Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s nothing quite like the set of a genuine, honest-to-god TV show. 

Even from backstage he can feel the white beat of the stage lights overhead, burning hot in a way that’s only ever made him feel alive. Closer still comes the bustle of the stage assistants and talent managers–Mister Tenna, you’re on in five–arms overflowing with props and notes and cups of lukewarm water for their lucky contestants, quick to be downed as beads of sweat drip down nervous foreheads. This is the make or break, the bow of stardom or obscurity, curtain sweeping closed before the losers’ eyes as the winner steps forward to claim the grand prize. 

Just the thought of it’s electric, sending sparks through his circuits like shivers down a spine. 

Soft yet swaggering do they approach from the shadows; this is their domain, their proving ground to conquer. From just beyond the curtain wafts the hushed chatter of the studio audience, waiting in anticipation for the cameras to roll– There’s nothing like it, I tell you, just nothing like knowing they’re all out there waiting for you–but nothing has him quite so grounded, quite so untethered, as the knowledge of what’s to come. 

“Ready, partner?"

Hands on his tie in lieu of answer, tugging him down, fingers tangling in the knot and sending a flush of static across his monitor in seven colors striped, a boldness unexpected and yet achingly welcome, soothing that uncharacteristic twinge of nerves in his circuitry. 

(Silence.) 

Just a moment, the world falling away until it’s nothing but the two of them waiting in the wings, the grin before him so bright that it might as well eclipse the spotlight itself. “Who do you think you’re talking to, huh? A little bit of TV’s nothing to a big shot like me. Let’s show ‘em a real [two for one special], alright?”

“Roll the jingle!”

Somewhere distant a stage manager raises the cue, but it’s never felt quite so distant, so unreal. Perhaps that should alarm him. This is his life’s work, his one and only calling. If he’s not facing it with his entirety, then what’s his worth, his purpose?

The jingle rolls on, hands smooth out the rumpled knot of his tie. He catches that hand before it can retreat entirely, presses a kiss to fingers sweet as a promise, as a handshake, as a contract signed in gold. 

For what is there to fear? 

The cue sounds; the two of them take the stage as the audience roars, the confetti falls. The entire world is aglitter and they stand at its top, twins in red and gold, and side by side before the camera lens, the line has never felt quite so right–

“Say it with him, folks!” 

“[[       ]] and Tenna’s–”

It all starts from a spark of curiosity, a flicker of static like the moment of garbage noise between the changing of channels. 

Tenna doesn’t usually watch the commercials during his live broadcasts. There’s no particular reason for this, other than why would he? He’s a TV star, born and raised. He sells smiles, not products; it’s not his job to vet what airs during breaks from the real show.

But someone else just happens to be playing them in the break room as Tenna wanders in, knowing he’ll find any one of the various assistants that can get this particular job done chatting around the water cooler, and something about this one, though he knows not yet what, stops him in his tracks.

On screen is… an Addison, ostensibly, though not one that Tenna has ever seen. Addisons, Tenna has always thought, are a little bit dull. Of no fault of their own, of course–a good salesman puts his product in the forefront and blends seamless into the background until it’s time for his pitch to strike home. Even Tenna steps back when it’s time to reveal the night’s grand prize. 

But the monochrome, the flatness… They could be radio stars, absolutely, but the era of the radio star is dead and gone, obsolete outside of the rare car with a busted cassette player and a road trip’s worth of silence ahead to fill. Put them in a magazine, maybe. The gloss of the pages would do wonders for their complexions. 

And yet. 

Pale white against jet black hair and an expensive suit jacket, tailored to perfection and shining with hints of silver; that million-dollar smile holds a hint of roguish charm beneath rectangular sunglasses, bleeding nouveau riche and all the charisma required to pull it off. 

He is, in a word, striking.

Like a silent film star, Tenna finds himself thinking, though the stream of words falling from his mouth prove everything to the contrary. 

“Better believe your ears,” says the Addison, “This right here’s about to be the blowout sale of the century! Can’t miss [hot deals] right on the lot, folks! It’s a [one-day only spectacular], brought to you right here in Cyber City!”  

Who is he? Tenna wonders, watching as the ad fades to black only to be replaced by an infomercial with half the intrigue and certainly none of the star power. 

…Not that it matters. 

What plays on local airwaves is none of Tenna’s concern and even less of a priority. There’s bigger fish to fry, movie marathons and hot new cooking shows and only the most nostalgic of reruns to put on air between game show shoots and breaking news, because TV’s the new cinema and the silver screen doesn’t stop for one little no-name in a used car ad, of all things .

So Tenna forgets about it. 

And he does a bang-up job of letting the matter slip into the obscurity of a strip of film that’s burned itself up–at least until a knock comes at his dressing room door, unscheduled and long after wrapping for the evening. 

Tenna frowns into the mirror. He has no idea who could be calling, frankly, and though Tenna never turns down another opportunity for a new show, a new shoot, a new and exciting broadcast opportunity, for someone to come knocking now means that something’s fallen behind schedule, and when one part of the production fails to deliver…

If this goes into overtime, it’s coming out of somebody’s points.

Still, Tenna fixes his tie, puts on his best showman’s smile and says, standing to face the door with all of his usual pep–”Come on in!” 

The words have hardly left his mouth before the door starts creaking open on its hinges, giving way to a sliver of shadow from the dimmed lights of the after-hours hall. It’s slow and deliberate as replaying a scene in slow motion, the heroine’s dramatic entrance at the moment of truth. 

But there’s no such cinema to the unfamiliar voice that follows, and though Tenna flicks through his memories, he can't quite manage to put face to the reason those static tones tickle something in the back of his mind, a distant memory of a show taken off the air decades ago. 

“Sorry to barge in after hours, but I’ve got a real [special] delivery for one [small-screen star].”

And then.

Like a flash of lighting, a jitter in the playback–

The Addison saunters in as if he belongs, undaunted by the blinding white lights of the dressing room or Tenna’s larger-than-life presence within it. Instead he simply strides up to the dressing table with an ease that makes it seem as if he’s floating, setting a shiny metal briefcase up atop it as if it’s second nature and chattering all the while. “You’re in some real luck,” the Addison says, “I don’t usually take these low-brow mailman type jobs these days, but hoo boy, when I saw that name in the inquiry form, I told those suckers I’d do it for a [whopping 50% off]! The Mister Ant Tenna, comin’ straight into my inbox with an email like-”

“It’s you?!”

The Addison stops mid-sentence, giving Tenna the once-over with appraising eye. “Sorry,” he says, with a clearly faux-innocence that suits the canned line just fine, “do we know each other?”

Tenna jabs a startled finger at him. “Don’t play dumb with me! You’re the one on TV!”

He looks… smaller, in real life, and though Tenna knew to expect that it surprises him all the same. There’s just a… a draw to him, Tenna decides, an undeniable charisma in the backstage lighting that brings out the ways he knows just how to angle his face to catch the light, the red he’s painted friendly across his cheeks. Though that smile between it looks a whole lot more sinister, Tenna decides, without a display to soften it out. 

The Addison raises an eyebrow. “Flattery’s gonna get you far, [big guy], but I’d say that you’re on TV a whole lot more than me.”

“Of course I am! I’m the King of TV! Nobody’s on more than me!” 

The Addison’s grin only widens, a mimicry of starstruck. “And that’s why I’m your number 1 fan, no [terms and conditions] applied!”

Tenna doesn’t believe that. No, Tenna doesn’t believe that for a second. He’s watched enough biopics and broadcasted enough educational programming blocks to know the type. Everything coming out of this little mailman’s mouth is nothing but empty praise with no ratings to back it up. It’s like a house on the Nielsen ratings that doesn’t bother turning on the TV–a travesty, really. 

“Actually,” the Addison jokes, friendly as he runs a hand through slicked-back hair, “I should ask for an autograph. Might really bump up the [starting price] of a few of those gift shop [trinkets] your team gave me as a bonus.”

Despite being more than happy to autograph the gift shop merchandise, Tenna doesn’t exactly relish in reaching for his pen. This weird little Addison is in his space, in like a whirlwind and making himself right at home as he steers the conversation firmly out of Tenna’s control, even as he hands him one of Tenna’s own commemorative posters, emblazoned across the bottom with TV Time 1996.  

Still. He’s not going to be rude to a viewer. Even if he is just another Darkner in a long line of them. “And who’s my number 1 fan?”

“Spamton G. Spamton. Cyber City’s [best salesman] at your service,” he says with a faux little bow that sends old smoke wafting up from his suit jacket, “Here to be your [email guy] for a [limited-time only], so better act quick if you want to [seal the deal].”

Tenna pauses with his pen halfway to the poster. He is suddenly acutely aware of the fact that they’re alone; whatever manager let this guy in unaccompanied is going to be facing some consequences, come tomorrow. …“Seal the deal? What deal?”

Spamton grins like he’s about to sell Tenna his own life savings for the low, low price of 48 revolving payments of $19.99. “Whatever [little deal] your heart desires! The TV World’s wrackin’ up the ratings on primetime, but you’ve got whole untapped markets out there just ripe for the picking!” 

“Untapped markets?”

“Sure! You’re the biggest name in TV. Got a real [unmatched price] and [brand recognition] to that name of yours, you follow? So why not expand? Do the live tour! The marketing campaign! You could be a real [big shot] if you put in the legwork!” Spamton looks him over once, slowly, vulturous. “And [hoo boy] do you sure have the leg for it.”

Tenna makes the (probably wise) choice to ignore what he’s unsure is flirting or harassment and finishes autographing the poster, handing it back to Spamton with finality. Still, his voice leaves him more uncertain than he’d been aiming for when he asks, tentative, “You want to be my… producer?”

Spamton whistles through his teeth, all reeds and old smoke. “Now wouldn’t that be a [most valuable customer’s] honor! And here I was only going to propose I execute you an [all-options included] advertising package!” Spamton cackles to himself, as if he’s just said something funny. “But hey. I’m up for the challenge if that’s what your heart desires. Get your team in touch, huh?”

“I’ll be the one getting in touch with you,” Tenna replies, too caught up in the moment to realize the full implications of what he’s said. “What would I be if I couldn’t handle one little communication challenge?”

Spamton pulls his glasses down his nose, staring up at Tenna with eyes that seem so much darker without the rose and sunshine tint. “Hey, hey. I didn’t know it was the stars that got to call the shots around here, huh, [big guy]?”

“I make all the calls I want!” Tenna replies, crossing his arms defensively. He’s not sure why, but it feels as if he’s just been insulted. Looked down on, perhaps. Which is ridiculous, considering this guy is half his size, but. 

“Don’t gotta go through the [big shots], first?”

“I am the big shot,” Tenna snaps back, slightly more aggressive than playful, wondering how in the world he’s let this little no-name salesman, of all people, get the upper hand. “I say the word and this studio jumps to it! Not a second would make it to the airwaves without me!”

Spamton laughs at him. 

But it’s not the biting, snickering sort of laughter that Tenna had expected. It’s loud, and it’s certainly barking, but it’s not… harsh, oddly enough. When it eases out into a series of chuckles, shaking his shoulders with gentle shifts of his jacket, it almost sounds… Tenna’s not sure he trusts his tuner. 

The idea of approval from a man like this is absurd, and Tenna’s not certain he’d want it even if he wasn’t hallucinating it.

“Now that’s what I like to hear, [big guy]! That’s a real winner’s attitude.”  

Spamton dares to saunter closer, reaching into his breast pocket and procuring what appears to be a lighter with a polished snap of his wrist. Tenna, meanwhile, is about to snap at his audacity– the dressing rooms are strictly non-smoking, these days– but just as quickly Spamton’s shuffled it off into his other hand and straight into his pocket, a trick like sleight of hand. 

With all a showman’s bravado he sets his business card atop the briefcase, standing tall in Cyber City neon between the seam in the silver. 

“So whaddaya say? You and me… I think there’s a real promising [future] there, don’t you?”

Tenna doesn’t respond. How could he? There are no words of refutation strong enough. Tenna’s been the star of the show for decades, the centerpiece of every family gathering and Sunday morning spectacular. There’s no need to change things. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Isn’t that what they always say? 

“Just say the word and I’ll show you the future,” Spamton promises, “No more of that same-old, same-old! I’ll show you a show that no [man, woman, child, or otherwise] can keep their eyes off of!”

He smiles the sort of smile that men too adept at making promises do, the sort where you’re forced by sheer measure of experience to believe them and their too-good-to-be-true little nothings. For that matter, Tenna doesn’t think he’s stopped smiling once since he set foot in the room. It’s disconcerting. 

Or at least… It should be. 

“Can you really do that?”

It’s the wrong thing to ask. He should be asking this shifty little salesman what’s in it for him, what cut of the profit he wants, at what point he’s going to run off with his side of the deal and never spare Tenna and the TV World another glance.     

But rather than strike while the iron is hot, Spamton just smiles with a white flash of teeth, sidling back with the unmistakable gleam of victory behind those round lenses.

“Send me the deal,” Spamton says, waving his hand over his shoulder as he vanishes out the door, silhouetted by the familiar shadows of the backstage halls, “I’ll look it over at my [highly-priced] leisure. I’m sure we can come to a [mutually beneficial] agreement.”   

And then he’s gone, laughing as the door creaks shut without so much as a backwards glance. 

I think I hate him, Tenna decides, though it is a fledgeling and petulant emotion at best, and a resolution that Tenna can’t fool even himself into thinking he might keep. He’s annoyed by this Addison’s guts at worst. Mildly intrigued at best. What Spamton G. Spamton chooses to do with the rest of his life is none of Tenna’s concern, will continue to be none of Tenna’s concern, and when he flops hard into his chair, giving into the fit of dramatics, he resolves to never spend another thought on the uppity little salesman again. 

…It’s just that he’s never seen someone else so suited to the screen, is all. Regardless of his attitude off-set, there’s no denying what Tenna saw, and what Tenna saw, loathe as he is to admit it, was it.  

He could be a star, Tenna finds himself thinking, annoyed that he can’t stop himself and even more annoyed that he knows it’s true. Not as big as me, of course. But the star of the shopping network, maybe. The model pulling the curtain open on dream vacations and luxury cars. …Not that he’d do it any better than I do. 

Tenna stands abruptly, paces the length of his dressing room. Turns heel, does it again. Crosses his arms, uncrosses his arms, turns heel, walks past the mirror half a dozen times, then flops back down in his chair with an admittedly unbecoming huff. 

He can’t. He really shouldn’t. New is good, yes–new programs, new prizes, new twists on a holiday classic–Tenna wants to be on the cutting-edge of new television, make no mistake. But like this… With so many unknowns…  

(But, really, Tenna thinks, the memory of that Addison’s eyes glimmering up at him in promise, what’s the worst that could happen from just a little talk? ) 

Tenna grumbles to himself as he plucks up the business card, flipping the tiny thing carefully between his fingers and squinting down at the fine print beneath the name written bold across the center of the card. But where Tenna was hoping to see a phone number, or even better, a fax–

Tenna drops the business card atop the briefcase, elbows thunking onto the dressing table and head falling heavy into his hands. “What the hell,” he says, resisting the urge to tug at his antennae in frustration, “is an ‘email’, anyway?”

Chapter Text

Spamton knows, of course, that Mister Ant Tenna has no goddamn clue what an email is, which is why he’s nothing short of shocked when not twenty-four whole hours later does an email pop into his inbox with a domain clearly marking its origin as .tv. 

Now, Spamton does not drop everything he’s doing to open it, but if he sends off the next bit of unsolicited soliciting a bit faster and with a bit less spell-checking than he’d intended, well. No one has to know but him and the potential client he really doesn’t care about, anyway. 

For your consideration, reads the body of the email followed by what can only be a scanned attachment of a handwritten letter, a concept so ridiculous that all Spamton can do is laugh. 

“Cute,” he mutters to himself, meaning antiquated junk. In thirty years no kid’s gonna know how to read cursive anymore. Spamton himself probably wouldn’t have bothered learning it were it not for all the [hot deals] he’s been pulling, signing, and producing to [riches beyond your wildest dreams]. 

Still, Spamton squints through his glasses and parses out the showy curls, line by painstaking line–

Dear Mister Spamton G. Spamton,

What a crossover special of a first meeting, am I right? 

Cyber City’s top-rated salesman and the star of the screen? We haven’t seen excitement like that here in TV World since the first big Dreemur-Holiday Pre-Christmas Spectacular! You should have mentioned how much of a big shot you are that side of the screen. I could have gotten you the all-access VIP pass!

Now, I’ve had a chance to think about that offer of yours and I’d love to talk about it more with you. 

I can see a VERY successful partnership in our future, so let’s have a meeting at your earliest convenience and discuss what we can do for each other. That VIP pass will be waiting!

Sincerely,

(Ant) Tenna

Cute, thinks Spamton again, and a whole lot of words to say a whole lot of nothing. The CRT’s clearly done his research, which is both convenient and troublesome in turn. Still, he’s gotten what he wanted, so he leans back in his [premium] leather rolling chair, linking his hands behind his head and tapping his foot against the wheels. 

But no matter how long he waits–

Silence. 

Spamton eyes the phone, sitting in its place of honor on a marble pedestal in the center of the room, electric chandelier raining down on it a spotlight. It’s a funny little thing, that phone. A damn [trash heap] worthy piece of junk itself, rotary dial a memory of an era long gone and only looking all the older compared to the mobile in Spamton’s pocket, no bigger than the size of the receiver on the old landline. It’s strikingly out of place in the sleek, modern architecture of the Queen’s Mansion, too old and plain to fit the pleasingly gaudy awards and luxuries scattered around the rest of Spamton’s room. 

But in this singular case, age has yet to make a [piece of junk] obsolete. The phone rings often and with preternatural timing; Spamton can only hope to count the number of times it’s saved him from a deal about to go sour, turned him towards neon-shiny piles of cash just waiting to be repossessed. 

Yet on this, strangely enough, it remains silent. Cat got your tongue? Spamton thinks, peering at the wires just to make sure Tasque Manager hasn’t come in here with her damn vacuum again and started mucking the place up–but the first time it had rung, it hadn’t been plugged in anyway. The little miracle on the other side isn’t bound by the same rules as the rest of them, and so long as Spamton remains in its [priceless] graces, he’s not going to bother questioning a good thing. 

“No call means I’m makin’ a good call,” Spamton mutters to himself, forcing a break in his schedule for a little trip back to the TV world to play mailman again. It’s not exactly glamor, but it’ll do. The road to glory ain’t always pretty, and Spamton has no qualms about playing dirty for a while if it’s all in service of something greater. “Alright. Time to print some emails, huh?”

Disgusting as a [malware-ridden] little [fleabag], Spamton thinks, leaning against the Mansion’s resident printer with the attitude of a man who truly would rather be anywhere else, how much fan mail that [trash heap] gets. What does he even do? Talk at a camera all day? Make other people [pay] to [play] while he pulls in all the [profit]?

Spamton pauses. Sounds like a real [sweet gig], huh?  

Well. That’s why he wants to get on TV in the first place, isn’t it. 

Not so different after all. Spamton cackles to himself with dark satisfaction. A passing Swatchling, more than used to this by now, simply ignores him and goes on with their day. They don’t even go red anymore in the presence of a star like him. A shame, really. Once Spamton’s finished with his TV World takeover, he’ll have to strike that sense of awe back into them. Can’t have them acting like they’re blind to the [deal of a lifetime] once I’m a star. 

Which, speaking of–Spamton smacks the side of the printer as it starts to protest the amount of pages he’s asking it to print, claiming “low ink” and “paper jam in tray 3”. At the end of the day it’s just a lazy [scrap metal] piece of junk. Falling for its deceptions is the quickest way to find yourself treating it to an [all-expenses out of pocket] repair job that the damn thing doesn’t even need. 

And they call me a con, Spamton thinks, glaring the overgrown printer into submission until, obediently, it begins spitting out pages of emails again. 

And what a repulsive pile of them there is, truly. Fans. A hive-minded heap of sheep worse than consumers running blind. At least when you pay for a product you end up with something to show for it.  What’s the point in swarming around some hot shot with stars in your eyes and wallets open to the dust bunnies unless you are, of course, the [big shot]? 

Spamton sneers. 

Fans.

…They might be the only thing Spamton doesn’t have, really. 

Admirers? Sure, Spamton’s got those in spades. Haters? Haters, well… He’s got those in a freakish [rainbow assortment pack], or something of the sort. But fans… 

Fans.

That’s how you know you’ve made it [big], isn’t it? When you’ve got the adoring audience out there, hanging on your every word… When the suckers aren’t there for the brand or cheering their hearts out for the [bargains] but there for the man in the spotlight, the guy who commands center stage. 

Spamton taps his fingers on the top of the printer, which it appears to take as a sign of impatience, if the way it starts spitting out pages at unprecedented speeds is any indication. A bite of his lip, a lick to smooth it over, hunger and curiosity both as large as his ambition. Got the [stacks], got the [celebrity status], now…

Spamton sticks his hand out and plucks one of the fan letters hot from the press, turns it over with skeptical eye. 

“I love your show, Mr. Tenna! I wanna be on it when I grow up!”

Spamton scoffs. As if that outdated lump of junk is going to have a show in a decade. By then, all he’ll have to his name is a pile of reruns for daytime TV and maybe a junkyard named after him, if he’s lucky. Next.

“Loved the latest physical challenge, darling. You’re a star! Next time, why not show off that–”

Spamton eyes that one warily. He’d rather not know. Next.

He plucks up a third, cursing the fact these things aren’t even good enough to kill off a bit of boredom and resigning himself to the fact he’s going to have to hire someone to read and respond to these damn things–

Not possible. Spamton scans eyes over the email once, then twice, then three times just for good measure. Makes no sense.

But he can see what he can see with his own eyes, can touch it real as day.  

Spamton pockets the email surreptitiously, then shoves the (truly atrocious) rest of the stack haphazard in another briefcase, snapping it closed with some uneasy mix of irritation and drive. Alright, Spamton thinks, smacking the printer on its side one last time for good measure before leaving it firmly in the dust, Alright, alright, alright. Now that’s what I call some [unexpected benefits].

Spamton supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when it’s yet again Mister Ant Tenna’s dressing room that he’s directed to upon arriving in TV World. It’s not exactly the sort of place that lends itself to bargaining in backrooms or friendly deals made over drinks at midnight bars. As far as Spamton can tell, the entire place is either a set or a glorified dressing room. Not many other places to sign a deal that aren’t right in the middle of the action. 

Tenna’s dressing chair is still where it was, set dead-center before the mirror, but a beat-up old table and a metal folding chair have joined it, spruced up with two glasses of sweating water perched atop CRT-shaped coasters from the gift shop. It’s not impressive, Spamton thinks, but at least they haven’t completely forgotten their hospitality. 

“Spamton G. Spamton!” Tenna says, standing at the sight of him, and it nearly takes him aback how happy the guy sounds to see him. With hands spread wide in welcome like that, you might mistake him for somebody greeting an old friend. “Sorry about the chair,” he continues, sounding genuinely apologetic, “We don’t have too many of those around here. Most of our challenges are played upright.”

“I’ve had worse,” Spamton replies, both the truest thing he’s ever said and just a smooth bit of business. He hops up into it, splaying back even as the cold metal pokes awkward between his shoulder blades, clearly not sized right for his… stature. 

Still, Spamton refuses to let it bother him. If he did, he’d never have made it out alive from half the closed-door negotiations he has, let alone emerged the winner. He makes a show of making himself comfortable, waves a hand for Tenna to sit back down as well. It doesn’t do much to negate their height difference, but again. Who would Spamton be if he was intimidated by a little thing like that? 

“So? What’s the [terms] you wanna play by, [big guy]?”

Tenna starts. His antennae are always pretty… perky, but he swears they just about shoot up to the ceiling. “Y-You didn’t bring your own?”

Spamton waves a dismissive hand at him. “What do you take me for, a [two-a-penny] hack? Of course I brought my own. But I want to hear yours, first.”

“O-Oh. Well then.” 

Tenna clears his throat and tugs at his tie, clearly going through the mental pep talk again.  

It’s funny, Spamton thinks. He’s seen Mister Ant Tenna on TV before; who hasn’t? Cyber City produces its own fair share of entertainment and no shortage of advertising, but a real program is harder to come by. Those they’ve gotta import, and where better to pull from than the source itself?

Cooking shows, breaking news, movie marathon host–any role is easy enough to play, though it’s clear from looking at him that his little game shows own his heart. Spamton’s seen a few of ‘em, the background to a dozen bar trips and sleepless midnights. He’s so confident on the air that it can be hard to believe he’s real. Off the sets and studio lighting,, though… Spamton lets out a breath like blowing smoke through his fingers and allows himself a moment of preemptive celebration. Without a script, the guy’s an amateur. 

“Forget your lines, [big guy]?”

Tenna, much to Spamton’s amusement, flushes a hint of pink. His antennae… crinkle, and though Spamton doesn’t know the guy well enough to say if it’s in embarrassment or annoyance, it doesn’t change the fact he’s easier to read than a chunk of source code. How’s nobody come along to scam this guy before? You could have the [numbers on the back of his credit card] in an hour flat. Spamton pauses. Nah, too generous. Give me ten minutes and an open bar and I’ll have his [life savings] in my [digital wallet].

He only just resists cracking a victorious grin at the thought. Not yet, too early. Gotta make him think that Spamton’s playing by his rules, not the other way around. 

“You know about the future,” Tenna rushes to open, splaying his hands open in a show of goodwill. 

“The [one and only],” Spamton returns, taking it as an opportunity to talk. “If you want to feel the [sweet breeze] in your hair on the road to success, there’s nobody better to put you on it than me.” Spamton leans forwards, dropping his voice with a winning smile, like they’re about to share a secret–”And believe me. Do I want to put you on it.”

Tenna opens his mouth, probably to protest, but Spamton cuts him off before he gets the chance to put voice to thought. “Now, now. I know what you’re thinking, pal. You’re already successful! Biggest name in TV! Trust me, nobody’s tryin’ to challenge that.”

Not yet, anyway, Spamton thinks, knowing none of it will show in his eyes behind today’s pair of glasses, vintage aviators that seem just this CRT’s style. Suddenly he starts craving a cigarette; he plucks one from his pocket slow and deliberate, waiting to be denied. But though Tenna tracks the movement of his hands, the flip of his lighter, he does nothing to stop Spamton from filling the air with warm, acrid smoke. Making a concession so early? Bad move, [big guy]. 

“Look,” Spamton continues, waving the cigarette for emphasis, “You’ve got a formula. It’s done you real good! I mean, look at this place!” He motions towards the rest of the dressing room, draped out in posters and red carpet and a thousand other little meaningless accolades besides, “You’ve got a good thing going! Just the kind of thing I like to see. I just think you should be striving for [better].”

“How so?”

Spamton huffs out a laugh, nothing more than a heave of his shoulders. “Hey, hey. That’s not the kind of [selfless advice] I give out for free, y’know.”

He expects Tenna to stumble, to be greeted with that same, flustered greenhorn, but he manages to catch the adlib with grace, rattling out his line smooth and practiced. “You’ve got a great eye. A fresh perspective’s exactly what we need around here!” 

Flattery? Spamton hadn’t thought him capable of it. Then again, he himself was probably the one to put the idea in that empty little head. 

Tenna continues, gaining confidence now, “I want you to come in and give things a fresh new look. Bring in a new audience! Keep the old one laughing their socks off!”

“Give the [good ol' days] a [fresh coat of paint]?”

“That’s exactly the plan!” Tenna looks downright delighted that Spamton’s on board; with every word he leans further forward, as if he’s about to leap over the table and take Spamton’s hand right then and there. He’s got a vision, clearly, and apparently he’s decided this [little partnership] might be to his benefit. 

But. 

“Now look, pal. Consulting’s all [spick and span],” Spamton says, holding his hands up to his eye, framing his face and Tenna in the rectangle of his sights, “but I’m a whole lot more than just another [nobody] behind a screen. If we’re gonna strike a deal, why not [maximize profits]? I can sell anything you could dream of faster than [hotcakes] at a Sunday morning church buffet.” 

“I know,” Tenna says, though he can’t possibly. Star or not, Darkners can’t exactly go hop-skip-jumping over to the neighboring town so easy. Unless you’re one Spamton G. Spamton, of course, who’s got all the secrets of a distant future in his back pocket. “You’re a top-rated salesman over in Cyber City, aren’t you? I want to give you a show–” Finally, Spamton thinks “–on the shopping network.”

Spamton huffs out a heavy breath. Well. Sometimes you’ve gotta [get that foot in the door] before you blow it wide open.

“What’s the [hot goods]?” 

“I was thinking… cars?”

A question, not a demand. Tenna tilts his head ever-so-slightly, and Spamton can’t help but see him as some kind of overgrown puppy, eager to please and all but falling over himself for praise. This is where you’re supposed to be telling, not asking, [big guy]. I’ll be [running the town] by the end of the year. Satisfaction at the certainty is enough to let his momentary disappointment blow over. Though…

“Wait. Yours the kind with the wheels, or the feet?”

Tenna’s face goes comically flat, which is funny, considering the only thing stickin’ out of it’s his nose. “...Feet?”

Well that answers that.

Spamton waves his hand dismissively. “Forget it, forget it. Feet, wheels, who cares what it’s got so long as it gets you where you’re goin’, right?”

“Uh, right,” Tenna agrees, though it’s clear he’s still stuck on the mental image of cars with feet. “Is this a deal?”

“Sure, I like those terms,” Spamton says, offhanded and easy, drawing a line of smoke through the air.  

“Y-You do?” It’s cute, how the damn CRT almost stumbles over himself in surprise. He couldn’t close a [hard deal] to save his life. Spamton has to wonder how he’s kept this studio running at all. “O-Of course you do! Aren’t they great? A whole show, all to yourself! Who wouldn’t kill for that?!” 

Spamton might’ve laughed at him, would it not be taken exactly the way Spamton means it. “Sure, sure. The TV market’s some [hot competition] for us. Never hurts to get ahead while the [getting] is good.”

It’s not exactly an upgrade for the most-requested man to sell Cyber City’s finest luxuries. Sure, a regular bit is nice, some extra steady income in a volatile market, but Spamton’s got far more foolproof methods than the slow ‘n easy. Not that Tenna needs to know that. 

“Then-”

“Just one little thing,” Spamton says, leaning forward and waiting for the flicker of distrust he knows is about to come. And, right on cue, a gentle burst of static runs across his monitor, shoulders tightening as he braces himself to hear Spamton’s unreasonable demands, unhinged requests, [fine-print] additions to a contract you kick yourself for not bothering to read–“I want a personal phone line. I’ll bring it in, just give me a nice spot for it away from the noise, huh?”

Spamton can almost see the screen buffering, a freeze frame into static motion, colors bleeding sickly into the next as the airwaves struggle to keep up with the broadcast. It’s not what he’d expected; of course it’s not. 

The dishonest salesman takes this opportunity to push his agenda, to [budget-brand bully] his way into terms that the other party won’t find themselves favorable to, squirming like a rat in the trap. 

But Spamton is in this for the long con, and a bit of low-stakes honesty gets you a whole lot further than just [in the door]. By the time this deal has run its course, Spamton isn’t just going to pull the rug out from under this guy–he’s going to run off with his whole damn set.

Tenna glances around the room, gaze settling on something in the corner. “That’s your only request?”

“For now,” Spamton replies, stubbing out one of his cigarettes on the coasters for lack of better place to do it, “And an ashtray around here somewhere. Where do your guys take smoke breaks, huh?” 

“We can do that. We can do all of that. I’ll have them write up a contract,” Tenna says, ignoring Spamton’s question, too concerned with looking rather pleased with himself. For that matter, Spamton swears that his screen’s about to start glowing.  

Does he play sob stories when he’s feeling down and out? Spamton searches him for any sign of buttons, a dial. If he’s got ‘em, though, they’re well and hidden beneath that bright red suit of his, battered and out of date. What’s he been wearing that since, the seventies? That’ll be the first thing to go once I’m in charge, Spamton decides, But the [side show] distractions can wait for the circus.

“Hey, hey, what’s the need for all that [formal mumbo-jumbo]? Let’s [seal this deal] like [real men], huh?”

Spamton sticks out his hand with bravado, a roguish grin to match. He knows exactly what sort of picture he paints. He’d practiced it in the mirror a thousand times before that fateful phone call had chosen him, knowing that his time to use it would one day come. 

Tenna fiddles with his thumbs, and even though he does it behind his back, Spamton can see it loud and clear in the mirror. Can’t hide anything when you’re that big, buddy.

“That’s… legal?”

“Legally binding as a [sign on the dotted line], a [stamp registered at city hall] or a [$4.99 discount wedding ring].” Spamton pauses. “Well, maybe not that last one.”

He laughs, though Tenna doesn’t join in. Divorce humor not his style, apparently. 

But that isn’t the problem here. The problem is, Spamton’s hand is still upsettingly empty on a deal that should’ve been closed three minutes ago and if this damn CRT starts having doubts on him now, Spamton’s going to have to start getting heavy-handed. “What, gonna leave a guy hangin’? Deals like this only come around [once in a lifetime], so better–”

“Deal,” Tenna says, taking his hand too-quick, too-firm. 

Damn puppy, Spamton thinks, doing his best to bite down his grimace. Professional until you leave the scene; that’s the big shot way. He squeezes Tenna’s hand back, and at least then the stupid CRT seems to get the message. 

“I’m looking forward to this,” Spamton says, a meaningless pleasantry he’s surprised to find isn’t so meaningless now that his hand’s no longer being crushed. The guy’s… not a genius, all things given. Kind of just another sucker, really. But he’s amusing enough that at the very least Spamton doesn’t see himself getting bored pulling the guy’s strings, and TV is TV, even if it’s low-brow [B movie] slop. 

“It’s going to be the start of something great,” Tenna says, dropping Spamton’s hand carefully, as if abashed by his own strength. “A blockbuster new opportunity!”

Spamton grins at him, all teeth. “You said it.”

They linger just a moment as Spamton runs them through the formalities–the my guys will call your guys and we’ll iron out the fine details at our next meeting– before he waves himself away with a smile, good feelings all around. 

Seven, eight, nine, ten steps to the doorway deliberate and measured. He even puts his hand on the knob, selling the illusion of departure, then–

“Oh, and pal?” Spamton stops, turning slow in his tracks and pulling out a branded notepad–in this day and age, how outdated –and pen, clicking it loud in the silence and taking his sweet time to scribble down his message. If it’s not legible, then there’s no point. He returns to the table with an easy stride, slips around it smooth and coordinated, looks up at Tenna in a charged moment of silence, broken only by the hum of the mirror bulbs, a soft and pleasant drone. 

Spamton’s not one for the silence (unless you’re selling [noise-cancelling headphones]) because it’s all just dead air where some good pitches can fit, but this is the kind he finds himself partial to, the sort where it feels as if anything could happen, two men teetering on the edge of a future that just might change lives. 

Tenna’s hands are in his lap, clenched atop his knees in nervous anticipation, and Spamton reaches out towards his left, slips the scrap of paper into it easy. He holds tight despite the way Tenna starts, takes great care to let his hands linger firm atop Tenna’s as he pats it once, twice. “Call me next time.”

Spamton steps back as Tenna flounders, unused to the Cyber City brand of [customer service], and makes his way leisurely back to the exit, glancing just a moment at the telephone jack in the corner of the room. He grins satisfied to himself, an expression meant for no one but the back of the door as it shares in his conspiracy. 

Tenna says something, but Spamton doesn’t bother listening as the door swings shut behind him. His only concern now is schooling his expression back to suave and otherwise unreadable. With what feels like the world under his wings, he weaves his way out of the TV World, uncaring of his flustered escort chasing along after him. Oh, he thinks, resisting the urge to hum along to a victory tune, this [scrap heap]’s not gonna know what hit him.