Chapter Text
His breathing was heavy and rampant as he dashed through the maze of the mansion's corridors, plastic puppet feet thumping and skidding against the regal carpet that lined the halls. He rounded a corner, a glitch to his head simultaneously interrupting his course, and sent him overcorrecting the turn, nearly tumbling before he caught himself on one of his hands and breaking the would-be fall. However, he wasn't down for long, and the puppet scurried back into motion. At the rate his feet were going to get him back up to speed, he could have kicked up electricity with the friction between him and the fibers of the carpet.
There was no time to waste in a mere stumble.
They were right behind him.
“Hey! Someone grab that salesman!”
A voice from behind him, an urgent one at that. Spamton knew it was one of his pursuers, but from the clarity and the strength of the shout, they were not out of breath in the slightest. That notably hindered his confidence, but he resisted worrying about it for too long. If it caused him to fail, that would just put a wrench in his mission and leave him going back to the drawing board for what could have been the hundredth night in a row if he couldn't pull this off today.
Or did he hit one hundred last week? Maybe he wasn't even there yet.
Oh who cares?! Book it!
The puppet continued to run down the long hallways, some cyan colored darkners and a plugboy being unmistakable obstacles up ahead. With a hefty amount of force, and right when the plugboy decided to glance in the direction of the swatchling's warning, Spamton had shoved them out of the way, and was impressed he had. Though, at the speed he was at, barreling into anybody in his path would only harm them in the end.
“OUT OF TH3 WAY, [[Silverware Hazard]]!!!!” He called out, albeit way too late, an impatient and frightened snarl to his contorted voice being less of a warning and more of an insult for them being in his way in the first place.
If there was a response, he was not around to hear it. He did hear the swatchlings nearing him, and a few bird-like shrills up ahead. The reinforcements. Of course there were reinforcements on the horizon. The coordination and communication of these butlers was unbelievable.
And yet it used to take them forever to get my suits up to my office before I left for the studio. Or he left for the studio. But apparently now it's no trouble at all to make it all one big rush!
But yet they weren't chasing the last guy through here. Even with that, they liked him better!
They didn't take all the furniture away from HIM while he was still around! They didn't put traps in the basement for HIM! No, he had easy walk in access!
As his heart thundered at a rate that could only be seen as compensation for the amount of ground he was covering, his body started to disobey him, glitching in a size and shape altering mess that sent him staggering in his run, pixels falling behind, only to rejoin his face in microseconds. His physical placement in the space distorted, and suddenly he was advanced meters ahead, short lived, as the next second he was clipping all over the place, before the glitch set him behind.
Nonono! Not now! Stop it! Just let me get there! Once I'm in the body, it'll be worth it! Just stay together–
His jacket was snatched from behind, the fabric being yanked with a strength that made his chest feel compressed with the force at which he was stopped. A familiar interruption, but one not any less annoying to get out of. With half of his head’s pixels dispersed and acting out of order, he could only emit a sharp, bitcrushed shriek as gravity betrayed him and he was lifted by the swatchling.
Just the sight of the harsh red of the swatchling’s eyes had him thrash in defiance, kicking his legs upward as to try and free himself-
To his success. Transitioning from uncoordinated flailing in lieu of the glitches, Spamton found the strength to rear his leg back and launch it forward, his foot making a blunt impact with the front of the swatchling’s throat. His side hit the ground before he could process what came next, rasping and wheezing coughs sounded out above him, and a following duo of swatchlings were nearing the scene just from behind.
The fleeing puppet didn't have any time to catch his breath. He shuffled back on his elbows, making some distance between him and the much larger darkners, before digging his heels into the carpet and grounding his footing enough to push up and twist back around. Running again after the impact with the ground wasn't too much of a hassle in light of the amplified adrenaline from almost being caught and disposed of before he could meet his goal.
A goal that was just out of arm’s reach.
This invasion was supposed to at least be easier. He’d found the addison blazer buried and half-concealed in between trash bags, covered in various mucks and slimes of discarded food waste and other consumables. The sludge took awhile to scrape off with his hands, and then with some spare cardboard scraps, but when it was all washed (and then tailored, to the best of his ability to accommodate his stunted size), it was practically something that could have been sold on a mannequin.
No, the blazer itself with its… origins wasn't the shining grace he was going for in this look, but rather it was for other motives. If those traitorous excuses he once called ‘friends’ were good for anything, it could be this. If this worked, maybe he'd deal with them last upon transitioning into his new form.
He had the idea after committing to abandoning the outfit that had been his big shot signature. He was sure the garish red spotlight, as muddied and dull as it became over time with what it endured, had made itself its own signal to the staff that he was up to his own antics again.
A tired, worn out, threadbare finery, with seams split in places where it once would be noticed and hastily fixed; a disaster to have on film. The collar and cuffs no longer having their former firmness. A radical counter appearance to the pristine sheen it once had. The slight differences to how it hung on him to remind him it was no longer a priority to remain fitted and maintained, as well as establishing he wasn't... him anymore. This made sense.
So into the trash it went with the rest of it all. He’d say the Big Shot deserved a better funeral, but the rest of the world was just as quick to strip down his face, so why dwell on the past when there was a grand promise of luxurious unforetold rebirth just past his fingertips?
After all, no one was mourning. Especially not the one who brought him down in the first place. Because why would he mourn when he was so quick to throw away everything they had together?
Spamton had modeled the attire in front of a discarded windshield he'd salvaged from one of the cars that had made it into this graveyard of all that was promised bigger and better. The glass was smudged, streaked with dust and grime, but found a new purpose in reflection rather than being used for what it was intended for. Even if Spamton had a few notes on its performance, like the fact it showed him the more unsightly parts of his face he'd rather not see, he'd say it would do.
With the monochrome getup, maybe he could… even pass as a certain butler.
It was worth a shot.
They couldn't deny access to the throes of God if he was the creator of God itself. That, or if they even appreciated that he paid homage to its creator, then maybe. Just maybe he could…
…
He could skimp on some aspects of the disguise, namely the pants and the bi-colored shoes, but the rest of it fell in line with what those mansion idiots would see every day. Just as long as the shades in their peripheral vision were accurate, he'd be like a shadow on the wall as he slinked past them. Anything more and his impersonation could fall flat, but that was unlikely.
For the next half hour, if he did his timing right, he'd be a well-respected darkner, one who others turned to in times of peril and uncertainty. A leader, in most senses of the word, and a companion. A shoulder to voice his worries and fears to. A pillar in support.
A treacherous scum. One he'd inflict revenge on first. The second traitor right after the one who took it all away in the first place.
…
…
Anyway.
When the first few minutes of him strutting into the mansion with his head held high and chest puffed out didn't see any signs of intervention, he found it easy to keep up the charade. In fact, he seemed good at this without his strings being tugged on every half second. Maybe it was a competence that followed obsessively watching the butler go back and forth throughout the color cafe, their dominating yet calm aura keeping the atmosphere orderly.
Spamton had fixed his loosely-hanging tie hand fashioned out of the remains of his Big Shot branded bowtie as he rolled his shoulders back and tried to replicate the image of Swatch in his head. The heavenly body was just out of reach, and with any luck, he'd be downloaded into the vessel tonight and feel the surge of [[Heaven]] course through his interior, his strings falling slack with a body so enormous and so full of power and [[Light]] it couldn't possibly be contained like a simple puppet–
Everything he was promised.
“H-hey! It's you!”
Or it would have been. Until just about five minutes ago.
The first swatchling had spotted him, and maybe he should have waited a second or two just to sell the act a bit better, as hey, the shout could have just been meant for their boss, but his stupid instincts kicked in to evade being perceived entirely, the act shattering in an instant.
And now here he was, running for his second chance at life.
But he didn't have time to dwell on his reaction at the moment, because at this point, there was no time. Swerving around yet another corner, into a long hallway lined with queenly vases nestled against the wall, he didn't slow his pace, merely avoided the vases as they passed.
Neo’s waiting for me!
I haven't prayed there so long, that's probably why I keep getting caught!
Just keep moving, keep pushing, keep–
His thoughts were interrupted when his pathway was blocked by yet another darkner, and he skid to a halt, his hands coming up at his sides in a guarding stance. The sweat that dripped down his forehead even seemed to seize once he processed who the looming figure was.
“This again, Spamton!? You're not getting into that basement!”
The head butler stood in his path, shoulders squared with their defenses on full display. Behind them stood two swatchlings of various shades, but they both unanimously darkened to a deep crimson when locking eyes with him.
“OH GO EAT MY [Entire meal 25% Off with code] !!! YOU [[Invalid:Description:Entered]]!!”
The footsteps of his former pursuing party came up from the rear and Spamton jumped hearing them approach, turning his torso as much as he could to glance over his shoulder, while still keeping Swatch in his line of sight. With calculated precision, he sliid one of his feet to be behind him, twisting back towards the wall so as to keep both groups in his line of sight. He bared his teeth at Swatch, mirrored glasses glinting in the light of the chandeliers that hung above him.
“Another day of this, hmm?” Swatch was nearing him, speaking low, the feathers around their neck visibly ruffled. “You believed you could just waltz right in this time? What made you believe that it would be that simple?”
“WHAT? YOU DON’T [[appreciate the gallery from behind the barrier, people]]?? MAYBE I WANTED TO [show off]!!” Spamton snarled, gesturing towards himself. “DID YOU prEfER ME WHEN I WAS ON [Top of the town]?! DON’T LIKE YOUR LOOK GETTING [identity theft detected] [[Hijacking in area]]?!”
“...My look?”
“OR NO!! YOU CAN DO IT. BUT I CAN’T. [Right]?! THAT’S [[Y]] I STILL SEE THOSE [[All We Do Is Advertise]]S STILL [toteing] AROUND MY [[Wear the Big Shot Branded]] LABEL LONG AFTER THE [[commercials]] WENT DOWN! DON'T YOU THINK THAT'S A LITTLE UNFAIR?! I SHOULD DRAG YOUR [smelly] FE4tHER [keister] TO [[Court]]!!”
“Is he talking about the ties again?” A swatchling asked.
"Unfortunately so."
“[Cant afford a lawyer]?? I’LL [[Cut them off]] YOU SOME SLACK. CONSIDER IT A [plea deal] FROM YOURS TRULY-”
Swatch clenched their fists. “No, Spamton-”
“I’M A [[forgiven]] MAN!! I’LL FORGET AAAALL ABOUT THE [Patent & Copiedright Infringement] OF MY !! AND ALL THE [_abdominal pain], [Blended drink recipies] AND OTHER [Bone crunching] [[Slinky Stair Racing]] THINGS YOU’VE MADE ME [go throu], BUT ONLY IF-”
“I said no-”
“I’M [clocked in late] FOR M;yY [Dinner Date] WITH A SWEET [sweat] [[Entry with Permit]]!! FOR MY [Swimsuit modeling Body]! YOU BEING IN MY [whey] DISr>uPTS THE [[Process]]."
“Oh not this again…” One of the swatchlings groaned and dragged a hand down their beak.
“Are you getting this, boss?” Another swatchling mumbled in the background. “‘Cuz I'm not getting a thing–”
“That is not going to happen!” The space around Spamton closed in further. “I don't know what's going to make you truly learn that you are not going forward with your schemes. You are going to be escorted off the premises just like every other time you've unlawfully weaseled your way in here. There's nothing waiting for you in that basement!”
Spamton furrowed his brow, taking a half step back, the corner of his lip twitching with a feral tremble to it.
There is something and you're keeping me from it again. Just like always!
Don't I deserve one moment of grace with the amount of times I prayed?! I should have been able to cash in multiple punch cards with how many times I dedicated myself to being down there!
If I was its creator, they'd let me in!
They just don't get it! They have no IDEA what's going on!
One more half step back had his leg brush against one of the standing vases, having it teeter just enough for the noise to make him jump. Even with this though, his eyes remained trained on Swatch.
“EVERY OTHER TIME I’M H3rE?? BUT I’M HERE [[New.dEals]] EVERYDAY!! I’M A [Krustom] REGULAR HERE!”
“Ugh, that's what it feels like.” Another swatchling added from the back.
“AND WH[Y] [[Wood Implants]] YOU EV1#CT YOUR [Big shot of the3–]-” Spamton stopped the ad, snapping his jaw closed and gave a small breathy snicker before straightening up as much as he could while spreading his hands outward. “WHY. WOULD YOU EVICT. YOUR [[#1 Rated]] [Lowlife] OF A [[Cafe Management Occupations. Click 2 Aply]]– YOUR. CAFE. MANAGER.”
“What?” Another swatchling looked befuddled and lazily gestured toward their leader. “We’re not? Evicting the boss?”
Swatch didn't look fazed whatsoever, keeping that stern loathing at the forefront of their demeanor, their eyes narrowed as they glared, their beak twisted in an irritated grimace as they didn't seem keen on entertaining any new bit the salesman had in store.
“I’M yOUR [[speak to your manager]]!1!1! EAHEAHEA!! CAN’T YOu SEE?? OR DID YOU FIND YOUR [[Lobotomy coupons in the]] IN THE [Wall Shade Samples] WHERE YOU GOT THEM?! AS FAR AS [Attention to Detail] THERE’S NO [Attention to Detail] WITH ALL THOSE [Color Streaks] IN YOUR [Cataracts]!!”
Spamton pointed up at Swatch in one quick motion, shuffling back more until his back was pressed against the wall, where his opposite hand went to register he was fully pinned with no way out.
“HE'S A [[In Post or ]]!! JUST SOME [scam artist] [[Play1nG_Pretend]] TO BE ME!!! ISN’T IT [Envoi]OUS?? HE’S a [[Oozing Leaching Parasites]]!! HERE FOR THE [[Angel]] IN THE [[lower levels]]!! YOU’RE GOING TO LET THIS FAILURE DO THIS TO M3;eE?? I’M [[Your–Device Is Now–UNPROTECTED]]!! YOU ALL BETTER STRING THIS [Cr0Ok] UP BY HIS [Heels] JUST FOR [stirring up the idea] HE COULD BEc0M3 THE [Create]OR OF [[GOD]]!!!!”
“Spamton, that's ENOUGH.” Swatch launched forward and grabbed his forearm, their grip unyielding. The action was too abrupt, and panic surged through Spamton’s body as a harsh glitch half-clipped his head into the wall, but unluckily did not clip him out of his captor’s hold.
Still, he had to do something. Acting on instinct, Spamton yanked his arm back towards him, enough for Swatch to stagger forward, and with urgency, unhinged his jaw as wide as it could go before he clamped his teeth on their wrist, latching on it and biting down.
There was an audible and visceral crunch as the puppet’s teeth tried to lessen the gap between them with force despite the obstruction in their way. He felt the arm have some decent give in between his teeth, which only made him dig them in harder. Swatch tried to recoil immediately, attempting to wrench themself free, a strangled shout turning screech reverberating through the hallway.
The swatchlings were on their boss immediately, and on Spamton below, trying to separate the two in any way they could, all squawking in panic. However, this was the perfect opportunity for distraction, and so Spamton opened his jaw, not waiting for Swatch’s wrist to be removed immediately before he twisted and jerked to the side, grabbing the vase and slipping through a gap between the legs of one of the swatchlings.
Said swatchling seemed to prepare for this, and he felt their leg sweep across his own in one fluid kick, which knocked him forward onto his front, hitting the ground with a solid ‘oof!’. The vase was lost in the scuffle, flinging forward and shattering into pieces, though one large chunk of the top half of the vase with the neck still intact caught his eye. Spamton crawled desperately towards it, and grabbed the larger chunk, just as the swatchling was looming over him, and reached down to grab him-
But not before Spamton could clutch onto the vase chunk and send it hurtling at the swatchling’s face with a loud 'thunk’. The reaction was instant, the swatchling flinching away at the impact, leaving another having to take on the task of getting a hold of him instead.
She’d summoned one of her cloche attacks and had it armed, most likely intending to trap him, so Spamton scrambled to his feet as quick as he could, clawing at the ground to hook his fingers around a shard of porcelain and swing it into her wing. The shard sent feathers flying as it cut as deep as Spamton could make it with what he had. With a rippling cry of pain and an instant color change to an ice blue, she dropped the cloche, leaving it to clatter on the ground, barely missing him, and the shriek following seemingly caused all the other swatchlings to hesitate, giving him the escape he so desperately needed.
He was down the hallway in an instant, running full-tilt in what he knew was the path closest to reaching the first floor.
“Don't…! Worry about me! Get him!” Spamton heard the command behind him, in a pained and furious voice that sounded like it was desperately trying to get its bearings back together. But as that faded in the background, the puppet constructed a mental map towards his prize and his salvation.
He darted around another corner
then another
and another
weaving through the mansion as fast as his legs could carry him.
He’d been led astray, massively off the path, just from the sheer need to flee in the moment, but he could course correct, and the attack provided him ample time to do so. The mansion’s maze was unforgiving, especially with the various patrons and guests having the potential to be just past every corner.
From this room, just taking time to glance up, had him realize one of the chandeliers was in a different spot than what his mental map had laid out for him. He was sure he was in the right location. He’d taken this route so many times he'd have to invest in a bulk supply of stocked, factory manufactured hands if he was counting on individual fingers.
I took a wrong turn. Somewhere, I took a wrong turn!
“Spamton!”
A call from just the room over, loud enough he could hear Swatch’s voice rupture just screaming his name in vitriolic hate.
No, no, this was the room that led to the first floor, he was sure of it.
He just had to keep his head about him enough to do this right. He’d been in this space plenty of times in his prime, walking these corridors alongside guests of the mansion or swatchling servants of his own taking to his every instruction, rushing behind him with his recently pressed suits draped over their arm as they accompanied him back to his room. The chandelier overhead too had a memory attached to it.
...
The puppet could have sworn, despite it being completely stationary and unbothered, that it was swaying side to side, as if someone had jostled or bumped into it. He could almost even hear the slight creaking when... it did...
…
‘Hey hey! Watch out, Big Guy!’
‘Sorry! Augh… ow. I didn't see that.’
'It was right in front of you! Jeez, this tour would take a turn if I had to clean up glass for the rest of the night.’
‘I was watching you! These lights are just… why does she have them so low?’
The repeated 'creaks' from the ceiling fixture came to a sudden stop as two gloved hands gently cupped the sides of it, not receding until it was completely still.
‘Low? Do you know how high up those are for me? Can barely see the damn things all the way up there. Maybe you just need to come down. Just a smidge. We don't often get visitors like you so we didn't have time to raise up every single chandelier at once just cuz!’
‘Right. I was just having a good time! This all is still really exciting! But I fixed it! See, no need to get out the audience donations. Maybe for a lever to do that the next time I come by?’
‘Still, that... could have been a pretty big chip in your screen! You okay?’
‘I’ll be fine, Spammy. Now keep going, what were you going to show me next?’
...
Right. What next? What was I going to… show him next?
Spamton came to a steady stop in the middle of the hallway, heaving in rattled, frantic breaths. He was motionless regardless, adrenaline still high to keep him tense and fixed on an escape route, despite the mental divergence of-
CUT IT OUT.
ARE YOU REALLY THINKING OF HIM NOW?!
His expression crinkled in disgust and frustration as Spamton gripped his hair, hitting both sides of his head with the palms of his hands. His teeth ground together together as he took a gander at his surroundings, a small glitch making him stumble off kilter to his side before readjusting his footing, the colors and shapes of a fond memory warping into static in his mind.
FOCUS.
NEO.
Basement.
First floor.
GO!
He pushed off a wall, and was back at it. A static veil lingered in his vision, but the disruption had eaten away at any time he'd scrounged together since he'd bit Swatch. They were probably narrowing in on his location, based on the shouts of swatchlings behind him and advancing footsteps.
One more shift in another direction, and he neared the end of his labyrinthine exploit towards a door nestled in a corner. This had to be the way to the staircase, first floor, then the turn to the basement. This could be salvaged! He hadn't jeopardized his mission yet!
He twisted the knob and practically threw himself through the doorway, eyes immediately widening when-
No. No!
Oh fuck, no!
This wasn't the staircase leading to the first floor but rather a large line of ranges spread out in an arrangement, coupled with sinks and other commercial culinary equipment. This wasn't the way to the first floor, but he'd accidentally taken a wrong turn into the mansion’s kitchen.
He swerved on his heel, back towards the door, opening it and taking a step out into the open before stopping in his tracks when he heard a clamoring of footsteps and bodies brushing against each other from just around the closest corner to the room he was in.
“Where’d he go?!”
“First floor! He's probably heading down into the basement! Come on!”
“We got guards on it already, he's not getting in!”
“Stay alert! He'll do anything to get to it!”
“I’ll stay here and watch just incase he gets any funny ideas.”
“Did he really bite the boss?!”
“We got them healing already, and some others. And it's real bad but they're all still with us trying to find him.”
“Wow… So brave!”
“So come on, he can't be far now!”
Spamton closed the door slowly, taking cautious steps back as he did it until the knob clicked shut.
His rampant breathing froze in his chest as his surroundings blurred at the corners of his vision, that familiar static veil usurping the color in his glasses more with every thump of his rapidly accelerated heartbeat.
I’m sorry. But if… you didn't try to stop me…
…
He swallowed rough and clenched the doorknob tighter.
…
Ruined this.
It's ruined.
It’s all ruined! I have to try again-
Stop! No!
I’m not done! It’s going to be today! I’m going to become Neo today! Then this will switch up real fast!
But this is the wrong room!
This room is unholy!
There's no [[Angel]]!!
A static-laden yet stifled hitch of his voice rippled out his throat as a particularly intense glitch distorted his head, and he felt his pixels become disorderly, trying to maintain a shape, a size. He doubled over, his hands flying up to grip his hair once again to the best of his ability, despite the glitches actively mangling him in full.
I’m not done!
I’m not–!
“[[$&%#]]ING [&$#%]!” He exclaimed, shaking his head and scratching into the side of what could have been his temple as he began to re-stabilize. Disoriented and off-balance, his head felt like a loose weight on his shoulders as more of its mass came back together. He punched a wall while continuously attempting to shake off the static, the colors and layout of his environment returning all too slowly.
Ranges, sinks, overhead fans, wait-
Kitchen. Drain!
Instinct took over as he scanned the floor, locking in on a grate just adjacent to a few sinks that lined the room. The plunge into the battery acid sewer underneath the mansion was a failed attempt at one point in the past, but that didn't mean that it had to be completely scrapped.
A real professional does at least two takes to get to the finale, or at least adapts some of the rough draft details for the premiere of the century.
…Or at least that's what he'd say.
With haste, Spamton took advantage of the glitches distorting his body and amplified them as his head enlarged in a fractured jolt. Spawning his miniature copies took some determination, but once they were present, and leaped out past his jaws, they sped towards the grate on the ground. With mouth empty of his smaller versions, his head shrunk back to its proper size and the glitches dissipated the more focus he had on his potential escape.
The minispams had latched onto the bars of the grate and all together were trying to pry it off. One side ground with the release of metal, as it was slowly hoisted up from the floor-
“Uh-”
Spamton stiffened at yet another voice. He didn't even see the swatchling at first, standing at one of the sinks with an oversized saucer in one hand, and in the other, by her neck, a lowered pair of headphones that was playing a muffled and barely audible energetic mixtape. She had been cleaning a cloche and platter set with the battery acid that ran through the lines of the mansion, the sink giving off a radiating green tint to it from the liquid inside.
Spamton stood there awkwardly as their gazes locked on one another. Her once calm deep teal brightened to a yellow of warning.
Maybe she doesn't notice. Maybe the disguise is working.
…Say something they'd say.
…
“[Wow]!! IF IT ISN'T A [[Molting Freak]]!!!” Spamton clasped his hands politely, cocking his head to the side. “OUR [Gloris Monarch] GOT ME [[Running laps]] BEFORE I GO BACK AND [real shine] HER [Buy1Get1 Boots] WITH MY [Tongue]!! EAHEAHEA! YOU HAPPEN TO KNOW IF [All drains lead to the] BASEMENT OR IS THERE A MOR3 [[Eficianado]] [Route Plan] I CAN TAKE??”
The swatchling didn't move, just hesitantly let go of her headphones and lowered her hand, gripping the valve head at the end of the hose bobbing over the sink.
“COME ON, [[Timing]] IS OF THE [Esesex]!! YOU’d DROP SuM [Layout Construction details] FOR YOUR FAV0rITE [[Stupid]] MANAGj3R OF ALL TIME, RIGHT? MY [Time Crunch] IS SO imPORTANT I’M [shoving clocks] RIGHT INTO MY [[Mouth]]! SO GET ON WITH IT–”
There was barely any time to react as he was pelted with a surge of battery acid right to his face. The blast was so immediate, he couldn't help but cover his eyes and curl into himself defensively, putting up his arms to shield his face from the rest of the acid onslaught. It didn't stop, itching and tingling as it always did with digital darkners, but the pressure was enough to cause him to back up from his attacker in a hustle.
The swatchling approached him like he was some kind of contagious virus, stretching the hose to be angled above him, thus forcing Spamton onto his knees. When she did offer him some relief by letting go of the valve head to the sink, it was enough for him to register what had just happened, now drenched in the stuff, and claw around his glasses to scrub the liquid from the lenses.
“WHAT THE [[&$%#]]?! WHAT THe 3 [Fudge Samplles] WAS THAT [Four!]?!”
The door slammed behind him, and as soon as most the acid was cleared from his eyes, Spamton noticed the swatchling was no longer in sight.
Fuck.
“Hey! I got him trapped! He’s in here!”
Trapped?
I can't be trapped!
Think again!
A glitch took over his head again, making him curl over his knees, pressing his forehead against them. The frustration mounted, knowing he had seconds to act to escape. Again. He picked himself up, his clothes making a few squelching sounds as acid dripped off his body and onto the floor. Still, Spamton took the time to slick his hair back out of his face and adjust his lenses, peering over to the grate surrounded by his summoned duplicated minis.
As if just redirecting his attention to them gave them a burst of energy in order to keep up with their former task, the collection of minitons pried back the grate, revealing the drain below. It was larger than he expected, still a tight fit but it'd be enough. Common commercial kitchen ethics be damned, with Queen doing her own thing. But maybe the acid coating him would act as some kind of lubrication as he crawled through the pipes towards the mansion’s sewers. There'd surely be a route to his salvation, and better yet, he'd be out of the prying gaze of those that barricaded him from his sanctuary and chance of redemption.
“You found him?! We looked everywhere from the court entrance to the basement and we haven't seen him!”
“No, he's in the kitchen! Where's the boss?”
“They'll be here any second! Did he do anything to you?”
Swatchlings spoke in a hurry behind the door, and Spamton gazed down the drain, a few ‘plips’ of leftover acid sliding down the bridge of his nose and eventually off into the depths of his way out, echoing back up at him once they landed on the surface of the pipes below. He took a deep breath in and out and rolled up his sleeves, one arm of his oversized blazer fruitlessly undoing itself immediately after, to his annoyance.
He rushed to crouch, then slid one of his legs down, feeling around with the edge of his foot to gauge the available space. It was a narrow shaft straight down, but it appeared like it curved the more distance it had from the surface, winding and snaking through the interior of the mansion. It was a passage too cramped for your common darkner, much less a swatchling, and might be testy with him, but that's where hope came into play.
The metal clung to the fabric of his pant leg so it seemed, acting as more of a suction than any lubricant he ever had experience with. Once this was over, then it was just a trek through the mansion’s plumbing and he'd be one step closer to true [[Freedom]].
Just like it promised. Now to get on that disk!
Come to papa!
After the other leg went through, he gripped both sides of the drain, kicking against the stainless steel of the pipes beneath him to make his descent smoother. But already he was finding it a laborious chore to get himself concealed. A short glitch had him slide down the shaft to his benefit, even if his back was pressed as far back against the pipe as possible.
He glanced up at his miniature copies, and if they weren't of the same mind, anybody would think they'd read his in that moment, as they lifted the grate from all four corners and shuffled to the side to put it back over Spamton’s escape route.
But as if he was cashing in all his chips for a surplus of bad luck and twists and turns in this pitfall of a plan, the grate being repositioned was stopped, its plan-abiding metal scraping transforming into a sound much more detested in light of his situation.
There was the clatter above him of the grate being ripped away and chucked off to the side. Spamton flinched at the sound, the pipe that enveloped him made its echo sound miraculously louder than how it must have sounded on the surface. It took courage to look up, but look up he did.
Swatch’s enraged and exhausted eyes stared right back at him.
And he was grabbed by the back of his blazer, hoisted out of his temporary safety net with a speed he wouldn't have ever calculated from the head butler. He struggled, of course, trying to reach for Swatch’s hand and kicked at them like he'd done the first swatchling, but to no avail, as they held him a good distance away, but still as securely as they could have him.
“LET ME g>;0!! l3T ME [Go party like it's 1997]!!! fff[Free Trials]!! I HAVE A [[Perfect for a Bucket List]] [Hot Rod] TO GET TO!!1!! [[&$%#]] YOU!! [@%#$] yO#u [&$%+]!! [5 dollars discount with code] YOU!!1!! [$&#%] YOU [Bastard B!#?%]!!!1!1! ”
“Don't you get tired of this?”
Spamton's voice cut off and he glared at his captor, swaying with the acid dripping on the floor as his struggling slowed to a halt, save for a few hardy kicks between breaths. It looked like their other hand was wrapped in bandages from their knuckles to just past their wrist.
“Hey, uh, boss?”
Swatch turned their head to face the swatchling alerting them, and Spamton looked as well, to see a small trio of swatchlings dealing with his spawned in miniatures. They were stomping on them, ‘poofing’ them away into puffs of green code, before a few evaded their fate and skated past the swatchlings, flinging themselves down the drain and into the pipes.
“Shit-! Boss, a few got through–”
“It’s a matter we’ll deal with later. They can't do anything with the lightner’s project. Having the main one here is our issue at the moment.”
“Hey! You little pest! Despawn them!” A swatchling snapped at Spamton, pointing a finger in his face, nearly brushing the end of his nose.
“I really don't want to clean them out of the pipes…” Another whined. “Getting them out of the gears of the teacups was hard enough…”
“Well if we don't, they'll multiply and we'll have a bigger problem on our hands!”
“Ugh. Disgusting. I hate dealing with this. Can't we do something about him? So he won't come back?”
“He didn't even learn after the last time! What’s going to make him learn now?”
Swatch redirected their attention back at him, and the puppet met their gaze, sneering before a light, yet cruel contorted snicker etched itself out of his chest to boast where he could.
“eahEAHEAHEAH!! YOU KNOW MY [pryce]!! I’LL MAKE YOUR [Clearance Rack] [[Fearher Duster]] LIVES E4sY ff[50% Off]ING PEASY. NO [skinned] OFF MY NOSE. MY [[Pest control servic1s]] FOR… YOU [Guest] IT! ACCESS TO–”
The bird butler wordlessly turned on their heel, walking out of the kitchen with him still prisoner.
Shit!
Spamton's smile fell on a dime, that confident, cocky tone upping in pitch to pleading.
It was pathetic, but maybe he could lob this failure in the bin with the other pathetic attempts. Everything would turn out the same way-
“WAIT!! [Weight]! [Easels]. Sw4tHCh. PLEASE.”
They cringed as if his words cut physically, feathers bristling at his failed attempt to say their name. They stopped in their march out, barely looking like they wanted to entertain what he had to say, taking a deep, frustrated breath in out of obligation rather than anything else.
“...IF Y-yOU wOULD JUST LET ME [[See all there is to offer]] IT FOR ONE [Momento], I’LL BE IN AND OUT IN A [.gif]!” Spamton clasped his hands in front of him, mouth twisting again into the falsity of a reassuring grin. “NO MORE THAN A LITTLE [Windoe.Shopping]!! THEN I’LL BE [Gone. It's all gone]!! OUT OF YOUR- OUT OF YOUR- OUT OF YOUR- OUT OF YOUR- OUT OF YOUR- O;uTt of !! FOREVER. YOU WON’T REGRET IT!! I JJST WANT TO SEE thE LIG>hTN3r’S [Project Deadline]. Please.”
“Don’t.”
“...D0N’T?? [Dont] WHAT?”
“Refer to it like that. Any mention of the lightners may as well be blasphemy in your mouth.”
...
Blasphemy.
That got Spamton’s jaw to shut with a harsh ‘clack’ and he lowered his praying hands, his weary smile breaking as all ‘attempt to struggle’ counts fell to zero.
That's right. I can’t… talk.
Much less... pray.
It's as if Swatch noticed he fell limp, because they continued their route out, and the pathway to the first floor passed both of them, as well as the small accumulation of swatchlings that followed behind in their orderly palette. Spamton couldn't even bear to look in the general direction of the 1f sign, knowing it was such an obvious miss that he'd overlooked in his… distraction.
…
…Damn you, Tenna.
And his hope dwindled with every step Swatch took.
Farther was the distance between him and his savior.
Farther and... farther.
Mansion patrons, few in light of everything, gathered in the halls with the commotion, and gawked at him as he passed them. It's like they hadn't seen this charade before a hundred times and this was just common procedure at this point. Maybe he was lucky enough to be spared the humiliation of being thrown out the front entrance, but that was pushing hopeful expectations.
He wouldn't fight this time around, even if there was a thought to try and free himself just in time to be thrown down the stairs like what happened another Neo venture before, just to lessen the damage. Because being completely soaked was enough torment for the day as it was. He'd pass on entering more slips of his name in the bowl drawing of other consequences like that.
So he brushed his hair back out of his face and looked down towards the passing carpet, which was a lot more appealing than a crowd of lookie-loos any day, even if he was forced to see the smudge-free gleam from Swatch’s recently shined bi-colored shoes, bragging their luxuries at him from below.
He didn't even hear the window’s latch being opened over a filter of light static in his glasses.
“Spamton, forget about the basement.”
Swatch’s voice was monotone, but tinged with a slight tremble of obvious annoyance. Spamton didn't reply. He remained limp, as if he were being cast as a lifeless doll with his crossbar set aside for intermission.
“If not for our sake, then for your own. These schemes of yours. I shouldn't have to keep restating that they're getting old. We’ve taken countless precautions to shield the robot from your antics. Even if you made it to the basement, you wouldn't have access. So give it up.”
...
…Wouldn't have access?
That got Spamton’s attention, the visual snow blinking out to the pink and yellow of his lenses.
...
Access.
Did they lock it?
“...Access. Why wouldn't I... ha…hEa…HEAHEAHEAEA…!! AND [wine for two] WOULDN’T I [Half] THAT? IT’S A STRAITE PASSAGE. NO [Bars included]. OPEN [[& available]] FOR [[nasty rotten vermin]] TO [$Buy Vacancy$].”
Swatch narrowed their eyes again, and Spamton could see the smaller, light feathers around the white of their face raise as if they realized they made an error, obviously misspeaking.
…So they did lock it.
Which means…
There's a key.
...
There's a key!
“....HA…!!!!! EAHEAHEAHEAHEA!! EAH;>eAH EAH;*%#>>HAH AH34aHA!!1!1! HEHEAHEA HAEA>####E4AHA!!”
His laughter continued after its sudden barking start, unrelenting and amplified, even more so when he felt his chest physically burn with the volume he was at.
His head glitched in a frenzy, and Swatch scoffed at him before wasting no time chucking him out the window.
The fall didn't stop his laughter on the way down. It only stopped when his back slammed against the pavement and all air escaped him in a dry heave on impact.
The shockwave from it all, including the back of his head hitting the ground, rippled throughout his entire body and the alleyway air was too dense to get into his chest, like it had all solidified just above where his body lay, crushing him like the weight of the sins above him.
He couldn't breathe, and he certainly couldn't move. The world was watching him even as he lay rattled and still, his atmosphere being more akin to a frozen fuzziness than an actual place he ended up in.
After what seemed like far too long to process, his vision recentered, more color bleeding into the muffled edges and above him…
Swatch stood in the window, watching him struggle to regain some sort of clarity. He knew that expression must only be a false look of pity that might as well have been some sort of sick satisfaction with thinking they'd won today. It looked like pity, though. A horrible lie to believe.
But they didn't win.
None of them did.
Not Swatch, not their palette, not anybody in cyber city-
Not Tenna.
It’s not over.
It’s
not
over!
And he gasped in a breath, the putrid grime and stench from the surrounding cyber city back alleyway filling his nose as he hacked out another laugh up at the head butler, it sounding raspy and short at first, but very easily got up to where he was just earlier.
“EAHEAHE;h3AHAHA!! HHAHAEAHEA!”
You won’t get that satisfaction from me so easily.
He wanted to stand, show them he had some real determination, but the temporary paralysis of radiating pain centered him strictly with his meetup with gravity. The most he could do was have his fingers curl into the pavement below as he laughed with his whole chest, cackling up at them in a real reminder who was really coming out on top here. Who victory really belonged to.
Swatch gave him a detested grimace as they closed the window above, but Spamton carried on, his laughter practically screaming into the expanse of the gridded cyber world sky. He continued until he couldn't, his voice cracking and hitching into a glitchy breakage that left him feeling overwhelmingly nauseous. It was only then he was capable of lifting himself up on his arms, turning as to have both palms pressed on the ground as he looked over his shoulder up at the mansion's window, teeth grit and chuckling with what leftover energy he could muster up in his state.
It's not over.
I’ll be back.
And all of you
will pay for all of this.