Work Text:
Your life had become a well-practiced routine over the past few years. Wake up, lazily make yourself a simple breakfast, boot up your dusty old computer, work until you stop for lunch and then work so more, have dinner, watch some tv, sleep, and repeat. Not exactly livin' the dream, but it wasn't bad either. It was simple, and you made good money, though even you could admit your lifestyle left you indoors and alone for perhaps longer than was healthy.
A few months ago, however, something added some much-needed variety to the monotony of your daily life.
Trips to the library weren't a regular occurrence, but that day, you had no alternative. The power to your house- just yours, you'd later found out, much to your annoyance- had gone out, supposedly the result of a dog chewing through a power line. In hindsight, you probably could've just called out for the day (you had ample vacation days stored up), but you instead trudged over to the local library to make use of the computer lab inside.
The library trip itself was already a shake-up to your routine, but as you tossed your bag over the back of your chosen seat, you spotted it. A floppy disk, sat on the end of the table, teetering dangerously over the trash can.
Without much thought, you grabbed it, bringing it to the front desk so it could be put away properly. The monster at the front desk gave it a glance over before handing it back, informing you that it didn't belong to the library. They mention some students had been in the lab studying yesterday, but you doubt students would be using such an old device.
You sat the disk back on the table- further from the edge this time, just in case- and got to work, but your eyes kept drifting back over to the disk. Hours ticked by, lunch came and went, and your curiosity only grew.
Who'd just leave a random floppy disk behind, ready to fall into the trash, instead of just throwing it away? Who even uses floppy disks anymore?
You knew the right thing to do would've been to leave it where it was, in case its owner came looking. However, when the sun dipped below the horizon, and you packed up your back, you found yourself packing up the disk as well. Surely, you reasoned, if it was important, the owner would've already come back for it. Besides, if you brought it home and checked what was on it, maybe it'd give you a hint who it belonged to and you could return it by hand. Yeah, that was it! It definitely wasn't just to sate your own curiosity.
Returning to your home, your power thankfully back on, you considered for a moment if putting a random disk you found in a library into your only computer was a bad idea. The moment quickly ends as you listen to your ancient computer struggle to whirl to life. Worst case, you have an excuse to get a new one.
And it was the worst case, you figured, when slotting the floppy disk inside immediately had a download pop-up consume your screen. You sat watching the progress bar tick by slowly for what seemed like forever (but was likely no more than a few minutes) before deciding that you'd check again in the morning.
When you did check, to your delight, your computer had not been bricked by a virus (probably.) Instead, you were greeted with a single open window, occupied by a sleeping figure. Behind the figure was a painted sun and clouds, adoring a fittingly sky-blue brick wall. The window offered no further context than the simple title, "spamton.char" While not immediately apparent, you quickly discovered the purpose of the program.
A virtual pet.
With the introduction of your new computer friend, you soon fell into a new schedule. Wake up early, make breakfast, boot up your computer, interact with your new friend- 'Spamton,' you guess, based on the program's name, do some work, eat lunch at your computer to interact with Spamton some more, work until dinner, spend the rest of the night interacting with Spamton, go to bed, repeat.
Spamton was odd. While you had no better term for the program than 'virtual pet,' 'pet' didn't exactly describe what Spamton was very well. For starters, Spamton didn't look like a 'pet,' or at least not by your standards for what a pet is. He was some kind of doll- or a puppet, maybe?- with ball jointed limbs and a jaw that reminded you of a nutcracker. Slicked back black hair with a matching black suit jacket, and a pair of duo-toned sunglasses to complete the look- whatever the 'look' was supposed to be.
You didn't really take care of him like a pet, either. While messing with the program, you found the mechanics of it to be fairly simple. You could interact with the program- or, rather, the little puppet man inside of it- by clicking around with your mouse pointer, and you could give Spamton things by dragging images into a file folder- 'Home.obj'- that appeared on your computer alongside the program.
Despite calling the program simple, the program clearly had a pretty advanced way of detecting what the image was and an incredibly variety of responses to an even larger variety of items. The program was able to easily understand the contents of your mouse-drawn MS Paint doodles and give Spamton an item accordingly- and correctly color-matched to your doodle, too!
These interactions made up the bulk of the game. There was no kind of meter to track care stats, or minigames to play, or anything like that; There wasn't any real indication of if there were certain things you had to do and when, either. You gave Spamton food, because that seemed like something you usually have to do in these games, and it did warrant a positive reaction from Spamton himself, but the program didn't give much feedback on if this was something you had to do, or how often you should do it, or if there were consequences if you didn't.
You took to feeding him at the same time you ate. You'd take a picture of your food on your phone, upload it to your computer, and then drag the PNG into the program's 'Home.obj' folder. It seemed like the program would delete any image you dragged into it off of your computer, but you didn't really mind. Seeing Spamton eating the same food you were eating almost made it feel like you weren't eating alone; Seeing Spamton in general almost made it feel like you weren't alone in your house. It was a nice ego boost that he always seemed to enjoy the food you 'made' him, too.
Sometimes, a black speech bubble would appear in the program, tail indicating it belonged to Spamton. On a few occasions, white pixels appeared in the speech bubble, text so glitched out it was completely ineligible, but usually it was bugged out to the point of complete emptiness. Spamton himself had some glitchy animations, but the glitches with him were not anywhere near as bad as the glitches with his dialogue. An unfinished part of the game, you guessed, something you couldn't help but feel a little sad about.
You had tried to look up anything you could about the virtual pet program you had found, even asking about it on forums, but nothing ever showed up. You guessed that perhaps the person who left the floppy disk was the one who made the program. This makes you feel bad about taking it, as it clearly had to have taken a great amount of work, but at this point, you weren't sure you'd be willing to return it even if they'd pay you for it. Spamton had become part of your routine, and his company helped to keep the creeping loneliness of your isolated lifestyle at bay.
Today, however, another shake-up happened in your routine.
You can tell as soon as you wake up that something’s wrong. Your throat is terribly dry and aching, but even so, it’s a struggle to get your eyes open. You look at your clock and realize with a start that it’s been an over hour since your alarm went off. Fully aware of what’s going on but too stubborn to admit it, you begrudgingly drag yourself out of bed and stumble into the kitchen. You’d been making more elaborate breakfasts recently, driven more by a want to give your computer buddy something interesting more than anything else, but today was going to be a return to form. After downing a glass of water and pouring yourself a humble bowl of cereal, you shuffle over to your desk and get your computer started on booting up.
As it slowly powers on, you remember you need to take a picture of your ‘meal’ to share with Spamton, and that you unfortunately left your phone in your room. You sigh, standing to go retrieve it, only to feel the blood rush out of your head and the world suddenly spinning. Stumbling, you catch yourself against your desk, the force of your near fall shaking it and spilling milk from your cereal bowl. You stand with your desk providing more support than your legs for a beat as your senses slowly come back to you. Head no longer spinning, you walk on shaky legs to your room, collecting your phone and a hand towel from the kitchen on your way back to your desk. You lazily toss the hand towel over the milk spill, not having it in you to do anything more than that now, before collapsing back into your chair with a sigh.
Task complete, you turn your attention to your computer, which has finished turning on. Spamton’s program is already open and running, jolting to attention as you sit down. You know he can’t actually see you, your computer doesn’t even have a camera, but you’ve noticed him looking around for you while you’ve stepped away from the computer before, and he always seems to snap to attention once you’ve returned. You’d guess it was based on mouse movement- you hadn’t touched your mouse yet, but you probably shook your desk enough to move it as you were returning to your seat.
Spamton waves at you with an eager smile, and you can’t help but smile back. You quickly take a picture of the cereal you’ve got, emailing it to your computer and then dragging the image into the Home folder. Promptly, Spamton’s attention turns to something ‘off-screen’, which he quickly waltzes over to. As you expected he returns with a bowl of cereal of his own, already eating as he re-enters the frame. Ravenous little guy.
You leave Spamton’s program running as you open your work emails, half-heartedly munching on your own cereal as your eyes tiredly scan over many formal words of barely hidden contempt. Such is the nature of emails. You’ve barely begun reading when your eyes lose focus, words blurring as a headache pulse through your skull. Great. You close your eyes to give them a moment of rest, glancing over at Spamton’s window when you reopen them. The expression you’re met with is not the one you were expecting.
Spamton’s taking up most of the window, sitting close to the metaphorical ‘camera,’ leaning against a table just out of your field of view. He’s already done eating- no surprise there, it wasn’t exactly a meal worth savoring- but instead of the smile you were used to him adoring, he looks… concerned? Teeth permanently bared, but the corners of his mouth pulled down in a grimace, and brows knitted together.
Almost as if noticing you looking, his mouth clicks open, and a broken dialogue box appears. After a few moments, it disappears, and he tilts his head to the side. A question, you assume, but it’s not like you had a way to answer it. You drag your mouse over to his window and click on his hair, pulling a strand out of place. This earns you an exaggerated reaction of annoyance, and Spamton turns away to quickly fix it. You wheeze out a laugh, which quickly turns into a coughing fit, and by the time it’s over your throat is sore and Spamton is looking at you with that concerned expression again.
You close your eyes tight and shake your head to clear your mind- bad idea, it sends another pulse of pain through your head- and turn your attention away from Spamton. You can figure out what he’s upset about later, you’ve got work to do.
Looking back at your work emails, you struggle to keep your eyes open, words blurring and unblurring as your eyes come in and out of focus. Maybe you should lay down, but you should at least finish reading this first, just in case it’s urgent.
You don’t make it more than a sentence before you’re struck with a sudden lightheadedness. A few things happen in very quick succession. Your vision seems to be cut out for a moment, suddenly your face hurts, and you vaguely hear a sound from your computer, but don’t have time to make sense of it before everything goes black.
You groggily open your eyes and find yourself staring up at the ceiling. Your throat is terribly sore, and it takes a moment for your brain to remember what you were doing before you fell asleep. Once it does you realize ‘fell asleep’ probably wasn’t the right descriptor of what happened. Much more importantly, you realize as you push off your sheets and sit up, there’s got to be something you’re missing, because you have no memory of getting back into bed.
Glancing at your nightstand, your phone is sitting there with a glass of water next to it. You eagerly gulp down the water as you grab your phone to check the time, cringing a little when you see how late it was. You missed most of the workday. That was probably going to get you in trouble tomorrow. You groan at the thought, flopping back into your bed as you feel your headache coming back. Maybe you won’t get in too much trouble if you just explain you passed out at your computer. Sure, you’d probably have to do some over-time to make up for it, but you could manage that.
Your musing on how to explain the situation in the way that’d get your boss to be the least annoyed with you is interrupted by the sound of your bedroom door opening. You flick on your lamp as your eyes dart over to it, panic immediately threatening to set in, only to be quickly dispelled by sheer confusion.
You don’t see anything at first, but as your eyes trail down, you see him.
Spamton.
Identical to your computer companion, from his hair to his ball-jointed limbs, to his circular bright red blush marks and duo-toned glasses, to the same concerned expression he had worn earlier today. The only difference, you thought with a laugh, is that you couldn’t count the pixels of the Spamton standing in your doorway.
Spamton seems to jump a bit as he realizes you’re awake, before quickly playing it off with a smile and a wave. After a moment of waiting for you to react, and you failing to do so, he walks further into your room, pushing the door most of the way closed behind him.
You’re almost certainly dreaming. You concluded as much once you saw your ‘virtual pet’ (you really needed to think of a better term) standing in your doorway, but you felt the need to remind yourself as he got closer, and you could start making out so much more detail to him.
It was odd to think about, but having grown so used to seeing him as a bunch of pixels on a screen, being able to make out individual strands of hair and seeing the slight light of your lamp reflecting off his porcelain skin- it felt real. He felt real.
Spamton clears his throat, and you feel your face grow warm with embarrassment as you realize you’ve been staring.
“HEY-” He starts to talk, cringing at the volume of his voice, and starts again with a much softer voice, “H-H3Y! I”M GLAD YOU;RE [rise and grind]!”
You’re not sure if his voice surprised you or not. You’ve never really had a clear idea for what you thought he’d sound like in your head but hearing his voice now- it just seemed right for him. You open your mouth to respond but barely choke out a noise before you devolve into a coughing fit. Once it dies down, you shift to be sitting up again and give a weak wave.
You knew you were sick, but did your brain have to make you stay sick in a dream too?
…Actually…
Could your throat feel sore like this if you were dreaming?
“I [c] YOUR STILL FEELING [I can’t slow down for a cold]!!” Spamton’s voice stirs you from your thoughts, “BUT !! YOU’RE IN LUCK!! DOCTOR SP- SPAMTON G. SPAMTON 1S [At your service,] for [One small fee of ]!!”
Spamton- who you’re glad to have confirmation is, in fact, named Spamton- reaches into his coat and pulls out a pill bottle. You recognize it as Tylenol– he must have grabbed it from your medicine cabinet. You’re not sure how you feel about the knowledge he was probably snooping around your house looking for it, but any concern you might’ve had is ruled out by your relief at getting medicine. Spamton closes the distance between the two of you, opening the bottle and pouring out a pill as he walks. He extends his hand out towards you and, getting the message, you put your hand under his, which he promptly drops the pill into. He turns to your nightstand to grab the glass of water to hand it to you, only to see that you’ve already emptied the cup out. He grabs the empty cup and quickly darts out of the room, promising to be back in “JUST A MO MENT [or your money back]!!”
True to his word, he’s back in a flash, handing you a fresh glass of water filled almost to the brim. You smile down at him, taking a swig of water before popping the pill in your mouth and swallowing. Once its down the hatch, the rest of the water is quick to follow.
“Thanks, Spam,” you mutter as you set the re-emptied glass back on your bedside table. You muffle a yawn and feel a headache threatening to build up again. Spamton seems to notice.
“[A full night’s sleep] IS [recommended by nine out of ten] SPAMTONS [in your area]!”
“I’m pretty sure there’s only one Spamton in my area,” You joke, settling back into your bed. Spamton opens his mouth to respond but snaps his jaw shut after a moment, reconsidering.
“[one Spamton in my area] FOR NOW,” is the response he seemingly settles for, and utterly fails to elaborate on. You don’t have the energy to question what that’s even supposed to mean.
Instead, you reach over to your lamp and pull the cord, plunging the room into darkness only kept tame by what little light seeped through the doorway from the rest of your house. Spamton gets the message and leaves with a wave, though not before grabbing your empty glass and giving it another refill.
You wake to a still sore throat, but thankfully less painful than it was before. You drink the water left on your nightstand and check the time- almost noon. Damn it.
You know you need to get up and get to work- or at least properly call in sick- so you urge yourself out of bed in a rush to avoid letting yourself drift off again and trudge into the kitchen to eat something. Just as the thought of food crossed your mind you suddenly became aware of how nauseatingly hungry you were- of course you were, you hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning.
You start to hear noise as you draw closer to the kitchen, and a pleasant smell which prompts your stomach to growl. Confused, you round the corner and- Right. Spamton. He notices you and chuckles nervously.
“H3Y! FEELING [peaches and cream] YET?” You ignore his question for the moment, giving your still sluggish brain a moment to process what you’ve walked into. Spamton was, currently, standing on a stepstool in front of your oven, stirring a pot bubbling over the stove. Two opened cans sit on a counter nearby, as does a cutting board and knife, still littered with bits of- whatever he was cutting up. There’s a mess in the sink from what you assume to be a failed attempt at whatever he was cooking getting poured down the drain. Evidently, Spamton wasn’t one to clean up the mess he made as he cooked. You look back to Spamton, who clicks his head to the side, waiting expectantly for a response.
“Better than yesterday,” Your voice still a little hoarse, “hungry, though.”
You start to walk past Spamton to grab a box of cereal out of the counter, but he reaches out his hand in front of you to stop you, almost falling off the stool in the process.
“W3LL THAT’S WHAT YOUR OL’ PAL SPAMTON IS HERE FOR!” He jabs his thumb into his chest as stands proudly. You laugh a little at the exaggerated show of confidence, and his idle grin grows softer. “I’VE GOT [The Cure] FOR Y0U!! THAT;S RIGHT, THE [classics you’ve come to expect] THE [treats the common cold] THE-”
“Chicken noodle soup?” you cut him off.
“[Extremely Loud Correct Buzzer]!! IT”S [soup in a can], [just like Mama used to make]!!” He turns his attention back towards the pot and stirs it around a bit, before nodding, apparently satisfied. He turns the stove off and hops down from his stool, bounding over to grab a bowl out of the cabinet for you. He fills it with the soup and plops a spoon in, handing it over to you. “CAREFUL! IT’S [Hot deals for a limited time]!”
You nod and he gets himself a bowl before grabbing the end of your sleeve and escorting you to the living room. He takes a seat on your couch and prompts you to do the same, which you oblige. You wait a bit for the soup to cool down, Spamton staring at you expectantly all the while. Once you’re reasonably confident you won’t burn tongue on it, you lift the spoon to your mouth and hesitantly try it.
It, thankfully, does not burn your tongue, and it doesn’t taste bad either. You aren’t sure if whatever Spamton was cutting up was a part of his failed attempt and this was just directly from the can or not, but the food was deeply appreciated either way. Your stomach urges you to eat fast, but you keep a consistent pace, not wanting to put any stress on your already sick body.
Spamton watches you eat for a bit, and you give him a smile once you notice his staring. His grin widens, and- now assured that you were happy with the food too- he begins eating as well.
Once you’re finished, you go to bring your emptied bowl to the kitchen, but Spamton quickly jumps to his feet and stops you. At his insistence, you sit back down, and he gingerly takes your bowl from you and brings both yours and his into the kitchen himself.
He doesn’t return immediately, and from the sounds echoing through your house from the kitchen to the living room, you guess he’s probably cleaning up the mess he made cooking.
The time alone gives you time to think, and with your stomach full and brain not as clouded with sickness as it was before, something clicks.
Oh, this is real, isn’t it?
Not a fever dream or a sickness induced hallucination- a hallucination couldn’t cook for you, after all- the ‘virtual pet’ on your computer was inside your house and very real.
That… should probably alarm you more than it does.
Spamton returns and takes a seat next to you wordlessly. You both sit there in silence, looking at each other, until you eventually clear both the silence and your throat.
“So, uh…” Spamton sits up straighter, attention fully on you. How do you phrase this in the least weird way? “You were inside my computer.”
You had intended it as a question, but it ended up as more of a statement. Spamton nodded.
“And now you’re… not,” Spamton nods again. “…How?”
Spamton opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. After a moment, his mouth clamps shut, and he puts his hand on his chin in thought.
“I H;AVE NO CLUE.!!” He shrugs, “WHEN Y OU TOOK [rest and relaxation] ON YOUR [Gaming Keyboards for only 19.88] I TR1ED TO !!”
His voice cuts out, thought left unfinished, intentionally or not.
“BUT THEN I PUSHED AGAINST THE [rotten glass] AND EV3NTU;ALLY-“ Spamton gestures to himself, “TA-DA!! SPAMTON G. SPAMTON, NOW IN [1080p HP]!!”
Ah. You passed out at your desk and slammed your face into your keyboard in the process. That’d explain the pain you felt earlier. Spamton’s answer still left a lot of questions- enough that it barely qualified as an answer- but you weren’t in the mindset to be asking them. That could probably wait for later, but what couldn’t was-
“Ah, hell-“ you stand suddenly, and Spamton, surprised by this, promptly jumps to his feet as well, “I’ve missed a day of work already, I really need to-“
“[Please hold]!” Spamton scrambles to cut you off as you begin marching to your computer desk. You stop and look down at him, “YOUR OL’ PAL SPAMTON’S ALREADY [covered by your insurance]!!”
“What?” You tilt your head, and Spamton smiles up at you, looking very proud of himself.
“I aLREADY CALLED [not enough sick days?] F0R YOU!” Spamton gestures in the direction of your computer, “WH1LE YOU WERE [counting sheep], I [can send email] TO THE B0SS! YOU’VE GOT [nothing, there’s nothing left] TO WORRY AB:OUT!”
You felt misty eyed. Maybe you were just emotional because you were sick, but you couldn’t help but feel… comforted wasn’t quite right. You didn’t get out a lot. You can’t remember the last time a friend made you a meal, or helped you out while you were sick, or- Well, you suppose having a friend go through the effort of calling in sick for you was hardly a normal occurrence, but it still felt nice to be cared for. That's the term you were looking for- cared for.
“That’s- Thanks, Spammy,” the nickname slips out of your mouth thoughtlessly, but you don’t fail to notice Spamton getting visible flustered by it, “You didn’t have to do,” you make a vague gesture with your hand, as if there was something you could point to to encapsulate the concept, “all of this for me. That’s very sweet.”
“W-W3LL OF COARSE I DID!!” Spamton looks away, his face a light shade of pink and faux confidence only barely hiding how flustered the simple compliment really made him, “IT’S- IT;S- [equivalent exchange]! ITS- [good deals!] [10 best business practices]! ITS- Y0U’D DO THE SAME.”
You suppose that’s true, isn’t it? You’d spent the past few months feeding him, giving him a bunch of items to make his otherwise vacant ‘room’ in your computer more homely, and while he’d never been sick as far as you know, you also weren’t sure if he had a way to get any of those things without you in the limited world of the program he was stuck in.
“Yeah,” you finally respond, “I guess I would. Doesn’t make it any less of a sweet thing to do.”
Spamton sputters, but you don’t give him time to respond before you start walking away. He promptly follows, and the two of you return to sitting on the couch.
You hadn’t taken a day off in awhile, and you hadn’t had a friend over in even longer, so you felt a bit unsure on what to do now. After mulling it over for a moment, you reach for the remote and flick on the TV. You look over to Spamton, who glances at the TV and then back at you.
“Anything you wanna watch? I’ve not really got anything in mind.” Spamton thinks for a moment.
“ANYTH1NG ABOUT [brand new cungaderos at your local ]?”
You flip through channels until you land on one running a show about repairing old cars. Looking to Spamton for approval, you find his eyes already glued to the screen, and smile fondly at him.
This is probably the absolute best outcome you could’ve gotten for downloading something off of a random abandoned floppy disk.