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The drive from the loud glamor of Cyber City to the boisterous glow of TV World's studio of was quite and dark. Predictable, given that no one else drives to and fro. No one else could. Dark Worlds don't connect unless they were in close proximity, moved by the whim of the Lighteners. It was how he got the shining, golden opportunity of meeting the one and— king of— only Mr. Ant Tenna in the metal, plastic, and silicone. Spamton knew of him. While Darkners aren't suppose to travel physically, that didn't mean that signals can't. The internet— and by extension, the Cyber City— has access to every type of media. And that included the good old television.
And even if Spamton was somehow too ignorant that he might as well be living in the bottom of a dumpster [[HA!]] to miss someone as bright as the Ant Tenna, there is also that thing that he was told shortly before meeting the TV star…
Switched gears and girted teeth. Spamton doesn't want to crash before reaching his destination.
At the start, this interment, high ping, connection was what dictated when they got to continue doing business. It wasn't ideal. It made the schedule scatter all over the place, but they managed to make it work, each doing their part from their respective world.
But as time goes, as their partnership— and relationship, really— grew, Spamton had decided that he didn't like the wishy-washy meetings, didn't want to stare at single line he's supposed to have read an hour ago but couldn't because he's thinking and wondering about next time. So he, in his usual fashion, decided to do something about it. And that something was using the privileges that were granted to him by his Benefactor, who made it more than clear to Spamton that, while they see the merits of free, secure travels, they still are wary and somewhat skeptical of this idea. This closeness. Still, they have always been generous and only gave him one condition; come up with something believable when asked about the how.
Spamton understood why he couldn't just say something like 'trade secrets'. Some people are already suspicious about his sudden success— Fuck them for that. Spamton G. Spamton always had it in him regardless of what the nay-sayers think or believe, he just need a bit of generosity. That's all— and something like that is hard to brush away, obviously he doesn't have to tell anyone, but it's hard to hide the little fact that he's on TV.
Despite all of that, it wasn't really difficult. Couple of lies, feeding them some bullshit about him being able to get access through a family's equally old— and if Tenna asked, he never said that— computer that nobody really check, a spam mail left there to do what it wants. Completely unattended as whatever attention was given to the important mails. Old folks never bothered with deleting the good ol' spam folder, just like little kids who engages with it.
It was out there, true, but Spamton had [[borrowed]] luck with him and a lot of ignorance from those who never payed attention to the likes of him, and those likes of him are too defeated and lost in monotony to even bother and try to ruin that for him. Maybe they got a kick living vagariously through him.
It was satisfying. Seeing all those Nay-sayrs feeling jealous of a spam mail. Their past mockery collecting dust on a forgotten shelf that is too high to reach anymore as the weight their bitterness drags them down. Suites them right.
It was a lot easier to convince Tenna. hell! Convince isn't the word for it because he didn't need to convince him of anything. Tenna, despite his best attempts at learning, is the least educated person Spamton knows when it come to new technology and the internet. He had been mystified when Spamton ratted that excuse at him. Bought it right away. All impressed sparkles and excited smiles and, somehow, somehow because Tenna has no eyes, awed looks.
'You can do that?' it was said in an amazed breath of a pixelate voice hidden behind gloved hands. 'How 💫𝙬𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙨💫! I didn't know it was possible to do that!" What music to hear from someone who's glow bathe the heavens and its inhabitants "You are a ── .✦𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓋ℯ𝓁.✦ ──, Spammy!'
Just remembering his reaction brought a different kind of smile on his face, far from the usual narrow range of perfect and ad ready pictures that he spent his life watching and studying and trying, wondering why his painting looks nothing like the magazines are showing.
Impressing Tenna has become one of his favorite things to do. It filled him with pride to make this larger than life, all powerful Dark World Ruler fawn over him. Spamton G. Spamton. It fed his ego like nothing else, a rush that only the sweetest of deals and highest of sales could compare. It was like impressing the Queen but way easier and far more rewarding. With excitable attitude, and physical glows on a silver screens that forever outshine a simple 'LMAO' or even a 'TRUE' on a dimmer counterpart. A laughter that doesn't grind on his mind and teeth. A treat in the form of a pretty red flower that blooms from genuine joy. Joy that he brought.
He doesn't acknowledge it often, but the the long drive, the wind invited from an open window, the soothing familiar sound of the engin of his trusty Cungadero, keeping the empty quite at bay just like the headlights fighting to secure a single spot from darkness so pure and concentrated. It all had him indulge in the feelings of his code winding tightly inside his chest, squeezing fluttering warmth out of unfamiliar lines. It was never unpleasant. It was never advised.
'It won't last.'
the ring and the click. All in warning. All in vain.
His grip on the stearin wheel tighten. Red petals falling with snowy statics. Red like the charming suite they wore— Tenna's suggestion. He loved the color and unlike other points of the visible light spectrum, Spamton had no animosity or complected feelings towards it. Red, like the light indicating that they are off air, that the show is over. Red, red, red, red-
Painted by a blade that would- will- going to-
It's going to-
Tenna is going to-
This is why he avoid thinking about it. About his feelings.
It didn't stop him from acting on them.
Nothing stopped him from acting on his wants. Spamton has always been a creature of impulse. Sales ideas that were guaranteed to fail— warned and told over and over and over— and he still will pitch them to whomever is willing to listen, for better or for worse.
Because if he stops he'll never leave the place he was put into. Never move from the stagnant fate he was given. Never get to have a choice in what he wants. Doomed to stay in the bottom of the ladder, rungs too far apart for him to even reach. Others pointing in his direction cackling that his per-programmed failure was a prove of their well deserved success.
But he did it. With the help of a lucky call— all the luck he ever had. And now he reached the top of one ladder and found another that he wants to clime, all colors and shine and red and gold. Came with a friendly smile and warm touch and charming voice and flowers on top. A different form of help. No set of wood and tools and instructions to how to build his own ladder, but a large friendly hand and a promise of forever. He wants to take it. He wants to grab and hold that hand and never let go, but it wasn't this simple. It was a trade. One road for another, what was left would crumple and most likely take Spamton down with it.
Don't swerve just yet, Spamton reminded himself. Otherwise he'll get the tug. It's not painful, and it's how he knows that he's heading the right direction. It is helpful, but he hated feeling it. So he will stay the course until he can think of something better. There has to be a way to have both.
He sighed and run a hand through his hair, he was alone for miles and miles with no chance of running into any one here. No need to worry about his hair. He can always fix it later. Maybe he should fix himself a smoke too.
He was told many things but he never needed to know the 'when's. It never concerned him, not before-
Was it reasonable to think of a car's horn as a scream? Maybe because Spamton wanted to scream himself, maybe Tenna was rubbing off on him with his dramatics that would've put Queen out of title.
One, two, three, four, five, he removed his hand from the horn, it was getting annoying and giving him a headache. He wanted to stop thinking not to add more things to lament about.
Spamton wanted to reest his head on the wheel, to close his eyes, maybe fall asleep but he doesn't want to stop the car. He might be a Darkener and darkness might be what brought him to be, but the what was outside of his beloved Cungadero is one that brings him a great deal of unrest. It was unsettling. It feels off. It feels like there is nothing there. It feels like there is something in there. Something he doesn't want to see. Something he doesn't want to see him. Even when his Benefactor had assured him that he has nothing to worry about, and while he doesn't have any reason to doubt that, he doesn't want to risk it.
And while there is nothing out there for him to hit if he were to do so and keep driving, he still don't want to risk it. Besides, the tug won't let him sleep. So Spamton has no choice but grit his teeth and either tough his way through this maze of messy thorny thoughts, or to find a mental sheer and cut them out. Live in peace until they eventually grow once more and he'll have to cut them again and again. Hopping, praying, that if he did so consistently enough times, they won't bloom into fruition.
That the only field he'd be see is one of red flowers and white snow.
Spamton had already found a way out of failed 'programing'. Help or not he's a Big Shot now! No longer a small fry washed up in blank paper white. The contrast of black gave his silhouette the outline it needs to fit among the giants landscape. Red helped him pop up in the most exquisite of masterpieces.
Spamton appreciated the red. It was flashy. It looked good on a car. It looked beautiful on a suite, especially when accented with bold gold and soft lavender. Especially when framed by luminous white.
He drove himself here. To this point. Why can't he continue on with a lovely passenger? Surly there is a way to keep a shooting star burning. Keep the show going for eternity and enjoy every episode. If Spamton can stave off the looming shadow of obsolescence, why can't he do the same to darker yet darker void that threaten to tun red an ugly streak?
Surely there is a right thing to say, a right thing to do, a right deal to make, a right person to call. It worked last time.
Surely. Yeah. There has to. Spamton knows that there has to.
Tenna hated letting go of things. Good shows, great scripts, an engaging plot. He'll always looks— as the staff put it— 'glooby' by the end— again, Tenna, asking, not hearing from him— despite his best attempts. Spamton had learned not to bring attention to it and let Tenna feel what he feels. You'd think a TV will be the last to be moved by troops and classics, things that he must've seen, preformed, and shown hundreds of times, but Tenna had always been special.
Smile on his face, his brow relaxing. Spamton had always thought that he doesn't understand that, perhaps he really didn't. He's stubborn yeah, but he never clung to things. He always move forward, looking for the next big thing to sink his teeth into with a blinding smile, always zooming by, always making new deals, pitching new sales, making more [[kromor]]. He thought that it was just how he is. But maybe, he start to think, maybe that wasn't the case. Maybe he just never had something that worth holding onto. Not until now.
Suddenly Tenna's little bouts of 'gloobyness' aren't so hard to understand. Another coin in the appropriately-sized-for-Tenna charm jar that is about to explode in a shower of glittery stars and shining glass.
Ah, the fluttering is back. His code is acting all funny again.
It's preferable to the expands of never ending 'what if's. Leave them long enough and he'll find a vicious forest in it's place. He doesn't want to know if he can get out. He doesn't want to go there at all.
Thankfully, the place that he does want to go to is is getting closer. He can see the light show put on by the TV World studio. And there, shining even brighter and acting the role of warm beacon, was Tenna. Waiting for him. Happy to see him. Probably shaking his arms in preparation to wave like a mad man at his approaching vehicle. He can't see it from here, but Spamton is willing to bet his entire savings that the red flower is waiting for him amid the glowing snow of Tenna's face.
Spamton would much rather this guiding star to lead him where he has to be than the invisible tug.
Maybe, he could make it so. One way or another.