Archive of Our Own

Tenna was dead. Or so Spamton thought.

Imagine his shock when, just a few days later, he saw that same CRT running around the screen-filled studio as if nothing happened. Why was he back up again? How was he back up again? Spamton had shot that idiot box! He was supposed to be dead! He even had time to take what was rightfully his back from that cathode! How was this possible? Maybe he should have tried to push him into the dark abyss below the docks outside the studio, just for good measure; though, thinking about it, Spamton was always too small to move that mountain of a TV.

Originally, Spamton had snuck back into the studio for one thing: to see the distress of the cathode’s crew without their cathode; however, that was not the case, as he quickly learned. His blood boiled as soon as he saw the show going on, completely unaffected by the incident. Did his efforts really mean that little? Were firearms not enough? Was he not flashy enough to even have a metaphorical eye batted at him? Of course, because none of it was ever big enough for that trash heap. He needed a new plan, something that television wouldn’t be able to bounce back from this time. Something destructive. Something BIG.
He knew just what that “something” would be.
A device, a mechanism that he’d used once before, albeit for a different purpose. This time would be different. Maybe it wasn’t powerful enough to free him from his strings, but it was certainly powerful nonetheless. He could deal with the strings this time— he wasn’t looking for freedom.
He was looking for strength.
He was looking for NEO.

“Big day tomorrow!”

Large doors swung open with a thump on the adjacent walls, and in less than a minute, the Green Room was full. At least ten feet hit the floor at once every second, rushing around to complete their next tasks, lest they annoy their boss with any slow work. It was known by everyone that worked under him that his angry side was not one you want to see.
The chaos was happily observed by none other than the face of TV Time himself, Mr. (Ant) Tenna. He watched as Zappers returned to their stations to stand guard, as Shadowguys tuned and practiced their instruments, and as Pippinses carried large boxes and stage equipment around, if they hadn’t already gone off to waste time playing while he wasn’t looking.
Same as always, he thought to himself. Perfect.

“Great, I see you’re all busy!” The towering television clapped his hands once, an approving smile on his screen. “There’s a lot to put on tomorrow, as you all know, so I expect to see everything done by tomorrow morning! The more effort you put in now, the more REWARDS you get out of it TOMORROW, haha!
It’s gonna be a busy schedule, so I’ve got a lot of scripts and schedules to work on tonight. BUUUUT, that being said…”

”Let’s make this a show, folks!!”

The whole room cheered. Everything was perfect. Tomorrow, they would put on one of their biggest shows of the year. Something fun! Something exciting! Kris was bringing their friends over, and they were all finally going to watch TV again! It was a dream come true for sure, and he couldn’t mess up this last chance he had. Things were finally looking up for Tenna. Even if it was just for tomorrow, nothing could go wrong.

Swiftly stepping into his office and shutting the door behind him, the bustle outside muffled into comfortable background noise. He shuffled out of his sleek red suit-coat and hung it up beside his desk, quietly murmuring the well-known TV Time jingle to himself as he sat down at his desk and stretched. He opened one of the filing cabinet’s drawers, sifted through the near-blank papers and pulled out the one printed for that day.

Finally, he hummed to himself, grabbing his brand-themed pen and releasing the tip with a click. Finally, one of these won’t go blank.

“Ha… When was the last time I had to write a real program schedule? It couldn’t have been THAT long, right…?” Tenna mumbled to himself as he started to create the next day’s channel list. His antennae drooped after a moment, his body slowly shrinking a few feet.
“…Oh, who am I kidding. They haven’t watched me in years. I haven’t written one of these since the last day anyone watched me.”

He sat in his chair in silence, just a bit too small to fit as he typically would, sulking to himself.

“...Hey, but tomorrow will be different! Maybe it’s not the whole family coming back together, but it sure is something!!” He started to return to normal size, his antennae perking up and standing a bit taller than usual.
“I’m sure it was Susie that convinced them to invite everyone, haha! Gosh, she really is a miracle worker. Wanting to come over again, just to watch little old me… I mean, she’s probably just concerned about the whole ‘cleaving’ thing, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers, right?”
A laugh track played from his speakers. Always on-cue, just as he liked.
“Oh well. That doesn’t matter! I’ve gotta put on the best show they’re ever gonna watch! Who knows, maybe it’ll be so great they’ll wanna start watching me again! How great would THAT be, folks? Imagine it! TV Time, back on air, straight from YOUR house! Make you laugh, make you cry! Just like old times!”
He stood from his chair, clasping his hands together and grinning widely with a cartoonish circle of pink on his cheeks. He started to spin around his office, heightening his hopes and expectations dramatically as he rambled to himself, his movements quick and theatrical. By the time he sat back down, he was nearly twice his normal size, with a flower bloomed from his nose and a renewed sense of enthusiasm. He returned to a decent size and put pen to paper again, this time filling out the sheet like a madman.

THUD.

The giant television jumped out of his focus, his head snapping to the door. What the heck was that? The outside commotion flooded back to him. It was probably just his employees working hard, as they should be. He shrugged and turned back to his desk, about to start writing again, but was stopped by another, louder THUD. The sounds of working turned into panic. The showhost tilted his head to the side, staring at the door— what was going on out there? Did someone drop a piece of equipment again?! He stood in sudden frustration, grabbing his coat and shoving his arms through the sleeves. Tramping to the doorway and flinging the door open, he shouted out as he fumbled with his buttons, expecting to see a shattered stagelight or broken camera on the ground. “WHAT did I TELL YOU all about being CAREFUL WITH THE—”

He was met with a much different scene, one he would never have planned for.

The Green Room was in shambles. Smoke filled the room. Furniture shared small fires between one another. Boxes and pieces of equipment were left fallen on the ground. It almost looked like a bomb had gone off. Pippenses screamed and huddled together for protection. Zappers tried to lower the volume and cleared exits for evacuation. Ramb was nowhere to be found.
Everything he was dreaming of flew right out the window in an instant.

“...Oh, my God.”

Tenna fell silent, his anger drained in a matter of seconds. He didn’t know what else to say. What else was he supposed to say? He didn’t need to say anything; a different voice chimed in for him.

“LOOK WHO’S FINALLY [Come Out Of Hiding]!”

The TV’s screen shot skyward towards the synthetic voice, trying to figure out who it belonged to. It was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on whose it was.

While it wasn’t a recognizable one, he sure got a face to put to the voice.

Looming— or hanging, more accurately— from a massive breach in the ceiling was a large, almost patchwork figure. Protruding from its back were giant, jagged sheets of multicolored material stitched together to form some kind of messy, angular wings with hooks at the top. Its outfit was also something that would be worn by a paper doll, with scraps of fabric pasted together on top of one another, crudely resembling armor a robot would wear. It could barely be distinguished between a robot and a doll. Probably the most notable thing about this individual was the mass of green wires it was dangling from, of which were strung up to seemingly nowhere. Each string glowed an almost sickly neon green, pulsing with energy. Its face, annoyingly enough, was concealed by shadows and enough distance.

Tenna stepped forward, trying to get a good look at whoever was causing all of the damage. “Who the heck are you?!”

The figure cocked its head, its back straightening, as if offended by the simple question. “YOU SERIOUSLY DON’T [Don’t You Recognize]?!”

That got an even more confused look from the TV, which just resulted in a scoff from the unidentified attacker.
“OH, FORGET IT. IT’S NOT LIKE [Facial Recognition] WILL SAVE YOU, ANYWAY. THAT’S NOT WHAT I CAME HERE FOR.”
It flexed its fingers as if it were readying to strike, every move resulting in a mechanical click from its joints.
“I HAVE SOMETHING MORE IMPORTANT TO TAKE CARE OF!”
With a distorted laugh, the figure dropped down from its crude entrance to hang over the giant showman.

Tenna recognized that laugh almost immediately. That was a poor mockery of his old business partner’s laugh, a sound he’d always remember. He’d be damned if he ever forgot.
And that’s when it clicked.

Just as the massive puppet-like figure came into better view, he could see the similarities. Slicked back hair, wide smile, white face. Despite the intense proportions and the fact that it wore pink and yellow glasses to obscure its eyes, the face nearly resembled that of—

”...SPAMTON?”

"THE [New] AND [[NEO]], TRASH HEAP."

There was no way. There was no way! This couldn’t be his old business partner; but there were too many coincidences! The face, the laugh– hell, it even looked like that big robot thing Spamton would draw sometimes! It had to be him, but how? The only thing he could do was shoot the newly-transformed mailman a scowl.

The armored salesman craned his neck as he stared down his old partner. “WHAT’S THAT [Face] FOR?! DID I INTERRUPT YOUR [Scheduled Program]? WHOOPS.”

The CRT was starting to put some pieces together, thinking back to just a few days earlier. That small creature that shot him was probably also Spamton… and the same person he covered in foam for trying to steal his beloved Pipis. His scowl turned into a sheepish grimace.

“Ohh. This, uh… this is about that foam thing, isn’t it?” He laughed uncomfortably, trying to ignore the obvious severity of the situation. That wasn’t the reason for this, and he knew it. He just didn’t want to face it. Deflect responsibility. Blame it on something smaller. “No hard feelings, right?? It was a simple mistake, haha! Honest! I didn’t know it was you! But, uh… wasn’t shooting me a few days ago enough?”

"NO, IT WASN'T." Spamton's tone darkened, and so did Tenna’s screen. "AND IT WON'T BE UNTIL YOU'RE [Crying] IN THE BOTTOM OF THAT [Dumpster] LIKE I WAS. LIKE YOU DESERVE."

A beat of tense silence passed between the two, only broken by the mechanical clicks of the puppet’s body moving. The rest of the studio was empty by now.

“W-Well, that’s not very ideal for me, is it…?? Ha!” Tenna forced a chuckle, a grin straining on his face as he struggled to keep his composure. He tugged on his tie, trying to look as collected as possible in this scenario.
“I mean, it’d be kind of hard to run a show with my head in a trash bin, wouldn’t it, folks?!”
A laugh track played from his speakers again—

His attempt at comedy was suddenly cut off as the winged robot suddenly dived at him. He stumbled backwards, catching himself against Ramb’s stand and cracking the counter in the process. Tenna shrunk a foot or two, his grin faltering. He couldn't help it. This was the man he once had such a strong bond with, and the one that ruined his life. He had expected a messy reunion, but nothing like this. Even after years of hating that mailman, he was folding like paper; and this didn’t exactly help his emotional turmoil.

“SHUT UP.” The mechanical salesman swung closer, his legs dangling as his wires pulled him. The lenses of his glasses were black, a shadow cast over his face. “SHUT UP.”

“...Gee, not one for jokes, huh?” One more jab. Tenna couldn’t help it. “I was always a bit better with the comedy section—”

A fist slammed into the side wall of the stand, right next to the cathode’s head, causing him to shrink another few inches.

”SHUT. UP.”

Spamton was right up against Tenna, even arching over him a little, neck reached to face his screen. He could smell the rotting glass in the other’s musky breath. It was disgusting. Horrifying. It made him sick.

Actually, ALL of this made him sick. HE made him sick.
He held himself against the concession stand with a rekindled sense of resentment, slowly returning to normal size and pushing Spamton back, a revolted sneer replacing his previous expressions of fear.

“You know what? No. I don’t think I will! What the heck do YOU think you’re DOING here, anyway?” Tenna took a step forward, regaining his ground. “Thinking you can just step into MY studio after everything, even if I WAS gone? Not to mention a few days ago, when you nearly shot me dead! Now you’re here blowing up my studio just because I bounced back from your little ”please-take-me-back” gift?! You haven’t shown your scummy little face to me in YEARS, and now you come back attacking me and my show like I’M the bad guy?! I don’t THINK SO!”

He slammed his fist down on the counter, claws extending through his gloves and damaging the bar even more. Nobody would be using it for a while, so he didn’t pay much mind to it anymore.
“You’re in MY studio, buddy, so if you think you can just tear it apart without PAYING for it…”
He swiftly lunged at the armored aggressor, slicing at his upper torso and sinking a claw into his unprotected shoulder.
“You are SORELY mistaken!”

Spamton reacted just as fast, throwing a fist to the other’s stomach, causing him to flinch and dig his nails in further. “OH, SOMEONE WILL BE [Paying], ALRIGHT! JUST NOT ME.” “We’ll see about THAT, MAILMAN!”

Raising a boot to the TV’s chest, Spamton kicked him hard, dislodging his claw from his shoulder and sending him stumbling back a few feet. FINALLY, the upgraded salesman readied himself for another attack. THIS IS WHAT I CAME HERE FOR!
A fight of a lifetime for both of them had started with a bang.

The two ripped and swung at each other without restraint, never pausing for a second and ignoring their own damages to focus on the other’s. The drywalls cracked as they thrashed each other around, the tile scraping and the furniture flipping over through their reckless attacks. The building shook from the force of their bodies slamming into the walls. Holes and slashes lined the star-patterened wallpaper from missed punches and swipes. Glassware shattered against the floor. Fairy lights above blinked out, one by one, cords dangling to the ground. If the Green Room wasn’t already in shambles, it looked like a terrorist attack after just a few minutes of the relentless battle, which wasn’t incorrect anyway.
The fight took to the floor as Spamton tackled the showhost to the ground, the CRT’s head hitting the tile with a worrying crack. THAT wasn’t good. If his head got too damaged, it would be over for both of them. Paying no mind to the smoke rising from the side vents and cracks in his screen, Spamton threw another claw at Tenna’s torso, finally managing to break through the worn-down metal sheet and snap some internal wires; who, of course, let out a pained shout and retaliated by tearing off one of the robot’s wings and leaving a gash in an unarmored section of its abdomen. The two even started to resort to biting to try and regain the upper hand from one another.

After a tiring cycle of one stealing the advantage from the other, a clear victor began to show.
Spamton’s anxiety rose. It was Tenna who was winning. That wasn’t good at all. Was this really all for nothing? It couldn’t be! He worked so hard! It wasn’t fair!
He had to end this soon, or he wouldn’t be able to at all.

“LOOK AROUND, [Boob Tube]. YOUR [House] IS IN SHAMBLES. I THINK THE [Show’s Over].”

Tenna braced himself for another attack, but only found himself face-to-face with Spamton's arm cannon.

The CRT flinched. He had no idea he could do that; Spamton had been saving it as a final attack, or a last resort if he was really desperate enough.
“You sly little—” His voice cracked and cut to static here and there, his internal parts obviously badly damaged.

"WHAT'S THE POINT IN [Bombing] THE [State] IF I DON'T [Finish the Job]?"

Panic rose in the TV’s voice. This was bad. "Spamton, wait!"

"NO, TENNA."

Tenna’s mind raced. He couldn’t take much more injury. He had to get out of this. He was so confident in the beginning! He thought he would win this one, but his hope was shrinking fast.

"I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR [This Moment] FOR LONG ENOUGH."

"NO! YOU CAN’T DO THIS!"

Tenna screamed at the overpowering figure above him. He was growing desperate. Spamton had him where he couldn't stop him and there was nothing else he could do in his condition.
The broken machine ignored his cries, maybe even enjoying them a bit, as a light began to emerge from the inside of the cannon.

"HOPE YOU [Enjoyed the Show], CATHODE. SAY GOODBYE TO THOSE [Viewers at home] OF YOURS, BECAUSE YOU'RE [Signing Off] FOR GOOD."

"NO!" Tenna shouted again, this was too fast, too sudden, it wasn't supposed to happen like this! It was all wrong!
Everything was perfect just a few hours ago! Everything was supposed to be perfect tomorrow! He was about to have the best day of his life in years, and now it was getting ripped away by someone who hadn’t his face to him for just as long! It wasn’t fair! All for what, revenge?! How was he the bad guy, anyway?! It was all HIS fault! He still had shows to run and smiles to bring! He had kids to entertain! KRIS of all people was going to watch him again!!
He reached for the cannon to push it away, but it was already too late.

The last thing he heard was the deep, stuttering laughter of his former business partner through the bright blast of white.

Tenna's feed cut out for good.