Chapter Text
Worn, crimson curtains were pulled shut. Sluggishly, they concealed the stage behind, away from a sneering audience. The set — though far from minimal — was now shrouded in dim lighting, only visible underneath the heavy wings of the stage. A small, indiscernible object lay haphazardly at the showman’s foot. It had landed mere inches away from his torso. Luck would have it that the item missed when it was flung onstage. Mr. Tenna shook his head, rejecting the notion; there was nothing lucky about tonight.
Succumbing to his melancholy, the host left his platform of performance, dragging his feet along the cracked, pale wood.
The quality of his shows was noticeably different in spite of little actual change to the scripts. Sets were uneven, costumes faded, acting dull. The flamboyance of the show’s presenter was not enough to appease its rapidly dwindling audience. With each production, the theatre grew smaller in company. The actors more tired. Points less spent. Fewer and fewer people cared about television. Fewer cared about him.
Behind the scenes, employees scampered about. A sort of fervor had overtaken them. The state of tonight’s performance could only mean one thing — the wrath of their boss was soon to come. Someone would be forced to take the blame, and no one was willing to play such a part. At the sound of heavy, clacking shoes of massive proportion, Pippins, Shadowguys, and Zappers scurried away like rats at the sign of a cat.
Mr. Tenna sulked through the hallways of his deserted theatre, head hung low. Tonight was not his first show to fail — it was one of many. But, with every jeer, every dwindling amount of applause, came a blow to his already cracking ego. And on this occasion, a blow to his body as well. Life was being drained from TV World, and there was nothing to be done. Hope hung on an ever-thinning thread.
Although no Darkner was left present in the vicinity, Tenna did not lift his head to check. Anger was for a state of heightened emotion; only despair consumed him now, draining him of anything beyond misery. With every step, the sound of his clicking heels grew softer, smaller. The corridor around him, which was traditionally almost too short to hold his frame, began to loom overhead. By the time he passed Ramb’s abandoned bar, he was barely a fraction of his true stature.
There was only one saving grace, one that he desperately craved the solace of. Without thought, he knowingly turned through corridors of peeling green paint, to a particular room with a lock on its doors. Raising his fist, he knocked in a specific fashion unique to his character only. After a brief moment, a door creaked open. Its hinges stuck, though he pushed past without noticing.
“Mike!” Finally lifting his head, he stared across at a small, stout fellow donning a gray suit and large, scarlet bowtie. The man beamed at him.
“Hey, hey, boss!” The size of his employer told him enough about how the performance went. Battat, the Pippins underneath the suit, braced himself for the oncoming storm. “Hey, everythin’ alright?” Unable to resist his distress any longer, Tenna threw himself on the floor, clutching his head. “They HATED it! They hated me! Someone even threw a shoe at me. I mean, who does that? It couldn't have been that bad!” With each sentence, his agony grew. Battat knew he needed to quell him, and fast.
“They must need better eyes and ears, then! Who do they think they are, scoffin’ at an act like yours?” He kept his voice loud and jovial, attempting to blow away the suffocating air that enveloped them.
Tenna’s frame shook. “Come on, the act’s stale! I run the same programs over and over. No one watches TV anymore, so what am I supposed to do? It’s not my fault!”
Battat frowned. Knowing what to do from what was only learned experience, he approached Tenna, stroking his shoulder. “There, there. No one said it was your fault. We all know how hard you work ‘round here.” And how hard WE all work, too, Battat thought to himself.
“I try…” Tenna sniffled.
“And ya do a fantastic job. I don’t know anyone else with your kind ’a charisma!” The lies were thick.
“You’re just saying that…” The showman rubbed his nose, but he grew a little in spite of his disbelief.
“Nah, c’mon, now! I’m not paid to kiss ass, am I?” That’s exactly what I’m paid to do. “We can’t help it if folks don’t have any taste, can we? The point is, ya tried your best.”
Tenna’s face scrunched again, and Battat cringed to himself at the unexpectedly negative reaction. “My best isn’t good enough. Not for them. Not for…”
“H-hey, hey!” Battat waved his hands, knowing where this was going. “No reason to get all glooby over somethin’ like this, now!” His mind raced, scrambling to come up with a reassuring comment. “Just, er, focus on the positive!”
“...Like what?”
“Like, uh.” Battat scanned the room, as if its interior would reveal secret knowledge to him. A moment's pause occurred. Tenna took note.
“See?” He threw his hands up, tears beginning to stream down his face. “The show’s a failure! I’m a failure! And nobody cares. They’ve all… moved on.”
The words stung. With how careful Battat was towards him — how sympathetic and comforting he was — it hurt to be entirely unacknowledged. But, this was far from atypical: self-pity parties had become the average state of affairs between the two, and like the times previously, Battat had to swallow his pride and do his duty as “Mike.”
“Now, don’t go sayin’ all that! I’m still here with ya, ain’t I? And, what about all the crew, huh? They’ve got your back!”
“You mean the ones that steal from me?” There was now a hint of hostility in Tenna’s tone. Attempts at diffusing him only appeared to be making the situation worse. Battat sighed under the pressure, out of both irritation and exhaustion. It was fortunate that Tenna was paying little attention to his facial expressions.
“There’s always a couple of chumps in the crowd. Doesn’t mean they’re all bad seeds! Remember how last week, Shuttah got that swell photo of you and the Weather Duo for the promos? We had it framed in your office, too! Smackin’ new, wooden frame and everything! Fancy stuff for a fancy guy, am I right? Or, am I right?” He snapped his fingers with vigor, though underneath the Mike mask he was sweating.
Tenna ceased his cries, and paused for a moment. “Yeah… I remember that.”
I’d sure hope so, it was just last week, Battat rolled his eyes, which were thankfully concealed. Still, a glimmer of relief bestowed itself upon him at the sign of Tenna’s rational thought returning. Unfortunately, it was the only good memory Battat could recall of his coworkers in relation to their boss. Something new needed to be inserted to keep the conversation light. “Yeah, see? And, well,” he stroked his chin, “we got the vending machine by the Rank Rooms working two nights ago! That’s good, too, yeah?”
“I suppose.” A little larger.
“Let’s see. There was also that new sponsor we picked up?”
“After we lost two others.”
“Ah, right,” Battat cringed, having forgotten. He didn’t let it stop him, however:
“Well, let’s not forget the best part of all!” He outstretched his hands, putting himself on display. Tenna stared blankly. “What?” A frustrated sigh from the Pippins. “Me, a’ course!” You big lout.
“Oh! That’s true,” Tenna agreed, “the show couldn’t run without you, for sure."
Is that all he thinks I do? All I am for him?
“You bet! And besides, without me, who’d run your nightly programs? You wouldn’t be gettin’ to sleep without being tucked in all nice and snug, now, would you?”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Finally, a small, clumsy smile emerged on Tenna’s screen as the tears slowed their pouring. A bit of pink blush appeared upon his cheeks. Finally, Battat felt like he could breathe.
“There we go! There’s my award-winning smile!” Tenna chuckled a little, now around half his usual height. Despite sitting down, he dwarfed Battat.
“You always know what to say, Mike.”
“Well, that’s why they call me Motormouth!” A phony chuckle, but Tenna grinned at him regardless. Now, it was time for the finishing move: to officially cease this uncomfortable interaction. “And you know one thing I love to say, more than anything?”
“What?”
“You know I always love TV. I love your TV.” Tenna’s blush grew, and he clasped his hands together. For the first time tonight, Battat smiled genuinely: out of pride. He had successfully redirected his boss, saving both of them the headache and despair. But, before his ego could be stroked too much, something in the air suddenly changed.
Without apparent reason, his boss’ body grew rigid, as if caught in a freeze-frame. His mouth vanished. “Mike…”
“...What?” Worry laced Battat’s question — not out of concern, but dread. It wasn’t over.
“You… aren’t just saying all this to get me to shut up, are you?” Battat was dumbstruck, mouth hung open. “Wha — Tenna, buddy! What makes you think that?” I didn’t think he was looking into this so much. I didn’t know he could.
“Well, I just don’t really understand, I guess.”
“Uh, heh, understand what exactly?” Battat grew sweaty once more.
“Why do you always praise me so much? All of the others hate my programs. No one really talks to me anymore. But, you’re never like that. You tell me everything’s great. That I’m great, even when I don’t feel like it. It’s like, you’re living in some kind of FANTASY.”
Take a look in the mirror on that one, pal. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”
Head turned away, Tenna’s voice was atypically small. “I want to. I really do. But, lately, it just feels like you’re just telling me what I want to hear. It doesn’t feel real.” Now, he was facing Battat again, his expression wracked with distress. “Tell me otherwise, Mike. Tell me you care.”
After seeing the slightest frown on Mike’s face, and the lack of an immediate response, Tenna came to his own conclusion. “I was right…”
Battat shook himself harshly, realizing he was getting sucked into a pit he didn’t know was below him moments before. “No, no, wait a sec! You just caught me off guard. Of course I care about you. You’re my friend, ain’t ya?”
In spite of a lack of eyes, Tenna’s stare shot through Battat. His face grew disillusioned. “Friend,” he spat, “Can I even call you my friend? Someone who fills my head with lies just to shut me up.” Now, his head hung without expression, voice low. “You don’t really care about me… do you? I’m all alone.”
The words shot through Battat’s veins like ice. After how hard he'd been trying to please Tenna, to stroke his insatiable ego, to coddle him as if he were a child, it wasn't enough. It was never enough; it never had been, and tonight only proved that it never will. To Battat, it didn’t matter that his words were fake — it was the effort behind them that mattered.
He was used to being treated with disdain outside of his disguise. Though, the idea of Tenna treating dear Mike with such poor quality, left even him stunned. It’s no wonder he has no friends, a bitter thought passed through Battat’s mind as his soured face donned a newly formed scowl. After all of the Pippins’ effort, he still had faced the anger of his employer.
Only, tonight was different.
There was a deep, encrusted rage bubbling inside Battat. And it was boiling to the surface of his mind. His temper flared. The disrespect he faced as a regular employee was enough to produce resentment, but to find out that Tenna had turned on what he believed to be his only true confidant, there came a sense of betrayal. Unbeknownst to Battat himself, he felt beyond irritated; he was hurt. All that consumed the conscious part of his mind, however, were the twins of pride and wrath.
"You know what?" His tone was quiet — hostile and different from Motormouth's. It was his real voice. "You're right. It is all fake.” With his small feet, the distance between them closed. The Pippins’ voice grew louder with every word. “I tried to be nice because I thought that's what you needed to hear — you're always begging so badly for attention. And yet, when you've got someone right here to give you as much as you want, you still decide to push me away. It always has to be about you, and how you're this poor, innocent victim. You never care what's going on with anyone else, because in your world, we’re all just here to serve you and your incessant demands! Do you ever wonder why Elniña and Laniño haven’t been around as much? Have you ever even thought about them, your so-called ‘closest friends’? We’re nothing but devices to you, and they know it! We all know it! You’re not exactly good at hiding things, are you?” He was far too enraged to care about his strong choice of words. “And you wonder why you're difficult to love." He shook, but not from fear.
The expression Mr. Tenna gave was unusual for one so typically exaggerated: his face was of pure emptiness. Then, slowly, his mouth spread underneath his nose. It appeared he was trying to process the dialogue, as if it were some sort of cipher that needed solving. A moment passed, and his mouth bent downwards. His upper lip hung limply, while the bottom was pressed tightly against its sister. They quivered together. Still, no words were uttered; an uncharacteristic speechlessness overtook him. Even his frame, as large as it was, seemed to stop in time. The whole room was suspended, save for the dull glow from the man’s screen.
The silence, though welcome, did little to dissuade Battat’s fury. Not receiving a response, he saw its lack as purely an invitation to continue. For too many nights he had let Tenna's self-absorbed angle dominate their dynamic; now Battat would control the space.
"It's never enough to just give me a thank you, isn't it? To know that you're actually thinking of someone that isn't yourself." Battat rubbed his temple. "I try so hard for you. But, you’ve never even tried to see that." The bitterness burned in the back of his throat. His eyes were pressed shut. Emotions grew hotter.
His employer’s antennae twitched, then fell down in front of his face. “I — I do thank you,” Tenna spoke up, meekly.
“Now who’s the one sounding fake?” Battat refused to bite his tongue, for he didn’t know when the opportunity of serving justice would be bestowed to him once more.
Mr. Tenna inhaled sharply, as if to speak, before something imaginary clogged his throat and stopped the words from coming up. There was nothing for him to say. With no way to have prepared for such confrontation, he took the scolding like a corrected, confused child. A part of him, hidden behind a thick concoction of delusion, pride, and ignorance, knew Battat wasn’t wrong. The size of his bulky frame changed drastically, becoming smaller than Battat’s own unimpressive height. Static covered his screen.
Once more, a pregnant silence filled the air. This time, Battat was satiated; he had expressed himself plainly and satisfactorily. Confidence welled within: he finally stood up to Tenna, and without being destroyed. Air began to fill him more slowly, and he found his anger starting to subside.
"I guess I'll be going, then," he exhaled, still sour. He approached the door, but heard nothing from the other. Can’t even be bothered to try and stop me, can he? Battat shook his head. The old door creaked upon opening — bright, artificial light flooding into the dim room. As he took a step outwards, a soft voice called out to him.
“Wait.” Battat froze, turning his head to face the plea’s source. His body was held in place. “What?” he asked flatly.
“I — I didn’t mean it,” Tenna’s tone shook. He had shifted on the floor to face Battat, bent on his knees, arms limp. “I just got carried away, and—”
“And you made a mistake. But, that’s the catch: this isn’t just about tonight. How many times have you put me down to make yourself feel better? And I took it, ya know. All of it. I swallowed all my pain, my frustration, for your sake. Because I thought that’s what Mike was supposed to do. But, that’s not good enough, is it? It never is. So, maybe you don’t need me, after all.” He turned away.
“No, no, wait!” On his knees, Tenna crawled across the floor. “Please don’t leave me here…” He reached upwards, like a baby for its mother. Battat was disgusted.
“You really have no dignity, do you?” The door slammed behind him, leaving Tenna alone in the dark.