Chapter Text
Spamton was never one to willingly admit that Tenna was right about something they’d previously had disputes about, and he definitely wasn’t about to start admitting it now.
Recently, he had managed to convince Tenna that transitioning their mail system from physical letters to email instead was a good idea for the future outlook of the show. It had taken him a long time to finally get Tenna to come to terms with that fact, considering the CRT’s wariness of newer tech in general, but with enough prying and sweet-talk, he eventually came around to the idea.
And it really was a good idea. It was a lot easier– not to mention quicker– to read and respond to a bunch of emails all at once rather than sifting through dozens and dozens of actual mailpieces for hours on end. Being able to just open a pop-up and see everything at a glance especially helped in sorting out the fanmail from the more important stuff– business inquiries, sponsorships, and the like. Sure, Tenna himself didn’t understand how it all worked in the slightest, and he couldn’t exactly see the pop-ups without Spamton’s help, but that didn’t really matter all too much considering the mail was Spamton’s job, not his.
Regardless, the switch ended up working fantastically, all things considered. It only made sense for it to, after all. Emails were Spamton’s whole thing. It was what he knew the most about above anything else, even above his affinity for cars, it was just a part of who he was. In the same way Tenna knew TV, Spamton knew emails. It was simply the way things worked.
Even if some people would disagree with his ability to compose an effective one, anyway.
He digressed.
One would think, then, that due to his experience in the field, he would know better than to make any careless mistakes. He knew well enough by now how to avoid shady links and websites, how to spot a scam email from a mile away. He wrote the things on a daily basis after all– though he preferred to not call them scams, exactly– there was no way he couldn’t know.
One would think that, anyway.
He figured he had to have slipped up somewhere, opened an attachment he shouldn’t have. It was really the only explanation for how shitty he was currently feeling. Something, though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what, exactly, had to have given him a virus. The thought alone was already frustrating enough, but actually experiencing it was even worse.
He sighed, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation.
Before Tenna had reluctantly agreed to the new mail system, he had expressed concerns about it. Largely concerns about the switch possibly causing show ratings to drop, ever mindful of his image, to no-one’s surprise, but also concerns about safety. The guy was always getting himself worked up about the internet being unfamiliar and scary, he had no trust in it at all. Spamton had assured him that it’d be safe, that he knew how to handle things, that nothing bad would happen. Obviously, he had no intention of proving those concerns correct. That’d just be…well, stupid.
He supposed it was something of an issue, then, that said concerns were proving to be rather valid, actually.
It was a bit difficult for Spamton to pinpoint the exact moment he noticed something was wrong with himself. Looking back on it, he had been rather tired the past few days, but he didn’t really have much of a reason to think much of it. It was just something that happened occasionally, nothing unusual, especially with the hectic nature that came with working at the studio. The beginnings of a headache began creeping up on him somewhere along the way as well, but it was hard to say for sure when that had started.
Either way, being a little sleepy and having a minor headache weren’t reason enough to assume anything was out of the ordinary. Both could be easily brushed off.
Now, though? It was glaringly obvious that something was up. Obvious to nobody but himself, he hoped. Firstly, he had woken that morning feeling as though he hadn’t slept at all. He briefly wondered if it were even possible to feel more exhausted than he had prior to sleeping. It wouldn’t make any sense, and yet it was the case, the all-consuming tiredness only seeming to get worse as the day dragged on.
Secondly, it felt like he’d been stabbed with a giant stake straight through his brain. His slight headache from before was nothing compared to how it felt now. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt something quite like it before. The unrelenting dizziness that came with it was beginning to turn his stomach, and Spamton was considering the possibility of a migraine, actually. It was a miracle he was even still up and about, honestly.
To top it all off, thinking itself felt like a chore, his brain too full and foggy to focus properly on much of anything, and he was certain he was developing a fever if he didn’t already have one.
In the back of his mind, Spamton thanked the Angel for the fact that he wasn’t due to be on stage today. He really didn’t think he’d be able to keep himself in check up there, and Tenna’s nosy ass would undoubtedly end up being the death of him. Instead, his role was to tweak some scripts, and draft up a few ad-reads. Fairly simple work in comparison to performing, but looking at the papers currently scattered across his desk, wavy in his vision, he wasn’t sure even that was something he could handle at the moment.
Propping up his head on one hand and flicking a pen back and forth in the other, he closed his eyes and groaned. A sudden dull stab rang out above his left eye, and he’d nearly dropped his pen in the midst of a wince.
The whole situation was really more of a nuisance than anything else. Being sick sucked, sure, but he’d had his fair share of viruses before. Especially back in the city. They always seemed to run more rampant over there. Ordinarily, anything he’d ever caught had always cleared up within a few days, so he wasn’t too especially worried about it. Just…annoyed. The main issue, of course, was Tenna.
If he were to find out about this, Spamton would never hear the end of it. Not only would he likely have to kiss the new email system goodbye for it being responsible for the current predicament, but the ‘I-told-you-so’s’ were sure to be nothing short of relentless as well. There were a lot of things in the world that Spamton G Spamton would consider doing, but proving Tenna correct and letting him win a petty argument wasn’t one of those things.
Maybe it was stupid, maybe it wasn't. Either way, thinking at all was starting to make him feel really quite ill.
He closed his eyes and gently rested his head on the desk in front of himself, letting out a deep sigh. The surface was a bit cool to the touch, and oddly soothing. His mind was already swimming with conversations, predicting the TV’s neurotic rambling before it could even happen.
“Oh I just knew this wouldn’t work out, Spam. What did I say!”
“I knew sticking to the same old system was a better idea, but you didn’t want to hear it!”
“There’s nothing wrong with traditional mail, people love receiving handwritten letters, you know!”
“All that big talk about ‘email this’ and ‘email that,’ and now look! Some help all that was!”
“You can’t get sick from normal letters, Spam. I’m telling you, modern doohickeys just aren't worth the hype! It’s all just a fad, you’ll understand eventually.”
“Spam, you can’t be serious-!”
Something gently tapped at his shoulder. The action caused a chill to run down his spine. The resulting shiver made his stomach clench unpleasantly. Had he even eaten at all today? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t think he had, considering how unpleasant the thought of food even sounded at the moment. That probably wasn’t great.
“...Spamton?”
It was almost funny, the way Tenna always took things so hopelessly serious. Spamton couldn’t help but to laugh a little. Stupid, silly cathode.
“Spam, hey,” a small shake of a shoulder, “did you…finish any of this?”
What?
Hearing the rustle of papers, Spamton looked up. The motion made his head swim. Swallowing, he briefly registered that Tenna was scooping up everything off of the desk. Clearing his throat, Spamton spoke, “What’re you doin’?”
“I’m checking everything over,” Tenna explained, flipping through the pages in his hands with a somewhat confused expression before continuing, “You didnt…do anything?”
All Spamton could do was stare at the wall in front of himself.
“Spam…it’s the end of the day, I'm done filming, why haven’t you touched any of this?”
Turning around carefully in his chair, Spamton reluctantly met Tenna’s gaze, doing his best not to squint at the light emitting from his screen. Was it always so bright? Answering his question seemed to be an even harder action. Why hadn’t he…what? Racking his brain felt impossible, but he couldn’t let Tenna see that. He was supposed to be doing something, and he didn’t. Excuse, excuse, excuse.
He huffed, “Well, you know how it [goze], I had a few other things to [[TakeCare]] of before I could start on anything else, [That’s just Business!]”
Tenna looked incredulous. “That’s just-? Spam, this,” he shook the papers out, “is important. This is business- what could possibly be more important than the sh…” He stopped. “Oh.”
Spamton watched as his screen started to dim.
“Don’t tell me you were…hah, on the phone again, right? Is that what it was?”
Not this again.
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and stayed silent, shifting his gaze to the floor. It wasn’t even the case, he hadn’t taken any calls all day. But it wasn’t like Tenna would believe him even if he denied the accusation.
Laughing, Tenna placed the stack of papers back onto the desk, and raised a hand up to hold his head. “Right, I…of course. I don’t…well why would I assume otherwise, right?” Spamton couldn’t tell if the man was actually shrinking or if he was beginning to imagine things. He wouldn’t be surprised if either were true.
“Look, [TV! Time!],” he started, “it’s not like that, you know I-”
“Spamton.”
He spared a glance up at the larger man, his face was completely dark, expression both deathly serious and simultaneously unreadable. If Spamton focused, he could see his own reflection on the glass. He looked just as wildly disheveled as he felt, but fortunately– or unfortunately– Tenna didn’t seem to notice it.
The TV turned towards the door, and continued, “I don’t want to hear it. Not today. Please? Just…” he sighed, “I’m headed to my room, just make sure this gets done by tomorrow, okay? For me?”
Spamton looked at the papers, now neatly organized rather than the scattered mess they’d been before. He felt his face burn hot, though with embarrassment, guilt, or fever, he wasn’t sure. The feeling left his insides in a knot. On an ordinary day, maybe he would’ve had it in himself to argue more. Maybe he could have tried harder. Maybe he could have found an excuse that would’ve fixed everything.
Maybe.
“Right. I’ll get it sorted out. Sorry cathode.”
Tenna relaxed a bit, but there was still an air of resentment about him. “Thanks, Spam. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Have a good night, okay?” And just like that, he was gone.
“Yeah. You…too…?” Spamton mumbled after him.
Sitting back in his chair, he took in what had just happened. Of course Tenna was upset at him. It was always something with that guy, lately. But…he couldn’t be mad at him. Not really. Everything was so muddy. And now he had the task of…
The task of…
He figured he should probably start heading to his own room, as well, but for some reason the idea of actually doing as much seemed rather daunting. He folded his arms together on the desk and placed his head on the bundle, letting his eyes slip shut.
Honestly, sleeping in the office didn’t sound like too bad of an idea. In fact, it sounded kind of…nice.
And so…
he…
was…
Cold. It was so, so cold. Something was wrong. Something was- there wasn’t…
Peeling himself up off the desk took a lot more effort than Spamton would’ve liked. Every so often, he found himself being violently shaken by involuntary shivers. He noted, dimly, that he was soaking wet. Why?
Everything seemed to be going wrong all at once. Trying to stand up was the worst idea he’d ever had, he decided. The effort expended in attempting to do so left his head reeling, and no sooner had he gotten his legs underneath him, they buckled under his weight, sending him hands first towards the ground.
Surely, he was going to die here.
His arms shook, struggling with the simple task of keeping himself upright. If he didn’t know any better– and truth be told, he wasn’t sure he did know better– he’d have assumed his arms had been stolen and replaced with wet noodles instead.
Somehow, Spamton managed to take note that his palms were beginning to slide apart from one another, nearly causing him to lose balance and careen his face right into the floor. Luckily, he was able to save it at the last second by jerking one of his hands back into place, bracing himself on it.
The sudden movement did nothing to help the ever-present pain in his head, and said pain only served to worsen his nausea– which was very quickly beginning to seem like a bigger problem than it had been only a moment ago.
A much bigger problem, actually. It almost felt like something was squirming around inside of him, forcing his stomach to contract against his will. The thought didn’t really help at all.
Balling his hands into fists on the floor, Spamton did his best to ride out the feeling. Sweat started making its way down his face and onto the floor, and soon, rapidly multiplying saliva joined it. His mouth hung open helplessly as he breathed carefully. The thought of even attempting to swallow was just too much– for some reason his stomach already felt too full to have anything more added to it– so to the floor his spit went.
Suddenly, and without much warning, his stomach clenched, making his body lurch forward with a short-lived gag.
For just a moment, he was able to hold everything back. For just a moment, he might have believed he had a chance to stop himself from being sick.
Up until the simple act of taking a small breath inwards decided to ruin it all.
He barely had to put in any effort before his guts were suddenly spilled onto the floor in front of himself. There was nothing he could do but try to compose himself through the retching as vomit began to seep in between his fingers, making his already precarious balance even worse. It took everything to not immediately fall into the puddle of sick.
It was probably just a trick of the light, but for a moment, it almost looked as though the substance itself was moving. He tried his best not to look at it.
By the time the fit was over, Spamton was left a heaving, wet mess. Strings of spit and puke continued to drip from his open mouth, and he could even feel some coming from his nose. Trying to breathe without triggering a redo of what had just happened felt near impossible, and the dizziness from his headache– only made worse from vomiting– threatened to make him pass out then and there.
Weirdly, it didn’t feel nearly as cold as it had only moments prior. Quite the opposite, actually. The heat was stifling. Why was it so hard to just think?
It took a moment, probably a lot longer than it should have, but eventually the thought crossed his mind that he should probably figure out a way to get cleaned up. Considering the whole…everything, actually.
Taking the weight off of his arms finally and letting himself sit back on his knees, he tried to consider his options. Something was telling him that he was running out of time to figure it out, but it didn’t really occur to him that the darkness slowly encroaching into his vision had anything to do with that until it was already too late.
Nobody was around to hear the resulting thump his body made as it slumped onto the floor.