[It's dark out. Mettaton's plenty aware of the going-ons in the city, provoked into keeping an eye out for suspicious activity moreso than usual, even when he's playing it cool and going about his regular activities. Regular activities, which frequently include occupying the Entertainment District all evening and night, wherever the people are bustling most that night. Performing, socializing, connecting, making his big presence even bigger.
Magitech lights barely do the cobblestone streets and alleyways justice, so it's understandable that when he hears Berseker's voice, it jolts him out of his reverie. Mettaton jumps (more than most, on those springy Puca feet) before fixing his startled, gold gaze upon the Dragon and his bloodied prey: a Witch who reeks of the blight-like magic of the Cwyld... though Mettaton's not been exposed to it this close before, not enough to recognize that's what he's smelling. All he smells is blood and magic.
It's affronting. And the idol's gaze evolves from startled, to concerned, to empty, all in a flash. His jaw drops.]
... Oh.
[His voice is low. He blinks, before closing in on Berserker and his prey with an appraising, curious glint to his eye, despite the gruesome scene- almost as if he's not so put off by it. Mettaton has no context for the situation, but he wagers a guess.]
Oh my. That is definitely a Witch bleeding out, painting the pavement red! [No kidding.] Is this one of those cult members, darling?
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Magitech lights barely do the cobblestone streets and alleyways justice, so it's understandable that when he hears Berseker's voice, it jolts him out of his reverie. Mettaton jumps (more than most, on those springy Puca feet) before fixing his startled, gold gaze upon the Dragon and his bloodied prey: a Witch who reeks of the blight-like magic of the Cwyld... though Mettaton's not been exposed to it this close before, not enough to recognize that's what he's smelling. All he smells is blood and magic.
It's affronting. And the idol's gaze evolves from startled, to concerned, to empty, all in a flash. His jaw drops.]
... Oh.
[His voice is low. He blinks, before closing in on Berserker and his prey with an appraising, curious glint to his eye, despite the gruesome scene- almost as if he's not so put off by it. Mettaton has no context for the situation, but he wagers a guess.]
Oh my. That is definitely a Witch bleeding out, painting the pavement red! [No kidding.] Is this one of those cult members, darling?