Day 5: Build by Mercy-Monster on DeviantArt
Who said he couldn’t have it all~
Chapter 13
What Lives in the Wires
https://archiveofourown.org/works/20857010/chapters/59048290
Lost to the dark and reclaimed by time, the imposing face of a monument built to both beauty and ego stood in dreadful silence, doors gaping in a silent scream, many windows blank and shattered, staring into the heaving, deadly mist that spewed from it in tumultuous waves with the eyes of a rotted corpse.
Mettaton’s shrine to both himself and the world of entertainment was a husk of its former self, and now stood as the only barrier between the rest of the Underground and the inner workings of the grand and terrible machine that towered over it, casting an unmoving shade across the fields of lava, the columns of rock and cliffs of volcanic glass, and the empty, collapsing homes of forgotten monsters all.
The CORE would not be forgotten, though, and would not be silent.
It clanked and groaned and whined, a hulking beast in the throes of death. Pipes burst and fell to become slag in the lava it fed from, releasing screaming vents of steam to join the howls of pain and hunger staining the arid, dry winds of Hotland.
Within it grew a danger none knew but all should fear, and grew deadlier each and every day…
Yet through the meandering and endless hallways crawled the last vestige of beauty that remained in the Underground, unheeding of the danger posed him and quite content to remain. Radiation had no effect on him, after all… he had nothing to fear from corruption or disfigurement.
He was barely alive to begin with.
“Aaaaaaaand now it’s time… for the Mettaton Show! With your host and role model, Mettaton!”
And eerie wailing and a flashing of deep magenta filled the hallways, the crackle of static and the canned sound of recorded applause rising above the clanking and settling of the enormous machine; a scrambling of claws against latticed steel followed a moment later, and from the growing darkness of one of the halls, lined with destroyed panelling and live, sparking wires, a haggard, wide eyed monster skittered, a matted wad of blood and bone remaining behind where an ear used to be and scarred maw gaping for breath.
The monster, bandaged tail whipping about his heels as he loped frantically away from the hall he had just emerged from, skidded into a turn at a whim, slamming into a wall and raising a cacophony of noise, and in his wake, in no obvious rush but in clear pursuit, trundled what appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be a calculator riding a unicycle, flashing bright lights across the walls and floor and domed ceilings of the halls it passed.
A broad, stark smear of blood covered its front and dripped to the metal floor behind it, utterly unheeded.
The static and applause seemed to be coming from the robot, finally ceasing only when the monster that was almost assuredly attempting to escape it came into view (view? It had no eyes, to all appearances, only bearing a shattered display screen, on which blinked nonsensical LEDs, and several just as clearly broken dials, one missing entirely and the rest cockeyed), at which point the calculator raised the single, cartoonish, gangling arm dragging at its side on the ground, bearing what looked like a microphone, severed from a dangling cord.
“Welcome to tonight’s show, our seven wonderful viewers! We bring our first news report to you live, straight from the center of Waterfall, where an impromptu parade has started, celebrating the marriage of our princess and the judge of souls! What a day for monsterkind! Carol, I understand you’re overlooking the scene?” it exclaimed in a carrying, animated voice that filled the hallway, turning on its single wheel so quickly it frightened the staring, panting monster into motion again, nearly falling in his further attempts to flee.
The robot followed without hesitation, the details of its news report cracking and whining like a radio being tuned to a dead station; fell whispers murmured unknown secrets beneath the static, hideous laughter echoing off the damaged walls, before it seemed to find a new channel to focus on, the bombastic, bright tone of the announcer returning as seamlessly as though it had never stopped speaking.
“-r our next segment, we’re bringing on a monster with a delightful little invention; a portable blender! You may ask why it needed to be invented. You may ask what you would even need it for. We’ve got the answers, folks! Stay tuned!” the robot crowed, steadily keeping pace with the panicked monster it pursued, never once wavering in it’s quest.
Its announcements and dialogue certainly made no sense, and seemed to have no context. Had it been a wall speaker in another life?
The monster had no such queries, irises dilated with fear and maw wide as he gasped for air in the close, poisoned halls, and hurriedly strained to shove what looked like an ancient wooden barricade, made of fiberboard and an old display board (the board bore a tattered poster, once brightly colored and resplendent, announcing the robot behind him to be Mettaton and that he would be starring in his own movie in seven different roles) into the robot’s path, blocking off almost all of the hallway in the process.
The monster slumped against the wall he stood beside in utter relief, finally, finally hearing the damned wheel squeal to a stop just out of sight. Mettaton didn’t seem sure of what to do, in the face of the sudden blockade, and sat motionless in the darkness, a slow, steady display of dots making their way across his cracked display and his news report continuing almost unimpeded.
“Weather in New Home is gonna be great today darlings! Same as ever, since nothing really changes! But if that’s not your style, and you’re feeling adventurous, head on out to Waterfall, catch some waves and take a dip in their exotic waters, or even take the lift up to the Arboretum! There’s always fun to be had out in the snowfields! Back to you, Frank!”
The monster, with a twisted grin on his panting mouth, raised a shaking fist into the air, victory and nerves and bloodloss and quickly petering energy leaving him in a state of near shock. He’d escaped. He’d escaped? That was supposed to be impossible, no one got around Mettaton anymore…
“Can’t get me now, can you, you crazy asshole?! Ha! I beat you!” the monster scorned, slipping on a slight lisp in his speech as he pushed away from the wall and, in an afterthought, spat at the back of the barricade, but his mocking smile slipped from his face when a sound, an impossible sound, tore the air apart with a shriek and the rumbling, roaring sound of tearing metal.
The barricade shook in place, shuddering on its supports, and from it’s middle chewed a set of razor sharp, rotating teeth, stained red with old blood and the murderous glow of the shattered screen behind the splintering wood. Raucous laughter, insane and disjointed, rang out over the tearing of wood and the rumble of machinery, and through the hole the chainsaw was quickly making, the crimson light of Mettaton’s screen peered, every single working panel now lit.
“Now, it’s time to play: Flip! That! Switch! You’ve got 90 seconds to flip as many switches as you can! What do they do? That’s for me to know and for you to find out, beautiful!” the robotic fiend cried, his single arm cleaving at the barricade with practiced, unceasing ease, and the monster, trembling and weeping jet black tears, scrambled backwards, away from his only defense.
Why hadn’t he kept running? Why had he just stood there?!
“STAY AWAY FROM ME! GET AWAY, LEAVE ME ALONE!” he screamed hysterically, stumbling into walls and fallen weapons, through the dust of monsters long fallen and the remains of a war that had been lost ages ago (a barbed, cruel iron hook sank into his heel, carving into his flesh with determined hatred, but he couldn’t stop to yank it free, if he stopped it would be over, he’d be through-) and not far enough behind, he heard the barricade fall, and the turning of that hellish wheel, faster and faster and faster.
The tone of Mettaton’s broadcast seemed to have changed, though, along with his demeanor, far more solemn and grave.
“Monsters of the Underground, I urge you to remain calm. Stay indoors when you can, remember the strength of your souls, and report any sightings of the creature to your Royal Guardsmen. Together, we will make it through these trying times,” he uttered encouragingly, even as he raised the still spinning chainsaw in hand as his pursuit sped, gaining ground on the weeping, limping monster.
Everything was red, the walls, the floors, the edges of the monster’s vision; he could barely think straight, could hardly think of anything at all besides the gain of the demonic machine behind him and the hope of his escape dwindling the further he lost himself in the maze that was the CORE.
Why had he come here at all? New Home had been fine, it’d been fucking dandy in comparison to this-
That’s when he spotted it. The spiked cudgel, lodged in a pile of dust in the middle of an intersection of hallways.
If…. if he could get it… if he could surprise the robot and knock him off his guard…
Mettaton clearly didn’t intend to give him much time to decide, rolling closer and closer every passing second, and so the desperate monster made a grab for the cudgel, dragging it’s almost too great weight around the nearest corner and hoisting it onto his scrawny shoulder and lying in wait, hoping against hope that this would be the end of it.
If he could knock the robot off it’s wheel, there’d be no recovery from that. He could at last escape this hellish nightmare of moving rooms and giggling walls and impossible heat and murderous robots.
The chattering was growing closer.
This was it.
“Despite wishes for our longtime friend and ally’s return, no one has heard from or seen the princess since her abrupt departure nearly two weeks ago. We hold onto the hope that she will come back soon, and f-” Mettaton relayed apathetically, speeding around the corner with such speed that the monster nearly missed his chance, but swing he did, all his momentum behind the blow, and with a monumental rattle, a terrific crunch, and a terrible, bloodcurdling screeching, the robot flew across the hallway, rebounded off the far wall, and fell to the ground in a pile, his single arm, only held on by a scrap of silicone and a few wires, departing his body with a sickening snap.
The chainsaw finally quieted, laying beside its master on the floor, and an astounded, nearly complete silence fell, interrupted only by the burble and creak of the CORE itself.
The monster could hardly believe it. He stared at the shuddering, steaming, and smoking scrap heap before him incredulously, beyond himself with surprise and stunned victory, before letting out a loud whoop, releasing the far too heavy weapon, and leaping across the walkway to kick the edge of his fallen enemy, delirious in his success.
“Ha! Got you! Ha ha! I… I-I…” he began to gloat, but stuttered to a stop when something, someone, grasped his injured ankle, looking down, with dawning horror, on the sparking, ephemeral, clawed hand ensnaring him.
It was coming from Mettaton’s fallen form, and was accompanied by
something else, something that was slowly unfolding itself from the collapsed robot’s back.
It lacked what could be called a body, composed of seemingly levitating parts of shattered machinery, dismembered and lit with the same maniacal magic that had pulsed from the robot’s screen; the face of its head was frozen in horror, only more terrible when the mouth began to move, defying its own decapitation.
“Rioting continues on the streets of the capital as week seven of the viral outbreak begins and no sign of an end has emerged. The attempted quarantine of infected monsters within New Home failed well into the fifth week, bringing on an upsurge of violence and mistrust between citizens and the Royal Guard, and the rate of infection among common monsters has since skyrocketed. Despite hostilities, attempts to quell the surge are still underway. If you or your loved ones find themselves suffering any of the symptoms listed on screen, please-” it droned, the static that had before interspersed its silences breaking all throughout its fervent report, and the grasp that the destroyed robot, the horrifying, disjointed creation, had on the monster’s ankle tightened abruptly, snapping his leg at the foot.
His scream of agony did nothing to halt the fiend’s approach, dragging the fallen box that had contained it across the floor towards him; his fall to the ground, unable to bear his weight any longer, only aided Mettaton’s final goal, his unending Hunger, dripping from the air in strings of purplish, tainted acid.
“No, no, please stop! I just wanted to get through, please-”
The monster’s pleas went unheard, and disappeared entirely beneath a horrid, mechanical whirring, an earthly, staticky screech, and a viciously quick gush of verbiage, several reports rolling into one in the cacophony.
“So doctor, what you’re saying is… there iii-i-is no0oooo c-c-cureeeeeeeeeee-”
“The upper sec-sec-sector has fallennnnnnn. The fires arreee spreading smoo00oooke across the lower areas of New Hoooooome and Hotlandddddd-d-d-d. Graphic displays o-o-of violence and cannibalissssssssm have been record-ed-ed-ed on the streeeeeeeets. Viewer dissssssssssssss-”
“Burgerpants, d-d-d-darling… you’ll g-g-geeee33333t yo0000urs-”
The monster, weeping openly and attempting to drag himself away despite the seemingly unbreakable grasp the ghostly being had on him, latched on to the only part of the spew of information he had heard properly, choking on his words and an ugly deluge of black tar that burst from between his lips in his desperation.
“I’m not him! I’m not him, it wasn’t me! Spare me! Mercy!” he begged, kicking at the bulk of twisted metal and dangling, dead wires slowly descending on him, but the robot, or whatever it was that lived inside it, seemed uncaring and, indeed, only perked up further, the pantomime of a face the being bore spreading into an uncanny, sinister smile.
“Beauties and gentlebeauties! On this week’s cooking hour, we’ll be ffeeee3333eding that HuuuUUUngEr and learning the proper way to strip flesh from a living monster! Please welcome our special guest, Mister Whimsalot! He’ll be our main course,” he declared proudly as, with a single, final screech of metal against metal, the beast within dragged itself close enough to overwhelm the monster entirely, snatching at his arms and legs and face with more hands than the remains of the robot possessed, more of the same clawed, nearly invisible fingers scratching and tearing at his furred flesh.
The monster struggled mightily, even as he felt his arm separate from his torso, the same arm that the robot had lost in his fall… even as his eyes ruptured and bled down his face in a gush of gore and corrupted magic…
Even as he felt his belly open and spill, steaming and raw, across the laticed floor.
Above it all, the screech of the machine ruled, the regurgitation of the robot’s news show never ceasing.
“Thank you for tuning in, and remember, my lovelies! It’s what’s inside that really counts! And by that, I mean the meat that you’re made of,” he declared, at the same moment as he tore the other arm from his prey’s body, and the absolute terror, the pain and horror of his fate, spilt at last from the monster’s blood and bile and corruption soaked lips.
“DON’T EAT ME!!!” he screamed brokenly, sobbing and lost to despair and
agony, but what remained of Mettaton tore his jaw from his face entirely
the very next second, silencing him at long last and sentencing him to
the long, torturous process of consumption that would soon follow. The
monster’s facile tongue lolled down the length of his throat, wagging
helplessly on the gurgling breath of what could have been either a moan
or a scream, and Mettaton, for the first time seeming aware of what was
before him, let out a staticky, almost amused laugh.
“Goo00000dni1111ght, daaa4rlinnng,” he crooned, yawning, double jawed mouth stretching into a hideous smile, and buried his shattered face in his meal’s gaping stomach.