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Summary
Tenna sat on his heels, balling fists into his lap. Thank god the backstage shadows worked in his favor. Also worked against him, too, because he couldn’t tell if Mettaton glanced back. To thank him, to ask if he was okay. Maybe offer another smile, just because. In a matter of seconds, Mettaton marched off, flanked by crew members for final preparations. Talkback reached Tenna: sixty seconds until Mettaton went live.
Of course. Almost showtime. No reason to pull his star performer aside and... ugh, do something dumber than whatever bullshit he pulled off. Snarling past a mouthful of static, Tenna rose and excused himself. Needed to make the rounds backstage and ensure everything ran without a hitch. You know, do his damn job in the Dark World. And not fixate on the fresh memories branded in his circuits.
Easier said than done. Fucking hell, it always was.
An unfortunate accident occurs before Mettaton’s debut performance, leaving two possible outcomes once the curtain falls: he’ll leave TV World and Tenna for good or he’ll ask to pick up where they left off. Luck’s never been on his side, but Tenna hopes it’s the latter. He really, really, really does.
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Oh lord