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The year was 1997, and Mettaton’s latest television events were shaping up to be the kind of neon-drenched spectacle that could make the Underground - or anywhere else - stop and stare. Cameras were polished to a mirror sheen, the stage lights turned everything into liquid gold, and the star himself, clad in his EX form, was every inch the picture of glamour.
What he hadn’t accounted for were his two guests. They would be the stars of tonight's show, talking about their sudden increase in fame, how they went from nothing to everything.
So Mettaton waited at the reception, tapping a foot and checking the time. They were late. Of course they were.
"[HEY!] there, Sweet cheeks!" Spamton laughed out, a cigarette dangling from his jagged smile as he adjusted his not-too-shiny jacket. "You’re lookin’ at the BIGGEST BIG SHOT this side of the darkworld!" He puffed smoke into the air like it was part of his sales pitch.
Mettaton’s sleek gaze slid over him. He tilted his head slightly, metal fingers curling at his chin. "Oh, darling. . . are you sure you're supposed to be my guest, or did someone accidentally wheel in the janitor with a nicotine problem?" His voice dripped with amused disdain.
Spamton’s eye twitched. He hasn't even been here for 5 seconds and there was a problem. "[[Listen up!]]. Don’t get all [high and mighty] when you’re only, what, a foot or two taller than me?!" He jabbed a stubby finger in the air.
Mettaton made a dramatic show of peering around the place. "I’m sorry. . . was someone speaking? I can’t see anyone down there." He placed his hand over his eyebrows as though scanning the horizon.
Spamton’s voice cracked an octave. "I’M NOT EVEN THAT MUCH SHORTER THAN YOU, YOU TIN-PLATED DIVA!"
From the corner, a voice boomed, full of energy that bounced off the walls like a stadium announcement. "Spammy! Oh, c’mon, we talked about insults! Besides, you’re practically fun-sized!”
Tenna ducked under the main entryway, all fifteen feet of him unfolding into the room like a tower of flashing static and buzzing charisma. The massive TV-headed showman clapped his enormous hands together, nearly knocking over a light fixture with his elbow. His screen-face flashed a bright test pattern grin.
"Fun-sized!" he repeated with a chuckle, his voice booming by accident. "That’s what I’m calling you from now on, may get someone to make some word-art of it."
Spamton spun on him, smoke curling out of his teeth. "DON’T YOU START WITH ME, [[CRT]]!" he barked, though his expression was twitching into a grin.
Mettaton, though, had taken a single step back when Tenna entered. Not out of fear, but the sheer presence of the towering host filled the room in a way even he couldn’t ignore. Fifteen feet of manic, electric energy. Outgoing. Charismatic. Terrifyingly alive.
"Well," Mettaton purred, regaining his composure with a flick of his metallic fingers. "If it isn’t the legendary Mr. Antenna himself. You’re. . . larger than life, darling." His tone flirted without commitment, his usual weapon of charm.
Tenna threw his arms wide, nearly knocking another light over in the process. "That’s the name of the game! Larger than life, louder than the crowd!" His screen-face flickered briefly, a microsecond of static that would’ve gone unnoticed if not for the anxious tightness in his voice when he added, "I've uh-. . . gotta keep the image up, y’know?"
Spamton scoffed and tugged at Tenna's pants for him to lean down, whispering something to him. Tenna cringed at the smoke but laughed softly. Spamton was complaining about how he got insulted and Tenna got all the compliments.
When they finally got ready and made their way to the stage, the show proceeded to go off without a hitch. Tenna was in his element, roaring with laughter, tossing answers to Mettaton's questions like confetti, and playing the crowd like an orchestra.
Spamton was a greasy whirlwind, selling himself at every opportunity, cigarettes dangling from his mouth like punctuation marks as he fought for his dignity. Mettaton was not kind when it came to prying about personal life rather than professional. Apparently, it's 'what the audience wants!'.
And Mettaton himself? He owned every moment he was on screen, his voice velvet, his movements a choreographed symphony of sleek precision. The audience loved his talk shows where he settled down and showed off his enchanting charm.
But it was after the cameras stopped that things shifted. Backstage, the haze of cigarette smoke mingled with the hum of cooling stage lights. Spamton sat perched on a crate, lighter clicking as he lit his sixth cigarette of the night. Mettaton leaned elegantly against a counter, long legs crossed, metallic body catching the faint light.
Tenna was off doing some signing or something of the sort. He claimed he wanted to make the audience happy and was probably getting attacked by them right now. He didn't know how to say no when it came to them. Poor thing.
"So," Mettaton said lazily, trying to break the silence "is the cigarette a prop, hun, or are you actively trying to shorten your already tragic life?"
Spamton blew a ring of smoke that floated up between them, looking about the room. "When you’re a [Big Shot], you gotta look the part. Nothing says [[success!]] like a little tar in your lungs, tin-can. Not that you'd understand that."
Mettaton chuckled, the sound soft but genuine. "Oh, you’re disgusting."
"[[THANKS!]]" Spamton barked with a grin.
It was Mettaton’s turn to glance around theatrically, then lean in with a conspiratorial smirk. "You know. . . for all his energy and audience requests, your giant friend is surprisingly. . . PG. Everything is. The lighting, playful colours, safe jokes. It’s almost quaint. He worries so much about viewership but doesn't desire to appeal to all audiences?"
Spamton snorted. "You’re tellin’ me. The guy’s got the body of a skyscraper but the mind of a Saturday morning cartoon! One flash of skin and he’d probably [[CRASH THE NETWORK]]."
Mettaton’s smile tilted into something more playful. "It can be such a fascinating thing, can’t it? The curve of a shoulder, the line of a back. . . beauty in motion. Not cheap, not vulgar- just. Art."
Spamton wheezed out a laugh, smoke curling from his teeth. "ART, huh? You talkin’ about a painting or a [[CENTERFOLD]]?"
"Why not both? Why not it all?" Mettaton’s voice dripped with amused elegance. Despite Mettaton appreciating Monsters for what they were and Spamton simply sexualising it, they could bond over something. That being just how silly Tenna was for avoiding such a natural thing.
They were laughing when the door creaked open. Tenna stood there, towering even as he stooped to fit under the frame. His screen flickered with it's usual colourful grin, but something in the tilt of his head betrayed his performance.
Mettaton went to welcome Tenna but Spamton said something, and they were both chatting mindlessly once again as Tenna sat down nearby.
Tenna’s head tilted slightly away, hands placed neatly on his lap, fidgeting with the texture of his pants. He didn't really know what to say. Should he say something? Would they even listen to him?
They didn't bother to say hello, to question anything about him. They didn't bother to make any conversation with Tenna either. Sure, perhaps they thought they were doing the right thing by giving him space. But when has Tenna ever asked for space? Usually, he asks for the opposite if anything.
A few minutes passed, and Tenna was still silent, too wrapped up inside his own head. He wasn't even listening anymore, daydreaming about nothing and everything. Mettaton's fans before sure were something, no wonder he got warned about them.
Mettaton blinked, tilting his head in a mirror of Tenna’s. "Darling? Something the matter?"
Tenna shifted, tensing before his shoulders sagged ever so slightly. "No, no. Nothing to worry about," he said finally, his voice quiet compared to his usual roar. "Just. . . tired. That's all. Think I’m gonna head out actually."
His frame shimmered faintly as he stood up and dusted himself off. And when he straightened up, he wasn’t towering anymore. He wasn’t even close. He’d shrunk without a sound, now barely scraping seven feet.
Spamton stared as he left, the laughter dying from his jagged mouth. What happened? "Hey, hey now! Wait up!" He hopped down from the crate and scurried after him, smoke trailing in his wake. Mettaton stayed where he was, humming a short tone.
Outside the door, he caught up, stubby legs working double-time. "[[WHAT’S THE DEAL?]] You were on fire out there, and now you’re-"
Tenna turned his head slightly, screen flickering in soft static. "I’m just tired, Spammy. That’s all. Just. . . I want to go home now."
For a rare moment, Spamton didn’t have a pitch, a joke, or a snarl. He stared at the shrunken figure of the man who usually filled entire rooms with his energy, and then let out a raspy sigh. "Yeah. Alright, big guy. I’ll drive."
Tenna looked down at him. His gloved hand gently rested on Spamton’s small shoulder as they walked next to each other. The squeeze was light but firm, a quiet 'thank you' without words.
For once, Spamton just nodded, cigarette smoke curling into the night air as they left the neon lights behind. It was a lot cooler out here, a breath of crisp, fresh air filling their lungs and suits.
They got in the car and a sigh left Tenna, a breath he didn't know he was holding. He was almost shaking. Spamton didn't want to prod but he didn't need to, Tenna's shaky voice coming out. "What am I to you?"
Spamton gave a mix of a confused and disgusted look, wondering what Tenna meant by all this. What had gotten into him?
Tenna waved a hand and hid more into his seat, leaning away at the realisation. He felt like he couldn't do anything right. "Not like that- I just-"
"My business partner." The engine hummed calmly and the radio jumped to life, being turned down a few notches. "You're the Darkner who got me to where I am now."
Tenna tapped and self-soothed in various ways, fidgeting about in his seat. Apparently, that wasn't enough to get him out of his own head. Whatever was going on had been bubbling in there for a while.
"Look, Tenz. Don't overthink it all. It's never done anyone any good, that I can promise." And Spamton seemed melancholic now, eyes firm on the road. He was speaking from experience.
Tenna nodded and relaxed a little in his seat. He didn't know if Spamton saw him or not, staring out the passenger window at the passing cars.
Why should he even be this worried about replacement? They're a dynamic duo, the upcoming Big Shots. Tenna had a whole Darkworld with Spamton alongside him. What's to worry about?
But Tenna wouldn't realise it was about Spamton and not the title until it was too late.
Did he ever even realise?