Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everything hurts, but that's not surprising. Who knew that sleeping in a dumpster would come with not-so-favorable results? Him apparently, from repeated offenses over the past two weeks. The smell of food scraps and rusty metal was starting to become familiar at this point, and Spamton doesn't exactly know how to feel about that.

He reminds himself this is only a temporary stay, one he'll be quick to get rid of when he gets back on his feet and tramples over the markets once again! It just takes time. It'll be exaclty like what he did it with-

...He'll reach out to him soon. He just has to keep trying. He'll respond again, Spamton knows this.

But in the meantime, he still needs to be functioning properly for when when he returns. This means food, and food means money. He's only got a few dark dollars left, barely enough to buy a free shoe sample including tax. And it's not like he even wants to involve himself with those traitors, especially now that he's been- he's moved to better opportunities.

He just needs to work that charm like usual! It's one of the reasons he was chosen in the first place to become a [[BIG SHOT]]. All he needs to do is to get someone to listen to him.

He sighs and dramatically leans into the garbage bags beneath him, flinching when his blazer snags on a sharp piece of metal. He quickly sits up so it doesn't tear further, quietly cursing when he sees a pretty decent hole in the red fabric.

He groans, holding the rip in his hands as he thinks back to his previous attempted sales, wondering what put those customers off so badly. All he did was walk up to them on the street and try to sell them his QUALITY options, honest!

Sure, he might've come on a bit strong, but give the guy a break! His voice was naturally a bit loud, it was branded- IS an endearing quirk of his, and of course some vocal ad-breaks might have snuck through mid pitch. He's noticed they've been getting worse since he's been sleeping in the dumpster, but he can just work those into a nice definitive feature of his while he rebounds. 

They were just wimps that couldn't handle what he was selling. He just needs to find the right audience. Yeah. He takes a deep breath and slaps on his award-taking grin at the thought, leaping out of the dumpster (not before covering the phone) with new vigor. He'll find some suckers that will pay double, no, triple the market value for the rest of his exclusive pieces of memorabilia, he's sure.

Dusting off his blazer, he takes it off and looks at its condition. It's seen better days, but the bright red is still as striking as the day he got it fitted. He didn't like the feelings it brought up if he looked at it for too long, so he quickly squishes them down to focus on what he's going to do with the article he's holding.

Other than his gloves and his pants, it was the last thing Spamton hadn't pawned off or gotten stolen yet that's a part of his classic getup. Mainly because it's hard to rip off his body and he was banned from all the nearby pawn shops before he could sell the rest of his stuff. They had said he was “disruptive” and “temperamental”, even putting up pictures with the word BANNED across his face when he tried coming back in! What a load of [[Baloney]]. He just acted the way he usually did.

This is why he's selling to passersby now, but the lot of them are being pretty stubborn at the moment. He just needs to wear them down. They know they want what he's giving them, they're just hesitant from his recent, eh, descent in the news.

Looking over the blazer again, he picks off any stray pieces of scrap or trash sticking to the fabric. Afterwards, he gently folds it and hugs it close to his chest as he walks out of the alley, scouring the sidewalks for any potential customers.

----[[~-~]]----

It took a while, but he finally found a Darkner with some brains! It was a Plugboy at the edge of town that didn't seem to recognize him (odd, this one must not be too media savvy), but it did seem interested in the jacket he was holding up for it to see, conveniently angled away from the tear he made earlier.

“...AND I PROMISE THAT YOU WON'T REGRET THIS INCREDIBLE [[Steal From-]] *ahem* STEAL YOU’RE GETTING!” He said, a bit harsh to understand but the Plugboy seemed to be nodding along, albeit a bit uncomfortable.

“I do like the color. I've only seen it on that lovely little Nubert and the Swatchlings that pass by here occasionally-” The Plugboy continued to talk, not noticing the stray pixels that flew off the salesman at the mention of those feathered vermin.

“SO YOU’LL TAKE IT?” Spamton interrupted before the Plugboy could ramble on any further. “IT’S ONLY A REASONABLE PRICE OF [[Now 499.99 at         ]] DARK DOLLARS!”

It visibly blanched at the price, squinting at Spamton with distaste. He faltered slightly at the reaction, but kept his smile steady. “IF YOU FIND THAT A BIT STEEP, THEN I SUPPOSE I CAN [[Offering a Brand New-]] *ahem, ahem* Off-OFFER A DISCOUNT FOR A SPECIAL CONSUMER LIKE YOURSELF. I WILL LOWER IT TO 300 DARK DOLLARS, A WHOLE [[⅖ Of Darkners Don't Know-]] DOWN FROM THE ORIGINAL!”

It still seemed unsure, glancing away from Spamton awkwardly as it rubbed its hands together. He grit his teeth in frustration at the reaction, his mouth still stuck in a fixed smile. This is quality material! Any Darkner would be lucky to have it for this price! But he didn't say this out loud, knowing that if he did the Plugboy might shut the deal down all together.

“WHAT ABOUT 250? 250 IS MY FINAL OFFER, JUST BECAUSE I LIKE YOU AND YOU SEEM LIKE A [[Huge Sucker]]!” Spamton freezes as he finishes his sentence, sweating nervously as the Plugboy goes from uncomfortable to annoyed at his wording.

“O-OH! DID I SAY THAT? I MEANT TO SAY [[SleazeFest]]! NO, I MEAN [[SlimeBall]]! EH, UH, JUST TAKE THE OFFER.” He finished rather desperately, shoving the article into the Plugboy’s now irritated face. 

It stutters in surprise as it wrangles the item off of its face, gripping it tightly as it glares daggers at Spamton. “What did you just call me!?” It shouted, swinging the blazer around in a fit and accidentally revealing the fact it had a giant tear as the natural lights of Cyber World flowed through the rip.

It paused its retort to stare at the jagged and frayed edges, slowly turning back to Spamton with small sparks jolting from its mouth and eyes in frustration. Spamton had already opened his mouth to apologize, offer another price, say something , but was cut short as a bolt of lightning shot out and had him jerking out of the way, grazing his shoulder and searing the sleeve of his dress shirt.

He had barely ducked away in time, any later would leave the bolt straight in his chest. The heat of the attack lingered like the smoke coming from his shirt, his ears ringing as his breathing started going faster. He slowly turned to his attacker, now seeing it was sparking uncontrollably as the blazer in its hand started to char and flake away in its grasp. 

The sight made his head swim; a sense of dread and anticipation pooling in his gut that he would rather not have happening at the moment as he can't cast anything useful-

And so his mind went blank as he suddenly jumped toward the Plugboy, shocking it and himself as he reached for the blazer in its hand, uncaring for the burns he got as a result before bolting in the opposite direction. The Plugboy's yelling was drowned out by the ringing in his ears and soon the chatter of Cyber City, though it wasn't that far behind him.

Sparks of lightning chased after him as he ran, barely missing every time as Spamton hastily swerved or ducked in response. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he tried to get rid of his tail, ducking under stalls and running through whatever streets and alleys he could find.

This worked for a couple of turns, but ultimately backfired as he turned his head for just a second to look behind him before running straight into two Ambyu-Lances hanging out in an alleyway. They all tumbled to the ground in varying states of shock, Spamton immediately getting up first and continuing to run.

The Ambyu-Lances looked confused before the Plugboy came barreling in and shouted “This guy tried to rip me off and insulted me to my face!” But this wasn't what caught their attention; it was Spamton's response. “I DIDN'T SCAM [[Nobody to Hold on a Late Night?]]! THIS THING ATTACKED ME- ME- M3 - ME - ”

Glitches overtook his head, stretching his neck at unnatural angles as the phrase kept repeating, getting more and more distorted as he stopped running to deal with the glitching. The Plugboy faltered at the display, flinching back and grimacing at how gruesome the glitching became. However, the Ambyu-Lances had the complete opposite reaction, narrowing their eyes and lifting themselves off the ground, ready to stop whatever virus he had affecting him from spreading.

Spamton immediately tried to speed up his recovery at the sight, grasping at his hair to stop his head from twitching again as he started to run once more. And now, it seems like two Ambyu-Lances chasing him were way worse than a single Plugboy.

They shot speeding cars his way, barely giving him time to dodge as they cut off any exits or openings with cacti sprouting from the ground. The spikes constantly nipped at his skin, giving him shallow cuts all over his legs and arms when he stumbled out of the way of another car.

He cursed loudly when one of the spikes punctured his calf and sent him sprawling onto the floor, slamming his face into the concrete below. A loud crunch echoed through the alley walls, a steady flow of what he assumed to be blood running from his most likely broken nose.

He frowns at the pain, but the injury sends another boost of adrenaline and he can't linger for long unless he wants to be brought in by those needle freaks to poke and prod at him like some animal. He rips his leg off the spike to keep running, and the Ambyu-Lances seem to grimace at his injury, but they don't stop their chase.

They do seem slightly apologetic, as they spawn less and less cacti around him, giving him more opportunities to dodge and weave. But he can only go for so long being chased, losing more and more blood as a trail of maroon flows out of his leg. His vision is also starting to pixelate, leaving him less and less lucid to get away.

In a state of panic, Spamton tries to look for anything that can help him, shaky eyes searching all over the alleyways he's stuck in. Nothing but trash and batches of moss catch his gaze, leaving him grasping at straws for what to do.

But finally, some higher being seemed to give him a break as one more shimmy through the cacti leaves him in a crowded street of carnival games and food stalls. He almost collapses at the familiar sight, the strained grin on his face a bit more relieved as he flawlessly enters the crowd. He avoids bumping shoulders or clipping elbows as he walks to minimize attention, keeping his head low while ignoring and avoiding any empty areas as he eventually loses his tails, letting him go by unnoticed into another alley.

He limped the rest of the way to his dumpster in the shadows, avoiding any other prying eyes while he did so. When he reached it, he collapsed on its rim, taking deep breaths as he squeezed the blazer in his hands tighter and tighter.

Only when the pixels in his vision faded away did he sag onto the floor, letting his legs rest while he inspected his nose. It was definitely broken, bent at an awkward angle it shouldn't be able to do. He could only glower at the sight, slowly setting down his blazer on his legs and bringing his hands up to the injury, quickly snapping the pieces back into their relative places.

He hissed at the pain, biting back a yell as he carefully kept one hand on his nose while he concentrated his energy into the other, now balled into a fist. When he opened it up after about a minute, a small winged version of himself with a halo flew out, wearing his current ripped up clothing and all. It didn't focus on the injury at first, only flying around his head for a bit with a concerned look on its face due to his beat-up state.

Spamton annoyedly snapped his fingers at it a few times, pointing to his busted nose and getting its attention back to what he needed it for. It looked displeased at the aggression, but it followed his directions anyway, flying down to his nose with green sparkles flying out of its small hands.

He could feel it working when it made contact with his skin, the bones shifting back into place and the pain lessening slightly. However, the summon dissipated after a few seconds, leaving him breathing through his nose to see if it was even still functioning right.

He felt pangs of pain and soreness, but he could breathe well enough, so he decided to look at his leg instead. Moving the blazer off of it showed a puncture about the size of a dime, sluggishly leaking blood onto the floor. He grimaced at the slowly growing pool, wondering if he had enough energy or even knew how to heal something like that enough to stop the bleeding.

Biting his lip, he decided to try, putting both of his hands together and after a few minutes, three little summons flew out to greet the world. They didn't need as much direction as the first, immediately honing in on his exposed calf and making contact with green glittering in their palms.

Although there were more of them, they still couldn't completely erase the wound, leaving the entry puncture a half-inch deep. Spamton really didn't want to lose more blood in this alley, and he thinks he'll pass out if he tries to conjure up any more summons, so he decides to have it heal naturally and wrapped his ruined blazer around it. It's not like more red will ruin its look.

Finishing the knot, he slowly gets to his feet, using the dumpster wall for support. After steadying himself, he shuffled to the side of the dumpster where some boxes were piled up, and started his climb. He struggled to lift the lid when he got to the top, but he succeeded after a few tries.

He threw himself inside, trying not to take any breaths too deep unless he wanted the smell of garbage and the pain of his recent scuffle to violently come back to the forefront of his mind. He lays there for a moment, letting his brain try to figure out what went wrong exactly and to do next time for better profit. It comes up blank.

Grinding his teeth, Spamton looks to the side, to the place he hid the [[Angel]] from any handsy, unworthy morons. He knows he would know what to do. What he should say to get them practically eating out of the palm of his hand. What to insinuate, to subtly tell, to reference to get intrigue and interest in what he has to say.

His mouth feels dry as he uncovers the phone hiding under a sheet in the cleanest part of the dumpster, carefully grabbing its receiver.

With clumsy hands, he dials his number. One he could never forget even if he tried, the numbers almost burned into his eyelids. Anticipation runs rampant as he enters the last digit, and he slowly lifts the receiver up to his ear and waits. The ringing was the same, the receiver was the same, but the odd thing was that he still wasn't showing him that he was there.

Spamton waited and waited for what felt like a lifetime, listening to that ring repeat over and over with no end in sight. The trash dug into his skin through the bags, but he didn't dare to move as the phone kept ringing, scared if he did that the sound might disappear.

And then the tone just stopped. Nothing more than stale air greeted him in the sudden silence, the receiver cold in his hand. Though, he still waited, hoping that this meant someone on the other side had finally picked up. “H-Hello?”

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

..!

%̶̧̛͉̫̮͉̥͈̺̍̈́̾͐̌̾͂͝͝@̷̨̢̧̢̨̧͙͍̺̫̟͔͓̭̳̟̺̜͇̖̱͖̮̯̣͇͉̱͚͖̜̭͎̮̠̗̺͎̜̤͍̜̳̮̼̺̳̙̞̼̞̤͖͈̰̯̠̖͎͓̦̗͍͉͔̗̖̱̦͇͆͜ͅͅͅ+̷̢̛̛̰̼̺̪̥͖̲̗̪͓̪̻́͂͌̉͌̑͛̈̎̂̔̌̎̓̂̎̏͂͊̇̓͌̂͒͑̈́̍̂͆̾́͌̍͐̋̅̄̾̂̈́̈͌̂̍̓̕̚͘̕͝͝͠͝͝/̵̧̡̛̘͕̗̬͍͉̫̤̤̩̘̞̲͎̜̮͉̜̖̋̈́̉̋̀̈́̌̈́̾̐̄̐̔͊́̉̌̏͂̀̉͗͂̽̌̒́͆͒̀͐̋̀̾̑͘̕͝>̵̧̨̢̡̡̡̡̛̯̪̤̺̰̬̩̤͖̣͓̤̮̣̙͚̯̗̳̼̗̝͈̰͔̝͕̞̹̗̭̠̬̩͓͊̑̐̑͆͂̃̊̋̇̐̆́͊̏̓̊̌́́͌̌̐͒͐͑̅̃̏̏̆̃͂̉̅̄́̽́̀̈́̎͛́͗̇̃̅͋̕̚͘̚͜͜͝͠͠͝ͅͅ*̵̢̨̧̢̡̧̛̻̟̰̥̲̗̳̠͉̮͍̯͎̲̼̦̘̥̹̬͇̻̤̟̘̠̦͔͓̰̩͙̦̳̮̱͕̥͙̥͍͙͎͙̝͇̙̦̝͕̩͔͉̭̱̖̮̤͖͍͎̬͇͙̞̗̪̥͙̫̭͎̗͙̈͛̀́͆̅̀̅̌̂͆͊́́͋͋̉͛͒̀̔͋̿̑̅̐̋͛̈́̿̊̋̆̄̉̏̃͌͌̃͆̅̐͌̍̄̑͂̏̈̄́̀̆̆̕̕̕̚̕͘̚͜͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅ$̵̨͎̜̘̤̫͚̤̲͎͇̻͍̣̐̋́̎̀́̆̀̓̅̔̒̀͗͆̑̊̈́̐̊͌̃́̉̔̄̋͋̔͑͂́̊͆͊́̃̋̈́͆́̌̑͋̽̉̌̋̃́̈̊̈̆̓͆̑̒̃͌̔͗̆̊̔̅͘̚̕̕̕̚̚͝͝͝͠͠×̴̡̧̧̧̨̧̛̛̻̭̥̩̩͙̬̜̤̼͓̳̬̬͇͖͙̣̭̩̹͇̤̦̻̱͚̠̰͔͇̮͍͍̜̗͍̣̤͉͈̗̩̯̭̘͉̪͕͙̮̗̹̤͓̬͙̰̠̦̬̟̬̞͌͒̈̈́͐́͐̀̄̇́͐̀͂̾͂̊̓͛͌̽̈́̑͒̋̓̔͗̈́̿͑͛͛̈́͊̽͒͐̿͛̏͊̅͊̃͆̉̃̀̃̂̎̎͋͑̽̽͘͘̕̕̚͘͘͝͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅ=̶̢̢̡̡̧̛̥̣̙͉͍̳̗̝̳̮̣͎̭͇̳͕̣̲̮̼̖̲̥͚̤͙̱̪͙̹͍̘̲͓̳͙̹͉̟̭̬̺̬̈̍͋͌̄͑͐̅͒͜͜͜ͅ<̵̡̛̛̦̤̘͓̗̪̜̞̹̭̙̩̓̒͒͒͋̎͆͑͌̉̔̑̈́͗̉̔̅̍͌͋̈̈͛̈́̌̏̕͘͘͠>̶̡̨̛̳̳̰̜͔̘͙̳͔͎̲̦̬̜̖̲̥̥̗̝̜̹̹̣̦͈͓̙͎̲̼̝̦̺͈̠̹̥̟̩͉̹̩̞̞͍̮̹̹̟̥̼̥̀̀̆͗̓͌̿̃̋̆̐̌̔̓̏̔̀̉̍̅̆̿̓̉̾̍̾̍͌͆́̀̕̕̚͜͜͜͝$̴̢̢̢̡̨̡̛̛̱̟̼͚̳͖͈̝͔̦̤͚͓͙̩̮͕̘̤̦͙͈̣̠̖̙̭͕̗̮̥̙͙̻͉̞̟̳̰̪̭͓̭͚̗̯̲̭͔̘͓͍̪͇̼̝͕̙̗͈̰̱̮́͋̋͋̈́̅̏̇̀̾͐̄̉̓̓͌̽͛̈̋͊̿͒̏̊͑́̌͐̄͗͊́͗̽̄͐̉̒͛̾͋͆̄̂̅̒̉̔̏́̄̽̏͋̒̈́͑͌̓́̀̃̎͌͊̽̕̚͜͜͜͠͠͝͠@̷̢̧̢̡̨̛̺͕̤̪̲̗̯̻̭̹͚̹̫̱̠̠̝̮̮͓̗̟͎͚̜̤͈̤̹͕̤̲͔̲̪͙͍̹̰͖̳͔̪͖̯̰̙̭͎̙̪͕̮͚͎̜̜̲̯͕̮̘͇̹̺̝̬̤̥͉̜̦̙̥͉͕̍̋͆͆̐̏͑̅̀̄͆̕͜͠͝͝ͅͅ=̶̢̛̛̛̻̞̠̭̯̮̬̞̖̮͓̲̝̣͓͕̞̣́̅́͆̀͐̑̌̾̏͋͂̋̐̅̾̐̓͗̇̈̔̀͐̒́́̌̀̅̊̒͊̃̇͂̌̆̍͗̌̐̈́͗̋̍͋͗͑̇̍͆͗̇͗͑̆͗̾͗̋̈́̔̐̓̄̍̀̚̚͘̚͜͝͝͠͠͝͠͝͝ͅ%̶̡̨̙͈̗͖̤̫̙͔͚̖̪͎͓͉̞̻̘̙͓͎͈̱͇͙̬̫̻̝̲̯͖̤̜̹̼͈̙̜͎̳̪̮͉͚͎̯̜̜̬̥͇͖̩̙͓̞͎̐͐̄́́̾̌͗̈́̈́̓̃̇͗̽͒̽͘͜͠ͅ^̴̨̨̢͍̱̪̞̺̲̦̮̮̞͔͖͙̳͙͓̭͈͈̙̩͍̤͙͇̼͕̤̫̙͉̺͐̽̄̈́́̕̚͜͜ͅͅ*̴̛̦̺̩͙̹̲̹̭͓͎̌̃̂̓̏̉̈̃̈́̔͛̂̓̕͠/̸̨̨̛̮̙̲͖̗̲̖̦͎̘̼̗̟̥̳͖̭͈̘͇̯̜̥̟̠̺̦̲̋͊̈͐͋́̎͗͗̄̑̓͌̓̉͋̋̀̚#̸͉̺̝̟̟̪̝̯̭͍̎!̴̧̧̨̡̼̝̹̤̟̣͙̫̰̫̫̙̖͈͙̺͍̻̥͕̜͕̞̹͈͚̭̥̙͍̟̻̗͎̰̱̖͇̜̲̹̻͓̼̙̩̪̱͕̘̻̖͊͗̓͊͊͊̔͑͑̍͋̂̓̒͂̈́͗̉͛̈͑͐̍̑̈́̓́̂̂̊̏̂̈̅̈́͊̿̇́͒̉̂͒́̈͆̍̅̈́̈́̕̕͜͜͠ͅͅ÷̴̱̞̼͍͉̟̟̲̲͎̳̲͈̞̟̾͐̀̆͗̆̅͑̋͑͊͋̑͂͝ͅ%̶̡̨̡̙̘̜̝̤̼̻̳̗̩̦̲̼͚̪͈̤̙̙̮̹̼͎̣̰͉̭̬͍͔̲̻͍̮̝̲̗̬͚̔̉͒̈́̂̍̈́͋̇̐̑̎̈́͌̚̕͝͝͝

̶̡̢̡̢̨̨̳̩̼̮͈̹̣̙͚̺̠̣̘̭̖̮̩̦͔͉̳̠͎͇̹̹͎̞̘̥̲̰͎̲͉̗̗̘̘̱̯͔̯̯̼̙͈̆̈̓̎̅͜͜ͅOnly Garbage Noise Responded.

̴̢̧̧̨͍̟͇̝͙͙͕̳̙͓̲̝̦͙̻͉͇̥̬̤̩͎̖̹̳̻͉̥̥͙̦̲͂̍͆͒͛̔͊̀̓̌̓̅͂͛̍̒̅̆̾͑̋͑̈́͘͜͜͜͝&̵̨̨̡̢͔̰̦̬͖͍̭̘̰̜͙̹̱̺͉͈̺̲̩̥͈̗͔̭͎̼̙̩̫̠̖̜̯͕̝̯̬̥̟̮̫̖̙̓̒̀̂͒̌͛̎͊͗̾͊̿͑̅̈́̽̀́͠͝>̷̢̧̢̡̢̗̟̜̥̥̞̝̹̪̯̭̝̯̗̩̙̗̺͕̺̠͉̲̯̩͚̺̠̝̖̱̖̘̻̠̮̲̳̝̹̜̮͉̼̣͉͉̹̠̘͛͒̈́̀̎̈͑̌̍͛͑͆͆̀͒̇̍͑͆͌̾̚̕͘͜͝=̷̢̛̜̝̮̦͌͆̈́́̌̋͒̒̾̏̂̓̈́͑̽͂̄͊́͌̉͆͛͑̆̌̀̐̅̆̃̑͒͑̐̄̐̈̋͌̾̃͆̍́̔͋̿̔̅̎̆̄̃͑͋̿̿̉̾̎̒͑̕͘͘͘̕͠͠͝͝#̷̡̨̡̢̡̡̧̡̡̫̫̬͚̫̹͈̬̬͔̹̻̗̩͚͍͓̹̦̫̭̻͔̦͍̗̣̱̣͔͖̠̪̳̥̥͉͉̘̭͔̩̪͓̱̞͖͙̹̣̰̘͕̑̌̀̈́̾͑̆̑́͛͂́̓̏͒͋̀͊̌̉͆̋͑̆͊̈́͆̎̑͛̂̍͒̕̕̕̕̕͜͜͝͝͝͠×̵̡̧̧̡̡̨̢̛̟̜̗͇̺̬̻̪͍̺̹̠̺̫̥͓̩̼̹͇͚̩̱͍̙̦͖̥̰̩̞̜͓̌̽͋͌͊̆͋̈́͋̌͋̅͒̏̕͜͜ͅͅ=̵̢̨̡̢̧̡̲͈̦̖͙̣̦͕͙͍͕̰̞͉͓̣̻̭͚͖̺̩̺̭͚̤̭̟̱̯̮͈̅̈́̌̒̍͂̕͜͜͠ͅͅ%̴̧̢̛̛̛̛̛͉̟̜̠͍͍͍̫̤̟͉̱̙̮͙̞̗̞̗͓̥̠̮̲̼̻͓̬̞̪̯̟͙͇̤̞͔̻͖̖̭̖̪̘̩̗͒͗͆͒͒͑̂̅́͋͋̓̅̔̉͐̊͋̽͊͂̌̎̒̋̇̋̇͂͋̒̓͑̊̑̓̀̃̏̀͒̈́͑͗̐̈̍̽̈̆̃̄̍̽͋̀͗̓͆̐̚̚͜͝͠͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅ<̴̢̨̨̢̧̨̛̛͕͕̰͍̭̪̩̯̮̬̝̩͍͚̼̘̮͎͖̪͚̪͔̖̩̫͔̻͇̭̞̻͈̮̗͉̠̪̭̲͓̦̤̓́̃̈́͊̐̈̏͑̓̈́̈́͜͝ͅ/̸̡̧̢̨̢̛̛̛̬̳̺̜͕͍̟̜͇͎̗͖̘̪̞̹̱̟̱̻͕̺̘̦̱̜̠͓̞͈̩̤̰̲͖̫̩̥̲͙̻̭̲̠̖͓̄͌̽̂̓̽̃̓͐̇̋͗̽̾̈́͑̄͒̍͂̆̒͑͒̽̉̍ͅͅͅ$̷̛̛̝͍͇̗̮̗̜͈̯̱̥̦͙͎̯̞͖̮̜͇̙̹̪͓̙̣̫̇̂̐̓̇̎̒̐́̏͗̽̋̄͂͒͋́̈̅̄̈̌̓̈́̍̐̈̏̀͋̑͛͌͐̋̈́̂̌̅̈́̌̎̋͗̽̋͋̊͗̌̇̾͘͘͝͝͝͝͠͝͠@̴̢̧̨̢̨̧̢̨̧̡̻̖̯̠̝͈͖̼͕̰̙͙̜̬̝̪̰͚͖̞̯̬͈͖̲͇̯͉̯̼̦̯͉̮̙̙̠͙͓̙̳̩̮̥̜͙͍̼̰̖̣͇̪͔̠̮̮̥̫̺͔̘̼͍̪̮͓̼̼̼̤͎̎̔́͒̃̒̃̾̃̎̐̑́́̋͗́̇͂̂͗̈́̊͛̑̿̓͂͘̕̕͜͜͝͝͝ͅͅ×̴̧̙̠̪̤̹͚̪̖̾͑̅̋̅̽̉̎͋͑̎́̌̈́̏̂̈́̊̄̏͊͋͛͋̇̾̆͌̂̕͘̚̚͠͝$̷̨̨̨̢̹͚͔̘͔̯̖̗͖͔̙̯̗̲͎̺̥̙̰̞̮̩͕̬̠͍͓̦̮̻̼̹̥̹̥͍͓̼͎̟̳̦̖̹̹̪̻̫̻̭̠̇͌͊̂̍̈́̋̽͑͑̾̀̽̀̃̇̈́̄̉̿̃̑̈́́̋́̈͊́̆̌̊̈̽̍͋̋̍͗͗͘̚͘̚̕̕͜͜͝͝͝ͅ^̷̢̢̧̧̛͇̮̼̻͖̳̤̟̼̥̻̲̟̞͕̞̪̜͎̫̦̫̩͚̬̳͎̭̲̗̽͊̌̑̍̈́̉́͋̈́̃̈́̉͐͑̓͊̇̍͂͋̎̉͆̀͗͂̇͐̃̔́̈́̑̀̌́͆͆͆͛̇̓̈́͊͝͠$̸̨̡̢̧̧̢̡̛̛̹͉̗͖̥̦̩̠̺̙̭͇̗̠͉̙̝̲͖̩͈̤͖͖̹̱͎̜͎̘̙͎̪͉̩̼̤̟̖̗̩͙̬̙̰̠̰̬̪̣͈̝̞̣̜́͛̍̽̊̔̊̅̋͒̓̾̍͜ͅͅͅ÷̸̧̢̨̨̧̛̛̣̝̙̫̠͔̦̙̳̻̖̩͖̬̜͙̗͓̞͕̳̜̻̫̬̫̦̙̲̬̮̖̯͔̲̗̙̟̞̦̀͌͑́̅̔́́͌̀̀̂̆̈́͋̿̽̇̈́̇͂̐̌̔̈́͛̍͌̓͌͆̔͒́̌̿͆̐̿͂̄̀͊̅͑̎̏̃́̋̊́̌̀̈͒̈̄̐̀̆̋̎̀̽͆̉̑̇̓̊̈́͋̈́̿͘̚̚̕̕̚͝͠͝͠͠_̵̢̡̨̛̻̮̼̰͖̳͙̹͉̟͓̭̙̺̱̞͓̗͙̤͇͖͚̓̎̍͆̉͂͜ͅ^̶̨̢̧̰͓̗͕̦̙̫̣͔̠̫̰̙̞͕͚̻̱̖̘͍̦͇̠͇͆̅̅́́̋̀͗͜%̴̧̧̜̰͈͙̖̤͕̳̤͚̹̪͙͇̪̹̼͙͖̙͙̝͇̖̤̥̠͔̭̜̘̭̂͒̑̒̌̅͆̍̈́̓͆̆͗̾́͆̓̐̑̐̐͂͘͜͜͠͝ͅ#̸̢̧̨̪̻̲̻͎̹̜̤̭̹͔͎̭̱̝̯͓̞͓͎̤̪͈̈́̾͊̓͒̐̎̊̍̔ͅͅͅ=̷̨̢̨̧̨̧̛̥̼͓̖͎̥͚̲͙̗̼͙̘͖̱̠̯̦͙̲̙̰̹̙̤̠̺̩̺̞̥̦̠̜̫̥̱̤͖̤̲͓̳̤̪͎̭̹͙̱̙̥̹̼̫̖̥̟̻̲̺͊́̓̋̅̓́̃̿̋̔̈́̏̄̈̆̏̀̈́̾̀̈́̓̾̉̓̎͋̀̓̃́́̈̂̄̏̕͜͜͜͝%̸̨̧̧̢̢̨̢̛͕̳̜̥̘̻̲̟̩̫̥̥̭̝̼̪̟̣̭̭̞̘̳̳͉͖̳͙͍̯͙̣̰͔͙̜̪͖̠̫̫͇̳̝̣̳̺̫̖̰̱͕̺̫̭̘͚̟̖̲̫̯͈̳̥͖̗̜͎̙̯͓̞͆̂̾͋͒͒̃̑͆͌̓̄̓͛̃̔̽͘̚̚͘͜ͅͅ-̶̡̢̨̨̢̨̻̘̝̯̫͓̦̥̝͎̫͇͈̞͉̣̜̫̩̰̖͕̠̙͇̬̖̱̰͇̤̠̹̬̱̤͚̰͙̠͈̭͍̣̞̦̘̀̆̒̍̀̽͜͜ͅͅ”̴̨̧̢̡̛̛̰͓̪͈͉͙̻̙͖̥̱̮̲̣̦̱͉̲̭̳̙͕̙̳̜̥̘͔̮̦̟̭̣͚͙̹̩͎̦̦̼͈̫̻̰̱̣͕̱̭̩͚̘͉̤̻͂͂̐̒̈́̾̉̀̈́̂̏̂̽̑̀̋̂̑̊͌̈́̀̈̓̀̑̄͗͊̈́̌̈́̓́͛͋͊͛͑̉̓̒̊̊̓͆̔̇͆̌͋͑̃̆̌͆̌͒͐̐̽̋̌͆̈́̆̓̆̚͘̚͘͘̚͜͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͠ͅͅ

Spamton quickly slammed the receiver down, fists clenched as he stared at the phone. He looks at its plastic casing, at every screw and crack, trying to find answers for a question he doesn't even know how to ask. He still finds nothing. In a fit of rage, he grabs the whole thing, uncaring for his leg and soreness as he stands and holds it over the rim of the dumpster, ready to drop it onto unforgiving concrete.

But he hesitates, seeing its cord dangle just an inch above the floor and its casing reflect the void in the sky. It's still silent even as he threatens its purpose, what it's made for. It's still silent, even after he begged and punched and prayed and screamed and cried and... He quietly drags it back into the dumpster, covering it back up with the sheet.

Maybe he won't get an answer tonight, but there's always tomorrow. Spamton knows that he will respond. He wouldn't abandon their work, their cause, the ace in his sleeve waiting for him to call back? He needs him. He's special. He's ready for anything. He just needs something to go off of.

He rolls over in the trash, getting comfortable as he looks to the simulated sky. He used to think it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, its never-ending expanse covering all of Cyber World in its embrace. He remembered looking at it through his window, seeing the glare of Cyber City underneath it shine in unfocused blobs of color.

Now, there was no familiar glare. His view was unobstructed, no neon signs or streetlights this far back in the alleys to tint the sky. Here, he could see the tiniest lights from the internet waves behind the grid, pulsing like colorful veins in the void.

It was new, and would've been beautiful if not for the smells and pain that accompanied it. All he wishes is that he was back inside again, seeing it through protective glass and past the liveliness of Cyber City. He would be back where he was supposed to be. And he will be again once the phone finally goes through to him. He just needs to be patient, like all great salesmen should be when dealing with a particularly difficult customer. 

He hums in approval at his thoughts and leans up to close the lid of the dumpster, blocking out the sky grid, lights, and numerous sounds of Cyber City. He tries to get comfortable once more in the trash, leaning his head back onto his hands as he closes his eyes.

Everything will go back to normal soon. He just knows it.

Chapter Text

He walks with pride, each step on the carpeted floor confident and sure. He has a large grin on his face, like he always does, but this one seems to reach his eyes as he enters his apartment and quietly shuts the door behind him.

He takes a deep breath, relishing in the feeling of satisfaction bubbling in his chest. He had killed it out there. No, slaughtered every other schmuck trying to get their greasy hands on a contract with [%@$2%!].

He would have never dreamed of even taking that elevator all the way to the top just a year ago, probably barred from even entering the lobby if he was still that small, pathetic [Slime]. But now, NOW he was ushered in with professional smiles and polite greetings, all the staff trying so hard to stay on his good side.

And you know what? It felt exhilarating, being treated like this. Respected. Like he was something important. Someone who the lowlifes of Cyber City instinctively knew was above them. A person who doesn't have to bow their head and grovel for a measly crumb of attention. A true Big Shot.

The smile on his face doesn’t waver, even as he turns to his cracked floor length mirror and cringes a bit from how goofy he looked. He tried to school it into something more respectable for a salesman like him, but his reflection just wouldn't cooperate with his wishes.

He sighs, but relents for now, still riding on the high of his new contract. Stepping closer to the mirror, he realizes just how messy he's become from the night out with the other A-[Want A Break From The Ads?].

His face is slightly flushed, a soft iridescent shimmer covering his cheeks from shots of fizzy Apple cyber he had. To be honest, that establishment always came out with a “new type" every year, but from what he could tell it was basically the same thing with a few new flairs in the packaging.

This was the first year he could afford it, though, and everyone couldn't complain! He'd been buzzing when he ordered it, and the dumbfounded look on everyone's face was priceless. Even the waiter looked gobsmacked!

But he still can't believe he let himself go this far. He knows it was explicitly said to keep his body in tip-top shape, where a healthy glow would give him a boost in charm for anyone seeing his face plastered in Cyber City, and that includes how he presents himself in public!

He fusses with his sleeves first, his cufflinks having come undone from how hard he was gesturing during their hangout at the [Special Deals on Propane and Charcoal-]. He rolls the sleeves of his black button down back over his wrists, slotting the cufflinks back into place and swiping away most of the wrinkles created from the creasing.

When he finds it acceptable, he looks back into the mirror, wiping away any loose strands coming undone from his originally slick-backed hair. It reveals his ears, where his studs glint a soft gold in the low apartment light.

A hand reaches up to mess with the one in his left ear absent-mindedly. These were the first things he bought with his own money that weren't really required for his job. It wasn't anything as nice as his tailored suits or his dress shoes, but they're pure. Real. Nothing like the knockoffs he used to wear after he pierced his ears in the first place.

He just felt like he needed a replacement, and these were just the thing for an up-and-coming salesman like himself. Subtle, yet tasteful. Nothing less would do, and he reasons that it keeps his image fresh, different, especially with his black hair already giving him an edge in that department.

Speaking of his hair, it still wouldn't sit right no matter how many times he ran his other hand through it, a few wisps always tickling his face despite his efforts. Frowning, he tries one more time to no effect.

He sighs, but moves his attention to his collar when he sees nothing more can be done at the moment. 

However, he's in the middle of flattening it out, making it smooth and symmetrical, when his apartment lights flicker, causing him to jump and look around with panicked eyes. They flicker again, over and over, until a sharp, electrical pop finally shuts everything off, leaving him standing in complete darkness.

He pauses, cautiously listening for any unexpected storms or quakes that could be the cause of the outage. But when nothing greets him back except for the buzzing of his own nerves, he grumbles and slowly starts to move. 

Step by step, he moves to the right, almost stumbling over some concept posters he'd left on the floor earlier that day. He gasps, but manages to catch the edge of a nearby desk, settling for a second before reaching out with a wobbly hand, grasping at air a few times before he finally finds a chain in the darkness and pulls it down.

A lamp flickers on, an old thing that runs on batteries and barely lights up the corner of the room. However, it was just enough for him to see himself in the nearby mirror once again, everything else practically bathed in shadow. 

He bites his cheek in irritation. He's been meaning to move out, but he didn't want to waste his valuable time looking for another place when he knows Queen will invite him to her mansion soon enough, right after this contract started gaining traction, in fact. He assured him so, and he hasn't been led astray just yet.

But still, no one can blame him when he lets a few curses spill after trying the light switch on the wall, seeing for himself that it doesn't work. “Oh, you've got to be [!#@$]ing kidding me-”

He pauses, reaching a hand to his throat and speaking again. “[$@%!].” It sounds like a form of static, a placeholder for other, more savory words to eventually drown it out. It feels like corrupted code wrapped around his vocal chords, flaring up right when he was about to say something he probably wasn't supposed to.

Coughing, he tries not to linger on the feeling he's still not used to. He said that the gift might come with some side-effects, and that it was only natural. Messing with it would just be asking for trouble, and it really wasn't that bad to deal with, anyways. He just needed to let up on the vulgarity.

Except, the pressure on his throat didn't go away like usual. It lingered, and it irritated the back of his throat, causing him to cough once again. It sounded raspy, and when he tried to speak, it sounded more similar to a record scratch than actual words.

He grimaces, and he tries to inhale again, but it only spurs more coughs. His throat was already dry from the drinks, and now it felt like pieces were flaking away with every harsh exhale. It burns, and he can't stop coughing to save his life.

He stumbles onto the small desk with the lamp, hunched over it while his chest rattles over and over again. He coughs and coughs, his lungs starting to flare from the lack of air going down his throat.

His eyes start to water as his hacking echoes through the silent room. It doesn't stop, and it hurts, and he swears he's going to throw up if this goes on for much longer-

Something slips out. 

It's long, spindly, and bright green, hanging limply from his lips. 

He freezes, eyes shot open, and for a moment, everything stops. It glows neon through the darkness, dragging his attention toward it like a moth to a flame.

He stares, hands trambling against the cheap wood beneath his palms. The thing makes his tongue feel numb, and when he tries to lift his hands, to reach for it and pull the offending item out of his mouth, reality comes crashing back in with the reminder that he still needs to breathe.

And so it continues. He heaves, coughing up more and more of those bright green chords as they slowly pile onto his desk, spilling out in waves from his throat like he was some disgusting, salesman-shaped piñata. He can't even feel the pain anymore, the numbness taking over all feeling in his throat.

His vision is starting to pixelate and his legs are beginning to quiver under his body weight. Exhaustion pulls him down until he collapses onto his knees in front of the mirror, struggling to keep himself upright even on the floor.

The strands don't stop, still piling onto the floor in front of his mouth with every horrible wrack of his chest. His hands scramble through the piles, trying to find solid ground to push himself back onto his feet. 

And yet.

Another cough, a twitch, and his hands slip out from under him, sending the rest of his body onto the cold, unforgiving floor. His hair, now drenched in sweat, sticks to his face as he desperately clings to consciousness.

The chords just keep coming, unrelenting and cruel as much as an object can be. He's frantic, uncoordinated, grasping at the strands leaving his mouth in an attempt to finally get rid of them.

He starts to pull, feeling the strands grow unnaturally taught over his perfect teeth. He keeps pulling, feeling the numbness in his mouth start to spread to his fingers. He still pulls, even when he can't feel if he’s even doing anything anymore. He can't stop pulling, the need to just get rid of them overpowering the the crack and pop of his jaw being forced further and further and further downward-

Crack.

Pain. Something sudden, unexpected, indescribable, like the strands no longer allowed him this relief. It blooms from his mouth, his jaw hanging limply from his face by the few slivers of plastic still strong enough to hold it in place. A scream rattles out of him, something barely audible, even in the complete silence.

The horrible soreness spreads down his neck, taking over his lungs, his chest, even his bones-

Everywhere just hurts. He writhes, pixels in his vision being replaced with black splotches as he feels himself going under, but he can't let this take him out. He wants to make it stop, but he can't move his limbs. He can't even move his mouth. And guess what, he still can't [!%#@$] BREATHE.

His body jolts onto his side in a last ditch attempt to regain any semblance of control, forcing him to be face to face with the broken mirror he'd been ogling at before- where it wasn't him reflected back. 

He expected crazed eyes, a broken jaw laying limp on the floor, the strands casting an eerie haze of green over his struggling body- but the mirror showed nothing of the sort. He could tell, even through his spotty vision, that it wasn't his own reflection: the darkened silhouette was too small, too crooked, too uncanny.

As if responding to his thoughts, the thing snapped its head to look him in the eye, its neck making a painful crack that echoed through the apartment. It stared down at his writhing body, still shuddering from the pain and delirium, barely alive. 

It didn't say a word, its joints creaking as it seemed to try and approach. However, it barely got any steps in before it just. Collapses. Like its supports were ripped from its body, its limbs bending at unnatural angles as it clatters to the floor, leaving it face to face with him on the other side.

It mimics his own position, really, and he can't tell if it was cruel mockery or a sick coincidence. Through the cracks, it looks distorted, pieces of its body fragmented in the reflection to where making out any detail was practically impossible, even if you weren't actively choking on radioactive spaghetti like he was.

However, even as the darkness takes over almost all of his vision, one thing was perfectly visible through the glass. 

Its sockets were hollow. Scratches lined their edges, and nothing could be seen in their depths, like an endless void took home in its skull and never left. 

Somehow, even without any eyes, he could feel it staring through his soul, judging him like some sort of higher power reading the sins etched into his skin, all while the pain reached its peak. A quiet, desperate gasp for help went unheard, and he couldn't do anything but stare back into its abyss as his surroundings just got darker, darker, yet darker, almost like it was trying to match the emptiness past the glass.

----[[~-~]]----

Spamton wakes up with a sharp gasp, his surroundings dark and stale. Trash shifts beneath him as he scrambles to push the lid of the dumpster open, slipping multiple times before finally shoving it back with a loud clang.

Light overwhelms his senses as he crawls out, making him trip over the rim and fall onto the alley floor. He doesn't even register the pain at first, only taking the chance to force the fresh-ish air into his lungs.

The action feels foreign, unfamiliar, and he can feel his body start to move without his permission, twitching and jerking as it forces his head to make sweet love to the concrete below. Multiple times.

Fingers snap up and grip his jaw so tightly he can feel his skin dent under the pressure, making sure that it stays where it's supposed to be. His body shakes, and the other hand grabs at his oily hair, pulling it sideways hard enough to try and stop the ever violent affair.

This time, it works, leaving his neck twitching in place until it finally settles and returns to normal, letting him slump against the alley floor. 

Breathing now came easy, in and out, in and out, in and out, like it was always this natural. The fear and panic drained out of his head like sand through his fingers in favor of savoring the relief, leaving whatever he could remember from what caused those feelings to rot in the back of his mind.

Taking another second just to breathe and calm his erratic heart, he slowly glances to the side, his posters already replaced with Queen's smiling face staring him down from their spot on the wall. He didn't waste energy focusing on them. 

He turns his gaze to the right of the dumpster, a spot once blank and dull now adorned with an image etched into its paint, a thing made of jagged edges and wobbly lines.

Its wings lay limply behind it, the giant expanses overtaken with uneven and messy sketches of what seem to be feathers. Its bottom half isn't shown, wires and bits of metal hanging like entrails took over the space instead.

Its chest was hollow, a blank space shaped like a diamond in its center. More metal panels surround it, making a humanoid silhouette, but they never come close enough to overtake the empty spot. The sketch’s face wasn't visible, multiple layers of scribbles blocking any attempt at viewing what was originally underneath.

Spamton can feel something drip down the side of his face, but he pays it no mind. Not while he's looking at [[The CORRECT Answer is-]] to [[Heaven]].

He slowly lifts himself up off the ground, his weak legs begging him to sit back down. He drags them forward anyway, and when he gets close enough to the image on the wall, he collapses onto his knees.

His eyes stay locked on its center, and then he bows his head, clasping his hands together and whispering practiced prayers. No stutters or ads interrupted his speech, his voice so quiet that the blood running down his face and dripping onto the floor was louder than his words.

When he finishes, he stays silent for a moment, lifting his gaze to stare back into the empty spot in its chest. He takes another breath, then he lowers his eyes once again, staring down at the phone placed right beneath it.

It looks the exact same, no wear and tear present after the 6 days he left it out of the dumpster. He couldn't comprehend why he hadn't been responding at first, why after one misstep he'd been thrown off the stage he had built, planned, and fought for himself, plank by plank.

But in the last month of running, negotiating, unanswered calls… he realized he was here for a reason. He must have sent him back to square one for a purpose. A test, maybe. Something to prove his loyalty to their plan, a way of showing he won't try [[Bending Backwards For A [SPONGE]?]] their rules again.

So he kept the phone as a centerpiece, a constant reminder that wavering will not be accepted for what they're aiming for. And he won't waver. What he did was a moment of weakness. A mistake that he will not make again.

He just needs to continue what they planned, pull his own weight, but he's sure it won't be that simple. This is a test, after all. He needs to think outside the box, improvise. 

The blood was starting to dry on his face, some places becoming itchy and flaky. He scratches at it absent-mindedly. 

Looking back up at the image on the wall, he stares straight at the empty spot once again. But gazing at it now, it looked off for some reason, a feeling of inadequacy settling in his chest that he couldn't let stand. His brows furrow as he looks at it, thinking for a moment of what he could have possibly missed.

It's only when he blinks out the spots from the lights of Cyber City, rubbing his eyes from the effects of his abrupt awakening, that he recognized what he'd been forgetting. His eyes widen and he quickly dabs a finger onto the side of his head, the dull pain irrelevant as he drags over a small box and jumps on top, reaching up to the blank space with a purpose.

He runs his finger over the unmarked brick, leaving a clear trail that he's careful not to smudge too badly. It slowly reveals round shapes all up and down the empty area, a few lines around the middle becoming a final touch as Spamton wipes his hand on his ripped dress shirt, matching all the other stains on it.

He jumps down and looks up for a final time, relishing in how it now feels complete. The phone is at the edge of his vision, and it feels like it's encouraging his decision. But it still wasn't as good, powerful, big as the real thing. That was still all the way down in Queen’s basement, the place where that ungrateful, shallow-

…he hasn't been back after she kicked him out. He knows when doing something will cause some adverse reactions, he can read a room, even when the room is full of morons and fakers with flawed opinions. 

That's not the point, though. The point was that the phone approved of his dedication, which means this must be the right way to go. He’s been rotting here for too long, broke and rationing what he had left. Maybe he's made no progress because he was meant to get down there, to what would get him to the real [[Heaven]]. Maybe this is what the phone wanted him to do all along, pushing him towards the right direction with its silence.

He'll need to skip a few of their steps, but they weren't liable or even important now. He knows all that matters was getting into that basement, getting to IT, and maybe he'd finally break out with his own two hands, proving to him that it was all worth it in the end. That Spamton was worth keeping around.

He smiles slightly, a new plan set in stone. He'll make it right, and he'll fly to new heights, laughing at all the ones who belittled him and envied his success as they grew smaller and smaller under his feet. So small that he could crush them under his heel if he so wanted to.

Turning away from the image on the wall, he pushes himself to his feet, the soreness shaken out as he smooths back his hair on instinct. One foot in front of another, he walks out of the alley determined, his grin unwavering as he makes the trek back to Queen's mansion for the first time.

Behind him, the shapes in the blank space shine a dark maroon in the neon lights compared to the rest of the sketch. If you looked closely, you could see small clouds line its edges, a slightly drippy sun taking front and center.

None of the color leaked out of the lines, everything neatly encompassed by the diamond mold: all contained, restrained, and controlled. Everything was right where it was supposed to be.