thisavrou_log | [open] Perfect weather for a game of catch.

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[open] Perfect weather for a game of catch.

Who: Frisk, Asriel, Chara, and YOU
When: Sssssssometime this month, wibbly wobbly have fun with it
Where: A park in Kauto R1
What: Kids having a picnic, what could be better?
Warnings: Chara, will be updated as needed

It's been a long trip.

Definitions of 'long' are a little variable, but all three children have been anxious to see an end to their travels. It didn't start when they crossed through the Ingress, but long before that.

Someone climbed a mountain for an unhappy reason.

Someone carried a body to a field of golden flowers.

Someone took a long journey, just wanting to live their life.

But now they've come, not to The End, but an end. It's not perfect, not quite what any of them were expecting. But it's better, it's theirs, and...they can stay. What it means to each child, what they think of it and what they have to say, it all varies. But no one and nothing can or will take this from them.

The three of them are gathered together in a park. Birds are singing, flowers are blooming...a blanket is laid out on the grass, and in a cooler drinks and snacks are kept on hand. A few toys lay nearby, but it seems that for now the trio is content enough to relax and talk amongst themselves. Smiles adorn their faces (though one face in particular wears theirs a little sharply), and the scene is...nice. This is nice.

Even if they may not agree, they have long since earned this respite.

(( ooc: Feel free to come and pester the kiddos! Everyone will be responding separately, though there may be threadjacking or some doubling up. Have fun! ))

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Cunning? No. Misunderstanding? Yes. But if there's no opposition, he'll just keep going with it. It is sort of absurd in a way. How many people he has to juggle and look after. And then still be expected to look after himself.

How does anyone have time for that?

"Or stubbornness. I'll be honest with you, I don't know which it is, some days."

Metal fingers gesture toward Asriel and Frisk.

"So... maybe I'm biased. But they seem like decent kids, in comparison."

Decent kids. That is, in and of itself, its own joke. They couldn't stop laughing. That ugly sound ripping from their throat that they do not register immediately as anything but the awful, hateful impulse it is; that laugh that shakes their shoulders, stretches their composure into a thinning veneer.

It is in moments like these - moments of laughter, of that giddy, sickening reflex that curdles out from their throat - that they know they must be that hateful thing they claim they are, that they know they are. What sort of creature laughs at another person's pain? What sort of abomination hates every inch of itself? It knows, unquestionably, that it is utterly beyond redemption, some demonic hiccup, a cosmic joke spat out across the face of a world that does not want or require them, and never did. A blight, a ravaging thing that takes too much, too fast, and in doing so destroys every inch of what should have been pure and unsullied.

They are decent kids, he says.

They are decent kids, he says.

Which one, they wish to demand, breathless with horrid mirth, do you think is better? The one that spun the world back to its beginning, again and again, until they got the result they liked best? Oh wait, they would have to clarify, that refers to both of them! The one they turned into a soulless anomaly of a weed that ruined people's lives simply because he could, because he was desperate to feel something, anything, even if it was enjoyment at the behalf of everyone's suffering? The one they led along a dusty, barren path, hunting down monsters step for step until the Underground went empty?

They are decent kids, he says!

Don't make them laugh.

They are decent kids.

They couldn't stop laughing.

But stop they do, eventually. They stop. They are nearly doubled over, an icy exterior overflowing with an unpleasant stream of insincere, awful, awful laughter. They stop. They stop.

They just

Stop.

Rearrange their features into something pleasant, and polite. Smile. Smile, and breathe as though they have not just heard the worst and funniest thing they have heard in a long time.

"Yes," says Chara, their tone far too thin and airy, their careful, polished poise fraying into nothing with such despicable ease that it is, quite frankly, cruel. "Yes. They are - decent kids. No doubt."

Housemates is a location-status, no hint of value either way. The second term, though, draws a quiet skip of Rinzler's sound. He stares down at the user, hesitating before adding a line for confirmation. Charges.

Allies?

Allies implies equality where none exists. They do not allow for contemplation - that would likewise imply that his words have weight, that they have affected them in some fashion, and they will deny such a claim for every inch, every mile.

And so they smile, blithely, and speak without inflection. He appreciates technical phraseology, does he not?

"Handlers."

That Rinzler does. Still, of all the specific terms he might have expected... that hadn't made the list. For Chara as relates to others? Maybe. For Chara as relates to them?

The mask twitches slightly to one side, unspoken challenge. Chara appreciates directness, no?

They don't think so.

Directness. Certainly they can appreciate a question, a statement, posed without needless dancing about the subject. They've experience with far too many monsters and humans who favor evasion as a tactic, whenever possible.

"Of course they don't." A subtle undercurrent of scorn, an inclination of their chin - quiet, casual acknowledgment. "They are idealistic to a fault."

Mettaton takes a seat while the kids chatter. He is listening of course, and he's happy that they've found a nice home to settle into. He, of course, was still not moved out of the Ingress complex, if only because he's taking his time adjusting.

Taking things at his own pace is probably for the best. Besides, he's a robot, what's the worst that could happen?

"Oh, hahaha," he offers at Chara's pun. Ridiculous, it wasn't even a good one. But he doesn't linger on it. "At any rate, it appears you have all sorted out living arrangements, very good!! But what about day to day activities? That is, do you plan to seek employment? I'd suggest that as silly, but I know you all better!"

He assumes they are all determined to succeed...and yet...

"Of course, it goes without saying that if you need help with absolutely anything, you need only ask!!"

Not the answer he'd projected. But not worse. And certainly not wrong. Rinzler stares a moment before dipping his own head... and following the motion with a forward roll off of his perch. It's too slow for an attack, but there's an eerie fluidity, body inverting with the same ease most humans would walk down the street. And probably the same amount of practice.

He lands in a crouch. Straightens, most of the way, to his usual close hunch. There's no effort to close the gap further, but the program doesn't lag in reaching for his TAB.

Protecting them.

Their reaction is immediate and terse, the tensing of their back and their shoulders and the stiffening of their smile in anticipation for an exchange of blows. No bullet patterns here, they have since learned - people favor rather more direct movements, it seems.

He only seeks to move closer. They do not retreat, and they do not balk. They hold themself where they are, ramrod-straight, and it is only once his words reach them that they take note of how their hand has fallen to the hilt of the Real Knife, fingers curling about the pommel in an unconscious, nervous gesture.

To release it now would suggest such a motion was unintentional. They have lost ground, taken a hit.

They recover with masterful simplicity, lips peeling in a wide, unnatural grin.

"Perhaps I am merely waiting for their most vulnerable moment."

Totally normal! Not weird at all to be followed in the shadows by a questionably violent older male. Happens to them all the time!

Frisk's head cocks to the side curiously, their brows furrowing together. "You coulda just asked, though. We're doin' okay! We got a house together, 'n we've got enough money to last for a little while." Not forever, Frisk knows they'll need to find work soon, but they have a safety net at least. It's an uncommon boon, for them.

"What 'bout you? Did you find a place?"

"Oh." Boy, does Frisk ever know about situations like that. They hesitate for a moment before getting up and moving over so they can pat Shiro on the arm with a sympathetic smile. "Um, 'f you need help gettin' them t' get along, I could try t' help? I'm kinda good at that."

"Chara!"

Frisk wriggles and jumps down from Reinhardt's shoulder, landing heavily on the grass with a grunt before hurrying after Chara.

"You don't have t' go! We'll stop makin' fun, okay? I promise!"

Reinhardt isn't a stranger to that sort of look. It reminds him of the omnics. Of those that were taken over by violence. Those who knew only the war. It's strange to see it from a child.

He returns it as mildly as someone his massive size can. Allowing Frisk to take the lead.

"You have my apologies once again, Chara. On my honor, I am sorry to have upset you."

So very hasty to mend that which cannot be mended, are they not? They pivot, neatly, on their heel to face the pair of them, polite and even of tone.

"I think I have spoiled an otherwise lovely day quite enough." Their smile sits on an angle askew, bizarrely sincere despite the utter lack of honesty behind its formation. "Enjoy your picnic."

"If they're still arguing by the time I get back... maybe."

It's not that he doubts Frisk, specifically. More he doubts literally anything being able to get through to those two. He's tried. And now he's tired.

"You make people get along often?"

Okay, well. That sets his teeth on edge. That is something familiar that grates up his spine and along down to the wiring replacing nerves in his right hand. Conjures up imagery of other twisted smiles. Trapped behind glass. Mocking. Panic flooding every inch of him until he couldn't think clearly and --

No.

That face is gone. Dead. It won't be coming back.

He has to stop. Focus. There's sun and grass. There are birds (or bird aliens) singing. Flowers. This isn't the Castle. He's not trying to interrogate a tube, an old enemy he couldn't remember. Sendak is dead. Gone.

He feels cold when he pulls himself back. Staring across the space to where the presumed child is still. Now he knows why it felt like something was passing under their words -- because it was. But... why? Why would a kid remind him so strongly of ... ?

"Something you want to share with the class?"

Dry and quick. Like he never lost control for a moment. Like he never slipped at all.

Chara keeps bringing up those neck puns and there's a barely noticeable moment of silence from Asriel, as if he's trying to figure out the meaning. Neck as in... Mettaton touching his neck a lot?

There's a little smile of uncertainty. Certainly, Mettaton wasn't the only one who sometimes felt like there was a weight on his neck.

"Well, we just started living there. We didn't really plan that far a-head yet."

It's purposely not a neck pun, but it is a response to Chara's pun. He glances in Mettaton and Frisk's directions with a small smile to see if either one of them approve of it. And then he glances back to Chara, sticking out his tongue a bit in a playful gesture. A gesture that seems to be an attempt to grab at a moment in time before flowers, souls, and plans.

But the gesture still manages to feel misplaced and awkward, even to Asriel.

"I'd like to continue piloting, but I dunno if I can do still do that here."

Asriel got his transporter pilot job easily thanks to Rinzler and his training. And the Captains didn't seem to care to much either. But here, things seemed a way different. And it didn't look like piloting would be much of a thing here.

"Where are you staying, Mettaton?"

Perceptive as a small, silent, cruel thing they may be, they are too breathless, too frantic to reclaim that which has been lost, to catch his drifting and snapping back to himself.

But - smile. Smile and do not laugh, because nothing is wrong. Nothing at all! Work everything back into its core, into its CORE, and condense it into the center like something molten. Do not slip, not for a moment.

They know what happens at one's most vulnerable moment.

"Oh," says Chara, far too breezily, with not nearly enough dullness and flatness that would indicate a complete and utter lack of interest, "I just remembered something funny!"

Bright and quick. Like they never lost control for a moment. Like they never slipped at all.

The freeze doesn't escape Rinzler's notice. Neither does the weapon. Both reactions are reasonable—not sensible, perhaps, but certainly preferable to cowering. He doesn't react, replying to their words instead of gesture.

Will kill you if you do.

There's no posturing. No threat. Just a statement of fact, red-orange letters hovering implacably in the air. Or intent, if Chara prefers—but there's not a fraction of lag or uncertainty in the enforcer's noise or frame. In Rinzler's mind, at least, capability isn't something worth debating.

Their intention is, but the taunt has already made it clear enough straight answers won't be coming. Chara can talk around him in circles, and Rinzler has no interest in that kind of Game. He adds another line without pausing for acknowledgement.

Request data.

And thus, they learn two things - the first, that he has evidently formed quite an attachment to the pair of them. The second, that he has no apparently moral qualms with playing the hero and slaying the demon.

Who would? Everyone would thank him, would they not?

He does not acknowledge, and neither do they. They are and always have been an acceptable loss. They could have a SOUL or they could have a future; they could never possess both. To assume such would change, even here, would be

Absurd.

"And what sort of data would that be?"

Asking is for other people. People with tact, social skills... or a little less concern about some recent editing. Rinzler doubts Frisk would understand everything he's watching for, and their trying might well make the problem worse.

Still, tact is probably the bigger issue. Or at least a more frequent one.

The black helmet ducks in a nod. He has! It has a door and everything.

No current threats?

"No damage." Asriel pauses, feeling a little awkward. "No... new damage. I'm settling in with Frisk and Chara."

No disk-breaking, no run-ins with dangerous people or aliens. Just a quiet day, out in the sun and fresh air. It's too perfect, in a way. He should relax and appreciate it more, he knows, but it's hard to accept this so easily. It doesn't feel real at all.

"It's... really quiet, compared to everywhere we've been so far. What about your status?"

"I don't buy that."

There could be a lot of annoyance in the sentence. He could say it sternly. Bordering on a lecture. On something potentially commanding. But he doesn't. It doesn't. It comes out tired.

The voice of someone who's too used to making excuses of his own. Who does make those excuses, because he can't slip. He has to stay in control of himself. To command himself.

And others.

"But I'm not going to make you talk about it, unless you want to."

They slipped. They slipped, and he has the receipts to show for it. Irritatingly clumsy of them, to make such an elementary error. They could press back with equal or greater emphasis, a flash of teeth or twin melting streams of black dribbling from the empty pits of their eyes, streaking their cheeks with a sickening, tarlike substance.

But.

They would pushing too hard, would they not, emphasizing the fact that they slipped at all.

No.

They will play the Game they have always played, with a knife's edge of a smile and a willingness to match every word thrown their way, step for step, and skewer each one with SOUL-red contempt.

"How very magnanimous of you."

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