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Survival is the exception
"living is an act of courage."
THROUGH THE INGRESSThe Ingress has pulled you in. Your body experiences several sensations at once: being pushed forward as if a hand is resting on your back, momentary and startling blindness, a gentle ringing in your head. You have difficulty discerning whether it is hot or cold, but where you have been prodded is noticeably warmer than the rest of you. Some may suffer from dizziness while others are perfectly fine. Once equilibrium has been reestablished, you will notice you are standing on a rocky planet. Former crew of the Moira are there to greet you, and it’s a grim message they have to share. The Moira has crashed and is beyond repair, but there’s good news... the destination the crew has been heading towards for over a year? You’re standing on it. But before you get into exploration and survival, it’s best to deal with the effects of coming through a broken Ingress. ☄ slip and tripfind your footing fastComing through the Ingress has left your character with one of three changes - an age slip, a form of body horror, or an extreme weakness. The first, the age slip, will mean that the character is either older or younger and this change can’t be rectified during their first month in game. The second, body horror, comes in the form of an alteration to the character's body due to whatever they were carrying at the time they came through. If they were wearing a watch, it’s now fused to their wrist, clothes are permanent, knifes replace fingers, and many other alterations (anything goes) and it lasts the first month as well. The third, extreme weakness, can be a mental or physical decrease - weaker arms, legs, or the weaker ability to talk or do math.
ooc: the choice of change is up to each player and this prompt can be game canon.
☄ introductions aren’t awkwardas long as you don’t shake their hand too longA new planet. Physical and mental changes. Talk of a ship that crashed and a Hub that is home to the ‘creators’ of a technology you’ve never heard of. A lot is happening and the best way to sort through it is by getting to know the Moira’s crew. They’ll help you settle in and get you any care you might need, all the while informing you that the group is on its way to the center of the hub. Something that might seem mundane is an absolute necessity for survival. Ask a seasoned space traveling veteran for answers and guidance.
ooc: this prompt can be game canon.
☄ dealer's choicejust make the right oneCharacters have the option of coming through an Ingress that is any possible location on this planet. It can be inside a cave, at the top of a rock formation, etc. This means you can have your character have to climb or slide down, have them yelling for help, and have other characters see them and come to their aid. Your character's arrival is completely up to you, and since this is a unique situation that hasn't happened before, go nuts with it!
ooc: this prompt can be game canon.
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thisavrou_ooc2016-12-02 06:24 pm
//SKIDS IN HERE (for prompt B)
He's wondered for a few days if this was how Sans felt. Why he had taken such offense to all of Mettaton's extended kindnesses, even up to the point of his eventual departure.
Mm. That's not a thought he wants to linger on though. People leaving.
Idly, he reaches a hand up to touch at the tattered scarf he had chosen to wear--it was not something he ever intended to keep in his PacDisc unless its wellbeing was threatened--and he's reminded of why he doesn't like to think of it.
It's while he's lost in his thoughts that he happens across Chara. Oh, he knew who they were. They were the annoying Dreemurr child who he hadn't really gotten along with very much. Shitty sense of humor and all that. But for a fleeting moment, he feels as if maybe it's a good thing. Because Frisk and Asriel were very upset when Chara disappeared, and Toriel...? She loved her children unconditionally.
Best make nice, right?
But as he approaches, he notices what they are doing.
He realizes the flowers are attached to them, a part of them. And that they were playing quite the sick little game of "he loves me, he loves me not." Mettaton's seen enough strangeness on this ship to know that it can't be painless and whatever happiness he felt fades into something he can't describe.
Striding forward and into view, he glares down at them, arms crossed.
"Doesn't that hurt?"
Don't you care about your family's feelings? Did Frisk or Asriel find you yet? Why are you wasting your life?!
oh hey bot guy
Slowly, deliberately, they dig their fingertips into the roots of the flower growing from their skin and pluck it out, twirling it idly between their fingertips.
They hold the pretty golden bloom up to their nose to smell it. How interesting. It seems their nose works again as well. Smells like they remember flower smell, though they cannot shake the feeling that they must reek of grave dirt and rot.
How fitting.
"Did you know that some flowers can grow without sun?" says the child, still smiling, their tone light and conversational. "Interesting, don't you think?"
Their arm is running red from where they picked the flower free, startlingly dark and crimson. Humans bleed. Humans are not like monsters. Humans do not get the luxury of being able to crumble simply to dust upon encountering a pitted and callous wad of cynicism.
They don't seem to care, that they are bleeding. It's inconsequential. They've opened sores before, old injuries and scabs on another being's body. This is no different.
sup flower child
Even if the reason is just to serve the purpose of others. He doesn't care on his own. But when Chara proceeds to taunt him with their self-inflicted violence, his eye narrows and his lip curls back.
Challenge definitely read. Accepted? We'll see.
"Did you know that humans can die from blood loss? I'm sure you aren't quite stupid enough to be unaware." Not ignorant. Stupid. They were being stupid. "Death has permanence here these days, and although I struggle to say it, you are fortunate to have been pulled through that damnable Ingress. So I would highly suggest that you don't waste your gift. I'm pretty certain Asriel would be upset if he found out."
His words had an edge to them that suggested he would do something about it. And he can back that up for a while, despite his laughably truncated HP. It's easy to make threats when you have the LOVE not to feel regret for it. And when you're not fused to your body.
=)
Did you know humans can die from blood loss?
Their smile simply widens. It's terribly amusing, you see, that he might say such a thing as if they would be unaware. As if they would not know the sensation intimately as the blood pooled in the sheets, mingling with their sweat and staining everything a rusted red and brown, as disgusting and reprehensible as they were.
The next words he speaks give them the barest of pauses. Death has permanence here these days.
They continue to keep their eyes on him, holding his stare, unblinking.
"A gift," they repeat, their smile a rosy and curved thing, as bladed as a knife. "I suppose that's one word for it."
Death has permanence here.
They rip another flower from their skin. Pain as rooted in their own body is an old sensation, but it is a novelty now, after being deprived of it for so long. They christen things in their blood. It's what they do, what filthy little things like them enjoy doing. There's nothing he can say that will diver that.
Only then he crosses a line he should not think to cross, and their smile grows wider. Wider still. No, wider, a generous allocation of mouth that should not appear on a human face. Good thing they are not human, are they? He thinks to use his name like a talisman, as if that might ward them away from the precipice they're dangling themself over. Asriel, the only person, the only person who might have - who would have -
Aha. Ha. No. No, that is not for them. He has Frisk. He has the friend he's wished he always had. And the child who slept in the soil, what of them?
They are a complication.
A problem they will soon fix.
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He wasn't.
So when they tear another flower away from their body, he lets out an annoyed sound, moving forward and extending an arm so as to grab Chara's.
"You need to stop it, or I will make you!" he snaps.
The fact is that he's extremely attached to Asriel, and knowing how upset the young boss monster would be at seeing Chara again, this time self-brutalized and covered in blood and flower petals...it's what motivates him right now.
Asriel's been hurt enough. Mettaton won't allow this without at least trying to stop the outcome! What sort of friend would he be if he stood by?
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They let the latest of their floral growths fall limply between their fingers, fluttering to the ground to join the rest.
"Will you?"
They seem terribly amused at the threat. A threat, yes, because that must be the only language that creatures like them will understand. Violence, and the way they must be controlled, restrained, kept from doing terrible things.
There's a glint in their eyes, something akin to a challenge. They have no weapons - no Real Knife glinting in their hands. But they do not need weapons to find. One doesn't need a knife to wound.
Asriel taught them that lesson better than anything, and over their grave no less.
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That said, he doesn't balk away. As far as he's concerned, they're on even ground, because Chara is still only a human. And right now, he has about the same strength of a human and although he won't admit it, no access to his magic. That can be both a boon and a detriment.
He chooses to see how it plays out.
"Yes, I will," he says with a self-assured tone he hasn't used in months. "I will drag you kicking and screaming back to the rest of the crew, if I must."
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They have always been honest about what they are.
For the first time, their lips part in a bright flash of teeth, a crescent of white stretching cleanly over their features.
"I see," says the child.
He has made himself perfectly clear. He knows best for them. He knows that they cannot be trusted to make their own decisions, to know that they are far too toxic and hateful to be allowed near something as delicate and perfect as Asriel. He made his ideal ending utterly plain to them, over their decomposing body, their grave. They are not the greatest person. They were always better off dead.
They'd known that long before he said it, of course. It should not have stung. And it didn't. It couldn't. Wouldn't. They would not allow it to.
"In that case," they add, one side of their smile curling upwards in something approximating a sneer, "I wish you luck on your ill-fated endeavor."
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What he did want was to give Asriel his family back. Chara was part of that family, and to some degree, Mettaton felt as if he'd assimilated into that fold as well. Often, he questioned himself whether it was something he imagined simply because he didn't have any other monsters to rely on.
Whatever the reason, he was going to make good on what he said. He'd bring them to the camp. Somehow.
"If you are on my side enough to wish me luck, then this doesn't have to become a fight," he says flatly; yes, he's twisting their words, but he has a feeling they're twisting his too.
For now though, he keeps his distance. He'd seen through the gaping windows of the Moira, and he knew Chara could be cunning. More cunning than any monster--even their family--could have thought.
They really were a frightening human.
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They will never stop smiling. A "creepy face," some might call it, or something altogether too strange and unnerving for anyone to consider something genuine. They open their hands, the red running over their palms, warm and laminar, head to one side in an implicit challenge.
"The FIGHT is the purpose my reincarnation." The increase of a number. EXP. LOVE. HP.
Power.
* That me.
So go on, Mettaton. Thrill them.
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Mettaton can feel his patience waning. He wants to grab their arm, to grip it so hard that they can't escape. Grip it hard enough that he can feel the bones strain underneath his metal fingers, until they regret trying to screw with him--
No. No, that's not him. That's not how he sees himself. Though...how does he see himself anymore? Just some useless robot who can't even protect his friends, really. But he needs to stop being violent. Things are starting to escalate the more he hurts whoever tries to attack him.
Still.
He does stalk towards Chara. Playtime's over and they're coming with him. He had said, after all, that they would. The blood loss would take its toll, and even without his magic, Mettaton will overpower them. It's just logical, right?
With little warning, he darts forward, intending to grab at them again.
There's no weapon. They can't hurt him. Certainly, they can't kill him. But they can struggle if they like.
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It's not quite a bullet box. It's not a set of white projectiles jettisoned at them in a carefully-constructed interface. Your turn and my turn, a ritualistic exchange of blows that is almost polite in its rules and regulations. Perhaps they are not Frisk, who can dodge everything thrown at them, who has perfected such a thing to an art. But they have learned how to brace their legs against the ground so they can launch themself upwards in a well-timed leap to clear a line of ulnas, how to twist around to catch a spear coming at them from behind.
So they skip nimbly back, hands behind their back. And still they smile. Still they always, always smile.
"You're going to have to do a little better than THAT," they say, innocently parroting the words of a heroine who melted off into nothing, supplemented by her own determination.
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just summon the bolt-shaped bullets and send them towards that smug little human face. wipe that smile away
he could have finished this much sooner.
But then he remembers. He thinks of how very like Frisk this human can be, and he also remembers something eerie he had seen out of the ship window. The soulless eyes of a child--this child--insisting that every murderous choice that Frisk had made only gave them strength. That every EXP, each time they gained LOVE, it was a representation of them. The fallen child. Was that really true? Ha...
As he steps again, pivoting on one foot while the other swings out to strike Chara in a kick too weak for a robot like him, he can't help but laugh. It's funny!!
"Dodging? That seems too passive for you. It's what Frisk would do, darling, and you are not Frisk, are you?"
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You cannot touch them, Mettaton. You can't rip things away from someone with nothing left to lose. They'd almost put a sincere effort into the smile, into making it pointed and bladed, the fulcrum to lever at his silly little laugh. But to pour effort into countering him - that would imply that they care.
So they lift their eyebrows in a motion that is almost pitying, as if to say, is that the best you can do? They will keep their features serene and untroubled. Nothing he does matters to them. Skip dialogue, press [x], step forward and forward and forward and drive effortlessly past until they reach the blur and exchange of combat.
They get a kick to their legs that clips them across the back of one knee, and they wobble for a moment, but one outstretched hand soon balances them, and they skip back.
Their smile does not waver. It is as though it is painted to their face, joined by pink and rosy cheeks, ever-present. "Perhaps I am simply waiting for your most vulnerable moment."
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So, perhaps understandably, Mettaton snaps. He steps again, with speed and anger that isn't normal for him, not by what Chara should innately know of him as a spectator to the game that is their world. His arms extend--like they would when he shared a warm hug with someone! But this time, it's to try and pin Chara down, trying to take advantage of the strike he'd made already.
"If you're looking for a vulnerable moment you will not find it here!!"
He spits the words like poison and it seems that he's forgotten that he intended to bring them to the camp safe.
Alive, even.
Eight months in this space hell have done nothing to curb his violent tendencies, and less to prevent him from acting on anger with those he may once have had a tenuous but ultimately mutual understanding with.
cw suicide ideation/attempt???????
Intends to touch them. He intends to hold them down like the vicious little abomination they are, doesn't he? He surges at them with a ferocity they haven't come to associate with him, and that bubble of laughter swells up in their throat and bursts like bit of rotting fruit.
He's proven everything correct after all. They're too distasteful and terrible and wrong to be reasoned with. Look at what they've done! They've made him angry, far angrier than is typical for him!
They are not fast enough to avoid the way his arms curl around them, and their smile snaps into something of a rictus, their nonchalant air abruptly dissipating.
They have no weapons. No plan. They are a variable uncontrolled and uncontained, unpredictable. They do the only thing that is available to them in this moment, and they duck down to rip one of their floral growths from their arm, holding it between their teeth.
It is an old, remembered impulse.
Chew, grimace, and swallow.
incredible
Golden flowers?
Or buttercups?
Mettaton freezes, still holding them in place...for a brief moment, he remembers something. Months ago, Toriel had mentioned both Asriel and Frisk becoming very sick. From a pie filled with buttercups. He had messaged Frisk, of course, to make sure that they were alright. Buttercups were poison, to humans and monsters. That he knew. And of what else he knew, what he'd seen and heard through the Moira's windows playing scenes through the timeslip, well.
I'll go get the flowers.
Angrily, he shifts his grip, one hand reaching up with cruel intent. The intention to cut off Chara's breathing. To exert his will enough that they might have second thoughts.
"Don't. Don't do this."
What about...everyone who cared?! The people who wanted them there, the children who had gone through such pain and upset when Chara had disappeared. Why couldn't they care?!
ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
How convenient, that this Ingress must have known how intently they desired this. It had known it enough to supply them with their very own poison.
They can do nothing but tear out another mouthful of flowers and chew them, baring their teeth at him in a smile stained with flecks of red and green and yellow, until he reaches up to - what? Choke them? Strangle them?
Everyone learns, soon enough, what it is they want. And they either resist it or allow it. In this case, mercifully (ha ha), it seems to be the latter.
"You'll blink before I do," they whisper, the words shivering out of them in an uneven hiss.
The breath rasps agonizingly in their throat, and they continue to smile. Wait for the digestion to process properly. Wait for the side effects to settle in.
If not, then perhaps they'll be heading off a bit sooner!
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No one had to know.
Except it would come out. Just like with Sans, it would come out. And Mettaton couldn't bring himself to gain another EXP, especially from someone he knew. Someone he didn't like, but someone from home.
So his grip loosens enough that the human can breathe--it had only been an empty threat anyway, but he doesn't intend to let them stay this way.
"If this is what you want, then so be it. I'm still bringing your corpse to your family, so that they can at least know you were here. I will not let your death fall on my conscience."
A lie. Of course he would. The look on his face betrays him--he's helpless to the circumstances, as he had been before. Mettaton stands, bringing Chara up with him. He expects them to struggle as he shifts his grip to carry their body over his shoulder like no more than a sack of potatoes. Not that they should struggle.
They're going to die...because he doesn't know how to make them stop without inflicting violence upon them and every time he thought he had it in him to do it, all he could remember was that frightened look on Asriel's face as he lost himself, repeatedly electrocuting the spider creature attacking them both.
Funny, Mettaton had always thought himself the center of attention. But watching events play out only reminded him that he was never important. He couldn't influence much after all, could he?
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He expects them to struggle and struggle they do. There is still a degree of intent and control over their every movement, even as the burning starts to settle into their veins, curdling in their organs, blistering and scarring every inch of them that has not been already converted into a warzone of blood sores and floral poison.
He lifts them up, and that allows them a window. They jerk abruptly in his grip, arms linking around his neck in a ruthless parody of the grasp he held over them just before. Their grip tightens like the jaws of a steel trap, a cold vice as they use it to bring their smile inches from one side of his head, an apposition of lips and whatever passes for a robotic ear.
There's an air of triumph to the words as they hiss them, soaked in madder:
"You're lying."
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At first, he didn't mind their struggling. Why wouldn't they struggle, they had struggled against his sympathy, his attempts to make them see reason, they had struggled against his anger...everything. All that Mettaton had tried to do, they seemed to find a problem with.
Trying to choke a robot was stupid of course, so he knew there was no real attempt there, and even if there had been, they would have to work harder than that. This form was but a puppet to the ghost inside. He wasn't even properly corporeal. Because he had died, and there was no way for him to fuse with the body permanently unless he felt a very strong positive emotion.
But the whisper in his ear, like Chara's telling him a filthy secret, it makes him stiffen, and his grip tightens around them, and he jerks on their legs, trying to shake them out of their position.
"Why are you doing this? You don't even have the right to judge me. What do you know of my conscience, you awful little human?!"
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The pupils of their eyes dilate abruptly until there might as well be twin pits of blackness stamped onto their face, great dark voids drooling a rotting liquid bilaterally from the places where their eyes once were.
"I think I have every right to judge you." If he wishes to truly carry them like some discarded thing, like the sack of garbage they are, then he will have to tolerate this every. Step. Of the way.
"You throw away a Mystery Key to pursue your dreams," says the child, their tone conversational, offhand. "You abandon your family in their time of need. I'm not sure why anyone would expect anything approaching loyalty from you."
When Asriel's statue was an afterthought, something to be thrown out into Waterfall like yesterday's trash, so that something new and shiny could be put up in its place.
Loyalty, it seems, is not Mettaton's specialty.
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He's grinding his teeth, trying not to lose his temper further.
"My family wanted for nothing when I left. Everything was fine. Do not talk to me about things you do not understand, much less what you have no right to judge me on--you don't. Because look at you--you don't even want to see your family, you're running from it and directly into death."
Little fucking shit, he wanted to say, but he bit his tongue on that.
Even still, Chara had found the weakness they claimed to have been searching for. One of many, though it's fortunate that they didn't seem to have knowledge of anything that had happened on the Moira. Not even the reason why Mettaton was wearing that tattered red scarf like it was his.
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They're still laughing, even as their fingernails scrape across his metallic exterior, the equivalent of fingers being dug into unresisting flesh. They cough, and something dark and crimson chokes its way out of their throat, smelling of blood and poison and rot. Something truly despicable, truly disgusting, as befits the shell from which it is generated.
"I'm sure they wanted for nothing," they say softly, the words burning a searing trail down their throat - or perhaps that is simply the poison, settling in. Either way. "They wanted for nothing so badly that they cried into the ground, alone and abandoned. They cried and cried for help."
Pathetic, they hissed in another time, in a snowy backdrop with a monster pressing its belly to the slushy dirt, utterly defeated. No one will ever love you the way you are.
But perhaps someone can LOVE you instead.
"Nobody came for them, of course," says the child, dismissively. "Nobody ever comes."
That's the first lesson you learn.
Nobody comes, and nobody ever will come.
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What, agonize over it? Like he's still doing? God, he really is a hypocrite, isn't he? But they don't know what he's thinking, they can't.
Oh, but of course they can. He knows who they are. He knows what they are, if only because he had watched and seen the world he loved unraveled before him, reduced to little more than numbers and values which he couldn't understand.
"..Why are you doing this?" he finally asks, not even bothering to finish his sentence. "What have I done to you to warrant such...vileness?!"
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1/?? stay tuned
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dONE
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