Summary + Prologue
New
- Partners
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Twelve years after being taken to the Dreemurr residence, Ramb wakes up on the outskirts of the Cyber World, having been finally returned during a bout of spring cleaning. With nothing to his name in a world that's changed drastically since he last lived there, he turns to Swatch, one of the few darkners he'd consider himself close to, for help until he can get back on his feet. But soon, he runs into Spamton and discovers that time hasn't been kind to the addison he once knew. With the two people he cares about most at odds with each other and rumors of trouble looming in Cyber World, he may be forced to pick sides in a conflict he wants no part of. All while struggling with his lack of self worth.
After all, what purpose can a British power strip serve in America, when the one lightner to give him a different purpose has left him behind?
Hi all! I've been working on this fic for the last several months, and decided to port it over before blitz since it's been the main focus and I know that there's a few Deltarune fans here. This is a slow burn Ramb/Spamton shipfic, though it's focused on Ramb's relationships with other darkners in Cyber City in general. This fic is rated Teen. Content warnings are below but are subject to change.
Plugboys were the backbone of Cyber City, in Ramb’s humble opinion. Every darkner had a purpose. Addisons sold. Ambyu-Lances healed and protected. Tasques… okay, he didn’t really know what tasques did, but he was sure it was important! But plugboys… plugboys were the service workers. The plumbers and electricians and construction workers. The darkners who made all the infrastructure work. Without them, Cyber City would fall apart.
And yet, there was always something different about him. Different from the other plugboys. Not just in appearance, with his darker hair and floppy ears, but in the way he spoke, in the way he held himself. In what he was capable of, too. There were things that he excelled at that normal plugboys didn’t, but there were things that he struggled with that people expected plugboys to be capable of. Maybe it was because he was an import. Or maybe it was just him.
Whatever it might be, it led to him spending his Friday nights alone at the Color Cafe, rather than joining the rest of his construction crew bar hopping. While they were cordial enough at work, he knew when he wasn’t wanted. At least Swatch and his crew liked him well enough. At least at the Color Cafe, he felt welcomed.
And that’s why he found himself at the Queen’s Mansion one late summer night, leaving the bustle and ambient dial-up tones of the city behind. He kept one hand in his jeans pocket and reached out for the glass doors with the other, the ambient rose-tinted lighting spilling out into the foyer.
As soon as he stepped through the doors, he froze.
A darkner of habit, Ramb always sat in the same spot, a prime seat at the bar where he could enjoy his food and drink, chat with Swatch, and watch him work. A place where he could feel important. Someone was already sitting there.
The man looked to be an addison, his mouth open with that salesman grin, nose long and pointed, and a black, uniform blazer. But he was short for an addison and lacked the usual, bright colored plumage, instead a stark white. His hair was a contrasting black, something that made him stand out despite his unassuming color.
Swatch was manning the counter, as usual, his feathers jelled up into a mohawk-like crest. When he spotted Ramb, he grinned, eyes crinkling behind star-shaped glasses. “Ramb! Good evening.” he called, waving Ramb over, gesturing to an empty seat next to the addison. “Take a seat. I’ll have the kitchen start on your usual order.”
With no better option, Ramb hopped up onto the barstool while Swatch disappeared around the corner, watching the addison out of the corner of his eye. He had a martini glass in front of him, half-full of battery acid, and a plate of half-eaten spaghetti code. There was something vaguely familiar about him, though Ramb couldn’t quite place it.
The addison took a sip of his drink, then turned towards Ramb, giving him a thoughtful lookover. “You must be the regular Swatch was talking about. Strange looking plugboy, aren’tcha?”
Ramb felt a flash of annoyance. Why was his appearance always the first thing people commented on? “You look pretty strange for an addison, yourself, chum,” he replied tartly.
The addison paused for a second, then threw his head back and cackled. “You got that right! I didn’t get where I am today by being just your regular, everyday addison.”
“You don’t say,” Ramb deadpanned.
The addison chuckled for a moment longer, then rested his hand against the bar, looking Ramb in the eye. “Seems like you’re not afraid to speak your mind. I like that. You got a spark of something different — in a good way!” He held his hand out in Ramb’s direction. “Name’s Spamton. Spamton G Addison. Number one rated salseman of the year. I’m sort of a big shot around here. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
Ramb hesitated, raising a brow. First he insults him, then he wants to play nice, just like that? Or he at least wanted to brag.
Well, the way he’d reacted to his own jab, maybe it wasn’t meant to be an insult. Just to be sure, he waited just long enough for the extended hand to be awkward, then reached out to shake. “Ramb. You’re the… guy with the cars, yeah? The… what are they called again, mate?”
Spamton’s face lit up. “That’s right! [Take a ride around town in our special Cungadero!]” When he said the ad, it came out in a slightly different intonation, like a prerecorded message. He paused, his grin tightening before he continued. “You wouldn’t happen to be in the market for a new car, would you?”
Ramb smiled ruefully. “Just like an addison. We just met and you’re already trying to sell me something.” Spamton’s smile faltered, but Ramb waved him off. “Relax, mate. I’m just giving you a hard time. But I’m not in the market, no. Can’t say I have the funds for a car at this time, mate. We can’t all be… what did you call yourself, a big shot?”
“That’s right, a [Big Shot]!”
A battery acid cocktail was slid across the bar in front of Ramb, the black feathery hand pulling away as Swatch took a step back. “I see you’ve met Mr. Spamton. I did try to warn him that he was sitting in your spot.”
Spamton cackled. “He did! And I told him, ‘Do you know who I am?’ The way I’m supporting the Cyber City economy, I think I can sit where I like.”
Ramb gave him another rueful smile. This guy really was full of himself, huh? But there was something about his energy that was infectious; he couldn’t stay mad. “Well, you best watch out, Mr. Big Shot. Not every regular is as accommodating as me. Would be a shame to see you thrown out on your ass.” He held up his drink in Spamton’s direction and, getting the message, the addison lifted his own and clinked their glasses together.
“I’d like to see them try with Big Bird here,” Spamton said after taking a sip, jabbing his thumb in Swatch’s direction.
“You must be new here,” Ramb teased. “Swatch will stop the fight, sure. But he’s just gonna tell you to take it outside. Then you’ll really be in trouble.” Swatch nodded along with his statement, and for just a second, Spamton faltered, genuinely looking nervous, before flashing that showman smile again.
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll make sure not to piss off anyone bigger than me.”
Ramb grinned behind his glass. “Might have a hard time with that one, chum. Not many darkners smaller than you except maice and plugboys. And I’ll give you a word of advice. You piss off one, you piss off all of ‘em.”
Spamton leaned forward conspiratorially. “So did I piss you off? Do I need to watch my back when I sleep tonight.”
“Not yet,” Ramb replied, but you’re on thin fuckin ice, mate.”
“Noted.” Spamton gulped down the rest of his drink, then waved down Swatch. “Hey, could you be a doll and get me a to-go box? Thanks.”
Swatch nodded, ducking behind the counter to grab a box, then drifted off to assist other customers.
“So, you come here every Friday?” Spamton asked.
“More or less,” Ramb replied. “Why?”
“Because I’ll have to catch you again sometime,” Spamton replied.
“Like… as drinking buddies?” Ramb raised a skeptical brow. “Now why would a big shot like you want that?”
“Why wouldn’t I? You’re a riot, Ramb. Not too many people willing to speak their mind around me these days. Just make sure you don’t get too smart, though. You won’t like it when I’m really pissed off.”
“I could say the same to you. Remember, you may be at the top of the economy, but I have the workforce behind me.” An exaggeration; he doubted he could muster up more than one or two plugboys that would defend him. But he was still teasing, regardless.
“Sure, sure.” Spamton waved a dismissive hand before hopping off his stool, taking the box with him. “Catch you another time, then!”
With that, the addison hurried out of the cafe, bobbing his head on the way out the door as if listening to a tune only he could hear. Ramb watched him until he was out of sight, then turned back to his meal, twirling his own spaghetti code absentmindedly.
Spamton G Addison. Now there was a character he was sure he wouldn’t forget.
After all, what purpose can a British power strip serve in America, when the one lightner to give him a different purpose has left him behind?
Hi all! I've been working on this fic for the last several months, and decided to port it over before blitz since it's been the main focus and I know that there's a few Deltarune fans here. This is a slow burn Ramb/Spamton shipfic, though it's focused on Ramb's relationships with other darkners in Cyber City in general. This fic is rated Teen. Content warnings are below but are subject to change.
- Violence (Slightly higher than canon typical)
- Blood
- Transphobia
- Panic Attacks
Prologue
1997
1997
Plugboys were the backbone of Cyber City, in Ramb’s humble opinion. Every darkner had a purpose. Addisons sold. Ambyu-Lances healed and protected. Tasques… okay, he didn’t really know what tasques did, but he was sure it was important! But plugboys… plugboys were the service workers. The plumbers and electricians and construction workers. The darkners who made all the infrastructure work. Without them, Cyber City would fall apart.
And yet, there was always something different about him. Different from the other plugboys. Not just in appearance, with his darker hair and floppy ears, but in the way he spoke, in the way he held himself. In what he was capable of, too. There were things that he excelled at that normal plugboys didn’t, but there were things that he struggled with that people expected plugboys to be capable of. Maybe it was because he was an import. Or maybe it was just him.
Whatever it might be, it led to him spending his Friday nights alone at the Color Cafe, rather than joining the rest of his construction crew bar hopping. While they were cordial enough at work, he knew when he wasn’t wanted. At least Swatch and his crew liked him well enough. At least at the Color Cafe, he felt welcomed.
And that’s why he found himself at the Queen’s Mansion one late summer night, leaving the bustle and ambient dial-up tones of the city behind. He kept one hand in his jeans pocket and reached out for the glass doors with the other, the ambient rose-tinted lighting spilling out into the foyer.
As soon as he stepped through the doors, he froze.
A darkner of habit, Ramb always sat in the same spot, a prime seat at the bar where he could enjoy his food and drink, chat with Swatch, and watch him work. A place where he could feel important. Someone was already sitting there.
The man looked to be an addison, his mouth open with that salesman grin, nose long and pointed, and a black, uniform blazer. But he was short for an addison and lacked the usual, bright colored plumage, instead a stark white. His hair was a contrasting black, something that made him stand out despite his unassuming color.
Swatch was manning the counter, as usual, his feathers jelled up into a mohawk-like crest. When he spotted Ramb, he grinned, eyes crinkling behind star-shaped glasses. “Ramb! Good evening.” he called, waving Ramb over, gesturing to an empty seat next to the addison. “Take a seat. I’ll have the kitchen start on your usual order.”
With no better option, Ramb hopped up onto the barstool while Swatch disappeared around the corner, watching the addison out of the corner of his eye. He had a martini glass in front of him, half-full of battery acid, and a plate of half-eaten spaghetti code. There was something vaguely familiar about him, though Ramb couldn’t quite place it.
The addison took a sip of his drink, then turned towards Ramb, giving him a thoughtful lookover. “You must be the regular Swatch was talking about. Strange looking plugboy, aren’tcha?”
Ramb felt a flash of annoyance. Why was his appearance always the first thing people commented on? “You look pretty strange for an addison, yourself, chum,” he replied tartly.
The addison paused for a second, then threw his head back and cackled. “You got that right! I didn’t get where I am today by being just your regular, everyday addison.”
“You don’t say,” Ramb deadpanned.
The addison chuckled for a moment longer, then rested his hand against the bar, looking Ramb in the eye. “Seems like you’re not afraid to speak your mind. I like that. You got a spark of something different — in a good way!” He held his hand out in Ramb’s direction. “Name’s Spamton. Spamton G Addison. Number one rated salseman of the year. I’m sort of a big shot around here. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
Ramb hesitated, raising a brow. First he insults him, then he wants to play nice, just like that? Or he at least wanted to brag.
Well, the way he’d reacted to his own jab, maybe it wasn’t meant to be an insult. Just to be sure, he waited just long enough for the extended hand to be awkward, then reached out to shake. “Ramb. You’re the… guy with the cars, yeah? The… what are they called again, mate?”
Spamton’s face lit up. “That’s right! [Take a ride around town in our special Cungadero!]” When he said the ad, it came out in a slightly different intonation, like a prerecorded message. He paused, his grin tightening before he continued. “You wouldn’t happen to be in the market for a new car, would you?”
Ramb smiled ruefully. “Just like an addison. We just met and you’re already trying to sell me something.” Spamton’s smile faltered, but Ramb waved him off. “Relax, mate. I’m just giving you a hard time. But I’m not in the market, no. Can’t say I have the funds for a car at this time, mate. We can’t all be… what did you call yourself, a big shot?”
“That’s right, a [Big Shot]!”
A battery acid cocktail was slid across the bar in front of Ramb, the black feathery hand pulling away as Swatch took a step back. “I see you’ve met Mr. Spamton. I did try to warn him that he was sitting in your spot.”
Spamton cackled. “He did! And I told him, ‘Do you know who I am?’ The way I’m supporting the Cyber City economy, I think I can sit where I like.”
Ramb gave him another rueful smile. This guy really was full of himself, huh? But there was something about his energy that was infectious; he couldn’t stay mad. “Well, you best watch out, Mr. Big Shot. Not every regular is as accommodating as me. Would be a shame to see you thrown out on your ass.” He held up his drink in Spamton’s direction and, getting the message, the addison lifted his own and clinked their glasses together.
“I’d like to see them try with Big Bird here,” Spamton said after taking a sip, jabbing his thumb in Swatch’s direction.
“You must be new here,” Ramb teased. “Swatch will stop the fight, sure. But he’s just gonna tell you to take it outside. Then you’ll really be in trouble.” Swatch nodded along with his statement, and for just a second, Spamton faltered, genuinely looking nervous, before flashing that showman smile again.
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll make sure not to piss off anyone bigger than me.”
Ramb grinned behind his glass. “Might have a hard time with that one, chum. Not many darkners smaller than you except maice and plugboys. And I’ll give you a word of advice. You piss off one, you piss off all of ‘em.”
Spamton leaned forward conspiratorially. “So did I piss you off? Do I need to watch my back when I sleep tonight.”
“Not yet,” Ramb replied, but you’re on thin fuckin ice, mate.”
“Noted.” Spamton gulped down the rest of his drink, then waved down Swatch. “Hey, could you be a doll and get me a to-go box? Thanks.”
Swatch nodded, ducking behind the counter to grab a box, then drifted off to assist other customers.
“So, you come here every Friday?” Spamton asked.
“More or less,” Ramb replied. “Why?”
“Because I’ll have to catch you again sometime,” Spamton replied.
“Like… as drinking buddies?” Ramb raised a skeptical brow. “Now why would a big shot like you want that?”
“Why wouldn’t I? You’re a riot, Ramb. Not too many people willing to speak their mind around me these days. Just make sure you don’t get too smart, though. You won’t like it when I’m really pissed off.”
“I could say the same to you. Remember, you may be at the top of the economy, but I have the workforce behind me.” An exaggeration; he doubted he could muster up more than one or two plugboys that would defend him. But he was still teasing, regardless.
“Sure, sure.” Spamton waved a dismissive hand before hopping off his stool, taking the box with him. “Catch you another time, then!”
With that, the addison hurried out of the cafe, bobbing his head on the way out the door as if listening to a tune only he could hear. Ramb watched him until he was out of sight, then turned back to his meal, twirling his own spaghetti code absentmindedly.
Spamton G Addison. Now there was a character he was sure he wouldn’t forget.
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