Chapter Text
It has been a long, long time since you saw yourself. Really and truly – not the quick once-overs while splashing your face in the morning and evening, the cursory glances between hand washings. You note the brightness of your eyes, the wrinkles of skin pocketing them; the curve of your mouth and the vague impression of laughter lines; the structure of your head as it sits upon your neck. Even when at rest, there is a haggard quality to your expression that you can’t recall ever seeing, even in the dappled memories of glances.
Past this specter masquerading as yourself, a fine dusting of snow has begun to coat the walkway that leads into the studio, the opposite end meeting the roadway, and the left and right ends of that disappearing off into structures and businesses and wherever else. The thought of a place that isn’t this building calls a lightness to your chest, anticipatory and itching with possibility; the silence encasing you buzzing, urging, pressing in. Everyone else is deep in the bowels of the studio, hard at work and much too occupied with their Sisyphean tasks to concern themselves with anything outside of them. The front lobby is virtually abandoned. There would never be a better moment to make your exit.
Still your reflection gazes back, unblinking. Unmoving. The glass doors remain firmly shut.
You would be missed. That much was obvious; one cannot frequent a space with others without leaving a distinct impression on each of them, for worse or better. There is a fear that they couldn’t keep up with the job without you, but that is the reality even with you here. Maybe some would miss your company, but you’d learned long ago that assumptions were rarely fact, and remaining here just for those select few would be foolish. Wouldn’t it?
What would Tenna say, finding you gone? For one day, for one week? A strange weight settles into your stomach. You’re becoming very familiar with strange things as of late. The snow falls, idle, thoughtless, into tiny piles, nestling amongst each other as small creatures would in the darkest hours of night.
You turn on a heel and make for the double doors leading to the offices and the show spaces beyond. The specter disappears from the glass.
□ □ □
The green room is an amalgamation of noise, motion, differing temperatures, and the occasional odd smell. The precious few days before a show were a special sort of chaotic: these factors would only intensify as the countdown progressed. Maneuvering through the space is a test in keeping focus; before, you could easily integrate wherever you were needed, fulfill any role left wanting. Now, with a set path laid before you, these roles sat empty, the shouts of your coworkers seeking (and failing) to fill them. The silence of the front lobby is sorely missed.
You approach the hallway leading backstage, where a group of Shadowguys and a Zapper surround a green Pippin. At your presence, the Pippin raises their head, wrinkles rivaling yours carved underneath their weary eyes. “Aren’t you s’posed to be onstage with Tenna…?”
“We took a bathroom break.” It isn’t a lie – Tenna’s performance during rehearsal was less than stellar and you had suggested breaking several times to no avail. Until he had needed to take a call with a producer, you were sure you’d remain there the rest of the day. “What’s going on back here?”
“De new boat ride fer Legend is still causin’ trouble.” The Zapper pipes up. When they gesture, you follow towards the game room housing the massive television screen, displaying the Pause menu on the challenge. Unpaused, your eyes track the boat – carrying a trio of Shadowguys in place of true contestants – as it weaves through choppy water around carefully placed obstacles, ending at a hidden cove which lead into the final bit of the segment. That is, it should, yet the last set of pointed rocks spawn an extra time, causing the boat to crash regardless of what the passengers do to maneuver around them. You suck your teeth.
“Have you tried setting the obstacles at a different contact point?”
“Yeah. Dere’s nowhere else ta put ‘em. We’s gotta rearrange all da rocks every time ta keep it consistent, od’rwise da entire sequence breaks.”
You and the Zapper watch the cycle several more times, Shadowguys begrudgingly tumbling out of and loading back into the boat with a few notes of pixelated grumbles each time. Finally, you ask, “Can I take a look inside?”
You unclasp a small panel at the top of the console and remove the cartridge that pops out, then disappear behind the television, past the curtains and into a small room hidden there with the Zapper following close behind. You sit at a small screen staged beside a copy of the console, reinserting the cartridge into the duplicate and powering it on with the smaller television. An orchard of varying shapes appear, all connected to each other with thin white-grey branches, fading endlessly into the television.
The technology used by Legend of Tenna is strange, one you don’t wholly understand yourself, despite working intimately with it since you were hired in. A Lightner once likened it to the video games of their world, but the coding process they had described felt nothing like this; carefully opening assets within the program with slight gestures of your hands, rearranging strings of code and numerals with flicks and presses of your fingers. Hidden within the code are notes from your coworkers on their updates and crash reports; the Zapper hadn’t been lying. They had tried all other possible arrangements without completely breaking the segment and starting over. You suck your teeth again.
With your coworker peering over your shoulder, you begin running the segment and scrolling through the code, scanning for anything that could interfere with the obstacles. This process is as long as it is tedious, yet it is the most engaged you’ve felt since working the last show. It is a warm balm to your mind and soul; there is a reason for every successful sequence, just as there is a reason for a failed one. It is only a matter of understanding and searching. Even if there is much you don’t comprehend yet, you learn more every time.
After a handful of attempted fixes with no results, the Zapper doubles over, uttering a defeated groan. “Boss’ gonna have my head.”
“No, he’s not.” If anything, he’s going to have yours. “It’s not doing this for no reason. Something has gotta be fussing with the sequence, or it’s triggering at the wrong time. We can figure it out.”
Just as you begin discussing other fixes with the Zapper, a ruckus echoes from the hallway. Both of you clamor out of testing and into the large television room, as dogs would to a bell. The anxious protestations of a Shadowguy and Pippin, a pair of booming footsteps rattling loose wall hangings and the very foundation, a familiar sense of resigned dread. Tenna emerges from the door, his rage evident in his size, as he must stoop to enter the room. Immediately his screen focuses on you, completely ignoring the Zapper at your side. He enunciates your name, frown twisting into a jagged grin.
“Did you get lost, kid? I’ve been waiting onstage for twenty minutes!”
“No,” You gesture to the paused game upon the television, keeping him in sight out the corner of your eye. “There’s an issue with Legend and --”
“So! You DID get lost! I oughta draw up a map!” His clasped hands flex. “We’ve been over this, kid! No detours when we are rehearsing!”
That is true. Tenna had discussed (or ranted, rather) at you about how ‘detours’ hurt the production, distracted the stagehands, and vice versa; in the moment, it had made sense, and you’d agreed with him. But once you were away from him and on the floor, speaking plainly with your coworkers, it muddied the vision he had for the process. You exhale through teeth. Now that you are caught, there is no use arguing with him. “Yes, sir. You’re right, sir.”
“Yes, I am!” Tenna stands to his impressive height, triumphant, the fabric of his undershirt straining under his heavy steadying breaths. “Now come along! I won’t have you freezing up again!” His smile is a bit less forced as he struts out of the room. When falling in line behind him, you try for a sympathetic expression towards the crew; either it doesn’t register as such or they simply don’t care.
Onstage, Tenna resumes learning the contestants names and submitted applications, running through potential leading conversations and one-liners, and arguing with the show crew about lighting. What any of this has to do with you misunderstanding his instructions and your performance (‘freezing up’, which you hadn’t done since two seasons ago) is anyone’s guess. Besides gently correcting him on pronunciation and suggesting the occasional bit, you feel more like a prop gathering dust than a supporting actor, left aimless while he occupies himself. When he repeats a liner for a guest for the umpteenth time that day do you speak up.
“Are you sure you need me for this? The production crew could use some help, and I --” Tenna raises a massive hand in your face, silencing you.
“Remember when we talked about being present in the moment? The crew has got it in the bag! As far as you’re concerned, they don’t exist! They’ve been WIPED from your memory! If I sent you out for coffees, you’d have just one person to order for! And that person iiiiiiis…?” A wide gloved hand gestures to you.
“You can’t be doing this every time.”
“That PERSON IIIIIISSS…??”
You clench your jaw. “You.” Then, when his smile strains enough to pull indignant wrinkles, “You, Mr. Ant Tenna.”
“That’s right!” The harsh lines disappear, his grin round and friendly. “Don’t be concerned with the crew! They are NOT on your radar! The audience is your top priority, forever and always!”
“But I’m not doing anyth --”
A sharp tug at your shirt collar then you are suspended midair, your vision filled with his screen as Tenna holds you in place before him, his smile twisted into a grimace, fangs protruding in jagged lines.
"WHO should you concern yourself with?!” He snaps. Your head nearly whacks into a light fixture bolted to the ceiling.
“The audience,” You mumble, also much too familiar with this tactic. As always it is joined by a strange cocktail of emotion stirring within your gut, with the addition of a stern declaration; if you’d walked out earlier, this wouldn’t be happening. You elbow the light fixture out of your space to meet his screen head on. “I should concern myself with the audience.”
“BINGO! You got it, kid~!” Tenna chirps, features softening once more. “I understand it is frustrating to be standing around. But what you’re doing is important, too! The most important job of all, even!” He drops you in the palm of his other hand while he shrinks to his usual height, carefully depositing you to the floor. “I can’t do this without my wonderful supporting actor, after all!”
He remains crouched, hand hovering protectively around you while you catch your footing and fuss with your outfit to avoid looking him square in the face. Even squatting, Tenna dwarfs you by a substantial amount, blocking the spotlights and bathing you in his shadow. His scrutinizing is palpable; his screen lights up your lower body and the boards below in a snowy blue. You can also tell he’s waiting for you to reply to him and, per usual, you are unsure of how to respond. You’d been anticipating a much more adverse reaction (considering the show looming upon the horizon) and are a touch winded by his sudden geniality.
“Okay.” You try, eloquent. The blue light shifts very slightly, its shape distorting upon the floorboards, indicating that Tenna has tilted his head. When you look up at him, his mouth remains curled in a charmed grin, but his expression remains inscrutable. If you had learned anything from working in Tenna’s studio, it is that smiling doesn’t necessarily mean joy; Pippins smiled through awful performance reviews, Mike smiled through disastrous shows, and at least once per day Tenna smiled just before catastrophically losing his temper. It was incredibly misleading. “What’s next?”
“Weeeell...~” Tenna claps his hands together, straightening his posture and bouncing playfully on the balls of his feet. “We should review the contestants’ files one more time… then get a quick run-down of the challenges from production… Me n’ Mike have a good feeling about the format change, but I want to be sure it’s juuuust right.”
You nod along as tension slowly eases from your shoulders; he doesn’t seem too incensed anymore. Your gaze flicks to his screen. “It will be. Change is good. It keeps the viewers coming back.” While the lack of visible eyes makes it easier to meet him head-on, it is still incredibly obvious when he’s focused on you: a spotlight of his own, not nearly as bright but just as intimidating. Once, during a show, it had been so painfully obvious that you were avoiding it that a contestant pointed it out; the cataclysmic laughter from the audience is still a frequent visitor on a restless night’s sleep. Since then you had endeavored to overcome the gargantuan task of eye contact – now, when he returns your gaze with his limelight, you consider breaking it for only a moment. “It’ll be helpful for me, too. So I don’t, uh, slip up.”
“And that, folks,” Tenna gestures to you with one enormous, gloved finger, grin curling past the ridge of his nose. “is why we REHEARSE!” Just barely grazing the tip of your nose, his finger shoots up to the sky, a pistol aching to be fired, straightening his posture perfectly behind it. A smile of your own pulls at your lips, unbidden.
A couple weeks before a show – the timeline depends on who is reviewing the mail, both physical and digital – the chosen contestants send in a photo of themselves, a short blurb detailing who they are and their interests, and what they are most looking forward to for Mr. Ant Tenna’s TV Time. This show sees two returning contestants and one new.
Miera and Rocannon (Rocan for short) had been on separate episodes from three seasons ago and the two detail excitement upon their return; both mention an affinity for music, with Miera practicing bass in their spare time and Rocan boasting of her award-winning vocal talents. The final contestant is the youngest of the three, a year above the age limit for the show; Emi is eager to show off his cooking skills to Mr. Tenna, whom he has admired for years. The more you read about them, the more your smile widens, anticipation sprouting wings and fluttering high in your chest.
“You got a fan here, Tenna.” You hand off Emi’s application to him. His neutral visage shifts to a small grin as he reads it. You can’t help the keen, toothy smirk. “D’ya think he’ll be too flustered to get on stage with you?” The phenomenon wasn’t uncommon – you recall last season when a contestant had been so starstruck, they could barely answer him in the opening segment.
“Not at all!” Tenna says, leaning over to elbow you conspiratorially. “If not, we’ve got ways of dealing with his type.”
You laugh freely. There is much you love about assisting Tenna with the show, but the contestants are your favorite part by far. An extension of the audience, there is a specific tightrope you must balance upon when interacting with them; they rely on you and Tenna to guide them, but not to the degree of hand-holding. You uplift and encourage while accentuating their own strengths and abilities. Each one is unique, an entire world of their own, and it is imperative that they are comfortable enough to share these parts of themselves with you and the crowd. It is an honor you didn’t fully appreciate until Tenna took you under his wing.
“Has the drumset been fixed?” Tenna turns to you, lips pursed. “I mean, we might need to check with Emi, but we could have him on the drums, Miera on bass, and Rocan for vocals. I can do guitar if we pick the right song for it. But only if the drums are functioning.”
He hums, deliberating. “Maaaaaybe.” His expression goes blank for a long moment. You wait patiently, holding his non-existent eye; he breaks it by turning back to Rocan’s application. He must have re-read it four times by now, but then his mouth forms into a shape of pure, unadulterated awe.
“Oh!” He clasps your shoulder, calling for your attention as if you weren’t waiting on him. “She has a TV Time tattoo! A tattoo!!!!” The logo, emblazoned on Rocan’s impressive right bicep, is rendered in a crisp, modern style, with the season she appeared in smaller text just below. You hum, though struggle to sound enthused. You had pointed this out to him the first time.
When the moment comes to review the challenges, you follow Tenna off the main stage to the workshop. Separated by a walkway just off the backstage, the workshop is split down the center by wheeled dividers into two smaller rooms; one containing various props, costumes, instruments, the like; and one for more technically inclined functions of the main stage, particularly the platform mechanics, essential power for the screen, electric instruments, and the eventual kitchen stations.
Similar to the hardware powering Legend of Tenna, you don’t fully understand the mechanics behind the show itself. The platforms were a little easier to comprehend, but the workings of transporting the fully-functional kitchens from this room to the main stage still eluded you. Before being offered your current position, you had been considering this particular job after conquering the enigma of Legend.
Inside these rooms – about half the length of the main stage and audience seating, with a slightly lower ceiling – a modestly-sized crew ambles throughout the space. Come showtime, however, it will be a true feat if you can maneuver through it without colliding into someone. When your eye is caught you wave with a quick hello without stopping; when moving with Tenna, it is imperative that you keep step with him, lest you fall behind (and, subsequently, receive an earful about staying on track).
The trek ends at a Shadowguy, deep inside one of the cabinets beneath a kitchen. At the sound of your approach they slide out with a cheerful honk.
“Good news…?” Tenna tilts his head. The Shadowguy clambers to their feet, turning the knobs for each burner and pointing with excited chirps at the four tiny flames. Tenna bends closer, his mouth pulling into a perfect oval of genuine surprise. “Oh! This is good news!!”
Just days prior to last show, this same station had a disastrous malfunction which rendered it unusable. The ensuing scramble to redo the entire layout of the show is one you are relieved you won’t be repeating – the replacement challenge was haphazard at best. Shortly after it had aired, there had been a debate with the producers about cutting the cooking challenge entirely, citing safety concerns and general upkeep costs, which Tenna had vehemently denied. “It brings a relatability for the older crowd that the music and Legend segments don’t have! Cutting it after all these years would alienate them!” He’d ranted at you after the meeting, which you hadn’t been present for, instead delegated to hanging around in the hall outside. Part of you agreed with the producers, but another part agreed with Tenna, too; it could be seen as a bit outdated compared to the other challenges, but they couldn’t afford to lose any block of viewers. Plus, it was particularly exciting to watch contestants cook under pressure. And it (almost…) always was a treat for the senses.
Thus, you can’t help a tiny smile over the small orange flames from the stove, over Tenna excitedly nodding along as the Shadowguy explained the issue and its relatively simple fix. “I see! Well, now we know who to thank for rescuing the cooking challenge!” He claps them on the back as they chirp several intertwining notes. “No, it doesn’t come with a raise, silly!”
While the two deliberate over the kitchenette, a Zapper in a comically large chef’s hat and matching apron approaches you. “I should tells ya, even wit da fix, we can’t do a whole lot,” Tenna perks up at this, glancing over his shoulder. The Zapper removes their hat, wringing it in their hands, their voice shrinking beneath his attention. “We, uh, we’re reaaaal low on ingredients. I think we got enough fer da next show, but it’ll be tight."
You pipe up before Tenna can interject. “What do we have?”
The Zapper leads both of you (leaving the despondent Shadowguy at the kitchenette) to two imposing doors diagonal from the entrance; one built with oaken slats, the other a firm steel. They had been right; the pantry and walk-in fridge both contain just enough to pass for a single show, but nothing more. From his place crouched in the fridge door, Tenna turns to the Zapper, annoyance radiating off of him in hot waves. “Did no one think to inform Mike about this??”
“I just found out, boss! Honest! I’d been helpin’ with Legend til yesterday, and --”
While inspecting the cold stock, you keep Tenna in your periphery; his mouth twisted in a frown as the Zapper desperately explains themselves, his grip on the doorframe producing small cracks the longer your coworker pleads their case. Even as he sighs, expelling the hot air accumulating in his head, you take the chance to step out and latch the fridge closed; wouldn’t do to have your only stock ruined by your boss’ cataclysmic meltdown. Tenna pinches the bridge of his long nose, gesturing to you with the other hand. “Kid, do you have any bright ideas for a dish?” Your gaze wanders across the line where wall meets ceiling, humming a single note as you consider these factors.
“How about a savory pancake?”
“A savory… pancake…” His expression falls further.
“Yeah. Like, with the pancake batter, but without all the extra sugar and syrup. It’s versatile and open-ended, so the contestants have lots of wiggle room.” Your gaze swaps between the Zapper and Tenna. “We have a good amount of eggs, flour, and aromatics. There’s enough loose stock for satisfying filling. It’ll be less stressful when deciding on utensils, too.” Tenna hums. This time his consideration appears genuine; it is a daily struggle to deduce when he will take your suggestions favorably.
“Okay! We’ll take a swing at it.” Tenna straightens to his full height and your eyes follow, though your neck strains slightly. “Worse comes to worse, we can do plain ol’ Saturday morning pancakes. D’you wanna handle the demo for this one, kid?” His mouth forms into a small, cute smile, one you mirror without thinking.
“You… You sure?”
“Sure I’m sure!” He rests his hands upon his hips, bending slightly to peer down at you. “It’s your idea. Show me how it’s done!”
You tilt your head to follow him, smile faltering. At this point, you want to believe that you know Tenna pretty well. You feel you understand his moods and duplicity better than others, so there is no reason why this declaration should fill you with an airy sort of warmth, like opening a hot stove to a freshly baked loaf of bread. Like he would mean it this time. You wait expectantly for the caveat, his bait and switch, but it never comes, the work continuing around you both as if your world hasn’t slowed to a contemplative crawl. You are silent for so long that Tenna’s knuckle, lightly tapping the side of your head, wrenches a gasp from you.
“Heeeeello-o-o? Earth to support, come in my dear ol’ support…! Sometime today, please!” The other hand settles upon your shoulder with a gentle shake. You grunt another surprised sound while instinctively shrugging him off.
“Yes! Uh, yeah. Sure. I can do it.” He smiles, as though he knew the answer all along.
Next is the live music challenge. Tenna advances to the next room with you close behind. A cacophony of unrelated held notes greet you from the doorway, several employees testing each device and tuning accordingly. All of the instruments were quite old but well-loved, both by the crew and Tenna himself (there was hardly room in the budget to pay for cooking ingredients, much less updated equipment). However, the drum-set recently had an issue which retired it from the last two shows. It had been easy to accommodate for its absence (specifically by picking contestants who enjoyed synthesizers…) but the looming terror of replacing it had hung heavy over the entire production. Within this highly sound-proofed room, though, there is a distinct beat, rising through the soles of your feet to your heart and mind. You are greeted by the sight of a Pippin, comically small within the structure, banging a steady rhythm into the drum-set with the matching sticks. Your pace picks up considerably when you beeline to them.
“Hey!” Their voice is high and gravelly. “You hear that?” They hold the rhythm, bobbing their head once they notice you doing the same. Their smile is infectious. “Should be good to go for the next show!”
“For real?” It is easy to identify the sheer excitement in your voice. Their smile crests the edges of their face.
“OH! WONDERFUL!” Tenna is suddenly at your side, his shout and clap causing you to nearly leap out of your skin. His smile is wide, screen bright, as he chirps your name. “You’ll keep time for our dear contestants, won’t you?” Your quick nod, paired with your eager smile, makes him giggle. “Okay, okay, kid! Remember not to overshadow our contestants, yeah?”
His hand hovers midair, as if keen to touch you (a shoulder or head pat, maybe), before it snaps back to his person when he addresses a Zapper handling the guitar to inquire after its maintenance. You stare after him even when he leaves your side, more perplexed than you’d admit. Lately, these occurrences had been a bit too common to be considered flukes; in an attempt not to dwell, you eagerly return to the drum-set Pippin, who has shifted to a different key and is banging out the notes to a song you know too well.
Shortly – far too shortly, as you were about to receive the drumsticks – Tenna calls you over from across the room. He is speaking with a disgruntled red Pippin in charge of sound for the challenge, his body language suggesting that he is also becoming a bit irate with their conversation.
“I keep tellin’ ya, boss – I don’t know what’s causin’ the issue!” The pippin snaps. “All’s I can tell ya is only a small selection of tracks are playin’.” They hand you and Tenna copies of the catalog, specific track pages bookmarked with colorful sticky notes. “We don’t got time to figure it out. We can look into it after the next show, but not before! And yes, I went through all of ‘em.”
Beside you, Tenna growls something onerous under his breath, thumbing through the pages but not exactly reading the tracks on them. Upon skimming yours, you aren’t sure why he is so irritated. “Hey, this isn’t so bad. There’s a lot to work with here.” You perk up a little and point one out to him. “How about Need You? The bassline and vocals might interest Rocan and Miera.”
“Mmm. Too difficult for someone not musically inclined like Emi.”
“Okay… Star? It’s is a bit easier without being a cakewalk.” Tenna purses his lips, but otherwise says nothing.
“How’s about Good Graces? Haven’t heard that one in awhile.” Nearby, a Zapper wiping down a piece of equipment pipes up. Tenna hums, noncommittal, again flipping through the catalog. Less irritated, now, but with a cryptically blank expression.
You run down the line of names, announcing them as you go; POND, Fast Slow Disco, Yellow Moon, Good Cus --
“Good Graces!” He pipes up suddenly, startling everyone in the immediate vicinity. “We’re going with Good Graces. Easy to pick up for Emi and challenging enough for Rocan and Miera.”
You glance to the Zapper who – despite no discernible facial features – returns your eye with a flat expression.
The final challenge is Legend of Tenna. There is little that can quell the anxiety roiling low in your stomach, but lounging upon the titular couch before the enormous screen does just enough to distract. Tenna leans back into the corner opposite you, one arm splayed across the back cushions with the other cradling his crossed knee. You reiterate where each of you will be for this challenge; Tenna remaining with the guests on this couch and you coordinating the backstage crew, occasionally popping up in-game to offer advice and hints to the guests while bouncing off of Tenna’s commentary. He confirms each point with his signature broad smile. Light conversation flows back and forth as you wait for the crew to set up, Tenna’s mood considerably better with the consistent progress for the other challenges, his laughter open and warm. In this moment, you almost forget about the bug.
Once the game boots up, you use the single test controller to maneuver a Shadowguy with their two companions through the game; the tutorial, the desert maze, the various puzzles, and the varying combat all working as intended. Tenna watches with a content smile. Upon fulfilling the conditions the titular boat ride – solving a puzzle for the shell of the boat, finding the necessary pieces for fixing it in the nearby palm forest, and defeating a couple random enemies – you guide the trio of heroes into it and carefully maneuver them through the obstacles. Rocks, fallen trees, riptides, all programmed to spawn at a precise moment. Then, predictably, after passing the third threshold, an extra line of rocks spawn a hair’s breadth from the finish line; you uselessly attempt to steer the boat before colliding with the obstacles, pixelated water pebbling in a myriad of blues, whites, and teals at a handful of frames when the Shadowguys tumble overboard. You pause just before the game over screen can activate. Out of your periphery, you see the fingers upon Tenna’s knee tighten, his voice incredibly thin. “Will the Legend crew please meet us onstage?”
To an outsider looking in, it isn’t immediately discernible that anyone is in trouble; Tenna’s body language suggests nothing of the sort, and even the nervous fidgeting of the crew could be taken as regular tics. If this outsider were to approach, however, they would surely catch the thick foreboding air, the stiff postures of the crew, and your eye, settled anxiously upon the star host. He stands rigid, hands clasped at the small of his back.
A stretch of silence, palpable enough to take physical form, settles over the stage. Tenna appears unfazed, his smile full, hands rising to press together before his screen; as if in prayer. “Why isn’t this fixed yet? It’s been a week.” His tone already grates on your ears. “All of you realize the show is in two days’ time, correct?”
“We’re workin’ on it, Mr. Tenna.” The Pippin responds. “We’re trying everything we can, but it --”
“Obviously… you haven’t tried everything.” A cool shiver dances down your spine; from his side, you can feel the paper-thinness of his voice, the usual slight staticky feedback absent underneath his attempt to remain even-keeled. “What are you doing back there, hm? Playing games? Goofing off? On my time? You all have some nerve, thinking I would let this slide! Why, I --”
“I was working on it when you came looking for me,” You raise an appeasing hand. “If you give me two, three hours tomorrow, I’m sure I can fix it.”
“Kid!” He whorls on you, as though he had been waiting for your reaction. “When did you transfer to the backstage crew? Did I miss an emergency broadcast??” He has grown significantly since leaving the game room. Again you are bathed in the cool blue of his screen, eyeing two rows of prison bar-straight teeth. “Well? Did I?”
“No. But I’m very close to solving it. I can feel it. I swear.”
“Oh! You can FEEL it! Not to worry, everyone! The kid here can FEEL the fix!” The outsider, seated far in the back row, would read Tenna’s exaggerated knee-slapping as genuine. “D’you wanna know what I’m feeling? I’m feeling that you’re also raring to slack off with your backstage buddies!” Tenna bends towards you, the skin of your face prickling towards the surface of his screen. “This habit of yours is really frying my coils, kid!”
“Tenna, for the last time, I’m not slacking off.” The urge to raise your voice is nearly uncontrollable. “The programming is incredibly complicated, and no one has enough time or knowledge to sit with it, and --”
“Oh! But you do? Rehearsal is too easy for you now, huh? Playing games all day is far more important, right?” He barks a cruel laugh. “Good thing I’m the boss here, kid! Somebody’s gotta keep all you bums in line!”
As the endless cycle repeats itself, you try to resist how the helplessness eclipses rational thought, clouds your eyes and muddies your vision, tightens around your windpipe like a fist. Deep in your bones, in your very soul, there is a resolution that doesn’t dissolve into screaming, into grinding teeth, into standing alone in a cold lobby. There is the distinct sensation of an immense pressure growing behind your eyes; the approach of a gargantuan, unknowable being. Your mouth twists into a scowl. “Some fuckin’ boss, you are.”
“That’s IT!” He roars, the sound bouncing off the studio walls, trapping you in his rage. “From now on, I forbid you from going backstage! In fact, if I find you even speaking with the stage crew, I’m kicking you from the production! That is FINAL!”
His speakers crackle with feedback and it, too, reverberates around the room, the lights above flickering with interference. You wish they’d blow out for good and drown you in darkness, hidden from Tenna and the rest of the crew, but it doesn’t; beneath the cruel, blistering heat, you stare him down, immobile. The pressure reaches your optic nerve, bright and searing hot, expanding to fill the empty cavities and further, your head lighter than it had ever been before. It could blind you if it so chose.
“I understand, Mr. Tenna.”
He grunts, huffing. He offers no further acknowledgment, instead turning to the backstage crew and demanding they fix the sequence by the next show, the crackle of blown speakers adding a menacing edge. Then he dismisses everyone, announcing that he is retiring to his office for the remainder of the evening and to not bother him under any circumstances.
The stage is deathly quiet in his wake, as if he’d stolen audio itself from the room. For a moment no one moves; the Pippin wrings their hands, eyes blown wide, wrinkles deepening; the Zapper hangs their head, near parallel to the floor; eventually the silence is broken by a single, despondent note from a Shadowguy, the trio seeming to wish to melt into the floorboards. Wordlessly they gather themselves, each shooting you a look – of worry, of sadness, of guilty gratitude – before exiting back into the hall, until you are alone.
Ah, sweet solitude! Your dearest friend, ever-reliant, it tries and tries to settle its comforting weight over you, to ease your exhausted mind, yes, my friend, you can relax here. Please – move your body, shout your ails away, do what you must because we are alone at last, my friend, please! But the motion does not come. Your voice remains buried in your throat, your legs rooted to the boards beneath. What is the point, you ask yourself? I’ve brought all of myself to this task, to this profession, and I’ve fallen with the full weight of it every time. What is the show to me if I cannot avert disaster from her?
Underneath the myriad of lights, you remain immobile. The pressure has not dissipated from behind your eyes, and it pulses with ominous warning, one you heed deep in your very bones: this cannot continue. By the stars, this must end.