Mettaton's hands are initially full with his own struggle against a Savrii guard that was even taller than he was, though they were still organic. Still weak to the power of a machine given life and murderous intent by the SOUL caged within its core. Arms wrap around the guard, fingers digging in hard enough that the gloves do not disguise the prick of metal claws as well as they usually do. Those very same clawed fingertips dig in past the armor, finding the faults and gaps to dig in and draw blood.

He can't stop himself from the brief smile that flits across his face as he causes the Savrii guard pain, making them try to thrust him away. But no, they could never push him away. He's done this enough. It's so easy to reach for that same, pathetic weak spot--the neck--and coil his segmented arms around it, crushing windpipe and vertebrae alike, until blood drips from the guard's mouth and nose from the pressure.

Once they're properly dealt with, Mettaton hears the struggle Chara is making, all grunts and failing limbs as they're held against their will.

He might not like him, but one wouldn't know it from the way he rushes the guard, aggression written across his face as he sweeps the Savrii's feet from below them with one leg--he always prided himself on those legs of his--and watched them topple. Doubtless, Chara would be just as off-balance by such an action, but it gives Mettaton the advantage for now, and he uses the moment of surprise to slam his heel into the guard's shoulder. Armor does not protect against concussive blows, and the gap between chestplate and shoulder plate? It's just enough that a heel can dig its way in, piercing skin deeply. Mettaton grinds it in hard, past skin layers and well into muscle. The sounds of pain were his reward.

"Drop them now," he hisses, as if it'd change his mind on whether to kill the guard or not.