Chapter Text
The telephone room was pitch black, except for the faint glow of a spotlight on the only object in the room. He had insisted on it. That area, Tenna had told him, was originally used as a gigantic walk-in closet. Why a person would need one that big in their office, Spamton didn’t know. He usually stored his clothes in the dressing room or at either of their houses.
Spamton walked up to the telephone, wringing his hands together. A certain dread had always gripped him when hearing that phone ring. But their last conversation was too fresh in his mind. His feet were like lead.
“You might want to stay close to that television screen while it’s still on.”
That’s what he had told him last time they’d talked. If Spamton had to put it into words, that’s roughly what the translation would’ve been. The symbols had hit Spamton’s brain like ice cold water. One after the other, with no chance to recover. They had left him shaking and looking around the room. The being on the phone never let him write anything down, but the words were imprinted in his mind like afterimages. So there was no need to. And there was no mistaking the meaning.
He had been upset. Tenna had asked him to sign the contract that would reveal to him how to be a big shot, once again. And instead of giving him a flat out ‘no’, Spamton had said he would consider it. The phone call came mere minutes later.
Spamton was scared. It was a miracle Tenna hadn’t noticed. Granted, Spamton had been avoiding him. Going back to his own house instead of Tenna’s, and making excuses about being too tired when Tenna tried to stay over at his. Going out for a smoke during their breaks, and claiming Tenna’s wires would get scrambled if he inhaled it, and advising him to stay in the Green Room. It was much easier to hide it when you didn’t even have to face the man himself.
And now, after a week of forced smiles at cameras and constant grumbling from the makeup team, who went on and on about how ‘sweaty and hard to work with’ he was being, the much anticipated call finally arrived.
“Hello, Spamton here! What can I help you with?”
The being on the other side of the line didn’t speak in a dialect Spamton, who was well-versed in the field and could speak several languages, could name. He didn’t even use spoken words, despite the fact he was on the phone. It was just symbols that shot straight into his mind. To Spamton, all of this just meant business as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Not for the man on the phone.
“Ha-ha! Of course I know the prophecy! I haven’t [forgot your wallet at home?] about it.” Spamton cleared his throat and raised a hand to run it through his slicked back hair. His speech was getting jumbled and glitchy. He told himself it was fine, while pulling slightly at his hair. Spamton’s shaky hand bumped against his glasses, which, as a result, sat askew on his head.
Immediately after that, the garbage noise on the phone got painfully loud, and Spamton flinched away from it, then smiled and pretended nothing happened. He looked around the room nervously, gritting his teeth.
He blinked several times as new information was thrown at his brain like a falling piano atop his head. The man on the phone was upset by Spamton’s treatment of the glasses. He was enraged that Spamton hadn’t been wearing them enough for him to see the Lightners of the prophecy. The Holidays and Dreemurs spent so much time in front of the television. All Spamton had to do was get on stage and watch them with the glasses on. And, unfortunately, he hadn’t been doing that.
The salesman needed to wear them on his face, not his head or his pocket.
“I’m sorry, the [Our best-loved glasses], yes I- he doesn’t like it when they cover my [Facebook]. I told him I need them to see properly, but he said he can’t see that well himself but he doesn’t really-“
Spamton could’ve sworn the following bout of noise made his ears bleed. He let out a yelp.
“[$#&*]! OKAY I [[Get it Half-pr1ce!]] IT. IT WILL NOT HAPPEN [Again and Again…Until the End of Time!]. YOU GE<T SO ” Spamton stopped, lowering his glasses to rest on his nose. He tried not to make it too obvious he’d started to hyperventilate. A green, rotten hatred pooled in his stomach upon hearing his own incomprehensible ad-distorted voice. It sounded terrible. Spamton tried not to gag, but failed. He covered it up with a cough. Then he stood up straight and gripped the phone tighter, forcing out yet another smile.
The being went on a long rant about the importance of wearing items, and how he’d perhaps backtrack on their deal if he was caught wearing them in any way but the one permitted. Spamton nodded and hummed in agreement as the lines of symbols grew and grew at the forefront of his mind.
He fixed his collar and his bow tie. Then, his AD pin. His entire outfit had been given to him by Tenna. Spamton’s cheery but tense salesman grin softened into something more genuine. The television always smiled when he saw him in his Ad Break outfit. Whatever happened during their phone call, he’d always be able to go back to him. It would be okay in the end.
The symbols soon grew quieter. He was asked if he had any questions.
“C-Can you tell me what you meant…about him?”
There was a long pause. Spamton’s hand then moved of its own accord. There was a notepad for writing down notes and one of those four-coloured pens Asriel liked so much. It obviously wasn’t the real thing, but it was featured on so many of their ads, they were everywhere. Spamton’s hand clicked on the red tab, and with a bit too much force, he stabbed it into the notepad. Its owner winced. His hand then drew a rectangle. It traced over it, over and over until the shape was well defined. If not a little frantic with how much Spamton was shaking.
“WHAT ARE YOU [doing]?>”
His hand moved again. This time, it drew a diagonal line from one of the corners to the opposite one, effectively crossing out the box. And then, again, his hand repeated the motion. Until the diagonal line, too, was well-defined but wobbly and violent. It looked more like blood than anything. Spamton’s mouth hung open.
The man on the phone started “talking” again. Spamton’s breath quickened as he understood what was to be of Tenna. It had to be a nightmare. There was no way it was true. Why would the prophecy care about a television? It didn’t make sense. Him and Tenna, they were successful and they pretty much ruled TV World; but they were no Lightners. They weren’t the main characters in the story. So, in the name of Light, why would he be included?
“No…NO [[Cathode screams]]! H>OW CAN I [Fix it with FlexTape!!]¡ [%$#@]! YOU CAN’T BE [Serious as A HeartAttack!]!”
Spamton set the phone on the table, placed his hands together and exhaled. He tried to collect himself. There was always a way. There had to be something he could do. Why should a prophecy dictate what would happen? It’s not like their choices didn’t matter. Spamton was free to choose. He repeated that to himself, over and over until he was able to breathe properly. Only then did he pick up again.
“Please [tell me] what I can do to [UNDO] his death. He means [The World’s A Stage] to me,” he begged the man on the phone.
There was no one on the other side. Spamton stood there, unmoving. He then grabbed the telephone and threw it against the wall. It exploded, and Spamton chuckled, a wounded and hollow sound. He fell to his knees, then placed his head in his hands. His shoulders shook as the reality of the situation caught up to him. He felt so small.
Later that night, Spamton crawled into their bed as silently as he could. He thought the television was asleep, but Tenna almost instantly turned to look at him. He didn’t say anything, not even when Spamton curled up on top of him and started caressing his antenna. Tenna just gave him a warm look and gestured to the blanket, pulling it up a little. It was a silent invitation. Spamton nodded and burrowed himself under the duvet. He was still lying on top of the television; but he was much cosier. And there were less layers between him and Tenna.
“Are you okay? You seem really lovey-dovey right now. Not that I’m complaining, of course!” Tenna’s voice was gentle.
Spamton chuckled and looked up at his partner.
“No, yeah, I…I suppose I’ve been feeling a bit off lately.”
Tenna grinned, satisfaction oozing out of him at having been proven right. But then his expression quickly softened into something sadder.
“I’m-I’m sorry I haven’t been paying you much attention lately,” whispered Spamton.
The television shook his head and shook one of his hands dismissively. But Spamton could tell by the wavering quality of his smile that the Darkner was genuinely hurt by his behaviour in the past week. Spamton closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his own small frame. Tenna placed a hand on his shoulder. Spamton leaned against his touch.
“I’m all ears, Spammy,” the television said, screen radiating warmth. “What’s up in that little bird brain of yours?”
The smaller man gritted his teeth, then huddled closer. The television blushed and smiled down at him. Spamton placed his hand on his partner’s comically huge hand, the one that was resting on his shoulder. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and so the machinery was in full display. Spamton gave it a squeeze. His gesture was met with a buzz of electricity.
“I miss…” I already miss you. “I miss [Home Sweet Home] [sometimes].”
Tenna crackled. It was a brief, surprised crackle of static. Spamton replayed the sound in his mind over and over. He shut his eyes. He wondered what eternal static might be like. Queen saw it as “An Energy-Efficient Time Skip”. Tenna had described it as “a restful sleep after a good day’s work”. Spamton preferred that. He’d seen rain depicted in Tenna’s shows. It was loud, but refreshing. All-encompassing. Perhaps eternal static would be like a constant downpour.
“You can…you can always go back if you want,” Tenna said, the change in his body’s size betraying how he really felt about that possibility. “If it gets boring here.”
Spamton sometimes didn’t know what to do when Tenna shrank. But this time, he shook his head and placed a hand on Tenna’s chest. Right over where his heart might’ve been, had he been a Lightner. Tenna’s white t-shirt was soft, but not enough to hide the metallic quality of his torso. Spamton wondered what it would be like to live inside him. The man was full of wires and bits of hardware Spamton couldn’t even begin to understand. But surely Spamton could make a space for himself there? Squeeze in between all that wonderful circuitry and sleep within metallic walls. Maybe then he’d die with Tenna when fate caught up to him. At the same time. Both cleaved red by blade.
“No, never,” murmured Spamton, absent eyes boring into his business partner’s chest. “I’ve never felt more at home than here.”
Tenna frowned, and his antenna twitched questioningly. The salesman moved his hand to Tenna’s arm, where he traced the places in which plates met. The television made a whirring noise, but didn’t say anything.
“Ant, I don’t miss Cyber World,” Spamton continued. “It’s more like…the idea of it. It could have been my home, but it’s just not meant to be. It’s like there was a ticking clock the second I appeared. Things would inevitably fall apart.”
Spamton knew there’d be a moment in which he’d never have Tenna like this again. His warm hands would go cold. The wires underneath would be torn apart and exposed. His beautiful wires. His screen would someday turn off and never back on again. Tenna was the only one who had ever understood him and he couldn’t even keep that. Spamton brought his quivering hands to his screen.
Cyber World. He’d never fit in with the other Addisons. Always an outcast. A bit too short, a bit too loud, glitchy and oddly devoid of colour. They saw him as an outcast and as an embarrassment. Not even his new status as a big shot had saved him from their relegation.
The Queen’s doors were always open for him. But Spamton wasn’t a fool: he knew she saw him as a funny little thing. In her eyes, he wasn’t a businessman so much as a jester. And Spamton loathed it. Her eyes might’ve as well have the word “derision” written on them as she listened to him. But it was too long of a word. And Spamton was sure she wouldn’t know the meaning without looking it up.
The Cyber World’s butler found him hilarious, in the way you find someone tripping over a banana and falling flat on their face to be hilarious. Perhaps you’d show no compassion and step on them. That’s what the easel had done.
“Spamton? Are you here with me? Don’t…don’t let your mind wander.”
Tenna was whispering. Spamton looked up at him. There was a crease at the top of his screen. The equivalent of a frown. But it resembled broken glass. A wave of despair gripped Spamton, and he tightened his grip on Tenna’s frame. Soon, he would never see his cathode screen again. What would happen to their show? To their-? Would they have to grow up without Tenna?
Spamton paused as the television raised a finger to his face and dried the tears off with a gentle thumb. Spamton moved his hands away from Tenna’s screen and curled up against his chest. Tenna wrapped his arms around him. He was fully enveloped in his partner's embrace. He was so warm.
“I want to spend the rest of my existence with you,” said Spamton, uncharacteristically soft. The air smelled of freshly-bloomed red daisies. Spamton pressed his wobbly smile against Tenna’s shirt. It was so endearing when Tenna grew a flower on his nose. They were so captivating. Spamton wished he could walk in a field full of them.
“I do, too. I couldn’t ask for a better co-host. For a moment there, I thought you wanted to leave”, Tenna replied, laughing awkwardly.
Spamton closed his eyes and listened to the whirring produced by Tenna’s much larger body. He tried to commit it to memory.
After a while, Spamton spoke.
“I need you to promise me something, Ant.”
Tenna placed his hands on Spamton’s shoulders and gently created some distance, making direct eye contact. The smaller man immediately missed his warmth.
“Anything. What do you need?” Tenna asked, solemnly.
Spamton licked his lips and looked away.
“I need you to promise me we’ll always be there for each other, no matter what happens.”
“Spammy…”
Tenna tilted his head.
“Spamton, nothing is ever going to happen. You’ll sign that contract and we’ll be big shots together,” the television reassured him, hands tightening their grip on Spamton’s shoulders. “Sure, we’ll have ups and downs. But we will always have each other. You and I are parts of a whole.”
Tenna cupped his partner’s face in his right hand.
“I’m sorry you feel the need to hear me say it. But I promise, Spamton, I’ll always be one call away.”
Spamton listened in stunned silence.
“Or one email away, if you ever decide to teach me how those work,” Tenna said, cable tail wagging as he giggled at his own joke.
The salesman rolled his eyes and grabbed the cable. Before Tenna could say anything, he gave it a harsh tug. It was Spamton’s turn to chuckle as Tenna’s screen gained an adorable pink tinge.
“H-hey! And here I thought we were having a tender moment…”
Spamton grinned at the television.
“I can be real tender and gentle if that’s what you want, Ant. You just say the word.”
Tenna beamed cheekily. A bit too cheekily, given how easily flustered Tenna usually was. Spamton arched an eyebrow, then his smile fell when he realised what the man was about to do.
“Oh, come on…”
Tenna’s grin was insufferable.
“I can ‘say the word’!”
The word “word” came on Tenna’s screen. Spamton rolled his eyes and sighed, but ultimately smiled down at his business partner.
“You are so ridiculous. That’s easily our worst advert.”
Tenna placed a hand on the lower edge of his screen, in a mock-thoughtful manner. The same way a Lightner would place their hand on their chin and look up with pursed lips. An expression that screamed out “I’m thinking here!”. Tenna’s antenna twitched in amusement.
“Are you sure, Spammy? I think it would take a really smart and insightful salesman to come up with a joke as brilliant as this. Maybe you just lack the brains to understand it.”
His teasing was met with silence and a soft smile. The television was so silly, it made his heart both race and fill with staticky warmth. Spamton could have a heart attack and die and he wouldn’t care. To perish in Tenna’s arms would’ve been the nicest thing he could’ve expected out of life. And perhaps that’s what would happen. Spamton thought about this, and he stared at Tenna’s screen until the television started emitting a high pitched whining noise. It was a sound Spamton was intimately familiar with. But it was a bit muted. As if someone were actively trying to make it quieter.
“Sorry, I’ll try to keep it down…,” Tenna murmured, shrinking almost unnoticeably. Spamton frowned. He shook his head and wondered where such a strange insecurity could’ve originated from.
The deer girl would sometimes flinch at Tenna’s weird CRT noises. She was nice, just scared of everything.
Spamton paused. Toriel, on the other hand…Spamton didn’t like her. There was always a weird glint in her eyes when she looked at the TV. She had probably made some comment about the noises Tenna made. He added this to his list of Toriel grievances.
She was capable of abandoning him. Something Spamton would never do.
“Ant, I love every single noise that comes out of you.” Spamton slowly blinked up at Tenna. “Especially the degaussing…,” Spamton trailed off, gaze darkening. His business partner grew, his entire screen went pink, and the salesman’s face felt ticklish with a fresh wave of static.
“Spamton! That’s hardly appropriate…,” he said, tugging at the collar of his t-shirt. In response to that, Spamton spread his hands on Tenna’s chest and slowly leaned down. Tenna’s smile went wavy and a healthy amount of smoke came out of his vents.
When their lips met, Spamton felt all his worries about the prophecy and their contract fade away. His entire universe was beneath him, and it whirred and whined. He was free to watch, touch and taste it for as long as he wanted. Tenna was both his wings and the scissors that had cut the strings.
He was free to do whatever he wanted. He could do anything. For an instant, Spamton had truly attained freedom.
The feeling remained until he fell asleep in Tenna’s arms. But by the time he woke up, it was gone. Tenna was going to die. Certainly and inevitably. Spamton struggled with his newfound knowledge for weeks, until he figured there was nothing he could do to change the outcome.
The telephone had respawned, unscathed as if it had never been destroyed in the first place. Spamton had tried to brute force his way into finding his employer’s number. But there were millions of combinations, and after his one-thousand nine-hundred and ninety-seventh attempt, he decided he would rather spend his time with Tenna. The television had noticed he’d been spending a lot of time in the telephone room, and his antennae had adopted the habit of dropping down every time he made eye contact with Spamton. It made the salesman feel like he’d just kicked a puppy. And it also made his insides boil with that same green hatred he’d felt every time the man on the phone messed with his adspeak and speech patterns.
So yes, the best he could do was stay by his partner’s side until the end. Lightners were born and they lived and they died. A Darkner’s death was much rarer, if not impossible in Spamton’s view.
Petrification was the closest thing to it. But that was something Spamton didn’t have to worry about as long as Tenna was alive and well. And if he wasn’t, then there was no reason why he shouldn’t become petrified.
That afternoon, Spamton grabbed the box from his closet. The ring was inside it. It sat heavy in his pocket. He’d bought it months prior. But there was always something in the way. Either one of them was busy filming, or there were too many people around them, or Tenna was too busy pestering him about the contract.
“Spammy…,” Tenna cooed, and Spamton rolled his eyes. He knew that voice. It came from behind him.
It seemed that afternoon was going to be one of those occasions. Spamton rolled his eyes, albeit affectionately, when he realised he would have to postpone his proposal, yet again. He quickly put the ring in his digital inventory. He couldn’t take any chances. The ring wouldn’t be safe in his pocket. Not with how Tenna was talking to him.
“Yes, Ant?” Spamton responded, infusing his voice with as much tenderness as Tenna’s. The salesman looked back. Tenna was leaning on the doorframe. Spamton smiled at him.
The television walked in, closing the door behind him in one swift motion. He walked over to Spamton’s desk, levelling him with a look that would’ve had literally anyone and everyone in their HR department sweating profusely.
“You know we’re meant to be out in 15, right? Don’t try to start anything,” Spamton murmured, a small smile betraying his thoughts. In retaliation, Tenna looked down at his business partner and gave him his sweetest smile. He walked around the desk and stood, looming, right next to him. The salesman could feel his static on his face. Tenna leaned closer, until his thigh rested slightly against his chair’s armrest. Spamton swallowed and looked up at his partner.
“I know. But you know what I’m going to say…,” drawled the television.
Spamton closed his eyes and inhaled. The smell of ozone and plastic filled his nostrils. He exhaled slowly and looked up at the television, who was very much invading his personal space. The salesman sighed and grabbed his bright yellow tie. As always, they were matching.
“Is this about the contract?,” replied Spamton, pulling on the tie ever so gently. His business partner nodded slowly and dropped to his knees, hands resting on Spamton’s thighs.
The salesman glanced at the entrance from the corner of his eyes. The desk would’ve partially hidden him from view if someone were to burst into his office.
“It’s locked,” Tenna said quietly, mesmerised, gaze never leaving him.
Spamton nodded. He tried to think straight, to ignore how Tenna was looking up at him now, cord tail swishing back and forth endearingly. The television was smiling like an idiot. But, by the Light, was it working.
“Come on, Spammy, you said it yourself!!! You want to spend the rest of your existence with me. And so do I.” Tenna looked away, pink dusting his cheeks. “You know I’m already yours, uh, so we might as well make it official.”
With a flourish, Tenna materialised an all-too-familiar piece of paper on a clipboard. Spamton squared his jaw. It wasn’t the first time Tenna had gotten down on his knees and begged him to sign the contract with that sweet talk of his. But it was the first time since the man on the telephone had told him Tenna would die. If his partner was a dead man walking, who was Spamton to deny him anything? The man on the telephone had told him he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone about their deal. About his method to make him a big shot.
But if Tenna was going to die, did that even matter anymore? Spamton would rather go back to being a nobody if that meant making Tenna happy one last time. And Tenna would have his back. He’d promised. Even if Spamton was a nobody, Tenna would support him and would love him regardless. Until his inevitable demise.
A younger Spamton would have recoiled in disgust at these thoughts. But after so many years with Tenna, he’d come to the realisation that he feared loneliness above all else. He had first believed that if he became a big shot, the addisons would finally accept him. But they hadn’t. The television accepted him for who he was. He didn’t find his compulsive adspeak annoying, nor did he make him feel small.
“Okay. Let’s do it,” he said, taking the clipboard.
Tenna grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket and pulled himself up for a kiss. Spamton let go of the clipboard. It sat on his lap as he blindly palmed his breast pocket, fishing out the four-coloured pen from his pocket with one hand. Tenna tasted like static and mint. Against Spamton’s wishes, he’d been smoking again. Whatever. He caressed one of his partner’s antennae with his free hand. The television cupped his face gently, but Spamton could still feel his weight on him. He welcomed it. The television whirred as their kiss deepened.
The two parted slowly. Tenna let go of his face, instead placing his hands on the armrests. Spamton took hold of the clipboard. But he hesitated. The pen in his hand was the same one the man on the phone had used to draw Tenna’s broken screen.
His business partner placed his hands on his shoulders. Spamton relaxed.
“I’m sorry, I just- I’m really happy, but I’m a little nervous,” the salesman said.
Tenna’s antenna dropped and he shrank. In his kneeling position, he couldn’t reach Spamton’s shoulders anymore. So he grasped at his knees pitifully.
“Oh no, yeah, that’s okay. We can…we can sign it next week or whatever.” he said, his size quickly declining. “I understand. Totally fine.”
Spamton hated the man on the phone. If not for him, he wouldn’t have been neglecting Tenna so much. He furiously scribbled his name above the dotted line. Tenna made a happy noise. It was his fun-o-metre jingle.
The phone rang. Spamton’s heart sank.
“I’ll-I’ll take that.”
Tenna didn’t say anything. Spamton didn’t turn to look at him, too scared that if he did, he would break into tears or something equally humiliating. He walked to the telephone. Each step seemed monumentally difficult to make. He was aware Tenna had actually started speaking behind him, but to him it came across as static noise.
Spamton picked up the phone. He didn’t greet the man on the other side. He simply waited.
“They will kill you both, at the same time.”
The salesman went pale. The man on the phone was speaking their language. He wasn’t using weird symbols. He wasn’t speaking in hands anymore.
“The moment you two meet again, the blade will strike. You can’t do anything to change it, addison. Only I can. It is written.”
“Leave him, while you two are still alive.”
And so Spamton did. He hoped Tenna would grab him by the shoulder, or chase him after him. Even if they both died. It was better than the alternative. He was being such an asshole.
But Tenna didn’t ask. He didn’t stop him. But it was better if the television lived and died without dreading that final moment. And if they stayed away, perhaps he would live.
That’s what the salesman feverishly figured as he ran through the hallways of TV World, vision blurring and eyes wide. Pippins yelped out the way and Shadowguys made questioning noises. A Zapper tried to grab his shoulder, head tilted in confusion. But the salesman dodged him easily and made for the main doors.
Spamton quickly sent an email to Queen, who promptly got him out of TV World. She didn’t even bother to ask what happened. Not that Spamton would have told her, anyway.
As soon as the worst of it passed, Spamton realised he’d made a huge mistake. He spent the next hour pacing around his living room, the CellPhone heavy in his pocket as he waited for Tenna to call.
His partner had told him he’d always be there for him. They had each other. They would figure it out, prophecy be damned.
They could do whatever they wanted.
The prophecy didn’t matter.
They wouldn’t die.
But Spamton felt too scared to call him first. What if he’d ruined things between them? For good? They had known each other for years, but they had never left each others’ sight without an explanation. However, Tenna was clingy. And he would be worried for him. And he’d promised. His partner had promised they’d always be there for each other. Spamton replayed those tender moments of less than a day before, his breathing growing more ragged as time went on.
Light above, it had been right after he’d signed the contract, too. Spamton looked around. Perhaps that’s why the man had called. Had the contract upset him to that extent? He shouldn’t have signed the contract. The salesman paced. He shouldn’t have signed it. But Tenna had been so persuasive, it had been impossible not to.
Spamton chewed on the tip of his thumb. With a frustrated grumble, he moved to the telephone room. The one in his Cyber World flat. As opposed to the one in TV World, he hadn’t been there in ages, and the place was a bit dusty. It looked decent, but clearly the cleaning crew didn’t pay particular attention to this part of his humble abode. He sat on the floor, beside the table on which the telephone sat. Both the CellPhone and the telephone were affiliated to the same number, so it was all the same to him. If Tenna were to call, both of them would ring. He counted the minutes. And then the hours. He mentally begged to hear Tenna’s voice. He prayed for the ringtone to bless his ears.
But Tenna never reached out to him. And maybe he should’ve expected it. The television hadn’t chased after Spamton in TV World. And, in similar fashion, he wouldn’t call him once he was back in Cyber World.
Eventually, Spamton mustered the courage to call Tenna. To his utter surprise and dismay, every time Spamton tried to call him back, the annoying automatic voice on the phone would say the number didn’t exist. He still tried. So many times. But it never went through. Tenna had promised he’d always be one call away. So why had he changed his number?
Spamton’s heart dropped. He, too, dropped to his knees. His universe was gone. And in a matter of days, everything else fell apart, too. His sales, his reputation and even his place at Queen’s mansion. And at the end of it all, Spamton was still held up by strings. He needed to get rid of them. To help himself. And also to help the man who was to be slain next time they met.
But Tenna hadn’t even sent an email. So what was the point? The prophecy had determined they would both die the next time they met. And Tenna didn’t even bother to call him back. That wasn’t even in the prophecy. That was purely Tenna. Spamton laughed until tears filled his vision.
Spamton’s worst nights were the ones in which he’d stare at the ring for hours, imagining what Tenna would’ve looked like wearing it. If only he hadn’t asked Spamton to sign the contract, then he wouldn’t have made the man on the phone upset. But the prophecy said they would both die if they stuck together, so was it even Tenna’s fault? Spamton pulled at his hair.
You can’t do anything to change it, addison. Only I can.
Spamton had to kill the man on the phone. He’d wear the suit, and he would do it. With enough [Hyperlink Blocked], there was no way he would be stopped. He tried to break into the basement nearly every day. But he didn’t do it for his partner. Former partner. It was for his own freedom, to liberate himself. The television had never called him back. He had never appeared in Cyber World. Never asked around. Spamton couldn’t deal with the fact that Tenna hadn’t cared about him as much as he thought. As much as Spamton did for him. So he didn’t think about it. As he was electrocuted by the gates, his resentment for him grew. With every beating he took from the swatchlings, his distaste for CRT screens became greater and greater.
It replaced the heartbreak. Or so he believed.
And if Spamton lived in a dumpster with thick, metallic walls that were vaguely familiar, who would be there to question it? He didn't have to pay rent there. At night, the noises of the city muffled by the dumpster walls would sound exactly like the whirring of one special CRT. He told himself that wasn’t the reason why he’d chosen it as his new home. Because it wasn’t. It wasn’t. It was just so easy to live in a metal box. He never closed his eyes and imagined Tenna was sleeping beside him. And even if he did, he would never let anyone know. He’d rather die.
The little puppet knew his mind was fracturing. He hated Tenna, but he still dreamt of him. Frequent nightmares featuring Tenna dying in all sorts of ways. He knew he was meant to hate the man on the phone. But was it wise to hate the only man who had the power to save him? Not just the power, but maybe even the will? Who else could help him? Addisons, Swatchlings, that stupid easel…they all had been jealous of him. They never helped him. And they never would. And everyone would pay.
Spamton reached a breaking point two years after he’d last set foot on TV World. His speech became unrecognisable. Broken and littered with adspeak. He could only scream. And he did, once he caught his reflection in a mirror. He didn’t come back online after what seemed like days. Spamton didn't know who the creature looking back at him was. What had he turned into? Some sort of puppet?
Alas, who could blame him for picking up the habit of diving into rainy static whenever he was too out of it to get any real words out? When he couldn’t even make sense of his own thoughts? There was nothing else he could do.
Most days he couldn’t even remember his face. The man who had been so important to him, he carried his ring everywhere. Interwoven silver, with a massive blue stone in the middle. It looked like the wedding rings in some of his advertisements. He carried it in a box in his pocket. Only thing was, it had become corrupted and developed some spikes, but the puppet could tell it was the same one he had planned to give the CRT. Whatever a CRT was.
All he could actually remember was the drawing of a television screen cleaved clean in half. The one the man on the phone had forced him to draw many years back. A crossed out box. It was of utmost significance. The crossed out box. He drew it. A red square and diagonal line. Over and over. Until his hands gave out. Until the ink ran out. Piles of boxes with the symbol drawn on them surrounded his house.
And then the Lightner appeared. With them came a clarity of mind Spamton hadn’t experienced in years. For nearly a decade. He tried to make a deal with them, but ultimately failed. Spamton got the suit he needed so desperately, and it felt good. To have that power. But it wasn’t enough. So he betrayed the Lightner and their friends. But even that couldn’t save him. It was a losing battle. He was utterly helpless. It was a story that repeated itself. His tale would make for bad television. The ratings would’ve dropped the second they saw his face. The face of a tragic businessman, doomed to fail until he died.
So he decided to stop the cycle and become a mere tool instead. Giving up felt nice. The Lightners were strong and they had shown him kindness. If they didn’t want to wear him and discarded his sorry excuse for a piece of armour, then he figured he wasn’t even worthy of being part of their team in the first place anyway.