Chapter 1: Code

A cocktail of hatred, envy and sick longing was the only way he could describe what churned around in his stomach as he stared at the TV in a boredom-induced stupor. It might have just been the starfait that'd passed its sell-by date, given it consisted pretty much of nondescript, saccharine sludge and literal repurposed garbage (free lunch, he guessed) ... but more likely than not, it was probably the fact he couldn't take his eyes away from the guy who grinned dazzlingly from the set 24/7. That and how strategically it had been placed to always be in plain sight, no matter where the sole employee of this fast food joint stood, and no matter how much he wanted to claw his own eyes out in despair.

The guy posing and parading around on the set was none other than his boss... an evil, obnoxious hunk of junk metal who had a monopoly on all media in the Underground, and also on all entertainment and hospitality facilities in Hotland. From what he'd seen of human video tapes, this had pretty much become the monsters' answer to 'Hollywood', except with a demented robot ruling over it all, who nobody seemed to know where the fuck he even came from. From what he'd heard he literally just wheeled into the public eye one day... that was when he was just a little kid, with his whole life ahead of him...

Sure, he had abundant charisma, wit and talent, enough that the young cat-like monster was once inspired to pursue acting himself—which he did, all through school doing productions and going to drama class in fact, dreaming of one day working with his idol: Mettaton.

He'd never forget the day his hell began.

It was in eleventh grade. He'd flunked most of his classes (fallen into a bad crowd, gotten himself a little drug habit, nothing too terrible) but excelled in Drama, of course. Straight A's in that, and in Film and Media. Who needed heavyweight academia when they were going to be a famous actor, anyway? Or so he thought, with confidence overflowing as he made his way to a long-anticipate audition, which was to be judged by Mettaton himself! Finally, a chance to show his talent off to his hero!

When he was called, an agent wished him luck as he led him out onto a well-lit stage. It was so bright, in fact, that he struggled to see who was seated in the audience, though he could just make out a glowing, fuchsia heart and another pinprick of the same hue somewhere above that. Oh god, he'd heard gossip and read interviews about this; Mettaton had a brand new body, but it was apparently incomplete, not ready for a TV debut. And he was going to get to see it in person? Only the social elite living in that part of Hotland bordering the Core had the honour of seeing Mettaton anyway, much less...

Oh god, this was too exciting. But he managed to give his name when the robotic voice asked it of him (fuck, it sounded so... pretty, compared to what he was used to on TV), and he performed his heart out, feeling hot and breathless and almost sick with adrenaline by the time he'd recited his piece.

For a while, he got no response—no 'thank you', no 'next'. Nothing. He shielded his eyes with a shaking paw.

"Um... Mister Mettaton?" He chanced to ask into the pink spotted gloom behind blinding lights. "Sir?"

"I heard you, darling," came the sugary drawl again, and before he knew it, Mettaton himself waltzed up the stairs leading onto the stage. And fuck, was he beautiful! All curves and leg and pouting lips, a rare humanoid quite similar to himself—but less fur, more metal. The star struck teen couldn't tear his eyes away from what he'd only seen speculated in drawings thus far, but he at least managed to look up and meet the eyes of Hotland's superstar, his own shining with desperate hope.

"I'm so sorry to say it, but you're not exactly what we're looking for, uhm..." said the robot with plastic pity in his tone, reflected in his toothy smile. He puzzled for a moment while the monster before him felt his world shatter, and tried desperately not to vomit all over the stage.

"... Whatever your name was. Poor thing, perhaps flipping burgers would be more suited to a talentless worm like you, hmm? I'm sure we can arrange something..."

The chiming sound of one of Mettaton's most iconic leitmotifs dragged the fry cook out of that memory's particular hell, and back into that of his current reality. It was testament to how thoroughly this shitty job-and his shitty boss especially—had crushed his soul, the way his mouth instantly stretched into that customer service grimace while frantically binning the empty starfait cup that'd been gradually gathering ash over the course of this particularly painful working day.

Of course it was Mettaton, sashaying the way he had when he'd casually strangled the life out of his hopes and dreams. But at least he'd gotten a job out of it (!) He should be grateful (!)

"Burgerpaaaants~" he sang sweetly, as though greeting his spouse after a long day's work.

Fuck fuck fucking fuck, he hated that name. That's what everyone called him now.

But even as he seethed, seeing Mettaton move in person filled him with a more potent brand of the sickly feeling than he got watching the robot on TV. MTT Brand nausea and sexual frustration... his favourite...

"My name is Danny, sir..." he said pointlessly, his monotone voice standing no chance against auto tuned hums. It was more to remind himself than anything.

Mettaton, if he heard at all, ignored him and (much to the unhappy puffing of his sole employee's tail) sat on the counter with a nimble hop while swinging a leg clean over his cowering head in the same motion. Strangely plush-looking thighs landed splayed open with Danny standing awkwardly in between them, and although the cat-like monster knew he was being roped into another of Mettaton's nasty little mind games he couldn't resist eyeing up the oil-black, shiny latex that hugged every curve of his leg—and the space in between them... whatever was concealed there...

Mettaton, on the other hand, started preening his uniform, straightening out his grease-stained t-shirt here and there and adjusting the ridiculous little hat he'd sadistically chosen as part of MTT Burger's 'brand identity, darling!'.

"Whenever will you start to respect what you have, Burgerpants?" came his computerised voice, sounding sweet and icy in the very same purr of that cruel little nickname. "You always look so... how do I put it... disgusting~"

"Sorry, boss..."

Danny hated that he was so submissive to the robot, but there was nothing he could say. If he lost this job, he'd be screwed.

So he had to try not to grimace as a white-gloved finger caressed teasingly up the underside of his chin, forcing him to look at that one exposed, bubblegum-pink eye. Behind that 'fuck me' expression and the perfect, silken sweep of hair, Danny wouldn't be surprised if Mettaton was fugly as all sin. The bastard still hadn't debuted his shiny new porn star body for the world to see, but as far as he was concerned seeing it now—although maddeningly arousing to him—didn't feel like at all like a special privilege.

That didn't stop him from coveting his boss, his unattainable idol—scratch that, his worst fucking enemy, the one who wrecked his life—and Mettaton knew it.

"Just try not to be so terrible at your job, okay sweetheart?" He crooned having leaned in tantalisingly close, making Danny's fur stand up on the back of his neck.

"Yes, boss..."

Mettaton, satisfied in his daily assertion of power, slipped off the counter and shoved his employee aside, making his way out back and toward his office with elegant strides—where, in Danny's opinion, no form of real management ever took place. It was always on him to do all the books, the stock count, all that boring shit he didn't get paid nearly enough to do.

But again, he had no choice. All the jobs going around these parts had that fucking robot at the top of the food chain.

Hah.

Oh well. At least Mettaton hadn't found the stubbed out blunts.

His shift dragged slowly and painfully to a finish with no further sighting of his boss. Not that he cared to check if he was still in the office or anything, since he'd probably left through the back door after like, ten minutes of pretending he had important stuff to do—which normally entailed watching the live feed for any petty mistakes to rip Danny a new one over.

It meant no more smoking at the counter for the rest of the day, but it was better than a chance of having to see Mettaton again.

The moment he got to lower the shutters was always so satisfying. Sometimes, if he deluded himself enough, he could even pretend it was a curtain dropping on another award winning performance of his... well, okay, maybe on a day where his morale hadn't quite been so crushed.

Danny closed the lights to the main restaurant area and slouched over to the break room. It was more of a cloakroom, really, but only because that's what it actually was. Why invest in a decent break room for one measly lowlife when you could just shove a notice board and a rickety chair in along with the coats, the umbrellas left over by customers and the odd bit of cleaning equipment?

He grunted as he flopped into the chair and fumbled for the pre-rolled joint stashed in his jacket pocket—for those times when he just needed a moment. There were no cameras in here—he'd already checked thoroughly—and an air vent led straight on out to the Core-facing side of MTT Resort, which proved effective enough to clear away weed stink so long as he shut the door after leaving.

He always remembered... mostly...

As Danny let his head fall back against the wall with a small thump, he lit up and took a long draw.

Man... if he could go back to his past self, he'd definitely tell him to word 'I want to work with Mettaton when I'm older' differently.

After exhaling a thick cloud, he opened his eyes, and was greeted by a familiar poster tacked to the noticeboard. It was Mettaton, of course, captured in a tantalising lying down pose that highlighted all those killer curves amongst a ridiculous number of fluffy, heart-shaped pillows. Both gloved hands framed his perfect face, gripping his own hair a little with a sultry 'screw me' saturating his parted lips and heavy eyelids.

Jesus, the number of times he'd rubbed one out over this picture was- wait.

That white, heart-shaped thing wasn't normally between his legs.

Danny stood and peered closer through his hazy vision. It was a sticky note, and scribed on it in beautiful, glittering pink cursive was a message that read:

'Burgerpants,

Don't think I haven't noticed the STAINS on this poster, you filthy little animal.

Do I need to personally educate you in good hygiene practices as well as uniform standards?

MTT'

"My name isn't Burgerpants, stupid bitch!" He shouted at the annoyingly gorgeous face that always mocked him. Snatching the note, he flipped it over and fumbled or a pen before scrawling in his own, less elaborate print:

'Fucking suck me'

Nah, he couldn't say that! He scratched it out.

'Bitch don't flatter yourse'

Nope. Scratched out.

'Sorry, sir. I'll try and aim better next time.'

Haha, yeah. That'll do.

Danny stuck the note over the robot's stupid slutty face, muttering:

"Fucking asshole. I'd piss right on you if I could. PISS!"

He'd probably regret the note later, when he wasn't high, but he quickly gathered his things and left before he could reconsider.

Danny lived just outside the outskirts of Hotland, away from the glitz and glamour of the Resort in what was technically classed as Waterfall. He didn't really like the heat too much anyway—plus, the further away from the palace and all that stuff, the cheaper it was to live. Waterfall had a pleasant enough temperature, and he'd managed to find himself a plot that wasn't too damp, so all in all it wasn't too bad.

At home, the life he led was almost agonisingly normal. He had a shower, he made himself dinner, he watched TV. Obviously, Mettaton was all over the few channels available, and Danny didn't have the luxury of a VCR to play the few tapes he'd managed to scavenge, but he'd long since accepted that he could never escape his boss's clutches.

Who was he kidding… as if he really wanted to…

Even though he hated his life and hated Mettaton for destroying it, he still couldn't remove him from that pedestal he'd always put him on. Every time the robot flashed a condescending look at him, or fussed over his uniform, or made it his business to make his working day hell... he sort of got a thrill from it. The calculator body had been bad enough, but the new one just... it fucking slayed him.

Hell, if Mettaton decided to step on his dick with those incredible boots, he'd probably thank him…

Speaking of his masochistic thirst, Danny couldn't resist looking up pictures of Mettaton on his phone once he'd slipped into bed beside his Mettaton body pillow. The posters of Mettaton on his wall were nice, but sometimes he needed a change of Mettaton. Tonight he wanted nude Mettaton, and you could find some pretty good drawn stuff online—especially since more and more fans had seen the new build at exclusive VIP signings and the like. It didn't take much speculation to imagine what might lie beneath the sinfully tight latex; genitals, however, were a tantalising mystery, and beneath the casing on his torso... who knew? There were some intriguing theories about the 'heart' around the navel area, that that was his soul, but it seemed crazy that he'd let it be so exposed. Besides, wasn't it the wrong way round or something…

… Science was never a strong point for him.

Either way, the content didn't disappoint. Mettaton with his legs spread wide, greedily taking multiple cocks in his plump, synthetic lips and his ass, dripping glitter-glue goo all down his thighs. Mettaton with his face covered in spunk, mouth wide open and tongue lolling shamelessly out, begging for more. Mettaton all bound up in his own extendable arms, jerking off and fisting himself at the same time. It didn't matter what Mettaton was packing—just so long as it was Mettaton.

Bend over and take it, slut. Yeah, you're fucking gagging for my thick cock, aren't you? Now turn around so I can paint your stupid face. Yeah. Swallow it all, you dumb bitch.

As he furiously jacked himself to ecstasy with such filth racing through his mind, like he did each and every night, it was with a final whisper of Mettaton's name.

And, as always, once the afterglow ebbed and his heartbeat regulated, he considered just how fucked his life had become.

The next day, Danny's Mettaton-shaped alarm clock woke him, bright (as the Underground could get, at least) and early, marking yet another day in the fast food nightmare that was his life. He pulled out from his closet an exact replica of the uniform he couldn't bring himself to wash yesterday, got dressed and combed the slightly longer fur between his ears until it stood in soft spikes (which actually looked kind of cute on him, in his opinion). At least he could look half decent going into work, until he had to put on his stupid fucking hat again.

He didn't know why he had to open the shop so goddamn early. Anyone with enough money to actually buy the sparkly junk from this place would never need to be up this early to begin with...

He hung up his jacket and backpack once he arrived, too sleepy to remember the note from the day before, then hurried back to clock in and open up. After the few regulars who always got their morning coffee ('made fabulous with MTT Brand glitter syrup, darling!') came and left, MTT Burger returned to its usual state—dead, just like Danny was inside.

Looked like another day of sneakily smoking blunts with the extractor fans on full and cursing Mettaton under his breath as he pranced about onscreen, being ridiculously fucking hot as always. It was the same shit... fucking reruns of Singalong With MTT, Cooking With A Killer Robot, MTT Runway... but it didn't matter, his eyes were reluctantly hungry as ever.

"Fuck my life..." he muttered, then switched it over to 'News Channel, with the Undergrounds most beloved anchor, Mettaton!'

What a fucking shock. He half-listened as the robot, dressed in the red suit that kind of comically strained over his more obviously robotic parts, blabbed on about this, that and the other... until a burst of dynamic animation exploded on screen, announcing some sort of prize draw. Probably a con... but he turned the TV up a little anyway.

'BEAUTIES AND GENTLEBEAUTIES! YOU'LL NEVER BELIEVE THIS, BUT...'

Mettaton gave a theatrical sob, hand clutched to his chest (he didn't even have a heart, for fuck's sake)

'SOMETIMES... *hic*... EVEN THE MOST BELOVED STARS GET LONELY! AND WE SHINE SO BRIGHT WE FIND IT SO, SO HARD TO GET CLOSE TO ANOTHER... SO, THAT'S WHYYYY!~'

A cheerful ditty played as a flashing sign flew out of nowhere, illuminating a phone number.

'I'VE DECIDED TO HOST A COMPETITION, WHERE THE PRIZE IS—YOU GUESSED IT, DARLINGS!-A ROMANTIC WEEKEND WITH YOURS TRULY! ALL YOU NEED TO DO IS TEXT 'DATE' TO THIS LITTLE NUMBER, RIGHT HERE~. NETWORK ACCESS CHARGES WITH AN ADDITIONAL COST OF...'

Wow, people were such suckers. A so-called 'romantic weekend' probably entailed a brief meet-up, a photo of the sucker standing awkwardly with Mettaton, pretending to give a shit as always, and a dramatic write-up for the magazines by his crew of ordained journalists and publicists. Some of the proceeds would go to schools... yeah right. As if Mettaton gave a flying, glittery fuck about 'nurturing talent'...

... Naturally, Danny was quick to snatch his phone up from the counter and text in anyway. Why the fuck not. It's not like he'd win, out of the hundreds of monsters undoubtedly hammering the line.

'—AND PERHAPS YOU—YES! I MEAN YOU, DARLING!—COULD TURN OUT TO BE THE LOVE OF MY LONELY, INCREDIBLY TALENTED, SUPER RICH AND FAMOUS LIFE! GOOD LUCK, MY BEAUTIES!~'

The announcement ended on that note, with Mettaton making flirty eye contact with the camera then blowing a kiss. After about a minute he got a text back with a unique code. The winner would be picked out of a hat at random, raffle-style, about an hour or so before he finished work.

Again, not that he had a chance—and, thanks to weed, he didn't have to think too hard about why he'd even want one.

Another boring as hell shift rolled by. A couple of glamburgers sold, so Danny was covered in a fine dusting of glitter and probably had a couple of sequins stuck in his fur, but at least having something to clean up was better than doing nothing.

He switched back from Music to News about ten minutes before the results of that stupid contest were due to be announced—it'd probably be funny to hear whatever screaming girl won the big prize go apeshit when they rang her number. Danny paused in his cleaning of the floor when the music from the earlier announcement played and he leaned on the mop for support, looking up at Mettaton who cooed in excitement for the results.

There were the usual tactics of suspense and filling time, suspenseful music, the painstaking reveal of each number of the six digit code belonging to one of these suckers—himself included.

'SO WE HAVE SO FAR: THREE... ONE... ZERO... SEVEN-'

Hold on. Danny was pretty damn sure his number had been three-one-something. Fuck. It couldn't be.

'NINE...'

Holy fuckballs there'd definitely been a nine in his code, too. Fucking hell!

'AND THAT'S A TWO, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! SO LET'S GIVE THE NUMBER THAT RECEIVED THIS CODE A QUICK CALL, SHALL WE?~'

Mettaton on live TV lifted an old-fashioned style phone off the receiver, and—

BZZZZZT! BZZZZZT! BZZZZT!

Danny practically leaped out of his skin and dive-bombed across the restaurant to where his cell vibrated angrily on the countertop, slipping and almost crashing headfirst into it as he lurched forward. He snatched the phone and hit 'answer'...

…And the voice that greeted him on the other end made his tail puff up massively.

"CONGRATULATIONS, SWEETHEART, YOU'RE THE LUCKY WINNER! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I HAVE THE SURE TO BE GORGEOUS THREE-ONE-ZERO-SEVEN-NINE-TWO RIGHT HERE ON THE LINE!"

Mettaton beamed from the TV set, his contact with the camera so spot on that it hammered home to Danny the fact that Mettaton was seriously addressing him right now. He tried to bite back the urge to scream in panic, his clawed hand balled into a fist in his mouth, until finally he took a deep breath and managed, shakily:

"H-hi, Mettaton..."

God, did he really sound so weird over the phone?

"MY OH MY, DON'T YOU SOUND SIMPLY ADORABLE? IT SEEMS WE HAVE A BASHFUL GENTLEMAN FOR OUR WINNER—SORRY ABOUT IT, LADIES!" He winked saucily, completely unapologetic of course. "CAN WE GET A NAME FROM YOU, SUGAR?"

"I'm Bu, uhhm..." Fuck, he really was losing his shit... about to use that awful nickname on live TV... "... S-sorry. I'm Danny."

"WELL CONGRATULATIONS, DANNY." Trust Mettaton to be so self-centred he couldn't even put the voice and the name together... "I'M SURE WE'LL HAVE A MAGICAL TIME! KEEP A CLOSE EYE ON YOUR PHONE, AND I'LL BE SEEING YOU THIS WEEKEND, DARLING..."

And with that Mettaton wrapped up the end of the contest slot, with many an insincere apology to all those who were disappointed, and maybe next time, eh darlings?

Danny, meanwhile, had simply allowed the phone to hang up from the other end, honestly too preoccupied with the feeling he was about to vomit to really process what had just happened.

He was going on a date. With Mettaton. The guy he coveted and loathed and envied all at once. How the fuck was he going to pull that off without, say, dying on the spot from sheer embarrassment? To make it worse, it was only Tuesday... which meant he'd probably encounter his boss at some point before the weekend.

It might be dramatic, but Danny couldn't help feeling he wouldn't survive this coming week.

Luckily, he made it to the end of his shift and home again without seeing Mettaton—obviously he'd been too busy all day doing all that pretend anchor bullshit—and Danny was more than desperate for the smoke as he collapsed heavily on his couch and lit up. This was going to be the end of him, he was certain. When he'd wished almost daily for the sweet release of death, he'd hoped fate wouldn't deliver something quite so cruel.

Nonetheless he attempted normal functions, eating and showering, but was so disturbed later on that thoughts of sleep evaded him completely. He probably wouldn't even be able to render himself comatose for the night with his usual Mettaton-fuelled orgasms.

While the evening was still young he received a text, from a number different to the one from the live studio earlier that day. He wasn't sure if it was Mettaton's or not, since their one or two instances of phone correspondence had been redirected from the office in MTT Burger, back when Danny had his old number, but it read in an all-too familiar tone of voice that just had to be the robot:

'Hello, Danny!

This is your lucky day, isn't it?

Meet me at MTT Resort this Friday night for our fabulous debut!

Yours, MTT xoxo'

Notes:

Anyone who guesses why I've given him 'Danny' as his real name gets a cookie :) thx for reading.