~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.
no subject
One quiet laugh, that's what he gets. Who knows if it'll come across as an insult. (They don't think they'd mind a FIGHT.)
A single sweeping kick sends one of the fallen platters back in his direction.
no subject
They're not in his way, not an obstacle or a target. What they are right now, in fact, is an audience.
He stamps down on the edge of the platter as it reaches him, flipping it into the air, catches it one-handed, then frisbees it right across the room into a tray of profiteroles. "Hah!" Take that, you worthless heap of stone. The human doesn't like you either.
no subject
"Do you think," they start, choke. This is a bad idea. Continue, "that you could throw something through those windows up there?" There are a few beautiful ones high, near the cavernous room's sloping ceiling. If they break, the glass will rain down in the room, and it'll be pretty and probably not hit anyone who might have really bad luck outside.
no subject
He looks up at the windows, judging the distance, then picks up another platter from one of the so far unwrecked tables, dumping its load of pastries on the floor. Perfect. He spins it for a moment on one finger, turning back to give Frisk a wink.
Right now, he's almost feeling like himself.
"Watch this, beautiful!"
The platter sails high into the air, glinting in the light from the windows, before it hits the nearest one dead centre, sending glass shards cascading down. Mettaton twirls, flinging his arms out wide. "Ta-da!"
Sunlight streams in on him through the broken window. The biggest spotlight of all.
...his smile fades just a little.
no subject
They rock cheerfully on their heels, claps falling to silence. "Got it on the first one!" Good job!