Chapter Text
Things are never really completely quiet in TV World.
During the day there’s the hustle and bustle that comes with showbiz, people running from the costume department to backstage trying not to spill their nth coffee on the recently waxed floor, doing sound checks and rehearsals and fixing whatever equipment needs fixing. Every day’s an early start, because if you’re not out and about before the great ringleader himself then you know there’s hell to follow.
The evening brings with it the show itself, that razzle dazzle burst of entertainment put on for the Lightners’ pleasure and delight. It’s mostly duty that drives every inhabitant of this world to closely follow each show, but still, even after all these years, ask any Darkner and they’ll agree, there’s something about Tenna that just makes you want to sit down and watch. Sure, lately there’s more of an edge to it, more of a quick prayer I hope nothing goes wrong tonight, but when he’s having a good day… magic.
There’s just something about him. He has that larger-than-life charisma, without ever getting sleazy or egocentric in a dislikable manner. Something makes you want to root for the guy, makes you want to cheer him up when he gets down in the dumps, because you know he can do better, you’ve seen it with your own two eyes.
Well. That’s Battat’s opinion, at least. That’s why he took the job, after all. But that doesn’t matter. That’s not why he was thinking about Tenna this particular night.
It’s late. Very late, past burning-the-midnight-oil. It’s that part of the night where you start saying things like “it’s never really completely quiet,” when both the day and evening have been put to bed and the swingers and partygoers and casino royals are stumbling home after a hard day’s work. Battat didn’t go to a gambling hall or get himself invited to a party, nor did he have anything to drink. Still, he can currently count himself among those unlucky few remaining wide awake. Seated at his desk in “Mike’s” office, with TV Time memorabilia staring him down and the clock accusatorily ticking away the remaining hours until sunrise.
He finished Mike’s paperwork hours ago. It’s all stacked on a neat little pile, Mike’s scratchy signature curiously watching him work on his own personal project. Next to it stand several empty mugs, one that used to read No.1 Son but got scratched through and replaced in chicken scrawl by No.1 Mike, all bearing the remnants of black coffee no cream no sugar. Battat has long since come to appreciate the acidic taste of what Pluey teasingly calls “gross bean water,” no longer able to go without the caffeine boost to get through his day-to-day life. That’s just something that comes with the territory, he supposes.
Battat has been staring himself blind on his latest findings, trying forever more to answer the question: Who is Mike? His left hand is aimlessly tapping a pencil against the top paper, his right hand rapping against a digital recorder. Battat has long since learned that if he gets stuck on the same details or the words start spinning round and round in his head, it’s much easier to order his thoughts when he can record them. His research is a mish-mash of mixed media; his own writing, photographs snapped of unknowing subjects, old posters he dug out of the trash, letters and newspapers and VHS recordings of the show, from before Kris brought him and his lot home and they first entered TV World.
It’s more of a passion project. Something to keep him going when the exhaustion of juggling two fulltime jobs threatens to drag him under. Not doing it for anyone but he himself and… uh, him. So yes, it sometimes feels a little silly to record himself talking about this stuff, a little like screaming into the void. But it’s soothing, and keeps his mind from racing long enough to catch a few hours of sleep every night.
And if he doesn’t try to solve this mystery, who will?
Battat clicks the play button, reclines in his chair with feet propped up on his desk, and starts talking.
“January 22nd- ah, scratch that, it’s already the 23rd. Log… is this 531? Yeah- it is. Log 531.”
He scrapes his throat, slides a little further down. His aching body croaks with appreciation, finally able to rest after the long day. He’ll go to bed after this recording, but if he doesn’t put this down now it’ll only keep spinning through his head and keep him from falling asleep.
“Still no sign of the real Mike. Tenna keeps talking about him like they're close friends, and yet he hasn't noticed at all that he’s been replaced by what's basically three guys in a trenchcoat.”
Battat rubs the spot between his eyes, takes a soothing breath.
“There was a minor incident today. Tenna suddenly brought something up that happened way ago, back when his former partner was still around. And then he turned to me with this goofy smile, going ‘you remember, right Mike?’ Of course I don't, I wasn't even around back then! But I just laughed, said ‘course I do boss, and then started talking about the weather and poof! Attention gone, crisis averted. Luckily for all of us, Tenna is more easily distracted than a toddler if you jangle some car keys in front of his eyes.” He laughs, quick and sharp. “But that once again goes to show exactly how inattentive Tenna is when it comes to his beloved Mike!” Wincing only a little, because even to him that sounded cruel. He doesn't mean it like that. Good thing he's the only one that'll ever get to hear these recordings.
Battat pushes off the desk to slowly spin around, facing the large window covering one wall of the room. That’s one of the many privileges that comes with being Mike; guy’s apartment is pretty damn luxurious. Not quite a penthouse, but high enough in a skyscraper that Battat has an amazing view on the city below, the many lights and neon signs pointing towards party venues and what their boss coyly refers to as speakeasies (not that the CRT was around when those still operated; he simply enjoys the vibe of movies taking place in that era). The centerpiece, of course, day and night bathed in a warm glow and stardust, is the TV studio. The place they all migrate towards during the day like a colony of ants providing for their queen. Now, at rest, but never fully at ease.
Battat, unaware he’s doing so, taps the recorder to his teeth. A dull but resounding clack. “It does make you wonder… how can he be that oblivious? Tenna swears left and right that Mike is his right-hand man, basically his best friend. And yet he doesn’t notice he’s been replaced by three people who don’t even slightly resemble one another? Doesn’t see all the inconsistencies, none of that makes him even a little bit suspicious?” It makes his job easier, at least.
He spins back around to the desk, leaving the night sky for what it is. “Fact: Tenna thinks there’s someone called Mike, and fully expects that someone to answer to his requests. Fact: no one has ever seen this Mike. Fact: whenever Tenna does call out to Mike, either he immediately handles things himself, we do it for him, or it somehow… magically gets done?”
Battat rubs at his eyes. They keep slipping closed, and his voice is starting to drone a little. Just get these last thoughts out, and then he can sleep. Come on, stay with me.
“Does Mike even exist? Is he invisible? Is there someone else running around in an even crazier costume? Is Tenna a stage magician, doing everything himself after all and pulling one giant prank on all of us?”
He sighs, world-weary. “I simply don’t know. And I hate not knowing. So doesn’t matter how long it takes, I will get to the bottom of this.”
With that he stops the recording. It’s not much, more a repeat of points he’s brought up in the past. But he likes this routine, the consistency of going over what he knows, noting down any new titbit of information he can get his grubby little hands on. Sometimes it helps him see things in a new light, put pieces of the puzzle closer together. Other times it simply helps him sleep. Like right now.
Battat puts the recorder down next to his paperwork, doesn’t bother putting it back in his desk drawer. Tenna never visits early, plus he prefers letting Mike come to him instead. The only people who ever really enter this room are Jongler and Pluey, and they usually leave the paperwork to him.
Poor, overworked Battat. But he prefers doing this himself, doesn’t really like delegating such important tasks. Pluey would probably just put an inky paw on every paper without checking the fineprint, and Jongler says reading makes them dizzy (Battat suspects dyslexia, but hasn't yet figured out how to bring this up in a non-confrontive manner).
He diligently hangs his poncho in the closet, right next to his Mike costume. Green poncho, white shirts and ties, black pants. His uniform was chosen for him the day he sprung into existence. He would have been one of many, if it weren’t for his discoloration. Something that makes him unique. Still, he prefers to stand out for his achievements over the way he looks.
Shoes get kicked aside, buckle undone, worn slacks and shirt dropped in a messy pile on the floor. He’ll clean that up tomorrow. But he does put on a ratty old t-shirt to sleep in, because he knows the other two sometimes like to slip into his room and join him. He’s long since stopped freaking out about that; something about Zappers liking to keep watch to feel safe and comfortable, something about Plueys liking to curl up feline-style beside him and soak up his warmth. It’s less awkward when he isn’t clad in only his underwear.
Battat slips under the covers, and before he knows it he’s out like a light. Dreaming of multiple Mikes in sheep’s clothing trying to jump a fence.
-
o
-
It’s far too soon that someone tries to shake him awake.
“Hmnumhm,” he mumbles, scrunching his eyes shut harder.
“Boss, Pluey said Mr. Tenna is asking for that paperwork,” Jongler tells him, still lightly pushing against his shoulder. At least he’s using his inside voice, a whisper so insistent it’d probably be heard at the other end of the building.
Without looking he wrestles his arm from under the duvet and points in the general direction of the office. “Desk. All signed.”
His shoulder is released. “Thanks Boss! I’ll bring it to them stat.”
The room lightly shakes as Jongler hops away. He thinks he hears the other say something about listening to some music on the way to work and checking if that's okay, but he doesn’t pay it any attention. Battat mumbles something incoherent, rolls over and tries to go back to sleep after the interruption. Alas, his efforts are in vain. And with the other two apparently already awake, that must mean it’s time for him to get up and about as well.
No going leisurely about his morning. His Mike shift isn’t until the evening, when it’s time to psyche Tenna up before his performance and handle whatever mood he’s in right after, but he still has a lot of work to do backstage before then.
Walking into the office causes him to sigh in relief. One of the others must have cleaned up after him; his coffee mugs are nowhere to be found. He’ll have to make up for that someway, maybe by cooking dinner if he can find the time. Clean desk, clean start to the day. They even put away his reco-
Battat opens the drawer where he keeps his notes. Stares at it in disbelief. Shuts it. Opens it again, like the contents would change if left unobserved. Schrodinger's drawer, it is not.
It’s gone. His recorder- gone.
Okay. Don’t panic, he thinks, starting to open the other drawers. Surely it’s here somewhere. It can’t be GONE gone.
He put it right next to the paperwork, though! How could it be-
Jongler.
Oh no no no-
Battat’s already out the door and speeding towards the elevator before he can finish that thought. He gets some funny looks from the operator, before realizing that he put his poncho on inside-out. (Yeah, their building is fancy enough to have one of those, or maybe it’s simply the world reflecting its lord’s old-fashioned tastes.)
Battat runs as fast as his little feet can carry him, runs like his life depends on it. Which, in a way, it does. If that recording falls into the wrong hands, if Tenna hears what is on there… He can kiss his job, his life, and his ass goodbye, because surely he’ll be kicked out faster than he could say “sorry.” Maybe banished. Maybe worse. Tenna can be terrifying when he really puts in the effort.
How could this have happened?! How could he be so careless? That’s the last time he’s ever trusting anyone with anything. No good things come from sharing the workload, hell, if this works out he’ll just go back to playing Mike as a solo act! Tenna likes him best anyway, who needs a cat or cowboy Mike to hog all the praise- er, not what’s important right now.
Battat full-on sprints through the doors of the studio, almost knocking over a pair of Pippins.
“Watch it, punk!” one of them yells after him, while the other teeters and giggles as he tries to stop his head from spinning.
He slips around corners, jumps over some Shadowguys carrying around a glass panel like this is some sort of Looney Tunes skit, uncaring that he’s turning heads wherever he goes. Battat is on a mission, and he will stop for no one. There’s simply too much on the line.
Finally slipping and sliding to a halt in front of Tenna’s office, he raises his hand up to knock, pauses. He can’t just come in unannounced. He’s not in his Mike suit, so right now he’s basically a nobody. It doesn’t matter that the staff all know him by name; to Tenna he’s “the green Pippins” at most, a “who are you again?” at worst. He needs a reason to enter. A good enough excuse, something that will allow him to find that recorder and snatch it away with Tenna none the wiser. If it isn’t already too late…
After figuring he’s just going to wing it after all, his knock is halted a second time when none other than his fellow Mike rounds the corner.
“Pluey!” Battat hisses, all but launching himself at his coworker. “Pluey, thank the Angel you’re here!”
Pluey lets out a confused two-note jingle, but seems delighted to see him nonetheless. Practically purring with it (...sometimes it gets hard to forget there’s a grown-ass man under that mask). Not a single negative bone in his body.
Battat grabs him by the shoulders. “This is very important. Have you handed Tenna his paperwork yet?”
Pluey nods enthusiastically, doing a little salute as if to say “leave it to me!”
Battat can feel himself grow paler. Which is a feat, considering he’s already stark white. His grip tightens, fingers sinking into the soft fursuit. Pluey starts wiggling a little to get free, but keeps on smiling. “A-and was there a recorder? You didn’t give that to him, did you?”
A pause, as mismatched eyes tilt left then right. Battat thinks he’s going to be sick.
Then, a happy musical note, and next Pluey is pulling him along. The rock of dread sinking through his stomach gets lifted by a burst of hope; maybe it isn’t too late. Maybe his coworkers didn’t just make the biggest mistake of their lives.
But instead of Mike’s dressing room, or any other private area he deems a safe place to keep his precious recorder, Pluey leads him to… the Green Room? What would they need to do there?
There’s a group of Darkners gathered around Ramb’s bar. Pippins, Zappers, Shadowguys, he even spots Shuttah excitedly snapping pictures in the back. And at the front- the thief.
“Jongler!” Battat calls, starting to push his way through the crowd. Why are there so many people? He can vaguely hear something- maybe they got their hands on the latest episode of TV Time and want to go over it together?
He opens his mouth to call for his colleague again. That’s when he hears his own voice, and freezes.
Sitting on top of the bar is a laptop. Connected via USB cord to said laptop, is his recorder.
They’re listening to his recordings.
Everyone is listening to him ramble on about Mike, and Tenna, and whatever other tangents he tends to go on when he thinks nobody’s listening. And now it’s out there, for the world to hear.
Battat is mortified. Also a little lightheaded, hot and cold all over. At least he's lucky these seem to be some of the more recent recordings, and not one of the ones where he… talks about his admiration for their shared employer.
That’s when Jongler spots him, and Battat can tell from the way they shrink in on themself that at least they’re feeling bad about putting him on blast like this.
Battat breathes in deep, holds it, releases. The people around him seem to have caught on who it is that’s trying to push his way past them, and they start grinning and whispering to each other as they let him past. Battat makes sure to school his expression into something neutral and deadpan, not wanting to explode in the middle of the Green Room.
“Boss, I can explain,” Jongler says in a small voice.
Battat smiles up at them, even though he’s sure he can feel his eye twitch. A copy of his own voice is still rambling on and on from the laptop’s speakers, now much closer and louder than ever before. “Well, let’s hear it then!”
Jongler hunches in on themself a little bit more, sullenly rubs hands together. “I thought it was music on there, but my hands are too big for the small buttons. So Ramb all kind-like offered to put it on a laptop instead, but then it… well, wasn’t music after all.”
Battat turns his too-wide smile on Ramb instead, who’d been following their conversation with mild amusement while drying some glasses.
“Ramb.”
“Battat,” he shoots back, completely at ease.
Battat leans an elbow on the counter, keeps his tone light and pleasant. “Why?”
Ramb doesn’t look embarrassed, or guilty, or like he’s doing anything wrong at all. Finishes cleaning up the glass, carefully poking one corner of the dish towel inside and giving it a quick twirl along the curved perimeter, all the while everyone else excitedly chatters and murmurs as recorded Battat starts recounting the tale of that one time Tenna got himself stuck in the gacha ball machine and needed Mike’s help getting out.
He feels his composure start to slip as he leans forward, showing far too many teeth. “Do you have any idea how much trouble we’re in if Tenna walks in and hears this? For what- just to humiliate me? You want me to get fired? If this is blackmail, do you want-”
“Hey Battat, when’s the next episode?” one of the Zappers pipes up behind him.
Battat spins back so fast his head dangerously lurches on its axis, but he manages to catch it last-second. “The next what?” he asks, thinking they must be messing with him.
Several Pippins crowd his space so he stumbles back, the edge of the counter digging painfully into the soft spot between his shoulderblades. Two of them start speaking rapidfire, egging each other on with their mutual enthusiasm.
“We want to know what happens next-”
“-yeah we all wanna know who Mike is-”
“-has anyone ever told you how insane you sound-”
“-it’s hilarious! We demand more-”
“-what’s your theory on-”
“Hold on!” Battat raises his voice to be audible amongst them. He’s a little flustered to be the center of this much attention without his costume to hide behind, but more so he’s perplexed. “You… liked it?”
The group nods as one, all of their gazes trained on Battat like he’s about to perform stand-up comedy.
Ramb leans down beside him, chin propped up casually by his left hand. “It’s free entertainment, luv. People love a good mystery.” Finally revealing his intent.
Battat isn’t quite as sure. He narrows his eyes. “You called me a crazy conspiracy theorist before.”
Ramb shrugs. “Doesn’t make it any less entertaining.”
That little-
“Please, Battat!” one of the Pippins interrupts, stepping forward. “We’re starved for some fun, there’s nothing to do around here!”
“What about the bar and the casino and the-”
“Nothing,” another stresses with a solemn nod. “We’re working ourselves to death here, can’t you throw us a bone?”
More people start chiming in from the back, some excited and others more with an air of “I don’t really care that much but I’d like something new to listen to anyway.”
It’s hard to think with everyone talking at once. He never intended for anyone to find out. But they have and… they like it? They want to hear more?
More of him, specifically. Someone finally wants to listen to his theories. They’re not calling him a lunatic. They’re paying attention.
If his biological makeup were more similar to that of the CRT, he’d be glowing pink by now.
This feels… incredible.
“Okay. Okay, fine! I’ll… try something,” he huffs, quickly having to interrupt a burst of cheers. “But!”
They quiet down again, staring expectantly.
“You can’t just listen to this out in the open. Tenna can never find out. He could’ve found out right now!”
He casts a quick glance at the entrance to the Green Room, half expecting the big boss to waltz through and prove him right.
When nothing happens, he continues. “If I’m doing this, then it’s not just gonna be me rambling to myself.” The fact they heard just that is already humiliating enough. “No, I want production value, I want more topics! I want-”
“Hows about some cohosts?” Jongler asks, hopping forward. Pluey by their side, excitedly clapping his hands and swishing his tail.
Jongler probably just wants to make up for putting Battat on the spot like that. But the both of them also look genuinely interested, like they think it could be fun.
Battat throws his hands up. “Sure! Why not? Cohosts, perfect!” He’s perhaps a touch delirious, a little bit drunk on all the attention. But hey, it’ll be fine! It’ll be fun, more importantly! Now people will finally listen, will finally show him some respect, instead of just calling him a suck-up behind his back.
“Thanks Battat, you’re the best!” someone yells, as people jovially clap him on the shoulders. Battat preens, just a little. Thoughts gone head empty, only focused on the positive feedback.
As the crowd starts dispersing around him and the recording peeters out into nothing, the reality of it all starts sinking in. Fully settling, pushing past the adrenaline and the spur-of-the-moment promises. No going back on it now, not unless he wants to be a killjoy and a spoilsport.
…What did he just get himself into?