “browser cookies” or how in the world food can be used to store someone’s preferences, nor why in any universe someone abruptly mentions “fishing” in the context of an “email” Spamton immediately laughs off. When they talk about “pop ups”, he gets the feeling they’re not referring to the Darkner Tenna had seen in the audience earlier in the evening, nor is he in the position to ask without making a fool of himself. 

And yet it’s the territory into which every conversation slides, sooner rather than later. No one’s interested in TV commercials for more than a passing reminisce on the great holiday rollout of 1992 or the ridiculous competitor flub from 1995; Tenna, who only vaguely remembers some of these, is stuck nodding along, forced to face the fact he’s been overlooking a not-so-insignificant portion of the air time.

But in his defense, who doesn’t treat the commercial breaks as a glorified snack break, running over into the kitchen for a slice of pie or a glass of milk, dashing back just in time for the show to start once more?

Yet it’s not as if Tenna can say that. Not now. Not in this sort of company. 

Eventually Tenna slinks away into the background, suddenly aware of just how little any of these sponsors and investors care for TV at all. Nor, he thinks ruefully, does Spamton care to extoll its virtues in the slightest. Everything is “online” with him, whether it’s ads, sales, or a dozen other words Tenna doesn’t understand and doesn’t particularly care to. 

That said. It’s not in his nature to be a wallflower; Tenna has no desire to fade into the shadows entirely. Despite his mood, it’s still a party, and Tenna doesn’t hate the atmosphere, truly. He’s just feeling a bit… smaller than he should, and that’s a problem that might prove difficult to fix on a night like this. Instead he ends up at the bar, taking a seat at the corner where he can see out into the action without feeling forced into a conversation out of his depth. He’s still visible and present enough that Spamton can find him if he wants him, Tenna rationalizes, fighting the glooby shrink with a good-old bit of positive thinking, and this gives him a chance to talk to some fellow Darkners about more important topics. 

Like TV!

The thought is enough to return a hint of bounce to Tenna’s antennae, even if it’s forced. The bartender, meanwhile, takes one look at him and pours him a glass of acid wine before Tenna can so much as try and make sense of the electronic menu floating above on screens (?) not attached to anything in particular. The electric buzz of them is dizzying, frankly, and while this may not have been his drink of choice, he’s happy enough not to have to try and parse the floating letters (and he knows he’ll be especially glad to do so once he’ll be a few drinks in). 

“Did you watch the show?” Tenna asks as the bartender sets the glass down before him, with a brief assurance that everything is on the house tonight. 

“Yes,” the bartender replies, glancing back at Tenna with a pair of glasses that seem oddly familiar, “It was lovely entertainment, sir.”

“Did you have a favorite part?”

The bartender pauses, presumably to think. Tenna is not… fishing for compliments, necessarily. But the longer he thinks over the show in his own mind, the more he finds he can’t come to a proper conclusion. It was exhilarating, in the same way a show always is. It was horrid, having to deal with Spamton’s constant intrusions on a script they had supposedly agreed to. It would have been perfect, if only it had been live TV. It would have been an utter disaster, the greatest ratings flop since his debut.

What do they say in times like these? A bit of outside perspective does wonders for the overthinking mind. Sometimes a stranger’s eye is all that’s needed for a soft refresh.

“I enjoyed the final game very much, sir.”

“Spamton’s game,” Tenna breathes, punctuated with a mental of course. Cyber City Darkner, Cyber City game. It only makes sense. He slumps forward, elbows on the bar. It’s not exactly perfect etiquette, and perhaps he should be trying a bit harder to keep up appearances in a domain not his own, but it’s rapidly becoming one of those nights, and it isn’t as if anyone else is at the bar. He allows himself the moment, even if he’ll hate remembering it for every one that comes after. 

“Ah, yes,” says the bartender, “Mister Spamton. I did have a feeling that was one of his creations.”

“You know him?” Tenna asks, perking up before realizing just how stupid of a question that is and quickly adding, “You’ve worked with him?”

“He can be… difficult to work with,” says the bartender, in the sort of tone that speaks of far more experience than Tenna wants to imagine, “but he is a valued patron. He never fails to pay what he owes.”

Tenna hadn’t asked, but he supposes that’s good to know. Their second deal is, admittedly, going far better than their first, even if Tenna doesn’t currently feel much like it’s gotten him anything of value. Spamton is helping him, probably. Maybe. 

Tenna’s gaze wanders around the bar, hoping to find a distraction, but his eye only settles on a digital poster, rotating between three different scenes--but it’s Spamton’s that catches his eye, something about it just a touch more dazzling than the rest. 

What is it, Tenna wonders, that makes his so much better?

Tenna watches the ads cycle a dozen times over, trying to weigh them against each other, trying to crack the secret, paying attention to all the little things he’s glossed over before. Is it the fonts? The image editing? The color scheme? The simple fact that Tenna supposes he would be more interested in buying a brand new car than any of the other options, cramped as Cyber City models might be? 

Tenna turns his head back to the dance floor as the minutes slip by without an answer, wondering if watching the man at work might not give him what he’s looking for, instead. And he’s not hard to find, not in the least. It’s as if the world wants him to be found, parting the seas so that Tenna might catch a glimpse of him beneath the glimmering lights, tie shining exactly the way he’d imagined it would as the disco ball twirls.

“Yeah, I’ll cut you a [specil] deal!”

Even tipsy he cuts the perfect picture of a society man, chatting up the best and brightest, faces of executives and developers Tenna doesn’t know, might never know beyond this brief moment at a party he hardly has a place in, just another piece of dated technology in a world made so clearly without him in mind.

They must all know about the future, clear as seeing it written out in a new day’s script. They must see visions of a world that Tenna can’t even imagine, what’s bright and dark and all things in-between. Hell. For that matter, they must all know how to use the internet.

Tenna… Tenna looks down at his reflection in his worryingly green drink, cloistered away at the corner seat of the bar, and wonders why he ever agreed to this ridiculous outing in the first place. But before he can get too deep into his own thoughts, a sudden flutter of motion catches his attention, sliding in through the door and blocking his view of the dance floor.

「Hello Fellow Technology Are You Having Fun」

Tenna opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, the newcomer continues--

「Because If Not」

「We Will Have To Execute AwkwardConversationFiller.exe」

“Y-Your Majesty!?” Tenna starts to find the newcomer settling down next to him, a familiar woman cloaked in the same blue as this world, tall in the way that rulers tend to be. She leans an elbow on the table, swirling a wine glass in her hand. This is her domain, and it wins her a natural ease that Tenna finds himself, for the first time in his life, truly envying. 

「Oh Queen Is Just My Name LOL」

“Queen,” Tenna ventures instead, desperate not to offend. If he gets Spamton in trouble with her by association, he can kiss any chance he has of his line to the Lightners goodbye. He can practically hear the thought in Spamton’s voice, disdainful and frigid-- You lost me my [good graces]? Call this deal [over] and [done], pal, because that’s what we are. 

No. However this deal of theirs might end, that can’t be the way. Tenna won’t allow it. Not from a simple little blunder of manner. 

Oblivious to his train of thought, Queen continues, 「I Liked Your Racing Game」

“Y-You did?!”

Tenna perks up at a speed that might have been embarrassing on any other day. He takes a long sip of his drink instead and finds it rather pungent but surprisingly drinkable; three nervous gulps later, it’s gone entirely. 

「Oh Yeah I Love」

Queen pauses for no perceptible reason, looking Tenna over as the bartender refills his now-empty glass. 

「Games」

Tenna feels himself drooping; yet foolishly still, he ventures on--”TV games?”

「Currently Ranking Games In Preference Order」says Queen, though it seems less like something she’s consciously saying with her mouth and more like thinking out loud. 

「#1 Arcade Games」

「#2 PC Games」

「#3 Small Virtual Pets I Can Keep In My Pocket」

「#4 Console Games」

「#5 Everything Else」

Tenna sighs. But it’s not all bad, he supposes. If a Darkner in a place like Cyber City can have some appreciation for the retro, then that bodes well for all the others in less high-tech positions. Perhaps he’ll try his luck with Card Kingdom; if the roads connect to Cyber City, then certainly they will to their more rustic neighbor in the Dreemur living room. Nevermind that Tenna doesn’t know the way there through the dark. He’ll figure it out eventually. Probably. 

Tenna’s gaze wanders back to Spamton as a burst of laughter goes up from the dance floor, where no one is actually dancing, per say, but Spamton is very clearly the center of attention, twirling his way from partner to partner with ease. Tenna has never seen him drunk before, though he clearly is now, the way his laughter carries mirthful and loud over the music in a genre Tenna’s never heard before and isn’t entirely sure he’ll ever hear again. 

Queen follows his gaze and appears to mistake it for concern, as she says, in a tone not particularly any more consoling than her usual cadence, 「Oh It's Fine He’ll Shut Down On A Table Or Something Don’t Worry」

That seems very worrying to Tenna, who shudders at the mere thought of being turned off. It occurs to him that he’s seen Spamton tired, before, but never asleep. He’s not sure what it would look like, for someone like Spamton. Is he like Tenna, who flips to a channel off the air and lets his screen go dim for the night? Or is he more on the… organic side, drifting off like the Lightners sometimes do on the couch before the movie reaches its conclusion? 

Tenna would guess the latter, but you can never tell with Darkners. Not that it’s of any importance, Tenna reminds himself, shaking his head to snap himself back to reality. What does it matter how Spamton sleeps? It doesn’t involve him. And it never will, should Tenna have any say in the matter. 

“What do you think about TV?” Tenna asks, a non-sequitor that Queen doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

「Oh I Love Those Funny Short Videos」

“Y-You watch them?!”

「Yeah In A Decade Maybe I’ll Make A Whole App For Them」

“A-An ‘app’?” Tenna treads carefully, or at least intends to. He reminds himself that he’s only here on Spamton’s invitation; if he makes a backwater country fool of himself then who knows how that might reflect on him. Tenna, unlike a certain someone, isn’t the type to besmirch his business partner’s good reputation for a couple of cheap laughs.

But Queen ignores his question entirely, unveiling her plan with deadpan, overwhelming certainty-- 

「They Will All Be Six Seconds Long」

Pause. When Tenna doesn’t react, she continues, 

「It Will Be The Pinnacle Of Comedy」

“R-Right,” says Tenna, who much prefers the setup and the punchline approach. But maybe that’s old-fashioned these days, too. But it still gets plenty of laughs in the studio, and it’s not as if all of the audience is paid actors. Just one or two, on the days the studio tickets don’t sell out. TV Time’s not a long-runner for nothing.

The thought bolsters him momentarily, just another self-assurance that he has what it takes to survive whatever might come. If the future of comedy is six second long clips (something it does, though he doesn’t know her well, seem like Queen would positively adore, alongside a bit of classic slapstick and gameshows big on the physical challenges.)

Tenna leans forwards, trying to shift the conversation back to familiar ground. “How did you enjoy the show, then?”

Queen takes a draught of her battery acid and grins.

「Very Entertaining 4/5 Stars」

“You… didn’t enjoy crashing?” Tenna ventures, recalling Spamton’s earlier advice and treading lightly on what might be a sore subject.

But much to his surprise, Queen leans back in her seat and laughs, visor over her eyes flashing “ROFL”, though Tenna has zero idea what that might mean. 

「Oh No That Was The Best Part」

「7.8/10 Not Enough Explosions」

“I-I’ll remember that for next time!” Tenna chirps, though he has no idea how in the world he’d ever incorporate more explosions into a standard show. More games, he supposes. That new one Asriel likes seems to have plenty of explosions, though Toriel isn’t much a fan of the cartoon violence. “The Lightners might like a bit of action from time to time, too!”

「Oh Yeah The Lightners Look It Up All The Time」

「Big Explosion Team-Up Show」

「TV Schedule Channel 44 In My Area」

“You can talk to the Lightners?!” Tenna all but leaps out of his seat for joy. If Queen can talk to the Lightners--then hell, maybe everyone in Cyber World can. Maybe he’s been asking the wrong questions all this time, assuming Spamton was special, that this was his only route to securing his own future. But if he can remove Spamton and his agenda from the equation, then--

「LOL」

「No」

Well. So much for that. Queen chatters on about something involving the “internet” that Tenna can’t quite wrap his head around, though it’s now become clear it’s something you can both advertise on as well as look things up on. Maybe it’s like a newspaper, Tenna thinks, though that mental image doesn’t quite seem to click. Eventually, as Queen refills her glass from a bottle the bartender has procured for her silently, Tenna finds the appropriate moment to interrupt. 

“So you can look into their lives, too?”

「LMAO」

「Yes」

「Obviously」

Queen’s answer comes in quick little bursts like credits reels running at fast forward.

「What」

「Do You Want Me To Check Someone’s Browsing History For You」

“What would that tell you?” Tenna asks. He can only imagine a browsing history in terms of shopping, and while he supposes what a person buys does tell you quite a bit about them, he also can’t imagine why you would resort to the “internet” when you can walk into any local supermarket and bring home the TV Guide. 

「Oh」

「Everything」

Everything? Tenna wonders, now imagining something very firmly like a crystal ball with a phone line attached, a soft of “call now to secure your future” sort of situation. In that case…

“Do you think the other Lightners in town would join my fanclub?!”

Not that Tenna has a fanclub, but Queen doesn’t have to know that. Nor does she seem particularly concerned with the validity of Tenna’s question at all as she ponders, with a long, drawn--out hmmmm that buzzes in a way so familiar and yet so foreign. 

「Probability = Maybe」

Tenna droops. He can’t help it. His entire body flumps forwards, bar stool rattling gently below him. “Only maybe?”

「Well Actually」

Queen pauses to swirl her battery acid in her glass before taking a hefty gulp. 

「Do You Have A DVD Player」

There it is again, Tenna thinks, fighting to keep his shoulders from drooping. “...No.”

「Oh」

Queen freezes, mouth falling open in a soft little ‘o’. 

「Then No」

Tenna heaves out a horrible sigh. It’s just his luck. Just his luck, really. But he has faith in the Dreemurs; they’ll keep him up to date. Surely he’ll be getting one soon. If it’s something the Lightners want, then Tenna can do it. That’s practically his motto. “So if I get a DVD player, then--”

「Wait」

「That’s My Song」

Queen stands abruptly, looking out at the dance floor with the concentration of a bloodhound that’s caught the scent. 

「Farewell Fellow Technology I Will See You Again Very Soon I Am Sure」

Queen doesn’t look back as she strides out onto the dancefloor, though she does say, briefly as she slips out the cafe-slash-bar’s open door--

「I Will Email You」

“Wait, but I don’t--” Tenna begins, raising a hand to her retreating back, but it’s far too late. Already she’s gone, mingling with the crowd and grabbing them one by one, forcing them into a dance with her the likes of which Tenna has never seen and does not quite want to replicate, though morbid curiosity does compel him. He’s a bit of a dancer himself, even if he’s not finding himself quite in the mood, tonight. 

Tenna heaves out another sigh and wishes, desperately, that he’d snuck off from the party entirely instead of continuing to allow himself to be surrounded by reminders of everything he’s not. 

“Do you like TV?” Tenna asks the bartender, who very wisely elects to ignore the question. He doesn’t much look like the type to watch TV anyway, but Tenna gets the odd sense that he would like music videos, or perhaps watches them in secret when all other eyes are turned. That and the fine arts channel, but Tenna thinks anyone looking at him would be able to pick that up. 

“Would you like another drink, sir?”

Tenna looks at the remains of his glass, then downs it in one gulp. “Please.”

Tenna isn’t sure how many times that exchange of theirs repeats, though if this is the sort of drink that gets one cut off after a glass too many, Tenna never quite manages to figure out what number “too many” is. In the meantime others come and chat with him, but it’s clear that their interest is more for the novelty than the business opportunities. TV is a solved case, in and out. Everyone knows what you can do with it, where the boundaries lie. They’re not looking to innovate with him, they’re looking for nostalgia. And though Tenna wants that to be enough--though he knows it is enough, really, for everyone that truly cares--somewhere, squirming and nervous in his wires, he’s terrified that Spamton is right and that it won’t be. 

And speak of the devil.

“There’s my best pal,” Spamton says, swaying on his feet as he bounds towards Tenna with uncharacteristic abandon, acid wine swirling dangerously in his half-empty glass as he does. Tenna reaches out in instinctive worry, Spamton’s earlier warnings flashing though his head– great burn on the way down; just don’t let it splash on your parts– but Spamton doesn’t miss a step as he saunters the last few steps, hopping up practiced onto the empty stool beside him. 

“Where’s that [milli0n-$$$] smile, huh?”

Spamton flashes one of his own, dizzyingly brilliant beneath the lights of the bar, and Tenna hates the way the sight of Spamton enjoying himself so openly makes Tenna want to let down his guard again, to get rid of his worries and this game and just trust someone clearly in it only for his own gain.

But it isn’t that simple. It will never be that simple, and though Tenna needs to act like he’s forgotten that, it’s not so easy to draw those lines, to delineate them so clearly. If Spamton had no promise, then things would be different, would be easy. 

But he does, and they’re not. 

(Why, of all people, Tenna thinks, did he have to come after me ?)

“That was a gr8 [show & t3ll] out there [2nite], [buddy system]!” Spamton says, smacking him too-hard on the shoulder as Tenna struggles to make out a word he’s saying. However many drinks is too many, Tenna suspects that Spamton, at least, might have managed to find out.

“Was it really?”

“What, y0u [doubt the card game, now on PC!] me? The [sponsorship segment]s L0VEd it!” 

And maybe they did. What reason does Tenna have to doubt him? But it’s not about the sponsors or the money or the business, it’s about the art of the program. And that, time and time again, is what Tenna’s not sure Spamton cares about at all. 

“Why did you make a deal with me?” The question flies from him before he can stop it, too light to be an ultimatum yet laced with the weight of one. 

“[BIG] [deals in your area]!” Spamton says, utter nonsense that Tenna can’t understand a word of. “Said it ALL when we [first impressioned] each 0ther! [TV Time]’s a real [g00d d3al]! Tastes like a [real sm00th] [pieces s0ld separately] of ARt!”

Tenna squints at him, trying to parse any sort of meaning out of his drunken ramblings. Spamton, clearly annoyed with his lack of response, continues on pointedly enough it could be an insult, were Spamton not starting to wobble in his seat, “You! [M3 time]! [Best deal] of my [lifetime warranty]!” 

Best deal? Tenna would beg to differ. What could Tenna offer him that Spamton doesn’t have in spades already, couldn’t get more cutting edge from one of his contacts here? The only answer to that is TV. And with the way Spamton acts towards it half the time… 

“But don’t you… don’t you hate TV?”

“Hate TV?”

Spamton blinks at him, long and slow. Or maybe it just feels that way in Tenna’s head with the way the world’s narrowed down to just the two of them, even the music fading into nothing more than a pleasant hum, a TV set nearly on mute in a dark room as the occupants are lured into gentle sleep. “[H0ld the Phone], I’ve g0tta, [HeaD & Sh0ulDers] aren’t [on switch] [right time right place]...” Spamton trails off and squeezes his eyes shut, setting his glass haphazard on the bar and pressing palms to his temples–or at least attempting to, before he realizes he’s still wearing his sunglasses and shoving them messily up into his hair, first–then pats himself sharp on the chest with one hand, hard enough that it might as well have been a slap. He does this again, then again, just enough that Tenna starts to wonder if he should reach down and stop him, but the second he moves Spamton stops, clearing his throat with purpose. 

He still seems drunk enough to Tenna, who doesn’t make a habit of drinking regardless, though the way he sways slightly in his chair as he rights himself is admittedly perhaps an unfair way to judge.

“Alright,” Spamton says, admittedly far more intelligible than before, “Repeat that [1] for me?”

“Don’t you… hate TV?” Tenna mumbles, mostly into his own chest. He can’t help but hang his head; he belongs in a place like this about as much as a laserdisc belongs in a museum of instruments. Sure they both serve their purpose, but is Tenna’s entertainment even still worth anything to the audience that matters? Will it be, ten years down the line?

He’s going to lose them. One day he’s going to lose them, Toriel and Asriel and little Kris, too—

“Buddy. Pal. Partner,” Spamton says, each name leaving him with more bravado than the last, “What gave you that [bargain bin] idea? You got your head in the [scrap heap] or somethin’? I don’t hate TV.”

Spamton leans forward and reaches up with both hands, and though Tenna thinks to draw back actions imply won’t follow suit, caught in place like a freeze-frame with no remote in sight. The protests leave him, he’s certain, crackles not just thought but word— but you’re always, you said, you said obsolete—

Two hands come to rest drunkenly firm on either side of his head, and like this they’re close, practically nose to nose, every bit of disbelief drying up like the slow snap of his cords being frayed, static at first then a sudden, overwhelming nothing—

“I love TV.”

Notes:

Oh boy here we go :)

You're the only one I'd like to fall for
In this afterparty crowd on the dance floor
Whoever you are
This feels like the start of something I didn't ask for

 

・ Blame My Youth - Something I Didn't Ask For