"I don't want to judge you, I'm not here to judge you," he says quietly, after what felt like an eternity in his own thoughts. He doesn't take heed (does he really ever) of the fact that his hand is at his neck again, gloved fingers scraping. Metal on metal.

He'd said that he wouldn't let them get to him, but that had been a lie. The more deeply they delved into the conversation, the less Mettaton could play pretend like he did with almost everything else in his life.

His eye affixes to their knife. Their shining weapon and its strange circular patterns. What a weird knife. Perfect for a weird little kid.

"Chara, I don't like you. I may never like you. But there are so few of us here, do you truly believe it worth our time to be on opposite ends of the board? I'm not an expert in anything, least of all any of your experiences..."

He glances down, his fingers tightening around his own neck. What was it about anymore, was it to ground himself? That's why he did this, to remind himself he wasn't on the Outpost, and to remind himself that he'll never, ever be forced to kill, kill, and kill again, even when it's someone he cares about.

For a moment, he considers using that as a point of understanding.