Chapter Text
Ramb has always had the good sense to know when to keep his mouth shut. It’s not so much a talent as it is an obligation for him nowadays; TV World is a war zone in nearly every sense, and a hostile environment necessitates minimizing the likelihood of being singled out. For every quip or witty remark that might spring to mind, only one or two ever slips out among what little good company he can say he has.
On the off chance that his tongue is quicker than his mind, however, it never fails to happen around the people most likely for him to upset. Tenna, as to be expected, has remained at the top of the list for as long as he can remember – and it just so happens that Tenna is the one who is around when that straw of self-restraint finally snaps for the day. “I don’t see why you can’t just wangle this yourself. You’re the telly, after all.”
The CRT doesn’t have eyes, but Ramb can see the crease of something like wrinkles form under where they would be. “Just because the kids plug the console into me doesn’t mean I know exactly how that thing works!” he insists with his hands on his hips, the hint of a snap buried somewhere in his tone.
The oddity of the request hadn’t come from the details, because of course Ramb knows how to tweak code. It comes with being a Plugboy, just like how laying odds comes with being a Pippins, or how playing a tune comes with being a Shadowguy. Rather, the surprise behind it all lied with how willing Tenna had been to let him be anywhere near a thing of importance. It flies in the face of procedure, which is him faffing around behind the bar. Worse is that he still can’t pin down an explanation that makes him feel less hesitant about the whole ordeal.
Tenna wants him to do something. That’s usually a red flag of some sort.
“Well, I don’t mind taking a crack at it,” Ramb finally relents. “Just don’t know if it’ll be any good. Never was one for fixin’ what wasn’t broke, but if that’s what ya want me to do...”
The strain is still there when Tenna speaks again, but it’s less noticeable than before, soothed by his demands being received. “Perfect! I want you to get started right away. There’s an instruction manual and the board layouts to design next to the game system, you should be able to figure out everything you need to know from there.” He doesn’t grace Ramb with any sort of excuse before taking his leave. He’s simply gone in a flash, and he takes all the tension in the room with him. It’s more palatable this way, so Ramb doesn’t complain.
Though the backstage is dingy and dreadfully dark, he finds it to be more inviting than the gaudy display that would greet him if he were to return to the Green Room. Here, where the sterile performances and veneer cannot mask the encroaching decay, he receives an impression of life. Of this place being lived in. But perhaps he only feels that way because of the novelty that comes with exploring something that had once been forbidden. He’s never had a reason to be back here, and the notion of privacy does certainly make his new task far more appealing than before. Maybe this particular arrangement isn’t so bad after all.
The gaming consoles have always been stashed away here, but until now, they had gone entirely unused by Darkners, left reserved for the Lightners in the hopes that they’ll one day come to the Dark World. Ramb suspects that jealousy might be the reason why, but he wouldn’t dare say that out loud, even under the assumption that no one would be around to hear it. No need to point out what everyone is already painfully aware of.
Moving through the atrium, he passes by a blank monitor that has several controllers connected to it, but the console that he’s looking for is located further within. It sits in the center of the farthest chamber, an even larger screen than before casting a long shadow across the floor. A layer of dust flies into the air when he blows over the top of the playtesting device, and more clings to the surface until he wipes it all away. Suddenly, he feels as though he might not be the oldest thing here.
Like he’d been told, he finds a stack of papers and an old pamphlet near the device, but he only has to thumb over each a few times before he gets all he needs to know. The papers are “boards” that Tenna has mapped out in rather meticulous detail, pointing out where interactables go and when to trigger certain events. All of it is written with a kind of handwriting so intricate that it wraps back around to being incomprehensible, and Ramb has to squint in order to make out the words. The manual, on the other hand, has text written in print, going straight to the point in explaining the controls of the console’s only game. He flips it over in his paws to see the instructions of enabling debug mode underlined in pencil marks.
It’s only then that the revelation hits him: he’s sanding down the edges of this game so that Tenna can pass off the recreation as something new.
It doesn’t take a genius to come to this conclusion, and as soon as he does, the familiarity chills the air into a temperature that is downright frigid. Even if he wasn’t already used to being coerced into fulfilling ulterior motives, he wouldn’t have been able to muster the energy to be upset. Nostalgia is the backbone of any dying relic, and Tenna, always the desperate type, is no different. But that’s not what fails to rest easily with Ramb. All he can think about is how certain he is that Kris would not find this enjoyable. How could anyone, really? He’s expected to make a watered-down replica that removes what defines the original. There’s no purpose to it other than a futile contribution to the ongoing battle for relevancy, just another extension of how this land always has glitters and sparkles slapped over the hollowness underneath.
And there’s nothing he can do about it.
He yields as soon as he puts all the pieces together, tossing the game manual to the floor and sitting down in front of the console. So long as the original remains, things will work out. It can be his little surprise, assuming Kris (or any Lightner) bothers coming down here. A real treat from the past.
Like all good things, it takes time to form a pattern that can be integrated into his everyday schedule. He still has to run the bar, but on the days when everyone is too preoccupied with their own work, he closes up shop early to tinker around with the console. The type of code that it uses is so out of date that it’s easily alterable, and that makes the job go by faster, but there’s a lingering bittersweetness that comes with the knowledge. He questions what the point is in modifying a game this old, yet he can’t find himself wanting for it to be any other way. It’s the only thing in TV World that comes across as genuine to him, and despite having to scrub it down into a squeaky clean slate, it’s nice to have an excuse to do something other than tidying up glasses that never get dirty in the first place.
As time goes on, more things are added to the reworked copy per request. No longer is he the sole occupant of the backstage, now that other employees have become active participants in this proper mess of a game show, and no longer is he having to test the software of a single playable character. The code itself never changes, but the increase in demand makes it take longer to iron out all the crimps, even though he’s since memorized all of the main commands and shorthands. Like the bar, it eventually becomes nothing but busywork.
It doesn’t remain that way for too long. On his way to the backstage, an all-too recognizable face pulls him aside in the changing room moments before he can touch the door handles. “We gotta talk,” Battat hisses lowly. The frantic look in his eyes is far from extraordinary, but there’s a hint of actual vulnerability that isn’t normally there, and it gives Ramb enough of a pause for the other to keep going. “There’s something backstage, and I don’t know what it is! I heard it laughing at me earlier when I was cleaning. Have YOU heard it?!”
Any other Pippins would surely be yanking his chain if they were to ask him the same question, but Ramb knows better than to assume that Battat is being anything other than completely serious. “Nothing dodgy happens back here unless the Pippins are trying to slack off. You sure it wasn’t just one of them takin’ the piss?”
“It definitely wasn’t one of them,” Battat insists instantly, as if the mere suggestion of being untruthful might make his head explode. “It didn’t sound like anyone in the studio!”
That detail, though innocuous at face value, is a cause for concern. It can’t possibly be a Lightner, for no fountain has formed to grant one passage, but the arrival of a new Darkner is no less significant. It’s been a long time since a fresh face appeared in TV World, and Ramb shudders at the thought of anyone else being their first impression of the place – especially if they’ve taken to the backstage as their hiding place.
“I’ll take a peek for ya, pip,” he offers with a gentle smile. “Doubt I’ll find anyone back here, but better safe than sorry, right?”
Battat looks as though he wants to say something, but his jaw remains tightly clamped, even as he turns away to approach the exit. Only then does a weak “just be careful” slip out in a tiny mumble, soon drowned out by the creak of the changing room door swinging open.
No one else is scheduled for maintenance, so he steps into a realm of utter silence once the doors close behind him, and a wave of tranquility washes over him as he pads across the hallway. The backstage is like a second home to him now, less intimidating than the Green Room, with its dread of playing pretend – and even though the possibility remains, Ramb doesn’t believe that he’ll find another Darkner. More importantly, he hopes that he doesn’t. Not too long ago, TV World had seen the worst cluster imaginable when Tenna had finally been unplugged in the Light World. It would be cruel, Ramb thinks, for some poor fellow to wind up down here and ruin the uneasy peace that has finally settled over the place.
He checks behind the curtain that shields the employee gaming system from view, and he finds nothing but controllers lined up against the equipment. He peers into the sideroom, and it is just as empty.
“...well,” he mutters to himself. “Suppose if someone really is hiding back here, I won’t find ‘em that easily.”
He doesn’t anticipate a reply, and he doesn’t receive one.
Turning on the console and settling under the glow of the display unit, Ramb resigns himself to keeping up with his chores, rather than turning over every square inch of the backstage on a wild goose chase. It’ll be easier to sniff someone out if they think he’s not paying attention, so he might as well get some work done in the meantime.
For all the time that he’s spent back here, little of it has gone into actually experiencing the game in its original state. While he understands its appeal to Lightners, partaking in their entertainment feels...wrong. It’s not meant for him. Even the act of changing it seems grossly out of line, like overstepping some sacred, unspoken boundary. But an hour into mapping out a new area, sentimentality compels him to try playing anyway. It’s always been a single input away from reach, and the ease of switching on the prototype makes it harder for him to change his mind. Before he knows it, the old title screen is scrolling across the display, and he finds himself beholden to commit.
It’s strange, having to use an avatar that appears strikingly similar to Kris. He knows it looks like them because they’re the intended recipient of this game, but Ramb is so accustomed to seeing his own likeness that no longer having the option to use it startles him a little. Self-consciousness finds a way to creep back into his perception, far enough away to fail dissuading him but just close enough to persist as a constant reminder of his own inhibitions.
Even though this is his first foray into the original version, he already has a rather precise understanding of how each area is mapped out, since most of Tenna’s boards are just levels ripped exactly as they are with enemy encounters disabled. The sword is an old component that’s usually removed as well, so he directs the player character into the underground area where it’s kept, intrigued to see whether or not it controls well in-game.
When he enters, there is text placed above the bridge section that shouldn’t be there.
DO YOU WANT TO PLAY WITH ME?
Ramb hesitates, taken aback. He knows it shouldn’t be there because he’s never come across any dialogue boxes while sorting through the code. It’s not out of the ordinary for a game as old as this one, so he swiftly jumps to the conclusion that someone has replaced the prototype with a modified copy – which would be very, very bad. This system is too old to be equipped with a way to restore older file versions, making the original well and truly lost, should his assumption be correct.
Nervously, he pauses the game and rises to his feet, abandoning his controller on the floor and taking a look around the other half of the backstage. It looks exactly as he’d left it, with the curtains still drawn in front of the employees console.
From behind him, he can hear the sound of the game menu closing and unpausing itself. He whips around, expecting to come across someone messing with the controller, but the playtesting room is still barren of any other occupants. More irritated than anything now, he plods back to the monitor and glances up at the screen. The text has changed.
THERE’S NO ONE ELSE BACK HERE EXCEPT FOR YOU AND I!
“...cheeky thing, aren’t ya?” Ramb huffs with a snide smirk. “How are you doing all of that, anyhow? Even if you could hook up more than one controller to this console, it doesn’t connect to the employee system. Where are you playing from?”
WHO SAYS I HAVE TO BE CONNECTED TO PLAY?
He freezes, his shoulders tensing up instinctively. “...what?”
Whoever is on the other side doesn’t answer him, the words in the cave vanishing quicker than he can blink. Apprehension twists into dread as he has the avatar walk out of the cave, and though the game seems to have returned to its normal state, that sensation never leaves him.
This isn’t the first time that he’s ever questioned if, within the vague parameters of a Dark World, the components of a video game could become Darkners. He tries not to dwell on the thought too much, in fear of somehow manifesting it, but now he can’t help himself. He’s known his fair share of digital Darkners, many of them based on programs and applications. If a Lightner wished hard enough for it to be true, would a Dark World accept that wish and make it so?
Are all of the avatars individual Darkners?
What a silly idea. If the actors they control are Darkners, they’d make that fact known. Or would they? If their existence is designed around being pieces of a game, maybe they wouldn’t object to being controlled. Because that’s the purpose they serve.
Ramb shakes his head and switches off the console. His eyes are burning from the light of the monitor, and that’s a sign that he should turn in for the night.
The next morning, Battat approaches him at the bar, not looking quite as worse for wear than the day before. He takes a seat and doesn’t even bother putting in a request before jumping straight into what he wants. “Well? Did you see anyone back there?”
“Course not,” the old Plugboy snorts, amused. “Like I said, it was probably another Pippins tryin’ to have a laugh. At your expense, of course, but when is it ever not at someone’s expense?”
“I guess,” Battat mumbles reluctantly, propping up the side of his head with one hand. “Anyway, how’s that new game Tenna has you working on? I’ve heard the other Pippins talk about it, but I’ve never actually gone backstage to see it myself.”
Ramb would purse his lips, if he had any. The encounter from the day before still lingers, and with the memory comes a reluctance to see if it might happen again. “Well, it’s not exactly my cup of tea, but it’s all going well enough, I’d say. It’s based on one of the games that the kids like to play after school, but you wouldn’t be able to tell if you saw ‘em side by side...”
“So the usual.”
He cracks a tiny smile. “You could say that.”
For once, time seems to fly by, although he would prefer that it didn’t. Not today, at least. But inevitability, like a rising tide, is impossible to halt, and his ship is too worn to try fighting against it. Better for him to ride it out and accept that it’s pushing him in the direction of the game. That doesn’t stop him from waiting until the very last second before shutting down the bar, however.
When he shuffles inside of the changing room, it’s a relief to see other people around. It breaks the decrepit appearance that twists the backstage into a metaphorical ghost town, and if something goes awry, someone will probably try to find him. He’s more useful alive than not.
Proper air conditioning is hard to come by in this part of TV World, but the playtesting area is noticeably warmer than what he’s accustomed to. Briefly, he considers finding a way to hassle Tenna into finally fixing the issue, though that’s a long gone thought by the time he sits down in front of the console. That, too, is hotter to the touch, so he stops to clean out any residual dust that might have missed his initial inspection. Maybe he should invest in a fan, if he can find one somewhere in the studio. It would at least help with the stagnant air.
Nothing stands out to him when the game loads up the starting area, and neither do any unforeseen complications interrupt him when he collects the sword once again.
“What a load of tosh,” Ramb sighs into the empty room, pinching the spot between his eyes to alleviate the headache that’s beginning to rear its ugly head. He shouldn’t have foreseen anything less.
The game is not difficult by any means, and running around the map does get a bit boring after a while, regardless of the objective requiring him to do so if he wants to progress to the next area. Some of the enemies are a bit tricky, but the challenge they provide isn’t enough to keep him fully engaged. Far be it from him to judge what the kids find fun, though. What would an old plug like him know?
When all of the enemies not blocked off by trees have been killed and the LV has reached the third stage, he moves to the next room upwards. Only, it doesn’t take him to the room he was supposed to go to. It transitions him into a blank room covered in pitch black, the lack of floor or wall tiles creating the impression of an empty void that he’s unwittingly stumbled upon. It must be a visual glitch of some sort, no doubt a consequence of the console’s age, but when he tries to leave the room, he finds himself stuck. It doesn’t matter which side he tries to exit through. The collision sound effect tells him that there are invisible barriers keeping him there.
LET’S PLAY TAG!
He cocks his head to the side at the textbox, watching in surprise as a greyscale duplicate of his own player character flickers into view toward the stop of the screen. Caught within the calm before a storm, he can feel his hackles rising moments before an ear-piercing screech erupts from the speakers. The doppelgänger laughs and laughs, blazing orange pixels forming a fanged mouth across its face. It keeps laughing even as Ramb finally exits the room, returning him to the one he had been in before.
Admittedly, it’s thrilling to be chased around. With the enemies gone, the only real dangers come from stage hazards blocking his path, and there are a few times where he runs into a dead end that forces him to steer around the other player, who can pass through trees and walls alike. Not knowing the outcome of getting caught instills a little suspense in him as he looks for the way to the next level, but he finds himself stuck looping around the map in a circle. There’s supposed to be a key that unlocks the door he initially spawned in front of, but it’s nowhere to be found.
Before he realizes it, the stranger has out-maneuvered him, passing through a line of trees to make contact with him. He’s not sure what to brace himself for, but being transported back to the starting area isn’t too astonishing. He hasn’t lost a life for being caught, either, so the stakes don’t seem to be particularly high.
NOW YOU’RE IT!
His mysterious companion doesn’t give him the grace of appearing on-screen to give him the same head start, sending him on a blind hunt across the map. Distant, muffled giggling guides him to the source, but when he hits the attack input without even thinking twice about it, the tip of the sword is just within reach of the other’s hurtbox. The shrill laughter is cut off abruptly as the clone turns black, then disappears.
In the silence that follows suit, he wonders if he’ll be accused of cheating, despite being trapped in the first area through some kind of interference. The response he receives is unlike anything he could have predicted.
ARE YOU HAVING FUN?
Ramb’s ears perk up as he reads the text scroll across the box. “Sorry, mate, but I’m not the one you should be asking. This game ain’t meant for me.”
THEN HOW COME YOU’RE THE ONE PLAYING?
“Because...” he says quietly, looking away, “I’m just making sure it’s up to snuff for them, is all. But I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here while I’m playtesting things. Could you do me a favor and take a load off for a while, just so I can run through the game normally?”
YOU’LL COME AND SEE ME AGAIN, WON’T YOU? YOU’RE THE FIRST ONE TO PLAY WITH ME IN SUCH A LONG TIME!
“You and everyone else down here, it seems,” he blurts out wistfully, twirling the cable of the controller around his index finger. “How about this? Whenever I’m between jobs, I’ll pop down here and play your game. But until then, I need you to keep your paws off things. Sound fair?”
Tension fills the atmosphere as soon as the offer is spoken, and he can hardly wrap his head around it. It's an innocuous bargain, one with no strings attached. What could possibly happen?
DEAL.
Holding back a sigh of relief, Ramb hunches forward a little, preparing to switch off the game and call it a night. "Hope you can keep yourself entertained 'til then. I'll be swamped with work for who knows how long."
I HAVE A FEELING YOU’LL FIND YOURSELF BACK HERE SOONER THAN YOU REALIZE.
The console powers down all by itself, leaving him in the lonely dark. For a while, all he can do is sit there, motionless as he tries to digest what all has just occurred. The room’s temperature borders on stifling, and there’s a sudden pang in his hands that jolts him back into the present, his grip going slack as the controller slips out from his grasp to hit the floor with a light clack.
With a weary frown, he reaches out and touches the plastic. It’s searing hot.