#apmdverse

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It had been two weeks since Spamton's last break in to the mansion, and the Swatchlings were still finding pipis lying about.

The things were similar to that of a burr, latching onto fabric unfortunate enough to touch them and refusing to let go unless given a firm tug. The only difference was that pulling too hard would cause it to explode in your face. They were really quite the nuisance to remove, and often left Swatch wondering how Spamton even got hold of such things. Then again, when you're surrounded by garbage everyday, it shouldn't be too hard to find any oddities that people throw away.

  They weren't all that concerned about it, however. After all, the salesman's trespassing had become less of a thing as of late, meaning the explosives were becoming less of a problem. Maybe, just maybe, he was finally giving up on reaching the basement.

  Swatch immediately recoiled and shook their head at such a foolish thought. It was nothing more than wishful thinking. Everyone within the mansion knew that Spamton was hellbent on reaching NEO. Though the man had once been a valued customer within their establishment, his obsession with the thing had led him to getting kicked out. For good.

  Suffice to say, he was no longer welcome there.

  A buzzing from their left pocket pulled them from their thoughts, reminding them that it was time to wrap up for the night. Tucking the rag they had been wringing their hands with into their back pocket, Swatch turned and ducked underneath the curtains behind them, pulling them shut as they went. In doing so, they had entered the dining hall, which they had to cross to get to the front door. Making their way to the exit, they eyed their surroundings to ensure nothing was out of place. However, upon reaching the door, they looked over their shoulder to do a proper scan of the room before leaving. They had no doubt that their underlings did a great job cleaning up; they were just checking to make sure a certain someone wasn't hiding in their café. With everything proven to be as it should, they flicked off the light and stepped out onto the main street, closing the door and locking it behind them.

  They had someone to meet up with tonight. It was preferable they get a move on.

•

    The main street was always busy, day or night, with the neon signs of the surrounding shops serving as street lamps. To Tasque Manager, it was reminiscent of a mall, though the lack of roof overhead served as a reminder that it wasn't. Passerby who recognized the Queen's Maid would give her a wave before going about their business. She, ever the professional, only acknowledged them with a nod of her head. There was no time for pleasantries; even with Queen in sleep mode, there were still things to do. And it was her job to see them done before the Mansion shut down for the night.

  For a good while, the Mansion had been dealing with a pest problem, worse than any maus infestation they'd had in the past. The thing left the halls in disarray, the pottery in shambles, and the staff stuck cleaning up after it. All other methods of removal so far had failed, and some of her coworkers had begun to doubt that the problem would ever be fixed.

  His name was Spamton G. Spamton, Cyber World's former big shot and current lunatic. During the later part of his stay at the Mansion, he had found out about Swatch's old art project and had since become obsessed with it. To this day, even after his eviction, he had been crafting up schemes to get his hands on it. What he intended to do with the robot was unclear, but one thing was for certain.

  He would never reach NEO. Fight it all he may, it would never become his.

  However, he had been getting very close lately. His plans were becoming more elaborate, more unpredictable. It was usually every other night he broke into the Mansion, but now, he went weeks on end without so much as coming near Queen's establishment. Perhaps his plan was to catch them with their guard lowered? It would certainly make sense; the average person would start to relax if the danger had seemingly passed.

  But Queen's staff were no average people. They were professionals, trained against such tactics. Though they were made to appear as harmless servants, they were, in reality, seasoned bodyguards, keeping to their duty of maintaining order within the Mansion. They knew better than to lower their guards, not while someone like Spamton still roamed the streets.

  Alas, he was a chore, but not one on her list of errands for tonight.

  A voice calling out her name brought her back to her senses. Rather than respond to it, she instead checked her surroundings and herself, sighing at what she found.

  No wonder Spamton believed he could catch them off guard! While lost in thought, Tasque Manager had carried out a majority of the errands required of her that night. In one hand was a bag of new cleaning supplies, while the other held a box of assorted items up against her hip. She wasn't even on the main street anymore. How utterly shameful it was, to allow her thoughts to disorganize as they just did! She should always be at full attention when performing her duties. If she wasn't, everything could fall to chaos! Speaking of full attention... whoever was calling her name required hers.

  She turned in time to catch Swatch falling into step beside her.

  "Good evening", came their greeting. "Pardon my asking, but is something troubling you? I was calling your name, but you didn't hear me."

  Tasque Manager's lips thinned as she averted her gaze to the space in front of her. So it had been Swatch calling her name. And she had ignored them! How rude of her! Perhaps she had been too lax in her self-discipline. She was so unorganized lately!

  There would be time for mentally berating herself later. Right now, she was in the middle of a conversation.

  "Apologies. I thought you had been some cat-caller, so I ignored you," she lied. She loosened her lips and curled them into a small smile, hoping Swatch would take it as a sign that she was at ease. "As you can see, I have been quite busy with her Majesty's errands." She shifted the box at her hip for emphasis. "Though I must say, today's list was quite small. There's usually much more to do than this." With a flick of her wrist, the bag of cleaning supplies she had been holding were stored away into her inventory. She'd need at least one free hand if she was to carry out her next errand.

  Swatch hummed in affirmation before folding their hands behind their back, a telltale sign they were listening. Noticing this, Tasque Manager's smile softened into something more genuine. They were so polite and well-mannered, on or off the clock, and she couldn't help but admire them for that. Maybe someday, she'd feel the same way about Swatch that they felt about her.

  The idle chatter between the two temporarily shifted into a topic on the Mansion's resident pest. Together, they theorized a few methods on how to permanently remove him from the premises before dropping the whole subject altogether. Though neither liked the man, what had happened to him...

  ...

    ...it wasn't any fault of their own. There was no use dwelling on it.

***

Tasque Manager, having found the last of the tasques sent out on patrol that day, relieved it of its duty, thus finishing all her errands. Swatch had long since made their way back to the mansion, meaning she was all alone as she made her way to the Trash Zone. The place was filthy, unsanitary, and unorganized, but also the quickest way home thanks to its portal door. Recently, it had been given a lock that only mansion staff had the key to. It was inconvenient for the average citizen, but if it prevented a certain salesman from using it, then there was no need to change it.

  Upon reaching the door, she wasted no time in unlocking it. As is the norm when using a portal door, any memory of turning the handle and opening the door was forgotten, and suddenly, she found herself in the mansion. As quiet as possible, she closed the door behind her, making care to relock the way to the Trash Zone. With a sigh, she turned to the quiet halls of the mansion and made her way to her room, where hopefully, she could catch up on some sleep.

This was it; the day he'd been waiting, wishing, hoping, working and praying for was here, and it had taken years.

  Today was the day Spamton became NEO.

  Walking with those kids had felt like the longest moments of his life, only seeming to stretch longer the closer he got to the basement. It had been difficult to remain professional; he could feel a restless energy buzzing throughout his body as he drew near to freedom. Even now, that energy remained, only growing in intensity as he climbed down the staircase into the basement, thoughtlessly picking at his bandages until they fell off his arms.

  Now that he was actually down here, he could barely register the passing seconds. With an absent mind, he traced his fingers along the cracks of the walls, accumulating an impressive layer of dust at his fingertips.

  He dared not to speak. He dared not to make any noise past the soft clicking of his bare feet against a cold, stone floor. He dared not to break the silence of the moment, lest it prove itself to be another of his delusions.

  But, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, he reasoned that this was reality. It had to be; no delusion had ever been so detailed or textured before.

  No, he was really here. Which meant that NEO was just around the corner.

  He could feel himself practically vibrating with anticipation. An eternity. A near eternity of Hell, all for the chance of Heaven! This may very well be the best day of his life!

  Yet, for all his excitement, he couldn't bring himself to move faster than a snail's pace. It was as though he was wading through thick mud, with his legs fully submerged. But that was fine! He was fine. What were a couple more minutes of wasted time when NEO was just around the corner waiting for him and god he was so close, move you damned legs NEO was right there-

  His brain registered that he had stopped moving, and he snapped out of his reverie just as quickly as he had fallen into it. With a deep breath, he ran both hands through his hair, and then took notice of the slumped mass in front of him, its body mainly concealed in shadow. Where was he now, and how had this thing gotten here?

  There wasn't even a face to make out, save for the soft twinkling of what could have been an eye. A tangled mess of what looked to be hair sat atop its head, with two misshapen wings protruding from its-

  A breath of air left him as he processed the phantom pain of being punched in the gut.

  Oh.

  Reverently, oh so reverently, NEO deserved respect, he reached out a hand, and flinched as his finger brushed against cold, dusty metal. A small, breathy laugh escaped his lips. This was real.

  The air felt thin, and light. Everything was so light, he was practically weightless. He made it! NEO was there, it was right there! His head… it felt so fuzzy! Like a cotton ball, or a big, heavy blanket swaddling you in warmth, combating the chill of a bedroom at night as you-

  "Mister Spamton."

Cold dread.

    It was as though a sponge had soaked up the fuzz, soaked up the warmth, and the glee…

…leaving nothing but cold dread.

A voice, hard, sharp, and impossibly icy, had cut through his thoughts.

A voice that forced him to manually even out his breathing.

With his heart in his stomach, he willed a blank expression onto his face, hoping to bury any trace of surprise from his features. From where it rested on NEO's surface, his hand trembled, segmented joints clacking together ever so quietly.

  His legs felt like stone.

  He couldn't move.

  "Mister Spamton." The voice, icier, spoke. "Step away from the machine."

  He couldn't. How could he? His entire body was encased in a casket of ice. He was buried in a grave of-

  A whip cracked through the silence, and he could feel a wave of electrical static wash over him, running chills down his spine. He shuddered.

  "Don't make them ask again. Step away from the machine, Mister Spamton." A new voice, higher pitched and simmering with a barely contained vitriol, distracted him from his thoughts. The heat of the words was enough to melt the icicles that had formed in his throat.

  Okay, Spamton. Don't mess this up.

  This is the most important sales pitch of your life.

  He turned.

  "[[Easels]]!" He called, smile wide and strained and fake, too fake, act natural- ! "H0W GGOES [bizness]?" He refused to acknowledge the other person in the room, eyes trained solely on Swatch.

  They stood, rigid and unyielding, arms clasped behind their back and expression stony. He couldn't see the hatred in their eyes from behind their bi-colored lenses, but he could feel it. It bore into him like a hot knife.

  They continued to glare at him, and he realized that his hand was still resting on NEO.

  Casually, he leaned his weight onto that hand, crossing one leg over the other. "GIVINGVING ME THE S-," a crackle of static cuts him off. "S1LENNT TREATMENT, HUH? NOT vVERY [[Big Shot!]] OF YOU, [[Easels]]." He fought to keep the glitches out of his voice. "NO MATTER. I CAN [workout] W1TH< THAT. SAY, [[Buddy, Chum, Pal,         ]], UP FOR ANOTHER [Bargein Prices!]? I PROMI-!"

  Without a second thought, he ducked under the end of an electrical whip that flew towards his head.

  Well, there goes that.

  The feel of NEO slipped out from under his fingers as the walls dissolved into a grid of purple lines. He clicked his tongue in feign irritation as a slight tension made itself known from within his being, and in an instant, the atmosphere came alive with a fervent energy.

  A battle had been engaged.

  With a huff, he stretched his arms above his head, body protesting and joints popping, before dislodging his jaw in a yawn. He was much too tired for this.

  According to what he remembered of battle policy, the one to set the battle stage would be the one given the last turn. "To make it fair", supposedly.

  Well, he didn't plan on playing by the rules. This battle, he felt, wasn't just any old scrap yard tussle, after all.

  It was a battle to the death, and he intended to win.

  So, to start it off; the element of surprise.

  Just as he was closing his mouth, he faked a sneeze, advertisements shooting out of his mouth like rockets towards his enemies. The Tasque Manager squawked in alarm as a bullet grazed her, clearly not expecting the sudden attack. Swatch, however, simply stepped out of the way, having seen such tactics before.

  Spamton couldn't help but scoff at that. Leave it up to Swatch to ruin the surprise.

  It was the opposing side's turn now, not that he cared. He was only waiting for the right opportunity to strike. To hit them when they least expected it.

  Swatch, choosing to defend, stanced their feet apart as they shielded their face with a silver tray conjured from their inventory, while the Tasque Manager held her whip above her head and gave a shout.

  "B!"

  …

  What?

  Spamton looked below him, and found himself on a square labeled C. Before he could even think , the cat-lady's whip flew towards the center of the strange board he stood upon, and he gave a harsh full-body flinch as a blinding flash of electricity burst from the ground beneath him. He grit his teeth against the pain.

  When the initial shock had passed, he inhaled sharply through his nose, blinking away spots from his vision. It was his turn again.

  …

  …What was that?! Do you want to lose before you've even started? Pay attention and dodge! Freedom is on the line!

  C'mon, Spamton! Get your head in the game!

  Time to get serious.

  With a snap of his fingers, an angel appeared in a puff of green sparks above his head, giving him a couple head pats before poofing away. Instantly, he found himself invigorated with a newfound energy. However weak it may have been, it was more than enough, and his manic grin only grew.

  Swatch defended again, no doubt trying to gather tension points, and the Tasque Manager readied another attack, but Spamton was having none of it this time. With a speed fueled by his heal spell, he rushed forward and launched himself at the maid, arms wrapping around her waist as he tackled her to the ground.

  When her head made contact with the floor, he wasted no time in connecting a fast swinging fist to her face. Just as quickly, she delivered a kick to his stomach, and he was sent reeling. However, he only had a split second to recover before a fist swung for his head, and he ducked, the attack just barely grazing him. From his peripheral, he saw the end of a whip fly towards him, and he instinctively shielded his face with his arms. Wrong move.

  His arms couldn't withstand the force of the attack, and he was knocked onto his rear. Huffing, he moved to push himself off the floor, but instead found himself biting back a cry as his arms gave angry shouts of protest. 

  Oh well. Who needs arms?

  Without waiting for his opponents' next turn (was it their turn??), he enlarged his head and unhinged his jaw, a horde of mini Spamtons flying out of his open maw.

  Swatch gave an indignant squawk as a multitude of pint-sized Spamton clones bore down on them, clambering up their pant legs and clawing at their suit jacket. Spamton watched in amusement as they struggled to peel a yellow card from off the front of their jacket, (violently shaking a mini-him off their sleeve as they did), before tossing it into the air above them, the piece of paper evaporating in a cloud of sparkles. No doubt it was some Stat Boost Spell they'd saved up Tension Points for. Maybe it raised ATK? That would make sense.

  "D!"

  Crap. He wasn't paying attention .

  There was barely any time to process the Tasque Manager's command before he felt her whip strike him in the chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs as he tumbled into square A and onto his back.

  Searing, white hot pain exploded from within him as electricity surged out of the ground and through his veins. His body seized up as his… everywhere … went numb, and he felt, rather than heard, a glitched scream tear itself from his throat.

  In a daze, he pushed himself off the floor, arm pains be damned because everything was in agony, and then suddenly, like a rug being pulled out from beneath him, the tension from within his being disappeared, momentarily taking his breath with it.

  They must have spared him.

  An anguished yell caught in the back of his throat, and he choked. Spare him? Spare him?? Why ? He could keep going! He could still fight! He-!

  His vision was swimming, eyes unable to focus. God, he wasn't crying, was he? That would be so pathetic.

  A shoulder brushed past him, and for a moment, he could think clearly again. Whipping his head around, (and stumbling from the sudden movement), he watched Swatch walk in short, angry strides towards NEO. One hand was clenched in a tight fist at their side, the other clutching a-

  …

  …What was that?

  Upon taking a step forward (just for a closer look!), Spamton suddenly found his arms pinned behind his back, 2 hands holding them there in a firm grip. It didn't take much to know it was the Tasque Manager, but there were too many thoughts rattling around in his head for him to care. 

  What is Swatch doing? What are they holding?

  God, I'm so tired. I can't feel my legs. Or my arms. Or anything.

  Hey! Focus! You can't afford to give up now! You still need to load yourself into NEO!

  At that thought, Spamton blinked harshly and gave his head a slight shake to clear it up. Even with his newfound focus, he could only watch as Swatch stood in front of NEO, hesitating in whatever it was they planned on doing with it.

  "It's okay." The Tasque Manager spoke from behind him, voice oddly gentle and quiet considering the situation. "It's for the best."

  What was?

  Swatch inhaled sharply and, supposedly making up their mind, uncurled the fist holding the strange object, giving Spamtom a better view of what it was.

  He squinted. It looked like… a trash bin icon? Why would-?

  His stomach did a somersault as it clicked, and out of nowhere, the room rose in temperature. It was quite suddenly that he felt clammy, and gross, and so, so hot.

  This couldn't be happening. Please, don't let this be happening! I got so far! I was so close!

  Desperately, he began to struggle against his constraints as glitches spilled out of his mouth.

  "[[Easels]]; [[Easels]], Y  YY0U W0ulDN;;T- w0<UldN"T [DEMOL1TION!!] neo,,,, W  W  W<<< woU;LD Y0UU>??"

  Swatch refused to look at him, raising the icon to NEO's perfect surface. The room only got hotter. He felt sick.

  No. Nononononononono-

  "[[Ea-]]- $w- SW@T<<CH, [Please don't take my           !]! F  F0R Th3 [L1ve [[laugh track]] L0ve] 0F- OF        ;; d0N"T-!!"

  They slapped the icon onto NEO.

•

    Spamton's rambling continued on as a popup appeared before them, asking if they were "sure" they wanted to delete their creation.

  No, they weren't sure! They didn't even want to do this! They didn't want to be down here destroying the only evidence of a life where they'd been important! When they'd meant something!

  This was NEO! A Lightner's dream they helped create!

  Biting their tongue, they reached to press "continue".

  An anguished scream startled them from their thoughts, and momentarily, they halted to cast a glance over their shoulder at the source of the noise.

  This was a big mistake.

  They barely registered the blurred movement in their peripheral vision before a sharp, fiery agony ignited inside their outstretched arm, drawing from it a warm, viscous liquid. Instinctively, they pulled back as a startled cry of pain tore from their throat.

  Blinking back tears, they tried in vain to pry off the jagged teeth of the heart shaped object latched onto their arm. It only bit down harder, and the fire in their arm grew hotter as their sleeve absorbed more of the blood leaking out of their wound.

  It took tugging at the chain connected to the heart with as much force as could be mustered before it let go. No attention was paid to the sticky warm liquid dripping off the tips of their fingers as they watched the thing slink back into Spamton's chest cavity, resigned but still alert.

  Spamton himself was breathing quite heavily, exhaustion evident in the way his shoulders sagged and his legs wobbled, and though his eyes were hidden behind the static in his dealmakers, the look on his face could still be described as one of crazed desperation.

  They stared into each other's eyes for a few moments before Spamton spoke.

  "ST3P AWww@Y Fr-" A glitch. "FROM. THE MACHINE." His voice was strained, panicked, and heavy-laden with white noise. A flare of anger rose up in their chest as they processed the statement.

... 

  He thought he could use their words against him? He thought that he could control what happened with NEO? He had no authority. He had no power. He had no right.

  They gathered the remaining energy in their bad arm and, without a second thought, slammed a fist into the "Continue" button, the action causing a sharp stab of pain in the mangled limb.

  Spamton gave out a pained cry as NEO began to come undone, its vibrant colors melting away at the same time its shapes began blending together into one congealed mass before slowly fading into oblivion.

"WHAt

"Wh@T

"wwH4t H4V3 [you done with that?]!? >>>yY0   OU-!"

  His rambling faded into the background as Swatch looked on in agony, looked on as their prized creation crumbled into nothingness. They tried to focus on the feeling of stinging in their eyes, or the painful tug in their heart, or even the burning blaze in their arm. Anything, anything except what was happening in front of them.

  It was a groan from Tasque Manager that pulled their attention elsewhere. Sharply turning their head towards the noise, blinking back tears, their eyes widened at what they saw.

  She was on the ground, in a pool of blood that must have come from the large bite wound in her side. Her white clothes were now stained a brilliant shade of black -- the sight, oddly enough, had Swatch thinking that the dress would have to be disposed of.

  It looked as though she was just coming to as she sat up and cradled a gash on her head with a black-stained hand. Not wanting to dwell on NEO's fate, (their job down here was done anyway, Spamton would be leaving any minute now), they made an attempt to rush to her side, to offer assistance, to help her because she was bleeding out , but something stopped them.

  It was Spamton's fist. In their gut.

  They reeled back, clutching their abdomen and letting out a cough.

  ">>y yY0U!!" He cried, swinging another fist into their midsection. This time, they braced. "YOU<< rRU1NeD [[3verything is y y yours for-]]!! (Y)?! (Y)"D yY0U H4VE T T TO f[Fifty Percent Off!]-" A harsh glitch this time, one that momentarily disconnected his entire upper half. "[%#&£] 1T UP!!" Another swing, but this time a miss. Swatch had caught his fist.

  If they had been icy before, they sure as hell weren't now. Ice gave way to fire, wild and all-consuming, Spamton's audacity fueling the flames. Who the hell did he think he was?

  ...This was the last straw.

  They pulled Spamton's wrist up above their head, forcing the man onto his tiptoes with a yelp. They bend to meet his eyes, and the glare Swatch was giving Spamton could kill.

  "Oh, is that right?" They said, vitriol flying off their tongue. "I've ruined everything? I'VE ruined everything?!" They were shouting now, each word ignited by a wrathful flame. "THIS IS YOUR FAULT!! YOU DID THIS!!" They raised his wrist higher, effectively lifting him into the air, before slamming him into the ground like a bag of wet cement.

  The violent speed of the motion caused his arm to snap off the ball joint of his elbow, eliciting a scream from him as he cradled the stump close to his chest. The limb in their grasp was tossed to the side without a second thought as they reached down to pick him up by the collar.

  "IF IT WEREN'T FOR YOUR OBSESSION, NEO WOULD STILL BE HERE!! "

  Spamton planted a heel in their stomach before scrambling away as best he could with one arm. Gaining some distance, he stood on shaky legs and braced himself, arm and stump splayed out at his sides, hand twitching.

  With a flick of their wrist, a dinner plate spawned behind the man. The lid popped off, knocking him out of his stance, and Swatch used the distraction to close the gap between the two. Spamton noticed, and steadied himself just as they reached for him again. Deftly, he ducked under their arms and delivered a left hook to their face (the only hook he could deliver) before ducking underneath them and dashing towards where NEO was deteriorating. This only served to further infuriate Swatch. Ignoring the black liquid dripping from their nose onto their tie, they gave chase.

  With pain threaded into her words, Tasque Manager called out to them, weakly. "Swatch, enough. Please."

  Swatch ignores her.

  Enough? Enough? No, Swatch decided when it was enough. Spamton had forced their hand. If it weren't for him, NEO wouldn't have needed to be deleted. NEO wasn't the problem, it was Spamton. Spamton made it a threat, Spamton was at fault.

  Their vision blurred.

  Swatch hadn't spent their recent years decaying in garbage, so naturally, they were in better shape. Naturally, they were able to catch up to the man and lift him by the back of the collar. Naturally, they would have the strength to throw him against the wall, into the spot where NEO once sat, and watch as he struggled to get back up, a black smear running across his forehead. Vines hung overhead, two pillars stood at his sides, and a wall sat, unyielding, behind him. There was nowhere to run.

  He was trapped.

  They could feel blood trickle down their beak as they slowly made their way towards him, but couldn't find it in them to care. Their breath hitched as they readied themself to speak.

  Their next words came out a growl, angry and so, so wrought with grief.

  "You had everything."

  A step closer. 

  "You were a 'big shot', sitting on top of the world."

  Another step.

  "You were rich. Famous. People adored you."

  Step.

  "Anything you wanted, you could just ASK for. You were free."

  Step.

  "But then you threw it all away." They were kneeling in front of him now, hand clutching his matted hair to keep his head up. Somewhere in the middle of the fight, he had lost his dealmakers, giving Swatch a full view of his face. He was grimacing in pain.

  "You THREW IT ALL AWAY for some dusty old machine, rusting away in a basement, all because it was the one thing you couldn't ask for, right?" They were fighting a losing battle with keeping their voice level.

  Spamton's mouth opened, but no sound came out except for a pathetic little click in the back of his throat. 

  Swatch tugged at his hair, slightly raising his face to meet theirs in the hopes of eliciting a response, but none came. He only weakly clawed at their hand.

  With a deep inhale, Swatch released their hold on his scalp and stood. The overhead lights cast a shadow over Spamton's crumpled form.

  "All I had was NEO. And you took that from me."

  They delivered a swift kick to his stomach, and he folded in on himself. No sound came out. Again, they kicked.

  "I ruined everything? Take a look around you, Spamton. This is all YOUR fault." They enunciated those last words with another kick, this time at the arm trying in vain to shield his face. No sound came out.

  "Don't you have anything to say? Come now, you're always running your mouth; say something." Another kick. No sound came out.

  "Say something." They hissed, beak twisted in a snarl. Another kick, harder this time, and he went limp. Still, no sound came out.

  "SAY SOMETHING!! " They're shouting now, crouching down to hoist him up by his lapels. "ANYTHING, GOD!"

  His head hung down, as if in shame.

  "YOU NEVER SHUT UP, SO WHY NOW ARE YOU GIVING ME THE SILENT TREATMENT? C'mon! Apologize! Insult me! EXPLAIN YOURSELF! Just-!"

  "SWATCH." They startle, turning to look over their shoulder. "Please. He can't hear you." Tasque Manager is limping her way towards them, a hand pressed against the now-closed wound in her side. She comes up behind them to squeeze a hand to their shoulder. There's a pained grimace on her face.

  Their face fell as they took in the sight, guilt overpowering all other emotions. She had been wounded, had CALLED for them, and they had ignored her in favor of the puppet. How could they have ignored her?

  "Tam, I-"

  She shook her head, swaying a bit with the movement. "I'm fine. I had some leftover spaghetti code in my inventory. An Ambyu-Lance will heal the rest."

  "But you-!"

  "Swatch," she said sternly, eyes hardening. "I'm fine."

  They bit their tongue against any other retorts.

  She turned her attention to the salesman still pinned up against the wall.

  "We should call an Ambyu-Lance, speaking of." Seeing Swatch start to voice their agreement, she continued, cutting them off. "For all of us. Your arm, my side, his…" She nodded towards Spamton, and faltered when she took in the sight if him. Her sentence went unfinished.

  "He doesn't deserve an Ambyu-Lance." Swatch finished for her, still feeling vindictive. Their arm throbbed violently at the reminder of the injury.

  "Do you even hear yourself right now? Of course he doesn't deserve an Ambyu-Lance, he's entitled to one." Their grip on his lapels loosen. "He has a right to medical care as a citizen of Cyber City, and he... well, he's probably concussed, Swatch, and that's likely not even the worst of it."

  Swatch shook their head in quiet disbelief, pain lining their features. "No, he des- he destroyed NEO, he hurt you, he shouldn't-!"

  "Is that what you're telling yourself? Spamton destroyed NEO?" Her hand slid off their shoulder. "Swatch, you chose to follow through with this. You agreed that it was best if you did the deed. I understand that NEO was important to you-"

  "How could you understand? How?! You've never worked with a Lightner for weeks on end to bring to life their greatest dream! You've never had to leave your greatest creation unfinished because they gave up! You-you-!"

"I understand," Tasque Manager interrupted, voice gentle, and they felt instantly ashamed for their outburst. Her fingers brushed back a stray feather from their forehead. "That NEO was important to you. Destroying it destroyed you, I get that. But," she gestured to the unconscious salesman. "What about him? He's tried every trick in the book to get to this thing. For whatever reason, it was important to him, maybe as much as it was to you."

"..."

"Don't look at me like that. You saw how he reacted."

They were eyeing her sideways.

"...That aside, he's fought a long battle for some dingy basement robot, abandoned everything just to get it, and then we... erased it. We erased the one thing he had going for him. That's… no matter how unhealthy that obsession was, that has to be crushing."

  "Why do you care?" They suddenly retorted, fighting to keep their voice even, and God, why were they treating her like this? She hadn't done anything wrong, why were they yelling at her? "We both hate him. We both hurt him. Why now do you care?"

  "Because..." she said, biting her bottom lip as she gave the puppet a pitiful look. There was a pained light in her eyes. "...what would that make me, if I didn't? This has- it's gone on for too long. It's gone too far. Look at him, Swatch. Really look at him."

  And they did. They took in every crack in his plastic, every tear in his clothes, every thing about him. They took in the dirt between his joints, the layer of grime on his skin, and the filth embedded in the fabric of his suit. They took in the grease, and blood, in his matted hair, and the bags under his eyes, and they felt ashamed.

  So, so ashamed.

  "Alright," they muttered, pulling Spamton off the wall and into their arm. They grimaced when his head lolled back. He really was unconscious. "Let's get out of here and- and call an Ambyu-Lance."

  They carried Spamton out of the basement, holding him under their arm like a doll. Tasque Manager followed not too far behind, the puppet's discarded arm on hand.

It's not explicitly said, but heavily implied at the start of chapter 10 that Queen called in to have Spamton's boundary restrictions activated as a means of shutting him down during his panic; it's a couple of lines during her call with Tasque Manager, where she asks for it to be turned off again because the issue was resolved. Her headspace is a bit foggy with her head injury though, so I can see how that information could have been missed.

----

The first thing she does is call Tasque Manager.

  Well, the first non-pressing thing, at least. When Spamton conks out, she is without a driver, and with a headache blaring behind her screen, she thinks she's even less qualified to drive than she was before. Also, there's a timer of sorts that had started up somewhere in her system... something about the car? Yeah, so it's best that they leave.

  She walks out, walks around, unbuckles Spamton, uncuffs--

  Well, tries to uncuff. She doesn't have the key, so she just ends up breaking the chain--

  Uncuffs Spamton, carries him out, and then... then she calls Tasque Manager, despite the strain it causes on her CPU. Because she's done with the "shouldn't even be a priority, it should just be done" list, and is now moving on to the "do first" list. The rest of the list she just makes up as she goes.

  Today's appointment with those music men is... somewhere, on that list.

  The call goes through, and questions meet her on the other end of the line, echoing like reverb in her head. Yes, she's alright. No, Spamton hadn't done anything wrong, and actually, could you turn his PerimeterLock off again? Yeah, she's sure. Yes, she's fine. Talking funny? That's Spamton's thing. Yeah, she had him right here--(this she says as she turns to looks at him. He's lying sprawled out across the grass, unconscious, as she'd left him. Carrying him out had been easier than she had thought, he weighed practically nothing). The car? It was--

  From where it's been innocently parked on the roadside, smoke starts to crawl out from beneath the car's hood, just as her mysterious timer hits zero.

  Yes, so, if someone could swing by to pick them up, that would be--

  The car explodes. Mystery solved.

  A tire flies past her head and, wow, that's a big fire. Weren't these cars designed to explode with nothing remaining? What she saw before her looked to be a major design flaw... that, or she didn't know how explosions worked. She'd have to bring it up with the manufacturer.

  "That Would Be Great," she finishes, but the call has already ended. Funny, had she hung up without noticing? Unless the other end had hung up first...

  No, no! As Queen, only she was allowed to hang up first. The signal must have just cut out!

  Besides that, there is a, uh... a reminder. Pinging around somewhere in her processors, telling her she's going to be late, that she has business to attend to. The phone thing isn't important, but her next destination is, so she scoops up a ragdoll Spamton, pressing him into her side for extra security, and walks. He's limp, loose, hanging from her arm like a wet towel. 

  Come to think of it, there had been some towels back then, too, and he had been just as lifeless. One to wipe him down, another to swaddle him, but both were discarded when the smell couldn't be washed out afterwards. Had she carried him then, too? Her nose burns at the memory even now, at the acrid, burning stench of--

  Of all the times for the car to explode! She--hefting Spamton higher up her hip at the thought--is fairly certain that it hadn't been primed to blow for at least another mile or so... at least, if she remembered right. Damned headache. Sure, the plan had been to get in her required steps for the day, but starting from this far would surely exceed that amount.

  She stops to ponder this. Should she have Spamton carry her the rest of the way, whenever it was he decided to wake up? Or, no, he'd be too short. He squirms in time with the thought, and she tightens her hold to keep him from falling. Yeah, he'd end up needing to drag her if they went with that route. So then, what, just wait for another car and risk being late? Spamton flails.

  "L-LET ME GO, WOMAN!"

  She drops him.

  "Wonderful!" she says over his cursing, apropos of nothing. "I Require Your Input On: A. C0nundRum. I Am Facing."

  "WHAT DID--?"

  His question fizzles into a whine, and she continues on to outline her dilemma, brainstorm solutions, responsible things like that; never mind that Spamton doesn't have his six senses (or however the phrase goes) to offer. Hearing no objections, she goes to pick him up--to demonstrate what she needs him to do--but he steps away! Sets quite a distance, actually!

  There's a pop of static, and the sounds of the world around her burst into clarity. "YOU MUST BE LOOSER THAN A BOX OF-OF SCREWS!--IF YOU THINK I'MMLLETTING YYOU [carrier] ME," he's hissing, and oh, Oh dear. That hadn't been a good sign. She needs to sit down.

  "IT IS PEPRO-PERPOSS-PEPP-UGH, [Ridiculus] THAT YOU… ARE… W-WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW?"

  "Running Diagnostics."

  He throws his hand up, turning away in a show of frustration. "WONDERFUL. [[w]]WONDERFUL. HER M-MAJESTY OF TH'CYBER WORLD IS [[Lieing]] ON TH-THE GROUND, RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS." He pivots back again to point her an accusatory finger. "HOW DO-HOW DO YOU GET ANYTHING [Click DONE]?"

  She sits up. "I Calculate: Down To The M1nuT3. 0f Every Day. What Needs To Be Done When." Spamton looks unsettled. A sudden shift in tone can do that to a person, she supposes. "I Can't Do 3VeRyth1ng Myself. I d0N't Do Everything Myself. I Set The Work: My Peons Do The Work: It Works BeC@use 1T Ne3ds To." Queen moves to stand up, but her vision fuzzes out, and she finds herself on her back again. Spamton watches, judging. Hesitantly, he redirects:

  "YOU'RE T-TALKING A LITTLE FF[FUNNY BONE] THERE."

  "That Is: 'Y0uR Thing'," she remembers quipping, and she laughs. A finger twitches. "No. I Beli3ve. Some Jiggy Of Sorts: CamE L00se. When I Hit My Head (Earlier)."

  "S-SO I SUP-P-POSE I'M IN DEEP SHI-[@~#?] NOW."

  She smiles, rolling onto her side and propping her head up. What a fucking headache. "N0 No, You Aren't. Honest Mistake--1T's. What Happened? You Went All CR@--" Something in her sparks, and she spasms. "Cray Cray!" Ow.

  "What happened?" He either didn't notice, or gracefully chose to ignore it. "I F-FOUND OUT I WAS D[Driving Around-]DRIVING TO MY OWN... BEATDOWN IS WHAT HAPPENED!" That was... huh. Not true. "Wworking for you is humiliating enough, n-now I'm being passed around like ssome pi- pa - piñata? Ssee who can punt him the har-hardest? I had enough of that from your bu--!" Ah.

  "Why," she interjects, talking over him. She pillows her head to lay it on the grass. "You Come t0; Th3 Silliest Conclusions." He shuts up at that, though he looks quite offended for having done so.

  She motions for Spamton to sit beside her, to explain this to him. Her video resolution has just dropped in quality, and from where he's standing, he's nothing but a smear of pixels. She'd rather properly see the person she's talking to, but stubbornly, he stays where he is. Well. Nothing she can do about that.

  "Why Would I H1re Someone To Beat You uP--," she says, rolling back into being flat on the ground.

  "I DIDN'T SAY--"

  "Wh3N 1 Could Do It Myself? You Make: 0 Cents."

  He sputters, definitely making some absurd face she wish she could see. To continue--

  "And Besides, We'll Be There: On Business! Only Business. It Would Be... T0tal1y rUdE, To...," She hears a grumble, then movement. "Beat You Up 1N 4 Business Meeting. You Were A Business Man (Once)." A shadow slips into view--shifting her head reveals a peeved Spamton looming over her--and her smile morphs into a grin, teeth and all. Brash as he was, it appeared he couldn't hold a conversation without eye contact--relatable, and something she knows he knows she predicted. "You'd Kn0w." You can take the salesman out of the sale...

  His scowl only deepens, and he makes the choice to plant his fist on his hip. It's probably meant to look imposing, but seeing as he's Spamton and she's Queen, he just looks silly. "AND W-WHAT BUSINESS WOULD TTHIS BE?"

  "NEgot14tions," she replies, crossing her arms behind her head. Doing so hurts, but she's nothing if not the picture of nonchalance. Gotta own up to the image. "A Collab 0F sS- 0rttS--"

  "[seriusly], DO YOU H-HAVE A VVIRUS?"

  "Hush. Your F F Familiarity With These."

  He looks ready to argue, but stops. Waits. Lifts a brow.

  Waits another moment.

  "THESE WHAT?" There's a delay between his mouth moving and his voice talking.

  He looks irritated.

  "QUEEN."

  "Char4cters! You'11 Be sUper Helpful. Trust." She reaches up a hand to pat at his cheek, let him know his worth, but her depth perception has chosen not to cooperate with her. He may sneer--at least, that's what she thinks his face is doing--but at least Spamton has the grace to only gently push her hand off his nose.

  "THERE'SSSOMETHING [ring! ring!] WITH YOU, AND I'M. Not. GETTING IN HOT SH[**] FOR IT." There's something like concern in the bit-crush of his voice. "WHERE'S THE NEARES-the nearest phhone?"

  She gestures vaguely towards where she last registered the car's location. There's one built into the dashboard. Before he goes, though, she has to tell him something, something relevant. She can't though. She's going to, she'll be--

  "Rebooting."

  Her visuals cut to black, and there's a sigh above her. "Great."

•  

He regrets that she's only rebooting as he watches the light leave her eyes.

  Then he turns towards the vaguely-gestured-to location of the car, and starts wishing it wasn't just a reboot.

  Back during his mansion days, he had been the face of the car industry--a practical monopolist, so to speak. Anyone that was anybody wouldn't dare peril the trouble of traffic unless it was behind the wheel of a Big Shot automobile. It was at this time, when his clientele covered the full spectrum of financial capability, that the higher class demanded for a truly sophisticated car: a car to distinguish their wealth from those of other road-goers. The problem was, his cars had been designed to look sophisticated from the beginning, that even the poorest of folks might feel like a million bucks as they tore down the highway.

  He had been faced with a potentially stock-plummeting dilemma. In a desperate, throw-it-hope-it-sticks decision, he took his least successful car, reworked it into a corporate wet dream, and rigged it nose to toes with explosives. If he was going out, it would quite literally be with a bang.

  And it had worked.

  Those snooty sagsacks liked it. They had turned it into a competition: "You've gone through five cars? Well," they'd boast, "I've been through seven." Reach a certain mileage and boom! It was a riot!

  After his fall from grace--from what he'd heard on the streets--the car had become a novelty. With its manufacture discontinued indefinitely, there was no buying a new one when the current one exploded. So, no one drove them anymore.

  That decision was now biting him in the ass, as it seemed that didn't apply to Queen. Her ride of choice, ironic enough, was that same fucking car.

  He stood beside it now, watching its husk smolder with a feeling similar to watching a Tasque hack up a hairball. It had been designed to explode in a way where nothing remained, and even that couldn't work right for him. He set himself up for failure, he supposes, in creating the damn thing. That said, it's a lucky thing the explosives had malfunctioned; what he's going to do next wouldn't be possible otherwise.

  Now that he knows it's his car, he knows where the phone will be. It's unlikely to be intact, but its parts will be of some use to him. So, with a loose metal bar scrounged out of the wreckage, he works to pry electronics out of the dashboard. Some time in, he's electrocuted in trying to disconnect some wires, which meant the battery must still work, which meant he had to handle that first. First first, on second thought, meant waiting out the paralysis in his hand. Frustratingly, the damn thing had locked up with that shock.

***

He has jerry-rigged a working radio. He was right, the phone had been beyond saving. The same could be said for the hideous uniform jacket he'd had to sacrifice for the sake of wrapping up the battery. He hadn't wanted to risk another electrocution when yanking the battery out, and the jacket hadn't been all that comfortable, anyway (shrink down a Swatchling's suit and what do you get? A tight fit). Now, it was too oil-stained and greasy to wear. Surely, his superiors would understand if he wasn't up to uniform policy when someone came to get them.

  Pay no mind to the stains all over his white pants. And shirt.

  Queen doesn't seem to mind, at least. She's back to... relative normalcy, following her reboot. There was still the issue of her cracked-occasionally-sparking visor that was maybe-probably the cause of her random spasms, but she didn't look too bothered, so it wasn't an immediate concern. As of now, she seemed content to watch him navigate radio frequencies with a gear stick. At least, try to. It was a bastard's work, but he was nothing if not stubborn.

  "You Built This."

  He pauses, for just a moment, to calculate what she's trying to ask.

  "YES," he opts for, bluntly. "OUT OF... W-WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE CAR. NICE TO KNNOW I WAS... DRRIVING A [BIG BOOM!], BY THE WAY. AFTER IT ALREADY EX-PLODED. SO THANKS. BIG [help]."

  She only hums, bearing him no mind. Idly, she starts to prod at the contraption, without a care in the world, as if he's not currently in the middle of something. Every button she presses, he unpresses, and every dial she turns, he has to shoo her off to turn it back.

  "DO [u] MIND?" he hisses, swatting her hand away from the transmission switch. He debates smashing the radio over her head, just so he can be done with this whole situation. "I'M TRRYING TO WWORK." On one hand, he doesn't need the radio--dispose of Queen, dispose of the evidence, and he's a free man. On the other...

  "Very Impressive. The Craft Is: Giving. Big Double(U)."

  What would he free himself too? Homelessness? Starvation? All that waited for him on the other side was the hunt.

  Queen whoops at a spring popping out of the machine, clearly fascinated, and Spamton is overcome with a feeling like guilt. He doesn't want to go back to the hunt.

  "IF YOU'RE D-DONE HAVING [FUN FOR THE WHOLE-]," he spits out, a bitter taste on his tongue, "I..."--and here he grimaces, letting go of the gearstick--"N-NEED YOUR HELP, WWITH SOMETHING."

  She turns to him with spasming question marks in her eyes, distracted from a panel she really shouldn't be playing with, and smiles. Her face crinkles with it.

  The radio screams static at him for this terrible decision.

  "What Can I Help With?" she remarks, cheekily. She scoots closer, as if she's actually eager to assist, and he tries not to let his surprise show. Looking away, he directs her attention to the small screen hanging off the side of the radio. As the only part left to function as a numbers display, the car's digital thermometer screen had been formatted to work with RDS*. It still only read in degrees, though, which was... the best he could do.

  He explains this to her with the seriousness of a mechanic training a new employee, and she listens as though she were that employee. "WHAT I-I [knead] FROM YOU," he finishes, "IS TO TUNE IN[2]-TO WHATEVER MMUSIC STATION. THE COLOR-THE CAFE HAS ON. DURING WWORK HOURS. I CAN PA-PATCH THROUGH A MMESSAGE FROM [their]."

  "You Can't: Find The Station Yourself? /gen"

  His jaw clenches. "NNO."

  At his request, she swaps places with him and takes hold of the gear stick ("A Joystick!" she cheerfully supplies). She picks up the screen in her other hand, inspecting it, and then--

  Rips it out of the radio.

  "WWHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

  She plugs the disconnected wires into some ports on the underside of her head as if this were any other Tuesday. The radio screeches.

  "WHAT IS WRRONG WITH YOU?!" he wails, clawing for the cords. Was she actually braindead?? "WHAT COULD THAT… P-POSSIBLY HOPE TO [Acchievement]?!" Frustratingly, she's able to fend him off.

  Even more frustrating is that she's grinning, toothy and manic. She's enjoying this.

  A number pops up on her visor. 92.5. An empty channel.

  She turns to him with that same grin. "Convenience," she chirps, and then she's diving into her task, numbers and channel names flashing across her face with each flick of the joy gear stick. It's annoying that he couldn't work in a way to control the volume. Voices, music, and static spit out of the radio in bursts; a cacophony of noise clambers over itself. It drowns itself in its intensity, meshing together into a buzz, before--

  Lofi.

  "Wow! That Was Terrible," Queen exclaims, loud enough to cut through his stupor. She seems oblivious to this. "I Think I Overshot It Like: 15 Times." He sees the word "Crazy" flicker in her eyes for a brief second. "Wack." She looks to him, waiting. Right.

  He blinks, and then flips open the panel Queen had been playing with earlier. Whatever. A nest of cables, buttons, and doohickeys hides underneath, waiting to be arranged at his whim. And that's what he does, tangling his fingers up in the mess and getting to work. Press that and that, cross those--no, that disconnects the sound, try again--spin this, do it again, and, well. That'll probably do the trick.

  He flips the transmission switch. There's a warble in the frequency, the music stuttering, and he waits with baited breath. Another moment of stillness, and then the radio hisses.

  They're live.

  Victory vibrates in his veins, and he has to keep from cheering. Queen is beaming beside him. Taking a steadying breath, Spamton leans in to the built-in microphone.

  "GOOD M-MORNING, CYBER WORLD!" he announces. "[We interrupt] THIS BROADCAST TO SHARE A-SH-MESSAGE! WITH ONE HEAD BUTLER [[Eas-]]SSWATCH, OF QUEEN'S MANSION. DO WE HHAVE ANY SWATCHES LISTENING IN?"

----

[Pssst. Hey. If you haven't seen it, you shou- you should check it out. Yeah, it. This. Fanart, courtesy of the lovely @lokisis. It's stunning. They're stunning. Go- go check out their blog. Do it.]