Chapter Text
His benefactor had never led Tenna astray so far, and Tenna was inclined to trust their agreement. His popularity had been increasing, after all - hell, at this point, Tenna would cheerfully accept just being plugged in as recompense. Far be it from him to complain, especially when he was being told so much. Sometimes, the prophecy and the future and the sheer power of his unseen helper made his head spin.
Really, the nightmares were a small price to pay.
All that so say, his partnership with Spammy - Spamton, he hated that nickname, Tenna had to quit calling him that, no matter how much Tenna liked the nickname - had been a perfect, lovely deal. The phone calls told him to stay the course, to follow along, to obey his instructions. And Tenna performed and ran ads and tried not to make it too obvious how much he enjoyed being near Spamton.
Tenna's life wasn't perfect - he certainly didn't have the amassed riches and endless power that his partner had. But he didn't need those things to be happy. He was happy here in Ad World; happier than he'd been in a long time.
Happy with Spamton.
And then, the line that ruined everything.
"Lord of Screens, cleaved red by blade."
Tenna dropped the receiver. He antennas sparked and shuddered the way he hated, the way that burned his circuits and threatened his ray tubes. He could barely hear the muffled thuds of Spamton pounding on the door, calling his name, demanding to know what was going on in there. Maybe Tenna screamed. He didn't know. He couldn't remember.
Later, he'd blame it on his stupid size-changing abilities. Because he meant to turn and bolt - anywhere else, anywhere but here - but suddenly, he was the size of a mouse. When the door hinges finally gave way under Spamton's giant hologram form, Tenna hadn't even made it past the stool.
Spamton never liked the phone calls; he made his disdain for them known right from the start, no matter how many times Tenna reiterated their importance. So when he spotted Tenna, smaller than he'd ever let himself be in front of the addison, and clocked the dangling receiver, Spamton didn't hesitate.
The projected hand scooped Tenna up, just this side of too tightly, while the other snatched the phone.
And then Spamton absolutely laid into his benefactor. Called him every name in the book, and every adjective he could think of afterwards. It wasn't until he'd moved on from berating his faceless life choices to insulting his mother that the line went from garbage static to dead altogether.
Tenna had never seen Spamton so worked up. His projection, usually perfect to the detail, shimmered with a faint, furious red hue. Electric shocks ran through him every few seconds, setting his hair on end. If Tenna were slightly more coherent, he'd be weak in the knees with want.
It took the former addison another two minutes to realize that no one was on the line, and then he slammed the receiver hard enough to crack the casing. The stool shattered under the force of it all, wood splintering in every direction. The hand cupping arena twisted to block him from the worst of it.
When Spamton turned to Tenna, the television genuinely wondered if this would be the end. If all that ire Spamton held - for the phone, for the lies, for Tenna - would overflow now. If he'd take that blindingly bright projection and shatter his useless, old, burnt-in screen.
Tears ran down Tenna's face. The hand around him tensed - he didn't even try to fight it.
And then Spamton shrank to his usual size, sat on the floor, and held him tight. Didn't ask a single question, didn't pry for answers. Didn't hurt him, the way he probably deserved, or berate him, or even drop an 'I told you so'.
He just...held him.
Tenna couldn't help it. He cried, and cried, and cried.
Of course it was too good to be true. No matter what he did, what games he played, what deals he made, what world he hid away in, what person he loved... none of it would save him.
Lord of Screens, cleaved red by blade.
Tenna was going to die.