Chapter Text
Once again, Spamton is carried by the scruff of his shirt collar by Swatch as he’s forcefully escorted out of the Queen’s mansion. “Not that I think any of your plans are good,” the head butler tried to make small talk with the unwanted guest as they walked through the halls. “but your so-called ‘tasque disguise’ has got to be your worst one yet.”
The puppet fumed over the criticism as he wriggled from Swatch’s grasp, yet he’s unable to escape due to the raw strength of their hand. “HEY [[every]]! I 0NLY HAD [traysh] AND [DIY slime tutorials] TO WORK WITH! CUT M3 S0ME SLACK!!”
The head butler didn’t respond to Spamton’s defense, only flinching to the loud, crackling feedback of his ad-riddled voice box. On top of being dangled like a discarded trash kitten (fitting, given the context), it didn’t make the salesman feel any better. Sadly, he was used to it.
“I just hope that one day, you will get tired of this charade and move on to something more productive.” Swatch sighed as they finally reached the back alley of the mansion. “Happy birthday, by the way.”
With that, the puppet was violently chucked into a nearby dumpster. The impact forced the lid to close, leaving Spamton in pain while completely surrounded by darkness.
When he finally crawled his way up to open the lid, he looked back to the alleyway door to see that it’s now fully closed and presumably locked. And to add insult to injury, he noticed that there was a slice of cake and a singular red balloon below him; as if the swatchlings who placed them there knew where Spamton was gonna end up.
The puppet leapt out of the bin to closely inspect the items on the ground. The cake was a plain vanilla with white icing, placed on a thin paper plate, and the balloon was dangling loosely on a cheap, plastic string tied to a small, metal weight to keep it from floating away.
It felt as if these were bought at the last minute on a budget, as if giving the salesman anything for his birthday was done more out of obligation than kindness. Perhaps this was one of Swatch’s desperate attempts to sway him from breaking in ever again and discard the entire idea of obtaining Neo.
Spamton, however, won’t be swayed.
After sliding the slice from the plate directly into his mouth (can’t let free food go to waste), he angrily lunges towards the balloon, pretending it was Swatch’s head as he wrangles his hands around its skinny neck. If that birdbrain really cared, they would’ve hand delivered Neo to him, bundled in wrapping paper and topped with a bow, instead of this useless party favor.
He wanted to pop the balloon as a final blow, but the string ended up snapping off, forcing it to fly away without any weight. The salesman could only watch as it ascended higher and higher into the cyber atmosphere, becoming smaller and smaller with each passing time.
Spamton could only imagine himself as that balloon once he finally obtains Neo. His angelic wings would soar beyond the darkness and into another world, where he’ll no longer be bound to the limitations of his coding or be stuck behind a screen.
The balloon didn’t last long, though, as once it reached the gridded, neon sky, it burst into tiny red pixels. Neo wouldn’t have that problem; at least that’s what his benefactor had once told him. He would become the only darkner to reach the heavens.
Spamton grips the shadow crystal in his shirt pocket and lets out a bit-crushed chuckle. No other darkner (aside from that damn clown) held the power to see into the light world like he does.
… Well, except for a certain someone that can do it effortlessly.
But that boob tube only took his powers for granted; always catering to a single lightner family that doesn’t even know he exists. If Spamton were in his position, he’d be doing much more than just putting on a show and dance like a goddamn fool.
The more the puppet thought of that man, the more furious he felt over how well that idiot box is probably doing compared to him. If not for that stupid contract, he would still be in his apartment by now; sleeping in a warm bed and eating three square meals a day without having to scavenge. It should be him living in the dumps after the way he cheated on that deal!
“[%$#@]ING [[trash heap]]!” Spamton cussed under his breath, kicking the paper plate beneath him. It wasn’t enough destruction to satisfy him, so he picked up the discarded balloon weight and flinged it to the wall.
… But instead of bouncing off, the weight had suddenly disappeared as it phased through the wall like a ghost. The puppet tilted his head in confusion; he had already checked for holographic walls around the mansion and found zero in the process. Since when did this appear?
Not wanting to look this Trojan gift horse in the mouth, Spamton followed where the weight had vanished in the hopes of having a second attempt to sneak in. He peeked his head through the fake wall, but instead of seeing the hallway of the mansion, there was nothing but pure darkness.
Is this a glitch? Some sort of out-of-bounds area? Whatever it was, Spamton didn’t have enough time to think, as the darkness somehow pulled him further in like a magnet, causing him to plummet down the endless abyss.
…
Although there appeared to be nothing below him, it didn’t take long for Spamton to reach the bottom. After landing on a padded floor of nothing, the salesman raises himself up to inspect his surroundings.
“... WHAT THE [firetruck] IS THIS?”
Instead of an empty space like he saw before, Spamton was now surrounded by millions upon millions of white, pixelated text; floating around aimlessly like fireflies in the night sky. When reading some of the text closer to him, he noticed how they were all written out like code.
While the salesman was made out of this kind of stuff like any other cyber darkner, he wasn’t exactly an expert when it comes to deciphering them. But after looking more closely, he started to notice a pattern with each of the floating texts. They all came with common names, like George, Paul, John… but then he noticed some with familiar names, like Trashy and Nubert.
From Spamton’s limited knowledge, he concurred that this place must be some sort of… filing system for darkners? And if that’s the case, then maybe he can search for Neo this way.
The salesman decided to journey through the darkness, searching for any text that read ‘Neo’. It would’ve been easier had the words been sorted out like, say, a file. But instead, they were all jumbled up and constantly floating away from him; not at all helpful to the puppet’s short stature.
He did find one that said ‘Swatch’, but after mulling it over for a bit, he decided to leave it be. After all, vengeance would feel much sweeter in person once he obtains his new body.
As he reached further from his original spot, he started to notice that the names became less similar to the ones in Cyber World; Pluey, Shuttah, Elnina… it seemed that he reached the TV World area of the file.
Spamton tried to turn back, only to get knocked down by a stray code floating close to him. When he looked up to read the text, it felt like a harder slap to the face compared to the physical impact.
Tenna.
Of course that traitor would manage to screw him over, even if he isn’t physically here. Spamton snatched the floating text and held it as firmly as his tiny hands could manage. By now, the TV host was probably soaking up the love of his lightner audience and getting pampered by his crew; completely oblivious to the suffering of someone who once considered him a friend.
Would he even care if he knew what that contract did to me? Did he ever care about me?
From the way he ignored his calls and never bothered to look for him, it was obvious that to Tenna, Spamton was nothing more than a tool. A one-way ticket to becoming a big shot and abandoning soon after.
You took… everything.
You ruined everything!
Spamton’s vision started to blur in a static-filled snowstorm as his grip on Tenna’s name tightened even more. His mind swarmed with hatred over the cathode ray tube; memories of how he nagged about the salesman hiding personal secrets, how he would ignore his advice despite needing them…
… how genuine his smile was, how soft his screen would glow in the night, how warm his metallic arms were when wrapped around him.
No! No! Stop thinking about that! It doesn’t even matter since-
The puppets' breath slowed when thinking of the prophecy, then with his vision slightly clearing, he looked back at the code in his hands. If Tenna were to die at any moment, what difference would it make if Spamton were to just… delete this?
Would he be remembered, or would he be just completely erased from history? Would this be how he’s supposed to die?
Right now, the salesman was holding the fate of a single darkner in the palm of his hands, one that he wants dead more than anything, yet he couldn’t help but feel conflicted over this action.
… No
It wouldn’t be fair.
Spamton loosened his grasp on the code and let out a sigh.
I just wish you would understand how I felt.
He then wrapped his arms around Tenna’s name in an awkward hug. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was doing this; perhaps believing this string of text would carry the warmth of his old partner’s cathode screen.
But before he could let go, the text started to flicker and faze into his body. The puppet didn’t have enough time to process this, as once the text disappeared into him, the world around him became darker than even the entire room, as if someone pulled the plug from his mind.
It all happened in a flash. In one second, Spamton went from standing in an empty void holding onto Tenna’s code, to laying down in an unfamiliar, dimly-lit bedroom. The source of light seemed to be coming from his face, which should be impossible ever since he lost his addison glow years ago. Not to mention that his vision now felt grainy, and there’s a constant ringing in his ears.
Where did that code take him? What did it do to him?
His pondering was interrupted when he heard a sudden knock at the door. “Tenna, you up?” the voice from the other side asked.
Tenna? Did he somehow get into Tenna’s room?
When looking closely, he started to notice the multiple TV Time posters plastered on the wall, as well as various types of marketable knick-knacks laying on the shelves. He rarely ever went into Tenna’s bedroom before, but all of these items made it completely obvious where he was.
Even the sheets he laid under had Tenna’s stupid cathode face printed on, mocking the confused salesman with its show-stopping smile. Spamton quickly pushed the blanket off of him, only to stare in horror at what lay under.
Instead of a small, white puppet body wearing a black v-neck shirt, he was greeted by a hulking mechanical figure in TV Time pajamas. As much as Spamton would rather want it to be, this body definitely isn’t Neo-shaped, but it does bare a striking resemblance to-
“Wake up, Tenna!” the person outside shouted, knocking on the door even louder. “Your breakfast is gonna get cold!”
The non-puppet had a bad feeling about this, but just to be sure, he tried to scramble out of bed to find a mirror. However, his larger body made it awkward to move around, and it didn’t help that his head felt ten times heavier than before.
After finally standing on his feet, Spamton wobbled onward to the door while holding onto nearby objects as balance. The slow process must have made the outsider more impatient, as they started to jiggle the doorknob in a desperate attempt to open it.
“God dammit, give me a moment.” the salesman muttered under his breath, only to be shocked when he realized that he didn’t sound like himself at all. Not only was the pitch of his voice different, but it also sounded clearer and free from any interrupting ads.
Finally, the lumbering giant that was now Spamton made his way to the door and opened it. Meeting him on the other side was a kind of darkner he’s never seen before in TV world: a short, round microphone person with a bright red bow tie and a large set of teeth.
“You doin’ alright, boss?” the stranger asked in concern. “I heard ya struggling in there.”
“What the hell is going on!?” the salesman yelled, overwhelmed by every off-putting feeling about his new body and voice. “And who even are you!?”
The small microphone darkner frowned in response. “Is your reception losin’ signal or something? It’s me, Motormouth Mike!” he answered as he let out a ‘jazz hands’ over the name drop.
Spamton tilted his heavy head in confusion. Mike? This guy doesn’t look anything like the Mike I know. And why is he calling me boss?
… Doesn’t matter. Need to find a mirror first.
With his large, robotic hand, Spamton pushed ‘Mike’ aside as he raced to find a nearby bathroom. Luckily, he happened to find one not too far from the bedroom, so he quickly stepped in, turned the lights on, and braced the inevitable as he looked head-on towards the mirror.
… It felt like a joke at first. The person in the mirror looked exactly like the one he saw in all the posters and merchandise not too long ago. Spamton tried to rip off the assumed picture of Tenna facing him, only to realize he was grasping onto a smooth, cold surface. The Tenna on the other side wasn’t even smiling or posing like the others, instead he looked as distraught as the salesman was feeling right now.
Spamton raised his hand to feel his face, while the reflected CRT followed suit. His plastic puppet jaw was nowhere to be found, being replaced by a boxy matte chin and a glass surface where his face should be. He reached over to the top of his head, feeling not hair, but two thick antennas like the ones he sees ahead of him.
Spamton’s mechanical heart sank as the realization settled in. This wasn’t a dream; it felt too real to be one.
He had become his worst enemy.
The salesman tried to claw on hair out of stress, only for his fingers to instead feel nothing but his antennae and plastic casing.
No! No!! This isn’t supposed to happen!!
I can’t get into heaven like this!!
Too bothered by his own reflection, he didn’t even realize the person claiming to be Mike was nearby. “What’s gotten into ya, boss?” he tried to grab onto Spamton’s Tenna-shaped hand. “C’mon, maybe you’ll feel better after breakfast.”
Startled by this unexpected contact, Spamton quickly shifted his hand to himself, causing the not-Mike to step back.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya.” he apologized, this time leading him out of the bathroom from a distance.
While the salesman didn’t feel comfortable accepting guidance from a complete stranger who thinks he’s someone else, the thought of eating a proper meal that wasn’t just a slice of cake near a dumpster made him willing to assume this Tenna role for now and followed ‘Mike’ towards the dining room.
…
If Spamton still had eyes, they would’ve widened by now. Awaiting him on the dining room table was the largest variety of breakfast plates he had ever seen. Different kinds of eggs prepared in different kinds of ways, sausages made with the finest of meats, pancakes stacked to the high heavens. Even as a big shot, he never had a meal this extravagant.
“Might be a little cold now.” the microphone claiming to be Mike exclaimed. “Sorry about that.”
But Spamton didn’t care as he immediately sat down and shoveled in as much food as he could. He didn’t even bother to use any utensils as he scooped up the eggs, sausages and pancakes with his grimy metal hands.
‘Mike’ only stood there and watched in disgust. “Guess I’m not eatin’, then.” he mumbled to himself.
The former salesman couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten something this good. Back in Cyber World, all he could eat was anything edible he managed to scrounge up from the city garbage bins, and rarely were they ever fresh or even tolerable.
While guzzling down a ridiculously large mug of over sweetened coffee, Spamton starts to rethink his outlook of this whole situation. Sure, he still needs to get back to Cyber World in order to acquire Neo and reach the heavens, and sure, while in Tenna’s body, he probably now has to worry about the prophecy unfolding at any moment.
But for now, he’s in a warm house with warm food and a loyal crew who thinks he’s someone to be respected.
For now, Spamton feels both satiated and satisfied with his life.