headlining | FUTUROLOGY IC INBOX

[NAILED IT. Mettaton's the best. Somewhere, on the other side of the hotel, he's congratulating himself with a quick victory glitterfest.]

Were you as rude to them as you are to every other living creature in the known universe? Because I feel like there's an easy answer to their bias against you.

Edited 2017-04-14 04:11 (UTC)

I was rude to them after they were rude to me. So no, that wasn't what happened. But honestly, it was mostly because they were trying to play a very long intricate manipulation game with Ellen and I was interfering with all their plans.

Huh. Keats? Caring about a stranger? Now we HAVE to stop the presses.

So. 17 years ago, Ellen sacrificed her blood to do SOMETHING. Herve died. His mother blamed Ellen and tried to get revenge on her, but was found dead instead.

1) This seems very straight forward. When did we get to faery plots?

2) ...I still don't know why in the hell someone would call YOU if you weren't secretly involved. Regine wouldn't have called you because a journalist has nothing to do with her (I'm assuming) long-awaited murder fantasy. The faeries hated that you were there and wouldn't have wanted your involvement to begin with, so it wasn't an inside job. And isn't it just a bit too much of a coincidence that two strangers arrive in a quiet, remote town at the exact same time to witness the exact same event, and get dragged into the exact same mystery?

.Wait, how did you find out Regine is the one who wrote the letter if she was dead when you found her?

It wasn't "caring". I was forced into it. My abilities aren't ones I've had for a long time. I only got them when I arrived at that town.

You see, the strange supernatural turn of this case involves Ellen. Apparently she's one of a very long succession of people called Messengers, ladies who don a magical cloak and can walk between the Netherworld and the real living world without coming to harm. The Faeries live in the Netherworld, and they were desperate for her powers, because only she could access different realms of the Netherworld that even they couldn't reach. Basically, they got her to wear the magical clock, obtain magic, and sought on using her to get what they wanted. I didn't get anything like a magical cloak, if you're wondering. I was told about a possible scoop by a strange invisible man, asked if I wanted a chance to find out information regarding Regine's death I couldn't find anywhere else, and the next thing I know, I'm going through weird transformations and gaining abilities that seem like the stuff of fairy tales.

The Netherworld is basically the afterlife. Ghosts don't exist. However, creatures called Mnemosynes eat the memories of the dead and can allow these memories to act as shades of the person they belong to. You can technically talk to the dead, this way. In order to uncover the mysteries of the past, Ellen and I could talk to these shades and uncover information that the living did not know. That's how we were able to talk to Regine and discover the truth surrounding Cecelia and the numerous murders that happened after that 17-year old tragedy. Besides, when we were investigating, more murders occurred in that village in the present day. Regine was only the first body we discovered. The tragedy wasn't exactly over and done with.

Ah. Yup. THAT'S the Keats we all know and love.

I now have a list of several more questions, never you mind me.

1: If she's the one with the cloak, how do YOU have magic?

2: "Transformations?"

3: If these people are handing out new clothing, why in the world would they stop with Ellen and not have mercy on us by NOT giving you something else to wear?

4: If more bodies are turning up, why did you not just call the police? You're a JOURNALIST.

5: YOU WENT THROUGH ALL THIS AND STILL HAD THE GALL TO ROLL YOUR EYES WHEN I TOLD YOU I WAS MADE OF MAGIC???????????????????????????????????

1 - apparently when a new Messenger obtains her Cloak, a Guardian must be appointed to be her ward/bodyguard/what have you. This can mean whoever is lucky enough to stand in her vicinity of a couple of yards when the process happens. Guess who the lucky fellow was. She didn't know about it. But since I was there, the cloak went "NEW GUARDIAN" and I got these powers. Fair to say, I wasn't warned about it.

2 - I can change shape in a way. It's complicated.

3 - SOMEONE'S rude. And I do have a thing that I kind of sort of received to wear it's just...embarrassing.

4 - It's a small village far away from pretty much any major city. By the time anyone could've gotten someone to come to the town, probably five more people could've died. We had to take our chances.

5 - I thought it was a very good hallucination. I mean, it seemed far too crazy to be true.

[Again, the line goes quiet. This is a lot of information to process. It would take a while for anyone to wrap their head around all of this and... wait, what is that patter out in the hallway? What is that noise that, for all the world, sounds like a man in very heavy boots sprint--

CRASH.

Mettaton is in your room now. Don't worry about the lock. He'll pay for it.]

Show me.

[See Keats. See Keats almost jump a foot off the floor. Hear Keats let out a very, very undignified yelp.]

What? WHAT?! [GIVE HIM A SECOND AS HE PROCESSES THAT REQUEST and then proceeds to back up away from Mettaton.]

NO! It's weird!

You're weird. I haven't run away yet. Show me.

[He's just going to groan because he wants to run away now but Mettaton is standing in the doorway so his only escape route is gone. Great. Greaaaaaaaaat. Mettaton, always putting Keats on the spot. With anyone else, he wouldn't be this relenting (but only because Mettaton will hound him down until he shows him, curse his big mouth).]

I don't think you'll like it. I mean, when I change, it's...not very nice to look at.

[Ah, there it is again: that inherent shame of any sort of supernatural abilities. If he hadn't seen how bent out of shape it made him in Woodhurst, this sudden modesty would be taking him by surprise.

Instead, Mettaton just laughs and shakes his head, gently nudging the door closed behind himself with a heel.]

Sweetheart. Honeysuckle. Light of my life.

I spent years of my life living as a sentient box. My creator is a giant lizard in a lab-coat and glasses. My sound-mixer is a ghost and my back-up singer is a fish. My biggest fan and his brother are both skeletons. Our royal couple were large goats. So long as you don't look like this, [he projects a gray image to the side of his head. It's hideous. It's lumpy and misshapen and has the air of a creature that would demand constant free-rides and never pitch in for the gas.

It's Jerry.]

...We'll be fine.

Edited 2017-04-14 05:24 (UTC)

A sentient box...?

[He doesn't know why, but that statement makes him frown. He had seen Mettaton's other form, it's not like that's strange, but it seems to suggest that he didn't always have this wonderful humanoid dancing machine self around to be. Huh.]

[Keats sees the picture of Jerry and lets out a laugh, despite himself.]

No, goodness, it's not that. [A sigh. Okay, he doesn't need to be this self-conscious. It's only some other form, an extra thing, it's hardly something to be this worried about. He'll show it and be done with it. Get it out of the way quickly.]

[He takes off his glasses and hands them over to Mettaton.]

Hold these for me for the moment, alright?

[And with that, he's going to try to move a few of the things in the room just to make a little more space. He's never done this in a room like this.]

[Hm? Has he not shown him his more simple form? That makes sense; they've been in Woodhurst for months and Mettaton has rarely taken off his cloak since. He still has it on at this exact moment...

Maybe another time.

The thought doesn't linger long. Something is getting placed into his hands and

Oh.

Oh.

OH YES... This is the greatest day of his life.

With the sort of grin usually accompanied by a villainous cackle, the glasses go straight into Mettaton's storage the second Keats isn't looking. He is NEVER getting them back.

A wrong finally righted, Mettaton rocks himself back and forth on his heels, hands folded behind his back, and eyes fluttering innocently.]

[Keats, not realizing the ABSOLUTE TREACHERY happening behind him, finally thinks he's made enough room. The way he transforms is a bit...explosive, to say the least. Finally satisfied, Keats turns towards the vaguely blurry Mettaton standing near the door.]

Alright. You ready? I don't show it to people at all, so...well, I might do this for you only once, understand? No repeats unless we get into a dire situation.

[...you know. It's just struck him that he's never really seen Keats without his glasses before. Papyrus was right; it is much better. Being without them makes him seem less cold and distant. He actually... looks approachable. More handsome. His eyelashes are practically as long as Mettaton's and Mettaton's aren't even real.

...anyway.]

Believe me, darling. All eyes are on you.

[He can't see the look on Mettaton's face, but the words are enough. Keats smiles for a brief moment, feeling a bit more calm than before.]

Alright.

[And now comes the hard part. The transition between him and that is not a comfortable process. Excruciating, actually. The stabbing of pain is useful in battle, when he needs to engage his lower instincts to just annihilate whatever he can. But this isn't battle. It's not like he's going to activate it all the way, it's just a change in form, surely it's not going to be that bad...]

[Except he's wrong, as he finds out instantly. He feels that part of him stir and he almost buckles forward like he's been punched in the gut, his skin feeling like it's been set on fire. Raw, pure, magical energy comes off of him in black and purple waves as his hair lengthens and starts to whiten, muscles swelling and threatening to burst at the seams of his coat. But his coat has nothing to worry about. His clothes almost change in the blink of an eye. His coat, now brown and torn, rests on his now incredibly broad shoulders.]

[He's letting out a loud snarl of pain as he feels the rest of his body change in the space of a few seconds. His eyes feel like they're burning, and ironically so, they are, blazing fiercely with light as he manages to straighten himself. The oppressive onslaught of magical waves dies down. Now stands Keats, metamorphosed.]

[He stands about a foot taller now. Every inch of him is thick and muscular - even his clawed hands look like they could probably smash a watermelon between them with little to no effort. He's definitely shirtless, only the coat on his shoulders giving him little to no cover, and a huge intricate metallic belt separates his upper half from the worn brown pants and boots he wears below. An curling, sweeping purple tattoo covers his left eye and upper shoulders, his mouth filled with white teeth that may look a bit too on the sharp side to be comfortable. His teeth stand in stark contrast to his grey skin.]

[His eyesight is all better now - he stares at Mettaton with wide, glowing eyes, though he's not going to say anything to him at the moment. He needs to take a quick break - the whole thing takes a lot out of him.]

Ngh...

Edited 2017-04-14 06:16 (UTC)

...!

[This is not like Alphys' horrible cartoons. This is not a fun, musical transformation sequence where the heroine gains a cute skirt and shiny tiara over the course of one pirouette. This isn't an anime. This is An American Werewolf in London. This is a horror show.

Instinct wipes the smile off his face as his hands reach forward, as if he could help the pain. Logic says not to get any closer. He's stuck in between, eyebrows knitted in concern and mouth opened in a silent gasp, but trapped against the door.

It ends, eventually. What's left behind isn't a magical girl or a werewolf, but something else. Something that's definitely Keats, but more... Monstrous. Honestly; the claws of something like Asgore, the flowing white hair and piercing eyes, almost like a ghost. Gray skin that's completely inhuman...

It takes a while, half out of shock and half out of concern for his own safety, before Mettaton actually steps toward the other. He opens his mouth, hoping for something insightful or relevant to pour out. You're terrifying. You're beautiful. I'm sorry it hurt. Does it still hurt? Are you alright? Are you going to be okay?]

You're a magical werewolf. [No, wrong. Try again.

...No, now you're just caressing the tattoo on his face. What are you doing. You can't even feel that. Reboot yourself immediately.]

Edited 2017-04-14 06:35 (UTC)

[The absurdity of that statement actually shakes Keats out of his post-transformation-funk - he lets out a short, deep laugh.]

I can't say I have the snout. Or that this is taking place near any full moon.

[He had half expected Mettaton to run away. He said it wasn't pretty. The pain certainly feels real, he remembers saying after his first time - god, that felt like it was years ago. And even since then, he hasn't transformed all that much, all too terrified of that pain and...something else. Something indescribable.]

[And yet Mettaton is stepping forward - Keats twitches, unsure what he's going to do, and...he's touching him? Caressing his face? This is strange beyond belief. Keats blinks at him with an almost owlish look, if this was referring to an owl from hell with bright blazing eyes of light.]

...Like what you see? [It's meant to be a half-hearted joke, but there's a touch of sincerity in the question as well.]

Edited (i can word) 2017-04-14 06:52 (UTC)

[Words still aren't happening. Mettaton's obviously transfixed, fingers following the lines of magical ink on almost bluish skin. His hair is gorgeous, almost moving with a wind of its own, like whips of smoke from a burnt out match. The light from his eyes glow like the plants in Waterfall, bright and blue, far more than anything should be in the darkness.

And those teeth...

Say something, Mettaton. You're an actor. You're a writer and a musician and a star: you have words. You use your words for money literally every day of your life. You exist to say and sing and act out words. Use your words.]

Your face is good. [Kill him.]

[Well, now.]

[Keats can't help but let out another laugh at that. There's something so precious about how honestly awed Mettaton is that it makes a kind of warmth spread through Keats' chest. He should feel vulnerable right now, like he's baring part of his soul to someone he's taken a gamble on trusting, but he doesn't.]

[He's glad for that.]

You know what's good about this form? I'm stronger. [He says, feeling the opportunity to be just a bit boastful - the spotlight is on him, maybe it's good to revel in it like Mettaton does instead of shirking it like he would instinctively do. Being like this does make it easy - Keats the journalist is grumpy, willing to avoid contact, ready to dispense snarky commentary from a good distance away, Keats the...whatever he is...is ready for action, uncaring of whatever the Netherworld or anything throws at him.]

[It makes him wonder why he's been so afraid to be like this, if he feels like he could take on the world and win.]

Ha, I could probably lift you up like you were nothing but a couple of grapes.

[...oh, there are more tattoos...! The ink winds down the side of his neck and onto the front of his chest, swirling into larger patterns. Mettaton's already trailing his hand across them, his fingers growing warmer the longer he admires them. Tattoos in general are such a foreign concept Underground. Monsters already have their own markings and many of them don't have skin the way humans do. Mettaton, himself, has never had skin. Seeing ink against it is new and breathtaking. It's...

"I could probably lift you up like you were nothi-"

The words barely have time to process before Mettaton wraps his arms around the other man's neck and throws himself into his arms. If Keats don't think fast, him and several tons of metal are taking a trip to Floorville, current population: pain.]

[Keats was somehow expecting it, He saw it coming. And thank whatever god that exists that he's honestly incredibly sturdy - this is a form that not even Folklores themselves can completely knock over.]

[He luckily reacts fast, bending his knees and only staggering back a few steps as he manages to catch Mettaton as the robot leaps into his arms.]

H-hey now! [Mettaton is still rather heavy, but with all this power it's not incredibly difficult to hold him up. It's a bit like he's a wrestler holding up a large barbell - he can't hold up Mettaton forever, but he can manage it for now.]

Warn me before you do that, alright? [He clicks his tongue, like a scolding parent.] Honestly, you're too eager for your own good.

[He's not even listening. His eyes have already found the vanity mirror so he can admire this for himself. Don't they look so perfect? Like a couple in the middle of some dramatic moment or a romantic dance? No one has ever been able to lift him up before. He's always been too heavy and cumbersome and

His hands have gone to his face. It doesn't do a lot to hide the series of muffled giggles erupting from him.

...just in case he never gets to do this again, he's gently sticking out a leg. Pose.]

[Someone's particularly happy about this. Keats follows Mettaton's gaze. A mirror. He actually almost doesn't recognize himself. It's not like he's had the time to pause and stare at his own reflection while beating out the Id from a horde of Folks. And so, for the first time in a very long time, Keats stares at himself. It's a bit like seeing a vaguely familiar stranger on the street. Like, somewhere deep down, he knows this, this is him, and yet there's something totally and completely alien about it. The white hair, the tattoos, his body - it makes his mouth open slightly as he just looks over it all.]

[He was embarrassed to think about it before (because really, going almost half naked isn't exactly a comforting situation), but now, he doesn't know what to feel. A part of him is more comfortable than he's ever felt in his life, and that fact terrifies him. This is just another form, something magical, it's not like it's what he should always look like...right?]

I guess you haven't been carried around like this before, huh? [Because he recognizes that Mettaton is, well, incredibly heavy. He doubts people could carry him around like this even if they wanted to. He stares down at the robot, a smile playing across his lips.] I guess the carrier becomes the carried, now.

Sweetheart, if the world was just and fair, my feet would never be touching the ground. I would live in a royal carriage that loyal servants would carry while I lay back and eat grapes. [God, he's so pretty when he isn't standing. Mettaton's eyes still haven't left the mirror, watching his own legs flex back and forth in someone else's grip. It's entrancing. He looks so light.

So. Human.

There's a pain in his core, knowing this isn't real. Keats is just under a magical spell. Mettaton's... just a robot. The mirror's reflecting back some idealized version of reality where he finally gets to be weak and vulnerable and human, but that isn't real.

He wiggles loose, putting himself back onto solid ground with a heavy thunk. Well. That was nice, at least.

Sigh.]

Thanks for the show, honeysuckle.

[It's slightly bittersweet. It's wonderful, being trusted (even if that trust comes from the single truth that Mettaton is so determined to stick his nose into other people's business that it'd be more of a hassle to NOT trust him). At the same time, it's just another reminder of what he isn't. He isn't Keats. He can't just magically transform into something else; no matter what Mettaton does, he's always cold and metal. He doesn't get stronger. He doesn't become a handsome, mythical prince with flowing white hair and glowing blue eyes. He stays metal.

Yeah. It was nice to pretend.

Like at the mall, Mettaton leans in and gently presses his lips near the other man's mouth. Near, not on.

He's already heading toward the door.]

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