Chapter Text
Pain is a precious resource.
Tenna knows how to make use of it. Inflicting pain on others brings them fear and submission, while inflicting pain on Spamton brings the latter craving and obsession, even though this is not always the outcome he desires.
As for inflicting pain on himself... at times he relies on it to confirm his existence and lucidity, until the tip of his tongue cuts a wound in his fangs and the metallic, sweet-sour taste of rust spreads across his taste buds. This is healthier than alcohol or hallucinogens and does not drag his mind deeper into delusion.
But more often than not, it proves nothing but a nuisance.
From the persistent headache that followed the antenna replacement in his memory to the throbbing ache emanating from the wound on his thigh today. Even now, with that horrific accident buried in the distant past, Tenna has still not grown accustomed to pain, nor has he overcome the habit of projecting his suffering onto others.
Spamton bore the brunt of it. To be honest, had it been anyone else, they would likely have been unable to endure Tenna's indiscriminate outburst of rage, and yet this was merely some insignificant trifle that had finally snapped the TV's nerves, already stretched to breaking point by the pain. Tenna naturally assumed that the puppet would always accept the scars and insults he inflicted, but their relationship clearly lacked mutual trust. After once again causing Spamton agony due to his residual leg injuries, the puppet calmly rose from the floor, brushing the dust from his clothes. His eyes, obscured by the different-coloured glasses, were filled with unknown thoughts.
A memory-born intuition told CRT that he should stop him, but the pride stirred by his own anguish drove Tenna to intensify his unwarranted malice. And so Spamton turned and walked away.
“Wait, where are you going?” His anxiety reached a fever pitch; Tenna attempted to rise to his feet, but his legs balked at his command, and he slumped back into his chair, like a worn-out, forsaken doll. Hidden beneath the tabletop, his hand pounded furiously against his thigh — a pitiful display of impotent rage.
It seemed as though Spamton was about to desert him once more. Even though he had deliberately climbed onto the desk, his hands comically stroking the side of Tenna's head, forcing himself to look the other straight in the eye, and hearing the puppet whisper words meant to reassure him, this thought lingered alongside the ache within his old, poorly maintained CRT body.
In the end, the puppet left the office, gently closing the door behind him.
Spamton comprehended the rationale behind the suffering Tenna had inflicted upon him. Whether it was a projection of Tenna's own pain or violence born of sheer loathing, he had always understood. In fact, it could be said that this was an indispensable part of his life. If the CRT were ever to suddenly stop abusing him, Spamton would indeed go insane — and, given his already fragile mental state, this was by no means an unfounded concern.
However, understanding did not mean accepting it all, especially when everyone could see that Tenna was unloading his irritability and anguish onto him. The remnants of the knight’s calamity lingered within the CRT and would sooner or later crush him, dragging Spamton down with him into the abyss of collapse.
Someone always had to help Tenna sort things out. Back when they didn’t know each other that well, Spamton naively assumed that Tenna would solve his maintenance issues by himself. When they became slightly more familiar, he would even brazenly [Wreck-It Ralph] his wires, arrogantly assuming that they would snap back into place by themselves. It was only when their relationship had grown into what it is today —a twisted yet thriving, withered tree — that the puppet realised that Tenna had never once considered his own maintenance.
Spamton, after all, came from the automotive industry, and the principle that 'machines require maintenance to run for the long term' rang out in his mind like the gavel of the Last Judgement, whilst the vision of Tenna plummeting from a perpetually snow-covered cliff mocked the puppet's ignorance.
He had to do something, immediately. That was why he’d chosen such an abrupt way to leave the office. He could only hope that the boss of the TV building wouldn’t multiply his anger and resentment four or fivefold by the time he got home—his own physical injuries were nothing, but Tenna’s spirit remained as fragile as ever, and would be very difficult to soothe.
Although Queen's palace had been relocated, its imposing grandeur still made it stand out in the area. If he had had any choice in the matter, Spamton would never have returned to the mansion. Leaving aside the fact that his enemies were swarming inside, the mere feelings of [It's burns! It's burns!], which held equal weight to Tenna's dying memories, was enough to make him turn on his heel and flee at once, seeking out a dark, damp corner in which to hide until the torment of his memories caused the acid generated within his body to scorch his throat.
The black-and-white demon took a deep breath. He was ready to face that fear. Tenna had always looked after him; it was time for him to return the favour. After all, whether it's a business partnership or a romantic relationship, mutual support is the most effective approach, isn't it? The hollow puppet had merely copied the clumsy one’s attempts at love, only to find his own mind beginning to falter as a result.
The only problem now was ensuring that none of his enemies in the palace recognised him. Wrapping himself in heavy fabric might conceal his figure, but his frame was distinctive; walking around in a cloak for no apparent reason would make him stand out more than any of Darkner. Spamton’s [exquisitely crafted] [brand-new] body was of no help whatsoever. What he needed was to hide, not storm in and tear the palace to pieces. Although he wanted to do just that, he couldn’t take on so many people, and doing so would bring Tenna endless trouble.
After all, in the eyes of outsiders, he and the other were already seen as inextricably linked. Just perfect.
In the end, he slipped directly into the palace without any disguise, bypassing any potential guards and making his way with ease towards a specific destination. His target was not the basement where the body had once been kept, but another key location within the palace — the Servchbox dormitory.
Spamton knew the patrol route of the Servchbox he was looking for and intercepted the creature at the end of a corridor, as he had hoped. Wearing an 'A-12' badge around its neck, the snake-tailed serval cast a disdainful glance at the intruder. Its tongue flickered out of its mouth, and it took a moment to recognise the puppet standing before them. “Spamton? It’s been ages. I thought you’d vanished while we were hibernating. Things have certainly changed for you in the meantime.” It sneered. 'You used to be such a fine specimen. How did you end up like this?”
The puppet struggled to keep his temper in check — he’d heard far worse than this — and stretched the fixed smile on his face even wider. "I DIDN’T [pay 2 win] JUST FOR YOUR [late-night emo playlist on repeat]. I NEED TO [mine] [smart fridges] KNOWLEDGE!!! JUST LIKE [Sleeping Beauty] USED TO."
Servchbox let out a 'tsk' and craned its neck to see if Swatchling was at the far end of the corridor. Once it was clear, the Servchbox labelled A-12 extended its left claw decisively. “Same price.”
"And when you enter the search terms later—" A-12 emphasised, as if afraid that Spamton hadn't understood. It even made air quotation marks with its paws, saying, "Speak clearly, got it? Otherwise, I won't be able to locate anything."
Stay calm, for Tenna’s sake. Spamton fished the cash out of his pocket and slammed it into the Servchbox’s paw. He didn’t actually receive any wages. However, as a substitute, the puppet could freely squander Tenna’s credits — provided the other didn't notice. Ever since he returned to Tenna's side, the devil has been doing just that, then hastily replenishing the balance before Tenna checks the accounts.
Spamton took a deep breath: "STEALTH MODE, SEARCH FOR [CRT], [Mechanical Repair], [Robot Maintenance]."
A-12 gave Spamton a strange look, but said nothing in the end. It pulled a top hat and a pair of glasses from the satchel slung behind it and put them on with great solemnity. "At least the keywords you gave were clear enough…" Servchbox couldn't help but chatter on, but since it had already started leading the way, Spamton didn't mind.
Even though he was already familiar with similar layouts, he marvelled at this hidden realm as he navigated the labyrinthine corridors. Rounding a corner, A-12 came up against another Servchbox. Judging by its badge, its number was B-13. The two felines whispered to each other in a volume that Spamton could not possibly hear, leaving the puppet standing there alone.
He had no time to waste on meaningless chatter.
“Hey, don’t be in such a rush. I’m just looking for some help, aren’t I?” Hearing Spamton’s urging, A-12 adopted an impatient expression. "The information you’re after isn’t exactly easy to come by. You know full well that 'that bloke' is a complete relic, don’t you? Besides, there aren’t any robots in the Lightner world, are there? I’m trying to find you useful information. That incident isn’t exactly breaking news for us Servchboxes.”
The hat-wearing Servchbox was about to say something else, but B-13 tugged at its tail, so it shut its mouth in displeasure.
"I apologise on A-12’s behalf, Mr Spamton." said B-13.
Even though he knew the truth all too well and had long been aware of Tenna’s inevitable fate, Spamton still couldn’t face it. He had already seen him on the brink of death once before. Even if he’d managed to escape that time, what about the next? What could he possibly do then?
It was only when B-13’s voice reminded him to keep up that Spamton realised his hands were aching from clenching his fists.
Having lost all sense of time, every employee who had plucked up the courage to open the door hurriedly left once they had dropped off their files. Even those Pippins who adored Tenna more than anyone dared not linger in the office for more than a minute — now was certainly not the time for star-gazing, taking sneaky photos or seeking rewards.
The documents before him had not been touched since Spamton left; the text had become a series of black streaks in his blurred vision. It was hard to say what he was thinking; his mind was spinning as though the CRT monitor perched on his shoulders were about to detach and float heavenwards. Yet the pain in his legs acted as an anchor, tethering him to the spot and preventing him from becoming a headless corpse.
Even though his mind refused to acknowledge it, the CRT recognised the puppet’s footsteps and felt a surge of delight at his appearance in the doorway. Tenna was indeed desirous of confronting him, of demanding an explanation for his abominable desertion at such a crucial juncture, of ascertaining his whereabouts and, most crucially, of inquiring into the rationale behind his return.
After all, he was an old CRT with a thoroughly problematic personality, and his former glory was long gone, while his current treatment of his partner could hardly be called humane. Tenna sought excuses for himself, and it looked as though he was on the verge of compiling a list longer than his own height.
Spamton couldn't read minds, so he didn't know exactly what Tenna was thinking, but he knew Tenna well enough to understand how he was likely feeling right now. He let out a long sigh, climbed onto Tenna’s lap and curled up over the wound like a cat.
Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but CRT could actually feel the pain ease considerably.
“I’M SORRY,” he heard Spamton say, “I COULDN’T FIND [After-sales service: one-year warranty!] — I COULDN’T FIND [Cut the grass at the root] [Second-hand —] ” The puppet bit his wrist, cutting himself off. Tenna instinctively pulled Spamton’s hand away from the bite. After taking a deep breath and pausing for a moment, Spamton finally managed to get his point across: "I couldn't find a way to completely heal the wound on your leg."
This was the longest sentence Spamton had ever uttered without his cursed verbal tics.
So that was why he’d left. His mind, which had been blank, was now filled with tangible thoughts as he realigned with reality and felt the slight weight of the puppet on his leg. Then, the consequences of sitting for so long came back to haunt him: Tenna felt stiff all over and even the slightest movement caused him discomfort.
The black-and-white demon, sensing Tenna’s unease, proudly declared: “BUT!! [Searching] ISN’T THE ONLY [reward] !!! I’VE LEARNT HOW TO [maintain] ! [Repair]! [Taking care of your electronic devices makes them last longer]. DO YOU WANT TO [try it out!]???”
“Wait, now? Here?”
"IF YOU'D LIKE."
"No." Tenna's expression finally returned to normal: poker-faced, objecting to Spamton's absurd request. "Now, Off duty. Back to the room.”
This would be their eternal routine.
“IS IT EASY FOR YOU TO [move on]? DO YOU NEED ME TO GO TO [Two’s Company] AND FETCH YOUR [wheelchair]?”
“... Fine.”