Sleeping Like a Corpse

“Oh shit, we have a mini-fridge in here?” Chrome mutters to himself, rummaging around the strangely apartment-like side of his two-man office. He rests on the balls of his feet, squat to the ground as he rattles the empty shelves of the under-desk cooler.
“Bummer.” His utterances turn so mumbly that, even were there others around to hear it, only he’d be able to understand anyway. “Maybe I should go out and buy some wine, get sloshed in the middle of the day, gimme something to do.” He says.

Smoothly, and without so much as a hand on a desk for support, he stands from his crouch- nudging the fridge door closed with his foot.

He’d been in the office a lot recently. More than he’d like. A particular hell called ‘Having two different meetings, one at the beginning of the day, and one at the end’, and unfortunately corporate suits aren’t quite as receptive to ‘I’m famous, I do what I want’ as normal folk.
So, here he’s been. Sure, nothing’s stopping him from heading out on the town for a couple hours, it’s not like he’s locked in here…

But ugh, there’s only so much mid-day mid-winter shopping a guy can do, y’know? And indoor minigolf sucks if you don’t have friends.

…

Not that he doesn’t have friends. Chrome involuntarily grumbles at the thought, forcing the mechanism of the empty coffee machine he’d been fiddling with back into its place with a click that sounds somewhat unfavourably like a plasticy crunch.

He jolts at the sound, not because he cares for the unused beige appliance, but for how it pierces the silence of the empty room. Because, well, it’s not empty. Chrome raps his fingers gently on the machine’s plastic cap, peering back over his shoulder to the sleeping form on the sofa. He doesn’t seem to have moved at all.

Exhaling a sigh, the tension leaves his arms and they flop back down to his sides. Why’s he even care if he wakes his boss anyway? Probably be more interesting to rile him up like usual than tiptoe around an office with nothing to do.

And yet he doesn’t wake him.

Chrome, hands only halfway into his jean pockets– seeing as that's quite literally as far as they’ll go– shuffles over to the workdesk. He peers out of the big, nice, corporate window onto the streets below, or, really more the other rooftops. He blinks slowly, eyes scanning the view for literally anything of interest, but the height of this office makes it hard to make out the people on ground level. It’s the kind of height that makes even him avoid taking the stairs.

Before pulling his eyes away, he slides the office chair toward him. In one graceful movement he turns his body and sits, the momentum sliding the seat neatly into its place beneath the desk. Then, with a moment of fingers wiggling in the air in search, the third silver oval down the side of the big hulking box of a PC is identified as the ‘on’ button, and pressed with a click.

It boots slowly, the black and white text popping in line by line before vanishing- appearing again with more- and then once again vanishing. It does this a few times. Eventually, a logo fades in and sits with its progress bar ticking. Chrome rocks Mr. Tabitha Boss’ name plaque back and forth with two fingers, eventually tipping the elongated triangular prism onto its front. As he leans forward to pick it up and right it, he catches a glimpse of Tabitha- still asleep- from around the side of his monitor.

The room is strange, in Chrome’s opinion. Nobody but the two of them ever use it– And his own use of it is rather new. Yet, there is room for many.
There’s the desk here, and the sofa directly its opposite across the rug (Currently occupied). And then, to his right, a divider– only just separating here from an oddly spacious conversation-pit styled meeting room. One that he’s glad he’s never had the displeasure of meeting in. There’s something creepy about trying to strip the formality from business.

These people aren’t his friends.



The screen flickers black, and then sky blue, drawing his attention back to it. Chrome clicks into his profile, one he’d had to nag Mr. Boss over there to allow creation of. (It is his office too, after all.)

He wiggles the mouse in impatience as the computer continues to load in desktop icons for a brief few seconds, and raps his fingers now on the band of the studio-grade headphones that comprise the PC’s only audio output. Perhaps he shall watch some funny videos on-line.

Now in comparison, the internet feels blisteringly fast. Broadband. That’s the real gift of the city. Pages load so quickly, Chrome barely has the time to reminisce on his old life uploading MP3s and MOVs on dial-up. It’s a good job he didn’t know how bad he had it, he thinks. Else he wouldn’t have had the patience.

Clicking around, he makes his usual visits, though quickly hits back upon peering into Yourplace. The thing’s become rapidly more unusable the more he’s been known. The friend request bubble is stuck at 99. It doesn’t seem to go down even when he responds, so, clearly, it’s a bit bugged. He figures he’ll come back when they fix it.

Audio bleeds from the headphones laid on the desk as Chrome settles, logged out, onto the homely landing page of eSoupO. He’s staying offline out of principle here, but he has a soft spot for the place. It’s where he got his start after all.

The flashes autoplay in a bit of a dissonance, two of them being somewhat unwisely featured on the front page simultaneously, and neither having the good manners to use a play button. Just, off they go. The one on the left is mesmerising, though. It’s a seemingly infinite conga line of rabbits, smoothly dancing along a rainbow background. Chrome holds the pair of headphones up to just one ear. The discord is incredible. They really should think this front page through more.

But, that would lose some of the charm, in his opinion.

Manually checking in on some names, it’s a delight to see a few new uploads. With the studio headphones on, the pure crunch of compressed audio is painfully obvious– especially on the music video uploads. Endearing, though. Other than that, there’s a new version of one of those interactive torture ragdolls, identical in every way to the last one, save for the updated political likeness. Then there’s… Oh, hey! This is genuinely pretty funny. It’s got writing, jokes, animation? All a guy could ask for.

Like all those who should aspire to have good netiquette, Chrome decides to support this up and coming artist by looking through his back catalogue, gleefully wiling away a good half hour watching some high class, and very tasteful animated violence. If only there were wine in that minifridge to enjoy this with.

Though, speaking of drinks– Chrome clears his throat and slips his headphones off after a particularly hacking cough of a laugh. Rising from his seat and shaking the phlegm around in his head, he figures he should probably get some warm water if he’s going to endanger his Primary Asset like this.

He makes his way over to the sink on the leftmost side of the room, next to the maybe-now-broken coffee machine he was playing with earlier, and muses on his instinct to call his voice his, quote, ‘primary asset’. He’s pretty hot too. Maybe his voice is his secondary asset at this point? Ooh, it’s a tough call.

Taking a moment to stretch out his legs, leaned up against the faucet’s counter, his eyes wander to Tabitha’s sleeping form again. The guy’s like, long. Long legs, long body, long tail, long ears. There’s parts of him dangling off the sofa at either end even with his knees bent a little. He’s… Fully clothed. Literal suit and tie, not even having taken his waistcoat off. Chrome mentally tallies up how long he’s been killing time in here, gotta be, oh, at least an hour? And he’s not sure he’s even seen the guy shift in his sleep once.

Honestly, if it weren’t so often that he came in here to find the guy napping like this, he’d be pretty sure he’s dead, Chrome thinks, sauntering over with his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t know why he’s putting the effort into looking so casual, it’s not like anyone can see him. Force of habit, perhaps.

Chrome steps around the sofa; leaning to the side on a bent knee. Tilting his head, he looks his superior almost directly in the face. If there’s one thing he can’t deny, it is that his eyelashes are very pretty. So thick you’d think he’s wearing mascara.

In fact… Augh, hold on-! Chrome’s nose wrinkles and his breath hitches in his throat so hard that he’s a second away from managing to induce hiccups.

The stench that hits him sends him stumbling back, bumping the thick of his calves onto the low coffee table and tripping him. He feels the impact of the cold glass through his jorts and a shudder up his spine as he lands on his own tail. For a good few stunned seconds, his hair stands on end as he blinks; before he finally wheezes out a breath.

Then, the panic sets in. Oh, living people don’t smell that bad, do they?

Instinctively, he lurches forward. Grabbing his boss’ body by the arm and using it to shove him onto his back from his side. His eyes dart about him, drawn to the places ingrained in his psychology as those bearing signs of life. Face, mouth, eyes, chest. Chrome places a palm to it, inefficiently feeling for a heartbeat, before releasing Tabitha’s arm to free up his left hand to pull open his button up shirt– all the while, he shakes him.

“Hey, hey?” His voice is frantic as he pushes a hand through the brittle greasy fur under Tabitha’s clothes. Thankfully, with it comes a relief. His heart is still going, but fuck, is it faster than it should be in a sleeping man his size. Chrome’s abject horror turns to a more nuanced, albeit still panicked curiosity. He slides his hand further around Tabitha’s side and his knuckles catch on a knot of fur below defined ribs. Chrome’s own body fur is barely a centimetre in length in most places, but his hand is practically lost in this. Is this how thin he really is?

He’s kept his other hand busy by continuing to shake the thankfully-not-cadaver before him in hopes of rousing them, just for peace of mind. He moves from torso to cheek, gently tapping his face. Here, where the fur is thinner, the tips of Chrome’s fingers confirm something he was already suspecting; bleeding out from under his insulating layers is a cold sweat.

“Okay.” Chrome leans back, hissing a breath out from a pushed forward lower jaw. He repositions the knee he has pressed into the sofa, and begins to pull Tabitha upright.

This seems to do the trick, as Tabitha’s eyes don’t so much flutter open, as they do flutter ‘less closed’. His whole body stays limp, head hung forward, but he’s definitely awake.

“You all there?” Chrome speaks with a hesitance uncharacteristic of himself. “When was the last time you ate?” He asks, although he doesn’t really expect to receive a response. He’s not stupid. Well, maybe he is. Maybe he just left someone to worsen their sugar-deprivation induced brain damage because he, for once, decided to leave a guy in peace. But he’s smart enough to learn from his mistakes.

Having seen no recognition in Tabitha’s eyes, and witnessing the small line of drool that gravity has begun pulling out of his slackened jaw, he lays him back down. Pulling on limbs, Chrome manages to get him into the recovery position, best that he can remember.
With a moment of hesitance– unsure if his knowledge is correct– he stands up off the sofa, chest out and shoulders squared. What he does know is that there’s no food in that minifridge, and that he himself barely brought a bag of fucking museli. Stupid; people run on glucose, not fiber.

“Vending machine!” He blurts to no-one but himself, dropping into a scramble – shoulders and feet leading his movement as he pushes his way out of the office door without so much as turning the handle.


Papers scatter to the ground from the burst of air the door disturbs in its swing; the mid-level employee who happened to be holding them startled but thankfully uninjured. Chrome doesn’t acknowledge her or her documentation in his weaving sprint down the hall, leaving her thoroughly puzzled and with something to complain about in the breakroom.

Barrelling past a few more people just trying to do their jobs, he slams his hand onto the icy grey of the corporate wallpaper, anchoring his sharp turn down the corner. There, in the atrium of a space, he hisses a relieved expletive. He wasn’t sure he’d remembered where he saw it on his way in, but there’s a drinks machine here.


“Sir?” A voice rings from behind him. “Do you need help with something?”

Chrome gives the office worker only the briefest of an over the shoulder glance, fumbling with the wallet from his back pocket. “Not unless you’ve got a stash of sugar somewhere you can bring me.” He dismisses him, eyes searching the cans and bottles behind the glass for the best choice. He mutters to himself. “Can’t be caffeinated...”

Pulling a stray bulk of change out from between the near-useless folds of fabric that allegedly constitutes the pockets of his wallet, he pushes a blind handful of coins into the machine, not particularly caring how much he puts in so long as it can get something out.

173, his eyes finally move away from the glass and to the keypad, punching in the code for a purple can of grape soda– they always have twice the amount if you look on the nutritional information. While he fishes in the dispenser for the can, Chrome looks back toward the canid worker who’d pestered him only to find him gone. Unreliable fuckers, not that he needs them.

He pushes off the floor with his free hand, and begins his sprint back to the room. Quite the number of employees are stood around now, having paused on their own journeys between offices to watch a spry young pop starlet skitter around in a panic. Chrome pays them no mind, it’s not like being watched is alien to him, and he’s more pressing things to worry about.

In a matter of seconds he’s back at the door, shoving the handle down and swinging it out with an elbow rather than a hand.

Tabitha hasn’t moved at all. It would be stranger if he had, mind you. He’s still laid on his side, arm bent under his head to tilt it back, and leg pulled up and out as much as the sofa would allow.
Chrome slides to a stop, bending a knee to get down to his level. With one hand he strokes his forehead– Just to check how much he’s sweating, that’s all– and with his other he plants the can to his raised thigh.

He opens it and FUCK–! As soon as he pulls the tab it fizzes over uncontrollably, drenching his hand in bubbling syrup. “Shit!” He hisses, pulling the can away from his leg, which also got hit in the blast. He resists the urge to swap hands or shake away any of the gunk, and instead uses his still-dry hand to begin propping Tabitha up into a sitting position once again.

Even though they’re heavily lidded, he can see Tabitha’s eyes following his movements. Palm to the back of his head, keeping it tilted just a bit back, Chrome brings the can to Tabitha’s lips to let him drink.

He gives it to him slowly, in small sips, in silence. He’s managing to swallow it, which was Chrome’s main worry. He’s no expert, so he didn’t know if that was a given or not.

What he does know, though, is that while his eyes grow more and more awake, he’s still not seeing recognition. Seeming instead to know only quiet confusion.

As he moves the can away to allow for a breath again, he asks a question. “Do you know who I am?”

Tabitha’s face tenses, brows pulling in to a very slight furrow. “Aueuh.” He shakes his head very, very lightly, tongue still limp in his mouth. Upon hearing his own voice though, his eyebrows jump up in shock, and he begins to stutter another incoherent sound.

“Hold on, hold on.” Chrome taps his back rapidly, no longer having to support his neck. “Don’t panic. Just keep drinking.”

“Aa-auh?” His voice crackles out of his slackened jaw again, as Chrome begins to shift Tabitha’s whole body to be sat more on the back-rest of the sofa than his arm, freeing it up.  

“I can explain. Keep drinking though.” He says, lifting the can to Tabitha’s mouth again.

With his other hand he shuffles Tabitha’s legs into a more sensible position, and begins to relay, to the best of his knowledge, what is happening.

“I don’t know how you did it, but you were– are– experiencing hypoglycemia. Could tell 'cause you had a cold sweat.”

Tabitha nods, and tilts his head to the side to move it away from the can. His brows are still furrowed, but stronger now, and his eyes are much more focused. Chrome can see the gears turning in his head now, he’s coming back around.

“It means your body just straight up ran out of energy and started shutting down. Usually, this stuff’s only a problem for people with health issues?” Chrome raises an eyebrow questioningly. Tabitha does so as well in return.
“Or.” He continues. “Or, it can happen to people who fast wrong. I got warned about it by my personal trainer.”

“Uhhauhmrrhtrhnrm?” Tabitha says, jaw now flexing but tongue still uncooperative.

“Yeah, I’ve got a personal trainer. You can see how hot I am, right?” Chrome chuckles, letting go of Tabitha’s shoulder to gesture to himself only half-jokingly. Tabitha blinks in return, his mouth pressing into an encouraging, albeit perturbed line. Then Chrome’s tone turns serious again.

“I... Don’t know how you managed to get it this bad. I mean you’re thin, but. You’d have to’ve not eaten at all for over a day, more even.”
Having said that, he looks up at him with, being honest, an accusatory glance. Tabitha begins to inhale a sigh in response.

“Whduy-eenisih?”

“Well It’s-”

A sudden sound startles them both, a knocking on wood, followed by the sound of a door being slid open against carpet.

“I… Brought some sugar from the break room? We only have cubes though.” The black spotted dog Chrome ‘spoke to’ earlier pops his head through the frame, holding a small blue-polka dot bowl in one hand.

“Uh.” Chrome stays, frozen in his half crouch, before mustering up a point with both hands. “Just… Leave it on the counter?”

“Okay.” He scampers in, placing it down gently next to the coffee machine. “Glad I could help?” His eyes move between the pair a few times, clearly trying to piece together some context for the task he’s just carried out.

“Thanks.” Chrome nods, grimace barely hidden. The employee takes the hint, and with a thumbs up he heads back out of the room.


“Whoows tha?”

“I have. No fucking idea.”


Chrome shakes his head to reset his train of thought. “Anyway?” He stands up from the space between the couch and coffee table, walking over to the newly placed bowl. It’s full of sugarcubes alright. He takes a few out of the bowl, placing them on the counter- then, with his bare (albeit fuzzy) knuckles he begins to crush them into a few smaller half-cubes. Tabitha watches on, curiously trying to reconcile this odd behaviour with the person he believes he may be beginning to recognise in his own brain. He thinks it checks out, maybe.

Sweeping the fragments into his palm, Chrome walks back over to Tabitha, now taking a seat next to him on the sofa. He leans forward, plucking a fragmentary cube out of his palm with his manicured fingers, and brings it up to Tabitha’s mouth, who leans slightly forward to take it.

“This’ll be more efficient than corn syrup.” He says, rationalising away the silliness of the act.

Tabitha moves the grainy and sharp sweet around in his mouth, moving it to his cheek to speak. “Isih okay to jus’eah’eatin sugar?” He says, words growing less slurred by the minute.

“Yes! D’oy!” Chrome exclaims with a singular breathy laugh. “You’re a smart dude, have you come around enough to figure out what Hypo-Glycemia means?”

“Ah,” The thoughts click visibly in Tabitha’s brain. “Noh’enouh sugar.”

“Exactly.” Chrome says, reaching for another demi-cube. As he does though, he jumps, feeling something brush against the tips of his fingers.

“Sorry.” Tabitha says.

Chrome looks down to his hands, seeing now that Tabitha’s own was what he had felt. He offers his open palm closer, allowing Tabitha to use his regained dexterity for himself.

He holds the sugarcube between his thumb and all four other fingers, bringing it to his mouth inelegantly, but successfully.

“Freakish thouhh.” He says through his mouthful of sugar. “I’makes sense I guess. Why I couldn’ move. Literally no energy…”

Chrome sighs in relief, tension finally feeling like it can be let go. “Yeah? You think?” He wheezes, flopping back onto the sofa– Sugarcube hand still raised, however.

“... Yeah.” Tabitha concurs. “How’d you know all this? You’re a musician, no’a doctor.”

“Cause it’s hotboy shit!” Chrome practically yells, unable to stop himself giggling at the exclamation. “You think I can keep up these abs on nothing? People gotta eat, that’s the secret!”

Tabitha flinches backward at the sudden noise, but settles into a, to Chrome’s understanding, very rare smile. “I suppose so. S’very logical in hindsight.”

“It is!” He settles back into the sofa, wiping his gummy pop-covered hand onto its cushions. “So now you’re not about to die, we should get you an actual meal.”

Tabitha swallows the last of a cube before reaching for another one.
“Where do you sugges’?”

“Fuck, we’re not going anywhere! Not with how bad you smell!” Chrome elbows him, so, so gently. He does smell horrible though. Especially now that the fear of god isn’t acting as a distraction. “I’m gonna order some take-out. Do you have any preferences?”

“... I can’ say I do?”

“Well. Pizza it is.”

“Pizza?” Tabitha parrots back in a querying tone.

“Only place I’ve got memorised. Unless you’ve got a phonebook in here?”

Tabitha pauses, sugarcube inches from his lips, before breaking out into an even rarer laugh.
“... Pizza sounds good!”