Chapter Text
Tenna needed something new. Something fresh. Something that sparkled beautifully under the light of the stage. Something that would take the audience's breath away.
He was not going to find that at the bottom of his whiskey.
He threw back another shot, silently wincing at the burn down his throat. He'd never been a fan of straight liquor, he mostly drank fine wine when he was trying to have a good time. But he wasn't. Not tonight, at least. Tonight, he was trying to make himself think. He thought best when he was drunk, or at least a little tipsy.
He glared down at the pristine wooden table of the bar. Sleek, polished, reflecting. He saw himself staring back at him, a tight frown on his face, his screen just a little bit too dim.
What could he do? The ratings were only going further down, and Tenna couldn't keep up. He tried to scramble, to find anything close at hand to help. Rewriting scripts, being more eccentric, more colors, more lights, more sounds! But, nothing helped. The audience was simply getting tired of the same old song and dance.
Song and dance? Tenna could host a music event!
He smiled, then brought out his small, pocket-sized notepad and jotted down a few notes. He wasn't sure of who he would get for that, but he was desperate to make anything work.
He got another refill. Straight whiskey. No ice. A few ounces right into his glass, then directly down his throat. He laid his head in his hands.
What if he hosted a live event? Rented out a space, held a panel, let the audience ask him questions and such. They'd be able to see Mr. Ant Tenna up close! In the robotic flesh! It wasn't like they loved him any less, right? They were still his loyal audience. They were just... bored.
Bored. Tenna frowned again, pursing his lips into a tight, angry line.
He couldn't even remember how long he'd been doing TV Time. Countless talk shows, game shows, weather reports. He had lost track of all of them. But at the same time, he remembered each one vividly. How the audience laughed at his jokes, screaming encouragement at the contestants, having the best time. Tenna missed that. He missed looking into the crowd before him and seeing wide, bright smiles, hearing loud billows of laughter. He wanted it back.
Now, all he could focus on when he looked into the crowd was the steadily growing number of empty seats. It had started with one. A fluke, right? Then it turned into two, then five, then more than ten. Less and less tickets were being bought. Less and less people wanted to see him. He was fading. He wasn't relevant anymore.
Tenna shrank down about a foot as he continued to think. He took shot after shot of whiskey, quickly losing track as he just kept on drinking. He was going to lose his mind. He was going to lose the show. Empty seats. Empty studio. Empty heart. Tenna felt like crying. He felt like curling into a ball on the floor and sobbing.
But, he didn't. Because, from across the bar, he heard it. Loud confidence, hearty laughter, and a smooth charisma unlike anything he'd ever witnessed before.
Tenna's head shot up, and he nearly vomited from how dizzy that motion made him. He looked towards where that voice was coming from.
There, leaning easily on the bar, was a man. His eyes were crinkled with laughter and delight. He was chatting with someone else, but they didn't matter. All Tenna could focus on was this man. The way his arm flourished as he drank his whiskey, nodding along to whatever his conversation partner was saying. How easily he drew the attention to himself. People from all over the bar sent him interested glances, their eyebrows raised, intrigued. Not many approached him, but they clearly wanted to.
His cheeks were rosy, his face curtained by a mop of fluffy black hair. He was dressed somewhat casually, but in a way that made people stop and stare. A deep red v-neck button down, exposing a good amount of his cleavage. Tenna wasn't in his right mind, so he did steal a couple of glances. The sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, revealing an expensive watch and a couple of random bracelets. Tenna imagined his wrist jingled as he walked. He wore long black pants, held up by a smooth black belt. One hand was stuffed casually in his pocket. He stood with a knee popped out, leaning his hip on the bar. He threw his head back and laughed. The sound pierced through the alcohol-induced fog in his mind.
Who was this? Tenna needed to know. Tenna needed to know who this man was.
Then, the man shifted. He caught Tenna's stare. His eyes went wide for just a moment, but then he raised his glass in recognition. He drank a sip, not once breaking eye contact with Tenna.
Tenna felt himself grow antsy. But, looking deeper into this man's eyes, studying his face more directly, he did look familiar.
A billboard, just a few miles away from Tenna's studio. He'd seen that face multiple times. Wide grin, pearly white teeth, a big thumbs up.
Tenna's breath caught in his throat. As the man turned back to his conversation partner, Tenna whipped out his notepad. He aggressively wrote this man's name, underlined it thrice, then stuffed the notepad back into his pocket.
He felt giddy. He felt excited.
This man, Spamton G. Spamton of Big Shot Autos, was a huge deal, especially in Cyber City. Tenna had once or twice driven past his car dealership to see what the commotion was. He wasn't really a car guy, but he could appreciate true craftsmanship once in a while. He didn't like sports cars, he was content with his modest-for-his-income car. But, the cars at Big Shot Autos had a special shine about them, and it almost made Tenna want to indulge and purchase one for himself. They were all extremely well taken care of. They sparkled in the sunlight. Smooth, pristine reds, absolutely beautiful leather interiors, every single detail was mulled over extensively. Spamton G. Spamton did not settle for anything less than perfect.
He was perfect.
He was exactly what Tenna needed. He needed his charm, his brand, he needed that smile on the big screen, and he needed it yesterday.
Before he could register what he was doing, Tenna was making his way over to Spamton. He barely snapped himself out of the trance by the time he reached him. He hoped he wasn't too drunk. Or stumbling. Angel above, please don't let him embarrass himself! Please, please, please, don't let him embarrass himself!
"Hey, mind if I buy you a drink?" Tenna offered, noticing that Spamton's glass was empty.
Spamton turned to face him, looking slightly startled. But, he settled into his calm and confident expression. The person he was talking to shuffled away, muttering something exasperated under their breath like, "That's Mr. Ant Tenna!"
Tenna paid no mind. Normally, he would have felt rude taking somebody else's conversation partner. But, the way that Spamton so easily transitioned to facing him, grinning up at him, talking to him. It made his heart flutter.
Tenna bought Spamton a drink. He watched as he held the glass to his lips, taking a small sip. His cheeks grew just a little more rosy. From the alcohol or proximity, Tenna could never be sure.
"So, what's the Big Shot himself doin' in a place like this?" Spamton said, leaning his elbows on the bar. "And what's his deal with little old me?"
Tenna flushed, clearly having not thought this far ahead. But, steeling his nerves, he started to speak, trying his best to match his suave and easy confidence. "Well, you demand attention. One single word, and the entire room molds to you. I'm wondering, how do you command that presence?"
Spamton laughed a little. "It's a curse, I tell you. I get fellas from all over the place tryna buy me drinks."
Tenna felt a rush of embarrassment. Maybe this wasn't a good idea. Maybe he fucked up. Maybe Spamton was trying to push him away, but being way too nice about it. "Can't imagine why," Tenna said, instead of taking the maybe-possibly hint. He tried to be casual, leaned his own elbows on the bar as he twirled his empty whiskey glass in his hand. He got a refill, a shot for confidence. "I'm Tenna." He stuck his hand out for a shake.
"I know," Spamton nodded as he drank. "I'm Spamton." He grasped onto Tenna's hand, the bracelets on his wrists jingling, just as he suspected. His grip was firm, his palms were warm and sweaty. His fingers lingered on Tenna for just a moment too long.
Tenna's heart fluttered again. He grinned. "I know."
Spamton set his glass down on the bar, now half-empty. His gaze shifted to Tenna, and his eyes softened a little. "Well, Mr. Ant Tenna. Why don't you tell me about yourself?"
Surprised, Tenna shook his head just a tiny bit, mostly to clear the bits of alcohol-induced fog. He couldn't remember the last time someone had asked about him. He actually couldn't remember the last time someone treated him like a normal person. Something about Spamton made his mind ease, his shoulders relax. "What do you want to know?"
"Like I said, what's brought you here? I've never seen you around. I never really suspected that bars would have been your thing." Spamton got himself another glass of whiskey.
He let himself relax. "I frequent bars on very rare occasions. Business parties, outings with clients, and such." He took a look around, seeing the more rustic atmosphere around him. "Normally, they're up in the city. More black, sleek. But, even less frequently, I try to find something small. Somewhere I won't be recognized all too much. Or, if they do, they don't care."
Spamton nodded along. "And does Mr. Ant Tenna like whiskey, or does he prefer something else?"
If Tenna had eyes, he would have blinked slowly at him, confused.
"You wince every time you take a drink," he explained, averting his gaze for just a moment.
Tenna smiled a little. How did he notice something so small? "Wine, actually."
Spamton almost snorted. "Classic, a man after my own heart." He brought the bartender over again, then bought Tenna a glass of wine. Top shelf. Something aromatic and fancy. "It's only fair I buy you one as well."
The glass was placed in front of him. Tenna felt like he was about to cry. Maybe he was too drunk for this. Maybe he should go home. Maybe he should curl in bed and sob until he felt better.
He lifted the glass to his lips, taking in a quick whiff. It was fruity, the smell stung his nose a little. As he drank, he felt all his inhibitions melt away. The spicy taste of the whiskey was replaced by something more flavorful, something he enjoyed. He wasn't drinking to get drunk anymore. He was drinking with company, for fun.
Spamton chuckled a little as Tenna tasted the wine, nodding and humming to himself in approval.
Tenna set the glass down. He felt rejuvenated, at least a little bit. "Why don't you tell me something about yourself, Mr. Spamton? Why cars?"
Spamton perked up. His smile widened a little before he got it under control. He tried to act nonchalant, but Tenna could feel the excitement radiating from him. "I've loved cars since I was a teenager. Working on them, driving them, figuring out how they work. I designed my own car, you see. Down to the last wire."
Tenna's mouth was agape for just a second. He hadn't known that. Spamton G. Spamton was hiding genius behind confidence?
Spamton continued. "I come from a family of business people. They all expected me to go into sales, you see. But, nah. Fuck that!" He laughed. "I poured my entire heart into the Cungadero. Built up my own business, got a spark of good luck, sold so many cars that I can't keep track! Every time I see one on the road, it's like passing by an old friend. And I'm seeing them more often. But I have never once seen them at my repair shop. That's quality. That's quality."
Tenna raised his glass to that. "So, cars mean something special to you?"
"Cars mean everything to me, Mr. Tenna," Spamton said. "I don't think there's a better sound than an engine gently purrin' to life." He chuckled a bit.
"Roar of the crowds," Tenna countered. His voice wavered just a little bit as he spoke. "Hundreds of people laughing with you. Cheering for you."
Spamton huffed a breath out of his nose, amused. "So. That's your everything, huh?"
Tenna felt his heart twist. Words started to bubble in his throat, held back only by his tongue, heavy in his mouth. Before he could reel himself in, he was already spilling his guts all over the place. "Listen, I... I've been struggling. With the show. Recently." Spamton's eyes flickered to him sympathetically. It only made Tenna want to cry even more. He tried to shut himself up, but once he started, he couldn't stop. "I've been looking for the one thing, the one thing to bring the ratings back up." He paused. He took in a deep breath. "And I think I've found it."
Spamton's gaze went from his glass of whiskey up to Tenna's face. "Is that so?"
Tenna gave himself one last chance, one last chance, to shut himself up. He couldn't. He was desperate. "I have a proposition for you."
Spamton reeled back, sucking in a breath. "I'm sorry, Mr. Tenna. I don't do those."
Tenna deflated. His hand found his glass of wine, tightened around it. "Would you do me a solid? Hear me out?"
Spamton ducked his head, stared into his whiskey for just a second. His eyes darted left and right, then he settled and looked back up to Tenna. "Go ahead."
"One night, one talk show," Tenna continued. His confidence wasn't necessarily boosted, he more felt like he needed to speak as quick as possible, get to the point as fast as possible, so Spamton wouldn't walk away. He needed him, he needed Spamton. "You come up on stage, dazzle the audience. I get some of my ratings, you get more reach for your cars."
Spamton thought for a moment. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth, sucking in another quick breath. "What's the catch?"
Tenna paused, confused. "There is no catch."
"There's always a catch," Spamton said. He didn't look Tenna in the face. He seemed anxious, a little nervous. Tenna could vaguely understand why. It wasn't often you get approached by a huge star in showbiz, trying to get you on their show. Tenna would have laughed at the silliness of it all if he wasn't desperate for retention.
"I'm not that kind of businessman," Tenna waved his hand dismissively. "But, maybe. If you wanted there to be a catch," he tried to joke, and it did make Spamton's chest flutter with a small chuckle. Using that to propel himself, Tenna finished. "If you like it, we could partner up. Be co-hosts."
Spamton raised an eyebrow. "Co-hosts?" Tenna nodded. "You just met me, Mr. Tenna."
"I have a feeling," Tenna finished his glass of wine. "A gut feeling. You're perfect for the stage, Spamton. I guarantee that the moment you hear those people cheer for you, you'll turn right around and beg me for a place on the show."
Spamton snorted. Then, he spent a couple of moments thinking. After another second of hesitation, he spoke. "You know what, Mr. Tenna? Sure." He stuck his hand out. "One night. One talk show."
Tenna's entire body lit up. He grew back to his original height, he had only lost a few inches, so not much, but the shift made Spamton blink in surprise. "Deal!" He firmly and enthusiastically shook Spamton's hand for the second time that night, his grin wide, bright, real.
Things were finally looking up, and Tenna could not be happier.