Today he strikes a significant blow against the mutant society, the very highest echelons of that selective elite. The pomp and fanfare that constantly circulates around mutantkind's biggest current celebrity makes him laughably easy to track. Bland tabloids and bombastic headlines follow him wherever he treads, every performance a spectacle, every public appearance a scrambling event.
The latest file is extracted from the pile and carded through. It's stuffed to bursting with only the most critical information, reaped from every possible source, as the mutant in question (Mettaton, thinks Kralie snidely, don't make him laugh) has never exactly been careful about what personal information he releases for public consumption. It's a hilariously simple job to pin down his current location. There's a performance at one of those decked-out venues, something appropriately high-end with all the glitz and glamour and eye-catching sameness that comprises all of the mutant celebrity's performances. The backstage area is simple enough to get into - he had only to strangle a couple stagehands and bodyguards into unconsciousness, or possibly death if he didn't gauge his timing quite right, but there's a saying about omelettes and eggs, so he accepts their deaths as collateral, and stores the bodies in lockers and underneath shelves and boxes.
The pounding of drums and heavy bass vibrates beneath Kralie's feet as he navigates through greenrooms, eyes sliding past the assorted merchandise and miscellany with casual disdain.
As the performance winds to a close, Kralie positions himself by the stage exit. Mettaton will come through any moment, and then he'll take care of him as required. He removes the gun from his pocket, removes the magazine, counts out the bullets, and snaps the clip back into the place with the click of aligning locks and pins. He cocks the pistol, backs up, and prepares to take aim and fire in quick succession.
closed to mettaton and alphys; august 6th; and i borrow phrases from dusty, faded, record sleeves
The latest file is extracted from the pile and carded through. It's stuffed to bursting with only the most critical information, reaped from every possible source, as the mutant in question (Mettaton, thinks Kralie snidely, don't make him laugh) has never exactly been careful about what personal information he releases for public consumption. It's a hilariously simple job to pin down his current location. There's a performance at one of those decked-out venues, something appropriately high-end with all the glitz and glamour and eye-catching sameness that comprises all of the mutant celebrity's performances. The backstage area is simple enough to get into - he had only to strangle a couple stagehands and bodyguards into unconsciousness, or possibly death if he didn't gauge his timing quite right, but there's a saying about omelettes and eggs, so he accepts their deaths as collateral, and stores the bodies in lockers and underneath shelves and boxes.
The pounding of drums and heavy bass vibrates beneath Kralie's feet as he navigates through greenrooms, eyes sliding past the assorted merchandise and miscellany with casual disdain.
As the performance winds to a close, Kralie positions himself by the stage exit. Mettaton will come through any moment, and then he'll take care of him as required. He removes the gun from his pocket, removes the magazine, counts out the bullets, and snaps the clip back into the place with the click of aligning locks and pins. He cocks the pistol, backs up, and prepares to take aim and fire in quick succession.