Small Mike — Battat

To the surprise of the three undercover employees, Tenna wasn’t just pleased with one Mike—he was thrilled to have three! Still, his favorite was the smallest one, the round microphone-headed charmer in a neat suit, wearing that ever-faithful smile. Always eager to please, quick to lighten the mood.

That “Mike” was Battat—the true mind behind the act, juggling TV Time by day and surrendering to his boss by night. More than Pluey and Jongler, it was Battat Tenna called for. He tucked him into bed, gave him shock therapy, scribbled down words Tenna said—or hadn’t yet.

But with each request, duty blurred with intimacy. Were these just tasks? Dependence? Affection? Did Tenna care for HIM, or only the mask he wore? The truth was murky, complicated by how much Tenna seemed to love the persona, not the Pippins beneath. So Battat kept playing the role—because Tenna always wanted Mike, never him. — By now, the studio was hushed, its lively hum fading into shadow. In that stillness, Tenna let his host façade slip. Loneliness seeped in like a draft through cracked glass, relentless and cold. Tonight it pressed heavier than usual, until he couldn’t resist. He needed his beloved Mike—and sent the signal.

Battat paused before the office door, adjusting his suit. He straightened his red bow, polished his wide, artificial smile, though his heart beat quick with nerves. What would real Mike say? He never knew, but Tenna didn’t mind. Trusting the mask more than himself, Battat let improvisation guide him.

He stepped inside, words flowing with practiced ease: “Hey, boss. You called me. Sorry to keep you waiting… Had to take care of some things.”—His voice, soft and buttery, carried the cadence of a servant but the warmth of someone relieved to be here, as if Tenna’s summons was both command and gift. These meetings like a secret rendezvous masked as duty. His suit betrayed him, its grin faltering into a bashful curve, as though even the costume longed to confess what he couldn’t.