thisavrou_log | If God Was In Hell We Would All Be Dead [OPEN

Who: Who wants to kill some slavers? You do! Of course you do!
When: May 15th and onwards
Where: Slave trade outpost in the Runoff
What: The slavers that targeted the crew of the Moira in July are overdue for some justice. Chara breaks some regulations to make that happen. THIS IS A MINGLE LOG; anyone and everyone who wants to get in on this and kill some slavers is absolutely free to do so! Chara is relying on there being some chaos for this to work.
Warnings: PROBABLE DEATH. Probable references to slavery, trauma, and also death. Chara.

The Ingress opens to a spilling wash of gray and white, a monochrome cast of shadows and hard angles. The Runoff, it seems, is not a place of many colors; every inch of it is drab and washed out, cold and impersonal as the people who would employ such a place for their own twisted ends. A swirled nebula of stars glimmers overhead. It is night.

Knives are useful tools, but their reach is limited. A quiet transmission to the network, a select few messages delivered to a select few individuals, the hissing strike of a match igniting on the edge of a box. The place is angular and looks to be comprised of some sort of galactic equivalent of asphalt, likely inflammable. Still, it is entirely too dark. Too gray. Too poorly maintained. Tents and shabby establishments line the streets, places where, evidently, personal agency may be bought and sold on a whim.

It does not take long to find a structure of cloth and wood, and the whole of it soon emanates the rank, coppery tang of some interdimensional brand of gasoline.

Knives are useful tools. But they did not come with knives.

Or rather, they did not come only with knives.

One of the stalls is alight in a matter of moments. Red and gold tongues of flame gobbling the establishment whole, filling the place with both the color and light that it so lacked. Knobs of wood harvested from the wreckage form handy torches to set anything else aflame, to thoroughly raze the entire area to the ground, every stall and ship and vendor that supported and enabled the inflorescence of slave trafficking and slave keeping. Armed guards begin to converge on the disturbance at once. But small as said disturbance is, there is no guarantee that it will not come to grow.

That is, of course, where you come in.

One child alone cannot possibly take the entire place down, and flame can only take things so far. It is hardly enough when their aim is one of total destruction, however unrealistic an expectation that might be. They'll need help. Lots of it.

So won't you join the dance?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Perhaps the whole endeavor will end up doing him some good after all, will it not? He certainly seems to be enjoying himself in that wild-eyed, unnaturally loud, blazing way of his. As though he cannot wholly control the sheer scope and breadth of his capacity to inflict what must be a just reward to those who deserve it.

Perhaps, for once, he is witnessing things from the point of view of the child he so thoroughly disparages.

"I thought that maybe it would be more suited leveled to the ground." But what does he think? They are so ever dying to know.

It's dangerous to think of, even moreso to say aloud, so he won't. But Mettaton has long since ceased to be operating on his common sense. Ever since he'd stepped in here and found his courage to make the slavers pay, and to search fervently for his old owner, he hadn't been thinking clearly at all.

Everything about his actions speaks to a robot with nothing to lose. Or so he feels. He may yet regret this.

But not now, as evidenced by the way he cocks his hip, raising one hand in a flashy pose while he grins eerily.

"A wonderful idea--how shall we do it? Perhaps we can tear the supports down and run just quick enough to watch it topple? Or...more flames? Ahh, there are so many alternatives, I cannot possibly choose one!"

He laughs, and a hand goes to his chin, stroking it thoughtfully.

"It is good that there are plenty of structures to test such methods on, no? So perhaps we should flip a coin to start."

Flip a coin. Let the fates decide, because proceeding carefully and thoughtfully is a notion that has long since left him. There's no flashy performances here. No. Only the decisive and unrepentant murder of those who would claim themselves his master.

Perhaps it should be cause for alarm, the giddy elation painted across his features in a showman's dazzling sweep. A vastness to his glee, to his utter euphoria, that would indicate a genuine enjoyment of the agony he's begun to mete out in bold and variegated strokes.

A smile is a demonstration of enjoyment. One smiles when they've encountered something they love. Or something, perhaps, they LOVE. One smiles when things are going as planned, when things are going well, when there is a general sentiment of agreeing with what happens to be proceeding in the immediacy. They laughed, when they Fell. They laughed when the root hooked itself around their ankle and dislodged them, sent them plummeting, because was it not just like their experience with the world, that it would rob them of even the choice of in what manner they would meet their end! They laughed when a pie full of buttercups sent Asgore into shocks and tremors, spending weeks bedridden as he sweat and retched and wavered. They laughed when the plan began to work, when their throat was crusted with sores and the front of them itched and their fingertips bled and every inch of them was a rancid, sickening smear. They laughed when it all failed, when the best thing that ever happened to them collapsed and tumbled to dust.

They'd laughed because they're simply like this, because they find morbidity to be particularly humorous, because of course a creature, a freak like them, would find such things to be amusing! They'd laughed because they're lower than even the most reprehensible of human creatures, deriving pleasure from someone else's pain! They'd laughed as the world spiraled to its inevitable End in an infinite concatenation of 9s, when their own hollowness, their own brokenness, had leaked out from their eyes and mouth in rotting, thickening slurries.

He laughs.

Like it means nothing. Like he's enjoying it. Like it does not telegraph every inch of what he's endured, what he plans to enact in turn.

And Chara - they smile back, blithely, in turn.

"Fire can only take us so far, I've learned," says the child, nonchalant. "Structural integrity notwithstanding, metal does not burn."

Ha! That simple statement causes Mettaton to laugh once more, earnestly, as he holds his hands up. Almost like he's shrugging, when really he's just revealing his ungloved hands, the phalangial joints glimmering in the light and the claws glinting.

"You're right, it doesn't! I certainly didn't feel a thing!"

Not when he had been letting that creature incinerate under his grip, screaming and begging for release. Begging like he had, asking to be liberated. Crying for freedom.

But nobody came. How sad.

There's a sound nearby, the crunch of glass and other detritus being stepped on, and Mettaton's face becomes steely as he smoothly pivots on one foot, facing towards the source. They must think they were doing a good job of hiding, and maybe against anyone but him, that'd be true.

But he can hear better than any human and better than some monsters. He's quite the machine, if he does say. So he begins to walk towards the source...and as he does so, he can tell that they're nervous, but afraid to move.

"Eavesdropping is rude," he comments coldly, expecting Chara to know what he was doing and perhaps follow.

Wanton destruction of property could come after evaluating this person. Should they be collared, he'll let them free despite the screaming rage in his head blinding him to anything but abject violence. Because they would be like him, and deserved no retribution. Just freedom.

But God help them if their neck is bare.

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.

If God Was In Hell We Would All Be Dead [OPEN | MINGLE]

all good my dude

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