~METTATON, RULER OF THE UNDERGROUND~ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mettaton_rex) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
castle_perrault2017-02-11 06:17 pm
mettaton_rex) wrote in castle_perrault2017-02-11 06:17 pm
Entry tags:
[post deaging] what if your hinges all are rusting
Everything's back to normal.
The hallways are as run-down as ever, the decorations and the music all gone. Mettaton wanders through them, not clear on where he's headed, only knowing he can't bear to keep still. His mind catches up with him, if he tries.
He's himself again. Why doesn't he feel like it?
He made it back to his room last night, after coming to himself again where he'd been stargazing out in the gardens, and after the ensuing bout of hysterical cackling finally wore itself out. At least he's dressed now, ruffled shirt hiding the cracks in his core. More or less - it's buttoned up wrong, letting little glimpses of pink show through. His crown isn't on straight either (the new one, the diamond-studded circlet he found abandoned in a dusty bedroom, not the one he gave up for lost in the library months ago). He's aware of all this. He doesn't plan to fix it.
A door looks familiar. He opens it, and finds himself stepping into the ballroom. There it is, same as ever - grand and empty, tables piled high with confections. Mettaton pauses by one of them, looking up at the massive tiered cake in its centre. And then further up, to a dusty spiderweb hanging from a corner of the ceiling.
"Not so young and beautiful yourself, now, are you?" he hisses, to the room, to the whole awful castle, something hot and vicious boiling up inside him. He raises a leg, braces his foot against the edge of the table. "Nobody wants you any more, darling! Nobody wants to be here! Nobody cares!"
His voice rises to a shout as he kicks, hard, flipping the table over. Cakes and pastries smash against the floor, plates shattering. Mettaton strides into the wreckage, grinding his heel into anything he sees left intact. There's frosting all over his boots. It doesn't matter.
None of it matters now.
The hallways are as run-down as ever, the decorations and the music all gone. Mettaton wanders through them, not clear on where he's headed, only knowing he can't bear to keep still. His mind catches up with him, if he tries.
He's himself again. Why doesn't he feel like it?
He made it back to his room last night, after coming to himself again where he'd been stargazing out in the gardens, and after the ensuing bout of hysterical cackling finally wore itself out. At least he's dressed now, ruffled shirt hiding the cracks in his core. More or less - it's buttoned up wrong, letting little glimpses of pink show through. His crown isn't on straight either (the new one, the diamond-studded circlet he found abandoned in a dusty bedroom, not the one he gave up for lost in the library months ago). He's aware of all this. He doesn't plan to fix it.
A door looks familiar. He opens it, and finds himself stepping into the ballroom. There it is, same as ever - grand and empty, tables piled high with confections. Mettaton pauses by one of them, looking up at the massive tiered cake in its centre. And then further up, to a dusty spiderweb hanging from a corner of the ceiling.
"Not so young and beautiful yourself, now, are you?" he hisses, to the room, to the whole awful castle, something hot and vicious boiling up inside him. He raises a leg, braces his foot against the edge of the table. "Nobody wants you any more, darling! Nobody wants to be here! Nobody cares!"
His voice rises to a shout as he kicks, hard, flipping the table over. Cakes and pastries smash against the floor, plates shattering. Mettaton strides into the wreckage, grinding his heel into anything he sees left intact. There's frosting all over his boots. It doesn't matter.
None of it matters now.
late
So when he sees the man pass by, he raises a hand in silent greeting. And when he hears shouting from inside the room, followed by a table crashing to the floor, of course he's going to hurry in. He stares for a shameful amount of time, wondering what set this off. This--doesn't seem right.
Snap. Snap. Click. He snaps his fingers over and over, preferring this over his own broken 'voice' when it comes to getting someone's attention. So many questions to ask, perhaps comfort to give?
pfft no you're not. also lol @ the 3x Concerned Skeleton combo
His voice, and his rage, falters for a moment. It's Doctor (what's his name who was it before Alphys must have mentioned it so why can't I remember -) It's the former Royal Scientist. But there's something off about him now, and for whatever reason, it reminds Mettaton of flickering screens and whirring fans and cold.
In a slightly more subdued tone, he finishes, "...what do you want?"
we are ALL skeletons on this blessed day
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Rallying himself a little, he adds, "But I'd love to know. Who are you, and why is it any of your business what I do?"
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It's not like he cares about the mess. The castle has a way of resetting itself as soon as a room is empty. No big deal.
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He gives a sharp smile. "Do I? I thought I looked like I wanted something to destroy."
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It's nothing more than cake, not something he actually cares about, such as the library or the music room. Destroy at will.
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"Your friend is one of the other two, I take it." Hard to mistake the disdain in his voice, and isn't that strange, coming from Mettaton, speaking of himself?
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[Apparently. I wasn't aware you had multiple iterations. I don't suppose you know who I am?] He adds that last part with a wry smile. The answer's going to be no. It can't be anything else.
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He doesn't sound, or feel, particularly sorry.
derp I forgot he already introduced himself, rl had been like that
[I didn't think you would. Now you know my name, that's a start.] One of the chairs hasn't been knocked over yet, so he sits. [Should I go?]