Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been two weeks since Spamton's last break in to the mansion, and the Swatchlings were still finding pipis lying about.

The things were similar to that of a burr, latching onto fabric unfortunate enough to touch them and refusing to let go unless given a firm tug. The only difference was that pulling too hard would cause it to explode in your face. They were really quite the nuisance to remove, and often left Swatch wondering how Spamton even got hold of such things. Then again, when you're surrounded by garbage everyday, it shouldn't be too hard to find any oddities that people throw away.

They weren't all that concerned about it, however. After all, the salesman's trespassing had become less of a thing as of late, meaning the explosives were becoming less of a problem. Maybe, just maybe, he was finally giving up on reaching the basement.

Swatch immediately recoiled and shook their head at such a foolish thought. It was nothing more than wishful thinking. Everyone within the mansion knew that Spamton was hellbent on reaching NEO. Though the man had once been a valued customer within their establishment, his obsession with the thing had led him to getting kicked out. For good.

Suffice to say, he was no longer welcome there.

A buzzing from their left pocket pulled them from their thoughts, reminding them that it was time to wrap up for the night. Tucking the rag they had been wringing their hands with into their back pocket, Swatch turned and ducked underneath the curtains behind them, pulling them shut as they went. In doing so, they had entered the dining hall, which they had to cross to get to the front door. Making their way to the exit, they eyed their surroundings to ensure nothing was out of place. However, upon reaching the door, they looked over their shoulder to do a proper scan of the room before leaving. They had no doubt that their underlings did a great job cleaning up; they were just checking to make sure a certain someone wasn't hiding in their café. With everything proven to be as it should, they flicked off the light and stepped out onto the main street, closing the door and locking it behind them.

They had someone to meet up with tonight. It was preferable they get a move on.

The main street was always busy, day or night, with the neon signs of the surrounding shops serving as street lamps. To Tasque Manager, it was reminiscent of a mall, though the lack of roof overhead served as a reminder that it wasn't. Passerby who recognized the Queen's Maid would give her a wave before going about their business. She, ever the professional, only acknowledged them with a nod of her head. There was no time for pleasantries; even with Queen in sleep mode, there were still things to do. And it was her job to see them done before the Mansion shut down for the night.

For a good while, the Mansion had been dealing with a pest problem, worse than any maus infestation they'd had in the past. The thing left the halls in disarray, the pottery in shambles, and the staff stuck cleaning up after it. All other methods of removal so far had failed, and some of her coworkers had begun to doubt that the problem would ever be fixed.

His name was Spamton G. Spamton, Cyber World's former big shot and current lunatic. During the later part of his stay at the Mansion, he had found out about Swatch's old art project and had since become obsessed with it. To this day, even after his eviction, he had been crafting up schemes to get his hands on it. What he intended to do with the robot was unclear, but one thing was for certain.

He would never reach NEO. Fight it all he may, it would never become his.

However, he had been getting very close lately. His plans were becoming more elaborate, more unpredictable. It was usually every other night he broke into the Mansion, but now, he went weeks on end without so much as coming near Queen's establishment. Perhaps his plan was to catch them with their guard lowered? It would certainly make sense; the average person would start to relax if the danger had seemingly passed.

But Queen's staff were no average people. They were professionals, trained against such tactics. Though they were made to appear as harmless servants, they were, in reality, seasoned bodyguards, keeping to their duty of maintaining order within the Mansion. They knew better than to lower their guards, not while someone like Spamton still roamed the streets.

Alas, he was a chore, but not one on her list of errands for tonight.

A voice calling out her name brought her back to her senses. Rather than respond to it, she instead checked her surroundings and herself, sighing at what she found.

No wonder Spamton believed he could catch them off guard! While lost in thought, Tasque Manager had carried out a majority of the errands required of her that night. In one hand was a bag of new cleaning supplies, while the other held a box of assorted items up against her hip. She wasn't even on the main street anymore. How utterly shameful it was, to allow her thoughts to disorganize as they just did! She should always be at full attention when performing her duties. If she wasn't, everything could fall to chaos! Speaking of full attention... whoever was calling her name required hers.

She turned in time to catch Swatch falling into step beside her.

"Good evening", came their greeting. "Pardon my asking, but is something troubling you? I was calling your name, but you didn't hear me."

Tasque Manager's lips thinned as she averted her gaze to the space in front of her. So it had been Swatch calling her name. And she had ignored them! How rude of her! Perhaps she had been too lax in her self-discipline. She was so unorganized lately!

There would be time for mentally berating herself later. Right now, she was in the middle of a conversation.

"Apologies. I thought you had been some cat-caller, so I ignored you," she lied. She loosened her lips and curled them into a small smile, hoping Swatch would take it as a sign that she was at ease. "As you can see, I have been quite busy with her Majesty's errands." She shifted the box at her hip for emphasis. "Though I must say, today's list was quite small. There's usually much more to do than this." With a flick of her wrist, the bag of cleaning supplies she had been holding were stored away into her inventory. She'd need at least one free hand if she was to carry out her next errand.

Swatch hummed in affirmation before folding their hands behind their back, a telltale sign they were listening. Noticing this, Tasque Manager's smile softened into something more genuine. They were so polite and well-mannered, on or off the clock, and she couldn't help but admire them for that. Maybe someday, she'd feel the same way about Swatch that they felt about her.

The idle chatter between the two temporarily shifted into a topic on the Mansion's resident pest. Together, they theorized a few methods on how to permanently remove him from the premises before dropping the whole subject altogether. Though neither liked the man, what had happened to him...

...

...it wasn't any fault of their own. There was no use dwelling on it.

°°°

Tasque Manager, having found the last of the tasques sent out on patrol that day, relieved it of its duty, thus finishing all her errands. Swatch had long since made their way back to the mansion, meaning she was all alone as she made her way to the Trash Zone. The place was filthy, unsanitary, and unorganized, but also the quickest way home thanks to its portal door. Recently, it had been given a lock that only mansion staff had the key to. It was inconvenient for the average citizen, but if it prevented a certain salesman from using it, then there was no need to change it.

Upon reaching the door, she wasted no time in unlocking it. As is the norm when using a portal door, any memory of turning the handle and opening the door was forgotten, and suddenly, she found herself in the mansion. As quiet as possible, she closed the door behind her, making care to relock the way to the Trash Zone. With a sigh, she turned to the quiet halls of the mansion and made her way to her room, where hopefully, she could catch up on some sleep.

Chapter Text

Somewhere deep within the Trash Zone, hidden in the scaffolding of the rollercoaster tracks above, sat a shop.

It didn't look like much, this shop. The only thing that made it stand out from the rest of the dump was its door. Though the knob and hinges were a little rusted, it was in otherwise great condition, as if someone had been maintaining it.

Something so clean in a place so dirty would naturally look out of place. So, of course, with your interest piqued, you'd go inside to investigate.

The first thing you'd see would be the mural of the sky painted on the wall. If you had the gall to, you'd comment about how rushed it looked, seeing as the yellow of the sun and the white of the clouds bled onto the blue backdrop. Though the colors went well together, they just didn't look nice when they were all drippy.

If you averted your gaze to the right, you'd see a stool illuminated by a single beam of light. Atop the stool was a black rotary phone, which would occasionally ring despite not being plugged into anything. Whenever it did, the noise would dig into your ears, causing you to blank out for a second.

The only other object worth any note was the cardboard box in the middle of the room. It sat just beneath the mural, positioned as though it were a table. What was it used for? Storage? Sleeping? Negotiating sweet deals? Who knew?

The real kicker was that none of it was real.

It was all an illusion, made in the hopes of appealing to lightners customers.

The mural? A depiction of Heaven. Anyone careless enough to gaze upon it would find themselves lost in its all-encompassing light. But take that away, and they'd be desperate for more. It was a guarantee for repeat customers.

The phone? It-

He...

...

He was a busy man! The constant ringing was to remind you of that. Yes sir, he was a big shot (the biggest!), and he often didn't have time for other things. The fact he had made space for you in his busy schedule meant that you were a valued customer! And if you thought you were a valued customer, you'd swing by the shop more often and buy something!

The box? That...

He couldn't find a table small enough to fit within his shop. Embarrassing, yes, but it served its purpose well enough to be considered one. Beggars very well couldn't be choosers, now could they?

And the owner of that shop? The creator of that illusion? The very "he" you'd been hearing so much about?

Why, it was none other than Spamton G. Spamton, the #1 rated salesman of the year 1997!

He had worked hard to get to where he got. Waited so long to become the big shot he'd always dreamed of being. No longer was he to be the email guy! Wasn't his tenacity just admirable? He had finally become someone important!

And like all important people, he'd hit a slump. His friends had abandoned him, his sales all went down the drain, and he was reduced to living in a garbage can. But it wasn't anything he couldn't bounce back from! He was years into his slump, and he was doing just fine!

...

There was a reason he had been such a lousy salesman in the past. He couldn't tell a convincing enough lie to save his life.

Which was what he was doing now. Lying.

To himself.

...

......

.........

Today had gone well, compared to most days.

Today, Spamton had managed to steal a first aid kit from an unsuspecting Ambyu-Lance. With it, he could clean and bandage the little cuts that ran up and down his arms.

His last excursion into the mansion had led to an unfortunate encounter with one of Queen's various pottery pieces. What had happened was quite silly, in hindsight.

Simply put, he had tripped and caught himself on a vase. In turn, it had shattered under his weight, embedding little pieces of broken glass into his arms.

At the time, he had been able to ignore it because of adrenaline. But when he had made it to safety, away from the mansion staff, the adrenaline died down, and he became acutely aware of the agony his arms were in. He had spent the rest of the night pulling out as many pieces of glass as he could.

He couldn't afford a doctor, that much was clear. Why else would he steal a first aid kit? It wasn't as if anyone was willing to help him, anyway. As far as he knew, everyone hated him.

Spamton groaned as the bandages he had wrapped around his arms came loose once again. It didn't matter how tight he made them; if they weren't properly tied, they'd quickly become undone. He'd give up trying altogether were it not for the necessity of keeping his body in tip-top shape.

In all honesty, he didn't care what happened to his body. It was nothing more than a broken puppet.

A puppet's purpose was to dance on the strings pulled by a higher being. He had long dreamed of dancing on his own, free of another being's control. But with the body he was born with, that could never be possible.

His strings had been abandoned cut. Theoretically, he should be able to do as he pleased. It was only a matter of time before But because a puppet was useless without its strings, he was doomed to sit and decay waiting for another.

Just an old, forgotten toy in the ongoing game of life.

...

He didn't care what happened to his body. He just needed to keep it functioning long enough to reach NEO. Nothing else mattered.

With NEO, he could dance. He wouldn't need strings or masters. He could call his own shots! He could reach...

Heaven.

NEO was everything he could ever want, everything he could ever hope to be. With NEO, he wouldn't be a puppet.

...

He'd be an angel.

...

If only those harebrained mansion staff would stop getting in his way. They didn't understand the power of NEO! They couldn't even begin to understand what that heaven-piercing body promised.

They didn't know just how trapped they were from within the confines of this world. That body was- it was freedom, something he'd been fighting for so long to have. Nothing else mattered.

He was tired of fighting. So, so tired.

But it would all be over soon. He was close, he could feel it. With this last plan, NEO would finally be his, and he could finally reach Heaven. Nothing else mattered.

For now though, he'd wait. If this was going to be his last attempt, Spamton needed to be at peak performance to avoid any slip ups. Mistakes were not an option, not when he was this close.

If he failed...

...

......

.........

He wouldn't fail.

Chapter Text

Those silly little music men had come by the mansion again, blasting their music in the halls for all to hear.

They had heard from somewhere that Queen had been planning on banning most music from the Cyber World, so they got together every now and then to protest from inside the mansion. And each time, Tasque Manager or one of the Swatchlings had politely escorted them off premises.

Queen found it amusing. Yes, it was true about the plan for the ban, but that had only ever been an idea she had had when hungover with a killer headache. Some Darkner who dared call itself a DJ had played the most god-awful music at one of her parties, only worsening the splitting in her head. They had been fired, and her mood had been further soured. So, she had considered it.

But she wouldn’t actually go through with it. She had much better things to do than ban music; it would be unnecessary!

Music made people happy. It didn’t matter the intended emotion behind the song; the act of listening was what brought them happiness.

And that was her job. Keeping everyone happy. That is why she cared to hold the position of Cyber World’s monarch; to do her job. If she could not do her job, what was the purpose of keeping the position?

And that is where her inner turmoil lay. There was a… someone. Someone that, no matter what she did, was never happy. She had given him so much: a room in the mansion, a spot on the billboards, a place on TV screens. She had given him the identity of Cyber World’s “Big Shot”, as he would say. Yet, even after all that, he was never satisfied.

He had turned his back on her. And for what? Some measly art project? Swatch had said the thing wasn’t even finished. Why did he revere something that was so obviously just a piece of junk? She was his queen! He should have been worshipping her for all she provided him!

Not that she wanted him to. She got enough of that from her citizens anyway.

But- it was hurtful . Queen was not the type to get offended easily, but he had done just that. He had been so blatantly ungrateful for all she had given him. She had heard about how much of a nobody he had been. How, even as an Addison, he couldn’t make enough of a profit to afford anything past the bills for his apartment.

It was pitiful. And she had pitied him. And that pity had led to many acts of charity on her part.

Yes, she had only become aware of his existence after he had started making it big in the world of sales. Yes, she had only let him live in the mansion if he continued making profit. And yes, if he couldn’t do that, he’d be kicked out. That was their agreement.

But still, what had he done to repay her charity? Disrespect her.

So, she didn’t feel bad when she wrote his eviction notice. In fact, she had been morbidly curious as to how he’d react when he got the letter. She knew what she was doing when she had literally signed away his right to live within the mansion, and she hadn’t cared.

What she didn’t know was how badly he'd react. The days following the letter, he had been a mess. Rather than enjoy his final moments in the mansion, he had locked himself in his room, and no one saw him again until the day of his eviction came around.

She'd suspected he’d put up a fight; everyone did when their stay at the Mansion came to an end. But, unlike the others, he hadn't just begged for a second chance. He had kicked. And screamed. The Swatchlings sent to escort him off premises had to drag him out of his room as he pleaded to his benefactor to “pick up the phone”.

That was another thing she didn’t get. Throughout his entire stay at the mansion, he had done nothing but speak highly of the man, as though the two were thick as thieves. Which was silly; with how he had described the other, it was clear his benefactor had seen them as nothing more than business partners. Why, when his benefactor left him, did he think they'd come back? Could he not see, even after the ties had been cut, that their relationship was strictly business?

No one except him was surprised that the calls had stopped.

But everyone was surprised with how quickly he spiraled.

He grew desperate, which had led to his worshipping of NEO. Each trip to the basement left him a ranting mess when he was escorted out.

Before, when she suspected things would go awry, she would have been happy to provide him a place to stay, since a lack of income would leave the contract he’d signed void, and him without anywhere to stay. After all, she was a kind and generous ruler, wasn’t she? But, when he had taken advantage of her generosity, that quickly changed.

Well, it had been more than just her generosity. She supposed it had also been Swatch who felt betrayed. After all, it was their art project that he was- is- trying to steal. They had been close friends during his earlier days in the mansion. The betrayal must have hurt them more than it hurt her.

…

He was never happy. She didn’t know how to make him happy, so she had given up.

If anyone were to blame her for how his life turned out, she would say she was partially at fault. Everything else was his own doing.

Even his...little accident.

…

……

………

Absent-mindedly, she swirled a glass of battery acid in her hand. Originally, she had been going to drink it, but remembering that had made the thought unappealing.

For a couple of weeks after it had happened, she had put a ban on battery acid products, claiming that the source had been contaminated and it would be unsafe to use them. Though it wasn’t untrue, it wasn’t the full reason for the ban. At the time, she had tried convincing herself that she didn’t want to deal with the legal repercussions were any more little accidents to occur. Now, she only wondered if she did a good enough job at masking her mild panic under her airy façade.

Queen finally worked up the nerve to take a swig of her drink. If she let her nausea get the better of her, then she would be admitting that something had happened. Nothing had happened! She wasn't going to think about it!

Now where had her train of thought been before getting off track?

…

Oh! Right! Her job!

Yes. Her job. She was meant to keep people happy.

And that was where her problem lay.

There was someone she couldn’t please. His name was Spamton G. Spamton, Cyber World’s former top dog and current lost cause, and for the past handful of years, he had been breaking into the mansion to reach her Head Butler’s abandoned art project. In that time, he had made countless messes, caused several panics, and, at one point, had lead a riot.

The man’s tenacity was admirable, to say the least.

He was so determined to reach NEO. He said it was “freedom”, that it held the power to see into heaven. Whatever it was, it was an unhealthy thing to obsess over. Swatch said that were Spamton to get his hands on it, he would seriously hurt himself. Not “could”. “Would”. It was a guarantee.

According to her Head Butler, the machine, being unfinished, was unstable. The power it held was unpredictable, and incredibly dangerous. Spamton had no idea what impact NEO would have on his body. If he imported his code into the machine, chances were, it wouldn’t be exported intact. That is, if he managed to survive the import in the first place. NEO wasn’t what you’d call “well-maintained”.

Queen pretended not to care. She really did. But it was hard to ignore the fact that an ex-friend business partner was actively, maybe unknowingly, bringing about their own demise.

It was also increasingly obvious that the man was deteriorating. With the state his body had been in last she saw him, she was surprised that he was still up and running. Maybe if he wasn’t so focused on getting to NEO, he could treat himself to some much needed TLC.

So, she came up with a solution.

And it was really quite brilliant.

“Your Majesty.”

Queen, who had been looking out into the horizon of Cyber World, turned her rocket chair to face Tasque Manager. The maid in question was propping a box of assorted items up against her hip.

The other’s face lit up at her presence.

“Tammie! Gravy Darling, You’re Here!”

“Yes, as per your request.” Tasque Manager gave a small bow of her head, ignoring Queen’s nickname for her.

“Wonderful. Listen, I Have Been Calculating: A Solution (To Our Salesman Problem). I Require Secondary Input.”

Now that was interesting. The Mansion had been dealing with the “problem” for a long while, and she had done nothing. Why now was she taking action?

“I’m all ears, your Majesty.”

It wouldn’t have mattered her reply. Queen would’ve made her listen anyway.

“Alright So,” she wrapped an arm around the Maid’s shoulder. “He’s Obsessed With NEO. Can't Get Enough Of It. Following?” A screen displaying a picture of the robot popped up next to her head. “And He’s Only Breaking In Because It’s Still Here.” A secondary screen spawned next to the first to display a crude image of the puppet.

She didn’t like where this was going.

“So,” Queen downed the rest of her battery acid before tossing her glass to the side. “It Would Make Sense If We: Got Rid Of The Robot. Simple As Pie.” She pulled out a battery-acid pie to demonstrate as the screen evaporated into pixels.

Tasque Manager was momentarily stunned into silence. Get rid of NEO? That wasn’t her Majesty’s decision to make! She, herself, would have done it long ago, had it not been Swatch’s proudest accomplishment! Yes, the robot was nothing more than scrap rotting away in the basement, but she’d never tell them that. It’d hurt them.

But not as much as this plan would.

“Your Majesty, if I may?”

Question marks flashed across Queen’s visor, but her smile never wavered. Tasque Manager shrugged off the arm on her shoulder as she stepped away from the other, looking her in the eyes solemnly as she did.

“Your Majesty, excuse my manners, but shouldn’t Swatch be the one to decide that? They were the ones to help make it alongside that Lightner, after all. It wouldn’t be fair if-”

Queen interrupted her. “They’ve Already Been Informed.”

Tasque Manager sputtered. “Wh- b- how? Pardon, but you said you had just come up with this. Surely, you-”

“I Emailed Them. Obvi.” Her visor read “LOL”, meaning that she had really-

Urgh. How unrefined. Why could she not have had this talk with the both of them? It would have been easier for Swatch.

“Well, It’d Be Easier For Me Not To Watch: Their Little Heart Break. I’d Love For Them To Agree (On Their Own Terms), But You Know How They Are. My Terms Are Their Terms.” 

Oh. Had she said that out loud? Agh, she was so unorganized lately!

She fought the urge to rub at her eyes. Spamton may very well reach NEO if she didn’t keep a reign on herself, which she supposed made it as good a time as any for Queen to take matters into her own hands. Still, was this the way to go about it? Destroying Swatch’s beloved creation?

They were going to have one hell of a time once they opened their email. Tasque Manager would have to make sure to be there for when they did, to console them. Queen was right; she knew Swatch. She knew that they’d go along with anything (reasonable) her Majesty requested, even if they didn’t like it. Destroying NEO wasn’t only reasonable, it was also the best option, and they definitely wouldn’t like that.

Rather than complain, though, they’d let their frustration build until it reached its peak. When it did, they’d lash out at the nearest person. Last time it had happened, the result had not been pretty.

So if they were to keep a level head, she needed to be there with them. To tell them that their frustration was justified, and that they should let it out while they still could. But to remind them that, even with how upset they were, they couldn't let their emotions affect other people.

Working under Queen was a taxing job. It required a lot of sacrifices.

And this would be Swatch’s biggest sacrifice yet.

“Here’s What I’m Thinking,” Queen said, pulling her from her thoughts. “We Hold A Big Party. Leave The Mansion: Open For Break Ins.”

Sighing internally, Tasque Manager nodded for her to go on.

She did.

The monarch grinned. “Now, While Everyone Is Status:Occupied (In the Ultimate Dining Room), You And Swatch Wait Down In The Basement. For Him To Arrive. When He Does, Destroy NEO. He Needs To See It Happen For Himself, Because I Doubt He’d Believe Us If We Simply Told Him NEO Was: No More.”

On that point, she agreed. He had been fighting to make the robot his own for so long; if he had been told that it was just gone , he’d still try to get to the basement, because he wouldn’t believe them.

“When He Sees That NEO Has Been Obliterated, He’ll See No Point In Coming Back To The Mansion. We’ll Worry About Him No More! It’s A Win For Everyone! Except… Well. Him.”

“Though I’m not all for destroying Swatch’s beloved creation, I must admit, it’s a very solid plan. Say, why didn’t you come up with this after the first few attempts? We knew by then that he wasn't going to give up."

The question wasn’t meant to scold, but it left Queen speechless anyway. Three dots flashed on her visor before she mounted her rocket chair, pulling a glass of battery acid from her inventory as she did.

“...Honestly, I Thought It Would Be: Funny. To See How Far He Could Take This. He Was Always Coming Up With These Silly Little Plans To Get To NEO.”

She took a slow sip from her glass.

“...But He's Run Out Of Ideas. There’s Nothing Funny About It Anymore.”

With that, she flew off. Tasque Manager watched her go, a feeling she couldn't identify stirring in her gut. Rather than dwell on it, however, she decided leave it be and swing by the Color Café to check in on Swatch. Any minute now, they’d be clocking out, they’d find the email Queen had sent them, if they hadn't seen it already.

And she’d be there to provide any support that was needed.

Chapter Text

Just like every morning for the past however-long-it's-been, Spamton woke up surrounded by garbage. The air, as always, smelled of stank towels and moldy paper. Not that he noticed; his sense of smell was practically dead at this point.

With a groan, he hoisted himself onto his elbows, his joints aching from the strain. Unfortunately, it was time to wake up.

His face scrunched with the effort of steadying himself against the dumpster wall. Waking up was never easy. His body would constantly fight against his movements, what with all the aches and pains. Despite having gotten not a wink a good night's rest, he was already exhausted.

A sudden, sharp pain in his stomach made him hunch over and clutch his abdomen, distracting him from his thoughts. Momentarily, his vision swam in a sea of brightly-colored dots, and his breath caught in his throat. He couldn't move.

He couldn't-!

When the gut-twisting faded into a dull ache, he took a long, shuddering breath and slicked his hair back. He was fine. Everything was Using the wall as a support, he straightened himself into a standing position. His legs gave a slight wobble in protest, but he took that as a sign that he was stable, and lifted his head.

Only for it to bang against the dumpster lid.

"[$!^#]!!"

He practically crumbled into himself to grip his pounding head as he let out a string of curses. God Almighty, that HURT.

…

Eventually, the pain in his head subsided, and he stood back up, albeit on wobblier legs. This time, he was more cautious, and waited to feel his hair brush against the lid before raising his arms above his head to push it open.

…

Man, the day had only started, and everything was already going wrong! Now he was having trouble with the dumpster lid, for it found itself to be heavier than usual. Trying to lift it sent a fiery agony ablaze in his arms, and he pushed aside the thought that they must not have fully healed. Now wasn't the time to care about himself!

After a couple minutes of struggling to open the dumpster lid, he finally managed to crawl out of the garbage can. However, he realized that today must have been destined to be a bad day, because he didn't stick the landing.

Nope. Instead, Spamton face-planted on the pavement.

Grumbling at the blood now trickling out his nose, he uselessly dusted himself off. How humiliating. Was everything planning on going wrong today? He hoped not; there was a very important appointment in the Cyber Fields that had to go well.

Exiting through the east alley entrance, he was met with a horde of his cungadero, two-legged cars with a habit of getting into traffic jams. Like the one they were in now. Fighting against a groan, he slammed his fist into the "Walk" button located on his right. The effect was instantaneous, as the cars began to disperse and go about their merry ways.

He watched them go with distaste. "I [Handmade Right At Home!] TH0SE." He grumbled, kicking the dirt at his feet. His voice, he noticed, had taken on a warped quality as of late, hissing at the odd syllable and further accentuating how wrong it sounded. On a personal note, he'd been overheating a lot quicker as of late.

He did not care for it.

With the cars out of the way, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket and crossed the street, ignoring the holes that his fingers slipped through as he did.

Passerby did their best to ignore him as he walked past. Occasionally, a few would steal a glance his way, and if he noticed, he'd shoot a wide grin back in their direction. They'd always look away when he did, the little slimes.

By the time he reached the Cyber Fields, he was slightly out of breath, a hand clutching at the newly-formed stitch in his side. All these years on the streets, and he still couldn't handle hiking.

The Fields didn't have the razzle dazzle of the city, but they were still beautiful. Absent-mindedly, he took note of how the synthetic grass underfoot practically glowed underneath the cybernetic sky, and how the distant lights of the city twinkled like stars.

Looking up, he could see the sky's grid lines pulse with energy, and he was struck with a pang of sadness. For all its beauty, it could never be Heaven, and that is what made the view so insignificant. Until he got NEO, he'd be stuck with it.

Pushing the thought aside, he quickened his pace, and soon, he could see his destination come into view.

Upon approaching the little junk shop, he could hear music coming from inside. It wasn't loud, but it certainly wasn't quiet. Gritting his teeth against the noise (this level of volume was ridiculous), he tried the knob and, finding it unlocked, pushed against the door. When it didn't budge, he tried shoving his weight against it, but even that proved pointless. Sighing, he braced his body and slammed his shoulder into the door (ouch!), and finally, it swung open with the screech of rusty hinges. He clicked his tongue. Those would need replacing, if they were that rusted.

Inside, three speaker-headed Darkners manned a counter. From behind them, bars of red light were bouncing up and down in sync to the music playing overhead. They were too busy… vibing? to notice him.

With a deep breath, he steeled himself for confrontation as he took a step forward.

"[Top o' th' mornin' to ya!] VVALU3D [consumers]." He waved a hand in greeting, his smile strained. "[[I've come to bargain]]."

They turned to look at him, and each one cringed.

"You again?" The shortest of them said. "I thought we declined your offer?"

"Yeah dude. We may be rebels, but we don't want to get in trouble. Buzz off." The oval-headed Darkner added.

The tallest of them turned its head to the previous speaker. "Cap'n, don't say it like that! Just ask him nicely to leave!"

From behind his glasses, Spamton's eye twitched.

"OH, DON"TT WORRY Y0UR [pretty little heads] ABOUTBOUT THAT LAS  T             ! I'VE GOTTT [Are you sure this is a good idea?]!"

All three looked at him with confusion as they tried to decipher his manner of speaking, with its ads and odd pops and squeals. The green one must have figured it out quicker, as it was the first to reply after a quick... questioning eyeing?...of his figure.

"...If you said what I think you said, then I can't say we'd go through with this "idea", but as long as it doesn't endanger us, I'm willing to listen."

Yes. Yes!

"No!"

"K_K!"

The other two simultaneously gave out shouts of protest, looking at their friend with disbelief.

The short one crossed its arms over its chest. "K_K, I get we need the money, but would this really be worth it?" 

"Yeah!" The other interjected. "He's shady! And weird!" 

"Sad-looking, too!"

"Not to mention smelly ."

"..."

"Dude reeks of garbage."

"Cap'n, you can't just say that."

"What? Aren't I right?"

"I mean, yes, but why would you say that in front of him? He's probably self-conscious about it!"

He'd never thought about it until now. Not that that mattered.

"Sweet, he smelled just as bad the last time he showed up! I don't think he cares!"

He remembers, in that moment, how much he hates kids.

"You-!"

"I-!"

"GUYS! Guysguysguys." The green one interrupted them by slinging its arms around its companions' shoulders, a nervous smile on its face. "Let's just listen to what he has to say for now, alright? Then we can decide what to do. Later ."

The other two huffed, crossing their arms and turning their heads away from each other. The third took it as a sign of agreement and directed its attention to Spamton, who was just standing in place awkwardly, his smile pulled as tight as a rubber band.

He cleared his throat with a staticky cough.

"W-" A slight glitch rattled his body. "WWELL, 4S I WAS SAYSAYING, I vE A [[specil deal]] TO OFFFER. ALL YOU [New Hair Dos, 15.99] 1S GET M33 PASST [[SECURITY!!]]" They all flinched at the volume of the ad. "I;LL [Get a hold of yourself!] THE REST."

The three looked between themselves, the green one giving a shrug, before they looked back to him.

The short one replied.

"Sorry, we didn't understand any of that."

Spamton wanted to tear his hair out. For [%#&^] sakes!

Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, fighting his grimace into a tight grin. When had he stopped smiling? With a sharp inhale, he began again, choosing to speak in stunted sentences in the hopes of getting his point across.

"YOU. SNEAK MME. INTO. THE MA-MANSION. I. HANDLE. THE REST."

Finally, they nodded their heads in understanding, eyes wide as if they had just dawned upon a realization. Spamton resisted the urge to gouge his eyes out.

"Alright. Doesn't sound too bad." The short one said thoughtfully.

"What's in it for us , though?" The one with sunglasses said. "What do we get out of this?"

A laugh rippled out of his throat, causing a glitch to jerk his head to and fro. "WHY, YOU [little sponge]! 1'VE ALREADY TOLDTOLD YOU FR0M OUR L4ST DEAL! YOU;LL G  ET [[Hyperlink Blocked]]. ALL- ALL- ALL- ALL- ALL-" He smacked his hand into the side of his head before flourishing it. "[All Good!]!"

They just stared at him. The oval-headed one pulled its scarf away from its neck with its finger, as if embarrassed, while the short one looked away to adjust its hat. The tall one looked between the two before taking a sharp inhale of breath, turning its attention back to the salesman.

"Well, it certainly sounds-"

"Like a scam."

"INTERESTING." The tall one continued, giving the one with sunglasses a look. "It sounds interesting . Doesn't seem like it puts us in much danger, at least."

The short one tapped a finger against the counter, lost in thought. Oval-head stared at it incredulously.

"You can't be serious," it declared. "We still don't know what he's paying us!"

Spamton was about to open his mouth to speak when Shorty pulled its comrades into a huddle and began whispering among them, occasionally looking back at him.

After a solid five minutes of heated whispering, they pulled away from each other and turned to look at Spamton with plastered smiles. The green one was even giving him a thumbs up.

"After some careful consideration…" Shorty began.

"We have agreed to take you up on your deal." Sunglasses finished, huffing.

A small sigh of relief escaped Spamton. Grinning, he finger-gunned the 3 of them.

"GRREAT  CH0;1CE  [Kids Under        ]! I [promis] <<[[YOU'LL REGRET THIS!!]]!"

When their smiles grew strained, he cleared his throat. "WON;;T." He clarified. "W0<N'T [regert]."

"Great! We'll see you before the party then!" The tall one said, waving its hand as if in farewell.

…

Party?

No, wait. He wasn't leaving yet! What party?

"[P4RDON?]?"

"The- uh- the party? Y'know, the one Queen's hosting tonight?"

No, he did not know!

"Yeah." Shorty piped up. "The party. Everyone's going, so the staff will be super busy. That'd make it the perfect time to break in, wouldn't it?"

"..."

"You did know about it, right?"

"0F CO;;URSE [[NOT!]], YOU [Little Sponge(s)]! WH4T DO YA' [Takeout] M3 FOR, AN- 4N- AN [1diot]?" He replied, slicking back his hair. All three shook their heads.

"W3LL THAN! [[A Deal's A Deal!]]! [(c)] YA [       later, alligator!](s)!!" He laughed, briskly turning around and walking out of the shop. He ignored the sighs of relief he heard behind him.

…

So there was a party, huh? And the staff would be occupied…?

…

He should be happy! His luck was finally beginning to turn! He had a golden opportunity right in front of him.

…

So why was he so anxious?

Gnawing on his knuckles, he wracked his brain before coming to the conclusion that he simply wasn't ready.

Of course he wasn't ready! He wasn't expecting to break in again so soon. His arms hadn't fully healed, and he didn't even have a plan!

Then again, would he need one? Everything seemed to just have sorted itself out! The staff would be busy, Queen would be busy, no one would be in his way. He probably didn't even need those kids to help him break in!

…

Though, it was better to be safe than sorry. After all, luck was never really on his side. This… opportunity … was just a slip up on God's part.

And it was going to be their biggest mistake, because it would practically hand NEO to Spamton. And with NEO, he could reach Heaven. He could become God.

Walking home, he couldn't help but laugh.

The hour of the party was upon them, and the Sweet Cap'n Cakes crew braced themselves for the inevitable.

That Spamton fellow would be here any minute now for his promised escort into the mansion, and they'd have no choice but to take him. They'd agreed after all, right?

K_K absentmindedly took another bite of his CD bagel, leaning against the counter as he did. Cap'n was in the back preparing "disguises", while Sweet was closing up shop. As always, there wasn't much to clean up, so it wasn't long before Sweet took a spot waiting beside K_K, bagel in hand.

"This is going to be a long night." Was all he managed to say before Spamton burst through the door. He seemed surprised that it had opened so easily (they had replaced the hinges earlier), looking at the door blankly. A glitch broke his stupor, and he turned his attention to them. Cap'n, having heard him come in, emerged from the back of the shop, a stack of boxes in his hands.

"H  H3LLO [partners in crime]!" Bandages hung down from his arms as he flung them open in greeting. Were those there before? K_K didn't think they were there before.

"[[WHO'S READY TO RRRRRUMBLE!!]]? He shouted, his glitchy voice seemingly replaced with an announcer of sorts. "I [know what?] I AM- AM- AM-!" He snapped his mouth shut.

K_K took notice of Spamton shivering, and wondered if he was cold. Maybe he needed a better jacket? It was nearing the winter months, after all.

It wasn't any of their business, though. If the man wanted a better jacket, he would've gotten one by now.

"Alright, alright, don't go blowing a speaker, dude. We're coming." Sweet said, pulling K_K from his thoughts.

"Yeah!" K_K added, trying to sound as though he had been listening. "Don't want to miss the party, after all!"

Spamton let out a dry chuckle. "YY3AH…"

As the 4 of them left the shop, Cap'n held up the boxes in his hands to his group. "Disguises." He offered, fitting one of the boxes onto his head.

"Cap'n, you just cut eye holes into boxes." Sweet replied, his eye squinted in confusion. Cap'n scoffed, and promptly shoved a single-holed box onto Sweet's head. Sweet gave a squawk of indignation.

"Relax." Cap'n said, pressing a thumb into his chest with a smirk. "With these brilliantly crafted disguises of mine, Queen won't be able to recognize us!"

"And how do you know that?" Sweet inquired sarcastically, arms folded over his chest. However, he didn't remove the box.

Cap'n and Sweet kept talking as K_K silently slipped the last box from their friend's hands and onto their head. He didn't notice.

Spamton was silent the whole walk to the mansion. Occasionally, a few pixels of his would glitch away from his body, leading K_K to wonder if he had a virus. However, he only tensed slightly when it happened, as if he was used to it, so they were left second guessing.

Soon, the group had reached the mouth of the Mansion, and Spamton's hands began to violently twitch at his sides, with his smile growing more strained. He looked as though he was trying really hard to hide his nerves. Why would he be nervous though? It was just a party.

…That is what he was here for, right?

Then again, why would you need to sneak into a party everyone was invited to?

…Why did he come here?

Wordlessly, the group formed a circle around Spamton, somewhat hiding him from sight, as he'd requested of them. There wasn't really any point though, as neither hide nor hair could be seen of the Tasque Manager or the Swatchlings. However, from somewhere deep within the mansion, music could be heard. If they were at the source, there was no doubt that it would be loud and booming.

But it seemed they weren't going to the party.

No. Instead, with shaking hands and a near manic smile, Spamton pointed them to a different direction, one that led them down hallways they'd never traversed before.

Soon, they reached a room of pottery and statues, all made in Queen's image. K_K fought the urge to kick a vase over as he watched Spamton run his hands over the bases of the statues, muttering to himself. Suddenly, the sound of a mechanism activating was made known to his ears and K_K saw Spamton grin before turning his attention to the Sweet Cap'n Cakes.

"THIS 1S WWHERE          !" He said with a bow, stepping towards the doorway that had just appeared. "[Thank You For Your Cooperation!]. I  M  M  MUST B3 [[Going so soon?]]."

"Whatever, dude." Cap'n replied, readjusting the box on his head. K_K could sense he was a little upset that they hadn't encountered anyone he could fool with his "brilliant disguises". "Just make sure to pay us back when you're done with… whatever it is you're doing."

"Or not!" K_K interjected, hands clasped together behind his back. "This was… fun! Don't feel obligated to pay us."

Sweet and Cap'n glared daggers at them.

K_K continued. "...We're happy to help. All you need to do is ask."

Spamton seemed at a loss for words. So, instead of speaking, he chose to clear his throat and adjust his glasses from where they sat on his nose, turning away from them.

When his back was turned to the 3 of them, he gave a wave of his hand and began to walk away. "...THA- TH4T WON;;T BE [[necessity]]. [Thanks for the offer] TH0UGH." With that, he disappeared behind the corner.

"Good riddance!" Cap'n blurted out, emitting a raspberry sound from his speaker after the man. With a huff, he turned on his heel and started stomping away, only turning back around when he realized the other two weren't following.

"You guys coming?"

"Yeah." Sweet replied, taking K_K's wrist. "Don't worry; we'll catch up." He began leading K_K to Cap'n as the Darkner in question resumed in his walking away from them.

Sweet, at some point, had given K_K a look as they walked to their destination. K_K, taking notice, had shaken his head. They understood that his friends were owed an explanation for his actions, but now wasn't the best time.

So, they walked in silence, tailing Cap'n as he led the two of them to the party deeper within the mansion.

Originally, they hadn't planned on going. But after today, maybe it'd be good idea to unwind.

The music was just as loud as it was predicted to be, which had helped them to navigate to where they were now. A Swatchling, suited in orange, greeted the group at the doors of the dining hall where the party was being held. Sweet let go of K_K's wrist as he entered.

Before he could go in, however, K_K gave a worried look towards the direction from whence they had come. He wondered if Spamton would be alright, whatever he was doing…

They pushed the thought aside. It wasn't their business to worry.

He'd be fine.

Chapter Text

This was it; the day he'd been waiting, wishing, hoping, working and praying for was here, and it had taken years.

Today was the day Spamton became NEO.

Walking with those kids had felt like the longest moments of his life, only seeming to stretch longer the closer he got to the basement. It had been difficult to remain professional; he could feel a restless energy buzzing throughout his body as he drew near to freedom. Even now, that energy remained, only growing in intensity as he climbed down the staircase into the basement, thoughtlessly picking at his bandages until they fell off his arms.

Now that he was actually down here, he could barely register the passing seconds. With an absent mind, he traced his fingers along the cracks of the walls, accumulating an impressive layer of dust at his fingertips.

He dared not to speak. He dared not to make any noise past the soft clicking of his bare feet against a cold, stone floor. He dared not to break the silence of the moment, lest it prove itself to be another of his delusions.

But, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, he reasoned that this was reality. It had to be; no delusion had ever been so detailed or textured before.

No, he was really here. Which meant that NEO was just around the corner.

He could feel himself practically vibrating with anticipation. An eternity. A near eternity of Hell, all for the chance of Heaven! This may very well be the best day of his life!

Yet, for all his excitement, he couldn't bring himself to move faster than a snail's pace. It was as though he was wading through thick mud, with his legs fully submerged. But that was fine! He was fine. What were a couple more minutes of wasted time when NEO was just around the corner waiting for him and god he was so close, move you damned legs NEO was right there-

His brain registered that he had stopped moving, and he snapped out of his reverie just as quickly as he had fallen into it. With a deep breath, he ran both hands through his hair, and then took notice of the slumped mass in front of him, its body mainly concealed in shadow. Where was he now, and how had this thing gotten here?

There wasn't even a face to make out, save for the soft twinkling of what could have been an eye. A tangled mess of what looked to be hair sat atop its head, with two misshapen wings protruding from its-

A breath of air left him as he processed the phantom pain of being punched in the gut.

Oh.

Reverently, oh so reverently, NEO deserved respect, he reached out a hand, and flinched as his finger brushed against cold, dusty metal. A small, breathy laugh escaped his lips. This was real.

The air felt thin, and light. Everything was so light, he was practically weightless. He made it! NEO was there, it was right there! His head… it felt so fuzzy! Like a cotton ball, or a big, heavy blanket swaddling you in warmth, combating the chill of a bedroom at night as you-

"Mister Spamton."

Cold dread.

It was as though a sponge had soaked up the fuzz, soaked up the warmth, and the glee…

…leaving nothing but cold dread.

A voice, hard, sharp, and impossibly icy, had cut through his thoughts.

A voice that forced him to manually even out his breathing.

With his heart in his stomach, he willed a blank expression onto his face, hoping to bury any trace of surprise from his features. From where it rested on NEO's surface, his hand trembled, segmented joints clacking together ever so quietly.

His legs felt like stone.

He couldn't move.

"Mister Spamton." The voice, icier, spoke. "Step away from the machine."

He couldn't. How could he? His entire body was encased in a casket of ice. He was buried in a grave of-

A whip cracked through the silence, and he could feel a wave of electrical static wash over him, running chills down his spine. He shuddered.

"Don't make them ask again. Step away from the machine, Mister Spamton." A new voice, higher pitched and simmering with a barely contained vitriol, distracted him from his thoughts. The heat of the words was enough to melt the icicles that had formed in his throat.

Okay, Spamton. Don't mess this up.

This is the most important sales pitch of your life.

He turned.

"[[Easels]]!" He called, smile wide and strained and fake, too fake, act natural- ! "H0W GGOES [bizness]?" He refused to acknowledge the other person in the room, eyes trained solely on Swatch.

They stood, rigid and unyielding, arms clasped behind their back and expression stony. He couldn't see the hatred in their eyes from behind their bi-colored lenses, but he could feel it. It bore into him like a hot knife.

They continued to glare at him, and he realized that his hand was still resting on NEO.

Casually, he leaned his weight onto that hand, crossing one leg over the other. "GIVINGVING ME THE S-," a crackle of static cuts him off. "S1LENNT TREATMENT, HUH? NOT vVERY [[Big Shot!]] OF YOU, [[Easels]]." He fought to keep the glitches out of his voice. "NO MATTER. I CAN [workout] W1TH< THAT. SAY, [[Buddy, Chum, Pal,         ]], UP FOR ANOTHER [Bargein Prices!]? I PROMI-!"

Without a second thought, he ducked under the end of an electrical whip that flew towards his head.

Well, there goes that.

The feel of NEO slipped out from under his fingers as the walls dissolved into a grid of purple lines. He clicked his tongue in feign irritation as a slight tension made itself known from within his being, and in an instant, the atmosphere came alive with a fervent energy.

A battle had been engaged.

With a huff, he stretched his arms above his head, body protesting and joints popping, before dislodging his jaw in a yawn. He was much too tired for this.

According to what he remembered of battle policy, the one to set the battle stage would be the one given the last turn. "To make it fair", supposedly.

Well, he didn't plan on playing by the rules. This battle, he felt, wasn't just any old scrap yard tussle, after all.

It was a battle to the death, and he intended to win.

So, to start it off; the element of surprise.

Just as he was closing his mouth, he faked a sneeze, advertisements shooting out of his mouth like rockets towards his enemies. The Tasque Manager squawked in alarm as a bullet grazed her, clearly not expecting the sudden attack. Swatch, however, simply stepped out of the way, having seen such tactics before.

Spamton couldn't help but scoff at that. Leave it up to Swatch to ruin the surprise.

It was the opposing side's turn now, not that he cared. He was only waiting for the right opportunity to strike. To hit them when they least expected it.

Swatch, choosing to defend, stanced their feet apart as they shielded their face with a silver tray conjured from their inventory, while the Tasque Manager held her whip above her head and gave a shout.

"B!"

…

What?

Spamton looked below him, and found himself on a square labeled C. Before he could even think , the cat-lady's whip flew towards the center of the strange board he stood upon, and he gave a harsh full-body flinch as a blinding flash of electricity burst from the ground beneath him. He grit his teeth against the pain.

When the initial shock had passed, he inhaled sharply through his nose, blinking away spots from his vision. It was his turn again.

…

…What was that?! Do you want to lose before you've even started? Pay attention and dodge! Freedom is on the line!

C'mon, Spamton! Get your head in the game!

Time to get serious.

With a snap of his fingers, an angel appeared in a puff of green sparks above his head, giving him a couple head pats before poofing away. Instantly, he found himself invigorated with a newfound energy. However weak it may have been, it was more than enough, and his manic grin only grew.

Swatch defended again, no doubt trying to gather tension points, and the Tasque Manager readied another attack, but Spamton was having none of it this time. With a speed fueled by his heal spell, he rushed forward and launched himself at the maid, arms wrapping around her waist as he tackled her to the ground.

When her head made contact with the floor, he wasted no time in connecting a fast swinging fist to her face. Just as quickly, she delivered a kick to his stomach, and he was sent reeling. However, he only had a split second to recover before a fist swung for his head, and he ducked, the attack just barely grazing him. From his peripheral, he saw the end of a whip fly towards him, and he instinctively shielded his face with his arms. Wrong move.

His arms couldn't withstand the force of the attack, and he was knocked onto his rear. Huffing, he moved to push himself off the floor, but instead found himself biting back a cry as his arms gave angry shouts of protest. 

Oh well. Who needs arms?

Without waiting for his opponents' next turn (was it their turn??), he enlarged his head and unhinged his jaw, a horde of mini Spamtons flying out of his open maw.

Swatch gave an indignant squawk as a multitude of pint-sized Spamton clones bore down on them, clambering up their pant legs and clawing at their suit jacket. Spamton watched in amusement as they struggled to peel a yellow card from off the front of their jacket, (violently shaking a mini-him off their sleeve as they did), before tossing it into the air above them, the piece of paper evaporating in a cloud of sparkles. No doubt it was some Stat Boost Spell they'd saved up Tension Points for. Maybe it raised ATK? That would make sense.

"D!"

Crap . He wasn't paying attention .

There was barely any time to process the Tasque Manager's command before he felt her whip strike him in the chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs as he tumbled into square A and onto his back.

Searing, white hot pain exploded from within him as electricity surged out of the ground and through his veins. His body seized up as his… everywhere … went numb, and he felt, rather than heard, a glitched scream tear itself from his throat.

In a daze, he pushed himself off the floor, arm pains be damned because everything was in agony, and then suddenly, like a rug being pulled out from beneath him, the tension from within his being disappeared, momentarily taking his breath with it.

They must have spared him.

An anguished yell caught in the back of his throat, and he choked. Spare him? Spare him?? Why ? He could keep going! He could still fight! He-!

His vision was swimming, eyes unable to focus. God, he wasn't crying, was he? That would be so pathetic.

A shoulder brushed past him, and for a moment, he could think clearly again. Whipping his head around, (and stumbling from the sudden movement), he watched Swatch walk in short, angry strides towards NEO. One hand was clenched in a tight fist at their side, the other clutching a-

…

…What was that?

Upon taking a step forward (just for a closer look!), Spamton suddenly found his arms pinned behind his back, 2 hands holding them there in a firm grip. It didn't take much to know it was the Tasque Manager, but there were too many thoughts rattling around in his head for him to care. 

What is Swatch doing? What are they holding?

God, I'm so tired. I can't feel my legs. Or my arms. Or anything.

Hey! Focus! You can't afford to give up now! You still need to load yourself into NEO!

At that thought, Spamton blinked harshly and gave his head a slight shake to clear it up. Even with his newfound focus, he could only watch as Swatch stood in front of NEO, hesitating in whatever it was they planned on doing with it.

"It's okay." The Tasque Manager spoke from behind him, voice oddly gentle and quiet considering the situation. "It's for the best."

What was?

Swatch inhaled sharply and, supposedly making up their mind, uncurled the fist holding the strange object, giving Spamtom a better view of what it was.

He squinted. It looked like… a trash bin icon? Why would-?

His stomach did a somersault as it clicked, and out of nowhere, the room rose in temperature. It was quite suddenly that he felt clammy, and gross, and so, so hot.

This couldn't be happening. Please, don't let this be happening! I got so far! I was so close!

Desperately, he began to struggle against his constraints as glitches spilled out of his mouth.

"[[Easels]]; [[Easels]], Y  YY0U W0ulDN;;T- w0<UldN"T [DEMOL1TION!!] neo,,,, W  W  W<<< woU;LD Y0UU>??"

Swatch refused to look at him, raising the icon to NEO's perfect surface. The room only got hotter. He felt sick.

No. Nononononononono-

"[[Ea-]]- $w- SW@T<<CH, [Please don't take my           !]! F  F0R Th3 [L1ve [[laugh track]] L0ve] 0F- OF        ;; d0N"T-!!"

They slapped the icon onto NEO.

Spamton's rambling continued on as a popup appeared before them, asking if they were "sure" they wanted to delete their creation.

No, they weren't sure! They didn't even want to do this! They didn't want to be down here destroying the only evidence of a life where they'd been important! When they'd meant something!

This was NEO! A Lightner's dream they helped create!

Biting their tongue, they reached to press "continue".

An anguished scream startled them from their thoughts, and momentarily, they halted to cast a glance over their shoulder at the source of the noise.

This was a big mistake.

They barely registered the blurred movement in their peripheral vision before a sharp, fiery agony ignited inside their outstretched arm, drawing from it a warm, viscous liquid. Instinctively, they pulled back as a startled cry of pain tore from their throat.

Blinking back tears, they tried in vain to pry off the jagged teeth of the heart shaped object latched onto their arm. It only bit down harder, and the fire in their arm grew hotter as their sleeve absorbed more of the blood leaking out of their wound.

It took tugging at the chain connected to the heart with as much force as could be mustered before it let go. No attention was paid to the sticky warm liquid dripping off the tips of their fingers as they watched the thing slink back into Spamton's chest cavity, resigned but still alert.

Spamton himself was breathing quite heavily, exhaustion evident in the way his shoulders sagged and his legs wobbled, and though his eyes were hidden behind the static in his dealmakers, the look on his face could still be described as one of crazed desperation.

They stared into each other's eyes for a few moments before Spamton spoke.

"ST3P AWww@Y Fr-" A glitch. "FROM. THE MACHINE." His voice was strained, panicked, and heavy-laden with white noise. A flare of anger rose up in their chest as they processed the statement.

... 

He thought he could use their words against him? He thought that he could control what happened with NEO? He had no authority. He had no power. He had no right.

They gathered the remaining energy in their bad arm and, without a second thought, slammed a fist into the "Continue" button, the action causing a sharp stab of pain in the mangled limb.

Spamton gave out a pained cry as NEO began to come undone, its vibrant colors melting away at the same time its shapes began blending together into one congealed mass before slowly fading into oblivion.

"WHAt

"Wh@T

"wwH4t H4V3 [you done with that?]!? >>>yY0   OU-!"

His rambling faded into the background as Swatch looked on in agony, looked on as their prized creation crumbled into nothingness. They tried to focus on the feeling of stinging in their eyes, or the painful tug in their heart, or even the burning blaze in their arm. Anything, anything except what was happening in front of them.

It was a groan from Tasque Manager that pulled their attention elsewhere. Sharply turning their head towards the noise, blinking back tears, their eyes widened at what they saw.

She was on the ground, in a pool of blood that must have come from the large bite wound in her side. Her white clothes were now stained a brilliant shade of black -- the sight, oddly enough, had Swatch thinking that the dress would have to be disposed of.

It looked as though she was just coming to as she sat up and cradled a gash on her head with a black-stained hand. Not wanting to dwell on NEO's fate, (their job down here was done anyway, Spamton would be leaving any minute now), they made an attempt to rush to her side, to offer assistance, to help her because she was bleeding out , but something stopped them.

It was Spamton's fist. In their gut.

They reeled back, clutching their abdomen and letting out a cough.

">>y yY0U!!" He cried, swinging another fist into their midsection. This time, they braced. "YOU<< rRU1NeD [[3verything is y y yours for-]]!! (Y)?! (Y)"D yY0U H4VE T T TO f[Fifty Percent Off!]-" A harsh glitch this time, one that momentarily disconnected his entire upper half. "[%#&£] 1T UP!!" Another swing, but this time a miss. Swatch had caught his fist.

If they had been icy before, they sure as hell weren't now. Ice gave way to fire, wild and all-consuming, Spamton's audacity fueling the flames. Who the hell did he think he was?

...This was the last straw.

They pulled Spamton's wrist up above their head, forcing the man onto his tiptoes with a yelp. They bend to meet his eyes, and the glare Swatch was giving Spamton could kill. 

"Oh, is that right?" They said, vitriol flying off their tongue. "I've ruined everything? I'VE ruined everything?!" They were shouting now, each word ignited by a wrathful flame. "THIS IS YOUR FAULT!! YOU DID THIS!!" They raised his wrist higher, effectively lifting him into the air, before slamming him into the ground like a bag of wet cement.

The violent speed of the motion caused his arm to snap off the ball joint of his elbow, eliciting a scream from him as he cradled the stump close to his chest. The limb in their grasp was tossed to the side without a second thought as they reached down to pick him up by the collar.

"IF IT WEREN'T FOR YOUR OBSESSION, NEO WOULD STILL BE HERE!! "

Spamton planted a heel in their stomach before scrambling away as best he could with one arm. Gaining some distance, he stood on shaky legs and braced himself, arm and stump splayed out at his sides, hand twitching.

With a flick of their wrist, a dinner plate spawned behind the man. The lid popped off, knocking him out of his stance, and Swatch used the distraction to close the gap between the two. Spamton noticed, and steadied himself just as they reached for him again. Deftly, he ducked under their arms and delivered a left hook to their face (the only hook he could deliver) before ducking underneath them and dashing towards where NEO was deteriorating. This only served to further infuriate Swatch. Ignoring the black liquid dripping from their nose onto their tie, they gave chase.

With pain threaded into her words, Tasque Manager called out to them, weakly. "Swatch, enough. Please."

Swatch ignores her.

Enough? Enough? No, Swatch decided when it was enough. Spamton had forced their hand. If it weren't for him, NEO wouldn't have needed to be deleted. NEO wasn't the problem, it was Spamton. Spamton made it a threat, Spamton was at fault.

Their vision blurred.

Swatch hadn't spent their recent years decaying in garbage, so naturally, they were in better shape. Naturally, they were able to catch up to the man and lift him by the back of the collar. Naturally, they would have the strength to throw him against the wall, into the spot where NEO once sat, and watch as he struggled to get back up, a black smear running across his forehead. Vines hung overhead, two pillars stood at his sides, and a wall sat, unyielding, behind him. There was nowhere to run.

He was trapped.

They could feel blood trickle down their beak as they slowly made their way towards him, but couldn't find it in them to care. Their breath hitched as they readied themself to speak.

Their next words came out a growl, angry and so, so wrought with grief. 

"You had everything."

A step closer. 

"You were a 'big shot', sitting on top of the world."

Another step.

"You were rich. Famous. People adored you."

Step.

"Anything you wanted, you could just ASK for. You were free."

Step.

"But then you threw it all away." They were kneeling in front of him now, hand clutching his matted hair to keep his head up. Somewhere in the middle of the fight, he had lost his dealmakers, giving Swatch a full view of his face. He was grimacing in pain.

"You THREW IT ALL AWAY for some dusty old machine, rusting away in a basement, all because it was the one thing you couldn't ask for, right?" They were fighting a losing battle with keeping their voice level.

Spamton's mouth opened, but no sound came out except for a pathetic little click in the back of his throat. 

Swatch tugged at his hair, slightly raising his face to meet theirs in the hopes of eliciting a response, but none came. He only weakly clawed at their hand.

With a deep inhale, Swatch released their hold on his scalp and stood. The overhead lights cast a shadow over Spamton's crumpled form.

"All I had was NEO. And you took that from me."

They delivered a swift kick to his stomach, and he folded in on himself. No sound came out. Again, they kicked.

"I ruined everything? Take a look around you, Spamton. This is all YOUR fault." They enunciated those last words with another kick, this time at the arm trying in vain to shield his face. No sound came out.

"Don't you have anything to say? Come now, you're always running your mouth; say something." Another kick. No sound came out.

"Say something." They hissed, beak twisted in a snarl. Another kick, harder this time, and he went limp. Still, no sound came out.

"SAY SOMETHING!! " They're shouting now, crouching down to hoist him up by his lapels. "ANYTHING, GOD!"

His head hung down, as if in shame.

"YOU NEVER SHUT UP, SO WHY NOW ARE YOU GIVING ME THE SILENT TREATMENT? C'mon! Apologize! Insult me! EXPLAIN YOURSELF! Just-!"

"SWATCH." They startle, turning to look over their shoulder. "Please. He can't hear you." Tasque Manager is limping her way towards them, a hand pressed against the now-closed wound in her side. She comes up behind them to squeeze a hand to their shoulder. There's a pained grimace on her face.

Their face fell as they took in the sight, guilt overpowering all other emotions. She had been wounded, had CALLED for them, and they had ignored her in favor of the puppet. How could they have ignored her?

"Tam, I-"

She shook her head, swaying a bit with the movement. "I'm fine. I had some leftover spaghetti code in my inventory. An Ambyu-Lance will heal the rest."

"But you-!"

"Swatch," she said sternly, eyes hardening. "I'm fine."

They bit their tongue against any other retorts.

She turned her attention to the salesman still pinned up against the wall.

"We should call an Ambyu-Lance, speaking of." Seeing Swatch start to voice their agreement, she continued, cutting them off. "For all of us. Your arm, my side, his…" She nodded towards Spamton, and faltered when she took in the sight if him. Her sentence went unfinished.

"He doesn't deserve an Ambyu-Lance." Swatch finished for her, still feeling vindictive. Their arm throbbed violently at the reminder of the injury.

"Do you even hear yourself right now? Of course he doesn't deserve an Ambyu-Lance, he's entitled to one." Their grip on his lapels loosen. "He has a right to medical care as a citizen of Cyber City, and he... well, he's probably concussed, Swatch, and that's likely not even the worst of it."

Swatch shook their head in quiet disbelief, pain lining their features. "No, he des- he destroyed NEO, he hurt you, he shouldn't-!"

"Is that what you're telling yourself? Spamton destroyed NEO?" Her hand slid off their shoulder. "Swatch, you chose to follow through with this. You agreed that it was best if you did the deed. I understand that NEO was important to you-"

"How could you understand? How?! You've never worked with a Lightner for weeks on end to bring to life their greatest dream! You've never had to leave your greatest creation unfinished because they gave up! You-you-!"

"I understand," Tasque Manager interrupted, voice gentle, and they felt instantly ashamed for their outburst. Her fingers brushed back a stray feather from their forehead. "That NEO was important to you. Destroying it destroyed you, I get that. But," she gestured to the unconscious salesman. "What about him? He's tried every trick in the book to get to this thing. For whatever reason, it was important to him, maybe as much as it was to you."

"..."

"Don't look at me like that. You saw how he reacted."

They were eyeing her sideways.

"...That aside, he's fought a long battle for some dingy basement robot, abandoned everything just to get it, and then we... erased it. We erased the one thing he had going for him. That's… no matter how unhealthy that obsession was, that has to be crushing."

"Why do you care?" They suddenly retorted, fighting to keep their voice even, and God, why were they treating her like this? She hadn't done anything wrong, why were they yelling at her? "We both hate him. We both hurt him. Why now do you care?"

"Because..." she said, biting her bottom lip as she gave the puppet a pitiful look. There was a pained light in her eyes. "...what would that make me, if I didn't? This has- it's gone on for too long. It's gone too far. Look at him, Swatch. Really look at him."

And they did. They took in every crack in his plastic, every tear in his clothes, every thing about him. They took in the dirt between his joints, the layer of grime on his skin, and the filth embedded in the fabric of his suit. They took in the grease, and blood, in his matted hair, and the bags under his eyes, and they felt ashamed.

So, so ashamed.

"Alright," they muttered, pulling Spamton off the wall and into their arm. They grimaced when his head lolled back. He really was unconscious. "Let's get out of here and- and call an Ambyu-Lance."

They carried Spamton out of the basement, holding him under their arm like a doll. Tasque Manager followed not too far behind, the puppet's discarded arm on hand.

Chapter Text

The first thing he became aware of was white noise.

It felt different, this noise. It wasn't as rough, or as grating, as he was used to. No, this noise was quite nice. It felt soft and... well, not warm, but...

There.

That's the word. "There". It was "there" like a blanket was "there" when on the cusp of sleep. You're not really aware of it, but you could still feel the slight pressure situated on top of you.

Yeah, that's what it was.

The white noise dissipated when, from behind his eyelids, a light flickered on, followed by muffled noise. Someone must have been speaking.

...Ah. Someone was dumpster diving.

...Really? Dumpster diving? At this hour? Come on, whoever it was should know better than this. It was too early for anyone's day to start. If the local bum's asleep, then you should be, too.

Regardless, the light continued to flicker, the voice continued to speak, and he continued to ignore it (to no avail). He stirred. Damn it, close the lid!

spmmy kmmn n'no yrr awake rrss and shn.

...What?

Groggily, he opened his eyes, only for a vicious amount of blue to assault his vision.

"Thrryarr! Slerpwll? Good, woovluts toodsks-"

The blue belonged to a face, big and smiling, wearing sunglasses that hid their eyes. They were... where were they? That light blue background looked familiar...

"-thnn thrrs th'll thnkwthyr'rm-"

That was the sky, wasn't it? How'd they get in the sky? Oh, wait, there was that green stuff below them. Grr... rass, right? Yeah, they were on the grass, meaning that they weren't in the sky.

"-rlly, s'chamess-"

Okay, cool, they were in some sort of field. Now where was he?

His eyes strayed from the screen in front of him to wander about the room. Though it was dark, he could just barely make out shapes of the objects around him.

...Wow. This was a big dumpster.

"-w'v llrdy pd'all the bills-"

His fist tightened around the fabric in his grip. Were they still talking? Woof, that was harsh; he couldn't understand anything they were saying-

His breath caught in his throat as something- something, he didn't know what- clicked into place. Eyes trailed down to the cloth in his hand, and, experimentally, he kicked his legs. Just as he was hoping for, something at the foot of the bed rustled, no doubt the same something that was weighing his legs down. Eyes shifted to the cloth in his hand, and the cotton in his head evaporated.

This was a blanket. He wasn't in a dumpster, he was in a room. But where was the room? Hell, where was he?

"Y'know, You Seem Kind Of Busy I'll Just Swing By Later."

At the sound of Queen's voice, Spamton's head snapped up, and he caught a glimpse of her smiling blue face before the screen on the wall turned off and he was submerged in darkness. There was a panic rising up in his chest, and he had to force it down with a strained smile. Now was not the time to be freaking out. Queen had said she was dropping by later, he had to be ready and look professional. There was absolutely no need to freak out.

...What the hell.

What the hell? What the hell! WHAT THE HELL?! WHAT WAS QUEEN EVEN DOING HERE? WHERE EVEN WAS "HERE"? WHAT-?!

Shut up. Calm down. Breathe. You're fine. Nothing's wrong.

Bullshit. Everything's wrong. Where am I? This isn't home !

Yes, yes, obviously, but you need to CALM. DOWN. Seriously. Panicking will get you nowhere.

Right, right. You're right.

Right? Ok, now breathe. Take a look around. Does anything look familiar?

It's pitch black.

Shut up. Ok, fine, whatever. What about the things you have seen? You saw the screen. You saw Queen's face. You saw the blanket.

I didn't see that, I figured it out.

Shut up, you get the point. If there's a blanket, there's a bed, right? You're in a bed. A big bed.

I didn't feel a pillow.

Lay down.

...

What do you feel?

...A pillow.

Congratulations, you're in a bed.

Okay, so what does that mean?

It means-

Another piece clicked into place.

The room. The screen. The bed. Queen.

He was in the mansion.

Sitting up, he took in slow, deep breaths as he wracked his brain for the final piece. What was different? He was in a room instead of a dumpster. Where was the room? In the mansion.

Alright. Now why was he in the mansion?

He broke in; that was easy enough to remember. He broke in to the mansion with those music Darkners and they lead him to the basement. He remembers because it was the easiest break in of his life; all the staff had been gone!

Ok, so, he broke in. He got to the basement. He reached NEO. He-

An excited fizzle of static raced up his spine. Yes, he remembered that; he remembered that the best. The cold of a metal forged in Heaven sliding underneath his fingers, trapping within it the light of a god; how could he forget?

Focus.

He reached NEO. He touched NEO. NEO was in his grasp. So why was he still here? Logically, after basking in the light of Heaven, he'd do the next best thing and join it. That had been his plan, right?

He flinched at the sound of electric whip in his ears, and shut his eyes in vain at the memory of the white hot pain that followed.

Right. There had been a fight. Swatch and the Tasque Manager had been down in the basement, waiting for him like the assholes they were.

...

That was it, wasn't it? They'd fought, he'd lost, and another attempt at NEO had been thwarted. Damn it, he'd been so close, too!

His grip on the sheets tightened.

He had lost. He had lost, and they had hospitalized him. Why? Pity? He didn't know. He didn't care. He just had to get out. Try again.

Hey, he was hospitalized! They wouldn't expect it!

A white light exploded from behind his eyes as the room's light flashed on.

"Good Morning~! Who's Ready To: Marry Their Signature To This Paperwork? I'm Officiating!"

He assumed that the aforementioned paperwork was what dropped into his lap; he couldn't see past the hand kneading the dots out of his vision. Strangely, his right arm wouldn't move to help with the dot-kneading. Oh, but why did that matter when he was currently blind?

Blearily, he peeled open his eyes to squint harshly through the brightness of the room. Queen, he noticed, sat in a half crisscross on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked beneath her, the other dangling off the side, as the contents of a Manila folder were arranged on his lap.

"I Bet Their Kids Would Look Like: Resolved Legal Issues," she was saying in her overly-obnoxious voice, eyes (visor? camera? line of vision?) trained on the task at hand. "LOL That Would Look So Cute."

What the hell was she talking about?

"Anyhoos Here's A Pen!"

He blinked as a pen smacked against his face.

"[Hold your horses]! D0N'T ThINK [[I agree/consent to its terms]] WHeN      [[I have(n't) read and understood the new Terms of Service and Privacy Policy]]! W-" A glitch. "WH  AT'S THE HUStLE, pAL?"

And just like that, Spamton G. Spamton, number 1 rated salesman of the year 1997, was on the clock. Hidden away was his panic and confusion, and put on display was his false confidence and crumbling charisma. Such adverts were necessary when selling customer service, after all.

He's replied with laughter. "You Talk Funny. I Have: 27 Languages Downloaded. And I Didn't Understand: A Word You Said." Two red "@" symbols popped up on her face thing, giving the illusion of avoiding eye contact. "Reiterate."

Hoooo, boy. A tough customer.

He picked up the pen between his middle and index finger. "I'M NOT SssIGNiNG..." He threw the pen at her face. It clacked pitifully against the eye screen and did nothing to wipe that dumbass smile off her face. "UNT[illness g-] I. READ THE [TERMS OF SERVICE]."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. It might have been frustration, but knowing her, the former was more likely. She was dumb like that.

Her expression shifted into that of amusement. "That's Silly Nobody Ever Reads That. It's Logical To Skip The Details (Saving Time) And Click Agree (Saving Time)." He scoffed, offended at the "TRUE" spelled out across her face.

"WELL, ii;;m- I"M NOT [nobody to call your own?]." Yes you are. "AS [top biznisman], 1T'S MY [Job Offerings Available At-!] [Make sure to check your kids' candy!]!"

Queen's cheek twitched. The two sat staring at each in silence for a moment. She seemed to be processing his statement.

"Well Have Fun!" She piped up out of nowhere, once more flicking the pen at his face. "A Swatchling Will Accept It From You When You're Done!" His response was a (clearly fake) toothy grin, which fell upon her departure from the room. For the strangest reason, he had a feeling she hadn’t understood anything he had just said.

The paperwork was acknowledged with nothing more than a disinterested side-glance before being shoved aside. Flipping the covers off, (which proved to be quite the feat with only one arm choosing to function as it should), he stumbled his way to the door, legs numb and leaden.

Jeez, he thought as he caught himself from falling for the third time. You get one good night's rest, and suddenly your body wants to take a whole-ass vacation. He punched one of his legs. Work, damn you!

And work they did, for a short while. At least they carried him through the room, to the door and, with a twist of the knob, out into the hallway. NEO here I come... again.

His legs probably would have carried him through the hallway too, had they not buckled underneath him at the sight of the purple-suited Swatchling waiting for him... on him? at the other side of the door. He didn't yelp. Not at all! If he did, it sounded dignified. Yup, verrry dignified.

His face met the floor.

"Ah, Mmm... mister Spamton. Have you already finished?" It straightened its cuffs, clearly masking its surprise as it looked down at him. Spamton didn't neglect to notice its ruffled feathers settling back into place. "That was fast."

He gave a grunt of affirmation from where his cheek was pressed into the carpet, followed by strained groaning as he tried to push himself off of the floor.

"Allow me," the Swatchling said, stooping down to pluck Spamton off the ground. Suddenly, and much to his chagrin, the butler began... righting him, so to speak. Dusting his clothes, straightening his lapels, smoothing back his hair. Now, you never touch a salesman's hair, especially not one as well-known as Spamton, but there wasn't anything he could really do but squirm as he dangled by his collar a good 2 feet in the air. It was only when the Swatchling started rubbing a wetted thumb over the grime on his cheeks did he decide he had enough.

"ALRIGHT, [[Stop the count!]], [Stop wasting time on-!], ST0p!" He exclaimed, twisting to and fro in the hopes of loosening its grip. "I'M NnOT SOME f[4.99!] ch-!" A glitch, quick but violent, rattled his frame, causing the bird-like Darkner to nearly lose its hold on him. "[Children eat free!!]! PUT M3 [a down payment of-]!"

The Swatchling, albeit a little hesitantly, put him down, and it was only when his feet touched the floor did he jerk out of its grasp, running a hand through his hair to regain his composure. "THAT"S [No Way, José!] T0 TREAT A gGUEST!" The butler bowed its head in acknowledgement.

"Apologies, mist- Master Spamton, you're just so..." Without his spectacles, the Swatchlings could clearly see the glare he was shooting it, a dare for it to continue its sentence. It cleared its throat and began again.

"Apologies, Master Spamton, it won't happen again." He huffed.

"IT [Better than the rest, it's not a test!]-" A cough. "It B3TTEr N0T, OR YOUR [Ascots for cheap!] IS [[Lier, Lier, Pants on Fire]]d!"

During the confrontation, Spamton had been inching away, ever so slowly, in the opposite direction, in the hopes of making it a far enough distance that he could simply turn around and book it to the basement, leaving the avian Darkner in the dust wondering what had just happened. However, it seemed that plan was for naught, as it caught him with a raised brow. Goddamnit, it was gonna-

"Master Spamton, guest or not, you are not permitted access of the mansion until an Ambyu-Lance discharges you. You are still recovering, and besides, your paperwork is in your room."

He sucked in a breath. "I..." Shit. What was his excuse? "I'M... [Golden Retrievers, Now-] AN 1TEM I            "

"You... what."

A series of clicks responded to the Swatchling's inquiry, leaving it with a look of bafflement as he struggled with his words. Lost. He had just wanted to say lost. Why was that so hard?

"...mmM1SpLACED." That'll have to do.

"Well, mm...Master Spamton, if you could tell me where it is, I could retrieve it for you while you wait-"

"I'M [What are you, scared?] 0NLY I cAn [[Get it while it lasts!]], [It's mine, it's MINE!] AND A LL ThAT."

It was weird, how its eyes softened with a sad understanding at that. It was only a smidgen, but it was noticeable enough that Spamton began to wonder what it was it was understanding. It was weirder still that it bowed its head to seemingly accept his weak-ass excuse. Swatchlings are usually much more stubborn, he thought. However, the weirdest of all had to be the, "I'll be sure to escort you" that came right after, followed by its retreat into his room.

Spamton, once the Swatchling disappeared from view, began to speedwalk away. Swatchlings are weird, he thought as he scratched an itch just beneath his chin. But this one takes the cake. What the hell was all that? Hopefully it doesn't come back out.

Like most of Spamton's hopes, this one was crushed when the butler reemerged from his room, carrying his (now neatly organized) paperwork and calling his name. He willed himself not to hasten his already hurried steps when it approached him; Swatchlings had a habit of chasing things that ran.

It fell into step beside him, Manila folder held to its chest with lightly-grasping hands. "I thought it best to bring your paperwork with us," it said, eyeing him curiously. "But I couldn't help but notice that none of them are signed."

Spamton hummed, not trusting his voice to conceal the anxiety that came from being so close his "escort". This was an enemy of fourteen years. He took a right, walking briskly. The Swatchling, of course, kept pace.

"Master Spamton, I don't think you've read these."

Oh really?

"THIS [[-is of utmost importance]]. I;;ll H4 VE [Time is of the essence!] (2) READ [It's no good ly-]- ahem- thEM. L; ATER."

The Swatchling chose to remain silent.

Was the puppet before it a mister or a Master? Iris didn't know; for so long, he had simply been a "mister" out of formality, but recent circumstances had tipped the scales, the biggest factor being that he was staying in a room at the Mansion. Queen had insisted that his stay would only last as long as his recovery did, but until his discharge, he was still technically a guest, wasn't he? Besides, there was no telling how long his recovery would take; not only was he missing an arm (the Ambyu-Lance refused to reattach it because of how damaged it was), but he was plagued with many (thankfully not contagious) viruses, many of which had yet to be identified.

It was the indecision between mister or Master that ultimately drove the butler to resign into the position of an escort, as opposed to a mister's acquaintance or a Master's servant. In reality, it was the puppet doing the escorting, leading the both of them to the basement.

Any other time, he would have been vacated from the premises for even considering taking this excursion, but with NEO erased, there was no need for such unpleasantries.

But he didn't have any memory of the event, did he?

Iris' heart clenched. True to the word of the Ambyu-Lance charged with his care, his concussion. although minor, had rendered his recent memories lost; the evidence had presented itself when he had insisted on retrieving his "misplaced" object. Did he even know what he was doing in the mansion? How he got here? It was bad enough that he didn't remember what happened with NEO, seeing as the first chance he got, he was once again seeking it out to claim as his own.

A violent glitch separated the man's head from his body, forcing him into an abrupt stop. Iris stopped too, looking at him with a horrified concern painted across its features. Was... that wasn't normal, right? That was a medical concern?

The glitch had passed, but he still hadn't moved. Had it caused damage? Iris was about to ask when the man spoke. "[Why, oh, why-?] ARE YoU FFOLL0WING ME?" The butler took a moment to hide its confusion regarding the rather simple question before answering.

"I am your escort. I thought that much was clear."

"Y0U KNOW [Where in the world is C-?] WE       'RE GOing."

From what it could understand, what he said was not a question, but a statement. It was hard to understand with his glitch-speak.

...Of course it knew. The path to the basement was a path all of Queen's servants were required to know. It was likely that wouldn't remain the case what with NEO gone.

"Of course. I wouldn't be much of an escort if I didn't."

They both knew it was him doing the leading.

Silence settled over them, and with it, a tension began to grow. To agitate the quiet, the butler cleared its throat, and the puppet took the initiative to resume walking. He only acknowledged his party member's presence again when it suggested a shortcut through the foyer.

...The quicker he remembered, the easier his recovery, and the faster he could leave the Mansion.

***

This was a mistake. In hindsight, it shouldn't have let him down here, even if the basement was empty now, because that was the problem. The basement was empty, NEO was gone, and Spamton didn't know why because he didn't remember.

The butler's suit was flushed a deep, shameful violet as recent events replayed in its head in an attempt to discern what it could have done differently.

They walked in silence through dusty air and down corroded stairs, the puppet occasionally looking back at his "escort" with suspicion as they neared their destination.

It should have brought him back to his room and insist that his paperwork was of higher priority.

The two were now following a trail of train tracks. But, out of nowhere, the puppet spun on his heel, planted a fist in the butler's gut, and bolted off in the direction he remembered NEO to be in. Iris reeled back, coughing in surprise, and only then had the thought to go after him.

It shouldn't have hesitated. It had the strength, it could have easily caught up to him and forced him back to his room. The punch didn't even hurt, so why did it hesitate?

A series of harsh beeps met with Iris' ears once it entered the room where NEO had previously resided. If Spamton's angry and panicked expression was anything to go off of, the beeps were actually censored expletives. "W h3Re i:IS IT<<!?" He was screaming, his one hand tearing at his hair. "W W wwHER3- WH3r3- WHE<RE THE [$@!%] 1<<iS              !?"

It was a pathetic sight.

"Master Spamton," Iris called, hiding its feelings of shock and worry behind an expression of nonchalance. "NEO isn't here. It has been permanently removed."

Spamton, upon hearing its voice, whipped his head towards the butler, surprise painted across his features as if he had forgotten there was someone else down here with him. Just as quickly, his face donned a look of rage, and he was stalking towards Iris in short, angry strides.

He gripped a fistful of the butler's suit canvas before tugging it down to meet his eyes. Iris couldn't help but cringe away at the fierce intensity in his glare.

" Where is it?" Words like fire hissed out between clenched teeth in a voice so dangerously low that the butler feared what a wrong answer would mean for it.

Iris swallowed past a lump in its throat, gingerly cupping Spamton's fingers with its own as it braced itself to speak. "Al- allow me to clarify." It relaxed a smidgen when confusion flickered across the puppet's features. "NEO isn't anywhere. It was erased. You should know, you were there when it happened."

His face fell, and the hand clutching its suit fell away. Wide eyed and open mouthed, he turned away from Iris, ignoring the pixels that began to break off his body in favor of cautiously making his way over to where NEO had once sat slumped against the wall.

It... God. This had been inevitable, hadn't it? He'd have to find out eventually, or he'd be stuck searching for something that no longer existed. There wasn't anything it could have done to stop this.

Currently, Spamton stood, silent and unmoving, in front of the space where NEO had once occupied, eyes fixated on the border between floor and wall. With shoulders relaxed, chin was level with the ground, and expression hollow, he was the picture of a defeated man. Iris couldn't feel more ashamed

Had NEO been all he had left?

A glitch momentarily shifted around his facial features, which seemed to snap him out of whatever trance he had fallen into. Cautiously, his hand reached for his right arm, and he flinched with a sharp intake of breath when it only found the stump. Even so, he continued to stare into nothingness as he began to shake, fingers curling around and gripping the stump. Iris could only watch as he hunched into himself, shoulders hitched up to his cheeks, chin tucked into his chest, and face, no doubt scrunched up in anguish, obscured from the butler. His shaking intensified.

Then he began to laugh.

It was bitter. Angry. Helpless. He was laughing, but there was no laughter in the sound.

It made sense that his laughter then turned into screams, because only a scream could sound so pained and so, so angry. Only a scream could sound so broken and so heart wrenching.

Iris expected tears to follow, but none came. When he ran out of a voice to scream with, Spamton simply fell into silence, his trembling having subsided. Noticing this, the butler turned to leave, unsure of how to proceed and unwilling to. that was, until a dual-toned light caught its eye.

...That would have to do.

"Master Spamton," it called, stooping to pick up the familiar item and ignoring the clinking of broken glass as it did. He acknowledged the butler, just barely, with a minute turn of his head and a small hum. "I believe I have found your "misplaced item". Is this it?" Casually, as if it had not just witnessed a meltdown from the man, Iris held up his dealmakers.

Slowly, he twisted around to see whatever it was the butler was talking about, his eyes red and puffy but otherwise drained of emotion. A small relief fluttered in its heart when his eyebrows crinkled together, ever so slightly, in confusion, as he processed what exactly he was looking at. Iris quirked a brow upon eye contact, restating the unspoken words hidden in the question: "This never happened, right?"

The pained smile he wrestled onto his face was answer enough for the butler.

"w w (Y) y0u [fFunky little worm], THaT'S 1T!" He lied, stepping towards Iris. It cringed at the poorly masked tremble in his voice. "NOw TH4T IT"S [Lost and f0und], [[We're cleared for takeoff]]."

The butler could only take that to mean that he wanted to leave, so it stored the broken spectacles in its inventory and began to walk in the opposite direction, expecting Spamton to follow. The pair of footsteps behind it indicated he was.

They walked in silence, the two of them. Somewhere along the way back to his room, Iris had handed Spamton his paperwork, the contents of which he was currently poring over to distract himself from the reality of 13 years gone to waste. As for the butler? It kept him from wandering off.

He had just looked so lost in the basement.

"HEY." Iris was startled out of the quiet by the sheer volume of the puppet's static-riddled voice, before humming to acknowledge him. "WHAT'S tHIS [suposed] to MEAN?" It turned to see what he was talking about.

He had a single sheet of paper pinned, by his thumb, to the folder, the likes of which he held up in the air within the butler's reading range. However, it was unsure what exactly it was supposed to be read, so it began skimming the page for anything that might have been unclear. An idle thought questioned how Spamton had even managed to get the paper out of the folder with just one hand.

It was startled out of its reading by a mini Spamton crawling out of the puppet's tattered sleeve. Curiously, it watched the tiny clone clamber up its master's wrist and onto his thumb, gesturing wildly to the paragraph the digit was covering once it had secured its footing. Both Spamtons looked at the butler with impatience.

...Ah.

Iris lid the paper out from under his thumb, careful not to jostle his clone, and, after a nod to a passing Swatchling, began to read the selected paragraph.

By accepting the hospitality of her Majesty Queen, you agree to be subject to the conditions placed upon the quality of your stay, for the duration of your stay. To assault a mansion resident, attempt escape, fight treatment, or break mansion-owned pottery would go against these conditions and result in a termination of your special resident status. A debt equal to the cost of your treatment would be owed, and you would be arrested and detained on account of your unanswered crimes against her Majesty Queen.

Two of Iris' fingers were stroking the underside of its beak by the time it was finished reading. Catching the expectant brow Spamton had raised, it cleared its throat in preparation of a summary.

"Well," it began. "It just means that you have to follow some rules while you're here, otherwise you won't be... here, anymore. That shouldn't be too hard." He gave the butler a deadpan look, which it returned. "Seriously." It spoke in a tone reminiscent of freshly ironed sheets; flat. "Master Spamton, there is nothing to be misunderstood with this."

"OF [coarse] THErE 1S!" He retorted, expression suddenly angry. "[[What in tarnation?]] IS A [specil deal] [Consult your local doctor]? [Quality servis] 0F MY ssT<<AY?! I d0N;;T E E [Even better deals!] W4NT TO bB<<E H3- HeRE!" When all he got in response was a blank stare, he let out a long, irritated, exhausted sigh, squeezed his eyes shut, rested the back of his hand against his forehead, and muttered something about bird brains.

Simply put, he was being overdramatic, but at least he was feeling better.

"Your Majesty, I have Master Spamton's signed paperwork."

Queen, who had occupied herself with playing Minecrap from the comfort of her bed, paused her game, mentally minimized the tab which it was running on, and lay down flat on her back so she could see the Swatchling who had walked in. "Ah, Hello!" She said with a smile. "It's Signed? Perfect, Hand It Over." The Swatchling obliged.

...Huh. Spamton had an atrocious signature.

"Any Complications?" She absently inquired as she flipped through the folder held above her head. Damn, this was a really bad signature. Was this a name, or a squiggle?

When the Swatchling didn't answer, Queen once more tilted her head back, and found the avian darkner wringing its wings together. "Well?" She offered, placing the folder to the side in favor of rolling onto her stomach, legs paddling the air. The Swatchling, taking notice of this, awkwardly cleared its throat and folded its wings behind its back.

"Master Spamton has, ah, expressed an objection to his residence within the Mansion, and is uncertain as to whether or not it is an obligation."

A moment was taken to process the statement.

...

She barked out a laugh as the statement processed.

"He Doesn't Have A Choice," she answered. "The Law Says That He Cannot Leave The Mansion Until He Finishes His Sentence." She slid the folder back towards her and resumed flipping through it, ignoring the confusion on the face of her guest.

It jolted as if coming to a sudden realization.

"What law?" Queen, not even looking up, simply replied, "The One I Just Made Up, Obvi." She sensed it nod.

"And..." By the tone of its voice, it was another question. "What do you mean by "sentence"?"

Queen closed the folder (all the papers inside no doubt bore that ugly signature, there was no need to check) and peered up at the Swatchling. It had a look on its face that said it wanted not just an answer, but an explanation.

...Eh. She wasn't in an "explanation" mood.

"It's Not A Prison Sentence, If That's What You're Thinking. It Was Tammie's Idea, It-" She smiled, as the notion was, quite frankly, amusing. "Think Of It More As: Community Service."

It was the least he deserved, after all.

Chapter Text

Five days had elapsed since Swatch had bid farewell to their beloved creation.

They didn't think about it. There was nothing to think about, and no time to think it! Not when they were alone in the confines of their chambers, not when conversation found itself scarce, and not when they were stalking the Mansion halls with nothing to do because Queen had so generously gifted them a mandatory vacation to "Give Them Time To Mourn".

What a splendid idea, they had thought on numerous occasions, to be left alone with one's thoughts. Not that they needed that! There wasn't anything to think about, so why not get back to work? The purpose of their whole vacation was ludicrous, really. There was nothing to grieve anyway, except maybe the time they were losing every minute they wasted "vacationing".

Tasque Manager's words, from the recesses of their mind, echoed, and Swatch, however reluctant they were to do so, pushed aside their pride and listened out of respect for her.

You have every right to be upset. NEO was your creation, your pride and joy, and now it's gone. You spent so long protecting it just to have to destroy it, all because someone else got greedy. Swatch. Swatch, look at me. And they had, they'd looked away from their hands and into her eyes, unsure of what she saw in theirs. I know you're upset; LET YOURSELF be upset. You have time. They remembered the feel of her hand cupping their cheek as she said this. You're not a robot. You're responsible for your emotions. Ignore them, and you'll ignore you. Don't do that to yourself, okay?

How she could help with their every problem, they had no idea. She was an amazing individual, capable of doing and handling so much, and it hurt them every time she had to play therapist with them. Relationships were supposed to go two ways, and if they wanted any chance at romance with her, they needed to return the favor. But how?

I'm getting off topic, they thought, their hands busy with making a recreational drink (they'd had to specify it as such to the Swatchlings charged with keeping them away from work. Their underlings had been half a second away from dragging their boss back to their room). I'm upset. NEO's... gone, I'm barred from work, and--

They scowled, allowing themself to feel the instinctual disgust that reared up at the thought of Spamton.

Yesterday morning, when Queen had just barely started up for the day, she had summoned all the Mansion staff for a "press conference" regarding the circumstances of their "fresh-out-of-a-coma" guest. They might have felt some pang of guilt at the term, had it not been revealed right after that the vermin was to be employed at the mansion.

Spamton! Employed at the mansion! Again! Like the last time had gone so well!

According to her, it was "A Trial Run For Rehab" and "A Funny Idea". Frankly, it was the worst idea they had ever heard of, and the woman was infamous for her terrible decisions! Rehab? As in, rehabilitation? There was no "rehabilitating" that menace. He had absolutely no desire to change himself for the better, which was evident with his track record. He had been nothing but a pain with a holier-than-thou attitude ever since he had woken up. They could only imagine how much worse he'd be since today was his first day of his, as Queen had put it, "community service".

"Spamton, I implore you, put on your tie. It's a clip-on, you should have no problem getting it on."

It had only been two days since the puppet's waking, and a lot of adjustments were already being made. For starters, he was still missing an arm, and an order had been placed with a parts manufacturer for a new one. Normally, the limb could just be reattached, but considering that it had been in such disrepair without any hope of being salvaged, it had been decided that he simply get a new one. The last purpose his old arm would ever get to serve would be as a reference for its replacement. His other arm would soon follow suit, as it, too, was so utterly decrepit. His doctor had been astounded upon finding out it could still function.

"I'M MORE A [Bowties, Half Off!] PERSON. IF I'M [[working minimum wage]] HERE, I'M DOING IT IN [Keep up with the latest fashion trends!]."

He had been absolutely baffled upon learning that the Mansion had a personal Ambyu-Lance, as though he had forgotten how frequently he had visited them during his last days at the Mansion. At its (quite aggressive) insistence, Spamton had begun running an antivirus program that minimized the glitches running rampant in his code. It left him jittery and a high strung, but such mannerisms could be tolerated if it meant he would be coherent. Though, they couldn't help but wonder if anything could be done for that interrupting-ad tic... It had gotten worse since his mansion days.

"Bowties aren't in the uniform. You work here, you wear the uniform."

Ah, yes, and he was made to wear a uniform, the same uniform that their Swatchlings wore, to officiate his status as a mansion employee.

"I DIDN'T [Invest in our 2 year plan!] ON [This is the thanks I get for working overtime?]."

"Well, you signed the paperwork."

"SAY IT [[As You Wish!]]. IT WAS A [legally binding contract]. A CONTRACT."

"Spamton, I'm not going to keep arguing with you. Follow instructions or I'm getting Swatch."

"[[Easels]]? OH NO, WHATEVER WILL I-?"

"Pardon," they said, stepping into the conversation, a finished Butler Juice in hand. "I heard my name." They had been eavesdropping. "Am I needed for something?" They knew exactly what they were needed for. Apparently, Spamton had begun exerting some sort of extreme caution around the Mansion's Head Butler to avoid pissing them off. It was strange, but they would be a fool for not utilizing such a tool to their advantage, and their coworker's current situation called for just that.

Tasque Manager shot them a grateful look as they drew near. Spamton, on the other hand, stiffened, letting sound only a single click before falling silent. Somewhere in their subconscious, they felt disgusted at the satisfaction the reaction gave them.

"Swatch, hello," Tasque Manager said, masking her relief with an air of polite professionalism befitting such a remarkable woman. "I was just filling in our new employee on our uniform policy. We need a, uh, a second opinion, if you wouldn't mind." They shook their head to show that no, they didn't mind. She smiled. "Great! Now, should he wear his tie, even if he is an unwilling hire, or make himself look like a clown by wearing a bowtie?" She spoke in a voice that betrayed a playful, chiding tone, as though she were gently explaining to a child why they were wrong. It was no doubt a tone meant to tease Spamton, who's hands they could see were already beginning to clench.

"Oh, the tie, definitely!" They responded in the same tone, walking up from behind Spamton to rest a hand on his shoulder. The man's head turned ever so slightly so they could see the scathing look he was burning into them. "Willing or not, an employee is an employee, and as such, expectations are to be met. And besides, we don't hire clowns. Tasque Manager, the clip-on, if you please."

Tasque Manager, amusement gracing her expression, traded Swatch the tie for the drink they were holding as they spun Spamton around to face them. To mess with him, they took their time in getting him sorted out, opting to straighten his collar and dust off the wrinkles in his suit after the tie was clipped into place. A smile had to be wrestled off their face when, after tilting his face this way and that to check for dirt they knew to have been washed off, Spamton decided he'd had enough and pushed away from them, face flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment.

"Well," they remarked with a smile (it had won, in the end). "You're all set! Now off to work with you." Before they set off to their room, they informed Tasque Manager that she could keep the drink she had taken from them, seeing as it had been made for her. She thanked them with the same smile that always melted their heart, and then they were walking away, ignoring the fluttering in their chest in lieu of adjusting the cuffs of their sleeves. While the look on Spamton's face had been worth the prolonged contact, they felt as though they had dirtied themself during the interaction. They'd have to wash the suit.

"Aw, what's that look for?" They heard Tasque Manager, tone light and mocking, from behind, likely addressing the puppet. "Going to give me the silent treatment too? I'm devastated." They smiled to themself upon hearing that.

If every interaction with Spamton was going to go like that, then maybe they'd be able to tolerate his employment here.

If every interaction with Swatch was going to go like that, Spamton was going to kill himself.

Just the sound of their voice made him freeze up, and only God knew why. Not that they'd tell him, seeing as God hated him.

Why was it, that whenever that butler was around, a dread unlike anything he had ever known would wash over him, and his joints would lock up? Every time they came into physical contact with him, he had to fight tooth and nail with himself to keep from trembling under the touch that felt like fire on his skin. Hell, if they were so much as in the same room as him, his voicebox would just... stop working. What was with that?

The Tasque Manager had asked if he was going to give her the silent treatment. I don't intend to. In fact, he had thought. I'd be calling you a bitch, but that'll have to wait until I can talk again. In lieu of a response, he had just further soured the look he was drilling into her face.

If it wasn't obvious enough, he was not fucking happy.

The next few days crawled by. Not a moment had gone by where Spamton wasn't being monitored, either to ensure he did his job or didn't escape (he suspected it was both). The only time he was alone was when he was locked in his room for the night, which he fully utilized to his advantage. When retired to his chambers, he would write down what he'd memorized of the routes and schedules of his, ugh, "coworkers", in favor of deciding an escape plan. He had once known such information, but seeing as he was now being kept in as opposed to out, things had most definitely changed to accommodate him.

Today, he was feeling... irritated. His tedious chores and lack of escape progress hadn't bothered him up to this point -- he was endlessly patient --, but the other day, the Mansion's Ambyu-Lance had pulled him aside to plug him up with some AdBlock. (He still hadn't quite wrapped his head around the fact this place had a personal Ambyu-Lance. Where was it during his breakins when he was beaten black and blue?) The damned quack had told him that the program was designed to get rid of the ads "permeating" his speech, and that "it really was for the best, no one could understand him otherwise," which was bullshit. All it did was make his body ache, his eyes hurt, and his throat sore. Hadn't that antivirus, the one that made his insides shaky and his skin itchy -- hadn't it been enough? His thoughts were already laggy enough with the addition of the antivirus, he didn't need an AdBlock to make everything worse.

This is hell, he thought as he clipped on his stupid tie for another day of "work". He fumbled with it because he forgot what be was doing.

This is hell, he thought when Queen dropped by his "work station" to talk to him for hours on end the next day. Her voice drilled holes into his head with how... sharp? it was.

This is hell, he thought, only four(five?) days into formulating an escape plan. He couldn't take it anymore! Either he lost his mind "working" here, or to the factory reset he was promised were he to leave without Queen's consent, all because of that stupid, fucking, contract! At this point, he was willing to risk the reset, because at least then, if he managed to escape, he'd be free of this hellhole. If not; oh well. It was better than his brain slowly succumbing to the rot that was monotonous labor.

It was final. The time had come for his half-baked plans to hatch.

***

Day One. Though he had decided he'd overstayed his welcome, he still had enough sense to take it slow, so when the next day came around, he played his part. His uniform was donned, his breakfast was ignored, and his "coworkers" were treated as nothing but insignificant; such was the usual with him. However, his daily chores were different each day, so hearing that he had been assigned kitchen duty for the day had been a welcome surprise. If memory served right, the kitchen was a maus magnet, and Swatchlings, the "coworkers" who were constantly watching his every move, were terrified of maice. To pass up an opportunity like this would be stupid.

Eventually, through discreet searching, he'd found one of the little pests, and his plan was put to action. With the creature caged in his palms, he set it loose in the kitchen instead of outside like he was supposed to. The reaction was instantaneous; the first Swatchling to lay eyes on the thing freaked the hell out, causing the Swatchlings around it to take notice and also freak the hell out. Soon, they were all freaking the hell out, and Spamton was able to slip out amongst the chaos.

Sadly, he didn't get very far, as the Tasque Manager was quick to arrive to the scene and discover him unsupervised. Though she had no doubt been suspicious, she had let him off the hook upon hearing that the maus had "frightened him into fleeing".

He didn't pay much attention to his day after that. Why should he, when his attempt at escape had failed? Ah, well, there was always tomorrow.

All that was left to do was hope that the buzzing under his skin would disappear by then.

***

Day...Two? Two. He'd had this stupid "job" for about a week. Probably. Who was counting? His day started off as it usually did these days: shitty. Granted, he had just woken up, but he didn't doubt that anyone in his situation would also be unhappy, regardless if they had slept in a soft bed with silken sheets and fluffy pillows.

Today's "job" was pottery watching.

Why? Why was that a thing? Did Swatchlings normally watch pottery all day, or was this just one of those "you-keep-a-lookout" scenarios? As in, pointless busywork given to him for the hell of it?

This wasn't even "busywork"! He was just sitting around watching fucking pottery!

This was so boring. How does one even get out of watching pottery? Knock over a vase? Experience taught him that such an action would get him beat within an inch of his life, so clearly, that wasn't an option. He'd be instantly apprehended if he were to just walk off, so he couldn't do that either.

He was loathe to admit it, but it seemed as though there was no attempt to be made today. By the time he was escorted back to his room, he felt drained beyond measure, which meant there would be no planning, either. Besides, he likely wouldn't have been able to focus anyway, what with the buzzing under his skin having turned into an irrelievable full-body itch.

He probably wouldn't be able to sleep tonight.

***

Day...- did he need a calendar? He should probably get a calendar if he couldn't keep track of the days. Not that he had been able to in the first place. His pre-installed calendar only ever worked enough to tell him the date of his *upload anniversary. How long had it been since his last one? He couldn't remember. His brain felt fuzzy.

When he woke, his skin felt like it was crawling. No matter how much he itched, or how hard, the bugs in his body kept skittering over his bones. Regardless, he went about his day.

Someone kept trying to talk to him as he worked. Their voice ground glass into his ears -- did he have ears? -- so it was hard to focus on what they were saying. Not that he was trying to, anyways; his attention was focused solely on sweeping up a Tasque's trail of dirt into a dustpan, a feat that proved quite difficult with just one arm. He didn't need any help, though. After all, he'd handled worse during his break-in days (which were what, two weeks ago?), like that one time his leg got caught in an oversized maus trap, and he'd had to detach it to get free. Reattaching it had hurt just as much.

Or! How about that one time he'd been kicked to the curb after-

His thoughts exploded into screams of wrong. Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong. It never happened. Did something happen? What had he been doing? He couldn't see anything past the green in his vision.

Suddenly, he was in his room. When had he gotten here? The abrupt change of scenery left him reeling, and he hadn't registered the other person in the room until they, voice muffled as though filtered through static, spoke. Were their words directed at him? He didn't know.

He slept, for he was too tired to listen.

***

What day was it? Where-? No, wait, that was a stupid question. He was at the mansion.

What exactly was it that he was doing? Polishing stuff? Silver? Some shiny metal of sorts, at least. When had he even woken up? It was hard to focus on the task at hand, but trust him when he says he's trying. It wasn't his fault that the shadows in every reflective surface, moving about in his peripheral, kept distracting him.

Wait. Shit. They were moving?

He checked behind him, and saw nothing. A heated glare directed at the shapes in the silver bore no fruit either, and with growing unease, he concluded that he was just seeing things. It's all in your head, he told himself. The darkness kept up its twisted dance at the edge of his vision. You're just seeing things. There's nothing there.

At some point, a pair of eyes had appeared from the abyss, fixing him with stares that drilled into his bones. He started checking behind him at regular intervals to make sure that they weren't actually there, nothing was watching him, he was just imagining things. However, a presence soon accompanied those eyes, which had him twisting around double time to make sure no one was there, because nothing was wrong, nothing was wrong, nothing was wrong.

He gave up polishing altogether when be saw hands reaching for him from the dark, the presence bristling, and he couldn't take it anymore. He had to leave, run, hide. Where were the dumpsters? It couldn't get him there.

One of the hands managed to grab his arm, pulling him back, back into the abyss, and he jerked violently against its hold, static curses spewing from his mouth. The hand's grip tightened, and then came a voice, loud and sharp, and he froze. He knew that voice.

Slowly, no sudden movements, he twisted towards it, and felt his voicebox turn to stone in his throat. He knew that face.

No. No, please. He hadn't done anything.

The feeling of his arm- his right arm, his missing arm- being ripped off his body burned itself to the forefront of his mind. The grip on his left arm burned just as hot.

There was nothing stopping them from tearing it out of the socket. That's what they were going to do, wasn't it? They were going to tear out his other arm before- and the back of his head stung at the thought- throwing him against another wall and blocking his escape. Phantom pain blossomed across the surface of his body as a shoe from his memories stamped bruises onto his skin, accompanied by a voice screaming at him to say something. But he couldn't say anything, not even to beg for the pain to stop! He couldn't make one sound past the clog in his throat! Any moment now, he'd be pummeled into the floor until he became nothing more than a stain, and he'd be helpless to stop it.

An unfamiliar expression crossed his attacker's- no, that wasn't right, they weren't attacking, why weren't they attacking?- face, one of... concern?, and the grip on his arm was released. Suddenly, there was confusion, and apprehension, and relief, and fear.

A torrent of emotions swept through him, and he couldn't help it; his mind was pulled under, and he passed out.

***

He woke up in complete darkness.

Nonono. Not safe, not safe, it gets you in the dark.

He was paralyzed where he lay, too afraid to move to turn on the lights. If he moved, it'd know he was there. Did it already know? The presence circling his bed was hungry. Had it found him, or was it still looking? No, the better question was, had it already gotten him? If so, what was it going to do to him? He wanted to strangle the heart beating a hammer into his ribcage into silence, because it was too loud, and if it hadn't found him before, it certainly would now. Please, just-

Light flooded his vision, and through his sudden disorientation, he could feel a spike of anger in the presence as it retreated into the shadows of-

So he was still in his room, then. It hadn't gotten him. That was good. Where had the light come from, though?

He turned to find a black mass standing in the doorway to his room, one shadowy tendril... arm?... hovering over the light switch, but before he had the thought to panic, it stepped out of the room, closing the door behind it. Just like that, he was once again left alone with the presence in his room, but this time, he had the advantage; the presence was limited to the small pockets of darkness tucked away in the corners of the room. Relief flooded every fiber of his being when the weight of such a revelation pressed down upon him, and, bonelessly, he sank into his bed. For now, he was safe, and there was nothing the presence could do but watch as he drifted off into unconsciousness.

"I think something's wrong with him. Aside from the usual."

Tasque Manager looked up from her butler juice at the sound of Swatch's voice. They had, in one hand, a cup of koffi, still steaming, while the other was scrolling through a page in their *tab book. They hadn't looked at her.

"What do you mean?" She inquired with a sip of her drink. "Is this about Spamton's recent behavior? I thought he was just acting aloof to get out of work. After the second chance we're giving him, too!" Curious, she set her cup on the counter and leaned closer to Swatch to read over their shoulder.

"See, that's what I thought to, but ever since that..."  They stilled, caught in either a memory or on a missing word. "...Reaction, from a couple days ago-" Momentary stupor forgotten, they held the tab book closer for her to see, the page opened to the data log for Spamton's behavior. "I've been looking through his log for a pattern to his mannerisms, and I noticed something." They scrolled up until they found what they were looking for, and she was left to follow their finger as they pointed. "Around this time, he was acting as usual. Cocky, sarcastic, prideful. Again, usual. However-" They scrolled down. "Here is where he started to change. He became quiet, fatigued, and antsy, and only got worse as time progressed. It got to the point where we had to leave him holed up inside his room, and I belieeeve..." They had been slowly scrolling down as they talked, but now they were scrolling back up with triple the speed. "This." Their scrolling stopped with a jab of their finger at the page. "Is the cause."

Further, she leaned, until her chin was resting on their shoulder and she had to stabilize herself with a hand on their back. The log seemed to have recorded just a run-of-the-mill day, until she read about the doctor's visit. Right. For that AdBlock installation.

Interest piqued, she slipped off her stool to stand behind Swatch, leaning her body into theirs in favor of reading comfortably. After the visit, according to the log, his speech, though purged of ads, was slurred and lagging, with the man himself acting skittish and distracted, as though he wasn't all there. Her brows furrowed as she read. No doubt his recent behavior was brought about by the AdBlock, but what in his programming would cause him to react in such a way?

"Swatch." Her eyes raked through the log again, hoping to catch some crucial piece of information that she had missed, with Swatch doing the same. "What species of Darkner is Spamton?"

They paused, then leaned against her, arms folded across their chest. Their faces were mere inches apart. "I, uh..." Their brow furrowed. "Hm." Tasque Manager rubbed circles into their shoulder, as if that would help their inner search query load. However, they both continued to read over the log; with two sets of eyes looking, how could they be missing something? "I believe his core coding is that of Addison origin, though he could just as easily be a Trojan program. It's hard to tell with how, uh, all over the place his programming is."

"Hm, yeah." She chuffed out a laugh. "He's gotta be an Addison then, because I don't think her Majesty would let a Trojan stay in the mansion."

"Would she even know if she was?"

"Probably not."

They both chuckle at that, momentarily forgetting what it was they were talking about before returning to the task at hand. Tasque Manager felt that a burden had been lifted during the brief moment of mirth, and was about to crack another joke to keep the atmosphere elevated when something finally clicked for her. Mirth made way for confusion as she turned her head to better face Swatch.

"What happens when you install an AdBlock in an Addison?"

They locked eyes with her through a side look.

Leading up to now, nothing interesting had happened.

Before the start of the work day, they had gotten into uniform, eaten a breakfast of frozen bagel bytes, and caught up with their unread messages. Only one had caught their eye: a text from their cousin, wishing them a Happy New Year's. It had been sent two months ago, and served as a subtle reminder that they should check their messages more often. They didn't bother opening the rest of them, so they were marked as read.

Work did what work always does: it dragged until a customer gave them something productive to do, then went right back to dragging. The Addison across the street, oftentimes having nothing to do, would occasionally come over to converse, which was... nice, but distracting. At least he wasn't annoying about it.

There was nothing interesting about lunch break either. They'd step off the clock, pull out whatever they had packed that day from their inventory, then settle down at whatever bench caught their eye. The Addison across the street, Displayse, always managed to find them, and would thereafter spend his lunch break in their company. However, he never used the time to eat.

It was only after today's lunch break that the "interesting" presented itself.

"Oh, I think it likes you," the blue Addison beside them commented, thinly veiled adoration seeping into his tone. A Tasque was rubbing against their leg, and honestly, they didn't know how to react. They weren't a Tasque person.

Suddenly, the feline stood to perch its front paws on their knees, effectively knocking them out of their stance. Displayse practically squealed in delight. "Awww, Targetooooon. You made a new friend!" He knelt to start skritching it behind an ear, cooing, "You're just a little sweetheart, aren't you? Yes you are!" A loud inhale. "Yes you are!"  The Tasque began to headbutt his hand, purring, and that's when they saw it. A collar, fastened around its neck.

"Displayse," the orange Addison commented. "This is a mansion Tasque." At that, Displayse's hand flew away from the cat, as if burned, and he began to glare suspiciously at the creature while rubbing his wrist. His antics went ignored.

Without the physical attention, the Tasque went back to kneading their knees, mewling. "I'm assuming I have a summons to the Mansion," Targeton stated, bending slightly to read the name on the tag. Skribbles. "This must be a newly employed Tasque if it's letting people pet it."

"A summons?" the blue Addison repeated, cautiously reaching out to pet the creature again. "Booo. You were going to introduce me to your cousin today." His hand began to scratch under its neck.

"Auctionelle can wait," they said, walking off in the hopes the Tasque would follow to begin its escort. "Queen cannot." Finally, it peeled away from Displayse to take the lead.

***

As it turned out, Queen wasn't the one who had been waiting.

The Tasque Manager herself greeted them at the Mansion's entrance, releasing her pet of its duties as she insisted they walk with her to "the problem". Though her explanations on the way helped to answer their unspoken questions, they were still curious as to how the Cyber World's most orderly and meticulate professionals hadn't been aware of such a piece of information as vital, and usually obvious, as a Darkner's species.

"How didn't you know your guest was an Addison?" they inquired when finding room to speak. "With that in mind, why an AdBlock? Addisons are an ad-based species, an AdBlock would be... less than ideal."

"Yet you sell them?" Targeton cast her a side glance.

"Right, but not to Addisons, seeing as it's basically ad deterrent. I would have bought one myself were that possible. Light knows how annoying Addisons are."

"You're an Addison."

They barked out a laugh. "Not an affiliation I'm content to admit. Now, about my question?"

"Right, of course." The Tasque Manager cleared her throat, looking a smidgen embarrassed. "We installed an AdBlock because, well, again, we didn't know, but we didn't know because-" An awkward cough. "Because his code is in tangles. We had to look through his files from when he lived here to actually determine his species, though the file was quite the hassle to locate."

"He doesn't live here currently?"

"...It's...a special situation."

How perfect was their timing, for the two of them to reach their destination just as their conversation had ended. They stood to the side of a door, which the Tasque Manager opened before motioning them to go inside. Then, with the assurance that a Swatchling would be waiting right outside were they to need anything, she leaves. She didn't need to tell them she had other matters to attend to by the way she speed-walked away.

Just by standing there, they could feel the eyes of the room's occupant boring into the side of their head, so without looking, they reached for the doorknob parallel to them and pulled its conjoined door closed. The promised Swatchling wasn't here yet, and they weren't about to step into a room with a quarantined stranger without the comfort of backup. Until then, they were content to wait. Hey, it wouldn't hurt to go over the information they had gathered in the meantime.

To recall, the Tasque Manager had said that this Addison was quick to agitate. While that did cause need for treading caution, they knew that such a behavior was common for an Addison saddled with an AdBlock. Their multitude of product testing experiments gave proof of this.

That agitation, according to said experiments, was a cause of anxiety, not anger. In those situations, Addisons tended to develop a nervous demeanor, as well as sensory issues and a paranoia of sorts, and would understandably react to their surroundings negatively. Of course, the level of anxiety an Addison felt varied with each individual, but roughly, they were to be approached the same way; calmly and casually. Anything that indicated distress would only serve to further set them off.

Another thing of note: the tenant didn't live here. Hadn't lived here for quite some time, according to the Tasque Manager. With that said, it would be safe to assume that the circumstances of his stay were contributors to his stress, alongside the fact that his code was, supposedly, "in tangles". What could that mean though? How could one's code be so "tangled" that their Darkner type couldn't be identified?

Whatever. That Swatchling still wasn't here, and they'd wasted enough time waiting around, all because of a little nervousness. They weren't nervous. Get it over with, Targeton. Open the door and get it over with.

Idly, they remembered that the Tasque Manager hadn't told them the resident's name, but that problem solved itself as soon as they stepped into the room. Its occupant, still staring holes into them, wore a face they hadn't seen in well over fourteen years, not since it was last on TV. Whatever apprehension they felt before coming in vanished in light of their shock.

They couldn't help it. They started laughing.

Chapter Text

To put it lightly, Spamton had not been happy about their arrival. Whether that was because they were an Addison or because he was still hallucinating was up for debate.

He began spewing garbled static (likely an affect of the AdBlock that their ears had to suffer for, ouch) the instant Targeton drew near. When they tried to get closer, he put up a kicking, biting, one-armed-scratching fight. It had taken a solid hit to their eye & a kick that nearly knocked their teeth out before they were able to sedate him (they were going to be so bruised later). Only a couple of seconds were spared in catching their breath and ensuring their patient was 100% in sleep mode before they got to work.

The Tasque Manager had worded it far too gently; Spamton's code was honest to God fucked.

Their only job was to remove the AdBlock. That was all they were hired to do, and they had finished with expert efficiency. Amongst his clusterfuck of programming, the AdBlock had been easy to spot, seeing as it the only stable patch of code to be distinguished, so their job hadn't even been that hard. Despite this, there was... well, it was best described as a... but see, there wasn't even a reason to... well...

Their job felt incomplete.

Which didn't make any sense! They had done as required! They could leave with a hefty paycheck and never have to think about the resident of this room again!

...And yet, there was this something, an annoying something, telling them there was more they could do. The AdBlock was installed because of a vocal glitch, right? Well, their brain was telling them to fix that glitch -- fix it, and eliminate the possibility of a mistake like this being made again. The problem was, not only was that unpaid overtime, but it was also outside their area. What a stupid thing to have, consciences.

So anyway, that was how they spent the next half-hour or so meticulously sorting through his programming to find the root of the glitch; just sorting through it! Their coding ability was limited to installing and uninstalling programs -- they were an AdBlock salesman, for crying out loud! -- and while they were well-versed in the ins and outs of Addison programming, they were otherwise sorely out of their element.

On many occasions did they find themself biting down a scream of frustration as they inspected line after line of code for anything that could remotely be connected to the problem. That urge only became harder to fight when they found what they were looking for, and it became evidently clear that decoding the bug (because that's what it turned out to be, of fucking course) was going to be exponentially harder than just finding it. Where could they begin?! Could they begin?! Were they even qualified to begin?! One wrong move in trying to remove this thing, and they could very well end up removing something else -- something much more vital -- alongside it, like the function to breathe, or something.

Another half-hour was spent pondering how next to proceed. For a minute, they had to step out of the room to request a glass of water from the Swatchling standing at the door, and then it was right back to business. They groaned. They agonized. They looked up a debugging tutorial on some Wiki site, then on a video sharing platform, committing the information to memory. With that done, they then agonized some more before deciding, fuck it, they'd give it their best shot. With a crack of their neck and a steadying sigh, they spared one last look at the disgraced salesman's face before diving into their task.

They were really going to have their work cut out for them.

His mouth tasted like morning breath; observing as such told him he was awake.

Wonderful.

He felt as though his insides had been scooped out, sent tumbling through ongoing traffic, scraped off the pavement, and then shoved back inside of him. He was tired, he was sore, and he was really quite certain that he would rather die than go through... whatever it is he'd gone through... again. Granted, he only remembered snippets, but it was enough to determine that a tasque eating him alive would have been a much more pleasant experience.

Spamton groans, and then nearly jumps out of his skin when a voice near him says, "Good evening." He tries rolling away from the speaker only to find that, in doing so, he's cocooned himself inside his blanket. The stranger no doubt finds this amusing. "Oh my God," they say in lieu of laughter, voice only flat and tired. "I only said 'good evening'." Spamton claws and kicks his way out of his entanglement to get a look at his trespasser, made harder by the fact that he only had one arm. He’d forgotten about that.

Freeing himself from the blanket, he comes face to face with an Addison, sitting at his bedside.

Before he can help it, a censored expletive slips past his lips as he lunges forward to bite the glow-y orange bastard’s nose off. Said bastard pushes away from the bed with an indignant cry of alarm, chair scraping, before the hit can connect. Tense silence settles in the space between the two, broken up only with heavy breathing from either side. 

"GE-GET OUT," Spamton snaps after a beat. "GET THE F[4.99] OUT. I DO[don't you-] LIKE YOU, I DONN'T L-LIKE ANY OF YOU. GET [OUT OF HERE!]."

"How professional," the Addison replies, face blank save for a touch of resignation(?). Its voice maintains the same monotone as before. "It's refreshing to see a grown adult acting like a child."

Spamton ignores the quip. "GOD, YOU-YOU PEOPLE JUST LOVE P-P-[POP!]ING OUT OF NNNOWHERE AND F-F[ree samples!]ING WITH PEOPLE, [don't you-]?" Is that his voice? Is that what he sounds like? "I HHHATE YOU, A-[all] OF YOU. YOU H-HAVVE FFFIVE SECONDS BEFORE I-I-I SSSUMMON A [hhired help] TO K-KICK YOUR A[stronomical prices!] TO THE CURB." There's an ugly feeling like a worm writhing about in his chest. He sounds ridiculous! The more he tries to force back the stammering, the worse it gets. What did this bumbrained fuckface do to him?

"I was hired to safely remove the AdBlock your 'landlords' so erroneously installed into you, so good luck. If they had done their research, I wouldn't even be here, so blame them. Addison or not, AdBlocks-"

"I AMM N-NOT. AN ADDISSON," Spamton hisses, hatred prickling under his skin. He had never been an Addison, no matter what his coding said. He was a prototype, designed not for success, but to model its image. To call him an Addison would be a mockery to his life's work. You don't see him lying about his services, now do you? Certainly not like an Addison would, where they advertise an AdBlock removal and they fuck up your speech features instead, because seriously, HOW IN THE HOPPING HELL DO YOU MANAGE THAT?!

"No, you're not; you're just a bitter a[**]hole." It was said casually, matter-of-factly, as though there hadn't been an interruption.. "One whose health was endangered because your employers were careless. Please, forgive me for rectifying their mistake and caring enough to mitigate their cause of concern."

Spamton opens his mouth to argue -- Care? You never cared when I was thrown out onto the streets. You Addisons don't have a string of care in your bodies! -- before he processes what was said. He pauses, blinks, then clicks his mouth shut, scowling. So, what, the bumbling salesman before him had actually fixed something? This is what he sounded like without adverts forcing their way up his throat, crowding his speech, choking him all the damn time? There was no way he actually sounded like this, was there? He was- he sounded ridiculous! A bumbling fool! He couldn't... there was no way he... was this his voice?

It was utterly hateful how he had no room to complain when the work the Addison done actually... helped. Gag. Obviously, it was going to want something in return. He could read between the lines; removing a glitch was not the same as removing an AdBlock. That had been overtime, and overtime expects compensation.

The Addison hums as if affirming something for itself. Spamton seethes. "WH-WHAT DO YOU WWWANT?" He grits out, because it absolutely had not done this out of the kindness of its heart. Addisons didn't have hearts to pull kindness out of.

Its eyes narrow at the question, and a smidge of exhaustion makes itself apparent on its face. The corner of its lip twitches, but it says nothing, only looking at him blankly. As the quiet grows, so too does Spamton's unease, and he's about to start demanding for an answer when its pants pocket buzzes. The Addison pulls out its phone, ignoring him, and Spamton is left, offended, to silently fume. Talk about unprofessional! Had no one taught this moron to prioritize the more pressing matters at hand (e.g. this entire fucking interaction)?

After a few moments of pondering its screen, the Addison's eyes flick up to him, back down to its phone, and then back to him. It sighs, turning off its phone and sliding it back into its pocket, before leaning forward to rest its elbows on its knees with its hands clasped beneath its chin. It fixes him with a steely glare, Spamton fighting the urge to shrink back, and asks, in a voice that could just barely be described as light, "Do you remember Auctionelle?"

'God, I got the proportions all wrong, my client is going to sue me!'

Spamton shivers at the sudden memory, then clenches his jaw. This was another Addison trick: catch the victim off guard with some nonsense that serves to distract from the fine print. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" He enunciates darkly, teeth grit, resisting the slimy salesman's scheme. The eye contact between the two has turned into a battle of wills -- Spamton sports a murderous glare, which his opposition meets with cold scrutiny. A moment is spent in strained, hateful silence, before his opponent pulls out a tabbook, looking away. Smug satisfaction swells in Spamton's chest, which he may or may not show off with the smallest grin. His victory is short-lived, however, as it means his adversary has deigned to finally calculate his check. He's about to find out the cost he won at.

It only takes a moment of typing and swiping before the Addison is separating a tab from its digital ledger and passing it off to Spamton. Scoffing, he tugs the check out of its hand and into his lap for thorough scanning. The bastard's picture stares at him from the corner of the hologram, albeit a bit more round-faced and smiley -- an old photo, then --, and in the center, contact information. The name on top reads 'Auctionelle, OModel_012'.

He blinks. Tries to scroll through the tab; there's nowhere to scroll. Huffs. This isn't a check, he thinks. "THI-THIS IS A [busines] CARD." It almost comes off as a question.

The Addison seems oblivious to his confusion. "It's my cousin's," it responds, calmly tucking its tabbook back into its inventory. "She was one of your associates way back when. I want you to call her when you can."

"ARE-AREN'T YOU G-GOING TO [Charged] ME?" He blurts out before he can help it. He may have just reminded it had it forgotten, like a teacher's pet waiting for homework. Idiot.

"Why would I charge you? You didn't hire my services." It stands as it says this, dusting wrinkles off its shirt.

"I-"

"The Tasque Manager hired me for this particular endeavor. Now that I'm done, I am entitled to collect a paycheck. Excuse me." It walks to the door to knock a finger thrice upon its surface. Seconds later, the door opens to reveal a Swatchling, who must have been standing in wait just outside. Addison and Swatchling alike share a curt nod, and then the Swatchling is stepping aside to make room for the Addison to pass. There is a brief moment when the Swatchling glances at Spamton in trepidation, and then the two are gone, the door clicking shut behind them. Silence settles in the room.

Spamton is once again alone.

Spamton is skulking about in the kitchen.

He's gathering ingredients -- for what, it doesn't know -- and dashing out of sight whenever a member of staff gets too close to him. No one is paying him any real mind, though -- no one present has instructions to ensure he keeps to his room, so they just ignore him and go about their business. It's likely the higher ups don't know he's out and about even though he's supposed to be on bedrest, otherwise it would be a whole other story in here. Silent condolences are spared for whoever was assigned his handler.

Iris watches his antics from the corner of its eye as it finishes up with the dishes. Another Swatchling walks by to deposit a tray of dirty tableware, and Iris nods to it in acknowledgement; it's in that moment that it loses track of Spamton.

Wait, no, there he is. He's climbing out of the tupperware cabinet with a big plastic bowl, his ingredients stashed inside. He’s remarkably capable for only having one arm.

The glimpses of Spamton that Iris catches in between moments of its work all say that he's trying to cook something, though his chosen ingredients aren't familiar to any recipe that Iris knows. At some point, he's gotten a pot filled with water, and is now attempting to slide it onto a stove; he's too short to simply place it on top, and he has to hug the pot to his chest to hold it. In his endeavor to get this pot onto the stovetop, he bumps into a vase that's sitting on a burner, causing a thrill of anxiety to race up the spine of every Swatchling present when it wobbles violently then topples off. The Swatchling nearest him dives to catch it before it can shatter on the tile, and Spamton bolts, leaving his pot too close to the edge for comfort. Replacing the vase, the ruffled butler takes a moment nudge the pot fully onto a burner before walking off. Spamton slinks back into view not long after.

It's when he starts climbing onto the stove that Iris decides to step in. Wringing a dry washcloth between its hands, it hurries over to him before he can knock something over again. Spamton notices its approach and, predictably, tries to make a run for it. Unlucky for him, he's not in a position to do so: his one hand is gripping the coils of a burner to keep him steady, and his knees are stationed atop the handle of the oven door. The instant he starts pulling himself up, he puts too much weight on his knees: this added weight, in turn, causes the oven door to fall open. Spamton would have likely smacked his head on the floor had Iris not caught him.

"Are you aware that the butler that waits hand-on-foot just outside your door takes meal requests?" It asks as Spamton tries to squirm out of its grip. "There's really no reason for you to be in here." He's flailing like an unhappy Tasque at this point, so Iris releases him and watches him scurry off.

When he's out of sight, it turns its attention to the items Spamton has gotten out, from the pot of water he was trying to boil, to the bowl of raw ingredients sitting off to the side. Pulling a recipe book from its inventory, it sets to work making a dish that uses as many of the provided ingredients as possible: everything else gets put back, and anything else that is needed gets taken out.

It can feel Spamton's heated glare on its back as it works. It's possible he doesn't like Iris having taken over for him, but what is he going to do? He won't come anywhere near a Swatchling, and besides, Swatch said he wasn't allowed to handle food, anyway.

There's a wonderful jammin'-balaya sitting in a pot by the time Iris is done, though the Swatchling is nowhere to be seen to take responsibility for it.

The rice dish has been packed into a tupperware bowl -- sealed with a lid -- and left on the counter with only a napkin-wrapped fork for company. On the napkin, were anyone to unfurl it, is a note in small, neat lettering, which reads:

Mister Spamton,  

Glad you're feeling better. Call for medical     

 assistance if this dish triggers any allergies.    

Please refrain from using the kitchen again. :) 

~Iris, of the Queen's staff                                  

Printed on the bottom of the napkin are the words 'HAVE A COLORFUL DAY FROM THE COLOR CAFE!'

Chapter Text

"What year would this make you?" Auctionelle asks from beside him. The orange Addison is wearing one of her homemade outfits, a slim fitting getup Spamton would much rather not ogle when she's just asked him a question.

"Fifteen," he answers, throwing a quick glance at the long-sleeved, plum-colored tank top hugging her chest before meeting her eyes. They're a rich brown, like fresh loam or something, a lovely compliment to the honey orange hue of her silicone. She really is gorgeous, even more so with that smile on her face. It's the kind of smile reminiscent of waking up on a cold morning wrapped up tight in a thick blanket. 

It's warm. She's warm.

"Sh[**], really?" Their friend Baitty pipes up, distracting Spamton from his sappy thoughts. He's on the ground, lying on his side like a model atop a car, one hand supporting his head while the other lazily twirls a finger through his ponytail. "F[***] man, you're old." He giggles, high.

Their other friend, Bannerd, directs a sullen glare at Baitty that the pink Addison fails to notice. "Not old," they declare loudly, head tilted to the sky as if announcing it the world. Bannerd is also high. "He's experienced, he's been around longer than any of us, he knows the world." His eyes brighten as though he's come across some mind boggling revelation, and the blue Addison reaches over his crossed legs to pull Spamton close. "Spammy, Spammy, dude, you have to tell me," they say, their face the most serious Spamton's ever seen it. "Were you and Queen together way back when?"

It makes no sense, but Spamton chokes on a laugh at the image anyway -- Queen, who is a billion years older than him and who would absolutely crush him under her sexy boot-heels if she knew what he was imagining, dating him. It's absurd, and he shoves Bannerd away and -- over the chorus of his friends' laughter, because the idea of Head Honcho Queen dating Total Nobody Spamton must be funny to them, too -- calls out to Clickard.

The yellow Addison is grilling scamburgers, and not very well. Originally, the five of them had planned on bringing takeout to their picnic, but Clickard had the bright idea of grilling their food, to make it "especially special". He'd insisted on doing it himself, and was now paying for it with burnt patties, going off of the smell. They all knew he had never handled food a day in his life; everyone had expected disastrous results, and Clickard had delivered.

Spamton calls out for him again when it seemed he hadn't heard him. The laughter has died down into conversation by now.

Clickard twists his head to glare at Spamton, a scowl on his face. "What?" He snaps. "I'm trying to save your burgers."

Auctionelle butts in for Spamton with a good-natured scoff, and he hears her shift about behind him. Suddenly, her arms are loosely wrapped around his neck and she's hanging off of him, her hair just about brushing his lips. He thinks he can smell the product keeping it tidy, and he's half-tempted to draw her closer and press a kiss to her temple. She's not one for PDA, though. "There's no saving them, Click," she's saying, and then she's laughing at a face Clickard must be making. Her laugh is beautiful. "There isn't! Hey, it's fine, just slap some buns on 'em and come sit with us. God, you never stop working."

"Eugh, fine, but someone needs to take the patties over. I'll have my hands full with everything else."

"I've got it," Spamton offers, patting at Auctionelle's shoulder to signal for his release. He already misses her touch by the time he's up and moving. Clickard makes a show of gagging as Spamton walks up to take the tray patties from him.

"What?" Spamton bites, though he knows why his friend did it. Sue him, for being hopelessly in love with the only girl to give him a chance.

"Nothing." The other Addison shrugs in a way that suggests it's anything but. "Just... I've never seen anyone pine so much over someone they're dating."

"It's called being a loving and caring partner, Click. I'm gonna dote on her. You did the same with that Payton fella." They've slowed down on their way back to the group, not that the others have noticed. Auctionelle and Bannerd are too busy measuring how high they can pour wine into Baitty's mouth without spilling.

"That's different," Clickard retorts, grimacing. The two had broken up after Payton had gotten involved in a pyramid scheme. "I- we- you act like she's gonna drop you at the earliest convenience if you so much as mildly irritate her. It's okay to loosen up around your girlfriend, Spamton! How long have you been dating? Five months?" They stop walking.

Spamton refrains from correcting him. It's been eight months, really, but the first three months had been a trial period. "She's the best thing to happen to me!" He insists. They had agreed to keep their relationship a secret until they were ready to commit. It had been the most stressful three months of his life, toeing the line between casual and serious. "I don't want to f[***] it up."

"With the way she looks at you? You'd have to f[***] up real bad for that to go away. Hell, a f[***] up that big would probably mean the end of all of your relationships." Clickard is chuckling at the impossible notion, and looks to Spamton to see if the laughter has caught on. It hasn't. Spamton is quiet and sullen, so Clickard's smile drops.

"Hey, forget it," he tries amending, kicking at his friend's shin. The white Addison scowls at the action. "It's none of my business. Let's get this food to the others and start the celebration, already. For Queen's sake, you're fifteen! You'll fade away before anyone's even made their burger." He smirks, trying to coax out another smile. He catches one on Spamton's face before it's smothered in a scoff.

"Queen is three times my age, I'm not that old!"

Clickard, mirth in his eyes, goes to budge against Spamton, but the other sees it coming and steps out of the way. That step turns into a stumble when his ankle buckles, and for a terrifying second, it looks like he's about to upend all the patties onto his person. Clickard would point and laugh at him if he wasn't full up on cargo of his own

"You're so old," he says through a shit-eating grin, watching Spamton irritably shake out his foot. "Happy upload anniversary, dude."

Auctionelle had broken up with him three months after that day.

It's the first thing he remembers upon waking up. He had been making plans for their one-year anniversary one second, and the next, they had gone back to being friends. It had been a quiet, underwhelming affair, that had left Spamton wondering if there had been anything there to call a relationship in the first place. Their friendship had felt the same as it had before. Hell, it had felt like a friendship during -- no wonder they broke up.

And now here he was, a lifetime later, staring at her business card on his bedside table.

Do you remember Auctionelle. Not in the way most others remembered people. He remembered the feel of her, sure; that honey-warm happiness, both sweet and suffocating, that permeated every memory he had of her. But her face? Her voice? The touch of her lips against his? Not a chance. He can't even remember if she had done anything special with her hair that day, or if she had done anything special with her hair ever.

Why did I keep it? he thinks with a scowl. He slides out of bed to get ready for the day. It's not like I'm ever going to use it. There's a bowtie clipped to his shirt before he remembers the Stickler Twins' policy on uniforms, and it's reluctantly swapped out for a tie. I want nothing to do with her. He will never not be embarrassed with needing to wear velcro shoes like some uncoordinated Lightner child. He was... how old was he?

He stops short at buttoning up his ugly red jacket. If memory served right, he turned fifteen in...

Memory does not serve right; he's drawing a blank. Best put that thought to the side for now.

Loathe as he is to go, the clock above his door reads "Time for Work!" with a winking Queen for punctuation, and he'd much rather not have Swatch send up one of their lackeys to retrieve him. Worse yet, Swatch themself, or the Tasque Manager. He's half expecting one of them to be outside the door when he steps out, and has never been so relieved to see an empty hallway when he does.

How old am I? 

The thought sits heavy in his stomach.

***

The staff -- save for him, though he's regrettably a part of their number -- disperse to their work stations following the Morning Bootup Routine; a tedious procedure, really. What did staff morale matter, or Mansion statistics, on that hand? Even with Tasque Manager overseeing the whole thing, it was just corporate hogwash with Queen in charge, anyway. At the end of the meeting, employees were assigned their jobs for the day, and honestly, their mornings would run much smoother if that was all it was.

Spamton had not been assigned a job.

Not one he was legally obligated to, anyway. "Queen's Escort", whatever that meant, was outside the parameters of his job description. As stated in his contract (which he had read extensively upon discovering it was actually a royal order), his work and his living accommodations were to be kept strictly to the Mansion grounds. He couldn't go two feet outside before his stupid boundary program activated, something his "employers" had doublechecked to make sure was safe to install before installing. He had tried to breach the boundary once -- just once, just to see what would happen. Suffice to say, he wouldn't be going outside again, but from the sounds of it, this "Queen's Escort" business was something outside. For people who's Terms of Service stated they remain inside, that was a problem.

"--and no giving her grief, is that clear?" The Tasque Manager finishes with whatever spiel she had been on, as if Spamton hadn't tuned her out the whole time. It was probably about his job, seeing as he was the only one left in the room she could give directions to, but her lectures were just so boring. He'd fallen asleep waiting for customers in his dump shop less than he had listening to her talk.

"[Crystal]," he grins out, tone just hostile enough that she couldn't get after him for being snappish. He's lost on what to do, but he's not about to ask a question that would expose his inattention to her little speech, lest she launch into another one about the importance of "listening ears", or something. Not like he'd been the head of a major company back in the day, or anything. Not like employee etiquette was coded into his database.

She scrutinizes him for a minute. He pretend-scrutinizes her right back. Satisfied, she beckons him to follow.

"The car is waiting on the side of the road. Assuming you still know how to drive, merging into traffic shouldn't be too much of a problem."

Spamton is intimately familiar with this part of the Mansion -- it was en route to the hidden switch that unlocked the path to the basement. It was nowhere close to leading outside, unless...

"YOU D-DIDN'T [Click to Confirm] WITH ME, BECAU-BECAUSE...?" The sound of stampeding feet grows steadily louder the closer they get to their destination. Spamton tries to ignore the excitement bubbling up inside him. Just ahead, if he strains to look, he can just make out the blurred, red shapes of what he knows to be cungadero speeding by. If she means what he thinks she means...

"Frankly, I want to keep interactions with you to a minimum," is the Tasque Manager's response, which... points for honesty, he supposes. "But besides that, I remember a few of your basement attempts involving cars. Mostly crashing, yes, but you had to have gotten them here somehow. I have faith that your driving is better than Queen's, at least." That is, surprisingly, the nicest thing he's heard said to him in a long time. He doesn't like how it makes him feel. "You clean up nice, by the way." She doesn't look at him when she says it, and there's no trace of emotion on her face, but he has the strangest feeling that she's talking about his tie. On God, if she's talking about his tie, he will strangle her with it.

The roar of racing cungadero drowns out all other sound as they reach the indoor-leading-outdoor highway. Just as the Tasque Manager said, there's a car -- some boxy, polished black model -- waiting for them on an empty lane that merges into the highway. He can faintly make out a shape lounging in the passenger's seat, and it dawns on him just what exactly today's job entails. 

Driving. A car. He gets to drive a car! How long has it been since he last enjoyed the rumble of the road beneath him, wind in his hair, a leather wheel in his hands? He hasn't been in the driver's seat of a good car in ages -- those scrap buckets he had run into the Mansion walls in the past had performed admirably, but their function on the road had long since rusted away. He had given them their last hurrah, but this... this was a babe. They were going to let him drive this? There would be nothing stopping him from taking off like a Tasque on fire. He would drive off with this beauty and start a new life somewhere. This was... he'd just have to kick out whoever was in the passenger's seat, because this ride was his.

"Your PerimeterLock program will be deactivated for the duration of your time outside," he hears the Tasque Manager say, which, yeah, he supposes that would stop him. Damn it. "If there is any problem, Queen will notify us and it will be reactivated. Do you remember what happens to you outside Mansion grounds when it's on?" As if Spamton needs a reminder. He stretches a fake, full-toothed smile onto his face in confirmation. Goddammit. "Wonderful."

They reach the car, and his escort has only just opened the door for him before he's being ushered into the driver's seat. Queen, he finds, is reclined in the passenger's seat, a sleep mask pulled over her eyes- screen- visual input? Whatever. He's so distracted by this that he doesn't notice he's been handcuffed to the steering wheel until he goes to buckle himself in. His hand hovers uselessly in the air from where it's pulled the chain taut, and wordlessly, he looks to the Tasque Manager in exasperation. Her hands also hover uselessly, just above the wheel, as she meets his look with thinned lips. Keeping the silence, she leans over to buckle him in.

"I H-HAVE WW-[1] ARM. HOW DO- HOW DO YOU [Expect nothing less from-!] MME TO DRIVE LIKE THIS?" She bites her lip at the question, but only ducks out of the car in response.

"You'll be fine," she states, though she doesn't entirely sound like she believes it. "You- it's a safety precaution. With your," she breathes, "violent tendencies, we thought it best to ensure you kept your hands- hand... to yourself." As he opens his mouth to ask what the hell that's supposed to mean, she continues. "The key is in the ignition, and Queen will give you any directions you might need. Drive safely, and efficiently." She spares one last look to the oblivious Queen, expression unreadable, before leaving. She misses out on watching Spamton struggle to maneuver the wheel to reach the key. She likely doesn't miss the sound of the car starting up when he succeeds, though.

He's not quite done yet, however; there's just one more, small problem he needs to get out of the way. The car is parked. The gear stick is to his right, between the seats. His left hand is cuffed to the steering wheel.

He can't reach the gear stick.

The chain is too short for the turn-the-wheel-and-stretch trick. He entertains the idea of using his stump to shift gears, but the action proves so wildly uncomfortable that he immediately stops. Queen is still sleeping in the front seat like the fucking bum she is, absolutely useless. He sits in dismayed silence, resenting the choices he's made that have led to this point, and then... he remembers his feet.

It takes a lot of maneuvering, cursing, and the weird looks of a Swatchling replacing a painting from across the room, before he's able to wrap his ankles around the gear stick.

He kicks Queen after he gets the car into drive, because fuck her. You snooze, you lose. She jerks awake with a bit-crushed snort, and as she moves to take her mask off, Spamton hustles back into sitting properly. He had to do that anyway, since he needed his foot on the brake if he didn't want the car rolling. Catching his breath, he watches the Swatchling across the way return to its work.

"Heavens," Queen is saying, which spurs him into tapping the gas and pushing the car to the end of the lane. "I Fell: Asleep. Waiting For You." She looks at him as if it was his fault. "What Was The Delay (You Took Forever)." Her visor reads "LYING". "LOL Whatever. We Are En Route Now. Awesome Sauce(s)." Listening to her talk grinds his nerves. She's always had an irritating way of speaking, how in God's name can anyone stand this woman? He wants to kick her again.

There's silence as they wait for traffic to let up. Queen leans forward in her seat at some point to look at him with those weird "at sign" eyes she has occasionally, lips pursed. Spamton does not like the "at sign" eyes. Spamton ignores her.

"Merge Now," she pipes up out of nowhere. She's shifted about so that her back lies against the dashboard, her legs hanging over the back of her seat. With her head tilted back, she's watching the road upside down.

Spamton balks, casting her a stink-eye. "WHA- WHERE? TH-THERE IS NNO SPAC[ious Apartments For] TO MMERGE!" If traffic were slower, there could be, but as it stands, they are sure to crash if he tries merging now. He wouldn't be able to accelerate fast enough to match the speed of the other cars in time.

"Sure There Is!" His passenger rolls her head towards him, and there's laughter spelled across her visor. She's rolling her wrist, for some reason. "I Have Done This Before. Calculating..." A throbber spins in her eyes. He waits, befuddled, for her to elaborate. "Two Times. I Have Done This Two Times Before. It's Really Quite Simple, Just: Do It."

Before he can point out that there's a reason she's not the one driving, the car jerks forward. His foot slips off the break, he nearly skewers his nose on the horn, and the car starts speeding up. In fact, it is rapidly speeding up. It has cut through all lanes of traffic already, and from the looks of it, it's looking to acquaint itself with the side door of a fast-approaching cungadero.

Spamton swerves. He straightens into a lane, narrowly avoiding a collision, and about slams on the breaks to avoid rear-ending the cungadero in front of him. The car picks up speed again when the crisis has been avoided.

There is the sound of drums in his ears, which hammer out Queen's whooping and hollering. His fingers, from their death grip on the wheel, refuse to unclench. Dazed, he glances down at his feet -- only glances, he still has to watch the road -- and finds a cursor arrow shoved up against the accelerator. Seeing it, an emotion bubbles up that he's too spiked up on adrenaline to identify. He's seething, that much he knows for sure, and he would have definitely thrown a pipis at Queen's face if his hand wasn't glued to the wheel right now, but there's a bit too much terror for it to be proper anger.

The arrow bursts into pixels when he jams a foot into it. He ignores the jerk of the car when he does so.

Gritting his teeth, he asks where he's driving.

"Oh, They're Some Old Friends Of Yours: My Cameras Caught Them Escorting You (To The Basement). The Night You Joined My Staff." He feels ice wash over him.

Those... kids? What for? If he's gotten them in trouble, they'll join the long list of names of people who hate him. They were only escorts, anyway! Queen continues. "Those Funny Little Music Men? Them." Her smile is dopey and loose, as if she isn't presenting him on a silver platter to his enemies.

"THEY D[DID]N'T KNOW ANYTHING," he blurts out. If he can point the blame away from them, they wouldn't have reason to come after him. He was so tired of being made to make up for his mistakes.

Queen is looking at him with question marks in her eyes.

He continues. "THHEY ONLY W-[It's a walk in the park!]ed ME THROU-OUGH. I DI-DIDN'T TELL THEM WHAT-WHAT[what] FFOR." There's a faint, pulsing blur at the edge of his vision, and he has to breathe deeply to slow the beating of his heart. His exit is coming up. He'll miss it if he doesn't make it over soon, but there isn't any room to switch lanes.

"Oh Yes!" Queen chirps, far too chipper. "They Said As Much When We Tracked Them Down (For Questioning). They Were: 100% Cooperative, For Rebels."

His hand shakes from its grip on the wheel. His exit is coming up.

Queen looks to the road. "Our Exit Is Coming Up In: 2900 Feet. With The Speed You're Going, You Should: Get Over," she says, distracted, as if he doesn't know. He knows, but he can't- there's no space. 

He flicks on the indicator. There's no space. Is the heater on? It's hard to breathe.

"2000 Feet." Thank you, Queen. She's back to lounging face-forwards in her chair. "Hit The Cars If You Must. They Don't Mind."

He-

...

Hit them?

...

Really?

"800 Feet. Allow Me." Out of nowhere, Queen grabs hold of the wheel and sharply veers towards their exit. Spamton would scream if his voice didn't just catch in the back of his throat. As it stands, he can only work to fight back a heart attack as they plow through traffic as though it were water. The cungadero squeak as they bounce off the hood and go flying. Queen laughs maniacally all the while, and at the end of it all, surrenders the wheel back to him.

They make their exit, splitting off from the highway onto a road that leads to the Cyber Fields. The instant he can, he pulls over and stomps on the brake, the car screeching to a halt. His seatbelt nearly decapitates him, and Queen's head crashes onto the dashboard, but... but he's got time to breathe. He's got time to breathe, so he breathes, big gulps of stale air as he rests his head on the wheel. It's not enough. He's filling up from his stomach to his chest with air, and it's not enough. His heart is pounding. His eyes are burning. There's a muffled voice in his ears, and he doesn't have enough air.

They're going to hurt you, someone whispers, a twisted promise infecting his thoughts. You slipped up, and they're going to hurt you.

A hand comes down on his shoulder, squeezing, and he throws himself against the car door to throw it off. "[HANDS OFF THE MERCHANDISE]," he spits. He makes eye contact with Queen's cracked visor. "YOU- YOU F[Fifty Percent Off!] BROAD, YOU BRAINLESSSSSCRAP." Her visor sparks, and she looks utterly confused. "WH-WH-WHAT ARE YOU DOING

"YOU DOING

"YOU DOING, ANYWAY?

"ARE YOU TR-TRYING TO [Killed] ME? SAVE THAT FOR THE- THE- THE [no good]HOODLUMS WE'RE DRIVING TO VISIT, THEY'LL DO IT FFOR YOU [FOR FREE!!]!" He bursts into laughter, and can't seem to stop. "WHAT, ON- ON TOP OF INDENTURED S[servise]TUDE, YOU WANT ME DOING SOME KKIND OF [make it up to you by]? IS THAT WHAT THIS IS?" His vision has gone spotty with stress. "F-FIND THE PEOPLE I'VE [screws]ED OVER AND... AND LET THEM [[BEAT]] [[BEAT]] [[BEATTHESEDEALSAND]] MY NOSE IN? GREAT! YOU'D- YOU'D HAVE BEEN BETTER OFF THROWING ME BACK IN-" No. "Those kids didn't- DIDN'T EVEN DO ANYTHING! WHAT ARE THEY GETTING [$%X!] FOR? YOU--"

He's lost his train of thought. He's also lost the train station, as the whole of his conscious mind has abruptly stopped working. A blink, and his vision starts to dim. He doesn't know to process that he's shutting down before he's already unconscious.

Chapter Text

The first thing she does is call Tasque Manager.

Well, the first non-pressing thing, at least. When Spamton conks out, she is without a driver, and with a headache blaring behind her screen, she thinks she's even less qualified to drive than she was before. Also, there's a timer of sorts that had started up somewhere in her system... something about the car? Yeah, so it's best that they leave.

She walks out, walks around, unbuckles Spamton, uncuffs--

Well, tries to uncuff. She doesn't have the key, so she just ends up breaking the chain--

Uncuffs Spamton, carries him out, and then... then she calls Tasque Manager, despite the strain it causes on her CPU. Because she's done with the "shouldn't even be a priority, it should just be done" list, and is now moving on to the "do first" list. The rest of the list she just makes up as she goes.

Today's appointment with those music men is... somewhere, on that list.

The call goes through, and questions meet her on the other end of the line, echoing like reverb in her head. Yes, she's alright. No, Spamton hadn't done anything wrong, and actually, could you turn his PerimeterLock off again? Yeah, she's sure. Yes, she's fine. Talking funny? That's Spamton's thing. Yeah, she had him right here--(this she says as she turns to looks at him. He's lying sprawled out across the grass, unconscious, as she'd left him. Carrying him out had been easier than she had thought, he weighed practically nothing). The car? It was--

From where it's been innocently parked on the roadside, smoke starts to crawl out from beneath the car's hood, just as her mysterious timer hits zero.

Yes, so, if someone could swing by to pick them up, that would be--

The car explodes. Mystery solved.

A tire flies past her head and, wow, that's a big fire. Weren't these cars designed to explode with nothing remaining? What she saw before her looked to be a major design flaw... that, or she didn't know how explosions worked. She'd have to bring it up with the manufacturer.

"That Would Be Great," she finishes, but the call has already ended. Funny, had she hung up without noticing? Unless the other end had hung up first...

No, no! As Queen, only she was allowed to hang up first. The signal must have just cut out!

Besides that, there is a, uh... a reminder. Pinging around somewhere in her processors, telling her she's going to be late, that she has business to attend to. The phone thing isn't important, but her next destination is, so she scoops up a ragdoll Spamton, pressing him into her side for extra security, and walks. He's limp, loose, hanging from her arm like a wet towel. 

Come to think of it, there had been some towels back then, too, and he had been just as lifeless. One to wipe him down, another to swaddle him, but both were discarded when the smell couldn't be washed out afterwards. Had she carried him then, too? Her nose burns at the memory even now, at the acrid, burning stench of--

Of all the times for the car to explode! She--hefting Spamton higher up her hip at the thought--is fairly certain that it hadn't been primed to blow for at least another mile or so... at least, if she remembered right. Damned headache. Sure, the plan had been to get in her required steps for the day, but starting from this far would surely exceed that amount.

She stops to ponder this. Should she have Spamton carry her the rest of the way, whenever it was he decided to wake up? Or, no, he'd be too short. He squirms in time with the thought, and she tightens her hold to keep him from falling. Yeah, he'd end up needing to drag her if they went with that route. So then, what, just wait for another car and risk being late? Spamton flails.

"L-LET ME GO, WOMAN!"

She drops him.

"Wonderful!" she says over his cursing, apropos of nothing. "I Require Your Input On A. C0nundRum. I Am Facing."

"WHAT DID--?"

His question fizzles into a whine, and she continues on to outline her dilemma, brainstorm solutions, responsible things like that; never mind that Spamton doesn't have his six senses (or however the phrase goes) to offer. Hearing no objections, she goes to pick him up--to demonstrate what she needs him to do--but he steps away! Sets quite a distance, actually!

There's a pop of static, and the sounds of the world around her burst into clarity. "YOU MUST BE LOOSER THAN A BOX OF-OF SCREWS!--IF YOU THINK I'MMLLETTING YYOU [carrier] ME," he's hissing, and oh, Oh dear. That hadn't been a good sign. She needs to sit down.

"IT IS PEPRO-PERPOSS-PEPP-UGH, [Ridiculus] THAT YOU... ARE... W-WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW?"

"Running Diagnostics."

He throws his hand up, turning away in a show of frustration. "WONDERFUL. [[w]]WONDERFUL. HER M-MAJESTY OF TH'CYBER WORLD IS [[Lieing]] ON TH-THE GROUND, RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS." He pivots back again to point her an accusatory finger. "HOW DO-HOW DO YOU GET ANYTHING [Click DONE]?"

She sits up. "I Calculate: Down To The M1nuT3. 0f Every Day. What Needs To Be Done When." Spamton looks unsettled. A sudden shift in tone can do that to a person, she supposes. "I Can't Do 3VeRyth1ng Myself. I d0N't Do Everything Myself. I Set The Work: My Peons Do The Work: It Works BeC@use 1T Ne3ds To." Queen moves to stand up, but her vision fuzzes out, and she finds herself on her back again. Spamton watches, judging. Hesitantly, he redirects:

"YOU'RE T-TALKING A LITTLE FF[FUNNY BONE] THERE."

"That Is: 'Y0uR Thing'," she remembers quipping, and she laughs. A finger twitches. "No. I Beli3ve. Some Jiggy Of Sorts: CamE L00se. When I Hit My Head (Earlier)."

"S-SO I SUP-P-POSE I'M IN DEEP SHI-[@~#?] NOW."

She smiles, rolling onto her side and propping her head up. What a fucking headache. "N0 No, You Aren't. Honest Mistake--1T's. What Happened? You Went All CR@--" Something in her sparks, and she spasms. "Cray Cray!" Ow.

"What happened?" He either didn't notice, or gracefully chose to ignore it. "I F-FOUND OUT I WAS D[Driving Around-]DRIVING TO MY OWN... BEATDOWN IS WHAT HAPPENED!" That was... huh. Not true. "WWORKING FOR YOU IS HUMILIATING ENOUGH, N-NOW I'M BEING [Pass It Around] AROUND LIKE SSOME PI- PA - PIÑATA? SSEE WHO CAN [puntch] HIM THE HAR-HARDEST? I HAD ENOUGH OF THAT FROM YOUR BU--!" Ah.

"Why," she interjects, talking over him. She pillows her head to lay it on the grass. "You Come t0; Th3 Silliest Conclusions." He shuts up at that, though he looks quite offended for having done so.

She motions for Spamton to sit beside her, to explain this to him. Her video resolution has just dropped in quality, and from where he's standing, he's nothing but a smear of pixels. She'd rather properly see the person she's talking to, but stubbornly, he stays where he is. Well. Nothing she can do about that.

"Why Would I H1re Someone To Beat You uP--," she says, rolling back into being flat on the ground.

"I DIDN'T SAY--"

"Wh3N 1 Could Do It Myself? You Make: 0 Cents."

He sputters, definitely making some absurd face she wish she could see. To continue--

"And Besides, We'll Be There: On Business! Only Business. It Would Be... T0tal1y rUdE, To...," She hears a grumble, then movement. "Beat You Up 1N 4 Business Meeting. You Were A Business Man (Once)." A shadow slips into view--shifting her head reveals a peeved Spamton looming over her--and her smile morphs into a grin, teeth and all. Brash as he was, it appeared he couldn't hold a conversation without eye contact--relatable, and something she knows he knows she predicted. "You'd Kn0w." You can take the salesman out of the sale...

His scowl only deepens, and he makes the choice to plant his fist on his hip. It's probably meant to look imposing, but seeing as he's Spamton and she's Queen, he just looks silly. "AND W-WHAT BUSINESS WOULD TTHIS BE?"

"NEgot14tions," she replies, crossing her arms behind her head. Doing so hurts, but she's nothing if not the picture of nonchalance. Gotta own up to the image. "A Collab 0F sS- 0rttS--"

"[seriusly], DO YOU H-HAVE A VVIRUS?"

"Hush. Your F F Familiarity With These."

He looks ready to argue, but stops. Waits. Lifts a brow.

Waits another moment.

"THESE WHAT?" There's a delay between his mouth moving and his voice talking.

He looks irritated.

"QUEEN."

"Char4cters! You'11 Be sUper Helpful. Trust." She reaches up a hand to pat at his cheek, let him know his worth, but her depth perception has chosen not to cooperate with her. He may sneer--at least, that's what she thinks his face is doing--but at least Spamton has the grace to only gently push her hand off his nose.

"THERE'SSSOMETHING [ring! ring!] WITH YOU, AND I'M. Not. GETTING IN HOT SH[**] FOR IT." There's something like concern in the bit-crush of his voice. "WHERE'S THE NEARES-the nearest phhone?"

She gestures vaguely towards where she last registered the car's location. There's one built into the dashboard. Before he goes, though, she has to tell him something, something relevant. She can't though. She's going to, she'll be--

"Rebooting."

Her visuals cut to black, and there's a sigh above her. "Great."

He regrets that she's only rebooting as he watches the light leave her eyes.

Then he turns towards the vaguely-gestured-to location of the car, and starts wishing it wasn't just a reboot.

Back during his mansion days, he had been the face of the car industry--a practical monopolist, so to speak. Anyone that was anybody wouldn't dare peril the trouble of traffic unless it was behind the wheel of a Big Shot automobile. It was at this time, when his clientele covered the full spectrum of financial capability, that the higher class demanded for a truly sophisticated car: a car to distinguish their wealth from those of other road-goers. The problem was, his cars had been designed to look sophisticated from the beginning, that even the poorest of folks might feel like a million bucks as they tore down the highway.

He had been faced with a potentially stock-plummeting dilemma. In a desperate, throw-it-hope-it-sticks decision, he took his least successful car, reworked it into a corporate wet dream, and rigged it nose to toes with explosives. If he was going out, it would quite literally be with a bang.

And it had worked.

Those snooty sagsacks liked it. They had turned it into a competition: "You've gone through five cars? Well," they'd boast, "I've been through seven." Reach a certain mileage and boom! It was a riot!

After his fall from grace--from what he'd heard on the streets--the car had become a novelty. With its manufacture discontinued indefinitely, there was no buying a new one when the current one exploded. So, no one drove them anymore.

That decision was now biting him in the ass, as it seemed that didn't apply to Queen. Her ride of choice, ironic enough, was that same fucking car.

He stood beside it now, watching its husk smolder with a feeling similar to watching a Tasque hack up a hairball. It had been designed to explode in a way where nothing remained, and even that couldn't work right for him. He set himself up for failure, he supposes, in creating the damn thing. That said, it's a lucky thing the explosives had malfunctioned; what he's going to do next wouldn't be possible otherwise.

Now that he knows it's his car, he knows where the phone will be. It's unlikely to be intact, but its parts will be of some use to him. So, with a loose metal bar scrounged out of the wreckage, he works to pry electronics out of the dashboard. Some time in, he's electrocuted in trying to disconnect some wires, which meant the battery must still work, which meant he had to handle that first. First first, on second thought, meant waiting out the paralysis in his hand. Frustratingly, the damn thing had locked up with that shock.

***

He has jerry-rigged a working radio. He was right, the phone had been beyond saving. The same could be said for the hideous uniform jacket he'd had to sacrifice for the sake of wrapping up the battery. He hadn't wanted to risk another electrocution when yanking the battery out, and the jacket hadn't been all that comfortable, anyway (shrink down a Swatchling's suit and what do you get? A tight fit). Now, it was too oil-stained and greasy to wear. Surely, his superiors would understand if he wasn't up to uniform policy when someone came to get them.

Pay no mind to the stains all over his white pants. And shirt.

Queen doesn't seem to mind, at least. She's back to... relative normalcy, following her reboot. There was still the issue of her cracked-occasionally-sparking visor that was maybe-probably the cause of her random spasms, but she didn't look too bothered, so it wasn't an immediate concern. As of now, she seemed content to watch him navigate radio frequencies with a gear stick. At least, try to. It was a bastard's work, but he was nothing if not stubborn.

"You Built This."

He pauses, for just a moment, to calculate what she's trying to ask.

"YES," he opts for, bluntly. "OUT OF... W-WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE CAR. NICE TO KNNOW I WAS... DRRIVING A [BIG BOOM!], BY THE WAY. AFTER IT ALREADY EX-PLODED. SO THANKS. BIG [help]."

She only hums, bearing him no mind. Idly, she starts to prod at the contraption, without a care in the world, as if he's not currently in the middle of something. Every button she presses, he unpresses, and every dial she turns, he has to shoo her off to turn it back.

"DO [u] MIND?" he hisses, swatting her hand away from the transmission switch. He debates smashing the radio over her head, just so he can be done with this whole situation. "I'M TRRYING TO WWORK." On one hand, he doesn't need the radio--dispose of Queen, dispose of the evidence, and he's a free man. On the other...

"Very Impressive. The Craft Is: Giving. Big Double(U)."

What would he free himself too? Homelessness? Starvation? All that waited for him on the other side was the hunt.

Queen whoops at a spring popping out of the machine, clearly fascinated, and Spamton is overcome with a feeling like guilt. He doesn't want to go back to the hunt.

"IF YOU'RE D-DONE HAVING [FUN FOR THE WHOLE-]," he spits out, a bitter taste on his tongue, "I..."--and here he grimaces, letting go of the gearstick--"N-NEED YOUR HELP, WWITH SOMETHING."

She turns to him with spasming question marks in her eyes, distracted from a panel she really shouldn't be playing with, and smiles. Her face crinkles with it.

The radio screams static at him for this terrible decision.

"What Can I Help With?" she remarks, cheekily. She scoots closer, as if she's actually eager to assist, and he tries not to let his surprise show. Looking away, he directs her attention to the small screen hanging off the side of the radio. As the only part left to function as a numbers display, the car's digital thermometer screen had been formatted to work with RDS*. It still only read in degrees, though, which was... the best he could do.

He explains this to her with the seriousness of a mechanic training a new employee, and she listens as though she were that employee. "WHAT I-I [knead] FROM YOU," he finishes, "IS TO TUNE IN[2]-TO WHATEVER MMUSIC STATION. THE COLOR-THE CAFE HAS ON. DURING WWORK HOURS. I CAN PA-PATCH THROUGH A MMESSAGE FROM [their]."

"You Can't: Find The Station Yourself? /gen"

His jaw clenches. "NNO."

At his request, she swaps places with him and takes hold of the gear stick ("A Joystick!" she cheerfully supplies). She picks up the screen in her other hand, inspecting it, and then--

Rips it out of the radio.

"WWHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

She plugs the disconnected wires into some ports on the underside of her head as if this were any other Tuesday. The radio screeches.

"WHAT IS WRRONG WITH YOU?!" he wails, clawing for the cords. Was she actually braindead?? "WHAT COULD THAT... P-POSSIBLY HOPE TO [Acchievement]?!" Frustratingly, she's able to fend him off.

Even more frustrating is that she's grinning, toothy and manic. She's enjoying this.

A number pops up on her visor. 92.5. An empty channel.

She turns to him with that same grin. "Convenience," she chirps, and then she's diving into her task, numbers and channel names flashing across her face with each flick of the joy gear stick. It's annoying that he couldn't work in a way to control the volume. Voices, music, and static spit out of the radio in bursts; a cacophony of noise clambers over itself. It drowns itself in its intensity, meshing together into a buzz, before--

Lofi.

"Wow! That Was Terrible," Queen exclaims, loud enough to cut through his stupor. She seems oblivious to this. "I Think I Overshot It Like: 15 Times." He sees the word "Crazy" flicker in her eyes for a brief second. "Wack." She looks to him, waiting. Right.

He blinks, and then flips open the panel Queen had been playing with earlier. Whatever. A nest of cables, buttons, and doohickeys hides underneath, waiting to be arranged at his whim. And that's what he does, tangling his fingers up in the mess and getting to work. Press that and that, cross those--no, that disconnects the sound, try again--spin this, do it again, and, well. That'll probably do the trick.

He flips the transmission switch. There's a warble in the frequency, the music stuttering, and he waits with baited breath. Another moment of stillness, and then the radio hisses.

They're live.

Victory vibrates in his veins, and he has to keep from cheering. Queen is beaming beside him. Taking a steadying breath, Spamton leans in to the built-in microphone.

"GOOD M-MORNING, CYBER WORLD!" he announces. "[We interrupt] THIS BROADCAST TO SHARE A-SH-MESSAGE! WITH ONE HEAD BUTLER [[Eas-]]SSWATCH, OF QUEEN'S MANSION. DO WE HHAVE ANY SWATCHES LISTENING IN?"

Some lovely fanart for chapter 9 from the lovely lokisis on tumblr! Go check them out!