The poster is signed as she watches him do so; it is the very first of many autographs to come, and he is proud of how it turned out. Exquisite, expressive and eligible—especially eligible, Mettaton teases Alphys, who smiles as she fixes her eyes on his written thanks.
How her heart must also swell with pride, Mettaton muses. How she must be wondering if this is all a dream. Or, on the contrary, how her mind must be devoid of empty worries for once! Mettaton never had any doubtful thoughts when he'd first seen her plans, after all. Why on earth it was that a few untidy scrawls and a handful of sketches on one sheet of paper had ever felt so real, Mettaton could come up with no explanation other than his own foresight; If they had indeed come to life, his dreams were predestined to be reality.
He'd get used to prominence soon enough, Mettaton figures, when among the guests to his television premiere he finds the beloved King of Monsters himself. That isn't exactly a day-to-day occurrence, but he rolls up between Asgore and Alphys the moment he notices them backstage, to prove he could handle any pressure with grace. He even does the closest thing possible to a bow and scrape.
"You created this... Automaton, dear Alphys?"
"Technically speaking, yes," Mettaton pipes up. "Alphys here did the job for me quite well." He remembers he is in the presence of royalty, and so he humbles himself a little, adding: "If I do say so myself."
"Ah, confidence," Asgore laughs. "An admirable trait, perfect for such an invention to have." The king reaches out to Mettaton with one hand, almost touching the panel which is the 'face' of his mechanical body, and yet he speaks to Alphys. "It's almost as if there's a soul inside of it, somewhere..."
"There is!"
In that moment, Asgore retracts his hand and stood at full height to face Alphys again. The way she looks at Asgore as she searches for further words, Mettaton has seen many times before, just much less intense. The way Asgore bares his eyes into her, however, is quite something else. Scrutiny? Recognition? Expectation? Hope? It makes Alphys go deathly silent, whatever it is.
"Please, Alphys— will you walk with me a moment?"
Asgore is good-humored enough to imitate Mettaton's bow as he leaves— Very well at that, the king's sinews seem just as flexible as Mettaton's— before he turns around and takes Alphys away.
Oh, Alphys, Alphys, Alphys, what have you gotten yourself into?
Mettaton would later know he should have asked the same of himself.
"The king is going to love you," she tells him just before he powers down on the worktable.
"Right. Me. You're making all these changes so our illustrious Mr. Dreamy can marvel at my engineering prowess."
Alphys lets out that laugh at his remark. The laugh that is nervous, the laugh that grows quieter and quieter until she reaches a resigned silence. She ends up thinking the silence should have come forth immediately, but it seldom does. Alphys nods, chewing her lip.
Mettaton would live with with such things as a chainsaw for an extra limb, or a more-than-efficient tank of jet fuel, or other such symbols of offensive force, but he could still go about however he wanted, couldn't he? He was always the better improviser of the two of them. If Mettaton gets to be— is meant to be— the happiness of so many people, it's only natural that she helps. She'll help everyone by helping him help. She always will.
They stare at each other until Mettaton's display goes dark.
Mettaton's favorite role to play is himself; Alphys should have picked up on this by now, and still puts it to the test. It fits her new career.
Her tale of artificial souls and weapons against humanity is, for what it's worth, a decent one which he will stick to. Mettaton will give her that; he needed a cover story anyway. What he refuses to give her is an uninterrupted conversation with Asgore when she puts him on display for the king. Not when Alphys dares to keep him by her side. He, who holds all of her secrets, because she knows that he wouldn't say a word to make Asgore question her. Quite to the contrary, he chimes in just in time to save Alphys from her own horrid slip-ups that she manages to make even when her story is tailor-made for the king.
In the end, the plan works. Never once does any shadow of doubt cross Asgore's face; never once does he considers any part of the story too good to be true. If he had, there would be no such person as Royal Scientist Doctor Alphys.
Doctor Alphys. Has a certain ring to it. Doctor Alphys. Doc-tor Al-phy-s... He repeats those two words at various speeds, changing the pitch of his voice and switching around the accents on the syllables, until he sees himself doing so in a mirror.
Mettaton considers the words 'broken record' cheap and demeaning, but he cannot resist the urge to laugh at them when they appear in his mind. It's hilarious. Mettaton, so very lost for any other words. Well, if that is the case, he of all people knows that words are only one of the many devices which allow for eloquence. He reaches inside his circuitry for a more appropriate method of reacting to whatever this is he feels— and to his surprise, he finds one.
Oh, and is it perfect. Just what he needs. He's got to hand it to Alphys now; what spectacular foresight she's proven to have! What a delightful sound it is that he is emitting! It is the most wondrous laughter he has ever heard. But he'd expect nothing less, nothing less at all, from the brilliant Doctor Alphys. His pre-recorded jeer says all he wants and more, which is why Mettaton decides he will flatter her one of these days by using it in her presence.
In the event she has the audacity to give him that look which says 'Everything I did, I did for you'.
He resolves to make her prove it.
There are people who give. There are the people who give and give and give, until they themselves are no more.
As worn out and empty as she may feel, Alphys doesn't want to be so arrogant as to think she is one of them.
Undyne, for example, is a benefactor. Such a wonderful one that she makes Alphys feel like a person who can offer things in return. Undyne says she likes ice cream, but not cold food. She can't go for long without a drink of water, and she eats healthy. Alphys accommodates Undyne the best she can, and Undyne becomes accustomed to the compromises.
It dawns on Alphys one day that it's so much like building a home together, and the thought never leaves. What starts as theoretical diagrams of how Undyne would react to a certain gift soon turns into plans to impress her, then into stories of them complimenting each other as a perfect pair.
Alphys pushes each one of her imagined scenarios to the corner of her desk an hour or two after they are done. She startles herself at how many of them she has the nerve to come up with. Her, an equal partner of Undyne? Her 'professional insight' is a facade, and what she actually does to help the Captain is no sacrifice at all, just being decent— something Undyne gives her the chance to be, and Alphys ruins in secret.
She, 'Doctor Alphys , occupant of the Royal Laboratory, isn't giving the people anything either— she works on many projects, but they're pointless, self-indulgent distractions.
They pile up until Mettaton comes to visit, a rare occasion nowadays when he has so many other people he'd rather talk to. Mettaton who, in an unwitting act of mercy, rips her name off of the junk she puts together to replace it with his own. Hence all the inventions that Asgore's trusted Scientist should be well above are his to take, his to keep, his to peddle, his to have his name tarnished with, his to take the blame for when something goes wrong.
All except one.
Alphys' heart pounds at the bits and pieces of a humanoid body scattered across her worktable.
She isn't giving Mettaton anything, not right now, not anything of consequence. Even if every time he calls for her it feels he asks for something more, Alphys knows very well that he is just demanding the same things she had always promised him: beauty and fulfillment.
Still, each instance he walks through her door, he shows he's become a little more accustomed to giving orders, expecting results, and punishing failures. Now, when she examines the android's mouth, Alphys sees an image of those lip-shaped plates snapping at her: How dare she treat his precious form in such a manner?
The optics are even worse to look at— she is giving him a pair of eyes from which he can fire the coldest glare in the world at will. It stupefies her already when there's no one behind them; she doesn't know what she would do if Mettaton were inside.
Putting the parts together becomes bad in no time, because every time two pieces of the machine are joined together, Alphys also sees a sequence of all-too-realistic events connect: Mettaton in this body rising from the worktable despite her pleas to the contrary, Mettaton scowling at her in disdain, Mettaton reaching that poster with ease and tearing it off the wall, Mettaton walking out the laboratory, never to return.
And when it is bad, it is horrible. The dampness in her palms transfers to the surface of the metal, so it feels as if the surface itself is wet. The sweat from her forehead drips onto it as she assembles the parts, the parts are just like the bodies of—. Oh, oh, oh, no. Mettaton melts, he is another sum of its parts which is not what it once was and never will be the same again, he slips away through Alphys' claws no matter how hard she tries to catch him, and that is where the assembly must stop. As her heart beats louder than ever, she wipes the metal with a cloth, nice and dry and sanitary.
She would have stopped there, but it is that day she makes a revision to the blueprints: Mettaton's core will be detachable.
She thinks he'll like it better that way.
"W... Well! Here we are! I call it Mettaton EX."
Eyes open wide and a grin on his face, Mettaton runs through the laboratory for a place he can see his reflection, pausing every now and then to look down at his legs, letting out his brand-new, jovial laugh of delight. He knows he must build up a resistance to the intoxicating thud-thud-thud of solid ground beneath his feet, but doesn't want to. He almost crashes into the mirror Alphys brings him; he greets the beautiful machine on the other side by stroking the mirror's surface and saying its name until it feels like his own.
"Mettaton EX. Mettaton EX! It rolls off the tongue wonderfully— Ooh, how it feels to have a tongue! And lips, and a throat, and two shiny rows of teeth! Oh, Alphys, Alphys, Alphys... Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"I, um, think you should be careful? It's... N-not technically finished."
"What," he blurts out, though he means 'So that's how it is'. It's not an uncommon occurrence for there to be a 'catch' to any promise of wonderful things. Not uncommon in the slightest. Mettaton knows by now.
"I mean, it still needs to be, er, recalibrated? The energy consumption ratio is a little iffy, see, and the assembly—"
"Of course," Mettaton snaps. He concentrates on the mirror, until he is able to manage a smile. "I can't just give this thing away, can I, Alphys? Something worthy of its entrance must precede its introduction. Something E-X-T-R-A-O-R-D-I-N-A-R-Y."
The puzzles in Snowdin, for all intents and purposes, are a hindrance. Alphys should be gripped with dread for Asgore, for monsterkind, when the human emerges from the Ruins; she should not mutter in frustration when they take paths which lead away from the town, or become caught between X's and O's, between switches and spikes.
She should not watch her video feed and marvel that they are still unstoppable in their another way, as they stroke the fur of each of the Royal Guards, as they chatter with the monsters who wander in the snow, as they placate the ones who fire magical barrages in their way.
They are winning over all the inhabitants of Snowdin, one at a time, and Alphys must bear witness.
She gasps when she spots them standing in front of her own colored tile maze; she hears the set of rules she herself created, and groans that it will take forever to pass through. She rushes to the controls to program the easiest possible path, with a satisfied "There!" when she is done.
They examine Alphys' equipment for several moments before they walk on unscathed, and when their face is brought into closeup on her screen, she sees it: Someone like them doesn't deserve to be called a villain.
Alphys knows this the moment they pass by her camera into Waterfall, and what wouldn't she do to feel that rush again, the feeling that she gave, after she's gone so long without it. She's gone so long since the last time she knew what she was doing. She's seen it before, in those beautiful stories — human stories. All they need is someone to point them to the right path, to make them choose to stay in their new, strange place. Someone who reminds them that there is good in this world, and certain people are more than sacrifices for personal goals. Someone to help them, save them.
Then again, there's nothing Alphys can save anyone from, is there? Not counting puzzles, or power surges, or trivia questions. Unless...
"You'll trick them into liking you."
"We'll save Asgore."
Mettaton sighs— not without mirth, but Alphys won't notice that.
"Let me put it another way, then: You're rewriting the script as you see fit. The brave protagonist, the faithful sidekick, the dastardly villain... Switching the roles around, eh?"
"Y-yeah!"
"And if this little act proves to be more fun than taking the soul of our beloved King could ever be..."
"...They'll never even have to meet Asgore. Everyone's safe, everyone's happy," Alphys finished.
"Well, what about freedom?"
Alphys' head drops. She stares at her feet, claws interlocked, half-formed words roiling out of her mouth, then evaporating.
"I know why you want this human in particular to stay, Alphys— I was watching," Mettaton deadpans, to disperse the mist of her excuses. "But I want to see the sun."
"I...I only thought... There's g-got to be a way to make your... Our dreams come true w-without hurting them?"
"I see," he replies, careful to imbue his voice with only the finest subtleties.
*(I lied to you.)
While lugging Mettaton's parts back from the Core, Alphys remembers some words— they're a very important part of human literature, or a very popular one at least. A speech about how 'sometimes, the crime is punishment enough'.
When she looks at the damage back at the lab, she confirms her suspicions that even if Mettaton had never been hit once, he would have fallen apart from exertion alone. She is not surprised.
But then, she surprises herself: She puts Mettaton back in one sitting, necessary adjustments and all. Newly polished, Mettaton's core, his pride and joy, shines as bright as ever. Gone are the dents and scratches inflicted on it with that cellphone's otherwise harmless projectiles. Or at least, they are hidden well beneath the surface.
"I'm... sorry, Mettaton, I—" she stammers when her work is done, and he opens his eyes. Mettaton's lips part, but her voice is quicker than his: "I'm leaving. I have people I need to talk to."
"What?" His stare is incredulous. "Who!"
"Asgore's the first. There's more, lots more... But he's the one I need to see now."
She marches past that poster, descends the escalator out of her quarters, and heads towards the castle, without turning back when she hears another pair of footsteps some distance behind.
Sometimes, the crime is punishment enough. Alphys doesn't even know if she likes those words very much, or if they even make sense to her, so she's not sure why she remembers them again as she confesses to the king and queen.
"If only I had known," says Asgore. He shakes his head, eyes closed, as he takes Alphys into his arms. She keeps shaking, as his beard brushes against the top of her head. In a withered choke— though she is not in pain— Alphys asks him why he would act like this.
"Because it is not his place to judge," the queen says instead of the king, and her voice is cold enough to make Asgore shiver. "If there is one creature among us who knows what it is to hide away from those they…Disappointed, it is Asgore."
Toriel's tone is still stern, but not unkind as she speaks to Alphys "There are still tasks that remain for you, are there not? Report the happenings in the Laboratory. Accompany the patients home. Speak with their families. Upon completion of those duties is when you shall be relieved from your position as Royal Scientist."
"I will," Alphys says, and that is that. Toriel and Asgore walk away in tandem. Though they do not face each other, their footsteps align and their shoulders almost touch. Frisk's name is on both of their tongues as they leave. Only when they are out of earshot does Alphys collapse, repeating the words "I will, yes, now, I will," with varying degrees of clarity.
Inside her mind there is a tape, rewinding that previous moment over and over.
If everything were up to him, Mettaton would have thrown himself at Alphys' feet and begged for her forgiveness, as she wept an ocean of tears in relief, declaring that she too would make things right. And he would see to it that monuments upon monuments were built to remember that moment. He really would.
Sometimes, that is how it happens.
But when she comes to join him at Frisk's side, her cheeks are flushed, her spectacles are stained, and her lips are twisted into a smile, as if she drank something bittersweet. Mettaton opts to greet her with a nod, as he strokes Frisk s sleeping face. He's already thinking of a speech about them being called back to life by his cool, metallic touch— if that is indeed how it will turn out. Really, not much has been going according to plan at all these days. The thought even starts to plague him that perhaps it never has, seeing as he now drifts off to dark marshlands and rooms with old wooden floors and caverns with glittering stones where haunting songs echo from the blackness more than ever before.
Mettaton finds himself with crossed arms when the sound of Alphys laughing snaps him out of his reverie. It isn't even that laugh which is her signal for "self-deprecation in progress". If anything, it's triumphant
She looks up at him with a wry grin, and clears her throat.
"Hey, Mettaton? C-can I ask you a weird question?"
"Yes?"
"Okay. Say that there's two beautiful people. That is, these beautiful people who... aren't completely happy with one another. One of them screwed up. Maybe both of them did. In a way."
"...Go on."
"So, these people. Do you think they can still do great things together? Do you think that they could be beautiful again? Beautiful, together?"
Mettaton ponders the question, or tries to. It's a matter of worldly wisdom, something he's accrued for a long time in Hotland, but what gains prominence in his mind are the images of little red books, the noise of a pen scribbling six short words, and a feeling of hope, or a strange kind of delight.
"Well, Alphys, darling, I'd like to believe they can."
Alphys claps, and her face glows as it splits into a smile. "I'm so glad you think that way too! I was talking to Toriel and Asgore a couple of hours ago, see, and then..." She prattles on about how lovely the king and queen are together, how nice it would be if they would reconcile, while Mettaton... Well, he humors her. He humors himself. He will let Alphys have this, if it means that he may also joke about how she has at long last been held in the arms of Asgore, how her beloved Knight's heart shall break. That he may hear her signature flustered squeal, or a curious echo — solemn and contrite, but hopeful — in her voice when she speaks of what she has done and what she must do. He will be the audience, at most the interlude, to her tale. Until, that is, one thing she says makes him weary.
"Alphys. " He proceeds with caution. "You told them everything?"
"Oh! Oh, no. Only the mistakes."
"Just making sure, but good to know," Mettaton replies with another nod. He had almost thanked her for her discretion, but he had to say something that asserted he knew that he was no mistake. That he is Doctor Alphys' Greatest Invention— and not even she can ever deprive him of that honor.
Not if he doesn't let the Brilliant Doctor Alphys.