Metal does not burn, but it does fray, it does rot, it does desecrate under a firm enough stroke from a hand wielding an Empty Gun, more than capable of twisting its chassis apart with a curt depression of a button. I've read this already. Forgettable. Not worth talking to. Should have worked more on the defenses.

A peculiarity, to be aligned with such a thing after recalling its destruction in perfect, colorful detail, from the blaring stagelights to the unscripted, unstaged flare of orange and gold as the metallic shell imploded upon itself. A novelty, to not be spat upon, to not be regarded as the poisonous thing they are, simply because their goals, at the present moment, link across animosities. Amusing, is it not, how easily one compromises one's values once they are set to get what they want.

Someone draws close but trods on a bit of glass or metal, and the resounding tinkle gives away their position. They follow suit as Mettaton begins to creep upon them in turn, the Knife held evenly at their side.

Clasped in the culprit's hands is one of the many weapons the armed guards have been aiming and firing indiscriminately, even if, at the present moment, they appear unwilling to use it.

But they would be a fool to anticipate MERCY.