"heya, kid. heat getting to you yet?"

I receive a glare in return as they stop in front of the Hotland sentry station, soaked with sweat.

"all right, all right, I'm sorry. hot dog for your troubles?"

"…eugh, all right. if looks could kill…"

I pop the cork off a bottle of ketchup.

"so, what's new?"

"Oh, you know, same as usual. Almost got killed by a deranged robot that wanted my soul for a cake."

"bet the viewers just wanted to eat you up, huh? …too soon? well, I'm sure you'll have a blast with it anyway."

"…"

"what's with that look?"

"…A blast, huh?"

It's then that I realize my mistake.

No, they can't know what's about to happen. They can't know that in a few rooms—

"hm, yeah, lava's really bubbling today, isn't it? man, we might have an explosion or something."

"…But you weren't talking about that, were you?"

"…You know something, don't you? Always, about what's going to happen next. You waited for me outside Snowdin. You distracted Undyne so I could get away. You knew it was all going to happen, and you followed me."

"…You even know about the bombs in the room down the hall, don't you? Let me guess, you were watching me there, too?"

I struggle for anything I can say. I didn't expect this.

They speak before I can.

"Well, anyway…thank you."

"hey, it's no problem, kid."

I lean forward and place a hot dog on their head.

"…hot dog for your troubles?"


Heart-pounding techno blares from the TV as Mettaton strikes a pose.

At least, I'm told it's heart-pounding.

"OOOOH, IT'S THE LAST EPISODE ALREADY! I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO CATCH UP LATELY…"

I nod and take another bite from my box of Grillby's takeout. If there's one advantage from all this, it's that I know when to go to avoid the watch party rush. I managed to get out the door just as the first few (hundred) Mettatonners came pouring in.

"I WONDER WHAT KIND OF HUMAN HE'LL FIGHT TODAY!"

My brother proceeds to fill me in on the events of the last couple seasons of The Glamorous and Sexy Mettaton vs. The Evil Dastardly and etc. Forces of Humanity. I catch a couple words here and there (mostly something about "THE COLOSSAL HUMAN" and "BUT THEN HE FIRED LASERS FROM HIS CHEST!...AREA!"), but I can't help being a little distracted.

He's not about to fight just any human. I know that.

I can't tell Papyrus that, of course. He'd be heartbroken, for one. But then he'd ask me how I knew that.

There aren't a lot of easy ways to lie about that—especially given my established level of interest with the show. I can't pass it off with a simple, "eh, just finally decided to start watching it today…you know, from the new story arc."

At least, not without being given several DVDs and told to go catch up on the first few seasons. He'd turn off the TV, too, so I wouldn't be spoiled for the new series. I wouldn't be able to see the outcome.

Ah—here it comes. Fake pink smoke pours into the room as they open the door.

"WHAT—NO! WE'RE TRYING TO WATCH TV HERE! CAN…"

"…CAN YOU NOT STAND IN FRONT OF IT? PLEASE?"

I turn to my brother. His shoulders slump. He looks like he would cry, if he had tear ducts.

"bro…"

I put my hand on his shoulder.

"…they're on the show. they're the human."

The music crescendos. The reveal: Dr. Alphys has been manipulating the entire journey through Hotland. The other reveal: Mettaton EX. The most shocking reveal of all: product placement as he dramatically bites into a Glamburger before the battle begins.

"I…I DON'T KNOW WHO TO CHEER FOR."

I close the box of takeout and set it on the floor. Lean forward, elbows on knees, chin in hands. The room is dark, except for the light of the TV.

I can't say anything. Much as I love my brother, I can't let on that I know anything more about this than he does. At the heart of it, I don't want him to have to know what's really going on.

Some part of me still hopes—at least, a little—that one day there will be an end to this. One day, it'll just be like it used to. He'll sit on the couch, and watch that insufferable show. I'll sit next to him, and let him have his fun. We'll go back to the normal, pointless routine of guard duty—no humans in sight, no seventh soul to worry about, and just making bad jokes to get on his nerves. And maybe if we're lucky, we'll make it to the surface. He'll find out if humans really are descended from skeletons, and drive down the highway at 70mph, and find more of those action figures he loves, and…

And me? …I guess I don't really have any plans. I'd rather watch him have fun.

That's why he can't ever know. If there's a chance this could be the last RESET, I can't tell him. Any other time, it would all start over and he would forget...but now, it would ruin his happiness. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

Onscreen, they strike a pose. Pre-recorded cheering fills the room.

"Are you ready, darling? Let's begin!"


Notes:

Insert mental image of Sans drinking ketchup like a fine wine. No, no, actually, it hurts to think about…

I couldn't fit it in the story, but the reason Sans knows about the bomb room is because on one timeline, he was forced to get caught up on the Mettaton series by Papyrus. Maybe.

Notably, Sans's personality here contradicts his Genocide Route battle dialogue about not caring about getting to the surface or putting things back the way they used to be. Make of that what you will.

So! This story has eight followers now! That's how many fans Mettaton has, right? We're matchy!

…Or, if you want to be boring, the number of fingers on a spider hand. Fine, have it your way.

So, for our eight-follower special, I'll give you a little insight into my usual schedule for writing this fic:

Day 1 – Roll out of bed after staying up way too late writing the last chapter. Eat lunch (yep, lunch). Think briefly about the direction of the next chapter, and then play something most definitely not related to Undertale (Kero Blaster, Higurashi, The Escapists…)

Day 2 – Start to plot out slightly more specific points of each chapter (this usually amounts to "it'll start here and end here, and this would be a funny/interesting/cool line.")

Day 3 – Start to panic at still having nothing. Put on lucky blue jacket to get more of a feel for Sans's way of thinking. At the very end of the night, sit down at computer and write by the seat of my pants to finish the chapter. Don't bother editing too much, and submit.

…And yet, oddly enough, I have almost a page of (typed, single-spaced, point 11) notes for later chapters of this fic. Later chapters? Well…