headlining | FUTUROLOGY IC INBOX

[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.]

There's an idea. [He says - coming out of anyone else that idea would be made fun of, but Keats is already so used to Mettaton's exaggerated egocentric dreams that it's kind of wrapped back into being charming. He watches as Mettaton shifts in his grip, but before he can say anything, Mettaton is already making himself come back down to solid ground.]

[There's a pang in Keats' chest when he does so. He had scoffed at the idea of being some kind of Guardian, but he had to admit, to hold someone in his arms like that, to be something large and wild and powerful enough to protect them...it's nice. It's very nice.]

[But Mettaton is leaving. Keats blinks in surprise as Mettaton kisses him and starts to go, and Keats, without thinking, reaches forward to grab his wrist.]

Hey. Mettaton- [He starts and stops, awkwardly releasing his grip. His eyebrows are arched up in concern.]

...Are you alright?

[He lets out a huff. Of course, he half expects Mettaton to just brush him off, to say something flippant and leave. But then again, Mettaton clearly had gained some kind of experience he never had. Was it guilt? Worry? Something else? Mettaton is not himself, Keats knows that for sure. Something is going on.]

[...]

[He never has really asked how Mettaton has been doing all that much before, has he...?]

If something is going on, Mettaton, then... [He's bad at this. He knows he is. But he doesn't like this kind of vague ending, where he shows something as deep as this to the other and the other seems vaguely upset by something he can't understand. So even though he's terrible at expressing himself, he is genuinely, sincerely concerned.]

You can tell me. It's okay.

[It's not that he felt the hand. It's that the grip pulled him back mid-stride, calling his attention to the fact that it was there in the first place. Keats lets go and Mettaton looks at his own wrist, flexing his hand and fingers.

There's a question he doesn't hear often.]

...Ha. [He reaches up, tapping Keats on his nose.] You do have a heart.

Of course I'm alright, sweetheart. I'm just a robot. Need a bit of charge, is all.

I mean it. I do.

[He grumbles at the tap to his nose, glowing eyes narrowing. He doesn't know what to do. Maybe he's overthinking things. Maybe he's seeing something that isn't there. But this is too abrupt to be comfortable.]

[He lets out a sigh, folding his arms.]

I just don't think something as mundane as a low charge would make you sound upset.

Edited (i can word) 2017-04-14 16:35 (UTC)

Well, when you're made of metal, I'll be sure to ask what you think.

[What the hell is this sudden caring? People don't ask what Mettaton's problems are unless they're mad at him about them. Keats doesn't ask questions like this. That's fine. It's expected. He's a star - he exists in his own universe where the only problems he has are whether or not he looks good in whatever he's wearing. He's shallow. There's nothing behind the curtain. It's okay.

...

He knows the hair swaying in front of his eyes means he's shaking his head, but he doesn't remember telling himself to do that.] Really. I have fame. I have a beautiful body and legions of devoted fans. I have you. There's nothing in the world that could be wrong.

[Okay, now that last phrase is really, really off. People don't ever make general sweeping statements like that, because there actually is a lot in the world that's wrong. People are selfish and cruel and try to hurt and manipulate others, nobody can just stand back and pretend everything is sunshine and rainbows. Anyone who does so is either preferably ignoring the truth or a complete idiot, in Keats' opinion. Really, it sounds an awful lot like...]

[Denial.]

[What a funny word.]

Is that so?

[Mettaton comes off as a flamboyant egotistical celebrity. He delights in attention. And now, he's running away after gaining only a couple of minutes of it? It doesn't make sense. It's like a notable sweet eater taking a couple of bites from a cake on a large table of candies and pastries and leaving the rest alone.]

[It's not logical.]

You're running away from something I can tell you liked very much. Makes one wonder why you'd deny yourself a thing like that.

[This shouldn't be making him as upset as this is. It's a stupid conversation about a mistake that started because Mettaton can't keep himself from wanting to know every stupid little thing about human culture. He wanted to know more about Keats and his ridiculous mystery. He didn't need the investigation turned on himself.

It brings a spike of defensiveness in him, his eyes narrowing despite the cheery smile on his face. It's like dealing with Zenyatta all over again, though Keats clearly doesn't have the insight to put together anything meaningful like the robot could.]

Hm...! [Mettaton crosses an arm over his chest, the other going to his face in an exaggerated thinking pose.] That sounds like a fun riddle!! Might be the same reason someone refuses to admit they were enjoying a movie when they spent the entire run-time watching it through a mirror and crying. [Yeah. He saw that. He took notes about it.] Giselle and Robert dance to a song about the futility of their love, someone's eyes glaze over with tears and anger at being emotionally compromised... Sigh!!

How about this: I'll admit I'm running away from something once you do. [He pauses. Just for a moment. He already knows the answer.] No? Then I guess you're just seeing things, [the name rolls out of his speakers, angry and bitter,] Herve.

Wait, what? W-what does it have to do with me?!

[...Because he's a hypocrite.]

[That's what Mettaton is trying to say. That he can't call him out because he's been doing the same thing himself. Mettaton runs. Keats runs. They just keep running and not looking back.]

[Has Mettaton been running all this time? He's throwing out these harsh words, like daggers, and Keats almost feels some pathetic sense of victory, because this kind of reaction is just confirming his previous suspicion. He's a reporter. He's found out information that has opened up a new branch of the case. Mettaton, the celebrity, a being who thrives in the spotlight, is insecure. (But is it fair, to think of him like a case to be opened, investigated, and closed? Mettaton isn't a case, he's...not.) Nobody would react this badly if they didn't feel vulnerable.]

[Keats should know. He's done it himself.]

[That last word makes him wince, like that single solitary word has caused him more damage than anything else. A part of him, especially in this state, wants to yell, to roar, to destroy things, to just get rid of the problem and just move on to the next thing. He stares down at his hands. They're shaking. They're not his hands, they're grey-skinned and big and bandaged and they are also his hands, they belong to him, this is him, and he doesn't know what to think. It feels like a lot of thoughts are colliding at once at full speed in his brain. Somehow, he almost wants to go back to the transformation.]

[Somehow, that's less painful.]

Maybe I am.

[He clenches his hands into fists. His voice is very quiet as he repeats the words to himself.]

...Maybe I am.

[If there's a sense of sadistic victory at watching the other man flinch over his words, it doesn't stick with Mettaton long. It sticks in the first place, though. There's a righteousness about being right, about calling a twist far before the movie ends. He knows that name is a weak-spot. He knows there's denial and pain laced into that name, into the magic, into this transformation, for one reason or another. It feels good to not be the one feeling bad.

...for a moment. Keats' hands are shaking, like he has to keep himself from smashing Mettaton flat. Is that what that is? Is it rage? Betrayal? Are there just too many emotions flowing through his system? Mettaton wouldn't know. His own body doesn't act like that.

...

His own hands find his arms, pulling himself into a spiteful, halfhearted embrace.]

Maybe I am. [Keats isn't going to explain. Mettaton doesn't see why he'd have to.]

Are we happy now?

Edited (what happened to that sentence) 2017-04-14 18:03 (UTC)

[He can't help it - he lets out a laugh at that, though it's not a happy one. It's just an "oh, that's the way things are" kind of laugh.]

Is this what we're going to do, then? Stand here and refuse to show each other our cards?

[Like some kind of Mexican standoff, like in the movies. They're pointing guns at each other and refusing to put them down until the other one does so first. They're both threatened, vulnerable. Putting the guns down means that they won't hurt each other, but how are they sure? How can they take the chance that the other won't shoot them in the head when they lower their own weapon?]

[Though...Keats has been showing him card after card, lowering his weapon an inch, a couple inches, over and over again. Here's my abilities. Here's my name. Here's what I was investigating. Look, here's what I look like when I transform. I'm trusting you because I have the hope you won't use it against me.]

[But Mettaton? He looks at him and realizes, suddenly, that he doesn't know much at all about the robot that's standing across from him.]

[Mettaton has been tearing his barriers down bit by bit, but the robot man himself is still very much in shadow.]

We're not going to get anywhere like this, Mettaton. [Because they're stubborn, the both of them, unwilling to do anything but stand their ground.] Look at us. What does this do, make us feel better about ourselves?

[He sighs.]

...

What do I have to do to get you to trust me? [He feels a very constricted feeling in his chest.] Explain everything?

[Does he want to throw down his metaphorical weapons in hope of the slim chance that Mettaton won't shoot him when he's unable to protect himself?]

Because I will do it, I will try to, because maybe gaining your trust is worth doing that, but...are you ready for that?

[He stares into Mettaton's eyes, his own glowing, mouth drawn in a serious line.]

Do you want to really know me because you really do want to get to know me, or are you doing it because you're simply curious?

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