Dial T for Tenna (Part 2)
PART 1 ---- PART 3 --- Ao3
'Ant' Tenna/Reader
Summary: Mr. Tenna fears losing his place on the show and demands more excitement. The audience boos during the live broadcast, shaking him. In his office, he doubts himself. You comfort him and promise new contestants. He quietly thanks you.
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The studio corridor hummed with expectancy—buzzing lights, rolling camera dollies, and a looped sound cue that felt like a heartbeat. You stepped through the backstage entrance and into the backstage hub for TV Time. It looked like a chaotic game show arena, wires snaked everywhere, cue cards stacked like mini towers, and crew members darting about, adjusting lights and checking audio feeds.
And then you heard it: the unmistakable scream of Tenna’s voice, booming across the room, as though he were narrating his own life in grandiose fits.
“IT’S TV TIME!!!” he shouted, the echo bouncing off the walls. The phrase crackled overhead like a catchphrase encoded into the building’s wiring . Then came a destructive thud and more shouting. You pushed through a set of cables and barriers just as he stormed into view, mid-rant, his suit pristine but his posture aggressive, arms flung wide. His screen flashed jagged colors—not white—overflowing with static.
“You call this a reality challenge!? Where’s the punch? The drama? The stakes?” His voice reverberated. Crew scattered. He stalked forward, screen flicking violently in time with his breaths. “And where’s my spotlight? They stuck me under flat lights like a washed-out rerun! I’m not some low-tier rerun—they need me PRIME TIME, they HEAR ME!?”
You stayed set just out of frame, clipboard in hand. When he finally registered you, he froze like a faulty display.
“Oh-ho-ho, look who it is,” he barked, tone dripping incredulity. “The… emotional liaison! Come to watch me melt down so you can send memos across the network?” He leaned in, and though he didn’t have eyes, his posture pinned you—challenging. “Tell me you didn’t map my personal breakdown for your feast of corporate reading?”
You inhaled slowly. “I’m here to help. To keep you on broadcast.”
He snorted, voice rising. “Help? I don’t need off-air pep talks, I need Ratings! Contestants who are sweating, audience gasping, a quiz show that sizzles. This isn’t Sesame Street—this is TV TIME, baby!”
Tenna pivoted, rattling cue cards. “We’ve got contestants signing up for physical challenges, quiz rounds—mini-games that test wit, reflexes, failure threatens humiliation!” This was his element. Adrenaline carved through his speech. Then his tone cracked: “And yet, they want me to babysit… to tone it down? What’s next? Lip-syncing to lullabies?”
The static on his screen deepened, crackling into hushed tones. You stepped forward. “Mr Tenna, they’re not limiting your energy. They want you safe, intact—so the show can go on with you, not without you.”
He whirled, fists clenching. “Show can go on without me?” His voice lowered, breath rasping. The studio lights dimmed and brightened at irregular intervals—like his panic echoing in physical form. “That’s it—they’re grooming a replacement, aren’t they? Someone younger, brighter—someone they can control!”
You didn’t answer at first, letting him burn out the fear. Out of the darkness came a quiet sputter: “I used to own the living room. The whole family would drop popcorn just to hear my jingle—everybody tuned in, every time.” His screen flickered white, then stuttered into static for a split-second before stabilizing back to white. “Now? Now I gotta pander. Tap into empathy. Pretend vulnerability. Show the crowds... this side of me. What if they watch, and don’t tune back?”
You kept your voice even, close but not invasive “And if that happens?” He met the silence partway, shoulders trembling slightly, his stance deflating. A glitch of multicolored lines crawled across his screen like tears.
“And then… what am I? Obsolete. Irrelevant. Forgotten.”
You swallowed. This was raw, unfiltered. “Then I’ll make sure people remember you,” you said. “They’ll remember the intensity, the chaos, the soul behind the static. But above all—you staying on stage, front and center. No replacement.”
He held your gaze—a long, heavy moment—as the lights overhead stabilized, as if breathing with him.
Then, abruptly, he snapped upright. His screen flared white again. “Fine.” His voice was clipped, defensive, terse. “Rehearsal lights—with those blue gels. Full saturation. That’s not negotiable. And get me three contestants who can keep up with real-time trivia and physical stunts. None of that desk quiz nonsense.”
“I’ll arrange it,” you replied.
He pointed at you. Even his posture was a command. “And if anyone tries to cue me mono or put me in the editing room mute… I walk. Don’t care if they cancel the show.”
“Understood.”
He marshaled his presence: straightened tie, squared shoulders. “Alright then.” He motioned to the set behind him, where staff scurried. “Time to prep. Let’s make sure this is TV Time—not yawn time.”
His screen sputtered static, then steadied to white. He strode away, and the set snapped to life in his wake—lights synced, cameras rolling, technicians breathing a collective sigh.
You exhaled, watching him activate his domain again. The show must go on—and so would he. But this time, maybe with a bit more you helping to keep the signal strong.
…..
The next morning hit like a broadcast at full volume.
You barely had time to sit at your desk—more like a folding chair jammed behind a prop wall—before the call blared through the intercom: "LIVE SHOW PREP! TEN MINUTES, PEOPLE. LET’S GET THIS STATIC BUZZIN’!"
The studio was a fever dream—flashing lights, crew members running around like their shoes were on fire, cables tangled underfoot like digital vines. You held your clipboard tight as a production assistant shoved a coffee into your hands with the desperation of someone who hadn’t slept in three days.
Across the stage, Tenna was already in the spotlight, arms flung wide, his screen lit in clean, bright white. His voice cut through the chaos, exaggerated and booming:
“CONTESTANTS! ENERGY! EXCITEMENT! ENTERTAIN ME!”
And just like that, the show kicked off.
It was a game show, alright—some weird hybrid of quiz rounds and obstacle courses, loud and unpredictable, with physical comedy and stakes that made no sense. Contestants had to answer trivia while dodging foam hammers, balance on spinning platforms, and crawl through tight tubes filled with fake fog. It was all being streamed live. You could see the blinking ON AIR light over the stage entrance like a warning sign.
You watched from the sidelines, a little stunned. But… you had to admit: the contestants today were solid. One was sharp with the trivia, another was quick on their feet, and the third? Pure charisma. The audience was into it. Mostly.
But then… That started.
Scattered boos. Hisses.
At first, it was easy to write off—just a few hecklers in the back rows. But it spread like a glitch. Some people in the crowd started shouting over the questions. A chant began—low and bitter:
"BRING BACK THE REAL STUFF!""BOOO-RING!"
Tenna’s screen twitched. You saw it. Static flickered in the corner, faint but there.
He didn’t stop the show. Of course not. He got louder. “THAT’S RIGHT, FOLKS! HOPE YOU’RE ENJOYING THE PROGRAM! YOU ARE ENJOYING IT, RIGHT?!”
The voice wavered slightly.
The crowd roared back. Not with applause.
More booing. One guy even threw a popcorn bag onto the stage. You saw Tenna flinch—just barely, like a visual glitch in his own broadcast. But the mask stayed on. He finished the final round, announced the winner, and forced a burst of static-laced laughter.
Then the lights cut. The audience filtered out.
And Tenna?
He walked straight offstage. Didn’t say a word. Not to the crew. Not to you.
Just vanished behind the door marked "EXECUTIVE OFFICE “ You stood there for a few seconds. Maybe it wasn’t your business. Maybe it was.
You moved toward the hallway, footsteps quiet on the studio tile. The door was cracked—just enough to see inside.
Tenna sat hunched over his desk, hands on either side of his head, gripping the edges like he was holding himself together. His screen was nothing but heavy static now, low and dim, flickering like it hurt to keep it on. You could hear him—muttering to himself in short, broken lines.
“Not good enough…”“They’re not watching anymore…”“The energy’s off—wrong—wrong.”“They’re bored. I saw it. They’re done.”
He didn’t even notice you.
You hesitated, then pushed the door open a little wider.
“…Mr Tenna?”
No answer. Just a fizzing crackle.
You stepped inside.
“Hey. It wasn’t a bad show.”
His head twitched toward you, screen still stuck in static. He laughed—but it was more of a digital gasp.
“‘Not a bad show,’ huh? Wow, high praise. Should I put that on a poster?” he snapped. His voice was strained, bitter, quieter than usual. “Did you hear them? The booing? You think that’s part of the act?”
You closed the door behind you and walked slowly toward him. “I heard it. But I also saw the contestants. They were good.”
“Doesn’t matter.” His hand dropped to the desk, fingers drumming a frantic beat. “I gave them energy. I gave them spectacle. And they still want something else. Something better. Flashier. Louder. They always want more.”
His voice cracked into a short, electric stutter. The static on his screen spiked, sharp enough to hurt your ears.
“…They want someone else.”
You stepped beside the desk, careful. “No. They want you. Just not the you who burns himself out trying to be perfect every night.”
His screen blinked. The static softened—just a little.
“…I don’t know how to be anything else.”
You didn’t respond right away. You just sat down beside him on the edge of the couch—quiet, no clipboard this time, no job title, just someone sitting with someone else who looked like they were about to fall apart.
“You don’t have to stop being loud. Or weird. Or dramatic. That’s who you are. But maybe… maybe you don’t have to run the show like your life depends on every single cheer.”
You could hear him breathing—shallow, mechanical. His fingers trembled.
“…They’re gonna forget me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Everyone gets canceled eventually.”
You shook your head. “Not if you let people see the real you. Even if it’s just a flicker. Even if it’s not always ‘on.’”
The silence settled in again, heavy but not cruel.
After a while, Tenna slumped forward, letting his head rest on the desk. His screen dimmed to a soft, snowy white. He didn’t speak again, but you thought—maybe—you heard the faintest digital murmur.
“…Thanks.”
The room stayed quiet.
A distant thud of stagehands packing up props echoed through the hallway. Somewhere out there, the crew was resetting lights, rewinding cables, pretending the day had gone fine. Pretending he hadn’t just taken a direct hit.
Tenna stayed curled over the desk, head still resting in his hands. The white glow from his screen lit the wall faintly, flickering like a low-battery bulb. His usual posture—big, commanding, theatrical—was gone. He looked like a broken set piece left behind after the show wrapped.
You stayed quiet for a little longer, just letting the silence breathe. Eventually, you stood and started picking up a few things around the office. Nothing major. Just busywork. A toppled mic stand. A stack of cue cards scattered on the floor. One of them was smudged—like someone had crumpled it in their hand too tight, then straightened it out again.
After a few minutes, Tenna finally moved.
He sat up slowly, one hand dragging down the side of his neck like he was trying to wring out leftover tension. His screen was back to its regular glow, dim but steady. Still no color. No flashy glitches. Just him.
“…I need a better hook,” he muttered. His voice was quieter now. Not exactly defeated—more like tired. “Something new. Something they'll remember.”
You glanced over. “You think that’s really what’ll fix it?”
He tilted his head your way.
“I think if I sit still too long, they’ll change the channel.” A bitter laugh. “Ratings are everything.”
You leaned on the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “You could also… I don’t know. Talk to them. Be real. Not just loud. People connect to that.”
Tenna leaned back in his chair, letting his arms dangle. He didn’t answer right away.
“You ever seen what happens when someone on live TV stops performing?” he said finally, voice flat. “Dead air. People panic. They cut the feed. Replace you. No one wants to watch a guy crumble.”
He rubbed at the base of his screen like it ached.
“…But today, they watched it anyway.”
You watched him in the dim office light, the way the static had drained from his voice. No theatrics. Just Tenna, underneath it all. Maybe the show didn’t go perfectly. Maybe the audience had turned on him. But for once, he hadn’t run offstage to reset and cover it up with louder music and brighter lights.
He’d let someone see.
You took a breath. “Hey. I’ve got a few more contestant leads. A couple of them seem sharp. Weird enough for the format, but not total chaos. You want me to screen them tomorrow?”
His head turned toward you.
There was a beat of silence. Not dramatic — not the kind he’d usually stretch for tension or effect — just a brief moment where he looked at you like he wasn’t sure what to say, or maybe didn’t trust himself to say it.
“…Yeah. Let’s do that,” he muttered finally, voice thin and crackling with residual static. Not defeated. Not grateful. Just… done.
You gave a quiet nod. “Cool. Get some rest, alright?”
He didn’t reply right away, just raised one hand in a vague wave — the gesture lazy, half-hearted, like he couldn’t decide if he meant it or not. But it was something. Not for the cameras. Just for you.
You had your hand on the door when his voice hit you again — low, frayed at the edges.
“Hey.”
You stopped.
There was another pause, longer this time. When he finally spoke, his screen dimmed a little, flickering like a light trying not to burn out.
“…You didn’t have to check on me.”
The words came out flat, stripped of showmanship. No booming reverb, no wild hand gestures, no self-mocking theatrics. Just Tenna — a little quieter, a little raw.
He didn’t look at you. Just stared straight ahead, like if he met your eyes, he’d unravel again.
“…Whatever,” he added quickly, static hissing through his voice like a defense mechanism powering back up. “Thanks.”
You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Just gave a small nod — the kind someone only makes when they don’t want to break a fragile moment by naming it — and stepped through the door.
It clicked shut behind you.
No spotlight. No exit music. No laugh track. Just the soft hum of tired machinery and the distant flicker of a screen that hadn’t quite shut down.
Not off. Not yet.
Just… resting.
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I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY THIS ONE AS MULH AS THE PREVIOUS ONE!
If you noticed any grammatical errors..... no, you didn't....!!!!!!!
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