Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Spamton couldn’t help but believe his life was nothing more than a long chain of screw-ups. One mistake bleeding into the next, each worse than the last. Digging through trash and filth for something -anything- to keep himself alive. Being ignored by every living soul that passed him by.

He could scarcely remember a time when he hadn’t been garbage.

But he had, hadn’t he?

Once, this marionette had soared above them all. He’d been brilliant. Important. A name whispered with envy instead of pity.

Now, the scars left behind by the strings still burned -red and raw, etched deep into his frame. Even without them attached, he could feel their pull, phantom tension tugging at his limbs.

He would never be free.

Had never been free.

Could never truly be free.

Faces flickered through his mind in a dizzying kaleidoscope -smiling mouths, empty eyes, deals sealed with laughter that curdled into static.

Spamton had already made his deal back then. He’d paid the price, signed the fine print, followed the rules. The agreement had been binding -but it had worked. He’d been climbing. Winning.

Then the CRT had come along with that bright grin and that voice like polished glass.

All Spamton needed to do was sign again.

He hadn’t known -couldn’t have known- that the moment his name hit the page, the previous contract would shatter. That the protections keeping him afloat would vanish in an instant. That everything he’d built would collapse beneath him like rotten code.Spamton had fallen. Because of him, he’d been reduced to this -rotting in an alley, forgotten and disposable.

Trash in a gutter.

He’d been thrown out of Queen’s mansion again, unceremoniously discarded. His body lay twisted in a shallow puddle, neon lights warping across the oily surface. Cyber City traffic rushed past without slowing, headlights sliding over him as if he were nothing more than debris in the road.

He could barely move.

Barely speak.

Barely think.

And still -and still-

The words clawed their way from his cracked voicebox, warped and desperate, stitched into him so deeply he couldn’t tell where instinct ended and programming began.

“LET’S MAKE [A DEAL].”

The city did not answer.

But somewhere in the static, something listened.

And so the game began. Over and over again. 

-

The first day, he locked himself in his room and didn’t come out.

His eyes had opened -his real eyes- and instead of the endless expanse of the Everblack stretching over Cyber City, he was met with a ceiling. A roof. For the first time in longer than he could remember.

It was a soft, luxurious red, richly textured. From the corner of his vision, a small chandelier glimmered faintly. He knew this ceiling.

He remembered it.

Hands -hands covered in soft feathers. Lips. Teeth. Warm sheets. A bed that dipped beneath his weight.

The memories didn’t arrive as thoughts so much as sensations, crashing into him without order or warning. He didn’t have the space to sort them. He didn’t have the energy to push them away.

He couldn’t process it.

It was too much.

He had long since accepted that this life would never be his again. He’d made peace with that. He’d found a new dream, a new aspiration. He had left TV World and its denizens behind, sealed away in the past where they couldn’t find him anymore.

The static in his mind had dulled to a quiet, distant buzz.

He waited for the strings -for something to pull him forward- but the invisible guides were nowhere to be found. That wasn’t right. At this point in his life, they were always taut, strung tight by desire and ambition, pushing him toward the next deal, the perfect angle, the road to success.

But there was nothing.

The strings lay slack.

And so did he.

Time passed without meaning. Minutes or hours -he couldn’t tell. An alarm sounded somewhere, muffled and far away. Knocking followed. Voices he recognized called his name, asked if he was alright, assumed he was just out.

The sounds didn’t reach him.

His thoughts thinned until there was nothing left to grasp. No want. No fear. No drive. Just a quiet, hollow stillness, heavy and all-encompassing.

Eventually, even that faded.

His eyes drifted shut from exhaustion, his body surrendering where his mind had already gone.

And he slept.

-

The second day, he discovered he could move on his own.

Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted a hand toward the ceiling and flexed each finger in turn. Pinky. Index. Middle. Pointer. Thumb. Opening and closing, over and over, the motion steady and deliberate. He could feel every joint, every muscle responding exactly as it should. There was no pain. No resistance. No strings tugging him into place. Nothing whispering instructions into his code.

And he laughed.

The sound startled him. Still lying flat on his back, his hand fell to his side as if dropped by surprise. He lay there for a moment, stunned, before cautiously lifting his arm again. This time, his fingers brushed his throat, gripping lightly where his voicebox rested.

He spoke.

“T–Testing?”

The sound that came out was clear. Crisp. Smooth. The polished voice of a salesman, unwarped and uninterrupted.

He laughed again.

He could feel it -feel the vibration humming through his fingers, solid fingers, real fingers- and the sensation only made him laugh harder. The sound spilled out of him unchecked, bright and breathless.

He could feel everything.

Silk sheets sliding against smooth, perfect feathers. The firm weight of the mattress supporting his back. Simple flannel pajama bottoms around his legs, loose at the seams, stitches frayed at the hems. Cool, conditioned air brushing across his frame. Even the room itself felt clean and sterile, nothing like the muggy, cloying heat of Cyber City that had always pressed him down, curled him inward, rooted him to the pavement.

Just like his first deal, it felt as though a miracle had arrived at his doorstep.

He laughed himself hoarse, the sound cracking as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

Then an alarm blared.

Loud. Sudden. Piercing.

He flinched, the sound tearing through the quiet now that the static in his mind had finally settled. And with it came memory.

He used to be a heavy sleeper.

The CRT had bought him the alarm clock -some Lightner holiday Spamton couldn’t remember the proper name of. He only remembered the spike in candy sales the day after. The CRT had handed it over with a strained smile and a pointed, passive-aggressive comment about punctuality.

Spamton had rolled his eyes, fired back something sarcastic -but he’d still plugged it in. Still flipped through the settings. Still set the alarm.

Thirty minutes later than the Boob Tube would have preferred.

It had been fancy. More expensive than it needed to be. 

The blaring alarm softened, seamlessly transitioning into a radio broadcast, the volume still cranked high. The voices that filled the room were cheery, lightly accented, painfully familiar. He remembered their faces, though their names slipped away. Blue and yellow. A couple. Close to the CRT. Two of the only people allowed in front of the camera besides himself and-

He turned his head sharply, cutting the thought off before it could finish. He needed to stop thinking about him. 

He listened instead, not really processing the words, just letting the noise wash over him in the hope it might drown out everything else. A male voice spoke first, deep and booming, filling the room with genuine enthusiasm.

“That’s right, woodchuck-chuckers, it’s-”

His partner cut in, excitement practically radiating through the speakers.

“GROUNDHOG DAY!”

A groan tore its way out of him before he could stop it.

Fucking Groundhog Day.

He remembered this one. Because he hated it.

A useless holiday. Nobody bought anything. If the stupid rat predicted more winter, Lightners just reused the coats they already owned. If it predicted spring -maybe- some would buy lighter clothes early, but it was unpredictable and impossible to plan around.

Spamton hated that.

He already had so little control over his life. Leaving an entire sales block up to the whims of a rat made him itch just thinking about it.

“We’re here live from TV World talking about everything! Weather-”

Meanwhile, the Lord loved it.

Loved the spectacle. Loved the broadcast. Loved dragging everyone outside, grinning for the cameras, pretending a shadow meant something. Every year, Spamton had been forced to stand there too -clapping, smiling, performing on cue while his entire spring sales block dangled from the whims of a rodent.

“It’s just nuts! But that’s TV World on February 2nd.”

As if he had all the time in the world to waste. As if there weren’t schedules to build, scripts to write, shows to run. A million different things to do. 

Suddenly, he realized he needed to get up.

If it was a holiday, they would be expecting him. Honestly, he was surprised he’d managed to get away with sleeping in the day before. His former business partner had always spiraled over holidays -every one of them treated like a crisis waiting to happen. And the man Spamton used to be had always soothed him with a saccharine, carefully rehearsed voice, green strings drawn tight around his voicebox like a noose.

“I mean, what could be crazier than groundhogs in February?”

It had been necessary. He’d never had the right words on his own. The one time he’d tried to comfort the CRT without help, he’d failed spectacularly -stammered, hesitated, said the wrong thing. The voice on the phone had explained it so reasonably afterward, so convincingly.

He could lend them his voice.

Just for those moments when he wasn’t sure what to say.

Why worry about finding the right words when they could be provided for you? Why risk silence, awkwardness, or disappointment?

All he had to do was make sure his smile looked convincing enough.

For the first time in years, nerves crept in -not the frantic kind, but sharp and electric. The pressure was gone now. The guidance. The certainty. Without it, would anyone notice? Would they realize their resident Big Shot had been replaced? A puppet imposter living underneath his skin? 

His hand clenched around the silk sheets.

He wasn’t an imposter.

He wasn’t.

This -this- was who he was supposed to be all along. Who he would have been, if not for-

Oh.

Oh.

A laugh bubbled up, sudden and delighted.

Oh, this would be perfect.

He was here. In TV World. With direct access to the man who had ruined his life.

Adrenaline flooded his veins, making it easy to throw the covers aside and spring from the bed. He crossed the room in a few long strides and yanked open the closet door.

Options.

He froze for a moment, just staring. He had options again. No longer trapped in the same threadbare blazer, endlessly patched and repaired until it had gone black with soot and grime.

Red was classic -but it wasn’t the only choice.

Dark blues. Rich purples. Deep blacks.

He scrunched his nose at that last one.

No. Not that.

Something else.

An endless variety. Choice upon choice, spilling out before him in abundance.

He could wear anything. Be anything. Do anything.

He laughed the entire time he dressed, a bright, breathless sound, giddy and unrestrained. A freedom he hadn’t realized how badly he’d missed washed over him.

When he finally glanced at the mirror, he stopped short.

The reflection staring back at him was unmistakably an Addison -young, handsome, alive. Downy white feathers, soft enough to almost pass for fur. Jet-black hair curled slightly, falling loose over his forehead. His feathered tail wagged behind him, too energetic to tuck into his trousers.

He’d chosen a simple brown suit and a red scarf, everything immaculately pressed. He’d pulled on his socks without thinking, only realizing too late that he used to wear sock garters with them -seeing the fabric bunch awkwardly near his ankle.

That had bothered him so much once. He’d thought it made him look smaller.

Now he knew what small really looked like.

He barely recognized himself.

A grin spread across his face as the reality of it sank in -slow, wide, and utterly unrestrained. Truly, genuinely free.

The Addison in the mirror smiled back.

His natural smile had always been awkward, crooked. As a young Addison, he’d trained it carefully, never letting it stretch wider than what was considered acceptable. Later, as a puppet, it hadn’t mattered. His smile had been constant -fixed, warped and painful.

For a moment, the crooked grin lingered.

Then muscle memory kicked in.

It shrank. Smoothed. Became picture-perfect.

He threw his head back and laughed.

The rest of his preparation passed in a blur, his hands moving faster than his thoughts. He was too eager to finally leave his room.

Too eager to give that fucking CRT exactly what he deserved.

He threw the door open without ceremony, his steps echoing too loudly as he nearly ran down the hallway.

It had been years since he’d walked these halls. But nothing had changed. The lime-green walls were just as violently ugly as he remembered, the linoleum floors still squeaky-clean beneath his feet, the décor as tasteless and overproduced as ever.

He slowed only when something on the wall caught his eye.

A poster.

It featured the same young, handsome Addison he’d just seen reflected in the mirror. Pink sunglasses with shining gold frames sat low on his nose as he winked confidently at the camera. Beside him-

Lavender casing. Broad shoulders. Antennae alert. Posture immaculate.

The Lord of Screens.

Draped in the very color that had marked his inevitable undoing.

The CRT’s gloved hand rested casually on the Addison’s shoulder, the other gripping a microphone. The image was polished, and too intimate. Spamton couldn’t remember the photoshoot -most of them blurred together into a useless haze- but the sight of that hand touching the Addison so easily made something inside his chest spark, sharp and immediate.

As if they had ever been friends.

As if Boob Tube hadn’t ruined his life. Hadn’t cast him into the dark. Hadn’t changed his phone number just to escape the endless calls.

Then, with a jolt, memory snapped into place.

That day.

The day of the contract.

February 2nd. It had been Groundhog Day.

It had begun like any other broadcast day. Spamton had rushed into the green room fifteen minutes late, and the CRT had pretended not to be irritated -smiling too tightly, antennae twitching just enough to give him away. They’d spent the morning talking about that stupid rodent, only for it to predict six more weeks of winter. The crew groaned, then celebrated anyway, desperate for something -anything- to fill the air in their small, cloying world.

Afterward, there were scripts to polish. Drinks at the bar. A toast to another “successful” holiday broadcast.

And then the CRT brought up the contract again.

This time, it was different.

He had a draft. He read parts of it aloud, voice smooth and reasonable. He expressed concern -feigned, now that Spamton thought about it- about Spamton’s relationship with his benefactor. Suggested that perhaps this new contract could help him establish himself independently, under TV Time’s umbrella. After all, the only reason he remained only an advertiser and occasional co-host was because of his other commitments in Cyber City.

This contract, the TV said, was lucrative enough to change that.

Spamton could leave most of his other businesses behind.

All he needed to do was share his benefactor’s secret to success. In exchange, the CRT would provide all the money and support he could ever need.

Maybe it was the alcohol.

Maybe it was how late it was.

Maybe it was how tight the strings had become lately -coiling around his throat, his voice, his hands, his legs.

Or maybe it was the way the CRT’s screen had brightened when he spoke about how wonderful Spamton would be as the host of his own show. How excited he was to produce it.

Whatever it was, it made Spamton pick up the pen.

Mr. Antony Tenna and Spamton G. Spamton.

Spotted together for the last time on that dotted line.

Moments later, the phone rang.

His strings were cut. 

And his wings melted away.

Burned alive by the very sun he had tried to reach.

He stood frozen before the poster, a feeling blooming in his chest that he struggled to name -something caught between despair and a raw, desperate rage. Before he fully realized what he was doing, his hands were already tearing at the paper, ripping that fucking traitor off the wall. Beneath it, a faded patch of wallpaper stared back at him.

Seeing it only made the anger roar louder.

Hotter.

Until his ears rang with static and steam.

Then came footsteps.

Yellow shoes -ridiculous and unmistakable.

Lavender casing.

Broad shoulders.

Antennae alert.

Posture immaculate.

A screen shining down on him like a spotlight.

He didn’t remember deciding to move.

His legs carried him forward on instinct, a sensation uncomfortably familiar -like being pulled again, though this time the force driving him was fury and desperation. He needed to show that goddamn CRT exactly who belonged in the trash.

After that, everything blurred.

He swung his fists. Kicked wildly. Felt the dull, hollow thud of metal beneath his blows. Ignored the pain lancing through his body with every strike. He bit down on something hard -too hard- and felt something else crack in his mouth.

There was blood.

Bright red.

His own.

At some point, he was lifted off the ground. Being restrained only fueled his rage further. He thrashed and screamed, voice shredding as he shouted promises of retribution - for every moment spent in the rain, every day of starvation, every week of misery, every month of madness, every year of bone-crushing loneliness.

Eventually, something inside him snapped.

Bleeding. Screaming. Crying. Until finally, his body went limp, the fury draining away as abruptly as it had arrived. The tension that had driven him forward finally severed, leaving only exhaustion behind.

He vaguely registered being carried. Hushed voices. Worried muttering. A doctor appeared somewhere along the way.

He had attacked the Lord of Screens. Bitten through his shoulder. Punched his screen. Kicked and screamed and cursed his name.

He should have been thrown out.

Left to freeze in the cold, as it had long seemed his lot in life.

Instead, he drifted in a hazy half-consciousness, unable to protest as someone gently tucked him back into bed. He felt a cool finger rest against his forehead.

Then a hand.

His eyes fluttered shut as the touch slid downward to cup his cheek. A thumb brushed softly along the curve of his face, slow and careful.

And with that quiet, impossible tenderness, Spamton slipped back into sleep.

-

The third day, he woke earlier than he had the previous two, anger still simmering just beneath the surface.

He’d barely gotten away with it. The only reason he’d been allowed to stay in the studio at all was the CRT’s stupid sentimentality. The thought made his jaw tighten. How could he have been so completely foolish? He wasn’t an animal anymore. He wasn’t a crazed puppet lashing out on instinct. He’d been saved. Blessed by another deal. Granted a second chance to do what he should have done the first time.

He was Spamton G. Spamton once more.

And he had a goal.

He couldn’t achieve it with his fists -but there were other methods.

The CRT’s screen was made of surprisingly thick glass. Durable. Reinforced. Built to endure impact. But that didn’t mean it was indestructible. One well-timed strike with something heavy could still shatter it.

Too risky to pull off in plain view, especially now that the CRT would be on high alert after yesterday’s stunt.

Back in Cyber World -long before he was Spamton- he’d tinkered with outdated tech not unlike the Boob Tube. Abandoned CRTs left on the curb, discarded and forgotten. He’d cracked them open, learned their insides by touch and trial, tried to coax life back into them so he could sell them for a few extra Kromer.

The outer casing had always been thick plastic and heavy glass.

But inside?

Delicate tubes. Sensitive wires. Fragile components humming with barely-contained energy.

One wrong shift. One careful snip.

And the CRT would be finished.

It didn’t matter. He was destined to die anyway -so did it really matter if Spamton simply killed him a little early?

He rose from the bed like a man on a mission, movements sharp and purposeful. Every piece of his outfit was chosen with meticulous care. Sock garters fastened snugly. Email belt buckle secured. Every feather slicked down, brushed into flawless alignment.

For the final touch, he reached for his bright red jacket -the one that matched the CRT’s.

The image of his own blood pooling across the linoleum floor flashed through his mind.

Cleaved red.

Cleaved red.

Cleaved red.

The prophecy never said who would do the cleaving. Whatever the hell that meant.

His hand was already on the doorknob when an alarm exploded through the room.

Loud. Sudden. Piercing.

Right.

He’d woken too early.

He crossed the room and reached to shut it off, finger hovering over the button as the morning broadcast bled through the speakers. The same couple again -cheery, indistinct voices belonging to those faces he remembered but names he still couldn’t place.

He was about to kill the sound when the man spoke.

“That’s right, woodchuck-chuckers, it’s-”

His partner cut in, excitement practically vibrating through the radio.

“GROUNDHOG DAY!”

He froze.

Could they be playing the wrong tape?

“We’re here live from TV World talking about everything! Weather-”

The woman giggled softly before cutting in again.

“And predictions! It’s just nuts! But that’s TV World on February second.”

It had to be a mistake.

Strange. 

He slammed his finger down on the off button, harder than necessary, and left the room.

The hallway greeted him with its familiar assault of garish green walls, but it didn’t matter. He’d be free soon enough. The CRT would be gone, and he’d return to Cyber City -to his apartment in Queen’s mansion- as if none of this had ever happened. As if he’d never stepped through the doors of TV World in the first place. 

Then he stopped.

The poster was still there.

Untouched.

The Addison and the CRT stood side by side, frozen in glossy perfection. The gloved hand rested on his shoulder.

As if he’d never ripped it down.

This time, memory didn’t seize him immediately. Instead, he took a closer look.

Spamton and Tenna’s TV Time - airing @ 7PM EST / 8PM CST.

His smile in the image was perfect. Straight. Manufactured down to the millimeter.

The CRT had to slouch to reach him, bending awkwardly just to lay that possessive hand in place.

It made his stomach turn.

And yet it was still there. Rehung. Restored. As though nothing had happened.

He scoffed, tossing his head and rolling his eyes as he walked away.

It was ridiculous -how obsessed that idiot box was with his own image. He couldn’t even tolerate having a poster torn down for a single day.

He walked through the hallways in something close to a trance, his steps carrying him forward almost without thought. It surprised him how easily he remembered the path to Studio One -the route unfolding in his mind with perfect clarity, as if no time had passed at all.

Every morning meeting took place there.

The CRT had always loved the meetings. He was a self-obsessed zealot, someone who seemed to believe the greatest gift he could give the world was the sound of his own voice. Each morning, before the day’s programming began, he would gather the entire studio and proceed to explain every shot, every camera angle, every segment of every broadcast in exhausting detail.

Spamton had sat through countless mornings like that, nodding along and pretending to take notes. The small notebook he used would eventually be handed off to production staff who never actually read it. They didn’t care. Most of them barely cared about the show at all.

TV World was a backwater. He saw it now. A decaying little kingdom full of vice, laziness, and mediocrity. A crummy building built by a crummier Darkner.

He couldn’t wait to leave it behind.

Spamton slipped quietly into the studio, hugging the wall and half-concealing himself between a stack of props and a painted backdrop. One thing the past few years had taught him was how to disappear when he needed to. He moved carefully, the way someone learned to move when attention meant trouble.

No one noticed him.

Every Darkner in the room faced forward, their attention fixed on the same figure standing at the front of the studio floor.

The Lord of Screens.

He stood beneath the studio lights, one gloved hand gripping a microphone while the other gestured with theatrical emphasis. His screen glowed brighter than the lights above him, almost painfully so, casting a pale glow over the assembled crew. His voice carried easily through the room as he outlined the plan for the morning broadcast.

He was saying something about how the Lightners would be depending on them for reliable reporting on such an important day.

Spamton felt his teeth grind as he listened.

Then the CRT mentioned two names.

Lanino. And Elnina.

His mouth twisted into a sour grimace as recognition clicked into place. Those were the voices from the radio broadcast earlier -the cheerful couple he’d heard announcing the holiday yesterday morning.

And the ones who had played the wrong tape this morning.

Spamton leaned back slightly against the wall, already bracing himself.

Surely this was where it would happen.

The Idiot Box would explode. Rage. Humiliate them in front of everyone. Make an example of them.

They might have been close to him, but that had never meant safety. Nobody was safe from the CRT’s wrath when a mistake happened -especially not on air.

Spamton remembered every dirty look.

Every sharp kick under the table.

Every “well-meaning” lecture delivered with that tight, patronizing smile.

And he had gotten off lightly compared to the others. He’d been the newest member of staff back then, and the CRT had tried to be “considerate.”

Condescending prick.

A memory rose unbidden.

Elnina had dropped a cue card during a broadcast once. Just a small slip -barely noticeable, and she’d recovered smoothly. But Boob tube had seen it, which meant it was suddenly the worst mistake imaginable.

He had threatened to tie the cue card to her hand.

She had threatened to quit on the spot.

Spamton had spent most of the night at the bar afterward, smoothing things over and assuring him she wouldn’t actually leave. Just remembering that night now made his stomach churn.

So what would he do today?

Threaten them?

Break something?

Smash a radio?

But none of that happened.

Instead, The Lord calmly explained that Lanino and Elnina would be handling the majority of the on-floor support for the holiday coverage. They would be responsible for most of the work today, though they would still coordinate with the studio team.

Spamton blinked.

Once.

Twice.

No.

That wasn’t right.

That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. 

His eyes narrowed as he tried to reconcile the memory in his mind with the scene unfolding in front of him.

How many days was this stupid holiday supposed to last?

It was at that same moment he realized the TV had turned his screen toward the back of the studio.

The CRT didn’t have eyes, not really -but Spamton had always known when the idiot box was looking at him. There was a weight to it, a feeling like standing beneath a spotlight. Even now, he could feel it pressing down on him.

This moment was no exception.

Their gazes met -or at least, it felt like they did.

The Lord of Screens faltered.

Just for a moment.

Spamton almost smiled out of habit. But he managed to keep his neutral expression in place. The CRT seemed confused, antennae bobbing to the side. 

That was right. He was supposed to be up there.

Near the end of his time at the studio, the CRT had started giving him more responsibilities during these meetings. Note-taking. Summaries. The wrap-up announcements. Little tasks meant to “help,” though Spamton had always suspected they were really meant to keep him tethered to his side.

All of those pointless tasks to “help” the CRT do a job he should have been more than capable of doing himself.

The Lord recovered from his own stumble almost immediately, continuing his speech as if nothing had happened.

Spamton tried to ignore the rising static in his ears.

Groundhog Day was a single day.

It had to be.

Sure, his memory had gotten patchy during his years rotting in the trash but surely he hadn’t forgotten something as obvious as a multi-day holiday. He couldn’t have been that far gone.

And besides, ever since he’d woken up as himself again, the memories had come back easier. Cleaner. He didn’t have to dig through a mess of corrupted fragments to reach them anymore.

He would remember if the holiday lasted longer.

He would know.

Spamton stepped forward quietly and leaned down beside one of the Pippins sitting at the edge of the crowd.

“Hey,” he whispered.

The Pippin jumped nearly a foot in the air when Spamton spoke.

His voice came out softer than he expected, rough around the edges from disuse.

“What day is it today?”

The Pippin stared up at him with wide eyes before stammering nervously.

“I–It’s February second, boss.”

February second.

Spamton felt something inside his chest tighten.

That couldn’t be right.

It couldn’t be February second… because February second had been yesterday.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze back toward the front of the room.

Toward the Lord.

And toward the whiteboard behind him.

Broadcasting Schedule – February 2nd

The words were written in immaculate cursive, every line perfectly straight, every letter deliberate and controlled.

Spamton stood frozen.

The meeting continued around him -voices droning, chairs scraping, notes being scribbled- but the sounds seemed to fade into the background.

He stared at the board.

At the date.

It wasn’t until the meeting finally ended and people began to move around him that his body started moving again too, carried forward by the flow of the crowd.

He ignored the voices around him.

Ignored the Pippins asking if he was alright.

And he especially ignored the way the Boob Tube had started walking toward him, one gloved hand lifting slightly as if reaching out in concern.

Today was February second.

But yesterday had been February second.

His feet carried him faster and faster down the hallway until he was nearly running back toward his room.

Yesterday had been February second.

He passed the poster again.

The same one.

He stopped.

The Addison and the CRT stood side by side in glossy perfection, the CRT’s hand resting easily on his shoulder.

Spamton stared at it for a long moment.

The CRT didn’t remember what had happened yesterday.

None of them did.

That much was obvious.

If they had remembered, someone would have said something. Someone would have reacted.

But nobody had.

Because yesterday wasn’t yesterday.

Yesterday was today.

And today…

Today was still February second.

He let his mind wander.

Just for a moment, he allowed himself to consider the impossible.

What if tomorrow was February second, too?

The thought settled into his mind slowly at first, then all at once, like a lock clicking into place.

Spamton leaned against the poster on the wall, the glossy paper crinkling softly. His fist rested against the printed image of the CRT, knuckles pressing into the bright lavender casing of Idiot box’s smiling likeness.

And then he laughed.

It started quietly, a breath forced out through clenched teeth. But the sound grew quickly, sharp and disbelieving, echoing faintly down the empty hallway.

Of course.

Of course it was this.

Another deal.

Another bargain handed to him when he needed it most.

He tipped his head back against the wall, laughter bubbling up again as the realization spread through him like fire. Not despair. Not panic.

Opportunity.

This wasn’t a mistake.

This wasn’t some cruel accident of time.

This was his deal.

His second chance.

Spamton’s fingers curled tighter against the poster, crumpling the paper beneath his grip until the image of the Lord’s smiling face warped and bent.

He had one shot.

One day.

One perfect, repeating day.

His laughter softened into a crooked grin as the idea settled into place, cold and certain.

One day to kill Antony Tenna.

-

On the fourth day, he realized it was still the third day.

Which was the second.

Which was the first.

He woke to the blaring alarm clock and lay still beneath the covers, staring up at the red ceiling while the sound drilled into his skull. This time he didn’t rush to shut it off. Instead he waited.

Right on cue, the radio faded in.

The same voice as before -booming, cheerful, obnoxiously bright.

Lanino.

“That’s right, woodchuck-chuckers, it’s-”

Lanina cut in immediately, excitement practically vibrating through the speakers.

“GROUNDHOG DAY!”

A slow, wolfish grin spread across Spamton’s face.

He shot out of bed with a burst of energy that surprised even him. The repetition didn’t feel confusing or terrifying.

It felt useful.

He grabbed the first jacket he saw -dark green- and slipped it on, dressing quickly but with the same meticulous care he was starting to get back into the habit of. Buttons fastened. Collar straightened. Feathers brushed smooth.

Today he had a single goal.

Today he would play along.

If he was going to keep this day repeating, if he was going to use it properly, then vague memories weren’t enough. If he was going to kill Tenna, he needed to know exactly what the CRT did during this day -where he went, what he worked on, when he was alone.

Today, Spamton would be the perfect business partner.

He stepped into the hallway, forcing himself not to linger on the poster. 

Spamton kept walking.

A Pippin hurried past him carrying a stack of cue cards, nearly bumping into him before darting away. At the entrance to Studio One, the same zapper stood guard, stiff and silent.

Inside the studio, everything felt eerily familiar.

The crew stood in the same loose clusters around the floor. Lights hung overhead. Cameras waited patiently in their positions. At the front of the room, Tenna was already speaking into his microphone, his glowing screen bright beneath the studio lights as he explained the day’s programming.

Spamton lingered near the edge of the room at first, watching.

Then he moved forward and joined the group near the front.

The meeting dragged on the way meetings always did. Every segment explained in painstaking detail. Every angle and transition dissected as if the fate of the entire broadcast depended on it.

Spamton took notes where he could, determined to play his part

He paid attention to everything.

Where Tenna stood.

How he paced.

Who spoke to him.

Which crew members approached him during breaks.

The broadcast itself unfolded smoothly. Spamton stayed nearby during the in-house segments, stepping in to assist when needed and offering commentary when Tenna gestured for him to speak.

Eventually the moment came.

The announcement.

Six more weeks of winter.

The crew groaned in theatrical disappointment before shifting seamlessly into the closing segment and the rest of the day’s news.

Afterward, the studio emptied slightly as the Lightners left their homes and the broadcast schedule quieted.

Spamton followed him down the hallway toward his office, trying to ignore the prickling at the back of his mind. 

The CRT settled behind his desk while Spamton took a seat nearby, spreading a stack of papers across the table.

Budget sheets.

Quarterly projections.

It seemed he was meant to be reviewing the studio’s finances while Tenna worked on something else entirely -a script for a cowboy program meant for the Dreemurr father.

Spamton almost scoffed.

He had his own office.

Why the TV insisted on sharing a workspace with him was beyond comprehension. Probably another way to keep him close, keep him controlled.

Still… the numbers were strangely comforting.

Spamton had always been good with money. Calculations came easily to him. He could balance figures and track spending without much effort.

The real problem had always been convincing people to give him any. Some would have said the CRT was a fool for trusting Spamton  

He leaned over the papers, running the numbers in his head.

It might have been almost peaceful.

If Tenna would stop fucking talking.

Every few minutes, the CRT interrupted.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Spamton’s pencil paused against the page, the graphite tip hovering over a column of numbers he had already balanced twice. The neat lines of the spreadsheet blurred slightly as he stared at them, trying to force his focus back onto the page.

But the questions kept coming.

Each one tugged at his attention like a persistent hand on his sleeve, refusing to let him settle into the quiet rhythm of the numbers. The room, which should have been calm -just the scratch of pencil and the faint hum of equipment- felt increasingly crowded with Tenna’s voice.

Spamton rubbed at the bridge of his nose, the headache behind his eyes beginning as a dull pressure and slowly blooming into something sharper.

Another question.

Another interruption.

The CRT’s voice droned on beside him, meandering into some half-formed commentary about the broadcast.

Something inside Spamton snapped.

The chair scraped sharply against the floor as he stood up.

Tenna stopped speaking immediately.

Silence rushed in to fill the space between them.

Spamton didn’t look at him at first. Instead, he gathered the scattered papers in front of him, stacking them with deliberate care as though nothing unusual had happened.

“Forgot my glasses,” he muttered.

The excuse came easily, though it wasn’t entirely a lie. That morning he had forgotten to slip them into the pocket of his jacket.

Mostly because he had forgotten he used to need them at all.

“I’ll talk to you later.”

He turned and crossed the room quickly, each step carrying him farther from the desk, from the voice, from the constant stream of questions.

His hand had already settled on the doorknob when Tenna spoke again.

“Spam.”

The voice stopped him.

It was still accented, still unmistakably Tenna’s -but quieter than Spamton was used to hearing it. Softer. Careful.

Spamton hesitated before glancing back.

The CRT looked… smaller.

His screen had dimmed slightly, the bright glow subdued to a duller, uncertain light. His antennae hung forward instead of standing tall, their tips twitching faintly with nervous energy. The pen he’d been using lay abandoned on the desk, forgotten beside the unfinished script.

He sat leaning forward now, elbows resting on the desk as his hands twisted together in an anxious knot.

“Did I do something wrong?”

The question hung in the air between them.

Spamton stared.

For a moment, something strange flickered through his chest -confusion, irritation, maybe even a hint of disbelief. The idea of Tenna asking that, of all things, felt absurd.

He almost laughed.

Instead, his grip tightened on the doorknob.

Whatever expression had crossed his face disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Without answering, he turned the handle and stepped out into the hallway.

The door closed quietly behind him.

He didn’t see Tenna again for the rest of the day.

But that was fine.

He would see him tomorrow.

-

Eventually, he stopped counting the days.

What was the point?

Every Groundhog Day ended the same way. Every choice he made -every step, every word, every small deviation- was wiped clean by the morning. Nothing stuck. Nothing lasted.

The world reset, neat and pristine, as if he had never touched it.

At first he tried to track the days. Numbers scratched into the inside of his desk drawer. Faint marks along the wall behind his bed. But every morning they were gone, smoothed away as though they had never existed. The notes he kept to memorize the Lord’s schedule vanished too. Eventually, the letters and numbers stopped mattering.

Time stopped meaning anything at all.

All that mattered was his goal.

The jackets blurred together after a while. Every morning he would reach into the closet and pull out a different one -red, green, blue, purple- watching the colors flicker past like frames in a broken reel of film. He was almost certain he had worn every single jacket he owned by now.

Every pair of socks.

Every pair of pants.

Every day was identical except for him and the choices he made.

He perfected the routine quickly. He followed Tenna everywhere, just as he had in the old days -sticking to his side like glue, playing the attentive partner, the dependable co-host. He smiled when he was supposed to smile. Laughed when the cameras demanded it. Nodded along with every pointless explanation during the morning meetings.

He became very good at pretending.

But the taste of it sat in the back of his throat like something rotten.

Tenna wasn’t the first person Spamton had lied to. Scams, half-truths, carefully constructed personas -those had been tools of the trade long before Cyber City had chewed him up and spat him out.

But this was different.

This felt worse.

In the years he had spent rotting in the garbage, the finer details of their partnership had blurred into static. Living through it again -watching the dynamic try and play out exactly as it had before- felt like slowly grinding glass between his teeth.

Tenna was obsessed with keeping him close.

If Spamton stepped away for too long, the CRT would find him again almost immediately. If he lingered too far behind during meetings, Tenna would slow down until they were side by side again.

And when Spamton tried to leave the room early-

Tenna would pout.

Not openly, not dramatically. But Spamton started to notice the little things. The slight droop in his antennae. The way his screen dimmed a fraction. The way he physically shrank when Spamton brushed off his attempts at conversation.

It was pathetic.

And somehow that made it worse.

“Spam, how are you feeling today?”

“Sorry about 6 more weeks of winter Spam, probably not great for sales huh?”

“Spam, what did you think of the segment earlier?”

Spamton kept his answers short.

One word.

Sometimes none at all.

Just a shrug.

And every time he did it, Tenna folded inward just a little more. His towering frame hunching slightly, his voice growing quieter as though he were afraid of pushing too far.

Spamton began to notice other things too.

Little repetitions.

The way the TV’s antennae twitched whenever Spamton avoided his gaze.

The way he always adjusted his microphone the same way before speaking.

The way his voice softened whenever he said Spamton’s name.

Spamton tried not to think about it.

But the loop stretched on.

And on.

And on.

With nothing to break the pattern except the quiet, gnawing thought that lived inside his skull.

One day.

One perfect opportunity.

And he would end Tenna forever.

-

The day started like every other February second.

Lanino and Elnina’s voices blared over the radio, bright and insufferably cheerful as they shouted about Groundhog Day. Spamton dressed quickly, pulling on whatever jacket he felt like wearing before hurrying down the hallway to the morning meeting.

The routine had become second nature by now.

He stayed glued to Tenna’s side for most of the day, still quietly mapping the CRT’s schedule in his head, searching for a single weak point. One moment when the Lord of Screens would be alone long enough for Spamton to act.

But the opportunity never came.

There was always something.

A Pippin running up with a report that needed signing.

A Shadowguy asking a question about the lighting setup.

A zapper delivering some update from the studio floor.

Ramb lingered nearby most evenings at the bar, his quiet watchfulness making Spamton’s skin itch.

And when they were finally alone, the moments never lasted long enough to dispose of the evidence.

So Spamton waited.

Day after day.

He followed Tenna like a quiet shadow, smiling at the right moments, laughing when the cameras demanded it, nodding along with his rambling explanations. It became easier with every loop to slip back into his role.

The friendly partner.

The helpful co-host.

The loyal right hand.

And it became easier, too, to pretend that he didn’t constantly want to grab the nearest blunt object and smash it into the glowing screen standing beside him.

The anger simmered just beneath the surface, a low-burning thing that never quite went away.

Until one evening, near the end of the broadcast day, something shifted.

They were sitting together, talking idly while the studio wound down for the night, when Spamton felt a sickening prickle crawl up his spine.

He didn’t know why at first.

Then the TV’s antennae began to bob nervously.

Spamton froze.

He knew that movement by now.

It meant Tenna was working up the nerve to say something.

Something difficult.

Spamton lifted his glass and took a slow sip of rum, grimacing as the burn slid down his throat. Then he turned back toward Tenna and forced a smile onto his face.

“Tens,”

The nickname felt like acid.

It burned all the way down his throat and into his lungs, dragging memories up with it that he had spent countless loops trying not to think about.

“What’s on your mind?”

And just like that, Tenna started talking.

About how he was worried.

About how Spamton hadn’t seemed like himself recently.

About how something felt… wrong.

Spamton’s stomach dropped.

The words were painfully familiar.

With a slow, sinking dread, he realized he had heard this conversation before.

A very long time ago.

When he had still been a very different man.

February second.

The first one.

All those years ago.

For a moment he felt the urge to laugh. Somewhere along the endless loops, he had almost managed to forget about this conversation. He had buried it, shoved it into the darkest corner of his mind along with the contract and everything that had come after.

He’d had to.

If he thought about it too much, he would have snapped long before now.

But here it was again.

Unavoidable.

Tenna was talking about their contract.

Talking about how maybe they could renegotiate it.

And the worst part-

The worst part was realizing that this time, watching it from the outside, it was genuine.

Spamton had spent countless days stuck at Tenna’s side. Long enough to learn things about him that he had never noticed the first time around.

He knew Tenna’s coffee order.

Knew the way the CRT tapped his pen twice against his screen whenever he lost his train of thought while writing.

Knew the way his screen flickered every afternoon at exactly 2:32, a tiny stutter in the power that Tenna always pretended not to notice.

But Spamton had noticed.

And he knew it scared him.

Because Tenna was a brilliant entertainer.

But a terrible actor.

He couldn’t feign his emotions to save his life. Everything he felt was written plainly in the little movements of his body, in the brightness of his screen, in the restless twitch of his antennae.

And try as he might-

Spamton could see it clearly now.

The concern in Tenna’s voice was real.

Which only made Spamton’s anger burn hotter.

Because if Tenna really cared…

For so long, Spamton had told himself a very simple story.

Tenna had wanted to own him.

Possess him. Control him. Steal his secrets and the success that came with them. Keep him close enough that he could never become a rival.

Keep your friends close before they turn into your enemies.

But this?

This was genuine. 

Spamton couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

Tenna’s voice wavered as he spoke, the confidence he carried so easily on air gone completely now. His volume had dropped, almost swallowed by the quiet of the studio after hours.

“S-See, Spam… I know you don’t want to share your secrets, but-”

The sentence never finished.

Spamton burst out laughing.

He hadn’t planned it. The sound tore out of him before he could stop it -sharp, breathless, almost hysterical.

Ramb had left a few minutes earlier, muttering something about closing up the bar. Normally Spamton would have left before him. He rarely stayed this late. Spending the entire day with Tenna was already more than he could tolerate.

But tonight he’d lost track of time.

And apparently-

That had been all it took.

Tenna frowned, confusion tightening across his screen. His antennae drooped slightly.

“Spamton, you don’t have to laugh,” he said stiffly. “This is just a business proposition.”

Spamton slammed his glass down on the table hard enough that the bottom cracked.

The sharp sound echoed through the empty studio.

He was still laughing.

“Oh, please!” Spamton gasped, dragging in a breath as he tried to keep the laughter from swallowing the rest of his words. “A business proposition?”

He pushed himself to his feet in one abrupt movement, precariously stood on top of the stool at the bar. 

Face to face.

Tenna’s screen burned bright in the dim light of the room, the glow reflecting in Spamton’s wide, glassy eyes. From this close he could smell the alcohol on his own breath -the rum mixing with the vodka Tenna had been drinking, the fumes thick enough to sting his nose.

Spamton leaned in closer.

His voice dropped to a rasping whisper.

“This isn’t business to you.”

A pause.

“Not anymore.”

From this close, he could hear Tenna.

The faint electrical hum of the cathode ray tube. The delicate whine of coils and circuitry doing their quiet work. The soft mechanical heartbeat that made the CRT alive.

Spamton’s fingers twitched.

God, he wanted to silence those sounds.

Shatter each and every piece.

Crack open the casing and rip the wires apart until the humming stopped forever.

Instead he laughed again.

Tenna’s expression had tightened further now, his antennae sagging low enough that they drooped across the edge of his screen. And there -right at the corners where his eyes would have been-

Spamton saw them.

The beginnings of tears.

Oh that was rich.

“Don’t lie to me,” Spamton sneered, his grin twisting into something sharp and ugly. “This isn’t about business. This is about keeping me under your thumb.”

He leaned even closer.

“Because you’re obsessed with knowing my secrets. Obsessed with me.”

The words hung in the air.

Tenna flinched.

And Spamton felt a thrill shoot up his spine.

There it was.

That shift.

That moment when the mask cracked.

He had seen it too many times to count now. Seen it every single morning on the poster hanging across from his dressing room.

That same hand on his shoulder.

Possessive.

Claiming.

“You think my partner is too controlling?” Spamton continued, voice rising slightly. “Then what about you?”

His smile widened.

“Do you really think you’re any better, Cathode?”

Tenna stood up.

Slowly.

Spamton recognized the expression immediately.

Anger.

The glow of his screen shifted, a flush of color spreading across it like a storm breaking across glass. A strange, shimmering rainbow blush flickered across the display as the tears spilled freely now -hot, furious streaks that glowed faintly in the dim light.

Tenna’s voice trembled when he spoke again.

“I’m trying to help you!” Tenna burst out, the words tumbling over themselves. “You think I don’t see how they’re working you to the bone? We can all see how he’s destroying you! If you signed this…I could keep you safe.”

The anger drained from his voice almost as quickly as it had appeared, collapsing into something softer. Something painfully earnest. Static tears slipped down the edges of his screen, flickering faintly as they fell.

He took a tentative step forward.

Just one.

His hand lifted slowly, reaching out as if approaching something fragile that might shatter if he moved too quickly. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped lower than Spamton had ever heard it. The polished broadcast tone was gone now. The careful cadence. Even the accent wavered, slipping in and out as his composure cracked under the weight of the moment.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt, Spam.”

Spamton stared at him.

For a split second -just one tiny, treacherous moment- something in his chest twisted.

Then the feeling curdled into rage.

Of course it was fake.

God, even his voice was fake.

That smooth, gentle concern. That trembling softness. It was all just another performance, another trick meant to pull him in closer.

Even standing on the stool, Tenna still towered over him.

He snarled, voice trembling in rage 

“Enough!” 

“Help me?” he repeated, voice thick with disbelief.

The words came out half laugh, half snarl.

“You’re helping me?”

His laughter bubbled up again, sharp and ugly.

“Oh, that’s rich.”

He stepped onto the bar and leaned even closer, invading Tenna’s space until the CRT’s glow washed across his face in harsh white light.

“You don’t want to see me get hurt? All you do is push me down and hurt me!” Spamton rasped.

His smile twisted into something almost feral.

“You’ve always been such a funny guy.”

His fingers tightened against the edge of the bar.

For a moment his gaze drifted to Tenna’s screen.

The faint static tears sliding down it.

The thick glass screen.

Spamton imagined the sound it would make if it shattered.

And the thought made his grin stretch even wider.

It happened in a single moment.

Spamton didn’t remember deciding to move. One second he was standing on the bar, laughter still rattling in his chest, and the next his hand had reached blindly behind him.

His fingers closed around the neck of a bottle.

He swung.

The glass exploded on impact.

Green shards burst outward like shrapnel, spraying across the bar and floor as the bottle shattered against Tenna’s casing. The sound rang through the empty studio -sharp and violent.

Tenna staggered.

The towering frame that had loomed over Spamton suddenly lurched backward, balance lost as the impact rattled through his internal machinery.

Spamton stood on top of the bar, chest heaving.

For the first time-

He was looking down at Antony Tenna.

The CRT’s screen flickered weakly now, the bright glow dimming to a sickly gray haze. The familiar shapes of his nose and mouth wavered and then vanished entirely, leaving only a trembling field of static.

But the tears remained.

They spilled down the glass in crackling streams, thick droplets of glowing static that hissed as they struck the floor, evaporating into brief curls of smoke.

Tenna had fallen to his knees.

One gloved hand braced weakly against the floor while the other clutched at his casing as though trying to hold himself together. The antennae on his head twitched erratically, spasming with electrical feedback.

When he tried to speak again, his voice came out broken.

Slurred.

The polished accent was gone completely.

What remained was a deep tenor struggling through failing circuitry.

“Spa -am… I… don’tttt…”

Spamton didn’t let him finish.

His hand was already moving again.

Another bottle.

Another swing.

This one struck the same place.

The impact was heavier this time, the thick glass cracking loudly as it smashed against Tenna’s casing. Spamton felt the jolt travel up his arm as something inside the CRT shifted violently out of place.

There was a horrible sound.

A sharp metallic snap.

Then the screen went black.

Instantly.

Tenna’s hands went slack.

The body that had once towered above him tipped forward, collapsing without resistance.

For a single suspended moment the CRT hung there-

Then he fell.

Forward.

Screen first.

The impact against the floor rang out like a shot.

The thick glass shattered with a deafening crack, fragments scattering across the tile as the front of the CRT caved inward. Inside the broken casing, delicate tubes ruptured with wet pops and sharp electrical snaps, spraying sparks and leaking hissing clouds of chemical vapor.

The antennae twitched once.

Twice.

Then stilled.

The Lord of Screens was silent. 

Spamton stayed there for a long time.

Standing on the bar.

Breathing.

Waiting.

Nothing happened.

The room stayed quiet.

No hum from Tenna’s circuitry. No flicker of the screen. No twitch of the antennae. Just the scattered glass and the dull smell of burnt wiring hanging in the air.

The CRT lay face-down on the tile, motionless.

Spamton let out a shaky breath.

Then another.

And slowly.

He started to laugh.

It began small. A breath. A wheeze of disbelief.

Then it grew.

Louder.

Bigger.

The kind of laughter that shook his whole body.

“HA…!”

His voice echoed off the empty walls.

“EHAEHA-!”

Spamton stumbled slightly on the bar, falling to his knees as the laughter poured out of him.

He had done it.

Finally.

After all those days -however many there had been- after all the pretending, the smiling, the waiting…

He had done it.

Tenna was dead.

Tomorrow would be different.

Tomorrow would finally be something new. 

Then there was a noise. 

So quiet he almost didn’t notice it.

A faint sound.

Like static crawling along the inside of his skull.

Spamton’s laughter faltered.

He froze.

The sound grew louder.

A familiar noise.

A phone.

Ringing.

He had heard this phone so many times before.

In fragments.

Half-remembered echoes buried beneath static and broken memories.

But this was different.

This time the sound wasn’t crawling through the inside of his skull.

It was real.

Spamton climbed down from the bar slowly, the movement stiff and unnatural, like a puppet whose strings had been tugged. His legs barely felt like they belonged to him as he stepped forward.

Glass crunched beneath his shoes.

Shards from the shattered bottles and Tenna’s screen cracked and shifted with every step, the sharp sound echoing faintly in the empty studio.

The ringing continued.

Patient.

Spamton turned the corner into the hallway leading to his dressing room.

And there it was.

The phone sat exactly where it always had.

Silent for every single February second he had lived through.

Every reset.

Not once had it rung.

Until now.

Something cold slid down his spine.

His hands began to tremble.

“No,” he whispered.

The word barely escaped his throat.

The phone rang again.

The sound seemed louder this time.

Shriller.

Again.

And again.

And again.

It wouldn’t stop. It never did. 

His heart pounded violently in his chest.

Somewhere behind him, the studio remained silent.

He stood in the doorway of his dressing room, the ringing clawing at his ears.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Behind him, at the bar, Tenna lay broken on the floor.

Spamton hadn’t looked back.

He hadn’t needed to.

The silence was proof enough.

But now, with the ringing filling the hallway and the smell of shattered glass still clinging to the air, something in his chest twisted.

Tenna had been crying.

That thought forced itself into his mind like a splinter.

Not yelling.

Not threatening.

Crying.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

For so long he had told himself Tenna deserved it. That the CRT had ruined him, stolen everything from him, reduced him to garbage rotting in an alley.

But the memory of Tenna’s voice -soft, uncertain, asking if he had done something wrong- wouldn’t leave him alone.

Spamton swallowed hard.

For just a moment-

He almost wanted to go back.

Almost wanted to see if Tenna was still-

But he couldn’t move backwards. Only forwards. Towards the phone. 

Louder.

And slowly-

Against every instinct screaming inside his skull-

His hand began to move.

His arm lifted stiffly, the motion slow and jerking, like something else was guiding it.

His fingers twitched.

Curled.

Reached.

“No,” he whispered again, weaker now.

But the hand didn’t stop.

It wrapped around the receiver.

Cold plastic pressed against his palm.

Spamton’s breath shook.

His fingers tightened around the handle as he slowly lifted it from the cradle.

Because in that moment-

As the receiver rose toward his ear-

He finally understood.

His strings had never been cut.

They had only gone slack.

The phone rang.

And Spamton answered.

-

It had never mattered.

Nothing had ever mattered.

He had never been free.

And it was still February second.

Spamton had only found the strength to try one more day.

It had been a sullen morning. He went through the motions of the broadcast with hollow precision, ignoring the walking corpse of his former friend as Tenna followed him around the studio like a worried shadow. The CRT asked him if he was alright again and again, voice soft, antennae drooping with concern.

Spamton never answered.

Once the broadcast ended and the announcement of six more weeks of winter echoed across the studio, he slipped away.

He didn’t go back to the dressing room.

He didn’t go near the bar.

Instead, he went to Cable Tunnel.

The narrow passage that connected TV World to Cyber City.

It was closed.

Just as it had been every other February second.

The heavy metal gate stood sealed tight across the entrance, the thick chain wrapped around it unmoved by all the days he had spent staring at it. The red light stared down at him, unblinking. 

But some stubborn, stupid part of him had still hoped.

Hoped that maybe this time it would be open.

Hoped that maybe he could catch the train and escape into the neon chaos of Cyber City. Escape the guilt gnawing at his insides. Escape the invisible strings that tugged at him with every step.

Escape the memory of Tenna’s glass screen crunching beneath his shoes.

Escape the phone that still sat in the corner of the dressing room he never entered.

But the gate remained closed.

So he stayed there.

At the edge of TV World.

Waiting.

He spent the entire day sitting beside the tunnel entrance, staring out at the darkness beyond and praying -to anything that would listen- for some kind of answer.

For a miracle.

For anything.

He didn’t remember falling asleep.

He only remembered waking up again.

February second.

So many lifetimes ago he had hit rock bottom and found the answers he was looking for.

Now, once again, on a day exactly like every other one before it, he was searching for salvation.

But there were no answers waiting for him.

The voice on the phone had already made that clear before hanging up as abruptly as it had called.

As far as Spamton knew-

There was only one way to cut his strings.

Only one way to break the deal.

Sitting on the edge of the TV Studio’s roof, he finally understood that.

The building rose a few stories above the rest of TV World, high enough that the wind cut through him like knives. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, staring out across the empty landscape.

Beyond the studio stretched rolling purple hills covered in snow, swallowed by a darkness blacker than anything he had seen in Cyber City.

TV World might have been a backwater.

But it was peaceful.

A quiet place to rest.

Spamton had always had something else to reach for.

Another deal.

Another plan.

Another scheme waiting just out of reach.

But now, when he stretched his hand forward-

Nothing reached back.

His hands were empty.

And he was tired.

So tired.

He had tried everything.

Everything except this.

A part of him didn’t want to try it.

A small, stubborn piece of himself still wanted to believe there was another answer waiting somewhere just out of sight.

But the rest of him -beaten down by days and days of February second- knew better.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before he heard the door behind him open.

He didn’t bother turning around.

It didn’t matter who it was.

All the faces in this place had blurred together long ago, every one of them trapped in the same endless repetition. It was probably just a Pippin sneaking up to the roof for a cigarette after the broadcast.

What he hadn’t expected-

Was for the ghost he had been running from to sit down beside him.

Spamton’s shoulders stiffened.

He couldn’t bring himself to look.

Tenna said nothing.

For a long moment, they simply sat there together in the wind.

Spamton stared out at the dark horizon while the presence beside him pressed against his nerves like an open wound.

They had been friends once.

So many lifetimes ago.

Back when Spamton had first arrived in TV World, he had cherished that friendship.

Sure, their relationship had started as a business arrangement -two ambitious Darkners recognizing a mutually convenient partnership. At the time it had been practical. Strategic.

But the friendship that grew from it…

Looking back now, it felt more genuine than any other relationship Spamton had ever had.

The Addisons had only ever liked him out of obligation. Family was family, after all, whether you wanted it or not.

Queen and Swatch enjoyed his company well enough, but they had little in common besides their shared position at the top of society. Their conversations were always polite, clever, and careful. 

But Tenna?

Tenna had been different.

Spamton remembered the way it had started -one night after a broadcast when Tenna had dragged out a stack of vinyl records and insisted Spamton listen to them. Disco, mostly. Some other oldies. The occasional musical. Loud and energetic, the kind of music that made Tenna’s antennae twitch happily.

Spamton had retaliated by digging out his own records. Synth, progressive rock, new wave and experimental albums that he was almost certain Tenna wouldn’t understand.

But he’d still listened.

They got into the habit of trading them back and forth. Spamton searched through his collection for something he thought Tenna might like, Tenna eagerly bringing in another record the next day to return the favor.

Sometimes they would sit there for hours quietly working while music played around them.

Other nights they watched movies.

It had started as research -figuring out what the Lightners liked, what kind of stories held their attention. They didn’t usually agree on the films themselves. Tenna preferred loud spectacles and emotional monologues, while Spamton had always liked the strange and abstract.

But the conversations they'd have during the movie. About their days, about the studio, occasionally about what they were actually watching. 

Spamton often found himself looking forward to those more than the movies themselves.

They had eaten dinner together often, too.

Late nights in the studio when everyone else had gone home, the two of them sitting at the bar or the only restaurant in TV world, sharing appetizers and arguing over the bill. 

And when it came to work…

It had always been Spamton’s choice to sit in Tenna’s office.

Not Tenna’s.

Spamton had never been able to focus in his own workspace -not with the phone sitting so close, its silent presence gnawing at the back of his mind. Working beside Tenna had been easier.

Everything they had shared…

Everything they had built together…

How could he have forgotten? Why did he only remember now, when it was too late? 

It all lay shattered beneath Spamton’s feet like broken glass. And the TV didn’t even know. 

Tenna had always been stubborn. A perfectionist who believed that he knew what was best for everyone around him.

But he had also been kind.

Funny.

Imaginative.

The kind of person who filled every room he entered with energy and light.

Spamton still couldn’t bring himself to look at him.

Because every time he did, it felt like all he could see was the empty space where Tenna’s screen should have been.

A reminder of what he had done.

Of what had been erased. 

The CRT didn’t say anything.

He simply reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small box of cigarettes.

He slid one out, tapping it lightly against the edge of the box before flicking the pack toward Spamton.

Spamton reached for it automatically.

The movement was muscle memory by now.

He pulled a cigarette free just like he had done a thousand times before.

They had always shared cigarettes.

Spamton’s cheap Cyber City menthols -the harsh kind that numbed the throat and tasted faintly of plastic.

Tenna’s were thinner, wrapped in pale paper and kept in a small, polished metal case that looked far too fancy for the habit it contained.

Tenna’s lighter sparked once.

Twice.

The wind nearly stole the flame both times, but eventually it caught, and he lit his own cigarette.

Spamton shifted the unlit cigarette to his other hand and held out his palm, waiting.

They had done this countless times before. Tenna would pass the lighter over once he finished.

But instead-

Tenna leaned closer.

Without a word, he cupped his hand around the end of Spamton’s cigarette and gently brought the lighter up beneath it.

The flame sparked.

And quietly-

He lit it for him.

He paused for a moment. 

The TV had never done that before. 

Spamton felt his hands steady as he sighed and brought the cigarette to his lips, taking a long, slow inhale.

The smoke filled his mouth, then his lungs, sharp and cool and perfect. It burned just enough to make his eyes sting, the menthol biting pleasantly at the back of his throat.

God.

It felt good.

When had he last taken a proper smoke break?

The thought lingered for a moment before the answer surfaced.

Before everything.

Before the trash.

Back when smoke breaks had simply been something he did between segments.

He had been so consumed by his… plan lately that he’d forgotten the habit entirely.

As a puppet he hadn’t been able to afford cigarettes anyway. Every once in a while he’d managed to dig a half-crushed one out of the trash, lighting it with the cracked burner he used to cook whatever scraps he could find.

The memory made his stomach twist.

Tenna spoke suddenly, snapping him out of the spiral of thoughts.

His voice carried that familiar accent again, though the pitch stayed lower than usual. Tenna’s voice always dropped like this when they were alone -soft and conversational instead of booming and theatrical.

Spamton had always preferred it.

“So,” Tenna said, smoke curling lazily from his own cigarette, “I hope you have a good reason for missing the broadcast this morning.”

Spamton rolled his eyes and exhaled, watching the smoke drift upward into the cold night air where the wind quickly tore it apart.

“Nope.”

He didn’t bother looking at him, but he felt the shift in the air beside him.

Tenna’s shoulders sagged.

“Alright.”

That simple acceptance twisted something unpleasant in Spamton’s chest.

He hated himself.

He always had.

Back when he was small, back when he was desperate and clawing his way upward, that self-hatred had been a constant companion.

Then he’d become a Big Shot.

Successful.

Important.

For a while he’d believed he had left that part of himself behind.

But the trash had brought it back.

The endless nights of rain and hunger and static had dragged that old voice right back into his skull.

And now-

Now he sat here beside the man he had killed, unable to open his mouth and say a single honest thing.

The hatred inside him churned once again.

They sat in silence for a while.

The only sounds were the soft crackle of burning cigarettes and the restless wind sweeping across the rooftop, threatening to snuff the embers out.

Then Tenna spoke again.

“You know…”

Spamton turned slightly at the sound of his voice, the quiet words cutting through the night like fragile glass.

“You’re the reason I started smoking.”

Spamton blinked.

He hadn’t known that.

He thought he had learned everything there was to know about Tenna by now. The loops had forced him to memorize every habit, every tiny movement, every scheduled part of the day.

But this-

This was new.

The discovery caught him off guard enough that he let out a small, surprised chuckle. He bowed his head slightly as he exhaled another plume of smoke.

“Oh really?”

Tenna nodded beside him.

“It’s true,” he said, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “I had never touched them before.”

He laughed softly to himself before continuing.

“But I, uh…”

Spamton turned toward him fully, trying to ignore the sour taste rising in the back of his throat.

Tenna wasn’t looking at him.

Instead he stared out across the quiet hills of TV World, the faint glow of his screen reflecting softly in the drifting snow.

“I noticed everyone taking smoke breaks,” he said. “You especially.”

A small smile crept across his face.

“I wanted to join in.”

Then he turned toward Spamton again, looking almost bashful.

“Isn’t that embarrassing?”

Spamton laughed.

He couldn’t help it.

Because no -it wasn’t embarrassing.

It probably should have been, but instead the admission struck him as strangely charming.

That realization only made the guilt sitting in his chest heavier.

The TV’s antennae twitched as a flush of mock indignation crossed his screen.

Spamton shook his head quickly before Tenna could spiral into one of his theatrical protests.

“A little,” he admitted with a grin. “But I get it.”

He had picked up the habit the same way.

His brothers had smoked constantly growing up. Eventually they had shoved a pack of menthols into his hands one day and told him to stop stealing theirs.

And that had been that.

Tenna tilted his head, antennae bobbing curiously.

“You do?”

Spamton nodded, lifting the cigarette back to his lips and taking another slow drag.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

“I do.”

Tenna watched the smoke curl into the night air for a moment before speaking again.

“Spam… you doing okay?”

Spamton scoffed quietly, the sound sharp in the cold air.

Okay.

He almost laughed.

The word felt foreign to him now, like something from another life. A concept he might have understood once, long ago, before deals and rain and static had hollowed him out.

He drew deeply on his cigarette, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling slowly into the wind.

His answer came out bitter.

“Why do you care, Tenna?”

The question hung between them.

Spamton didn’t look at him as he asked it. Instead he stared out across the endless purple hills of TV World, trying to make sense of something that had never made sense.

Why did he care?

Tenna was a lord of an entire Dark World. Successful. Respected. A Big Shot in his own right.

Spamton had been… an Addison.

Another salesman trying to claw his way upward.

Tenna had never needed him.

So why had he stayed?

Why had he cared?

The TV hesitated beside him.

Spamton could hear the small shift in his posture as he pulled one arm across his chest, the other hand lifting his cigarette away to tap the ash over the edge of the roof.

“Well,” Tenna said after a moment, voice quieter now, “you’re my friend.”

A pause.

“My best friend.”

Spamton’s chest tightened.

Best friend.

Tenna had been his best friend.

And Tenna thought he still was.

Of course he did.

Tenna didn’t remember anything beyond this day. The loops had stripped away every consequence that came after February second. Every betrayal. Every contract. Every ruined year. Even the Lord’s own destined end was far far away. 

To Tenna, this was still the same day it had always been.

The day before everything fell apart.

So to him-

Spamton was still his best friend.

Tenna continued, unaware of the way the words landed like knives in Spamton’s chest.

“Dess and Azzy are best friends,” he said, almost sheepishly. “And they’re always checking in with each other, so I thought maybe I’d…”

Spamton finished the sentence quietly.

“You were worried.”

Tenna nodded.

The wind swept across the rooftop again, carrying the smoke away from them as silence settled over the space between them.

Spamton sat very still.

The cigarette burned slowly between his fingers.

Maybe…

If the days were always going to reset…

If nothing he said or did here could actually change anything…

If none of it truly mattered…

Then maybe he could allow himself this one small indulgence.

One moment.

One tiny piece of honesty.

Spamton sighed and flicked the ash off the edge of the roof, watching the glowing specks tumble downward before disappearing into the darkness below.

“I had…” he began.

The words caught briefly in his throat.

“This dream…”

Spamton took another slow drag from the cigarette before continuing.

“A bad dream.”

The smoke slipped from his mouth in a thin, trembling stream as his eyes stayed fixed on the distant horizon, watching it dissolve into the endless dark.

“Something… happened.”

The words came slowly now, like pulling splinters from his throat.

“You got hurt because I-”

His voice faltered.

For a moment he wavered there on the edge of finishing the sentence.

Then he inhaled sharply, steadying himself.

It didn’t matter.

Tenna wouldn’t remember.

But Spamton would.

Even though the loops bled together, even though the days blurred and warped and stacked on top of each other like broken film reels, he still remembered everything.

Every twitch of the TV’s antennae during their argument.

The moment his hands had gone slack.

The dull, horrible sound of glass crunching beneath Spamton’s shoes.

The way the glow of the screen had flickered before it suddenly died.

How easy it had been.

Tenna quietly placed a hand on his shoulder.

The touch felt unbearably heavy.

Heavier than it had ever felt before.

“Spam,” Tenna said gently, “it was just a dream. I’m fine. Don’t let it bother you.”

Spamton’s stomach twisted.

He could still smell it.

The acrid chemical stink of the tubes breaking inside Tenna’s casing. The faint metallic tang that had leaked into the air when the screen shattered.

He could still see the static swallowing Tenna’s face.

It wasn’t a dream.

But he couldn’t tell him.

He had never been able to tell him.

Cleaved red, cleaved red, cleaved red.

“You died, Tenna,” Spamton said hoarsely.

“You were dead.”

He tried not to react when he felt the TV’s hand stiffen slightly against his shoulder before squeezing again, the gesture awkward but clearly meant to comfort.

When Tenna spoke, his voice had softened even more, barely above a whisper.

“Look at me.”

Spamton didn’t want to.

He couldn’t bear to look at him any more than he already had.

But the glow of Tenna’s screen was impossible to ignore. It lit the edge of Spamton’s vision like a beacon, dragging his attention back no matter how hard he tried to resist.

Slowly, reluctantly, he turned.

This close, he could see Tenna’s lavender casing was slightly crooked, one corner scuffed from years of studio work. His antennae drooped just a little, their tips swaying faintly in the wind.

And his screen-

His screen showed a soft, reassuring smile.

“I’m okay, right?” Tenna said gently. “Whatever happened in your dream wasn’t real. So stop letting it bother you.”

Spamton felt something ugly rise up inside him.

Hot.

Sharp and angry.

Because he wasn’t listening.

That was always the problem.

Tenna never listened.

“Tens, stop!” Spamton snapped.

“I-”

His voice cracked.

“I hurt you.”

He jerked away, shrugging Tenna’s hand off his shoulder as if the contact had burned him. His cigarette dropped, and he crushed it angrily against the rooftop.

“I hurt you, and you died!” he spat.

“So why the hell are you comforting me?!”

The words left him shaking.

He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes, the familiar static creeping along the edges of his thoughts. Something dangerously close to tears clawed its way up from his chest.

He clenched his fists.

Tried to keep control.

“Stop pissing me off!”

Tenna laughed.

Soft.

Low.

The sound was so different from the theatrical voice he used on air that Spamton froze for a moment.

The rare times they had moments like this, Tenna’s voice always dropped into something warmer.

Spamton realized, with a painful twist in his chest, that he didn’t just prefer this voice. He liked it. Liked how it sounded.

Liked it so much it hurt.

“I don’t know,” Tenna said with an easy shrug. “I guess I’m comforting you because you’re the one freaking out.”

He snuffed out his own cigarette against the rooftop and discarded it beside Spamton’s.

“Remember a couple of weeks ago when someone brought a magnet into the studio?”

At first Spamton didn’t.

His mind was a wreck of tangled memories -loops layered on top of each other, fragments from a lifetime in the trash that hadn’t actually happened yet.

But as Tenna spoke, the memory sparked to life.

“It was just a little toy magnet,” The TV continued. “Nothing strong enough to actually mess up my color display.”

He chuckled softly.

“But you still yelled at that Pippins so loudly I’m surprised the Lightners didn’t hear you.”

What Tenna didn’t say-

What Spamton remembered perfectly-

Was the fear.

Spamton had seen it from across the studio.

That flash of panic when the magnet came close.

There was no fixing a magnetized CRT.

Both of them knew that.

Spamton had seen Tenna’s screen dim, the way his leg had started bouncing nervously as he tried to compose himself in his host chair.

And Spamton had seen red.

He had screamed at the Pippins so loudly the entire audience had gone silent.

Sure, it had been wildly unprofessional.

But Spamton already had a reputation for being unpredictable.

And the strings had helped him smooth everything over later.

Tenna had thanked him privately at the end of the day.

Spamton remembered brushing it off like it was nothing, even though, secretly, he had been pleased.

The TV turned toward him again.

His screen glowed brightly in the dark, his smile so wide and sincere it almost hurt to look at.

“Spamton,” Tenna said warmly, “I know you’d never hurt me.”

The words hit like a punch to the ribs.

“So no,” Tenna continued easily, “I’m not worried about some stupid dream.”

He leaned back on his hands, completely at ease.

“It probably only happened because you’ve been working too hard, anyway.”

And the TV said it so easily.

He didn’t know.

Tenna had never known.

And he never would.

Something inside Spamton finally broke.

It was quiet -something fragile giving way after being bent far too many times.

The tears came before he even realized he was crying.

“Tenna.”

His voice cracked on the name.

He hated it.

Hated the way it wavered. Hated the way it sounded so small and helpless in the cold dark air. Hated the way it exposed everything he had spent so long trying to bury beneath anger and noise and manic laughter.

But most of all-

He hated himself.

Hated the fact that somewhere along the endless loops he had sunk so deep into rage and desperation that he had placed all the blame on the one connection in his life that had ever actually mattered.

His family had only tolerated him.

His benefactor had used him.

The rest of the world barely even knew there was anything more behind the Big Shot.

But Tenna…

Tenna was his best friend.

“I-I’m sorry, Tens,” he choked.

“I shouldn’t have-”

The words died in his throat.

Shouldn’t have what?

Hurt him?

Lied to him?

Left him behind?

Killed him?

The list of his sins stretched longer and longer the more he thought about it, piling up until he couldn’t even see the beginning of it anymore.

His apology dissolved into a sob.

And this time, he didn’t fight it.

Tenna shifted closer.

Spamton felt the weight of the CRT’s arms carefully wrapping around him, hesitant at first as though Tenna was afraid he might pull away.

He didn’t.

The TV had always been the more physical one between them. The one who reached out first. The one who clapped him on the shoulder after a good show or pulled him into awkward half-hugs when excitement got the better of him.

Spamton had usually just tolerated it.

But tonight-

Tonight was different.

After what felt like years of the same day repeating over and over again…

Spamton hugged him back.

His arms were too short to reach all the way around Tenna’s large, boxy frame, but he tried anyway, clutching at the back of his jacket before finally tucking himself beneath the CRT’s head.

The metal casing was warm.

Not cold or broken. 

Warm and steady with the quiet hum of machinery working exactly the way it was supposed to.

Tenna’s hand moved slowly along his back, rubbing gentle circles through the fabric of his jacket. Spamton could feel the vibration of the motors and delicate mechanisms beneath the casing, hear the quiet clicks and soft pneumatic sighs that kept the CRT alive.

Tenna was saying something softly into his hair.

Spamton couldn’t hear the words.

The hum of the circuitry drowned everything else out.

And somehow-

That sound felt safer than silence.

Tomorrow he might wake up to the same day again.

February second.

Groundhog Day, over and over.

But for this one moment, with Tenna’s arms around him and the steady warmth of the CRT humming against his chest, the world felt different.

Maybe the day would repeat.

But maybe…

That meant he could try again.