Chapter Text
Everything hurts, but that's not surprising. Who knew that sleeping in a dumpster would come with not-so-favorable results to his spine? Him apparently, from repeated offenses over the past two weeks. The smell of food scraps and rusty metal was starting to become familiar at this point, and Spamton doesn't exactly know how to feel about that.
He reminds himself this is only a temporary stay, one he'll be quick to get rid of when he gets back on his feet and tramples over the markets once again! It just takes time. It'll be exaclty like what he did with him-
...
...He'll reach out again soon. He just has to keep trying. He'll respond again, Spamton knows this.
But in the meantime, he still needs to be functioning properly for when when he returns. This means food, and food means money. He's only got a few dark dollars left, barely enough to get a free shoe sample including the fees. And it's not like he even wants to involve himself with those traitors, especially now that he's been-sacked he's moved to better opportunities.
He just needs to work that charm like usual! It's one of the reasons he was chosen in the first place to become a [[BIG SHOT]]. All he needs to do is get someone to listen to him.
Spamton sighs and dramatically leans into the garbage bags beneath him, flinching when his blazer snags on a sharp piece of scrap metal. He quickly sits up so it doesn't tear further, quietly cursing when he sees a pretty decent hole in the red fabric.
He groans, holding the rip in his hands as he thinks back to his previous attempted sales, wondering what put all his previous customers off so badly. All he did was walk up to them on the street and try to sell them his QUALITY options, honest! That's what all the other wannabes did, and he clearly saw them making some cash with those cheesy smiles and pathetic signs.
Sure, he might've come on a bit strong, but give the guy a break! His voice was naturally a bit loud, it was branded- IS an endearing quirk of his. Also, of course some vocal breaks might have snuck through mid pitch. He's noticed they haven't been working right lately, but he can just deal with them himself and work around it for the time being until he can get him back on the line.
Those Darkners were just wimps that couldn't handle what he was selling. He just needs to find the right audience, people who would actually recognise something of value. Yeah. He takes a deep breath and slaps on his award-taking grin at the thought, leaping out of the dumpster (not before covering the phone) with new vigor. He'll find some suckers that will pay double, no, triple the market value for the rest of his exclusive pieces of memorabilia, he's sure.
Dusting off his blazer, he takes it off and looks at its condition. It's seen better days, but the bright red is still as striking as the day he got it fitted. Though, his vision started to narrow if he looked at it for too long, the sound of static filling his ears as he forgot to blink... so he quickly shakes his head to focus on what he's actually going to do with the article he's holding.
Other than his gloves and his pants, it was the last thing Spamton hadn't pawned off or gotten stolen yet that's a part of his classic getup. Mainly because it's hard to rip off his body and he was banned from all the nearby pawn shops before he could sell the rest of his stuff. They had said he was “disruptive” and “temperamental”, even putting up pictures with the word BANNED across his face when he tried coming back in! What a load of [[Baloney]]. Those chumps apparently wouldn't recognise a person of status even if they were hit in the head with a comically oversized bat for it!
This is why he's selling to passersby now, a small sense of nostalgia getting smushed like a bug as soon as it arrived, but the lot of them are being pretty stubborn at the moment. Though, he knows he just needs to wear them down. They know they want what he's giving them, they're just hesitant from his recent, eh, descent in the news. But he's still the same salesman they know and love! Just going through a slight rough patch, like all celebrities do.
Looking over the blazer again, he picks off any stray pieces of scrap or trash sticking to the fabric, smoothing out any wrinkles as much as he can Afterwards, he gently folds it and hugs it close to his chest as he walks out of the alley, scouring the sidewalks for anyone smart enough to speak with him.
----[[~-~]]----
It took a while, but he finally found a Darkner with some brains! It was a Plugboy at the edge of town that didn't seem to recognize him (odd, this one must not be too media savvy), but it did seem interested in the jacket he was holding up for it to see, conveniently angled away from the tear he made earlier.
“...AND I PROMISE THAT YOU WON'T REGRET THIS INCREDIBLE [[Steal From-]] *ahem* STEAL YOU’RE GETTING! ONE OF A KIND, BASICALLY BRAND NEW, AND BRIGHT ENOUGH TO MAKE YOU THE CENTER OF ATTENTION IN SECONDS? NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL A DEAL.” He said, a bit harsh to understand but the Plugboy seemed to be nodding along, albeit a bit confused.
“Hmmmmm, I do like the color. Very lively! I've only seen it on that lovely Nubert character and the Swatchlings that pass by here occasionally-” The Plugboy continued to talk, not noticing the stray pixels that flew off the salesman at the mention of the feathered servents.
“SO YOU’LL CONSIDER TAKING IT?” Spamton interrupted before the Plugboy could ramble on any further. “IT’S ONLY A REASONABLE PRICE OF [[Now 499.99 at ]] DARK DOLLARS! I CAN TELL YOU'RE A DARKNER OF FINE TASTE, SO IT WON'T BE TOO MUCH TROUBLE FOR YOU.”
It visibly blanched at the price, squinting at Spamton unsure. He faltered slightly at the reaction, but kept his smile steady. “IF YOU FIND THAT A BIT STEEP, THEN I SUPPOSE I CAN [[Offering a Brand New-]] *ahem, ahem* Off-OFFER A DISCOUNT FOR A SPECIAL CONSUMER LIKE YOURSELF. I WILL LOWER IT TO 300 DARK DOLLARS, A WHOLE [[⅖ Of Darkners Don't Know-]] DOWN FROM THE ORIGINAL! NOW REMEMBER, THIS IS ONE OF A KIND! SONETHING SPECIFICALLY MADE FOR DARKNERS OF SMALLER STATURE!”
It seemed a little peeved at the loud insistence, glancing away from Spamton awkwardly as it rubbed its hands together. He grit his teeth in frustration at the reaction, his mouth still stuck in a fixed smile. This is quality material! Any Darkner would be lucky to have it for this low of a price! But he didn't say this out loud, knowing that if he did the Plugboy might shut the deal down all together.
“I CAN TELL YOU'RE A BIT HESITANT, BUT THIS IS SOMETHING THAT WON'T COME BY EVERY DAY. IT'S QUITE DIFFICULT TO AQUIRE, BUT I UNDERSTAND THIS FAR OUT IS DIFFERENT FROM THE BIG CITY. SO WHAT ABOUT 250? 250 IS MY FINAL OFFER, JUST BECAUSE I LIKE YOU'RE GUMPTION AND YOU SEEM LIKE A [[Huge Sucker]]!” Spamton freezes as he finishes his sentence, sweating nervously as the Plugboy goes from slightly annoyed to staring him down at his words.
"Excuse me?"
“O-OH! DID I SAY THAT? DON'T WORRY, IT'S JUST NEW SLANG FROM QUEEN, I U-UNDERSTAND IF IT CAME OUT A BIT OFF. WHAT I MEANT TO SAY WAS [[SleazeFest]]! NO, I MEAN [[SlimeBall]]! EH, UGH, JUST TAKE THE [[@$!%]] OFFER.” He finished rather desperately, shoving the article into the Plugboy’s now irritated face.
It stutters in surprise as it wrangles the item off of its face, gripping it tightly as it glares daggers at Spamton. “What did you just say to me!?” It shouted, swinging the blazer around in a fit and accidentally revealing the fact it had a giant tear as the natural lights of Cyber World flowed through the rip clear as day.
It paused its retort to stare at the jagged and frayed edges of the hole, slowly turning back to Spamton with small sparks jolting from its mouth and eyes in frustration. Spamton had already opened his mouth to negotiate, offer another price, say something , but was cut short as a bolt of lightning shot out and had him jerking out of the way, grazing his shoulder and searing the sleeve of his dress shirt.
He had barely ducked away in time, any later would have had the bolt straight in his chest. The heat of the attack lingered like the smoke coming from his shirt, his ears ringing as his breathing started going faster at the start of a battle. He slowly turned to his attacker, now seeing it was sparking uncontrollably as the blazer in its hand started to char and flake away in its grasp.
The sight made his head swim; a sense of dread and anticipation pooling in his gut that he would rather not have happening at the moment as he can't do anything useful for [[@!$%]] sake-
So his mind went blank as he suddenly jumped toward the Plugboy, shocking it and himself as he wrestled the blazer out of its hand, uncaring for the burns he got as a result before bolting in the opposite direction. The Plugboy's yelling was shocked and hoarse as it started to give chase, but it was eventually drowned out by the chatter of Cyber City, though it still wasn't that far behind him.
Sparks of lightning followed after him as he ran, barely missing every time as Spamton hastily swerved or ducked in response. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he tried to get rid of his tail, ducking under stalls and running through whatever streets and alleys he could find.
This worked for a couple of turns, but ultimately backfired as he turned his head for just a second too long to look behind him before running straight into two Ambyu-Lances hanging out outside of a storefront. They all tumbled to the ground in varying states of shock, Spamton immediately getting up first and continuing to run.
The Ambyu-Lances looked confused before the Plugboy came barreling in and shouted “This guy tried to rip me off and insulted me to my face when I wouldn't buy!” But this wasn't what caught their attention; it was Spamton's response. “I DIDN'T SCAM [[Nobody to Hold on a Late Night?]]! THIS THING ATTACKED ME- ME- M3 - ME - ”
Glitches overtook his head, stretching his neck at unnatural angles as the phrase kept repeating, getting more and more distorted as he stopped mid-step to deal with the glitches. The Plugboy faltered at the display, flinching back and grimacing at how gruesome the whole event played out. However, the Ambyu-Lances had the opposite reaction, narrowing their eyes and lifting themselves off the ground, ready to stop whatever violent virus he had affecting him from spreading.
Spamton immediately tried to speed up his recovery at the sight, grasping at his hair to stop his head from twitching again as he started to run once more. And now, it seems like two Ambyu-Lances chasing him were way worse than a single irritated Plugboy.
They shot speeding cars his way, barely giving him time to dodge as they cut off any exits or openings with cacti sprouting from the ground. The spikes constantly nipped at his skin, giving him shallow cuts all over his legs and arms when he stumbled out of the way of another car.
He cursed loudly when one of the spikes punctured his calf and sent him sprawling onto the floor, slamming his face into the concrete below. A loud crunch echoed through the alley walls, a steady flow of what he assumed to be blood running from his most likely broken nose.
He frowns at the pain, but the injury sends another boost of adrenaline and he can't linger for long unless he wants to be brought in by those needle freaks to poke and prod at him like some animal. He rips his leg off the spike to keep running, flinching at the motion, and the Ambyu-Lances seem to grimace at his injury. Yet, they don't stop their chase.
They do seem slightly apologetic, as they spawn less and less cacti around him, giving him more opportunities to dodge and weave. But he can only go for so long being chased, losing more and more blood as a trail of maroon flows out of his leg. His vision is also starting to pixelate, leaving him less and less lucid to get away.
In a state of panic, Spamton tries to look for anything that can help him, shaky eyes searching all over the alleyways he's stuck in. Nothing but trash and batches of moss catch his gaze, leaving him grasping at straws for what to do.
But finally, some higher being seemed to give him a break as one more shimmy through the cacti leaves him in a crowded street of carnival games and food stalls. He almost collapses at the familiar sight, the strained grin on his face a bit more relieved as he enters the crowd. He avoids bumping shoulders or clipping elbows as he walks to minimize attention, keeping his head low as he prays they don't notice the blood trail.
The Ambyu-Lances panicked as he entered such a large crowd, quickly gathering up confused patrons and trying to make sure whatever virus he had didn't spread to the unsuspecting Darkners. Thankfully, in their attempt at quarantining the area, they completely forget about the chase, letting their previous target slip past into another alley unnoticed.
Safe for now, he limped the rest of the way to his dumpster in the shadows, avoiding any other prying eyes and smudging his trail of blood while he did so. When he reached it, he collapsed on its rim, taking deep breaths as he squeezed the blazer in his hands tighter and tighter.
Only when the pixels in his vision faded away did he sag onto the floor, letting his legs rest while he inspected his nose. It was definitely broken, bent at an awkward angle it shouldn't be able to do. He could only glower at the sight, slowly setting down his blazer on his legs and bringing his hands up to the injury, snapping the pieces back into their relative places in a quick, familiar motion.
He hissed at the pain, biting back a yell as he carefully kept one hand on his nose while he concentrated his energy into the other, now balled into a fist. When he opened it up after about a minute, a small winged version of himself with a halo flew out, wearing his current ripped up clothing and all. Though, it didn't focus on the injury at first, only flying around his head with a concerned look on its face from all the blood.
When it took a bit too long to settle, Spamton annoyedly snapped his fingers at it a few times, aggressively pointing to his busted nose to get its attention back to what he needed it for. It looked displeased at the aggression, but it followed his directions anyway, flying down to his nose with green sparkles flying out of its small hands.
He could feel it working when it made contact with his skin, the bones shifting back into place and the pain lessening slightly. However, the summon dissipated after a few seconds, leaving him breathing through his nose to see if it was even still functioning right.
He felt pangs of pain and soreness, but he could breathe well enough, so he decided to look at his leg instead. Moving the blazer off of it showed a puncture about the size of a dark dime, sluggishly leaking blood onto the floor. He grimaced at the slowly growing pool, wondering if he had enough energy to make more summons or if they even knew how to heal something like that, enough to stop the bleeding, at least.
Biting his lip, he decided to try, putting both of his hands together, and after a few minutes, three little hims flew out to greet the world. They didn't need as much direction as the first, immediately honing in on his exposed calf and making contact with green magic glittering in their palms.
Although there were more of them, they still couldn't completely erase the wound, leaving the entry puncture a half-inch deep. Spamton really didn't want to lose more blood in this alley, and he thinks he'll pass out if he tries to conjure up any more summons, so he decides to have it heal naturally and wrapped his ruined blazer around it. It's not like more red will ruin its look.
Finishing the hasty knot, he slowly gets to his feet, using the dumpster wall for support. After steadying himself, he shuffled to the side of the dumpster where a box was laying still, and started his climb. He struggled to lift the lid when he got on top, but he succeeded after a few tries and a few beeped curses that left his mouth
He threw himself inside, trying not to take any breaths too deep unless he wanted the smell of garbage and the pain of his recent scuffle to violently come back to the forefront of his mind. He lays there for a moment, letting his brain try to figure out what went so horribly wrong and to do next time for better profit. It comes up blank.
Grinding his teeth, Spamton looks to the side, to the place he hid the [[Angel]] from any handsy, unworthy morons. He knows he would know what to do. What he should say to get them practically eating out of the palm of his hand. What to insinuate, to subtly tell, to reference to get intrigue and interest in what he has to say.
His mouth feels dry as he uncovers the phone hiding under a sheet in the cleanest part of the dumpster, carefully grabbing its receiver.
With clumsy hands, he dials his number. One he could never forget even if he tried, the numbers almost burned into his eyelids. Anticipation runs rampant as he enters the last digit, and he slowly lifts the receiver up to his ear and waits. The ringing was the same, the receiver was the same, but the odd thing was that he still wasn't showing him that he was there.
Spamton waited and waited for what felt like a lifetime, listening to that ring repeat over and over with no end in sight. The trash dug into his skin through the bags, but he didn't dare to move as the phone kept ringing, scared if he did that the sound might disappear.
And then the tone just stopped. Nothing more than stale air greeted him in the sudden silence, the receiver cold in his hand. Though, he still waited, hoping that this meant someone on the other side had finally picked up. “H-Hello?”
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̶̡̢̡̢̨̨̳̩̼̮͈̹̣̙͚̺̠̣̘̭̖̮̩̦͔͉̳̠͎͇̹̹͎̞̘̥̲̰͎̲͉̗̗̘̘̱̯͔̯̯̼̙͈̆̈̓̎̅͜͜ͅOnly Garbage Noise Responded.
̴̢̧̧̨͍̟͇̝͙͙͕̳̙͓̲̝̦͙̻͉͇̥̬̤̩͎̖̹̳̻͉̥̥͙̦̲͂̍͆͒͛̔͊̀̓̌̓̅͂͛̍̒̅̆̾͑̋͑̈́͘͜͜͜͝&̵̨̨̡̢͔̰̦̬͖͍̭̘̰̜͙̹̱̺͉͈̺̲̩̥͈̗͔̭͎̼̙̩̫̠̖̜̯͕̝̯̬̥̟̮̫̖̙̓̒̀̂͒̌͛̎͊͗̾͊̿͑̅̈́̽̀́͠͝>̷̢̧̢̡̢̗̟̜̥̥̞̝̹̪̯̭̝̯̗̩̙̗̺͕̺̠͉̲̯̩͚̺̠̝̖̱̖̘̻̠̮̲̳̝̹̜̮͉̼̣͉͉̹̠̘͛͒̈́̀̎̈͑̌̍͛͑͆͆̀͒̇̍͑͆͌̾̚̕͘͜͝=̷̢̛̜̝̮̦͌͆̈́́̌̋͒̒̾̏̂̓̈́͑̽͂̄͊́͌̉͆͛͑̆̌̀̐̅̆̃̑͒͑̐̄̐̈̋͌̾̃͆̍́̔͋̿̔̅̎̆̄̃͑͋̿̿̉̾̎̒͑̕͘͘͘̕͠͠͝͝#̷̡̨̡̢̡̡̧̡̡̫̫̬͚̫̹͈̬̬͔̹̻̗̩͚͍͓̹̦̫̭̻͔̦͍̗̣̱̣͔͖̠̪̳̥̥͉͉̘̭͔̩̪͓̱̞͖͙̹̣̰̘͕̑̌̀̈́̾͑̆̑́͛͂́̓̏͒͋̀͊̌̉͆̋͑̆͊̈́͆̎̑͛̂̍͒̕̕̕̕̕͜͜͝͝͝͠×̵̡̧̧̡̡̨̢̛̟̜̗͇̺̬̻̪͍̺̹̠̺̫̥͓̩̼̹͇͚̩̱͍̙̦͖̥̰̩̞̜͓̌̽͋͌͊̆͋̈́͋̌͋̅͒̏̕͜͜ͅͅ=̵̢̨̡̢̧̡̲͈̦̖͙̣̦͕͙͍͕̰̞͉͓̣̻̭͚͖̺̩̺̭͚̤̭̟̱̯̮͈̅̈́̌̒̍͂̕͜͜͠ͅͅ%̴̧̢̛̛̛̛̛͉̟̜̠͍͍͍̫̤̟͉̱̙̮͙̞̗̞̗͓̥̠̮̲̼̻͓̬̞̪̯̟͙͇̤̞͔̻͖̖̭̖̪̘̩̗͒͗͆͒͒͑̂̅́͋͋̓̅̔̉͐̊͋̽͊͂̌̎̒̋̇̋̇͂͋̒̓͑̊̑̓̀̃̏̀͒̈́͑͗̐̈̍̽̈̆̃̄̍̽͋̀͗̓͆̐̚̚͜͝͠͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅ<̴̢̨̨̢̧̨̛̛͕͕̰͍̭̪̩̯̮̬̝̩͍͚̼̘̮͎͖̪͚̪͔̖̩̫͔̻͇̭̞̻͈̮̗͉̠̪̭̲͓̦̤̓́̃̈́͊̐̈̏͑̓̈́̈́͜͝ͅ/̸̡̧̢̨̢̛̛̛̬̳̺̜͕͍̟̜͇͎̗͖̘̪̞̹̱̟̱̻͕̺̘̦̱̜̠͓̞͈̩̤̰̲͖̫̩̥̲͙̻̭̲̠̖͓̄͌̽̂̓̽̃̓͐̇̋͗̽̾̈́͑̄͒̍͂̆̒͑͒̽̉̍ͅͅͅ$̷̛̛̝͍͇̗̮̗̜͈̯̱̥̦͙͎̯̞͖̮̜͇̙̹̪͓̙̣̫̇̂̐̓̇̎̒̐́̏͗̽̋̄͂͒͋́̈̅̄̈̌̓̈́̍̐̈̏̀͋̑͛͌͐̋̈́̂̌̅̈́̌̎̋͗̽̋͋̊͗̌̇̾͘͘͝͝͝͝͠͝͠@̴̢̧̨̢̨̧̢̨̧̡̻̖̯̠̝͈͖̼͕̰̙͙̜̬̝̪̰͚͖̞̯̬͈͖̲͇̯͉̯̼̦̯͉̮̙̙̠͙͓̙̳̩̮̥̜͙͍̼̰̖̣͇̪͔̠̮̮̥̫̺͔̘̼͍̪̮͓̼̼̼̤͎̎̔́͒̃̒̃̾̃̎̐̑́́̋͗́̇͂̂͗̈́̊͛̑̿̓͂͘̕̕͜͜͝͝͝ͅͅ×̴̧̙̠̪̤̹͚̪̖̾͑̅̋̅̽̉̎͋͑̎́̌̈́̏̂̈́̊̄̏͊͋͛͋̇̾̆͌̂̕͘̚̚͠͝$̷̨̨̨̢̹͚͔̘͔̯̖̗͖͔̙̯̗̲͎̺̥̙̰̞̮̩͕̬̠͍͓̦̮̻̼̹̥̹̥͍͓̼͎̟̳̦̖̹̹̪̻̫̻̭̠̇͌͊̂̍̈́̋̽͑͑̾̀̽̀̃̇̈́̄̉̿̃̑̈́́̋́̈͊́̆̌̊̈̽̍͋̋̍͗͗͘̚͘̚̕̕͜͜͝͝͝ͅ^̷̢̢̧̧̛͇̮̼̻͖̳̤̟̼̥̻̲̟̞͕̞̪̜͎̫̦̫̩͚̬̳͎̭̲̗̽͊̌̑̍̈́̉́͋̈́̃̈́̉͐͑̓͊̇̍͂͋̎̉͆̀͗͂̇͐̃̔́̈́̑̀̌́͆͆͆͛̇̓̈́͊͝͠$̸̨̡̢̧̧̢̡̛̛̹͉̗͖̥̦̩̠̺̙̭͇̗̠͉̙̝̲͖̩͈̤͖͖̹̱͎̜͎̘̙͎̪͉̩̼̤̟̖̗̩͙̬̙̰̠̰̬̪̣͈̝̞̣̜́͛̍̽̊̔̊̅̋͒̓̾̍͜ͅͅͅ÷̸̧̢̨̨̧̛̛̣̝̙̫̠͔̦̙̳̻̖̩͖̬̜͙̗͓̞͕̳̜̻̫̬̫̦̙̲̬̮̖̯͔̲̗̙̟̞̦̀͌͑́̅̔́́͌̀̀̂̆̈́͋̿̽̇̈́̇͂̐̌̔̈́͛̍͌̓͌͆̔͒́̌̿͆̐̿͂̄̀͊̅͑̎̏̃́̋̊́̌̀̈͒̈̄̐̀̆̋̎̀̽͆̉̑̇̓̊̈́͋̈́̿͘̚̚̕̕̚͝͠͝͠͠_̵̢̡̨̛̻̮̼̰͖̳͙̹͉̟͓̭̙̺̱̞͓̗͙̤͇͖͚̓̎̍͆̉͂͜ͅ^̶̨̢̧̰͓̗͕̦̙̫̣͔̠̫̰̙̞͕͚̻̱̖̘͍̦͇̠͇͆̅̅́́̋̀͗͜%̴̧̧̜̰͈͙̖̤͕̳̤͚̹̪͙͇̪̹̼͙͖̙͙̝͇̖̤̥̠͔̭̜̘̭̂͒̑̒̌̅͆̍̈́̓͆̆͗̾́͆̓̐̑̐̐͂͘͜͜͠͝ͅ#̸̢̧̨̪̻̲̻͎̹̜̤̭̹͔͎̭̱̝̯͓̞͓͎̤̪͈̈́̾͊̓͒̐̎̊̍̔ͅͅͅ=̷̨̢̨̧̨̧̛̥̼͓̖͎̥͚̲͙̗̼͙̘͖̱̠̯̦͙̲̙̰̹̙̤̠̺̩̺̞̥̦̠̜̫̥̱̤͖̤̲͓̳̤̪͎̭̹͙̱̙̥̹̼̫̖̥̟̻̲̺͊́̓̋̅̓́̃̿̋̔̈́̏̄̈̆̏̀̈́̾̀̈́̓̾̉̓̎͋̀̓̃́́̈̂̄̏̕͜͜͜͝%̸̨̧̧̢̢̨̢̛͕̳̜̥̘̻̲̟̩̫̥̥̭̝̼̪̟̣̭̭̞̘̳̳͉͖̳͙͍̯͙̣̰͔͙̜̪͖̠̫̫͇̳̝̣̳̺̫̖̰̱͕̺̫̭̘͚̟̖̲̫̯͈̳̥͖̗̜͎̙̯͓̞͆̂̾͋͒͒̃̑͆͌̓̄̓͛̃̔̽͘̚̚͘͜ͅͅ-̶̡̢̨̨̢̨̻̘̝̯̫͓̦̥̝͎̫͇͈̞͉̣̜̫̩̰̖͕̠̙͇̬̖̱̰͇̤̠̹̬̱̤͚̰͙̠͈̭͍̣̞̦̘̀̆̒̍̀̽͜͜ͅͅ”̴̨̧̢̡̛̛̰͓̪͈͉͙̻̙͖̥̱̮̲̣̦̱͉̲̭̳̙͕̙̳̜̥̘͔̮̦̟̭̣͚͙̹̩͎̦̦̼͈̫̻̰̱̣͕̱̭̩͚̘͉̤̻͂͂̐̒̈́̾̉̀̈́̂̏̂̽̑̀̋̂̑̊͌̈́̀̈̓̀̑̄͗͊̈́̌̈́̓́͛͋͊͛͑̉̓̒̊̊̓͆̔̇͆̌͋͑̃̆̌͆̌͒͐̐̽̋̌͆̈́̆̓̆̚͘̚͘͘̚͜͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͠ͅͅ
Spamton quickly slammed the receiver down, fists clenched as he stared at the phone. He looks at its plastic casing, at every screw and crack, trying to find answers for a question he doesn't even know how to ask. He still finds nothing. He screams, and it echoes through the alley.
Why won't he come back? He though they were on the same wavelength, that they would help him rise up to what he always wanted to and could be, and then they would both reach for what they always saw was further up. To a blinding light embracing them both. But to just throw him away? Leave him for dead in the streets? Making him beg for him to come back to his rescue like some stupid, pathetic dog?
In a fit of rage, he grabs the whole phone, uncaring for his leg and soreness as he stands and holds it over the rim of the dumpster, ready to drop it onto unforgiving concrete. Maybe then he'll react, respond, to a gift from long ago broken and ripped apart in his absence.
...
...but he hesitates, seeing its cord dangle just an inch above the floor and its casing reflect the void in the sky. It's still silent, even as he threatens its livelihood, what it's meant to do. It's still silent, even when it'll just be scrap like the rest of the trash soon enough. It's still silent, even after he begged and punched and prayed and screamed and cried and... well, he knows it was probably left behind too. He quietly drags it back into the dumpster, covering it back up with the sheet.
He takes a deep breath, reorganizing his thoughts and pushing down any more reckless emotions. Maybe he won't get an answer tonight, but there's always tomorrow. Spamton knows that he will respond. He wouldn't just abandon their work, their cause, the ace in his sleeve waiting for him to call back? He needs him. He's special. He's ready for anything. He just needs to know what to do next for their plan.
He rolls over in the trash, getting as comfortable as one can in the garbage as he looks to the simulated sky. He used to think it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, its never-ending expanse covering all of Cyber World in its embrace. He remembered looking at it through the mansion's window, seeing the glare of Cyber City underneath it shine in unfocused blobs of color.
Now, there was no familiar glare. His view was unobstructed, no neon signs or streetlights this far back in the alleys to tint the sky. Here, he could see the tiniest lights from the internet waves behind the grid, pulsing like colorful veins in the void.
It was new, and would've been beautiful if not for the smells and pain that accompanied it. All he wishes is that he was back inside again, seeing it through protective glass and past the liveliness of Cyber City. He would be back where he was supposed to be. And he will be again once the phone finally goes through to him. He just needs to be patient, like all great salesmen should be when dealing with a particularly difficult sponsor.
He hums in approval at his thoughts, the last flickers of turmoil being buried deep into his mind, and he leans up to close the lid of the dumpster, blocking out the sky grid, lights, and numerous sounds of Cyber City. He tries to get comfortable once more in the trash, leaning his head back onto his hands as he closes his eyes.
Everything will go back to normal soon. He'll bet his life on it.