Chapter Text
Nothing could begin without a proper introduction.
At least, according to your hard-ass of a professor, who always took it upon herself to repeat this little motto once per class. This, of course, also happened to be the culminating reason as to why you were delaying the research paper that had been assigned to you two months in advance. It was now a week until the deadline and at most all you had was a vague outline, two paragraphs worth of a rough draft, and a single reference plucked straight from the assigned readings. Oh, and no introduction.
Day in and day out, you'd sit in front of a blank screen, stare at the blinking cursor, and get struck with the dawning realization that you couldn't come up with a single word worth its salt. Whatever half-hearted sentence you'd put down would quickly get the old backspace treatment after you'd read it a hundred times over, take it apart, analyze every word, every syllable, every pause and piece of punctuation—and come back with complete garbage.
It had to be perfect. She had made that abundantly clear. The introduction would pave the way ahead for the rest of the paper, allowing you to maintain a certain air of cohesiveness and clarity. If you didn't stick this landing, she'd be content with labeling it a lost cause and letting your final grade slip effortlessly through her fingers.
Nothing about this was ideal.
But still, you had to try.
You came to the library (librarby according to the sign and no one else) for that exact reason, searching solitude and hoping to finally break this vicious cycle. Realistically, you knew that half of your time would probably be wasted surfing the internet and falling down the occasional rabbit hole, but no one could say that you didn't at least make the attempt to be productive.
You entered the computer lab, far too caught up in your own thoughts to notice the white crack embedded into the green-tiled floor. It was small, practically imperceptible; but what had begun as a small fissure suddenly burst open, tearing apart at the seams of the earth and letting out a column of dark smoke that enveloped everything in its path like a gaping chasm.
It was as though a star had collapsed in on itself.
The large, black maw swallowed you whole, just as easily as it did the light. Vaguely, in the midst of your panic, you couldn't help but think that this would be the closest you'd ever get to something like a black hole; to this unending night; to this inescapable pull. To a darkness that grew dark, darker yet darker.
It was like reinvention, reincarnation. It was feeling your atoms simultaneously being pushed and pulled in opposing directions, letting yourself dissolve into a slurry of flesh and spirit, churning inside a black-lit chrysalis. It was being suspended for what felt like an eternity until you reached an abrupt end, far quicker than what you were expecting. You were broken down to be built back up again. Still you, but now irrevocably different.
You found yourself on the ground, trembling madly, a helpless newborn in a world that you hadn't even begun to grasp. You weren't dead. You weren't dead. Bleary eyes cracked open and took in their new surroundings. There was an ocean of lights peaking through the curtain of darkness; swaying, disorienting. You could make out the shape of a large city, one you wouldn't have been able to chart on any map. A low hum crackled through the air like electric sparks, and it made all the hairs on your body stand on edge.
Looks like you wouldn't be getting that paper done after all.
. . .
While you hadn't been here terribly long (but long enough to leave a bitter aftertaste in your mouth that you just couldn't wash out), you thought yourself to be getting the hang of things. At least enough to keep yourself afloat. You would have especially thought yourself capable of dealing with this kind of situation.
After all, wasn't that the culminating reason behind all those assemblies and in-class presentations and pamphlets you had to slog through in grade school? Or the outdated PSAs that wagged a reprimanding finger in your face and warned you about being careful around strangers with their exaggerated performances and cheesy sound effects?
You hadn't been explicitly told that you shouldn't trust people whose idea of a proper introduction consisted of popping out of dumpsters and haggling you at a first glance, but it was pretty much spoken for, right?
It certainly didn't help his case that he fit the bill for the stereotypical stranger with questionable intentions: the tinted glasses, the over-eager smile, the lack of personal space whatsoever. He'd be a shoe-in for any of those old school skits. And of all the places to find yourself in, it had to be in an empty alleyway. It was almost laughable.
What had he said his name was? It started with an S—Stan? Scam? If you were lucky enough, he might just scram on out of here; but the staring contest only persisted, and Scrapton was perfectly content with keeping this up. He was hardly even breaking a sweat. And if he was (quite literally), it was only the result of being extremely enthused with your presence. Uncomfortably so.
You wanted to scream for him to read the room, but maybe he already knew? It's... your mind was too scrambled to make heads or tails of this.
Rather than proving to be the plucky and reassured adult you had once hoped you’d grow into (“say no to drugs!"—little Cathy, with her high pigtails and a hard scowl kept batting away at your skull), you shrugged off to the side and told him that you didn't have any money on you, skittering off before he could attempt to respond—a timid apology fueled partially by the surreality of the situation and partially through your own social awkwardness.
You hastened your pace and walked straight ahead, steps never faltering nor stopping until you were certain a good stretch of distance lied between you and that alleyway. You turned into a semi-familiar shopping center and basked in the sudden onslaught of neon signs, letting relief wash over you and calm your pounding heart.
Only then, did you give yourself the privilege of looking back. Nothing. You had almost expected him to tail you. Cyber City was still the same as ever, not even bothering to bat an eye as to what had just happened. The interaction seemed to exist in its own separate world, one that the city hadn't taken notice of, or simply chose to turn a blind eye to. You could have almost convinced yourself that it was all in your head: a strange, stress-induced dream. That was how everything seemed so far.
You gnawed on your bottom lip, feeling your insides twist with an emotion that you couldn't quite pin down.
Sorry, man. Don't take it personally.
. . .
Your options had been limited.
If you looked at it through an outsider's perspective, like a series of objectives to complete rather than the life you were currently living, you would have almost found the whole ordeal exciting. Like booting up a new game and getting thrown right into the fray.
The man—Darkner, you reminded yourself—that sat across from you stood out against the bright decor, gap-toothed grinning portraits of children and adults alike, and cream-colored walls like a sore thumb. He wore an overly-starched dress shirt and tie over his skin—a muddled gray. His angular body thinned itself out to almost two-dimensional proportions, and there was a perpetual frown sunken into his face.
If you didn't know any better, you would have mistaken him for an under-paid office lackey and not the manager of a food chain that prided itself on "serving endless smiles" (according to signs outside). Or maybe not. After all, it was always those types of jobs—the ones whose advertisements would roll in playing catchy tunes and paint their products as too good to be true, get your bang for your buck type of deal—that always ended up being the most soul-sucking.
Like the shimmery veneer of a poison dart frog: alluring, but toxic to the touch.
"So," he finally spoke after a moment of silence, startling you out of your own thoughts. His low-brow stare told you he would much rather be anywhere else than here. "You really think you're qualified to work here?"
The hands you folded over your legs clenched into fists. You nodded, perhaps a bit too harshly. "Yes, sir." Qualifications? What qualifications? Why was he acting like this paid more than minimum wage?
"I-I promise I'll work hard." You added hurriedly. Still, you needed this.
He hummed noncommittally and leafed through the short stack of pages that sat on his desk, your words sparking nothing above mild indifference. His eyes—a pair of rectangular slits—peered back at you, devoid of any emotion. A sigh.
"Alright."
It was a moment that was meant to proceed with feelings of relief. You had been hired on such short notice, no questions asked. Things could have been worse.
Admittedly, as you returned to the present, things could have also been better.
The stench of frying oil and grease could only clog your senses for so long before your body threatened to send you a pulsing migraine, one that you wouldn't be able to curb with painkillers. You figured there was no better time than the present to take that mandated lunch break.
You headed towards the row of lockers and fiddled with the dial of your padlock for a few moments before tugging it open. Tucked snugly inside was today's lunch, wrapped up neatly in a brown paper bag. A paper lunch bag had never looked so enticing until now, even if all you had put in was last night’s leftovers.
You called your co-worker from across the room.
“Hey Paige, I'll be going on my break." You jutted a thumb at the silver backdoor. Her short braids, freshly dyed a baby blue, spun to the sides as she turned to face you. With a theatrical bow and salute, she sent you off to your merry way. You snorted at the gesture, but returned the favor nonetheless before heading out.
The door popped open with a harsh squeal before slamming shut behind you.
Yeah, yeah, good riddance to you too. As if you could curse the entire building for the unforgivable crime of existing.
You let out a sigh and plopped yourself down on the concrete steps. The air wasn't nearly as stifling outside, even if you were sitting smack dab in the middle of a dingy backstreet that reeked of rotting food and burnt plastic. It was really only ever useful for indulging in five minutes of relative silence whenever it was your turn to take out the trash.
You glanced up, half-expecting (half-hoping) to spot a mass of clouds lazily drifting through the sky, or a storm stirring itself up in the midst of a smoky gray, rumbling low and raring to strike. Hell, you'd take fog, snow, or sleet at this point, anything even vaguely reminiscent of home.
But you were greeted with the exact view that you had seen since the moment you'd arrived: fluorescent gridlines permanently etched into the sky, sharp and unyielding. Day in and day out, plastered against a sky that refused to shift or fade—a static indigo. You were trapped under an eternal night, one that didn't even have the decency to grace you with a single star.
You clutched the paper bag tightly, feeling it crumple underneath your hardening grip. That familiar sting at the back of your eyes was beginning to surface, but you inhaled sharply and scrubbed your face with the heel of your palm.
You'd be fine, you'd be fine, you'd be fine.
Focus on what comes next. Lunch. Yeah, you could manage that. Excuses aside, you were actually pretty hungry by this hour. Opening the paper bag, you pulled out the plastic container, set it on your lap, and peeled the red lid off with a satisfying pop. The smell wafted towards you: a pungent, savory mishmash of your previous dinners, wrapped and tucked into neat cylinders. Your mouth was practically watering by now.
Thump.
Your head shot up at the sound: an unknown force colliding against metal. You caught sight of the dumpster's walls, which wobbled at the sudden exertion. You held your breath. These backstreets, usually punctuated by an undisturbed quiet, no longer felt as secure as you had previously thought them to be.
But before you could even consider turning back and cutting the break short, the flip lids of the dumpster slammed against the opposing walls with a hearty shove, the crash resounding through the streets. You let out a startled cry, immediately holding your arms up to shield yourself from the blur of black and white that burrowed itself out of the garbage.
Wait, haven't you seen that monochrome scheme somewhere before—
"HEY-HE Y HEY!! IF IT ISN'T THE [[NO Cash or Credit]] LIGHT nER!”
If luck could be transferred into funds, yours were probably hitting the negatives by now.
He approached you with an unwarranted familiarity, and it ground your gears just a bit. "Do you make it a habit of jumping out of dumpsters?" You were still in the midst of processing his abrupt entrance (lightning striking twice?)—maybe that was why the fight-or-flight hadn't kicked in yet. But at least the initial terror was subsiding. It really shouldn't have: the guy was a walking lawsuit just waiting to happen.
Spamton(?) brushed off any remaining debris from the front of his jacket and gave you a pointed look, that perpetual grin now straining at the sides. "THAT’S FOR ME TO KNOW AND YOU TO [Mind Your Business], KID. WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS HANGING AROUND [[Beautiful Backdoor Properties]]??"
Oof, okay. Shoe was on the other foot now. That short-lived bluster had all but fizzled out now. “I don’t, not usually. It just seems like a good place to mope. I've been doing that a lot lately." You rested your chin on the palms of your hands, heaving out a sigh.
A beat of silence, and Spamton sidled up to you, his hands clasped together.
"...YOU KNOW WHAT'LL HELP TH0SE [Old-School Blues]?? GETTING [[The Offer of a Lifetime]] FOR JUST THE [dirt cheap] PRICE OF—"
"Mmnnno. Thanks, though."
The grin dropped—a momentary lapse—before returning to its rightful place, alongside a wagging finger nearing your face. His nose threatened to gouge out one of your eyes. "EAHAEHAHEA! YOU. YOU YOU YOU!!! DRIVE A HARD BARGAIN, KID., BUT HEY, IT';S WHAT [Eye] ALWAYS SAY. THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS [Wrong]!!"
Being at such a close proximity to Spamton, you could see one of his eyes twitching from behind his multi-colored glasses. He suddenly reared back, seemingly disinterested now as he kicked up some gravel with the heel of his foot.
"STILL, IT'S BETTER THAN [Writhing in Agony] LIKE A LITTLE [Worm], DON'T YOU THINK?"
"Hey!"
He... wasn't wrong, per se. Is this what your life had come to? Getting lectured by a guy who dug through the trash on the regular?
"I'll... keep that in mind." You finally said, keeping a close eye on him.
At your (vaguely phrased) words, he entered a full-body tremor, like white-hot electricity running rampant through his veins. "[GRRREAT]!!"
You took this moment to look at him. Really look.
The clothes he wore were old and ratty, with tattered sleeves that were just barely hanging by a thread. The jacket, which looked as though it was once a deep, rich black in its heyday, now sported a muddled hue, like a poor imitation of its former self. His white slacks and undershirt were mottled with grime, as well as his shoes. The only part of his outfit that was left intact were the bi-colored glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. They were smudged at most, but still glinted sharply when hit by the light, setting the pink and yellow hues aflame as they practically took on a life of its own.
Those same glasses were pointed downwards, following Spamton's gaze as it settled on your knees. Or rather, what rested on them. You blinked once, twice, as your mind connected the dots. Was he...?
You grabbed one of your wraps and gingerly stretched it out in his direction. "Um, do you want one?"
Spamton’s shoulders jumped, not expecting to be caught in the act despite it being painfully obvious. For once, he frowned at you. “I’M NOT IN THE [business] OF TAKING [Free Samples]."
You jerked your hand back, feeling your face burn. "W-who said anything about free?" You sputtered out, unusually defensive. “I know a thing or two about deals, y’know. Uh—" Think, think! You scrambled, grasping at straws. "—I'm expecting some store discounts in return. A-as part of our transaction. Obviously." Oh, this was going swimmingly.
To your surprise, Spamton changed his tune. “ARE YOU BEING [forreal] RIGHT NOW??” He asks.
You nodded.
That toothy, all-encompassing grin returned two-fold, and he wasted no time in extending his hand towards you. “TH3N LET’S SHAKE ON IT [Pardner]!!”
But before you could grab his hand, his entire body jittered and spit out what sounded like a prerecorded message: “[WARNING: By clicking SuBmit you agree that Big Shot Autos™ is not complicit in any illeg@l or suspicious activity conducted through the use of our products and services,and cannot be held liable for any vehicular malfunctions or accidents relating to and/or involving ourr patent pending Cungaderos™]”
“It… it’s just a discount, man.”
Despite your better judgment, and those concerning terms and conditions, you took his hand anyway. It was hard, calloused, and slightly clammy. You could feel small nicks scarring the skin beneath your fingertips. Spamton's handshake jostled your entire arm before ending as quickly as it had begun. He looked at you expectantly, and you took that as your cue to hand him one of your wraps.
He took it with both hands, blurted out “[Bone app the teeth]!!” like he had just won himself the finest gourmet meal that Cyber City could offer, and in one fell swoop he…
Well, you weren't at liberty to give out details, unless you were willing to bump up the content rating.
And with that, Spamton bidded you goodbye alongside a peculiar set of directions to his shop, (which did indeed exist, and wasn’t simply a panic-induced fabrication of your mind), before hightailing it out of there.
You decided to come back inside.
The remainder of your lunch was unceremoniously shoved back into your brown bag as you went through the backdoor. The place still stunk of deep-fried jpegs, but it was a welcome respite for your mind, alight and buzzing with a thousand thoughts. You leaned against the wall, giving yourself a moment to try and parse through this strange series of events that you had just been subjected to, as though you could even begin to make sense of it all. Paige spotted you and sauntered over, her hands settled over her hips.
"Hey, what happened out there? Didja lose track of time talking to the maice?" She asked, playfully nudging an elbow to your side. Her braids were now a burnt orange—she must have preoccupied herself with testing out different shades.
You wrung your hands. "Yeah, something like that."
Paige's eyebrows knitted together, and a rare air of concern settled over her. "Hey, you good?"
You nodded and offered her a weary smile. "Mhm. Just tired, I guess." You almost had half a mind to tell her, but thought it best to keep it to yourself. The whole ordeal was strange, sure, but not bad. You'd probably have to file a report on it if you did, too. You weren't fully aware of all the legalities concerning dumpster diving in someone else's property, but hey, wasn't he just trying to make a living? Seemed like he needed that, at the very least.
Still...
Paige wrapped a sympathetic arm around your shoulder and flicked at your forehead. "Dude, you've got to get out more. I think the vats are getting to your head."
You actually managed a chuckle at that. "You know what? I think so too."
. . .
You chose to go through with it. You were actually going to his shop and kicking yourself the entire way there for doing so. Your bag was slung over your shoulder and hanging right in front of you like some sort of makeshift shield or talisman, as you attempted to reassure yourself with the notion that if he tried anything you’d just bludgeon him with it. Sure you were dumb, but you weren't that dumb.
Wooden panels hung over the entrance like the rotten teeth of a wild animal’s open maw, and for a moment, you decided that you did value your life just enough to send Paige a quick text on your dirt-cheap-could-break-any-minute phone. It was something along the lines of hey if i dont come in for work pls call the cops for me, and once you finished skimming through it, you embellished it with a lol at the end for good measure, because hey, it was a little funny.
She shot back a lol wut, ok XD. It did absolutely nothing for your nerves. You took a deep breath, mustered up the little courage you had, and took a step inside.
Bright, harsh lights pierced through the darkness, and the sound of Spamton’s bombastic voice bounded off the walls with an overwhelming fervor. You blinked away the initial disorientation, and the sight that lied before you managed to knock the wind out of your lungs.
A mural.
It stuck out against the deteriorating state of his shop like a sore thumb: a picturesque day captured over brick and mortar. A lump lodged itself at the back of your throat, and for a moment, you could not find a single word worth saying. Spamton was rambling on about something but all you could think about was the sting of the sun on your skin and the cool breeze blowing through and an all-encompassing blue. The memory threatened to engulf you wholeheartedly and you just might let it.
Somewhere along the line, you managed to regain your voice and asked if he was the one who had painted the mural.
Spamton nodded feverishly, not even batting an eye at the fact that you had been ignoring his entire spiel until now, and managed to stretch out his grin to cosmic proportions. “YOU [bet Your Bottom Dollar] I DID! THERES’ NOTHING LIKE A [4K Rendition of Heaven] TO GET YOUR GEARS [[Burning]]!!”
Heaven.
"Oh," you croaked, voice unusually thick.
You didn't stay for very long after that.
Spamton tried to rope you into another deal, tried to haggle with you about his own prices, tried just about anything that might land himself a sale, but you couldn't recall a single thing he’d said. The words all slurred and muddled together in your own thoughts as you made the walk back to the complex.
You opened the door to your unit and found your apartment practically vacant and shrouded in darkness, same as you had left it.
Only there, for the first time since your arrival, did you finally cry.