[A couple of Turnskins sniff at the air, ears alert, a whine rising at the back of one of their throats. He can't fool everyone. The majority of the crowd, however, searches the lofty Puca for the Dragon's worrisome claim with human eyes and stimulated minds. Soren sweeps his free arm in a dismissive gesture, his tail sidewinding slowly.]

Listen to this nonsense. Anyone who's been infected to your degree would be able to move about like you are. Besides, you're mechanical. Do you even feel pain the same way we do?

[Murmurs rise to a louder hum, whispers of 'Mettaton' popping up like the bubbles in a fizzing drink. To attack the star in the middle of the streets with an audience and a fresh criminal record... As self-defense, it would work out better, even if a well-placed fire spell could burn the rot and hack away the current problem... but not uproot it, and if Mettaton truly is under some sway like Myr had been cautioning of on the network, then a fresh blight might just sprout anew. Moreover, no matter how quick to the draw Soren is, the Puca's agile enough to evade with ease and cause him to risk injuring a bystander.

Salvation. That's a suspicious way of putting it.]

It will only get worse. And what of the people who aren't worthy of this "salvation"?