Chapter Text
Spamton was so sure he’d never be in such close proximity to Tenna ever again.
He’d written the man off as nothing more than a common criminal—an emotional scam artist who’d tugged on the strings of his heart, only to leave him to the garbage. Only to let Spamton run out of his life and never give chase–only to never come looking, to change his phone number, to block off any and all contact. To make Spamton regret ever having felt what he had in the first place. To replace any warmth with a cold, steely, resentment.
After NEO…after everything that had happened, he hadn’t been sure how to feel about the situation anymore. It wasn’t like he’d been defeated, of course, but—but obviously, the plan he’d so clearly envisioned, the ascension he’d plotted as his final revenge against all of them—Tenna included—hadn’t precisely worked out as desired. And where did that leave them? More importantly, where did it leave him? A puppet with no master, a marionette with no strings—but a weak, broken, glitchy one. A small, sallow, hunched-over little man. A pair of yellow and pink glasses in a teenager’s pocket. Little more than an item—oh, how past him would have dreaded such a fate—to be used, equipped and removed at will.
All things considered? It had started as a quiet, comfortable gig. Better than the trash, that’s for sure. Better than the horrors that have haunted his memory for what feels like a decade on end. It’s an improvement—not his desired destination, that feels farther off than ever—but a half-decent place to settle. At least he’s of use, this way.
Spamton holds back a scoff. Oh, he would have hated to hear himself settle, back when he’d been with Tenna—back when they’d truly known each other. He would have had a conniption at the very sentiment of accepting anything less than his first choice in life. But, he supposes, time and trial have changed him, in a way. They certainly haven’t softened him—more so shriveled him up like a raisin in the sun. His juice has been squeezed out, his youth, his energy, his fight, and what remains has been compressed into a tiny, wrinkly…thing. A rat. A creature. He barks out a humorless laugh.
Tenna had looked exactly the same.
It had been so peaceful, that brief tryst in the pocket, before he’d gone to sleep and woken up in the goddamn TV Dark World, without any sense of how he’d gotten there. Of course, he’d thought, bitter and resentful, of fucking course we’re here. Because this cosmic torture never ends, does it?
As the Lightners had crept through all of his old haunts, the memories had come flooding back—uncontrollably, tinged with the bittersweet nostalgia that seemed to hang palpably in the Dark World’s stuffy studio air. He couldn’t help but think back, seeing the Green Room—so painfully similar, yet different enough that it almost makes him miss that horrible movie theater carpet—walking around the peeling old dressing rooms, the backstage area, the slightly re-vamped sets that Tenna had always cycled his contestants through.
It’s all familiar—all just different enough to reassure Spamton that yes, he actually had left this place, been gone from it for an extended period—except for Tenna’s old office. That room had been barren, everything moved out of it, save for a shattered mirror, a torn poster…and that godforsaken phone.
He’d looked away, seeing that. His body had seized up, and he’d been unable to peek out of the pocket any longer—left to wonder, with only a brief glimpse, why Tenna had just left it there, untouched—why the whole room seemed torn-up, but the phone looked just like the day he left it hanging—and he would know. The image is burned on the inside of his eyes. Despite the desolate nature of the place, it’s hard not to hear their old voices bouncing off the bare walls.
He’d wondered if Tenna had changed, he’d wondered if he still thought about him, if he still cared, if his nights were as haunted as Spamton’s, if that space behind his chest remained aching and hollow—if, after him, Tenna felt like he’d never be able to—like he couldn’t— like he still felt—
He seemed to reference him a lot, at least. Especially when things got…dicey, that familiar crazy-ass side of Tenna bearing its fangs in a way that almost made him smile, save for that old, twisted feeling in his gut–
Suffice to say, a lot had been on his mind. Too many questions, too few answers—but then, he’d seen the pipis.
The goddamned pipis. He’d been sure that proved it—proved that Tenna really did care, that behind all those barely-concealed jabs and not-so-sly points of the finger, he truly missed Spamton, truly remembered how much he needed him, how much they’d once meant to each other—or rather, that he’d meant to Tenna. So, on a whim, he’d jumped out of the inventory.
Then, it happened. That box of junk had pulled a move Spamton recognized immediately.
He’d put on the act. He’d seen Spamton, and visibly done it—transformed his body language into camera-mode, exaggerated his expressions and his outbursts in a frankly over-the-top performance to an audience of, as far as the CRT had known at the time, zero!
So, Spamton had exited the encounter ticked-off and covered in insulating foam, and swore to both Kris and himself that he was never doing that again. He’d just stay inside the pocket, and pretend that the whole TV Dark World had never even existed! He’d do what he always did! Shove the feelings down, pretend that nothing existed there beyond pure, unadulterated spite. And it worked, obviously ! He’d relished in that boss fight, loved every second of that stupid boob tube’s mental break! It hadn’t reminded him of anything, hadn’t drawn up any old feelings!! It had been completely painless, up until—
Until he saw Tenna get killed.
He hadn’t forgotten the prophecy, of course—as much as he’d willed himself to—but to see it with his very own eyes? To watch Tenna get—get cleaved? It had disturbed him, to say the least. Spamton swore he felt his heart stop as Tenna collapsed into the snow, screen shattering, arms sparking. The way his light had flashed, then just…just gone out?! It seemed impossible. It seemed unreal that something could take his glow away like that.
And oh, had it pissed him off. He’d been shaking with rage, wanting to shout as the Knight had challenged the Lightners, after it had taken them down without giving up more than a Shadow Crystal and a chunk of its massive blade, and escaped off into the Light World—the Light World, as a creature of the dark— without a scratch.
He could still claw their antlers off, if he saw them now. No matter how little he still cares about Tenna—which is very, very little— striking him down like that, with some cheap shot while Tenna wasn’t even looking? It’s fundamentally, completely, irrevocably wrong. It’s a crime that cannot go unpunished.
…Even if its consequences have been reversed.
He hadn’t known the TV Darkeners and Susie had fixed the CRT up until he’d arrived in Castle Town. The purple girl had mentioned it offhandedly, said she hoped he was doing okay, that he’d seemed a little down, but it was only to be expected after what he’d been through—and he’d peeled himself off of the floor of the pocket space immediately, starting to wriggle out of the pants hole on instinct, freeing himself so he could transform and move, and go make sure that Tenna was okay, that he wasn’t hurt, really, truly wasn’t dead—
And now, Spamton has found him. Pacing the main street of Castle Town, looking only a bit worse for wear, but largely the same as ever, is Ant Tenna, his old partner. He’s in a state that the puppet recognizes immediately, nostalgically— anxiety.
He fidgets with his hands, hunching his shoulders, nose cast down at the floor. His screen is dim, and he’s shrunken a few inches from his regular height—though his poor posture certainly isn’t helping. Spamton notices he seems to be muttering to himself, shaking his head, pacing, pausing, tapping his foot, then resuming. Pace, pause, tap. Pace, pause, tap. A familiar rhythm. The CRT is overthinking something, or blowing something out of proportion in his mind. He has to suppress a soft, incredulous laugh. Same as he ever was, huh?
Spamton doesn’t want Tenna to see him, after what had happened earlier. Doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a second appearance, considering how embarrassingly the TV had botched his first. Pretending not to know who Spamton is—what a joke! The Dark Worlds may have forgotten him, but he knows Tenna never will—that he hasn’t. Everything he’d said to the Lightners proves that.
In all honesty, he hadn’t even thought about why he’d needed to see Tenna—wasn’t Susie’s word good enough for him? Couldn’t he just…leave well enough alone?? Apparently goddamn not. Apparently, he needed to practically stalk the guy from the corner of some dark alley like a true lowlife. If he’d seen someone staring like this when he was with Tenna, he’d probably have kicked that guy’s ass. But now? Now, he can’t bring himself to move forward another foot, to step into the Light and make himself seen. He can’t bear to show his awful, shriveled face.
Will Tenna pretend not to recognize him again? Will he pull out that stupid foam? Spamton is not ruining his hair with that stuff again—he swears it’s worsened the white streaks significantly, and he already looks a mess.
But beyond that, what would Spamton even say?
‘OH, HEY, TENS. SORRY FOR RUNNING OUT ON YOU ALL THAT TIME AGO—JUST AFTER I AGREED TO TELL YOU EVERYTHING, TOO, HUH? WHAT A SHAME, RIGHT? ANYWAY, HOW ARE YOU DOING?’
‘HEY THERE, YOU OLD WIRE BOX! YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT WINE—’
‘DAMN, THAT SWORD LOOKED PAINFUL. HOW’D YOU END UP NOT DEAD, ANYHOW? DID IT HURT? YOU WANT ME TO FIND THE KNIGHT FOR YOU, TRACK HIM DOWN AND KILL HIM WITH THE STRENGTH THAT I CERTAINLY DON’T HAVE IN THIS FORM?’
‘SO, MINE OR YOURS?’
‘I MISSED YOU, YOU KNOW.’
He remembers Tenna saying those exact words— I missed you, you know— when he’d returned, a week after their first kiss. It’s so strange how easily emotions seem to come to him. How easily he’d say things like I missed you or I love you or I need you. The words feel foreign in Spamton’s brain, never mind on his nonexistent lips. And it’s not as easy as just…going up to him, starting to chat him up again. Tenna’s reaction backstage has made that clear enough. So, now that he’s confirmed his old partner’s alright—if worried about something—should he just…just leave?
For whatever reason, it doesn’t feel right to do that.
So, he watches. From out of sight, he watches as Tenna paces rhythmically back and forth, only stopping in his pattern to weakly greet the occasional passing Darkener who spares a glance in his direction. It’s strange to see, honestly. Most of them look at him with an odd sort of pity, some of the TV World ones with a barely-hidden resentment. It’s visibly agitating the CRT, the way people are talking to him, interacting with him. He’s getting increasingly anxious, shoulders shrugged upwards, one glove torn off to chew on his nails.
Eventually, the larger man throws his hands up in frustration—and then a visible, pained wince glitches across his face, and his arms go limp at his sides. Spamton jolts forward, as if to go to him, then stops himself as Tenna lowers himself down to sit at the edge of the street, knees tucked up into his chest.
That painful familiarity strikes Spamton once more, the image of a tiny, wasted Tenna leaning against a vanity drawer, face screwed up with pain as he moves a dented shoulder. The empty place in his chest aches. His hands wrap around the corner of the brick alleyway wall, and he begins to poke his head around—
Tenna sighs, clambering to his feet. Spamton shrinks back once more, but panics as Tenna begins to walk slowly out of his line of sight.
Wait, no, don’t—
He darts out of the alleyway and into the next one over, sticking to the shadows, attempting to get a better view. The CRT seems to be walking towards the castle—he wonders if Ralsei’s set up quarters for him there. A twinge of jealousy. He didn’t get a room when he got recruited–just a linty pocket! Hell, he didn’t get fixed up when he fell apart, either! Stupid, lucky box of junk.
No doubt, it comes from what Tenna’s always had that he hasn’t, though. Loyal people. People he was the boss of, sure—people who he kept under tight contract—but people that cared about him nonetheless.
But…where are they now? Spamton hasn’t seen Mike or Ramb since arriving here—not that he wants to see the latter, though he does have a certain soft spot for the former, especially considering the efforts he took after Spamton…
Tenna disappears again, into the doors of the castle. Fuck!
He’s not sure why he’s so insistent on following, but he doesn’t pause to think about it as he searches for a surreptitious entrance into the large, black building, trying the couple of windows low enough for him to reach, looking around for some kind of back door—
“What are you doing?” A soft, mumbly voice asks, deadpan, with only the slightest hints of amusement and irritation.
He jumps. “[AAA]!” Spamton turns to face the voice, then relaxes. “OH! [It’s you!] JUST THE [Little Sponge]!” He thinks for a moment, and his demeanor shifts, growing smarmier. “OH! MY [favrite] [Little Sponge]! KRIS. KRIS. KRIS. CAN Y0U [Press F1 For Help] A [Slime] OUT, KRIS?”
“With what,” they reply skeptically, raising an eyebrow.
“[Breaking and Entering]! I MEAN—[Check, Please!] ON SOMETHING! I’LL BE BACK IN THE [Pokedex] SOON, [Pinky Promis]! I JUST NEED TO G3T [Inside] THE [House of Cards]!”
An eyeroll, then a subtle lift of a shoulder, and a nod. Kris walks over to a nearby window, swings it open, and then cups their hands, giving Spamton a secure place to step onto for a boost.
He places one foot onto Kris’ hands, then another. “GEE, THANKS, [Heart on a String!] KNEW Y0U’D [Help!] YOUR OL’ PAL—”
Kris boosts him up forcefully, sending him tumbling through the window and down, face-first, onto the hard, concrete floor. “AAH! [#%^*]!”
He scrambles to his feet, tugging on his collar to right his rumpled clothes. “GOD[$&@!] KID! AFT3R EVERYTHING I DO FOR THEM—” He hears footsteps in the hallway, and hurriedly tucks himself in a curtained alcove, out of sight. He prepares to transform into the Dealmakers if needed, straining his ears to try and make out who’s coming down the hall.
“—appreciate it, I do! It’s just…” Tenna’s voice. The knot in Spamton’s chest loosens a bit, but he forces his face into a scowl.
“…don’t know how to handle myself here! There’s no—there’s no schedule! No order of events! Wh-when am I supposed to eat meals? I-If there’s nothing to shoot, what do I do all day, other than—other than sit around? How do you all operate like this?” Tenna sounds very frazzled, voice fast-paced and nervous, worrying in that compulsive way of his. The puppet has to hold back his laugh. It’s so like the Tenna he knew. When am I supposed to eat meals? He grins. How about whenever the hell you want, he imagines himself saying in return, picturing the offended expression on the CRT’s screen at such an idea.
Then, he remembers the insulating foam, remembers the way things have changed, and his smile drops. It’s like…torture, having him this close, but being unable to speak to him. He’s so torn, in his mind—so torn between resenting Tenna and pitying him, between blaming him and wanting to beg him for forgiveness, between hating him and—and—
“—breathe, Mr. Tenna! I know it’s hard to navigate a world without the Lighteners to guide you, but I suggest you ease yourself into it,” a voice Spamton recognizes as the goat-prince— Ras or Raze- something—advises, voice soft and kind. “You don’t want to push, right now, okay? Susie and your employees did a solid job fixing you up—”
Ah. So it’s as Spamton expected. The TV world denizens had helped put their leader back together. I wonder if someone had to tell them to do it—Purple girl can be pretty convincing, if she wants to be, I guess. A quiet harrumph. Well, ol’ Scrap Heap’s lucky some poor sons of bitches decided to waste their time on him, anyway!
I sure as hell didn’t get that kind of treatment.
“—overexhaust yourself, might end up having a shutdown or major malfunction!! So you’ll want to take exactly what we prescribed you, and get lots of rest!”
Rest? He doesn’t know the meaning of that word.
“Right, sure… rest. Hittin’ the ol… p-power off button! …Sleeping. Wonderful!” His words are strained, his exclamation too sickly-sweet.
He’s going to run himself into the ground, undo all that work, Spamton thinks, suppressing a sigh. Maybe that’s what he gets, though. What he deserves.
“Wouldn’t want to run myself ragged, you know? Not after everyone, uh…worked so hard !”
“Exactly! You want to keep everyone happy, right?” A beat. “Then just…take care of yourself for now! We all want to see you get better!”
Tenna’s voice is skeptical as he speaks. “Mhm. I’m sure.” He pauses for a moment. “Uh, say, Ralsei, you wouldn’t happen to have seen—” A nervous sort of hesitation, then, “—um, nevermind. You said the room is this way?”
They reach the end of the hallway, and Spamton can’t hear the prince’s soft response.
Was he about to…did he almost ask…wait! Where’s he going?! Spamton jumps out of the alcove, and a Shadowguy passing through the hallway makes a trombone-sounding shriek, falling over in fright. The puppet ignores him completely and makes for the end of the hallway—which leads to a flight of stairs! Scrambling his way up them, he sees a long passageway with several colorful doors lining it. One is slanted, grey, red, and yellow, with a little 'TV' sign perched above the frame. It’s unmistakable—but he hears voices beyond the door.
Shit. How do I get in there?
Angel in Heaven—why am I doing this?? I sound—I sound batshit, waiting outside my ex’s bedroom for—for what?? WHY am I waiting here? Why can’t I just turn around and walk off? This is so stupid!
He turns away from the door, taking a few determined steps away from it—
Spamton feels his stomach drop, a cold, icy feeling washing over him, creeping down his back like a cracked egg. He clenches his fists for a moment, trying to drive the feeling away, then sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, giving in.
He pivots back around, and hurries up to the door, pressing both hands against it, one on each side of the crack where it slides open. He rests his forehead against the cool metal and sighs loudly, trying to quell the churning nerves and concern, the sick, scared feeling in his gut that tells him don’t walk away from him right now.
It’s a weird, unfamiliar instinct to have for a person who seems virtually unchanged. He never had problems leaving Tenna by himself, when they were together—when their feelings for each other were, on their surface, far less complicated. Sometimes it had been relieving, having a break, and at times even exhilarating to watch him spiral. There was just something about seeing him broken—really seeing it, watching him collapse into the snow, watching him almost die—
Sitting in the pocket, in the dark, liminal pocket, certain the prophecy had come to pass, certain the TV was dead, not knowing whether he’d been left to rust in a sad little pile in that cold place, or had his broken frame dragged off somewhere…
Maybe it’s more for his own sake, then, that he stays. Maybe he just wants to keep that awful feeling at bay. But, regardless, he just…he just can’t walk down the hallway. He feels like—he feels like if he does, this—seeing his ex-partner again, hearing his voice—will all stop being real. That it’ll all go away, and Tenna will be—he’ll be—he’ll really be gone. For good.
And after seeing him once more, can he really handle that? Could he really handle losing him again?
Despite his deep-stirring rage, he knows damn well what the answer to that question is. So, Spamton just…stands there, willing himself to move regardless, preparing to let out a frustrated, glitchy, yell—
When, suddenly, the door slides open.
He almost falls forward onto his face for the second time in five minutes, when the green-robed arms of the goat-prince stop him.
He’s silent, frozen, not wanting to speak for fear of Tenna hearing his voice—he can only make a terrified expression, face contorted in a pleading sort of anguish—
“Oh! Did you—did you want to see Mr. Tenna, Mr. Spamton?” He makes a cutesy, ‘ aww -ish’ sort of expression.
“[shhh!] DON’T—BE QUIET, WOULD YOU?” he whisper-shouts, furious.
Ralsei looks taken aback. “Uh-I’m—I’m sorry? I mean, he’s sleeping pretty soundly in there, I don’t think—”
He’s asleep!
“HE’S [zzz]? THEN [Move It, Move It], [G.O.A.T] BOY!” Spamton shoves Ralsei aside, ignoring their soft, protesting shout.
The prince whispers angrily, “Hey, he needs to rest! Don’t interrupt —”
“I’M NOT [Technical Difficulties] H1M! I—” he scowls, thinking quickly. “I’M AN EXPERT IN [CRT Broken? Call An Experienced Repairman!] I’M JUST GONNA GONNA GONNA—GONNA [Look-See] HIM 0VER WHILE HES [Sleep]! NOW…NOW QUIET! I’M TRYING TO [Refurbish Outdated Tech]!” He puts a finger over his mouth as he finishes his sentence, and then dismissively gestures for Ralsei to leave the room. “I NEED TO [Work, Work] IN [Private Browsing Mode]!”
The prince looks confused. “Uh…I mean, if you’re sure you know what you’re doing, I suppose—We’ve left a few materials, including some pills made from special Cyber World ReviveBrites, we think they might hel—”
“YEAH, YEAH. NOW SC[RAM].” Spamton takes another step into the room, turning away from the cloaked boy pointedly. He hears a quiet sigh, then the closing of the door. His shoulders relax.
Spamton looks around the room. It’s pretty bare—literally just a floor, a Tenna-sized bed, and a contestant nameplate in the corner. His heart sinks a little. They’re decent accommodations, and Tenna just got here, but…still. Though, Spamton supposes, it’s not like the CRT’s old dressing room was much to write home about, either.
He wonders if this is the first space Tenna can really call his own. His old office had always been a place for both business and pleasure, with the constant threat of people walking in. Now that there’s no business to attend to, what will the TV do? Another little pang in his chest. He dismisses it. Serves him right, going all crazy like that. I should know—you lose your head, your fountain gets sealed. Great job, pal. No more show. CUT! Spamton smirks to himself in satisfaction…but then he creeps a bit closer to the bed, and his expression falls.
Tenna is sound asleep, his screen glowing faintly. Shadowy, half-rendered scenes play out across it, same as they’ve always done, if a bit grainier. There’s no sound. Spamton finds himself lost in the light of it, staring into the smooth, faceless screen, looking down at Tenna’s relaxed body, his antennae drooping lazily down the sides of his head. He suppresses a fond grin when he realizes that his ex-partner’s sleeping in his suit—probably hadn’t wanted the prince to see him in anything else. You look like you’re from a damn cartoon, he thinks. An old echo of the CRT’s voice replies, whiny: I’m dependable! It’s classic, Spammy! He shakes his head. Stupid.
Then, another, more sobering thought occurs to him. He wanted to hide the scars.
Surely he has them, right? You don’t get your arms reattached and not have a few marks left behind. Spamton wonders what they look like—thick lines of solder? Electrical tape? Patched, off-color metal and silicone? He wouldn’t mind any of them—but he knows Tenna probably does. It’s alright, Scrap Heap. We’re both garbage now, huh? Garbage together. How romantic, right? Maybe you would think so. You were always more into that kind of thing. A little too into it if you ask me, but—
Spamton’s face—his old face—flickers onto Tenna’s screen.
They’re walking through the hallway of the Queen’s mansion, visibly tipsy, shoulders pressed against one another, faces blushing and plastered with stupid, cheesy grins.
They’re sitting at Ramb’s bar, Spamton placing a cigarette between Tenna’s lips.
They’re in his old basement apartment, and Tenna’s ruffling his hair, pulling him in close, while he tries to make his expression look annoyed.
They’re asleep next to one another on Tenna’s bed in the dressing room, Spamton curled up in the glow of the CRT’s screen, his face awash in the light. His finger comes up to touch it, creating a little ripple. Then, he traces a small heart.
Angel. How drunk was I that night? I don’t even remember that.
He leans in closer.
They’re kissing hungrily, pressed against one another at the center of the dance floor—
—they’re in his car, Spamton lowering the roof so Tenna can sit up straight—
—they’re on their very first phone call—
—they’re standing outside the studio, smoking—
—they’re in the club, Spamton leaning up against Tenna’s arm, whispering something in his ear—
—they’re—he looks away, throat tight. Fuck.
The puppet gazes down at his jointed, bony fingers, at his disheveled outfit and small, shriveled body. Am I even the person in those memories anymore?
Does he really still think about all this stuff? Does he…does he dream about it as often as I do?
Yeah, well, too bad. You’ve missed your chance, buddy. That guy’s long gone. You made sure of that, didn’t you? I made sure of that.
Because we loved each other, once—because you made me love you in return—We can’t do it again. I can’t—I can’t be loved anymore, not like this. You took away my receptors for it—right when you ruined me for anyone but you.
He stares at the rise and fall of Tenna’s chest for a moment, feeling the heat come off of him, just like it used to, then reaches out to stroke the CRT’s face. Only—when he sees the shadow of his limb cross the screen, he pulls it back, disgusted. Spamton steps away from the bed, suddenly apprehensive to be so close.
Still, though, he can’t make himself walk through the door. He can’t return to the pocket, can’t return to the streets of Castle Town—not when Tenna’s here, sleeping and radiating some broken, magnetic energy. He has to stay, as long as he can. He’s got to be near him—even if he can’t say anything. Even if he can't make himself seen.
So, Spamton shimmies his tiny, banged-up body awkwardly beneath Tenna’s wood-slatted bed, forces himself into the dustiest corner of the room, and transforms into a pair of glasses. Then, listening to the whir of Tenna’s mechanisms above him, just barely making out the light from the screen, he finds himself falling asleep.