* (Piles of garbage.)

by clownpunked

Summary:

In which a scummy little mailman discovers a CRT hidden amongst the trash heaps of Waterfall..!?

---

Undertale AU! Spamton is a mailman out of a job living in waterfall, and Tenna has been thrown out.

Notes:

died ~2018 born 2025 welcome back undertale hyperfixation

i have not written in years and this. this is what gets me. okay

the designs i imagined for them in this work was heavily inspired by @entityoffline on tumblr, please check him out!

https://www.tumblr.com/entityoffline/789188439020011520/mom-said-its-my-turn-with-undertale?source=share

Chapter 1: (A trash heap.)

   【Dear                 :

 

   No, nasty.. no good... useless...

 

   From,

   Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Murky, littered water squelches under his shoes as he searches, carefully examining each item for its worth. He hasn't made much coin recently, chalking it up to his poor stock rather than lack of foot traffic. 

 

His shop is tucked away among the heaps of trash so well it's often mistaken for another pile of garbage.

 

Mostly because it is built out of garbage. Spamton worked with what he had.

 

Various items are chucked behind his back. A crushed can, ice cream wrapper, pie tin. They make pathetic splashes in the water.

 

Glass mug, moldy cinnamon roll. Spamton holds up a stack of wet construction paper, only for it to disintegrate in his hands.

 

   【To whom it may concern:

 

   %$*#!

 

   Yours truly,

   Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

His plastic joints click against each other as he stomps, splashing water up against his already-damp clothes. No one's been throwing anything good away, and the mailman is suffering for it. Why can't these good-for-nothing monsters throw away a three course meal every once in a while? Piping hot?

 

krzzt…

 

The red flag on his head flicks right up at the faint sound. Spamton certainly didn't make that noise, and anything that makes sound and *isn't* running water usually means cash, cold and hard.

 

He quietly turns around, slowly stepping through the water as he carefully listens. It sounded like.. sizzling? Did that fast food freak decide to move shop out here? Spamton won't allow that.

 

bzzzzz- ᵖᵒᵖ! ᵖᵒᵖ!

 

No, this is something else. Spamton approaches a particular mountain and stares closely. Nothing looks out of the ordinary at first glance, except for..!

 

The has-been mailman gasps. Wires are poking out underneath a wet box, and wires mean repair jobs— something Spamton can charge for.

 

   【To you:

 

   Bingo! Come to papa!

 

   Sincerely,

   Spamton G. Spaa҉A҉a҉a҉A҉A҉a҉a҉A҉—!】

 

He grabs a handful of wires and pulls. An electric shock like he's never felt goes through his entire body, freezing him in place before he falls back with a wet thud. Despite the water, thin smoke wafts from his clothes.

 

   【Dear listener:

 

   Yeowch...

   Painfully,

   Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Suddenly, the pile of garbage begins to emit a piercing whine. The puppet covers his ears as he sits up, grimacing.

 

"kzzzkzzzrrt.. ug-....?..... zrrrrck.. rrrrrrrrrt... ᵖᵒᵖ!"

 

Something shifts under the litter, and Spamton reels back. The movement was subtle, but whatever made it was much, much bigger than the waterlogged inhabitant.

 

   【...For Mystery Monster:

   To hell with this!

 

   Bravely,

   Spamton G. Spamt—】

 

"krrrrrrrsht... plea..........n't.........elp..?......"

 

It's communicating..!? Or, trying to, anyways. It's doing a poor job.

 

Spamton stood there, pondering whether he should help or not. It would take a lot of effort to dig this thing out of the garbage, effort Spamton could be using to search for marketable trinkets.

 

But on the other hand…

 

If Spamton helped it out, maybe he could free it of its spare change. Money for his services. If it didn't have any, well... little mailman could always tear it down for parts.

 

   【Dearest customer:

 

   You have yourself a deal!

 

   Gleefully,

   Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Spamton shoves his hands into the garbage haphazardly, scooping pieces of trash into the water. He finds an old plushie and pauses, opening his messenger bag and putting it inside. That has market potential.

 

A rusty trash can refuses to budge despite his best efforts. With a huff, Spamton climbs over, pushing his back against the garbage and pushing with his legs to roll the bin. Once it's rolled away, Spamton steps down, and something crunches under his shoe.

 

The mailman looks down and angrily kicks at whatever he's standing on, only for him to yelp and grab his foot.

 

   【To Tin Can:

 

   %$* #&!$!!!

 

   Hurtfully,

   Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

The dark water laps at the metal sticking up. Spamton couldn't tell what he was looking at, but if he had to guess, maybe an arm? A leg?

 

He’s gonna squeeze every last cent out of this thing.

 

As the puppet slowly unveils the machine, he can't help but stare. It's far more intricate than he thought, with a full body to accompany the cracked TV head. Someone put a lot of time into this rig, why would they throw it out?

 

kkzzzzzt......

 

Its shattered screen blinks a vibrant royal blue, limbs creaking and wires sparking. Spamton steps back.

 

"...los.........bzzt—! ...ov........ting......?....ᵖᵒᵖ!" It powers off again. The mailman waits a minute to make sure it won't shock him, then climbs up to look the cathode over.

 

The bundles of wire are sticking out of its left shoulder where an arm should be, but that wouldn't put it out of commission. Its other arm seems intact, save for water damage and stray cables, and none of its vital inner workings would be stored in the legs, so Spamton doesn't bother with those.

 

He grabs each side of the CRT and jostles it a little. The outer casing is warm, far from the cold temperatures he's used to in waterfall.

 

Spamton weighs the pros and cons in his head before turning its head to the side and grabbing a rusty screwdriver out of his bag. He pinpoints the location of the screws before getting to work, carefully undoing each one and pulling the plastic casing off the back of the machine's head.

 

Water pours out like he's emptying a bucket, and he carefully balances the outer casing on some trash, rather than tossing it into the river. He checks the solder joints and ensures the ventilation points are unobstructed.

   【To Cathode:

 

   It was probably just all that juice in your head, no need to overreact!

 

   Smartly,

   Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

The mailman quickly screws the casing back on and steps back to admire his work, despite it still looking very bad.

 

   【To CRT:

 

   How do ya feel now? Like a million bucks, right!?

 

   From,

   Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

...

 

The machine doesn't move. Spamton waits with his arms out for a grand awakening as a reward, but doesn't get it. He drops his shoulders with a scoff.

 

   【To Spamton G. Spamton:

 

   Serves you right trying to make a quick buck, you lousy $%*#.

 

   Regretfully,

   Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

...

 

Spamton kicks at the machine, and that does it. The TV blinks on with an earful of garbage noise and ringing, the screen switching between the blue screen and static.

 

"......llo? wh...ere...... i..?......som....thi....ng....bro......en....."

 

Spamton gawks as it tries to get to its feet, only for the metal to groan in protest and collapse with a splash.

 

"I ca......'t stan......have t.....et bac......bzzzt—!"

 

   【For You:

 

   Woah, hit the brakes on that cungadero, pal! You're trash now, garbage! You aren't going anywhere! Take it from me!

 

   Signed,

   Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Finally, the CRT lands on the blue screen, faint static only visible every few seconds. Spamton sweats through his confident smile. It feels as if it's looking right at him with its invisible eyes.

 

“...Hello? krzzt—! Is- is this thing finally on- o- on?” The cathode laughs half-heartedly, bringing a heavy hand up to tap the side of his broken head. Water sloshes out of the metal compartments in his arm.

 

Spamton stares blankly, waiting for him to say more before making any moves.

 

“I- I- I guess you're my- my audien zzzzzzrt …”

 

The TV tries to adjust his tie, disappointed when it refuses to move. Spamton squints through his glasses. He can almost make out a frown through the cracked screen.

 

“Krrrrzzzzt! Look, I'm not- t- t- sure where I am, or who ... you- you are,” something in the CRT's head clicks and whirs when he repeats himself. “But may- maybe you can hel- hel- help me? I'll give you what- whatever you want if you fi- fix me up!”

 

   【Dear Trash Heap:

 

   𝔾𝕆𝕃𝔻?

 

   Eagerly awaiting your response,

   Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

“Er, I don't- bzzzzzt—!” He gets quiet, his shiny gold antenna drooping over his screen. “I don't think I- I have that…”

 

Spamton crosses his arms. He's seen this act before. Monsters coming through will claim they don't have their wallet, or they left it at home, or someone else already robbed them that day.

 

Mailman doesn't buy it. He turns, pretending to walk away.

 

“WA- A҉-҉ ҉A҉I҉T҉!҉”

 

The machine is shrill, the plea muffled under layers of static. He lifts his arm to reach for the puppet, only managing to drop his gloves hand into the water a little further than it was before.

 

Spamton pauses his façade, looking over his shoulder at the cathode. The TV slumps forward in defeat.

 

“I- I- I could di- die here... rrrzzzt—! Ple- please, lit- little mail- ailman, I'm beg- beggi- begging- begging- begging- ᵖᵒᵖ!” His screen shorts out for a moment before coming back to life, a little dimmer.

 

The CRT is staring at his dark reflection in the water, failing to keep himself together.

 

...

 

   【For You, Machine:

 

   Alright, fine. I'll take you to my shop and fix you up, but in return, you gotta stick around for a little while and help me nab some more cash, got it? It's the least you can do to pay me back.

 

   Regards,

   Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

The hunk of junk looks up toward the mailman. “Brzzzt—! You- you'll do it? You're gonna- na- fix me?”

 

Spamton hides a grimace, scolding himself for allowing himself to be convinced.

 

   【Dear Entertainment Center:

 

   Don't get too comfy. I'm only fixing you so you can help me get my financials in order. I'm using you, Cathode.

 

   Coldly,

   Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

“Spam- Spam- Spamton…” The CRT repeats. “My name's Mr. Ten- Ten- Ten- Tenna. Krzzzt—!”

 

   【Dear Trash:

 

   I'm not calling you that.

 

   Sincerely,

   Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Tenna looks away, a little hurt by the name-calling. “Note- noted…”

 

Bzzzzztrrrrrrrrkkzzzzzzzzzt— ᵖᵒᵖ!

 

Something fizzles out in Tenna's head and his screen goes to black once more, like he was never there. Spamton does not step closer.

 

He spots a little electric plug floating in the water nearby, surely connected to the cathode. It hasn't been plugged in all this time..? How was it working at all?

 

He's definitely not getting this thing to the shop by pure muscle, that's for sure. It's at least four times the size of the little puppet.

 

He wonders if he still has that old raft somewhere in the shop.

 

   【 Dear Cathode:

 

   Wait here. I'll be back with something to transport you. Then I'll get to work making you, work!

 

   Your partner in business,

   Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Tenna sits alone as Spamton scurries off, a tiny shard of glass falling off his fragile screen to disappear in the murky water below.

Chapter 2: * (There are quite a few brands you recognize.)

Spamton had gone back and forth a few times between his shop and newfound treasure. At first, he thought the little boat-thing he had would work, but it had two large holes in the bottom. Why did he even keep that thing!?

 

He pulled his mailer's hat down over his forehead and tried to reeally think about a solution. Asking someone to help was out of the question, he didn't want someone stealing his valuable find. Besides, the only monsters that could possibly help were either too scary or too annoying.

 

Then, he heard an echo flower babbling some nonsense. At first his instinct was to snap at it for interrupting his thinking time, but then it came to him.

 

That's it. The flowers.

 

Spamton wasted no time escaping his little corner of waterfall, scampering through the rainy cave, and hustling through the marsh to get to his destination. The only reason for any pause was to hide from other monsters before continuing.

 

Finally, after running past the glowing gibberish, he found some. A bushel of lotus flowers in the water, eight dry seeds tucked away in the petals. He could use those.

 

He tucked the seeds into his oversized bag and returned to his beloved dump, stopping to growl at a small monster on the way. He lifted the bag higher once he started wading among the trash again to keep the seeds from getting damp. They would quickly fill his bag up.

 

As the mailman neared, he put the handful into his fist and dropped the bag at his shop. He wasn’t interested in making any more trips, so he had one shot to get it right.

 

He used one hand to push any large leftover pieces of trash out of the way so the machine was isolated in the water— he’s got enough litter at the shop. He then put half of his harvest into the other hand and tossed one part underneath the machine’s top half and the other underneath its rusted legs.

 

Before Spamton could wonder if his plan was a success, a cluster of lotuses bloomed beneath the CRT, lifting the old machine to the top of the water. From there, the puppet was able to effortlessly push it to the shop. He watched the sides carefully for any little bits and pieces that might be falling into the water.

 

Once in the shop, he unceremoniously pushed the machine onto the floor, twisting the bulb of a crooked lamp for light. He gathered the lotuses in his arms and tossed them outside in the trash. With several breathing breaks over several minutes, he managed to get the TV in a sitting position against the wall.

 

Now, after some questionable repairs, Spamton is standing on the robot’s leg to reach the power button on the bottom ledge of its… face.

 

Kzzzzssssssshrzzzrt…

 

 …

 

【Dear Telly:

 

Time to wake up and smell the hot garbage! Come on, up and at 'em! 

 

Impatiently, Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Spamton dings the side of Tenna's head a couple times with his wrench. He's had plenty of time to second guess their deal, wondering if this hunk of junk really has the skillset needed to artfully scam monsters out of their life savings. That stuff doesn't come naturally! Even Spamton had to learn, once upon a time.

 

Even if it does have the skills, the mailman seriously doubts it can keep itself on long enough to distract anyone. It's exceptionally broken, even by Spamton's standards.

 

Bzzzzsszzrrt—!

 

Tenna's screen flickers again, casting a chronically online shade of blue onto Spamton as he moves to stand in front of the cathode. The machine shudders, his unoiled couplings groaning with every movement. Spamton makes a mental letter to himself to nab any oil he can find— that creaking will get annoying real quick.

 

“Kchhrrrrzzz- krrrzt- u- urgh, what happ- app- appened..?”

 

Tenna flexes his fingers, looking around. Through his shattered screen, he sees repetitions of a yellow sun on a blue sky and white fluffy clouds. Is he.. on the surface? Did he make it up top?

 

Tenna reaches out his broken arm to touch a cloud.

 

【Dear Delusional:

 

WELCOME! MY HUMBLE ABODE!

 

Signed,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Tenna looks down at the smiling creature.

 

Oh. He hasn't made it up to the surface, he's just.. he's still underground. Upon a second look, the TV realizes his vision was just a mural. How cruel.

 

...

 

“I don't fee- feel fixed quite yet- yet, Spamt- ton..” The puppet waves his wrench in the air condescendingly.

 

【Delivery for Trash:

 

That's because I'm not done! And I won't be done until you start holding up your end of the deal!

 

Return address,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Tenna looks crestfallen. “I.. I- I'm afraid I don- don't follow..”

 

The wrench is launched over Spamton's shoulder, clattering in one of the piles around the shop.

 

【Tenner:

 

While Ol' Spamton here was fixing you up, he had a thought! It's not terribly fair to bring you to 100% before getting some benefits! You could just run off, leave me in the trash for good! And no siree, I don't want that.

So! I've made it so you can get up and walk, but your vocal workings and other miscellaneous issues will remain until I get a little generosity from you!

 

Capiche?

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

…

 

The screen cuts to black. Spamton momentarily curses and scrambles for his tools again, thinking the TV had shorted.

 

He pauses when metal starts grating against metal behind him. Tenna heavily puts his hand up against the adjacent wall for support as he brings up his right knee.

 

SsssssHhhhkrrrrrrrrreeeee—

 

Tenna's back scrapes against the back wall as he painstakingly forces his body off the ground. He readjusts to make up for the missing weight of his left arm, using his better leg to compensate.

 

Spamton gnashes his teeth and holds his ears. It looks as if Tenna might just fall apart at any moment, bringing the whole shop down with him.

 

Sparks fly and Spamton ducks for cover. Lucky for him, living in waterfall is a guarantee that his home will never burn down.

 

Kkkrzzzzzzsssht—!

 

Tenna catches himself before he can slip. Every circuit, wire, and metal plate is trembling, struggling to hold in place. The broken TV stops, hesitating to try moving any further.

 

His screen clicks on again, his cracked mouth forming a strained wince. His gold receivers are bent against the makeshift ceiling of the shop.

 

“Kzzzsht— ack, I- I think-” Something cracks and Tenna digs his fingers into the wall.

 

...

 

Spamton is only now noticing the claws poking out from his gloves as he peeks out from his dirty hiding spot.

 

“S- sorry! I'm just- bzzzt! Are yo- you sure I can hel- help you like this- ike this?”

 

Oh, good. So he’s not about to attack.

 

Spamton pops his head out of his trash pile, a banana peel comedically planted on his head. If this were a sitcom, Tenna would have loved that.

 

【Dear Extra Large:

 

... Definitely probably! A few more bang-up jobs by yours truly and you'll be in perfect shape!

 

Confidently,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Tenna flashes a wobbly smile. Not exactly award winning.

 

“You- you really think- ink so?”

 

KRRRZSZKZZZZT!

 

Tenna's frame locks up. The little mailman's eyes widen as he watches the giant CRT lean forward, slip, and then fall face-down with an echoing crash .

 

…

 

Spamton stares for a second. Surely with a fall like that, all his hard work was undone in an instant. It may not be worth redoing at this rate, he can still scrap it and—

 

Kkrrrzzzzkkrrsht—!

 

Tenna directs all his energy to his arm and pushes to roll over so he's facing up. It's a miracle his screen hasn't cracked further.

 

“Sa- say- say, there's a— bzzzk! there's a blind spo- spot in my screen, did- did I come down- own with some burn-in?”

 

Spamton inches closer to stand over the screen. Even on the ground, Tenna's head almost matches Spamton's full height.

 

【Dear Clumsy:

 

What are you talking about? Your screen is hardly operational. Your peepers are bound to be a little broken!

 

Sincerely,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Spamton taps his half-cracked glasses for effect.

 

Tenna lifts his arm over in a rigid, robotic manner. “Ri- Right here! There's some- something wro—”

 

He tries to poke at his own screen, only for his finger to dip below the threshold where the glass should be. Tenna can feel his own plastic casing from the inside against the jagged edges.

 

Kzzzrzzt! “Oh…” His crooked antenna hangs sadly. “I really am bro- broke- broken, heh…”

 

【For Tenner:

 

Yeah

 

Signed,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

His head pops as he rolls again to his side, his arm underneath him. Then, using the limb similarly to a carjack, he props himself up until he's on his knees. His shoulder leans against the brick painted wall, and his cracked mouth trembles as he dims his screen.

 

...

 

Spamton coughs.

 

【Esteemed Garbage:

 

So! You a magazine guy? Mine are wet, and missing all their pages usually.. but it's good readin'!

 

Thoughtfully,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

He doesn't wait for a response before beginning to rummage through a pile of trash. Though, as Tenna watches, he realizes it's actually a carefully stacked collection of papers.

 

【Dear CRT:

 

Ta-da! Look, it's another robot! See!

 

Excitedly,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

The mailman pulls out a magazine cover, holding it out for Tenna to see. It's... definitely seen better days. If Spamton wasn't holding it at the top, it would just wetly fold over his knuckles.

 

“Can- can- can you, ah, bring it- it- closer?”

 

Spamton cartoonishly scurries over, still holding up the limp paper. Even holding it as high as he can, Tenna can hardly see. The CRT holds a palm out, prompting Spamton to put the paper there.

 

【Dear Cathode:

 

Careful! Collector's item! Mint condition!

 

Nicely,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Tenna leans his head down to take a look, moving his hand around to see the full page through his kaleidoscope vision. The robot on the cover is striking a pose with a smile, her... or is it his..? hair styled perfectly over an eye. Tenna can't quite tell through the muck and the noise blurring his vision, but if the magazine was new, he was sure the robot's metallic skin would be gleaming.

 

His screen buzzes with excited static, ignoring the growing heatache behind the glass.

 

He looks—

 

“Fantast- stic…” Tenna sighs at the picture. He wishes he could be like that, all shiny and new on a magazine cover. Maybe even other mediums, too.

 

【Dear TV:

 

Alright, hand it back over! I don't let just anyone look at that for free, y'know!

 

From,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Tenna lowers his hand for Spamton to peel the cover back up and put it back in the paper pile.

 

“Who was that..?”

 

【To Cathode:

 

Who knows! Some B-lister from the Hotlands, a nobody that I've never heard of.

 

From,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

The mailman speeds through his letter speech. He seems agitated about something. Tenna, meanwhile, is staring in the magazine's direction. He sighs dramatically again.

 

“Y'know, Sp- Spam- can I call you Spa- Spam?”

 

【Dear TV:

 

No

 

Signed,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

“W- Well,” Tenna sparks from his shoulder, “You- you don't have an awf- a҉a҉a҉ wful lot of eye candy around- ound here. M- M- Maybe we could… put that- that cover on the wall?..”

 

Spamton spins around with a stomp, adjusting his hat.

 

【For Parasocial:

 

What's your deal all of a sudden? One blind glance and you're already obsessed with this rando!?

 

Call me!

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Tenna slouches a little, sheepishly pinching a stray wire poking out of his leg.

 

“Do you th- krrrzzsht! -ink I'll ever get to be- be- be like that? Posed hand- handsom- somely on a poster?”

 

Mailman coughs again, abruptly. There's a pause as Tenna looks on timidly, waiting for a response. Spamton is trying to think of a way to put it delicately.

 

…【To Desperate Fanboy:

 

……………………..well.

                ,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

“You- you’r- you're right..!” Tenna suddenly leans over to lay down on his side, spooking the scammer. His armless shoulder is against the ground while he lays his arm flat next to his face, antenna draped over his Veeen. He looks like a despairing teenager— Spamton's least favorite age to stumble upon. “How stu- stupid of me to imagine, me! On a magaz- zine!”

 

Spamton awkwardly stands there. He can't stand useless theatrics, of course the freak he just HAD to rescue is the epitome of both those things.

 

He has to nip this in the bud before it gets any more unbearable. He steps forward and leans on the wall with one hand. 

 

【Tenacious:

 

Look, pal, fame isn't all it's cracked up to be. I used to be all over the underground, always busy, running back and forth every day to make people happy. Everyone knew my name, I was the real deal!

Then one day, they decided they didn't need lil’ old Spamton anymore, so here I am. Trash, like everyone ends up being someday. The two of us just got a head start!

 

Humbly,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Tenna looks up with a static sound that resembles a sniff. “You… you used to- to be… famouszzt..?”

 

Spamton's ego soars. He looks away as if to say no big deal.

 

【Dearest denizen:

 

Ehaheaha… oh yeah, I was a real big shot back in my hey day… people would scream my name all over waterfall and beyond…

 

Expensively signed,

𝓢𝓹𝓪𝓶𝓽𝓸𝓷 𝓖. 𝓢𝓹𝓪𝓶𝓽𝓸𝓷.】

“Wow…” Tenna gasps, gazing up at Spamton in admiration. “But- that's s szzzzt! so sad..! They just forgo- forgot you!? People should nev- never abandon their beloved celebritie zzzzzzzssssrkzzt—!” His passion becomes a little too much and he fizzles out, his head thudding against the ground.

 

Spamton's five seconds of fraudulent fame has ended.

 

【Sorry we missed you! We attempted to deliver your package at:

 

Yeah, well… it all goes away eventually! Ehah… sorry to crush your dreams or whatever.

 

Regrettably,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

He pats Tenna's head and jumps back when it nearly burns his fingers. Poor guy's overheated.

 

Spamton's gaze lingers over the machine's legs. They seemed mostly intact, but clearly he was having trouble standing… a circuitry issue? Structural? He’d have to take a closer look to figure it out.

 

He remembers seeing the old turtle out and about one time, also with difficulty walking, but he had something in his hand to help him stay upright. Maybe he could find something similar for the cathode..? It would have to be much bigger than what the turtle had.

 

The mailman snaps out of his thoughts when the TV screen blinks on again with a static whine. He looks annoyed with himself and his inability to stay present.

 

“It's alright,” he mumbles. “It- It was always jus zzt a pi- pipe dream any- anyways…”

 

Spamton refrains from reminding him that it's been his dream for two minutes.

 

【Dear Tens and Ones,

 

 Let's just forget about it, huh? That magazine is so old I bet the guy's been old news for weeks already!

 

Moving on,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

“Maybe…” Tenna wipes a drop of condensation away from a crack in his screen. “An- Anyways, um, what was it- it you need help- elp with? Getting… ca- cash..?”

 

Spamton smiles— or, his usual smile broadens.

 

【For business partner:

 

Exactly! Down here in the dumps, only one way to get cash, and that's thievery! Monsters know to stay away from me by now, so you'll be my shiny new face!

 

Deviously,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Tenna's head lifts a little in surprise.

 

“Thievery..!? I don't know- ow if I can con- kzzzrt—! consent to such a horrid- id thing!”

 

【To My New Buckaroo:

 

Well, the other option is to stay broken. Your choice!

 

Negotiably,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

“Awoh…”

 

【Tenna:

 

But!! How about this, I'll do all the stealing action, and you just sit there as my distraction??

 

Sincerely,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

Spamton can't reason to himself why he was so quick to backtrack, just to make this broken thing feel better. He steps back as if it'll make his moment of weakness less noticeable.

 

“I- I guess I can man- manage- manage- manage-” Tenna's voice gets stuck again and he resets himself, turning his screen to black for a moment before coming back on with a weak grin. “...manage that.”

 

【Dear Tentagon:

 

That's the spirit!!

 

From,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

“Sp- Spam, I think I'm- I'm malfunctioning mor- more as I stay on, I sh zzzt get so- some r- rest…” His head faintly pops. “I can he- elp when I come- come back?”

 

【Dear Outdoor Tents:

 

Sure thing.

 

Patiently,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

“Tha- anks… my screen’s been… hurt… in ᵍ…”

 

With this, Tenna shuts down, the shop getting noticeably quieter without all the popping static.

 

…

 

Spamton can't help but feel bad for the cathode. The damage clearly runs deep for him, the mailman's at least been able to function through everything. He stares at the machine lying flat on its back.

 

…

 

The puppet trots across the shop, digging through a specific pile of rubbage. He's searching with a consideration that makes clear he's going for something specific.

 

A few moments pass and he finds it tucked under a dirty suitcase— a thin, worm blanket hardly big enough to cover Spamton. He has to tug hard to get it out of the pile, and he flies back with a crash landing once it suddenly gives way.

 

【To Wrapping Paper:

 

OW!!

 

Angrily,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

He gets up, rubbing his lower back as he returns to the sleeping giant, throwing the blanket over him and watching it waft slowly to its destination.

 

It hardly covers his torso.

 

Spamton grumbles and waves it off, labelling it a lost cause. In the commotion, he discovered where he had put his mailbag earlier, and so he grabs it once more to put it on. There must be a divot in his shoulder with how often that bag weighs him down.

 

He twists the lightbulb again to turn the light out, despite it not seeming to bother Tenna.

 

He doesn't feel bad for the thing, the machine is just useful to him. That's why he's going through all this effort, right? To make sure he's useful enough to help?

 

…

 

He'll still scrap him as soon as his usefulness runs out, that's for sure. No reason to keep such a burden around.

 

【To Big Guy:

 

I'm going out to find more parts. No shenanigans in my shop while I'm gone!

             ,

Spamton G. Spamton.】

 

The TV, predictably, doesn't answer. Spamton disappears into the watery landscape, cooking up more repair jobs in his head.

 

Maybe he can stabilize his legs first. Just to make him more useful.

Notes:

thank you so much for reading!! i wanted this chapter to be longer so i forced myself to not pump it out in a single day..... i may someday write more if the brain worms wriggle with inspiration again but that's a different story. for now i'm happy with these freaks meeting and spamton in some SEVEEERE denial. illness the likes of which have never been seen

oh and thank you for all the kudos and comments!! ily all kiss kiss