Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He couldn't find the contract.

It wasn't on Tenna's stupidly massive desk, front and center like it had been last night. For some reason Spamton had been pretty sure it would be there, and now that it wasn't he felt damn unbalanced. Big guy should've, what, put it in a glass case or something? How much did Spamton value a dumb piece of paper - and why did it sort of twinge drop disappointment in his churning nauseous gut, realizing Tenna didn't?

Cigarette hanging from his lips, Spamton spent some good quality time yanking out each drawer and digging through papers and files and knick knacks of various chintzy design - Tenna loved collecting this sort of ****, especially the ones that had his face plastered on them - and found not a clue of where that contract might have been squirreled off to. Some were locked, but all he had to do was jiggle the drawers around a bit, rough them up before snapping a thin popup keyfinder into existence and jury rigging it into busting open, though half the time the damn finicky thing kept sputtering and fizzling out, glow popping and little animation lagging out in slowed down pixel bursts - Spamton waved them irritably away when they did that, thinking of much more important things than his ad magic going dull due to something as damnably simple as “lack of good health practices”. Was called, uhh, GHP, or something like that, whatever the **** the rest of the crew would harp on each other about during their late day 15 minute work breaks.

He can handle much worse than, what, bad sleep and being so stupidly nauseous that even the plain idea of food was making him feel sick? Experience from well before his time in the Studio reared its ugly head as he searched haphazardly through the rest of the desk, shakily shuffling files and notes, papers slipping sliding down onto the floor before clumsily picking them back up - get himself a pick me up sooner rather than later and all will be just swell goings for him!

But first, the contract. He really, really, really needed that ****ing thing in his hands, right here and right now.

But after 20 minutes of searching Spamton had to accept the reality of his situation - the contract had not stayed in Tenna's office. It wasn't here.

For a fleeting moment he wondered if the big idiot had folded it up and pocketed it, was carrying it around all damn day - but that was just stupid, wasn't it? He knew Tenna well enough to know that the guy treated the written word pretty reverently, employee contracts were word of >>GOD. in this Dark Place, but Spamton had no reason to suspect his own signature to be treated that differently.

Sure, he was now co-host, second big boss of the Studio, but it was just a piece of paper. It was just a stupid piece…piece of paper.

Spamton stood there, hands on the desk, staring hard at all the open drawers, papers shuffled and half pulled out but not strewn, he wasn't an inconsiderate animal for ****’s sake, he wouldn't ruin his business partners office space - but the contract wasn't here.

He pinched the bridge of his long nose, the smoldering butt end of his cigarette just barely hanging between his teeth, and with a sigh Spamton pulled back from the desk. The nearby dusty ashtray got the brunt of it, pressing the dud out with more force than necessarily called for, got ash smeared on his gloves for his troubles that he then absentmindedly brushed off on his suit - before pausing, lips tugging into a harsh scowl as he stared down at himself. ****.

When he dragged his gaze over to that damn floor to ceiling mirror Spamton had a hard time meeting his own gaze for more than a few seconds.

Then he turned away, hissed a breath out behind clenched tight teeth as he brushed a hand through his hair, blurry eyes squeezing shut - even the lighting in here was starting to get a bit painful. ****ing cheap *** lights - Tenna needed to upgrade his office. Maybe try to match how nice his damn dressing room was instead of whatever the **** this uppity *** room was supposed to be emulating.

So, no contract. It wasn't here, squirreled away right under his nose, no afterglow party to even parse over the fine print - was that on purpose then? Spamton edged around that thought, mulled it a bit as he grinded his teeth, each huff of a breath leaving him a little more off center than before. His >>GOD?damn hands shook, fingers clenched into squeezing fists, the insides of the gloves damp and sticky already.

Probably a damn blessing that the only thing he could taste on his tongue was cigarette smoke - Spamton may just lose his ever loving mind if he got another whiff of musty dusty ozone again.

Actually, he still might - a piercing sharp pain erupted behind his eyes, caused him to clap his hands to his face and press against the squeeze of inadvertent tears, garbled curses bleeping out of him in muttered snarls.

“**** **** ****, this is ****ing bull****, holy **** I'm gonna lose my ****ing mind ****ing >>HELL!”

Spamton stood there a moment, falling into rough sputtering wheezes laced with thick foul censored bleeping as he trembled under that >>GOD ON THE LIPSawful sense of helplessness, trapped - then, with a sharp bark that wasn't quite a laugh, he straightened back up. Hands on his hips, head tilted, tearing up eyes squeezed tight as he jerked his head towards the mirror, getting a good look in as the sweaty, glow guttering reflection of what-wasn't an Addison bearing out a bright ol’ sales loser grin.

He spun to fully face it for a moment, flashing finger guns to that loon in the mirror with a spastic attempt at a cowboy jig pose, before Spamton turned away just as sharply and trounced off to his own office instead - ****ing lost cause if I've ever seen one.

***

With yet another lit cigarette between his teeth, smoke already filling in a haze about his (much!) smaller office, Spamton went about shoving every single crumpled up bloody tissue into the wastebin beside his desk. The fact it was already overfilled pissed him off, pressing all of what he could possibly weigh down upon the discarded sponsorship letters, junk notes, empty baggies and bottles, then his own scrawling penmanship on papers that went every which way and garbled down into a base sketched pictogram language that made his eyes see double and head thrum with the sense of having heard a low pitch ringing in the deep - eventually it became too much and with a garbled snarl behind clenched teeth Spamton lashed out a good kick and sent the bin spinning out. It took a fair amount of time to work through the sudden hot spike of irrational frustration that had him kicking the bin every which way it gave him non-sense to do so, enough time to turn his way too ****ing small office into a dumped warzone, and then with a charged up swing of his foot, every bit and piece and extremely tense coil of unrighteously holy rage his little body could offer, Spamton sent the thing flying against the nearest wall.

And then the bin bounced off and slammed backwards, dead target hit right back at him at a very unapologetic angle.

For just a few minutes, maybe so much like one of those “take 5!” calls from the stage, Spamton very consciously decided to not think about anything at all as he laid there face down on the ground, knees drawn up and hands pressed to his groin as he hissed and wheezed in pain.

And then, after a few more moments staring hard at the grimy cold tile of his office, burning eyes squinted and wondering if the janitor ever actually cleaned in here, when was the last time anyone had cleaned in here, did they even have a janitor hired in the Studio in the first place?? - after he struggled back to his feet, just a few winces and grunts and smothered bleeping curses spilling from his lips, Spamton ended up slowly dragging his gaze about his, messy, office once more.

Sometime during his little outburst, he'd lost his smoke.

That fact, plain and as by the book ‘there are consequences to your actions’ as there could be, was enough to send his eye twitching, that ever present, low level throbbing ache in his head to come back full force, and with a flush of angry heat to his face to boot. His glow tried to flash out bright heat but instead just guttered in him, as hot and spastic as the electricity behind his teeth, just as ****ing dirty as burnt dust and aged ozone.

Spamton forced himself to close his eyes, stuttering and struggling to suck in a sharp, smoky breath. Hold it, for a few seconds, counting out the time, counting it out to ten, to Ten, TO TEN-

And then he wheezed it out with a shrill birdy whistle, stiff shoulders not quite collapsing and instead hitting a nice tense standstill at the edge, and he grit his jaw and went about searching for his lost smoke. ‘M not wasting that ****.

Not allowing himself a break to prevent even an inkling of introspection to creep in, after giving up on stuffing the dented bin and just letting it spill out in the corner instead, Spamton scrubbed at his blurry eyes and finally tried to remember what it was that drove him here in the first place, huffing and puffing on the crinkled half remains of his cigarette.

He was not gonna look at what lay atop his desk still. No one can ****ing make him.

…Ah, right. The headset.

With a snap of his fingers, then shaking his index in a useless jittery gesture that twitched the corner of his lips in an agonizingly automatic, almost instinctively Addison like motion, Spamton stalked around his office with a new, extremely important, purpose. Something scrawled itchy up and down his throat, squeezing his tingling hands rhythmically into, out of, tight trembling fists, and every breath where he wasn't dragging smoke into his lungs came out puffed and strained wire thin - it was almost laughably obvious to even him that Spamton was starting to lose his control.

When he finally found the thing, lost under his desk along with some emptied glass bottles, shoved half under and curved up into the hollows with wire tangled all up beside it, Spamton could almost weep - his eyes were stinging like crazy now, and the burning was starting to become absurd.

It took some tugging, fighting his desk as it trembled and shifted, scrabbling against the thing and then ended up bashing his head along its underside like a ****ing idiot, before finally Spamton violently yanked the tangled mess of wires and plastics right out. It sent him tumbling backwards with a shout, shrill and uneven as air knocked a little loose from his mucusy lungs, before he pulled himself back to his feet, using the desk for much needed support. The numbness in his hands flared at the exercise, pulsing up his wrist and stinging, briefly, along the side of his neck - his head throbbed, a brief moment of heaviness, light-headed, before it was gone and forgotten just as quickly.

He did have to take a couple of moments to compose himself, sucking in smoke breath and trying to not inhale his own limp cigarette as he stared at the stupid twisted mess of his very own employee sanctioned ‘TV Time! Studios Headset #05’.

The plastic black spot on the corner of his desk stubbornly coalesced there, the dark shape of phone and receiver still too fuzzy in his prickling eyes - Spamton would not look, he would not-

It was ****ing harmless. It would ring if he looked at it. It was a silent mass of plastic. If he acknowledged it, if he even ****ing gave it an ounce of thought, it would ring.

’THIS
CONNECTION
IS NOW
TERMINATED.’

…It would never ring for him again.

Spamton sputtered out a heavy exhale, a shaky sigh before straightening back up and dragging a hand through his hair once more, sweat and grease and styling gel - code, 1s and 0s, and he winced when his tingling glove caught for a moment atop his head before the half tangle loosened its grip and let him shake out his hand, fingers spasming as pins and needles swelled under his skin.

He could do this. Today, no matter how frustrating, would go fiiiine, all he had to do was, just - do your damn job!

Spamton leaned on his desk, palms flat and flesh stinging under pressure, letting his head hang low as he hissed out another tight sigh of a breath. At this point what the **** even was his job?

He stayed like that, for a fair couple of minutes. Wasting time, on the clock - neat thing that I'm getting paid for! Have to think of the silver lining, right? If he didn't then, then, well…

Spamton straightened back up, sucking down the rest of his cigarette before flicking it into the grimy filled ashtray, opposite end of the desk to the phone.

Then he leaned down and started trying to de-knot his headsets wiring, going sloooooowly, caaaaaaarefully, nice and easy, slow and steady wins the race and all that bull-

His hands shook, then a hard tremble that turned violent as an aching dull squeeze of sensation numbed his thumb and throbbed along with the pulse beat in his ears, and Spamton went very still as the tangles tightened at his inadvertent pull, knots squeezing dark wires together into cozy little whip ugly bundles. His heartbeat was suddenly loud, in his ears, as he blinked his watery blurred up eyes down at the mess of wires.

He saw double, for a second, pale gloves blurring fuzzy, darkening, and the newborn wiring under his bruising skin flexed like sticky tendons, bunched up and fused together, the calcified white plastic clicking, sliding smoothly on top - and he couldn't seem to find the end of wire and the beginning of gloved hand-

The electrical current burned soothingly through him, the TV channel changed again - colors brightened from him, and the charge fed out as easily as if he'd always, always been made for this-

Spamton jolted backwards, nearly tripped and tumbled down against the rolling chair as the Dark snapped back, right side up. ****.

The headset was just sitting there, menacingly. It stared up at him, more eyeless than even its creator, or maybe more accurately, a distributor? And Spamton glared down back at it, trying to force his blurry eyesight to be agreeable and just let him see the details!

Let me work!

But it did nothing and when he forced himself to press his hands along the thin wires and tried to follow them along enough to untwine and untangle, gloved thick fingers digging and scratching and pulling uselessly along the protective rubber layer, Spamton could just feel that extra lil stalk of straw lay itself right on down upon his back.

His eye…twitched, again, and the ringing went silent.

Spamton stared down at the headset, slack jawed and breathing deep, heavy, slow.

And then his heart rate bumped up into a pitter patter of electric pulses, and he grabbed the headset, wires and all, and then turned slow, steady to face the nearest wall.

And threw the thing as hard as he could. It narrowly missed the framed advertisement friendly poster picture of TV Times Biggest and Most Well Known Host that was off to the side, instead hitting the gaudy plastered wallpaper with a dull crackle of plastic bending, splitting right in half, before the headset dropped right down onto the floor in a pitiful little pile of broken parts and curly twisted wires.

Spamton stared down at it, breathing heavily, deeply, shuddering. He'd felt sick before, back in the restroom, but now he felt violent.

He turned back to his desk. His gaze was drawn, almost automatic, gravity driven habit after years, years of his lifespan hanging on the crossbar knotted strings of his sponsor, his benefactor - and the phone sat there, silent and still. It did not ring, not even when he hesitantly reached out a trembling hand, hovering over it with fingers spasming, tense and ready to snatch it the instant the first toll rung out of it-

It did not ring.

Spamton squeezed his hand on air, wincing at the feeling of soggy flesh scrape sliding against cheap fabric, softened fingernails blunting against his palm in an attempt to dig in and hold.

It would not ring.

He pulled himself away, and it felt like the easiest damn thing he's ever done in his life. Smooth like butter, slimy like, well, like slime - his thoughts felt open aired, less strung together than usual, and Spamton tensed up again, another shuddering riptide of frustrated rage building up inside him, gnashing at the silent helplessness that flowed in and out and over, around and all about him, some mucus slick tide of putrified glass and swollen spit dribbling stagelights.

He had to fight the urge to press his palms to his eyes, try to shut it all away with self blindness and pressure - his hands were already damp. Instead Spamton just leaned up against his desk again, one handed for balance as he buried his face into the crook of his elbow, an audible grackle of sound as he grinded his teeth, jaw tense and aching at the vibrational repetition - he was going to ****ing scream.

Half gutted memory reminded him of past years, times when he was young and small and couldn't ever see anyone eye to eye, could hardly see in the first place but did his damndest to learn, to copy and mimic the Darkners around him as their words flowed out in pitches and sing songs he hadn't recognized as sales and buy and money - he hadn't understood then, out in an outer inbox for just that briefest moment to see all the active mail fly him by before the Light plucked him back up and then there he was, all alone in his own set aside box.

And he had regurgitated what he was, like vomiting up internal organs in an attempt for attention, only to always, always be picked up and dropped down into that side bin to be forgotten.

Who gave a **** about spam mail?

…He broke a lot more back then, before the Voice on the Phone. His siblings learned quickly enough to leave him alone when his room started to fill with cursed spat jargon and glitched shrieks - learned even faster when he'd throw **** at them when they tried to enter.

But, ever since the Phone, he hadn't…

Spamton forced himself to breath, sucking in the air through his grit tight teeth, head pounding as his hands stung - he can't do this-

****! YES HE CAN-

He can't-

YES HE ****ING CAN-

“Don't you ****ing dare start.” He hissed, nearly laying atop the desk now as he peeked an eye up from his elbow and sneered at the phone. “Don't you dare start ringing, you piece of **** mother****er, don't you dare.”

His throat was raw, sore and stinging as he swallowed a rising sense of hot bile - he felt sick, feverish and sweaty as, finally, Spamton haggardly lowered himself down, more slid into a half stiff, half trembling collapse.

And then scooted himself slowly underneath his desk, drawing his knees up with only the grinding sound of his teeth and shuddering breaths to fill his aching head.

The phone did not ring.

***

Spamton wiped at his stinging eyes, red rimmed and still tearing up. His, what, third? Fourth? Fifth? Could've been his twentieth for all he ****ing knows??? Who-knows-what-number cigarette of the day smogged up the little cubby of his desks underside, each breath stinging and stinking, but he found himself preferring it over the burnt ozone right now.

His arms stung, sore and trembling from the biting that he couldn't direct to his hands due to not wanting to taste code from the already sodden fabric - he avoided looking at the splatters on the tile under him that came dribbling from where gloves met wrist, not quite able to feel the seeping because all he could feel was pins and needles.

How often would he need to change his half***ed wrappings? How many pairs of gloves will he go through during a day? How much longer will this last?

Spamton squeezed his eyes shut, cigarette balanced between index and thumb as he grit his jaw, hard. The pain was grounding, pressure pinch before curling sharp and faintly bloody, and after a moment he stuttered out a smoky exhale.

Not gonna think about that right now.

He was still tense as >>HELL, WORSE THAN, ****ed in more ways than one, and the spring coil tension in his body hadn't even eased up in the slightest. Everything was just…too much.

…But, he couldn't stay down here forever. Spamton tapped ashes out onto the floor, staring for a moment at the dots of dusty darkness before shifting a leg and dragging his once pristine shoe right through it, leaving ugly skids sideways like across the tiles, mixing paint with bloody code. He can't stay hiding down here - he didn't want to stay down here.

And anyway, eventually Tenna would show up knocking at his door, once more begging for those sweet succulent secrets of his.

Worst case scenario: he blows up once he learns those are gone, poof, evaporated into thin garbagey air. Then, kicked right out, lose the job, lose the Studio, lose TV World, lose…

Spamton wiped at his face, an attempt to scrub away any evidence of leftover tears.

Maybe that's the cleave, ****. Maybe he finds out and then his stupid head blows up.

The very image shot out an unexpected chuckle from Spamton's lungs, sharp and wheezy, before he sobered by swallowing the sudden lump in his throat down - the thought made him queasy, a hidden curdling sensation that made his chest knot up and eyes grow blurry and wet again, before he wiped it away. A shuddery breath left him, still tinted with his earlier explosion of emotions, and he quickly sucked on his cigarette, a couple quick breathes that caught funny as he hacked and coughed - and then he was waving the smoke away from his face, crawling his way out from under the desk. Back to normalcy once more, ****.

For all of the tension still in his shoulders, his guts roiling angrily and bile, filmy and sticky, slicked in the back of his throat, a sense of almost calm clarity graced him for a mere moment. Then he straightened, back cracking and making him groan and cringe for a second - he may still fit under desks just fine, but Spamton blurrily grumbled to himself and had to acknowledge that he may be getting too old to hide under them for longer than a couple of minutes. For ****’s sake, he's hardly yet thirty and his ******* code just can't stop complaining!

A glance at the clock on the wall didn't tell him much - it's been broken for months, stuck at exactly twelve o'clock. Midnight or evening? Who knows, and Spamton lingered, the smoky stench of his dim lit office space encompassing him for a moment, hazy and dark, spotlight lingering all on him.

Then the pressurized sensation passed, wheezed out as he squeezed the bridge of his nose, slow throb of that headache making its presence known. Didn't know the time, didn't know what was going on with him, had no idea, no planned thought concept of how Tenna would react-

And that soured his thoughts, because he knew, absolute and true in his sweet empty stomach, that Tenna would be a >>GOD MAKESdamn problem.

Was the problem in the first place, right?

LORD OF SCREENS
CLEAVED RED BY BLADE

Spamton opened his eyes, not knowing when he'd close them, and squinted a narrow eyed glare over at the telephone. It did nothing under his gaze, was silent and empty, a husk - it sent half shivers up and down his spine still, made him want to retch.

But he's done his fair share of that for today, so Spamton instead turned his eyes away, down at his empty desk, scratchmarks and ringed spills sticky on its surface under this pale light.

Have to do something about that, and it wasn't his desk his thoughts were circling around, like one eternally spilling and emptying drain that could only ever be called Tenna.

But what?

‘CLEAVED’, Spamton thought, implied some pretty intense damage - ‘BLADE’ simplified the source, and brought to mind a butchers cleaver, which just made him shiver, cold and unpleasant when juxtaposed against TV World's Host With the Most . The memory of that prophesied image felt icy, smooth like ocean screen glass in his head, cool as the abyssal depths of a sea bed littered with clenching segmented hands, and Spamton didn't like how his imagination immediately tried to serve him up what it might look like in the flesh - or, in this case, the grand metal plates and boxes, tubes and wiring, a big ‘ol absolutely fantastic specimen of a Cathode Ray Tele Tube…collapsed into a broken split pile of metal and trash.

…Tenna was fascinating already, Spamton thought forcefully to himself, shuffling dreaded imaginings out in favor of admitting that, and he usually told anybody who'd listen if he was inebriated enough in a dinky bar no one of importance ever frequented, and yet again the sheer presence of the guy just stuck itself into his mind and couldn't be shaken loose no matter how much junk he had in his system - Mr. Ant Tenna had a real neat, real neat in Spamton's honest to >>GOD WHO opinion, body, sure sure, but it was his head that drew gazes. Huge and blocky, shaped by Lightner hands with metal and plastic, packed full of wires and glass and copper, self contained vacuum powdered with phosphorus and shadow box'd in nice and clean and tight. Whenever Spamton had his hands on that technical marvel, whether that be underneath Tenna's obnoxiously hefty weight or fingers grasped around the sliding metal plating of his flexible antennae and guiding that drooling screen to tilt upwards to him - when he could feel what the Light saw, what it bathed over so uncaringly every single damn day, it sent such a jitter of pure ethereal excitement right through him.

Sure, he was in the Dark - but here was a little piece of Light, a little slice of >>🎼HEAVEN🎼, just for him to touch, to hold and fondle and press up against his chest when they're both silly drunk and high as **** and Tenna laid his screen atop him with pink mood lighting and stupidly static laced giggles that made his own snorting laughs, after telling an especially horrendous joke involving a fog machine and a salt shaker, sound so ugly.

The TV screen was the be all end all, up in the Light. If it were to be broken open…

It made him even more queasy, more than he already damn well felt, and Spamton sensed the dim darkness he was encased in, warm with ozone and sprinkled lights, hot air circulation mocked by clumps of grime, felt that it would be absolutely terrifying if this were to suddenly open up, split like an egg, grow all jagged like after the first initial crack as blade shoved its way inside, shatter glass before the split second sudden inhaled gush of shock that came right as the vacuum imploded in on itself and blew back outwards, shearing apart inner relic mechanics in one quick blast-

It made him shudder, really taste the bile now as he leaned on his desk and swayed. Only good thing about that imaginary scenario was that the explosion would certainly blow out against whoever dealt the strike - not that he'd know, since with that damage he'd probably be stripped of his rubber and boiled out of all his copper plugins and ****.

Or, that's what Spamton assumed would happen. ****, he was the last person to know anything about what he was now in the Light, not after what he said to the Voice.

…He pressed his face against the top of his desk, firm and cool and, sticky, yeah, but enough to squeeze shut his eyes and grimace against the rough bend of his nose as he tried to then press out that train of thought. He'd derail, jump the tracks if he continued on for longer - Addison or not, get your ****ing head in the game!

So, instead, Spamton straightened himself back up with a slap of his hands on the desk, sending the tingling nerveless nerves under his bubbling swollen skin to shriek up and down his arms, spear along his neck and thread about his spine, stinging and wobbly for a few moments.

Then he did it a second time, because it jostled out his thoughts pretty damn well and made him wince, cringe from it and pucker like he'd been sucking a lemon - that stings like a mother****er!

He didn't do it a third time - his hands were throbbing, and his gut was twisting in and out of itself to the point that he had to swallow hot spit a couple of times and force himself to not start retching again, and here came a little nagging thought that reminded him that he hasn't eaten in more than 24 hours at this point, which didn't damn well matter right now anyway because now, now, NOW! Swerved back in, right through the top of his cranium as if he'd been painted a target for the best of the best in those ****ty Olympic tryouts - ‘CLEAVED’, and ‘BLADE’, once more.

…and, what? What was he supposed to do with that, hmm? Should he, **** it, just ban all sharp edges from the Studio now? Take his co-host status and start gutting the place every which way for any signs of a knife? Clean up house, like just really get in there, wear the protective gear and all because weren't firewalls and antivirus wardens the most dangerous jobs to get into in this day and age? Unprotected networks, shared passwords and private information, doxing and DDOS attacks, trojans and worms and startup blockers, sneaky downloads filling up file space, the absolute works that one can get into in the underbelly webs - he'd need to be decked head to toe in all sorts of safeguards, picking through the analog backwater forgotten attic and slash or cellar that was TV World's Safety Information Manual. Not even the everyday employees around here could remember a single word of a single sentence on a single page of one of those bad boys!

They weren't even in print anymore! TV Time didn't have the budget to import all those pages from the upstairs bookcases!

He's spiralling again, Spamton realized, he's gonna go off the deep end on some tangent or another that only he ever could find the start to, and here he'd be, trailing off to the finish all alone and without a >>GOD OFdamn lick of sense left off in his head. And he was ****ing sober right now to boot! Holy ****, why hasn't he gone and fixed that yet?

…His hands hurt. He shouldn't have been smacking them about like that.

Spamton breathed, in, out. Five, six seconds each, a little uneven - but he breathed, and he didn't feel like screaming again, and honestly he'd love to crawl in a hole somewhere and never show his damn mug about here ever again but he's in too deep by now, isn't he?

I don't want him to die.

And that was it. That was all. Everything about this, this **** with his hands, with being knocked off the schedule for today, not being announced as co-host nor celebrated like he and Tenna had planned - all of that, just because Spamton himself, in all his holy **** *** wisdom, had made a stupid ****ing stand last night.

And he wasn't gonna back down, no siree. Absolutely ****ing not.

Spamton glared a blurry, red rimmed glare over at the telephone again. With one shaking, shivery hand, he slowly leaned over, pressed a finger against its shiny black cradle, and proceeded to give a faint little
“Yipee me…”
to himself as he nudged the blasted thing right off his desk to clang, bang, tumble out onto the grimy tile of his office floor.

He did not lean over to have a look at it. He didn't want to even bother.

…He was too damn sober for this. He can't even ****ing think straight about the next to everything this all was that he absolutely needed to fix, right here, right now, and he was already waterlogged and had heaved out all the boiling simmer sewage that had been building up in him all day - there was strain, tension, but throwing another screaming biting wither hissy fit all by himself under the desk won't fix a damn thing, and won't make him feel any better either.

There was no catharsis in it. There never ****ing was.

So, instead, Spamton wiped his face with his grimy sleeve, straightened up and puffed his chest back out even as air whistled and hinged in, out through his clenched tight teeth. He tried to tidy himself, ignoring the steady gravity well draw of the phone on the floor beside his desk, just right there, it was right there, on the floor, just…laying there where it had fallen. Didn't even try to tug him back over, to fix up what he'd just done.

Early on in that, deal? Of theirs, him and the Voice on the Phone, he'd ended up throwing the phone against a wall. Venting the usual frustration, the usual screaming helplessness that made him shake and froth and shudder rigor mortis with complete and utter rage-

Phone hadn't liked that. Voice hadn't found that funny, not at aaaaaall.

**** you, man. **** you.

Spamton turned away, both physically and mentally, instead snagging more concrete thoughts while his hands automatically went to pulling open drawers and digging about through his crummy desk. See, he didn't want Tenna to drop dead by the simplest of things, nor the more complex bit of what ‘CLEAVE’ and ‘BLADE’ could all just…end up implying. The timeframe was completely out of his grasp - in a few hours, to another 20, 30 years in the future. Maybe even past his own damn lifetime - the most ideal option, but with his fair string of ****ing luck it would be the last thing to ever happen, heat death of the universe and all.

There had to be something he could do, right here and now, that would give some safeguard, something akin to relief, something that just soothed on in that firm sense of safety - was it even a possibility for him to grant himself?

Could an Addison-...could someone like me pull that sort of **** off?

…the specifics of the thought gave him some real vile backlash, interrupted his flow for a shuddering swallowed gag moment, dizzy and light headed and encased in a dark place, listening as one of the Lightners out there, that one kid with the nasally chirping voice, drew closer, got louder, more excited, before drifting away just as soon as it had happened.

…****. There was just…too much, wasn't there?

Always. It's always been this way.

Spamton's pins and needles numb fingers brushed, caught on something.

Get through it. No matter what, get through this.

Ever since entering the Studio, becoming a part of it, Tenna welcoming him in - ever since this partnership began, there had finally been something more that Spamton caught in his eye, something physical and real and there, that he could cup in his hands, cradle to his chest and feel - alive! Something that felt, even for the briefest of highest of moments, more than free.

I won't let him die.

He'll do anything to make sure of that. Anything.

Spamton snagged out a plastic baggy, powdery weight dragging it down - peering into the drawer showed it wasn't the only thing stashed away in there. Did look like he'd need to refill his stock sometime soon, so gotta plan a trip to Cyber City in the near future.

…Could check up on his other businesses in the meantime too, make sure all was running stiff and smooth out there - hadn't gotten a single ping in his messaging box all day after all. No news means good news, right? Right!?

****, his mind was going on and on the fritz, and his body was giving him no leeway even though he's forced it through waaaaay worse and it should be ****ing fine right now - no more time to be throwing tantrums like a stupid *** toddler after being told ‘no’ when begging for sweets.

He's way smarter than a toddler anyhow. Cause a big stink of a scene, latch the problem onto some unlucky nearby shmuck and then steal under the counter to swipe the lollipops - Spamton was absolutely way smarter than a damn baby. Can't steal candy from him, >>HELL AND FORGET IT. no!

…Spamton heaved a burdened, distractedly strained sigh, forced his clenched fist to loosen before quickly going about spreading the last of his stache out on the desk. About a fourth of the way in and the view ticked something in his brain that made him give in to the nodding Addison esque smile yanking on his face, jittery all of a sudden, numbly hopped up in anticipation because **** did he need this, needed a >>GOD WANT USdamn distraction so that he could put his ****ty **** focus of a runaway train into real gear, maybe less train and more speedster car, Rally B style with the light aluminum build and the superturbo extremes, the less regulations the ****ing better-

If he was gonna stop that stupidly lovable ****ers prophesied death, then Spamton needed to be the most focused of the focus point. Dead shot aim, right between the eyes - not his, not Tenna's (nonexistent as they were), but maybe that ****ers on the Phone, which the thought made the tingling pains in the tips of his fingers tighten up and sting like a ******* but Spamton would not be deterred.

‘CLEAVED’ by ‘BLADE’? Yeaaaah, not if Spamton had his say in it, which he ****ing did, didn't he, had a real good say, yell, shout, scream into that ****ty ****ing void sea - **** logistics, he's never given a rat's *** about that **** anyway, wasn't gonna start now! Never stop, don't stop, or whatever that meant, he didn't give a flying ****!

He's shaking, but he definitely didn't care. All the **** now set up on his desk stares at him, and he ends up staring back.

***

So, once upon a time in a really seedy bar in the dredges of Cyber City, way back before he'd ever even gotten his hands on a misplaced analog telephone, Spamton had heard about how one of the old Computer Lab pc's had her entire OBS butchered. Some kid trying to learn coding by getting down and dirty with the poor public machine - wanted to make video games or something, and got so ashamed for busting the system that the computer was unplugged and left out of lucidity for weeks till a librarian finally noticed.

The old timer telling this story wasn't much to think about, an ancient time tracking program downloaded via disc and left to rot on another nearby pc's storage - unable to keep pace with Cyber Cities constant updating framework, that particular Darkner was doomed to obsolete frailty in another two, three years give or take, or maybe even less. The Lightners had been unkind, and the code - inflexible.

But, the Darkner had seen the incident happen. They had watched, right there in the Dark Place of their forefront existence, as their entire world was rewritten from the inside out. A butchers shop, as if passing by the back entrance and catching sight of that bloodied room, hanging wires and tubes and thick coils of copper, oozing puddles of code bubbling up around some Light blessed Lightner dipping their grubby hands deep, deep into the soft giving walls upon walls of living code.

Spamton wondered now, near slipping out of his office chair as he rocked it, back and forth, back and forth, to a beat he couldn't quite catch but simply did his best to try, whether it would be comparable to the Studio being split open, from ceiling to middle gut floor, or perhaps instead the sundering of an entire CRT TV Time Host, sawed on in, right in half. He didn't particularly like the thought.

On his desk were notes, scribbles and lists and lines scratched in and through each other - every thought he could think of that could safeguard the Studio.

He had no idea what would be coming - only that it wielded a blade, which honestly didn't give him a single damn clue of where it might even come from. Card Kingdom? Place hated sharp implements, for the kind of reasons that included but were not limited to the fact that near everyone there was made from felt or paper or cardboard or cheap **** plastic. Cyber City? Who needed a blade when you could just jab in a usb drive and bingo! All that data right at your fingertips.

****, and all the Sanctuary had was glass. Glass - that wouldn't make a damn dent on the metal toned body Tenna had, so Spamton had to reach over and cross out in big squiggles any mention of the place. Didn't like thinking of that region anyhow…or at least, not anymore. Farther from there and he'd have to really dedicate parts of his brain into thinking it over, which felt a bit stupid considering that not many Dark Places cared a lick of a damn about ~TV World~!

He spun the pen in his hand, swirling back and forth with his clumsy gloved fingers, nerves tingling up and down his arm with each little spin - then he dropped it, and after a minute or two of trying to lean back in his stupid chair, rocking it in place as he lazily reached, Spamton gave up on getting his writing implement back. At this point the most he could do was maybe scribble out some art and maybe he'd decipher an answer from the ink entrails he'd **** out.

This was…this was stupid. Here he was, lil’ co-host sidekick to the big Host himself, half the ****ing Studio his own, or at least the small print on that contract should say damn well so, and all he could really think up was a nice big sign at the entrance saying “No Blades or Sharp Objects, Please!”.

The “Please” was for Tenna's sake, because Spamton could at the very least take a guess that such a dumb sign would need to fit into the ~theme~ of family friendly networks and of course, of ****ing course you just had to nicely ask your assailant sent to kill you by prophecy and >>(ANGEL): to please, please, don't bring in a weapon into the Studio.

Newsflash! Maybe >>GOD, I BELIEVE just hates you! Ever considered that???

…Spamton sighed, heavy and drained and very, very dizzy, just about ready to droop off his stupid chair and join all the rest of the trash on the floor. What an awful thought, that >>GOD, AND I AM just…hated Tenna. ****, that sure was just…****ed up, man.

One of his other ideas, floating around here along his desk somewhere, was to just…take Tenna, and push him somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away, from cleavers and blades and all the rest of that.

Obviously, that couldn't work. He was a giant box stuck to a wall. You can't just…pick that up and take it far away.

Still didn't stop Spamton's earlier scribblings, trying to figure the “logistics” - >>HELL., he imagined just. Picking up Tenna's stupid fat Light World head and dumping him into the Cungadero's front passenger seat. How far would he have to lean and struggle to get the seatbelt on him? Could he take Spamton doing that, sweaty from hauling Tenna's heavy *** around and then having to power through the oven heat the Cungadero probably had cooking in it from the beaming Light sun, at least till he rolled down all the windows or folded back the soft top roof to air it out. And then make sure the door closing didn't clip his power cord either, wrap it up and settle in trailing down to the floor, make sure the car door itself didn't slam into that bulky plastic box-

The scene in his head wobbled, and Spamton wondered for a moment if he could just plug the big guy into the car's battery. That might work, you could hook up a whole **** ton of stuff into cars and the Cungadero was damn well exceptional, because of course it was, he designed it and it damn well better be - but, if Tenna was plugged into the loose battery then how'd the car drive?

Multiple batteries, Spamton decided as he snapped his fingers and gave a self satisfied nod. Then Tenna can actually turn on, be on and stay on, while Spamton drove them far out of this Dark Place. Feel the sweet breeze, for real this time! Spamton could almost just imagine the wind in his hair, the heat on his skin, glancing over at sunlight warming over worn plastic, shiny copper antennae bouncing along to every bump under the tires, the Light World's reflections sprinting across curved staticky glass that shone out with Tenna's wonderfully stupid lil’ cute smile…

…wait. Wait a second. What the ****? That was stupid talk. What the ****ing ****? Dark Place, Light World - ****, ****ing stop, stop it, stop being a silly *** idiot!

Spamton slapped his hands over his face, numb tingling sensation burning through his swimming nerves, and swallowed down acidic bitter bile. He should…probably eat something soon.

A part of him was starting to feel that he was getting nowhere with this, but! He wasn't up to admitting that juuuust yet, because his desk was a mess of papers and probably random napkins as well since at some point he couldn't locate any more scratch paper and instead resorted to a nearly empty tissue box - what he would've done to have had that last night! Would've helped with all the blood spotting on the tile floors - but a lot of this was jargon he'll leave to a more sober version of himself to **** around with, because now, now! He had other plans.

Spamton spent a moment sitting there, trying to remember what- oh right, right! He scrambled up out of his chair, spent a moment trying to delicately stack every important idea he had that wasn't just “put a big **** sign out front”, and then opened up another drawer to sweep any ~incriminating~ evidence into. Took a moment for some of it, and he winced a bit at the crunch of glass because ****** did finding some of this stuff suck **** when in a hurry - which he always was, because he had a job and that job was keep Tenna alive, indefinitely, and contrary to a prophetic super omen that may also spell the end of the worlds as anyone knows it-

**** did he need to eat something soon. A CD Bagel sure would be nice, maybe one of those nostalgic 1980ish bands that the big boss liked to listen to when no one was watching - but TV World didn't serve **** besides TV Dinner slop or pie crumbs and old Newspaper Rolls.

He'd not eat a Newspaper Roll. Not even touch one - learned his damn lesson his first year here, and nothing, nothing, would make him dine on one of those ever again. Dreemurrs lost their newspapers under the couch all the ****ing time, and your tastebuds will absolutely tell you just how long that rolls been under there for. He'll stick to CD Bagels, thanks.

Spamton spent a minute trying to scrub out some stains from the desk, squinting at what might be coffee circle marks or maybe blood, can't tell which - he almost licked his thumb to put more elbow grease into the clean up, then thought better of it when the puffy glove came into view.

So, instead, he just sort of…gave up on that venture. He slumped against the desktop, eyeballed the stack of notes and ideas, flipped around again the thought about a sign of some sort - it might work, you never know!

It wouldn't work. Obviously.

But it was the thought that counted, right?

****, he had to think of something better, but his brain felt a bit like eating a bowl of cold soup on a cloud above a huffing and puffing CRT television. Maybe the smokey steam heated it up quicker, but it wasn't working out all that well honestly. Soup tasted like **** anyway - TV Dinners with soup were always something like chicken noodle or green pea or some grainy lentil mash.

Spamton didn't even like soup! **** was always slimy and got waaaay too cold way too fast. His crèchemates had always been **** at making anything edible when someone in the house got sick, so he didn't much trust other's cooking besides maybe Tenna's, because Tenna had a cooking show he hosted and then gave the food away to the crew afterwards, on a little banquet table right offstage - Tenna earned his respect, when it came to making food on camera at least. TV Dinners still sort of sucked though.

He heaved a sigh, heavy and dizzy and wanting, very suddenly, to be distracted.

Tenna was great at that. Being a distraction that is, which made sense cause he was, drum roll please, a TV! You turn that sucker on and you'll be there aaaaall night…

Well, as long as the channels were any good. Something better than some of the sites Cyber City hosted, all bright new 5 out of 5 stars for the web sharing of audio and video. Everything you need!

Everything, but what you actually want…

Spamton's eyes wandered. He tapped his hands on his desk, not quite able to just use his fingers at the moment and ignoring the tingling cool sensations that were racing up and down his arms, shorting in bright glowing flares along his shoulders that was just barely hidden by his suit. A scowling frown tugged limply on his face when he caught sight of the trash bin, still surrounded on all sides by discards that couldn't quite fit - but then he finally, finally found something a bit more entertaining over by the far wall.

It had its fair share of dust, which made sense, but the TV over there always sort of…lacked whenever Tenna himself was in Spamton's office. Why watch that silly decoration when the real deal was hanging around wanting to talk, scripts and edits and fanmail and sponsors and budget crises, the whole shebang! Still, like every other TV in the Studio and this particular Dark Place, the chunky thing was made in Tenna's image.

It sat there on its little stand, a couple sizes smaller than what Spamton was used to and definitely smaller than some of the TVs scattered about in both public and staged areas - when he had first gotten this office, moved out of the mailroom and settled right by the big boss's hip, Spamton hadn't actually had much of a say on decorating the place. Thrown together by Shadowguys and Zappers rushing about at Tenna's whim and order, and then the moment he'd strided in he, uh, did have to make a few changes here and there to fit him out better - damn well stupid that he needed a stepping stool for obnoxiously tall filing cabinets, but after finding out just how much space the things had in them the pros outweighed the cons.

He's gone over that particular TV himself, a couple of times even. Vaguely he remembered a more recent time, being especially inebriated, frustrated with some stupid little argument he and Tenna were having after getting royally smashed from celebrating a new sponsorship deal that brought in a huge investment that the Studio hasn't seen the likes of in literal years, because the big lug was being petty and pouting about Spamton's comment of how “cowboys versus aliens sounds stupid, Tens, c'mon, you really think that'll rock just about anyone's socks off?” - and, when he had stumbled his way in here, slammed the door shut for good measure because Tenna wasn't listening to him and he'll damn well slam the door as much as he wants to, he'd caught sight of that simple old TV sitting by itself over there as if it had nothing to do with anything.

He remembered running his hands over its top, curling and pressing his fingers along the edges of its casing, mumbly and grumbling and grumpy as he dug his nails into its vents, so stiff and cold, unheated compared to the gushing of air that exhaled out from Tenna's own head - Spamton hadn't stooped so low as to turn the thing on, because that felt a bit like crossing the line or something, breaking business in favor of something a little less organic than the real deal pouting just outside his office. But he had unplugged it, then plugged it back in a couple of times, felt along where the cord attached to casing back, slowly swiped over plugs and small metal teeth, brushed over the cool dark glass and tried to not dizzily see a big crack scrawling diagonally across reflect back at him.

Still, it wasn't Tenna, so in the end he'd ended up passing out at his desk. The big guy woke him up hours later, had even brought in a glass of water and some painkillers, like some >>GOD SEES blessed >>(ANGEL): coming to ease Spamton's hangover - don't count the fact that Tenna had come in bearing facts and statistics for scifi westerns and brought up that one of his Lightners was a cowboy fan in the first place, that the view ratings would be high because the kids would like the special effects, maybe there would even be some interest in Cyber City because of that, CGI sure can do some cool ~modern~ wonders now can't it?

And Spamton had taken the water, and the pills, and after holding his head and, eh, hearing Tenna out, he conceded the point. Fine, whatever, cowboys versus aliens can have a go ahead - you already had a script written and both budget and sets planned out, why even come to me about this in the first place, huh?

The nonliving TVs blank screen seemed to stare over at him, not quite able to reflect the entirety of the office or the details but just enough to give that sort of wobbly little impression. Spamton stared back at it, wondering again if something like that, but perhaps a bit bigger, would fit fine on the Cungadero's passenger seat.

It was still plugged in, wasn't it? He hasn't touched it since.

Getting up took a second, a swaying, teetering second that dragged on into a few more than that, snapshot moments that made his brain feel like it was clicking and thunking and burning warm ozone, bright colors seeping through the shadowbox and going crystal clear as he continued to funnel that powering energy-

Then Spamton was by the TV itself, wobbling in front of its blank screen and the funny mirror effect of his own appearance, the short circuit little glows still flickering from how his arms tingled and fuzzed with unfiltered raw sensations sizzling under his skin that reflected bright from the dark glass. He fumbled for the power button, not quite a curse leaving his mouth but more a grunt of exertion because wow did moving around feel like a lot - but then there was that abnormally familiar thwunk! of sound as the “degausser” came on and light rippled in a quick line blink, life entering electrical into the machine.

All in his image, Spamton fuzzily recalled, and he watched as the channel number flickered in the upper rightmost corner, a fizzle of static snow that near instantly cleared itself - and there, center of the screen, was the familiar visage of the Lord himself, all bright and grinning for the camera.

“And that, folks, is why there's been a new incentive to introduce bike lanes into Hometown. With the upcoming election Mayor Holiday sure has a lot on her plate - I hope she has enough room for this holiday season too!”

Canned laughter, and even through the TVs filmy static TV World's host shone out, the lights perfectly angled to not overshine his gleaming headcasing and straight curved antennae, his sharp nose tilted just the slightest bit to give the camera eye a nice perspective and allow the smile on his face to beam out. The little spinning round effects on the screen behind him, not all green screened in and more practical, no doubt thanks to some Shadowguys using their 2nd dimensional frames to ninja about the background, made the cheesy news anchor look somehow even more full of cheese.

Spamton slowly, unsteadily, backed up a bit till his back hit against his desk, and then he leaned, gloved hands loose and damply pressing to the lip of the wood, letting his legs stick out as he idly watched the scene on screen continue its folding, unfolding nature.

“Another bill to keep an eye on has finally been approved by the Mayor's office last Friday. Those of you who work out of town, having to take that dreary hour long highway out, will be happy to hear that there are plans in the works to expand to two lanes! That's right folks, finally a passing lane for those of us running a little behind in the morning - keep in mind that speed limit of 45 miles per hour, of course, but I for one am sure glad for that extra bit of wiggle room!”

The discrepancy between Light and Dark was all the more obvious now, what with Spamton's new hearing, listening as some babbling Lightner voices argued amongst themselves about whether to change the channel or not. The audio rising from the speakers, inner and outer as vents sluggishly flowed hot air out, clogged with that now unpleasantly familiar dust and fur grime - he could hear, even from deep in here, the Lightner news anchors passing quips back and forth as Hometown Local News continued to play.

As live as Tenna's own play, but set for Lightner eyes only. What the big guy acted out himself was sent out to accepting Dark Places, or at least those who cared - this sort of thing always had low ratings, and the fact that Tenna played up his own significance in Hometowns Light World ecology kind of really didn't help with that.

He always sort of talked, Spamton thought wistfully to himself, as if he was part of the town itself. As if he was one of those monsters who did have to contend with the speed limit on a one lane road miles out from work. As if this really did reflect on his day to day life.

It was…a bit embarrassing, sure sure, Spamton certainly felt it second hand at times when Tenna lay it on thick with his “play pretend” life as a part of the Dreemurr household - and maybe, yeah, it was ****ing weird too, but for ****’s sake Spamton could categorize himself as pretty damn weird too!

He'd only ever admit that to Tenna though. To everyone else? He was the most original of originals, a >>(BIG SHOT): when it mattered most - he was far from normal, but out on top of the world and not on that, other, end that threatened obnoxious weirdo instead.

Mr. big ol’ TV Time's passion made it work though. That's what cemented the Studio, held its foundations in through thick and thin - kept it existing as the forefront of this Dark Place, riding the rough rouge waves out and keeping everyone's head above the icy waters of barren purple cliffs and so much ****ing snowy dust!

“Now, we might have a wait time of a few years, give or take, but I swear folks, it'll be fine and finished in no time at all! This brings me to another long anticipated announcement - the renovations to the local Church of the Delta Rune is almost complete. Our small town celebrity, one Mister Gerson Boom, has been a great help with designing the new stained glass windows and his son, Alvin Boom, has made a statement that they should be finished before the holidays this year. Exciting news, folks - I certainly can't wait to see what scenes those beautiful works of art will depict!”

And he just…puts his all into this, Spamton mused as he watched. There wasn't much “all” to be put into with a news channel - all that sitting behind a long flat desk, sort of just mannequined there, a talking mouth, till the screen flashes in and out with spunky lil’ transitions into all that footage about **** that no one really cared about.

But Tenna made himself into the center of the show, really leaned hard into “news anchor” and came out at the end of that tunnel more like a “news connoisseur”, whatever that meant.

There was just something so, so…so Tenna about it. The Weather Duo were just faces on a screen, yapping cartoon portraits casting weather bullets to dance before the camera lens - Shadowmen were background musicians or efforts to bypass green screen overuse, Zappers hardly remembered their lines and were mostly there for the muscle laden eye candy, Pippins barely ever showed up because they were more the everyman laborers of the Studio. Shuttah were the camera eyes itself, can't ever really catch sight of it anyhow, and watercoolers had jobs offscreen and liked it that way.

And then here, along comes Tenna, and suddenly the focal point knew where to go, the best angles just bloomed out there for anyone to catch, the lighting enunciating his size, his pose and silhouette, soft and warm for the children's channels, right angles and sheer cliff beauty lines in romantic noir, rough and humble in the wildest of wests - Tenna captured the scene, a siren to the roll of picture perfect camera angle.

Even in something as mundane and boring as Hometowns simple everyday life, the man on the screen, a screen of himself upon himself upon himself - Spamton sagged, shoulders falling as his face softened, as that jittery slogging sensation in his bones slowed just the slightest bit, as if he'd just caught sight of a shooting star right outside that mangy hotel he'd found himself in years and years ago, that first time he had run away from his ever bickering family.

A flare up, bright spitting take in the laptops system as Queen's CPU reached unfavorable levels for a mere few moments right after startup - gone out, just like that, but even though it was just some leftover jank from a Lightner downloading a sketchy free RPG game, there was still something bright and scarring in Spamton's eyes long afterwards, a light out there past the darker than dark darkness.

“That reminds me! Folks, clear your schedules for this Saturday, because it's the anniversary of Hometown's oldest bar and grill! Grillby's has been serving our community for nearly 100 years now, passed down from parent to child, and while Grillby Senior is the only owner of the fine establishment right now that doesn't put any stop to the celebrations! Bring your family, your friends, and enjoy a lovely night out this weekend - there's a 15% discount for locals, and make sure to voice your appreciation to Mister Grillby himself for all the fine work he and his family has done for this little town. I'm sure he would appreciate the support, folks, especially after that tragic accident last year that nearly destroyed the old heritage building and caused a great many delays before finally reopening just months ago - I will certainly be thanking him for all his hard work the first chance I get!”

Tenna grinned, a moment where he faced the camera fully and let his screen take the brunt of a full face portrait - his lavender casing seemed to sparkle, the red decadence of his suit blooming over with that untucked yellow tie like, like some sort of uproarious dancing flower or something, and with each talking point his hands moved, gestured and signed and waved, the slightest little bounce to his head as he notched his rhythm with motion. Even in this position, acting as firm, but friendly, news anchor, Tenna could just never sit still, could he?

Spamton sort of wanted to head back over to the TV again, get on his knees and scoot up nice and close to the fizzy static glass, really feel that vertigo in looking up at the channels lively host - it wasn't Tenna, but Tenna was live on camera at the moment and that facsimile mirage of himself on his own imaged creation could checkmark some of those missing points, if Spamton tried hard enough.

He didn't, decided not to, mostly due to how he didn't, uh, really want to walk all the way over there? Instead he watched Tenna, watched his little act that was play pretend that was make believe that was real - outside the thick plastic and metal encasing came an obnoxious racket, bleating out laughter that snorted and guffawed out in a teens nasally voice as the kids joked about together. Was that…Asriel? Tenna always described the boy to have such a “unique” laugh track, one that sounded like a pale, underdeveloped imitation of his fathers belly deep horfs and guffawed bleating - and now it bubbled up over the sound of the TVs Light World news, a little choked in what may have been an attempt to not cackle too obviously as another teens voice, this one more pitched and dipping, rising in the hoarse hum of a young smoker, made fun of him for all the snorting at her bad joke.

Tenna's smile widened, softened before growing strength, antenna twitching forward intently, and even sized up a bit as he continued down the rest of the long, long list of mundane news reports. The big man made no move to interrupt his own song and dance, even if the laughter hadn't been caused by him and his show.

All that passion…

And for what?

Spamton, for a moment, thought he saw a reflective beam, blue red light from nowhere and everywhere, and it cut through sideways wise right across the screen. Cut through the smiling face of the living CRT on camera - just a flash, just a few brief seconds, but it was more than enough to get a point across.

>>GOD, IT WOULDN’T hates you, Tenna.

Spamton felt himself slide a bit on the tiles, gaze falling away from the screen and head dropping low, a shudder sense of nerves rising in his throat.

…Starting to think >>GOD DOESN’T hates me too.

Then the nerves in him tightened up, sudden spurred hot flash - the electrical current blazing through him bit harder, brighter, the low hum thrum and smokey ozone stench of mechanical insides flooding through what senses he had of himself here, and Spamton's hands curved into trembling fists, tingling pins and needles numb at the motion as he grimaced at the tacky tiled floor. **** that, **** it, ****ing ****-

A dark spot in the bottom corner of his eye caught him, spinning, and Spamton blinked down, dazed, at the rotary dial telephone that now laid out, collapsed and semi scattered, on the floor before his desk.

It sat there, unassuming, unpleasant, unmoving. Weirdly enough - not even a hint of pressure, of compulsion to him, his limbs or brain or mind, nothing to squeeze in the code of his bones that told him pick up the phone.

Just…nothing. It wasn't even intimidating, Spamton realized, blinking owlishly down at the fallen thing. Slipped from its cradle, curly rubber cord loose and tangled together, and there it just sat, tossed aside just like that. When he shifted, leaned heavily upon the desk and stretched a foot to nudge the thing with his shoe, it just sort of scraped against the tile and nothing else. That's all.

****.

…Maybe >>GOD’S MEGAPHONE was pathetic.

It raised something up in him, raided and squeezed tight, tense with sudden unspent raw energy - maybe >>GOD SHALL MAKE needed a damn wake up call.

He spun himself around, ignored the wheezy queasy sense of his empty stomach curving in on itself, clamming up the sudden drop dead impulse to really give a good kick to the downed telephone, and instead staggered his way back around to his chair. Briefly he slumped down to retrieve his previously dropped pen, fingers numb and clumsy, before he was back to grabbing his pile of papers, back to sifting through the ideas and scribbles and all the rest of the jank he'd thrown up on paper as a desperate bid to attempt something. This time, however, there was a sort of inner steadiness in him now, a sense of…purpose?

In the background the Lord of Screens voice droned on, this and that about parking zones and speed limits and new family meal deals at the local diner - the noise encouraged Spamton on, that familiar voice, full throated static and filled with all the passion for mundane monotony far outside the reach of any Darkner alive, quipping and joking along as if he was just as real as the kids blankly watching the screen, right at this moment!

It's ****ing unfair. The thought brought with it a surge of something, something deep seated and innate to the very core of himself. It's so ****ing unfair.

When he glanced blurrily back up to the show, the camera had zoomed out as Tenna stepped out from behind the news casters desk, waving a paper about as he pointed and gestured and, just continued with the smiling, head tilted and great big body bursting with enthusiasm, passion, bright, bright Light - you could almost mistake him for a Darkner whose Lightner's loved him.

Spamton could hear the kids arguing again, just outside the heated metal and wire space he was enclosed in. Something about where they'd go after breakfast, alleyways or Librarby or out by the lake - someone shifted close, a tall thin shape of all deep dark angles, a few shreds of velvet still attached to spiked antlers as the teen went down to her knees before the screen, hardly even peering in before she was spinning the volume down, down, down, calling back behind her shoulder,

“Hey, why is it everytime I visit there's a new remote on the couch but it's never the real remote, huh? Who keeps losing the fucking thing?”

A chorus of noise, voices - the boy immediately attempts to scold the language, but it's already been picked up by one of the kids who has now started to chant it.

There was more to it than that, but he couldn't quite catch the words half as well in here, stuffy and dim and-

Tenna had been muted. On the screen of that side television, Spamton squinted his eyes as he watched the man lose a few inches in real time, a slight droop to his antennae, just the slightest cause you had to be looking for it to see the change, before seeming to get it back together enough to keep good size - but that heartfelt dance of motion had lost some of its soul, too little too late.

Pouring his heart out to his Lightners, doing every single damn thing he'd ever been born and built for.

Spamton took a fanatic second to dig into a top drawer of his desk, half remembering where it was - the remotes of TV World were so simplified you'd almost think they were works of modern art and not just a way to keep the screen on for as long as possible - before he quickly raised the volume up a bit more.

It meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, inhouse viewership wasn't actually counted in the tally after all - but Spamton did it anyway.

Couldn't fix that. Couldn't make a wrong into a right.

But for ****’s sake, Spamton was gonna do what he could to make up for it.

***

A couple of hours later, or maybe at the very least mayyyybe a half an hour later, and Spamton had a skeleton of a plan in his hands. It was disjointed, out of order and so incredibly messy with shorthand that his own note taking symbols would leave anyone reading them to think he knew cyphers like the back of his hand - he actually only knew a few, back from days sharing an inbox with a few shady specimens, but it was mostly just enough to get a few code words though and little else. Nothing including the illegible language the Voice on the Phone had instructed him into knowing for the express purpose of planning ahead with the written and or spoken, er, word. Could hardly be called words in the first place, honestly.

At the end of the day, this was for him and him alone to parse through. If he wanted to really, just really have a say in all this, this apocalyptic omen for the coming end of days, then he needed to play the cards he was dealt and play them well.

If he's got some tricks hiding up his sleeve, then, well…it was a well known fact that Spamton was a sore loser.

And he held grudges, too.

The TV continued to play. The list of Hometown news had long run out, leaving instead a slew of long form commercials, some journalist flash stories, and, oddly enough, a historical docu-tour mix that had to do with the local church and the religions origins. A tiny green bordered window popped up in a corner, showing the enthusiastic talking head of an old Lightner as he showed the, obviously Lightner as well, cameramen the bookshelves of historical research books he had in his home.

Spamton felt like the world was leaning on him, heavy and full and bearably unbearable. If he could just shuffle closer, wiggle forward and slip his prophecy skipping notes into the universe's too tall suit pockets, then maybe the CRT screenlight up above can come back down and make sense of things instead.

He's kept the sign idea, because it made sense to him in a way. And why not? ****, he was co-host, he was co-owner - TV Time was just as much his baby as Tenna's now!

What a ****ing weird *** thought, but it fit in the wrinkles of his code and, right now, made all the worlds of sense.

Either way, signs on the entrances of the Studio. That, in turn, led him down a path he'd never thought himself going down - work place safety practices. As a big boss himself, ensuring employees were just as taken care of (or maybe just a little less, none of these Joe Shmoes were jack**** compared to Tenna-) was the next step in the plan. Obviously.

He had no copy of the old employee handbooks, Tenna had never handed him one and probably for good >>GOD BEFORE!damn reason anyway, cause first of all Spamton wasn't actually an employee in the first damn place, ****ing verbal sales agreement that net him the mailroom as a shoe in the door notwithstanding, and second of all he wouldn't have looked at a single page and more than likely would've tossed it in the trash the first opportunity he had. Who did Tenna think he was, part of a union? Addisons were jack of all trades, masters of none, and self employed to boot. They were contractors.

…well, the inbox didn't exactly contract him out or anything, he'd just sort of…spawned there, but that was wishy washy logistics he was more than willing to wave away for more important tracks of thought. He never had need for a safety manual.

But hey, things change everyday! The worlds always swinging its shots, world revolves around and around and around - he's got no time to reminisce, and Spamton opened his eyes from how he'd been squeezing them shut, awfully dizzy and light headed for a second.

His plans were stacked, dishevelled, atop his desk. He had his hands splayed out atop them, tingly and numb and faintly squishy feeling on the inside, and for once that pile of papers actually settled something down in him. The TV program continued to play, Tenna's voice soothing over as a mildly competent greenscreen of the inside of the old church played behind him, a hodgepodge of practical effects showing off some of the foreground. A brief glimpse of a 2D Shadowguy elevating a book up along the image of a bookcase, making the scene play out almost, almost as if Tenna himself was really there, sliding a tome out of a bookcase and doing the usual fantastic job of looking as if he belonged there.

The living room was quiet now - from his cranny of ozone and metal and buzzing electricity, he couldn't tell if anyone was actually watching or not. There was a fuzziness, a low, low quality to the TV chatter, but it sounded like the volume had been turned up again. No more obnoxious kids voices, or the nasally quality of the teens, just a low rumble mumble of conversation before dying down again.

Out to…the right, maybe? Sound was muffled in here, and the big box himself made so much ambient noise that it felt like it was hard to focus, harder to pinpoint where anything was coming from in this dim dusty darkness.

All he knew was feeding in and out electric bright Light, buzzing behind his teeth - did it even matter that no one was watching?

Spamton drew in a breath, and while it was still tinged smokey, thick wisps of grimy tobacco smogging the room, there was the distinct unpleasant aroma of burning again, old and musty, singing ozone. This time, however, he was able to take it down into his lungs, really dig into a deep inhale, heavier exhale, eyes fluttering shut as his tunnel vision flickered and flared.

If he just sort of…existed with it, the smell wasn't all that bad.

Ooooor, he was just getting used to it. Hard to say.

He's got his plans. He'll make changes as they come, cause of course he will, the bones were obviously pretty damn stable because he was the one to build it, but times change and everything just, ****ing changes at the drop of a hat, pin, whatever - he needed to get ready. He needed to be ready.

Spamton curled, uncurled his hands, stretched his swollen fingers. Sent the weirdest of sensations up the nerves of his arms, which had long stopped sparking and now kinda felt a bit shaky, weak, **** did he feel…

…sorta sober, actually. The thought jolted even weirder up in his brain, not quite code sludging along but something a bit lighter-

The flashing of the television caught his eye, a >>GOD, I HOPE send of a distraction because he needed one right about now, and Spamton shrugged himself back against his chair, leaning as the wheeled thing squeaked and whined from the multitude of abuse he's dished out upon it - brief memory bubbling up, sometime early on or something, maybe, and he was pretty sure he'd hefted the thing up once and tossed it at a wall.

Why? Can't remember - pretty sure he'd been talking to the Voice that night, which was explanation enough anyway, since it might not have really been him throwing ****. Spamton couldn't feel the plucking strings now, might not ever again and the punched out fear in him from that was definitely unwelcome, so instead he rocked back again against his chair, listened to its squeaky wail, and focused once more on the TV screen.

Bright flashing colors, graphic design of someone's shoddy passion because those clipart spike and message bubbles were colored so poorly neon that it might have hurt Spamton's eyes if the TVs quality was half as good as Tenna's face-

But then the blaring deep voice, all esteemed and full of false elegant pizzazz that might have been a poor attempt at an accent, started shouting out “HALF PRICE DEALS, HALF PRICE DEALS!” and suddenly Spamton recognized the commercial.

He shot up to a stand from his chair, going stock still and staring, that tingling sensation buzzing pins and needles up and down in waves, sour bile in his throat as an all too familiar glowing yellow face showed up in comically animated popups, just the annoying ****’s head as more buzzwords filled the screen and audio - took a real >>GOD IS GOD damn moment for the actual product to show up, let it be ****ing known that Spamton didn't waste nobody's ****ing time when selling them in on **** - and there it was, some loopy doopy lil’ **** wrap that he couldn't even call a damn car.

In it trotted, on a ****ty overlighted stage, nub feet and puffing comical clouds out of its stupid ***, and Spamton felt himself flare up, stinging in his fisted hands as he glared at Big Shot Autos ****ing competition.

It wasn't the fact that one of his siblings, or maybe more he couldn't give half a **** to ****ing ask, was in on this trash. >>HELL, AND WE, they didn't even own the ****ing thing, were just the damn saleshead spokesperson because that >>GOD HAS DONE TO MEdamn company wanted to be on the same level as his Cungadero - fat ****ing chance, those little twerpy excuses of a car could barely do half, no, no less than ****ing that, do an eighth of what his own babies could handle.

They had legs! Those ****ing things had legs - did they even know what a >>GOD WILLdamn car even was!? Go watch some ****ing TV sometime and maybe you'll figure it out!!

Spamton fumed for a moment, tap, tap tapping his hands in aggravated numb achy drumming atop his desk - tearing his eyes away from the screen, from that awful ****ing excuse of a commercial, one that he had approved cause of ****ing course he had, the strings had given him the go ahead when sorting the latest sponsors and for all his own spitting vendetta they were paying the Studio a hefty chunk of cash, there was obviously something good at the end of the road for his side if he took their money and spat up their already premade video on the big screen, didn't feel like any skin off his or Tenna's back since it was a Darkner product for Darkners, unlike his precious Cungadero because Lightners could order one of those babies and actually drive, drive! Them up there, up in the Light - and for a moment his gaze fell upon his plans once more, just for a moment.

Then a stupid queasy tune rolled out from the TV, advertising the phone number, along with a nice long whisper shouted list of disclaimers that nobody, nobody, would ****ing miss because Jesus Christ did Spamton think that ****ty walking car was the worst thing to have ever crawled out of the bowels of Cyber Cities acid sewers.

…Just one of ‘em trying to ride on his coattails, he was betting. Thinking they could catch some dregs off his fame and fortune - too bad for you, that trip ticker was long gone, bozo!

**** them. Just…****.

Spamton pressed his hands to his eyes, winced at the weird soft slushy sensation but not feeling enough in his shorted jittery tingling to really care all that much.

When he pulled them away, drew in a deep, deep breath, exhaled it long and slow and swallowing a thick filmy code taste of sweet hot bile, he gave himself a few light slaps on his cheeks before scooping up the remote and flicking off the TV. A moment of utter silence tried to crash in on him, but **** it, **** it **** it ****!

He's got waaaay better things to think about! Like, like, look - his own damn beaut of a Cungadero was over in the practically always empty parking garage! No legs, no stubby stupid waddling that made you ****ing sea sick, oh >>GOD AND CREATES no he didn't make some stupid **** from someones stupid wacky *** dream - real rubber tires, real four wheel drive because you gotta watch for those icy roads between TV World and Cyber City, and the real three-ply classic canvas top because he'd swapped out for a convertible style for Tenna's sake, which Spamton believed had been the best damn decision he'd ever made that beginning year working here. Seeing the CRT's face that first time passing through the securely connected Cold Place bridge into Cyber City proper, icy wind going temporal as it whipped through his hair and lashed back the big man's antennae, bright spotlight screen going pure sunlight supernova in that novelty mix of awe and fear and breathless elation Spamton found so damn endearing…that's a memory to keep close for sure.

Spamton stood up, toughed out the dizziness a moment before surrendering enough to dip down and smush his face against his desk, sort of lean against it a moment to catch his breath and fight back the wave of pins and needles - got up too fast, apparently.

But then he stumbled back, around his desk, sucking in air through clenched teeth and feeling the pinch of his cheeks as an Addison grin threatened to turn manic on him. His car was ****ing fantastic, a real work of art - he made that! Him! He was the one to do that, and sure, the Voice got all that extra **** done on the wayside but **** it the idea had been Spamton's since he'd first got the damn concept of a car! Since he first got his hands on one, Cyber City lemon and a piece of utter **** but boy did he dig into that thing every time it coughed up its gutted ghost - stuffed that ghost right back too, half ***ed mechanical marvel that it was!

His mind was focused, he was so damn focused right now, and that minds eye was showing him the second thing he really actually wanted right now, which was the Cungadero because **** that ad, **** that dip**** who was trying to sponsor right next to Big Shot Autos while also trying to get some footing in the City, which won't happen because Spamton had an iron grasp on that industry, the Voice had ensured it so, and like >>HELL, IN THE END. was he gonna let that stupid waddling “car” get on his nerves.

That nagging dark spot in the bottom corner of his eye-

Spamton paused, swaying before stiffening still, and stared down once again at the fallen rotary phone.

For once in his >>GOD USES TRICKSdamn life, it…didn't actually stare back at him.

Spamton still gave it a real good wallop though, a surge of spiky tingling satisfaction at watching it smack into the far wall, hearing the plastic thunk and the tinkle of its internal bells and whistles all jostling before hitting the tile with a beautifully heavy thump!

Nodding to himself, triumphant, on the top of the ****ing world all over again - Spamton turned and headed out to the parking garage, crooked grin tugging almost, painfully? Stiff, on his face.

***

Turns out that the Cungadero came through for him in even more ways than one - there was a CD Bagel, wrapped up in brown napkins, hidden in the glove compartment.

This, of course, was just the best >>GOD JUST BECAUSEdamn thing that had ever happened to Spamton. Today, anyway.

He'd also found something even better in that compartment, made him wonder just what else he'd lost in all this sweet leather and shiny chromium - still had his lighter on him too, and when he started the car the Cungadero purred, just for him as he breathed in, held the smoke, puffed out with a shaky exhale of a laugh.

Getting here had been, ****, absolutely nightmareish. No one down those hallways because of course not, but he'd felt eyes on him the entire way and then not even ten minutes out of his office and he'd nearly fallen to his knees when the lights decided to just, just ****ing dim out and the walls went all wobbly-

Turned out to just be the TV turned off, muffled voices before retreating back to where the kitchen, maybe, was - he'd nearly choked on a gulp of hot ozone, burning his lungs but not really, not really.

The lights had stayed dim, which was sorta nice for his stinging eyes - did the Studio dim every time the big guy was turned off? How did he only just notice recently? Huh??? - but the walls stabilized and his own sense of balance came back around. Helped that the, uh, sense? Of sparking bright light through his teeth mellowed out, puttering into just a throbbing background sense of electrical flow, phasing slow and sluggish from the constant current of being plugged into a wall.

He'd been able to drag himself out to the parking lot after that, low stone ceilings and buzzing overhead lights that painted a sparse, unfinished set piece, cold as **** but in a nice way, one that made his smoky breath not taste all as bad and kept him distracted just enough from that hard discomfort of just sort of sitting there, in the dim dark, listening to the settling down of hot metal and flaring phosphorus.

Outside of that, muffled and cotton eared (or maybe dust eared), he could faintly hear the low mumble of voices moving about the house.

The Cungadero got him warmed up though. And then fed too! Bagel was stale as >>HELL IS WHERE and definitely old, old and older than whatever memory he could catch of maybe the last time he had gotten food on the go in his car - maybe last week? Could've been a month ago, that's how poorly his guesswork was at the moment. Either way, here he was now, digesting an old as >>HELL IS COMING CD and smoking a lost-and-now-found blunt.

Where'd he get it? Who ****ing knows! He sure as **** can't remember, not now, probably not ever, but it didn't settle all that half bad on ‘Depeche Mode - Personal Jesus (8-track CD single including Holier Than Thou approach Telephone Stomp Mix and Acoustic plus Dangerous - Hazchemux and Sensual mix)’ - repetitive as >>HELL, GOING DOWN, sort of wore on his tastebuds but fizzled and flew a bit funny in his receptors, didn't exactly have a CD tray like some Darkners out there but he can still rip a .mp3 file just fine - and anyway, the work day was over!

Well, not quite, and Spamton took a moment to glance at his wrist, which had no watch cause it felt stupid to have one, time means nothing to an email advertisement sent earlier that week with an expiration date of last month, and then his eyes went to his dashboard and there was, ****, yeah, ten minutes or so to go before he'd clock out the mail time.

But, that was back when he was a mailman. He's co-host now! Didn't have to deal with **** like that, as if he much dealt with it in the first place since he'd never been contractually folded into the, uh, fold of the Studio in the first place. He could work his own hours! Make up his own rules!

Safety first, he blithely thought, or at least snagged that thought from the red slash of a butchers cleave, and then his thoughts decided to instead derail because where the **** did he get the joint? Didn't smell like it came from Card Kingdom, though honestly he only ever got this sort of **** from that freaky jester, usually after losing some stupid game or another because that's all Jevil ever ****ing wanted to do, ****, the guy only wanted to play games, talk about playing games, go all in with discussing the game bit-

Like >>HELL’S COMIN’ WITH ME Spamton entertained that for more than an hour. The fact that, sometimes after returning from his "business trips”, he'd arrive at the Studio just in time to catch the Lightner kids up above play their own mix match up of video games on Tenna's big screen - gave him the >>GOD’S NOTdamn willys.

So, maybe not Card Kingdom plant fabric. Could've still been Cyber City, but that stuff was usually not half that good and burned his lungs regardless - antivirus wash, or at least the resin was steeped in it. ****ing waste of money.

…Alrighty, so, to be honest - this was a dumb ****ing idea. Stupid ****ing idea, and Spamton, yeahh, he acknowledged that. You don't exactly plop down and smoke a joint, like this at any rate, on the job.

But, hear him out now - ten minutes left. And he's done a lot of work today, a **** ton! Planning out protective measures to keep your business partner-in-arms safe was damn well hard work! He's had to really dig into the meat of what-still-might-be-but-probably-wasn't-code in his brain pan to sketch out his next steps, and Spamton hasn't really had to do that in kind of a long while. Most times he followed the guiderails, the guidestrings, and that had always worked in his favor and now that that was gone, well, what the **** else was he to do?

So, yeah. He'll light up in his perfectly nice Cungadero just minutes before the work day was over, thank you very much. Wasn't as if Tenna was gonna show up and rag on him about it.

Big ****ing ***hole apparently didn't even think he needed memos. Maybe he thought they'd read each others ****ing minds or some **** after the papers were signed - whooptydo, didn't ****ing work now, did it!

…Spamton sagged, the leather sticking to his sweat dried clothes. His stomach curled in a funny way, a cramping clinch that relaxed the instant he focused on it too much, and even the pot couldn't take out that ozoney burnt fur smell, not all the way at any rate.

He inhaled it, deeply, exhaled it out just as deeply, and the bagel's filmy stale aftertaste on his tongue sort of softened the force of it, made it almost palatable. Something he can handle, first time all >>GOD OF YOURS?damn day, and now that burning smoke seemed to be breathed out of him with the regular puffs, whispy dark black electrical fire.

Spamton leaned back in his seat, let his head flop back as his eyes followed the thinning trail - the tingling in his hands intensified, but not in the same ways as before. He can handle it, yeah. He's fine. Great, even. Can't even remember what he was so damn mad about earlier, but also can't imagine getting out of the car right now.

>>GOD DIDN’T, he wanted to go driving so ****ing bad right now. Fold back the top and let that cold air breeze through his hair, puff up his blinding white glow fuzz - put foot to the metal, reel back from the guttural growling turbo of the Cungadero under him and just, just blaze out into that near endless expanse of barren Darkness. Dark Spots without form, without Place or World, wind whipping sharp and slicing along his face, big fat dustflakes streaming behind him, up ahead turning the almost voided road into TV static, the sort to hide black ice, hide the deep throated impulse in his chest that wanted to jerk the steering around the moment he feels the wheels lose contact - deep black ones and zeroes cloud that wanted the spin out, the sensational vision of the convertible's bright red metal smearing in the dark and the snow, swerving away and into nothing as gravity shunted his body off against the door and strained the bite of his seatbelt into his compressed chest, then just spin damn well fast enough to finally tip up on one ratcheting wheel before, look, there it goes, flipping with a few dreamlike moments of utter weightlessness, before crashing down to show off the undercarriage belly before momentum and the ice keeps the spinning going, keeps that world revolving sensation of freedom in his gut going as wind and ice and glass and metal and shrapnel flies past him-

Spamton let out a held breath, holding too long and feeling heavy squeezing pressure around his lungs now. More trailing streams of black smoke escaped him with the paler puffs, and he idly eyed his visual exhale. Cungadero was starting to smell like an overfilled plugin daisy chained to >>HELL’S MOUTH and back.

…that must be ****ing >>HELL IS GONNA BREAKish to a plugboy, huh? All that threaded in together, forced to make it work in that static maus wheel of co-op and competitive - ****ing Lightners.

Some time passes, time he doesn't really count and by now it must be closing time, crew clearing out of the Studio through exits that took them to the backstage catwalks of TV World - parking garage was empty, him being the only one to make the trip every other day, week, month or so, maybe more if he wanted to enjoy Tenna's company some.

Or, wait. Other way around - if Tenna wanted his company. For ****’s sake, Spamton had tons of **** to do offhours, the big ol’ boss of this Dark Place wasn't, or shouldn't, be at the top of that **** list.

But, to be perfectly honest to himself for once, Spamton wistfully wished it could be. Life'd sure be simpler if that was all he had to really care about. No Lightners, no Voice, just him and his freedom and, well, you know. Tenna.

…what would Tenna do with himself, afterwards?

Mentioned family, once or twice, sort of an offhanded remark that went double fold when he'd go on a spiel about the Dreemurr kids. And those choice lil’ comments in bed (or, mostly couch) too, small things huffed in the heat of a moment but surely the big Cathode Ray Tube knew better - admittedly Spamton was just fiiiine indulging during those times, no harm no fowl, but c'mon. Not even the Weather Duo had some mini me's running underfoot, which was a shock and, maybe in a weird uprooted sense of superiority, felt like a damn shame to Spamton. Bit of a missed opportunity - those weather segments would get way more interesting with some lil’ buggers sharing the shift hours between the lot. S'what his flock did, and boy did he have some real just great memories from those days. Probably a good thing he didn't think about it often.

But, he huffed, and puffed, sucking in air and smoke and feeling the pins and needles in his hands and arms turn into rolling tide static instead, that's just his opinion. Tenna would probably come flying in with talk of child safety laws or oppose a kid based workforce - kinda stupid, why turn down the free labor? Pretty sure a whole troupe of babbling mini CRT Ads would just be dying to keep working a shift, workaholic little ****s.

But, alas, a whole lot of nothing to that upcoming wreck of a thought. A part of him almost considered the trail to lead to ‘no Voice, no freedom’ - but that was stupid, felt stupid in his >>GOD HAS Adamned aching head, slow throbbing behind his eyes and the guttering flicker of his glow again, dimming low and sluggish in the confines of his car.

Who ****ing needed the Voice anyway? He sure as ****, uh. Didn't? Can make his own damn headway, which. He was, doing, anyway. Got a stack of papers on his desk to show for it - combined with the snapped headset, dented rotary dial phone, and Spamton's definitely got it made now.

Got it all, er, got, you know.

…More time passed. Every time he chanced a glance at the clock it felt like minutes were sludging on by, though the numbers just kept climbing and maybe, just maybeee - maybe he just didn't want to see Spamton today.

Huh. Yeah.

…maybe.

……****.

At some point Spamton leaned forward and rested his forehead to the top of the wheel, nose curled uncomfortably upwards from where he'd be pressing against the horn if he gave up some more on gravity and staying put - blurry eyes closed, last of the joint snuffed out in the cupholders. He ends up squeezing his eyes shut, frowning scowl tugging wobbly and crooked on his face, and when he shakes his head he's pressing even harder into the pressure of the leather coverings of the steering wheel, scrubbing his greasy not-nearly-so-slicked back hair into it as his shoulders fell, crumbled with a swallowed lump in his throat.

Today has just…it's just been ****ing awful.

Worst day in my ****ing life.

Spamton paused, tried to think back through the dusty sludge and muggy torpor.

…second worst day in my ****ing life.

He ends up cranking the heat up higher, arm limp and hands stinging - rubs his near unresponsive fingers along the vents, steers them to him and his face while fingering the slides of plastic, the grooved smooth texture, the easy weightless way it all motioned itself under his very hand. The gushing warm air filling the car was a nice bonus.

“...you're the only ****ing one I can rely on, ain't that right.”

Spamton's voice is rough, hoarse, and a bit slurred with a mucusy gurgle as he cleared his throat, trying to not cough all over the dashboard. He ran a numb finger along the designer grooves of the leather, dipping before stretching back and following along the thick plastic that encased the steering column, circling the edge of the ignition and brushing by the sparse metal ring of his key and fob.

“...why's that, huh.”

The column vibrates under his hands, the Cungadero settled with the usual jitters of a cold car warming up, staying on and unmoving for a decent amount of passing time. It didn't feel half bad against the tingling sensation going up and down his arms. Sorta made him want to forget, honestly.

With all the **** slushing through his maybe-code, he was surprised he still knew what he was even doing right now. He'd smoked way more than just fine tobacco earlier in his office, but fat lot of good that had done him besides maybeee a bit of an energy boost? He was pretty sure he hadn't even peaked, and that sure was damn depressing wasn't it.

He ends up pulling his hands away, leaning back before deciding to struggle with the chair controls - he loved the Cungadero, but his own “genius” for its design did get the best of him sometimes and even he forgot what lever or switch did what every once in awhile. But then he gets it falling back, near flattened backwards, jostled and jolted in the sudden drop of his gut.

“...a warning next time would've been nice.” He grumbles, and the words don't stick in his throat the more he lets them out, slow and sluggish, hesitant as ever even in the silent solitude he's in right now. “Probably should add a spring or something to slow that down, huh?”

All the words he's spoken today had been for the sake of getting through the Studio without sounding as manic as he felt, and for the most part Spamton was sure he'd passed that with flying colors. Left him feeling a surge of unsteady confidence now, because even without the strings he's still got it all going for him - the cut and paste was a little lacking in renovation, and maybe he's forgotten way more than half the words that left his mouth, could hardly remember a damn thing honestly, but give him some slack! Relying on lessons from being raised in a crowded Addison household (more like apartment, but ehhhh it didn't matter much-) wasn't exactly a source of pride, but **** it he was co-host, he had to keep up appearances! Even if his business partner had just ghosted him all day!

Spamton said as much to the Cungadero, clumsy hands rubbing up and down along the leather of the seat, letting his mind wander as his sense of body was shelved in favor of feeling up the seams, refamiliarizing with the shape of the seat he himself had designed, all texture and pattern and an easy to follow repeated motion he could almost, almost, feel relaxed in.

“You'd think I'd get a note or something, maybe even just a simple ****ing announcement on the speakers, but nope! I get nothing, nada, all the damn zeros and no ones. Sure, the moment I need to dip to the City to check up on my own businesses I gotta file in a “business venture” paper, along with a notice for ****ing traveling between Places, because I sure as >>HELL YAWNS want my business partner to monitor where the **** I go on my own time-” Everytime his words interrupt themselves with the thick blots of tone, of something else that wasn't exactly him, all blaring and bleeped right out from his tongue, Spamton had to stop himself from swallowing around it repeatedly. The sensation of spitting up noise like that…

But he didn't stop, won't stop, wasn't gonna let that ****ers attempts at censoring him like some stupid ****ing *******ized cut of an overseas foreign film with just a smidge too much skin shown for “decent” audiences to keep down - because it had to be the Voice, didn't it, last little **** you to compound whatever was going on with his hands, make his words spit out of him like some ugly tonal bleep from a cooking show involving an angry chef and the buffoons all competing for his attention.

“-Tracking me like that, and then had the gall to look put off when I told him he can keep his privacy breaching to himself, especially cause what the **** is he gonna do with it? He has no idea how to bundle personal data like that, not to mention who to even sell to that'd make him a profit and not skin his code afterwards-” Spamton was going on another rant, he could feel it this time, all bubbling up inside him as he now started to wave his hands about, fingertips too far away to even graze the fabric top. “I'd tell him if he asked, you know, I know some backend places that'll take that data right off your hands, no questions asked and fair enough payment, flat price and all, but noooo, he wanted to know where I was just to make sure I was safe!”

He flung out his hands almost beseechingly to the roof, finding patterns in the ply seams and following them in long, ever continuous lines.

“Safe! Me? Who does he think he is, wanting me to be safe!?” Spamton breathed heavily, a break from the rant, and the tunnel vision sort of, wiggled? For a moment. Distortion - and then almost an audible click! in his head and the man sat up, eyes wide and glow sputtering up bright.

“Holy ****, that's…” he struggled for words, articulation, staring at the steering wheel, dashboard, falling on the little glow lights of the clock's time. Raising a hand, he pointed at it, wagged his finger as a grin pulled unsteady on his face, other hand going to drag through his hair as a tight wheeze of a laugh escaped him. “That'll work, wouldn't it? That'll, it'll, it - that would work! ****, if I can keep track of him…”

Already his mind was whirling, dizzy and segmented but the base parts were there, a cement foundation beside concrete sidewalk, then out into hot asphalt.

“If I can keep a mark on him…” he said, soft and a little thickly because that mucus sensation from the censors hadn't at all left him yet. “Know where he's at at all times, then…”

I'll be better prepared.

A sense of accomplishment, the grin melting into something weaker, softer - relief. He can do this.

Spamton reached out, weakly pat the top of the steering wheel as reward. Then he flopped back again, squeezing the leather with tight grasping hands that burned numb, flushed smile on his face as he envisioned a map of the Studio up above him, little dots of employees shedding away to the large pin point of their boss. Get something like that put together and the security budget would shoot right up, but Spamton was confident enough he could word out an agreement in his favor. Safety first! Every employee had a part to play here, and what better way to know if that part was being met than by knowing their precise location at all times whenever he wanted? And then obviously, Spamton would not need to be monitored in the same way.

For now, it made good sense to him. No wonder personal tracking data always sold so well. Have to get some top of the line **** for Tenna sometime.

Spamton idled, folding his arms behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. The inside of the Cungadero had gotten hazy, not quite as much as his office had, and he savored every breath, burnt ozone taste thick on his tongue and keeping back the welling bile that came all bittered up from the censor blips. Part of him wanted to crack open the door and see if he could hack that up, maybe clear his throat a little, but vague half plans about a possible tracking system filled his head and he distracted himself with thoughts fantasizing about renovating the mailroom into some sort of surveillance.

The Dreemurr family was more of a western and rom-com household, besides the usual kid oriented scifi and fantasy, so Tenna wasn't the most knowledgeable on spy or detective stories - maybe Spamton can use that, push for some specials that'll plant out just how secure his ideas can make the Studio. The big guy was hooked on that “as seen on TV!” ****, so why not? For all Spamton knew, everything could fall into place cause of a disgruntled employee.

The thought of it being an internal job made his jaw clench, prick at his pretty damn forced ~relaxation~, even if the picture of a Pippins wielding a waaaay too big butchers knife was a bit comedic - still didn't stop the shiver of dread from nipping his spine.

Spamton suddenly closed his eyes tight, waved his hands in front of his face as if he could sweep away the intruding thoughts - no no no! N O ! He had a plan, he had a ****ing plan, now more than ever.

He drew his shaky hands through his hair, uncaring at how unkempt it made him look, off hours so he didn't give much of a **** - then he pushed himself back into sitting, shoulders fallen and head lowered, feeling…not really underwhelmed, or overwhelmed, but something weirdly inbetween. Played with the idea of digging into the glovebox for a smoke or something, but his gaze fell back to those little glinting numbers and Spamton puffed out a heavy breath at the time.

It's been two hours. If it wasn't obvious enough with the state of the entire day, it was pretty damn obvious now, and at this point Spamton wondered if he should just drive back to…to Cyber City.

Almost slipped up and called it home.

Right now, all alone in his car, buzzing and numb - Spamton could be honest enough with himself acknowledging that the City hasn't been his home in a long time.

…didn't really want to call it that anyway. Top of the world with his room and board in Queen's mansion, and Spamton couldn't quite get himself to envision it as anything other than a room. Just a revolving door he kept passing through, all the rooms he's stopped and let himself rest awhile in, almost but not quite willing to call it his own.

Not like here, in the Studio, with…well, it just felt more final. Like, this was the door he'd finally stop at.

Spamtons hands clenched into fists, glove fabric damp and nerves swollen numb, before relaxing.

It was the door he wanted to stop at.

***

Cold wind whipped by his head, gusting violently on by as the Cold Place highway finally started to fade into a mild in between Dark Spot - Spamton tilted his head up, a brief look to the rearview mirror to catch a last sighting of the Studio's beam lights before they were engulfed by the black fog.

The Cungadero rumbled under him, racing over the snow and ice that caked the asphalt, the rush leaving gusting clouds of dust kicked up behind him. All lights winked out besides the cars internals, head and brake lights, and with the top pushed back he could roll his shoulders, straighten, and then thrust a hand up to the pitch black sky, out to the icy lashing winds. The numbness changed, increased tenfold into pins and needles as he forced his fingers to stretch wide, and Spamton grit his jaw into a morbid smile, not even in the ballpark of an awards show and more like something seen in the dark after turning out the downstairs lights and racing up to your room.

Back in the garage he had talked for a bit longer, unleashing a rambling rant that listed off bullet points to his plans, always skirting that edge that clung to his damp gloves, his stinging forearms and the prickling of what was probably sweat on the back of his neck. Eventually he had reached out for some resources, a quick opening of his own noted drafts he's kept for himself in his internal messaging system - a simple one without the interface of Queen to back him up, but competent enough to catch up any emails sent out to him from business ventures and sponsor programs. Long ago he'd carried around a physical manifest of it, scribbling in the margins and ticking off names, numbers, the interconnective web he just knew he'd slot himself into someday and finally be able to show Cyber City just what he could do.

It's probably long lost somewhere, tossed out with everything else the moment he had ditched the flock's sad excuse of a nest. Still a sore point he'd rather not poke at.

However, instead of the flickering neon green slash teal border and black filled boxes of his inbox, Spamton was hit with a surge of violent vertigo, a tingling at the back of his skull, and a sharp stabbing pain in the roof of his mouth that was gone just as suddenly as it had struck.

He had sat there, in complete and utter silence, trying to process what had just happened. But the buffering didn't help, because when he hesitantly tried again - nothing happened.

Nothing. All his years of work, of messages and chatter and note taking, every quote and card copied resource, all of it just…gone. The pain didn't come back, and for some reason that fact, that sheer ****ing absence, left him shaky and blind for a few long, long minutes afterwards.

It all meant, unfortunately, that he had no contact with anyone outside of TV World. Whatever interference was happening here, he was getting no messages and he couldn't send any out either, so no way of telling how things were running on the other side.

Obviously, obviously, Spamton believed all was well over there. He'd hired people who had some good loyalty to him, people he could rely on, and they wanted to keep their jobs and good pay, didn't they? If something had gone out of whack in the City, the managers would handle it for their boss any day of the week!

…but that didn't quell the sense of unease, the churn of his stomach giving him more to think about but not enough to blame. Without some guiderails, Spamton felt like a sitting duck out here in the middle of bum**** nowhere that was the Studio. No offense to Tenna and his abilities, but the Dreemurr household was just so damn plain that it was a wonder that a TV could even hold it all together in the first place.

Big guy probably believed too much and just made up the difference himself. Definitely explains just how gullible he can be sometimes.

Either way, he had gathered himself up enough to make a very well thought out decision, follow through on that decision, and then had nearly clipped the side mirror off while pulling out of the parking garage in a squeal of tires and gas smoke but he and his trusty Cungadero were gone.

Out he drove, taking the usual empty route through the Dark and its dusty fog as he passed through some dull layers into a deeper pitch that ended up sliding over and then off the metal chassis of his car, sticking to it like tar but then suddenly peeling away at the speed he was going. Unlike Tenna, however, Spamton had just enough common ****ing courtesy to send a note to the man, and since the work day was ended his obligations had taken a nice and firm backseat.

And, unlike his messaging system and advertising visualizers, Spamton's magic held up remarkably well even with both physical and mental strain keeping him ram rod straight in his balancing act over that ugly pit. His bullet miniature manifested without incident, besides the fact that it flapped its wings unevenly and circled round and round, each cycle nearly smacking it into the Cungadero's perfectly solid insides - looked nearly as tired as he did, which was both bull**** and a, uh, bad sign, but at the end of his vocalized letter, the sparkling nature of the magic as it wrote everything into an even smaller mini notebook, Spamton felt it would hold up just fine.

And, maybe a part of him felt nearly petty enough to just ditch and stay in the City for a few days, reconnect with Queen and his mansion rooming situation, tighten the cogs of his more favored businesses and make some phone calls to any of the others he could give less than half a **** about - but, he'd not do that. The very thought nearly incited a sense of regression, before he was shaking it away. For ****’s sake, it wasn't the end of the world if he just gave Tenna a heads up. From what faint impressions he still got from the bullet, he was pretty sure the thing was competent enough to find the big guy and keep him some company till Spamton got back.

“That's good enough, isn't it? If he can't handle seeing me face to face all ****ing day, then he can wait a damn while longer! You get it, right?” He shouted to the rumbling Cungadero, having to raise his voice just to even hear the thought process himself. “Are you picking up on what I mean? You stepping in what I'm ****ting!?”

He pressed hard on the gas with an attempt at a chuckle but came out more like a cackle, the force of speed nearly shoving him back in his seat, but Spamton kept one hand whiteknuckled on the steering wheel, his other still outstretched, raised as high as he could stretch with fingers spread and palm open wide. The Dark shifted, not silent but filled with wind and the cars rumbling, his own heartbeat in his ears as Spamton squinted his eyes and convinced himself that he was doing exactly what he needed to do right now. He was fairly good at that, honestly, and even if that impression of **** *** dread still hung over him, knowing something could happen at any moment that he wasn't there at the Studio, wasn't there to stop it - but he needed to step back, get the frame of reference, and for ****’s sake gather his resources together before he can do jack****. Tenna will be just fine for a couple of hours by himself.

The moment of just the cold, just the wind, just the usual route between estranged Dark Places, and then his fingers tensed and a sense of pressure enveloped the top half of his hand. Unfurling, rippling in the air above, and even though he could not technically see it Spamton found his eyes darting away from the nonexistent road and instead up, out there, the Cungadero's lights unable to light up anything even a few inches away, but the sheer sensation of a massive almost cloud, almost fog bank, almost too soft and too slow and too real-

He brushed it, a light touch to the passing whale's belly, and there was the sudden vanishing of the cold - instead of the snow chill or even the usual Dark cold radiating out in the inbetweens, Spamton felt nothing at his fingertips.

An utter absence, incompatible state of being. If Spamton had a flashlight and had turned it on, half tilted and pointed the beam up into that blackness of thinning nothingness, broke open that pretty pretty eggshell, then maybe he'd have for once made a choice that would've mattered.

He didn't draw away fast enough to avoid the descending pressure, the prickling bubble of it, and instead Spamton grinded his teeth together as he full body flinched away, down and flattened against his seat, from the sudden cold drop of an utter raw fear that was not his own.

The leviathan breached, billowed overhead like an oily Aurora Borealis - one that he couldn't see, the enveloping of the border surrounding the Titan Spawn causing Spamton to, in half instinct and half terror, suck in and hold his breath, blinded by the impression of a far too vast, deep, abyssal sea.

Then he was past the border, rumbling along as the Darker than Dark let up, turning dull and mild as scan lines phased through the sky and the road materialized itself back under the Cungadero's wheels. The smell of the City carried even out here along the far outskirts, acid and smoke and junk programs mixing with the sharp sparking of the Cyber Fields and the miles of thick copper tubing that funneled tempered air in and out throughout the city. They looked burnished even from here, Spamton noted, and underneath the familiar scents his every breath came in and out of him tainted with a hint of electric fire, smokey and decayed in his throat.

The first time he'd gone through the border himself, no tram or train ticket, no public transport connectors between Dark Places holding together with thick slick strands of interconnectivity, Spamton had been…terrified was too strong a word, of course, and he might have been fearful and his knees turning to jelly the instant he had taken a step outta the car, but he had held his ground damn well like a professional.

The second time, Spamton had reached both hands out to the sky, too high to care a damn about the steering wheel free of direction, and crowed and screamed out the last of his manic excitement of his new business venture, a >>(BIG SHOT): ready to head home to celebrate the good, the best, news.

He had another half an hour or so of driving just to get to the City proper, so Spamton settled, fiddling with the radio to get on some Top 50 Ads Of The Year before leaning on back and getting comfortable. Up ahead, glowing in false light pollution and more unaddressed battery suckers, Cyber City waited.