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Spamton clutched the little cardboard box so tightly it trembled.
“Do you like them?” a cheerful voice chirped. “Orange spent weeks on the pattern alone!”
The puppet’s pupils were visible and narrow, fixated on the contents before him.
“Oh, it hardly felt like a week! Don’t listen to Pink. It was really nothing,” Orange hummed, a reddish blush dusting his face.
“He’s stunned silent, guys,” a scratchier voice chimed.
The silence lingered, suffocating the atmosphere around the flock. In sync, their smiles fell. They exchanged worried looks until locking eyes with Blue, the most sympathetic of them. Dowsed in a cold sweat, the blue Addison initially jolted before accepting the responsibility.
“Hey, Spamton?” he hummed, scooting closer to the smaller darkner. “Are you okay?”
His eyes returned to normal, his expression indecipherable short of the threatening aura he radiated. Spamton set the box down in his lap and withdrew a pair of silky white fabric wings, bound by coarse textile straps on either side. Both straps were woven with a plastic ladder lock to perfectly fit the puppet, no matter his outfit. They were meant to be worn, at any time, any place. Much like the wings Spamton used to bear before the downfall all those years ago.
So much time had passed in this plastic, ball-jointed body that he seldom thought about his once slick, feathery silicone appearance. It was better not to dwell on it, in his mind, as it hurt to remember how things used to be. The crown jewels of his Big Shot body, however, as much as he concealed it in the TV World, were his little white wings. They were, by all accounts, useless. He could never fly, no matter how hard he tried. But they were his. They were beautiful.
They were taken from him.
Looking down at these new, artificial wings…he felt the others driving a knife along his scars, spilling his entrails out for their amusement. How could they sit there plastered with their salesman smiles, and remind him once more of something so important?… Something so endearing that he had loved and lost.
“WH@T THE [50% OFF] IS WRONG WITH Y0U?!>!” Spamton grumbled under his breath.
The quad jolted back in disbelief. Surely, they thought, they had misheard him.
“What do you mean?” Orange strained, his smile faltering.
“WHAT. THE [#$@%],” Spamton stood up, gripping the garment by one of the straps and shaking it in the others’ faces. “IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” he boomed.
“WHOAH! Whoah! Spamton” Pink balked, raising both hands defensively. “What is this about?!”
“Hey!” Yellow snapped. “Orange put A LOT of work into these for you!”
“[EYE] DONT REMEMBER ASKING YOU [3, 2, 1!]” Spamton snarled, directing his attention directly to Yellow. “ANY OF YOU!”
“Spamton!” Pink huffed. “There’s no reason to be ungrateful! Just give them back if you don’t want them. Quit being an ass!”
“OH HO HO HO HO IM THE [@$$]?!” Spamton snapped his attention over to Pink.
“Spam. It’s okay, you don’t have to keep them,” Orange mumbled, extending an arm and opening his hand in preparation to retrieve the wings.
“[THIS] IS SOME SICK [101 Knock Knock Jokes] IF YOU ASK ME!” the puppet screamed, kicking the empty cardboard box aside.
“Nobody’s laughing, asshole!” Pink snarled, glowering over the other, ready to snatch the gift back.
Clenching his jaw and staring daggers at anyone who looked him in the eyes, Spamton hopped to his feet and backed away from the approaching Addison. His free hand rested open behind his back, prepared to materialize an attack, while the other firmly clutched the wings.
Yet, only one of them caught the slim, glimmering string escaping past his dealmakers.
“H-hey. Spamton…” Blue rushed to his feet and stood between him and Pink, gently pushing his companion back. “What’s the matter?” he cooed. “What’s really the matter?”
As much as Spamton tried to appear tough…tried to appear big, or at least in control…his breathing hitched. Suddenly, all of the scowls tugging the Addisons’ faces diminished. Instead, furrowed frowns of concern washed over them with a sinking sense of dread.
Pity.
Spamton loathed being pitied by anyone and everyone.
Now, they go soft. Now they stand down. No, he wanted to fight. He was ready for a fight. Now that he was ready, he wanted to follow through. He had to. He wanted them angry. Fuming. As mean as mean could get. Shooting everything they had at him until the battleground felt even again, and those stupid plush wings were ash in his palms. They all knew the Addisons were capable of cruelty, after all. They were capable of a lot without any semblance of remorse.
Do it again, Spamton looped in his mind.
Do it again. Do it again. Do it again.
Scream! Shout! Attack me! SOMETHING!
He could see their mouths moving. If he strained hard enough through glossy eyes, he could somewhat make out what their lips were saying. However, the longer he strained in vain, the blurrier his vision became. A suffocating tightness in his chest radiated to his throat until he was rendered wholly mute. His anger melted into a slimy sensation over his entire body that finally snapped when an orange hand gripped his shoulder.
Everyone was too close.
The room was too warm for the gaggle of them.
Spamton felt a paralyzing nausea rip through his segmented little body, which only twisted the closer they came.
It all came crashing down when the well-meaning blue Addison attempted to lift the frazzled puppet.
A noisy snap echoed through the apartment, immediately followed by a yelp and the stomping of Blue backing away, clutching the side of his face. A small gash was torn into his cheek. Trace amounts of a dark liquid pooled between his fingers and dribbled onto the floor, centimeters away from the plush wings now rested.
For that brief second, the others directed their attention to their bleeding companion, earning Spamton the chance to flee.
The moment their backs were turned, he bolted out the door and towards the stairwell. Blinded by his swelling tears and a darkening tunnel haloing his peripheral vision, he stumbled down the steps on all fours, only briefly looking back to see a neon gaggle hot on his tail.
The closer the Addisons became, the harder he pushed himself to run. To hide. To never be seen like this.
Spamton stumbled into traffic and sloppily weaved through the crowds, running in the direction of Castle Town’s TV World subsection. He ran, and he ran, and he ran, straining his internal wires in a feral, desperate pursuit for safety… until he made it.
Until he made it home.
The smaller darkner slammed his body into the massive doors and yanked the doorknob so harshly it nearly flew off upon recoiling. Pushing his entire body weight into the door, the smaller darkner barreled inside and nearly toppled over in the living room. Tenna, busy in the kitchen, snapped out of his trance. Antennas stood at attention; the CRT leapt into action. He sprinted to Spamton, only to dig his heels into the ground the moment the digital flock shoved their way into his home.
In the moment, it was clear. Spamton was fleeing them. They had hunted him for reasons unknown…reasons the larger darkner failed to entertain. Reasons that hardly mattered when his love letter’s life appeared to be at stake.
Doubling in size, to the point his head scraped against the roof, a massive hand swiped down at the flock and snatched them in a fist. A cacophony of pained chirps and screeches sang out in varying volumes as Tenna’s grip became dangerously tight.
“Mr. Tenna!” Orange wheezed, gritting his teeth. “There’s been a misunderstanding!”
“We only wanted to help,” Blue insisted.
Tenna raised the mush of saturated feathers level to his screen, unamused.
“Then, START TALKING!!”
“Do you remember Spam’s wings? Before he changed?” Blue inquired.
“Of COURSE he does, dumbass!” Yellow hissed.
“I’d be surprised if he didn’t,” Orange mumbles.
“I wouldn’t,” Pink sneered.
“Ok! Ok!” Blue huffed and writhed in protest to Tenna’s painful grip.
Tenna clicked his tongue at Pink’s distasteful comment before turning to Blue with a softer, but still concerned, expression.
“Yes, I remember them. He had two cute, LITTLE white wings when he was still an Addison. What about them?” the CRT sighed, loosening his grasp.
“W-Well. We were talking one night and decided, maybe we could make him something so he could feel more included, you know? More like an Addison again. Or, at the very least, more like himself…” Blue stuttered. “We can’t bring his wings back, so Orange suggested sewing him a pair!”
“He didn’t seem to like them, though,” Orange mumbled. “He started insulting them and…well. We ganged up on him, and he started crying! We…I didn’t mean for that to happen, I promise. We wanted to talk to him about it, but he ran!”
Tenna’s antennas drooped a little. His overall expression dropped as he lowered the Addisons and returned to his normal size. With the others safely on the ground, Tenna turned away from them, hands clasped behind his back, and looked out the window, into the distance, in thought.
“You know, no matter how often I assure him he’s still BEAUTIFUL…even in the new body…I don’t think he believes me,” Tenna admitted, heart weighing heavily. “It’s a sore spot, even after all this time…”
“Yeah, we know. That’s why we thought the wings would help,” Pink muttered. “We thought it would help him feel a little more whole.”
Tenna took a moment to respond. It was clear, even with his back to them, that hearing this caused the CRT a great deal of pain. Through endless patience that he had never extended to anyone in the past, not even Spamton, Tenna had grown deeply empathetic towards his husband. Perhaps it was twenty years too late, but it was better late than never, he reasoned.
Images of Spamton’s suffering replayed in his head. Or, at least, his interpretations of what happened based on what little the puppet divulged… Pleading. Screaming. The endless tears that did nothing more than dehydrate the little darkner. The cold. The pain. The endless pain. Not only from the puppetification, but the loneliness of it all. The acceptance that nobody was coming to save him, not even Tenna, and that he would die if he didn’t get up, broken and bleeding.
The more Tenna imagined those scenarios, the easier it was to understand Spamton. Why he did what he did. Why he avoided the things he avoided.
Why he loved in the way that he loved.
Therefore, in his own way, Tenna could understand his reaction to the little plush wings.
“I’ll talk to him. Just wait here,” Tenna instructed in a melancholy murmur.
.
With the flock preoccupied, Spamton scurried into the bedroom he shared with Tenna. After slamming the door closed behind him, he stood there with his back to it. Alone now, the darkened ring around his vision faded with every heartbeat. Gradually, he could make out frantic, muffled voices from the other room, occasionally interrupted by Tenna’s. Although he could not comprehend what they were actually saying.
The tightness in his chest snapped, making him painfully aware of his own breathing to the point he began to hyperventilate. The tears, which had only stopped seconds ago, returned to the corners of his eyes. The reason why he had to hide reared its ugly head.
The moment he set his sights on the dresser, an old road in his neural network lit the way towards a distant habit. Way back when he was an Addison in the Cyber City, Spamton frequently hid himself in hard-to-reach spaces, thanks to none other than his loathed short stature. Whether that was atop shelves, in cabinets, or under tables depended on where exactly he was. The Addisons, try as they might, often struggled to get him out, further encouraging that cycle of behavior. It wasn’t until he moved to the TV World, partnered with the size-shifting CRT, that the habit mostly stopped.
At least until his fall.
Rather than curling up into the drawers of clothes, Spamton pushed himself under the dresser. It was a tight fit, the perfect place to hide. Tenna could shrink and reach him, sure, but pulling him out wouldn’t be an option. He’d have to grow and lift the furniture to retrieve the puppet in one piece, should he be forceful. Able to see the feet of those who approached, nobody could sneak up on him. Nobody could take him by surprise.
Once snug in the corner under the dresser, the puppet curled himself into a ball.
In the distance, he could still hear an exchange of voices, albeit calmer. The recent events from only minutes earlier resettled in his head as the panic withered. The plush wings. What an insult, Spamton recalled.
Then Blue. He must have whipped his comrade across the face with the buckle when he lashed out. Admittedly, he felt bad about that. As frantic as he was, harming the Addison who had always been the kindest to him was not his intention.
But how could they sit there and mock him like that?
With those smug grins across their faces. Spamton wanted to wipe that disgusting look off their faces. Rip each smile off and feed it back to them until they just understood why...
…
It wouldn’t have been of any use.
The more he pondered, the more he trapped himself in a loop of gnawing thoughts. Thoughts of a deep loathing for the body he had come to bear. He normally locked away and ignored such things. It was easier when he was insane, blinded by a need to survive coupled with an unwillingness to die. Now, however, his mind was clearer and outright vulnerable to those circling obsessions.
.
Tenna opened the door as quietly as he could. Off in the corner of the room, he could hear the faint, crackling sobbing of his husband. Spamton remained curled into a ball, tucking his face within the crook of his arm and clutching his abdomen under his knees. He did his best to muffle the noise into his sleeve, but Tenna still heard him.
Heavy footsteps approached the dresser once the CRT pinpointed the origin of the wailing. Instead of barging in, moving the furniture, or otherwise prying Spamton out, Tenna instead sat down. He simply sat cross-legged in front of the dresser. Furthermore, he slipped a hand under and felt around the carpet until his fingers brushed against a leg. Spamton knew he was there; it came as no surprise. What did surprise him, though, was when the massive hand clumsily traced a finger from his leg to his side and stopped on his smaller hand. Tenna gingerly scooped the puppet’s hand into his own, tracing his thumb over his knuckles. And then he sat there, silent, simply holding his love letter’s hand as he struggled to regain control over his breathing.
It would take a couple of minutes for Spamton to wind down. Although to Tenna, it felt like hours.
Only when the only sounds he heard were sniffles and hiccups, did Tenna speak.
“What happened, dear?”
It was soft and to the point. No stupid filler questions, no awkward jokes or offhanded information. Just stable. Direct.
“DO… YOU REMEMBER MY [Chicken Wings]?” Spamton eventually choked.
“Hm, yes. I remember your wings,” Tenna hummed. “You had a small pair of white, feathery wings back then.”
“THOSE [STUPID ADS] ARE MAKING A [FOOL] OUT OF THEM. THEY [Hand Sewn] ME A [PEAR] OF [100% Cotton] WINGS!” Spamton barked, squeezing Tenna’s hand a little when he did. “IT’S A [Cruel and unusual punishment] JOKE [CATHODE]! THEY ARE MOCKING ME! MOCKING WHAT I [Lost and found] … [Loved and lost]! I THOUGHT THEY [Exact change only]! I THOUGHT THEY IGNORED MY [Hot Bod] LIKE EVERY[$1.99] ELSE DOES! BUT NO. NO NO NO NO NO! THEY [Half-off] TO RUB [IT] IN THAT IM NOT AN [AD] ANYMORE! IVE BEEN [Clipped and reposted] IN THIS HIDIOUS [Segmented] FORM!”
Whenever Spamton spoke with such pain-fueled passion, it gutted the CRT. Those nights where he cried out in vain must have been loud. Loud enough for him, after all these months reunited, to still scream when Tenna was right there. Screaming as if nobody could hear him.
“Why would they want to hurt you like that?” Tenna beckoned, despite already having the Addisons’ stories.
Spamton took a few seconds before responding with a defeated, “[EYE] DONT KNOW…”
“You know, they told me those wings were to help you feel more like an Addison again. Or, at least, like yourself,” Tenna explained, gently squeezing the puppet’s hand. “They wanted to include you, so you could feel whole… They only wanted to help and, for what it’s worth, I believe them, love letter.”
Spamton unfolded and stared in Tenna’s direction.
“I can’t imagine they would want to ridicule your scars…”
Tenna was right. Spamton knew, now that he thought about it, that he was right. If the Addisons wanted to provoke him, they’d passively jab him through words. Backhanded comments. Sarcastic compliments. Snide remarks...
Not gifts. Never something that took genuine effort. Time and money, even now, were precious among them. They’d never blow it on a cruel bit as intimate as this.
Shuffling from under the dresser and tugging on his hand directed Tenna’s attention down to the puppet crawling to freedom. Idled, he observed Spamton rise, release his hand, and climb into his lap with his arms wide open the moment he was stable.
It was an invitation Tenna could never refuse.
In an instant, two massive arms ensnared around the puppet, and Tenna curled his legs to his chest, knees against his arms, compressing the smaller darkner within. Tenna leaned down to peck the top of the other’s head, nuzzling him immediately after. At the core of the embrace lay the snug, possibly overheating, puppet, whose face was buried into the CRT’s chest.
“I DIDNT MEAN TO [It hurts! It hurts!] [Cornflower Blue]. [EYE] DONT KNOW WHY I HIT HIM! [ANGEL] ABOVE I SWEAR!” Spamton wept.
“I believe you, I believe you! Oh, Spammy. I’m SURE he knows you didn’t mean it. Out of ALL of them, I can’t imagine HIM being unforgiving!” Tenna frantically assured, on the brink of tears. “They are still here if you want to see them still. I told them to wait. But if you want them to go, just say the word, okay? And I will have them leave!”
“NO! NO! I WANT TO [C Sharp] THEM!” Spamton sniffled. “I CAN [Press F1 for Help] WITH A [HEAL DEAL] [$4.99] HIM.”
“I’m sure he would GREATLY appreciate a visit from your little angels,” Tenna cooed.
.
The moment Tenna reemerged from the bedroom, all four Addisons perked up, deadlocked on the doorway. As soon as their sights landed on the disheveled little puppet following behind, they rushed to gather around at a distance of arm’s length. Hands clasped, smiles thin, expressions of worry unable to be masked, they seemed to wait for Spamton to react… To accept them or wave them away.
Spamton shuffled in place, disturbed by their silence, but refocused when his eyes met Blue’s. That gash was awful-looking. It was small, but dark and beginning to swell. He hadn’t taken the time to clear the blood stains, short of smearing it, either.
No matter, it could be fixed.
Spamton took a breath, cupped his hands, and coded a little angel of himself into reality. Upon being born, it knew exactly what to do. It wasted no time fluttering over to Blue, who greeted the little creature with a warm smile and a brush under the chin.
“Why, hello there!” he chuckled sweetly, receiving a small wave in response. “Aren’t you precious.”
The little angel appeared to blush, covering its face with both hands before getting down to business. It could sense its creator’s annoyance with its dillydallying. So, it set its eyes on the gash and pecked it with the littlest kiss Blue could fathom. A short burst of green code emitted from the wound, and then it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
“Awwe! Thank you so much! It’s good as new.” Blue chimed, rubbing his healed skin in astonishment. “We should partner up, little guy. We could make it big out there in the world of online medical care!”
Instead of accepting Spamton’s mental retrieval commands, the little angel opted to sit on Blue’s shoulder, basking in the praise as if it were capable of dreams of its own.
“Oh, can he stay a little longer, Spam?” Blue pleaded, going the extra mile to reveal his shimmering, seldom-seen sapphire irises.
Spamton rolled his eyes, but relented with a huffed, “FINE.”
Seeing as he had injured Blue mere moments ago, it was the least he could do. But his visible discomfort was noted.
“Do you… not like sending them out?” Orange inquired.
Spamton shook his head and crossed his arms.
“Why is that?” Yellow mumbled.
“[THEY] TOOK MY [ANGEL] WINGS. I…[EYE]…DONT LIKE [Look, but don’t touch] AT THEM… [It hurts! It hurts! Someone help me! Please! Anyone!]. [Transfer Complete] TO THEM INSTEAD OF ME! [HEAVEN] CLIPPED THEM AND MAKES ME WATCH THEM, [Sweet and Sour] [Little] HAPPY [WORMS]!! IT MAKES ME SICK!”
In that moment, Tenna expressed the same silent “oh” as the Addisons.
“I’m sorry, Spam. I didn’t realize,” Blue mumbled, scooping up the trusting creature.
“NO..NO…” Spamton stared at the floor. “ITS…FINE… I…” Tenna’s firm grip on the shoulder and assuring smile were met with a softening expression from the puppet. “CAN [EYE] HAVE THE [100% Polyester] WINGS BACK?”
“W-What?” Orange chirped.
“Hey, Spam. You don’t have to accept it,” Pink added.
“Yeah, we shouldn’t have lashed out like that. We didn’t realize how you felt…” Yellow swore.
“I can repurpose them! Don’t worry! How about I turn them into a nice dress for you? Or a night gown? Or even another dress shirt!” Orange reassured.
“NO!” Spamton gasped, not intending to yell. “NO..NO. I WANT [THEM] BACK…PLEASE.”
Orange swallowed harshly before directing his attention to Pink.
“Did you bring them?”
Pink nodded and retrieved them from under a blanket on the couch, where they were hidden just in case Spamton went either way in his decision.
The Addison handed them to Orange, and Orange approached Spamton. He knelt in front of him, so they were eye to eye, and held the garment open by the straps.
“Would you like to try them on?”
Spamton swiftly nodded and turned around before slipping both arms under the extended straps. Once situated on his shoulders, Orange then guided the puppet to face him again so he could tighten them accordingly. Once the final strap was secure, the orange Addison clasped both hands together, as if praying, and pressed his index fingers to his lips, admiring both his work and Spamton alike.
“Oh! Spam! You look wonderful with them on!” he squealed with restraint. “Where’s your nearest mirror, you should-“
The wind was knocked out of him when Spamton threw himself at his comrade and snapped both arms around his ribs so constricting that the air was squeezed out of his lungs. Such a gesture was, by all accounts, welcomed. Orange gladly reciprocated to a gentler degree, weaving one hand into Spamton’s hair, scratching his scalp, and rubbing circles into his upper back with the other.
It didn’t take long for the remainder of the flock to entomb Spamton in one collective hug. Arms snared around his waist and over the backs of others. Nuzzling could be felt on the top of his head, on his neck, and against his shoulder. Joyous chirps and trills reverberated through the room as the puppet was allowed to melt, entirely melt, in their affections.