Chapter Text
It’s been months, now.
The memory grows fainter with your every recollection. As if straining towards remembrance of an incongruous dream, the minutiae slips between your fingers like incense smoke, leaving little more than fleeting wisps of your tenuous, bygone life. Sometimes, you wonder— if you’d lived more exceptionally than what you’d had, or achieved something greater than what you’d done, would it have lended your efforts some degree of tangibility? Could you have used your own significance as a waypoint through the dark, leading to the moment when you first fell down?
It’s not a thought you consider often. In all likelihood, your localized amnesia is just another consequence of the Dark World’s strange and oblique functioning, mechanized alongside every other enigma you’ve stumbled your way into discovering. Whatever convoluted series of incidents led to your being here… all you can remember now is a sudden, yawning umbrage where there once was none, as the earth gave way beneath your feet.
And from there, it’s been months.
…That description isn’t especially generous, though, is it? It’s not like it’s all bad. You have a place to stay. You have food to eat. And the people— denizens? some of them seem more creature than not— are nicer than you’re used to (or, at least, what you think you’re used to, because you can’t actually remember it), even if a couple of them eye you like you’re some sort of beatnik tourist. You can’t exactly fault their suspicions; if you were a Darkner, you’d be staring, too.
That’s what they call themselves. Darkners. Darkners, in a Dark World, interconnected through a massive black fount and brilliant bright lights, woven with colors so vivid that they verge into the digital, and people that beam with an air of nostalgia. You may not belong here, not even a bit— but you settle in all the same, wide-eyed and marveling, warmed by the antiglow of that towering, inverse cascade.
—
Of course, like all stable, comforting routines in life, it can only last for so long before inevitably careening its way off a cliff.
“As you know, our organization prioritizes both a strategic workforce and intelligent allocation of our resources, which we have optimized through rearrangement of our corporate body,” your manager explains, ostensibly trying to integrate every commercial-grade euphemism they can within their speech. “Unfortunately, this restructuring has eliminated the need for several positions within the company, and it’s with our deepest regrets that we inform you of your role’s termination. Our resources department will reach out in the coming days to discuss the details of this process, as well any concerns you may have going forward…”
It wasn’t a good job, to be fair. You spent more days than not wanting to put your head through a wall, and on those days that you didn’t, you were vying to punt somebody else’s.
It was also the only thing keeping you from sticking it out in the streets. You were far from the hottest ticket, what with your odd appearance and general demeanor; frankly, netting what you had in the first place was nothing short of miraculous.
Now that it's gone… well, lightning doesn’t strike twice. You’re kind of screwed.
For a brief moment, you’re even tempted to tell the manager as much— but for all the satisfaction that their awkward, pinched-up face would bring, it would be a pretty pissy recompense in the wake of your reduced severance package, and so you decide against it.
Instead, you stare down at your manager’s desk, stomach sinking like a boulder down a fishpond, and mumble out a placid little “I understand.”
You’re shunted out the door less than a week thereafter.
—
Lightning may not strike twice, but you certainly do.
…No, that’s still not right.
You strike exactly once.
Facefirst.
Into solid platinum and ABS plastic.
So solid, in fact, that if it weren’t for the inspirited “yowza” that immediately follows your impact, you would have assumed you’d just walked into a particularly wide lamppost.
(On the day you’re lugging all your office crap back home, no less.)
“Sorry!” you splutter out, clutching your nose as you reel gracelessly backwards. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I don’t know how I—“
“Geez Louise, and I thought I was a klutz!”
The voice pipes out from several feet above you, in a thrown-out sort of intonation— one that makes you wonder if maybe you had walked into a lamppost after all; one whose mouth is so far up its pole that it’s learned vocal projection just to compensate.
You open your eyes, still wincing from the injury, and peek upwards.
…Then a little further upwards.
Then just a little more after that.
Go figure. Not a lamppost, but identically tall, looming over you in outrageous proportion. You have no idea how you managed to collide with them. They have to crane their neck just to meet your gaze— which, in turn, becomes the only way you’re able to observe the distress etched in their expression.
“You,” they start, caught somewhere between perturbation and relief (neither of which you can scarcely understand). “You’re here. I thought that you… I mean, I figured you must’ve just… no, wait a second! Why are you… how did you—?”
They trail off suddenly, fitfully, as you feel some sort of wetness dribble down to your chin. You wipe your nose instinctively with one open palm, and hear an agitated buzz when it comes away red.
“Nevermind, nevermind! Broadcast injury, the press conference can wait!” they putter out, their somber recognition from just moments ago shoved instantly to the wayside. “Here— that’s, uh— let’s just… um…!”
“I’m fine!” you insist hastily in turn, made only slightly less credible by the constant, agitated swiping at your nosebleed (now with a sleeve rather than a palm, though it doesn’t do much more to curb your body’s hemorrhaging). “It’s fine, really, it’s okay, it’s my own fault for bumping into you, it doesn’t even hurt!”
“It doesn’t look like it doesn’t hurt! It looks like it hurts a lot!” they protest, antennae raised to needlepoints over top of their head. “I mean, you’d think with a face like mine, I’d know how to deal with a nosebleed! Ha! Ha. Uh. That’s… not helpful either, is it? Um… oh, oh!”
Suddenly, they stoop forwards, rifling through the breast pocket of their overcoat and shepherding you into a backlane off the sidewalk. It takes them a second or two longer than it necessarily should (how much can even fit inside a breast pocket?), but eventually, they withdraw a handkerchief, which they thrust emphatically towards your person.
You feel a little bad taking it, because it looks about as expensive as a handkerchief ever could be— but the claret you’re spilling has started seeping through your shirt sleeve, which, gross, so you do.
“Sorry,” you repeat, nasally and thick as you clutch the handkerchief to your face. It’s remarkably oversized, about as large as a dish towel, and you quickly find yourself glimpsing at the embroidery on one corner of the square. “Mr. Ant Tenna—?”
“Thaaat’s me!” one cathode ray television beams back at you, looking well-pleased with your acknowledgement. It’s the sort of smile that almost makes you forget about the blood spewing from your nostrils, or your precarious unemployment, or your soon-to-be homelessness.
…Almost. “Thank you for the, um… you know. M’sorry. This looks kind of expensive,”
“Kind of?” The CRT— Tenna— gawks at you. “More like one-of-a-kind! That’s untouched memorabilia in the making, kid! It’s priceless!”
“It is?” you ask, quietly stifling the urge to roll up one corner of the handkerchief and physically stopgap your nosebleed.
“Of course it is! I mean, maybe not that one, now, but all of the others? Those are T-rank, unpawnable entertainment collectibles!” Tenna asserts, shifting upright once more.
“But I thought—“ you start, pause briefly to sniffle, “—I thought you said it was one of a kind?”
That gives Tenna pause, and he contemplates the matter with solemn consideration. Then, declarative, said with all the gravity of something indescribably profound, “It’s a state of mind.”
You aren’t entirely sure why this makes you laugh as hard as it does. Maybe it’s your exhaustion, bone-deep and outstandingly heavy, tanking you into outright inebriation after weeks of prolonged idiocy. Maybe it’s the delayed hysteria of your piss-poor situation, finally crashing onto your psyche. Maybe, just maybe, it’s because of Tenna’s delivery, sheer and unequivocal, like he’s stated something truly revolutionary.
Either way, it has you snorting hard into his handkerchief, which… well, the result of that is never going to be pretty, no matter how good the joke was, and this time is no different. Instantly, you groan into the handkerchief, baffled and miserable, “Oh, God, that’s so gross, I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I—“
“You liked that?” Tenna asks, looking far happier than anyone ever has or will be at having their personal affects completely geysered with blood.
You, of course, have no earthly idea on how to respond to this, and so you nod your head belatedly, instead.
Never before have you witnessed a television screen manage to look validated, let alone quite as intensely as the shining grin before you. It’s from aerial to aerial, like you just pinned a star in the sky, non-intent beyond your understanding. Then again, the Dark World itself has just been a series of new experiences, one after the other; you wonder if maybe you should be accustomed to it by now.
Regardless, Tenna forges on, oblivious to your overall predicament, “No wonder! I know good taste when I see it, you know, I’ve got an eye for that sort of thing! Or, ah, a nose for it—?”
You laugh again, albeit with significantly less blood loss this time around. Then, sheepish, “I really am sorry for ruining it. The handkerchief, I mean.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, I’ve got about a billion of them,” Tenna says instantly, dismissing the notion with a wave of his palm. “Is your… uh, hardware malfunction looking any better?”
“Huh? Oh!” you pause, and lower the handkerchief from your face. The color of it, once a silky daffodil yellow, has now been doused with a grotesque blotch of carmine over half the square’s length, viscid enough to snuff out any hopes of stain removal. At the very least, the stain’s not getting any bigger. “I think it finally stopped. Thank God. I haven’t had a nosebleed like that in years.”
“Well, look on the bright side! At least we know I haven’t gone gloopy,” Tenna chirps, rapping two knuckles over his abdomen. There’s a faint thud as he does so, the sound of knocking metal dampened through silicone.
You aren’t entirely sure what being gloopy consists of, but you nod your head regardless, compelled to agree with him. Then, because you just can’t help but tack it on, “Thank you. Again. I really do appreciate that you… I mean, it would’ve been way easier to keep walking.”
“And just let you suffer out in the streets? What kind of showhost do you take me for?” Tenna answers with mock offense, prompting yet another smile.
“One with a billion one-of-a-kind handkerchiefs?” you posit.
And just like that, Tenna’s aerials tween forwards, like satellites pinning down a signal for all its frequencies are worth, and says, “Oh, you’re one of the snarky ones, aren’t you?”
There’s an unmistakable air of delight as he says it, like a director that’s just found his leading role, which— yet again— you have absolutely no clue on how to respond to. Luckily, this time, you don’t really have to; whatever unwieldy response you were cooking up dies in your throat when you feel a raindrop plink off your head, stirring your attention skywards.
“Oh, right, it’s supposed to rain today,” you say, reaching automatically for your bag.
Your hand barely passes behind your shoulder before Tenna is making a sound somewhere between dial-up tone and TV static, “It’s what?”
“It’s, um… on the weather, it said—“
“No, no, absolutely not! Haven’t you ever seen what water damage does to a deflection system?” Tenna exclaims, having brought his palms to clasp either side of his face. “I knew I shouldn’t have walked! The one time, the one time— because who wants an entertainer that doesn’t get their steps in, right? That’s how you market to the focus groups, you get down on their level! And the focus groups like their day walks! I can do day walks! But of course it just… it just…!”
“Hey, um— Mr. Tenna?”
“I don’t know why the focus groups like day walks! I don’t even know what a day walk is! Is it just a walk during the day? Everyone walks during the day!”
“Mr. Tenna?”
“Why did we run a focus group on people who just take walks outside?”
“Mr. Tenna!”
Tenna jolts back to Earth, his aerials flattening ramrod straight, “Hah?”
You extend the umbrella you’d collected from your backpack, “Here. You can use mine.”
He pauses, regarding you with some shade of astoundment that you can’t entirely parse. Then, in a voice like you’ve offered him a yacht instead of a cheap nylon umbrella, “Really?”
You hesitate for just a moment, unprepared for the gravity of his response, and wonder briefly if there’s some complex cultural weight behind umbrellas that you somehow weren’t privy to. Upon recognizing the microscopic chance that giving someone an umbrella is socioeconomically significant, however, you nod your head once again, “You need it more than I do, right? And you gave me the handkerchief! I’m, uh, paying it forward.”
The strange expression lingers on Tenna’s monitor for just a moment or so longer— hopefully more than you’d taken while debating the minutiae of umbrella gesticulation— before eventually resolving back to his former charisma, affable and sweet.
“I guess I wouldn’t mind a little quid pro quo,” he admits, accepting the umbrella with both hands (though he’d really only need two fingers to hold it, honestly). “But just this one time! I have an image to uphold, you know.”
“You have an image that keeps you from taking umbrellas?” you ask, blinking.
“No, I have an image that keeps me from this,” Tenna says, and promptly opens the umbrella.
It’s…
…Well, the most apt description you can think of would be if a uniquely well-dressed giant yearned very desperately to become Mary Poppins.
You bite the inside of your cheek. Tenna gains a crease on one corner of his smile.
“I have to get them custom made,” he admits, strained, as the rain starts hiking up from a drizzle. It’s far from the most comfortable feeling in the world, cold and jarring and clammy, but you imagine it’s a whole lot more comfortable than whatever Tenna’s equivalent would be.
“At least the rain’s keeping everyone inside?” you note, stepping back onto the sidewalk; just as empty as it was minutes before, which… makes a whole lot more sense in retrospect, actually. Most of the residents here have some sort of circuitry or otherwise hydrophobic property that makes them apprehensive towards taking dips.
Tenna follows after you out of the backlane, hunched slightly to fit the entirety of his chassis underneath the umbrella, “Keeping them high and dry while we’re sticking it out in a flash flood!”
“There isn’t any paparazzi to be obnoxious about it, is what I mean,” you snicker, having now opted to use your backpack as protection in the rain. It isn’t nearly as effective as the umbrella would be, but at least you don’t care about dousing the contents of the backpack itself— as far as you know, you can’t waterlog a stapler. “Unless they’re trying to take photos through the windows. But then the windows would be all… preciptate-y. So the photos wouldn’t look very good.”
Tenna seems to consider this. Or, at least, you’re pretty sure he does; you see hand go up to palm his chin(?), but the backpack on your head obfuscates your vision, and you’d rather not crane your head forwards in the accelerating rainfall. Then, lighter than before, “I do like when those moochy little gossips don’t get their way…”
“Exactly!” you smile, speedwalking now to match Tenna’s average pace, “I’m glad I had the umbrella. I totally forgot it was going to rain today.”
“You…” Tenna starts, then hesitates, and you imagine he’d be squinting if he had eyes to squint with, “You bring an umbrella with you everywhere?”
“Huh! Oh! No, that’s, um…” you bark out a laugh, deliberating whether or not to divulge your situation, before quietly admitting, “I kind of, uh, got sacked today?”
Tenna doesn’t respond.
You swallow, and— never one to leave a grave undug— you start rambling on, “It wasn’t actually today. It was a week ago. No, a little less than a week. I got told a little less than a week ago, and left today. Which is weird, because I always thought it was two weeks? But I guess that’s just a courtesy thing. Anyway, um, I had to bring all my office stuff back home, ‘cause I don’t have a car or anything, so I just sort of crammed it all in a backpack. And I had an umbrella in my office. So, uh, it was lucky. The umbrella was lucky.”
“You were fired?” Tenna echoes.
You can feel him looking at you. His pace slows, just a little, enough to match your speedwalk.
You swallow again, harder this time, trying to scoff back the sudden lump in your throat. “They were… restructuring. Got rid of my position. It was mostly pencil pushing, anyway.”
“Do you have something else lined up?”
You tighten your grip on the straps of your backpack, going silent. It’s enough of an answer all on its own.
You walk together for a little while, stuck in sullen silence. Your arms start to ache from holding the backpack over your head. If a stapler can get waterlogged, it’s waterlogged now.
Then, you stop.
You’re at the junction between the city’s thoroughfare and your own apartment complex.
Time to go home.
“This is my turn,” you say, letting the backpack slump off the top of your head; you’re already soaked by this point, anyways, and fidgeting with your hands is far more appealing than maintaining the singular dry patch on your body. “You can keep the umbrella.”
“You’re leaving?” Tenna asks, only to shake his head immediately thereafter, “I mean— right! Your stop. Of course. Obviously. Who sees their turn and just keeps walking? Ha ha.”
You manage a smile despite yourself, confused and endeared even through the downpour. “Thanks for walking with me,” you add, sheepish, “And, uh, I’m sorry for the whole… unemployment thing. I really didn’t mean to bring the mood down. I only realized how much of a huge bummer it was once I started rambling about it—? But, um, I hope you have a good night anyway. You made mine a lot better!”
With that, you turn to leave, earnestly grateful for the short reprieve provided by your impromptu celebrity(?) meetup.
“W-Wait!”
You’ve taken all of two steps when Tenna’s exclamation pierces the air, stopping you in your tracks. You whip back around, worried that perhaps the umbrella had turned inside out, or some other event of equal misfortune— but when your head tilts to meet him, he’s standing there unharmed.
Just… incredibly agitated. And somehow a little more proportionate with your umbrella?
“Are you—“
“I have a job for you!”
You blink.
“…Whuh?”
“You seem like a pretty smart thinker! You’re a smart thinker, right? Right! And that’s what show business is all about! Not prior experience! Not logistics! At the end of the day, it’s just the heart and the brains!”
You open your mouth to respond, but Tenna forges on, undeterred.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking! ‘Mr. Tenna, isn’t offering a job in the film industry to someone with absolutely zero experience that you met fifteen minutes ago a pretty risky business maneuver? Maybe even a little bit not-smart?’ To which I say: can it, buster! Because I’ve got a nose for talent just about a mile wide! I can sniff out potential across an entire country!”
You’re pretty sure you’re staring, now, but you can’t bring yourself to look away.
“So… so, it would be a disservice to yourself, really, if you said no. It wouldn’t even be hard! On-set assistance, printing call sheets, maybe a coffee run or two! Anyone could do it. But you could do it well, I just know it!”
You’re definitely staring. You set your jaw with a click.
“Y-You’d, uh… you’d even get to see yours truly performing live on—“
“I’ll do it.”
You’re pretty sure Tenna crushes the umbrella handle into one of those hydraulic-press plastic sheets.
“Really?”
You nod your head, trying not to reel too strongly from the proposition. “Really. Like, really really. You’re— I mean, are you sure? I don’t want to be a charity case, or anything like that, but if you really think I’d be a good fit—“
“Like a puzzle piece! Lock and key! Hole in one!” Tenna insists.
“—then I’ll do it,” you finish, now well and truly oblivious to the rain pouring down on your head. “Hold on, let me just…”
You pause to rifle through your bag, eventually recovering a damp notebook and a ballpoint pen. Somehow, you manage to scribble down your phone number without ripping the wet paper, and hurry back to Tenna’s side to offer the sheet underneath his umbrella.
“I don’t want to keep you out in the rain any longer,” you explain, laughing. “Could you maybe call me later with the rest of the information? I should probably still do an interview…”
“I’ll call! 1-800-GUARANTEED I’ll call,” Tenna assures, the smile on his face gone lopsided in its earnest as he accepts the number, his hand colossal in comparison to yours.
Something in your chest twinges inexplicably.
“Then I’ll see you later!” you beam, waving as you turn again.
“Yes! I’ll call you! I’ll see you! You’ll love it there! We have coffee machines! Stage direction! Water coolers up the wazoo!” Tenna responds, his monitor gone so bright that he really could be a lamppost after all. “We have prime time westerns!”
“I love cowboy shows!” you call back, waving at him all the way to the doorstep of your apartment complex.
Tenna’s screen somehow manages to brighten further. “I knew I smelled potential!” he cheers, vindicated, a buzz in his voice that you can only describe as downright giddy as you finally open the door to your apartment block.
From there, you bid one last goodbye, another wave and smile as it clicks back shut behind you.
And now, you’re…
Well, you’re soaked to the bone. Your hair is a mess. Your teeth are chattering just a little. And the apartment receptionist is staring at you the same way someone would stare at a dead fish, dragged in by a remarkably unscrupulous cat.
But you can see Tenna from a window in the apartment lobby. You watch him stop waving, pump triumphantly with one fist, then turn back around and start walking in the direction you’d both come from.
…He walked you home.
And so, despite absolutely everything, it feels like maybe— maybe— things will be okay.