Mettaton's eyes narrow a bit. He is intimately familiar with opportunists, having dealt with one himself recently, and that man left a bad taste in his mouth. But he was needed and he pulled through, so he supposes he can't complain too much.

"That is certainly a sound thought, all things considered."

He looks at Frisk, really looks at Frisk, and sees how small they look in that tux. How they hold themselves with a grace that most adults don't have. It makes his heart ache.

"I hope you don't have any plans to die on some sacrificial pyre. The world needs people like you to stick around."