Chapter Text
Tenna begins to overheat during the final physical challenge for the day’s set. He would fire whoever came up with the cooking show segment except that he’s pretty sure it was his idea.
The heat from the lights overhead and the ovens behind him seep through his suit, biting at his circuitry and chasis. The vision in his monitor shifts in color and clarity like soapy water. If he had the ability to sweat, he’d be drenched. The cheers of the studio audience, usually so reassuring, buzz in his antennae.
Tenna beams at camera A. “They’ve made it this far, folks, but can they survive the 
His own survival until the credits roll feels less certain. It’s possible he’s overheating from the inside and has been for a while. Components wearing out. Getting… old. Is something inside of him melting? Burning?
He thinks he can smell smoke, but it’s probably just a failed cooking attempt.
“Things are really heating up!” He laughs to cover a wince. “We’re in for a 
Adding to his discomfort is the shapewear in his suit. The padded shoulders of his suit jacket are about the only part that’s comfortable. The girdle around his middle, meanwhile, cinches everything in and gives the illusion of a slim waist instead of the reality—a thick tangle of otherwise unbound wires spilling out from under his chestplate. He should’ve replaced the metal shell meant to contain them years ago, but that would mean letting someone see just how much he’s let himself go. And that just won’t do.
“We have our 
Tenna lets his monitor shift to a blank, neutral screen the moment the cameras stop rolling, leaving nothing but his nose visible. He tosses his microphone to the first Pippins he sees, loosens his tie, and unbuttons the top of his shirt as he strides offstage.
“Make sure the contestants get their prizes,” he commands his crew, less animated without the pressure to perform. “Strike the set. Pretty sure oven three is on fire. Mike, you’re in charge. I’ll be in my dressing room if you need me. Don’t need me.”
He tries to smile at the last bit, to show it’s a joke—but there's too many teeth, too much gum. A little too close to a snarl. The crew scrambles to obey. Tenna leaves without another word.
The moment he’s in his dressing room slash bedroom, Tenna strips off his outer layers, flinging them onto the makeup table, the floor, the edge of his enormous bed. It’s not like he can make it any messier in here. The mirror is ringed with yellowed fanmail and polaroids, the vanity drawers don’t close all the way, and a tower of dirty dishes leans against the wall. He’s been asked in interviews why he doesn’t have a home outside of his studio to decompress. His answer, accompanied with a bright smile, is always that the studio is his whole world and he can’t imagine leaving it.
Soon he’s down to his shapewear: black, latched down the center, corseting his gut. It serves as a substitute for metal casing he dented beyond repair years ago during a disastrous on-stage stunt. He exhales as he rips it open. Sweet relief.
A thick tangle of wires and even thicker cables bulges out over his belt. His ostentatious belt buckle digs into his underbelly so he removes that, too.
He always told himself the thickened components are there for his protection, but they’ve gotten a bit… extra protective. He may be eating an additional portion here or there of TV Dinner and/or Slop to take the edge off of the stresses of showbiz lately… or two… or ten…
Tenna removes his gloves and checks his heat sink and vents. Hot to the touch but clear… ish. Toriel hasn’t dusted him as much as he’d like—but everything functions like it should, more or less. His hands wander back to his belly, hefting the mass of it. The components have started to corrode in places, cracking the wires’ insulation and exposing the metal inside. Doubtless the cause for at least some of his excess heat. It’s calmed down from the broiling sensation onstage to only a slight discomfort simmering deep inside.
He really ought to see a mechanic. Or a healer. Up until now he’s relied on DIY patch jobs and the occasional jolt of shock therapy. Anything to avoid admitting something’s wrong.
Tenna flinches at the knock on his door. “What part of ‘don’t need me’ did you not get, buddy?”
He recognizes the melodious honk of a Shadowguy on the other side. In a series of brassy squawks he apologizes for bothering him and then explains the crew made him a plate with food from what the contestants made on the show tonight.
“Oh, you’re all sweethearts,” Tenna coos, mood lifting at the thought of being cared for even when off-camera. “But I’m feeling a bit… not groovy right now. Would you please leave it outside the door for me? Thank youuu.”
He waves at the closed door, waits until he’s sure the Shadowguy is gone, then opens the door a crack. Instead of a plate, singular, there are two—one full of savory dishes and the other overflowing with desserts.
Tenna swallows hard. Everyone in the studio knows he’s a sucker for sweets—crew members in trouble with him have long since learned that sugar is the surest shortcut to the boss’ forgiveness. Plus, he hadn’t eaten anything that day unless one counted the thermos full of espresso martini Ramb slipped him with a knowing look that morning. He ignores the savory plate completely in favor of snatching up the one full of cake, pie, and monster cookie bars.
In the moment on stage, overheated and stressed, he hadn’t been able to appreciate how good everything looked and smelled. Now, though… oh, it’s so rich!
Tenna sings one of his favorite jingles to himself as he sits down on the foot of his bed, dessert plate in his lap. “Sometimes you feel like a doughnut, sometimes you doughn’t… Dessert for Dinner has both!”
The Shadowguy had laid disposable silverware across the plate. Tenna doesn’t use it. He crams a slab of the lowest-ranked contestant’s cake into his mouth with his bare hands. She had frosted it when it was still hot out of the oven, causing the icing to melt into sugary goop that pooled on the plate, but he doesn’t mind at all. The fresh strawberries between the layers make up for any messiness in the overall product. He attacks the cookie bars next even as he can feel himself getting uncomfortably full. He ignores the churning sensation in his insides, determined to stuff himself and forget about everything but the sweet taste.
He had taken up overeating as a substitute vice for smoking. The former had been causing damage to his hardware; ash buildup on his insides, gunking up his tube, increasing his risk to develop burn-in.
Plus, smoking reminds him of—
Tenna doesn’t let himself finish that thought, taking a massive bite of pie to distract himself.
Now he has the new problem of excess energy being stored in his middle, but no one has to know about that. This can be his little secret forever.
Or so he thinks. As he licks his fingers clean, he gets a sudden, sickening feeling. Watched. He’s being watched. And not in the usual way.
Tenna wipes his wrist across his monitor. “Mike? Is that you? Thought I made it pretty clear I need some me time.”
Silence. Then a faint echo—skittering. Tenna’s antennae jerk to attention.
There’s a voice from above, grating and loud and strangely familiar. “WHERE DO YOU GET [on] CALLING GUYS [[rats in the walls]] WHEN YOU’RE A [fat cat]???”