Chapter Text
Right. Sure. Fu*k it.
A schedule change!?
Spamton had to excuse himself from the set, because his hands were trembling and the sleep pressure that numbed his fingers and wrists, kept him from really even feeling the fabric of his gloves, was doing something to him and he didn't want to have to explain himself if he ended up snarling at an unsuspecting Pippins or something. That was something more in line with Tenna, wasn't it? The big guy's voice could go so steely grimace cheerful, all tall and looming and with that stupid wide grin on his dark screen, that it made Spamton want to simultaneously vomit and prostrate himself to the man - not something to be considering right now-
He'd had a real s**t night, early morning, whatever, however many hours he'd gotten to himself in the Z-Rank room. Getting to sleep after…well, after all that, had been nearly impossible. Made extra difficult because he hardly slept there in the first place - if he stayed nights at the studio, he stayed with Tenna, because late night work going over planned script edits, new or possible sponsors, numbers and dates and the damn paperwork that came with an analogue old a*s place like this, it all had to take up unpaid overtime, didn't it? Sure, Tenna has made some, ha, remarks about it, and, sure, Spamton did sometimes entertain the idea that he was getting paid, maybe not money but as long as neither of them mussed up their suits bad enough then some fooling around wasn't nearly out of the question-
He forced himself to not throw a punch at the closest wall, instead stuffing his trembling fists into his pockets and avoiding eye contact with some of the crew streaming through the corridors. Most halls were full of staff today, because today was supposed to be >>”SPECIL ANNOUNCEMENT”-
Spamton bit his tongue, forced the heaved sharp exhale into something like a long, silent sigh instead. His fu**ing head was killing him today. Lack of sleep, the constant numb scrawling from his hands, the resounding blaring tonal echos of his own thoughts, sounding differently blank and real damn loud to boot, and then the pressure behind his squinting eyes as the stagelights burned into him - was everything just brighter or was it him? When he had slumped himself out of bed this morning, forcing himself to gently, gently turn off that annoying as* alarm, he ended up having to drag himself to the cabinet and fumble out a couple of pain meds and half an empty bottle of battery acid, taken ages ago from Queen’s Mansion.
One shot had cleared his sinuses, second made his haggard breathing slow, and the third had stilled his trembling hands. The rest steadied him out, made him at least be able to take things in better stride, plus those painkillers to hopefully take the rest of the edge off. During just those faint few nightly hours the gloves had soaked through and the sheets were stained. The cabinet handles were still streaked with crackly dried up code debris, disintegrating at the touch and leaving a shiny sheen to the metal.
Probably a good thing he slept in boxers and didn't mess around with sleepwear, meant less laundry to try and excuse later. He ended up stuffing the ruined gloves and damp thin sheets into the bathroom's garbage bin as best as he could, fully intending to pile up anything else and burn it, later. His swollen thick hands felt numb, anesthetized, bad code gunked up at his nails - Spamton didn't want to look at them, so his shower was quick and he grit his teeth and ignored the flabby feel of his fingers through his hair as he washed, dried, leaned to peer into the mirror and try to put himself together.
For all the hurdle of doing his makeup with stiff shaky hands, he felt he did a pretty damn good job. Not the best, but good enough - no sign of his eyebags, Addison dilated pupils hid the bloodshotting, cleaned up the neon popup fuzz of overgrowth vying for his chin space, even gave his long nose a quick and nice shine. Hair was fine, slicked back and smooth, no white at the roots since his last dye job was a few days ago, and his glow was bright, entirely unhampered by - by whatever the f**k was happening to his hands.
If he was in Cyber City he'd make a discrete trip to some quiet Ambyu-Lances, the ones deeper in the streets and less likely to sell data as long as he threw his money about and not his reputation. But he wasn't, and wouldn't making a trip there take time, planning, effort - and more importantly, excuses?
But, not as if he'd get the opportunity to raise them, huh? Big man of the TV World had decided to scramble the planned showtimes today, done it real early this morning apparently, and not a single note or memo, nothing at all to his co-host Spamton. No word of their announcement episode being aired, where it'd be aired, when it would be aired - nothing, nope, jacksh** about the whole shebang, radio silence even-
If he wanted to contact the man, Spamton had two choices - head to his office and find wherever the >>HELL RIGHT NOW he had thrown his headset, or go searching out the Sets by foot. The Green Room had its billboard, the Pippins he had talked to mentioned that the new changes had been put up there, that the crews had been thrown into fanatic panic at having to shift around the times and switch out shows, but that was all in a day's work, wasn't it? If the studio was lit up and it was a whole “the Lightners are watching” debacle, then everything was unpredictable, up in the air, all on a whim - if Tenna was on the fritz, rushing about set to set and barging himself on stage under the showlights, then that was just how things ran out here.
Spamton had found early on, shadowing the boss for a short while after his mailroom status was very unsuspiciously elevated to “left hand man”, to more often look out for the times where Tenna hung about offstage instead, hovering over floor managers and pointing out discrepancies in their paperwork or sitting in miraculously appearing Director chairs and wielding a megaphone as he bulldozed over anyone he had previously put in charge. Meant that no Dreemurr was sat in front of the screen for the time, hour, day or night, and that meant everything was being routed Dark Place wise. If the laptop was around that included Cyber City, and Tenna had an odd habit when it came to his shows outside of the Light - he was somehow even more micromanagey than usual.
Spamton has only had to deal with that once, back in the mailroom. At the time they hadn't known each other long. He'd almost walked out of the studio, out of their verbal contract, right then and there - only thing keeping him back was his other, far more important contract advising him to █████████.
…Well, uh. That, and the fact that the big guy was sort of, what, pathetic? When confronted with someone who he didn't own, contractually - and then Tenna had proceeded to apologize afterwards, seemed almost ashamed of himself in an uptight, strangled way. Was a bit of a whiplash, really, and was the starting point to pulling the curtains back from the big showbusiness nearly Hollywood professionalism Tenna had been posturing with when they had first met at one of Queen's eruptingly obnoxious parties. Gone was that TV host mask, all cheer and blunder and rattled off lines easy on the tongue and even easier on the ears, and instead, outside the nearest fire exit and standing in the snow as Spamton smoked his fourth cigarette and relaxed off the tight knit strings guiding him throughout the day, Tenna had somehow changed into someone quieter, the same rocking bounce, though slowed now, to his feet but not the same tight plastered grin on his face. He seemed genuinely sorry, and even more sold in keeping Spamton at the Studio - said he, as the boss, could, should, acclimate to some push back, and the counterbalance might be good for both him and the show.
Said he liked that there was someone who would call him out on it, make him rethink himself and how he ran things, and Spamton had eyed the big man over his smoke, all meek and mellow as his blank screen reflected back the snowfall, condensation at the edges from the chill of the Cold Place outside the Studio walls.
Then Spamton had offered up his pack, his lighter, and Tenna hesitated only a moment before accepting. First makeshift peace offering. Many more to come, after that.
It was…a bit endearing, really. The man threw his weight around, and he sure had a lot of it, but he wasn't a half bad employer. During the entire time Spamton has been here he hasn't seen a single person get fired, no matter what, and the worst episode had only some choice shouting and stomping around, very little else when it came to something substantial for a nonexistent HR department, so him taking a stance at being managed to >>HELL BECAUSE I and back for the job he was sort-of-but-not-really hired for wasn't really a final nail in the coffin either way, but still. Tenna didn't step out for a smoke for just about anyone else besides him, and, eh, maybe Ramb, maybe the Weather Duo - Spamton still took it as a win in his book.
He'd asked, once, where Tenna had picked up the habit anyway, what with the whole “family friendly” persona he had, and learned that back in the day the Dreemurr matriarch had been an avid smoker about the house. Sometime after Asriel had learned to walk and Kris had been adopted, Tenna had mused to him late one night, carding hooked claws through Spamton's sweaty hair and still swimming in the humid high of some magnet Spamton had sprung up on him hours earlier, Toriel had finally ended up quitting and banned cigarettes from her home.
Tenna himself could never quite shake it though, no matter how hard he'd try. His screen showed the information boards, the warnings and anti-commercials, and he knew “Mr. Ant Tenna” was a household name to Darkner families both big and small - and yet, he couldn't make himself give it up. Spamton suspected that the Lightner woman had something to do with it, but hey, who was he to judge?
And anyway, back then that night had bigger problems coming than musing on his not-really boss's, err, eccentricities - turned out magnets left more behind than a slurry hangover the next morning, and he'd had to run about like a damn maus with its tail nicked off trying to figure out what an “external degausser” even was, and then how to even use it when said boss was being a disagreeable, still mostly incomprehensible brat about it. Last time Spamton ever brought magnets to TV World, that was for sure.
…Well, maybe he'd have liked a magnet or two right about now. Then again, Tenna would've likely avoided him just as much if he knew what was good for him.
…Or wait, would he?
Not now. Not the time, not the place, not even the f**king room scene. Not. Now.
Spamton ended up swerving on his feet, letting momentum swing him 180° around, before forcing his stiffed up legs to get moving again, less pacing more acting - **cking >>HELL AS THE CROOKED, his head hurt with all this, this internal noise! Even the hall lights were too bright, sickeningly swirly pulsing amber, all strung up around these older stages - from what he's heard, as he turned corners and down through much quieter, emptier halls, Set 5 was at least a decade old by now.
Needed a real renovation, Spamton narrowed in on, gnashing the thought savagely, deep in his hoarsely acidic throat and gummed with swallowed old blood code. Rip out the old walls, get rid of the aged lead filled doors, vacuum out the layers of asbestos - surprising the studio hasn't caught fire in all the years TV Time has been airing, all the hard overheated work hours of its unsuspecting boss going double time to, very unsuccessfully, burn the whole damn place down.
Probably wasn't even insured, Spamton acknowledging bitterly. He's seen the paperwork, quarterly reports, dividends and all - the place could barely be called functional, especially when compared to Cyber City's competition.
Then again, Cyber City did not have a TV Time of their own, and probably never would. The upfront Light world was far more favored over here than back there, that was for sure.
The wallpaper leading from Set 0 to 5 was garish, green and sprinkled with sparkly little stars, ribboned meteor showers and outdated swirly patterns best left at Lightner bowling alleys - that, Spamton eyeballed as he soldiered on, also needed a change. Set 9 and 10 already had some new color palettes to them - red and gold, bright, eye catching, heavy with fame and fortune, symbolic to >>HELLBOUND and back, not to mention Spamton's original color coordination for Big Shot Autos, that extra bang for his buck which was supposed to get the most benefit of the officiation of their partnership the quickest, right outta the lot. They were supposed to have had a shoot involving the new and improved 2000's Era Cungadero Plus later today, record it live and then smooth out a neat catchy commercial for the rest, interspersed with Spamton's more favored business sponsors and segmented in smooth and easy with any of the usual sh** Tenna wanted to supplement.
Originally that was to have been shot oh, hm, well, around an hour ago. Should've been front and center for the Dreemurr kids to parse over, look and watch and covet his specialty crafted masterpiece of an automobile, formulated and molded for both Dark and Light usage - he'd been *uc*ng proud of it, still was even, nothing can take that away now that it was ingrained in ear worm jingles and the snapping of his ads, the sprawling blueprints written in a language he only sometimes understood and the ringing of the phone-
Spamton suddenly stumbled, tripping over a twisting freeze of his own two feet, heart in his throat and blood sudden leaded ice through his veins. The wall and its stupid dingy wallpaper supported his shoulder, the suddenly emptied hallway around him gaping and endlessly silent, his sharp inhaled breath almost amplified in the still air, blurry eyes pulled wide as he jerkily tried to scan the ceiling - nothing.
A phone was ringing, out there. It was muffled, tone piercingly throttled, vibrating the very worlds far away eardrums - and Spamton felt the pinching numb pressure of his weight against one hand, against the hard wall, inhaling and swallowing down the sudden rolling clouded stench of burning dust and choked out ozone, come back now from his morning self medicating just to brutalize his senses - and again the phone rang, an odd tint to its jingle that sounded nothing like he's heard, would ever hear.
There was shuffling, quiet sounds, low hum of mumbled voices - and the ringing stopped. A deep rumble answered, ‘Hello?’, muffled by the dark dusty casing.
Outside, buzzing in his teeth and light bleeding blind behind his eyelids, he could hear a monotonous back and forth between a Lightner weatherman and a meteorologist, static undercurrent fizzling silent as vibration shivered and a pinching twist pressed in, not quite and yet still feeling the great big paws on the dials.
The television sets volume was turned down, and the budding phone conversation went out of earshot into the kitchen.
Spamtons left hand spasmed - he swore, for a dizzying unpleasant moment, that he could still feel the pen in the palm of his hand.
Swore he could feel it in his throat too - tasted char and coal, fur and dirt and dust, and briefly had a vision of himself locked away in Tenna's office, hunched over that obnoxiously huge desk drooling all over himself as he shoved the contract papers into his mouth and shredded them with each grinding peel of his jaws, sucking the ink stained fibers into a succulent mush he could feel ooze down between his swollen leathery sweat damp fingers, right down till it lathered and stained the desk's surface, coated black and thick with both his and Tenna's signatures - entwining in and out of themselves at the worst of wrong angles-
Then he snapped out of it, short jagged raw inhale of breath, squeeze of his clammy fingers in damp gloves. A measured, stiff and highly choreographed, highly practiced motion to brush his hand over his face, pinch the bridge of his nice long nose, rise up and slick back any loose locks of hair. The backstage winding hallway stayed empty - no witnesses.
He was fine. That…other phone was picked up, no more ringing - he'd have not been able to get it anyway, out there while he was in here. He's all good.
He's fiiiiiine.
…fu** did he need another drink. Maybe something stronger.
After regaining his balance, his shakes, his dignity, he quickened his pace and ignored the murmuring mumble of background voices, low and deep and foreign, Light blessed - the televisions volume was inched around once more, and the electric current behind his eyes burned in the gaps of his teeth, tasting bitter static iron as he swallowed.
Spamton kept moving.
***
He'd had a nightmare, last night.
Back at his desk, phone in his hand and pressed to his ear, firm and stiff and still. The curly cord had been wrapped about his free hands fingers, rubbing over the black rubber, digging a nail into it every few moments, jitter of nerves high and dry in his throat and office dark, dark, dark. There was a tone, in and out, silence in the room besides this one constant, looped noise ribbing in his skull - a busy signal, disconnected, undisturbed by all as the tone continued to dully beep, beep, beep through the speakers.
He had pressed the phone harder to his ear, plastic jutting against him, odd and cool and surprisingly smooth. When his fingers tightened, the soft material molded under his fingertips, giving under his touch, Spamton found himself trembling, infrequent little bouts that made his swollen throat tighten even more.
“Wait,” he had said in his dream, mumble sputtered, guttural and not quite coughed but more like leaked out, “W-wait, that's, that's not what I said, I didn't promise that, that's not what I'd d-do-”
Something tightened. He struggled to swallow, half false gulping silently, fingers spasming around the malleable phone, knotting in the cord - his wrist pinched, a jerky little shake, and his throat began to burn.
“Not to you, I s-swear, I promise, I'm, I'm an h-honest man, I'm not-” Spamton clasped both hands around the phone now, hovered, hunched there before his desk, the black lengthy cord extending with a smooth, tense convulsion of motion as it swung, hung, clung onto him. The softness against the side of his head where the phone was pressed grew heavy, pressured, and when he tried to pull it away there was a squishy sense of give, then stretch, and his joints buzzed with a mismatched relief as he froze, as something slithered between and into the cushions of code and bone and cartilage and everything else.
When he tried to pull the phone away once more there was a pinch hooked sensation along the corner of his lips, and he had to swallow, wiggle his jaw, roll his tongue as space behind teeth became a little more cramped, a little more filled, a little more grooved. It tasted like dust, like smoke, like raw burning rubber, dry lightning, stray electron particles - ozone crept into his senses, expanding his lungs, chasing the sleep paralysis away, and Spamton could taste the pins and needles just as strongly as smell them.
“I promise,” he said, again, but this time his jaw met resistance, wagged, tried to swallow but failed, couldn't close proper - and the phone in his hand squirmed as he then successfully drew it away, eyes wide and burning. The little feeler wires seeping from the speakers outstretched after him, glimmering, and more hung in the air between him and it, trailing and thick and heavy on his tongue, knotted bundles his throat spasmed around as he tried to swallow and failed, drool pooling and slicking down the strings.
More were dug into his hand, his wrist, meshed into his very flesh, pin cushioned in and out and bulging like veins, pushing the tiniest flashing hints of ones and zeros as his code rolled and roiled and wept down the surface of his very skin-
And Spamton knew, deep down and sudden and in a flash, that all he had to do was say yes. All he had to do was agree, be agreeable, and, well, all this? All these wires, all these strings, tied into each joint and with each lazy flick making him jolt and shiver and twitch, this thick cable mesh twined between his jaws and suctioned right down his throat, coiled through trachea and esophagus and down, down, down to root load heavy into his gut-
It would all go away, if he just did as he was told.
His hand spasmed around the phone, the soft withering giving way to hard stiff plastic, before back again as it wept about his fingers, as it sucked against his palm, and the wires engorged through its speaker, intake and outtake, tensed, convulsed. He could feel it, going firm and then relaxing, inside him.
He wanted to throw up. If he did, more wires would slither in to take the place of any dislodged.
The skin of his face tightened, a bruising sensation about the corners of his lips, the tense upturned hook tilting until he knew he was grinning, big and wide and mouth full of distended coiling thick wires, neon greens and darker than dark black, red and yellow and white before twisting to static code - the light was black against his wide eyes, unable to even cry out as his throat convulsed around them all.
…It was just one little thing, wasn't it? Just, do it, and then this would be done. He'd, haha, he'd not even know they were there! Wouldn't even remember they were there in the first place - and he's done it for so, so long now, hasn't he?
It would be easy. Nod his head, mumble an answer, agree to it all, all over again-
Then there was a knock at the door.
The wires tightened, losing all slack - the phone was smacked back against the side of his head, a tickling, mind numbing sensation as wires snaking further, deeper into his skull.
Spamton knew exactly who was out there, right there, in front of his office.
Lord of the Screens…?
That was Tenna.
It was just…Tenna. That was all.
…He was waiting for Spamton. They had been, planning? Something? Hadn't they…? And now he was just, waiting, for Spamton to sign off on it.
There was another knock.
In the dream, Spamton's hand had clenched around the phone, felt it squirm before he dug his fingers in and felt it struggle. The wires tightened, unbearable, fighting to squeeze his eyes shut even as more drooped in, slithered down through his hair and brushed against his eyelids, prodded and poked and squeezed their way inside-
And Spamton, guttural and wheezing and out of air, snarled his puppet of a grinning face and hissed out low and strained-
“N O”
Aaaaaand then he had woken up. An hour and a half before his alarm to boot.
Better than thirty minutes before, but then again. He'd have probably gotten up and nursed more than just one bottle of battery acid for breakfast if that had happened.
In the end he'd been able to stare up at the ceiling till it was a dizzy swirled mush of black and static stars before folding into a half asleep doze, only to be jolted awake a little while later by the alarm.
***
By the time Spamton had gotten done with the Green Room, he realized he needed way more than battery acid to get through the rest of the day.
For starters, the place had been a mess. Utter *h**show - it's always been like that, sure, sure, but for **cks sake Spamton couldn't remember a time where going in there ever felt that *u**ing bad.
He'd been fine - better than fine! Couldn't even feel his hands anymore, couldn't feel the damp slimy slog nor drag of numb skin scraping against soggy fabric, so Spamton had been even lighter than ever, smoothly entering the place like he owned it, which he DID! Not his fault Tenna had put off the announcement.
In the end though, he didn't speak a word of it either. Award losing grin plastered on his face, sweeping already sweat slicked hair back from his face - sue him, he's a sweaty guy! Perks of being an Addision, mostly - and absolutely ready to handle any of the usual slew of small talk and offhanded questionings from co-worker and studio crew alike, absolutely had every line memorized because he's been doing this from day one-
And then the moment their eyes landed on him everything heavy and leaden in the world came crashing down upon his lungs. Sucked the words right out of him.
Thankfully no one had actually asked anything of him immediately - just the usual motion to glance over at whoever was entering the Green Room, surely - but it didn't stop the sudden vast emptiness in Spamton's throat, in his head.
The usual, familiar lines were just, gone. Poof! Out of the picture, slipped away then and there-
When was the last time I really talked to these guys?
He had to edit that thought, right there in his head.
…When was the last time I talked to these guys?
***
The first time Spamton had gotten a sale, a real world Lightner back and forth, he'd still only been half the size of his creche siblings.
Half their weight, half their glow, always halved, always a little less than average - the eldest, the first spawned, and yet always just a bit more behind, a bit lesser. It's what happens when you get lost, and even long after being found things just don't ever go the way they should, do they?
He'd jumped at an opportunity with a customer all on his own, intercepted before his siblings could weave their own ad speak - words poured from his throat, words spun from his siblings slogans, minced and edited to sway in his favor, he's been watching and taking notes and working on himself for ages, for just this big moment, to finally, finally, FINALLY!
BE SEEN!
And then he was.
He got a click, for his troubles. The inbox redirected, went and loaded a link, and then - well, a frozen storefront didn't lend to a good sale day, did it? Got reamed out by the flock later that night, and after that verbal beat down, him absolutely kicking and swinging all the whole way down and not squeezing into bruised code and biting error snips and snipes, after all of that-
He got a report and the link he'd been fed, he'd been trying to feed, was detected by antivirus and then deleted. Taken out back and shot, right in the depths of his code, where he'd flung out his sales pitches, where his everything as an Addison was absolute and solidly built on its foundation of sunny skies and sandy beaches-
Probably should've taken that as a sign, honestly. His younger siblings have never, never,been targeted and cache cleaned before, or at least he's seen no sign of such a thing happening.
….Bright bigoted as*holes, the lot of them up there on their higher than high horses, decked out in sales and purchases and “returning customers”.
*uck them. Sure, they could confront a line of customers and, squinted eyes and well tuned cheerful voices and all, meet gazes and spin a yarn like nobodies business, straight out of the gates knowing exactly how to do their **cking jobs!
F**k them! He can hold down a conversation and stuff a sale down a willing throat just as easily - give him a few minutes of time and he's got them hook, line, sinker, the whole shebang and all!
He can do it! He can totally look someone in the eye and make small talk, pick just the right options, slide down the right dialogue tree to just about sell them anything, everything, give him house and home for it all that's how much he can sell them out for, that's it!
Just, he just needed the chance. Give him a chance, and he'd repay it all back, every loan and promise and deal. He'll get back to ya, no problem, just - give me a bit more time, just a lil bit more, and it'll all go right as rain, yeah?
He hasn't seen his flock in a very, very long time, and he's made no plans to visit.
***
In the end, Spamton had to slog through the Green Room, throat thick and wet with every word and bitten grin and squinted eyed glance he had to shoot back, finger guns and all. Didn't take long to get to the board, nonchalantly flip through the pinned up announcements and the whole time ignore how his numb hands were trembling, clenching fingers into loose fists, clumsy but stubborn - he was doing fiiiine.
He looked good, had made sure of it, looked great even! Spamton was doing just an awesome job at this, no strings attached!
…Everyone's **cking eyes were on him.
But, no. Not really. Everyone had a job to do, break times or not, and the place was a fast paced mess of bodies and talk and-
Everyone's F***ING eyes are on me-!
He ran a hand through his hair, relaxed back his shoulders, forced himself to - some Pippins nearby babbled to each other, grouped up in a clumb of wagging die and thrown around numbers even as they shed pages and compared notes. A Zapper and two Shadowmen walked by, tunes of firm approval and then rolling chuckles following behind them - one Shadowman waved out their arms, swinging around in their 2D sliced space before wobbling 3D, then back as the Zapper wagged their head side to side in agreement.
A Shuttah ambled on past, hand eyes weaving over paperwork and grinning face pinching and twisting in internal thought - when it brushed by Spamton it's lips twitched, sidestepping around the man as he leaned back against the wall, and when he gave it a halfhearted waving salute the being winked its eyes at him, a wave of its own before hurrying along. Even without trying he could just tell that there was an uncomfortably tugged down frown pulling on its waxy flushed face.
Spamton scrubbed at his burning eyes, glaring briefly up at the light fixtures - *u**ing too bright in here. It's not a stage set but my eyes are being boiled alive in their fu**ing sockets! - and his hands clenched, unclenched, numb and only feeling the pressure squeeze of the gloves, of the motion itself. F***, he really could go for a cigarette right about now. Almost considered it, but the hustle bustle, the eyes of the room was just past his tolerance threshold - he needed to get out of here.
And they just kept looking at him! He could feel it, burning in deep through the glass, biting bright hotwire between his teeth, skidding his gums and blurring through his veins-
The television's volume was turned up once more. The weather was wrapping up, leading into a study on this winter's cloud vortex and the possible heat dome that might be coming this summer.
He was being watched.
Spamton left the Green Room.
****
So, what had he learned? Thinking through the snippets of talk and conversation he'd been able to shimmy out made him queasy as>>HELL TO REACH, but as Spamton turned down another one of the studios many, many winding hallways he could at least pin out the choicer take.
The Lightners had been the cause of the shuffle. Dreemurr heads of the household had come back home from their anniversary beach vacation early - the reason why was still being debated and, in the case of the Pippins, being bet on. The under the table leaderboard was apparently a real rough one, widely understood that, should any of this be leaked to the big boss, they'd have a whole lot more to pay than just their paychecks - fuc*ing >>HELL FROM HERE, some people out here still wondered if Tenna just ate those he fired.
Stupid sh** to waste time on, at least to Spamton. Even he can take one look at a Pippins and take a guess that they'd taste like utter dog***t - the hard crusty kind that's been baking in the sun, mummified hair and chunks of chewed up plastic kids toys and old kernels of corn. Not the least just because he never fired anyone anyway, but Tenna had a respectable palate for >>GOD CAN’T HEAR’s sake!
Sweet tooth and all! Who knew Ant was, holy **i*, a FU**ING ANT?
…what was he thinking of again? Right right! The goings ons and why the absolute flying f*** the big announcement welcoming him, Spamton G. Spamton, as TV Worlds brand spanking new co-host! Was mother**c*ing cancelled! Or at the very least, rescheduled, which was waaaay worse in Spamton's opinion.
Word on the set was that, with the Dreemurrs sudden arrival, the babysitting teens hadn't slept in and the younger kids hadn't gotten up at the buttcrack of dawn to watch early morning cartoons and eat leftover cold pie - which meant, of course, that Tenna had nearly lost his mind scrambling around for new programming to better suite the shakeup.
But, the problem was - he hadn't even bothered saying a damn thing to Spamton. Sure sure, he can understand the mix up - bumps in the road happen, TV can be unpredictable with top brass being as finicky as the Dreemurrs - but that sure didn't make him feel any better for being left out! Him, shiny new co-host! Half the *u**ing company's assets now belonged to him- where did Tenna get off shoving him aside from major decisions like this?
Spamton had almost considered going to Ramb, singular Cyber World native besides himself, a senior, or rather, veteran of TV World's backa** backwards bulls**ttery, but what was he gonna do when he got there in front of the guy? Bi**h and moan and complain about some petty bull that would clear up in less than a day? And then what, yeah? The bartender would more than likely just tell him to get into contact with the boss, either headset or walk, and that was already what Spamton was figuring out about anyway so why waste time? Definitely didn't matter that he could feel the guy's blank stare all the way across the Green Room from the get go - Ramb wasn't even looking at him but Spamton knew.
Wasn't his fault, of course, just the way plugs were. Empty eyed staring ba****ds, and everyone, everyone, knew that's where the real backbone of things came from - everyone had to plug in somewhere, after all.
Sooooo, headset, or walk. Two real great options, just great, fantastic, options - he should've gotten a *u**ing memo. As the halls flew on by, quick step harried by a deep sense of disbalance, gloved hands shoved into his pockets and teeth grinding, side to side, as more and more time was spent having to yank up a watery Addison squinted grin at any employee that dared bother his speedy retreat - and he brushed them away with as much smoothness as he could sell out, gritted bared teeth and focusing on whatever it was he chose to spin for them, usually some combo small talk of, what, the weather? Or some other bull and then a little huff and puff about the big boss, shooting the **it even as he edged himself away from Pippins, Shadowguys, Zappers, even a Shuttah and, once, very uncomfortably, having to shimmy his way around a watercooler as it took its 15 minute bubble break.
F***, what was he going to do? Business partners, they were business partners, and what does Tenna have him do the first day of officially signing on but have him chase after his damn tail like a lost mangy mutt? Was that really the plan here? Cause if that was then Spamton was gonna be a >>HELL SHUTS DOWN of a disappointingly untrained puppy - he hasn't worked half as hard and then tied his bones up with phone tag friends for the last couple of years of his life for this bulls**t!
He's co-host now, damn it! He had a right of authority for this whole damn studio, this building and all its employees and this whole f**king world itself - that contract of theirs made sure work of it!
…which actually, now that he was pretty unpleasantly sober, maybe Spamton should take the time to parse over all the fine print (and inebriated red penned editing). He hadn't been paying near enough attention last night - blame it on whatever game Tenna had roped him into after hours, and then some for the celebratory “highest rating of the week” gag that involved vintage analog wine and a good bump of whatever Spamton had left in his pockets without digging around in his office for more. And maybe, just maybe, that had been enough of a push for the both of them, because now that he thought about it Spamton was pretty sure he'd been rock solid and unyielding, impenetrable, when it came to Tenna's great “TV Time Official Contract”. He had been a damn boulder, steady and unmovable, the epitome of unbreakable, toughing it out in the wishy washy warm currents of the big guys static sweet nothings - and Spamton had not entered that room with any intention, any at all, to sign a >>GOD PUT MEdamn thing!
What they had from the get go was a verbal agreement, nothing much else beside pure business transactional trust, real partnership values and all, under the table signed checks and thrown around points for playing stupid little games, winning stupid little prizes - Tenna wasn't always little, and he honestly wasn't all that stupid, but >>HELL! if Spamton would turn that prize away for damn near anything. Terms of a real tried true business partner, y'know? Going at it thick and thin, or however that saying went.
…but if the phone had rung just a minute earlier, he'd have dropped everything for it. They all knew, he and Tenna and the Voice on the other end - Spamton would've dropped anything, everything, all for the phone's even sweeter words.
Then again, last night he had…he, uh, had…
Spamton slowed to a stop, the empty halls and towering walls, disappeared foggy ceiling drifting overhead, and a rippling thing that almost tasted like disbelief squirmed along the back of his throat before being bitten into and swallowed roughly, forcefully.
He'd been, haha, avoiding that fact of the matter, trying damn hard to just, forget about it or something. Been working pretty well, to be honest to himself here!
His numb tingling hands throbbed. As he stretched his fingers, clenched and unclenched, grimacing at the weird drag of texture, Spamton realized that the fabric of the gloves had gone tacky, a little more than just a hint moisty even.
…W-well, fu** walking, and *uc* a wild goose chase, ouroboros eating it's own **cked up tail! Headset it is - their shared office space had a restroom right next door, and from there it was just a hop, skip and a jump to Tenna's dressing room anyway. He'd grab up the radio, get into contact, meet back up in a nice and timely manner, even if it's been hours now and scheduled programming was chugging along exactly as “planned”.
The bulletin in the Green Room had been pretty damn clear - Spamton had nothing on his plate today, or at least nothing to do with being on camera in any way shape or form. Not even a >>GOD TAKING Adamn commercial airing his own personal businesses or connected associates, nothing, nada, zip zilch f***ing zero.
His teeth grinded harder, louder in his skull, jaw clenching tight as the ache in his head roiled about, worsened as his eyes squinted shut against the blaring brightness of the overhead lights, the guttural dusty interior of the halls as he inhaled sharply and just how damn musty and stuffy and, uh, er, eh, grusty, or whatever the >>HELL AND I’LL ANSWER it was in here, too dark, it's too damn dark in here even as electrical currents flared through circuitry, ate through his own veins as he spat it back out and swallowed all the ozone and phosphorus and radiational static stuffed back into him-
F**k, did anyone else see this sh**!? Did Shuttah have to wallow about as an internal eye candy camera in this bulky idiot boxes ginormous awestrikingly gigantic head? Did the Weather Duo puff about along with all the dust motes and tumbleweed tangles and knots of vacuumed in and stuck up Lightner fur? All the grit and grime in here, in this, *uck, this work of ***king engineered electronic Light blessed art, little piece of pie's >>HEAVEN:???
The pins and needles in his hands sharpened, nauseated gurgling as his empty stomach twisted and turned, feeling thin picking and poking little shots of itchiness crawl up and down his arms. His gloves were now very damp.
Spamton decided that his next stop would be somewhere with a sink and mirror. Definitely didn't want to confront Tenna without sprucing himself up, yeah?
As he went, he tried not to choke on rubber burning smoke and ozone infused dust particles that he kept sucking into his lungs with every breath - big guy sure needed a damn good clean up himself, didn't he.
***
His reflection looked haggard.
Spamton leaned, putting his weight on his wrists and rolling his hands to avoid smearing his damp gloves against the sink lip - the mirror image copied him, inching closer as he stared at himself. The fluorescent lights of the restroom were bright, bright, sharp enough to make him squint and blink away blurry little tears, scrub a sleeve up to try and smear away the residue hint of code static that leaked from the corners of his eyes.
But even with his vision dinking up Spamton could try to straighten himself to look at least half professional. Addison pinned wide pupils hid the bloodshotting, so got a checkmark there, the usually gel slick smoothness of his hair flicked up with odd locks and ends, all prickled and ruffled and a **itshow mess that made him look way too loony but maybe, maybe that all could be sold in package form as eccentric instead, and while the corners of his lips kept twitching and his blown wide smile was as awardless as ever, withering from the get go, his glow a hint smothered with stress and sweat and little puffs of electrical exhalation, just enough to stop the sense of impending doom in a short circuited blowout - while he stood there before the mirror, raised on tip toes and staring, focused, evil eyed, on his own reflection, Spamton had to admit-
-that he looked like s***.
Wait. Wait, he surely could do better than that - roughed up, yeahhh. Tough ***t maybe, sure, a bit more than just roughed up though, as good a selling point as any, but Spamton wasn't looking to sell anything but that pure charismatic professional nonchalance. Smooth moves and that raw charismatic balance, yeah. He sure as >>HELL IS THE MATTER was not going to let Tenna know just how *u**ing mad he was about this whole mess, the brat could simmer in his own impatience waiting for the day Spamton crawled up to him and begged for answers - newsflash ***hole, Spamton was the one with all the answers here! He's the ***king middleman keeping things moving along at its neat steady pace, no worries there!
…Except, there were worries now, and Spamton felt himself freeze in place, thinking this thought and staring at the withered grimace he had now plastered on his sweaty face. His damp hands clenched, feeling a squelchy give to the fabric under his numb touch, and goosebumps rose up and down his arms, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up on end.
What a time to think of this now, in a public restroom that he had dragged in and then shoved a folding chair against the door as makeshift lock, huh? His office had no mirror, and Tenna's was a full length floor to ceiling monster of a thing - wouldn't matter anyway without a sink.
Clean up, dumb***.
As Spamton clumsily twisted on both faucets, eyes tearing away from his shivering reflection and down to stare at the rush of water down the drain, he found the tightness in his chest and the throbbing behind his eyes matched beat for beat, every inhale dusty and burnt and old.
He wasn't going to deny it, not now, sober and unreal and very very real at the same time, the phone's Voice gone and only thoughts of Tenna, big old stupidly endearing, silly and elegant and immensely forever present and never-going-to-die-if-it's-the-last-thing-Spamton-ever-does Tenna, and then remember how this huge encompassing metallic relic of Lightner art and life and engineering, pure solid true, was just so very very real - that could possibly replace that gaping hole in his entire sense of being-
And now Spamton was suddenly just, somewhere else now, all the time.
With him.
Here he stood, before the mirror and wincing as he stripped the sticky sopping gloves off his hands, sodden torn strips of paper towel coming off along with them, the mirror flicker reflections coming back ‘round, too bright and too sharp and too damn awful with his every shift or shuffle - and yet, he was also here, in the dark and the dust and the warmth, the coated metal and plastic and wiring hard to make out in the encased gloom. Little blips of light, flashings of color and then half heard mumbled words, reading on script as the televisions televised showings followed along behind glass and phosphorus and vacuum.
If he tried, strained hard enough in a thin ray suction sense of someone else, he could almost see just who, exactly, was watching - impression of size, of multiple shapes, of couch and room and brightness, ugly and blemished as he tried to sluggishly wrap his mind around the very concept, the very impression, showroom and scene and live, live, very much live camera video-
The inner, instinctive sense of where he was at all times - every Darkner worth their weight in salt and dust and Light made Dark knew this already, always did and always would - has been with him since…forever, really. Spamton did not make it a habit to think back far, nor was he the philosophical sort to delve into the nature of what he was - he'll leave all that to the Librarby's upstairs books, thank you very much.
The length of it, to him, reached as far as he needed to go, and the Voice on the Phone had always been obscure, whisper hidden on just how many miles he had to climb that purple mountain before he'd break through the cloud cover of darkness and reach a hand into >>HEAVEN:-
The cliffs were perilous, sure, but Spamton had his tether, phone in and code out, spread and mussed with any email that came into contact with him, wanted or not. Q5U4EX7YY2E9N, her Cyber City rampart and lobby, was his tie in - Spamton was, after all, an Addison. He had a place and, to the Lightners, he had a purpose. Sure, not as if every Darkner had to be liked by their creators, and he'd been spawned out from greed, from capitalism, from desperation, but hey, you can't choose who you are!
But, then again…against all the odds, he'd found his own out, his own signal line from what he was to what he wanted to be, or at least the pathway there, littered with yellow and pink flashing spotlights that trailed off into a fog of darker than dark darkness, crystalline and multifaceted with the phone's dial tone - but that took time, didn't it? Time and effort and all the willpower in his too small body, and eventually he'll rise past his rank and file, rise far past it, was climbing his way out of the crab pit dodging all the snipping claws and into open televised airways already! He'd be more than a salesman, good reviews or not didn't ****ing matter - he could, wanted, needed, to be more. Just, wasn't quite there yet.
The point was, Spamton had always known exactly what he damn well was. His very existence was at the whims of the Light, whims of Lightners, and every push and pull he gave against the world was only along an eternal barrier that gave just as much back and then some. He had no power, and no choices either - not until he had first answered the phone and was told that █████████, and that he just needed to say yes.
And he had.
And now…he was here.
Spamton stared down at his exposed hands, lips thin and jaw drawn tight, eyes bulged a bit wide and body stiff, stiff, still.
He had no lungs to inhale the dust, but it layered over him anyway, tucked snugly into green field circuitry and feeding in and out electrical current, sharpening each pore and false pixel in the shadowboard, blazing a favorite show to the surrounding Dreemurr's as the kids played on the floor with shadowy action figures and the teens tried to not look bored and the adults only half watched as they avoided looking at each other.
He could…see it all, couldn't he…? Through Light and sound and a deep, deep sense of vertigo - he wasn't seeing jack****, here in the dusty dank dark and surrounded by hum buzzing electrical that he was all a part of, that he himself was hum buzzing along with whether he wanted to or not, and yet if he tapped in just the slightest bit, melded up, up, up in the fuzz thrum of the current, he could see through a screen not his own-
He can't just keep *****footing around it, can he?
Spamton stared at the now withered leathery thickened texture of his hands, the dead glow that now scrawled its way up his wrists, was starting to root up his arms and dip and wrinkle along his elbows. The restroom's lights reflected wetly off his skin, and rinsed off it was obvious what dripped and dribbled from his pores wasn't just water - the sink was splattered with clots of pale scarlet static, code just…washed down the drain.
There was a deep sense of, what maybe might be discomfort, or disturbance, a pressure taut pull as he moved each finger, watched the folds of his very skin bunch and stretch and hang off his bones, or, or whatever it was that firmed up underneath, thick and layered and divoted in long stringy, then plated, lines just under the skin, just a tiny hint of sickening nausea coiling in his hollow stomach - it looked like string…or, maybe wires.
Spamton stared, then forced himself to stutter in a breath, and then another when it didn't come in right, feeling like he was going to choke on his own damn spit. It tasted hot in his mouth, tasted like burning, bright hot fire electrical current blitzing behind his teeth, flowing through copper insides and under rubber outsides, stretched and coiled and easing a back and forth conversation between two hot points of contact, the heavy constant thrumming of something, someone else surrounding him, encasing, entrapping, folded and ensnared, a huge embrace of awestrikingly powerful proportions-
Spamton found himself stumbling over to a stall, shoving his way inside and near collapsing against the toilet, not even able to feel the cold porcelain against his numb fingers as he started to heave.
He wasn't an Addison anymore.
When his cramping insides finally gave up the struggle, throat sour and hot as Spamton slid down to the cold tacky tiles and tried to catch his stuttery wheezing breaths, little exhaled gasps of quiet sound that was much too borderline whimpery and made his aching brain cringe away, cringe until there was nothing but a dissolving sense of the strangest thread of disbelief left in him. His trembling hands were curled into clumsy fists, dribbling code still from seams and wrinkles, rippling dead pixel flesh, powered out.
Spamton felt like ****. Made sense, too, if he thought about it.
…He didn't want to think about it, head already aching in pulsing beats that matched the solid, unavoidable censors arcing in his brain. He'd not think about it - he'd not let himself think about it.
**** that. ****...**** that, man.
The sticky tile floor was cool under him, the chill seeping into his trousers, along with all the rest of the grime - when was the last time the janitor cleaned up the place anyway? The water was still running in the sink, tap on, tap not off, the sound so far, far away.
After a moment of very solid internal debating, Spamton shifted, grimaced as he got himself comfortable with his back against the toilet, and then dug around in his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, then his lighter. It took a moment to shake one out, then light, his hands trembling too much for the first few flicks to even catch, and then squinting his eyes at the flame as he attempted to not burn himself as he lit up the cig tucked between his lips and teeth.
And then, after a sobering inhale, he forced himself to reeelax on the exhale, smoke trailing from his mouth and nose, whisp of a mucusy cough then tickling the back of his throat before dissolving away in a half gurgled, much too suffocated and very much an almost hint of a giggle - his thoughts jerked, forcefully turned, grinding just the slightest left and away from that ledge.
Good thing the safety measures of this place were so subpar - the studio had only just started putting up the ‘No Smoking' signs, and not every room had a finicky delicate smoke detector just yet, not to mention a sprinkler system, and this restroom right beside their office was a little behind the updated guidelines. Probably should, uhh, get that looked into, actually.
…his hands still shook, and while he wasn't panting or wheezing or whimpering anymore his >>GOD AND ANdamn breath still shuttered out of his chest, lungs tightening with sharp shatter shards of piercing anxiety with each inhale - but each exhale sort of let the smoke mellow him out, tried to let it mellow him out, not looking at or thinking of his numb tingling hand holding his cigarette, the very nerves of him shot through to >>HELL OF IT and back.
Ring around the rosies, he thought absurdly as he half turned and tapped the ash into the toilet. The sour smell of his stomach bile was canceled out by the strong tobacco smoke, and that in turn eased the burnt grimy scent that layered over his every other breath, made it easier to ignore. ****, if he just smoked all the day through maybe he'd get used to the ozone laden stench.
Wait, **** **** ****, if it didn't smell so burnt Spamton could've really just almost likened it to opening up the big guy when he was full on sloshed. Battery acid ****ing grubbed up Tenna's insides like nobody's business.
…this was so ****ed. And, >>HELL THERE’S REAL, he hadn't even touched on the fact that he couldn't ****ing curse in his own head without a blurring empty tone taking the word's place and echoing out in his ****ing skull, the word just gone, unable to even parse it through bit by rattling bit, but, hey, then again - not gonna think about allllll that!
Spamton scrubbed his blurry eyes with his free hand, shivered and grimaced at the dragging tingly sensation, the smearing damp, before with a jerk of his head he forcefully dragged his numb fingers through his hair, vainly trying to smooth unruly locks as drops of static code slicked in with grease and sweat and gel.
He sat on the floor for a little while longer, taking his time with his smoke and breathing, coughing on the fumes of his own sick, the lit cig, and the neglected dusty insides of metal and plastic surrounding him on all sides.
According to the schedule, he's got all the time in the world - at least for today, anyway. Who knows what bull**** tomorrow will bring, how much work's gotta be done to make up for this ****show.
Well…he could probably get some paperwork done, maybe shift through some of the mail he's been neglecting recently. Do his actual hired on job, make it a priority for once, or something petty and spiteful like that.
…That sounded stupid as ****. So, why the >>HELL IS DIFFERENT not? Near finished with his cig, Tenna's office was just around the corner, nobody ventured out here unless they were hungering for the boss's attention's and practically nobody did that but him anyway, and if the big guy showed his face well then, Spamton can shove that contract into his pretty screen and point at all that lovely fine print that said “oh heyy, don't **** over your business partner on your first day officiated, you dumb *** ****! Got a screw loose? Some Lightner bull****tery going on? Then tell your partner and don't leave him in the ****ing dark, you ****ing piece of **** ***whipe!!!”
And if the guy was still performing on screen, then good. Perform to your hearts content, fine by Spamton, haha! ****ing >>HELL?, someone's gotta do their >>GOD LAUGHING AT MEdamn job around here.
Spamton flicked off more ash, exhaling heavily as he watched his trembling hands and the cigarette pinched between two prune wrinkled swollen fingers.
Someone's got to do their job.
He had a job.
Go do it.
“Christ…” He hissed, and the relief from that, from a curse not emptied out by some beeping censor bar, all in his >>GOD BELONGS ONLYdamned mind or not, was enough to quell his raw blistering nerves, bitter and acidic in his hoarse throat, and Spamton finally, shakily, hauled himself back to his feet. The blur of the lights danced black spots in his vision, squinting shut to hide from the pain, before he stuck his cig between his lips and forcibly wobbled his way out of the stall and back to the sink.
Cigarette clenched tight between snarling teeth, eyes glaring down and avoiding the mirror, Spamton shoved his hands under the still running lukewarm water and scrubbed at the numbness, stripping himself of feeling or reaction even as his gut clenched and his throat closed as his own hanging skin compressed under his touch, giving way and shifting and smoothing and softening like, like, **** like soaked bread dough. Slimy, wet, and then rough and gritty and leathery - but he forced himself to clean his hands, soap and all, really give them a good scrubbing over, and if he gagged more than once then that was just something Spamton would have to learn to deal with, just like everything else that came running up on his ****ing miserable *** life.
The hows and the whys wanted to nag at his brain, give it a few pokes and prods, but for ****s sake Spamton was a salesman! Best of the best, **** past reviews look at his numbers now - and a deal would fall right through itself, gut its own innards and slop out on the floor if you so much as ask for the whys and hows.
Being good at what you did meant selling, selling selling selling, the numbers don't lie and your sales meant the >>GOD KNOWS EVERYTHINGdamn world to everything and everyone - ****, it was all anyone ever cared a damn about, wasn't it? Money's where it's at - money was what opened the door to >>FREEDOM!. Get enough of that, get big enough, be >>(BIG SHOT):enough, and maybe, just mayyyybe…
Well, Spamton still had a long way to go.
His numb hands stung as he lathered more soap in a vain attempt to hide with foamy bubbles, the pressure pinches and squeezes making him grit his teeth, focus on not grinding his cigarette to shreds - he could feel that >>GOD NEED WITHforsaken pen, the phone, in his palm again.
If he still had a way to go, at any rate.
But, the whys and hows wouldn't help him. He can't, he can't just ruminate on it, can't press down on that bruise - there was a slimy give, a mucus that flowed under his soap sud scrubbing, and Spamton tried to ignore the shiver sense of feelers, live copper wires feeding electricity under rubber insulation, inside and out of him and his toothy ports snapped into heated hot metal connectors. It pricked at his numb hands, just the knowledge of them before fading back to rolled swelling, and when he was done, done, done - and shaking off the water droplets, Spamton could already half*** a good guess anyway.
He just…wouldn't. Put the thought in his head, really solidify and then chew on it and, what? What was it supposed to do, huh?
He'd never doubted the Voice on the Phone, always did what it damn well told him to do. He'd never questioned it, not till last night - look what that got him.
He stared down at his hands, rolled up sleeves revealing the sickened root spread that had gone along his arms, the faint glow of dead dulled white near gray trailing up his limbs.
Look.
He should've known better.
Good.
Yet Spamton found he didn't even have to really bite down on any regret. A twinge of unease, hesitance, sure sure - but, for whatever reason, there was still a lingering sense of elation when he thought of his spiel match with the Voice. The give of it, the push he had shoved, tackled on ahead, and then breaking through that barrier, that one barrier he knew he couldn't ever break, the single barrier he'd never break in all of his >>GOD HAS Adamn life-
And then, the Voice had given way.
What had been even said, anyway? He could hardly ****ing remember, funnily enough. Memories of last night were blitzed with the drinking, the highs then the lows, spiked with fear and adrenaline and awestriking terror that still stirred up his guts and made him have to press his legs together, keep it together-
**** was ****ed, so to censored speak. Royally ****ed.
He felt pretty damn ****ed, honestly.
…He pretty much was.
With a shake of his head, a hissing exhale that bordered close to a cough as he inhaled smoke wrong ways, Spamton finished up by heading to the paper towel dispenser, shaking out his wet numb hands and forcing himself to roll the bubbling pressure of his wrists, the joints throbbing dully. Then he had to trash the stub of his cigarette, choosing to just flick it into the previously ill used toilet and finally flushing, frown tugged down low and twitchy on his face.
But, he did feel just, maybe a bit better, actually? Had to thank his early morning self for having pocketed extra gloves, these ones incidentally a bigger size and the fabric way more flimsy - newer testing of TV Time products sort of had that streak ever since Spamton had gotten a say in how the sale sources were handled - and, after mummifying his hands once more with the excess paper towels, he was able to tug them on with way less of a fight than before.
Still had to tear off more paper and dab at the squeeze of not quite bloody fluid that had oozed out about his wrist, but the flow eased up and, for now, his arms seemed pretty, uhh, intact? Hopefully that lasted - Spamton didn't want to tack on having soggy suit sleeves for the rest of his day.
Before he left the bathroom, Spamton lit another smoke. The air had grown hazy, the smell familiar, grounding - for a moment there, standing before the mirror and eyeballing himself, Spamton could feel the sudden wobbly sense of displacement, a rocking back and forth as he lay there in the almost dark, hummingly warm and enclosed, filtered in light and the low vibrations coming in from the internal speakers, and he stared at himself in the mirror, cigarette held loosely in clean white gloves with TV Time golden insignia glittering in the fluorescent overhead lights.
There was a visible shift, felt it in the air, light dimming and, for a split flashing second, walls filming over translucent - someone had gotten up and changed the channel, raising the volume up a couple of bars.
Sound of the floor creaking under heavy weight. One of the adults had left the living room, heading to the kitchen.
Chorus of laughter, the kids giggling as the youngest shoved a toy up against the television's staticky screen, wiggling it around in a little dance.
…He could feel it, the smooth drag against glass, a glowing sense of warmth, before the toy was drawn back after a teens voice snapped at them to get out of the way.
The kids went back to playing on the floor. The teens continued to watch the show. The adults had both gone to the kitchen to have a talk.
He breathed in electricity, fed it back out - the picture on the screen hummed bright, colors popping, shadowboxed lines crystal clear.
Someone brushed curiously through him, an upward bump of the current's usage his only hint of a prodding clue.
Spamton turned stiffly from the mirror, swallowing thickly. After going about kicking over the chair from the door, a last quick glance about the place, he finally, finally decided that he was ready. He looked put together enough, he felt a bit more put together even, having gathered up those scattered rambling mind thoughts and exhaling, inhaling in and out the electricity that fed through him, intrinsically knowing exactly the right processes to ensure his purpose was being served-
Right! Spamton shook himself before the door, forced his shoulders to loosen, even hopped one foot to another for a little jig - build back up, man, build back up. He's got a job to do.
And, well, he'd like to have that contract of theirs in his reliable, if a bit soggy, hands sooner rather than later.