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The walkie-talkie on the couch arm crackled to life, a blaring alarm signalling it was showtime.
"Hey, Boss, get dressed! Tenna's headin's you's way!"
Right on schedule; Tenna practically lived and died by his meticulously-crafted broadcast schedule after all, making the exact minute when he'd step off his stage for a drink or a smoke break or, most important of all, a visit to his favorite right-hand microphone in crime, entirely predictable. Chuckling as he slipped the mask over his head, "Mike" grinned wide, effortlessly shifting into character from a mere nervous Pippins to something much more glamorous as he pressed the button to respond to Jongler.
"Roger Roger, 10-4 Pardner! Mike and Mike are suited up and ready for action!!" He shot a quick salute to the cat-suited Darkner on the couch, who folded his arms and returned a disappointed pout as unfortunate timing meant he'd been left behind mid-pet when the call came in. But, Mike ignored Mike's sourpuss attitude for the moment, his attention fully on the device in his hand. "So what are we lookin' at today? Big guy need talkin' or listenin'? Singin' or dancin'? Foam or fluff?"
The Zapper took a few seconds to respond, letting their fellow Mike rattle off a few more comparisons before interrupting, "I dunnos. He's seemed...real strange once the spotlights went off."
"Strange? You gotta give me somethin' to go on, here!" But, he could tell from Jongler's voice alone, this was a job for a motormouth rather than a cat, and he motioned for Pluey to escape into the shadows before he was spotted.
"Well..." Wishing he could hurry them along as they hemmed and hawed for an explanation, wasting precious time as Tenna's long stride surely brought him ever closer to the Mike Room, he waited, until they started from the beginning. "There was this...thing earlier. One a the Weather Duo asked whether they's shoulds try cleanin' out the mail room after not usin' it for so long, and it made the Big Boss real snippy all day. So he's might be a little upset."
Mike sighed; what else was new, in the world of being the literal television host's personal punching bag. But, he didn't drop his grin, shoving the walkie-talkie into the couch cushions out of sight and making a few final adjustments to his suit and bowtie as he stood in the middle of the room in anticipation, waiting for his boss to open the door.
And waiting.
And glancing up at the clock. Ten minutes and fifteen seconds after the last show wrapped, Tenna usually made the trip in three minutes on the dot. Something wasn't right, or maybe something was perfectly fine. Maybe Tenna had simply been stopped by an employee in the hall? Swung by Ramb's to grab his favorite lemonade on the way? Maybe he didn't even plan on visiting that day at all, making for his own room instead? That last outcome was the least likely, given Tenna's increasing dependence on his Mikes as of late, with things around the studio being even more chaotic than usual, and he waited a little longer, his unseen eyes watching the minutes tick by, before finally he couldn't take it anymore.
Peering out the door of Mike's room, he glanced over at the star's dressing room door just down the hall; it sat slightly ajar, like he was expecting someone to follow him inside. And the only person Tenna ever asked to follow him into his dressing room like that was...
Mike locked the door behind him, and slipped through.
"Uh...Boss? You doin' okay?" The television's back was turned to him as he stood still and silent in the middle of the room; instantly, a pit formed in Mike's stomach as Tenna failed to respond, not even an antenna twitching at the sound of his loud voice, shouted to be heard through the thick mask. A bundle of assorted...game controllers? dangled from their cords in the man's grip, like he'd just finished making a lap around the entire building and seizing every one he could find, which would've been a concerning sight had it been literally anyone else but Tenna, so Mike didn't bother questioning it. This was his studio, and they were his controllers to do with as he pleased, even if it might make the next game board a little awkward. But what did concern him was the man's stillness; it was like Tenna was a statue of himself, but as Mike cautiously stepped around to his front he confirmed with a look at the glow in his screen, this was indeed the real deal.
Jongler had been right, something strange was definitely going on in that bright blue-white glow, as Tenna just seemed to stare out into space above Mike's head, ignoring him completely. Mike had to admit the dressing room was in desperate need of a little TLC, the clutter piled everywhere due for a thorough sorting and the floor for a thorough spit-polish, but even without eyes Tenna's gaze drifted beyond it all, lost, confused, almost like he didn't even recognize where he was standing.
But, with Mike's presence the nudge he needed to snap out of his trance a little, Tenna deposited the controllers into the nearest junk pile and started to undress – not nearly as much as the Pippins underneath that mask always prayed he would, sadly, as Tenna peeled off his suit jacket and tie and draped them over the back of a nearby chair to be hung up properly later, his movements fluid but rehearsed and robotic, swapping flair for efficiency as his hands worked without a conscious thought behind them. The entire time his expression didn't change, his antennae standing stiff rather than bobbing and swaying along as Tenna glided along his floor, like his senses had taken a five minute break to let him navigate the space entirely on autopilot. Even when his rarely-seen second pair of arms revealed themselves in the privacy of his own room Tenna didn't stretch them out like usual after they'd been stuffed into him for so many hours, just diving down to slip off his shoes with one pair of hands while another undid his collar and wiped a damp cloth across his screen.
"Hello? Dark World to Boss, ya receivin' me Tenna?"
Finally, Tenna slumped down into his chair, his body tense with his shoulders hiked up on either side of his boxy head, and at that reduced height Mike was able to tug on one of the man's lower shirt sleeves to get his attention.
"...Mike." It wasn't the voice the smaller Darkner had anticipated, Tenna rarely ever speaking so...flat. Monotonous. Far from groovy, but not even approaching glooby, devoid of any of its usual energy or bluster whatsoever.
Yeah, something was definitely wrong, and Mike swallowed hard, realizing the spotlight was shining over him to fix it. That was Mike's job, after all, to keep Tenna happy when the stresses of running TV World got him down in the dumps, so that the rest of its inhabitants didn't have to bear the burden, or more often the brunt of his wrath.
But for once it wasn't wrath Mike felt from Tenna, despite those big hands of his repeatedly spreading themselves and then squeezing into a quartet of tight fists, the only hint of emotion his body dared betray as the rest of him remained cold and numb. "Yeah, it's me. You feelin' okay big guy? Musta been a tough day on set, huh!"
He became aware of Tenna's breathing, as he laid a glove onto his boss' back; underneath it he felt him draw in a big gulp of air through his nose, in contrast to the more shallow, labored breaths he'd been taking before. But exhaling it didn't seem to loosen Tenna up, his circuits only winding even tighter. From that spot Mike could also barely feel the rapid pulse of magical electricity as it flowed outward from the larger Darkner's core like a heartbeat, practically pounding out of control inside his chest like that of a frightened creature being pursued by a vicious beast, Tenna's outside frozen in time in complete opposition to what was happening beneath.
"Mike," Tenna repeated, without varying his affect in any way, "I need...something."
Something? Now that was something for Mike to go on! "Sure thing, Boss! What's up? You hungry, thirsty? Tired, bored, sick, stressed?"
Tenna didn't answer as Mike's motor mouth went on and on, making suggestion after suggestion. Instead he stood, wrapping his lower pair of arms around his abdomen as he trudged towards his bed.
Jumping up to follow, Mike switched tactics without hesitation. "Oh I getcha! Haven't eaten since lunch, huh? Why don't I go and grab ya a nice hot TV dinner, fresh from the vending machine?" Silence, as Tenna seated himself on the edge of the bed, and Mike could feel his confident facade starting to slip even further. It was almost unheard of for Tenna not to perk up by that point! "Or, uh, if you're not feelin' it tonight, how 'bout a nice cold drink? Lemonade, nectar, peppermint tea, ginger ale?"
The last thing he expected was for Tenna's other hands to snatch one of his own, sandwiching it between shaking fingers. "Don't leave."
"W-Wasn't plannin' on it, Boss!" Damn, he wished he'd thought to keep the walkie-talkie in his pocket, to call on Pluey or Jongler to make the drink run. He'd need to waste time stripping off his suit anyway if he did it himself, not wanting anyone besides Tenna and his closest companions to catch a glimpse of the mysterious "Mike" and potentially muddy the rumor pool he so heavily depended on for his research! "You just say the word, and I'll pick up the phone and-"
"NO!!" Yowch, Mike could feel Tenna's claws even through two layers of cartoonishly thick gloves as his volume suddenly rose a dozen decibels!
Pushing down every instinct to cut and run like a scared Pippins, he stood his ground as a shudder creeped down Tenna's spine, his lips barely moving a millimeter even through such an outburst. Another of those deep, pained breaths, and it was like Tenna hadn't said anything at all, didn't even acknowledge anything had startled him, his expression completely neutral.
"I don't need that," he mumbled, "I need...I...don't know."
"Come on, Tenna, I can't read your mind. I ain't some kinda psychic." At least, he didn't THINK Mike was; maybe that was an idea to add to the board. "You gotta talk to me."
"I don't know."
Tenna didn't say anything further, to his dismay. But if there was one thing that mind beneath Mike's mask was good at, it was analyzing clues and making connections – noting that Tenna had gravitated to his bed in his strange, mysteriously-needy state, Mike gently pushed down onto the man's shoulders, to little effect. "Listen, let's forget all that talk about dinner and drinks, and just turn in a little early for the night. Sound good big guy?" Exhaustion would explain Tenna's uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm after a long day, not wanting to drain his batteries any further than he had to, and Tenna seemed to agree as, finally, he let Mike assist him in reclining onto the mattress, propping up his heavy head onto a pillow and his antennae carefully onto a second situated directly above it. But even as Mike tucked a blanket around him, Tenna remained stiff, all four of his shoulders raised as his screen remained lit.
Sighing, Mike patted the top of Tenna's case. "Hey, howzabout you put on one of those bedtime programs of yours and I'll watch ya 'till you can't stay on no more, huh?"
"I'm not tired."
"You're not...huh?" Then what the hell was all he'd just done for the guy even FOR?! Honestly, Tenna confounded him sometimes, the way his fickle whims changed channels so suddenly. "Well, 'least you're nice an' comfy now, ain'tcha?"
Slowly, Tenna held out a shaky hand to Mike, who took it without contest. Even if the gloves made Mike's own hands much larger than they would be out of costume, even adding a false extra finger to each one, they were still dwarfed by Tenna's, and he gripped the television Darkner's fingers with one of his oversized gloves while he dug his thumb into Tenna's palm soothingly with the other. Anything to get SOME kind of response out of him, to ease Mike's growing worry if nothing else.
"Let's see here," he started rambling again, silence something Motormouth Mike just wouldn't stand for, "Ixnay on the TV, maybe a little music'll perk those pretty little antennae right up?"
While none of Mike's suggestions had gotten even a twinge of acknowledgment out of Tenna thus far, at that one his lips pursed slightly, and he gave a slight nod, sending Mike's heart soaring at FINALLY figuring out that "something" his employer was asking him for.
"You got it Boss!!" But as he turned Tenna tugged on his hands, his grip tightening further. "Kinda need those..."
"Don't leave me."
Even despite the persistent monotone Tenna's voice came out practically a pathetic whimper, and Mike melted instantly. As he worked one of his gloves out of Tenna's hold he patted his head again, letting his fingers trace the beveled edge. "I'm not goin' anywhere, Tenna," he said softly. "Promise. Now, lemme go an' I'll fix us up a little night music, alright?"
It took several seconds, but eventually Tenna released him, and Mike shook his hand out a couple of times to get the circulation back – the television's iron grip was no joke! – as he carefully made his way through the mess of old props and other junk taking up every spare inch of the dressing room (in name only), that for the life of him he'd never understand why Tenna kept around. It really was like the trash was the guy's worst nightmare, but his hoarding habit could prove a blessing in disguise at times, Mike decided, approaching an old record player sitting out on a box in one corner of the room, records packed into plastic crates below it without any organization whatsoever.
Tenna always had a taste for that old time rock and roll, but somehow it just...didn't feel like what the situation called for, and Mike flipped through those crates for any other genre. Tenna didn't need anything upbeat and energetic that night, as simultaneously wired and drained as he was, he needed something much more calm, soothing, a lullaby to put him at ease...
A compilation of smooth Shadowguy jazz fit the bill, and Mike's grin widened. Slipping the record out of its sleeve and loading it up onto the turntable, he carefully positioned the needle on its edge, and the room filled with the music Tenna so desperately craved, even if he didn't quite show his gratitude on his screen once Mike returned.
Another of those deep, healing breaths flowed in and out of Tenna's chest with some effort, which made him smile. "That's good, Boss! Let's have another one of those!" It was a suggestion Tenna entertained, if unintentionally, Mike encouraging him to keep breathing.
But, even with his face and body barely betraying even a hint of relaxation, Tenna still leaned into Mike's touch as yet again he patted his plastic, even turning himself onto his side, the edge of his screen against Mike's hip as he sat next to the pillows, giving the latter all the confirmation he needed that, yes, this was indeed what Tenna was asking for, what his fragile cathode ray tube brain needed above all else even if the words couldn't make it through the haze filling every inch of his hollow head.
This was something Mike could do for Tenna, and he was doing it well. It was enough to keep him there, gently stroking his boss' casing as they listened together, Motormouth Mike for once letting another sound besides his own voice take center stage.
Again he watched the clock as the minutes ticked by, turning into hours; eventually he needed to flip the album over to the B side and back, but each time he rose from the bed Tenna reached out, grabbing him by the coattails like a child.
"Don't leave me."
"I'm not going anywhere," Mike assured him over and over, smiling, "I'm just gonna go fix the record, then I'm comin' right back, alright?" It was enough to secure his release, and a promise he always kept, returning right to his spot once the music played out again. At one point as Tenna grasped for him Mike stuffed an extra pillow into one of his pairs of arms, to cuddle in lieu of a small, rotund Darkner; he wished so badly he could've stuffed himself into the other, but Pluey had worked hard on his costume, and even a single seam out of place would earn him an earful of screeching saxophone for it.
Tenna just needed something to hold, though, and the pillow was good enough. He didn't need a motormouth, or muscles, or someone to listen, he just needed a patient touch on his case to guide him through whatever storm was raging in that big empty tube of his, whatever shock had left him such a panicked yet utterly numb wreck.
Tenna needed a friend, someone to watch out for him, someone to keep an eye on him. He needed his Mike, the real one. But until further developments could be made on that front, all the little Darkner could offer instead was himself.
"I'm here," he whispered over and over, the foam of his mask muffling it further. Every now and then he leaned down and checked Tenna's screen to see if it was beginning to fade to black, but no dice, sighing as the television's distant stare remained fixed in place. "I'm here. Never not here. Whatever's goin' on, you're gonna be just fine, because I gotcha, Tenna. I'm not goin' anywhere. I'm here. Mike's here."
After a few more rounds of getting up to flip the record Tenna surprised Mike by taking his turn to stir as the last track wound down, grunting a little as he grit his scanline teeth, wrinkling his nose as if waking up from a long nap.
"...Mike?" The microphone in question hopped to his feet as Tenna slowly propped himself up in bed, his antennae twitching to examine his surroundings, really seeing them for the first time that night. "What time is it," he asked weakly, discarding the pillow in his arms and taking the opportunity to stretch out both pairs as well as his stiff neck after laying still for so long; to Mike's delight he realized the television's shoulders had finally lowered, the tension flowing out of them as his breathing slowed and stabilized.
Checking the clock again, Mike sighed, "It's early in the AM, Boss. You finally feelin' like a midnight snack?"
Tenna hummed in thought, his antennae sweeping from side to side in a way that Mike couldn't help but chuckle at. "I'm thirsty. Lemonade?"
Shooting him a thumbs-up, Mike shouted, "Coming right up big guy!! Just remember to brush your teeth after, you know that acid ain't good on your glass!"
"Cut the LECTURE and just get me the drink, Mike!" He couldn't complain, the snappy tone in Tenna's voice at least an emotion, rather than that dull monotone he'd subjected Mike to that entire night. It sounded like his boss had finally shrugged off whatever was eating at his motherboard before, making him giddy with relief as he hopped back through Tenna's door into the quiet hallway behind it, the studio nearly deserted so long after the channel had switched to dead air, allowing him to take his time getting back to the Mike Room and ditching the costume.
As he pulled off that stuffy microphone mask Battat grimaced, feeling sweat roll down his plastic; even with the extra vents Pluey had cut into his costume it still boiled like an oven, especially whenever he had to wear it far longer than anticipated. Which happened more often than not. To his surprise his fellow Mikes were still awake at that hour, on the couch shoved into the corner of their largely empty room. Jongler slowly pet Pluey's back as he remained in his cat costume, loudly purring.
The Zapper didn't look up, but Battat still felt their infrared gaze as he entered. "Everythings all good, Boss? You's was in there a while!"
"Yeah," he replied, his voice completely different now that "Mike" had stepped back behind the curtain, his pitch rising as his volume fell. "Tenna's okay now. Just had some kind of...episode, I guess." He turned, allowing Jongler to unzip the back of his suit, shivering a little as the cool air suddenly hit him. Reaching across their lap he scratched Pluey behind the ears, giggling as they flicked happily at his touch, his earlier abandonment quickly forgiven.
Sighing, he sank into the couch next to his friends for just a moment more before dashing back across the studio to fetch Tenna's lemonade, and himself a cup of coffee, wanting nothing more than to bury his face into the cushions and pass right out instead; it felt like the events of that night were too bizarre NOT to warrant further investigation, even if the threads ultimately didn't tie into the larger mystery of the identity of Mike, the man whose "face" Battat had just worn for hours at Tenna's side. But, he didn't feel quite as drawn to follow the trail as he probably should've, figuring that maybe, some things weren't for Battat to question, or for Mike to fix.
"Tenna's okay now," he repeated, more to reassure himself than anyone else. "He's got his Mike looking after him!"