(When I started writing this story, I had intended for Mettaton and Asgore to be the only characters, and for the story itself to not surpass 1500 words. Oops.)
The time had almost come. Myriad onlookers settled amongst each other, holding their breath both in anticipation of imminent occurrences, and out of fear some other audience member would smell their grotesque breakfast. The occasional rumble and rattle from just out of their line of sight only made holding their anticipation and bad breath in more difficult, and a fever pitch nearly came over the masses before the spectacle had even begun.
With a flash, light flooded in from the sides of the crowd, shining their ebullience on the stage just in front of them. The masses quieted down for a mere second to process what they could now see, only for the fervent chatter to resume with a vengeance straight after. They had only the most general of ideas of what to expect from the elaborate display before them, and from the master who was to present for them all. The master worked in mysterious ways comprehensible only to the master, many of them said, but that only made the end results all the more spectacular.
As if on cue (largely because it was on cue), the master wheeled out before his audience, his dazzling boxness instantly catching the attention and hearts of his audience. Many could only vocalize their sheer lust through shrill cries, which got progressively shriller, as if in competition with one another. At least one audience member expressed his disbelief at finally getting to see the master in the (metaphorical) flesh. One bony spectator in particular nearly rushed the stage, but a tug from his lazybones compatriot stopped him dead.
The master gestured with his hands to quell his feverish audience, but they did not silence. The teleprompter flashed the words "SILENCE" as the master drummed his fingers on the counter before him, but still the audience cheered. The master pulled a chainsaw out from under the counter and revved it, and only then did the audience quiet. Except for a particular bony man, but his compatriot pulled him back into his seat before the lobbed chainsaw could take his head off.
The master cleared his mechanical throat, ignoring the grinding of the chainsaw now stuck in the wall, and rotated on the spot, calling out to his audience, "Welcome to Cooking with a Killer Robot! How are you all doing, my rambunctious lovelies?!"
The crowd instantly broke into adulation once more, though a set of sparks from the implanted chainsaw cut their praises mercifully short. His greeting ritual finished, Mettaton continued with another flourish, "Today is a very special edition of Cooking with a Killer Robot! You see, for our uninformed monster friends out there, this is our first show recorded in and broadcast to the human world! Let's hear it from our human audience members!"
Frisk looked over to the sole other human audience member, an elderly man preoccupied with his phone, and gently nudged him. Frisk clapped vigorously to compensate for their neighbor's lack of involvement, while the man himself gave a half-hearted pump of his fist and unenthused cry of, "Whoo," not bothering to look up from his phone.
At least, until the sound of metal grinding into concrete right by the man grew several decibels in volume, causing him to cry out in fear and dash for the exit. Frisk stared after their sole human acquaintance, took a glance around at the monster audience, then after a short pause, doubled down on cheering.
Though Mettaton appreciated the gesture, he knew that no good host would let his viewers at home know of such a dire audience. As such, he answered Frisk's enthusiasm with an exclamation of, "Yes, thank you, all you beautiful humans that are lining the seats! And now, to commemorate such a special occasion, we have a very special guest here tonight! Why don't you come on down?"
The audience, for once, grew silent in their anticipation; they had no idea who to expect. After all, the lovely Mettaton had had guests on his shows before, but they were never special; he had only ever tried to kill them! The pondering of whoever could it be lasted for a short while, but came to an abrupt end when the audience as one noticed the thundering footsteps that slowly approached the stage.
Around the corner came a very special guest indeed. As he made his towering, regal presence known, Mettaton practically screamed, "That's right, ladies and gents! It's your ruler, everyone's goat dad, King Fluffybuns himself!" He wheeled away from his guest, pointing to him while declaring to the low ceiling of his set, "It's AAAAAASGOOOOOORE!"
The audience broke out into cheers once more like the mindless mob they were, their cheers for their king surpassed only by the cheers they had given Mettaton not long before. Asgore gave a sheepish (or goatish, rather) wave, and said in his trademark warbling baritone, "Hello, all. I am—"
A firework shooter right next to Asgore's foot abruptly went off, launching a firework a few feet into the air and spooking Asgore right out of his introduction with an "Ah!" He stumbled a few steps away from the launcher, nearly tripping over his own outlandish cape multiple times in the process.
Now safe from the danger of puny fireworks, Asgore returned his attention to the crowd before him, but before he could continue, Mettaton laughed and patted Asgore on the back, declaring, "Nice to meet you, Ah!"
Stock sitcom laughter erupted out of a nearby speaker, prompting similar laughter from most of the audience, who knew not of the horrors of stock sitcom reactions. Frisk, all too familiar with such horrors, did their best to pay no mind to the abominable noises encroaching upon them.
The terror soon abated, and Mettaton immediately followed it up over Asgore's attempts at a proper introduction by saying, "And so, to commemorate this very regal occasion…"
Mettaton paused for further laughter, but the only reaction from the audience was a single chuckle from Sans in the front row. He sighed, muttering about his audience missing such obvious comedy gold, before resuming, "Anyway, we have a very special dish for you all today. Today, we are making butterscotch cinnamon pie!"
The instant those words escaped Mettaton's speakers, Asgore's countenance sank, and Frisk started repeatedly running their finger across their throat and whispering, "Ix-nay!" Frisk did so with such vigor, in fact, it almost seemed as if they honestly believed Mettaton had a throat.
The robo-man himself seemed to think so, at least, for he waved off their concern with a laugh and declaration of, "Not to worry, concerned human child! I can't choke!" to the camera.
Asgore tapped Mettaton on his corner to garner his attention, telling him, "Excuse me, Mettaton. I don't think–"
Mettaton interrupted the king with an exaggerated turn, one so sudden his chef hat flew off onto the counter, and a premature reply of, "Not to worry, Your Majesty! I understand you royal types aren't the type to do anything for yourselves, so I shall guide you through the process, step-by-step!"
Touched by the kindness of their host, the audience broke into cheer once more. Papyrus, in particular, let out a cry of, "I love you, Mettaton!" apropos of nothing, much to the consternation of his brother's nonexistent eardrums. Frisk, meanwhile, did their best to sneak out of the audience and get near Asgore; while they felt an obligation as the sole human member of the audience, their need to relieve Asgore's Pie-Traumatic Stress Disorder took precedent.
Oblivious to Frisk's impending involvement due to the blinding floodlights, Asgore whispered to Mettaton, "I don't know how to make butterscotch-cinnamon pie."
"You what?!" cried Mettaton, his sudden turn causing the chef hat he had just replaced upon his box top to fly off once more.
"Is that a problem?" asked the king, taking a glance at the still-cheering audience. If nothing else, he was surprised that so many people could be so enthusiastic about pie.
"I'm a robot," Mettaton replied, emphasizing his own mechanical nature by knocking a fist against his metallic frame. "I don't know a thing about how to actually cook! I just stand here and look pretty while my guest does all the work."
"Oh." Asgore's half-hearted reply came right as the monsters' cheers abated, punctuated by one last declaration of love from Papyrus to Mettaton. A pregnant pause followed, steam nearly rising from Mettaton's chassis as he processed how he could escape from this snafu.
"Alright, this seems like a good time for a commercial break!" he eventually said, futilely trying to move backstage while dragging Asgore along. "I'll see all you lovelies again in short order!" Asgore followed behind Mettaton after a realization of what he was trying to do, allowing him to disappear from the cameras right before they stopped recording. The cameras also stopped recording just in time to miss Frisk scurrying backstage behind the duo.
Deep backstage, Alphys was helping with all sorts of manners, in order to ensure Mettaton's human world debut ran smoothly. Theoretically, anyway. In reality, she was all too busy in the green room with her fish girlfriend whispering sweet nothings to her to do much of any of that. She was busy giggling at whatever newest prospect Undyne was offering her, when the door slamming open and an electronic cry of "Alphys!" made her cry out in turn and inadvertently throw her phone at the ceiling. She twirled in her chair, her heart nearly leaping out of her chest, and came face-to-face with a pensive Asgore and frantic Mettaton.
"Hello, Alphys," Asgore said, taking a brief glance at the panicking Mettaton. "We seem to have run into a problem with the program. We were wondering if you knew–"
"How do you make pie?!" Mettaton pleaded, gesticulating only slightly more than usual.
Alphys stared at the two of them with an incalculable expression, her still operating cell phone falling into her outstretched hand after a short pause. She slowly brought it up to her face and asked, "Undyne? Do you know anything about how to make pie?"
On the other end, realization and reminiscence flashed in Undyne's eye all at once. She was all too familiar with the horrors of cooking. Images of a searing-hot pie crust landing on her eye flashed in her mind, which made her patch-covered eye ache in remembrance. Memories of a pasta disaster and a burning down house swirled all about in her head, the screams of all those wasted spaghetti strands entrenched deep in her conscience.
"Undyne?" Alphys asked once more.
"Don't know a thing," she replied with a shrug.
Alphys looked up at Mettaton once more and shook her head, which only intensified his gesticulations. As one of Mettaton's arms came flying off, and Alphys and Asgore did their best to stop him from gesticulating any more, Frisk looked on from just outside the room. They pulled out their own phone and dialed up the number of probably the only person who could help in this scenario.
After a single curt ring, Toriel's voice chimed in from the other end, "Hello, Frisk."
"Do you have a recipe for that butterscotch-cinnamon pie you made?" Frisk replied instantly, doing all they could to make sure Toriel heard none of Mettaton's freaking out.
"Oh?" Although expressing confusion, Toriel's immediate reaction also held a hint of pride. "I didn't know you were interested in baking." The sound of searching through drawers came through the phone as she continued, "Let me look around for that."
Mettaton's panic eventually reached a calm, though only in relative terms. He still paced backstage, pondering anything he could do to salvage the program as it was. Although Asgore could think of nothing to say to alleviate any concerns, he eventually spoke up, "Mettaton?"
"How am I supposed to recover from this?" Mettaton asked himself, completely oblivious to Asgore's concern. "This was supposed to be my big new debut to a new audience, and it's a disaster. None of my new audience out in the crowd, and this extended break is sure to make ratings plummet. I'm doomed, doomed, doomed!"
Mettaton made a flourish and sighed melodramatically, which in turn allowed him to see the concerned King Fluffybuns. Asgore returned Mettaton's chef hat, which he had long since lost in his panic, to him, and told him, "I'm sorry about all this. I didn't realize how important this all was to you."
"Oh, no, no, no, Your Majesty!" Mettaton rebutted, waving off the apology with the one arm he still had. "It's nobody's fault but my own, for failing to take into account the tastes of my brand new audience."
Alphys wanted to point out that he wanted to host a cooking show despite knowing nothing about how to cook, but elected to keep silent.
Asgore rested a hand atop Mettaton's chassis and continued, in spite of the robot's protests, "Maybe you could've, but the fact remains that I know all too well how it feels to have to live up to the expectations of the countless people around you. Whether governing them or entertaining them, there are so many differing expectations, that you'll inevitably disappoint someone at some point. What matters is how you pick yourself up after that."
Mettaton sniffled (which confused Alphys, who didn't remember installing any such feature in him) and turned to his creator, who acknowledged his concerns with a single, uneasy nod. He pulled the two of them into a hug as best he could with one arm and declared, "You're right; it's unsightly for someone as beautiful as me to fret! But the question remains: how can this program be salvaged?"
At that moment, the green room door slammed open, and in came Frisk, a fresh pie cradled under their arm. They held the pie out to all present, in the process neglecting to mention that they had listened in on the conversation and waited for the most dramatic moment to make an entrance.
Asgore and Mettaton both looked at Frisk and the pie in disbelief. The smell was familiar to Asgore, yet totally distinct; the unique sensation made him eager to see how it would turn out. Mettaton, meanwhile, was ecstatic at the prospect of having a pie at all. "This is perfect!" he declared, pushing Frisk and Asgore out of the green room. "Let's get those cameras rolling again ASAP!"
Alphys waved the three of them her reassurance, then promptly returned to being macked upon by her gay fish.
Mettaton nearly changed his mind about recording once he actually set wheel back on the set. Although he noticed the vast majority of his lovely studio audience remained and was all too excited to see him once more, the set itself was a mess. Filthy utensils and dishes lined the counter, though much more bafflingly, dried dough was splattered against the oven. He wordlessly turned to Frisk, who shrugged and replied, "I'm new to the whole baking thing."
Mettaton waved it off, the shape of a grin appearing among the flashing lights on his front, and declared to the camera crew, "Let's get this rolling! And on the double!"
The camera crew, IE Burgerpants, muttered something rude about Mettaton as he signaled a countdown, and once that hit zero, he resumed the broadcast.
"Welcome back, my lovelies, and we are rolling once more! We apologize for our extended," Mettaton stole a quick glance at the clock, "45-minute commercial break, but we return with a beautiful specimen for you all!" He snatched the butterscotch-cinnamon pie from Frisk's tiny human hands and presented it before the camera.
A small bit of realization dawned upon Frisk's face, and they leaned in toward Asgore, whispering, "Doesn't this defeat the purpose of a cooking show?"
Asgore only shrugged.
"And to commemorate this beautiful dish, why don't we have our wonderful guests have a taste?" Mettaton wheeled over to his guests, only to realize that due to a certain human child's misadventures in baking, his knife was missing. As such, he called out to the audience, "Would anyone out there be so kind as to spare a cutting implement?"
"I got you, Mettaton!" Papyrus replied instantly, scrambling to the back of the stands. His brother and those on the set were confused by his intent, until they realized that the chainsaw, though no longer cutting the wall apart, was still resting in the top row of seats.
"Pap, I don't think–" Sans started, following after his brother, but by that point Papyrus had already reached the object of his intent. Sans covered his face, shaking his head and badly trying to hide his baffled laughter.
"Here you go!" declared Papyrus, chucking the metal death machine at the other metal death machine. By some miracle likely somehow caused by Sans, the chainsaw flew in just such a way that it missed anyone on stage by a country mile, but it cleanly bisected the pie. "Clean" being a relative term, considering all the dust and debris that had accumulated on the chainsaw's blade.
Mettaton, somewhat amazed that he hadn't lost both his arms in one day, handed one half each over to Asgore and Frisk, saying to both them and the camera, "Well, bon appetit!"
Asgore and Frisk stared at one another, shrugged, and downed their respective halves in one giant gulp. Asgore was the first to respond; his eyes widened, and a grin spread across his face. "This is sublime," he said. "The butterscotch and cinnamon complement each other perfectly, and the gravel gives it just enough texture to give it that extra kick it needs!"
Mettaton crossed the one arm he had, satisfied with himself, then turned to Frisk for their opinion. They panted for dear life and said, "I nearly choked on concrete. But yeah, it's good."
"Wonderful!" Mettaton exclaimed, spinning in place. "Unfortunately, due to some technical difficulties, that's all the time we have for today. So, my dear audience, both monster and human, see you next time!"
Mettaton signaled for his guests to wave goodbye to the camera, and so they did, bidding farewell to all six humans watching the broadcast. A scant few seconds before the broadcast ended, Mettaton gave one last word. Rather, he intended to, but before he could, Papyrus declared one last time, "Mettaton, I love you!"
Mettaton dismissed the declaration with a wave of his hand and a laugh, then finished, "Be sure to tune in next time, when we make desserts from REAL spiders!"
"I beg your pardon?" asked Asgore, right as the signal cut.
Mettaton ignored Asgore's confusion and instead jumped for joy, as much as a top-heavy robot without legs could. "That show was a rousing success!" He turned to the studio audience, who had cheered practically nonstop throughout the ending segment, and told them all, "Thank you all for making this show so wonderful!" He went to Frisk and told them, "Thank you for saving this show!" Finally, he approached Asgore and said, "And thank you, Your Majesty, for helping make this show a reality!"
Asgore laughed and shook Mettaton's outstretched hand, replying, "Not at all. I never knew show business could be so tense, but now I'm excited to see how those ratings turn out."
"Yes!" Mettaton declared, ripping his hand from Asgore's grip and pointing to the sky. "We shall revolutionize human entertainment!"
In a way, Mettaton wasn't wrong. Although suffering from low initial viewership, the show benefited from isolated videos of it being posted to various online communities. It was here where the show prospered, with a plethora of comments vouching for its quality. Rather, a plethora of comments vouching for how attractive its hosts were for a giant goat monster and a cube.
And so, Cooking with a Killer Robot became renowned not for any actual cooking, but for the appearances of those doing the cooking. Asgore became a regular guest, leaving his schedule more than a bit cluttered, but he didn't mind at all. In time, the program went down in history as the most popular hour-long program with 45-minute commercial breaks the human world had ever known.