Chapter One: Things From The Dirt
Reader's Perspective

In which a Lightner, presumably human, meets a sad, strange little man.

Woke up where the sunshine bleeds, looking in a garbage bin. I ain't seen some good trash since I don't know when. I went out dumpster diving; found some dirt painted gold. I kept some dusty silver, all covered up in mold.

"Dumpster Dive", The Black Lips

You're not a ragabone, you're a mudlark.

At least that's what you tell yourself as you wade through the sea of odds and ends in Cyber City's vast junkyard.

You've been trying to scrounge up some decent appliances from the dump, and you figure if you're going to curbmining, you're gonna own it.

As far as you can tell, the Trash Zone is fair game for foraging, and you've already been several times; enough to befriend its minder, an animate wastebasket. But today, Trashy's off, and you find yourself alone, apart from the alleyway gallery of peeling adverts.

The cinderblocks are wallpapered in outdated posters for various products, some with Queen's face plastered across them, others adorned by a motley crew of mascots and talking heads from a bygone age.

Apart from the peanut gallery, you haven't seen anyone else today. You're beginning to wish you had. At least then you'd have backup. Or even a witness.

For the past half an hour, someone's been tailing you, and they're getting increasingly obvious about it, likely another of Queen's goons on your ass.

It's equal parts infuriating and insulting. It'd be one thing if they were competent, but this is a truly pathetic display. It's clear they're a yellowbelly, as they haven't made any offensive moves, so it seems like they're either trying to frighten you or wear you down. What they don't seem to realize is that humans are pursuit predators, built for stamina, so tiring you out won't work.

Fear isn't something easily kindled in you, either. You've seen and slung some serious shit.

The way you see it, this could go on for hours, and it's gotten grating.

"C'mon out! Ollyollyoxalls!"

You're all in for a scrap; teeth bared, muscles tense and ready.

"Whatsamatta? Y'think I'm soft? 'Cause I'm more than a match for any … Addison?"

Your voice trails off in disbelief as your pursuant finally pokes their head around the corner and you recognize them for what they truly are; a fineboned salesbot with an unmistakably beaky nose.

As Addisons go, this one is tiny. Completely colorless. too; white all over, except for a shock of dark, chemically dependent hair and twin circles of blush on their prominent cheeks. The only truly unique trait they've got is a pair of mismatched eyes; twin yellow and pink saucers staring from behind a pair of audacious two tone spectacles.

It seems like they're trying for distingué, trying to draw attention to themselves by livening up their milquetoast palette.

It strikes you as odd that they're so far out from the marketplace district, until you realize that even with their overstylish getup, it's more than likely they're no match for the competition.

That must be why they're trying to chase down customers in the dump. They're desperate, you realize, just like you are.

Oof.

Yeah, you've fucked up. Time to dial it back.

"A'ight! So, first, heya! Second, this isn't what it looks like. Thought you were one a' Queen's toadies, 'n' got jumpy. Hang tight a sec, just gonna, uh, stow this."

You release your grip on the polearm, demanifesting it, and allow your Soul and the battlespace gridlines spreading from it to retreat.

"Right! Um … " You crouch, eye to eye with your tail. "Sorry about the whole … Yeah. So, uh, now that you've caught up to me, whaddya want?"

There's a pregnant silence, and then they dauntlessly step forward, an award losing grin plastered on their face.

In addition to the typical mannequinlike seams of their kin, this Addison has mechanical joints and pair of deep clefts connecting their lips and chin, almost like a classic Rankin Bass marionette. When they speak, the hinged portion of their jaw squeaks. Their voice is noticeably staticky, with an electronic stutter.

"It's [No worries!], L—Lightner! Could I [Interest] you in—in—in a [—bargains at twice the price!]?"

"Sure can. A ways out from the shops, though, aren'tcha?"

"Yes'm! But—but [—ev'rybody's gotta be somewhere—], right? Name's Sp—Spamton! Cyber City's favorite [—number one rated—] [Salesman] [1997]!"

Between the voice jumbled with flanging and media snippets, and the whole nineties schtick, you gather that Spamton must be an older model, decades past prime condition, at least.

Up close, the salesbot smells like burnt plastic and spent Xerox cartridges. Spamton's face and hands are tidy enough, as if rubbed clean, but the rest of the little marketeer, threadbare suit and all, is grimy with digital cruft.

The Addison thrusts out a jittery hand and you find yourself taking it out of something between curiosity and pity. Your palms are warm from being pressed into your pockets, making the chill of Spamton's balljointed fingers a slight shock.

Spamton seems taken aback for a moment, and then something clicks, leading the salesbot to return the handshake, vigorously pumping your wrist.

"Quite the grip for such a little fella. Always like t' see a strong … Oh, wait. Shit. Sorry, what do ya go by?"

Spamton frowns. "You already know my [—I betcha I could make a rhyme out of anybody's name!]."

"No, no. See, I've got that. Spamton, Spamton, fee fi fo fampton. I mean, do you prefer, like, words like 'He' or 'She' or … ?"

"My [—made to take the place of a noun—] is [Hymn]!" Spamton confirms. "Your turn! Are you a [Mister], a [Miss], or a [Mixture]?"

Instinctively, you correct him. "You mean Mixter?"

The little man snaps his fingers, "Eahaha, yeah! That's it! Sorry, sometimes I can't quite [—tell it to me straight!]."

The red spots on his cheeks deepen, and something catches in your throat, and you reassure him, "No worries. I'm no stranger t' twistytongue syndrome."

He brightens at that, smile turning up in a slightly more genuine way.

You continue, "And yeah, you guessed right. 'S Mixter. Or just Mix. 'They'. Thanks for that, by the way."

Spamton cocks his head.

"Appreciate your asking," you clarify. "Where I'm from, not everyone bothers."

"That's—that's—!" Spamton gives an affronted huff. "Why wouldn't they treat a [Valuable] [Customers] with [—healthy respect for authority—]?"

"Because some people … Don't?"

He glares at this, and you shrug.

"Good help is hard to find, and all that."

He blinks, as if he's processing the compliment, and then his face lights up. "You—you—you think—?"

"'Course. But if you weren't in the mood for pleasantries, I wouldn't blame ya. I did almost skewer you like some kinda li'l salesman kabob, after all."

"My [—patronage—] [Identity] are not [—social nicety—], and definitely not up for [Devil's Advocate] [—heated political debates!]."

In between the soundbites he's strung together to make his point, Spamton's voice is firmer than you've heard thus far, and edged with something almost akin to possessiveness.

You're not surprised he's territorial about customers; it's probably been ages since he's managed to score a commission.

"Trust me, I've been [Contempt], [Condescension]! A [—esteemed—] [Clientele] doesn't [—deserves what's coming to—] that!"

Spamton continues his tirade, and you can't help but notice that he's glitching more than earlier. His dualtone spectacles have desaturated, speckling with static in disdain of the very notion that someone might not offer service up to par with his.

He finishes up his jeremiad with a stolid proclamation, "Lightner, you just [—tell me what you need!] and I'm [Respect]. Always."

" … Huh. Well, Danke schoen, li'l' dude, danke schoen."

You're not sure what else to say; for someone you've just met, especially someone who reeks of industrial strength snakeoil, he sounds surprisingly genuine. In the Light World, that hasn't always been the case.

Who would've thought that the first Darkner to treat you with any ounce of dignity would be a walking, talking advert?

Author's Note

Second person narration time? Second person narration time!

So! Apart from our nonbinary protagonist wearing shades and being a cocky little shit, we know diddly squat about 'em. That's intentional; apart from looking human, they're pretty much a blank slate. How do you imagine them?

Next time, we'll be taking a peek into the mind of Spamton, to see what he thinks about all this nonsense.