Chapter Text
Down on the set, beneath the glaring stage lights, the towering figure of a larger-than-life TV personality (or rather, a TV with personality) stood. A giant compared to his subordinates, the other Darkners scampered around him like worker ants - lifting and carrying, climbing up on his shoulders to add a little polish to his screen or cover up a scuff mark. The evening was still young, but the moment was fast approaching; yes, any moment now, that angelic voice that heralded the start of the show would give them their cue.
And as it did every night, it all had to go perfectly. Perfectly. Without a hitch. Without a single mistake.
“Ugh, I swear this girdle is getting tighter… ” Tenna huffed to himself. “...All these cooking show marathons for the holiday season… if this bloat doesn’t let up soon I’ll be fit to burst… ”
From somewhere else in the dark, someone else snickered audibly. Wouldn’t be the first time they’d overheard something potentially scandalous on a hot mic; and it wouldn’t be the last, either. With the amount of gossip they overheard, they could tip the odds so much in their favor it was practically cheating… any of their peers would have their heads literally spinning with the possibilities. But they weren’t like their peers; the other Pippins. No, they’d always been a little different - a little more odd than even, as they said.
They had a job to do.
“Mike - sound check, please!”
“On it, boss” Battat said to no-one in particular, sighing to himself. His chair rolled across the floor as he moved towards the sound desk, abandoning his TV Dinner. Or was it Breakfast? He’d lost track again… ah well, it was very nearly cold anyway. He’d zoned out again and forgotten all about it, he could finish it later-
The ice-cream! Don’t forget the ice-cream, you dummy!
Battat shook his head at the sudden, intrusive thought. Yeah, that’s right, his dessert - if he didn’t grab it, it would melt everywhere, and he’d be faced with an even more unappetizing plate of TV Slop.
Thanks, me, he thought to himself. Kicking off the edge of the control desk with his legs, he rolled back, plucked the cone from the foil cafeteria tray, and-
“Love it when you do what I say, Mike. Really appreciate it.” Tenna’s voice sarcastically growled through Battat’s headset. “I said SOUND CHECK! Is this thing even on!? HELLO?? Please don’t tell me we’re on mute again… !”
Rolling his eyes (and getting a six), Battat deftly flicked his headset microphone down into position with his right hand, and gently pressed the glowing red Push To Talk button with his left hand.
“Mike says you’re all good, boss. All systems go, we’re on in five.”
“Ugh, finally! I swear I have to do everything myself around here… ”
Tenna clapped his hands twice; standing at his full height, the sound was more than enough to catch the attention of every Darkner on set, but they knew what it meant. Everyone find your place! Everyone get out of Tenna’s way! Everyone look busy!
Meanwhile, Battat sighed again, dumping the rest of the half-melted ice-cream in his coffee, and grabbing a straw from a nearby pile of discarded containers that was probably clean enough. Do everything yourself?? Pff, yeah, right.
Even from all the way up here, watching what was happening on a grid of monitors, Battat could feel the nervous energy emanating from every corner, from the Green Room to the Backstage to the set itself. Tenna might be the shining star of the show, but it was every other Darkner that kept him from falling out of the sky. And he might be the guy calling the shots, but “Mike” was the one working the magic… and Battat had stepped into that role like he’d been made for it.
Hard work. No cutting corners. No boozing, no schmoozing. That was what made him different. That was what gave him purpose.
Lights. His fingertips danced across the control desk like a seasoned maestro at his piano, filtering and focusing, adjusting color levels and saturation. Cameras. Like a general looking over lines on the map, he surveyed what he could see on 2 and 3, giving the order to Shuttah to zoom out in anticipation. The intro Battat had spent hours slaving over - and then even more hours slaving over again as they “corrected” their “mistakes”, nevermind the fact they’d just been doing what the boss wanted until everything changed - was ready to roll.
Any minute now. Any minute now they’d hear Toriel, the Queen Of The Dreemurr Household, utter those immortal words - “Settle down now, children - it’s TV time!”
Any minute now, they’d-
POP! CRACK! RIIIIIIIIPP…
Battat froze.
Whatever that sound was, it had just been picked up by every single microphone on the set, as had the shocked gasp from every Darkner who’d been facing in Tenna’s direction. Apparently this morning’s segment on Crafting The Perfect Gingerbread Monsters For Your Holiday Celebrations had been one show too many. The poor, abused girdle he’d always denied he wore had been pushed over the edge; he was clutching his abdomen with both arms, hiding his shame as his screen flushed bright pink.
Battat hadn’t touched a single switch, not a single button - but as they often did, things just kind of happened. Sirens blared. Behind Tenna, the green screen flickered with animated flames, and colorful word art spelling ‘WARDROBE MALFUNCTION!’ twirled and danced.
A Wardrobe Malfunction!? He screamed to himself inside his head. He had to move, he had to do something, but somehow he couldn’t even speak. NOW?? But we’re on in four minutes!!
The green Pippins didn’t even have ears, but somehow they were still ringing, a high-pitched whine like an electric current. Panic had him by the throat but - paradoxically, he felt strangely calm. As if he was floating far above his own body. As if he was trapped in a nightmare, running and running but never getting anywhere, the world unraveling beneath his feet.
Somewhere on one of the screens, Tenna crawled on all-fours as if he was bleeding out, begging someone, anyone, “Is there a tailor in the house??”... but Battat couldn’t do anything. He was hopeless. Useless. Everything was going to be ruined, and it was going to be all his fault. He had to give up. He had no choice.
I have to get out of here…
Suddenly, something shifted.
No. I got this.
It felt so strange, and yet so familiar - a feeling like he was being picked up by some kind of current, something that moved and flowed and pushed him back just enough that he didn't have to think any more. His right hand seemed to move of its own accord, grabbing the walkie-talkie from his belt.
Since when did I start wearing a belt, he thought briefly, dreamily - but those thoughts, too, were snatched away. Carried off by that feeling, gently washing away his awareness. There was a straw in his mouth; ice-cream flavored coffee flowed in.
“Hm, not half bad. Could maybe use somethin’ a little harder to get the party started, heh heh… but not half bad.”
It was… cold. Must have been sweet, too, probably. But Battat barely registered anything any more; the colors and sounds around him, his movements, any kind of sensation, it all seemed to fade. It all seemed to flow into that buzzing, hissing static, leaving him comfortably numb. Somewhere, the thumb on the right hand of his body held down the button on the walkie-talkie.
“Now, let’s get down to business…”
He was nowhere now. He was just drifting, gently, silently, as words in a velvet-smooth baritone came bubbling up and spoke themselves out loud.
“Hey, it’s me. You’re up. Bring the sewing kit, a family-sized bucket of compliments, an’ tell the other guy to keep my eye on the time. Come see me once you’re done. Over.”
…Then just as suddenly as it started, reality abruptly snapped back into place.
Battat blinked once. Twice. What was he doing again?
He looked at the walkie-talkie in his right hand - Huh? When did I pick this up? - and shrugged. Setting it down somewhere nearby to be forgotten about, his left hand reached for his coffee. Ah well, it wasn’t like he was any stranger to randomly zoning out. Happened all the time. Always happened, when you never seemed to get enough sleep. At least the coffee was good? Dumping the ice-cream in it had been an inspired choice, added a surprisingly pleasant artificial vanilla-y note… why hadn’t he ever done it before?
Hell, it’d probably go great with a few holiday cookies-
Oh shit.
OH SHIT! How long had he been-!?
His heart suddenly pounding out of his chest again, Battat’s hand slammed down hard on the red button. He desperately searched for an apology, desperately tried to beg for mercy, beg for his job, beg for his life, but his throat felt parched, closing up tighter and tighter as he panicked. He should have anticipated this. He was supposed to be in control, always in control, and now he’d lost control he was in so much trouble oh god oh god how could he possibly-!?
Then Tenna’s voice came crackling through his headset.
He sounded… overjoyed.
“Oh, Mike! Mike, you’re an absolute angel! I take everything back; whatever would I do without you??”
HUH???
Battat’s eyes boggled. They yahtzeed. They were practically halfway to a full game of Craps until he was finally able to focus on the mysterious figure on the screen in front of him - someone he’d never seen before. They were handing off a basic sewing kit to a nearby Pippins so they could stitch on the button that had come flying off. Then, much to Battat’s horror, they touched Tenna.
Who gave THEM permission to-!?
They were helping him. Helping him untuck his shirt just a little as he caught on to their apparent plan, rumpling the fabric just enough to hide the curve of his stomach. Almost a full month of holiday indulgence had left Tenna a little softer and rounder around the middle, and he had to admit, it was… kind of cute… ?
Battat sighed out loud, then almost slapped himself across the face.
NO! FOCUS! TIME TO FOCUS!
Still blushing, they managed to tear their eyes away and squinted hard at the screen, gritting their teeth; Who the hell IS this guy?!?
“An’ that should just about do it, big boss.”
Whoever this was, they spoke with a distinctive, almost ‘dopey’ drawl, and - Battat’s fists clenched - they were close enough to Tenna that their voice was being picked up by his very own microphone.
Since when is he okay with ANYBODY ELSE touching him??
“Mike says everybody puts on a lil’ weight ‘round dis time’a year. Da seasons change, an’ food is, uh, good. Ain’t no shame in dat. ‘Cause dat’s what Mike said. Me, Mike. Modern mouth Mike. Dat’s what I said, right?”
Mike… !? Battat blinked, frozen momentarily in confusion and disbelief. But… but Mike doesn’t wear a cowboy hat… !
Then, suddenly, something else caught the Pippins’ eye - a cascade of colors from motion blur, and a flurry of frantic movement had him quickly turning his head toward Camera 3…
What NOW??
…And now it was Battat’s turn to have their stomach drop. The camera had seemingly been turned around in the complete opposite direction, and was now facing the studio wall behind it. And there, standing in front of it and waving frantically - it looked like someone knew he was looking, and was desperately trying to get his attention.
Is that… is that a fucking CAT?
A cat - wearing microphone muffs like gloves and shoes - was gesturing desperately. It grabbed the camera from the front and moved it around, up and to the left, and before Battat could smack the button to summon Security for such an obvious act of sabotage… he saw the view on his screen was now showing the clock on the wall.
The camera zoomed in as if to make a point of it, still showing the clock. The clock that indicated it was very nearly 6pm. And the Dreemurrs kept a very, VERY tight schedule…
Snapping fully back to his senses, Battat yelled down his headset at the top of his lungs - “T-MINUS SIXTY SECONDS!!!”
Several Darkners yelped in surprise and pain as feedback shrieked through every earpiece. Tenna recoiled; for just a split-second, he looked furious, bearing his fangs and claws. If it had been any other time, it really would be over. It’d be Battat’s head on a silver platter, sitting pride of place in the middle of the Executive Buffet table.
But there was no time; the family would be settling down, the parents in the back, the kids in the front. Asgore would be picking up the remote. Toriel would be fussing over Kris, making sure their napkin was tucked securely into their T-shirt collar, because Wednesday was always Spaghetti Night.
Be careful with the pepper, dear, she’d say to Asgore. Nobody wants to lose their meatball when somebody sneezes, she’d say, with a laugh. I will dear, he’d say, with a chuckle.
Same as always. Same as every week. Same as it ever was.
“Settle down now, children…”
Tenna took a deep breath, raising one hand triumphantly towards the heavens. Towards their beloved audience.
“It’s…. TEE! VEE! TIIIIIIIIIME!”
The myriad shadows in the crowd erupted in applause, and Battat let go of the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, falling back in his chair.
Told you I got this, said those intrusive thoughts.
Battat blinked, and shook his head - God, would his brain ever shut up?? - but he had to relent this time.
Yeah. Turns out I did have this. Thanks, me.
They took another sip of their coffee. He’d have to sort out this mess later - there couldn’t be other guys going around thinking they were Mike, right? There was only one Mike. There was only ever one Mike, and it was him. He’d stepped into that role by choice when the boss kept looking for Mike, hadn’t he? It wasn’t like Mike objected or anything, if he even existed at all. Battat had never even seen the guy, but hints at his presence seemed to be everywhere.
Anyway - he was Mike. He was Mike because he’d decided to be Mike, and that meant, for all intents and purposes, he was Mike.
…Right?
The green Pippins rubbed his head; even besides the mysterious Impostor Mike and That Fucking Cat, things still felt off. It felt almost like he was forgetting something. Something important. Did something happen while he… ?
Don’t let the rest of it get cold, dumb-dumb.
Oh, right. The TV Dinner. Or was it Breakfast? Ugh, of course he’d lose track again... he really needed to go to bed. Felt like he never knew what time it was, sometimes not even what day it was. Time had always just, slipped away from him. Constantly. It was so annoying, just like those damn intrusive thoughts.
Whatever, he thought, snatching up the tray and the plastic spork that came with it, and grimacing slightly at its contents. Half-eaten vegan salisbury steak in congealed mushroom gravy, clumpy mashed potatoes, and some very unlucky plain peas and carrots. Someone must have been zoning out when they were adding the perfectly-square, flash-frozen pats of Buttery-Flavored Spread with Some Kind Of Green Herb - the one thing that was supposed to lend the anaemic veggies even a little flavor. And how was he supposed to choke all of this down before the ice-cream (or “artificially flavored dairy dessert”) on a Tenna-nose-shaped cone defrosted, anyway??
“Ugh. Whatever.”
He needed to eat, so he just shoveled it down mindlessly as he wheeled back to his desk; grumbling through each mouthful, like he always did. It wasn’t like it mattered, since he’d never remember this later; he never did.
Same as always. Same as every week. Same as it ever was…
KNOCK KNOCK
The sudden knock at the door almost made him choke - and the voice that came next made him spit-take a wad of mashed potatoes right onto his monitors.
“Is, uh… is Mike dere?”
Battat coughed, and their eyes widened; Wait - the guy from downstairs?! Impostor Mike!?
Screw this! He thought to himself, grinning maniacally and throwing the remaining food into the nearly-overflowing trash can next to him. I’m gonna serve THIS GUY a piece of my mind!
The irate Darkner hopped out of his chair, adjusted his tie, and stormed over to the door. He was ready - oh, he was so ready. He was going to make them regret coming up here to taunt him about his failure. Oh yeah, after an evening like this one, he was about to unleash hell! That bastard was going to regret every moment of the life they’d lived since they’d dared to try and take his job! His purpose! His-
“Hey dere boss!”
Battat froze in place, fingers still locked in a death grip around the door handle.
B… Boss???
“Thanks so much for takin’ on da two of us as pro-dee-jays! We really, uh, ‘preciate it. Yeah, lotsa ‘preciation. Whole lotta preciatin’ goin’ on. Ain’t dat right, Pluey?”
Battat spluttered, unable to speak. It wasn’t just just the cowboy-hatted impostor, oh no - that weird cat was there, too! It reached out and shook his hand, rattling off a series of saxophone sounds in a cheerful Major scale! And seemingly not noticing the stunned expression on his face - the pair of them let themselves in! Waltzing right into his work space!! As if it was the most natural thing in the world!!!
“So you wanted us to come see you about somethin’, right boss?” The cowboy impostor said, tilting their head curiously. “Uh… you okay, boss?”
Battat could have flipped an entire gaming table with the desperate, confused flailing of his arms.
“THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, ‘BOSS’???”