S0 gl4d we ar3n't l1ke that LMA0

( END CW )

.

sharp grin dominating the otherwise pitch black screen.

"… Un̵l̷o̵v̶e̷d̸."

gesturing dramatically toward the lifeless body.

…Well, he was still Tenna at his core, after all.

"0ur contestant, Spamton G. Spamton, played his b3st… but s4dly… he reaches th3 end c-c-c̶o̷m̵p̵l̵e̸t̷e̵l̸y̷…"

Hijack pauses, letting the silence hang, his wide,

"Aand th-th-7h—that’s all th3 t-time we h4ve, ladies a-and Ge#tlem3n!"

His voice is a manic, echoing drone—a terrifying mockery of a game show host's cheerful sign-off, layered with static and the sound of rending code. He raises the hand that just tore Spamton's throat out,

The corrupted entity doesn't look at the corpse then; his attention snaps up, his head tilting toward an invisible point just above Spamton’s head, as if addressing a camera only he can see. The crack across his screen pulses with a manic, rhythmic energy.

Hijack stands there for a moment, chest heaving, clutching the wet, dripping ruin of flesh and metal in his phantom hand. He looks at the corpse with cold, satisfied indifference, then opens his hand and lets the piece of throat drop onto the corpse's chest with a wet thud.

He rips the entire front of Spamton’s throat out in a jagged, ruinous mess. A fountain of red sprays out, and the CRT watches almost fascinated.

Spamton gurgles once—a wet, hollow noise—and then goes limp, his head lolling back on a broken neck, the light in his eyes flickering out for good.

The pressure is immense. Bone grinds against metal.

"And he’s going to hold me… a-and he won’t even c#re that you’re gone."

…Then he wretches the arm upward.

There is a wet, tearing sound that seems to last forever. Muscle, wire, and windpipe give way all at once.

"A-and the f-funniest p-part…?"

He digs his claws in deeper, finding the spine, finding the vital cabling, finding the life.

"When I’m don3… I’m going to go b-back to h-him. I’m g-going to wash y0ur b-blood… 0ff my hands…"

Hijack’s grip tightens to a crushing point.

"Ha! Y-y0u w-wasted… y-y0ur l-life… ch-chasing s-someone… wh-who h-hates y0u."

He leans down, face inches from the dying puppet. The slash across his screen illuminates the panic in Spamton’s eyes with a harsh, blinding light. His mouth stretches wide, exposing the void within, ready to consume.

The invisible, jagged edges of his fingers dig past the metal collar, sinking deep into the soft, wet organic material beneath. He squeezes, choking off any scream before it can leave.

Blood bubbles up, spilling over Hijack’s transparent knuckles.

even without eyes, feels burning, red, and hateful—locked onto Spamton’s face.

"P-p-p̶a̷t̶h̴e̶t̷i̵c̶," he hisses, the word dripping with disdain.

He shifts his grip, moving his hand from the broken wrist to wrap entirely around Spamton’s throat.

Hijack catches the desperate, final swipe of Spamton’s claw with terrifying ease. His hand snaps around the other’s wrist, and with a sharp, sickening pop, he twists it backward until the joint shatters completely. He doesn't even look at the broken limb; keeping the gaze that,

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( CW ; gore & death . )

// this made me snort

I mean—

[ fiddling with his hands . looking flustered all the sudden . guy that just committed murder btw ]

I w-wouldn't ... m-m1nd th4t . . .

( END CW )

.

"A-and th-then… I-I’m g-gonna d-d-d̶r̶a̴g̸… wh-what’s l-left of y-y0u… t-t0 h-h-h̶i̵m̷."

He shifts his weight, pressing down harder on Spamton’s chest, his claws sinking into the organic structure of the neck, drawing more of that bright red blood.

"I-I’m g-g0nna… t-t-t̶e̵a̶r̸… y-y0ur th-throat 0ut," he purrs, the sound vibrating against Spamton’s skin.

He pins Spamton down, his hands crushing his shoulders into the floorboards. He looms over him, his lack of a nose making his wide, jagged grin look even more unnatural. He twitches, head snapping to the side.

"Y-y0u… y-y0u b-b-b̶r̸e̶a̶k̸… e-ea5y."

ripping wires and metal plating away in frantic, feral bursts until he finds the joint. With a sickening wrenching motion, he snaps the weapon clean off Spamton’s body, tossing the ruin aside to clatter uselessly against the wall.

Blood—hot, red, and real—spills all over.

but before he can even scramble, Hijack is tearing at him.

Those claws aren't just for show. Hijack snarls—a sound that is less electronic and more like wet, grinding bones—and swipes violently at the arm cannon. He doesn't disable it; he mauls it. He shreds through the casing,

He launches himself through the air, a blur of black shadow and glowing wireframe, slamming into Spamton. He lands directly on the other's chest, phantom limbs digging in for traction like a panther latching onto the back of a gazelle.

Spamton hits the floor hard, the breath knocked out of him,

He drops low, his torso dipping like a predator crouching in tall grass, and the beam sizzles harmlessly over his head. Not that it would've hurt him either way, but denying him even the chance to hit him is far more humiliating for him.

Then, he springs.