Chapter Text
Spamton didn’t even realize that he had been knocked off Kris’s head by the knight. He was busy, the scene of his old partner- talking about hope and joy and blooming for the first time in god knows how long- being cut to pieces kept playing in his mind, along with the knowledge that his lifeless body sat alone behind them in the snow, getting colder and colder.
It’s not like Spamton didn’t know that the bastard was fated to die- as much as he wished he didn’t know. It was an unwelcome gift, a warning even, to not get too attached to the hunk of junk, but he seemed to care about Spamton. He would seek Spamton out, he would listen to him, he would laugh at Spamton’s shitty little jokes. They spent time together, laughing and sharing drinks and smiling, and it all felt like the void that Spamton hadn’t even realized was there had been so perfectly filled by the man, because he felt seen. He felt loved.
Spamton had never felt loved before. How was he not to get attached?
It wasn’t until Spamton was lifted from the cold, wet ground that he realized that he had fallen off. He hadn’t been picked up by Kris, instead he was grabbed by the furry hands of their little prince friend. The fight had ended, it seemed. Kris and the girl would be on their way to seal the fountain. The darkeners in TV World would be brought back to Castle Town. His old partner’s body would remain lying in the snow. Alone.
Usually Spamton stayed with Kris, opting to simply disappear when they returned to the light world. He had no place here. He never had a place. Spamton didn’t want to waste time sulking around somewhere where he was going to be antagonized at best and ignored at worst. Kris was his closest friend, and even they seemed ambivalent towards him.
He wasn’t worried though. The lighteners would be back for Spamton eventually. Kris was a hoarder, for both money and items, and as Spamton both helped them get money and essentially was an item, Kris wouldn’t be long. The other lightener was also far too empathetic to leave anyone behind- although Spamton wasn’t sure if she even knew that he existed.
‘No one’s going to get thrown away,’ the girl had said to the prince, and from what Spamton had seen, no fate would stop that girl. No, apparently the only thing fate wanted to stop was the ‘Lord of Screens.’ Of course, they hadn’t thrown the bastard out, but it sure as hell seemed like they had forgotten about him. He was just a hunk of junk at this point anyway, right?
He rested on the prince’s little horned head as he walked over to the trash heap. Spamton didn’t care, did he? After everything? After the bastard had gone and slandered his name as the lighteners played his little games? After he had made a paper mache dummy of Spamton for the lighteners to destroy? The bastard hadn’t even recognized him when Spamton had tried to talk to him! How could he not recognize him!? The addisons recognized him, but not his old partner?! They had spent years together! They had a child together!
A soft, muffled noise came from the prince below him as he collapsed onto his knees in front of the trash heap. The hunk of junk had completely stopped sparking. How long had it been since he had stopped sparking? Since the electricity flowing through his body came to a stop? Since the plastic and metal had cooled enough that the snow didn’t even melt as it piled on top of his crumpled body? All while they had been ignoring him. His old partner had died cold and alone and ignored as he was always afraid would happen.
Spamton remembered hearing the bastard in the middle of the night, sobbing, worried that everyone was going to leave him, that he was going to be alone, that nobody cared about him. Spamton would always reassure him, after all, what wasn’t to love about the guy?
Obviously, the trash heap didn’t feel the same way.
He heard the prince below him begin sobbing, shaking and trembling as he tried to muffle any of the sounds he made. Spamton could hear it anyway, and something about the goat mourning his old partner made him sick.
It’s not like they could have done anything. Kris was a human, they didn’t have magic. The purple girl’s healing left much to be desired, and while Spamton had healing magic- good healing magic too, if he said so himself- you had to ask for it. His old partner was not in a talkative mood, for once.
But the prince? The prince was made for support! He was a healer! He hadn’t even attempted to heal the bastard, and sure they were fighting, but the fight was over. Yet, here the prince sat, mourning over something he had done nothing to try and prevent.
His feet hit the cold ground beneath him before Spamton even realized that he had rematerialized. The kid nearly jumped out of his skin, his fur standing on edge as he turned away, pushing his glasses out of his face to wipe his eyes, as if Spamton didn’t know he was crying, as if he wasn’t right there as the prince threw his little pity party.
“S-” The prince mumbled as he tried to collect himself. He cleared his throat and looked back over at him, “Spamton, what are you doing here?” His voice was still weak and trembling. Spamton thought he sounded pathetic to begin with, but this was a new low.
“YOU’RE [[press esc to quit]] ALREADY?” Spamton jabbed as he actually looked at the crumpled body in detail for the first time. He didn’t want to look at him, he didn’t want to see the man he had sought warmth from so long ago reduced to a cold, wet pile of rubble. He couldn’t look away.
“I’m sorry, but there is nothing more we can do.” The prince mumbled at Spamton, his voice dripping with a nauseating amount of pity. Usually, Spamton would accept the pity, it was something he could use to his advantage, making people feel bad for him- which was hard to do in the first place- made them way easier to be manipulated. But he didn’t want pity right now. He wanted resolve, motivation, determination. Not a sad sack.
The trash heap looked rough. Obviously. He was dented, scratched to hell and back, wet, cold, and of course, he no longer had any arms. His clothes were ruined, cut at the shoulders, dirty, wet, and wrinkled. His old partner wouldn’t have been caught dead in this. Or, he guessed that his old partner would only be caught dead in this.
Spamton winced at the thought.
“[[pussy cat]].” Spamton muttered, jumping onto the bastard’s chest to get a better look at his screen. After all, that was the part of him implied to be ‘cleaved.’ And, damage to his body was fixable. It was painful, sure, but the trash heap could do away with his whole body and still be fine. It was his head that couldn’t be broken.
A part of him hoped that it would look fine, that the screen would be intact, that his head was undamaged. Something unwanted twisted in his gut at the thought, why the hell was he hoping that the bastard would be okay?
“Excuse me?” The prince asked, but Spamton was otherwise occupied. The permanent smile on his face dug in as he ran his hand over the screen, pushing the accumulating snow away. It nearly fogged up at the warmth of Spamton’s hand, of his breath, but under that? Spamton’s disfigured face stared back up at him.
Sure, the screen was dirty and wet. You could see the shadows of the scratches that didn’t quite catch the light and there was a small crack in the corner that had caused a miniscule piece of glass to chip off. There was the barely noticeable burn-in, which the trash heap had always been insecure about- although it was significantly worse than it had been back when the bastard would make Spamton check for it before every performance to ‘make sure it wasn’t getting worse.’
But more importantly. No slice. No significant crack. Nothing that would be considered a cleaving by any stretch of the imagination. The twisting in his gut worsened. It was perfectly fine, there was no permanent damage to the bastard’s picture-perfect face. He had fallen backward, of course, so there was bound to be damage to the internal workings of his head, but that wasn’t a cleaving.
Spamton was an expert at worming his way out of contracts, or, well, he was an expert at dealing with the consequences of worming his way out of contracts, and what was a prophecy really if not a contract? The fact that it was written in the laws of time and space and was completely unavoidable was… nothing. Taxes were the same way, right? Spamton hadn’t paid those in years!
Prophecies were vague for a reason, filled with metaphors and things to misinterpret. Spamton wasn’t an idiot, but he had always been overeager to prove the world wrong.
“FEEL HIS [[award-losing smile]].” He said, breaking the silence between him and the goat. It took a minute longer for Spamton to realize that he hadn’t responded, as Spamton was too busy gently running his hand up and down the dented side of his old partner’s face, his mind wandering to the times that they had woken up next to each other. He could almost convince himself that was what was happening now, that the bastard was just sleeping. His old partner was always a heavier sleeper.
He was far too cold, too still. The bastard used to mumble in his sleep, used to twitch and flinch. One time, in the middle of the night, he had reached over and slapped Spamton’s face, having dreamt that he was a bug. It was awful, sure, but sleeping next to a space heater that even seemed to love you was well worth the occasional night terrors.
Spamton shook the thought aside and shot a glare back at the prince, who jumped at the attention. The prince turned his head away, sorrowful and ashamed, as if he had been caught looking at something private. Spamton sighed and slid off the trash heap before forcibly grabbing the goat’s sleeve and bringing him closer to the screen.
“I know this is hard to accept. It seemed that you and Tenna were close at some point.” Spamton pressed the prince’s hand down himself. It did seem like he and the bastard were close, didn’t it? If only the trash heap also thought that. “If there’s anything I can do to-”
“NO [[unsightly blemishes?]]” Spamton interrupted, because he didn’t need the prince to comfort him. He needed the prince to do something. To act for heaven’s sake. “THE ISN’T [[true fact!]].”
“Pardon?” Spamton sighed, letting go of the prince’s sleeve. Kris could understand him, no problem, but god forbid someone not be clear enough for his highness. Spamton opened his mouth to try and explain, to say that he knew why the kid was being such a coward about this, but nothing but garbage noises came out.
It was a ‘fun’ and timely reminder that even though his strings had been cut, he still wasn’t in control of a damned thing.
“Listen, I’m sorry-” Spamton ignored him, deciding that while his mouth wouldn’t cooperate, he had better control over his hands. Not good control. But better. He squatted down in the snow, drawing the ever-familiar symbol, a rectangle slashed in two. ‘The Lord of Screens Cleaved Red By Blade.’ It haunted him whenever he saw his old partner smile, whenever he saw him laugh. Spamton still couldn’t stay away, could he?
The prince took a minute before the symbol registered in his brain, but the second it had he stepped back, covering his mouth with his hands, his eyes wide in fear.
“You- you know?” The goat nearly whispered out, and Spamton just rolled his eyes.
“OBVIOUSLY.” He didn’t think he had been subtle about it, he literally told Kris that the bastard was fated to die.
“Then you know that there’s nothing we can do.” There was a reason Spamton hadn’t bothered to remember the prince’s name- he never did anything.
Not that he wasn’t right, of course. There really was nothing that they could do. The bastard was doomed to die, his body was cold and wet and broken, and even though Spamton was well acquainted with the bastard’s internal workings, he didn’t actually trust his hands anymore and he doubted that the prince knew a single thing about electronics- it really didn’t match the kid’s aesthetic.
Unfortunately, Spamton had decided ages ago that he was going to spite god. It hadn’t worked out, of course, because he could never do a single thing without their help, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t tried to reach heaven on his own, and he had gotten so close, hadn’t he?
Maybe Spamton should have learned his lesson then, when he was left hanging from his strings, reduced to the vile little puppet he had been turned into, unable to even get out of that mess alone, but, when had Spamton ever learned his lesson?
No. He was going to save the ‘Lord of Screens’ himself.
“YOU CAN [[call 988 for help]] ME.” Spamton huffed, walking over to the side of the crumpled body. He would have to turn him over in order to get a good look at the back.
“Spamton-” He interrupted the prince with a glare, who had begun looking anywhere but the disaster in front of them.
“HELP. ME.” While he had the determination to spite god, he lacked the physical strength to do so. The trash heap was more than four times his size and was much heavier than he looked- which is saying something, because he looked heavy as hell. Usually, when he was trying to move the hunk of junk, the bastard was conscious- mostly- and could help out. The prince hesitated for a moment, messing with his hands behind his back, before he sighed and walked over to help Spamton turn the giant overdramatic bastard.
He had been so happy when he was cut down. Spamton had always found it endearing that his old partner could fill any room he was in. His blooms always smelled so sweet. They embarrassed the hell out of the bastard, of course, and Spamton didn’t help, teasing and razzing him whenever the bright red flower popped up. There were so many flowers back then.
Spamton shook the thought out of his head as they managed to turn the trash heap over. Despite not being able to take a hit, the kid was pretty strong when properly motivated.
“USE SOME OF YOUR [[soothing ointment]] MAGIC.” Spamton ordered as he looked at the back of the CRT’s head. Dented, dirty, and wet of course. And cold. But otherwise it looked fine, much better than Spamton had anticipated. He hoped the inside would follow suit.
“I… don’t think that’s going to do anything.” The prince mumbled dejectedly as Spamton used the sleeve of his jacket to dry off the back panel.
“[[try now!!!]] ANYWAY.” He sighed, but complied with the command anyway, the faint green glow of his magic spreading over the crumpled body, warming everything it settled on.
“[[$#!^]]” Spamton swore as a spark flew from the trash heap, smoking as it landed on his jacket. The prince dropped his hands and rushed over to Spamton.
“I’m so sorry! I should have-”
“CAN IT.” Spamton pushed him away, gesturing at the trash heap’s body. It was sparking. “SEE THE [[light show]]?”
“I-” Sparks were cascading off of the body now, the fans had begun whirring again, he was alive, “- how did that-”
“DOESN’T SEEM VERY [[cleaved]] NOW.” Spamton’s smile could not really change anymore, but that didn’t stop him from projecting the biggest shit-eating grin that he could muster at the goat, because he had done it, the bastard was alive. Spamton cackled.
“No… he doesn’t…” The prince was not nearly as thrilled as Spamton thought he should be, instead his voice wavered. He was timid, more so than usual. The poor kid was shaking enough that Spamton thought he might even faint, “I’ll go get help. I’m sure…” His voice trailed off, before he shook his head and straightened, “I’ll go get help.”
“W-” Spamton tried to protest, but the goat was fast and not looking back. “[[yes/no]] LEAVE THE [[scammy mailman]] WHO CAN’T [[heel, boy!]].” He muttered to himself. While he appreciated the prince’s new go get ‘em attitude, it would have been smarter for the healer to stay with the dying body while Spamton- who was notably unhelpful in these types of situations and knew the studio like the back of his hand- went to go get help.
Whatever. It’s not like Spamton didn’t know what he was doing.
No, the real problem was his damned hands, which were shaking far more than they usually were- trembling even. Was he really so worked up about this? About him?! He knew the answer. He didn’t like it though.
Spamton also didn’t have a single tool to help him, but Spamton was scrappy, resourceful, like any good salesman was. He decided that a stick would have to do, and there was a lovely Christmas tree set up for… whatever reason. He didn’t really have a good sense of time now that he wasn’t in the studio, but usually around Christmas the trash heap was insufferable, managing to be happier than he ever was and more stressed. People loved watching TV on the holidays, and despite Spamton’s opinions of the guy, he really was a wonderful host, warm and comforting- exactly what you need in the winter.
He looked back at the body, still sparking, warming up enough that the snow was starting to melt. He really was alive. It wouldn’t hurt to leave his side for a moment, right?
Spamton had to force his body up, like he was chained to the damned trash heap.
There was a stick, one small enough that it might be able to thin out the end, to make it into something that might work as a screwdriver. He raced back to the bastard’s side as if it would get up and leave or die even more. He bit down on the stick, chewing the end as flat as he could make it, hoping that it would still be strong enough to turn a screw.
He tried to steady his hands enough to even attempt to unscrew anything, but they would not stop shaking and the damned screws were small enough to begin with- he would have to have far more control over his body in order to loosen any of them. Of course, he knew where the perfect sized screwdriver was. It used to sit in a dusty old drawer in his old partner’s office, hardly ever opened because the bastard refused to admit that he was anything less than perfect, because it was some moral failing or something if he asked for help maintaining that ‘fit for TV’ body of his. That drawer was filled with things that would be really damned useful right about now.
Nothing worked to steady his hands. He tried breathing even, deep calm breaths. He had seen Kris do it earlier. It steadied their hands and made their life so much easier when they were fighting, but apparently, Spamton was not as in control of his body as Kris seemed to be. Spamton tried shaking them out on purpose, he tried clasping them together, hitting them against the ground. Unsuccessful all around.
Great.
Well, hopefully the prince would be back soon with the tools that he was definitely going to be able to find, with staff that definitely both wanted to and could help the bastard. He sighed dejectedly as he ran his hand through his hair. It caught a little on the joints in his fingers.
The trash heap was not the most organized behind the scenes- which was shocking considering the control freak he was on set- and that was all on his good days. Bastard looked like he hadn’t had a ‘good day’ in years.
He wiped the back panel off with his jacket once again before he pulled himself away to look at the arms. The Knight at least had the heart to make it a clean cut. Replace the socket, twist a couple wires, replace the ruined ones, tape a few things, solder a few things and bam. Factory fresh.
Spamton, however, did not have replacement wires. He didn’t have a replacement for the socket or the ruined wires. He didn’t have electrical tape. He didn’t have a soldering iron. He didn’t even have functional hands.
He swore under his breath, squatting down to wipe off the screen once again. The sparking hadn’t stopped, at least. He could feel the static of the screen before he even touched it, and when he did it was warm.
“YOU IN THERE [[cathode]]?” He asked, as if he would get a response. Sure the fans were sputtering, he was sparking, and he was warm enough that he was even melting the snow on the ground around them. He hoped that the bastard wasn’t conscious under there.
Something must’ve reacted to him though, because the second that the words left his mouth the sparking intensified and there was the faintest twitch in the bastard’s leg. Surely he wasn’t conscious in there, right? Not in this state?
His worries were interrupted as a spark landed on him and began smoking. Spamton bounced up, patting himself off, but the sparks only worsened as more and more sparks flew from the bastard’s shoulders. There was also the now undeniable twitching of his legs, as they essentially curled up and shook on their own.
“[[easy mode]] [[trash heap]]!” He was insane, after all, so he hoped that he really was just talking to himself. Spamton knew how it felt to be awake as your body was ripped apart at the seams.
Spamton finally set his sights on the poor bastard’s antennae, cringing as he looked. He knew how sensitive they were. Spamton used to have to hold back his laughter whenever his old partner would get worked up and grow too fast, smashing his head against the ceiling and crushing his antennae, reducing him to a crumpled little ball of pain and agony on the ground.
Just as he would do then, he reached over and laid his hand gently on the side of his old partner’s frame, before using his other hand to straighten the bent antennae, pressing each and every kink into place- the bastard always had been a bit kinky.
If he was awake, this might let him hear, or see, or talk. Or, it could let him feel and make everything even more unbearable.
Spamton would’ve prayed for the former, but he and god were no longer on speaking terms.
As the antennae straightened, he could hear the electricity surge through the body, and he could definitely see the effects, as he nearly lit up like a damned firework, as the poor thing writhed and convulsed. It was just him moving the antennae, he tried to convince himself, once he let it be it would be fine. Spamton wasn’t torturing the only person he had ever actually loved.
Luckily, for both of their sakes, once the antennae was straightened out, the convulsing stopped, although the twitches never did.
“[[drama queen]].” Spamton muttered, before the fans started whirring wildly. “[[hay]] NOW, DON’T [[overcooked!!!]] ON ME.” The amount of wet on the ground under them as the trash heap continued to warm grew worrying. The bastard was sparking enough, water wasn’t going to do either of them any favors.
His old partner was also prone to overheat even when he wasn’t dying.
The other antennae was a… different issue. It was in far worse a state than the other one, snapped almost completely in two and dangling from the thinnest wire that Spamton had ever seen. He reached to rip a scrap from the bastard’s suit before hesitating. Sure, it was ruined, but Spamton didn’t need to make it worse. He ripped a part of his own sleeve.
Was this the smartest solution that Spamton had come up with? No. Was it the worst? Also no.
So, he grabbed the stick he had failed to use as a screwdriver and the scrap of fabric. He straightened out some of the frayed wires, cringing as the body they were attached to thrashed. As gentle as he could- which was not very gentle- he twisted the ends of the wires together.
Something must’ve worked because as he did so a jolt of electricity managed to shoot through Spamton’s body, causing him to nearly rip the antennae off entirely as he yanked his hand away, shaking it out as if it would do anything about the bit of pain. A little electricity never killed anyone, and Spamton was an addision, he wasn’t that conductive. Or, that’s what he tried to convince himself as he resumed twisting the wires together, a few more jolts running through him, only stopping when a new variety of heart wrenching noises began coming from the trash heap’s speakers.
A terrible staticky screech filled the area around them as the poor thing began writhing once again, sparks cascading from his shoulders and now the nearly snapped antennae. Spamton ripped his hands away, and looked over to the screen, almost hoping that he would see something flashing back at him. Almost glad that all he saw was the same reflection of his own disfigured face.
“[[try now!]] NOT TO [[explosion.wav]] ON ME NOW, [[boob tube]].” He tried to keep his voice as steady as he could, as if he were comforting the bastard, before he moved back over to the top of his head to resume working on the antennae again.
Moving away, however, only set him off more, as he let out something that could only have been described as a wail.
“[[eye]] AM TRY1NG TO [[fix-it]] YOU. I’M NOT L3AVING [[cathode]].” He tried to reassure him, still holding out the rapidly dwindling hope that the noises coming from the bastard were involuntary and unconscious. But, in the chance that they weren’t, he knew his old partner well enough to know that he was afraid. Not of the pain, but of being broken and alone.
While he didn’t actually want to continue to hurt the bastard, he also needed to stabilize the antennae, so he moved away anyway, much to the trash heap’s dismay as he quickly moved to wrap the fabric around the stick and the antennae alike. Every move he made, every miniscule jerk caused his old partner to scream, raw and guttural. A new sound that would haunt him, for sure, but it wasn’t until the antennae was finally set in place that he could make out the sound of his old partner’s voice underneath the garbled mess of agony.
Hopefully the prince would return soon, and he would return with something that could hold the antennae in place that wasn’t flammable, hopefully he would return with tools, hopefully he would return with help. Spamton didn’t have his hopes up, he saw all of the petrified darkeners.
“[[take a chill pill]] [[hot stuff]].” Spamton mumbled, taking his jacket off entirely so that he could use a new part of the fabric to begin drying off the side of the bastard's head, trying to keep any water from entering in through the vents. It was hopeless, he knew, but he still felt the need to try.
“I DON’T WANT YOU TO [[flood insurance]].” He tried to explain, hoping that it was falling on deaf ears. He knew it wasn’t.
Spamton moved to look at the screen again, deciding to sit in front of it. And watch. Hoping for something to show up, some static or color bars or anything. He had never wanted to see the bastard’s face again. He didn’t realize how much he had missed it.
He continued to wipe the snow from the trash heap’s frame, ignoring just how wet the jacket was getting, how cold his own body was getting. After a moment, water had found its way onto the screen itself.
Except, as he wiped it, more would come, and more, and more. It wasn’t water, it wasn’t the snow. It was tears.
“OVER DRAMATIC [[hunk of junk]]. CAN IT W1TH THE [[waterworks]].” Spamton muttered, but the tears did not stop. He really was conscious. “[[wii]] DON’T WANT TO RUIN YOUR [[award losing smile]].”
How much could he hear? How much could he see? How much could he feel?
Spamton didn’t want to be seen- not now, not like this.
He was brought back to reality as the smell of burning plastic and fabric filled the air. The splint on the antennae had begun to smoke.
Swearing as he shot up, he nearly tripped himself as he rushed over to the antennae. He knew the fabric was going to be a problem, but god forbid a guy hope that the fabric would forget that it was flammable until the prince came back with something better.
It only took a moment before the entire antennae burst into flames, the trash heap’s body writhing and convulsing and god awful screams began blaring through his speakers as the sparks found new and interesting places to shoot from.
Panicked and already making bad decisions, Spamton grabbed a fistful of snow and threw it at the bastard, the ‘water puts out fires’ fun fact being much louder in his broken little brain than the ‘water is the worst for electrical fires, moron’ fun fact. As it turns out, that was a bad idea and it made everything so much worse.
Grand. Great. Wonderful.
For his next truly inspired mood, his thoughts now being drowned out completely by the sound of his old partner dying horrifically in front of him, he reached out and grabbed the middle of the burning and sparking antennae with his own bare hand. Generally, you want to suffocate fires, right?
As an addison, Spamton’s body was made out of something akin to plastic, which, as everybody knows, is not the most conductive thing, however, it wasn’t exactly plastic, and covering his body was a light layer of fuzz and a few feathers- less so now than it used to be, of course. So, while Spamton had a higher tolerance than other darkeners and might have even encouraged a jolt or two in the past, grabbing onto an electrical fire trying to smother it was one of his worst ideas today and certainly the most painful.
Luckily, he didn’t have to worry about letting go. His hand refused to open as his entire body thrashed alongside his old partner’s, the electricity coursing through his body. He nearly felt as if he were being ripped apart at the seams again, now with the added bonus of the smoke searing his lungs as he didn’t have the control to cough it out.
Spamton couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t breathe, but god could he feel. And then, the world went white for a moment. He thought he might’ve even died, but that would have honestly been too kind to him. Besides, he was always a bit of a cockroach anyway.
Who knows how much time had passed before he had come to his senses, the pain in his body returning full force, he was twitching enough that he thought he might explode. Of course, this wasn’t the worst pain Spamton had felt, he hadn’t actually been ripped apart by an eldritch horror this time, and, again, when has a little electricity ever killed anyone?
His arm was a sorry sight to see, the fuzz on his arm having burnt off completely, leaving nothing but ashes and the plasticky skin underneath, blistering and warping from the heat- the cool air passing around it made him feel as if he had been set ablaze once more. The nearest parts of his arm to the antennae were far worse off, worse enough that he couldn’t even feel them. This was probably a good thing.
He tried to release his grip, to check on the bastard and make sure that he hadn’t gone and died on him, but he couldn’t. His hand was firmly stuck in place, even as his muscles strained to open his hand it simply wouldn’t. Looking closer, he couldn’t even make out the individual fingers on his hand as it wrapped around. His hand had melted to the damned bastard.
Joy.
‘Oh, Spamton! You met your ex who walked about wanting you dead for over a decade! How did it go?’ A fake interviewer in his head asked, as he shakily grabbed a handful of snow to press against his burnt skin, ‘Well, gee, I watched him die, felt bad, and now I’m glued to his side! And he still hates me!’ He responded, gritting his teeth and hissing as he pressed the snow against himself, trying his best not to jerk away and cause any more damage to the bastard.
Who was still twitching and sparking. That was good, right? Neither of them had died, right?
‘Aren’t you supposed to be a genius?’ The interview asked in his head as he bit his uninjured hand, trying to focus on any other sensation than his arm sizzling at the introduction of the snow, ‘Course I am! But who makes a rational decision when it comes to celebrities? Gotta grab them while you can!’
The awful little interview in his head ended as a noise started coming from the trash heap- a noise that nearly grounded him instantly, wiping away any other sensation. Static. It was static. He leaned over as much as he could to see the screen and sure enough it was filled with that beautiful, hard to look at snow.
“L0Ok AT YyYYoU GO [[boob tube]]!” Spamton struggled out, even talking managed to hurt. Exciting developments happening in his life today! His old partner always had made his life more exciting for a man who would go and die to maintain that status-quo. “OnLY TOoK A T0OK A [[little goes a long way]] ELb0W [[Grease ‘78]]!” He choked out a laugh in some sort of manic success, as if Spamton hadn’t gone and made everything worse. He was so good at doing that.
His old partner responded with a deafening noise and what felt like a pointed attempt to move his head to look at Spamton, causing his arm to jerk with the motion, and while Spamton couldn’t really feel the pain of the electricity anymore, he could still feel the way that it seemed to vibrate his cells apart, and the trash heap could certainly feel the effects, twitching and jerking further sending him into a self-inflicted pain spiral.
This didn’t stop the bastard from screaming again, and again, and again, each time more raw than the last, clearer, more haunting. Sounds that were never going to leave Spamton’s mind. Another way the hunk of junk would keep him up at night.
“CCccCCC4LM DoWN [[cathode]]!” He wrapped his legs around the bastard’s head, trying to keep him from moving, “YoU”RE [[unaliving]] ME H3RE!” He tried to keep his own hand steady as well, biting back a scream as he bent it to try and rest it against something solid. His attempts were mostly successful.
“S–PaA–AM–!!” Had Spamton not been pressed up against the trash heap he might not have understood it, hell, he hoped he hadn’t heard it at all- that he had misunderstood the garbled mess blaring out of the speakers. His entire body froze, because if the bastard had recognized him here, had he recognized him before? Had he recognized Spamton and just pretended not to recognize him?!
His body began glitching, a new bout of pain surging through his body- but one he was much more familiar with. Spamton began cackling as he pounded his free hand against his head to try and stop the erratic movements that were causing his old partner to writhe and wail in pain. Sometimes, this was successful. Not this time.
“YY—YOurR’E AallLLI–VvvE–!!” The bastard gargled out, the static and screeching nearly deafening him, and the skipping not making it any easier on the ears.
“BAR3LY!!!” Spamton bit down on his free hand again, the sharp pain did manage to ground him, because apparently being melted to the bastard wasn’t grounding enough. He could still feel himself glitching, but it wasn’t affecting his arm anymore, so he considered it a success, even though there was now blood involved in this situation.
“WwWW–W–HATT— a–ar–re y–y–ou DoOO–INN–NnNNG?!”
“[[watt]] DOES IT SEEM LIKE [[@#^*%!$$]]!?” There was definitely something wrong with the bastard’s speakers- or maybe it was just the signal getting messed up. He looked over at the other antennae, which at one point had been straight. It wasn’t anymore, and the edges were charred.
There was a moment of silence as Spamton reached over, wetting his free hand down a bit to try and wipe off some of the ashes on the other antennae before straightening it again. He couldn’t do a damned thing about the trash heap’s speakers, but he could at least keep the antennae in line.
“Y–you’re hur–ting.” Much clearer. Not perfect, of course, but Spamton always fell short, didn’t he?
“NO [[$#!^]].” He tried to cool his arm down again, with about as much success as last time, but he hardly jerked at all. Years of adapting to constant bodily harm had led him to this point- he was practically an expert. If only he knew how to stop being on the receiving end.
“S–stop!” The trash heap hissed out. Maybe he wasn’t as gentle as he thought he had been.
“SsS0RRY.” He muttered, “[[difficulty: hard]] TO STAY SsSSTILL W1TH SUCH A J3RK.”
“LET G–GO!” The trash heap spat. Spamton barked out a laugh.
“CAN’T.”
“WHY?!”
“YOU”LL [[spring break!!]].” He wasn’t lying really, the bastard would break if Spamton took his hand away, but that wouldn’t be a problem because he couldn’t take his hand away. Or at least, it wasn’t a problem right now, it would be a problem for future them, but Spamton wasn’t really worried about those guys.
“L–like y–you car–re.” He could barely make it out through the underlying static. God, the bastard really was as dramatic as ever, wasn’t he? But no, he heard it, it was a fun reminder that Spamton was the villain, after all. He clearly didn’t care! It’s not like the reason his vile little body was sitting here, wet and cold and burnt and melted to the damned guy was because he cared! No! That would be ridiculous!
Spamton didn’t justify it with a response, not even a laugh, instead he simply rested his head against his old partner’s. It was so much warmer now. In a different world, it might have been comforting. His body relaxed slightly anyway- or, what parts of his body could relax- as his glitching finally settled down.
“Ar–re y–you s–stil–l ther–re?” He sounded so broken. Defeated. Which made sense, given the circumstances. Spamton just sighed.
“‘C0URSE. C4N’T [[bug-be-gone]] M3 THAT QUICKLY." There was a pause before the trash heap spoke again.
“Don–n’t l–leav–ve m–me.” His voice wavered. Spamton didn’t even have to look at him to know that he was crying again. The water was going to discolor his screen at this rate- and it’s not like his screen can be replaced. His old partner had looked into it back then, when he was concerned about the burn-in that nobody could see if you weren’t practically kissing him. “N–not again–n.”
Spamton didn’t mean to laugh, really, but it was all just so much, every bad decision he had made up until this point nearly suffocated him, and god he had made so many.
“[[L–like y–you car–re.]]” Spamton spat the bastard’s own words back at him, who twitched in response, despite Spamton’s hand remaining as steady as he could.
“I do.” He stuttered out in response, and Spamton’s hand was no longer steady because of the audacity of this man to say that he cared. After everything! After he slandered him for god knows how long, after he called him a rat to his face.
He could feel his body begin glitching again, every ounce of his body being ripped apart as his hand jerked the antennae around. He frantically hit his head to make it all stop, but it only stopped once he bit down on his hand again, reopening the wound. The trash heap had only cried out in pain once before Spamton managed to calm down.
“DIDN’T SEEM [[like-like]] IT.” Spamton hissed, tightening his grip on the antennae and using every ounce of his strength to keep it still. Despite Spamton’s current opinion of the man, he didn’t deserve to suffer further.
Spamton thought he had wanted the bastard to suffer, to feel what he had felt, to hit rock bottom and get shoved even further down, to be abandoned by everyone, to cry out for help only to be ignored by the crowds of people walking past. To writhe and scream and beg god for mercy.
But now? Seeing it? He never wanted this to happen.
“Y-you hate-ed me-e, didn-n’t you-u?” Spamton could only hear the whisper because the hunk of junk’s fans had calmed down. Ha. Did he hate him? Right, sure, that’s why he was sitting here like this. His life would be so much better if he did hate him.
“I ha-ated you.” Yeah. Obviously. Spamton choked out a laugh, empty and hollow.
“I KNOW.”
“I wan-nted y-you dead. I-if I co-ould, I’d s-stran-ngle you n-now.” The bastard punctuated the statement with a noise of his own, one that grated on Spamton’s ears, cold, raw, mechanical. A laugh. He had joined in on the joke, and what a joke it was! And, as always, Spamton was the punchline.
“I w-wish I nev-ver m-met you.” Spamton had heard him say it earlier, while Kris was playing his ‘secret game,’ but hearing it again? In person? He would rather have taken another acid bath, that would have at least hurt less.
“I I KNn0W.” His hand was in his mouth again, before the glitching even had a chance to start. All of this for a man that despised him, and he still couldn’t stop, could he? He could rip his hand away even now, tear off the antennae, and end the bastard’s life himself.
Just the thought of it made him sick.
“W-was I n-not go-ood enough fo-or yo-ou? Did I-” Another sound, as the bastard’s voice began to waver, “did I not me-ean any-ything to you?”
“U ALWAYS LIKED YOUR [[take this quirky quiz!!]].” Spamton responded because what was he supposed to say? ‘No, you meant nothing to me, that’s why I’m sitting here melted to you.’ Oh! Or maybe, ‘You meant everything to me, moron, I lost it all for you.’
No. Safer to dodge the question entirely.
“You nev-ver cou-uld giv-ve a clear ans-swer.” He huffed thoroughly unsatisfied with Spamton’s answer. Good. “I al-lways hated tha-at about yo-ou. You with your se-ecrets that wer-re always s-so much more im-mportant than I cou-uld ever be. And lo-ook wher-re it got you.”
“ONLY [[one of us]] IS IS DYyYING.” Spamton replied with an appropriate amount of venom in his voice.
“G-gee tha-anks.” The bastard deadpanned, before they fell into a tense silence. There was so much they needed to say. Neither of them wanted to say it.
“I re-eally am dyin-ng, ar-ren’t I?”
“[[9/10 doctors agree!!]].” The trash heap choked out a laugh.
“Do-o you?” Yes, because your fans are quiet now, the snow is beginning to pile on your oversized head again and there’s nothing that I can do about it but sit here and watch.
“NO.” Spamton answered instead, because he may have failed getting to heaven but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let this bastard beat him to hell. God themself would have to pry his old partner from his cold dead hands.
“An-nd thos-se LI-IES of your-rs! Alway-ys ly-ying! Ev-veryone!” The hunk of junk began shaking, trembling. “Beca-ause I can-n’t HAN-NDLE the tr-ruth! Because I-I’ll sn-nap and hur-rt,” Spamton knew his old partner well enough that he didn’t even have to see his face to know that he was crying, “hurt everyone.”
He wondered if the bastard was too injured to shrink. At this point, he would usually be a tiny weeping ball- small enough that Spamton could pick him up, hold him in his hands, and whisper sweet little reassurances, telling him that everything would be fine.
It was too late for that now.
“I hur-rt Kris-s!” He choked between muffled sobs, “an-nd now they’r–re going to the-row me out! They–y lef-ft me behi-ind!”
“I [[hurt people, hurt people]] TOO.”
“Wha-at?”
“ON PURPOSE. I WANTED TO [[unalive]] THEM.”
“You-”
“THEY KEEP [[mii]] AROUND.”
“We-ell obv–viously! They’r-re so ki-ind! Or-r at leas-st they wer-re. And You-u? HA! You’re a bi-ig-shot!” Spamton grimaced, “I’m just old. Br-roken. Us–seless. Everyon-ne ha-ates me.”
“STOP BEING [[drama queen]]. EVERYONE [[like-like]] YOU.” Spamton instinctively went to reassure him, before he even realized that he was doing it. Old habits die hard, he supposed.
“The-ey all LEF-FT! EVERYON-NE! The ki-ids! Eln-nina! Lanin-no! Mike. You.”
“I DIDN”T WANT 2.”
“Right. Obv-viously.” His old partner went quiet for a minute, silent. Spamton strained to get a good look at his face to make sure that he hadn’t… that he hadn’t left. He couldn’t tell.
“Ther-re was nobod-dy on the pho-one, Spam-mton. You jus-st left.” A wave of relief washed over him when the bastard opened his mouth again, before what he said crashed down on him.
“SE3MS THE [[call now!!!]] WAS MORrRRE IMP0RTANT TO U.”
“It d-does, does-sn’t it?” The only thing that Spamton could hear anymore was the wind blowing around them. He couldn’t even feel the warmth that was radiating off of his old partner just moments ago, the warmth he had craved for so long. That he had taken for granted.
“I lov-ved you.” His voice was quiet. Broken. Defeated. Spamton wished he could say that he hadn’t heard it at all.
“[[Right. Obv-viously.]].” He repeated the man’s voice back at him in the same snappy, sarcastic tone.
“I s-stil-ll do–.”
“THESE ARE SOUNDING LIKE [[farewell and goodbye]].”
“I’m-m s-sorr-ry, I sh–ould ha-ave–”
“STOP.” Spamton tried to interrupt whatever final words he had prepared, because they had fought this far to survive, he wasn’t going to let the bastard die now.
“sho-oulda, h-ha, don-ne s-someth-hing. Bu-ut I did-dn’t. Ha-a.”
“DdDON’T.” Spamton hated how broken his own voice sounded, how he couldn’t even stop his damned hands from trembling as he fumbled around with the antennae, desperate to do something.
“‘m-m gl-lad you’r-re her-re, S–spammy.” Spamton swore under his breath. He just needed a better signal or something, right? He just had to twist something around, straighten something up, right?
“I d-don-n’t wa-ant t-to d-d-die.” His voice was so broken, so forced. This was nothing. It was fine. Everything was fine.
“YyyYOoU YOU. WON”T.” He could feel himself rip and tear apart as he straightened and bent and straightened the antennae- not a single cry from the trembling man he was attached to. There was nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
“A-are you s-stil-ll th-ere?”
“AL ALwAYSss! YoU’RE [[fines and fees]]!!” Spamton knew how frantic he sounded, how frantic he looked, but dammit, god wasn’t going to take him away too.
“P-ple-eas-se do-on’t-t le-eave m-me.”
“YoURrrRE TH3 [[#1]] [[don’t leave]]!!” He hit his forehead against his old partner’s frame because Spamton was stuck there, his old partner was dying and there was nothing he could do but watch him die, knowing that he had flown too close to the damned sun once again.
There was no response. There was no response.
“TTTTttT-” He reached over and felt the screen. Cold. Wet. No static. Empty and lifeless. “[[trash heap]]!?” His voice broke, as he rapped his knuckles against the screen. It was fine, everything was fine, everything was fine.
“[[10/10]]!?” His own body was barely corporeal at this point, possibly the only thing keeping him on this plane at all was his hand glued to the unmoving body of a man he had so deeply cared about. “TTTTtt[[teenage dirtbag]]!?”
Spamton screamed, in frustration, in pain, in a grief that he had thought he was prepared for. He couldn’t even bring himself to care as he was ripped apart, as every ounce of his being burned, as his entire life was uprooted again because of the same damned man. Still, he tried to keep his hand steady. Because he was fine, really. He would wake up and this would be all over.
Maybe this wasn’t even happening at all. Maybe this was just another hallucination or a nightmare and he was still slumped at the bottom of a dumpster in Cyber World. He was so familiar with those.
“[[ant]]-” He choked out, once again running his hand down the wet screen of a man he knew was gone. He shouldn’t even care, he shouldn’t even care! The bastard had abandoned him! Hated him! He was just trying to tie Spamton up like the loose end he was, and make himself better as he went and died.
“please-” He begged, holding his old partner’s head as close to him as he could without crushing the antennae, pressing his entire body against him, searching for any warmth, “plea-”
“BOSS!!!” A shriek rang out from the direction of the studio. Great. How wonderful. The cavalry had arrived! Help had finally come! And it was too damned late- the prophecy had been fulfilled, the lord of screens had been cleaved, and they hadn’t been able to stop a single damned thing. God had won, and Spamton was nothing more than a sobbing wreck as his little disfigured body writhed and convulsed.
“Boss!!! Are you-” Spamton didn’t look up, didn’t move at all when the group of people ran over so fashionably late. “-wait, ain’t you-” The very loud darkener’s voice filled with disgust as he got close enough that Spamton could have reached out and punched him.
He didn’t say a single thing in response. He just held his old partner closer. It had all been going so fine, hadn’t it? Spamton had the bastard conscious and he still went and died! What the hell was Spamton even good for? Oh, joy! He could get Kris a few extra dollars! Kris never even spends their money! They just hoard it! They don’t need any more!
“What the hell are you doin’ here?! Takin’ him for scrap or somethin’?!”
“Spamton, if you could just back away for a moment-” The useless little prince started, but Spamton didn’t move, just holding the lifeless body as close to him as possible.
They would have to pry Tenna from his cold dead hands.