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Spamton couldn’t remember the last time he wore street clothes like these. For so long it had been suits and ties and slacks, ranging from business casual to business formal. But now wasn’t the time for that.
He pulled the hood a little lower over his face and kept his head down. His hands went into the hoodie pockets, hiding the holes and plastic, segmented fingers. Like this, one might mistake him for a regular old addison, if perhaps a shorter one than usual. And he intended to keep it that way. The last thing he wanted was to be recognized, not in this state.
He never should have left TV World. But he did. Like a fucking idiot. Because he was afraid of what was to come. Because he was afraid of what Tenna would say when he found out the truth. And maybe he thought leaving would stop his benefactor from dropping him. Maybe it still could, if he begged and prayed and groveled. He already had, some. But first, he had to know. Had to be sure.
His benefactor had cursed him with an ironic appearance. Cursed him with the knowledge of the strings that, even now, tugged at him, urging him to turn back. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to resist their pull. But he had to be certain — had all his blessings been revoked, too?
Ahead, true darkness leeched into the wide green fields, swallowing the horizon. Spamton reached into his pocket for a small, handheld flashlight and flicked it on. It didn’t emit much light, but it would have to be enough.
Normally, he would have made the journey by car, head beams cutting through the deepest dark. It was safer that way, his benefactor had told him. Brighter lights, and a layer of protection between himself and the things that roamed the darkness between worlds. But as he looked at the way his hands trembled and felt the buzzing feeling of an oncoming glitch in the back of his head, he knew that wasn’t going to be an option. He’d never drive his way to the outskirts in his current condition, let alone make it through the dark.
Heaven forbid he had an accident and was seen in his current state. His image would never recover.
He stood still at the border between the dark world and true darkness, trying to feel his connection to TV World. Jevil used to make the journey between his dark world and here without anything. If he could do it, Spamton could. Sure, Jevil was technically stronger, but Spamton lied to himself and considered himself the more clever of the two. (He hadn’t come by to annoy him recently. Spamton couldn’t help but wonder why, but thought “good riddance” at the same time.)
Deep, artificial breath. Ignore the tugging feeling. He could do this. Even if he couldn’t feel the connection… he had to try. He had to try and get back. He had to be sure Tenna was okay. Because he wasn’t answering his calls, and he had no other way to check on him except going there.
He stepped into the darkness and kept walking forward. Or at least, he hoped it was forward; it was hard to tell in the void, with no anchor to guide him. But he tried anyway. Because he had to.
Soon Cyber World was a dim speck on the horizon. He kept walking. He remembered passing other specks along the way. Other dark worlds. Perhaps, if he paid attention, he could find them, recognize a pattern, and use them to navigate.
But all he saw was more darkness.
He paused, trying to reorient himself.
A shuffling noise from his right followed.
Spamton froze, a chill crawling up his back. His hands started to tremble. He forced himself to start walking again, faster this time, still trying to pinpoint the right direction in the dark.
The shuffling noise followed.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back!
He broke out into a sprint. A shrieking noise, like a thousand shattering mirrors sounded behind him.
Something latched onto his back, hitting with enough force to knock him prone. The flashlight bounced out of his grip.
Spamton screamed — a horrible, bitcrushed sound — as whatever was on his back clawed at him, poking through his clothes to scratch at his plastic. It hurt more than it should, like it cut right through him to the core of who he was. His body glitched in response, his vision exploding with patches of discolored pixels.
He fought through it and kicked himself forward, plastic fingers scrambling uselessly on the ground before he grabbed the light, and shone it on his back.
Whatever had grabbed him detached, giving him a chance to roll over and illuminate his pursuer.
He almost wished he hadn’t.
Spamton couldn’t find the words to describe the beast looming over him. If the void was pitch black, it was darker than dark, like a flat shadow, only visible because it blocked the light from passing through. It was at least twice his size, even before taking into account that it was floating, looming over him. Little vestigial arms (at least, that’s what he assumed they were), wavered, then tucked against its body. A slimy substance oozed from it, dripping onto his legs.
As he stared, fawning, smaller copies spawned in the air around it. They swerved to avoid the light, lunging at him.
He screamed again, waving the flashlight. It seemed to repel the little copies, and those that stayed in the light too long flickered and vanished.
But there were too many. He had to get out of here.
No longer worried about trying to find TV World, he turned and fled, trying to reach any dark world. Anywhere but the void. More of the beasts latched onto his back and he stumbled, waving his light to shoo them away. But only seconds later another would take its place, sending fresh agony down his back.
There. Ahead, a pinprick of light. A lighter patch in the darkness. That had to be a dark world. He just had to get there—
He tripped, sent sprawling again. This time, at least, he kept a hold of the light. Which was fortunate, as more of the spawn latched onto his body the moment he was down, anywhere they could. His arms, his legs, his back. He rolled over, thrashing, and one landed on his stomach. He smacked it with the light and it let go in a daze.
The moment he was free enough, he took off again. Running. Stumbling, waving the light wildly to ward off further attacks.
The patch of light grew closer… Closer… He started to make out details, like the dark, blue-black sky and neon wireframe— Cyber World. He’d somehow managed to end up back in Cyber World.
He chanced a glance over his shoulder as the green fields of the outskirts came into view beneath his feet. Whatever had been chasing him was gone.
Heaving, he collapsed to his hands and knees, trembling. Somehow, he’d made it back.
But this wasn’t TV World.
He looked himself over for injuries, but aside from a few scuffs, he seemed outwardly fine. But on the inside, everything hurt. Everything ached. Like he’d been torn apart by whatever that was.
Slowly, he struggled to his feet and turned around, staring back into the darkness. Then he looked down at his hands. Those plastic, segmented hands. The hands of a puppet.
He’d learned his lesson. Without his benefactor’s guiding hand, he’d never make it through the dark. And his benefactor wasn’t answering the phone.
Unless…
Maybe there was something he could use. Something that could cut through the dark. Maybe even further. With the power granted by lightner hopes and dreams… Maybe Neo could let him escape the dark entirely. Reach reality. Reach the light world. Reach heaven.
Pulling up his hood to make sure it covered as much of his face as possible, he turned and stumbled back towards the mansion.