~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.
hey bruh i got the starbucks also cw child abuse hhh
This place seems to be the main place people go to for food in the Castle, although the number has probably waned as people get sick of treats and attempt to cook actual food in the kitchens - they're mainly using late night brushes with Death here as a barometer.
Therefore, the thinking went, they are unlikely to be disturbed, and even if someone does come into the room, what are the chances they look under the tablecloth? Not as low as Chara would like, of course, but they aren't boxed in and could easily bolt if that happened, eating chocolate cupcakes in peace until then.
Or so they thought.
There's the clacking of boots and they roll their eyes, their mood already increasing in darkness. They'd know the sound of those heels anywhere. They don't feel particularly inclined to deal with him, or anyone, at the moment, so they decide to just wait for him to do what he came in here for and go.
Apparently he came in here to shout, and what he shouts... does he know they're there? These sorts of things are things both fallen children have heard, in tone if not in exact words, and it's hitting Frisk hard especially - Chara already knows they'll never be wanted, but Frisk had had a hard-worked-for moment of hope in the past.
And then the table gets kicked away, and Chara expects a found you, you little brat from Mettaton's mouth and their body freezes like they've been doused in ice water before they fumble for the sharpened stake at their side because never again.
ohh oh no (also cw suicide/self-destructive behaviour orz)
He's expecting some barbed remark about him screaming at nothing, another exchange of snark hostilities, but no. They have a weapon. Apparently what they were doing here was lying in wait to ambush him?
Fine.
Great. Terrific! Whatever! If they want a fight, he'll be happy to give them one! What's the worst that can happen, he gets three whole days of being nothing? That sounds ABSOLUTELY DELIGHTFUL right now!
He takes a step back, spreading his arms wide, giving them a clear shot at him. Bring it on, darling. Show him what you're made of.
this is going so well
Ordinarily, that Mettaton asked that question, sincerely surprised, might have defused things a little, but today is a perfect storm of bad decisions for both of them because Chara is in fight-or-flight mode and is therefore running on pure instinct, only picking up tone and the condescension in it, and the identifying crown.
Their blood is boiling - it seals off their throat, chokes out words. They get to their feet as fast as possible (perhaps another clue that might ordinarily have suggested that things were not as they appeared under more levelheaded circumstances), smiling at him as he spreads his arms wide and their SOUL is exposed.
The arrogance. Memory flashes - music, the stage-lights are flaring, I'll be forced to show you my true form.
Black and red magic coils up their weapon from grip to tip (they hate it, they hate it like everything about them, but it's useful) and they thrust the sharpened point forward right at the cracked area of his SOUL, the scent of weakness all over the area.
They're ball of anger and pain, right now, lashing out, and they hate him. They want him to hurt. No thought, just sentiment - no reasoning that this is too easy, might be a trap. It wasn't last time.
He can probably feel it in the strike - 20ATK at LV1 is still nothing to be sneezed at, when applied with this much animosity.
And then their eyes widen, because as much as they want him to suffer, they for their own reasons don't want to kill. As far as they're concerned, they just have, arm freezing halfway through the follow-through. They've only fought Mettaton NEO.
They're expecting a fragile one-hit-wonder.
orz i hope this makes sense, lmk if i need to change anything
Chara's strike doesn't kill, for all their fury and their power, but it hurts like hell. Mettaton lets out a staticky cry of pain and doubles over, one hand pressed against his heart as if his SOUL might spill out of it (tearing him apart claws gripping tighter can't escape -)
His hair's fallen over his eyes and he glares up at Chara through it, sending a cascade of blocks and bombs toward their SOUL. "What the hell was that?!"
They'll probably be able to dodge all or most of the bombs, if they're fast enough. He wants to fight. He doesn't necessarily want to win, and his HP's already hovering around the halfway mark. Maybe he can take one more hit like that. Maybe. Three strikes and he's out.
this is perfect : D
Well, it makes sense. It wasn't over 9000. They've LV1, despite their rage and magic. It hits that sweet spot of 'just enough to reassure Chara they can protect themself' and 'not enough to kill like they wanted to avoid.
Then it's his turn, and they're hailed upon by a bullet-type they've never seen before, beset to the point of having to back off, as usual. Frisk, withdrawn as they are, isn't of any help and Chara dodges as best they can, their HP denting down to nine.
...they need to finish this quickly. One more hit, and he should be sparable, they think. He can crawl away and lick his wounds and think twice before he tries anything with them again.
"Why should I tell you?" they snarl as they dash nimbly forward and strike again, this time a feint towards his visible eye (they have to reach very high) before jabbing once more at the soul-jar. If he can't sense that it's their brand of magic lending the weapon its colour and strength, then they're certainly not going to give any advantage by telling him. (In a better mood they might have made a 'it is a mystery' joke, but alas.)
This strike has less unbrindledness about it - the emotions are more focused, controlled and channeled. Their aim is to leave him hanging on by a thread.
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He cries out again, dropping to his knees.
It's not over yet. Not quite. Nine HP left for him too, look at that, they match. But - that could have been worse for him, could have hit harder. They held back a little, he's almost sure.
Do they just want to draw it out? Watch him suffer, gloat a little before they finish it? Well. Can't say he doesn't know the impulse. He laughs, softly, even as he's still shuddering with the pain. Doesn't bother to attack again. What would be the point? Have your fun, darling. He won't be the one who has to clean up the mess.
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*Mettaton's sparing you.
Nine HP is nothing with this vulnerability. They could tap him and he'd disappear. They have real power here, and it's heady, and he fully expects them to use it, even if he'd be back in three days.
LV 1. They're surprised it's lasted this long.
...since when did they decide to do anything this douchebag wants.
"Get. Out." The words are clipped, low, vehement - their fringe is hiding their eyes (can you still feel the glare in them?) as they whip the stick out and across the air in front of him to point at the door. "Get out."
They're not going to make the first move here. Not going to expose themself, the way he is. They will wait.
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The stick whips through the air and despite himself, despite everything, he tenses, expecting that final blow. It doesn't come, and it's only then that he takes in their words.
Get out, they tell him, and he feels that ugly surge of frustration building up in him again. He doesn't make any move to stand. Since when did he take orders from this brat?
"Here I thought you were planning to take me out, darling. Don't tell me you're getting squeamish."
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He's goading them, and it's working and some small calm part of them wonders if he can feel the killing intent radiating off them like Doggo could - their face is starting to hurt under the stretching of their smile, again.
It's genuinely difficult to speak, and the words come out in short, clipped monotones.
"Don't tell me. You expect me to. Be what you want? After what you have done. I want you to suffer. I am not going to be the sword you fall on."
They refuse to leave, themself, refuse to show their back to him even leaving aside the stubborn matter of pride. Chara is sparing you, asshole. The fight is over.
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Like he's starting to right now, yet again. He seems to do it all the time these days, so overdone, so tedious, but he can't help himself this time. What they just said...
"Y-you want to see me suffer? Darling, you - you d-didn't - you-" He wipes at his eyes, shakes his head, tries to pull himself together long enough to get the punchline out before they change their mind and bring that stake down on his head for this. "You d- you didn’t have to go to all this trouble!"
See, it's funny because the castle is a nightmare not even death can spare him from. Hilarious. It must be - isn't he laughing about it? Is he? Is that the noise he's making?
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Frisk's puzzlement is diluted in Chara's contempt. Their voice is sweet as anything.
"I can assure you, the pleasure was mine."
He laughs, and they know that type of laughter and their back teeth grind to hear it. They shake their sleeve further down their arm and fastidioustly pick at that - they're not the only one who preens to distract. Too many similarities for their liking.
"Kindly take your breakdown elsewhere."
They wonder if it's possible to shatter the jar and take the soul - is it a soul? For all they know they do come in pink - and crush it. They take a step back, and then another, and then sit on the edge of the upturned table, head pointedly looking out the window, the motion-sensitive area of peripheral vision focused on him. They're sure they can move quick enough if he tries anything, again.
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They won't even look at him now? He gets to his feet, swaying a little as he stands. No more kneeling before them, what was he thinking? Obnoxious, insufferable child. The idea of letting them finish him off has completely lost its appeal anyway - it's not as though he'd get to appreciate the rest. Just wake up three days later, feeling like trash. Again.
"Weren't you enjoying the show?" A step, away from them, and he has to steady himself against the fallen table. "Why don't you leave? You got what you came for."
...the glaring flaw in that assumption hasn't caught up with him yet, no. Give him a moment.
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Because Chara is incapable of shutting up, even when they're trying to give the cold silent shoulder treatment, they hold out an arm and make a thumbs down, still not looking at him. "Two out of ten," they review, slightly misinterpreting what Mettaton meant by show. "About as exciting as a moldsmal. I have fought better." Obnoxious and insufferable is definitely something they'd agree with, why thank you. They're worked hard to be this much of a jerk.
The last question has their eyes sliding towards him in spite of their internal vow, and that polite-but-anything-but smile returns. "Excuse me? You came in here and picked a fight." Even if it was more an attempt at suicide-by-Chara than a true fight, in their estimation. "Yet I should be the one to leave?"
What they came in here for was some bloody peace and quiet and also chocolate cupcakes. Mettaton has actively interfered with both these goals.
*He thought you were gonna attack him, I think.
Although Frisk doesn't know why Mettaton thought that was why Chara was here, either. Chara is not exactly the 'lie in wait' sort unless a battle has already started, and they'd have no way of knowing when he'd come in (if he even would, do magic robots need to eat?).
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(Really, it's just that in the mood he's in, of course the whole world must be out to get him. Self-absorbed creature that he is.)
The look on his face is, very briefly, utterly mortified, before he manages to twist it towards indignation. "I didn't know you were down there!" Okay, sure, they weren't here to fight. Okay, maybe reaching for the stake was a reasonable response right after he barged in and kicked over their table fort or whatever. And okay, maybe he goaded them into attacking him. But technically they still attacked first.
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"And that is my fault how? Shall I keep you updated with my whereabouts every second of the day?"
Not hecking likely, says their tone, and there being no phones here is not the strongest reason why. Normally they wouldn't put such a strong defense of their actions forward (they did physically attack first, theirself being an unthinking menace again), but their contrarian streak is raising it's head and joining forces with the fact they don't like him at all.