entrancelogs | [OPEN] I can't help that I need it all

Entry tags:

[OPEN] I can't help that I need it all

Who: Mettaton, a closed starter, and YOU!
Where: Anywhere in Genosha
When: Anytime from August 5th to the 9th
Rating: PG-13 to start! If this changes, I will adjust accordingly
Summary: Mettaton is a big celebrity, doing his best to spread happiness in these troubling times for both humans and mutants alike. While his actual stance on Humans vs. Mutants is a bit ambiguous, there have been rumors that he might be more involved than his vapid celebrity persona implies... (Brackets or prose, I'll match any format!)

The Story:

One, Open to Mutants (especially the anti-human variety):

It's the biggest party of the year, hosted by the highest members of Genosha society, and anyone who is anyone is invited to attend. So naturally superstar Mettaton is there, dressed in a crisp suit and sporting a crystal glass of wine. Ever the social butterfly, he's been fluttering from conversation to conversation, dazzling as he goes. It seems this time his eyes have alighted on you, and he's called out in your direction, darling~! It's kind of odd though, how you almost feel compelled to come talk to him.

Two, Open to anyone (especially any resistance types):

Mettaton isn't a sheltered flower with no idea that the state of humanity on this island isn't the best. Nor does he blanch at sometimes having to walk through the rougher parts of town. So when his usual go-between for getting information to the resistance is busy, and he's got some intel that needs to be moved, he's brave enough to make the trek himself out to their base. ...though he may have gotten a little lost along the way. Ok, correction: Very Lost. He can't help but wonder if he actually knew where it was located in the first place.

Three, Wild Card:

Want to tag into this but neither of the prompts work for you? That's fine! Slap down a starter and we can get the ball rolling! Here's Mettaton's plot post if you need some info on Mettaton's place in the world! Feel free to hit me up there to chat about any threads you want and/or opt out of his powers! Let's have some fun!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Things are...taking their course." They've long since determined how to spin things in that positive way, how to hold a professional discussion without showing their hand, how to keep their expression closed off and polite and neutral.

So Frisk smiles evenly. "It hasn't been easy, given the way tensions have been. But we're doing our best. Things will smooth over eventually."

Part of Mettaton wishes he could just tell Frisk that he is working with the resistance and that they're on the same side. He's been rooting for the little underdog ever since they first burst out into the political scene a couple of years ago, their mutation a force too powerful for any sensible thinking person to ignore.

But if things were to go south for him, if he were to be found out... well, it's better that any friends of his have as little information about his involvement as possible. It makes it easier to argue ignorance in a court of law.

"As they always do here. Those attacks have been quite the blow to our little island's stability. You always seem to have just the right plans to glue us all back together."

"I'm in the position to be listened to," Frisk amends gently. Injustice seems to be a sad constant in the world they live in, and the most they can do is put as much effort into lessening it as possible. It is and continues to be insufficient in the face of outright violence, and clinging to the mild peace is feeling more and more like skating on melting ice.

Still, the island of Genosha can't sustain itself with a total elimination of either population, nor can they sit by and patiently watch the oppression of one species for the benefit of another.

"I can only hope that someday humans will be able to enjoy social functions in the same manner. They are no less deserving, after all."

"Anyone who lends you their ear has made a wise choice indeed."

Frisk's words settle into Mettaton's mind. They are no less deserving, after all. Memories of a quiet, dark house. Sitting together on their old, cracked floor, giggling at funny pictures on the internet. Lying on the floor and dreaming of what their life will be in the future, planning their first big concert together. Listening to their music and knowing it is great, knowing that they'll make the biggest impact when they break out into the world. Waking up with metal skin and a voice no one could say no to, and watching, waiting for his cousin to catch up. They never do. They retreat from everyone, everything, because here is the solid proof that they're not worthy to be in anyone's presence, much less his.

They are no less deserving, it's true. But he would argue that at least one of them deserves more.

"Ah yes. This party would be much more lively if new blood was allowed to flow through it. But as always, change is frightening to those that stand to lose because of it."

"Change is the one constant of the world we live in," says Frisk, arching one eyebrow delicately. Perhaps it comes across as too clichéd, and they do endeavor not to speak solely in vague platitudes, but it's not like what they're saying has no basis in reality. "Those who cannot adjust shouldn't necessarily suffer for it, but change has its way of happening regardless of one's personal stance."

That is to say, the hurricane is coming, and even those in the eye of it may not come out unscathed. Whether the Resistance succeeds or fails, it will leave its mark and things will shift, perhaps unchangeably.

"Mm, but there's something to be said for those that endeavor to keep the status quo. They may not deserve to suffer for their choices, but there's no denying that their sticking their heads in the sand leads to them being swept away by the tidal wave."

If they're speaking in cliches, he can match them. Those that stand in the way of progress will be moved, whether by choice or by force. Mettaton specifically doesn't care. Whatever it takes to protect Napstablook, he'll do it.

"I'd think they'd realize that a status quo isn't sustainable in the long-term. But maybe that isn't their highest concern."

No, they consider as they sweep the crowd of the elegantly-clad, socially-adjusted mutant elite. They very much doubt these privileged few would have much reason to care about the approaching storm. They've never had to confront the ugly truths of the world they live in - they've been granted the luxury of that physical and internal distance from such things, to the point of abstraction.

"I can only hope that we'll all make it through," says Frisk quietly, thoughtfully, "when the hurricane arrives."

"Mmm, I know for a fact that some of their highest concerns are things us in polite settings shouldn't be talking about."

His eyes settle on a couple a few feet away from Mettaton and Frisk, noting their... extensive interest in each other. Interesting. The CEO of Mutant Medical and the head of the Cabinet having an affair? He'll have to look into that more closely later.

He turns his attention back to Frisk, his smile a little sharp. "And where do you think you will be when the storm hits?"

They follow his gaze to the overly friendly interactions that seem to be occurring between two particularly important political figures. They don't need to be older to understand the connotations there. Frisk arches one eyebrow, smiling thinly.

"I imagine I'll be in the thick of it," they say without hesitation, "attempting to mitigate whatever conflict I can."

An overly optimistic notion? Possibly. But they have no intention of abandoning their post, even in trying times.

Mettaton thinks on their words for a few moments, lightly stirring his drink. The sounds of the party seem far away from them both, despite the music being loud and jaunty and the crowd large.

"Are you not worried that your placement on the fence may be more dangerous than picking a side?"

Not having any allies, trying to placate both sides of an ever-increasing conflict... He wonders idly if one day he'll be attending their funeral.

"No more or less dangerous than those who play on both sides." Of whom they are plenty aware, thank you. There will be opportunists in any and every conflict. There is a critical difference, though.

"But those who profit off the endeavors of both sides," says Frisk, hands folding behind their back neatly, "will lamentably find themselves with no friends should things come to a head."

If they go down amidst a blazing inferno, ultimately unaligned, preaching peace and neutrality until their last breath, it will have been worth it even if means they can save at least one life. Needlessly self-sacrificial, perhaps, but the conflict is inescapable. All they can hope is that they reduce it to as short-lived a thing as possible.

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."

"I certainly don't plan to," they say crisply, raising an eyebrow. "I've got an awful lot of unpassed laws and measures that'd be at a loss without me."

But personal connections, human or mutant connections? ...well. They'd burned those bridges. Or maybe the bridges burned themselves. It doesn't matter. They have no access to the people whose opinions would matter to them. The home in which they've been placed by coincidence or consequence or fate - it was never something they chose - has nothing for them that they would miss.

They have imagined death many times. One has to when one is a linchpin of involvement in the midst of an intra-city conflict of massive, unpreventable proportions. It's simply a consequence of fact.

"Work seems to be a main motivator for a lot of people." he responds, shaking his head slightly.

He could talk about a lot of things here. He could talk about how they should think of themselves, of what they deserve. He could talk about how perhaps it wasn't the kindest thing in the world for them to have been placed where they are. He could talk about how, just because the world needs heroes, they don't have to be one.

He doesn't say any of that.

"You shouldn't let work drive you too much though, darling. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

He gives them a playful wink over the rim of his cup as he takes a sip.

"I happen to love my job." It isn't an exaggeration. They do, in all earnestness, love it. It's everything they would've dreamed of and wished for growing up, were they not forced to grow up quite so fast. "As I suspect you love yours."

Public appearances are their own requirement, as they know all too well. Perhaps they're not at quite the level of celebrity Mettaton is - who would be, honestly? But they're accustomed to being recognized and recognizable, and that is all simply part of being who and what they are.

"Of course I do! You don't get into show business because you want to make money, after all."

At least, you shouldn't be. The amount of luck and hard work it takes to get where Mettaton is cannot be sustained on hopes of financial reward alone. The number of times he had seen aspiring artists rise and fall because they couldn't keep up without having some love in their hearts for it all would outnumber the hairs on his head.

"But even so, I still make time for myself. It's all too easy to get overwhelmed these days."

"And what, pray tell, does the famous Mettaton do to unwind in his spare time?" Frisk says it with the inflection of a joke, but they can't deny that they're curious. It seems effortless for him, the speed and ease with which he navigates these social functions that seem wholly dependent on how impressive you can be to others.

Frisk isn't entirely certain how to navigate such events themselves. They can deconstruct a poorly-constructed paragraph, drive a spike through even the densest of rhetoric-rich, jargon-riddled arguments and lay it to rest at the foot of its proposer. But still, it feels like their skillset doesn't account for the inherent charisma Mettaton seems to posses as an extrovert, and no amount of study or practice will open that road to them.

"Oh you know, the usual! Long walks on the beach at sunset, alcohol, swimming. Other dazzling things like that!" He says, making a show of throwing his arms out wide as he lifts a leg up slightly into the air. A joke for a joke.

Watching small-time artists perform in small, intimate venues, talking to fans online, watching old, cheesy movies about love, life, and the pursuit of happiness. Ribbing Alphys on her anime choices, graciously sitting with her and watching them, writing songs and poems about just anything that catches his fancy... those are things he does to unwind. But! Can't talk about that, now can we? It shatters the illusion of perfection.

He has enough presence of mind to make sure not a drop is spilled from his drink as he poses.

He's certainly drawing everyone's eye, as he is wont to do. Frisk watches with a faint smile, subtly impressed. He certainly does live up to his title.

"It certainly sounds like a luxurious lifestyle," they concede, snagging a flute of sparkling cider from a passing waiter. They lift their eyebrows at her as she passes, and she nods shortly to signify the lack of alcohol in the mixture. "You do live up to your fans' expectations."

They sip at their drink with effected nonchalance despite the Mettaton-shaped spectacle taking place directly beside them.

He gracefully slips off his seat, turning his heel and posing again, a hand on his hip and his foot pointed out from him. There's the sound of clapping and laughter, as he flips his hair a little, allowing his skin to flash brilliantly in the light.

"A luxurious lifestyle for a luxurious man! My fans have only the highest expectations and because of that, deserve the honor of my performances, day in and day out!"

He looks at Frisk. "You would do well to take a leaf out of my book. Have something or do something lavish just for yourself! I promise you, it's one of the best feelings in the world."

"Lavish?" They try not to betray how nervous the word choice makes them, do their best to hide it in a thin smile. Sip their drink to give their hands something to do while people applaud and oo and ahh at their star's antics.

"Unfortunately, that's not really my area," they say, grateful to not be in the spotlight but equally nervous to be placed at its edge. "Or my specialty."

Even public appearances are performances. They perform every minute of every day, from the moment they wake up until they drop into bed at the end of a long day. A more understated performance, yes, but a full-time job of the thing certainly doesn't appeal.

He laughs, deciding on a whim to do something a little risky.

He lowers his back, gesturing grandly at the tiny ambassador, holding his hand out to them with a great wave of his arm.

"You act like lavish things are a vicious animal that will bite. No, it is just indulging yourself in something fun and new! Or comforting and old, if that's your forte. It can be taking a bath with top-of-the-line soaps designed to invigorate and enrich, or finally reading that one book that you've had your eye on forever! Or," he says, giving a wink to a nearby woman, then turning his attention back to Frisk, "it can be dancing the night away with a friendly acquaintance."

His hand remains outwards towards them, an invitation. "If you want to, of course."

Frankly, the idea that they might have any chance to relax and find some way to indulge is - laughable, at best. That would not be allowed in any circle in which they are present, not in the professional, not in the familial, not in the immediate, and certainly not in the abstract.

He offers them a hand, elegantly extended, referring to himself as a friendly acquaintance (not untrue, they will give him that), and they're not sure what to say.

"I confess I'm not the best at dancing," they say, vaguely uncertain but tempted nonetheless.

Mettaton grins, his stance not moving as he waits for a yes or no.

"That's just fine, darling. I can dance for both of us, if need be. I just think we should liven this place up a little."

He can see the eyes settling on him, some interested whispers at his potential dance partner. He knows this sort of thing is a bit of a statement; wagging tongues will talk about how Mettaton, the great Mutant star, danced with what many consider a human masquerading in mutant skin. The ambassador has as many friends as enemies, and this sort of thing is only going to make the target on his back bigger.

He doesn't care. Even if it might put him at risk, it could afford Frisk some protection, or at least a little sympathy from more pro-human circles.

Is there even a dance floor here? Would that matter one way or another? Mettaton's very much the sort of mutant to march to the beat of his own drum, or more specifically, design an appropriately-glittery drum and then hire someone to strike the beat as dictated by him, likely via a combination of charisma, encouragement, and flattery so genuine one wouldn't be able to resist.

In short, it probably doesn't matter to him in the slightest whether or not this is, strictly speaking, a dance party - he's about to make it one.

So. Shall we dance, Ambassador Frisk?

They smile gently, and take his proffered hand with a smile.

We shall.

"I would be honored," they say, with the faint inclination of their head to signify a bow.

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