AN: ((Also on AO3: /works/5241692))

The hotel's automatic doors don't open for me, so I shove at them them until they cave to my iron will, budging just enough for me to slip through.

As predicted, the hotel lobby is completely empty—it seems the evacuation is on in full force. It's almost completely silent, save for the patter of fountain water on the carpet and the distant pumping of the core outside. This place must have been evacuated quickly. I allow myself a small smile. It's time to loot.

If I'm lucky, I'll have enough time afterwards to pick off some stragglers in the core before I take down the king. My hands are itching to wring another neck, but I force myself to still. Even I know that a healthy omnicidal maniac needs a balanced diet to help them grow big and strong.

That's why the first place I go to is the front door of a nasty burger restaurant with what might have the gaudiest logo imaginable on the front. The sparkles on the sign catch the light and make it almost blinding. As I get closer, I can barely make out music playing from inside.

These automatic doors work, so I can just step through, letting the scents of grease and hopelessness wash over me in a puff. before I have time to survey the area, I realize I'm not alone. I hear a droning voice; "Welcome to MTT-Brand Burger Emporium, home of the Glamburger. Sparkle up your day (TM)."

The orange cat monster behind the counter is in a clean cut fast food uniform, paper hat and all, though it does nothing to disguise the fact that his face is shaped like a melty rectangle. He'd rattled off that spiel like he was reading out loud in class—but it was memorized; no script in sight. He'd even said the trademark sign out loud. How dedicated. He looks ready to say something else, but he cuts off before he can even start the sentence when he catches sight of me. I watch as he takes me in, his lip curled in an unconscious expression of disgust. His eyes rove over the scratches and cuts on my face, unwashed and unminded, the sweater so ratty and greyed it can hardly be comfortable anymore.

Then he finally manages to locate my outfit's 'secret': the smattering of dust from countless dead monsters that coats my hands and lies gunked under my fingernails. The reminder that I'm dangerous, moreso than my short stature lets on; the reminder that I'm something to be feared. I rub the fresh silt between my fingers. It catches in a cut and stings. Feels good.

However instead of the full on panic I expect (and, dare I say, anticipate), the only thing my appearance gets out of him is one high pitched, uncomfortable whine, not unlike the noise you'd get from letting just enough air out of a balloon. "Ah, jeez," he wheezes, "why do I always get the freaks..?"

Then he looks at me, then at the menu behind him, then at me again. Then he realizes that I've been staring at him the whole time, and not at the menu, and he also realizes that the droning elevator-quality music playing in the restaurant hadn't been quite enough to drown out what he said. He snorts uncomfortably, but, saving face, he pretends like he doesn't even care that he's insulted me—me, the angel of death in approximate human form.

"So," he drawls, not respecting my power, "You gonna order, or what?"

I glance up at the menu, only to be confronted with possibly be the least healthy array of 'foods' I've ever seen pasted on a wall, complete with calorie counts, allergen warnings (possible irritants include superglue, plastic sequins, and an overdose of glamour). There's even a chart with each item's 'fabulosity ranking.' Most conspicuously, the most expensive items have the highest ratings.

"Whatever, just give me a…" I squint at the sign. "A 'Glamburger.'" God, that name sounds stupid and I wish it hadn't come out of my mouth.

He presses some buttons on the register, "Alright, that'll be 120 G's."

I stare at him. He stares at me. I stare at him long enough that the atmosphere of the room gets uncomfortable. The monster clears his throat once, and, when that doesn't get a response out of me, tugs nervously at the collar of his shirt and says, "Aaand, uh, are you gonna pay me..?"

"No," I answer, "what makes you think I ever had any intention of paying?"

"Uh..." he glances around as if reaffirming to himself that he is, indeed, still standing within the oppressive confines of the MTT Brand Burger emporium. "Because we're a fast food place that sells stuff?"

"Isn't that something. Well, how about this?" I propose. I try to lean threateningly over the counter, but I have to stand on my tippy toes to reach and it doesn't really work. I continue nonetheless. "Either you give me food for free, or I'll kill you where you stand!"

His expression blanks for a moment, but then he snorts, and it sounds almost like laughter. "What? But you're like… What, eight?"

I bristle at that. "For your information, I'm exactly nine years old!"

That sets him over the wrong edge. He bursts into peals of laughter, and it sounds like music to my ears—that is, if that music is an obnoxious pop song with the lyrics personally tailored to tell me how terrible I am at my job; it's incredibly grating on both my ears and my nerves. My only solace is in the fact that if I shut my eyes and focus hard enough, it almost sounds like crying. But I never got anywhere by sitting around and imagining people in pain. I went out and put them in pain, physically, and emotionally, all by myself. And that's what I'm gonna do now—prove my claim, and scare a stubborn cat into submission.

"You shouldn't underestimate me. Don't you know what this means?" I lift my hands up to show him. They're completely gray, so caked with dust that not a hint of bare skin shows through. "I've killed before."

"Eh," he leans and rests his elbow on the counter, palm propping up his cheek. "I've had crazier customers…"

I refrain from asking for details on the crazier customers, and instead, I up the ante. "I've killed everyone, you know. Nobody's left, and you're next If you don't give me what I want." I can feel my face splitting into a grin—the only other emote this vessel is capable of. "You can call for help, but nobody will come."

He wasn't really buying what I was telling him, based off the lazy, half lidded look in his eyes. A few seconds after I finish, though, his eyes widen, as the gravity of what I've just told him finally probably settles in.

"Wait," he says seriously, "Everyone's dead?"

"Yup."

"Absolutely everyone? Nobody else is left?"

"Mmhmm."

I stare at him. He stares at me.

"Nobody left. That means—no monsters, no customers…" He looks down at his hands, as if trying to count the entire (former) population of the underground on his fingers. "If there's no customers, does that mean… I don't have to work today?" He's fixing me with a hopeful smile.

…

...What?

Before I have a chance to respond, he continues. "Wait, wait, wait, did you at least get Mettaton?"

That obnoxious robot? He's on my hitlist, but as of now... "No," I answer.

"Well, shoot, little freak. That hope spot was short lived. Gotta play it safe, or Mettaton will yell at me," he pauses, and for a moment I think he's waiting for some sort of response, but then he quickly picks back up again, "okay, maybe "yell" is the wrong term. It's more like he has this… CD album he plays… That's entirely full of songs about how bad I am at my job. God, It's awful… That last one? Worst special effects I've ever seen in a music video. Who wears a green dress in front of a green screen? Gotta watch out for that," He pauses again, thinking, "but if I didn't have to work? God… That it were true… That it were true…"

Jesus, guy, I asked for a burger, not your whole life story.

I think that, but I don't say it; I'm beginning to feel rather irritated, and I'm currently focusing my energies on deciding what's the quickest way so scale that counter and kill him until he stops talking. There's nothing close by I could use as a step stool, and that trash can near the door looks like it's bolted to the floor. And it's way too far away from the counter for me to climb onto the trash can and then jump over. I look at him again.

He's stuck a cigarette in his mouth and is currently fishing around under the counter for something. Not even paying any attention to me anymore. The nerve of this guy.

Welp. There's always the direct approach. I back up a little, enough to get a running start, and then sprint for the counter, attempting to use my momentum to jump over it. Unfortunately, it's too tall for me, and I slip back to the floor. As I try and fail and try again to swing my leg up and vault myself over, he takes a step back.

"Hey, yo, little freak! Find your chill!"

I'm too determined to locate any of my chill, so I keep trying, desperately attempting to scramble up and wring his neck as punishment for being the insolent rat that he is. He just waits patiently for me to give up, and eventually, I have to. I plop down to the floor, panting. I'm so tired. I'm so frustrated. I just want food. And to shatter the souls of the innocent.

Meanwhile, the asshole behind the counter grits his teeth, inspecting the gray smears my stubby little child fingers left all over the counter with distaste. "Eugh." He grits his teeth. "No, really, Why do I always get the freaks?" He starts searching under the counter again, one hand on his forehead. "Ugh, I need to relax."

I clench my fists. I mean, I could just pay for my food with the money I stole from Snowdin—But, no, I really can't. It's all about the principle of the thing.

On the bright (but not actually bright) side, the burger monster seems to have found what he was looking for. From somewhere behind the counter, he pulls out a piece of shiny metal, a lighter, with an exclamation: "Aha! Here we go!"

I'm not sure what else I can do to get to him. "Give me what I want or go to hell," I growl. Oh my god, I'm not in the mood for any more shenanigans.

The threat doesn't have the intended effect. "Aw, shit, little weirdo," he says around his cigarette, more amused than not. "Threats like that don't work against me. I wish I could go to hell…" He flicks the lighter, setting the end of his cigarette into a smoulder. "...But I'm all outta' vacation days."

My mouth feels dry all of a sudden, and I lick my lips, feeling the sting as the cracked and chapped skin is irritated further.

I think I may have just been seriously owned.

Oh god, no, I can't lose like this. Not now. How am I going to get this guy to notice and/or be inconvenienced by me?

Good thing I have one last trick up my sleeve. I walk up to the door, and smear my hands across it, creating even more ugly gray hand prints. Then I turn around and shout: "Look! I'm a dirty human and I'm touching everything!"

He glances over, looking calmer now that he's having his smoke. "Eh, even if I had to take the extra time to clean that up I still would be doing less work than on a normal day… You know, what with all the dead people everywhere?"

"AUGH!" I kick the wall in frustration, which is a terrible idea, because with all that extra LOVE I have, my attacks are extra strong, so I stub my toes extra hard. Then I have to spend the next humiliating minutes on the linoleum cradling my foot until the pain subsides.

Ugh, ow. As soon as I'm able, I hobble out of that disgusting little store, not even looking back. At least the automatic doors listen to me.

I can hear the monster's voice drift out after me, bitterly sarcastic, "Thanksy! Have a FABU-FUL day!"

...He wasn't worth my time anyway.

I'm not going to let this get to me! Me and this vessel I found, we started at the bottom, and now we're here—at a slightly higher elevation, but admittedly, still in the same hole that we both fell into. We've defeated countless monsters, even the captain of the royal guard, and we can get past a little bullying.

I know exactly what I'm going to do; I'm going to go back to that lab on L1, I'm gonna take those instant noodles I saw in the fridge, I'm going to eat them, and I'm going to be pleased with it, because that's what I wanted to eat the whole time.

Yeah, good plan. No bad time can keep me down.