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E̶R̸R̶O̴R̷
̴T̶h̵i̷s̷ ̶f̷i̵l̴e̸ ̶t̶y̸p̷e̸ ̶i̸s̸ ̵n̸o̵t̴ ̴s̵u̴p̷p̷o̷r̵t̶e̴d̴.̴
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Ĕ̷̞͎̺̔͆R̵͖͋̍͗Ṟ̵̻̌̽̓Ö̵̯́̋̕Ŕ̸̙̆͝
̷͎̼̳̋̊͑T̸̢̜̅h̵͙̪̻̑͆i̸̢̻͊ͅs̸͙̅̐ ̸̨̦̗̾f̴̱̻̩͂͛i̸̖͌̅ͅl̵͚̘̐e̵͚̐̓̆ ̷̱͒̄t̷̫̙͌̓y̸̡̹̠̾p̴̯̈e̸̡̘̦̋́̿ ̴̹̥͉̔ǐ̷̢͇s̵̢̉ ̵͕̖̳̋̈n̷̺̹̂͊̅ö̴̹̘́ẗ̴̨͓̳́̈ ̸̪̯̊͘ś̸͔͈̔u̷̼͈͌p̵̺͔͗p̷̦̒o̸͉͘ŕ̶̟́͗ͅt̷̫̽͝ẻ̶͉̀̋ḏ̷̑̈́.̶̨̖̥̊
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P̸̜̻͇̭͒̏̐͗̂ͅr̴̩͇͎͚͙̽́̈́o̶̘̙͔̞̔̌̚ć̷̲̽ë̵̼́͛̚ě̸̗̪d̶̨͔̱̦͔̰̏̓͒̈́͊.̸͈͎͖̈͌̎͜
Ṕ̶̢̧̗̥̭̻̜͕R̴̨͈̣̗̮̗͕͖͕̪͌̏̄̿͐́̕͜͠O̵̖̬͚̤͖͚̞̪̻̒̆̎̐̆̌̉̕ͅC̸̡͙̻͍̜̳̼̩͖̩̜̱̉͋̆̑̍E̴̦̺̺̪̘̘̿̑̍̌͑̓͗̐̅͛͋͒E̸̗͉̬̪͚͉̠͕̮̺̒̍̒̌͋̇͘͠ͅD̸͇̠̤͎̤̺͖̋̈́̎͜.̶̢͚̭̰̜̤̺͑̑̑́̂̉̔̐͆͒͂͝
◻︎❒︎□︎♍︎♏︎♏︎♎︎.
As his body reformed lying supine on the ground, Spamton coughed out the remaining dust from his lungs. Last he remembered, his very being was being quite literally torn apart by an old game console he had found while snooping around TV World (as you do) after he had broken away from the other addisons to eavesdrop on the Queen and TV World's own ruler (as you do).
Slowly, he pulled himself up onto his forearms and looked around. Miraculously, his glasses were still perfectly perched on his nose, allowing him to clearly see the back room he had awoken in. It looked cleaner than it had looked before, when he picked up the controller. The thick coat of dust on each surface was wiped clean, and the curtains no longer smelled of wet mold. Strange. Quite some time must have passed since the console sucked him in.
Wait. Does that mean…?
Had they left him here? Forgot about him and left TV World without him? No, no. Of course not. That couldn't be it.
The lightners had moved Cyber City next to TV World that day, allowing cyber citizens like Spamton to take advantage of the new world to explore. The other addisons ran every which way to find darkners to butter up, but Spamton, using his small size to his advantage, had been able to sneak into the restricted stage area while the two large dark world leaders were talking diplomacy. Of course though, sneaking back out was a different beast entirely.
Spamton had to duck backstage behind red velvet curtains coated with dust in order to avoid being detected by the large TV darkner, and subsequently discovered an abandoned game console with an odd controller attached to it. And it had been on. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Spamton had picked it up and began fiddling with it while waiting to make his escape back to the lobby.
That, it turns out, would be a grave mistake.
While experimenting with the game and learning its controls, Spamton swore he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Obviously, he swiveled his head towards what he saw only to find… nothing. Probably just his nerves. He knew he was screwed if someone found him back here. But the screen had changed while he was turned, even without making any button inputs.
There was another character there, besides his. The first one he had seen. The pixels formed what looked like a small, smiling cat. As he pushed the joystick on the controller forward, a split second passed before-
He heard laughter coming from his side of the screen. Then the screen flashed. Pink. Yellow. Pink. Yellow. Again. Again. Again. Spamton shut his eyes against the flashing, but behind his eyelids he saw another color. Pink. Yellow. White. More white.
He opened his eyes, but the strobing effects had only gotten worse, now interrupted by white pixels floating towards the screen-
White. White pixels. His pixels. Spamton dropped the controller and pulled away, but his feet were stuck to where they stood on the ground. He was lightheaded. His thoughts felt like they were cutting in and out- in and out with the repeated flashing on the screen- oh angel above why couldn't he look away? His eyes burnt from the strobing and God, it burns. Why does it-!?
And that's when he woke up here.
How much time had passed since then? Would they really leave him here? All of them? Could- could a digital darkner like him even survive without the Queen nearby? She had to still be here. She had to be. They wouldn't leave him, they just wouldn't. Not after all th-
The curtains shuffled and moved at his side. Shit. He was screwed. He had to be. Some TV World bigwig was two seconds away from seeing his stupid glowing self in a restricted area and they would blow him to kingdom come. Panicked, Spamton scrambled to the side of the room and covered himself in the curtains, trying his hardest to make his glow as dull as possible. It was (supposedly) great for sales, but it made him about as subtle as an airhorn in a librarby.
Just as he moved into his hiding spot, an unseen darkner sighed and walked loudly to stand next to the (now dark) screen that Spamton had watched flash violently what felt like minutes before. There was a click of a lighter- and hesitation. Silence. Not even a rustle of fabric to tell the darkner was moving.
“...Don't know who you think you're hidin’ from, pal,” a man's voice said. Shit. Shit. “Find a new smoke spot. This one's taken.” He had the gruff voice of a chainsmoker and sounded absolutely exhausted. Nothing about his voice screamed “forgiving”.
Slowly, Spamton peeked his head out from behind the curtain and untensed slightly, knowing his cover was blown. In his dim white glow, he could get an okay look at the other darkner. He was a few inches taller than Spamton, with jet black hair, golden accessories, and a bright red tail coat tucked into white pants accented by more gold on his belt. In a strange way, he did sort of look like an addison. This darkner had the same body shape as him, but he was very obviously not digital. Maybe he was the TV World equivalent to an addison? That would explain the other differences too, like his hair coming free from its gel and his overly flashy outfit. He was staring at Spamton, wide-eyed, with an unlit cigarette in his hand. He was probably being weird. He should apologize. Or make an excuse. Maybe both?
Stumbling towards the other darkner, Spamton attempted to flash a smile (which definitely looked more like a grimace), and started mentally plotting escape routes as he spoke: “Yes-! Um- Hi, Sir- Mister- Sorry. I got a bit… lost? Yeah, lost. So, if you could just sort of… direct me back to Cyber World I'll be out of your hair real quick…” he trailed off as the other darkner continued to stare at him. “...Sir?”
The man's hands went stiff at Spamton's cut-off and he dropped his cigarette on the floor. He scrambled to pick it up, swearing under his breath as he bent down. When he stood back up, however, he took one more glance at Spamton before quickly lighting his cigarette and promptly ignoring him. He wasn't even trying to sell him something, goddammit! The addison sighed quietly. Maybe dropping the pretense would be better for him here.
“Sir- look. I don't want anything from you. I just want to get back home. Did Queen leave yet? All I need to do is get back to the other addisons and that'll be-”
“Why the hell are you here?” The smoking darkner asked abruptly. “You like the goddamn strings? Here to torment me? Make it look like I'm losing it?” …What? Spamton wanted to tell him that he was probably already losing it if he couldn't recognize the fact that he just needed some damn directions, but decided that that probably wouldn't help his situation.
Stuttering over his words slightly, Spamton tried answering the obviously rhetorical questions: “I’m- well I'm here because we were all here, sir. Alllllllll of Cyber City. Don't really know how you missed it. And I only torment people I think might actually pay me. You uh- you don't really seem like one of those guys. No offense.” The darkner continued staring at him. Then he chuckled. It was harsh, like it wasn't particularly enjoyable, but he did it anyway.
“Yeah, alright. I'll humor ya’. This place and Cyber World haven't been connected since around 1993-ish, at least not like that. So, you're screwed. Good riddance. Ant will have a contract on your new desk by 3. See ya’ then.” With that, he dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it under the heel of his shoe. He began walking away, presumably out of the room, but in a panic, Spamton ran towards him and grabbed the man’s wrist.
“What are you on about?” Spamton didn’t mean to, but he was yelling. “Last I checked, it’s 1988. No sooner, no later. So we are not done here unless this is some elaborate prank, asshole!” The other darkner tensed in panic and ripped his wrist out of Spamton’s grip. While he wildly grabbed the air in an attempt to regain his grip, the other darkner grabbed the collar of Spamton’s jacket and pulled him in close.
“You do not get to touch me. You do not get to tell me what year it is. You do not exist anymore-” Spamton was frozen in the man’s grip. He was insane, he really was. Rambling on about things that didn’t make sense and now whatever this was. He needed to get out of here. There had to be someone else around here that wasn’t a lunatic who could just get him some directions. “-You’re… you’re real,” Suddenly, the darkner dropped Spamton and pushed him away.
Really, Spamton couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, “Of course I’m real, dumbass! Tell me something I don’t know!”
“You’re real,” he repeated. There was a dread in his voice. Spamton didn’t know what that meant for him, but he wasn’t sure he’d like it. “I can’t touch the hallucinations. Not like that. You’re here. How did you get here?” His voice was starting to shake. Spamton really didn’t like this.
He hesitated, “...I told you. Most of Cyber City was here. In 1988. It- it is 1988, right?” Spamton was starting to panic, himself. The pieces were starting to click together. How the room was so clean now, how no one had come to find him, how the other darkner had been talking about the ‘90s… “Oh. Oh, Angel above. Was- how long was I trapped in that console? I must’ve been trapped, right? Like somehow my code got stuck in there? And now I’m here? What year is it?” Spamton was frantically looking around the room now, forgetting that he had practically just been assaulted by the only other guy in the room. He was looking much less panicked now, by comparison.
“Hey- Hey, hey, hey,” The man held his hands out in front of him, still looking ruffled but obviously trying to keep Spamton relatively calm. “There’s good news: You were not stuck in that thing for ten years-”
“Ten years-!?”
“I just said you weren’t,” the man clarified. “Because if you were trapped in that thing, I wouldn’t be here. So it seems less like a linear thing and more like-”
“-And why wouldn’t you be here?” Spamton interrupted again. He was stressed and scared and this weirdo wasn’t doing anything to help either of those things. The darkner just sighed, giving up on his last point and gesturing vaguely at himself before doing the same at Spamton. He gained nothing from this. Subtlety wasn’t his strong suit.
“...Hello? Glitch-for-brains? You’re me, goddammit. Why do you think I was freaking the hell out? I still am!” Oh, he was crazy, crazy. The only similar traits they shared were the lightner-ish shape and big nose, which plenty of other darkners had as well. Spamton collapsed back to the ground, falling on his knees. Almost like a madman himself, he started laughing. This could not be happening to him. After all his hard work to get somewhere- anywhere- he had ended up trapped in a world that didn’t even belong to him. He was just going to turn to stone- probably not even that, thanks to being digital in an analog world. It would probably be so much worse, fizzling out until he was nothing. He already was nothing. No one had come for him, even bothered to remember him. He was just stuck here with this lunatic. This would probably be the last conversation he’d ever have. Maybe that’s what he could be known for. Spamton G. Addison: The biggest loser in every dark world he ever stepped into. It was sad, but it was at least something.
“...Pal…?” The crazy-man-claiming-to-be-him said, “...You alright down there?”
“Peachy,” Spamton coughed out sarcastically. “Perfectly fine, pal.” The man reached his hand out to help Spamton with a strained smile, but he ignored it and shakily stood up on his own. He just wanted to go home. It may be shitty, but it was still his. He didn't want to die here.
“Look, believe me or not, I think I can handle this for you,” the darkner told him. Spamton turned his gaze upwards from the floor to him. He didn't interrupt, allowing him to continue: “I know people. Powerful people. People who may be able to get you back to where or whenever you came from. Even if that takes a while, I can at least get you back to Cyber World so you're not dead meat or anything.” It sounded a bit ridiculous, but Spamton believed him. The way he said it… it wasn't a sales pitch. It was just plain facts. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.
Still, Spamton sighed, “That's… good news, at least,” he admitted. “I just- what year is it, anyway? Who even are you? And don't say you're me again, tailcoat.” He was starting to get riled up again with the newfound knowledge that he wasn't going to die a failure, at least not yet, and started getting some of that confused steam back. The other darkner glanced behind him and tapped his foot on the ground while clicking his tongue.
“Mike,” he said to nothing in particular (another mark on the crazy tally), “Cancel my plans, I've got another issue. And you-” He pointed at Spamton, “Follow me. My dressing room’s more private. No one to bother us there.” At that, he walked away and towards what Spamton assumed had to be a door out of the stage, and gestured for him to come forward. Still slightly unsure, Spamton trudged towards him and went through the door behind him.
Immediately when he stepped through the doors, Spamton started squinting from the shining lights and reflective tile that made it even more intense. There were a few other darkners in the area as well- which seemed to be filled with bulletin boards, vending machines, and small changing rooms- and many made a bee-line towards the man he was with the second he stepped out of their previous hiding spot.
A small die darkner wearing a headset (a pippins, Spamton remembered hearing them called,) pushed their way to the front: “Mr. Spamton!” They yelled, making Spamton double-take before he realized they were addressing the man in front of him. “You have a meeting with Mr. Tenna in 15. After that, there's a 2 o'clock rehearsal with the band. The shadowguys said they wanted you there because they had a few new jingles planned, and then after-”
“-Yeah. Yeah, real nice,” he told the pippins. “Tell Tenna I've got an emergency. Mike's got the rest covered.”
“But, Mr. Spamton, Mr. Tenna said that-”
“He can wait 5 years, he can wait another day. We clear?” The pippins nodded, grimaced, and ran off. Then the man simply cut a line through the others trying to get his attention. It was like Spamton didn't exist.
If they had been calling him Spamton… then… was that darkner really him? Like he said? And Tenna… wasn't he the one who ran TV World? How high up was this guy that he could cancel their plans on a whim? It couldn't be, no. Spamton was a prototype, a failed version of what an addison was meant to be. This couldn't be him. It just wasn't his purpose, plain and simple. A darkner couldn't not follow their original purpose, it just didn't work like that. …Did it?
“We're here,” the other darkner (the other him?) broke him out of his thoughts. They had reached a dressing room door, its handle at a height just slightly too tall so it was awkward for either of them to reach. Near the top of the door there was a nameplate: Spamton G. Spamton. Spamton must have made a strange look, because the man in front of him added in a defensive tone, “The name change is a marketing thing.” Spamton just nodded and the two walked quietly into the room.
As soon as Spamton closed the door behind him, he spoke, turning directly to face the other darkner: “You really are me, aren't you? …How? How did you do… this?” He gestured around himself, trying to take in a view of the dressing room. Dressers and clothing racks sat nestled in between plush couches and wooden tables topped with ashtrays and empty glasses. It was covered wall to wall in posters, shining lights, and vanity mirrors; Spamton couldn’t find a spot in the room where he wasn’t looking at his own face.
That was something else he had noticed. Now, with better lighting, Spamton could see the similarities between him and this other darkner much more clearly. For one, they both had the same chips in their teeth. They had the same cheekbones, too, he could tell by the height at which they sat and how they protruded in an almost awkward way. Except this other him didn’t look awkward. He carried himself with a sense of importance and controlled stiffness that made him seem… authoritative. Spamton never knew he could look like that. But, still, he wasn’t digital. How was that possible? This bigger, better version of him was still so different from him in ways that made it seem impossible for them to be the same.
The other him looked around the room as Spamton gestured, and shrugged as he spoke: “Lot of work. Lot of time. Lot of favors called in. It’ll all work out.” He strutted towards one of the clothing racks sitting next to a large couch (at least large for Spamton) and took off his red tailcoat to hang it up. He really wasn’t digital. Under those sleeves was real flesh and blood, not even cold metal or plastic like other physical cyber darkners had. Spamton couldn’t help but stare a bit. Luckily, he was ignored as the other him stepped up on the couch and sat down. He patted the seat next to him, leading to Spamton ungracefully scuttling up to the just-out-of-proportion piece of furniture.
“Alright, let’s get down to business,” the other him said as Spamton finally sat down. “You’re confused. I’m confused. Let’s try to work out what happened.” Spamton nodded, but still, he hesitated slightly.
“Why are you so calm about this?” he asked.
Sighing, the darkner continued: “Weirder things have happened. I got to the place I am now by weirder things happening. I’ve figured out that if I just roll with the punches, things’ll usually work out in the end. I suggest you start rolling with ‘em too, for your own sake.” Spamton nodded again, still confused, but more willing to accept that confusion. “...Now, you said you came from ‘88?”
“Uh- yeah,” Spamton replied. “Cyber City got access to TV World, so I was trying to sell stuff like the others.” By “others,” he meant other addisons. This version of him scowled at this implication.
“Think I remember that,” he mumbled. “I snuck backstage and ended up talking with Ant. Then I got dragged back out when the path was closin’ up.” Shaking his head slightly, he counted on his fingers: “That was… ten years ago. Yeah, in ‘88. And it’s ‘98 here.”
“...You talked to Mr. Tenna?” Spamton asked.
The other him nodded, “Yeah. Thought he was an egomaniac. Well, I guess he kinda’ is,” he laughed. It wasn’t like how Spamton would normally laugh. It was more… professional sounding. Like he wanted to sound good more than he wanted to enjoy the joke. “Anyway, s’not like it mattered, looked like you back then. Didn’t even remember me next time we met. I’m assumin’ that look on your face means you didn’t get to talk with him?”
“N- No,” Spamton said, trying to regain his footing in the conversation. “I did sneak backstage, but I chickened out and hid back where that game console was when I thought he saw me. It was on so I picked it up. …I was just kinda hiding until he was gone, but then something sucked me in.” Slowly, almost as if to not seem nervous, the other him leaned forward.
“...What happened, exactly?”
“There was something in the game, but I think there was also someone else in the room? I’m not sure. I heard some movement and a laugh but after that it’s blurry. All my pixels were coming apart like the console was pulling me in. After that I woke up where you found me.” Spamton watched his eyes widen at the word “laugh”.
“What color.” It wasn’t a question.
“What?”
“What color were its eyes.”
“How did you know it was the eyes-?”
“Just answer me,” The other him demanded. He was starting to look manic. That lunatic he had seen earlier was starting to come back. “What color were its eyes?”
“It- they were pink and yellow. At- at least I think,” Spamton stuttered out. The other darkner’s face was expressionless. Even his eyes gave no hint to what he was thinking. Abruptly, he jumped off from the couch and looked at Spamton.
“Wait here,” He said sternly. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t let anyone in. Don’t even say a word. I’ll be back.”
Spamton was taken aback, “Huh- What? Where are you going?” The other him was already walking out of the room, fingers twitching as it looked like his head was locked towards his destination.
“I’m just going to make a call.”