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It’s been a week since Tenna locked himself up in his dressing room. Not a peep has been heard from him since, and the studio’s had no choice but to start running reruns while the host with the most has been holed up in his room, door locked tight and not opening for a single Dakener.
It should worry the entire cast of TV Time, and truthfully, it does — even down to the pippins, as freshly joined to the crew as they are. Almost everyone in the studio has wandered over to check on Tenna at some point or another; they’re always greeted with the same response: a cheery call from inside that he was fine, perfectly fine, just busy.
Absolutely no one bought the flimsy excuse, of course. After all, the boss’ big upcoming contract fell apart at the seams. The one that would bring a favored guest host onto TV Time permanently. Tenna had been gushing about it to anyone that would listen, even the lowest employee. Honestly, he wouldn’t shut up about it, even when it was clear that no one else really cared one way or the other, especially not as much as Tenna did.
But Tenna cared.
So when the meeting that would bring that guy on fell to pieces, so did Tenna — and no one in the cast was quite sure how to glue him back together. Tenna cared so much that it made him heartsick.
Battat’s standing in front of Tenna's dressing room door, a week after the whole incident went down — though, honestly, he wasn’t paying much attention to it until after the fallout — wondering if this is really a good idea. He doesn’t know what to do, truthfully, but he knows he has to try something, because not even the weather duo could coax old Tenna out of his room.
He knocks shave and a haircut, as most darkners here knew to do with Tenna, and waits. There’s no answer for a while. The seconds tick past, before finally, the door opens just a crack. Tenna pokes his head out, screen pointed down at the green pippin.
He’s smiling. He’s always smiling when someone manages to get him to open the door, the other pippins have whispered to each other. Wide, wild smiles that seem to be strung together with sharp wire. The CRT laughs, fiddling with his tie. He doesn’t open the door any further.
“Hey there! You’re, uh, Greenie, right? With the costume department? What’s up?”
Battat didn't expect him to answer the damn door, after so many rejections from people that honestly cared about Tenna way more, so … now what? Battat has never been an actor, and frankly, he’s awful at improv. The pippins can’t find anything else that he can think to do but smile, so he does just that… if a bit awkwardly.
“Um.”
There’s a beat of silence as he tries to internally scramble for an excuse. Tenna tilts his head, but before he can open his mouth, Battat beats him to it.
“You haven't come for your fittings in a bit,” he blurts out, “— since there's, um. Lots of re-runs lately so, I was. Worried. About. You."
Battat feels his face going a bit green at the outburst. Tenna’s expression shifts in a way that Battat can’t describe. His fingers rub against his yellow tie that probably hasn’t been washed in a while, considering how worn down it looks. Like Tenna’s been rubbing at it for a prolonged time.
“Oh! Haha. Well. You know how it is with the fall! School starts. The kids don’t have a lot of time for television, and Toriel and Asgore enjoy their, uh. Their consistency!” Tenna fidgets with his tie again, looking away. “Plus, Azzy’s growing up. Sleepovers every weekend at other houses! At least it gets him away from the, haha. The fighting. But I’m rambling. Don’t worry your cute little dice head! I’m doing fine. The weather duo’s segments are rated sky high right now!” Tenna’s smile is tense, and nervous, and Battat knows in an instant to not make any bets on it being genuine. “So, haha. You can just worry about making sure Lanino’s outfit doesn’t catch fire again.”
"I always worry about that." He grumbles without thinking, deadpan; he then clears his throat, speaking more politely. "But, uh, boss, I wanted to worry about you too… you don't have anyone coming to check on you the last I checked, sir. But I can go if I'm being a bother."
“Oh! That’s sweet of you, Greenie. Haha. Usually Mike checks up on me every couple of hours, but he hasn’t … really made an appearance the last couple of days.” Tenna glances around, antennae drooping as he speaks. “Not since, uh… haha! It doesn’t matter, not really. But seriously! I’ll be just fine in a bit. I’m not glooby at all!”
Mike. That’s right. Battat might be new, he might not know the going-ons of the studio and the people here yet, but he knows about Mike. Mike helps Tenna when things go wrong. Mike makes Tenna feel reassured. Even if Battat’s never so much as seen the guy, he knows that much.
Mike makes Tenna feel safe.
Battat stares at Tenna with a blank look on his die-cut face. "Sir, pardon my saying but you can feel down without being glooby."
“Oh, Greenie. You really are new around here, aren’t you? I’m groovy, never glooby. I’m up, never down. That’s just the way things go!” Tenna laughs again. It’s higher pitched. The CRT glances up and down the hallway, before looking back to the pippin. “Just … uh. Hey! If you see Mike! Let him know I’m doing okay! But! I’d be doing better! If he was around.”
The green pippins keeps the blank look on his face even if inside he's gnawing on his clipboard. He glances around, wondering if he should ask what Tenna is thinking about.
"Uh. yeah, sure boss." He speaks slowly, drawing out the syllables. Trying to figure out his game plan. "Do you know where you saw him last? I can find him for you,"
“Oh, you know Mike,” Tenna laughs, fidgeting with his tie. “He’ll be found if he wants to be! But uh, like I said. It’s been a couple of days. If you see him, just … let him know.” There’s a pause; Tenna is clearly struggling with what to say. He swallows. “I, uh. New show! I’ll be doing some new taping tomorrow. You don’t have to worry your little green head about little old me. I’m groovy as always!”
Battat stares, silent. Something clicks in his brain, and he drums his fingers against his clipboard before he clears his throat and smiles, brightly.
"On it, boss." he says. "I'll figure this whole Mike thing out for you."
“Heh! No need to go out of your way, of course! Just.” Tenna seems to shrink, just a couple of inches. “If you see him.”
Bowing his head quietly, Battat speed walks off, checking behind him only to see if if Tenna was watching before full-on sprinting to the costume department.
It's a stupid idea. He knows it’s stupid. But Battat could figure this out a solution to this problem in his own special way.
He had a costume to make.
The hours trickle past. The reruns are over, and Ramb is closing up the green room, shooing out the very last of the employees before doing a final round of checks.
He pauses in his sorting at a black figure that seems to be creeping towards the dressing rooms. It appears to be some sort of Darkner, but it’s not one that the old plugboy’s ever seen before. The head of the Darkner almost looks like it’s the same texture as a microphone; round and matching with the black suit and giant red bow tie that it’s donning.
With a frown, he sticks his fingers in his mouth and gives a sharp whistle. The figure flinches, and Ramb swears he can hear it cursing under its breath.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing there?”
Well, fuck.
The Darkner turns around suddenly to look at Ramb, and — yeah, it’s a microphone. Never one that Ramb’s seen before, though. Did Kris bring back a new friend? No, that’s not right; Tenna would know if a new Darkner had joined the dark world, and not even his… current predicament would keep him from greeting a new pal.
Ramb marches closer; the figure backs up to the door, trying to fiddle around for the knob, almost like it can’t see where it’s hand is reaching. Seeing that there’s no way that it’s getting past Ramb, the Darkner stiffens, before …
Clearing its throat, and spreading its gloved arms out.
"Aaaaaaye, Ramb!" The Darkner is visibly sweating; oh, that suit looks absolutey disgusting with anxious sweat.
Ramb looks…
Unimpressed.
“Can I help you, mate?” He asks, voice curt. He tosses down the pillow he was cleaning up and instead leans close, hand going to rest palm down on the door next to Darkner’s head, effectively blocking it in. One eyebrow raised, Ramb glances at the strange Darkner up and down. “I don’t think we’ve met, mate.”
"Wh‐whaddya mean? It's me! Mike!"
There’s a pause, before realization seems to dawn on Ramb. He leans forward, grin slowly forming on his face.
“… is that you, Pip?”
"W–Who's Pip?" The Darkner steps back one step, ready to bolt. "C'mon, Raaaamb... Rambo! Ya uh, can't say you forgot your good friend Mike! Pip is — he’s dead, actually. Died. Deceased. He was murdered.”
The power strip snorts, covering his mouth with a hand. A few years ago, he would at least be polite enough to pretend he’s not laughing, but — oh, no. He’s laughing alright. Ramb shakes with the giggles, wiping away a tear from his eye.
“Oh, that is you, pip! I thought so. What are you doing, going around pretending to be Mike? Not thinking of going into acting, are you?”
"SHHH!!!" The darkner — Battat — hurries to smack a gloved hand against Ramb’s shoulder. "Not too loud!!" he hissed. "Tenna won't talk to me when glooby, Ramb. But! He said he was looking for Mike—" he vaguely gestures to the whole …situation he was wearing.
“THAT’S what you think Mike looks like?” Ramb is full on snickering. He has a full case of the giggles. Nobody has ever heard such a sound from the sad old dog before. “Oh, luv. That’s not … Mike isn’t … I’m fairly certain he don’t look like that”
Frustration building in his veins, Battat throws his hands on his hips and glowers as best he can through the helmet. "Well I'm sorry I didn't have a design to go off of! He's... he's Mike! Like. microphone? Maybe? Look I can make a million costumes but only one is gonna get me into Tenna's good graces, or more importantly, get Tenna good again."
“… you’re really worried about him, huh.” Ramb’s smile fades into something a little sadder. He straightens up, giving Battat a once-over. “I, uh. Never personally met the man myself, though that guy would go on and on about the darkner. Said he was a motormouth, he was. I s’pose if anyone were to help Tenna out, it would be Mike.”
"See! You get it! I need to go, he was already pretty down when I left, dunno how bad it'll be now." He nods, muttering as he turns on his heel and scurries down the hallway without so much as bidding Ramb a goodbye, "Motormouth? I can do that, yeah, okay—"
Tenna’s office is quiet, though the lights are still on. If Battat listened closely, he could probably hear the sound of Tenna’s feet against the carpet, going back and forth. Back and forth, back and forth. A worrying sort of noise. The noise someone makes when they can’t find a solution… or when they’re out of options.
The costumed pippins swallows, terror starting to build in his veins. This wasn't going to work, Tenna isn't an idiot. But hey, Battat could at least say he tried before he gets fired or worse. He raises a fist.
Shave and a haircut.
There’s a beat, before Tenna’s voice rings out.
“I’m, uh! A little—” there’s a pause, maybe a sniffle, “— a little busy right now! Maybe you could come back later?”
Battat inhales, mustering up his courage. Clears his throat. Man, this is cringe-worthy. He’s already sort of hating the ideas that are going through his head, but — ! Well.
As they say, the show has to go on.
"Aww gee! Not too busy for good ol' Mike, are you?"
There’s a pause. And then, after a few painfully silent seconds, the door cracks open, Tenna’s screen peeking out. He looks like he’s been crying.
“… Mike?”
Mike stands there, hand extended outward in a wave. "Hey boss!"
In the space between the two darkners, Battat prays that this works. He already feels sweaty again in this costume, and the look on Tenna’s dark screen isn’t helping any. The boss Darkner stands there, startled before—
His screen brightens. Tenna’s smiling.
“Oh, Mike! It’s been ages! I was worried you left with — the other guy!” The door opens a little more. Battat can see the mess that the dressing room has become. Torn up couch cushions. The desk’s shoved to the side; there are papers scattered on the floor.
The mirror on the wall is smashed to pieces.
Battat holds his breath to keep his heart from leaping out of his throat. Tenna continues to talk, unaware of the panic in his companion.
“Where have you been?”
Smoothly, Mike replies. "Oh. y'know, out and about. Couldn't stay away too long! Y'okay? Word on the line you're hurtin' mighty fierce."
He can’t help but assess the damage, but more importantly— looks at Tenna's hands. Tenna’s gloves are clenched together. He’s squeezing his hands, his palms, and if he flinches, Battat doesn’t catch it in his expression.
“Oh! Haha. Oh, you know, Mike. I’m a little lost with all these sponsors needs. I left it all to that guy, after all. Just… trying to catch up! And … with the censors, the employees, Ramb…”
He nods. "C'mon, let's get this figured out, boss! Motormouth Mike's got it all underway!"
Which wasn't entirely wrong. Ever since – that guy— left, a lot of the crew has been chipping in with ideas for segments, discussions of pay and job benefits, among themselves. Battat, ever observant, had been lurking in the background of a lot of those conversations.
Overall, things were figured out, Tenna just needed to sign off when the time came.
“Haha! Right, okay. Come on in! Sorry for … the mess…” Tenna opens the door all the way, stepping back carefully so he doesn’t brush against the glass of the mirror. Battat’s horror at the destruction only grows as his boss gestures inside, towards the desk — where scattered and crumpled papers litter the floor. “I — haha. Sorry,” he apologizes again, wringing his hands. “I didn’t… I got… I had an episode, I think.”
Thank the Angel for the mask. The facial expressions of Mike don’t quite translate what Battat feels on the inside.
"It's alright, boss." Mike promises, "It happens! Stuff like that ain't fun but you ain’t bad for having one. How about we clean up a bit, kay? No need to worry about a thing."
“I — right! Gosh, look at me.” Tenna laughs, hands still clenched tight. He hasn’t opened them, so Battat can’t see if they’re damaged. “If you want to come back in an hour, I can. I can have this all fixed in a jiffy! Don’t worry, Mike! I can… uhm.”
As Tenna stutters, Mike’s already scurried over to nab the trashcan in the corner of the room and drag it over. He points at Tenna, whose shoulders jerk upwards towards the bottom of his casing.
"I'll be right back, don't move."
Battat then slips out to the nearest utility closet to snatch a broom and dust pan. Then, almost like he wasn't gone, he returns.
“Mike — oh, Mike, you don’t have to worry. I can clean it all!” Tenna is still standing in the middle of the room, still frozen. His smile is pinned in place, but he’s quickly shrinking. “I can clean this all up. I’m — uh, you shouldn’t see me like this, Mike.”
"Nah, I ain’t seen a thing, boss man! Don’tcha worry one bit." Mike turns his head to look at Tenna as he puts the first pan of glass in the trash. "You didn't get hurt, did'ja?"
“Uhm.” Tenna stands there, like an awkward tree in the forest. He keeps his hands clamped shut, screen turning down to look at his shoes. “You don’t have to worry about it. I should be the one cleaning, this is — inappropriate, I’m your … your boss…”
Yeah, okay. He definitely hurt himself, Battat notes as he watches Tenna fret. Probably his hands, from the way he’s acting. Does he even notice that his gloves are starting to stain red?
"Aaaaand I'm your friend, too, big guy. Unless you really want me gone. I don't wanna make ya uncomfortable."
“You’re not!”
That came out louder than Tenna meant it to be, from the stricken look on his screen. He swallows, shoulders creeping up towards the bottom of his casing. He’s the perfect picture of a scolded child.
“I’m sorry… uhm. Mike.”
Battat stops the urge to put his hands on his hips, instead turning his head to keep focus on clearing the debris. He wraps up a trash bag neatly and plops it at his feet, before turning to the next part of the mess.
"No sorry necessary, uh, pal."
Pal?! Who the fuck says PAL anymore?
“Pal…” Tenna’s mouth drops, but not into a frown. Instead, it’s like the corners of his smile that has been pinned there have been loosened, slightly. It looks more natural of an expression. Tenna sniffles. He shrinks. “Oh gosh. I must be a mess. I’m so sorry.”
"It's fine, we're all messes in our own regards." Mike glances over, sees him shrinking. “Talk to me, bossman. What's got ya so freaked out?"
“Uhm. I. Uh.” Tenna doesn’t seem any closer to talking about things. In fact, Mike bringing attention to it at all just seems to make him shrink more. Tenna squeezes his hands. If Battat listens closely, he can hear that it makes a squishing sound; like glass pressed against silicone flesh. The pippins winces in sympathy.
“Oh, you know me, Mike,” the CRT laughs it off, as usual, “I’m always freaked out about one thing or another.”
Battat would be quiet, listen and wait for Tenna to go through the whole song and dance before admitting the problem; but Ramb did say he was called Motormouth Mike. So he clears his throat and gestures with his hand, beckoning for Tenna to continue on.
"Hey, well, what's it all this time? I'm just worried about ya. No pressure, take your time."
And to Battat’s amazement, it works. He can see the way Tenna’s shoulders loosen; the drop of his expression into something just slightly more natural.
“Uhm. Well…” Tenna tugs on his glove a little bit, clawed finger dipping below the elastic band. “The fights with Toriel and Asgore are getting worse, and I mean — he left! Right after he signed with me! He — he cheated me out of everything, and left me like I was nothing! I,” Tenna takes a breath, and has to will himself not to sob out loud. “He must hate me. He left. He’s gone. I can’t … get him off my mind.”
Battat cringes inwardly a little bit. Tenna is going through a really rough patch, but — well! Prophecy damn it, he’s Mike! So Mike puffs out his chest and nods, spreading his arms out as if to emphasize Tenna’s points.
"That's all valid reasons to be upset! I wouldn't be doing too hot in your shoes neither." He says as he dumps more glass in the trash bin.
“Yeah, I… I’m letting everyone down, though.” Tenna shrinks a little more. He’s about Battat’s size now, and slowly getting smaller. His hands tighten around each other. “The staff needs me. I can’t … I have to…”
"Nah." is all he says, simple as that.
“What do you mean, nah?!” Tenna sprouts up three feet, screen twisted into a snarl. “They’re all counting on me! The Lightners need new content to watch, and the staff needs their paychecks! I need to be better than this!” A hand comes up to yank at his antennae as he hits the ground with the heel of his shoe. “I need to get a grip!”
Battat watches. And then, Angel above, he talks back.
“So, what, you're gonna lie to yourself and hurt on the inside while acting like it's all okay? Like…” he thinks for a moment. "Like Ramb? If you bottle it up, it's just gonna keep explodin’ at the worst time. Like on air, or worse."
Tenna laughs. He tugs harder at his wires, and relishes the sting of them. He deserves to hurt. He deserves to be in pain. He’s done so much worse to other people—
“I’m a professional! I can do my job without letting my stupid ✨ feelings ✨ get in the way!”
"Boss—“ Battat’s voice strains a little bit under the costume head. He reaches out, concerned. “Hey, c’mon. You’re hurting yourself." All of this is because of that guy. Battat going to kill that stupid addison if ever given the chance. "You can have a work-life balance, boss!" He adds, a little desperate.
“This isn’t balance! I’m being a bad boss!” Yank. “A bad friend!” Yank. “A bad television!”
Tenna’s casing has red imprints on it from his palms. The crt finally lets go of a sob.
“I’m sorry,” he weeps, stained gloves moving to wipe at his screen. “I know you guys hate it when I cry. I’m trying. I just need to be better. I need to be better”
Mike walks over, slow and cautious, before placing a hand, so gently, on Tenna's leg. "Breathe, boss. You're not a bad television, you don't gotta be anything you don't wanna be. You can be glooby, take a breath, and move on! Just like you can havin’ an episode, you decompress and get back up on your feet.” And then, to really sell it, he adds in a genuine voice, “I believe in you."
Tenna shrinks. “You’re so nice,” he sobs. “Mike. I’m — s-sorry. I should have listened to you. I should have listened. I messed everything up, and he’s g-gone, and I… don’t know if I can do this by myself.”
"We all make mistakes, but sometimes we just have people make the mistakes for us when they do harmful things for us. You didn't ask for this, boss, you don't deserve all the pain. I'm here for you," Mike reassures him. "And the weather duo, Ramb, the shadow guys, the zappers, even the pippins… everybody wants you happy, big guy!"
“… yeah?”
Tenna sniffles. And then, he shoots up like a flower in spring — one bloodied hand pointing to the sky.
“— yeah! You’re right! Everybody wants me to be happy! Because I’m the boss! Because I’m TV!”
"Exactly!" Mike replies, grateful for the enthusiasm, "And we all Love TV!" Tenna spurts up another few inches. He’s smiling wider. Encouraged, once again, Mike cheers, “I love TV! Now,” he pats Tenna’s knee, “You go catch up with the Weather Duo. I heard they had some new ideas on how ta make the forecast more fun for the kids while still bein’ factual."
And while Tenna is distracted with that, Battat can clean up here.
“You’re — sure?” Tenna looks down, screen bright. His gloves are still stained red. Mike pulls a pair of Tenna's spare gloves from his pocket — Battat usually has costume pieces on him just in case — and casually offers it over. “It’s okay? You think they have ideas?”
"I know they do, bossman."
“— oh! Thank… you.” Carefully, Tenna peels his gloves away. The skin below is red and weeping; it seems like he got a glass shard stuck in his palm that he’s been crushing this whole time. Tenna takes the new gloves and slips them on, giving a smile to his friend.
“Do I look okay?”
Mike gives a nod. "Never better,"
“Oh, Mike, you’re the bees knees!” Tenna does a spin on one foot, looking more full of life than he probably has in the last week. “You’re a lifesaver! Okay, I’m going to go talk to Lanino and Elnina. You get yourself something nice! You earned it!”
And just like that, he’s out the door, giggling. Giggling. He’s probably at his happiest since before this whole fiasco. Battat slumps, controlling his breathing as he stumbles back. He fumbles with the headgear, pulling it off, and holds it in wonder as he goes over everything that happened.
"I… can't believe that worked." He says to himself in awe. He looks around at the mess and sighs, “Gotta clean this all up before he comes back.”
And so he gets to work.
It’s not long, though — maybe one or two trash bags later — before there’s a knock at the door.
“Seems like whatever you did cheered the boss up quick, didn’t it,” Ramb comments, amused. Leaning on the doorframe, he watches Battat carefully. The pippins glances over; the dressing room is nearly spotless, and he's currently working on stuffing and re-sewing up the couch. “Mike.”
"Sort of my job," he says. "Ramb."
“Funny. Thought your job was costume design and set production.” Ramb snorts softly. Folding his arms, he steps in, before taking the cushion out of Battat’s hand, holding it to his chest. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
"That's Greenie's job, I'm Mike." He corrects Ramb, reaching to try and grab the cushion. He slumps a bit. "I know I don't have to, but I want to." He says, voice soft. "Tenna's done a lot for us… and if that guy comes back, at least I can say Mike killed him."
At the mention of that Darkner, Ramb’s expression hardens. “He’s not coming back,” he snaps with a scowl, handing the cushion back. “But you don’t have to pretend to be Mike. It’ll hurt more in the end when Tenna realizes that you’re not Mike. Have you thought of that?”
"He wouldn't listen to me on my own, Ramb! I'll be smart about it, honest. He would've killed himself if someone didn't intervene." Pulling his eyes away from the plugboy, Battat begins sewing the cushion back up again; the gloves of the costume are hanging from the sleeves. His hands are deft, quick and efficient.
“It’s not your job to help him,” Ramb says softly. He crouches down, plastic kneecaps creaking. “You don’t know what Mike did around here. It’s too much for one person. You’ll burn yourself dry, pip.”
Battat’s hands pause mid-stitch, looking past Ramb at the broken mirror frame. He doesn’t need his reflection to know that the bags are heavy and dark under his eyes, even without this new role he’s foisted onto himself.
"I already have, what's a little more? I... I need to do this, or I'd never let myself live it down if he hurts himself. He did hurt himself." he admits. "Smashed the mirror, fucked up the couch, he has a shard of glass stuck in his hand still that I couldn't grab before he put his new gloves on."
Ramb grimaces. He wrings his hands together, before kneeling down. “How can I help you right now, pip?”
The pippins stubbornly glances away; he wants to tell Ramb to fuck off so he can finish with the couch before Tenna gets back, but he feels like crying. Calming Tenna down had pulled a lot out of him, he's not a brave pippins but...
He could lie to himself for Tenna.
"Just — watch for when he gets back? I need to finish this, take out the trash, and see about convincing him to show me his injured hand." Battat says, voice tired and flat; he obviously isn't getting what Ramb is trying to say, because the power strip sighs loudly.
“Right. Okay, you are knee deep in this. You don’t understand what I’m asking.” Ramb grumbles rolling his eyes a little as he pulls himself up. He shuffles over to the trash bags, grabbing one in each hand. “I’ll clear the trash, and take care of Tenna. He’s more likely to listen to me than Mike about his hands, I’d wager.”
"I am not- !!" he sounds so offended. "I'm trying to help! I just wanna help, Ramb. What's so wrong about that?" He pricks a finger and hisses, staring at his sloppy stitchwork, his shaky hands; Battat takes a few deep breaths before he decides to just… accept it. “— thank you Ramb, I owe you one,” he mumbles, looking away and down to the cushion as he undoes the stitches, forcing himself to start over again.
Ramb hums, disappearing back into the hallway with the trash bags in tow. Battat is left in the quiet for a long while, just doing stitches again, before there’s another knock at the door.
“Hey,” Ramb says gently. “Come on. Let me get you a coffee. Your head is going to spin if you stare at that for any longer.”
Battat bites the string, tying it off. It's not perfect, which gets on his nerves, but Ramb is right.
"Of course he's right," he mumbles to himself. Ramb raises an eyebrow, but says nothing in reply.
Slowly, Battat redoes the gloves, pops the head back on, and places the cushion where it belongs. The room looks put together, though not clean of the crime. The broken mirror faces a wall, his cushions wonky, but it looks good enough.
Battat follows Ramb, slipping out the door. "I should go change." He says.
“Yeah. Here, I’ll help keep watch,” Ramb says, placing a paw at Battat’s backside, rubbing it up and down. “It’s alright, pip. You’ve already done so much. Tenna will be fine.”
It takes a while, getting back to being himself; Battat gets changed, folding the suit back up neatly and stuffing it in the hollow microphone head along with his gloves before joining Ramb once again. He's hiding his shaky hands under his poncho, his gloves cover all the stressed pokes on his fingertips.
"I uh. Don't think I need caffeine." He hopes this will get Ramb to stop breathing down his neck. "Right now."
“Water, then,” Ramb says flatly. “Or a drink. I’m not letting you get away without taking care of yourself, pip.”
"I'm taking care of myself!" He rebuttals, but he doesn't really have any examples so he just stops at that.
Yeah, he probably shouldn't argue with Ramb. The plugboy doesn’t look very impressed with him. Better to quit while he’s ahead.
“Yeah, you’re fine, and Tenna is taking his breakup well,” Ramb replies dryly. He squeezes his hand against Battat’s back. He goes ramrod straight at Ramb's touch, with the suit on it was just a small presence, barely anything, but it's more when he's just in his normal clothes. “Come on. We can talk about your woes at the bar. I’ll open it up just for you.”
"I think you're the first person who's actually said out loud that it's a break-up." He says.
“Everyone else is afraid to step on that bomb,” Ramb replies with an easy shrug, “but I’m calling it what it is. Least I don’t use the d-word.”
The pippins winces, nodding. "Yeah, that's a much bigger explosion waiting to happen." He steps on a rung of a stool and pushes himself up to sit carefully, settling with a soft hum. Ramb ducks under the bar, before moving to pour Battat a glass of soda water, adding some grenadine. He swirls it and slides it over. Battat mumbles a quiet *thank you* and sips the glass.
“People think callin it what it is will reopen the wound. But dancing around it will only irritate the wound until it’s gaping. Until folks around here realize that, we’re useless to Ten.”
"I mean, I couldn't even confidently say it's closed enough to be re-opened." Battat kicks his legs, hoping that moment will make the shaking in his hands go still. He... still hasn't really gotten over the shock that his Mike idea worked. "Everyone knows, at this point."
“Yeah. Everyone knows. But no one’s talking about it. It’ll only make things worse.” Ramb takes a sip of his own Shirley temple. He frowns. “It’ll only make Tenna worse. We can’t coddle him.”
"We can't just smash it over his head, also." Battat counters, deciding that he should play devil's advocate. "If we just brute force his recovery he'll lash out, and no offense, none of us are strong enough to recover from that."
“Uh, speak for yourself.” Ramb raises an eyebrow, and sips again. Placing the drink down, he folds his arms. “I bloody well told him that guy was no good. Wish he had listened.”
"You're telling me if Tenna went on a rage you'd be strong enough to stop him?” Battat argues; then, closing his eyes, inhales, exhales. "Sorry, but don't think an I told you so will be any good, either."
“I’d handle it,” Ramb says coolly. Not that he’s strong enough to overcome. Not that he could get it through to Tenna.
That he’d handle it.
“Hindsight is clearer than foresight. Knew that mailman wasn’t any good.”
The pippins frowns, squinting at Ramb before sipping his drink. "He didn't start out too bad. Not that I think he's good, but. Well, I dunno, he made Tenna pretty happy at the start… or so I hear. I wasn’t around back then."
“The start was when I was the most cautious. Didn’t trust that guy from Adam. Everyone that comes from cyber city is a selfish sonofabitch. Present company included.” Ramb’s brows furrow. He looks up at Battat, and that look is exchanged for something of worry. “Ten’s got a big heart. It just means there’s more for people to stomp on.”
Battat hugs himself with one of his arms, playing with the rim of his glass. He's very quiet as he thinks about what he'll say next.
"I think..." He starts, slow. "That he needs proof."
“Good bloody luck with that,” Ramb grumbles. “That bloke didn’t leave anything behind except that fucking phone. Not that he came here with much to begin with — Tenna gave him everything.”
"What about his siblings? Surely they know who their brother was, how he was. More than we could." He suggests, desperation growing as a looming doom begins to settle on his shoulders. "Did anyone figure out who he called?" He damn well knows he's saying stuff they've probably already tried, but he's a little desperate, grasping at straws. "Like — overhear him at all, maybe? Pippins are nosy, one might know."
“If you don’t well know who he called, then I don’t think any of the others do — and besides that, dear Mista G was beloved by the other pippins. Doubt they were interested in snooping on him.”
Ramb shrugs. Smiles wryly. It’s not funny.
“Anyway. The only one of us who can get to cyber city is Tenna, and he already tried that. It didn’t go well for him. You don’t know what happened.” Ramb’s voice goes cold, sharp. “Tenna found one of them. Spamton’s brothers. Begged for help. You wanna know how I found him?” He laughs. It’s not funny. He’s — angry. “Tenna was half the size you are, absolutely sobbing his heart out. Said they blamed him for Spamton being gone. They thought it was Tenna’s fault. They decided that Tenna was the villain, without a damn hint of irony.”
"Oh." The pippins says, voice quiet. Battat truly can't imagine how that must've felt for Tenna; he can't imagine how hurt he must've been after. But... well, knowing the boss even as little as he does, that probably just made him more deadset on finding the mailman.
“Yeah. Oh.” Ramb’s shoulders droop. He looks as tired as Battat does, for a split second. “So I say we write that off altogether. We don’t need Spamton. We were TV Time before he got here, and we’ll be TV Time after Tenna forgets his name.”
"Well, um." Battat doesn't know what to say. "I should probably explain the Mike thing to the others."
“What others?” Ramb asks, eyebrow raising. “Pip. You don’t have to keep being Mike.”
"L-Like Elnino and Lanina, the other pippins-" He's not meeting Ramb's eyes. "Probably... maybe.."
“Pip.” Ramb’s voice grows a little despondent. He looks at Battat — really looks at him — and frowns. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, mate. You’re already run ragged.”
"I just want to help." Battat feels his voice crack; he inhales, exhales, and sits back up straight again. "I'll stop when I need to. I'll be fine, Ramb." He grins, trying to reassure the plugboy. "You don't have to worry about me, we should be worrying about Tenna."
Ramb doesn’t look impressed. “You don’t know when to quit,” he sighs, eyes half lidded as he looks down to his drink. “But I s’pose I’m of no importance. Just try to know your limits, luv.”
Battat feels his facade fracture a bit at that comment; he wants to let Ramb know he does matter, but he can't get into that now. He doesn't have the strength.
"I'll try." He says instead. It probably sounds like the most honest thing he's said this whole time.
“I know you will, pip.” Ramb’s voice is gentle. Quiet and worried, but. Resigned. Like he expects this all to fall on deaf ears. “You always try to do what’s best for everyone. That’s the difference between you and me.”
The pippins' cheeks blush a soft mint. He knows it wasn't necessarily a compliment but .. he took it as one. "I think we have more in common than you might think." He replies, softer. "You aren't some big, bad guy, Ramb."
“Maybe not. But I’m selfish. Everyone from cyber city is.” Ramb shrugs. “I’m telling you to keep your nose out of being Mike for selfish reasons, too, you know.”
"You- huh?" Battat blinks, looking lost and completely confused; Ramb just waves him off.
“Don’t worry about it. But just … keep a safe distance from any mysteries, yeah? Know you like to get sucked into them. You should be careful, pip.”
Battat feels a scowl pushing at the corners of his lips. Good job, Ramb, that only makes him more curious! But... he sighs, rubbing his neck. "Well, I've got stuff to do." He takes one last gulp of the soda water and hops down from his seat. He smiles Ramb's way. "I'll see you."
And then, with an obvious look of someone with a million things on his mind, he scurries off, determined to be Mike until he could find the real one.