Gathering the Pieces

by SunBadger

Summary:

You swallow back the lump in your throat. How did your life end up like this? You, standing over your ex’s ravaged body, a disheveled, wrung-out husk of your former self. At one time, you felt like the most powerful person in all of Cyber World. Chosen by the gods, the secrets of the universe being drip-fed to you, one phone call at a time. Now, you’ve been reduced to little more than an accessory rattling around in a child’s pocket. Your younger self had no idea what was coming for him.

You're startled awake by the most discordant, bone-rattling, ear-splitting sound you've ever heard. You spring from your nest of pocket lint in a panic, momentarily forgetting where you are, your disoriented, sleep-addled mind fully convinced you're back in a dumpster and the Cyber City cops have found you after you've shoplifted for the third time that week. You throw yourself out of Kris’ inventory, trembling like a chihuahua, ready to bite someone's arm and book it down the alley, but are surprised when the air's the one biting you, and what should be solid pavement yields beneath your feet. Snow? You look around wildly, chest heaving. You're... in the middle of nowhere—which isn't necessarily comforting, but you also don't seem to be in any immediate danger. Your racing thoughts slow as your current circumstances gradually return to you.

NEO was defeated, you were spared and gave yourself up to the Lightners, knowing that, if anyone could change the prophecy, it would be them. And if they were strong enough to beat you... Well, you wanted to stay on their good side. They've been shockingly kind to you, all things considered, and you're grateful toward them for cutting you free. So, you've just been hitchhiking along, ready to act as armor if needed, and peeking out every so often to keep tabs on the party's progress. You were deep in the guts of that criminal's studio last time you checked. How the hell did they end up way out here? You squint at the expanse of white before you, its color blinding even in the moonlight, and you recognize the small, moving shapes in the distance as Kris’ gang. What’s got them in such a hurry? They haven’t even noticed you jumped ship! Are they chasing something? Running away? Whatever the source of that terrible noise was, it seems to be fading into the distance. You should catch up. This is the last world you want to risk being left behind in. 

Your heart skipped a beat when your teammates first found themselves in Tenna's domain; the place where it happened. You nearly launched yourself out of Kris' pocket right then and there to demand to be taken back to Castle Town until the next adventure—and no, you didn't owe anyone an explanation. But, then you remembered that they couldn’t leave even if they wanted to. Not without sealing the fountain, at least. So, you begrudgingly settled in for what was sure to be a long day. You were doing okay, until the second you heard that unmistakable voice, his voice, far sooner than anticipated, and you instantly shrank back into the furthest corners of your hideaway.

The sickening mix of being in a place so deeply entangled with the worst day of your life and hearing Tenna’s energetic showman cadence—it hasn't changed a bit—was triggering enough for you to work yourself into a panic attack. You'd curled into a ball and laid there in the folds of fabric, holding yourself and gently rocking as you cycled rapidly through fear, anger and shame. Emotional echoes of the moment when everything went to shit replayed in your mind and body as if they had happened yesterday, making your skin crawl. You wanted to run. But you couldn’t, for fear you'd be seen by one of the denizens of this world. You were sure everyone hated you after your abrupt exit left them to pick up the pieces. You couldn’t let them know you were back—let them see you like this, more mannequin than Addison. But the air in Kris' pocket was so damn stuffy; it felt like you couldn’t breathe. You clawed at your slicked-back hair and gnashed your teeth to keep from crying for help, lest you betray your presence. You reminded yourself over and over and over that it’s all in your head, there’s plenty of air, and no one can see you in here. You’re safe. You're safe. You’re safe…

Eventually, you wore yourself out enough to fall asleep.

You were awoken only once by Kris' hand gingerly picking you up. Petrified, you clawed at the lining of their pocket, trying to stop them from exposing you, hesitating only after they whispered something to you about your "weird little blue things." Your sparrow-quick heart pounding in your ears, you tentatively look over your shoulder and find none other than the colossal CRT himself knelt beside a pipis, regarding it like it's somehow the most precious and sinful thing in the universe. That he'd held onto it for so many years stuns you. You took it as proof that he still feels some sort of way for you. The younger, handsome, pre-corrupted version of you, at least... You could hear him talking to himself, lamenting the way his world was collapsing around him, how he had reached his limit, how no one was there for him anymore, and even saying he wished he could see you; his little mailman. He still... wanted you.

Ralsei had by then gathered enough contextual information to ask, "Mr. Spamton, do you... know Mr. Ant Tenna?"

You slowly nodded without thinking, still mesmerized by what you were witnessing, before realizing your mistake. The Lightners looked at each other and then all ganged up on you, encouraging you to make yourself known. The way Tenna was cradling your pipis, like it was the only good thing he had left in this world, gave you just enough courage—and daft, gullible hope—to approach; only for him to flip out at the sight of you, accuse you of being some strange little creature—some rat—and then bury you alive in spray foam that stung your eyes. He treated you like a total stranger. You admit, you were genuinely taken aback, left wondering if your current appearance was really so foreign that he couldn't look past the shabby clothes, white-streaked hair and disfigured grin, and see his old partner. While the Lightners cleaned you up, profusely apologizing for their part in this, you swore out loud that you were never going to do something so vulnerable again. You retreated back into the Dealmaker feeling as disgusting and worthless as a crumpled, oil-stained fast food bag, decidedly done with the idea of even being conscious for the rest of this stupid mission.

Your warm breath escapes your mouth in smoky puffs as you hurry after the Lightners, tracing their footprints through the knee-deep snow, when another sound catches your ear; a staccato of electrical buzzing. You pause to listen, your mouth pulled into a questioning frown. There’s nothing out in the wilderness that should be making a sound like that. Where...? You notice something on the ground far behind you, a mound of black, yellow and red emerging from the white horizon. You approach with caution, unsure of whether it has anything to do with why Kris’ party left so frantically. The closer you get, the more the mound takes on a familiar shape, until you’re confronted with a gruesome sight. Oh... oh no...

…The Lord of Screens, cleaved red by blade… 

You knew this was coming, though you didn’t know when or how or why. Trying to figure out the details had driven you damn near insane, leaving you tossing and turning against the cold metal walls of a dumpster in the early hours of the morning. You eventually, reluctantly, gave it up for your own loosely-hanging sanity, knowing that the possibilities were endless. Besides, what would you, a washed-up has-been without even a single change of clothes to your disgraced name, really be able to accomplish even if you did have all the answers? Become tangled up in some self-fulfilling prophecy, is what. 

You stare down at Tenna, cursing yourself for having slept for so long. Now, you're more confused than ever about the specifics that lead up to this. A grisly bouquet of frayed wires sticks out of your old partner's shoulders. His detached arms are sprawled nearby, half buried in the snowdrift. Surely Kris wouldn't have done this? They wouldn't spare someone like you, but then turn around and mutilate someone like Ant. Someone… decent. No. The image of a rotary phone flashes in your mind. It must have been one of their associates. It's the only thing that makes sense. This is the final blow of vengeance for a broken contract, for your audacious attempt at rewriting what was foretold. As if taking everything else away from you wasn’t enough, the bastards.

Your initial shock gives way to dread and, surprisingly, grief for a person you knew so well, and can't deny you once loved more than anything... almost more than anything. You force your breathing to slow when you notice yourself trembling and the heavy knot in your chest growing, trying to drag your knees toward the earth. Tears well in your eyes. The intensity of your sorrow surprises you. You care… You haven’t cared about anything or anyone besides yourself in years. Looks like you regained more than just your lucidity the day you were cut free from those strings. 

You swallow back the lump in your throat. How did your life end up like this? You, standing over your ex’s ravaged body, a disheveled, wrung-out husk of your former self. At one time, you felt like the most powerful person in all of Cyber World. Chosen by the gods, the secrets of the universe being drip-fed to you, one phone call at a time. Now, you’ve been reduced to little more than an accessory rattling around in a child’s pocket. Your younger self had no idea what was coming for him. 

A part of you had always believed you were destined for greatness, even before you’d dyed your hair for the first time, put on that stupid uniform with the vomit-green pants, or were taught that deceptive, people-pleasing smile that made your mouth ache. You were always talking the other Addisons’ ears off about how you’d become a Big Shot while they’d smile and nod along. A couple of drinks in, they’d invariably start bragging about their big sales of that week. With every pride-filled recollection, your confidence would wane, because you never had much to show for your grandiose claims. Sometimes you’d leave early, feigning sleepiness or an upset stomach, because you couldn’t stand to listen to it any more. Blue and Yellow would kindly blame your poor performance on “bad luck” and offer honest advice. But, no matter what you tried, it remained a struggle to be chosen. It was as if, for some reason, their methods applied to everyone else except you. What were you doing wrong? You worked just as hard, if not harder, than the rest of them, often staying up late into the night practicing your spiels and body language in the mirror, and drafting new ways to catch people’s attention. Yet it remained rare for anyone to give you more than a passing glance. It was like they could tell that some vague, unnameable thing was off about you, and you’d be passed over before you had a chance to open your mouth. 

You’d get so excited when the odd customer did show interest that you’d fumble over yourself, misspelling things or causing several windows to open at once. They would watch you with annoyance, or laugh like you were some kind of joke, and into the junk bin you’d go. Your desperation led you to start hiding your “x” button in a smaller font size, sometimes delaying its appearance until you finished your entire pitch. You added flashing lights and dancing gifs, and began embellishing your spiels with extravagant guarantees you couldn’t afford to keep. You didn’t feel good about it. Starved for income, you ended up doing odd, but demoralizing, jobs on the side. One of which was to be a fashion model for Orange, a position they took full advantage of. 

One day, out of nowhere, you received a phone call that changed everything. The voice on the other end said they could make you a Big Shot. Told you that the very things that were different about you made you special. One of a kind. Extraordinary. Enchanted by the idea and blinded by your own ego, you overlooked any signs that this was too good to be true, and took the offer. Your rapid rise to success was unprecedented, culminating in an invitation to live in the queen’s mansion itself. As you stood on that plush red carpet and watched the swatchlings carry your luggage into your new luxury suite, you were finally able to tell yourself that you made it. The other Addisons turned on you out of jealousy, and you never heard from them again. Good riddance. You didn't need them. Between break after big break, you’d network at lavish parties filled with other business elites and celebrities, including…

You try calling Tenna’s name. All that comes out of your glitch-governed mouth is, “T-T-[TRASH HEAP]?” You bend over him, unsettled by his stillness. You’re used to this blockhead bouncing off the walls with near-cartoonish levels of enthusiasm, like a giant, metal golden retriever. When he first introduced himself to you, you found him endearingly old-fashioned, despite being of similar age. He was struggling to keep up with the times and although he tried his best to hide it, you could tell he was deeply insecure. He seemed enmeshed with his audience, having lost any boundaries he may have once had when it came to their increasingly unreasonable demands. Anxiety kept his screws wound tight. There was always some part of him starved for praise and reassurance. 

He didn’t used to be this way. You’d known of him well before you crossed paths in person. While you were still struggling to find your footing in the advertising world, he was the biggest name in entertainment, a beloved household icon known for bringing families together. What impressed you the most about him was how he had more than enough influence to strongarm anyone into doing whatever he wanted, but he never once abused that power. People the light-world over trusted him enough to let him babysit their children for hours every day. Some of these kids you swore he had more of a hand in raising than their own parents. In many ways, he was your antithesis; warm, genuine and radically idealist in the face of a cold and capricious world. 

You were by his side as the internet grew to take over the industry, and as it steadily became apparent that Tenna’s viewers were not as loyal to him as he was to them. It changed him. His plummeting ratings consumed his every waking hour. He suffered panic attacks with increasing frequency and wore a path in his office carpet from all the pacing. He would hold his crew to impossible standards and would snap at or even fire them over small mistakes. Others began to quit, lamenting about the “good old days,” and he'd threaten them over the fine print in their contracts. You remained through all of it, aware that his crashouts were less the result of narcissism, as some were quick to accuse, rather a byproduct of existential terror. His purpose was slipping away, and he didn’t know how to function without one. No Darkner does.

When Tenna realized your side of business wasn’t suffering the same decline, conversations over dinner shifted from the mundane to his wheedling you for the trick to your success. Each time, you explained that you couldn’t tell him. Not because you didn’t want to see him succeed, but because it was expressly forbidden by your enigmatic sponsor.  

One day, Tenna announced that he’d come up with a plan. He wanted you to host a show of your own, rather than just recording infomercial voiceovers for him in between your main gigs. He thought your persuasive personality might lure some of his audience back. What he didn’t know was that, thanks to the powers granted by your phone contract, anything you sunk your sales magic into was guaranteed to succeed. However, helping Tenna would test the boundaries of that contract. TV’s resurgence, while not expressly denied by the prophecy—“cleaved red” could mean a number of things. Injury, sure, but not necessarily death. You refused to believe in such a grim interpretation, for your own sanity—it certainly wasn’t included in it.

Despite the risk, you felt like you had to do something before the Lightners wrote Tenna off entirely. The image of him rusting away at a dump, being disassembled for parts, or even shredded by some industrial machine made your skin crawl. You found it unjust, the way you were made of coding, blessed with the ability to adapt to ever-evolving devices, while Tenna was stuck with rigid, physical hardware incapable of keeping up with the demands of the 21st century. The only other “safe” option you could think of was to try and help him score deals with streaming services. But, while that would ensure his legacy lived on, it wouldn’t save Tenna himself. No one but a Lightner had the means to resurrect his form in a more modern way. 

A Lightner or, perhaps, your mysterious benefactor. 

If you could just tell Tenna your secret, you thought, he might be able to strike a deal of his own, without relying on you to single-handedly prop up his platform against the unrelenting forces of destiny. You had a solution, right there, just a simple phone call away, and that knowledge weighed heavily on you. 

The day you were set to sign the deal that would greenlight the new show, your resolve to continue hoarding your secrets had eroded to the point where, steeped in the heady ecstasy of tangled bodies, bleeding hearts, stiff drinks and a pervasive haze of cigar smoke, that forbidden knowledge began to unravel out of you like the guts of a worn VHS. You quickly came to your senses, stopping short before you thought you said too much. But, it was too late. 

You’ll never forget the sound of the phone’s ringing echoing down the hallway, or the anticipatory grief it filled you with, as it dawned on you that there would be no slithering out of this one. To spurn the summons at that moment, to further abuse your gifts by picking up that pen and scrawling your name across that line, lost in the delusion that you could change the narrative, would mean nothing. The bells were tolling, each clap a grim reminder that you were never in control. 

Everything you’d built had been stripped from you in a cruel instant—and it was all Tenna’s fault, for being so persistent, so endearing and so pitiable that you were tricked into letting your guard down completely. He’s the reason you’re plagued with nightmares about being hung to death in a tangled mass of phone cords. Why a cheshire grin with a predatory gaze and a bone-chilling cackle still stalks you in the shadows. Why you suffered cold and starvation in a goddamned garbage can. Why you lost years to babbling insanity. Why, even now, the virus infecting you barely allows you to string a coherent sentence together out loud.

Part of you wants nothing more than to tear out his cathodes, shred his wiring and take a magnet to his stupid face. His influence had been corrupting you long before whatever scion of hell burst out of that phone and finished the job that day.  It was his hands that took you, with your jagged edges and cutthroat way of life, and held you with such tenderness that you began to soften into something dangerously close to benevolent. You had always worked for yourself, but Tenna, at his core, worked for others. The joy and fulfillment he took from being able to make Lightners smile, from being their teacher and their dependable friend, from being both an escape from and a shield against the harsh realities of the “real” world, made you begin to wonder if there could be more to life than money and power alone. If things had gone on for much longer, you may have even considered—gag—donating to charity.

You leap to the side when one of Tenna’s exposed wires spits more electricity and the flash arcs toward you like you’re the most magnetic thing in the world. His screen flickers briefly and his antennae twitch. Huh... Looks like he’s still got some life in him, after all. Relief washes over you, which you quickly strangle because you’re supposed to despise him. Curious, you cautiously approach and take a closer look. A hairline crack runs the height of his screen. The reflection that stares back catches you off guard. You don’t see yourself often, tending to avoid such devastating hits to your self-esteem. However, this time, filled as you are with a muddy mix of anger, regret and annoyingly tenacious nostalgia, you keep looking, determined to push past the discomfort until you no longer see a stranger. You gently slide your bi-colored glasses down your nose so that you can see your eyes, the pain that camps at their corners and the bags that hold your exhaustion beneath them. It’s the only way you’re able to prove to yourself that you’re still in there. Despite everything. 

Your pupils shift their focus back to Tenna’s battered body, and even further out to the sorry state of both of you. It would be pointless to pretend like you aren’t glad to have company down here, at rock bottom. Just look at him, wounded, cold and alone... You know what that feels like. In a moment of solidarity, you declare a temporary truce, and put your mind to work on ways you can help him. You may hold a grudge, but you're not heartless. The extent of his damage is yet to be seen, but you may be able to jerry-rig something to at least get his basic functions working. Should be fairly easy, after the countless broken appliances you unearthed from the trash and refurbished to try and scrape by after your downfall, and all the times you helped Ant with his own internal maintenance. 

You hop onto his chest, push his tie aside and unbutton his suit and shirt to uncover the metal beneath. The access panel there, one of several located strategically across his body, is centered where a human heart would reside. You pry it open, revealing the colorful spaghetti mess of his insides, and scan for injury. Judging by the outer trauma, you were anticipating the worst, but things in here actually look pretty good, if not a tad corroded from age. A cobweb hangs from Tenna’s casing like a streamer from a decades old party, which you remove with some difficulty. It clings desperately to you. Sheesh. When’s the last time he had anyone give him a tune up? You vigorously whip your hand around until the web finally detaches itself and drifts to the ground. You stick your head into the cavity to double check for lingering dust bunnies before you close the door. Guess the fall from the hit that took his limbs must have just knocked him unconsc—

“Kris!” The body beneath you springs up, catapulting you through the air. You land face-first in the snow nearby. As you groan and push yourself up onto your hands and knees, you notice the edges of your shadow have become more defined in the wake of a soft new light. “Is everyone alright? What happened?? Where’s—! ” You wince when Tenna’s voice is cut short by the harsh drone of white noise. Looking over your shoulder, you find him slumped over, his face a blur of salt-and-pepper static. 

With a sigh, you make your way back and stand on your tip-toes to give the side of Tenna’s head a couple of soft knocks. “HEY, [cathode], ANYBODY HOME?” You climb onto his lap so you can reach his antennae. A small adjustment of the rusted appendages, followed by a third, harder smack to the side of his head flicks his screen back to life. His nose nearly spears you in the eye when it spawns.

“Huh?!” Tenna straightens and looks around. When he sees you, he jerks and kicks you away. “Gah! You’re that little creature from before! I thought I got rid of you! Mike, call an exterminator! If the health inspectors find out my studio’s infested, they’ll—” He pauses, still gasping for breath, and then hangs his head. “What am I saying? Mike’s gone. My audience is gone. Even my arms are gone!—M-My arms!? Oh, fuck, my arms!" You blink, surprised to hear a swear. Guess his parental lock was turned off at some point. Tenna looks around himself wildly, going rigid when he spots the disembodied limbs nearby. He scrambles to a stand and takes couple of steps toward one, but something makes him stumble and lose his balance, and he falls onto his knees. "No! No no no no no no no! Shit!" He dips forward, curling into himself as his breaths rapidly pick up speed and his words devolve into a chain of half-sobs, half-swears. "The hell am I gonna do without arms?? A-a-and why are my clothes undone?! What the fuck is going on?"

He looks around again, trembling from what must be adrenaline, as tears start to leak from his screen. "Where... where is everybody? I-I thought... I thought we'd made up after fighting... Have I really been abandoned again...? W-Why does this keep happening to me?" He lowers his head and goes silent for a long moment. Then, his antennae fold back like angry cat's ears and his bewildered expression warps into a snarl. "God damn it!" The force of the exclamation causes his face to explode into static momentarily. He flops aggressively back into the snow. "God... god damn it..." More sobs. He rolls onto his side and lays there in self-pitying silence for a while, his screen's light gone dim, until you edge your way back into his field of view. “Everything I involve myself in ends up falling apart," he says weakly, seeming to be speaking to no one in particular. "Is it me? Am I cursed? Ever since that little mailman left, things have only gone downhill..." He turns his attention to you. "Listen, rat-thing, if you’re planning to chew through my wires, at least turn me off first... I won’t fight it. There’s no point in going on if no one wants me. I’m just a dusty, outdated pile of scrap. If you want to build a nest in my chest cavity and raise your family, go ahead. At least I’ll still be useful to someone that way.”

This is pathetic. 

“[squawk box], I’M NO [rodent infestation], AND YOU AREN’T [same-day junk removal].”

His expression hardens into confusion. “Y-You can talk? ...Of course you can talk. Sure! Why not? That may as well happen!" He barks out a salty chuckle and rolls onto his back. "I’d put you on air, if I still had a job. Bet Susie would've gotten a kick outta that, if she hadn't abandoned me after pretending to be my friend, just like the rest of them! Grraahh!" He thrashes his legs around a little before his screen falls back into static. You're fairly certain the latter is part of his tantrum this time, and not because of any mechanical dysfunction.

"CALM DOWN." You hop onto his chest to drill in your point. "THEY DIDN'T [abandon you for the slime]. AT LEAST, I DON'T [think, think, think] THEY DID. THEY [looking glass] LIKE THEY WERE [police chase]ING SOMETHING, PROBABLY [wanted: experienced retail associates to join our team!] TO GET [sweet revenge] ON WHOEVER DID THIS TO YOU."

"Really? You think so? ...I hope you're right..." Tenna's screen blips back to life. He looks your way, and then squints. "Hang on, your voice sounds weirdly familiar. I can't place it... Do I know you from somewhere, little guy?" A shock of anger courses through you, but it fizzles out before long and is replaced with shame. Can you really blame him for not recognizing you? You saw yourself in his screen. It wasn't pretty. Tenna leans closer and continues to stare at you like he’s reviewing the answer options on a million-dollar question. You know you look ridiculous, like the unholy spawn of Pinocchio and Billy the Puppet got interrupted halfway into becoming a real boy. At a loss, you decide to offer a lifeline by sheepishly removing your glasses, revealing the last authentic vestige of you that’s left. The CRT gasps and sits up fast, sending you tumbling into his lap.“Spamton?!” 

“[CONGRATULATIONS, YOU’RE TODAY’S 100TH CUSTOMER!]” You bitterly dust yourself off and hop back into the snow.

“You’re alive? You’re alive!”

“TAKES MORE THAN [bankrupt] TO [assassinate] ME.”

Tenna stares, his breaths constrained, like he's frozen with apprehension, unsure of whether or not he's hallucinating or if there might in fact be a ghost at his heels. "I-I-I can't believe you're actually here." He pauses, seeming to survey you in a more analytical way. A small sigh escapes his mouth as his surprise appears to diminish. "No, no... I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me. Wishful thinking, I guess. Your eyes just... they remind me of someone that I... hah... I must've hit my noggin pretty hard, back there. You don't look much like him, now that I think about it. Your voice is eerily similar, but the way you speak isn't. He was a smooth talker. Never stammered, never cracked, never raised his voice when it wasn't necessary. Had to save it for the commercials or he might go hoarse, he'd say... hahah... nah... there's just no way you're..."

"YOU STILL [sports goods] THOSE DORKY [heart-pattern] BOXERS?"

The CRT's face disappears in an instant, obscured by the colorful bars and high-pitched whine of a no signal screen. He shakes his head vigorously as if to snap himself out of it, and he returns his attention to you, this time much more intense. "What? The only person who's ever seen me out of uniform is... is..." He gives you another long, disbelieving stare, before softening. "No way... no fucking way... Th-this isn't a dream, right? ...I'm not dead, right??"

You roll up your sleeve and open and close your ball-jointed fist devilishly. "WANT ME TO [order personalized checks] FOR YOU?"

"No, thank you!" He leans away. "I think I'm damaged enough already, don't you? Aaggh..." He winces, hisses through his teeth and crumples into himself a bit as the adrenaline seems to wear off and aftermath of his injuries catch up to him. "'Sides, I think my pain sensors are telling me everything I need to know." You shrug and back off. Tenna, gritting his teeth against what must be one hell of an ache, continues to stare at you like you're a mirage. Tears well on his screen once more, shining like liquid rainbows, the droplets magnifying and refracting the colored pixels. "It's really you, isn't it? You finally came back, after all this time..." Suddenly, his screen goes pink. "Oh, shit! That was you backstage, wasn't it? That was—oh, god, I covered you in foam. You were trying to say hi and I called you a rat and ran away! I'm so sorry! I didn't recognize—m-m-my mind wasn't all there—I-I was kind of in the middle of a breakdown—"

You hold your hand up. "IT'S FINE. I GET IT. I... DON'T [look and feel like yourself again!], ANYMORE."

"Why is that?" Tenna looks you up and down. The furrow in his brow deepens as he takes in your withered body and shorter stature, the way your dirty, hole-ridden clothing hangs off of you like it's two sizes too big, and the way you twitch when your corrupted coding trips over itself and sends a painful jolt through you. "I mean, when—how did this…” He hesitates, clearly combing his mind for a way to pose the question in as inoffensive a way as possible. He settles with a soft, deeply concerned, “What happened?”

In an instant, any begrudging tolerance and pity you were managing toward him explodes into a fiery rage. What happened? What happened?? Doesn't he know?

“I WASN’T SUPP0SED TO [spill] MY [proprietary blend],,, BUT A CERTAIN [giant sponge] W^ULDN’T TAKE [noooooooooooooooo!] FOR 4N ANSW3R &ND GOT ME 1NT0 [Legal Troubles? Call 888-888-$&#%] WITH [[HYPERLINK BLOCKED]].” 

Tenna seems to need a moment to parse out what you’re saying. “A-Are you talking about that person you were always on the phone with? They did this to you?” 

“[BINGO!] ”

“I don’t understand. Th-that's not fair! You didn’t tell me your secret. Not really.” 

“Y0U DON*T GET 2 [what will you decide?] WHAT'S F41R, [cathode]! BESIDES, IT D0ESN*T M4TTER IF [The Price Is Right].”

The CRT looks horrified. “What? Your sponsor always seemed shady, but I-I didn’t think they were capable of something like—”

“YOU DIDN’’T H>VE TO [brain blast!] 4NYthinG. ALL YOU HAD T0 [do]-DO-DO-DO-DO-WASSSsssSSss [believe it] TH3 FIRST [lucky–lucky–lucky number seven!] TIMES 1 T0L<@D-d-D Y0U IT WASN’T ↑ FOR [quarterly investment meeting] AN&&&d [Let It Go - Broadway Version]!” 

Tenna seems stunned into silence by your erratic, glitchy outburst. Rather than shriveling with guilt like you were hoping, his mouth fills with fangs. “Alright, fine, but why didn’t you come back after running off so suddenly? Huh? Why didn’t you at least bother to call and explain where you were or what happened? We could’ve figured something out! Instead, you chose to abandon me without any explanation or warning? Just throw our relationship away like it meant nothing? Like I meant nothing? You always chose your damn sponsor over me! What the hell were you thinking??”

“I G0T [kickball] OUT OF THE C-C_C(((4STLE, [boob tube]!!! I D1DN’’T HAVE [compensation] F0R [taxi service]. I HAD NO [[please enter your permanent mailing address]]. I DiDN*T HAVE [funds] FOR A PAYPHONE. I WAS LEFT WITH [                ]! [game over]!!!  I [municipal waste program] >W4Y INNNNNnnnNnNNA [dumpster] FOR YE4RS. N0 1 C4ME TO [help, help, please, help me!] >ND IT’S ALL Y0UR [San Andreas Fault]!” Your throat tightens and your hands begin to tremble. Your speech and motor malfunctions are getting worse. You need to calm down, before... 

“My fault?” Sparks fly out of Tenna’s arm sockets and his screen flickers. “I didn’t force your mouth to move, Spam! You never want to take accountability! Do you have any idea how worried I was about you? How many nights I stayed up wondering what I did wrong? Calling everyone I knew just trying to figure out if you were even alive? No one knew where you’d gone, not even Swatch!”

“OH, PLE4SE, D0N*T [let's play pretend!] LIKE YOU [shot put] IN 4NY [100% real ingredients] EFF0RT TO [hide & seek] M3. AS FOR THAT W4LKING [color wheel], WHY [wood] HE GIVE > [          ] WHERE [little old me?] WENT?? H3 ONLY [catering service] T0 [moneybags]. THAT [bird brain] DIDN’T SE3M TO [free health care] WHEN QUEEN*S [high security investment] TEAM DRAGg-g-g&^#*$&^*#-gGGED ME IN FRONT OF H1S [five-star cafe] ON THE1R W>Y TO [fastball] ME IN2 A [Crater Lake] OF [battery acid]!!” You grip your shivering arm with your other hand, fighting to hold it steady, trying to mask the symptoms. 

The anger instantly drops from Tenna's frame. “They what?” he asks breathily.

“THAT’S RIGHT, [bet on it] ALL TH0SE PRET3NTIOUS [          ] AT THE C>STLE CONVEN1ENTLY [epic fail compilation] TO MENTION TH4T T0 [Your Groovy Highness].” 

“H-How could they be so cruel?” 

“[because, because] B3C4US3 TH_E_E w.w.w0RLD IS CcRU3L, [Hallmark Channel]!” There was a time when he made you forget that. When you allowed yourself to get caught up in his delusional fantasies, his stupid rom-coms and childish cartoons, with their cozy, low-stakes plot lines wrapped up in neat little bows. He broke your walls down, leaving you wide open for betrayal. It was the cruelest thing anyone’s ever done to you, to be made to believe that you had found your person, that you belonged to one another. You ran that day because you wanted to live, certain that no matter what happened, Ant would move darkworlds to at least try to find you. Send his entire staff to put up posters, ask every darkner they saw, peek under every car, open every garbage can, pry open every sewer drain cap. But for reasons you still cannot fathom, he didn't. He tricked you into thinking you were his everything. But he was just using you to get at your secret, turning his back when that was no longer a viable option. His priority is, and always was, his career.

Your head fills with static as tight, corrosive words bubble up from your gut and drip out of you like overfilled engine oil: "W_W-wHyYYyyy-y-^$#&yyyyy@+*;'./-y-yyy DI-diDN*TTt U C-cC_c0oOmM3 LO0-o-O000_*^#@=$%-oOOKING 4 ME3e?" You can barely control your mouth anymore, your voice now reduced to such a bit-crushed, stuttering garble, you're not sure it's comprehensible to the untrained ear. Your eyes shine with righteous tears while your shaking grip on yourself falters, your hands seeming to lose strength, followed by your cramping legs and clattering jaw.

A wash of cold panic pours over your frame. No, not now, you stupid malware! Not in front of him!

Tenna's frozen, staring at you, antennae drooping and mouth slightly agape like he wants to speak, but can't find the words. His screen's cold light shifts back toward the colors of a sunset. “Spamton... I-I… I... the show... I-I couldn't just stop doing the show, things were already precarious with the Dreemurrs. They... they would've gotten rid of me if I didn't...” He sighs and bows his head, whatever carefully-stacked pyramid of excuses he was building apparently collapsing on him mid-sentence. You try to bore a hole in his head with the sheer force of your seething glare. Does he get it now? Has it finally sunk into his simple circuits how thoroughly he's screwed you over? The show of sympathy, far too little, too late, sends you over the edge. Your entire body seizes as your program crashes. You hit the ground hard. Parts of you deteriorate into disorganized pixels and your vision is lost to violent static. “Whoa, whoa, what the hell’s going on with you? Spam? Can you hear me? …Spamton?” You don’t answer. You can’t. It burns, like your entire body is melting, your out-of-place parts roaring like the bones have been snapped in half and the raw nerves stretched like taffy, and you can't even scream. You’re forced to wait the few agonizing seconds until the spasms stop, your muscles relax and your pixels jump back to their proper location. Once you regain control, you linger there, in the snow, staring up at the softly glowing screen above you, dazed and gasping for air. You clumsily paw around beside you for your glasses and shakily put them back on. Tenna, helplessly armless, appears more rattled than you are. “Are you alright?”

"IT’S NOTHING.” You sit up slowly. “HAPPENS ALL THE [savings time].”

“Are you sure? ”

“YES. DROP IT, [Solenopsis invicta].”  

“But—”

“[CANCEL INQUIRY]!!”

“Alright, alright, fine... if you say so.” For once, Tenna doesn’t press further. Instead, he sighs and fixes his attention on the pixelated night sky. Your face hot from the humiliation of crashing in his presence, you stand beside him with your arms crossed, caught halfway between abandoning his selfish ass to this frozen wasteland and remaining out of spite, so you can drink up the guilt he must now be feeling after witnessing the extent of what he’s done to you. You watch him rub and tap the toes of his shiny yellow dress shoes together the same way one might twiddle their thumbs. “Listen," he says hesitantly, "I know it won’t fix anything, to hear this now, but, I’m sorry I put so much pressure on you to tell your secret to me. If I had any idea of the true consequences, I wouldn’t have said anything. I mean it, I messed up big time. The way you're talking and the way you look, I-I can't even imagine what you've been through. I'm so, so sorry, Spam... You know I’d never want something like this to happen to you." A pause. "You... do know that... right?” The last words are small and shriveled. You don't answer, locking your gaze on your own scuffed shoes. It’s an ok apology, but you’re not ready to forgive him. Tenna's voice gains an edge in response to your cold silence. “What are you doing here, anyway? Why now? After all this time? Come just to bask in my misfortune?”

“YOU THINK I [Uber vs Lyft] HERE ON PURPOSE? [*laugh track*] DON’T GET A BIG HEAD, [idiot box]. I’VE BEEN TRAVELING WITH KRIS. [Discount running shoes] INTO YOU WAS MERELY AN UNFORTUNATE [side effects may occur].”

One of his antennas twitch. “That’s not my name. You might hate me, but could you at least address me properly?”

You roll your eyes. It’s not like you’re so disgusted with the idea of him that you can’t even bring yourself to say his name. He doesn’t get it. “I WANT TO [[big announcement!]], BUT I CAN’T ALWAYS [click here to find smokin' hot singles in your area!]” Your hands fly to cover your mouth.

Tenna’s small laugh draws your eye. “I’ll be honest, I can’t follow all of what you’re saying, Spam. Not sure what’s going on with your coding, but, you don’t seem to have much control over those tics, or your volume, do you? So… it’s alright, if you really can’t say it.”

What is this, a children’s PBS program? Why is he being so nice? By all accounts, he should be furious with you, too, the way you seemingly strung him along and then abandoned him when he needed help the most. You wouldn’t have been surprised if the greenscreen goliath had come at you fangs-beared, stars flying, and with that catchy theme song you’d bastardized blaring through his speakers in a minor key the second he recognized you. Instead, he just seems… defeated. 

Whatever. You were gracious enough to tell him how you ended up this way. Now, you're owed some answers. “SO, WHAT [Greek tragedy] BEFELL YOU?”

“Oh, this.” His head turns to admire the cheap fireworks display spraying out of his arm sockets. Then, as if the mere sight of it saps all of his strength, he falls back into the snow and sighs. “Just the consequences of my own actions. You know how that goes.” He frowns back up at the sky. At first, it doesn’t seem like he’s going to offer you anything more, but then he begins to chew on his bottom lip. “Tell you the truth..." He takes a deep breath. "The Knight reached out to me. They promised me relevance. All the attention I could ever want. All I had to do was keep Kris and their friends distracted and entertained. So, we made a deal… I never wanted to hurt my family. But, Toriel was getting ready to throw me away and I panicked. In the end, I couldn’t keep lying to Kris and holding everyone prisoner like that. Besides, they won against me, fair and square. So, I let everyone go. Things seemed alright, for a moment. Everyone seemed like they forgave me, and we were all getting along. I felt hope, for the first time in so long. But, the Knight must have returned, furious that I didn’t hold up my side of the bargain, and struck me down… I guess I got what I deserved. That’s just business, right?” 

Hearing a line you used to say so often it was like a catch-phrase, recalled in such a deflated way, has got your tongue pinned like a pie chart to a bulletin board. Tenna seems unbothered by your silence this time. As he lies there, staring into space with a sad, distant smile, you imagine he’s playing reruns of all of his mistakes in his mind’s eye. You wonder if you’re one of them. A guilt creeps over you, and you clench your fists against it. All those times you daydreamed about how things would go if you were to ever cross paths with him again, the scene was always explosive. However, this far less exciting reality of confronting him after he's lost it all makes it difficult to keep that vengeful fire going. You can't not see yourself in him. It's a real bummer, because your anger is wholly justified. Yet, you can't unlearn the realization that his feelings are, too. The way he's barely even fighting back—acting remorseful even—leaves you at a maddeningly unsatisfying impasse. You will not stand for him showing you up like that.

“Can't believe I'm doing this..." you grumble, pinching the space between your eyes. You suck in some air, fold your hands in front of yourself in an effort to consolidate whatever tattered scraps of zen you can find in yourself, and then, in an emphatic, tart announcement, say, "SORRY.” Tenna lifts his head with a questioning hum. You huff and step closer. “I SAID, I’M SORRY, FOR [disappearing act], OKAY?  YOU... DIDN’T DESERVE TO BE LEFT [alone on a late night?]” At this, the CRT sits up and looms over you, his screen bearing down like a spotlight. Geez, no pressure. You force yourself to keep going, despite your quickening heart. “WHEN I TOLD YOU I’D SIGN THAT [limited time deal], I WAS BEING [sincerely, Spamton G. Spamton]. I WASN’T TRYING TO [scam] YOU. I FULLY INTENDED… I WASN’T PLANNING ON …” You trail off, unsure how you’re supposed to go about this whole… apologizing thing. Tenna’s head tilts curiously. You rub the back of yours. “I HAD TO LEAVE. WHAT I HEARD DURING THAT [call now!]… THERE WAS NO [free time]. I HAD TO [self defense], AND I WAS TRYING TO PROTECT YOU FROM [[HYPERLINK BLOCKED]].”

“Protect me?”

“I WAS AFRAID, IF I [self-adhesive wallpaper] AROUND, THAT THEY MIGHT COME AFTER [U2].” 

“Spam, what the hell kind of person were you messing with, that had you frightened so out of your wits that you couldn’t even say goodbye?”

“GOD.” 

“God??”

You shrug, staring at your shoes, having no better answer. Tenna sighs and leans away, sparing you from the interrogation light, but shaking his boxy head like he doesn't know what to make of your cryptic answers. He probably thinks you're making shit up, or that you might not, in fact, be as mentally stable as you appear to be. Fearing the latter, you add, "WHAT I'M TRYING TO GET AT, IS THAT BLAMING [everything must go!] ON YOU, MAYBE, WASN’T… ENTIRELY [county fair].”

Tenna's brow lifts in apparent surprise. His antennae go askew, like he's unsure how to feel. “Welllll… ” he eventually drawls, his screen's glow taking on a slightly pink shade, “I mean... it's not like I have any right to pretend I’ve got the moral high-ground here. We both screwed up pretty badly. Made stupid choices. Hurt people we love.”

Hearing the L-word come out of his mouth sends shivers through you. You can't tell if the feeling's good or bad, but it's certainly, hauntingly familiar. You meekly ask, feeling deeply undeserving of his willingness to hear you out at all, “SO, YOU DON’T THINK I’M [9% on Rotten Tomatoes]?”

“Ah... If you’re asking if I hate you, the answer’s no. It's... too strong a word, for something that happened so long ago. Don't get me wrong, it hurt like hell when you left. In my rage, I broke things, overheated, lashed out at friends, tore at my own wiring, nearly drank myself to death..." A pause. Tenna grimaces and his back arches, looking like he really wishes he had his arms back right now, like he wants to hide his face in his hands. Instead, he turns his screen away from you. "I spent years stuck on this carousel of resentment, sorrow and self-loathing... Took me far too long to realize how heavy a weight hatred was to carry. It's the gloobiest thing ever, and it didn't even change anything. All it did was make me feel rusted over. I'm getting too old a-and tired to be dealing with that kind of crap..."

Another pause. Your jaw falls slack. Did he just... admit to being old? Tenna takes a measured breath. He looks back your way, and you notice his screen's light has dimmed. "I want to believe what we had was real, you know... That you weren’t just…  using me, like everyone else. That you had to leave. That there was no other choice—that you were somehow... protecting me..." There's a skeptic, acidic undertone buried in those last couple of words. You stare up at him, taken aback by the admonition, and by the strange maturity he's seemed to have gained in the time you were apart. He used to be so easy to emotionally manipulate, so quick to look past people's flaws and doggedly loyal toward anyone willing to throw him the odd compliment. And another thing, he thought you were using him? But, he was supposed to have been using you... right? Right? Tenna shakes his head at himself as he goes on, "This might be the dumbest thing I've ever done, but... I can't stop thinking about you being here. Like it was, I dunno, fated, maybe. Like it's supposed to mean something..."—It doesn't mean shit. You know the prophecy inside out and backwards—"So, when you claim that this was all one big misunderstanding, I’m going to choose, one last time, to take your word for it.”

You force your mouth shut and clear your throat when you notice Tenna regarding your dumbstruck expression with that nervous, wobbly smile of his. Idiot... You squint when you notice something strange about the picture on his screen. It wasn’t obvious before, but his mouth has now widened to the degree that you can see it’s being projected crookedly onto the glass. You're able to diagnose the problem immediately: His deflection yoke must have been knocked out of alignment when the knight attacked him. You take the opportunity to stuff down the gross, fuzzy feeling growing in your chest and shift topics. “HEY, [plug-and-play], YOU NEED A [cervical adjustment].”

“I need what now?” 

You point. “YOUR [billboard] REQUIRES A [straight edge].”

“My screen? I’m sure it’s fine. Probably just gotta walk it off...” The behemoth rocks forward, using momentum to heft himself to a stand. He takes a few drunken steps, but with each stride leans more and more to the side until he falls. You cringe when his head collides with the snow with a hollow poompf. He groans, rolls over and pulls his knees in. “Owww… Why is the world so slanted? Who built this stage? I’m cutting your pay! ...I think I'm gonna puke...”

“I TOLD YOU, [MR. (ant)TENNA’S TV TiME!!!], YOUR [lightbox] IS [insurance claims].” 

Tenna rights himself with a flail of his legs. “So, you can say my name,” he says through a pained wince.

You march up to him. “DON’T PATRONIZE ME, YOU [glooby] RED [skyscraper].” He flinches when you hop onto his thigh. “LET ME TAKE A [telephoto zoom lens].” 

"Are you… offering to fix me?”

“DON’T ACT SO [novelty shock toys].”

“But, what’s it gonna cost? I know there’s a catch. There’s always a catch with you.”

“[FREE ZERO-RISK TRIAL FOR THIRTY (30) DAYS! CANCEL ANYTIME].”

Tenna stares. His screen flickers again, like he’s straining every one of his circuits to compute your generosity. You can’t blame him. He has no reason to believe you’d do anything pro bono. So, it surprises you when he gives you a hesitant little nod. 

You use his yellow tie like a rock climbing rope to scale his chest and hop onto his shoulder. He murmurs at you to be careful around his exposed wiring and set-off sensors, and you can hear the pain the words are stretched around. When you put your hands flat on the side of his head, you can feel the heat that radiates from his vents. You push, encouraging him to turn so his backside faces you. Tenna’s shoulders hike against your touch, rising higher once you reach the access panel, and higher still when you pry it open and reach inside. The moment your fingers graze the electron gun, he flinches. “I’m not going to [BIG BREAK] you…” You pause, giving both yourself the chance to shrug off the sting of his distrust, and him the opportunity to change his mind, before you go further. He says nothing. His shoulders lower a little, but you can tell it’s forced. With measured movements, you follow the bulb deeper into his headspace, grab the yoke with all its magnetic deflection coils, and straighten it in one simple motion. “DONE. THAT WASN’T SO [one-star review], WAS IT?” You close the panel, dust off your hands, and hop back to the ground. “HOW DO YOU FEEL?”

Tenna stands with a small groan. This time, he remains standing. “Better… Thank you.”

“SURE THING." You extend your hand greedily. "NOW, THAT’LL BE [$1000 SMACKAROONIES] &aND ALL OF YOUR [liquid assets].”

“Huh?! But, I thought you said —”

“DON’T GET YOUR [analog cables] IN A TWIST. IT WAS A [harmless practical jokes].” 

“Oh. Right. Heh… hah hah…” Your smug smirk widens when Tenna begins full-on chuckling. “Ah-hah... ah man, you were always good at making me laugh, Spammy.”

The sound of your old nickname makes you stiffen and pivot away, despite knowing that the sentimental CRT was always quick to jump to using affectionate terms with everyone he was remotely endeared with. Although his use of it likely doesn't carry much weight here, it still feels wrong, somehow, simultaneously too late, and too soon. But, there's no use getting hung upon semantics. You're tired of standing around, bantering. This dumbass still needs his arms reattached, but you aren’t going to find any spare parts out here in the middle of nowhere. You look around for promising landmarks, but the only one that really stands out is the dark fountain. “WHERE IS YOUR [affordable luxury apartment]?” 

“My studio? Um, it’s close. Why?”

“TO [hidden object games] THE PARTS TO [custom build] YOUR ARMS.”

“What? Are you for real?” Tenna softens in response to your apathetic shrug. “Why are you doing all this for me?” You have no idea, and it’s pissing you off a little. You tap your foot impatiently, your body itching to escape the emotions he keeps stirring in you. That infuriating wobbly smile returns to his face, like he's reading your agitation as some kind of bashfulness, which it is most definitely not. “Aww, Spammy, you do care—”

“LESS [friend request], MORE [transfer files to the cloud] SO I CAN [pass my savings onto you]!” You attempt to pick up one of his disembodied arms, but are barely able to heft the damn thing into the air. Looks like you'll just have to drag them.

“Hah, sure, alright. It's this way.” Tenna throws a pointed nod somewhere in the distance. You begin hauling the limbs in that direction, leaving worm-like trails behind you. As you crunch your way through the snow, Tenna takes one step for each of your four. You’re content to walk in silence, thankful to have the distraction of something to do, and a destination in mind. But the CRT has other ideas. 

“I wanna repay you for helping me out like this. There’s gotta be some way to fix the corrupted part of your coding, right?”

“MY [malware] IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS,” you say shortly, though you don’t understand why the notion makes you so defensive. Maybe it’s because you know it’s pointless to have hope. Fix? You? Any anti-virus software worth its salt would instantly flag you as a threat. You’d be mercilessly wiped from the hard-drive and swept into oblivion like your life meant nothing. No one would even notice or care that you were gone.

Tenna breaks the subsequent silence as his studio comes into sight. “I know you were risking your life, back then, to tell me your secret. Even though I was rapidly falling out of style, clueless about modern technology, hardly even relevant, you still believed I was worth saving. So, in case no one’s ever told you this, I think you’re worth saving, too.”

God dammit... 

No, you know what, fuck God. All they've ever done was treat you like a pawn. A trite plaything to tease, to whisper promises of freedom and ascension into, just so they can laugh as they tore it away at the last second. You were never going to make it out of the darkness, were you? They had you convinced you were so special, a main character, a chosen one, that your faithful obedience would somehow lift you into demigod status, grant you the ability to traverse worlds—to reach down, for once, rather than up, and pull other Darkners out of the stories Lightners had written for them. You desperately wanted to be one of them, those angels of the light, like Noelle, Kris, Susie—the creators, the writers, the deliverers. You wanted to be real, to them. And, perhaps moreso, you wanted to save him.

The door to the studio is towering. Tenna-sized. You drop his arms and jump, grabbing hold of the handle, but it doesn’t budge. “Oh, the lock’s automatic," says Tenna. "I’ve got a key in my pocket. Would you mind, just, uh, reaching in there, and um, grabbing it? It’s—Gah! ” You launch yourself off of the door and onto his thigh, then start pawing around in his hip pocket. Tenna squirms like he’s ticklish. “Ah-hah—Not that pocket! Card key. Wallet. In the back! ” Sighing, you shimmy around his side and cling to his coat-tails as you awkwardly reach inside his back pocket and remove the worn leather wallet.  Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, your stomach starts to growl at the mere sight of it. You’re unable to resist the temptation to peek into the center pocket. But, rather than kromer, all you find are points. Absolutely worthless, empty calories. You try one anyway. They still taste like cardboard. 

You clamp the card key between your teeth, shove the wallet back into Tenna’s pants and then you vault off of him and back onto the door handle. Shaking from the strain of a one-handed pull-up, you raise the key above your head and clumsily slap it against the card reader. The freed handle drops vertically so suddenly that you lose your grip and fall back into the snow. Thankfully, Tenna’s already shoved his foot in between the door and its frame, preventing it from locking itself again. He butts it further open with his tattered shoulder, hissing with pain the entire time, and then uses his leg to push it further ajar until you’re able to drag both of his arms inside the building. He turns on the lights with a deft flick of his head against the switch on the wall. 

You look around the Green Room. Aside from an eerie lifelessness, nothing’s changed about this place. The flooring, wallpaper and furnishings are as outdated as ever. You can still see the normal hustle in your mind’s eye: Ramb leisurely cleaning glasses at the snack bar, Lanina and Elnino making out while the hair and makeup team vie for their cooperation, and the pippins running the scripts and equipment around, all while the annoying echo of the shadowguys’ morning warmups permeate the walls. 

“HAVE A SEAT ON THAT [mid-century lounge],” you direct, dropping the arms on the peeling vinyl tiles. Tenna obediently lowers himself onto the cushion, and you can hear his metallic joints creaking in the silence and more achy groans escaping him. You stop yourself from stating the obvious, that he needs some WD-40, and recall the cobwebs and corrosion you saw inside of his casing. He doesn't seem to be taking very good care of himself. You remember all the times you helped him with maintenance behind closed doors, your comparatively small, nimble body able to get into all the places he couldn't reach. He used to tell you about nightmares he'd have, where his screen would somehow get shattered, and he'd stumble blindly, helplessly through the streets, trying to find a mechanic. No one would ever offer to help him. Sometimes the dream would end there, with him still lost and panicking about how he was going to find his way back home. Other times, he'd make it to a shop, only to be told by the mechanic that he couldn't be fixed, because no one manufactured his ancient parts anymore. You'd always comfort him by assuring him that if something like that ever actually happened, you'd make damn sure he'd get repaired, even if it meant throwing hands with someone thrice your size, digging through mountains of trash, or even grave-robbing. You... forgot how much he used to rely on you, for little, intimate things. It leads you to a rather depressing conclusion about his current state of neglect. “YOU STILL KEEP THAT [first-aid kit] IN THE SAME PLACE?”

“Yeah.”

“GREAT. [We’ll be right back after these messages!]” You make a beeline for his office, feeling strangely motivated, and ignore his half-hearted protests. You don't have to think about where you're going, the layout of his studio returning easily to you. You slow when you see the door with the big, golden star on it, and stop short in his doorway to take in the familiar sight. Tenna’s still got those cheesy old movie posters on the wall. There’s that antique bookcase full of video game cartridges and VHS tapes. His meticulously organized mahogany desk is still positioned in front of the window. The faint smell of smoke clings to the green velvet couch and rug. This was one of the only places either of you felt safe taking off your performative masks. Memories, as fresh as they were the day you made them, swarm out of the room’s crevices and sock you right in the gut; hopes and dreams, celebrations and defeats, cradling hands and confessions, stumbling steps, static and searching tongues... 

Your racing heart and sweating palms pull you out of your daze. Get a hold of yourself! Focus on the present. 

You slip behind Tenna’s desk and open the bottom left drawer. You rummage past boxes of paperclips and post-its, and push aside stacks of show schedules and scripts, until you find the old cigar-box-turned-first-aid-kit tucked in the back. You snatch it and turn to leave, eager to distance yourself from the sensory assault of this place, but freeze when you catch something out of the corner of your eye. Still sitting inside the bottom of the drawer, underneath where the box had been, is a face-down photo. You recognize the year handwritten on it. Hesitantly, you set the box down, pluck the photo from its hideaway and flip it over. 

There he is, and there you are in your suave matching attire, all preened and full of optimism. You were tall enough that the top of your hair could tickle his ribs—if he had any. Shuttah must have taken this at one of the office parties when you two weren’t paying attention. You’re laughing, probably over some stupid inside joke. Heaven... You’ve been trying to find your way back to it ever since. Not the fame, or the money, or the power, but the feeling that came with that simple sense of love and belonging. The longer you stare, the more the picture quivers and the blurrier it becomes. You furiously wipe the tears from your eyes, grab the box and try to outrun the feelings. 

Tenna’s got his head bent back over the top of the lounge. He perks up when your upside-down form turns the corner. “There you are. Everything alright? What took you so long?”

You toss the box on the coffee table with a metallic clatter, hop onto the couch and shove the picture in his face. “WHY’S THIS [scrap paper] STILL IN YOUR [inventory]?”

“Oh!” Tenna throws himself upright. “Oooh, that old thing? Hah hah… That’s weird. How'd that get in there? Somebody must be… playing a joke on me…” Your eyes narrow. He looks like a reindeer caught in a flower truck’s headlights. Always was a terrible liar. After a moment, his mouth shrinks into a pouting frown and he looks away. “Oh, come on, Spam. You know why.”

All those nights you spent cursing his name, and he...

You make a show of tutting and shaking your head before you mercifully shove the photo into the breast pocket of his suit and give it a stiff pat. “YOU WERE ALWAYS A [pure Canadian maple syrup] FOR NOSTALGIA.” 

“And you, seemingly impervious.” Tenna shrugs. You startle when the movement causes his wires to come alive with sparks again, this time a little too close to your face for comfort. Yeah, that’s gonna be a problem. 

“I’M GONNA NEED YOU TO [power down] FOR A WHILE. I CAN’T REMOVE YOUR DAMAGED [spaghetti noodles] WITHOUT RISKING [electrocution]." You flip open the cigar box and begin sorting through its contents while you wait for his response. All he gives you is silence. You frown down at the pile of machine guts. “YOU DON’T [trust fund] ME.”

“Not entirely.” You look back at him. He’s giving you a wane, apologetic smile. “But I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” 

You try to let the comment roll off your back, but it gets caught stubbornly between your shoulder-blades. “ANYWAY, YOUR [trauma] IS MORE [extended offer] THAN WHAT THIS [craft kit] IS INTENDED FOR, BUT THERE SHOULD BE ENOUGH IN HERE TO GET YOUR [silly strings] ATTACHED AND MOSTLY FUNCTIONAL. ARE YOU READY?”

Tenna takes a deep breath and tips his head back against the cushion. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He stares at the ceiling hard, like he’s psyching himself up for the guillotine.

“IT’S [minor surgery], NOT THE [French Revolution].” You climb onto the couch and reach for the power button tucked under his chin. He leans away from you. “WHAT?”

“You’re not planning on stripping me of valuable parts and leaving my powerless corpse here to rust, right?”

That’s a startlingly specific accusation. You laugh it off. “DON’T [free gift!] ME ANY [bright ideas].”

“Spamton.”

“OH. YOU WERE [serious]? OUCH … WHY WOULD YOUR [[Number One Rated Salesman1997]] DO THAT?” 

“Because I ruined your life?” It’s a tight whisper. The ache in stirs in your chest snaps your thoughts back to the photo. He’s still on about this? Didn’t you already apologize? 

“YOU DIDN’T [visit ancient ruins] ANYTHING, ANT.”

“No, you were right. I-I should have known better than to pressure you, should have believed you the first time, should have taken that as a sign that you were involved in something dark, should have realized you needed help, should have tried harder to look for you after you disappeared, should have gotten my priorities straight, put the show on pause and taken time off work instead of tossing and turning in bed and pacing in circles in between takes just wondering and praying you’d come back on your own, I—” You press the power button, unable to stand the sound of what you’ve done to him. His screen goes dark and his body limp in the wake of your cowardice. 

Reeling from your own selfish projections swinging back to bite you, you wilt, your forehead coming to rest against his screen. The lingering static of his life-force makes your hair stand slightly on end. Your breaths fog up the glass, their heat curling back onto your cheeks, while your mind replays the many arguments you had with him over your obsessive-compulsive urge to answer that stupid rotary phone, no matter what the call may have been interrupting. You remember how you were sent into hysterics the one time he got so fed up, he unplugged the damn thing and hid it in a closet. You nearly broke up with him over that, accusing him of being jealous of the voice on the other side stealing so much of your time and attention. But the truth is, Tenna was deeply worried about you. You refused to give him answers, and it left him a powerless witness to your declining mental state. Of course he doesn’t trust you. There was never a time you weren’t keeping some sort of secret from him. 

You push off of him, the prospect of rebuilding his trust filling you with determination. You set to work grounding him, and then removing his damaged wires with gusto before replacing them with new ones. You’re in the zone, feeling confident until you’re confronted with the matter of reattaching the bulky arms themselves. How are you going to lift them into place? You have the muscle tone of a pool noodle.

You scan the room for inspiration. An idea strikes when you spy the potted plants that hang from the ceiling. You climb onto the narrow back of the lounge, balancing precariously on your tip-toes, and reach for the plant, but there’s still a few feet between you and it. You forgot how high the ceilings were in this place to accommodate Tenna's height. You search the studio for a pole of some sort, and eventually find one of Lanina’s weather pointers in the corner of her dressing room. 

You eagerly return to your perch. With the added height, you’re just barely able to reach the bottom of the hanging basket. You push the pot up, and with a bit of finagaling, you’re able to free the plant’s plastic hook from the ceiling’s sturdy metal one and let the basket drop into your arms. You hop down and place the plant on the coffee table before setting off to complete the next step. You need a rope. 

You spend an annoying amount of time squirreling around the building with no luck. You’re moments away from climbing onto the catwalk and cutting something from the fly system itself, when you stumble across a roll of half-inch manila tucked behind a costume trunk backstage. You also happen across a can of WD-40, which you snag, because why the hell not. If you're already going to be arm-deep in his dilapidated gears, you might as well lubricate the tarnished areas as you come across them.

Returning to the Green Room, you tie one end of the rope to one of his arms, position yourself on the back of the couch again and toss the other end, attempting to catch it on the hook. It takes you a few tries before you’re able to get it looped over, thus completing a crude pulley system. By leaping from the height of the couch backing, you’re able to gain enough leverage to lift the arm high enough, and close enough, to reattach. 

 

 

Alright. Just gotta finish tightening this last screw and…

You step back and admire your handiwork. All that’s left to do now is sew his suit sleeves back on. But, he doesn’t need to be off for that. You reach for his power button, but hesitate. He’s going to be pissed about you cutting him off like that. It was always a touchy subject, that vulnerable part of him, and you went and disrespected it because you couldn’t handle the guilt of a difficult conversation. Now that he’s got his arms back, he could crush you like a bug if he really wanted to. Wincing, you press the button and then scamper away, putting the coffee table between you and the towering television.

The instant his screen lights up, “—I failed you!” bursts out of his speakers. He pauses, screws up his face, and sits up. “Wait, what…” He looks down at his arms, and then up at you, and then back at his arms. “I’m fixed… you actually fixed me?” He rolls his shoulders and slowly lifts his hands in front of his face, examining the front and back like he’s looking for some sort of catch. “Spam, I…” he begins, but then his features harden. “You turned me off mid-sentence?!”

“PLEASE. YOU WOULD’VE KEPT ME HERE ALL [open past midnight] WITH YOUR SELF-DEPRECATING [vintage pinot noir] IF I HADN’T.” You cross your arms, fighting to play it cool despite still hiding behind a table. “BESIDES, SOMETIMES IT’S [better ingredients, better pizza] TO RIP THE [skin-flex waterproof Band-Aid] OFF AND GET THE [choose your difficulty] STUFF OVER WITH.” Tenna sighs, bends forward and tiredly rubs his screen. His knee bounces furiously as he likely fights to navigate the cognitive dissonance of you healing him in the most inconsiderate, most Spamton way imaginable. You frown, disappointed in yourself for being so quick to try and shove the blame on him for your own shortcomings. Is this really the foundation you want to build on, after so long? You’ve grown. Show him... “LOOK, ANT, I-I’M SORRY I TURNED YOU OFF BEFORE YOU WERE [ready, set, go!] IT WAS [incorrect! Try again!] OF ME. I KNOW I CROSSED A [fine-line inking pens]. I WAS JUST… [5K run]ING AWAY FROM MY [feelings chart]... AGAIN.” Tenna raises his head. At first, he appears frustrated, but when his gaze locks onto the WD-40 sitting on the table, the tight expression loosens into confusion. He rolls his shoulders again, then tilts his head from side to side like he's testing the mobility of his neck. He looks back up at you. You can't read his expression. Intimidated, you avert your eyes, feeling lousy as you trace the wood grain up and down the length of the table with your gaze. “[The honest truth!] IS, YOU DIDN'T [failing grade] ANYTHING. WE FAILED EACH OTHER... SO, LET’S… COULD WE, [maybe], JUST… [refinance your loanss]sssSTART OVER?”

Tenna stands, his face grim. Oh, shit. You really should not have touched his off button without his consent. Already cornered, you stumble against the wall, wide-eyed, craning your neck as his shadow falls over you. He raises a hand and extends it toward you, and…

That’s it. He’s just holding it there, his still-unsewn suit sleeves hanging halfway down his arms. “Deal."

"HUH?"

"I'm willing to try this again, if you're being sincere. I'll forgive you. For everything. So long as you promise me it won't happen again." 

For... everything?

"P-[promise]..." you murmur, your mind having escaped the present moment to settle somewhere decades in the past; those simple, earnest words re-framing memories once festering with malice in real time. You feel the darkness inside you, that which you'd lost hope of gaining any relief from, shift as light finds its way into cracks you didn't know were there. It expands, fills your belly and climbs up your throat, thick and searching for an outlet before finding one in your eyes. The wetness and tightness of your breaths is jarring, snapping you out of it. Tenna still hasn't moved. Oh. Oh my god he's waiting for a handshake, and you've just been staring through him like a ditz. You quickly offer your hand, and his palm encircles your entire limb when he takes it. He gives it a single firm shake that rattles your entire body, and then lets you go.

"I'll be holding you to it," Tenna warns. You nod dumbly, and his warm smile returns. “Thanks for the repairs. I owe you one, Spammy.”

“CONSIDER US [Even Stevens]." You push up your glasses and wiping at your eyes with the heels of your palms.

“Cool.” You wait for him to sit back down, but he just stands there, looking a bit deflated and oddly... longing. You blink up at him, confused, until you notice he's absentmindedly rubbing his arm with his other hand. You finally understand what it is he wants. You huff and wave him in, pretending like you’re so burdened by the idea. In reality, your chest radiates with warm anticipation at the idea of being cradled in this goof's arms again. The defensive walls you built over the years weaken with the simple act of inviting him in, and suddenly you feel small, and fragile, and broken, and stupid and selfish and ugly and undeserving of anyone's forgiveness. But he still smiles at your invitation like you're still the only thing he's ever really wanted, sweeps you off your feet and squeezes you like a long-lost stuffed animal. You can hardly breathe.

"TAKE IT EASY, YOU BIG LUG. [you break it, you buy it!] I'M NOT MADE OF [stainless steel] YOU KNOW!" You can't help but laugh at the gaiety of it all as he falls back onto the couch. After a few seconds, he’s still holding on. Maybe it’s because you’re not fighting it. Your weak, twisted, touch-starved body remembers this sensation, the security and the feeling that the two of you could accomplish anything, so long as you're together. It quickly turns your limbs to jelly with a primal kind of relief. This feels like home—heaven... You finally let go, allowing yourself to relax into his embrace, burrowing your head in the crook of his neck, just like you used to.

“I missed this,” Tenna coos, petting you gently. “I missed you.” You don’t answer, trusting that the way you gather greedy fistfulls of his suit and desperately nuzzle into him speaks for itself. You lose track of time there, eventually drifting to sleep as what feels like years' worth of exhaustion melt away from you. He seems content to let you hide in him, but somewhere in that lengthy, blissful haze, his body begins to stir, waking you, and his hesitant voice recaptures your attention. “Spammy?"

"MMN..."

"I-I have to ask. What's next, for you? I know you never like to stay in one place for long.” 

You sit up reluctantly, bracing a hand on his chest. “TENS, CAN'T YOU JUST [sit back and relax] AND ENJOY THE [peaceful and quiet getaways], FOR [once in a lifetime deal]? YOU'VE GOT NO [IT'S!! T.V.!! TIME!!!] TO RUN, NO [schedule an appointment with an in-network doctor today!], WHAT'S THE HURRY? YOU ALREADY TRYING TO GET RID OF ME?"

Tenna stiffens, not picking up on your sarcasm. "N-No! Of course not! I just like to know what to expect ahead of time, for my own sanity. Y-You know I don't like... surprises." You feel his hold on you tighten slightly. The cooling mechanisms inside of his frame begin audibly whirring, betraying his anxiety. Just like that, this playful conversation stops being fun.

Your voice softens. "WELL, IF YOU HAVE TO KNOW RIGHT THIS [millisecond], THE CURRENT [evil plan] IS TO HEAD FOR [today’s sponsor] TO MEET UP WITH THE [legendary heroes].” As much as you'd like to laze around here for a while, you did make a promise with Kris after they freed you. You're supposed to be with them, offering your protection, and you're going to honor that promise.

“You mean the fountain?”

“YUP. THEY’LL BE BACK TO [window seal] IT, EVENTUALLY.” Tenna nods and swallows drily, keeping a straight face, but failing spectacularly at hiding his rising panic. His breaths quicken and his screen flickers from the power surge surely caused by his racing thoughts. Does he really think he can fool you? You take hold of either side of his face, making sure he's looking you in the eye when you feign surprise and say, “WHY THE [glooby] FACE, ANT? YOU’RE [coming straight from your house] TOO, RIGHT?”

His antennae perk up. He laughs nervously. "Y-You still want me around?"

"YOU THINK I PUT ALL THAT EFFORT INTO [fixed-rate loans] YOU UP, JUST TO [leaf blowers] YOU HERE TO [die]?"

"No...I-I dunno." He sinks further into the cushions and tries to turn his head away. You hold fast, pinning him right where he is, keeping your eyes locked.

"ANT, [listen] TO ME. I'M NOT ABANDONING YOU AGAIN. EVER. UNDERSTAND? NEXT TIME I NEED TO [ruuuuuuuuuun!] FROM SOME MESS I GOT MYSELF INTO, IT'LL BE TOWARD YOU... [okay?]"

He nods silently. His lip begins to tremble. Tears start to form on his screen. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in tightly. His hitching breaths make your chest ache fiercely. Tenna's voice is weak, almost childlike, when he asks, "D-Do you think Kris will mind?”

"WHAT? WHY'S THAT EVEN A [Concerns? Call ###-###-####]? THEY OBVIOUSLY [Care Bears] ABOUT YOU. THEY'LL [taxi service] YOU TO THEIR [princess castle]. YOU’LL BE [safety vest] THERE. MAYBE THEY CAN EVEN FIND YOU A [happy family]. ONE THAT CAN GIVE YOU THE [24-hour movie marathon!] YOU DESERVE." You sit back up and raise a fist to drill in your next point. "AND IF THEY REFUSE, I'LL JUST [physical challenge] THEM TO A [battle] AND BURY THEM IN PIPIS UNTIL THEY [would you just give up already!?!]”

Tenna laughs, but it's half-hearted. "I hope it doesn't come to that. I really don't want to watch my family fight each other anymore."

Your cheeks warm at his grouping you into his "family" category. "I ASSURE YOU, IT WON'T. THE [100-watt EcoSmart Light]NERS ARE APPALLINGLY HELPFUL. THEY ONCE [backtracked] FOR MILES JUST TO [return lost merchandise] TO SOMEONE. IT WAS INFURIATING."

Tenna seems mollified by that. His body relaxes back against the lounge. “If they're willing to find someone to adopt me, then, do you think they can find someone who can remove the virus from your code, too? I mean, I'm not entirely sure how all of that computer stuff works, but...”

You freeze, having never… actually... thought about that. Why couldn’t a Lightner edit your program, if they really wanted to, rather than leaving it up to some ruthless software? If Kris only explained to someone that the virus isn't part of your original coding, that person might be able to restore you by hand. Inspired, you grab Tenna’s lapels and smush your noses together. “TENS, YOU BIG, DOOFY [Einstein field equation]!” Overcome by a swell of hope you never thought you'd feel this strongly again, you tear up a little. The emotion carries you so far that you dive down and interrupt his flustered chuckle with a kiss.

"Mmpf!?" He goes rigid, his entire screen glowing red. Just as he starts to lean into it, you tear yourself away teasingly, leaving him gasping as you wiggle out of his arms. Before he can say anything, you bound toward the exit, knowing there will be plenty of time to make-out while you're waiting by the fountain.

“WELL? [What are you waiting for]? LET’S GO, LET’S GO, LET’S GO!”