Chapter Text
There was so little that was visible during the fall, nearly everlasting as he felt his body grow heavier and heavier through space, that once he finally landed, the light was nothing short of blinding. He kept his eyes firmly shut and his arms wrapped tight around himself until the overwhelming sensations became muted enough to think, until he was absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure that it was nothing more than a wildly vivid dream. And even then, he did his best to convince himself that he’d just passed out during a particularly intense tellanovella and wound up on the floor. Again.
After all, who just gets told by their (admittedly flirtatious) TV via staticky snippets of old shows about how to hop dimensions?
But once he cracked open his eyes, immediately he noticed that the ceiling was the wrong color, the wrong height, and the wrong shape, and everything he was so used to was far, far above him, left behind in the unexpected journey past the floor, past the soil and the roots and the magma and down into somewhere new, somewhere just a little…darker. It felt nostalgic in a way Mettaton couldn’t explain or even comprehend properly; the retro vibe of the fitting room was certainly the same that matched his new old friend, but something about the way his body felt was unusual, like the time he spent falling somehow elongated his very soul. And while he could ruminate on that abrupt journey forever, with it came that anxious little voice in the back of his brain, and the thought of having left, perhaps for good, sent his nerves firing on all cylinders, body quaking as he yearned for the safe familiarity of his sanctuary, his home.
Mettaton forced his heavy body upright as his brain flooded with adrenaline, and the resulting chest palpitations (since when did I have those??) sent his vision blurring the bright lights into little more than multicolored fog. He heard more than he felt himself panting, open-mouthed and dumb as his eyes slowly adjusted, darting from polished vanity to clothing rack, from wooden door to chaise lounge, until they finally settled on someone else, sitting directly across from him. He gasped and flinched away at first sight, but when he uncurled and squinted, grasping for proper vision amongst the bright little bulb lights, the figure across from him squinted back.
Mettaton crawled slowly towards the floor-length mirror and watched this curious metallic body (my body…?) in awe, every motion smooth and elegant, every curve accentuated, every point sharpened, every flash of pink hot and chrome sparkling. He blinked, sat down and flexed his fingers, rolled his neck, touched his hair. Everything was suddenly there, he had mass and weight and a corporeal self; his soul contained in this perfect, gorgeous body (my body !!), and before he could wonder what kind of otherworldly magic must’ve been contained in that old CRT to transform him into something so unbelievably desirable, a laugh bubbled up from his chest and out between painted lips.
And when that reached his ears, well. One little giggle wouldn’t suffice, now, would it?
He allowed himself a bit of self-indulgence in front of the mirror, laughing and spinning with arms outstretched and testing the limits of his voice as its vibrato reverberated against the walls and buzzed through his insides, like the perfect combination of notes echoing through an endless cave, magical and euphoric and—
“Hey, who’s in there!?”
He froze mid-twirl, eyes locked onto the door. Of course this dressing room wasn’t soundproof, that would be far too convenient, wouldn’t it?
Whoever it was knocked again, thrice in rapid succession and with enough force to rattle the hinges. They sounded absolutely huge, voice booming, presence overwhelming and powerful just through the crack under the closed door. He held his breath, unblinking and unmoving, eyes locked on the shadow breaking up the sliver of light from whatever and whoever was on the other side.
He could only hope this…bouncer-of-sorts would buy the story, because that was the best he had. Lying was never his strong suit anyway, and there wasn’t anywhere to hide in this little dressing room. He braced for impact regardless. Old habits die hard.
“I’m comin’ in!”
With a rather anticlimactic creak of the door, it slid open, revealing an even more anticlimactic creature backlit by the fluorescent hallway. There they - he? - stood, short and round and unassuming in the resounding silence, looking every part like part of the tech crew (or maybe a piece of equipment…), not a bouncer or security guard in the slightest. A bit of the anxious energy fizzled out as Mettaton's shoulders relaxed and slumped down a few centimeters. They shot right back up when the intruder jammed a chubby accusatory finger in his direction, microphone in the other, large mouth downturned as he puffed out his chest.
“I’ve never seen you ‘round here before, hotshot, what’re you doing in here? You one of those stalker-type fanboys who sneaks into dressing rooms? Well, you ain’t gonna catch anyone changing in here, not where you’re going after this stunt!”
His voice rattled on like a motor, body bobbing up and down with each syllable and echoing in that tinny way karaoke mics tend to, and–oh, he was still talking. Mettaton thought he should probably be listening and comprehending, but at the (rapidly increasing) speed this definitely-not-a-bouncer was running his mouth, it was difficult to follow along, especially when the metaphorical blood was still rushing past Mettaton’s metaphorical ears. (At least, he assumed it was all metaphorical - machines can’t have blood, can they?)
(A tangent for another time, one where I’m not being lectured at.)
“...types like you who’ve got no respect at all for big shot celebrities, it’s no wonder why security keeps getting tighter and tighter! Hey, you listening, pal? You’d better fess up before I lock you in here and get the real security on your case!”
He shook his head quickly, perfectly coiffed hair brushing against both cheeks and up his jawline as his eyes widened and he snapped back to the present. His hands quickly rose in defense, only trembling slightly from the leftover adrenaline rush.
“I–”
Wow, was that my voice? What a gorgeous baritone! He felt his cheeks heat up.
“Sorry–I don’t know where I am right now.” Good start, good start. “All I know is that I was called here by a dear friend, for help, I assume. He told me to–”
“Someone here called some shiny fella like you for help? I don’t buy it.” Not like I wanted to finish my sentence anyway. The bouncer crossed his arms, microphone feedback echoing for a moment as he adjusted his posture. “Who called you, anyway? Ramb? The weather crew? That weird guy who keeps comin’ back and tryin’ to hook up with everyone? Actually if it’s him then you should probably–”
“Do you know Mr. Ant Tenna?”
The silence was palpable. The ‘bouncer’s’ whole demeanor shifted entirely, something like worry in the way his expression softened. His words, though harsh, lacked bite.
“What do you know about Tenna, hotshot?”
“Well, I know that where I come from, he’s an old CRT. A discarded, outdated television.” Mettaton felt a smile pull at his lips. “A poor old TV that got left in the rain, and was delivered to me by a human. I dried him off and did a couple repairs where I could, and soon enough, there was Mr. Ant Tenna himself, performing on the screen. He showed me everything I could’ve possibly wanted to see. It was like he could see me through the glass.”
His expression fell as he looked up at the ceiling of the dressing room, wondering where he fell from. There was no light up there - it was just a wall, fully intact.
“And then he started to break down more often, needed more repairs, shut off unexpectedly more and more often. I did my best, but I thought this might just be the end of our little triste, so to speak.” He sighed, looking back to the bouncer, who looked nothing short of aghast. “He told me over and over again, flickering back and forth on the screen from old movies and commercials stitched together, ‘stab the floor,’ ‘dive on in,’ over and over again.”
Mettaton didn’t realize how lonely it felt, watching his friend fade away like that.
“So, I did. And now I’m here.”
There was a pause, just long enough for him to startle at the squat man’s response.
“Y’know, I was wondering why we hadn’t heard much from him lately.”
The difference in this guy’s voice was night and day. The echo was gone, the deep undertones vanished - it was like he’d been unplugged, for lack of better terminology. Like he was speaking into a dead mic.
“He’s been distant lately. Independent. I knew something was up, but I didn’t have the nerve to say it, knowin’ how he gets when he’s upset. But man, come on! Why didn’t he call on me for help?? I’m Mike! His Mike!” He threw his hands in the air, the feedback returning to his voice as the fire in him seemed to reignite, “I do everything for him! He knows that if he just says ‘Hey, Mike, something’s goin’ on and I need some service!’ that we–I would come in and get him back in tip-top shape again!”
Well, this was lucky, wasn’t it? Mr. Ant Tenna’s caretaker, in the flesh! Hopefully this guy knew more about televisions and technology than he did - his rudimentary internet searching and tutorial videos only got him so far. But maybe if they worked together, they’d be able to help get Tenna patched back up again, and Mettaton would be able to go back home.
“Well then, Mike,” Mettaton squared his shoulders, taking a steadying breath, “Where is Tenna now?”
“He’s uh, he’s probably back in his room. Y’know, the one with the big ol’ T on it.” He paused, tugging at the bow tie tight around his pudgy neck. “So. You comin’ with me then, since he kinda asked for ya?”
“After you.”
Mettaton opened the door for Mike, who moved shockingly fast for someone so small. Looking at him from the back, immediately Mettaton could imagine his role on TV - his silhouette was large, unafraid to take up space, something like a bar owner or a sheriff in a spaghetti western, or a mob boss sitting at a polished desk and adorned with a white cat and chunky rings on every finger. He briefly pulled out a gold pocket watch on a shiny chain (classy!) before noting the date, muttering about showtimes and crew numbers before growing quiet again. He carried himself with an air of both authority and relaxed confidence, thumbs in the pockets of his expensive black suit as he strode down the hallway, only stopping to fish out a key ring as they approached the enormous door, emblazoned with a giant golden ‘T.’ He wiped the sweat from his brow and rolled his shoulder a few times.
“He’s gonna kill me for this,” Mike mumbled under his breath as he balanced on his toes and reached up to the door handle, fiddling with the lock until a quiet click! rendered it unlocked. Back on flat feet again, he glanced back at his guest and jerked his head towards the door, signaling for Mettaton to open it.
It was quite high up. Perhaps that was another security measure for this studio’s biggest star. Without wasting any more time, he turned the handle, pushed the door open, and poked his head inside.
At first glance, there was nothing about this room that stood out to Mettaton. It was dimly lit, the vanity bulbs switched off and the walls instead illuminated by a quaint little lamp resting in the corner, the light reflecting gently off of several floor-to-ceiling mirrors. There was a fair amount of clutter that certainly marked this room as belonging to a TV star - two cameras sat upon their tripods and thick cables lined the floor, multicolored like snakes, slithering beneath discarded costumes and crumpled papers. It smelled of old flowers, static dust, and the lingering of decade-old cigars, and a faint whirring could be heard from further inside. He stepped over the rogue wires and around the various electronic and non-electronic debris, Mike following and shutting the door behind them.
“This just isn’t like him. I swear, Tenna’s a tidy enough guy, under the right circumstances! But god, his place looks like an old bachelor pad.” Mike swept up a torn jacket and several ties off the floor, tossing them onto the back of a well-worn loveseat. “Or at least he gets someone else to do it for him! This is gettin’ outta hand, even for Tenna and all his…his whims. Whatever’s going on’s got his wires crossed bad, I swear to the angel…”
But Mettaton, while usually one to absolutely pore over gossip, was more intrigued by the sound of overworked fans coming from behind one of the two back doors. Something in there was clunking and rattling with surprising force behind it, and the air coming from the little gap between the base of the door and the carpet was quite a bit warmer than the rest of the space.
“He hasn’t left his bedroom in ages, really. Well, ages for him, at least. ‘S been a couple’a days.” Mike wrung his hands for a moment before exaggeratedly shrugging, grin too wide. “Think he’s caught in a feedback loop? Maybe taking the ratings to heart a bit too much? Hell, maybe we’ll find him the size of a calculator in there, who knows!”
“I mean,” Mettaton’s hand hesitated over the doorknob for a moment, “There’s really only one way to find out, right?”
Mike went quiet as Mettaton cracked open the door, the rush of warm air and the heavy scent of overworked machinery making him cringe. But after just a second of adjusting to that shift, lo and behold, there he was.
Mr. Ant Tenna, in the metallic flesh, sat slumped over in the corner of the room.
It was strange, truly seeing him for the first time without the glass barrier separating them. His body seemed to be similar to Mettaton’s - at least, the parts he could see peeking out from beneath his classic red suit and leather pants. He was taller than expected, limbs long and thick around his well-tailored uniform and torso rounder than Mettaton remembered from his shows. (Not like that was a problem - hell, this was probably the only thing about this whole insane situation that was definitely not a problem!) His boxy head had tilted down with the screen faded to black, cheery expression gone and body still, and a single plug was connecting him to the nearby wall port, powering some sort of internal fans that nearly shook the room with their intensity. He chugged along like the overheated electronic he was beneath the humanesque facade, and if it weren’t for that, he could have passed as just another prop, shoved into a corner to gather dust.
He’s gorgeous, Mettaton decided, and if it were any other moment, he would let that thought become known immediately and dramatically. But for now, he (sadly, reluctantly) let it go.
“Damn, he’s really been better, huh?” Mike was suddenly at his side, giving Tenna a quick once-over and wincing when a rogue spark jolted from the poorly-sewn seam along his shoulder pad. “Poor old guy. Wish he’d sleep in his bed, but eh. At least he’s sleeping.”
“That’s sleeping?” Mettaton asked, a perfectly arched eyebrow cocked.
“Yeup,” Mike said simply, nodding once, “He gets himself plugged in for the night and hunkers down. Except he’s an idiot for sleeping in the corner, since he’s got a perfectly suitable bed two feet that way with a port behind it.” There was no real venom in his words - they were very poorly hiding the fondness lurking beneath. It would have been cute, if not for the fact that Tenna had called for outside help what must have been only a short while ago.
For a moment, all he could do was stare - there was something about seeing someone idolized struck immobile, sapped of all energy until only a husk remained. He felt his core begin to warm, and in the next moment, he found himself kneeling down in front of Tenna’s unconscious body while completely ignoring any input Mike was spluttering at him, his palm a breath away from Tenna’s screen, close enough to feel the layer of static brush up against his fingertips. Mettaton could feel his unnatural heat, smell the dusty exhaust. It was almost sickly, feverish, if he could wage a guess. His heart ached for the old man, and he found himself equal parts deeply concerned and entirely enamored.
“You’re treadin’ dangerous waters there, guy.” Mike took a step back, hands still deep in his pockets. “Tenna can be cranky when he wakes up, ya know? I know I’ve certainly gotten a few earfuls over the years. But hey, who knows, maybe he’ll go easy on you since you’re a buddy of his—hey, heyheyhey, whaaaaat are you doing?”
Mettaton’s fingers slipped between the loosened knot in Tenna’s tie and gave it a gentle tug, working the fabric over and under itself until he could remove it altogether. His white collared shirt parted just enough to reveal a layer of chrome beneath, churning out heat like a radiator. The red jacket was next, slipping down his right shoulder first, followed by the left and gathering around his elbows, the sheer difference in temperature making the wall behind him appear wavy, dancing behind unseen steam as the whirring of Tenna’s internal fans began to decrease in volume.
Only once Mettaton looked back down again did he realize why there was so much hasty stitching on the arms of Tenna’s jacket.
That looked rough.
But, at the shift in temperature, Tenna’s screen, though incredibly dimmed, began to faintly glow.
“Tenna?” Mettaton tried, pressing one hand against the side of his head where he imagined a cheek could be, perhaps an ear, a jawline. “Anthony? Can you hear me?”
Tenna’s body twitched, perhaps in an attempted reboot process, and his mouth slowly appeared through the lines of pixelated static. Even without any designated eyes to be seen, Mettaton could recognize a squint as his favorite television star tried to make things out, head raising slightly, inching closer towards Mettaton like his body was filled with concrete. When he opened his mouth to speak, however, the speakers only emitted fuzzy, tinny sounds, like that of an old scratched record. Mettaton tilted his head slightly, mouthing out the shapes Tenna made with his, trying desperately to make out any noises and motions—
He was quickly and violently shoved to the side, barreled over by a very anxious Mike, rattling on and on and squawking through noisy feedback. Ouch.
However, with a clumsy gesture of Tenna’s head and a grunt from Mettaton upon sitting back up again, Mike reluctantly stepped down, and Mettaton’s eyes met Tenna’s - or, they would’ve, if he had any. The gears were turning in that wiry brain of his, connecting the information little by little until something clicked, his screen brightening just a touch, until a small, lopsided smile was on display. It was different from his show smile, all teeth and bright lights and a zealousness only achievable in the spotlight - this one was just pixels and warmth. Mettaton felt like he was the one short-circuiting as he moved a little closer, drawn in by Tenna’s familiarity, and all he could do at that point was offer a dainty little wave, waggling his fingers as he wore a matchingly awkward but just as genuine smile.
“Hi,” he exhaled the single word, the excitement giving his liquid core a slight pink glow, reflected off Tenna’s screen, bathing the room in dim light. The little sound that came from Tenna was choppy and buffered, but it almost sounded like an attempt at a laugh. When he bend his legs to shift himself up, Mettaton quickly ushered him back down again, and in the confusion, he noticed his own shoulder.
His stare turned blank, antennae straight and humming with electricity. Another spark flew out from frayed wires wedged between poorly-melded seams in the metal, rust building along it like a wound. Mike had made his way back over again, his brow furrowed in something between concern and poorly concealed frustration, gnashing his teeth as a wisp of white smoke arose. Tenna gasped and let out something akin to a whine at the sight, and Mettaton quickly tugged his jacket sleeve back up and over his shoulder, attempting to hide the rather gory sight, but judging by the flickering pixels on Tenna’s screen, that hadn’t worked out as well as he’d hoped.
“Um–Are you, uh, okay…?”
“Of course he’s not okay!!” Mike’s feedback was off the charts, nearly rattling the walls. “The hell were you doing, hidin’ this under your damn shoulder pads?? You got any idea what this sorta thing does to you? I’m amazed you’re still runnin’ at full capacity at this rate!”
“Come on,” Mettaton’s voice was starting to stutter amidst the chaos, “Give him a little grace, he’s clearly–”
“How’s this supposed to get any better if you’re ignoring it night and day?? I swear, we told you to take care of it!! After all, who’s gonna keep the world entertained if Mr. Ant Tenna ain’t there on the big screen because his damn arms are fallin’ off!?” His voice became more frantic, more like begging than scolding at this point. Mettaton assumed that if he had more features than a mouth, it would be a bit more obvious, but nonetheless, he continued, face red and breaths quick and audible.
He glanced quickly down at Tenna, whose screen displayed flickering scenes through the static and the SMPTE bars, all of limbs flying, whether by monster or by sword or by sheer force. He’d never seen a television sweat before either, but whatever speckled liquid was beading up on the display showed no signs of stopping, sliding down the glass with each artificial breath.
“He’s struggling, Mike,” Mettaton began, but the words were lost to Tenna’s righthand man, who looked dangerously close to self-destruction.
“And now, you’re tellin’ me that you just ignored all the hard work we put into sticking your arms back on?? I thought you got it through your head to take care of yourself since we all worked so hard to get you back in one piece, Tenna!!”
Mike’s words didn’t even have time to echo before orange embers exploded out from the ceiling and the wall port and Tenna himself with a series of sharp pops! as the entire room was abruptly plunged back in darkness. No windows were present here, no daylight could be let in, and the only thing letting Mettaton make out anything that had just happened were the leftover static electricity dripping eerily from Tenna’s equipment, and his own luminescent core.
He heard Mike stutter out something about going to get backup, followed by his heavy footsteps and the slamming of the door behind him, and then there was silence.
Well, near-silence.
Shuffling forward on his knees, Mettaton lifted a cautious hand to feel his way towards Tenna, to make sure he wasn’t further injured by the outage. He suspected Tenna to be the root cause of it, judging by how reactive he tended to be on-stage, but he didn’t think he could go so far as to cause quite this level of unintentional destruction. He squinted in the pale pink light as he leaned in towards where he swore Tenna had just been slumped - unless something had happened during that short, what if he really did hurt himself? What if that exacerbated his injury and broke him apart? What if he exploded in that weird way things seemed to in his shows? What if—
His knee suddenly felt quite…wet.
Mettaton glanced downward, as if he could actually make anything out besides his own body, and was surprised to see the distorted reflection in something damp below him. Some sort of leak…?
And then, upon even closer inspection, he could finally see what was left of Tenna.
His dear friend was perhaps an eighth of his usual size, about that of a child. His body laid on its side just above the large puddle, arms splayed in a way Mettaton was sure they should not bend or rotate and legs limp, screen dark. There were droplets clinging to the outer rim, beading up until they rolled over the side and absorbed into the carpet below. He supposed they were meant to be tears. It was hard to take in the sight. Slipping his carefully under Tenna’s much-smaller body, while carefully avoiding further aggravating his already-aggravated arms, he decided he should at the very least move him off the floor and into his bed.
Strange, he thought, as he slowly rose to his feet, his head and back aren’t wet at all. Maybe this really is some kind of leak…? But it should’ve come from his injury, right? His arms aren’t wet. What could’ve happened? It’s not like he could’ve—
…could he have?
Mettaton froze mid-step as the cogs in his head chugged to life, glancing between the bed and the puddle and the tiny heap of Tenna in his arms, and wondered why he would have been made with this sort of function. Did he eat? Drink? He supposed he’d seen Tenna eating and drinking during his shows, but he assumed it was either fake or edited in somehow - and he also supposed it made logical sense for a creature that takes in nutrients to also expel them if the need be…
Wouldn’t this be embarrassing for him to wake up to, then? Would he even know to be embarrassed by the concept of fear-slash-pain-based incontinence?
Mettaton decided not to wait for an answer to hit him once he heard footsteps approaching, and instead, kicked a stray jacket over the puddle (Sorry, Tenna!) and get him tucked under the covers, hiding the last of the evidence just as the door burst open.
The resulting rush was nothing short of full-on cacophony. In poured creatures of all shapes and sizes like a tidal wave through a narrow hallway, a sea of voices and bodies and tools. He couldn’t follow any of it at all, couldn’t connect the voice to the person speaking, could only stand and watch as being after being after being shouted over one another, all eyes on Tenna’s shrunken body and rusting, wiry shoulder. And as the wave crashed and dissipated, Mettaton found himself being escorted out of the room, and into a lounge of sorts, with emergency lights shining red from above, the air eerily quiet, the only sound the distant hum of a generator, far, far away from here.
He made sure his feet made little noise as he was left alone in the odd little lobby, thoughts too loud already without his own contributions. He sat himself gently down on the sofa and counted dust motes floating by as he took the time to properly breathe for what may have been the first time tonight. And he could only hope that Tenna was spared at least one aspect of this very eventful night.
“What do you think?” he whispered to the dust mid-flight, “Will our stars reunite?