Work Text:
Battat huffed out a sigh and slammed the stack of paperwork down on his desk. There was quite a lot of it, if the resounding thud meant anything. Battat eyed the stack with distaste. He’d finished his paperwork ages ago, but of course, the rest of the pippinses had left it off for the very last second, and of course they were going to do an awful job if they were all rushed, it wasn’t like they did a good job anyways…so.
Anything to keep the studio running smoothly.
He grabbed the page on top and threw himself into his chair, quickly adjusting so that his legs hung over one of the arms and his head rested on the other.
Perfect.
He glanced down at the paper. The red text of the props order stood out against the crisp white paper. Paired with his green hand, it looked a bit like the color combination that Noelle was oh-so-fond of. For all of the times that the Holiday family came over to socialize with the Dreemurrs, watching Tenna or playing games, Battat had never seen her wear anything else.
He shook his head. He was getting distracted. If he wanted Tenna to be happy with the pippinses work, he had to get started. He grabbed a pen, and after giving it a quick chew, he got to work.
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“…c’mon Tens, it’s not like we…”
Battat stiffened. The faint sound of the mailman’s voice drifted down the hall and into the pippinses work area. It was empty by now, Battat the lone remaining die still in the studio. His hand had started cramping a while ago, and he could feel a headache coming on. But he was almost done.
The talking grew louder as Spamton and (apparently) Tenna continued down the hall.
“…wasn’t what I was talking about, you big lug. Now whaddaya say about getting a couple drinks? I’m sure Ramb could use the company.”
Battat almost groaned aloud, but he managed to stifle it into an eyeroll. That. Stupid. Mailman. He hadn’t even been working here for two months! And yet he had climbed the social ladder almost effortlessly, easily squirming into position as Tennas right-hand-man, business partner, and cohost. And. Very good friend.
Ugh, it made him sick. The lazy fucking leech probably didn’t even know what the definition of ‘hard work’ even was, and yet here he was, getting Tenna to suck up to him without lifting a finger. Meanwhile, Battat was doing all of this extra crap that he wasn’t even being paid for, and what did he get in return? Absolutely nothing!
Tenna probably didn’t even know his name.
“Ah, not today, Spam. Azzy’s having a friend over, and they’re going to play video games! I think that they’re going to play super smashing fighters again, but Toriel mentioned that she might…”
Battats attention snapped back to himself as the sudden taste of ink flooded his senses.
Shit!
He yanked the pen that had apparently been chewing out of his mouth, the plastic mangled and wet. He didn’t have to look in a mirror to know that his mouth was stained blue. Shit. He had told himself that he wasn’t going to do this anymore. He gagged a bit on the acrid taste as he scrubbed at his mouth with the corner of his poncho.
“…welp, anyways, I gotta go! See ya, Spam!” Tenna’s cheery whistling faded from earshot, and Battat slumped back in his chair. The pen dangled limply from his hand.
God, Battat hated Spamton. Everything from the way he talked to the way he dressed (matching with Tenna of all people, how fucking entitled do you have to be), to literally everything else about him. His stupid slicked back hair. His disgusting little smirk, like he knew that he had what Battat wanted and was just flaunting it in his face. His garish, bright red car that stood out like a sore thumb in the studio's parking lot.
Sometimes Battat wondered what it’d be like if he could just…rip him limb from limb. Maybe blow him up? Just a little? Put him through a paper shredder. Feet first, of course, that way he’d feel every amount of pain possible. Set his house on f-
“Uh, you got a little somethin’ there, pal.”
Battat whipped his face up, meeting the eyes of the one and only Spamton G Spamton. His face was screwed up in an attempt not to laugh, and he was pointing at his mouth. His dumb red suit jacket was pristine.
“Yeah, I know.” He bit the words out harsher than he meant to, but he honestly couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Whoa, uh. I’m sorry?” Spamton's voice had turned quizzical, and his mirthful expression had traded itself to one of confusion. Understandable, as he usually got along great with the other pippinses. Maybe because they were both sleazy, nasty, freeloaders that didn’t do any fucking work.
Battat stared hard at the floor, trying not to glare. After an awkward pause, Spamton spoke again: “Alllllllright then, I’ll just. Go.” He clapped his hands once, and after another awkward pause, turned around and headed for the door.
As Battat watched Spamton's retreating frame, the hatred in his gut sharpened and prickled at his insides. A familiar weight settled in his palm and he looked down in surprise to find a small bullet pattern, buzzing to be unleashed.
That was new. He’d never subconsciously summoned a bullet pattern before.
He glanced up at Spamton, and back down at the bullet pattern. It really was small…
Spamton was almost to the door. This was his last chance. Fuck. Fuck.
Screw it. He chucked the pattern as hard as he could, his head spinning (literally) and the dice expanding as the the bullet pattern was put into action. He caught his head and it jerked to a stop, just for a grin to break out on his face as he saw one of the dice slamming into to Spamtons back and exploding.
Spamton was thrown forward, a yelp escaping his lips before he tumbled to the ground. He looked behind him furiously. “What the [[n1ne HELLz]]! What the FUCK was [[t tththAts awfu]] for, HUH?”
Battats grin and glee slowly gave way. Uh. He might not have thought that through. Dammit, he had just wanted to make him hurt so bad. The remaining elation from seeing Spamton eat shit dissipated, and dread filled his gut in replacement.
He also couldn’t help but start at Spamton's voice. What once was Spamton's normal (annoying and awful) voice was now riddled with breaks, with what sounded like…ads? Playing in place of his voice? Maybe it w-
A thin, neon pink, rectangular bullet slammed directly into his mouth. He squeaked in pain, a shock of ow ripping through his jaw.
Stumbling to the side and hissing, he tried to summon another die pattern, but was almost instantly stopped by a bright white hand roughly grabbing his wrist and twisting it. Yelping, Battat tripped and tried to yank his hand away, but Spamton simply grabbed his other hand and pinned it to the wall behind them.
“Listen, [[olddbuddy pa L]], I don’t know what you’re [[plAay!ng crds]] at-“ Spamton snarled in his face. “But what [[everYevER]] you’re mad ab- FUCK!”
Spamton ripped his hands away from Battat’s. His arm now sported a small crescent of puncture marks, stained with blue ink. They were quickly filling up with something akin to watered down glowstick fluid.
Both Battat and Spamton stared down in silence and almost disbelief. The glowing liquid (addison blood?) pooled and dripped, staining the tile floor of the studio with dots of light.
Battat licked his lips nervously, a slow, creeping sense of dread and anxiety washing over his skin. He had attacked his technically-boss. He had bitten his technically-boss. Who was now actively bleeding.
Yikes.
He waited for a reaction. Yelling, definitely. Possible beat down? Almost for sure. As he watched, he noticed an almost imperceptible shiver go through Spamton's body. His fingers twitched, and he glanced up suddenly at Battat with an eerie, wide smile. Battat took an unconscious step backwards.
“Um…” Battat started shakily, but was quickly interrupted by Spamton.
“Shut up, pippins. Just shut up.” Battat heard him take a long breath through his nose. “We have to clean this up. Before Tenna sees.”
“What? Why?”
Spamton continued to smile at him. It was honestly starting to freak him out a little. Where the hell did the unadulterated rage go that he had seen literally a minute ago go?
“Pippins, what do you honestly think would happen if he walked in here and saw the room trashed, my blood everywhere, and a pippins with a missing tooth, huh?”
“…Oh.”
“Exactly.”
There was a short pause as Battat mulled over what would probably play out. Knowing Tenna, they’d be in for an awful week or two.
…wait.
“Wait. missing tooth?” He probed around his mouth with his tongue, and to his horror, there was indeed a gap in his teeth where his canine used to be. Spamton's bullet pattern…
“Fuck!” The exclamation rang through the quiet room, from the scorch marks that his dice-bullets had left to the toppled chairs and desks of the workroom.
Spamton still looked weird. And he was still smiling at him.
“Uh. Okay. Let’s…clean up.”
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