Glamour? Glamour? He expects Kralie to believe that this gilt-and-glitter, jingoistic, propaganda-spouting celebrity has any feasible connection to the enigmatic Glamour? He tries to glower at the pair of them, but that would require him to contort his neck into a position that would be physically and geometrically impossible, so he settles for glaring at Mettaton alone, lip curling in a sneer.

"You expect me to believe that?" he rasps, ignoring the scraping of his chin against the concrete. "You? You?"