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The controller has gone cold.
How long have you been holding it?
It’s starting to hurt. It feels stuck, like the chill has frosted it to the flesh of your fingers.
Not just “room-temperature cold” or “unplugged cold”. Not “like no-one’s touched this thing in years” cold.
“Left outside in late December” cold.
You fiddle the right joystick until the playable character, an 8-bit approximation of you, stumbles forward and onto the next screen. It flickers, for a moment, and the loading screen, pitch with the exception of one white circle, glints.
How long was it on-screen?
Long enough. Your reflection appears in the black, and you see a tired, gone-pale face. Gaunt.
How long have you been here?
“Sorry for the hold-up , folks!”
Mr. Tenna’s voice is electronically sounded, equal parts digital sugar and crackling tin foil. It splits the silence like tissue paper.
All angular charm and outdated commercial jingle energy, he’s beside you now, standing beside the couch in his cherry-red suit and black pants, giving a static-stiff smile, a frame-perfect loop of corporate cheer, one gloved hand on his hip and the other pointing straight out at you.
“Say, you’re lookin’ a little dim there, buckaroo. Pale in the pixels! When’s the last time you slept? Ate? Took a breather?”
You wouldn’t know. You couldn’t know. How could you? In his desperate attempt to maintain an all-encompassing facade of control over his little slice of this world of shadows, Mr. Tenna has gone out of his way to remove every last aspect of “time”, from analog chronograph to pixel hourglass to pastiche sundial.
All that remained were pixel clocks, built for flashy, show-stopping countdowns.
Time, passing not in hours, but in segments. Blocks of broadcasting, neat and clean.
So you can’t give an answer, aside from “more than a dozen game boards”. Not that he was actually waiting for one, anyhow.
“Well, have I got just the thing for little ol’ you! Do you find yourself craving simpler days? Longing for a taste of your old life? Of those sweet, careless nights spent special programs made just for you ?”
His hands come together in a soundless burst of static, a resounding, snapping “clap”. Your vision whites out for a moment. When it clears, the room has changed, and you’re sitting in a high-backed chair, pressed into crushed-velvet cushioning. The table seems to run lengthwise for miles, but by width is thin, barely a foot from start to finish.
“You liked this one when you were little, right?”
Mr. Tenna asks, sitting in the chair parallel to yours, impossibly light for his size, as if he’s made of broadcast signals and stage lights.
“…liked… what…? There’s not anything-“
His screen twitches into a smear of static, just for a second. It resets to display his usual smile, only offset by a bundle of nerves popped into the corner, a vague approximation of weary frustration.
“It’s coming , kiddo! Don’t go getting your pixels in a twist!”
…it seems a little unfair that you’re getting scolded for asking a very relevant question in regards to his own prodding.
There’s not time to complain. There’s never time to complain.
Two of Mr. Tenna’s Pippins- no, three, stacked together to give the facade of filling out a snazzy black suit. One Pippin for each leg, and one for the tuxedo. It’d be cute, under any other circumstance. They’re rolling along a meal trolley, polished to a gleam.
They roll (they’re trying so hard… but even the one on top can’t see past the cart) the cart up to the table- wheels clicking neatly in a rhythm, fuzzy ka-click after fuzzy ka-click, like old static that learned how to march. It only stops when the bar of the trolley smacks into the table. The platter- there’s just the one- it slides off the carrier, and across the table.
The Pippins skitter away, eyes wide. They don’t bother to grab the trolley.
Mr. Tenna’s hand stops it from going past you, and he gives an exaggerated half-bow as a sort of over-the-top presentation.
It’s… whatever it is, it’s covered by a silver-garnished cloche, shaped like your captor’s head, complete with antenna and pointy nose. It’s… “cute”, sort of, but lacks a convenient lifting spot. For lack of holes, steam spills from… the top, some form of cartoon logic that only the Dark World could get away with.
“Go on, sweetheart! Pop that shiny bad boy open before our viewers fall asleep!”
The lights dim. A spotlight hits the tray. He leans in close.
You reach for the cloche.
With some effort, you press your still-freezing fingers into the seam where the lid meets the plate, and with a sharp squeal of static- like an old dial-up modem trying to scream- it lifts.
There’s a square of black plastic, sealed with semi-permeable cling mesh.
A… a TV dinner.
The kind you buy a child. The kind that used to come with a dessert (chocolate pudding with chalky star sprinkles, or a giant chunk of brownie) in the top right corner, half-frozen and half-pocket of plasma no matter how long or quick you microwaved it.
Your throat tightens at the sight, each portion of the tray a little harder to look at.
“Ta-da!”
Mr. Tenna grins, spreading his arms with the grandeur of a magician who just pulled trauma from a top hat.
“Just like Mom never had to make, huh?”
Even through the moisture gathered below the translucent packaging, you can see four sections. Top right with a dark chocolate brownie. Top left with four soggy chicken nuggets. Stretching three-fourths of the bottom is a chunky swath of mac-and-artificial cheese, nuclear yellow. Bottom right, a tiny pocket, holding two plastic packages. One is a tube of squeezable chocolate fudge, and the other is a packet of unbranded ketchup.
It’s very familiar.
“Familiar” is too kind a word to describe this feeling, though.
You’re not sure when the shaking started. There’s an invisible tremor that runs through your jaw, rolls down both shoulders, and blooms out from your spine.
You remember the taste of powdered cheese and chicken skin, with a mild heat that never reached to the center.
You remember eating every bite because no one would be there to make you something else if you didn’t.
Lonely nights. Screaming fits. Tearful meals.
Wetness builds behind your eyes.
Mr. Tenna, smile gone sharp, leans in to pop the tray open. A mixture of smells (you want to say “waft”. that’s too gentle. so-) escape the tray.
“You used to love these, kiddo! What’s the hold-up?”
The room feels smaller. The ceiling drops closer. The crushed-velvet imbedded in the chair is crushing back.
“Go on,” the showman says again, more quietly this time. The artificial sugar is dripping out of his voice, leaving something bitter. “Just a bite. For old time’s sake. For me. For your old pal, Tenna.”
You want to tell him you can’t. The words do not find your throat.
His fight tightens around the tray like an electric vice, tearing the mesh so hard that macaroni sloshes against the side, spattering melted cheese onto the table.
His volume pitches back to the regular booming crackle, forcing you to cower away and cover both ears.
His free hand; veined with frustration lines that pop through even his gloves, grabs the spork packaged with the meal.
He lifts the plastic scooper like a spear, and sharply skewers it into the mound of sticky yellow paste with too much force, little rounded tines bending under the pressure.
There’s a smear, and a static crackle, and he’s on you.
One hand conforms to the curve of your throat, thumb pinned to your chin to hold your lips apart.
He laughs.
Not a show laugh. Not a cheery “ain’t-I-a-stinker” chuckle that’s backed by manufactured studio applause and canned jingles.
This one’s… raw. Human.
And it’s horrible.
“Aww, kiddo, I forgot! You need me to show you how well I can take care of you!”
He shovels the spoonful in, snarling in frustration as it smears over your cheeks, dribbling from your lips.
You try to turn away, hot tears bubbling over until they’re spilling down your face. They mix with the cheese, and pass onto Tenna’s red sleeve, staining it. If he notices, he doesn’t care.
His grip tightens.
Another lump is forced into your throat. Then another. Three. Four. Five.
Your body revolts, stomach heaving in rebellion, mouth twitching against the artificial salt and curdled nostalgia. Every bite is a battlefield, your gag reflex against his insistence, your blurry thoughts against his jagged focus.
There’s a very notable gag, bulging your throat uncomfortably.
He pauses, only pulling back to survey your face with an eyeless stare, snaring a cloth to scrub your face with. He folds it over to conceal the macaroni mess, then, more gently, dabs at your tears.
The moment doesn’t last long, because the napkin goes into the bin, and then he’s got a chunk of brownie on the spork, hissing with heat.