Chapter Text
Somewhere in Yoyle City, there’s a laser with the power to enhance anything its beam hits. Like everything in Yoyle City, it’s abandoned, a fine layer of dust draped over it. And like everything in Yoyle City, the building it resides in is overgrown and unstable, on the verge of collapse or overbalance or eroding entirely.
In one world, the building stands long enough for four eliminated contestants to traipse through it, firing the laser with wild abandon. In another, though, a few strong winds, a handful of unluckily placed bricks, and some uneven supports prompt something to happen a little bit sooner.
The laser is jerked and goes tumbling down a few floors, the trigger being jerked in the process and firing through a window frame whose glass had broken many years ago.
The beam goes flying through the air, a harsh color cutting through the rich blue. And somehow, it ends up on a remote island, the fields sparse and isolated. One day, it’ll be populated with a small community, a tall hotel and a haunted mansion and scattered structures along competition grounds all framed by mountains and oddly shaped striped towers, but today, the only sign of life there is the long, stretching line labelled auditions.
Currently, one MePhone4 sits sprawled out in a director chair, a clipboard propped in his lap and a bored expression on his face as he moves a ballpoint pen between his fingers. The person currently auditioning is someone by the name of Fanny, a simple yellow stationary fan whose teeth can usually be found grit in a snarl as an exclamation of some sort bubbles on her lips.
…Judging from the bored expression on MePhone’s face, it doesn’t seem to be going well, but honestly, what is Fanny supposed to do about that?! It’s obvious that he only has a few things in mind for his beloved show, and if she doesn’t fit that, she’s just out of luck. It’s annoying, and even worse, there isn’t anything she can do about it. She hates this powerless feeling. It makes her want to dig her teeth into her body, but there aren’t any limbs for her to reach. MePhone seems insufferably smug, and she doubts she can do anything to change it.
Just as she opens her mouth to say something harsh and scathing, figuring she’s going to burn her bridges either way, she feels herself struck by something. There’s a blinding light that erupts in the room paired with a sudden redistribution of weight that sends her toppling to the floor. There’s a pounding pain behind her head, and it’s all she can do to whisper a harsh curse under her breath instead of groaning in disorientation.
“Woah!” calls MePhone, and she winces, curling deeper into herself. She hears him walking, and she slides an eye open to see him looking through the ajar window with a wide eyed expression. “What the heck was that? It hit you and made you look…” He presses his lips into a thin line, although his expression is thoughtful rather than disdainful. “...different.”
“Different?” she grits out, forcing herself to sit up. It… doesn’t take as much strength as it usually does, and realizing that is all the more disorienting. “Different how?”
“Well…” He taps his cheek, his lips pursed. “Look for yourself.” He opens his camera app just as she manages to stagger to her… feet? There’s something weird about that, and something even stranger about the adjustment of weight, but she doesn’t get the chance to finish the thought before he flips the camera to selfie mode, and she feels the breath escape from her lungs, escaping into the air with a strangled huff.
It’s… not her. She knows what she looks like. She’s a big, yellow stationary fan, with a fan in the center that spins and stops with the ebb and flow of her emotions. She doesn’t have any limbs, just eyebrows that furrow deep lines atop the grates of her fan. It’s inconvenient, and her bulky appearance isn’t something she’s exactly fond of, but it’s hers.
But the person reflected on MePhone’s screen is a stranger to her. She’s sleek, a royal blue base with a fan blade and grate rooted in the center of it. She has legs, of all things, but still no arms. One pair of limbs feels a bit more manageable, at any rate. A cord trails behind her, and she could plug it into an outlet, if she wanted. But what would be the point of that…?
Uncertainly, she walks in an awkward semi-circle, a general impression of knowing how to move her legs from memories from watching others. The feeling of weight against her new legs is heavy and awkward, and she feels like she’s going to fall flat on her face at any moment. Her warped reflection on MePhone’s camera mirrors her motions, and it feels like a grim confirmation that this is really her. She doesn’t hate it… it’s just a bit disorienting.
“Wh-” Fanny sputters. “What the heck?! Why do I have legs now? I hate legs!” Her new cord lashes behind her like a tail, and even though she’s aware of its presence she’s not sure how to move it on its own. It’s like the thing operates on instinct and emotion rather than conscious thought.
MePhone stares at her and there’s practically stars in his eyes as he makes a frame with his fingers, grinning widely. “Perfect!” he crows. “You’re just what I’m looking for! You’re hired! Welcome to the show!”
Fanny stares at him, startled. She’s silent as she tries to digest that, and then, bereft of anything else to say, growls out “I hate the show!”
MePhone is too busy writing down something with a cheery grin to pay much attention to her. She feels… small. She hates that. Puffing out her cheeks, she stalks away, her new cord dragging behind her. Her new legs aren’t fazing her, easily able to stomp against the floor and the grass as she leaves the building. She can get around a lot faster like this.
For all her change in appearance was sudden, somehow it just feels right. She only lets a smile cross her face once she’s miles away from MePhone, though. That feels right too.
And making it onto Inanimate Insanity… that feels the most right of all.
“But I think I might close the window,” he says, offering her a sly smile as he moves to close it. “Don’t want any more drastic changes happening, right?”
Fanny’s so busy staring blankly at her feet, she forgets to respond at all.
— — —
There’s a lot of coins waiting in line, Nickel muses. He counts dozens of pennies, a handful of dimes, a few quarters, a dollar coin and two coins he thinks are a pound (with an exaggerated British accent and all) and a yen. The other coins seem to make a game out of sticking a limb through the hole in the middle of him while he silently fumes.
Out of the wide variety, the amount of nickels fall right down the middle. He doesn’t feel special, especially when all of the other nickels seem good at falling into the background. Honestly, the guy waiting in front of him looks nearly identical, and the few words Nickel was able to get out of him was enough to confirm that they had the same voice, oddly enough, even if Mr. Short and Grouchy seemed to linger in the lower, gravelly side of the register while Nickel likes to think he could go both high and low if he wanted to.
He’s never felt more like a dime a dozen his entire life. Or, um, a nickel a dozen, maybe…? Point is, he doesn’t feel like anyone at all. Which is pretty bad, considering that he’s auditioning to get onto a reality show!
Nickel’s had plenty of time to contemplate his approach to the audition and try to figure out some way to stick out, but he has yet to figure out anything. He figured it wouldn’t be so bad if he was just earnest and answered every question in a way that felt right to him, but the longer he spends waiting in this sprawling line that moves at a crawl, the more frazzled he becomes. He’s resorted to rolling back and forth on his heels for the sake of easing his nerves.
Above all else, though, what he really wants is to talk. He wants to feel his lips move, his eyes wrinkle with a smile. He wants to take his mind off of his stressful, circular train of thought however he can, but even as he was walking to the line, he found it difficult to strike up a conversation with anyone.
It was like anyone he introduced himself to simply turned their noses up at him, as if they were sizing him up in their minds. As if they were already in the competition, and they skipped right past the cooperation of it all to all out hostility. He was sure there were some nice people in the line. Maybe they were just sitting quiet, suffocated by their own thoughts. Like him.
But that changes now! Or, well, so he hopes. He turns his attention to the coin standing ahead of him, the one functionally identical to him, which is a cute little coinky-dink they could bond over, right? Nickel bets that coin can be one of the nice people, if he’s just given the chance for it! Maybe they’ll come out of this audition as best of friends, regardless of how he did!
Emboldened by this train of thought, Nickel leans over to nudge him. The other coin startles and looks over to shoot him a dirty, expectant look, like he thinks Nickel had crashed into him and is now expecting an apology. Huh. Okay, well, not the most approachable impression right off the bat, but, uh, maybe he’s just in a bad mood! Nickel’s sure there’s someone kind and friendly underneath that sour glare.
“Hiya!” he says brightly, his grin sunny. “Are you auditioning for Inanimate Insanity too?”
The other coin’s face turns unimpressed as he looks away with a scoff. “No, I’m just waiting in line for fun,” he deadpans, rolling his eyes.
“Oh!” he says, blinking. He wasn’t expecting that… “You could do that in a lot of other places too, though. Like grocery stores, or amusement parks, or-”
“I was being sarcastic, you idiot,” he growls out, cutting Nickel off.
“Sar… casm…?” he uncertainly echoes, the word unfamiliar.
“Never mind,” he huffs, looking labored. “Did you want something?” His glare is piercing and expectant.
“Just wanted to talk!” he replies, making a noble effort to rally even as he finds himself flagging at the other man’s hostility and cold disinterest. “Since you’re auditioning, or, um, probably auditioning…? I figured we can talk about that! We have so much in common!”
“Other than us waiting in this line that really can’t move fast enough,” he begins, muttering the last few words under his breath with an annoyed expression. “Not really.”
“Well, I think so!” Nickel insists. “We’re both gray coins, the light shines on us the exact same way, our voices are similar, and we’re both here! I’m Nickel, by the way! It’s really nice to meet you!”
“How could I have guessed?” he drawls, drawing out the words with a sort of significance Nickel can’t parse. Is this that sarcasm thing? He’s not really sure… He doesn’t say anything else, though. Not even a name?
“What’s your name?” he prompts, even as his voice wavers with nerves and uncertainty. “Since I, uh, gave you mine, you should give me yours! It’s like a trade! Pretty fair, right?” He offers the other coin the widest grin he can muster, and the other man shrinks away with a grouchy, annoyed expression.
“It’s Nickel,” he growls. “You probably could have guessed that too. Do you mind leaving me alone?”
“Well-” he begins, his face scrunched up.
“Ugh, you really don’t get subtlety,” sighs out Nickel. Or, uh, the other Nickel. There has to be a better way to distinguish the two, but his only suggested nickname of “Nicky” probably wouldn’t go over well. “How about this?” He turns to face Nickel fully, his eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a scowl that feels pretty harsh… “Leave me alone. You’re annoying.”
“O-Oh…” he says quietly, deflating as the other Nickel turns away from him, his annoyance melting into disinterest, as if it’s that easy to forget Nickel exists.
Maybe in another world, Nickel was put off by the hostility and daunted by the competition, stammering through an awkward audition and inevitably turned away.
But in this world, he wants to compete more than anything, and he really wants to talk to someone! The penny in line behind him has struck up conversation with… not him, so he only has one option for a friend! Besides, he really needs to figure out an angle of attack here, and getting advice from someone else in his situation is as good an idea as any.
“C’mon, Nicky!” he whines, pressing his cheek against the other coin’s despite his growl of objection.
“Don’t call me-” he begins, his expression irate.
“We don’t have to be friends, and I know I’m the competition,” he begins, a pout on his face as he trains shiny eyes on the other Nickel. “But it wouldn’t hurt to chat, would it? We can pass the time!”
“Please,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Why do you really want to talk to me?”
Nickel winces at the knowing tone in the other man’s voice, but he supposes his understanding of the situation isn’t wrong… He just also seems like he’s trying to think the worst of Nickel, which is mean! “Well, you know, I thought we could compare our strategies for the audition!” he says determinedly, puffing out his chest. “We have to stand out somehow, and Nickels should stick together!”
“How do I know you’re not just gonna steal whatever I come up with before I can do it?” he says in reply, looking skeptical and unimpressed.
“Because… you’re ahead of me?” he says slowly, blinking a few times, the motion dazed and lazy. “And, uh, whatever you’re gonna do probably has something to do with that prickly, mean thing you’ve got going on… I don’t think I’d pull it off nearly as well as you do!” He tries to offer the other Nickel a wobbly grin, trying to pour all of his earnest intent into each line of his face. Instead, though, he just shies away, an exhausted grimace on his face. He feels his grin falter slightly, and he looks at the ground as a pout makes its way back into his lips.
“Sure, that’s a word for it,” he says, not even looking at Nickel as he replies. He’s staring blankly at the person in front of him as they go in for an audition, his eyes lacking any focus. His words are flat and lack any inflection, like he’s just trying to get the conversation over with without any additional thought.
“So, that’s my type cast for you,” Nickel says slyly as he nudges the other coin, who shoots him an exasperated look. “Do you have anything for me? What do you think I’d work well doing in my audition, huh?” He’s really hoping the other coin decides to open up to him sooner rather than later; he gets the whole aloof act has its niche in an audition, but it can’t work that well in making friends! Maybe if he just keeps trying, he’ll have some luck.
“Gee, I don’t know,” he says, doing that sarcasm thing again, Nickel thinks. “You just have such a charming personality. I bet if you went in there and said random nonsense, you’d still be able to get the part.” He turns to Nickel and gives him something that… looks like a smile, maybe… But it also seems kind of mean, feeling more like a grimace than anything.
“Random nonsense?” he echoes with a furrowed brow.
“Now you’re getting it!” he says with a roll of his eyes, turning on his heel back to the door just as another coin leaves with a downtrodden expression and someone calls “Next!” The other Nickel straightens, looking relieved. “Oh, wow, look at that. I’d love to keep talking, but it looks like it’s my turn to audition.” He practically runs off to the door. Is he that antsy and eager to get things over with?
“W-Well, um, good luck!” Nickel calls, kind of frantically, as his eyes follow the other Nickel’s retreating frame.
“Save your stupid luck,” he scoffs in reply. “I don’t need any of it.”
And then he’s gone, disappearing through the doorway, and Nickel’s the one standing in the front of the line, with only an interview with a fickle host being the one thing standing between him and his dreams. Without someone to talk to, the nerves are back… He can’t help but squirm in place as he stares down at the grass, the weight of the stares trained on him feeling overwhelming.
He tries to smile, tries to be himself, tries to feel any kind of confidence. He stares down intensely at his feet, his breathing uneven, and desperately racks his mind for something that will calm him down. The conversation from before echoes in his mind, and he blinks a few times.
“C’mon, focus…” he mumbles to himself, puffing out his cheeks. “Getting bogged down in your thoughts is just… so stewy stooby stupid!” Huh. That random nonsense thing… It feels pretty good. He blinks before hesitantly continuing. “Gooby jeeber weebers, I’m way too rattled by all of this… It’s not going to be the end of the world if I don’t make it in.” He rolls back and forth on his heels, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Somehow, these random strings of words feel like the only way to express the suffocating swirl of emotions clawing at his chest, overlapping and dizzying, and there’s a sort of passion to it all that he can’t help but feel gratified by, his lips stretching into a grin. He lets out a giggle; somehow, the other Nickel’s absentminded advice seems to have been more than helpful.
All too soon, the other Nickel leaves the audition building, shooting Nickel a disdainful glare as he stomps out. Nickel just waves at him, smiling widely. He may be a big grouchy grumpypants, but he helped Nickel a lot, so no way he’s going to return that sour, grumpy energy! He’s going to keep smiling at the other Nickel, and hope that his boundless positivity will rub off on him someday!
“Next!” calls a voice from the building, and Nickel startles, the breath knocking itself from his lungs for a moment.
For a moment, the nerves swell all over again, but then he grits his teeth, mumbling under his breath. “C’mon, you can do this… Don’t let yourself get scared… Just be bibby bobby brave!” He jumps up, just once, and he psyches himself up well enough to stride into the building.
There’s a phone sitting in a director’s chair, one hand propped against his cheek. There’s a clipboard resting on his lap, a ballpoint pen laying on top of the paper and slowly bleeding ink onto the paper. He raises his brows at Nickel with a frown. “I said next, not for you to circle back,” he says dryly, rolling his eyes. “Can’t you actually bring the next person in here?”
“I am the next person!” he insists, jutting out his chin as he pulls his lips back in a pout. “I know me and the other Nickel look the same, but we are different!”
The phone squints at him, tapping his pen to the clipboard. “If you say so,” he says skeptically. “Name?”
“Nickel!” he gladly replies, grinning widely. “Really-mealy nice to meetcha!”
His brow furrows deeper, mouth pressing into a thin line as he tilts his head. From there, the two of them exchange questions back and forth, and Nickel tries to be as genuine as he can. When there’s too many emotions welling up, things that can’t be described with words other people would be able to understand, he happily blurts out bouts of nonsense that makes the other man look at him with an unreadable expression as he scrawls something down on his clipboard, angled away from Nickel’s point of view.
When the interview draws to an end, the phone–MePhone, he thinks?–looks at Nickel with a furrowed brow, tapping his ballpoint pen against his temple for a beat or two. After a moment, he straightens. “Huh,” he says. “I’ll be in touch. Next!”
Anyone else would take it as a rejection, or at least not as anything encouraging. Nickel isn’t anyone else, though (and it’s part of his charm!), and he’s an optimist by trade. He doesn’t give up hoping, and when his phone buzzes with a call a week later, his smile remains stubbornly affixed to his face.
When he’s told he made it onto the show, his exclamation of nonsense is so loud and long it would make that other Nickel proud, if he hadn’t long faded into the recesses of Nickel’s mind.
— — —
If Fan knows anything about himself, it’s that he loves reality shows.
Or, well, maybe saying that he loves one reality show in particular would be more accurate. Anything else he tries to watch doesn’t hold a candle to it! He honestly doesn’t think he has to say it, but unfortunately his favorite thing in the history of anything is… maybe a little bit underground. It just hasn’t had its time in the spotlight yet! But it’ll be hard for anyone to figure out what he’s getting at if he doesn’t say it outright.
Inanimate Insanity is the best reality show ever made, in Fan’s opinion (and people are given his opinion whether they ask for it or not), and his dream, from the moment he watched the first episode with wide eyes as he rested on the edge of his seat, was to compete on the show one day.
Hey, to be fair, it's a more obtainable goal than some people try to aim for! He’s probably not gonna ever walk on the moon or become a millionaire or whatever, but that doesn’t matter to him. All he wants is to be there as MePhone starts an episode with a hearty “greetings and salutations!” and to be groaning alongside the other competitors at some challenge that’s not very fun to participate in but will be amazing to watch, and to plead his case to the viewers so he can live his dream for just another episode longer.
God, even the thought makes a squeal bubble up in the back of his throat. It’s the only thing he wants! He rolls back and forth on his heels with nervous energy as he becomes caught up in his mind, his own idle fantasies carrying a rose-tinted hue.
But, somehow, no matter how passionate and eager he is, despite the fact that he’ll always be II’s biggest fan, it’s not enough. He auditioned for season one and was tragically struck down. That’s fine, obviously. If he had started playing in the first season, he wouldn’t have been as knowledgeable and passionate about the game.
The real issue comes from… well. So maybe he’s gotten into a habit of sneaking onto the set so he can see the episodes live in the making (the editing definitely helps with pacing, but the character moments that end up cut out are more than worth seeing for himself), and maybe he’s been caught by MePhone more than a few times, and maybe he used the opportunity to beg to be let onto the show’s next season (because with a show this good, stopping at the first season would be a crime), and maybe his begging did piss off MePhone, who according to Fan’s numerous character analyses is famously moody and a contrarian…
So, maybe, possibly, perhaps, he might’ve shot himself in the foot a little bit. He looks back at the memory with an awkward cringe, having the ability for self reflection but not the ability to stop himself from getting caught up in his whirl of excitement and sticking his foot in the mouth.
“I mean- I’m such a big fan- I’ve watched all the episodes like, a million times-” he had rambled excitedly to a stonefaced MePhone, a wide grin on his face as he stared at the host of the greatest thing ever with shining eyes.
“I know,” MePhone had interjected, cutting him off with a deadpan expression. “Every time I’ve had to kick you off set, you’ve said the same thing. Constantly. Over and over.”
“It bears repeating!” Fan had insisted, raising a finger to waggle it.
“Can you leave?” he sighed out, running a hand over his face.
“No! Or, well, I will, don’t worry!” he had awkwardly stammered, waving his hands in the air as he smiled nervously. “I just had a question! About season two!”
“Who ever said anything about a second season?” MePhone had scoffed with a roll of his eyes.
“Are you not going to do one?” he had slowly asked, his voice rimmed with nerves as he rolled on his heels. MePhone had pressed his mouth into a thin line and hadn’t responded, which was… almost as good as a confirmation! “Right, I figured! S-So, uh, when do you think you’ll open auditions for it…?” He had offered MePhone a wobbly smile as he kept his eyes wide, hoping… well. He just wanted to look like someone who would be perfect competing.
“You auditioned for the first season,” he had pointed in response with a roll of his eyes.
“Well… maybe…” he had relented. “But it definitely wasn’t my best work. And now that I know a ton about II, I also know that you should totally let me onto the show! I’ll do great on it, I just know it! No one is as passionate about your work as me!” He had leaned forward, his hands clasped together and his smile hopeful.
“Do you really think passion’s gonna get you anywhere?” MePhone had asked with a sigh, and Fan had hesitated. That question, unlike any of his other interjections into the conversation, sounded genuine. Uncharacteristically genuine… That wasn’t the MePhone4 he was familiar with.
Mentally taking notes to add that to his MePhone analysis megathread at a later point, he had cleared his throat and tried to muster up a response. “Well, I hope so!” he had insisted, his eyes flaring with determination. “Do you know how amazing it would be to be a part of your favorite thing in the whole world?” MePhone looked unconvinced, so Fan decided to add the thing that would definitely sway him: “Besides, if I’m on your show, then you don’t have to worry about me sneaking onto set! Because, uh, I’m supposed to be here, and… yeah!” Maybe not the most rousing speech, but surely MePhone can see the benefits.
“Yeah, but then I’ll have to deal with you being a nuisance every day,” he had retorted. “Like you are right now, sneaking onto the set of my show and then trying to talk my ear off.”
“I’m just-!” he had begun to protest with a whine.
“You want to compete on Inanimate Insanity, don’t you,” MePhone had interjected, and his voice was flat. In other words, it wasn’t really a question in the slightest, which was its own kind of hurt… It kind of felt like MePhone was only saying that to get Fan’s attention.
Still, he wasn’t immune to bait. “Yes!” Fan had practically squealed as he bounded forward, waving his hands in the air as he grinned widely. “I want it more than anything!”
“Well, it’s not happening,” MePhone brusquely retorted with a roll of his eyes. Fan had frozen mid-movement, letting out a squeak as his eyes widened.
“Wh- Why?!” he had indignantly squawked once he had recovered from the haze of shock.
“Because you obviously can’t take no for an answer,” he had said dryly as he began to examine his nails with a bored expression. “What am I supposed to do with you once you get eliminated and refuse to take no for an answer then, either? A contestant who doesn’t want to be eliminated is pretty bad for business.”
“Who says I won’t win?” he had sputtered, hands on his hips.
MePhone had let out a bark of laughter. “I don’t think you have to worry about that,” he had said curtly, and Fan had puffed out his cheeks. He felt the same way, sometimes, but hearing it from MePhone stung in its own way. “No. I’m not letting you onto the show.”
“But I want to compete!” Fan had whined as he lurched forward to grab MePhone’s wrist, staring at him pleadingly. Of course, he had been quick to rip his arm away, a sneer on his lips.
“If you want to compete on something, go audition for something else,” the phone had said with a dismissive scoff as he began to stride off.
“Like what?” Fan had whined in complaint as he determinedly followed after MePhone, hot on his heels. MePhone had an overall lack of urgency and a lack of speed, while Fan had boundless enthusiasm and a goal. “None of them are II, so what would even be the point?”
“Figure it out if you’re so good at thinking and research,” MePhone had groaned with a roll of the eyes, leaning his head back as he let out an exasperated sigh. “Either way, there’s no way I’d let you onto my show. You’re way too annoying.” He waved a hand dismissively, a mean smile on his face, and Fan remembers deflating in the moment, wrapping his hands around his chest. That felt… bad. He knows he can be a lot, but he’d rather be passionate than boring, jeez…
But he hasn’t spent hours combing over each frame of Inanimate Insanity for nothing! And obviously MePhone as the host gets the most screentime, so Fan was more than familiar with his tricks by now. He was obviously just trying to make a joke, albeit a kind of meanspirited one. But that’s how he always is with his contestants, throwing jabs at them as they fight the uphill battle of whatever challenge he’s set out for them. Plus, there’s the whole lack of understanding social norms from being a robot, not that Fan is any good at them himself.
“Fine,” Fan had sighed out, lips pulled into a pout. Even in the moment, he had known full well that MePhone had been throwing a jab his way in good fun. With all the time he’s spent hunched in front of any screen he could get his hands on, he and MePhone might as well be friends for how well Fan knows him, heh… He had come to a stop, crossing his arms. “I’ll… I’ll get onto another show and win! And then, you’ll have to let me onto II!”
“Whatever you say!” MePhone had called with a shrug. “And, hey, stop sneaking onto set, will you? Otherwise I’ll have to have Adam hire security just to keep you out!” He had walked away with a bark of laughter.
“N-No you won’t!” he had protested, brandishing a finger at MePhone’s retreating frame even as it became all the more obvious he wasn’t all that interested in what Fan had to say. “I know you don’t have the budget for that!”
His voice had echoed uselessly across the plain, and his lips had pulled back into a grimace. If nothing else, it felt good to get the last word. But it doesn’t matter, not when he still lost. Worse yet, he’s been banned from the set of Inanimate Insanity! That, somehow, feels like a far greater travesty than just being denied. What else is he supposed to do with himself, now that he can’t watch episodes of the greatest reality show ever? It’ll be really bad for blog traffic…
Even now, a day later, he’s still frustrated. And do you know how hard it is to be angry in this situation? He’s sitting in a small library, tucked into a corner as he sits in front of a computer that’s older than he is. Or, um, he thinks so, anyway. How old is…? N-Never mind.
Fan can’t help but indignantly puff out his cheeks at the memory, silently sulking as he drums his fingers against the keys of the thick keyboard connected to the even thicker computer. MePhone was mean. Predictably mean, yeah, but even with his effusive knowledge of how MePhone operated, it was hard to deal with such overt, outright rejection. Especially when it came from the host of the show he idolized.
In the end, though, it was what it was. The odds of getting onto Inanimate Insanity, at least right now, were… painfully low. MePhone is spiteful, and can really hold a grudge when he wants to. If he doesn’t want Fan on the show, he’s not getting on, which just isn’t fair at all! Fan’s probably half the reason the show’s still going in the first place. For a phone, MePhone really can’t do social media management.
He’s found himself brainlessly scrolling through YouTube for a while now on this computer, just to do something to pass the time. Another show, huh…? MePhone’s words echo in his ears, and while he’s sure the man just meant it sarcastically, using any excuse he could to get Fan out of the way (which, ouch, by the way), it does make him think.
So what show could be better to look into then the show Inanimate Insanity is supposedly ripping off to begin with? That’s what half the people in the reality show fanbase write off II as, anyway, and it’s been a real uphill battle to fight those assumptions. It’s made Fan nurse a bit of a grudge against the show that’s apparently being ripped off. MePhone isn’t the only one being unfair. Strange, huh?
The show is called Battle For Dream Island, or BFDI for short. He begrudgingly admits the acronym flows a bit better than II’s does, but II also gets points for alliteration, so who’s really winning that battle?
He plugs in wired earbuds he found hanging from a trashcan, and other than the issue that the left side doesn’t work, they’re fine enough. Not like he can afford anything; promoting II is a fulltime job, except he doesn’t get paid… so maybe it’s more like a volunteer kind of situation. BFDI has a full season under their belt, with open auditions for the next having been ongoing for a while. He can’t imagine how many people will have tried their luck at competing on a gameshow, one that’s pretty popular within its niche. A lot more popular than II, which is unfair… Even if the first few episodes are definitely a bit more palatable.
Fan could audition for BFDI. MePhone’s definitely a fan of the show, which would earn him brownie points if he was accepted, or even just featured on an episode for a second or two. He kind of thought his greatest strength in terms of being accepted onto II was his knowledge for the show, though. He doesn’t have anything like that for BFDI, and somehow he struggles to comprehend the idea of mustering up nearly as much passion for something non-II.
To be completely honest, he doesn’t think that anything in BFDI’s first season, complete as it is, could ever compete with what he’s seen of II. He wouldn’t be able to say why he thinks that, exactly, which he knows is unacceptable. If he was a real fan, he’d be capable of defending his opinion and propping up his favorite show.
But his adoration of II just feels… intrinsic. Like it’s something baked into him, rushing through his veins just as much as blood. Sure, people online are quick to dismiss it as something childish, amateurish, messy, and he’s just as quick to fight them, fingers blurring as he taps away at a keyboard or his phone. Because people can say anything they want about Inanimate Insanity, but he’ll always defend it. The show is like his closely guarded secret, his carefully guarded treasure. And his passion for it is overflowing, even if he wouldn’t be able to say where that passion had exactly come from.
Passion just isn’t going to be enough, though. The host of the show has to practically beat him back with a stick, no matter how insistent he is in his begging. Even now, there’s still parts of him that want to keep going. If he was just persuasive enough, loud enough, stubborn enough, surely that would be enough to join the one thing he loves with all his heart.
Still, MePhone’s never gotten closer to accepting Fan. If anything, he seems to grow more irritated with every push Fan makes. Maybe things would be better if he just watched, cheering from the sidelines but never playing a part in anything himself.
…Or maybe, if he built up his portfolio a bit, prove he can be a good actor, a good competitor, then maybe MePhone will be more interested. If he can net a competitor from his favorite show on II, that would definitely be enough to boost the show’s reputation and ratings, and Fan will have a chance of winning his favorite show in the world. Yeah, this is definitely a good plan.
Well, looks like he’s gonna audition for BFDI. Grinning, he moves back to the start of the playlist he found, hands clasped together. If he wants to have a chance, he better study up.
— — —
Nickel auditioned for some stupid reality show with an even stupider name (honestly, who even uses alliteration these days?) and if anyone were to ask, he'd say he did it because he was bored, nothing more.
Not that anyone does ask. He thinks the prickly sarcasm throws people off, not that he’s too into self reflection. That’s beside the point, though.
Writing off the audition as nothing more than boredom wouldn’t be right, though. He doesn’t remember hearing about the show, exactly. He just remembers walking through a field, spotting a sprawling line, idly flipping through an informational brochure on the show, and just wordlessly deciding that was where he had to be.
Even now, he’s clueless about why he was so passionate about it. Somehow, the idea of competing just felt right, an odd sort of comfort that he found in his harsh, barbed words.
But, well, here he is, without anything to tether him other than his own frustrations and regrets, and he feels empty, like a part of him has been carved out with a knife. No, worse yet, he feels as if he’s always been missing a part of himself, and he doesn’t know how to fill it.
Nickel wants to compete. He wants to win. He wants the tentative, shaky cooperation of working with others even if he can never put his trust in them. He wants to betray and be betrayed, because even if he’s terrified of being hurt, ironclad walls around his heart, the pain would be better than this vast, hollow nothingness that’s sunk into his chest, numbing and nauseating.
It’s so unfair. None of those people who were waiting in that line would make it one day in a competition. They probably just think it’s some fun game, where they can make friends and give trust freely. Like they can follow behind whatever idiot wants to take the lead without a second thought. Like they can get away with letting their guard down, as if they won’t get stabbed in the back for it.
Meanwhile, Nickel knows exactly what a competition like that entails. A lot of people would do anything for a million dollars; plenty of people show who they really are. He isn’t naive or obnoxiously friendly like… like that idiot! The guy who talked to him in line, with smiles too wide to not be fake no matter how warm they felt, with nonsensical ramblings and ideas would get eaten alive in a show like Inanimate Insanity. He’d take things too personal, get taken advantage of by someone cruel. Nickel is far better than that.
And yet, drama is the thing that makes the world go ‘round, isn’t it? It’s the thing the cameras train on, the viewers pounce on, the ratings soar from. At least Nickel would be aware of that. That childish, inconsistent, friendly jerk, who thinks he can just go and steal what should be Nickel’s, would be clueless the entire time. He has to imagine the other man, eerily identical to him in all but temperament, to be in tears just so he can feel better about himself.
He’s in some city, he doesn’t really know. He found himself awkwardly trailing behind a group of dejected auditionees, trying to act like he knew where he was going, all confident-like, and eventually he ended up in some massive city that instantly left him overwhelmed. He had ducked into an alleyway to catch his breath, gasping and panting heavily. There was just something about the suffocatingly tall buildings and the shadows they cast, the acrid smell of smog that clung to the inside of his mouth, the loud roar of cars, the scattered trash and muddy water that he trampled underfoot in his messy scramble…
All of it just felt like something he was never meant to take in, that’s all. Practically all of the other idiots waiting in that line handled the city better than he had; none of them had darted into an alleyway to hyperventilate for over half an hour, at any rate. Not that he did that or anything, heh…
There was something simplistic about the island he had done auditions on. It was flat, with very little vegetation. The grass had a fake quality to it–the color was too monotone, the length was too consistent, the texture of it felt odd and plastic-like underfoot… Something like that. And yet, Nickel had felt right there, just as he had felt right performing for cameras and under the watchful eye of his would-be host.
The fields, the cameras, the game… All of it he could handle. He could thrive in it, even. At least he knew what that kind of competition entailed. At least he knew what to expect. Stuff like that. But peering out of the alleyway entrance, seeing the crowds of people walking down the streets, the flashing signs and rushes of sounds… This isn’t anything he can digest.
It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. He wants to go back. He wants to compete. He wants to feel whole.
Nickel has to stop himself from hyperventilating again, even if he begins to feel lightheaded as his heart hammers in his chest. He takes his panic and does what he always does with emotions; grip them tight enough for them to morph into anger, like coal becoming diamond under enough pressure… or something.
Either way, anger is far more empowering than panic. It’s a flame licking within his chest, scalding hot and stubbornly alive. It burns his heels whenever he stays in one place for too long, dwelling on all of the unpleasant things that would be better fed to the flames. The anger is a constant, persistent reminder for him to keep going.
This, he decides, feels as good as anything. If he can’t have the only thing he can remember wanting, he can have this: his own anger, his own wits, his determination tied into a knot in his chest, as nauseating as it is emboldening.
He storms through the streets in a huff, like he could get more than used to for however long he’s stuck in this awful city. He’s nothing and nobody, with nothing to go back to. Even though that should bother him more than it does (...it should, shouldn’t it?) he’s too caught up in the injustice of being denied what should be his. It’s so unfair. He’d fit the part as much as anyone. Now what is he supposed to do with himself?
As the thought crosses through his mind for the fourth time and settles there for the first, he’s smacked in the face by a flyer that had come loose from a telephone pole. Sputtering, he manages to untangle it, and he idly scans it before stopping and reading it closer.
The flyer details auditions for another competition-based reality show, and this one seems much more put together, if nothing else. It’s actually professional, and the title isn’t painfully stupid, and it wasn’t something he just stumbled across on a random walk through a sparse, practically abandoned field.
“...Huh.” he mumbles, bemused. “Well, it’s not like I have anything better to do…”