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The last thing Tenna remembered was the snow.
Not the pretty kind - fluffy, soft, catching neon in its edges like crystals - but the heavy, suffocating kind. The kind that drags you down by your coat and fills your throat when you breathe wrong. The kind that stings when it clings to your frame.
He remembered falling face-first into it, arms screaming with a sharp pain that rattled up into his entire core. Then there was black. Nothing. . .
And now-. . . he was not in the snow.
Tenna’s screen snapped up to dazzling neon as he heaved in a breath. Signs buzzed overhead, a thousand ads stacked like puzzle pieces, their light pooling onto the street like liquid. The air smelled sharp, metallic, clean in a way he hadn’t known in years.
He lay sprawled on a sidewalk, not even damp in the slightest from the snow. Where had it gone? How long had it been? Where had he gone???
His arms didn’t hurt. No crackling in his joints, no static haze across his vision. Just. . . normal. Better than normal.
He pushed himself upright slowly, dusting off his long suit with trembling hands. His vision darted across the street. He didn’t recognise this block.
Cyber City was almost his home turf for some time- he’d performed across its plazas, flashed on half its billboards- but this street? Too narrow. Too fresh. The signs screamed about products that had been obsolete for years.
Looking around, he noticed a sign. He never went to this block because apparently there was no need to, Spamton was always going on about how the best customers were further away from such a rotten place. But it didn't look rotten, not as rotten as that little rat at least.
But one billboard in particular made his artificial breath hitch as he wandered about aimlessly for answers: a broad holo-board above a shopfront, pushing a clunky product. A model discontinued at least a decade ago.
"What. . ." His voice cracked. "No. That’s- that’s not right."
The world tilted. He gripped a railing nearby, machine heart hammering. Did I glitch out? Did I reboot into some archive? Am I dead?
He staggered forward again, breathing too fast, muttering under his breath as panic clawed its way up his throat. He slumped a little, frame too tall for such an unusual place.
Panic hammered more and more at the back of his head, tie too tight, body too heavy, wires overheating with stress. What was going on? And more importantly, how does he return?
"Uh- sir? You okay?"
The voice was soft, coming from a small shadow beside him. Tenna tilted his screen towards the much smaller figure, then had to tilt even further down to actually see them. A tiny, entirely white Addison. How unusual.
They spoke with worry, not the bright sing-song chirp most Addisons used when trying to hawk their wares, but hesitant. Like they really cared.
Tenna sighed and turned around properly to face them. What a strange little one. No splash of colour at all, no vibrant jacket to compensate either. . . Just clean, plain, soft edges. His eyes - rounder and more weary than most - were fixed on Tenna with concern.
"You, uh. You look like you’ve seen a ghost," the Addison said, tilting his head. "Need me to call someone?"
Tenna stared at him. For too long, probably. Not like they would know.
"No. No, it's okay." he managed finally, voice low. "No, I’m- I’m fine."
The Addison frowned. "You don’t look fine. You were- what, panicking in the middle of the street?" He stepped closer, gently, like approaching a spooked animal. "You hurt? I'm on break right now so I have some [The time?]."
The Addison slapped a hand over his own mouth as an ad slipped out. Tenna just shook his head, trying to pull his blazer tighter. "No. I. . . just. . . wrong place."
The Addison studied him for a moment longer, then sighed softly and offered a hand. "C’mon. Let’s at least get you sitting down before you keel over, big guy."
Tenna hesitated. The hand was so small. He could crush it with ease. But when he took it, warmth jolted through him so strongly he nearly staggered again. His gloved finger gently rested in the Addison's entire palm, allowing himself to be slowly dragged to a bench.
The Addison guided him, the place tucked beneath one of the buzzing signs. He fussed a little- brushing dust from Tenna’s sleeve, steadying his own breathing. Far too much kindness for a stranger. Maybe this was a unique marketing tactic. But Tenna didn't have enough energy to care right now.
Tenna sat stiffly, chest tight. His mind reeled. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. The ads, the place, the stranger- the air itself. Too sharp. Too clean still.
"-What year is it?" he blurted suddenly.
The Addison gulped, fear setting in a little. This random TV really had lost it after all. "Uh. You hit your head or something?"
"Just answer. Please."
The Addison gave him a funny look, but said the date anyway. Tenna’s stomach dropped.
Years. Years.
This wasn’t just another part of the city. This wasn’t a hallucination. This was- it had to be. He was in the past.
Tenna’s hands clenched against his knees, breath shallow. His vision swam with the weight of it. The Addison touched his arm lightly. "Hey. Easy. Just [breathe], okay? You’re good."
That voice - soft and cautious - itched at the back of Tenna’s memory. Too familiar. He forced himself to look up at the Addison again. Really look. Plain white frame. Rounder eyes. Softer voice. Could it be?
"Here, [Cathode]." The Addison said gently, trying to distract him from his spiralling and passing over a small tissue to dry the static tears forming on his screen.
Tenna would have grabbed it, even if it was impractical- but that name.
That stupid nickname, from so long ago. No one else ever called him that. No one else ever would. His throat closed up.
". . . Spamton?" he whispered.
The Addison tilted his head. "Uh- yeah? . . . Do I know you?"
Tenna’s whole body trembled. It was him. It really was him. Not the frantic, desperate salesman Tenna remembered. Not the hollow-eyed broken thing left after. Just pure. Unshaped. Unhurt.
Spamton blinked at his silence, a little embarrassed. "-What? Did I say something weird? How you know my name anyways, someone set this up as some funny joke?"
As Spamton began to look around for anyone else in the area who could have possibly pranked him, Tenna couldn’t answer. His chest ached too much. Because this was the moment he never thought he’d get: to see Spamton before. Before the phone calls. Before the loneliness hardened into anger. Before the fame chewed him up and spat him out.
Tenna wanted to say something. Anything. Everything all at once. Don’t answer the call. Don’t dye your hair and damage yourself. Don’t chase their promises. You don’t need them. You don’t need any of it. We can be so much more.
But the words stuck, choking him. If he said them, what then? Would it matter? Would this bright-eyed version even believe him? Would it change anything at all?
So instead- he just reached. His hand, trembling, closed around Spamton’s.
Spamton blinked in surprise, eyes wide. "Woah there buddy- uh. . ."
"You’re real," Tenna said hoarsely. "You’re- alive."
Spamton gave him the strangest look, caught between confusion and a nervous laugh. Should he run and call for help at this rate? "Yeah? Uh. Last I checked."
Tenna squeezed his hand tighter, afraid that if he let go, this fragile moment would dissolve. His voice cracked as he whispered, "Don’t ever lose this."
"Lose what?"
Tenna forced himself to breathe, frame rattling harshly. He couldn't decide between kneeling over and sobbing or taking in as many features as he could on the smaller man's face. "This. Who you are. You’re worth more than they’ll ever let you believe."
Spamton blinked, leaning back. For a moment, his soft expression faltered- like the words hit something he didn’t even know was sore. Validation he had never heard besides from a mocking Add who was better than him.
Then he laughed it off, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "Man, you’re. . . weird. But thanks, I guess."
Tenna let himself look at Spamton one more time- really look, memorising every line of his face, the warmth in his voice, the innocence in his mostly-closed eyes. He was so beautiful like this. Perfect.
Tenna's thoughts spiralled once again, now hunched forward, hand tightening. His chest shook violently. The sob tore out before he could stop it, loud and sudden.
Spamton stiffened at the sound, then more sobs followed, louder and more violent. "Whoa, hey-hey! Don’t uh- don’t cry, what the. . ." He flicked his head about and glanced nervously down the street, like he half-expected another Addison to come over and scold him for slacking.
"Someone’s gonna think I broke you, man, keep it down!"
But Tenna couldn’t stop. He folded in on himself, shoulders shaking, muffled cries and tears in his palm.
"I lied about being on break, they're gonna kick my ass!"
Spamton fidgeted, clearly unsettled with what was happening beside him on the bench. "Uh- listen, I think maybe you hit your head harder than we thought. You’re- you’re fine! Okay? Just- uh- don’t- don’t cry- geez. . ."
Tenna gasped, trying to choke air back into his lungs. He wanted to explain, to tell him everything. To beg Spamtom to trust him, to listen, to stay the way he was now.
He went to let go of Spamton's hand to wipe his face, but the smaller man's own hand was tightly gripped onto his glove. And when Tenna lifted his head, drawing in a deep, ragged breath-
The neon was gone.
The warmth of Spamton’s hand was gone.
Instead- harsh fluorescent light, too close. The sting of antiseptic. And a voice, real and sharp, cutting through the haze:
"Hold still, big guy. You’re lucky you didn’t fry something worse."
Tenna blinked hard, tears still streaking down his face. His vision cleared just enough to see Susie crouched beside him, hands deftly patching up his arm as other employees circled around him, passing items to each other that may help.
"Spamton?" he croaked as he looked about, maybe it was all a dream after all. The dressing room was empty of the smaller man.
What happened?