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

"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.

The stars in his eyes cannot be mistaken for anything else other than pure joy, as he takes Frisk's hand and sweeps them towards... the dance floor? If it wasn't before, it is now. "Splendid!" he cries, as they take position in the dead center, of course. Surrounded by curious, innocent, and not-so-innocent stares from their fellow party goers.

He throws a dazzling look to the band playing off in the corner. "Play us something fast and fun, will you dears?"

There's a bit of a mumble from them all, but after another moment or so, they pick up their instruments and begin to play a jaunty tune, and Mettaton's hand, firm but kind, settles on Frisk's shoulders, leading them through a simple series of steps.

They let Mettaton steer them, leading the way even with the sizable height difference (never stopped anyone before, did it?) and managing to sell the strangeness of the thing with his typical charisma and confidence.

"You're very good at this," they say after a moment, and it is a genuine compliment, though to what is a bit up in the air: the physical steps he's taking them through, the lack of genuine persuasion he'd needed to employ in his favor, or the ease with which he's gotten the rest of the assembly to play along, or at least not see the sight as something terribly odd.

It's not that hard, all things considered, to get Frisk to step in time with him. They catch on quickly, he notes, as he brings a little more ornamentation to their moves, spinning them out a bit and pulling the ambassador back in.

"Why thank you, Frisk! I'm self-taught, you know. I couldn't afford a teacher when I was younger, so I watched videos and took tips from shows that I watched to polish myself into what I am today."

The music swells a little and he laughs as he notices other people getting up to join in their revelry, their states of sobriety as varied as the liquor available at the bar.

"Dancing is an important skill in the arsenal of an ambassador. If you need lessons, a lot of the dancers I work with now teach classes. I'm sure they would love to help you get better." He hums a little to himself, adding an afterthought as he continues. "That's not to say that you aren't good already. You're a lot better than you said you were."

Mettaton certainly seems to be a fan of leading by example. It's not surprising that people seem eager to follow his lead and join in on the spontaneous dancing, given his status as an icon amidst the mutant community.

"You're definitely lying to make me feel better," Frisk says wryly. "But that's all right. You've something of a talent for leadership, do you not?"

The stilted speech sticks to their tongue, a tiny bit. Reminders of a someone else they've not spoken to in a long time. Reminders of a someone they've lost the rights to speak to.

"Mm, I may be lying a little. But you're not that bad, truly. You're not trampling all over my feet and that puts you miles above the rest."

He watches some of the other dancers, some more graceful than others, and mulls over Frisk's words.

"I would say so, yes. I am the head of my own entertainment presence, after all. Plus all of my business ventures in the hotel industry and the news. I have good employees who work under me, but in the end I have to make sure I always have final say in what I, and my brand, does."

The music begins to slow, and Mettaton responds in kind, guiding Frisk through a sort of psuedo-waltz.

"I'd ask the same of you, but we both know that the answer is yes."

It certainly helps that the three-four beat is easier and slower, and they have enough of an idea of how a waltz would work to follow his steps with marginally more confidence, following Mettaton's approximation of the square-like step.

"Well, people like us have little choice," Frisk says, equal parts warm and regretful in their statement. "When we exist in the public eye, we are subject to much scrutiny. Any error we make is to be studied, and so we must ensure our errors never outshine our successes."

The news so does adore its scandals. Controversy sells more than peacetime every did.

"You're preaching to the choir here, Mx. Ambassador. If I counted on my fingers the number of times the media has tried to catch me doing something unscrupulous, I'd have to grow 4 more hands to compensate. And that's only from this latest television season."

He continues to waltz to the music, smiling more now that Frisk seemed more confident in their footwork.

"Everyone trying to tear you down just makes the success all that more sweet to me. It's a profound and elegant way to tell the world to, ah," fuck off he wants to say, but Frisk is still a child, so he amends. "buzz off."

They don't quite manage to bite down their smile in time, recognizing too well the reflexive self-censorship that most adults willfully employ whenever Frisk is in the room. Never mind that they've heard worse - often when they're trying to make things better.

"It's not an easy job," they admit quietly, "you're right. Even harder for you; you're awfully low-profile in nearly every circle."

And Frisk? They often feel that they're being torn in two directions opposed with such force that one day may simply be rent in two.

"Yes, well, it all becomes worthwhile when I can sneak off the island for a few days for a little R&R without the paparazzi catching wind of it until I'm already back."

He's quiet for a moment, continuing their small waltz as he ponders.

"Who is in charge of your PR? You? Your parents?"

He has to admit, it's a curious thought. Who supports the island's youngest politician?

Their parents. There's an unprompted shift in their expression at that, barely perceptible flicker of something that is quickly restrained and erased.

Perhaps it would be absurd, that even someone that much political sway cannot muster the leverage necessary for relocation. But they are cared for where they are, and they are loved.

Why isn't that enough?

"I have people who cover that for me," Frisk says evenly, coolly deflecting. "Not a terribly vast department, though. Mostly I deal with people one-on-one."

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cw vague abuse allusions