Chapter Text
Battat hurried down the many labyrinthine corridors, adjusting his costume head on the go. It wasn’t supposed to be his turn for at least another few hours, which, if he was being responsible, he should’ve been using for a nap but was instead spending in front of his conspiracy board. The mystery of Mike’s true identity wouldn’t crack itself, he reasoned, and who needed sleep when caffeine existed anyway? As he was about to pin another piece of evidence to the cardboard, a jumbled rustling in his earpiece made him jump at least a foot in the air.
Getting snapped out of his investigator state by a call usually put him in a grumpy mood and today wasn’t an exception. He picked it up, ready to grumble about how he was interrupted in the middle of a genius breakthrough, but the usually steady Jongler’s voice was laced with such panic, it made him drop all pretenses of being annoyed.
There could only be one reason for them to call Battat in such urgency to swap roles. The reason the studio was still running was simultaneously the reason it was under constant threat of being reduced to the ground.
Tenna.
Frankly, Tenna has always been difficult to handle, his mood swings being only consistent in their unpredictability. He would grow and shrink at a moment's notice; a piece of news could shatter his self-esteem or restore his faith in himself depending on the tone it got delivered in. Instability and Tenna’s mental state went in pairs.
But that was nothing new for an experienced Mike. The TV was known to be a moody boss, even when their ratings were beating the highest scores.
Where some might’ve despaired, Motormouth Mike persevered! Managing Tenna was part of Battat’s daily duties; he got the hang of it after a while and could expertly redirect the TV’s attention when needed. An achievement he would never admit aloud he was proud of.
Though it has been a while now that his perception of Tenna started to shift. What began as a way to survive has evolved over time, going from a necessity to a form of genuine affection. Without Battat even noticing, all the therapy sessions and bedtime stories morphed into simple quality time he spent together with Tenna. Sure, it was Mike that got all the praise for being there for him, but underneath the costume, it was Battat that benefited from the privilege of an exclusive insight into the host’s mind. And the closer he got, the clearer his view of Tenna became.
Nowadays, Battat had to admit, most of the time, he understood what the CRT was going through. Managing a studio while simultaneously being its star and its face – sure, the pressure was bound to get to anyone at some point. And sure, the crew messed up sometimes. The wrong prop, a jingle missing its cue - it happens! Darkners are not error proofed. And even though Tenna tended to overreact, he usually stayed within the lanes of reason. The guy was just emotional, not insane!
At least, that was what Battat was trying to convince himself of.
Today, however, was particularly bad, even when compared to all the previous incidents of raging fits.
“That’s what I get for hiring con artists!” Tenna barked, as he paced the stage, tugging at his antennae, tail slashing the air with such vigor, standing close could easily send a darkner to the hospital. The air around him crackled dangerously with electricity. A group of Pippinses shifted nervously beside him, pushing each other to not be in the front line.
“Lazy, deceiving, good for nothing! All of you!” Tenna whirled around, now facing the small darkners, making them squeak in fear and freeze. An accusatory finger was repeatedly jabbed in one of the Pippinses’ chest, who faltered under its sheer force. Battat was willing to bet that the poor guy was not even the one who committed the offense in the first place. Tenna was never especially good at distinguishing his employees, it was what the whole Mike gig hinged upon.
“And I still pay your ungrateful bums, don’t I?” Tenna’s voice took a venomous quality, sounding unpleasantly fake as he leaned even closer. One of his sharp canines caught the lights of the stage. The die paled and leaned back, almost falling on his frightened comrades.
“Should I adjust your salaries, mmmh? Too many points and my employees forget the contracts they signed, let go of all their basic responsibilities? Is that it?” The questions were asked in a cheerful tone that promised free ice-cream spiked with arsenic.
All of a sudden Tenna grew, now towering over the group of smaller darkners, cowering beneath him. The one that has been elected as his personal victim fell backwards at the sudden change, wincing painfully as he hit the floor. Paying them no mind, Tenna pinched one of his antennae, broadcasting his voice over the whole studio.
“Everyone! It came to my attention that I have been way too kind with some of my employees! However! I will not let anyone take advantage of me! So measures will be taken!”
He cast a glance downwards and scowled, glaring down on the panicking dice beneath him. The next sentence broadcasted was spat with open hostility, making the speakers around the studio crackle with static.
“If ever a gosh darn thing happens during the filming, again, I’ll fire every single Pippins in the studio! Personally! Over!”
Severing the transmission as suddenly as he started it, Tenna whirled on his heels and stomped angrily into the halls. The Pippinses gathered around their fallen friend, multiple hands extended towards him in offer of help. After a last glance, Battat, protected from his boss’ wrath by his disguise, rushed after him, mindful of the swishing cord tail.
“Hey there, boss! Wait for me!” he yelled as the red coat tails got further and further away.
Tenna’s head jerked in recognition, angling slightly to peer back behind his shoulder on the small smiling microphone approaching him. He did not stop, but slowed down enough to let Mike catch up to him.
“So, what’s all that about, big guy? Things got pretty heated back there!” Mike’s typical cheerfulness burned Battat’s tongue, as he forced his voice to comply. Before he could open his big motormouth again, Tenna interrupted him.
“Not now Mike. Just…” A shaky exhale punctuated an involuntary pause, as Tenna was visibly struggling to stay calm. Battat dared a quick glance up, catching the blink of the screen as his boss’s face disappeared, replaced by an expressionless black mass. Uh-oh. Not good.
The rest of the way to Tenna’s office passed in a heavy silence, broken only by the sound of their steps. Once inside the room, Tenna unceremoniously threw himself face down on the couch and began shrinking rapidly. After checking the halls for any curious passer-bys and carefully closing the door, Mike approached, sitting down next to him on the plush cushion. Where a second ago lay a giant robotic TV host only remained a tiny sobbing darkner.
It was all part of the act. An old, well-rehearsed show that all Mikes knew like the back of their hands. But no matter how often Battat got to witness his boss’s breakdowns, they always affected him, even if slightly. He never thought of himself as a softie but something about Tenna crying so inconsolably tug on his heartstrings. For Mikes, Tenna’s moods were an obstacle to get around, but for Tenna the despair was always real. The pain he went through always hurt.
Battat gently scooped the crying TV, cupping his hands around him to prevent him from falling, and brought him closer to his face.
“What happen’, boss?” The same question he asked in the hall earlier now sounded intimate, filled with genuine concern. In the dark of Tenna’s office, the identities of Mike and Battat intertwined, making it harder to see where the pretense began and the truth ended.
What was certain was that Tenna needed a friend, and he was there for him. As he always was. As Mike.
Tenna didn’t answer at first, shoulders shaking as static tears leaked from his screen. They dripped down his casing and onto the white fabric of Mike’s gloves, puddling in the creases. Using a finger, Mike carefully wiped a bit of staticky moisture from the TV’s screen, uncaring for the wetness sipping through his gloves. The gesture seemed to ground Tenna a bit, as he let out another shaky exhale before pushing himself in a sitting position.
“It was the cue cards”, he mumbled in between quiet sobs.
Mike didn’t press further, letting the silence hang between them, waiting patiently for the TV to continue. Tenna’s screen flickered, as he lifted his head, gaze, fogged by tears, searching for something in his producer’s round face. Battat smiled gently at him from behind the mask.
Tenna seemed to have found whatever he was looking for. His first words seemed to have unlocked a flood, the host speaking quickly as if afraid of being interrupted.
“It was all ready for the segment! I was ready, the props were ready, I mean, everything!” The TV gestured animatedly, flailing his arms around, trying to capture the feeling of “everything” for his audience of one.
“I took my seat, the cameras started rolling and I… ” Hands balled into fists, Tenna lifted his head, a wobbly unsteady smile making an appearance on his screen. “I just felt it, Mike!” Tenna’s voice grew bolder, past enthusiasm filling his words. His height gained a few inches, Battat’s hands faltering at the sudden growth.
“The energy was just right, you know, I could feel it in the air! Just like it used to be! As if I was back then when they… ”
He trailed off. The mood shifted again, Tenna shrinking further than he was before, head hanging low, as he hugged his knees close to his chest. Battat wordlessly shook his head. It was expected. The good moods never lasted long.
“When Tori and Gorey used to watch me together, ” Tenna barely managed to finish the sentence, fighting against tears threatening to spill once more. If Battat wasn’t so close he would’ve missed it. “Today was supposed to be perfect for them...”
There was a sigh on Battat’s lips that he bit on and swallowed down.
Toriel and Asgore’s anniversary was circled in three fat red circles on each sheet of his calendar. A day the loving couple celebrated each month like clockwork, spending it glued together, going out and coming home late just to cozy up in front of the TV.
Well, except for the last few ones. A change that didn’t go unnoticed by the citizens of the TV world and, more importantly, its ruler.
Ever since the first occurrence, Tenna strived to get the lightner pair back in front of his glow. Their favourite shows, beloved movies and episodes on reruns, romantic comedies, Tenna deployed all the tactics and yet, one of them was always ultimately missing from the couch in front of him.
However, Tenna was determined to pull all the stops to see his lightners reunite on “their day”.
Today, once again, wasn’t that day.
“No matter what I do, whatever I try, I just keep failing and failing!” the TV lamented. The words were barely audible, Tenna’s antennae emitting a shrill whining sound that muffled his voice. “But today I just thought “Hey, I think I finally got it! I figured it out, I’ll make it work this time!” I thought, just maybe…”
Tenna’s breathing hitched, as he fought and lost to another sob wrecking his tiny frame. His fingers clutched into the fabric of his slacks, screen glitching out with static. It didn’t stop him from sharing further, every few words interrupted by another burst of tears.
“Just maybe … I would do a good job! Maybe I was good enough! Maybe I wasn’t just … worthless! And then I … !” Chest heaving with uneven breaths, Tenna clutched his antennae, bending both metallic rods to the sides. Mike winced at the display, looking away momentarily – it looked painful.
“I messed up the line!” The CRT finally choked out before breaking down completely, curling in a small sobbing ball.
The reveal gave Battat pause. Messing a line wasn’t unheard of and Tenna always had a flair for improvisation, often ignoring the prewritten lines in favor of a well-timed joke. It didn’t seem worthy of blowing a fuse over something so minor, even by dramatic self-conscious host’s standards.
“And then what happened?” he prompted further, investigating mode turned on. There must’ve been something that he was missing, something that he neglected to think about.
“Well, I…”, Tenna straightened again, screen full of static, fists wiping out tears. “I played it off … as a joke …” he stammered through the explanation. “Said something about somebody messing up my cue cards. But then!”
Without warning, Tenna’s height shot up several feet. Mike yelped at the sudden change in size, but before he could even process the risk of getting crushed under his boss’s legs, Tenna had leapt off the couch and started pacing in front of him.
Gone were the tears, the traces of wet static on Mike’s gloves the only proof they were ever there. Instead, the self-pity was replaced with the fiery rage of a bruised ego.
“Those blasted little tricksters!” Tenna snarled, the voice uncharacteristically low, almost a growl. Despite himself, Battat inched further away from the angry TV, as if his disguise could ever fail him.
“When I checked the cue cards, the actual cue cards in my hands, in front of the audience, mind you! You know what I saw?” Tenna’s pacing came to an abrupt end as he whirled around to face Mike again, tail nearly avoiding hitting a vase on his coffee table.
Going for nonchalant, Battat swung one leg on top of the other, gesturing for Tenna to continue, praying internally that he wouldn’t hear the slight tremor in his voice.
“Now, I might’ve an idea, boss, but how ‘bout you tell me anyway?”
Tenna chuckled darkly, in response to Mike’s cockiness or his own thoughts, Battat didn’t know. He bent down, screen looming right in front of Mike's ever-smiling face, hands gripping the armrests on both sides of the couch.
“The cards were out of order. They handed me messed up cards, right before the show,” he hissed, voice laced with venom and static. “They wanted me to fail, Mike.”
Battat’s back was pressed into the cushions, so deep, they could’ve swallowed him whole. His eyes were fixed on Tenna, unblinking, flickering back between his snarl and his (lack of) eyes. The costume suddenly felt stuffier than it ever felt before, the itch to get rid of it, right here, right now and reach out, jumping to the top of his priorities.
Gulping loudly, Battat stuffed the thought to the back of his mind. He was not about to unpack that. He had a mission to accomplish - figure out what the hell Tenna meant.
The small darkner frowned behind the mask, gears in his head beginning to turn and coming almost immediately to a stop. It didn’t make sense. Not the situation itself, Tenna shifting the blame to focus on someone else’s misstep instead of his own was a recurrent thing. That wasn’t the perplexing part. What was baffling was the way he phrased it.
Pippinses could be a mischievous bunch, certainly, often getting into trouble for their gambling habits. They were also known for not being particularly attentive or responsible, getting distracted quite easily by games or conversations. Evidently, those characteristics didn’t make for ideal workers in a TV studio but that wasn’t what Tenna just implied!
No, he thought they intentionally wanted to ruin the show!
The realisation appalled Battat. His breath hitched, making him choke on his own spit as a result. Caught off guard by his right-hand man suddenly erupting in a coughing fit, Tenna hurriedly backed off the couch, giving Battat some much needed space. The questions popped and jumbled in the Pippins’ mind, as he swallowed, trying to ease up his throat, with the forefront one being “why?” The second Battat regained his composure enough to speak; the burning question flew off his lips.
“Why?”
Tenna scoffed, crossing his arms, screen dimming slightly as he levelled Mike with his gaze.
“You ask me why? Seriously?!” His fingers dug into the red fabric of his sleeve, sharp claws threatening to poke through the gloves. “They never wanted me to succeed in the first place! All they do is ruin everything!” The last word was spat with nothing short of pure hatred.
Unable to process what he was hearing, Battat stared back at Tenna, mute. The longer the silence stretched between them, the more agitated Tenna grew. Feeling visibly awkward at the lack of response, he shifted from foot to foot, cord tail undulating behind him. Even if he wanted to, Battat wasn’t able to rein his thoughts into coherent speech. The answer that he received spawned even more questions in his mind. Frankly, it didn’t answer his question at all! Again and again it came to the surface - why?
Finally giving up, Tenna threw his arms up, dramatic as ever.
“Come on now Mike, don’t act so shocked!” The pacing was back, as was the dangerously swishing tail. “They always do something to sabotage me! Mess up the show, on purpose, those dirty little… scoundrels! Oooh, I should just, just…”
Mike needed to say something, to intervene in any way. Tenna was steadily working himself up into a “firing everyone at the studio” frenzy again, and it needed to stop now. There was no time for unpacking the very concerning view that Tenna had of his die employees.
“And what ‘bout the audience?” Battat asked, cocking his head to the side in the most innocent display of curiosity.
Tenna froze, right foot hovering inches above the floor. Even when he was raging, he retained a certain cartooniness about his gestures. The man was a TV after all.
“The audience…?” he echoed back, the screen buzzing in confusion to the unexpected change of topic.
“Well, did’ey laugh? At the cue cards’ joke?” Battat helpfully provided, flicking his wrist toward Tenna in an invitation to elaborate. It was an old trick but a well tried one. When offered, Tenna never refused the option to boast about himself. And the audiences’ positive response was a certified method to pull him out of any misery he found himself in.
“Oh! Well!” A faint rainbow blush colored his screen, as Tenna straightened up, right hand reaching up to smooth his antennae back. “Of course, they did. I am a professional, after all.”
Under the mask Battat exhaled with relief and let his lips stretch in a satisfied smirk. Hook, line, and sinker. Navigating Tenna’s moods with practiced ease never didn’t feel good, especially when he managed to lift his spirits.
He clapped his palms together, sound muffled by gloves but loud enough to get Tenna’s attention back on himself.
“That you are, boss!” he leaned forward, lowering his voice to sound more conspirational, hand cupping his mouth. As expected, Tenna leaned closer, antennae twitching curiously. “Tell’ya what, as long as you’re on that stage, there’s no way a show could ever fail. Not with your talent! Cue cards be damned.”
Tenna flustered, colors growing deeper on his cheeks. He waved Mike off cheekily, failing to hide a wobbly smile stretching on his screen.
“Oh Mike! You’re just saying that!” A gloved finger wagged in front of Battat’s face. He swatted it off, grinning brightly at the TV. Thank Angel, they found this loophole. Praise was Mr. Ant Tenna’s worst and favorite addiction, giving him a rush stronger than any booze or drugs could ever provide.
“I might be, but their smiles are sayin’ it with me, and we both know, those puppies don’t lie!”
He winked and hopped down from the couch, trudging towards the door, letting his motormouth run wild with the compliments, as Tenna preened under the praise, fussing now with his cufflinks and tie in a show of timidness.
Now came the tricky part, Battat couldn’t afford to mess up. Almost as an afterthought, he paused, voice sounding resolutely nonchalant as he added:
“And let’s not fire anyone just yet, how ´bout that? Everyone went all out on today’s show, don’t I know it! I’m sure they didn’t mean to mess up them cue cards.”
“Huh?” As expected, the TV was only half-listening, too busy daydreaming about his own greatness. “Alright, fine”, he nodded once he processed Battat’s words, “I guess we can hold off on that. Let it be known that I'm a patient and benevolent boss!”
Battat pretended he didn’t hear the next part of the sentence Tenna muttered under his breath.
“Even though they totally messed up on purpose.”
The adrenaline running low, now that the crisis was averted, the pressure of the situation crashed into Battat like a truck. His head felt heavy on his shoulders, a beginning of a headache burning at his temples. He needed a coffee, badly.
“How ‘bout we move the shock therapy from 4pm to righ’ now? Lettin’ you unwind for a while before you need to head out there again. Whatcha say, boss?” Hand already clutching the doorknob, Battat craned his neck to peer at the TV host. He was greeted by the sight of a beaming Tenna, hands clasped together, antennae curled on themselves. Somehow, after all the yelling and crying, it’s seeing Tenna so happy and trusting that hit Battat the hardest.
“What a wonderful idea!” he exclaimed, one of his feet kicking back in excitement. Battat only hummed tiredly in response. In the blink of an eye, Tenna crossed the room, hands firmly planting on Battat’s shoulders.
“And thank you, Mike”, the earnestness in his voice got under the costume, prickling under Battat’s ribs in the most delicious yet painful way, “You are the only one I can really count on.”
“S-sure thing, Boss! Y-you know me!” Battat stammered hurriedly, before turning around and swiftly exiting the room. Away from the weight of warm arms on his shoulders and even warmer smiles in his chest. Only in the hall, with a barrier separating him from Tenna, Battat let himself breath. His heart beat a crazed-up rhythm and he was pretty sure that, if not for the faint sound of the crew working in the distance, it would’ve deafened him completely. Tenna’s smile, so close to him, its brightness blinding, appeared in front of him every time he blinked.
Without losing any time, Battat hurried into Mike's room, contacting Pluey on his way about the change in their schedule. Once the door to their hideout closed behind him, Battat allowed his legs to give out under him. He slid down the wall, its surface cold against the costume on his back, not even bothering to make it to the nearby chair.
The Pippins huffed as he pulled the head of his costume off, letting fresh air seep into the sweaty layers of clothes underneath. His shift was over and thank the Angel for that. His budding headache has fully bloomed into a migraine at this point, which wasn’t a rare occurrence in itself, most of the shifts ended up with him exhausted and drained of all energy.
But today, the throbbing pain inside of his skull was the lesser of two evils plaguing him. It leaked from the deepest layers within Battat’s core, the ache filling his heart and mind with burning realisation.
Tenna.
Battat winced as his mind replayed their conversation. He clutched his head tightly, preventing it from spinning and further exacerbating his already miserable state.
Jongler and Pluye used to pass the time between shifts, debating amongst themselves about the worst part of working for Tenna. Was it when he got upset and would behave like a spoiled child? Or was it when he got tiny as a bug and would mop around, until somebody would give him a satisfying pep talk? Was it the pestering or the over reactions?
Their answers changed depending on the day. Battat has never really participated in these pointless discussions, not seeing the point in complaining. It wouldn’t bring them closer to any meaningful answers, about Mike and their role, so Battat used to brush it aside as an exercise in futility. But today he was sure he knew what the worst part of working for Tenna was.
It was the knowledge that Tenna would hate him if he ever found out who he really was. Not because of what he did or his reasons for doing it. It would simply be because of who he was. Because he was a Pippins.
Battat’s breath hitched, throat closing up as he felt a sob urging his way out of his chest. He forced it down, taking one deep breath after another. Something that he refused to name prickled behind his eyes, so he shut them tight.
What Battat simply couldn’t fathom was the unadulterated hate Tenna bore in his heart for Pippinses. But he saw it, witnessed it every day and, somehow, failed to name it. A single misstep, a cough or a glance and Tenna would fly off the handle, growing so much bigger and madder. The pointing, the yelling, the accusations, fair and not, all targeted not one unlucky die but all of them as a unit. One Pippins’ tiny mistake somehow became the sin of his entire nation.
Maybe he always knew but refused to admit it. Not until the truth stared down at him, its screen bright and unavoidable.
Just thinking about it made Battat’s chest hurt in that uncomfortable hollow way, as if something sucked away his insides and dropped his heart in that empty endless void.
It needed to change. Something needed to be done about it. Not only for his sake, but for every party involved.
Tenna’s relationship with Battat’s own kind, if it could even be called one, could be summed up in one word - bad. Or in two - very bad. A ticking clock attached to a bomb, waiting to explode, blowing the whole studio to the smithereens, that’s what it was.
Pippinses deserved better. That went without question. The treatment they were facing under Tenna was outright unfair.
Like any other darkner in TV World, Pippinses were happy to contribute to the studio’s success. Despite Tenna being the most vocal about it, they all strived to make the lightners happy. It’s just the means of bringing the said happiness varied depending on the type of darkner.
Dice were meant to be rolled, lucky and unlucky numbers determining the game. That’s what made it fun! With a die, what you roll is what you get, baby! Test your luck, see what it earns you?
And that is what the Pippinses were all about. They were fun, happy-go-lucky kind, some more innocent, some more cheeky. Multi-sided, as dice were.
But instead of seeing those multiple sides of his employees, Tenna hyperfocused on the negative ones. Before even getting to know them properly, the TV assigned them the roles of villainous cheaters. He saw the worst in them, expecting them to misbehave and cause trouble. And those who sought always ended up finding something to validate their beliefs and, his suspicions confirmed, Tenna would double down on them, exacerbating the situation even further. Pushing his employees further away.
Not one Pippins actually wanted Tenna to fail today, Battat was sure of it. He wouldn’t however bet his pay that it would remain the case tomorrow. It was just a question of time before occasional missteps became intentional sabotage. Something that Tenna expected of them, sure, but wasn’t in any way prepared to handle.
The thought made goosebumps break up on Battat’s skin, a chill running down his back.
If something were to happen, an accident of any sorts, any trouble - who would stick around to help? Battat knew he would. Jongler and Pluey would too, mostly out of friendship with him, still, it counted for something. The weather duo, a few Shuttahs, a couple Zappers and Shadowguys would probably stay too, out of moral obligation more than genuine care. But Battat struggled to name one single Pippins beside himself who’d extend their hand to their boss. Anyone sensible would turn their back on a despicable, selfish employer, like Tenna, right?
Battat released a breath he didn’t realise he was holding for the past couple of seconds. Fists curled on the floor, he lifted his head, staring straight in front of him. Despite fatigue, his eyes burned with that manic fire, his heart swelling with determination.
Battat has never been very sensible nor very realistic. Need to calm down his boss? Dress up as his invisible, potentially imaginary, right-hand man!
Need to repair a doomed relationship between an emotional old CRT and a bunch of unlucky dice ?
A grin spread on Battat’s face, an unhinged laugh tearing through him.
It was time to change out of costume.