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

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."

Mettaton sees the shift, as small as it is and it's a little surprising to see, overall. They must not have the best relationship with their parents if bringing them up causes their face to twist so.

He understands that though. Family can be complicated. There's a reason he only kept in contact with Napstablook.

"Hmph. Is our lovely government not giving you enough funds then? It sounds like them, honestly."

They lift their shoulders in a fractional shrug, externally unconcerned. "That's not the problem. I'd simply rather invest my funds elsewhere. Public relations aren't priority."

That and - well. They could try to get away as much as they could. It wouldn't change anything. They're too precious a prize for an adult to relinquish.

"Honestly, I yearn for the day when that's the least of my concerns."

The thought of Frisk, little Frisk, investing in the Stock Market and walking down Wall Street almost makes Mettaton burst out laughing. It's so grown up. ~~They should be home cooking butterscotch pie with Toriel-~~

Wait. What was that?

He shakes his head a little to clear the fog.

"That's an altruistic way to take it. Though, that begs the question, what do you plan on doing when your job is done?"

"Oh, you know. I'll probably find something normal and ordinary to do. Maybe I'll open a hardware store. Or a bakery! I hear those are all the rage these days."

That's your run-of-the-mill evasion, and not the best job they could ever have done, but it doesn't matter much, they think. Mettaton is hardly one to interrogate them at length.

"And what about you? Would the glamorous lifestyle of the illustrious Mettaton change with mutant-human relations?"

Mettaton just stops himself from giving out a snort of disbelief at Frisk's words, adding an impromptu sweep to the side in their dance to compensate.

"You could make a killing off of selling little cupcakes. Name them Frisky Bites and drum up some story about how the ingredients are all-natural and designed to make you be more at peace with the world."

Cornering the rich hipster market is always a smart way to make a lot of money. Poor folks think they're sticking it to the man while lining the man's pockets.

"The only difference my life would make if mutant-human relations were better is that I'd have a much wider dating pool. And an easier time hiring new people."

It's a hassle and a half to dig through the mire of public opinion whenever he hires human dancers, much less potentially dating any humans. He thinks about that one human girl he met awhile back during one of his "exposure" concerts where he features an up and coming artist. She was lovely and sweet and pushed his buttons like it was nothing. He hopes she still thinks about him, sometimes.

His response is just xeric enough to elicit a faint snicker before their expression closes back into its locked neutrality. They knew he had a talent for scathing comebacks, but hearing one in real time certainly shifts their perspective somewhat. He's quite funny when he wants to be, and not in a sensationalized, overblown way. He's got no one to impress but an allegedly impartial ambassador, after all.

"The love life of our dear star Mettaton suffers?" Frisk murmurs in mock dismay. "Oh my. You'd better not tell the paparazzi. They'd have a field day with that little admission."

One corner of their mouth ticks upwards in an uneven smile. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me."

Mettaton lets go of Frisk's hand to place his own on his chest. He sighs despairingly as he leads Frisk along one-handed.

"Oh thank you, Frisk. I know a secret like that is such a heavy burden to bear, but you seem the type that could keep it."

He hums a little to the music, this particular crescendo swelling with a beauty that he's missed hearing.

"At least you have a good couple of years yet before they start hounding you about such things."

"I should hope so!" They can't bite back their much less dignified grin at his overdramatic tone, amused despite themselves. "Why, the gossip revolving the two of us here must be scandalous enough as it is!"

They're breaking their rule, a little bit, or bending it some - the rule where they don't indulge in this sort of witty repartee. But it's not their fault this interaction has been atypically enjoyable.

This? This is something that Mettaton can work with. Seeing Frisk match his dramatics just encourages him more. He turns his head to the side, his hand still on his chest.

"Oh, what would they think? What would they say? The stories that could come out of Mettaton and Ambassador Frisk dancing the night away? It could ruin us!"

It's surprising to see the unflappable and almost humorless Frisk actually enjoy themselves for once, and it is more than gratifying to know that he is the cause of it.

"How would your reputation ever recover?" Their amused expression recedes somewhat, no longer indulging quite as heavily. Their reputation, they're well aware, is on the rocks enough as it is. Their methods are unpopular, their neutral stance controversial in its lack of controversy.

Really, if they were to shift to one extreme or another, they're confident that the backlash they'd face would be less considerable than the criticism they receive now, daily.

"Oh, I don't know! I just don't know!"

He pulls away from Frisk, spinning out until he's holding onto Frisk with one hand, both of their arms extended.

His smile turns mischievous and he pulls himself in rapidly, returning to their previous stance.

"There's only one solution. We'll have to run away."

They mirror his stance with the appropriate amount of drama, arms outflung.

"Oh Mettaton," says Frisk, expression locked and wholly deadpan, "I'm afraid that I am too similar to certain kind of melon to indulge such fantasies."

They pause, and then lean closer with a faint smirk.

"You see, I simply cantaloupe."

Mettaton stops dead in his tracks, looking at Frisk like they suddenly grew a second head.

"I cannot believe the amount of build up you gave to a pun. Now I know for a fact that those who say you don't have a sense of humor are lying."

He can't believe it. Then again, he of all people should understand that how someone acts in the public light can be very different in comparison to how they act in private or semi-private settings.

The buildup, of course, is what makes the payoff all worth it. They wish they could say what sculpted their sense of humor, but the smiles and laughs and horrible jokes feel as if they belong to a different time.

Their parents have never been ones to enjoy such things.

"Of course I have a sense of humor!" They flash a winning smile. "It's just a very bad sense of humor, so it's safer to say I don't have one at all."

He's still just standing there, looking at them intently, though it's a lot less quizzical and with a bit more amusement.

"That's a safe bet to make, all things considered. Else you might end up in a pun war with someone, and where would that get you?"

Thinking about it now though, he kind of hopes that Frisk becomes more open with their humor. Watching a pun off between them and a journalist would be quite the interesting exchange to grace television.

"I'd be punemployed in a jiffy," Frisk responds promptly, before they can stop themselves.

This is why this sort of thing is discouraged by everyone on every board of every directory. Because once they get started, it's almost impossible for them to stop.

They incline their head slightly as the music winds down and the dance seems to end, trying to finish off with a vague bow of some kind.

Mettaton gives another sweeping bow, glittering as he lowers in a fantastic array within the party lights. The other dancers begin to depart the floor, and he straightens back up again, his grin still firmly in place.

"I suppose this is the end of our dance. And while I would love to monopolize your time more, I'm afraid I should probably share you with the rest of the party."

This didn't result in any interesting or new information that he can pass on to the Resistance, but Mettaton can't label it a waste. Time is never wasted when you're having fun.

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

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