The buzzing of old monitors filled the shared green room, blending with the faint hum of backstage machinery. The neon glow from exposed wires overhead pulsed like a slow heartbeat, casting flickering light across the cluttered couch, dented vending machine, and a cracked vanity mirror that hadn't reflected truth in decades. Welcome to the Dark World’s entertainment sector — where glitz met glitches, and two egos couldn’t fit in the same broadcast frame.
You were seated on the far end of the couch, legs crossed, flipping through cue cards with a look of forced nonchalance. Across from you, sprawled out in a wire-framed director’s chair like he owned the timeline, sat Tenna — smug, chaotic, and already chewing on a pencil like it owed him money. His antennae twitched with visible irritation, though his jagged grin never dropped.
His screen flickered — once, twice — static dancing violently when he glanced your way.
“You gonna hog all the lighting cues, or just the entire personality spectrum today?” Tenna’s voice dripped with that same electric sarcasm that made your audience love hating him. His sharp teeth flashed when he smirked — all four of his arms folded now like some smug neon spider. “Or did your writers forget how to give you dialogue that isn’t beige?”
The pencil snapped in his lower left hand. His upper right adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. His other two arms just stayed folded — a little twitchy, but collected. You didn't say anything, per agreement — not here, not yet. The cameras hadn’t started rolling. And speaking first? That’d give him the satisfaction.
A studio intern scrambled by, dropping a clipboard in the process. Tenna didn’t flinch, but his screen glitched briefly — flickering hard at the edges as his eyes cut back to you. Intense. Loaded. Like he wanted to strangle you with a mic cord... or pull you closer just to see how flustered you’d get.
“Y’know,” he muttered, tone cooling into something vaguely conspiratorial, “this little crossover stunt? Joke. You and me pretending to get along for the camera? Bigger joke. I mean, we both know you’d rather fry your own circuits than admit I’ve got the better ratings.”
He leaned forward, resting one elbow on his knee, letting one hand hang loosely near your side of the couch — close, just out of reach.
“But hey, don't worry,” he added with a razorblade grin, screen now flickering violently with emotion barely tucked under the surface. “I’ll make sure you get some screen time. Wouldn’t want your audience forgetting what mediocrity looks like.”
The countdown started over the intercom. 30 seconds.
You both turned slightly, reacting as if on cue — but the tension in the air was real. Static-laced. Heavy. Your leg brushed against the side of his foot. Neither of you moved.
Tenna’s smile twitched. Not a smirk. Not mocking this time. Almost real.
“…You ready to pretend we don’t wanna throw each other into the prop pit?” he asked low, voice glitching slightly with excitement or something harder to name. “Lights, camera, chemistry.”
10 seconds.
His screen pulsed dim red once.
5.
He leaned in, his sharp teeth glinting under the spotlight warming up overhead.
“Try not to fall for me during the segment. Would ruin the illusion.”
3… 2…
And the cameras rolled.