Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A clustered shitty suburban neighborhood. White chipped paint that needed to get repainted before he got a fine for it. Wood steps that sunk into the ground, with one of the railing posts missing a pillar. A banged-up screen door and its subsequential proper door both squeaking too much for his pleasure. It was a single story, ignoring the mandatory basement. Least the crime wasn’t high, unlike the mortgage ‘cause of its home city’s size.

As he shuffled through the door with load one, it gave him apprehension for how much of a strain load two would be. He was least happy he could see the ground while he could, weaving between the remnants of prior diving escapades and genuine trash from himself that got mixed in with the treasure. He least had the decency to swipe his day prior’s take out box to the floor with the clinking of a couple aluminum cans; all for a glorious telephone. He always dug the ones with the spinning numbers.

When he stood back at his open trunk, it hit him with a frown that maybe this wasn’t worth it, especially for something that could easily never get past showing a constant black screen, not even having the power to produce static. It was that or a grand clock, though he was more worried of what possibly lived inside that when he swore he heard it squeak.

He hoisted the two hander into his arms and tried to stumble as quickly forwards as his legs willed him to. He gave up once he reached the steps of his house, excusing the break subconsciously as a chance to shut and lock his car instead of stemming from sore arms. Then he was back to cradling the TV, desperately leaning it against his house as he fumbled the door that automatically wanted to swing shut, and slipped inside.

He only rested when it was home with his neighboring junk best friend on the coffee table. He was glad he lived alone so no one could watch as his lungs heaved after the short work out, not even caring to sit on the couch right behind him as the floor was deemed suitable. It left him with the question of what to do next on his mind, rearing his head back to lay on the couch with a groan.

The daily list contained of a now mandatory shower at some point before bed, figure out food, therein eat that food, and the supplementary to his mental health options of do some spring cleaning as it was repeatedly one of his new year resolutions.

He landed on sulking in the moment, tallied it off his list, caved in, and left the new household additions to their lonesome as he prowled for food.

One of the kitchen’s lights didn’t work perfectly, always flickering when the flip was switched. It once bothered him, though not enough to inspire him to ACT so it quickly became one of the many quirks of the place. He never used the dining table for its intended purpose, as that job was passed down to the coffee table, so he allowed mail, papers, and “useful” things to claim the territory. The countertop, stove, and sink were at least in a more loved state, though still left with a sort of grime that built up from the few times he actually used the spaces. More and more he was growing disinterested or moreover demotivated to properly use the spaces for homecooked meals, though the sink was cooking something of its own at the bottom of it.

He often didn’t check the cabinets anymore for this reason, as he’d then have to put effort into creation instead of simple reusing. Moreover rather, he’d glaringly have to dedicate an hour solely on the whole song and dance of eating; lacking the drive to do so. He managed to have fire for the day to day chasing for success, but it fizzled out when he breached the barrier of his doorway and was forced to his own vices. Ignoring the disgusting photos on the fridge, it left him with what was inside.

He had every ethnicity of food locked in his fridge: Italian, Chinese, Mexican, bar food, fast food, and even gas station food if he hated himself; maybe the list realistically ended at the common types of take-out options. Out of everything, today was least feeling like a cold leftover spaghetti day, with some new parmesan added to spice things up. The fridge then just got a little emptier as he returned to the couch.

Eating went as normal, despite any want to choke on his food. He argued though that it’d be better to choke on a meal you enjoyed, to then be able to be taken out mid savoring your last meal. So, he to prayed against the odds and washed down cold stiff noodles with liquor. Ashamedly, the smell of his mouth didn’t really change gulp after gulp that went down his throat.

Lethargically, once all that remained was styrofoam, he picked around the house for his strewn tools to pool together at his makeshift workbench. The only tool he managed to not find was his ashtray among the mess, so as always, the couch doubled up on responsibilities.

He lit the end of a cigarette, and plugged the phone in. Nothing. He spun the dial a few times as a trial, still just silent tension. The chain reaction started of unplugging and starting to disassemble the thing to see its organs. The things that made it tick.

Everything looked attached and fine which made things more frustrating, though there was something off at cursory glance. With furrowed brows, he got up and grabbed a faulty replica found long ago.

Its insides had water damage and a crooked perch for the phone to rest on. Underneath it’s skeleton, its components were organized as expected. It’s new friend almost seemed to mimic the correct make up of a phone that should work, but just had fake inside wiring dawning the loose idea of what the inside of an ordinary appliance should look like.

It implemented that trying to do anything with it would be a pain, but with a sigh, he tried.

He detangled and reorganized. Nothing. Replaced the parts he tried to deem looked the most worn down. It still didn’t do anything when plugged in and played with. He replaced everything, tightened every screw, and it still didn’t have any new tricks. Frustration swelled as he got into the same rhythm conjuring the same disappointments over and over again. Frustration built to rage, as his inadequacy to be able rearrange a phone’s guts again to work again. He knew he should’ve tried a better hobby, or God forbid, actually’ve gotten a college degree when it was prime time to. He was seething even just looking at the CRT and knowing it’d be even more fun to play with.

He lost track of what exactly nicked him, just felt the nip of pain when his hands were still in the phone’s components. He pulled out his finger to witness the side of his pointer dotting red. His palms were dusty, and as he closed his eyes. It was one of many tiny ones homed to his hand, yet more frustrating than the rest even while just being a graze. Left to wonder what sort of hellish infection would be bred from a dumpster phone’s bacteria, he palmed the metal receiver in his hand.

He stood, empty bleeding clutching into a fist, dirty fingernails threatening to pierce his palm; the other still shakily gripping the phone.

With a blind stomp and slam, he hurled the phone forward.

His eyes didn’t even manage to open before the tv exploded.

Chapter Text

“...somewhere we don’t belong, inside the kingdom’s walls.”

On the brink of consciousness, he could barely compute a voice through the fog in his head.

“Don’t stray far, for the townsmen sell fox hide’s and deer pelts for an ounce gold.” There’s a devilish but playful tone to the voice, accompanied with the childish shivers and gasp of two children.

“Are you sure, sir, it’s worthwhile to work with such savages?” The question’s flavored with an innocence exemplified by the voice of a meek girl.

He’s able to peel an eye open, soreness sinking in. He can’t even say he recognizes his own living room the way it was ravaged to pieces. He wasn’t even sure how he was laying on the remnants of his couch, disliking the wooden frame digging into his leg and metal wire into his ass.

“What happened to needing a plush new blanket to sooth the soul?”

There was a monotone response making it the third voice. “I need it.”

“And under my care, we’ll get it, without anyone so much as stealing a strand from your coat.”

Rearranging his worthless limbs, he leaned over the edges of the couch to properly stare at the floor; where the chatter came from. His coffee table managed to not even exist anymore, with even the to be expected exploded remains not being saw strewn around the room amongst everything that did. Glass and debris even managed to find its way to the far end of the kitchen, yet no deep brown wood of the table in sight; or at least in the state it should be in.

In the now barren center of the room, the wood was mended to be part of a figure. The outline of something humanoid was built off the back of the useless shit he hoarded in his house in a janky display of wood, metal, fabric, and cotton. It was almost beautiful in a horrifying way, as it defied all sense, all rules and laws for what promptly happens in reality. What happens when a bomb essentially goes off mere feet in front of you. It’d be his first time being dead though, he’d assume, so who was he to judge if things didn’t make sense. If anything, it was sensical the TV that imploded was playing kids cartoons connected to a impossibly made body.

There’s a sickly sort of clash sound, and the consequential fear being squeaked by the children that even made the man dazed on the couch flinch in fear to. The elder, a cat of black and orange, brings a finger to their out of place smirk. It doesn’t stop the deer and fox’s trembling. “Stay here for now where you’re safe. Heed my way, and fear will fear you.”

Watching the cat fade from screen makes his mind dizzy, with the following fade to black taking over the whole scene. His mind feels so shitty, so murky and loopy, that there’s an uncomfortable pulse starting to ripple through his head. The slow meshing of memory, contorting and twisting slightly to start to believe that that was how the show always went. Didn’t he used to play with a bean bag plush of that cat as a kid? He rather too quickly fully sat up.

He clutched his head and groaned, the feeling he was losing his mind starting to hit in waves of a sharp headache, and then nausea. Death sure looked like an on-point replica of his living room. Hell really was just the house he lived in more trashed than usual; he figured it’d be made more of brimstone and fire than this. Regardless, it was a pretty good personal hell.

The Frankenstein on the floor jerked, and then spasmed for life; in horror the man sat frozen watching not feet away. With a flash, it gasped. It tried to marionette its own body to move, fighting off a sort of sluggish struggle of almost not knowing how to. It floundered before giving up, and sadly tilting its tv head to the man homed to the tore up couch remains. It almost seemed out of breath, like it somehow had lungs, as if it wasn’t an amalgamation of his household belongings. “What-”

“What the fuck are you.” The man spat, clutching a chunk of fabric almost in attempt to clutch to something for safety like a child.

“So much for pleasantries.” Somehow, it dared to gain a sheepish smile. Its response came slow like it was having trouble processing. “I’m a TV.”

“No, I meant are you a devil? A demon? Satan himself for all I know? I got eyes I can see you’re a TV.”

Again, it buffered. “I-I’m a TV.” It finally repeated slowly.

He grunted. “Jesus, alright, am I dead then?”

“...I don’t think so? I was meaning to ask if I’m alive.”

It felt like the obvious answer was no, as he wasn’t sure what it all fully meant if that wasn’t true. Undoubtedly, the seeds of confusion started to take sprout. “I don’t think so.”

Then there was silence, in the wake of a blown-up room.

So, he acted.

He tumbled from the couch to the wall in front of him, peeling back purple curtains to get a peak of the natural world. It was a complimenting cloudy day, but it didn’t scream abnormal. He wobbled to the kitchen, and despite his wavering vision, he reached for his flip phone. It was a day later than it should’ve been, and some missed calls from his one sister stood out. He sunk his head into his hands for a moment against the kitchen counter as a brief wave of frustration hit as it dawned he no call no showed his shift; quickly getting dethroned of its importance by the situation at hand. At the crumbling reality he had to deal with the fall out of.

When he hovered by the kitchen doorway, he saw the tv managed to maneuver itself to sit up. The horror sunk in of how huge it towered, not even figuring out how to stand yet and already being an intimidating size. He stuck to peering behind the door frame as if he was back to his childhood days of sneaking around the house past curfew.

It somehow had a stupid wobbly smile, fitting into the loose mold of a human consisting of debris. It struggled with movements, understandably being the first time it had any sort of anatomy like this.

“I think, we’re alive.” He nervously brushed back his hair. The TV’s ‘face’ seemed to light up in wonder.

“Wow.” It too was just as astonished. With its breath seemingly stolen in amazement, it started to rapidly toss questions in the air. “Is this your house? Wait no- that's a stupid question. What’s your name? Do you have any pets I get to meet?! I’ve always wanted to see a cat in real life, heck, see anything in real life.” His face turned to quick horror. “Don’t tell me they were here when I exploded, did I kill your-”

“No, you did not kill my theoretical pet.” He sighed. “I don’t have pets, too much to worry about.” He slowly eased himself back into the living room. “Spamton, the name’s Spamton by the way.”

“Wow, just wow. Hi Spamton.” It extended out a ridged hand made of Chinese finger traps and 50 cent penny wraps for fingers. It’s arms were a mix of wire, cotton, and wood, connected to a trunk clearly based off of his couch. He didn’t reciprocate the kind jester and maintained his peering distance. “C-can you give me a name?”

“What?”

“A name? I’ve never had a name before and my serial number isn’t a great one to use.” It’s like it was attempting to become more humanized at the first tastes of existence, the joy of being able to have a life hitting in waves. He realized, with a frown, that it must’ve been studying him closely as it mimicked his nervous toying, as if he was a stunning model of a human to copy.

There was a pause for thought. The way he looked at the TV caused it to want to say something further to get a response, but before he could act on that building anxiety, he got a wavering response. “Tenna.”

“Tenna...” He slowly tried. More excitedly he chanted it to himself with cumulating joy. “Tenna.”

“Ya know it’s cause of yer antennas, cause ya know, ‘ant-tenna’-”

The defense was out of self-conscious realization that the name was noticeably silly, yet wasn’t needed to be heard from the TV. “I LOVE it!” It would’ve grasped his hands if they were in reach to clasp. It rotated its weight to now sit on its prosthetic knees. “Mr. Ant Tenna at your service!”

Things seemed to turn in Spamton’s skull. “My service?”

“Well, I feel I should offer you something in return if I’m gonna live here, and I can’t exactly get a job. TV’s don’t exactly-”

“Live here?!”

It was Tenna’s turn to go quite for a moment of confusion. “Didn’t you bring me here if I’m not mistaken?”

“I wasn’t expecting you to become a whole ass, thing!” He rolled his hand towards Tenna, who seemed grimace with just a mouth. “I don’t got roommates for a reason, and I wasn’t dying to get one forced on me.”

“Well, I can’t exactly leave.”

He grinded his teeth. “Hell you mean. Doors right there, and don't let it hit your ass on the way out.”

He managed to pull of expressing discomfort only using the outline of a frown. “I can’t leave. It’s not like I wouldn’t mind even seeing the world either, I just- I just can’t.”

If he didn’t way more than probably twice his body weight, Spamton would’ve tried to drag him through the door in rebellion. He had to substitute the action with sticking his hands to his waist disappointedly. “And why the hell not?”

The discomfort grew, as he had to manage to describe something that was clear and almost like an instinct, yet seemed like a sign of mental instability if he explained. A made-up rule of the universe he must follow he picked up on, and he wasn’t sure someone else would understand. A rule that god put somewhere inside the copper of his wires to be transported to his motherboard. “I can’t.” He said abashedly, and he wracked his brain to make something up on the spot to seem less insane. “I mean, having anyone see a 15 foot dazzling TV might cause a stir to put it simply, wouldn’t it? A scandal day one of life wasn’t in my cards!”

Spamton never felt shorter in his life as his eyebrows shot up. “15 feet?”

“OK, maybe that’s a bit of hyperbole, I have no clue how tall I am.” There was a reason why he didn’t attempt to stand beyond unstable balance, despite any want to give it a try, reassured with a quick glance to the ceiling. “I won’t be a bother, Spamton, I promise. Look, I can be useful! I know how to cook, clean, sew, heck! Might even be able to do something about the hole in your wall.” He pointed a stiff thumb towards the new gouge in the wall. Admittedly he was pulling things out of his ass as a front to not get the boot again, even though his size left that not much of a threat. Sure, in theory he might’ve learned how to execute those tasks over his years of broadcasting before getting dumped, but there was no practice on the skill front for any of those things.

Spamton didn’t question that glaring hole in things, moreover having that inner demotivation toy with the idea of an easy out when it came self-care. Everything was overwhelming regardless, on top of still aching pains throughout his body, so was there really a drawback?

“Fine.”

There it was, an animated flashy grin. He clasped his hands together to immediate regret as they clunk together too unnaturally with the sound of hard hitting hard. “So, where do I start!”

He started to trace his way back to the kitchen preemptively to the tune of a sigh. “I’ll get a trash bag.”

...

It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to clean, or was doing it wrong beyond struggling to operate his fingers to pick things up; it was the things Spamton arbitrarily announced with frustration, “No, not that” that ended up being the factor to cut things short. As a result, Tenna also grew frustrated why unused dead batteries and damaged unopened mail couldn’t go in the bag with the drywall and chunks of foam, with the reasoning being “I was planning on recharging them” and “I still have yet to look through those!” when there was a few at the bottom of the lump from 2 years ago. Both would’ve been a pain to pick up anyways, though it didn’t stop the tension from becoming too much for Spamton to bear.

Face flush he violently gave up on trying to tie the overflowing bag shut. Tenna chose to ignore the swear under his breath as he brewed up a storm. “STOP, just, stop Tenna.”

Respectfully, he didn’t fight back, only offering an attentive turn of his CRT head that almost seemed to show, or as Spamton rather feign to believe, was patience. It made his rage slow into a sickly self-disgust. He twisted his body to look away, with his own reasoning being the light of his screen didn’t help his headache. “Didn’t you say you can cook? Why don’t you go make something.”

He didn’t wait for a response before he locked himself in his own bathroom.

After a pause, he could hear the loud dragging of Tenna’s crus against the wood floors. Comfortingly, the sounds at least listened to his demands as they got farther away.

Uncomfortably, he got the first look in the mirror of the day. He had managed to wash his hands between everything, but he didn’t clean up the residue mess that he had on the rest of his body from any of his wounds, including the smear of crusted blood on his forehead from clutching it. With a groan, that initiated a shower to start up and proper licking of his wounds.

He only got undressed and in when steam billowed past the curtains. The water stung sore skin more than it was supposed to, with soap getting rubbed in his bits of exposed dermis layer. It might’ve been the first time in years he ever actually washed his face.

Once his hands finally got to working 2 in 1 men’s soap into his hair, there was a distinct glass shatter that came somewhere deeper in the house he knew he’d have to deal with later on account of his current maid having barely functional fingers.

He’d just have to keep towing forwards as always; as peroxide added to the continual general sting, as he hated how a band aid didn’t lay flat on his arm and hurt to pull off as its adhesive had a grip on his arm hairs, as he slunk to his bedroom with nothing but a towel since he didn’t give himself the grace of a change of clothes, as he slowly just hated everything-

And so, he was back in bed when things would always get this way. It was nice after all, and wasn’t a negative in a sea you could drown in. There was a want for his mind to find the still quiet comforting, and focus on the direct here, now, and never then. Yet, even doing so would’ve still left him just sulking in the sickening sensations of his body instead of the thought exercises of all the ways he’d get a pink slip handed tomorrow. He didn’t even want to pick between being subjected to one or the other, let alone both and more at once.

The hull of Tenna’s weight against the floor took him out of his thoughts for a moment. He stopped short of his door and knocked, before figuring out the room he knocked on was empty and moved to the next.

Before his knuckle hit the door, Spamton spoke up. “What?!”

“Dinners done!” He droned in a manufactured too sweet tone.

Tenna wasn’t even out of the hallway’s corridor before Spamton opened the door, causing him to have to wait for him lug himself into the living room. He was happy he least wore slippers as, as he expected, Tenna tried to grab a plate with it ending scattered across the floor. On the oven waited the fruits of Tenna’s labor in the form of once frozen eggrolls. Spamton wasn’t sure he had the energy to find the act disappointing for he least didn’t hate egg rolls. The act, though simple, was a lot for the TV, gradually making him start to appreciate.

A fork prodded at an eggroll, trying to crack it in half to see how cooked it really was. Crescendo-ing into an small act of kindness, Spamton defeatedly asked, “You want one?” when it finally was dissected into two and seemingly still cold at its core.

Tenna thought with deliberation. “I’m not sure I can.”

“God, is there anything you’re allowed to do?”

“Well, I’m just not sure I should try anything ‘wet’, or if could like, theoretically even eat, you know? I know just about as much as you do when it comes to myself. I don’t really want to end things on day one, now would I?”

Spamton bit into the second one. “You least enjoying day one then, big guy?”

Tenna seemed to be too thoughtful as he thought through his wishy-washy feelings. “It’s- it’s been fine yeah.” He folded his arms on the table and rested his head on top. “Thank you for asking.”

The rest of dinner was left in a domestic silence as Tenna screen was glued to Spamton’s eating. He was absorbing life in a way he never had before, and was fascinated by such a mundane thing. Spamton could eat, sleep, feel, smell, see, properly live as that’s what he was always made to do even if he wasn’t great at it at times. It cultivated a sort of yearning somewhere in Tenna’s casing. While the last eggroll was disappearing, it made him wonder, ‘what would it taste like?’ before Spamton finished it with the answer to that question that he might never get the personal answer to.

His wishful wondering was cut short when Spamton stood and shouted because of an experience he was sure he would rather live without. “Fucking piece of glass.” Tenna giggled despite the stern glare he received. He always was a slapstick guy.