Chapter Text
He stared at his reflection, scrutinizing every detail of his appearance. He had to look perfect. Today was a big day—one meeting that would truly make or break his ascension to greatness.
With practiced fingers, he tucked a few stray hairs back, smoothing them down. Much to his dismay they sprang up again almost immediately. He sighed. No matter how he combed it, the natural waves in his hair made it difficult to control. His frown deepened as he noticed the faint trace of white at his roots—his natural, icy tone creeping back through the dye. He’d have to touch it up soon.
Spamton G. Spamton was a new man. And his new self had to stand out. That meant jet-black hair, sharp suits, and a look that would erase all memory of the white-haired failure he used to be.
Ever since that call, everything had changed. Life had never been better. The transformation was almost unbelievable. Things had shifted so quickly once he started following the guidance of the voice on the other end of the line.
He had been skeptical, of course. Who wouldn’t be? The voice was distorted, wrapped in a mess of static and garbage noise. But Spamton had heard it clearly. As if it spoke only for him to hear.
It offered success—real success. Something he had never known. He’d only ever been the "email guy," his spammy schemes ignored and dismissed. All his life, he had wanted to be like the other Addisons: successful, recognized, free. Free to do whatever he wanted.
So when the man on the phone offered him a way out, he took it.
Now, he received calls daily from his mysterious benefactor. And since then, he had only climbed higher. The other Addisons looked up to him now. Everyone in Cyber City did. It was a classic underdog story. Even Queen had offered him a room in her mansion. She didn’t give out suites like that to just anyone.
Spamton adjusted his tie and straightened his suit. The dark shade of the fabric, paired with his raven-black hair, complimented his pale skin. Better yet, it dimmed his natural glow—making him stand out even more from the other Addisons.
Glowing was a trait shared by all Cyber Darkners, the living code that populated this world. Addisons, especially, glowed brighter than most—an advantage meant for catching the attention of potential customers. As a white Addison, Spamton emitted a cold yet soft light.
He grinned at his reflection once he was finally satisfied with his appearance.
“Looking good, Spamton. They'd be fools not to put your face on TV- that deal is already sealed.”
Behind him, the phone rang, its trill slicing through the silence of his suite and making him jump.
Stepping down from his stool, Spamton crossed the room and lifted the receiver with care.
Garbled static burst into his ear, flooding his mind, drowning out all else. As always, it felt like he and the phone were the only two things that existed.
Then, the voice came. It sliced through the static like a blade—sharp, clear, commanding. And just as quickly, it went quiet, waiting for his response.
Spamton swallowed and cleared his throat.
Then he spoke.
---
“Guess who’s gonna be on TV?” Spamton flashed a sharp grin as he leaned an elbow against the polished counter of the Café.
Swatch raised a brow but didn’t look up immediately. The butler’s hand stayed steady as he tipped the pot, pouring steaming coffee into a ceramic mug with precision so exact it was almost art. Only after placing the pot back on its tray did Swatch slide the drink across the counter toward the short Addison perched there.
“They’re putting you on TV?” he asked, tone even but edged faintly with disbelief.
Spamton snatched the mug eagerly, blowing on it once before taking a bold sip. The coffee was black, bitter, and far too hot, but he didn’t flinch.
Spamton nodded, sipping proudly from his mug. He didn’t bother explaining that the deal wasn’t technically finalized—he already knew it was his.
Swatch tilted his head slightly, regarding him with that same calm, unruffled poise that always felt like a mirror held up to whoever he spoke with—reflecting more than revealing. “Well,” he said after a measured pause, “that’s certainly… something.”
Spamton leaned forward eagerly, his grin growing even sharper. “This is it, Swatch. This is the big one. It’s all up from here—bigger stages, brighter lights! I’ll keep climbing—higher and higher—till I reach the stars!”
His voice cracked upward with intensity on the last word, filling the small café with enough energy to rattle the silverware.
“Maybe even heaven itself,” he added with a snap of his fingers.
Swatch gave a low chuckle, deep and amused but not unkind. “Heaven might not know what to do with you.”
“They’ll figure it out once the ratings come in,” Spamton shot back without missing a beat, flashing a toothy smile. He sat straighter, adjusting his tie with a practiced tug. “I’ll be the first angel with a sales pitch.”
Swatch shook his head slowly, amusement ghosting across his face. “Just don’t try to sell them their own clouds.”
“No promises,” Spamton said, punctuating it with an exaggerated wink.
He tilted his mug back and downed the rest of the coffee in one long, unbroken gulp. The bottom clinked against the counter as he set it down, empty and steaming.
Swatch reached over to retrieve it, pausing for just a moment to study Spamton’s face. His gaze wasn’t scrutinizing—more like a soft evaluation, a silent assessment.
“You know,” he said casually, “you seem… happier lately.”
Spamton’s brows shot up. “What, me? Happy?”
“Isn’t that the word?” Swatch asked mildly, setting the mug aside.
Spamton blinked, then gave a short laugh that carried just a bit of edge. “Happy’s not my style. I’m hungry. Motivated. Laser-focused on success. That’s what you’re seeing, pal. That’s the look of a guy who’s about to make it so big they’ll need a new word for ‘big.’”
Swatch gave a small hum of agreement, though it sounded more like a note of acknowledgement than full agreement. He picked up another cup, drying it slowly with the same practiced care as before.
“You’ve always had that drive,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s not new. But this… is different.”
Spamton leaned forward on his elbows, narrowing his eyes with mock suspicion. “What are you implying, Swatch? You saying I wasn’t destined for TV stardom?”
Swatch smirked faintly. “Oh, I’d never doubt your ambition. I’m simply curious what this means for you.”
Spamton’s grin widened again, quick and sharp. “It means I win, Swatch. That’s all there is to it.”
For a few seconds, the café fell into a companionable quiet. The muted hum of machinery behind the counter filled the space, blending with the faint static of distant neon outside. A couple of patrons murmured at one of the far tables, but their voices were low enough to not be an intrusion.
Swatch finally broke the silence. “Have you told the others?”
“Who?”
“The Addisons,” Swatch said, glancing at him briefly. “I imagine they’d be happy for you.”
Spamton’s grin slipped for half a second, then rebounded, but there was an edge to it now. “The Addisons? Please. They couldn’t care less about me. Never did. Far as they’re concerned, I’m just that annoying little brother who talks too loud and dreams too big. Always was.”
Swatch didn’t react, though his fingers slowed slightly on the cup in his hands. “Even so… they’re your family. Perhaps you should—”
“Family.” Spamton barked out a sharp, incredulous laugh, tossing the word around like it was sour in his mouth. “That’s rich. You know what family’s good for? Holding you back. Keeping you in your place. ‘Stay in line, Spamton, don’t get ahead of yourself, don’t embarrass us.’ That’s all I ever heard growing up.”
Swatch lowered the cup, folding his hands loosely over it. He didn’t interrupt.
“They didn’t want me winning,” Spamton continued, words quickening, sharper now. “They didn’t want me rising higher than them. And the second I started climbing, the second I started making something of myself—bam! Cold shoulders. Distant smiles. Like I’d betrayed them by not staying small.”
He turned his head sharply, jaw tight, gaze locking on a crack in the counter’s surface as if the tiny imperfection could swallow him whole.
“They thought I was crazy, you know?” he muttered. “Thought I was burning too bright, aiming too far. They thought I’d never make it.”
His finger tapped an erratic rhythm against the countertop.
“Well,” he said, his voice quieter but no less intense, “look at me now.”
Swatch’s hands remained folded, his gaze steady—not pitying, not judgmental, just patient.
“Maybe they just didn't understand-"
“They didn’t want to understand,” Spamton snapped, spinning toward him with a glare that didn’t quite hide the hurt underneath.
The café’s quiet returned, heavier now.
Swatch let the silence stretch, broken only by the soft clink of someone setting down a saucer at one of the tables.
Finally, Spamton exhaled, sharp and uneven. He slumped back slightly on the stool, hands curling into fists on his knees before loosening again.
“I… I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the counter. “I was always the black sheep among them. I wanted to be as good as them, but…”
The words trailed off into nothing, the thought unfinished.
He stared at the reflection of the overhead light in the counter’s glossy finish, its glow warped and stretched thin across the surface.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Spamton finally shook his head, as if scattering the thought like dust shaken off a rug. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a few bills, setting them on the counter with a snap before sliding off the stool with a soft shuffle. Straightening his suit, he smoothed a hand down his tie, restoring every line of his posture to sharp, confident precision.
“Anyway,” he said briskly, forcing lightness back into his voice, “I’ve got a meeting to get to. Big things happening. You know how it is.”
Swatch inclined his head slightly, expression unreadable but not cold. “Of course. My door’s always open, though you know that already.”
Spamton didn’t respond. He simply waved over his shoulder with two quick flicks of his wrist and headed for the exit.
The door swung shut behind him with a faint creak, the flickering lights of Cyber City spilling in just long enough to leave the café bathed briefly in neon pinks and blues before fading again.
Swatch watched the door settle back into place. His eyes lingered there for a moment, unreadable, before he returned to his work with a soft sigh.
---
Spamton wandered through the grand halls of the TV World studio. Chaos reigned—actors and stagehands bustled about, rushing to reach their sets on time. Door after door opened into film after film. It was all rather exciting to witness. This was Spamton’s future, after all.
He paused beside a large map plastered on one of the walls. Much like Cyber City, TV World was vast, and without proper guidance, one could easily get lost for hours.
He had been instructed to find the Green Room for his meeting. His eyes scanned the sprawling map, searching for the right spot. He tapped a finger thoughtfully against his oversized nose as he concentrated. When he finally located the Green Room, a grin spread across his face, and he set off at once.
TV World gleamed brightly, with lights shining from every direction. Cheers and laughter echoed from unseen stages, and workers dashed around in a flurry of movement. It was colorful—but not in the same way as Cyber City. Where Cyber City was a blur of neon and LEDs, TV World featured vibrant splashes of color on its walls and rugs without being too overwhelming. TV screens lined the corridors, broadcasting live footage from the countless shows and films currently in production. It was all rather incredible.
Spamton approached what he was fairly certain was the door to the Green Room. He paused, straightening his suit one more time. With a quick pat to his hair—hoping it still looked decent—he took a deep breath and stepped inside, ready to charm the room with his winning personality.
The contrast hit him immediately. Unlike the rest of the bustling studio, the Green Room was quiet, save for the soft jazz playing over hidden speakers. A few Darkners lounged on plush couches, chatting in low voices. The walls were painted a calming green, adorned with faint star motifs, and a small bar stretched along one side of the room. The atmosphere was unexpectedly peaceful, and Spamton felt himself relax just a little as he walked in.
He made his way to the bar and climbed onto a stool. The bartender turned and greeted him with a warm smile.
“Afternoon, luv. Been a while since I last saw you. Heard you’ve gone and made it big!”
Spamton returned the smile, pleased to see a familiar face from Cyber City—though for the life of him, he couldn’t recall the guy’s name.
“I most certainly have, my friend. And soon enough, I’ll be even bigger! The whole galaxy will know the name Spamton G. Spamton! Hah!”
The plug chuckled. “Looks like fame hasn’t changed you one bit. Mr. Tenna will be along shortly—he’s on set now, but it shouldn’t be long. Can I get you anything while you wait?”
Spamton shook his head, politely declining. “No thanks—I had a coffee earlier, and I probably shouldn't have anything too strong before my meeting. Speaking of which, anything I should know about our TV host?”
“He's definitely a character,” the plug said with a chuckle. “The audience loves him. Big, loud, infectious laugh. He does have a bit of a temper sometimes, though.”
“Sounds like we’ll get along just fine. Anything else?”
The plug paused, thinking. “He's very tall. Throws most people off the first time they meet him.”
Spamton laughed, waving it off. “Everyone’s ‘very tall’ around me—I’m used to it.”
The plug chuckled. “If you say so, Spamton.”
One of the doors on the far side of the room swung open, and the sound of cheers from an audience spilled in, chasing the figure stepping through the doorway. Spamton didn’t need to guess who it was—the wave of congratulatory praise from the Darkners in the Green Room confirmed it. This had to be the host he was looking for.
He turned on his barstool, leaning back to get a better view of the newcomer—though it would’ve been hard to miss him.
Spamton stared, stunned, at the towering robot with an old box-style TV for a head. A wide, glowing smile beamed across his screen, and an exaggerated nose protruded from it like a cartoon come to life. The man radiated energy, graciously thanking everyone around him for their support and kindness. His bright red suit was impossible to ignore, contrasting sharply with his banana-yellow tie and shoes. The tall CRT exuded charisma, and it was easy to see why people adored him—he practically crackled with on-screen magnetism.
The CRT turned in Spamton’s direction. Despite his lack of eyes, Spamton felt the gaze land directly on him. He quickly turned away, not wanting to be caught staring. Maybe he was a little starstruck. Maybe, deep down, he longed to be loved like that, too. But the CRT didn’t need to know any of that.
Spamton slid off the barstool with a soft thud, brushed himself off, and turned to approach the host—only to find the host had already crossed the room to meet him. The towering figure beamed down at him with that same warm, TV-screen grin.
“Afternoon! You must be Mr. Addison, correct?”
Spamton flashed his signature grin, brushing past the use of his old name. “Spamton G. Spamton, actually. I don’t go by Addison anymore.” He held out a hand.
The TV-headed man leaned down, nearly folding in half as he extended his own hand in return. When their palms met, Spamton couldn’t help but gawk—his small hand was completely swallowed by the other’s oversized grip. He was gentle despite his size, and Spamton firmly grasped his hand in response.
Tearing his eyes away, he looked up at the glowing screen. “And you are?”
“Mr. Ant Tenna, at your service! And I do apologize for getting your name wrong.”
“No worries.” Spamton waved it off with a practiced air. “Looked like you had a great show today.”
“Why thank you,” Tenna replied with a grin. “Though I do believe there’s always room for improvement.”
Spamton chuckled, folding his arms behind his back. “Heh, spoken like a true professional. Gotta keep the audience wanting more, huh?”
Tenna’s screen flickered with a cheerful static effect, almost like a laugh. “Precisely! If they leave satisfied, great—but if they leave hungry? Even better. That means they'll tune in next time.”
Spamton nodded slowly, his expression caught somewhere between admiration and calculation. “You really got 'em wrapped around your antenna, huh? The audience, I mean.”
“I do my best,” Tenna replied with a theatrical wave of his hand. “Entertainment is all about connection—pulling people in, making them feel seen, heard, maybe even loved.”
Spamton’s smile twitched. “Huh. Yeah. I guess that’s the dream, ain’t it?”
Tenna straightened up, his glow dimming just slightly as he tilted his screen curiously.“So, what do you specialize in? You mentioned over the phone that you advertise products in Cyber City, right?”
“I do indeed,” Spamton replied. “Primarily through email marketing, though lately I’ve branched out into a number of other ventures.”
“Email? Like... mail?” Tenna chuckled, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “So you're a mailman.”
Spamton blinked, then burst into laughter. No one had ever referred to him as a mailman before.
“I suppose I am, yeah.”
“Well, that’s good! We get a lot of fan mail,” Tenna said with a laugh. “But enough about that—I’ve heard a lot about your success. You’re the talk of Cyber City, and your reputation has even reached us out here.”
Spamton grinned. “Heh, what can I say? Word travels fast when you’re unforgettable.”
“I like that,” Tenna said with a nod. “Confidence. I could use a little of that spark on my show. C'mon, let's talk more in my dressing room.”
Spamton's grin widened. Everything was going incredibly well. He trailed after Tenna as they made their way into a separate room. The door was marked with a golden star bearing a bold “T” at its center. He quickly stepped inside after him.
The room was big. Too big. The kind of big you earned if you had a contract with multiple zeroes in it. Velvet curtains hung heavy over the windows, dyed the same red as Tenna’s suit. A life-sized cardboard cutout of Tenna stood pointing toward the viewer, shouting his signature phrase, “It's TV Time!!”
Bulb-lined mirrors lined the far wall, glowing like halos, each one casting a golden light that made everything look just a little more important than it was. The walls were covered in old promo shots, all of them starring the same beaming CRT. Grinning, waving, finger-gunning like he was trying to shoot his own ratings to the moon. A massive bed was pushed into the corner of the room, revealing that the TV host never left his studio.
Unlike Spamton, Tenna had already made it big. But he still had farther to go- Heaven was waiting. And the TV needed his help to make sure he could still make it there.
Spamton's room in Queen’s mansion paled in comparison. Tenna's dressing room wasn’t just a place to change. This was a temple of attention. Of adoration. Of being seen. The kind of space built by someone who didn’t just crave the spotlight—Tenna was the spotlight.
Spamton grinned to himself, letting the familiar taste of envy coat the back of his throat. He knew then and there that someday he'd have a place that made Tenna's room look like a trash heap.
“Not bad,” he muttered, eyeing the racks of suits. “Real classy.”
“Thank you, Spamton. I'm very lucky.” Tenna smiled warmly as he made his way to the plush green couch in the center of the room. He motioned for Spamton to join him. Spamton stepped forward and took a seat across from him. Tenna uncorked a bottle of something expensive looking and poured the amber liquid into two glasses. He slid one across the table to Spamton, who took a sip.
It had a smooth, rich taste.
“I’ve been in the game a long time. In the past, all I needed was a camera, a spotlight, and a little flair. But lately, it’s like everything’s shifting. Algorithms, digital engagement, streaming services...” Tenna trailed off, a slight frown flickering over his screen as he took a drink. “I can hardly keep up. My ratings are good, but they used to be great. If I want to stay relevant, I need to evolve. And to evolve... I need someone who understands this new world of technology.”
Spamton tilted his head, gears clearly turning. “So you want me to teach you how to appeal to a more modern audience?”
“Exactly.” Tenna’s tone grew firmer. “Show me the ropes. Teach me about the new media—whatever tricks you're using to stay in the public eye. In exchange, I’ll bring you onto the show. Not just as a guest—as a co-star. You bring the tech edge, I bring the legacy. Together, we keep the spotlight.”
Spamton’s smile grew impossibly wide, an almost manic look in his eyes. That was all he needed to do to be on TV? He knew this would be easy with the help of his benefactor, but he wasn't expecting it to be that simple. “Buddy, you’ve got yourself a deal. I’ll teach you everything—from clickbait headlines to algorithm manipulation, and even the dark art of sponsored content hidden in plain sight! By the time I’m done, even your reruns will be trending!”
Tenna smiled back and held out his hand once again. Spamton shook it vigorously, his grin stretching nearly ear to ear.
"I look forward to working with you, Spamton," Tenna said cheerfully, clasping his hands together after. "I have a feeling this partnership will be incredibly rewarding for both of us."
"As do I, Tenna. You won't regret it—this'll be the best partnership you've ever had!”
They both held their smiles for a beat too long, as if trying to outshine each other with charisma alone. It was a subtle battle of showmen. But eventually, Tenna leaned back and gestured toward the drink still in Spamton’s hand.
“Go ahead. Drink up. We’re celebrating, after all.”
Spamton gave a crooked nod and took another swig, the warm liquid crawling down his throat like melted gold. For once, he didn’t wince at the burn. “So. Co-stars, huh? I always thought I’d be solo when I hit it big... but this? This’ll do just fine.”
Tenna chuckled, reclining slightly as he set his own glass aside. “You know, I used to think the same. Thought I had to carry it all on my own shoulders—be the face, the brand, the genius behind the curtain. But times change, Spamton. No one wants a one-man show anymore. They want synergy. Chemistry. Contrast.”
Spamton tilted his head. “Like sweet and sour.”
“Exactly,” Tenna said with a warm smile.
The room settled into a brief, thoughtful silence. Spamton stared down at the half-empty glass in his hand, then glanced up at one of the many framed posters on the wall. Tenna’s face was plastered across it in some classic, decades-old pose. Too perfect. Too polished. The kind of image someone built a career on… then eventually got buried under.
Spamton knew that someday, he’d surpass the TV. He had to if he ever wanted to reach Heaven itself.
“I’m glad you’re willing to help me, Spamton,” Tenna said at last, his voice softer than before. “My ratings keep dropping, and it’s… well, it’s scary. From a business perspective, of course!” He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.
Spamton tilted his head, watching the towering screen-headed host.
“That’s the danger of the spotlight,” Tenna continued. “It keeps you warm, sure, but it also burns out everything behind you. Once you step into it, there’s no going back.”
Spamton met his gaze, unwavering and confident.
“Good,” he said. “I don’t want to go back.”
Tenna studied him for a beat longer. Then he nodded once, slow and deliberate.
“Then we understand each other.”
Spamton straightened in his seat, energized by the mutual hunger crackling between them.
“So. When do we start? You want a crash course on viral marketing? A makeover? I can get you trending faster than a scandal.”
Tenna chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure you can. But this won’t just be your workshop, Spamton—it’ll be our stage. You won’t just be the tech guy. You’ll be part of the performance.”
“I am the performance,” Spamton said with mock offense, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “But fine, fine, I get it. Teamwork. Two stars in one sky.”
“Exactly,” Tenna said. “Just don’t forget which one’s been burning longer.”
Spamton’s grin didn’t falter—but it did sharpen.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They clinked glasses again, sealing the deal once more in amber and static. The dressing room, glowing under the soft halo of bulb lights, felt like the calm before the storm.
Spamton watched Tenna closely, a quiet grin tugging at his lips. This partnership would be his springboard, his spotlight—his ticket to the stars.
And if Tenna burned too brightly along the way?
Well—every star was destined to go supernova eventually.