Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Spamton was a bad driver.

Actually, no. Saying Spamton was a bad driver meant he could be compared to a good one. Spamton was an indescribably  driver.

Tenna wasn't sure what Spamton did could even be considered driving. Other than the pure lack of driving skills, Spamton was also .

Enough late-night benders had ended with Spamton driving home for Tenna to know that. Despite being in no state to drive the night before, he’d show up the next morning in his Cungadero that remained miraculously scratch free.

It happened often enough that Tenna had stopped trying so hard to get him to sleep on the green room couch instead. He still made an effort to hide his keys, of course, but they always made their way back into the mailman’s hands shortly after he’d declare he was leaving for the night. He could swear the keys would be in his inner blazer pocket one minute and in Spamton’s hands the next.

Despite knowing this, he’d still found himself crammed into the back of the Cungadero with his knees pressed against his chest.

Today was one of the rare occasions when Kris and Noelle had brought the laptop home from the library. Tenna and his crew had spent all day filming as many episodes as they could with the cyber world darkeners. The influx of new contestants made for good television! He could dress the pippins in as many different outfits as he wanted, but they still were the same old contestants (ones with a serious penchant for gambling on the job at that). The new contestants, of course, had their problems. The virovirokuns had a habit of peaking the mics, which the live studio audience did not enjoy. One strange darkner referred to themselves as 'The Hacker' and refused to answer any of the questions. No Addisons were allowed on set, of course. Previous experience taught him that all they'd do once the camera was on them was advertise relentlessly. Even when he shut off their microphones and forcibly tried to redirect them, they'd continue. They never seemed to leave either, managing to linger well after the taping ended. One prime example was lingering somewhere around the studio at current.

He had briefly considered asking Queen to be a guest star, she had the popularity for it. The lightners loved her. He didn't avoid her all day because they might like her more! It wasn't because he was scared she'd overshadow him on his own show! He was just so busy! So, so busy! 

By the time the majority of the cast and crew had left for the night, he was more than ready for a drink (and it definitely had nothing to do with Queen sneaking into the audience and heckling him with dry, cutting comments that managed to hit every slight insecurity he had). He slumped over a barstool as Ramb placed a cosmo in front of him. Good ol' dependable Ramb. Always ready with a drink and a kind word (somehow, he always knew what Tenna wanted even before he did). He'd been busy serving the Cyber World denizens all day and was surely looking forward to going home for the night. Well, presumably he went home. Tenna never actually saw him leave. He was either behind the bar or nowhere to be found. Tenna didn't really care what his employees did after hours, as long as it didn't impact their work.

Tenna let out a dramatic sigh and let himself shrink a bit. He swirled the drink around, taking a moment to contemplate if he should down it in one go or sip and enjoy the flavour.

"Long day, huh?" Ramb asked, not looking up from cleaning the glass in his hands. He was always cleaning glasses. Tenna wasn't quite sure what he actually did most days, but every time he saw him, he was cleaning something. Oh well, he supposed there was nothing wrong with a little extra cleanliness, plus he was always there when Tenna needed advice.

"Sure was. I wish they'd been more selective about the contestants. 'The Hacker'? Seriously? Who let that on stage? I oughtta dock their pay," he growled, sipping his drink. He felt his claws scrape against the glass and made an active effort to sheath them. He sighed again, trying to shake off his bad mood. They'd taped enough episodes to fill the prime time slots for a week. He should feel relieved. Instead, that familiar gnawing, churning feeling sat in his gut. The feeling that made him snap over small mistakes, and insist on refilming episodes over and over until the lines seared themselves into his circuits. 

"You're just worn out after so much work, luv. You just need a quiet night and some rest," Ramb assured him. Maybe he was right. It'd been a while since his last quiet night. He'd been spending so many nights late working in his office lately, reviewing scripts until they played out in his dreams, then later waking up with drool spots on the papers. Speaking of scripts...

"Have you seen Spamton? I need him to sign off on that brand deal, the pet shampoo one," He questioned. If anyone had seen Spamton lately, it would've been the bartender. 

"I haven't seen 'im for a few hours. He was taking a phone call, last I know," he looked up and frowned slightly, "Speak of the devil."

“Silver Screen! Great job out there!” A familiar diminutive figure hopped onto the barstool beside him and slapped his back. A lit cigarette hung loosely in his mouth as he flashed his signature smile at the TV. He reached inside his blazer and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Want one? Looks like you could use it,” He offered. Tenna gladly took one and placed it between his lips. He reached into his pocket, but found nothing. He began to pat himself down, a bit more frustrated each time his lighter evaded him.

“Damn it…” he muttered, still unsuccessfully trying to find the lighter. Spamton chuckled at his fruitless attempts. Ramb held out the bar lighter before-

“Here,” Spamton laughed, pulling on Tenna's tie so they were face to face. He held the ends of the cigarettes together until Tenna’s finally caught. As he let go, Tenna jumped back, feeling hotter than usual.

“HaHaHa, oh Spamton, you. You’re always trying to throw me off my rhythm!” He laughed, perhaps a little louder than he needed to. He took a sharp breath, smoothed his now crooked antenna back and straightened his tie. He decided that he could always savour the next drink and tipped his head back.

“Whoa, going BIG tonight? I can get behind that! Ramb, grab the top shelf stuff!” The salesman barked. To make up for his smaller size, the Addison was always larger than life. He’d spread himself out on any chair, project his voice so a whole room could hear it, stand on top of furniture. Anything that made him appear bigger than he really was. It was like a bird puffing up its feathers to seem larger. He thought it was endearing, cute even. Though if Spamton knew he'd thought of him as anywhere near cute, he'd throttle him.

Spamton was a loud man. A showy man. Tenna would've thought it impossible for him to be quiet if he hadn't seen it for himself. It happened one night, when they were discussing contracts in Spamton's dressing room, with Spamton dancing around disclosing his secret as usual. Then, the phone rang. Spamton ran to answer it, leaping over the back of his armchair. He listened intently, not even breathing. He didn't tap his foot or chew his fingernails like he did when he usually took phone calls. He was scarily still and quiet. Tenna could only hear his internal electronics buzzing. Once the phone was put down, Spamton was back to normal. He was loud again, if not a tad more fidgety than usual. Tenna almost doubted he'd seen what he saw.

Ramb, with a raised eyebrow, poured them both a glass of the battery acid Spamton had brought over from Cyber World. Regular alcohol didn’t ‘sting enough’ for him, was what he’d said. Slowly, Tenna found himself growing used to the taste as they'd share some after particularly successful tapings, the airing of Spamton’s first commercial being one such event. Slowly was the key word. He still couldn't knock it back like most denizens of Cyber World could. He gagged on the liquid as he forced it down his throat in one go. The acrid taste filled his mouth as he tried not to cough and splutter. His antenna sparked and crackled with the electricity from the acid.

“Ant, that was a sipping acid,” Spamton chuckled, “ah, what the hell?” He also downed his drink, thumping the empty glass on the bar as he finished. 

This drink hit him pretty quickly, as battery acid tended to do. He already felt less stiff. For the first time today, he felt the gnawing feeling lessen. Every little sound felt less grating, the TV dinner trekked across the greenroom carpet less attention grabbing. Ramb went to pour them another glass before Spamton grabbed the bottle from his hands. 

“As much as I enjoy the bottle service, we can pour for ourselves. Why don’t ya head home for the night? Do whatever it is bartenders do when they aren’t being a poor man’s shrink,” Spamton grinned a little too wide. Tenna knew Spamton wasn’t fond of the power strip. Heck, everyone knew. He was snippy with him on a good day, and cutting on a bad day. When Tenna had asked him why, Spamton only replied, “I like my drinks without a side of ‘wisdom’.” Ramb was never anything less than civil in return, but Tenna could see on his face that he wasn’t fond of Spamton either. It was like mixing sodium and water (which he did as a special on his edutainment channel. He’d been quite proud of it until Kris started throwing random items in water to see if they’d explode. The week long grounding from TV was probably more painful for him than it was for Kris). It could get explosive, and in the end Spamton only burnt himself out. Ramb always seemed largely unaffected by the time Spamton left. As their boss he probably should’ve mediated, but after spending the whole day running around placating irritable contestants he couldn’t summon the energy.

Ramb looked to Tenna for his reaction. He’d made it clear that Spamton wasn’t his boss, and the final word went to Tenna. 

“We’ll probably be at least another hour. If you want to head out for the night, that's alright by me! (There’s no points for voluntary overtime anyhow).” He waved. Ramb sighed and took his apron off.

“Alright. Just be sure to get some rest, luv. It’s been a long day for all of us,” he gave a pointed look at Spamton who scoffed. 

“Of course! Just a couple of drinks to unwind, promise!” He gave an uneasy smile as Spamton filled his glass, very heavy handed on the pour. Ramb gave him one last concerned look before he stepped away. 

The CRT and salesman exchanged quips for a while, ultimately surpassing the ‘couple of drinks’ Tenna had promised Ramb. They laughed about corporate sponsors, and how strict censors were here compared to in Cyber World (and how to go about censoring the episodes they’d filmed without half the runtime being beeped out). They managed to finish off the battery acid. Tenna went to reach for a bottle of whisky before Spamton stopped him.

He butted out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and turned to Tenna with a sly smile, “y’know, the laptop won't be getting returned anytime soon. Wanna try something new?”

Chapter Text

He was an idiot to accept Spamton's offer of ‘trying something new’. He didn’t need new when the old was reliable! The old served him well! The ‘old’ wasn’t even that old!

Not only did he barely fit in the car in the first place, being too drunk to actively shrink himself down, but there were no seat belts, and he had probably the dark world’s most irresponsible driver in the front seat. They were definitely a sight, with Tenna filling the entire back seat of the shiny red ‘Cungadero’, as Spamton lovingly called it. He treated the car like his baby. Tenna had once seen him cooing over the thing as he polished it. This did not bother Tenna at all. Not remotely. It caused no jealousy or aching, wanting feeling for someone to clean and care for him with the same passion. It didn’t matter that the Dreemurrs hadn’t dusted him in nearly a year, he could take a little dust! That was the benefit of older technology! It's reliable! It'll last your whole life! There's no need to get a new TV! He'd last generations!

Being the car on the road without legs only drew extra attention to the pair. Not only was the sight of a ten foot tall TV crammed into the back seat of a bright red sports car eye-catching, but Spamton’s driving made them a spectacle. He swerved between cars like he was playing one of the racing games the Dreemurr children loved (the looks from the other drivers reminded Tenna that this was, in fact, very real). At one point, to Tenna’s horror, the mailman hung halfway out the window to grab a floating pixelated banana in the middle of the road.

Tenna had been built with the spotlight in mind. Everywhere he went he was the center of attention. His height, bright red suit jacket, and glowing screen meant that it was hard to ignore him. And for one of the first times in his life he wished that people would stop looking. He only ever wanted people to watch him, so the feeling burned deep in his boards. It went against his very purpose, his every goal.

Seeing the disgruntled faces staring at them made him shrink with embarrassment. Feeling the weight of the car shift, Spamton leaned back, taking one of his hands off the wheel to rest against the seat.
“You right back there, BIG SHOT?” The car started to wobble and drift, “You’re shrinking.”

“HaHa, I’m Spamton. Please Keep Your Eyes On The Road.”

“You’re half your regular size, Ant. Something’s botherin’ ya,” he insisted. He maintained eye contact with Tenna, who was sweating bullets now. They’d drifted across three lanes of traffic and had barely missed hitting another car, which Spamton flipped off for ‘being in his way’. 

”Seriously, Spamton. The Road,” He repeated through gritted teeth. A car hadn't noticed them drifting towards it and was getting dangerously close.

“C’mon, Cathode, talk to me,” he said, taking his last hand off the wheel and using it to poke Tenna in the chest.

“SPAMTON THE CAR! THE CAR!” He lurched forward and grabbed the wheel, jerking it to the right. They finally swerved away from the oblivious car.

“Fucking hell, don’t just grab the wheel like that! We’ll crash!” Spamton spat. Tenna could only stare in disbelief, his processors taking a moment to catch up.

“Are. You. ??” Tenna wheezed. He kept his hand on the wheel as Spamton took hold of it again and did his best to keep it steady (his best was not nearly adequate enough, in Tenna’s opinion).

“I am, let go,” he tried to shoo Tenna’s hand off the wheel, not bothering to keep his eyes on the road in the process, “I drive every day!” He finally managed to pry the gloved hand from the steering wheel and huffed. Tenna gripped at the seat below him as they swerved back into the lane they’d started in. They actually managed to stay in the lane for a while, and silence hung between them. Well, as silent as it could be with his antenna crackling and flicking with electricity every time they hit a bump or started to approach another car, plus Spamton’s swearing at the other drivers.

A sigh came from the front seat, “I can hear you grinding your teeth back there. Relax, we’re almost here.” Tenna wasn’t sure he believed him. They were nowhere near Queen’s mansion and in a rather decrepit part of town. Spamton liked to live in the lap of luxury, and anything less than that was met with a litany of complaints. He once refused a contract with an advertiser because they sent him a cheap bottle of brandy while Tenna was personally given an expensive bottle (his face went so red it matched his suit). This area seemed like it should only inspire insults from the mailman, instead, he held a small smile on his face. The salesman glanced at Tenna through the rearview mirror.

“You’re staring,” he chastised. Tenna felt a flush rise to his face. Caught red-handed. As Spamton laughed, Tenna could only curse the fact that he was so easily flustered off stage. No one else could tell where he was looking, but the mail man somehow always knew. Spamton only took advantage of this fact, always trying his best to get a rise out of him. Piping up in the middle of conversations to comment. He was embarrassed to admit these provocations worked more often than not. The Cungaderro finally rolled to a stop and Tenna nearly praised the angel out loud. Spamton turned the car off and Tenna could swear he heard him mutter "good job baby" to the car. He jumped out of the driver's seat and opened the rear door with a flourish.

“C’mon, Superstar, it’s just a bit of a walk from here,” he grinned at the CRT as he held the car door open, a stark contrast to his behaviour towards the other drivers earlier. Tenna struggled to squeeze himself out of the backseat, trying not to scrape the leather seats. Spamton's teeth ground together as he left a light footprint on the passenger headrest. Really with the odd angle, alcohol, and nerves from being driven around by a madman he ought to be glad a footprint was all that was left behind. He wound up on his back staring up at Spamton, who was biting his nails and staring at the mark Tenna had left. Tenna grew a few inches taller with relief at having that damned car behind, but as soon as the relief finished washing over him he finally processed what Spamton had said as he'd held the door open.

“Wait, walk? We can’t drive there?” He asked sitting bolt upright, “In a taxi, this time.” He added quickly, already seeing Spamton’s eyebrows raise in a silent ‘I thought you hated my driving’. He was not getting in a car with Spamton behind the wheel again, not until the day his burn-in was so severe he couldn’t see and Spamton could trick him into getting into the Cungaderro again. He hoped his burn-in would never become that bad. He was sure Spamton would take advantage of the opportunity to get away with whatever he wanted. Despite his overwhelming urge not to get in a car again for the foreseeable future, he got the idea that walking around this area wasn’t particularly safe. He wasn’t sure the anti-virus was as strong here as it was near Queen’s mansion. In fact he saw more virovirokuns around than usual. It certainly didn’t seem like the main way to traverse the ‘inter net’. Spamton had tried to teach him how to ‘surf the web’, but he never really got past the surfing part being figurative instead of literal. Why call it surfing if there was no water involved? What was ‘the web’? He saw zero spiders or webs around! If Queen’s mansion was the ‘inter net’ were they in the ‘outer net’? They were just making up new words to confuse him!

Spamton chuckled and set off walking, waving his hand over his shoulder, “nah, they blocked this off ages ago. You’ve gotta know where to go and what to say to get where we’re going.” Tenna's antennae stood rigid, and he hesitated. Just where the hell were they going? Spamton shoved his hands in his pant pockets and glanced back at the TV host.

“Relax, I know this place like the back of my hand. But until I say, don't interact with anyone. Don't even look at 'em, only eggs 'em on.” Tenna glanced around in uncertainty. Everything about this screamed bad idea, he should insist they order a taxi back to the studio. With every second he spent standing in indecision Spamton was wandering further away, and he could feel eyes from the shadows leering at him. He made the only decision he could in the moment, he followed the mailman down the back alleys of Cyber World.

Chapter Text

They took various turns through the alleys, dodging poppups that sprang out of dark corners and started spouting nonsense about ‘MILFs’ and ‘hot singles’. Not long after dodging another, they felt the ground begin to shake. He saw Spamton panic a little, shifting his weight between his feet like he did when he was about to make a quick exit (he’d made plenty of those to get out of Tenna’s lectures about professionalism and camera readiness). His eyes locked onto a dumpster. He grabbed Tenna’s hand and began pulling him into the narrow space between the dumpster and the wall. Tenna ended up on his knees, curled over the mailman, who was now holding his hands over Tenna’s speakers. 

As the rumble of the ground grew more intense, a gentle white light filled the alley. The poppup must’ve jumped out at the glowing figure, because its garbled cries of ‘live chat’ and being ‘all alone on a Friday night’ started again. A shrill gasp rang out across the alleyway, not dissimilar to the Swatchlings (the day he’d knocked over one of their vases was a day he wouldn’t be forgetting any time soon). The soft white light turned a harsh red, and the poppup started squeaking out, “Close window! Cancel application! Alt F4!” The thumping footsteps started again, more hurried this time. The red light, and the noise from the poppup faded as the figure made its way back down the alley. 

Now, Tenna was quite spry, despite what his bulky build might lead one to believe. He did his own stunts, and he was dang proud of it! But being in this position, bent in an uncomfortable U shape, was starting to cause a twinge in his back. It wasn’t just his posture that made the experience uncomfortable. Spamton was pressed into his chest, with his hands firmly on the sides of Tenna’s screen, both pulling him closer and muffling his speakers. Sure, Spamton had sat in his lap before, the little salesman took any opportunity to get the CRT flustered. But he’d never held himself so firmly against the TV. In the past, when he’d slipped into Tenna’s lap, he’d always let Tenna push him off in a huff. He’d always run out of breath laughing at how the air around them would heat up, and Tenna’s screen would glow pink. Somehow, he’d managed to clock Tenna as touch-starved the day they met. It wasn’t his fault, it’s hard to date when everyone around you is an employee! It raised some significant HR issues! If anyone had asked (and surely they had wanted to, or, at least, thought about it), he’d have to turn them down!

The mailman was stiff, and Tenna couldn’t see his face, only his hair, which his nose was buried in. He smelt of tobacco and cheap cologne. Oh, angel above- he really shouldn’t be smelling his business partner’s hair, and he really shouldn’t be liking it. Was the figure gone? He couldn’t feel its footsteps anymore. They could leave, right? Still, they stayed hidden behind the dumpster. Finally, the twinge in his back became more of a sharp, stabbing pain, and he whimpered into Spamton’s hair. This seemed to bring Spamton’s situational awareness back, and he shot out of Tenna’s grasp and into the open alley. Tenna finally got to sit upright (really, he knew he could’ve easily done so earlier. Spamton wasn’t strong enough to hold him in place). He felt a few wires shift and a metal plate click back into place. He really needed to clean the contact points in his back. 

“So… what was that?” Tenna exclaimed, teeth grinding against each other. Spamton flushed and pulled a comb from his pocket and began smoothing back his now messy hair (Tenna almost swore he could see the bump where his nose had been sitting).

“I just wanted to make sure it was gone!” Spamton spat, eyes focusing on anything but Tenna, “and that was the only hiding spot, unless you wanted to be in the du-“

“No, no! That ! What was it?” Spamton stopped combing his hair so aggressively, finally putting the comb back in his pocket, and flushed a shade of baby pink. He didn’t glow as brightly as Tenna’s screen did, but his flush still lit up the walls of the alley. When they were behind the stage waiting for their cues, his soft white light enveloped him, making him look almost heavenly against the red curtains. Red complemented white so well. He was grateful to his past self for being so insistent that they have matching suits. Spamton lookedin his red suit. No- No. Red made him look . Like a big shot.

Spamton mumbled something about ‘SS’ and ‘damn filters’, still painted a light pink. 

“So what happened to the poppup? Did it- is it? D-E-A-D?” He mouthed the final word out, the same way one would say bad words around a toddler. Saying it aloud seemed a bit too graphic for his taste. 

“Dead? Nah, you couldn’t kill a poppup if you tried. The little fuckers. It’ll be taken to an ambyu-lance to get its viruses removed. Then-” The little mailman went pale (well, paler than usual) and his face fell, “Then the system will block its links. Get rid of anything too ‘inappropriate’ for general audiences. It’ll probably spend the rest of its short life trying to get the lightners to click on its broken links, but no one wants to click on a glitchy poppup.” He looked up at Tenna, who had shrunk down to only a few feet taller than him. He snapped out of his little trance. Obviously, this was a grim fate for Addisons and poppups alike.

“Whoops, killed the mood, huh? Don’t worry, Tens, I’m sure it’ll adapt! Poor bastard will be more of a prude than you by the end, promoting forums for parenting tips or HTML coding.” Okay, now Tenna was sure Spamton was making up words just to confuse him. What the was a hat-emle? They continued wandering the alleys for what felt like far too long. Knowing there were large ‘filters’ walking around, ready to ‘block links’ made Tenna feel nauseous. Or, maybe it was the alcohol. He really could use another drink.

Finally, they entered a small waiting room-like area, where several other alleyways also led. On the far side of the room, a large, blurry wall replaced the brick and concrete of the alleys they’d been walking through. There were clearly bright, colourful lights behind the wall, and he could see shadows moving around. It reminded him of the time Kris smeared apple sauce on his screen. He’d tried to continue entertaining them by playing the morning cartoons, but all the kids could see were colourful shapes moving around behind the quickly drying apple sauce. Maybe it was a movie screen! But that didn’t explain why they went so far away from Queen’s mansion. Was it a pirated movie? Or, worse, was it one of Toriel’s banned movies? It would explain why Spamton didn’t just order it in and queue it for broadcasting.

Two suited figures stood guard, holding large shields made of the same material as the wall. Tenna could see their silhouettes behind the shields, so the movie explanation suddenly seemed a lot less plausible. Spamton approached them, and they dropped the shields to block his path. 

He scowled and fished around inside his pocket, “Every damn time. Don’t you have my IP address memorised by now?” He pulled out a shiny white card and handed it to one guard. They looked it over and handed it to the other guard, who double checked it. Spamton crossed his arms and tapped his foot as he waited. Clearly, this wasn’t his first time here, if the mention of memorising was anything to go by. Finally, the guard handed the card back, the shields were lifted, and Spamton walked through the wall (Tenna really would never understand this internet stuff, would he?). As Tenna went to follow him, the shields were used to push him back.

“Uhm, Spam,” he muttered, “I think they need my- what did you call it? Yai-pee?”

“Yai-pee? It was two letters. How did you get that wrong? They don’t need your IP because you’re with me. C’mon, Ver, let him through.” The two guards shared a glance and moved aside, allowing a now very anxious Tenna through. He smoothed back his antenna in an attempt not to look so frazzled.

Passing through the wall, he was met with a colourful blast of light, which was way brighter than he’d anticipated. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust, but when they did-

“Wh- miama- woa- hey- mamam-mam-woah!” He began to jump between his two feet, like the ground was burning. He definitely felt like he was burning. He turned away and hid his screen in his hands. He’d sneak a look back, squeal in embarrassment, and turn right back around. Meanwhile, Spamton laughed uncontrollably at the display. He doubled over and gasped for air. A few bystanders stood by and watched the scene, a mix of alarm and amusement on their faces. The smarmy little salesman could only point and laugh at the overheating CRT. He could almost smell the burning plastic in the air as Tenna overheated so much that the rubber casing on his cables struggled to hold themselves together. If he needed any replacements, he’d be taking it out of Spamton’s paycheck!

“SPAMTON!” Tenna whined, voice pitching uncontrollably. “I can’t handle this! Not with the controls!” He pulled at his antennae and let out an electronic squeal from his speakers. It wasn’t as though he’d never seen so-called ‘adult content’ before. Asgore and Toriel were freshly married when they’d bought him, after all. But once Asriel came along, his parental controls had been turned on. They used to get turned off once Asriel was put to bed, but one morning, Asgore forgot to turn them back on. Poor baby Azzy and Toriel were subjected to a particularly gory scene from Alien. Toriels' shriek woke up Asriel, who didn’t stop crying for a full 30 minutes.

Since then, they hadn’t been turned off by the lightners. The controls granted him an extreme repulsion to adult content. He couldn’t even bear witness to it, let alone participate. Yet Spamton had dragged him here, a place that was the very essence of what his controls blocked. It physically pained him to stand here, just knowing what was behind him. And Spamton wasn't helping with his incessant laughing. The squeal made the mailman flinch and cover his ears. 

“Okay, okay, big guy. Get over here. Let me switch them off,” Spamton choked out. Even though his screen was black, he still held his hands over his eyes, or, where his eyes would be. He knelt down and waited, twisting the seams of his gloves between his fingers as he waited.

Spamton reached up and slipped the remote out of Tenna’s pocket. The CRT took it everywhere, refusing to let anyone but himself handle it. One day, Spamton had bought a universal remote from Cyber City and started messing with Tenna’s menus. It was soon smashed to bits by the lord of TV World. Tenna was prickly with him for a while after that. When he’d calmed down enough to see that it was actually pretty funny, Tenna finally taught him how to use the remote properly. Spamton pretty much forgot most of it immediately, apart from the one that interested him the most. The parental lock. Tenna rarely let it be turned off, basically only allowing it for the nights when Spamton busted out something a little harder than just cigars and booze. It was mostly for his own comfort, he rarely partook. If they weren’t turned off, he’d be a nervous wreck all night, and, more importantly to Spamton, a real pain in the ass to deal with. By now, he’d traversed the menu enough times that he could deactivate them from pure muscle memory alone. 

Tenna relaxed the moment the controls were turned off. He flicked his screen back on, the distinctive degaussing ping sounding out. He let out a relieved sigh then-

“You little ! What was that for?” Tenna shrieked, turning to snatch the remote out of Spamton’s hands. He tucked it into his inner blazer pocket before growing several feet and grabbing Spamton in one hand.

“Sorry, Tenna, it’s just so damn easy to rile you up! Couldn’t help myself! So, really, if you think about it, this whole situation is your fault,” he managed to wheeze out. Tenna could only glare at the tiny mailman as he gripped tighter. 

“Okay! Okay! It just slipped my mind! Usually I come here alone! And you’re the only person I’ve met with a built-in censor.” Spamton squeaked. Tenna grumbled and set him back down, shrinking back to normal size as he did so. Spamton patted out the new folds in his suit and made a mental note to send Tenna the dry cleaning fee. 

Tenna finally took a proper look around. Sure, there were the obviously adult ads with scantily clad darkners, which had caused his earlier meltdown, but also a litany of other, less offensive ads. Alcohol, gambling, drugs, overly bloody horror movies, if it was banned by the censors, it was here. Still, Tenna thought, it could be presented with some more tact and discretion. Call him a prude or old-fashioned, but he believed these things should be discussed quietly, not painted in neon and presented to the world to see. Spamton smirked up at him, nudging him with his shoulder as he walked down the street. People would stop and stare as they walked past. Tenna always forgot that they were sort of an odd pair. He towered over Spamton a considerable amount, yet he was following the man like a lost dog. Spamton paid their impromptu audience no mind until a plug girl wearing a faux fur jacket approached. Spamton lit up and put on his sleazeball smile, the one he’d wear when he was trying to get what he wanted.

“Cece! How’ve you been, Doll?” He purred. Something in Tenna prickled at the nickname, and his tone of voice, and how quickly Spamton abandoned him to chat with the stranger. The plug girl seemed stunned for a moment, then gave a polite smile.

“Mr Spamton, it’s nice to see you. It’s been a while.” Her voice was soft, small, with a pleasant squeak to it. She was one of the handful of darkners he’d met who was shorter than Spamton. The moment she spoke, Tenna understood why a guy like Spamton would want to talk to her (the guy had a Napoleon complex that could rival a chihuahua's, so he tended to attach himself to shorter darkners).

Spamton chuckled, “Ah, drop the Mr talk. You’re not working, and I’m not paying.” He leaned in and whispered loud enough for Tenna to hear, “The ol’ Boob-Tube over here has me working the late-night infomercials. By the time he lets me go, all the good spots are closed.” The plug girl - Cece - giggled and waved at Tenna. Tenna glanced at Spamton, who made a small motion that he should acknowledge her. He returned the wave, maybe a bit stiffer than normal. If you asked, he’d say it was a perfectly normal wave. No weird jealousy of how eager Spamton seemed to talk to her and not him, leaking into what was supposed to be a casual greeting.

“So how’re the girls?” The salesman probed, “Jay and Kay still at each other's throats?” Cece sighed and gave a small, tired smile. Spamton laughed, something about those two never changing, and patted Tenna on the back.

“Well, I’m gonna take this guy in. Angel knows he needs a night to unwind. He’s higher strung than Ada, if you can believe it.” He began to saunter away before turning around with a smirk that could only mean trouble, “One last thing. Is Wyra working tonight?”

Chapter Text

After bidding goodbye to the plug girl, Spamton essentially pushed Tenna down the main road until he abruptly stopped in front of a tall, dark building. The sudden stop nearly toppled Tenna, who was awestruck by the sights around him. He thought TV World was attention-grabbing, but this was a whole new level. It nearly made him nauseous, everywhere he looked was painted in neon. People lingered in the streets. Tenna knew that to make truly good entertainment, you needed breaks. To keep people’s attention, you needed the advertisements, the quiet moments in the story, a chance to take a breather. Otherwise, the audience would get overwhelmed. They’d stop watching and miss the best parts! It seemed like Cyber City didn't know the meaning of ‘taking a short break’. It didn’t slow down for anyone. He’d thought Spamton’s need to be constantly high energy and showy was one of his little quirks. He’d spent so long trying to get the salesman to understand the importance of having lulls in the schedule, and seeing behind the metaphorical curtains of Cyber City made it clear why Spamton struggled to accept that.

A long purple carpet led to the main entrance of the building. Spotlights illuminated a queue of darkners, snaking their way down the velvet and spilling into the street. He even saw some pippins in the queue, who went still upon seeing their boss. Gosh, he felt bad for interrupting their night out. They didn’t have any casinos in TV World, or at least, no legitimate ones. Because of that, whenever the laptop was brought home, the pippins would be buzzing all day, just waiting for the moment filming wrapped and they could run off to Cyber City. He elected to ignore them so they could have their fun (and not because it hurt his feelings that his crew was very transparently pretending they hadn’t seen him. They’d made eye contact for Pete’s sake!)

Two guards stood at the door. Must be the same type of darker as the earlier guards, Tenna reasoned. If they were visiting a casino, it’d make sense to have guards. He wasn’t particularly fond of casinos, though. Poker was fun for all of five minutes, and quickly lost its charm. He’d show up, boisterous and exaggerated as usual. Everyone at the table would lower their guards and smirk at each other, thinking this would be their easiest win of the night. When the cards were dealt, he’d turn his screen off and all hell would break loose. Nothing was funnier than watching a table of pro poker players balk the moment he put on the dark world’s greatest poker face. After the first round where he took them by surprise, most would refuse to play again. Unfortunately, it got him banned from every casino some overconfident pippin would start up (they all shut down pretty quickly anyway, once the others realised the dealers cheated to make sure the house always won). He hated to admit it, but getting kicked out made him feel a little glooby. He'd rather not play at all. Despite this, it became a rite of passage for the new hires to play against Tenna at the annual holiday parties. The pippins got a real kick out of convincing the new crew members that it was an easy way to earn some extra points. Tenna played along for the sake of crew bonding (the lost points were given back at the end of the night following a short lecture on the dangers of gambling. It never deterred the pippins, but he felt it was his duty to warn them regardless).

Spamton took hold of Tenna’s hand and pulled him through the entry, skipping the shockingly long queue and not bothering to show the card from earlier to the guards. This time, they made no attempt to stop him. A tall plug girl with multiple sets of arms met them at the entrance. She stayed behind the host stand, not even bothering to look up as Spamton approached.

“You’re back,” she near spat at him. Spamton put on that sleazy grin again. He leaned against the stand, which earned him a withering look from the host.

“Ada, baby, great to see you as always! My spot open?” 

“You haven’t been in over a month. I nearly stopped reserving it for you,” she crossed her multiple sets of arms and raised her eyebrows, “the big shot running out of cash?” Spamton’s eye twitched. His smile became a little more strained. A critical hit to the mailman’s ego.

“You know me! I’m a busy man, doll. Money doesn’t make itself! Everyone wants a look at this mug, a word of wisdom from a Big Shot!” He dropped the smile and leaned in, “You gonna let me in or what?” The hostess sighed. She grabbed a menu, a jug of water, and a glass. She walked up a flight of stairs to a balcony overlooking the club, not bothering to check that her guests were actually following. Tenna stumbled up the flight of stairs, earning him an annoyed glance from Ada. The small steps would already be a pain to climb on a regular day, but the alcohol certainly didn’t help his coordination. 

A small booth with black leather seats waited for them, with a golden ashtray and a small wooden box in the centre of the table. Not waiting to be directed, Spamton sat down in the booth and opened the box, smiling at whatever was inside, before closing it again. Tenna stood uselessly to the side before Ada cleared her throat. He quickly sat in the seat opposite Spamton and avoided eye contact with her. She placed the cup, water, and small leather-bound menu in front of him and began her spiel about the specials for the night. Tenna nodded along and wished she’d leave. He’d always thought a host should be grateful for the opportunity to host, effortlessly charming and inviting. Ada seemed to be the exact opposite of that, yet the building was packed. Tenna could tell she was good at her job. She held herself with the practised grace of a host. She could rival one of Queen’s swatchlings in that regard.

“Not gonna offer me a glass of water or a menu?” Spamton trilled. 

Ada scoffed, “The day you turn down alcohol to have a glass of water is the day I keel over and die of shock. Besides, you don’t need a menu. You know it better than most of the girls do.”

“And you still treat me worse than them.” Spamton feigned hurt, holding a hand over his heart but not dropping that stupid little smug grin.

“Yet you keep crawling back for more.” Ada was unimpressed. She walked away, not bothering to give Spamton a menu or say goodbye.

“Well..” Tenna started, watching as Spamton’s eyes followed Ada down the stairs (which he had no feelings about), “she was…“

“A bitch?” Spamton interjected, finally looking back at Tenna. 

“Yes. No! I mean-“ he floundered. He cursed his processors for not recognising what Spamton had said. He waved his hands wildly as pixelated drops of sweat ran down his screen. He’d just called someone, even if indirectly, a bitch. Spamton had seen his judgmental side before, but it had never been directed at someone the mailman was somewhat friendly with. Spamton laughed so hard he actually snorted. His cheeks were tinted that baby pink again. Tenna really did prefer his audience to laugh with him instead of at him, but he couldn’t quite find the energy to chew him out. If he wasn’t the butt of the joke, he’d find the display cute. Where the hell was the waitress? He needed that drink now. When Spamton finally managed to calm himself enough to get some words out, he waved his hand.

“Don't worry. In places like these, you need a bitchy host to keep the customers in line. She wears that badge with pride. She’s alright outside of work,” he chuckled. Tenna relaxed a little, but still felt tense. He didn’t like to insult people (even if he did it more than he should behind closed doors). It was even worse because Spamton was clearly friends with her, and enough of a friend to go out after work with her.

“Do you… hang out with her outside of work often?” He mumbled, embarrassed he’d even thought of the question in the first place. He was needy, Tenna knew that, Spamton knew that. Didn’t make it any less embarrassing to be seeking constant reassurance. The pair often stayed back late in the studio to chat, but it was always under the pretence of working on a script or getting some brand deal signed. Even if Spamton was his favourite, he still didn’t want to be accused of favouritism by the crew. They were friends, sure, but they put on the appearance of being strictly professional (it wasn’t his most convincing acting, but at least he tried). So to have Spamton openly admit he had any kind of relationship with Ada outside the workplace made him bristle. 

“Nah. Used to, though. We go way back,” Spamton lolled, turning his attention back to the box, “Old friends, you know how it is.”

“Oh! So all the flirting was just !” The TV laughed. Spamton looked surprised for a moment, abandoning the box.

“What? Oh, hah! You think I’m trying to shoot my shot!” He leaned over the table and flashed a sly smile, “Don’t worry, I know not to mix business and pleasure. Ada’s all business. I just call her names to mess with her. It’s mutual. I tease her, and she threatens to finally ban me.”

“Oh.. yeah. I guess you do that with me, too!” Tenna laughed a bit too loudly again. Where was that drink? He looked around to signal a waitress over, before realising they were isolated on the balcony.

Spamton smirked before pushing a button on the side of the booth. Soon after, two plug girls came up the stairs. They both looked a little ruffled up, with some small makeup smudges, their clothes askew, and one of them walked with a slight limp. Upon further inspection, one of her heels had broken and clearly been hastily reattached with tape.

“What can we get for you, Mr Spamton?” The one wearing a sleek black dress asked.

“And your guest!” The other, in a red cocktail dress, chimed in. They both glared at each other for a moment before putting the sickly sweet smiles back on their faces. The acting was a bit rough, but with a little practice, Tenna thought they could make good employees.

Spamton chuckled, “I’ll get the whiskey and coke to start. And Mr Ant Tenna over here will have?” He trailed off and looked over at Tenna, who felt very out of place again. He chuckled awkwardly, realising he hadn’t even looked at the menu yet. No one managed to throw him off kilter quite like Spamton. 

He wracked his brain, which suddenly felt very empty, for a classic drink that any bar could make before blurting out, “Sex on the beach would be good.” Oh, angel above, he felt ready to rip his antenna out with frustration. His screen turned a deep shade of pink, “the drink! A sex on the beach drink! And a shot of vodka.” He gripped the table so hard he could swear he heard the wood splintering beneath him. Spamton smirked at him from across the table again. Seeing that stupid, smug look on the mailman’s face, he felt the urge to tear him into a million tiny pieces. The plug girl in the red dress jotted down the orders and smiled, “Should only be a few minutes!” They began to walk away before the one in red turned to Spamton, “It’s great to see you again, Mr Spamton! It’s been too long!” The one in black gave a nasty glare to her companion. “Attention whore.” She whispered. The one in red kept her smile on her face as she replied, “cold-hearted bitch.”

They continued down the stairs, flinging insults back and forth, each insult just loud enough for Tenna to hear. As they walked out of view and into an employee-only area, he heard a loud thud and a shriek. Then another thud. Then a crash. Then several more crashes, each getting quieter. He stood to intervene when Spamton grabbed him by the back of his shirt and pulled him down to the table.

“Relax, they’ll be fine,” he waved, far too relaxed for what Tenna had just witnessed, “I once saw Kay push Jay down two flights of stairs and they both still showed up to work the next day.”

Tenna still wore a horrified expression as the waitresses ascended the stairs with their drinks a few minutes later. The one in black had a large welt on the side of her face, and the one in red had one of her dress straps torn off. It hung uselessly, attached only by a few strings of thread.

They flirted with Spamton, set the drinks down and limped back down the stairs. Tenna now realised that the one with the broken heel had broken the other heel as well, and was now holding herself up through sheer willpower alone. He looked at Spamton, hoping he’d share at least some shock, instead he merely shrugged and began to sip his drink. Tenna tapped his foot anxiously, suddenly far too uncomfortable to stay still. He sipped on his drink, leaving the shot alone for the time being. Spamton groaned and pressed against his temples.

“God, Ant. Relax. How am I supposed to enjoy myself if you spend the whole night looking like a sinner in church?”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just not used to… this,” he gestured broadly at the velvet plum coloured carpet, dimmed mood lights, and long stage with a tall pole in the middle… 

Wait…

“Spamton! Is this?? a ???” He tensed again. Angel above, he was going to tear Spamton into a million pieces the moment they were in private. If word got out that he was hanging around in a strip club, his crew would all look at him differently. The pippins would snicker behind his back, the shadow guys would get all flustered and avoid him, the shuttahs would whisper about alleged photos taken of the night. Had anyone taken photos? Oh no. Those pippins had seen him. What if they took photos? They saw him enter with Spamton! It was over! Tear it all down! Beloved TV host Mr Ant Tenna is a degenerate! He goes to strip clubs with his business partner in his spare time! We can’t let the children watch him anymore! What if they get ideas? He held his trembling hands out, threatening to grab Spamton by the lapels and shake him, before grabbing his screen and attempting to shake the thoughts out of his head. 

“You really didn’t notice? We walked right by the stage!” Spamton snickered. Tenna kept his screen turned off, hot air escaping from his vents. He held out an accusatory finger, “You come here so often they know you by name!” Spamton laughed, this time high-pitched enough that he cut himself off with a light glitch.

“I’ve been advertising for these guys since before I became a Big Shot! I just take advantage of the cheap drinks (and cheap thrills),” he finished with a wink. Tenna covered his screen with his hands. He couldn’t believe he’d let the smarmy little mailman drag him out here.

Suddenly, the lights dimmed even further, people began to cheer as a spotlight illuminated a lone werewerewire in a tight black leather one-piece on the stage. A slow, bassy beat began as it approached the pole. It tipped its head up, and Tenna could swear it smiled at him (it didn’t have a mouth, but he couldn’t shake the feeling). It began to wrap its limber body around the pole- No! He couldn’t watch! He busied himself with his drink and kept this screen pointed down. Spamton whistled as he watched the performance, nodding with appreciation.

“C’mon, Ant, you’re in a strip club and you’re not gonna watch the strippers?” This earned him a withering glare from Tenna.

“I shouldn’t be here! I’m a TV! I shouldn’t have access to this- this !” He stood and poked at Spamton, “You are a ! I’m leaving before you damage my reputation any further!”

“Ahw, you love me. ‘Sides, every celebrity needs a scandal or two! You need something that keeps you from being boring, something to get the masses talking! All attention is good attention, Tens!” He spoke with so much confidence that Tenna almost forgot that he had been a celebrity for longer than Spamton had even been a concept, with zero scandals and plenty of attention from the ones that mattered most. The Dreemurrs still loved him! He wasn’t boring! He had noticed Kris nodding off during the last show, but that was just because it was past their bedtime! …right? He felt a sharp poke in his side and hissed in annoyance, only then realising his screen had fogged up with static. 

“Angel above, Tenna. I say one wrong word, and you go spiralling off the deep end. What I was trying to say is that. You. Can’t. Fuck. This. Up.” He tapped the table repeatedly to emphasise his words. Tenna pouted, but still listened. He couldn’t help it. Spamton knew how to grab people's attention.

“You have a scandal, and it draws people in! Gets them talking! The masses run to see what their favourite star, Mr Ant Tenna, has been up to! They’ll gossip, sure, but they’ll watch. A scandal could only draw in more viewers, especially a ‘scandal’ as mild as being seen at a strip club.” He rolled his eyes at the last part. He must be right, Tenna reasoned. Spamton was well known to participate in… objectionable behaviour, and the masses loved him for it. Tenna sighed and ran his hand down his screen.

“Fine, I’ll stay. Only a few drinks. This time I really mean it!” He huffed, planting his ass back on the leather seat. 

Spamton smiled and took a long sip of his drink, “Of course, Tens. Just a few drinks. Then we'll go.”

Chapter Text

As the performance continued, Tenna did his best to keep his eyes off the stage. His internal components whirred in time with the music. The crowd thrummed with excitement. Spamton pulled a cigar from the wooden box, inspected it, then began to prepare it. He cut off the cap, then rolled it between his fingers as he toasted it. Methodical was not one of the many words he'd normally use to describe Spamton. The man allowed life (and his phone) to take him where he needed. This meant (much to Tenna's frustration) he left a trail of sloppily done paperwork behind him. 'Who cares about the paperwork? All that matters is that there's a signature'. That was how he justified it. In Tenna's carefully constructed world of contracts so tight you couldn't get out of them if you tried (well, maybe if you shredded the originals, you could. But who would do that?) Spamton's attempts felt like a red wine stain on a wedding dress. He found himself wishing for a pen and some paper to jot down some notes for Spamton (they weren't passive agressive! The notes were gently assertive, if anything). Now was not the time for work! He was supposed to be relaxing! He tried to remember that grounding technique Ramb had taught him.

What could he feel? The leather seat, the wooden table, Spamton tapping the table in time with the music.

What could he smell? Tobacco. Alcohol. Spamton's cologne. Some of it must've rubbed off on him earlier when they- Back to grounding!

What could he taste? The sweetness of his drink. The remnants of battery acid on his tongue. Spamton's secondhand smoke. 

What could he hear? The chatter of the crowd. The familiar sound of approval. The sound of an attentive audience.

What could he see? The crowd with their full attention on the performer. The lack of empty seats. The-

The music came to a crescendo, and cheers erupted from the audience. Tenna had to accept that even if he found the concept of this place off-putting, they were definitely doing something right. Those kinds of cheers (well, maybe without the wolf whistles) were the high he chased each show. Everything he did on stage was to hear the cheers of the audience at the end (okay, maybe a few wolf whistles wouldn’t be so bad).

Finally, he could see...

An all too familiar smirk on the mailman’s face. The smirk that meant trouble. The smirk that made his insides do flips (and not the fun kind). He had that knowing look to him. It was infuriating how he always knew what was going through Tenna’s head. His eyes basically invited him to admit that he was impressed. ‘Go on, tell me I was right to bring you here. Tell me this place has impressed you’. That’s the stupid, stupid look the mailman had on his face as he stared down Tenna. Well, he wasn’t going to acknowledge it. He turned away with a huff. He’d admit he was impressed when Spamton admitted to putting lifts in his shoes. He was expecting a challenge, one of the salesman’s usual attempts to get him to admit that maybe, sometimes, Spamton knew better than him. He’d already written a mental script to follow. But his cue never came. Instead, Spamton’s eyes moved to follow the werewerewire as it left the stage. Usually, he was far more pushy when he thought he was right. Why wasn’t he shoving this down Tenna’s throat? He normally would gloat until he got bored with his small victory and needed something new to lord over Tenna. The interaction would be tucked into his memory and saved for the next time Tenna found himself doubting his advice. If Spamton was the one with a screen, he’d definitely play those moments back in full standard definition whenever he got the opportunity. Spamton with the ability to record and play back what he’d seen… The idea made him shudder.

He took a sneak peek back at Spamton, who was looking over the still buzzing crowd of darkners. He slumped and let his screen rest in his hands. When he did, he felt that his mouth had turned down into a pout against his will. He did his best to force his face into a neutral expression as soon as he realised he was only giving in to Spamton’s teasing. He didn’t actually want the guy to squabble with him, did he? He was literally the bigger person here.

When the werewerewire was finally out of view, Spamton finally looked back at Tenna. His smile seemed even more crooked than earlier.
“Why don’t you have that shot? Or, are you saving it for a ‘lady friend’?” He parroted Tenna’s words back at him from a lecture he’d attempted to give earlier that week. He had been trying to tell Spamton that he couldn’t keep inviting his dates on set to ‘witness the magic’. It disrupted the whole day! No one could focus when some random stranger spent all day draped over his business partner! It was distracting! It was unprofessional! How was anyone supposed to do their job when Spamton kept randomly disappearing, only to show up later reeking of perfume, without his date in tow? It didn’t matter that his usual MO was to disappear for long stretches of the day! At least Tenna could convince himself that Spamton was doing paperwork in his dressing room on normal days. He had prepared the lecture in advance, memorised every word. It was air-tight, no room for improv. However, in a moment of censor-induced embarrassment, he’d settled on the term ‘lady friend’. Needless to say, the lecture didn’t continue beyond the first few sentences.

Tenna flushed at the provocation. He knocked the shot back, knowing damn well it was a bad idea to do what Spamton suggested so easily, but he didn’t want anyone thinking he was here to take someone home with him, especially not Spamton. The idea that Spamton thought he was here to find a companion for the night made his wires buzz. He was only here because of him, anyway! This was a business move! The better he got along with Spamton, the smoother TV Time ran! He was a professional! Footsteps disrupted his inner monologue. A slim, lumbering figure came into view. It was the werewerewire, this time with a red satin robe covering the leather outfit. The satin shifted over leather and grey fur in a way that would surely make most Darkners hot under the collar. In his case, it made Tenna pity the werewerewire (and a uncomfortable with how much wasn't being left to the imagination). They couldn’t have given the poor thing something more covering? He tried to avert his eyes subtly, but without moving his screen, it wasn’t clear he had done anything at all. Spamton noticed, though, and waggled his eyebrows. Had he planned this? If he’d planned this, he was going to pay! A substantial pay cut and an HR meeting were in his future. 

The werewerewire slipped into the space next to Tenna. It slowly crawled into his lap and slung its arms around his neck. Tenna thought he was going to self-combust. He froze, unsure what to do. He wanted to push it off, like he did to Spamton when he pulled the same stunt. Of course, this seemed like a more sincere effort to make a move than Spamton’s version. Speaking of Spamton, the mailman had spread himself out on the leather seat, one leg crossed over the other. He smoked his cigar like there was nothing out of the ordinary. He was going to kill the conniving little salesman as soon as his lap was vacated.

“Wyra, how kind of you to join us!” Said salesman raised his glass. He should’ve guessed Spamton would know its name. He seemed to be annoyingly familiar with all of the workers here. The werewerewire spoke in a crackly voice that made his antennae stand on end, little jolts of electricity sparking between them.

“Well, you know I like the mechanical type,” it hummed. Energy emanated from its body. It buzzed in the air and caused the light above them to flicker. It was like being drip-fed some of Spamton’s terrible battery acid. Tenna could feel his circuits struggling with the extra voltage.

It traced along the edge of his screen with a long, dainty finger. He shuddered, some stray pixels becoming discoloured from the contact.

“Ah- it’s um.. nice to meet you! Wyra, was it?” He stuttered out. He raised a hand for a handshake before realising what a ridiculous idea it was. They were well outside of the world of friendly handshakes and polite introductions. The hand was quickly lowered, and he prayed that no one would mention it. The werewerewire smiled at him. At least, he thought it smiled. It was hard to tell.

“That’s what I usually go by, but tonight, you can call me anything,” it purred. The air around Tenna got several degrees warmer.

“Anything! Haha! What an odd nickname! Shortens perfectly for the podium, though! A-N-Y! Say, you seem like a real go-getter! You’d be an AMAZING contestant! The crowd would love you! You sure had the audience going earlier! They were crazy for you!” He babbled. He felt like a fool, going on about podiums and the show. Truly, he had no clue what to say. He hadn't exactly been in this situation before, so he’d defaulted to the TV host routine. Spamton shot him a look that screamed, ‘what are you doing?’. His face was scrunched up, and for the first time that night, he held a grimace on his face instead of a smile. He even took a moment to stop smoking. What a fumble. He could practically see the fun-o-meter decreasing. Stop thinking about the show, Tenna! 

The werewerewire adjusted itself so that its legs were on either side of the rapidly overheating CRT.

“Well,” it hummed, running its hands down Tenna’s chest and slipping his blazer off his shoulders as it went, “I do like to be watched.” The smell of burning plastic filled the air again. He wished he’d installed those cooling fans when Spamton had offered to give him an ‘upgrade’. He’d been insulted at the time but now he realised it probably wasn’t a bad idea (especially since Spamton seemed insistent on flustering Tenna until he began to overheat). He felt like he was on fire, like lava instead flowed through his wires instead of electricity. If he kept overheating, he’d fry his circuit boards. Passive ventilation just wasn’t doing it right now. 

Before he could process what was happening a fan had been placed beside him. The airflow lowered him from an active fire hazard to just slightly unbearably hot. He saw Spamton slip someone a few dark dollars, but his attention was quickly turned back to the stranger on his lap. 

“You don’t even have cooling fans. Vintage. I like it. With age comes experience, after all,” the werewerewire made a show of manoeuvring his arms out of the suit jacket. He felt so exposed. He still had his tie on but he wasn’t sure how long that would stay on either. This darkner clearly had the wrong idea. Spamton must’ve told it that he was interested. It was cruel to lead the poor werewerewire on. He needed to stop this and explain the situation. This was a cruel prank, even for Spamton. He was trying to think of the best way to break the news when smaller hands grabbed his and began to glide them between leather and satin until they reached fur-

“Hey Woah- mama- wa- mamia- he- whoa!” He yanked his hands back, so fast it made his shoulders creak. The werewerewire looked confused, glancing back at Spamton who was watching with that self satisfied, shit eating grin. 

“I’m so sorry- uh- ma’am- sir- uhm… Wyra. It seems there’s been a- uh. A !” He glared at Spamton. Usually, when it came to embarrassing him, the little mailman didn’t involve others to this degree. This was downright deplorable. Using a poor darkner’s crush on him as a way to embarrass him. He was humiliating it! To be turned down so publicly… it made him shudder.

Spamton had the nerve to look confused. He would be talking to him about this later. He eased the unfortunate werewerewire off his lap and gently lifted its hands from his shoulders.

“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. Though it seems like my business partner didn’t help. I apologise on his behalf as well (he's allergic to apologising). I’ll make sure he’s dealt with later,” he straightened his antennae out and fixed his now loose tie. 

Wyra tilted its head and relaxed its posture, “So, you don’t want a lap dance?” 

*glass_shatter.sfx*

A cartoony sound effect of crashing glass came from Tenna’s speakers as he froze. A solid ten seconds of silence passed before a clicking sound kicked his processors back into gear. Spamton was leaning over and trying to get his attention, his cigar now halfway done. His frozen programming caught up to him in an instant, hitting him in one massive wave, not dissimilar to a printer spitting out 100 copies because you kept pressing the button while it was loading. 

“NO!” He shrieked, his voice cut with electronic squealing.

“I turned off the parental controls, didn't I? Let me check-“ Spamton began, nearly crawling over the table in an attempt to grab Tenna’s remote.

“It’s not the controls, Spamton!” He snapped. He pushed Spamton back, his hand now the size of Spamton’s body. He hit the leather booth with a soft thud.

The salesman’s face scrunched up, “Then I don’t understand why-“

“I didn’t even want to come here! I wanted to stay in the studio and have a few drinks! You’ve been forcing me to do things I don’t want to do all night! I DON’T LIKE THIS KINDA STUFF!” He felt his antenna scrape against the ceiling. That gnawing feeling had come back with a vengeance. He burned from the inside out, a mix of embarrassment and rage fueling his meltdown. Spamton’s face dropped. He almost looked kind of guilty.

“I just thought- you’re the most repressed person I’ve ever met! I thought this place might give you the push-“ he stuttered. Tenna poked at him with a finger as large as his neck.

“Yeah! You thought! You never asked! You never ask me what I think! How I might feel! You always assume!” The guilt quickly morphed to anger as Spamton shoved the finger back.

“I wouldn’t have to assume if you told me in the first place! You don’t say shit, then get all pissed when I can’t read your mind! Your thoughts aren’t a fucking teleprompter I can read off of, Tenna!” The cigar fell from his lips as he snarled at the TV. He extinguished it with a blow from his fist. He wanted a fight? He was getting a fight!

“You wouldn’t listen to me even if I did tell you! You think that to be successful, I have to ignore my feelings and pretend nothing upsets me! Well, guess what- I don’t NEED to change! I did just fine before you torpedoed your way into my life- into MY show! The lightners like me how I am! I’m TV! You’re just an ‘email’! Something so inconsequential I don’t even know what it is!”

The booth had fallen to pieces around them. Spamton had to jump away to avoid a large piece of drywall that fell right where he had been sitting. Tenna didn't stop. He couldn’t stop. The alcohol only served to loosen his lips. The words came out of his mouth before he could even think to stop.

“You want everyone to think you’re a big shot- well, I know you better than most! And I know that really, you’re just a SMALL and PATHETIC Addison pretending you’re not still upset that the others ABANDONED you!”

“I left THEM behind! I didn’t need them! I don’t need you, either!” Spamton raged. He threw his jacket at Tenna and stomped his foot.

“This is why they left you! Because the only thing you’re good for is driving everyone away! The only thing keeping you from being thrown out is that phone! You need it! You’d be without it!”

It took a second to come down from his adrenaline-fueled high. When he did, he saw Spamton’s tiny silhouette beneath him. When had he grown so big? What had he said? His surroundings rapidly shifted around him as he shrank to only a few feet high. Bits of drywall fell around him. Wyra had long since made their escape. Spamton looked away, refusing to meet Tenna’s gaze, his eyes shut and mouth stretched thin in a strained smile.

“Spamton, I’m so-“

“I think you’ve hit your ‘couple of drinks’ limit. I’ll call you a taxi,” he strained. He sounded so tired all of a sudden, like the showmanship got knocked out of him. Tenna had gone and ruined a perfectly good evening. Why did he blow up like that? Why did he make a scene? He could have defused the situation, sent the stranger on their way. They could be laughing about it right now. This was out of character. This wasn’t his role in the show. He was Tenna! He was supposed to be the energetic host who took every mistake or fumble and turned it into a joke everyone could laugh at. No one was laughing. The audience was silent.

“No! I-“

“Well, well, look who it is. I knew if I followed the yelling, I’d find you. Someone’s always pissed at you,” A glowing pink figure in a black V-neck approached them, “you’ve got a knack for burning bridges, Spamton.”

Chapter Text

“What’re you doing here?” 

It was so quiet that Tenna could barely hear it. If he hadn’t seen Spamton’s mouth moving, he might’ve assumed it was a voice from the crowd below. It didn’t even sound like him. His voice was tinny, almost robotic. It sounded so forced, as if every word sliced his throat like shattered glass. Tenna had never heard him like this. Talking usually came naturally to Spamton. The man could weasel his way out of the most dire of situations. Words would flow like honey, smooth and sweet, placating anyone who listened. To hear him struggle with words, it tore him up inside. He’d done this. He caused this. He needed to apologise. He needed to get on his knees and beg Spamton to forgive him, to pretend he had never said anything. He needed the stranger to leave. Why were they still here? Couldn’t they see they were in the middle of something? Why weren’t they leaving?

“What, can’t remember my name? Don’t worry, I remember yours. You sure did a good job of shoving it down our throats every chance you got, Spamton G Spamton,” they spat, “I was just having a chat with Ada. Sold her some tea. Offered an advertising contract. One with less… property damage involved.” They waved a hand as dust continued to float down from the broken ceiling above. The addison smiled, specks of white drywall peppering the black fabric of their shirt.

“Flo, I can’t do this right now,” Spamton croaked. He rubbed his temples and bounced his leg. He kept his eyes closed. He appeared the smallest Tenna had ever seen him. He slouched. Spamton never slouched. Spamton never spoke at less than full volume. Spamton never let others see his fidgeting. Even after their worst fights, screaming matches about contracts and the phone, Spamton had never acted like this.

“Oh, so you do remember my name! Well, how lucky am I? Having my name uttered by such a big shot. Or, are you going to try and charge me an advertising fee for that too?” He laughed, coarse and breathless. He towered over Spamton. Having them so close together would make any darkner assume they were a pair, maybe that they’d even come to the club together and the now 6ft tall CRT was the intruder. But the differences between them were all that Tenna could see. How Spamton was a foot shorter than the addison. How his skin was monochrome instead of colourful. How his hair contrasted his pixelated skin instead of blending in seamlessly. Sure, he’d met other addisons before. When they glow in neon colours, it’s hard to ignore them. Even so, the thought to compare them to Spamton had never occurred to him. This was helped, in retrospect, by the fact that Spamton had always made himself scarce when any addisons snuck their way to the studio (they were never invited but still managed to show up anyway). He’d never seen the mailman and his former colleagues side by side. Now they were, and every small detail Spamton had changed about himself to avoid being ‘just another addison’ stood out and gave Tenna a glimpse into his desperation to be an individual.

“Just leave,” Spamton muttered, “You can be pissed at me another time. I can’t do this tonight.” He ran a trembling hand through his hair, the movements stilted and jerky. Stray locks refused to slick back. Normally, Spamton would preen himself until every last flyaway was tucked back into his signature hairstyle. He didn’t go anywhere without a hidden stash of hair gel. This was wrong. Where was his mailman? What had he done?

“Why should I give you a break? After you made it big, you spent every night at the cyber grill gloating! You thought it was so fun to shove your success in our faces, to take every opportunity from us!” He poked Spamton in the chest, forcing him back a step.

“When Banner nearly got that deal with Queen, you swooped in and stole it. When Nat started that new ad line, you copied it. I’m not even going to mention how you screwed over Pan!”

“I only did what you would’ve done! They said-“ hands flew over his mouth as his pixels rearranged themselves. He faltered, stepping back until he rested against the balcony railing.

“They? See! You couldn’t do it alone! You needed a helping hand to even stand on our level! I know your secret, Spamton G Addison!” Glitches rippled through Spamton, pixels disappearing off his body and reappearing where they didn’t belong. He sucked breath into his lungs like they would be the last he took. A hand disappeared long enough for him to fall to the ground, losing his grip on the balcony railing. 

“Without help, you’d never have made it big! You’d still be the unlucky one! Any of us deserved the fame and money! You’re not special, you’re not different! You won’t manipulate me into feeling sorry for you! We both know that your destiny was to rot in someone’s spam filter, not make it big!” Tenna had heard enough. Maybe he didn’t quite understand what a ‘spam filter’ was, but it felt awfully targeted. Spamton’s relationship with the other addisons was largely a mystery to him. Spamton refused to say much about them. But he had called them jealous. When he said jealous, Tenna hadn’t thought it actually meant openly aggressive and demeaning. Now, Tenna is more of a stew-in-his-emotions kind of TV. In public he slathers every comment with a thick coat of sugar. Even the most detestable contestants leave his studio feeling that he genuinely liked them (he could say otherwise later, behind closed doors). He’d never been openly  to someone. Now that gnawing feeling had found its new target. Yelling at Spamton was one thing, but yelling at a stranger? In public? He couldn’t. What would the press say? He had to keep his cool.

“Don’t talk to him like that.” His voice came out as more of a growl and less of a polite request than he’d meant it to. His screen was dark, all his energy going towards staying at a level height and not losing his cool. He didn’t even want to grace the addison with a look (and not just because he thought that looking at them would make him lash out immediately). Not off to a solid start.

“I’m sorry, Mr Tenna. Can I call you Ant?” That was the same line Spamton had pulled the day they first met. So corny. When Spamton had said it, it felt like a challenge. ‘I don’t need to be formal with you. I’m big enough that I don’t need you. You need me.’ When the pink addison said it, it felt like an intrusion. A slimy attempt to win his favour.

Without waiting for a response, the walking ad continued, “Spamton is a certified, grade A asshole. It’s the only certified or grade A thing about him! His products fall apart, his ads are lazy. He presents himself as the perfect gentleman, but he’s a slimy, arrogant asshole.”

“Don’t say that about him,” every word he’d insulted Spamton with seemed to perfectly describe him as well. He grasped at the remnants of the table, trying to keep his hands to himself. He’d spent so long trying to teach Kris to keep their hands to themselves, what kind of a role model would he be if he broke that rule? (Spamton didn’t count, it was a cartoony sort of cat and mouse thing they had going on! He was in on it! What was a comedy without slapstick?!)

“I’m sorry, Ant-“ don’t call me that “-but Spamton is a lying, thieving, conman. I’d cut him loose before that leech sucks all the life out of you and disappears.” Spamton seemed so small that he nearly melded into the background. His glow had dimmed to be nearly gone. His breathing was haphazard, refusing to fall into a pattern. He stared at a spot on the carpet. The sight finally tipped the TV over the edge, now on an uncontrollable descent towards another public meltdown.

“You think I don’t know all that? You addisons all think you’re so ,” he grew again. Luckily, to his normal height this time. The words didn't stop coming, no matter how badly he wanted to keep what remained of his image intact, “I know Spamton is a lying, arrogant, asshole! I know he’s that and all the other things you called him!” Spamton visibly wilted, glowing so dimly he seemed to suck the light around him in and leave only shadows, like an addison-shaped black hole.

“So what if he tries to take advantage of me? I like him! I like that he says what he wants! I like that he’s ambitious! I like that when he fails, he tries again! And you know what? I take advantage of him right back!” He stepped towards the pink addison, who went pale. They dulled from an irritatingly hot pink to a dusty rose colour and took a few staggered steps back. Tenna followed, gesturing his hands wildly, that adrenaline filled high back at its peak.

“You don’t know Spamton, not like I do! You were all too busy trying to be better than him to see his good traits! I don’t want to see any of you addisons at my studio again, you hear me? You’re all banned until you can start respecting my business partner!” 

He scooped up Spamton and held him against his chest, his little mailman far too limp and agreeable for his liking. He should be screaming at him to put him down, hitting whatever body parts he could reach (one time he’d bitten him, which had earned him a chipped tooth and a dentist bill). Instead, he let Tenna rub his back with no resistance. Tenna picked up their discarded jackets and draped them around Spamton, shielding him from the world. He gave his best withering glare at the pink addison as he made his way down the stairs. The plug girls from earlier hovered by a door, fear and worry painting their faces. As he walked past the host stand, Ada met his eyes. She had a mixture of concern and anger on her face. An acrid, burning smell hung around her, like a fire set in a tyre shop. Her previously neat hair was now frizzy and slightly singed. It still crackled with electricity, primed to shock anyone stupid enough to touch it. 

“The cab’s for you. Make sure he gets home safe. If you’ll excuse me, I have a guest to escort out,” she stated, turning on a heel and marching up the stairs. Now he understood what Spamton meant when he said Ada wasn’t that bad. This was her serious. He really didn’t want to get on her bad side. Spamton leaned against him as the cool night air hit them. He shook, and Tenna couldn’t tell if it was because of the cold or something else. He could only see a mop of messy black hair. 

A black taxi cab met them at the front. Silver letters on the side read V-P-N. A driver in a dark suit emerged and held the passenger door open for them. Tenna gingerly placed Spamton in the back seat of the taxi, who pulled the jackets around himself tighter. Tenna got a glimpse of what looked like horror on Spamton’s face before the jackets were pulled up over his head again. He took a moment to let the guilt hit him, to let the anger become secondary. Once he finally shrank enough to fit in the taxi, he clambered in, taking care not to squash Spamton. He tried to keep his height stable as flashes of white hot anger ran through him, followed by overwhelming guilt. 

You’ve gotta think about something else. You can’t think about that addison. He grew a few inches. You can’t think about Spamton. He shrank back. The taxi driver in the front desperately moved the wheel to try and steady the car. Wait- they were driving. He hadn't given an address! Was he trying to run up the meter? No, it sounded like Ada had already paid him. He recognised the maze of alleyways he and Spamton had traversed earlier in the night as the car dipped through narrow gaps and hopped over blurry walls. Why didn’t they just do this earlier?? He had to remind himself that nothing in Cyber City operated quite like he thought it would, and that it probably wasn’t an option on the way in. But then a voice in the back of his mind helpfully suggested that Spamton had been messing with him. He could never tell which was true, and he doubted he ever would. He knew Spamton enjoyed it that way.

A large glowing figure soon appeared as they turned a corner. Tenna pressed Spamton against his chest like he had when they first saw that soft white light. It could remove his ‘viruses’ and ‘links’, but he wouldn’t let it touch Spamton. Not after tonight. Not after what he’d said. He’d throw himself in front of anything if it showed he was sorry. After checking that Spamton was hidden securely in his arms, he lifted his screen to face the creature.

“TORIEL????”

No. No! There was no way it was actually her! Toriel would never hurt a soul! She couldn’t even be in the dark world in the first place! But it looked so much like her fuzzy silhouette, like the lightner he played cooking shows for. Like the lightner who’d brought home a little white bundle of fur that flipped his life upside down. It looked just like her, even mimicking the faint haze of static that tinted his view to the light world. Toriel- no- the figure- turned to face them. It wasn’t Toriel. It couldn’t be Toriel.

Unlike the earlier interaction they’d had in the alleys, the figure completely ignored them. Before he knew it, they’d whizzed past the doppelgänger. He realised he was still shielding Spamton when the smaller man hiccuped. He tried to pull away, to give Spamton the space he usually demanded. The mailman followed, though, burying his face into Tenna’s dress shirt. He barely had time to let the shock wear off and start wondering why before he realised Spamton was shaking. Not just a small tremor, either. A full-body uncontrollable rattle. Tenna ran a gloved hand through the mailman’s hair, rubbing circles into his scalp. The grip on his shirt relaxed a little. He tore his eyes away when he felt himself shrinking again, continuing the soothing motion. Spamton’s prized cungaderro flashed by in a streak of red. He’d send a zapper to fetch it soon. Actually, maybe he should send Ramb as well. He didn’t need any hysterical crew members lost in Cyber City, not again. They soon came to a stop outside Queen’s mansion. The driver held the door open for them as Tenna clambered out of the taxi, holding Spamton to his chest as he did so. Before he could offer some points as a tip, the cab was running back into the mess of traffic. 

A swatchling met them at the mouth of the mansion, blocking their entry. Tenna tried every trick he knew. He was polite. Then he begged. Then he tried to intimidate the colourful darkner, baring his fangs and claws. Nothing phased them, however. They stood guard, perfectly still. The zappers could learn a thing or two. With the number of times non-crew had wandered into restricted areas, they could definitely use a few pointers. He was tempted to give up. To flag down a taxi and go back to his house with Spamton in tow until a hoarse voice filtered out from under the oversized jackets.

“‘S me. Let ‘im in.” A hand stuck out from the pile of fabric and waved dismissively. The butler flustered, feathers puffing up, before moving to the side and bowing. Tenna tried not to let a smug smirk appear on his face. Well, thinking to himself that he shouldn’t was as good as trying, right?

Tenna walked the halls filled with pottery and paintings with Queen’s face plastered over top. A bit egotistical, potentially bordering on narcissistic. He felt eyes following him as he walked the halls, nearby butlers staring him down. He supposed it made sense to be so suspicious. If he saw a stranger walking the sets of TV Time holding a large bundle of clothes, he’d have the zappers go investigate, if not escort them out. It wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. Still, he wished they’d stop looking, if only for Spamton’s sake. The poor thing shook in his arms, shifting the jackets every few seconds to make sure he was fully covered. He hated seeing him like this. Still, this was (at least marginally) better than how eerily still he’d gotten after Tenna had brought up the phone. It was a sore spot. Always had been. But in his rage, Tenna had gone right for the thing that always got the biggest reaction. That was Tenna. Always going for the biggest reaction.

After what felt like an impossibly long walk, he reached a door with a golden engraved plate reading ‘S.G.S’. He tested the doorknob, awkwardly shifting Spamton to lean against his chest while he did so. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. He looked around, scanning the now empty hall for a staff member. Spamton had mentioned housekeeping once. That meant someone had to have a key. He just needed to ask politely, explain their predicament, and someone would let them in. Before he could go searching, a small hand pushed against his chest, using him as leverage to lean forward. That’s right! He hadn’t even asked Spamton if he was comfortable. He was notorious for hating touch. This must’ve been so far outside his comfort zone, and Tenna hadn’t even stopped to think-

The door creaked open, snapping him out of his thoughts. He'd somehow spent the night both over- and underthinking. It was hard to stop his brain running ahead at full speed when he had 50+ channels of content available at any given moment, just waiting to tell him what was about to play out and how to act. Spamton pushed again, nearly toppling onto the floor, which was… closer than Tenna had expected. He’d shrunk more than he thought he had. Tenna kept his arms out as Spamton steadied himself, his knees nearly giving way after his first step. He stumbled to a cabinet, crouching down and retrieving a bottle full of amber liquid. He made his way to the black leather couch in the centre of the room, each step more slightly secure. He crumpled onto the couch, laying on his back with one leg dangling off the side of the couch. Without any of his usual fanfare, he tore the seal off the bottle and took a swig.

Tenna could only watch, frozen with indecision. He should confiscate the bottle. He should get him some water and put him to bed. He should leave. 

Throw out that last option! Throw out his glooby mood! Throw out this script! 

If anyone could turn this around, it was Ant Tenna! It’d been a good day! Who says it couldn’t end as a good day? What could possibly help improve someone’s mood more than some late-night television?

He sat cross-legged on the floor, his screen at full brightness in the dark of the room. He puffed out his chest, squaring his shoulders and clearing his throat.

“Well, folks! Today’s special event has been a real ! A real roller coaster of happenings!” He began. It felt somewhat off, doing the host routine without his signature tailcoat on, but if it was to cheer up his business partner, he could manage. Spamton cracked an eye open, pausing mid-drink. This was good. He could do this.

“We’ve laughed! Cried! Screamed! (At least I know I did). Could anyone ask for more? We’ve got a caller on the line to be that person! Hello, dear viewer! What are your thoughts?” He raised a hand in a mock sock puppet. Spamton raised an eyebrow and went back for another swig, but more hesitantly this time, giving Tenna the opportunity to weasel in and flip the night's script (if he played his cards right).

He raised his voice an octave and rang out in a nasally voice, “Hello Mr Ant Tenna! My name is Sockington!” Spamton let out a scoff. Without the usual bite behind it, it just sounded tired.

“I’m a huge fan! I watch TV Time every night!”. He flapped his hand in time with his voice. He smiled at the puppet, letting a slight flush rise to his cheeks.

“Oh, you charmer! We alwaysa loyal viewer! Now, Sockington, what do you have to say about today's broadcast?” Spamton rolled his eyes, folding one arm across his chest while the other still maintained prime position for drinking from the bottle. Tenna put the voice back on,

“Well, I just have to say that you can’t let today’s broadcast end like that! It’s unsatisfying! Where’s the happy ending? Will that charming Mr Spamton be okay?” 

“You’re exactly right! We did leave our show on a bit of a note! As for your concern for our one and only mailman- what could be better than getting the info straight from the horse's mouth? Everybody, please welcome Spamton G Spamton!” He mouthed the cheers of the audience, doing little jazz hands. Slipped in a little ‘Spamton we love you’ in the voice of an overexcited fan. Spamton looked away, a slight flush painting his cheeks.

“Welcome back to the show, Spamton! It’s always great to have you grace our screens! Now, we’re looking for the inside scoop on today's broadcast. Any words from today's leading darkner?” He held a fake microphone in front of Spamton, who sighed and rested the bottle on the side table.

“Today was shit,” he stated. Matter of fact. As though the day was over and nothing could turn it around. Tenna turned to a non-existent camera with a hand over his mouth.

“Wowza! Looks like Mike is gonna need to be quick on the censor today, folks! Tell us, Spamton, what's got you feeling blue?” 

“Everything just went wrong. First, you… and then he- And I couldn’t even- And now you’re doing that thing again,” he spat out, though a hint of fondness crept into the last part.

“That thing? Sorry, pal, but could you elaborate for the listeners at home? (That's right! I see you with that book. Save the reading for homework!)” He smiled. He tried not to let the hope show too obviously through his tone. Spamton flushed a bit, a smile easing into the corners of his mouth.

“The interview bit. With the fake microphone,” he sighed.

“Fake? I can assure you nothing on TV Time is fake! We pride ourselves on genuine reactions from our contestants! No, the viewers have asked for more, and we have obliged! With their favourite recurring guest , to boot!” He wore faux offence on his face. He moved the hand with the fake microphone back to Spamton.

“You’ve got a whole script just ready and raring to go, huh?” Spamton smiled. Really, genuinely smiled. Tenna tried not to grow too much, managing only a few inches in gained height instead of a few feet.

“Script? This is pure Tenna, folks! No one else can go with the flow quite like Mr Ant Tenna!” Spamton chuckled. ‘Go with the flow’ was very much not how the crew would describe Tenna. Tenna went to speak again before Spamton’s hand was placed over the hand miming a microphone.

“Thanks, Ant,” he whispered. His smile lit up the room. Tenna smiled so wide he could’ve cracked his screen. 

“Always,” he beamed.