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inconsequence) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2017-04-23 09:41 pm
inconsequence) wrote in thisavrou_log2017-04-23 09:41 pm
Entry tags:
i just looked up the stats and the number of meaningful relationships ive formed [closed]
Who: Mettaton and Chara
When: 4/23, afternoon
Where: Outside the supermarket in Kauto R5
What: It's time to have a talk.
Warnings: Chara. Probable discussion of trauma and slavery. Will update if necessary.
And so, Mettaton wants a talk. He wants to disclose, and he will be disclosing. Why the sudden change of heart? Regardless of what the answer may be, they shunt it aside, dismissing it at once. It matters very little what inspired this stroke of diplomatic inspiration. It was something they did, no doubt. Something they said, something they engendered. They have that effect on people, it seems.
He's in luck that they're off-shift. They could have simply left him there to wait. But something - and they hesitate to label it as "curiosity," as that would imply them capable of something of which they are not capable - grants pause, and they concede with crisp reluctance that, in all likelihood, it concerns Asriel. He would be the single shared link between them. The single fulcrum that allows some manner of peaceful interaction, for a certain, very broad definition of "peaceful."
It matters very little, they have already decided.
They stand there, impassive, back ramrod straight, hands folded behind their back. They are still in their security uniform, Knife sheathed at their side. Hair unruffled. Not a stitch out place.
The very picture of control.
Unsurprisingly, they don't have long to wait.
When: 4/23, afternoon
Where: Outside the supermarket in Kauto R5
What: It's time to have a talk.
Warnings: Chara. Probable discussion of trauma and slavery. Will update if necessary.
And so, Mettaton wants a talk. He wants to disclose, and he will be disclosing. Why the sudden change of heart? Regardless of what the answer may be, they shunt it aside, dismissing it at once. It matters very little what inspired this stroke of diplomatic inspiration. It was something they did, no doubt. Something they said, something they engendered. They have that effect on people, it seems.
He's in luck that they're off-shift. They could have simply left him there to wait. But something - and they hesitate to label it as "curiosity," as that would imply them capable of something of which they are not capable - grants pause, and they concede with crisp reluctance that, in all likelihood, it concerns Asriel. He would be the single shared link between them. The single fulcrum that allows some manner of peaceful interaction, for a certain, very broad definition of "peaceful."
It matters very little, they have already decided.
They stand there, impassive, back ramrod straight, hands folded behind their back. They are still in their security uniform, Knife sheathed at their side. Hair unruffled. Not a stitch out place.
The very picture of control.
Unsurprisingly, they don't have long to wait.
no subject
He's hoping that, against all odds, they'll find a way in which to respect his boundaries and, even if it's only on this one subject, they can leave him in peace.
They indeed find themselves waiting for but a few moments before Mettaton appears. Whereas Chara is the picture of control and poise, Mettaton seems to be fronting just a little too hard. His steps are stiff and reluctant, and long before he's even come to their line of sight, his hand has already found its way to his neck, as if he had an unbearable itch that needed scratching.
Mettaton, of course, hasn't been in control for a very long time. This likely comes as no surprise.
When he sees them, his hand falls away, fingers still twitching even as his arm falls to his side.
"Punctual, are we? I feel so privileged."
He puts on a smile. It's only halfway forced.
"Hello, Chara."
no subject
As most such as himself are wont to do.
"Greetings," the child says, the word utterly neutral. A subtle inclination of their chin, almost tracking the motion of his hand as it drops. Almost, but not quite. Mettaton is a great many things, but one trait he seldom can lay claim to, even now, is subtlety.
"And to what do I owe this pleasure?"
no subject
He wasn't going to be subtle about that either. Didn't they value honesty, or something? Surely they didn't like hypocrites. So he was going to try his best not to somehow set off a conversation he'd rather not have.
"I called you here because we need to have a discussion about your proclivity for trying to get a rise out of me."
Mettaton puts a hand to his hip, trying to gain the higher ground before Chara can somehow use their words to rip away any advantage he had by starting this dialogue.
"I am aware that our relationship is...tenuous at best, and made worse whenever I bring up the well-being of anyone else. However, I'm coming to you for my own sake. Surely you can appreciate that." At that point he pauses temporarily, considering his next words carefully, gauging Chara for a reaction.
no subject
They stand, patiently, and they smile.
"I wouldn't consider yourself special; it seems I have that effect on people." Getting a rise out of them, as he so eloquently stated. It seems they are not so terribly easy to get along with. Imagine that!
Their eyebrows lift, an expression that does not communicate skepticism so much as it does concentrated disdain.
"Conversely, Mettaton, I would like to stress that, contrary to your apparent personal belief system, the world does not revolve around you, and it is patently impossible for me to care any less for your well-being than I already do."
Was that clear enough for you, rustbucket?
no subject
"Right. I'm aware that the world does not revolve around me. I'm genuinely concerned that, despite your apparent omniscience when it comes to typecasting monsters, you appear to harbor the delusion that I still do believe it does."
Probably not the nicest thing he could have said. But while they're still on the barest of civil straits (crumbling quickly, at that)...
"At any rate, I'm going to make one request, and I will not be making it again. I would appreciate deeply if you did not draw undue attention to any physical habits you've seen me exhibit."
He's pretty sure he doesn't have to overstate it; he only has one extremely unsubtle habit that he often doesn't notice himself taking part of, and that would be touching his neck whenever he's uncomfortable, nervous, or losing his sense of self.
no subject
"I'm simply commenting on a simple observation," the child intones with a noncommittal cant of their head. Surely they can appreciate that he is utterly self-involved to the point that approaching them with the pronouncement that this conversation is completely and entirely within the limits of his own limited interests is to be viewed as a boon to them, because that is simply the sort of person that he is.
He's quite good at the economy of language, at couching his intent in phrases such as physical habits and undue attention. Winding a sprawl of polysyllables about the center of his intent. A similarity between them, perhaps, if they were predisposed to lend a modicum of focus to such things.
"Such as the fact that you seem to be attempting to strangle yourself in your spare time?" Chara says with complete neutrality.
It does serve one best to be specific.
no subject
Mettaton's fists clench, and he's trying hard, so hard, not to lose his cool. It's hard, because Chara has a way of simplifying his problems to the point that even he questions whether he, as an individual, matters in the least.
It's frustrating, especially since he spends a fair portion of the day reminding himself he's not some slaver's lapdog, only to then clarify to himself that he's not a sham of a person who doesn't have any place in his own world, much less this one.
"It's something I can't help, and you are not making it easier," he manages past gritted teeth. He's sure that Chara would probably laugh to think that he's attempting to ascribe the emotions of a regular human to him.
That they should care. What a joke, right?
"Surely you can understand that the reasoning is complicated and let the matter go. What harm would it do you to acquiesce to this one little favor?!"
no subject
Yet.
"I'm not in the habit of making promises when it isn't clear what it is I am agreeing to," they retort, the words filed into perhaps a sharper point than is strictly intentional. Who does he think they are, exactly - Sans?
They have more than baseless words and meaningless promises. Barely, vaguely, but they have more than that. They have a lifted chin and a pair of red irises and an unblinking challenge of a stare, and they have a single word that hisses out into the dead air:
"Why?"
no subject
He's going to have to tell them, isn't he? Just to get them to understand, he'll have to tell them, and that was something Mettaton did not feel safe doing. To explain to them what had happened on the Outpost was tantamount to suicide, or at least that's what he feels, because with every sliver of information they've gotten on him thus far, they've found a way to get so far under his metaphorical skin that he wants to scratch his own plating off.
"Because, dammit!! Because I said that you should!!"
Right. Yeah, that'll get them to agree.
Fuck.
Fuck!
"I don't want to be called out on something that I cannot help doing! It's a reminder, alright?!" he snaps. "That I'm not someone else's puppet. Sometimes I need that reminder!!"
no subject
Their feet.
The words emerge with an excruciating abruptness, almost strangled, as though it physically pains him to speak them. They are fine, and they are smiling, and they are in control. They are in control.
And the words someone else's puppet whip-crack across their ears and
They are in control.
And his voice has pitched in the way that indicates a sense of desperation as he frantically gives that up.
Someone else's puppet.
They are
They are in control.
They are smiling, and
Someone else's
And they are in control.
They have gone still, stiller than is typical for them, eyes locked on his, smile frozen, seizing it, holding it, determined not to let it slip. Do not slip. Do not slip. They are in control. They are smiling. They are in control.
They speak. Slowly, deliberately. Draw the words out with the gravitas they deserve.
"What," says Chara, closing the "t" with cold snap of teeth, "do you mean by puppet. Exactly."
It is not a question.
no subject
It's always an act, right?
Except when it isn't, and when he has to force the words out because that is just as much as reminder of his existence. He just has to rationalize.
It takes him a moment, but Mettaton finally steels himself to speak on this matter. Chara's imperious tone suggests that maybe, just maybe, they're taking this seriously. Whether for his sake or heir own, or hell, someone else's! He doesn't care.
"What I mean is slave," he clarifies quietly, the words bitter and sickening. "Before you ever got here, that is what I was subjected to."
For a moment, Mettaton's attention breaks, and he glances around, as if he fears some sort of retribution or unwanted judgment for talking about this. But no one's listening. Of course they aren't. He doesn't matter half as much as he wishes he does.
"Months ago, several of us were enslaved in some backwater place called the Outpost. There, many of us were fitted with collars. Like animals."
With increased fervor, his gloved fingers begin to scratch at the segments of his neck, as if somehow they're representative of that awful shackle around his throat. He's so incredibly uncomfortable talking about this that Chara would have to be dense not to understand.
"I have never hidden my enjoyment of violence for entertainment purposes, as I'm sure you may be aware. But after what I almost did to Frisk, I could never bring myself to kill someone senselessly. In self defense, and even in revenge for the life of a loved one, I could make the excuse. I cannot make the excuse for what I did on that planet...except for one thing.
That collar, Chara. That thing had a very horrid function. If I did not comply to the orders of my owner, then they'd do it for me. They'd move me. They'd murder for me."
With me.
Mettaton shakes his head. Once he had started down the path, he couldn't really stop himself from talking about it. Let Chara take advantage and he'd kill them too, not because he wanted to. But because he had to; he couldn't bear another needle in such a sensitive subject, and that he had even thought to trust him was so, so foolish...
"So please. This is all I ask of you...please grant me this one, brief respite."
no subject
"Slave," it turns out, have a very specific connotation.
A hand going to his neck, to the phantom clamp of a collar. A restlessness to his gaze, the way his eyes dart about, the way he glances at the streamlined passage of nameless, faceless denizens passing by, unbothered, as though expecting one of them to apprehend him at any moment. The itch boiling in every nervous twitch, in the way he picks his words carefully, steps delicately around the marrow of the issue as though terrified to give it a name.
Naming a thing makes it real, after all. Naming a thing lends it permanence.
They are in control.
And they are no longer smiling.
A hissing intake of breath, short and sharp, and their eyes narrow by increments. Their throat convulses, bobbing in an effort to swallow back the burn of bile weaseling its way up their esophagus. Schooling their expression into stillness, as though the words don't eat at their heart when they manage to force them into the empty air, as though their breathing has not frayed at the edges, growing ragged the longer the thought nestles there. Asriel, about whom Frisk had said had experienced terrible, terrible things in their absence, without anyone to protect him. Asriel, who keeps food beneath his bed, as though scared it will be snatched away, who had always questioned Chara's impulse to do the very same in those idyllic, sepia-toned days when he wasn't quite sure what to make of them. Asriel, cheerfully attempting to redirect a conversation away from jokes of a bodily nature. Asriel, quieter and more subdued than he's any right to be, because his childhood was stolen from under him by a murderous, disgusting, overzealous mistake of a child, dropped into a world that treated him no better.
Like an animal with a collar.
"Asriel," says Chara, low and dark and oozing with a very singular purpose, "dealt with the same. Did he not?"
no subject
He can't expect it from Chara. Especially not with what he intends to tell them.
"Asriel didn't deserve it...!! I tried so hard, you must believe me. I was chained--even if I took the muzzle off, I couldn't stop them from taking him again, I couldn't...!!"
Clearly, he carries a lot of guilt on his shoulders for having freed Asriel for a few seconds, only for the boss monster to be caught again, starved because his slaver thought all he'd need to subsist would be garbage. Worked heartlessly like a beast of burden. All because Asriel was an animal. He looked like a beast in their eyes, and suddenly his childhood hadn't mattered.
"I'm sorry. He...he has endured so much..."
no subject
And you, Chara.
And you.
You turned it all into a sick joke. Made horrible, dancing wordplay about necks and heads and watched the way Mettaton's fingers would twitch in a spasmodic, almost hypnic jerk with an unconscious verve, gleefully overriding Asriel's attempts to redirect, because this is what they're capable of, isn't it? This is what they do to the things they love, to the things they LOVE, because this is the language they speak, isn't it, the cruelty of a joke pushed too far and a blind eye when it comes to something they should have known and noticed a long, long time ago.
Their control, their posture, their careful smile and measured words, have begun to spin out from beneath them. Because they took that pain and levered against everyone else's, burned it into their necks, and felt that this was fine, and this would be grand, and this would be entertaining for everyone.
Since when?
Since when were they ever the one in control, even now, even now?
An acidic cling to the roof of their mouth, and again they have to swallow. Suck in a quiet breath that sounds like a popping vacuum seal to their ears, wondering, waiting for any of the inconsequential passersby to stop and pin them with a quizzical glance.
The external judgment that never comes. Never visibly comes. An important, a vital distinction.
"He has." The words are little more than a dulled rasp in the back of their throat. As though they've gone back to their roots and swallowed a fresh fistful of buttercups.
Perhaps more than he knows.
"Frisk," says Chara, as though they haven't been derailed by that admission alone, as though they are still in control, as though their smile does not sting the edge so their mouth and cut into their cheeks. "Frisk wouldn't say - how bad it was."
no subject
For a while, he didn't think anyone cared. If it hadn't have been for Papyrus, Kyoko, and Rinzler, then he and Asriel might have been doomed to remain the playthings of aliens and far-spread humans. Because...haha. Wasn't Asriel's owner a human? That only made it worse. Asriel had found it so hard to trust after that. Mettaton remembers.
He'd been there. He'd grown so close to Asriel that even he realizes that his own well-being is just as tied to the young boss monster than any of his other coping mechanisms are. Only they could talk about this in earnest. How could they depend on anyone else who did not understand?
"Frisk couldn't come because Toriel forbade them. As well she should have. It would only end up with Frisk being enslaved as well," he says quietly. As he speaks, his fingers close around his neck, doing what he insisted wasn't "trying to strangle himself" when deep down...he sometimes considered what it might be like.
"Chara. You know that no one is to blame but those slavers, right? Not Frisk. Certainly not Asriel. Those disgusting traffickers are to blame."
He deliberately leaves himself out of the list of those who aren't to blame. He can't ever believe that he wasn't at least partially responsible for this. If he hadn't been distracted by the fact that he was no longer fused with his body, and if he hadn't been dealing with the increase of a certain number, then maybe he would have been able to ward off the slavers before they had rendered him unconscious for long enough to shackle him and make him their plaything.
Maybe then he wouldn't feel as if the blood seeping through his fingers, into the joints, into his very being had changed him permanently. Maybe it would wash away easier if he hadn't been drenched in so much...
"But we never have to go back. H-haha, that's what I say to Asriel; we're safe here, we will never need to go back."
no subject
Are they not a security risk? Are they not a potential threat, should they ever come here? Are they not a danger to the lives of those on Thisavrou, an affront to any policies of self-liberation that may be, that probably are set in place?
"You think that I would?" They issue the words in an icy, streamlined hiss, gauging him from beneath lowered brows as he runs his fingers along the metallic grooves of his neck. Reminding himself that he isn't merely property. Reminding himself that he possesses an agency that was once denied to him. Funny, how one only comes to appreciate that sort of freedom once it has been stripped from them. Funny, how one could potentially live and grow with the idea that no one is ever born deserving something as personal as agency stuck fast in their throat.
He would have never posited it if he felt it was not necessary. Would he.
No.
The words, when they come, may as well be gloved in iron.
"You think that I would find him guilty of his own enslavement."
no subject
Probably surprisingly, Mettaton doesn't press the issue as he usually would, but he does look legitimately regretful for having made Chara feel in any way that they presented themselves as someone who would blame the affected.
Maybe they can understand, or maybe they can't, but Mettaton has found himself lacking the courage to engage in most social situations, because he's terrified of making someone misinterpret him. Like now.
"I'm sorry. I should not have said it. It is beyond rude of me to think that you'd ever believe it's their faults. No one asks to be abused."
no subject
Well, golly! Guess he would know, wouldn't he? No one asks for it, except when they so clearly, obviously, cleanly do! No one asks for it, but it's different where a little hellion is concerned, is it not? He bares that vulnerability to them, halting, as though anticipating - what? Sympathy? Understanding?
"That's what they all say," says Chara, curtly. Vague platitudes seldom cover the true depths of that evisceration, nor would it enable anyone's patience or sickening pity. As long as they are here now, as long as they are the horrible thing they are, as long as they are a hellion, inexcusable, and as long as they will not seek to subluxate him emotionally with his own vices and impulses again - they may as well seek what they can find. They may as well glean what they can, while they still can.
"This Outpost," they add, after a silence. "It is still out there."
It is not a question either. That Outpost is still out there and, conceivably, within Ingress reach.
Is it not.
no subject
Mettaton doesn't think too hard about the fact that Chara's shunting him off again. He'd said his part. He was probably going to abscond from this conversation very soon, because he couldn't take much more of dealing with them. Not because he didn't want to eventually tolerate them better.
But they don't want to tolerate him. And he's got his own mental state to worry about.
"But yes. It is out there. I could not imagine anyone going there of their own will at this point."
Which is his way of suggesting that Chara does not. But they won't listen to him regardless. Still, he wouldn't wish this fate upon them.
no subject
One hand condenses into a fist, knuckles drawing tight, and then flexes out again in a bracing pull of fingers and whitening muscle.
"I see," says Chara. Even, dispassionate, impartial. With perfect control of their facial expression and all related facilities. Inscrutable. As it should be.
Look Mettaton dead in the face. Empty. Devoid of expression. Tone clipped and hollow and emotionless, the sealing of an unspoken contract.
"Was there anything else you wished to discuss, sir?"
no subject
Even Chara would be able to see how empty Mettaton looked. He didn't want their sympathy, but he'd at least hoped that for one moment they would stop treating him as inconsequential. Like a stinking pile of offal kept too close to the civilized people, when it should have long since been disposed of. No one wants to see that kind of thing. It's...disgusting. He's disgusting.
"Just bear it in mind next time you want to make a joke."
He closes his eye, turning away from Chara and moving to retreat. They wouldn't care. They'd probably find some way to fault him for that as well.
"Goodbye, Chara. Thank you for listening."
no subject
Revulsion coils slickly in the pit of their stomach, tightening like a noose, contracting their heart in a painful pulse of a reminder. A reminder that, despite everything, despite the image of stability and the appearance of a settling life, they still are and always will be - this. This thing that does nothing but reignite a wire-work of unwanted memories, blazing a cold trail around someone's neck, garroting a loop tight about everything they wished to ignore.
A thorn in everyone's side. Now and forever.
A thorn in his.
Bear it in mind, Chara. Observe, if you will, the way he thanks you, a veil of politeness over what must be a patronizing slant to the words, condescending them for their reckless, ruthless excoriation of the history he and Asriel both have been desperately straining to avoid. Bear it in mind, Chara, next time you want to make a joke. Bear it in mind, next time you prey upon someone's inability to contain the twitch in their fingertips, the pull of a hand about their neck. Bear it in mind, because you - you did this.
You did this.
They bid him no goodbyes.
They watch him leave, ensure that he has exited the scene, and they turn on their heel and depart.