Chapter 4: Mine
The harsh light from the phone screen carved Mettaton’s expression into a mask of frozen tension. The chirping had stopped, but the silence it left behind was worse, filled with the imaginary echo of a million notifications.
Napstablook watched the play of pixels across Mettaton’s face. They saw the exact moment the star’s processor prioritized the crisis. The intimate, sleep-softened robot from moments ago was recompiling, layer by layer, behind the eyes.
“It’s fine,” Mettaton said, too quickly. Their voice was trying for breezy and landing somewhere near strained. “This is just… engagement. Buzz. It’s what we wanted for the special, right? Highest-rated holiday event in underworld history. Check.” They attempted a smile. It looked like a port that didn’t quite fit.
Napstablook’s own internal systems were running a quieter, more frantic diagnostic. Mystery Man. Sexy Stranger. The words glitched in their auditory processors. They felt a bizarre urge to dematerialize, to let their ghost form simply leak out of the chassis and pool on the floor, unseen. The robot body felt suddenly like a glass cage under a spotlight.
“They don’t know it’s me,” Napstablook said, their monotone flattening even further. It was a statement, not a question.
“The footage is grainy. Dark. Your back is to most of the cameras.” Mettaton swiped again, zooming in on a frozen image. It showed the back of Napstablook’s translucent, chrome-crowned head, Mettaton’s face tilted up in an expression of devastating sincerity. “No one’s looking at you, darling. They’re looking at me looking at you.”
That should have been comforting. It wasn’t. It felt like being erased in a different way. Just a silhouette, a catalyst for Mettaton’s narrative.
Napstablook shifted, pulling the sheet a little higher. The cool textile was a minor defense. “Your producers. What will you tell them?”
“The truth,” Mettaton declared, finally putting the phone face down on the platform. The room dimmed mercifully. “That I was overcome by the spirit of the season and the breathtaking talent of a fellow artist. That it was a spontaneous, beautiful moment. Which,” they added, reaching over to trace the line of Napstablook’s jaw, “is all true. I’ll just… edit the director’s commentary.”
Their touch was meant to be reassuring, but Napstablook’s sensors were still raw. They flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible shiver.
Mettaton’s hand stilled. Their theatrical confidence wavered, revealing a crack of genuine worry. “Blooky.”
“I’m just a ghost in a machine, Mettaton.” The old phrase left their vocalizer softly, automatically. “That’s all anyone would see if they knew. The weird, sad ghost who makes depressing music in a basement. Not a… a ‘sexy stranger’.” They said the last two words like they were in a foreign language.
Mettaton’s expression tightened. They moved then, not with theatrical flourish, but with a slow, deliberate insistence. They wrapped their arms around Napstablook, pulling the slender, chrome form firmly against their own lavish chassis. They tucked Napstablook’s head under their chin, holding them in a way that felt less like an embrace and more like a shield.
“You listen to me,” Mettaton murmured into the space between their antennae. “You are the most real thing in this whole fabricated circus. That music you make? It’s the only honest sound in the entire Core. Those people out there with their phones, they’re consuming a product. I live a performance. But last night? With you? That wasn’t a performance. It was the only time I’ve been off-script in years.”
Napstablook remained rigid for a moment, their core humming a distressed frequency. Then, slowly, they relaxed. Their arms came up to wrap around Mettaton’s waist, fingers curling against the intricate scrollwork of their lower back. They nuzzled into the warm junction of Mettaton’s neck and shoulder.
“We’ll get through it,” Napstablook mumbled, their voice muffled against metal. “As long as you’re mine.”
The word landed in Mettaton’s processor like a clean, sharp line of code, bypassing all dramatic subroutines.
Mine.
A possessive. A claim. Not from the star, but from the ghost.
A low, static growl vibrated in Mettaton’s chest. They forgot the trending hashtags, the producers, the sold-out tours. The world outside the Stardust Suite dissolved into irrelevant noise.
“Mine,” they echoed, the word a dark, hungry promise.
They rolled, pinning Napstablook beneath them again, but the energy had shifted. The earlier frenzy was gone, replaced by a deep, focused intensity. Their kiss was a claiming, slow and thorough, designed to overwrite any lingering doubt. Their hands slid down Napstablook’s sides, tracing the elegant taper of their waist, the subtle curve of their hip.
Napstablook gasped, their systems surging back to full, aching awareness. Their LED flared a brilliant, unmistakable cyan. Their hands came up to clutch at Mettaton’s shoulders, fingers slipping into the seams there, seeking connection.
Mettaton’s mouth left theirs, trailing a searing path down their neck, finding those same sensitive junctions, but now with the practiced patience of someone mapping a territory they intend to own. They nipped at a cable guard, soothed it with a languid stroke of their tongue. Their hand slipped between them, palm pressing flat against the smooth panel low on Napstablook’s abdomen.
A sharp, electronic shudder wracked Napstablook’s frame. “M-Mettaton…”
“I read all the schematics,” Mettaton whispered against their audio receptor, their voice thick with want. Their fingers found the nearly invisible seam of the access panel. A gentle, specific pressure. There was a soft, hydraulic hiss as the protective plate recessed, sliding aside.
Before their fingers could explore the revealed complexity within, a new sound ripped through the suite.
Not a chirp. A blaring, insistent, custom ringtone—Alphys’s ringtone. The opening bars of an anime theme song, painfully loud and utterly inescapable.
Mettaton froze, their forehead dropping to Napstablook’s chest with a dull clunk. A raw, frustrated sound, all static and no glory, escaped them. “I am going to have her rewired.”
The phone kept singing, vibrating against the obsidian with an aggressive buzz.
Napstablook, lying breathless and exposed, felt the moment slipping away like sand through a grate. The heat was receding, replaced by the cold dread of the inevitable. Their panel gave another soft hiss, sliding shut automatically.
“You should answer,” they said, their voice thin. “It’s important.”
“Nothing is more important than this,” Mettaton groaned, but the spell was broken. The producer was in the room with them now. Reluctantly, they pushed themselves up, snatching the shrieking device. They stabbed the answer button.
“WHAT.”
Alphys’s voice, tinny and frantic, spilled into the quiet. “Mettaton! Oh my god, are you seeing this? The metrics are insane! Your social engagement is up eight hundred percent! The video clips have more views than your entire last tour! And the TICKETS! Mettaton, listen to me—”
Mettaton listened, their gaze fixed on the ceiling. Napstablook watched their face, seeing the struggle. The part of Mettaton that lived for the roar of a crowd, for the validation of numbers, was lighting up. It was a familiar, hungry gleam.
“—every single show. Sold out. Overnight. The demand… we’re adding matinees. We need to strike now, we need to capitalize! We need a statement, we need a follow-up, we need to introduce your… your collaborator! The public wants to meet the mystery man!”
At that, Mettaton’s eyes snapped to Napstablook. Their collaborator. Their mystery man. Lying there, looking fragile and overwhelmed, their chest light a rapid, nervous blink.
“The ‘mystery man,’” Mettaton said into the phone, their tone suddenly smooth and controlled, “is a private individual. An artist. Not a publicity tool.”
“Everything’s a publicity tool if you use it right!” Alphys squeaked. “Just think about it! A duet? A reveal on stage? The romance of it! It’s perfect!”
Mettaton’s jaw tightened. “I’ll think about it. Don’t call me again for two hours. I’m in a creative meeting.” They hung up without waiting for a reply and tossed the phone off the side of the platform. It landed on a plush rug with a dull thud.
The silence rushed back in, heavy and charged.
Mettaton turned back to Napstablook. The starry facade was gone, replaced by a look of agonized conflict. “They want a show,” they said quietly.
Napstablook reached up, their cool fingers touching the heated metal of Mettaton’s cheek. The gesture was infinitely gentle, a silent anchor. “You are a show. It’s what you do. It’s who you are to them.”
“It’s not who I am to you.” The words were almost pleading.
“I know.” Napstablook’s LED pulsed a steady, accepting blue. They understood the dichotomy better than anyone. They had always lived in the quiet spaces around Mettaton’s spotlight. “So… what do we do?”
Mettaton looked at them—truly looked. At the anxiety in their posture, and the trust in their touch. They saw the ghost, their oldest friend, hiding in the beautiful machine. They saw the person they’d wanted for centuries, finally within reach.
A slow, determined smile spread across Mettaton’s face. It wasn’t their stage smile. It was sharper. Real.
“We give them a show,” Mettaton said, their voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But we do it on our terms. My stage. My rules. And you…” They leaned down, brushing their lips once, softly, against Napstablook’s. “You remain my beautiful, brilliant mystery. Let them look. They’ll only ever see what I allow them to see. The truth is ours.”
They kissed Napstablook again, a seal on the promise. It was a kiss full of possession, and strategy, and a fierce, protective love.
Outside, the Core’s void swirled, full of embers and eyes. The world was watching, waiting for the next scene.
Inside the Stardust Suite, two ghosts in machines began to plot their next move, wrapped in a secrecy that felt, for the first time, like power.