thisavrou_log | [closed]

Entry tags:

[closed]

Who: Mettaton and anyone crashing in Rinzler's home, including Rinzler because it is his home.
When: Backdated to 6/10
Where: Rinzler's condo
What: It is time to die from monster sadness.
Warnings: Character death

It's been days since Mettaton's moved. All he'd done lately was sit, charge, and feel sorry for himself. The few conversations he did have all ended rather quickly and his words became progressively more impassive and lacking in any conviction...but to his credit, despite the encroaching despair, Mettaton did try to hold out until he was alone.

He tried to hold on just long enough that no one was around...and now that everyone was exploring the new Earth, it seemed a proper moment.

No one had to see him like this, see him close his eye, go slack, and start to give in.

You can't move anymore. But you don't have to, he tells himself. It doesn't make him feel better, but maybe Asriel and Frisk won't have to see a sad, pathetic excuse for a monster die this way, and that does assuage him, even as his SOUL begins to fracture and give in. It's fine, he'll keep telling himself that.

He'll keep telling himself he isn't afraid like the last time, and that he didn't regret this...

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Asriel had explored a little bit of the new planet, and in a day or two he'd head back. But he's come to regularly check on Mettaton, trying to keep the robot company as much as he can. He... knew Mettaton's time was coming up. Sometimes Asriel was too afraid of leaving the house, in case he'd come back and no one would be there.

It was a little like waiting for Chara's final moments. Knowing that Mettaton would be back didn't make it easier, just like knowing that having Chara with him when they'd go to the Surface didn't make their death any easier.

Asriel's coming back from a brief shopping trip - because he, Frisk, and Chara still need to eat. As he opens the door, he looks in a little anxiously. Was he still...?

"Mettaton? ... I'm back."

Edited 2017-06-12 05:23 (UTC)

Of course it had to happen this way. But nonetheless, Mettaton's eye sluggishly opens, tracking towards the sound of Asriel's voice, and a grimace crosses his features.

"Asriel...don't stay," he says quietly. "You don't need to see this."

The fissures in his SOUL spread. Please...don't look at him die, Asriel. You don't deserve to see this.

Even if Mettaton didn't speak, Asriel can tell his time is almost up. He's scared. He knew it was coming, but still...

Asriel steps more into the room, slowly, afraid that the closer he gets, the faster he'll fade.

"N-no, it's... it's okay." It wasn't. "You don't have to do this alone, okay?"

"But...I didn't want you to see...!!"

Mettaton tries to shake his head, but he doesn't have it in him to do it, and just the sheer effort strains his SOUL.

"Oh, Asriel. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for everything," he murmurs quietly. "Just...if you're going to stay...please just. Come closer. Please..."

It's too late. But he should be here, right? He won't leave. He can't.

"... No, don't apologize. Please."

Asriel tries to be reassuring, but he can't. His voice breaks a little, but he does as he's told. He walks forward, sitting down in front of Mettaton. Making sure that he knows he's not alone for this.

"We're in this together."

"I...hah. I shouldn't be happy that you're here. I tried to hold...hold myself together until you weren't here, because I..."

Was afraid. Felt selfish dying in front of Asriel.

"At least what family I have is here," he finally says, trying his hardest to relax. It's not successful, because knowing you're going to die doesn't really take the edge off the nerves, does it?

"Did you know...Kyoko kept me company the last time I died? H-heh, I hope you don't go after--"

He grimaces once more; now it's nearly cleaved in two, the glowing representation of himself. The pink comprising it has faded to a dull mauve at this point, and the cracks show starkly against the less luminescent glow.

"Wait for me," he begs, and with as much effort as he can muster, his arm reaches out slowly, desperately seeking out Asriel's.

His SOUL shatters midway into the attempt, and any light and weight in that body goes completely lifeless. It looks as if he's just lost battery power, but the small collection of dust in his core paints a different story.

Asriel reaches out for his hand as he struggles, but he's gone by the time he brushes against his fingers. His form goes limp, there's dust collecting in his core.

"Mettaton?"

Asriel shakes him, but he knows there won't be a response. It doesn't stop him from trying, calling out his name desperately a few more times.

Don't be sad, Asriel. He told you not to be. And you shouldn't be, because after all...

Didn't you help him reach this ending?

He's alone now. But that's fine. He leans forward, curling in and breaking into loud, heaving sobs.

Rinzler doesn't know the entertainer. He doesn't, in all honestly, like Mettaton overmuch. Their brief encounter on the outpost had revealed startling competency in a fight, but the robot was still disgustingly self-centered, a glib-voiced liar that seemed incapable of shutting up. When Frisk and Asriel hauled the inactive shell into his quarters, Rinzler hadn't objected, but he certainly hadn't been pleased.

Not an issue any longer, he supposes.

Rinzler lingers on the balcony, lightjet baton still closed in his left hand. He can feel the signature gutter and flare out—not all, not the code, but the tangled spark that had brought life to it. He can hear the sobbing, desperate wail that comes up in its wake.

Asriel.

He should... be there.

The baton slides back into place, and a few quick taps deactivate the force field. Rinzler steps through soundlessly, only the quiet ticking rumble to announce his presence as he steps up behind the beta. The black helmet tips, examining the empty shell, before returning to Asriel. Hesitantly, a hand lifts up, to settle on the beta's shoulder.

He never liked the entertainer. But he's... sorry. That Asriel did.

Asriel feels a hand settle on his shoulder, and it takes all of his willpower not to flinch away from some unknown threat. He doesn't have to turn around to see who it is, the ticking is enough to clue him in.

He wipes his face, turning his head a little towards Rinzler.

"I couldn't stop it..."

Asriel lowers Mettaton's hand, letting it fall limply.

"I wonder at this rate, if I'm gonna lose them all."

His family. His family that seems all too eager for self-destruction.

As quickly as Asriel controls himself, the tension beneath the fragile point of contact is impossible to miss. Mistake. (And why had he thought otherwise? Rinzler would hardly react better himself. Stupid error; not his function—)

None of this is. The touch withdraws as quickly and lightly as it landed, personal space carefully confined as Rinzler shakes his head. Asriel won't. This one had been weak, degrading (and without even a reason Rinzler could assess). Chara and Frisk are stronger than that. Asriel is stronger (and he needs to be) (and Rinzler promised he would keep him safe).

Some of that, he shouldn't say, but Rinzler isn't sure at all how much. A hand hovers over his TAB, but Rinzler doesn't activate it yet. He's much better at listening than talking. (Much better at killing than either.) Easier to let Asriel decide what he needs to say.

Asriel keeps staring pitifully at the broken mess in front of him. The one that he, undoubtedly must have helped cause. Mettaton had confessed that he nearly sliced open his own neck, and instead of calming him down... Asriel completely freaked out on him, told him he'd fix it...

He can't fix anything.

The broken robot in front of him was proof of that. The murdered man laying in a pool of blood somewhere on the Outpost was proof of that. What was his purpose then, if he was so useless at everything?

"Do you think he could be fixed?" Asriel mumbles lightly, already feeling like he knows the answer. The dust in Mettaton's core can't be "fixed", but Asriel always did have a problem with letting things go.

"Maybe Clu knows how?"

He did fix Asriel after all. Maybe a little too well.

Not the question Rinzler had expected. It leaves him lagging a little, staring a little, from both calculation and unease. The Savrii could fix it. Would, presumably, once the body was turned in. Was that what Asriel had meant?

Rinzler's helmet cocks a little, sharp with inquiry as he activates his TAB... only to still. Freeze.

...

Clarify association: Clu.

Asriel rubs his eyes again, looking at Rinzler's TAB.

"He... he fixes everything, right?" There's no doubt of it in Asriel's mind. He trusts Clu with his very existence.

"Back in July, he fixed my disk to keep my chest from turning into glass. I'd be in a lot of trouble if it weren't for him."

Not that Asriel knows that Clu made a very extra changes.

He fixes everything.

Rinzler doesn't laugh. Doesn't answer. Rinzler couldn't; Rinzler can't; and the swelling scrape and rattle of raw error makes no sense in the least. Asriel is right. The phrase matches perfectly; certainty engraved in his root code and Clu fixes everything, Clu fixes everything; how he'd ever, ever, thought—

No. No, no, keep control, keep focus. Don't move, don't think, don't process what's under the suffocating flare of nausea. Of reprimand. (It's not enough, not nearly, and circuits flicker, a sharp prick of blue-tinged white.)

Clu might have just fixed the damage. He doesn't know.

(He does.)

Request: read-access.
Changelog.

He needs to see Asriel's disk.

"You want to see my disk?"

Asriel looks hesitant, as much as anyone would be about handing off all their thoughts and memories to someone else. But Rinzler's seen him at his worst, and there aren't any secrets between them. He's got nothing to hide from him.

He removes the disk from his back, before holding it up for Rinzler to take. Asriel doesn't know what he's checking, but he trusts him.

As Rinzler looks, Asriel makes some feeble attempts to tend to Mettaton, placing his hands in his lap instead of letting them lay limply at his sides.

Edited 2017-06-19 21:58 (UTC)

Rinzler nods. Doesn't move as the beta considers. Mirrors the reach when Asriel proffers the disk. And if the gesture is strange, access granted by request and choice, that incongruity matters not at all compared to the evaluation at hand.

Rinzler is very, very careful. Very still. Read-access is basic, well within the enforcer's functions, and Asriel's code has no locks to keep him out. All it takes is one touch; all it takes is intention; and motes of light swell up from the flat ring, tracing an image of the beta's face in bright red-orange.

It's both of their color. Rinzler's. Asriel's. It's the color of everyone Clu owns. Still, that's not enough, isn't proof; users are different and monsters have no standards that he knows. Rinzler remembers the hash of myriad hues that had colored the beta's circuits on the Grid.

(When did that change?)

Focus. A twitch of fingers, and the image fractures apart. Geometric shapes and spirals, bright lines that segment to characters and lines. Asriel's code, and Rinzler scans through it quickly, sharp gestures calling an array up to the fore. Damage. Repair. Some of it through power intake, some fractures or scrapes healed by time and recharge, but there—

Corruption. Mismatch. And repair (correction) written in clear, perfect gold.

Chara doesn't knock. They don't knock because they doubt anyone will notice, or care, if they enter, enraptured as they are with Mettaton and his demise. Leaving Asriel to, once again, watch as someone dies, slowly, painfully, incapable of preventing it. That won't stir up any coarse memories at all. Or perhaps that's simply so far removed from him, now, Mettaton having slotted easily into that place in Asriel's heart, Frisk having become the sibling he wished he'd always had, that there's simply no room for anyone, anything else.

Mettaton faded slowly, and they'd slipped out. They'd had no reason to remain, following their last conversation, and doubtless no one would enjoy them hovering at the periphery of Asriel's grief, witnessing a private moment they'd no right to witness.

What greets them, when they at last re-enter, is an empty robotic shell, a lifeless chassis. Asriel, tearful. Rinzler, doing -

Doing something.

Something with that disc that they've come to recognize as intrinsic to Asriel's identity, fingertips skidding across the coded image of his features. Code. Because they are all code, are they not? When it comes to the nature of what they are, where they come from, all the world can be reproduced on a numerical scale.

Chara moves forward briskly. It occurs to them far too late that their hand has moved to the Knife, though it remains sheathed rather than drawn.

"What are you doing?" Their tone lands somewhere between uncertainty and a challenge, wariness engraved in the set of their shoulders, the lift of their chin.

Asriel glances up suddenly, hearing new footsteps enter the room. He's currently crouched next to Mettaton, as Rinzler looks through his disk.

"Chara!"

His response comes out slightly startled at first, but then he glances from Chara to the robot sitting lifelessly on the floor.

"Mettaton is... um..."

He glances back to Mettaton, white dust gathered in his core. But even without that, Mettaton is too unnaturally still - there's not even eye movement or the twitch of his mouth. But that doesn't really seem to be Chara's main concern right now, even though Asriel doesn't seem to be bothered at all that Rinzler is currently holding his disk.

Under any normal circumstance, Rinzler would have stopped. Under any normal circumstance, Rinzler would never have been reviewing Asriel's code in the first place. But Chara is an ally; Chara has chosen to protect this one, at any cost. The least he owes them is an explanation.

Rinzler doesn't stop. Doesn't look to them. If he stops, he falters; if he stops, the creeping guilt-twist of betrayal will blossom to impossibility. Disloyal. He shouldn't be checking, shouldn't be looking. Shouldn't question this at all. If Clu had granted this beta the honor of repurpose, then surely that was a good thing. It would mean they were safe. Were an asset to Clu's goals. He should stop looking, he should pull out; what was the harm if Clu did make them—

(—like him.)

(No.)
(Wrong—)

Lights tremble, flicker, blue and red and in and out as power ebbs invisibly below the surface. Rinzler's sound is broken static, rising and falling with ragged beats more like panicked breath than his usual soft rhythm. Still, his movements are so very careful. So utterly precise. A nudge, to call up the root cluster. A twist to the spiraling patterns, confirming Asriel's words. Gold blends in seamlessly with their own muted shades of self, restoring crucial junctions and connecting lines.

Clu saved him.

And from there, the color spreads further. An exception to cognitive loops. A filter (and the sight aches; hurts; a thousand layered repetitions, each burning agony to process). References inserted at key forks, values modified, and repeated callback to [administrator], to a known (known) [known] ID—

The disk display closes. Rinzler stands there, bowed and silent, until the silence breaks with a small noise. It's not a laugh. Laughter has humor, or an edge, or some quality of irony; laughter extends for more than just a shaky beat. Rinzler doesn't laugh, and Rinzler can't, and then the noise swells up into a snarl, then his fingers curl around the inert disk, circuits burning clear, sharp [blue]—

[~~Rinzler~~] turns, disk lighting to an impossible blaze as he slams the weapon deep into the nearest wall. It embeds up to his fist and past it, metal framework underneath shrieking and twisting under the force of the blow. The sound that comes after is just as harsh.

"Rectified."

Edited 2017-06-20 11:03 (UTC)

Mettaton's state of being is utterly transparent to them. From the smell of dust to the stillness of self - all broadcasts the state of his being, and no further dwelling upon the moment is required. More compelling is Rinzler, holding Asriel's disk, evidently affected by something to which they cannot put a name.

It torques into something undeniably hostile, and the lines of their body tense in a shamefully instinctive gesture. Someone is ready to yell, to curse and scream. They're in the way. They're the catalyst, or at the very least the convenient outlet. Brace yourself, stand, wait.

The weapon slams into the wall, and it's not the cacophony of pots and pans impacting against the floor, it's not the smash of tinkling glass, it's not a hand smearing red across the wall in wobbly prints, but they flinch, powerfully, as the sound boiling from Rinzler's trembling silhouette solidifies and resolves.

He speaks.

He speaks.

Their head jerks, involuntary, and they swallow.

Stop dwelling in the past. Stop throwing one of your stupid tantrums. Stop dragging yourself across the contours of your own head. We know you're just pretending. We know this isn't real. We know, we know, we know, so just -

Stop.

"What?" The word hisses out like the snap of a fired gun. Their eyes are too wide, their muscles too taut, and they're still shaking as though there's something to fear. "What has been - rectified?"

The sound that Rinzler makes, followed by the sheer violent action of his disk being slammed into a wall. Asriel flinches, cowers in panic as he hurriedly goes over his head what Rinzler could've saw that provoked such an action.

What did he do, what did Rinzler see to make him mad at him? What...

It takes Asriel several long moments before he can find his voice. He doesn't move, and lifts his head up a little bit but his eyes barely reach Chara or Rinzler.

"W-what..." his voice is too quiet, "what does rectify mean?"

What did he do wrong?

"I'm sorry, I didn't... I'm not..."

He struggles for some kind of apology, but he's not really sure what the source of Rinzler's anger is.

The fear barely registers. The crater of smashed plaster and dented metal frame beneath his fist goes entirely without acknowledgement. [~~Rinzler~~]stares at it without seeing anything at all, frame trembling in silent rage.

July.

A full cycle. Two, with the year lost. Longer than it had been for Frisk, and Rinzler had known about them, thought to wait. (He'd ignored it; useless; weak—), but the whole time...

"...Edited."

His head twitches toward Asriel. The word is quieter, but just as harsh. It isn't true, isn't enough, not nearly. But Rinzler promised to protect them. He promised, and they'd given everything for him, and he let this happen anyway. He's going to kill Clu—

[WRONG—]

Lights flicker again, a struggling ember of red chasing a loop through visibility. He can't think. Can't move. He has to, because [he] won't. The program jerks the weapon free. It sears the air, overcharged and blinding before he forces the edge dark. Grip shifts, weapon flat and loose as he offers it back to the monster. The gesture is jerky and raw, too rough for automation.

He shouldn't be touching this now.

Edited.

A jerk of his chin at Asriel. There's an unnerving picture. They can't pull it together, the many scattered pieces that make no sense. The disk - the disk is Asriel's. It is editable. It can change the parts and pieces of him, and he'd already offered himself up, willingly, to be pulled apart and put back together again on a whim. That is his choice. That is his choice, completely and utterly, and it is not his fault that an aversion to change and a lack of mental-physical control sends their world spinning.

The lights beam in and out in a static flicker. Plaster crumbling to the floor in a hiss of white dust, and they flinch, powerfully. Weakening. Placing all their softer parts on display, for the world to see! Asriel stammers a litany of apologies that mean nothing, nothing, nothing.

Again, for reasons untold, their gaze slides laterally, fixating on the robot lying still and dormant in the corner of the room.

Panic.

They'd called it for what it was, and he'd breathed again. Pieced himself back together, with their reluctant, disgusting aid. But it displayed itself in forms recognizable, and now - and now, all that is obvious of Rinzler's state of mind is the way the smooth, inhuman fluidity of his movement has been sacrificed for something sharp and hard-angled and uncontrolled.

Seize the corners of their mind. Draw it all inward again. Speak. Speak. Be the inconsolable force of nature. Be the demon. Words emerge as a violent snap.

"Edited how."

Asriel takes back his disk - maybe a little too quickly - before it clicks back into place on his back.

"W-well, it was edited, right? Clu had to do that he could keep my chest from turning into glass..."

He tries his best to justify it, his words nervous and shaky. In his mind, that's probably not the reason why Rinzler was upset. But what else would Clu do to it? He's the only one who's touched it.

The black helmet jerks sideways. Once, twice, wordless and involuntary. Permissions are absent, restriction scraped raw, but the suffocating ache that locks his throat has nothing to do with either.

How dare he?

Clu had to. Clu chose to. Clu set the imperatives (for him) (for them) and the rest followed by design. Rinzler followed, because Rinzler was Clu's (and again, lights waver, blue-white ebbing dim), but Frisk and Asriel...

"...Loyal."

Not wiped. Not empty. Barely affected, by the standards of the Grid. Barely like him, and the sheer despair of that comparison stalls all function for one beat.

Two.

"You trust him."

Answer, not question. And not for Asriel, no matter the address.

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