you are what you love [ open ]

[determinedest]

Who: Tim Wright + your beautiful self, and/or Frisk + your beautiful self!
Where: All over!
When: April 7th - April 10th
Rating: PG-13 probably though I'll warn if it goes higher
Summary: Maybe, with what little power you have...
The Story:

[Starters are in the comments. Let me know over here or at arrpee if you want a closed starter or anything! I will match prose or brackets!]

Comments

[determinedest]

A familiar Game. The same, but different. None of the Lost Souls sang, this is a familiar exchange - pivoting so their at the balls of their feet, ready to sway as they need to, to avoid his attacks. They must be like Alphys's - crackling electricity and a whiff of ozone - but this time their SOUL doesn't flip over, gleaming gold, to spit bullets at the projectiles before they hit.

I am nothing with you.

There's a lot he could be talking about. A lot of people he must miss. Napstablook springs to their mind most easily, but...

"You know me," says Frisk, quietly. "And I'm not going to hurt you. But you're hurting. I know."

I remember.

[mettatonvevo]

Hurting. He's hurting? Who is he? Hurting? He's a star!

"I'M THE IDOL EVERYBODY CRAVES!"

He dazzles people, he glows, he stuns the audience in every which way; he releases a round of lightning bolts, aiming for the interloper.

"I'LL CROSS THROUGH THE BARRIER... AND BECOME THE STAR I'VE ALWAYS DREAMED OF BEING."

Singing your emotions is certainly unusual for a Lost Soul, but Wonderland itself is unusual, and as the monster waits for Frisk to take their turn, he sings a portion of another tune.

Oh, everybody said
Marina is a dreamer
People like to tell you what you're gonna be
It's not my problem if you don't see what I see
And I do not give a damn if you don't believe
My problem is my problem
That I never am happy
It's my problem, it's my problem
That I never will succeed

[determinedest]

Lost Souls never attack with the same kind of verve as they're capable of. They wind around the electrical bullets easily, swerving, ducking, straightening. It's not enough to say something, to try and remind him. They have to ACT.

So they step forward, and wrap their arms around his middle.

* You hug the Lost Soul and tell it you'll never hurt it again.

"I've already hurt you so much. I hurt you so badly that you thought you had to turn to someone who used you to get his way."

There's no easy way of shrugging that off. There's no forgiving it. The ripples of that betrayal are still felt, and there may be no guarantee that they can ever scrape him free of the shell they built.

[mettatonvevo]

The human dodges, weaves, and then there are arms around the Lost Soul's waist.

* He doesn't understand why, but he feels the urge to hug back

"A star doesn't need friends. You can't let anyone too close."

He steps away from them. There's a small cascade of tiny Mettaton's floating down with umbrellas, throwing embroidered hearts with the letter M in the air. They don't go too far.

[determinedest]

You touch a star, and you're going to get burned.

Haven't they already been plenty burned already? Is that really a concern? He shrugs his way out of their grasp and another parade of bullets sizzle in their direction. They blow kisses in the form of hearts, tiny robots with umbrellas catching the invisible eddies in the air.

"I wasn't there for you when you needed it. It's my fault that your Mirror got as far as he did." And sorry doesn't even come close to repairing what's gone wrong.

But it's still worth saying.

* You apologize to the Lost Soul.

"I'm sorry."

[mettatonvevo]

Something about the apology reminds the Lost Soul of another apology, a long time ago. One given in a dark, locked room, meant to protect, meant to capture- He shivers.

* For some reason, the Lost Soul wants to invite you up on stage with him.

"So what if a few people need to die? That’s showbiz, baby!"

There’s a flurry of legs kicking in the human’s direction, but they're weak in their extension and quickly abate.

[determinedest]

It's easy, when you've played this Game so many times that you can see the movements mere moments before they happen, telegraphed in just the right way to allow time for one to duck back and forth, swerving to avoid the flurry of blows. Even if they're not just a glowing red SOUL anymore, not in Wonderland, it's still...easy.

"Please."

* You beg the Lost Soul to return home.

"Please come back to us. You don't have to be his if you don't want to."

[mettatonvevo]

Wonderland's singing grip relents. The power of the LOST SOUL surges. And yet... there is something so familiar. An essence of tight hugs and wet tears, desperate pleas to be friends again.

* He doesn't know why, but he wants to sit down and talk for awhile.

"..."

It seems that it's time for our union regulated break! Mettaton doesn't move and instead waits his turn out, his face still obscured but he stands still.

[determinedest]

He's stopped attacking them back. That's a good sign, isn't it? (I'm not ready for this to end. I'm not ready to say goodbye to someone like you again.) It means that something of the real person is starting to peek through, peer from behind the curtain, pawing aside the shield of static that suppresses everything he is.

Just one final push.

They step forward, a possibly reckless instinct, and take his hand in one of their own.

"Come home."

[mettatonvevo]

The Lost Soul shudders, bending over itself for a brief moment. There's a faint crackle of magic in the air. When Frisk reaches out for their hand, the Lost Soul freezes in place.

* Suddenly its memories are flooding back!

The static dissipates from Mettaton's face and he grins wide as he strikes a pose.

"I don't need to look to other people to teach me how to be a star! I already am one thanks to you!"

He holds the pose for a bit and then the magic disappears and Mettaton blinks a bit in confusion.

"...Frisk? What are you doing here?"

[determinedest]

The corners of their eyes crinkle, that unfortunate premonition that comes before a child's face screws up and they begin to cry.

They swallow instead, force down the lump of lead that's tarred up their throat. Clutch his hand tighter, and let the weariness crash like a wave over their shoulders so it bends their head forward until it rests up against the metal plating of his side, and they don't have to look at him.

"I'm sorry." A soft hiccup-whisper, and a hitch in their tone. "I'm sorry. I'm s - I'm sorry, I'm sorry."