Work Text:
“Yes, I understand,” Spamton says.
GOOD.
His Benefactor hangs up, dial tone filling the speaker. He finally notices the shaking of his hands as he pulls it away from his ear.
He's so tired of this. He's tired of being controlled, of being a fraud. Of being a puppet for his Benefactor to make dance. Of being his plaything. He wanted to be big for the freedom, not for this! Why does being Big feel so small?
That's it. He's had enough. No more blindly following orders. No more fawning to some Benefactor he doesn't even know the real name of. No more phone calls.
He brings the transmitter crashing down onto the phone. And again. And again. He bashes into it until his arms go weak. Then he pushes over the entire table and crumples to his knees.
He looks at the now empty table laid on its side. Then to his pen and notepad on the floor. And lastly he stares and the broken phone between his knees.
The phone.
He broke the phone.
No. No no no no no. Shit! This is bad. This is really bad.
He gets on his hands and knees, trying to bring the scattered pieces of plastic and wire together in any way they’ll fit. But he doesn’t know how to fix a telephone. Even if he did, he wouldn’t have the supplies to here. And how would he fix the plastic? It’s hopeless.
What will his Benefactor think about this? What will his Benefactor do about this? Will his Benefactor send Them? Spamton doesn't like Them. To be completely honest, They scare him. Every interaction they've shared has been some flavor of unpleasant.
Spamton rushes over to the door to make sure it's locked. But a lock wouldn't be enough. He needed to barricade it. With some effort, he slides over the sofa in a way to stop the door from opening. He would have moved his desk too, but it was far too heavy for him to move on his own.
Hi pushes himself into a corner and sinks to the floor. His head is throbbing and his heart is racing.
"[[£!€&]]!"
Spamton wipes away some of his tears with his sleeve. Then he presses the palms of his hands to his eyes. He presses deeper and deeper until it hurts. Phosphenes swirl as bright colors through his eyes. They flow in and out of his vision. The pain is grounding and the colors give him something to focus on other than the pounding in his chest.
A light knock on the door. “Spamton? Are you in there? I thought I heard something crash.”
Spamton doesn’t respond, holding his breath reflexively. What if it’s Them? He can’t let Them find him.
He panics when he hears the jingling of keys. The lock clicks undone and the handle turns, but the door can only open about an inch before the sofa stops it from moving any further.
A louder, more frantic knock on the door. “Hey, why won’t this door open?! What’s going on in there?”
“I’M SORRY!!” Spamton suddenly shouts. “I’m sorry I’m so sorry it won’t happen again I swear! Please forgive me, I won’t do it again I’ll be good, I promise! I can still be useful to you! I can still be big!! I’m so so sorry, please forgive me.”
The figure pushed at the door again but it still wouldn’t budge.
"It's okay." The voice was softer now. "You don't have to apologize. Just let me in. Everything's going to be okay, I'm not gonna hurt you."
"You aren't?"
"Of course not. When have i ever laid a finger on you?"
Spamton has the realization that his Benefactor may not yet know what he had done.
“Who are you? Are— Are you not Them?”
“Am I not—? Spamton, it’s Tenna. It’s me. Don’t you recognize my voice?”
Could that actually be him? Or did the figure on the other side qof the door just have his voice?
Spamton makes his way to the door. He doesn't open it, he just looks through the gap between it and the door frame.
It looks like Tenna. It has the same posture and taps its fingers the same way Tenna does when he's anxious. Sounds like Tenna too, that high-pitched buzzing sound everyone else in the studio claimed only Spamton could hear.
"Tens?" Spamton stuck a finger through the gap in the door. He'd reach out his hand, but the gap is far too small for that. "Is it really you?"
Tenna(?) crouches down to Spamton's level. It isn't much effort to, seen as he's shrunken down so much he's barely taller than Spamton.
"Of course it's me." The CRT's finger meets Spamton's, lightly tapping to the rhythm of the show's theme song. "What's going on? Are you alright?" His voice is so soft.
"Yeah, I think so. For now at least."
"Can I come in?"
"Give me a second." Spamton pushes the door closed.
That's when he hesitates. What if it is a trick? What if this is just a ploy to lull Spamton into a false sense of security, all to make his punishment hurt so much worse? Is it worth the risk?
Probably not. But he slides the couch over anyway. Not all the way to it's original place, but enough for Tenna at his current size to come in.
He tries to ignore the growing pit in his stomach as he slowly opens the door.