[Mettaton remains both unsympathetic and agitated, completely unaware of the tension that ripples and tears through his company's Bond. In fact, he's not even aware they are Bonded! That they could be isn't as much of a focus to him as it would've been under any other circumstance, for Gon's likening of MTT to a puppet isn't too far off.
There are some times where MTT's given more agency of himself in spite of his mild mind control spell. But this isn't one of those times. With a focus on spreading infection and doctrine alike, a boisterous, empowered personality like Mettaton's does it to the highest degree: given a stage and a camera, he'd probably lose himself to the thrall with immediacy, spouting rehashed messages from meetings in charming syllables meant to appeal. As he is right now, the Puca seems satisfied that there are people around them making up an audience of sorts, watching on: even if their horror is directed mostly at him, that meant they were watching him most of all, too. He can play the villain with startling ease. His ears remain cocked pleasantly, his lips drawn into a smug smirk.
Speaking of the crowd about them... Mettaton's lips part, attention on Gon. He moves to say something at the same time as Killua, takes a daring step forward, and he knows attention's on him.
And it's at this very moment that a secretive cult member lying in wait makes his move—one Mettaton doesn't even know about.
It happens so fast. Killua's holding his arm (which he wants back), and then he's not. And then he's not moving at all. The dark figure behind him nearly blends in with the dark of the night behind them, a cloak of extended darkness. (It reminds him a bit of his own full moon form; Mettaton would never admit as much.) He can't at all make out any details of the figure before he realizes Killua's being paralyzed, and before he knows it, the boy's gone.
A small pocket watch clatters on cobblestone in a clean chime. Mettaton gawks. A gasp washes over bystanders, a mix of surprise and fret. Even Mettaton reacts with a wide eye and bewilderment, taking a step back, ears high, body on skittish alert.]
Where...
[His arm. The crowd. Mettaton huffs. The attentions not on him anymore, and he stoops down to retrieve his arm with an air of indignation. He turns to Gon, clutching his limb close to his sparking socket.]
Well. I guess I don't want to fight after all. [That's spoken truly through the lens of a Puca's spite, his ears fold back in ire. But he fixes his attention on Gon again, tilting his head.] Gon, what just happened?
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There are some times where MTT's given more agency of himself in spite of his mild mind control spell. But this isn't one of those times. With a focus on spreading infection and doctrine alike, a boisterous, empowered personality like Mettaton's does it to the highest degree: given a stage and a camera, he'd probably lose himself to the thrall with immediacy, spouting rehashed messages from meetings in charming syllables meant to appeal. As he is right now, the Puca seems satisfied that there are people around them making up an audience of sorts, watching on: even if their horror is directed mostly at him, that meant they were watching him most of all, too. He can play the villain with startling ease. His ears remain cocked pleasantly, his lips drawn into a smug smirk.
Speaking of the crowd about them... Mettaton's lips part, attention on Gon. He moves to say something at the same time as Killua, takes a daring step forward, and he knows attention's on him.
And it's at this very moment that a secretive cult member lying in wait makes his move—one Mettaton doesn't even know about.
It happens so fast. Killua's holding his arm (which he wants back), and then he's not. And then he's not moving at all. The dark figure behind him nearly blends in with the dark of the night behind them, a cloak of extended darkness. (It reminds him a bit of his own full moon form; Mettaton would never admit as much.) He can't at all make out any details of the figure before he realizes Killua's being paralyzed, and before he knows it, the boy's gone.
A small pocket watch clatters on cobblestone in a clean chime. Mettaton gawks. A gasp washes over bystanders, a mix of surprise and fret. Even Mettaton reacts with a wide eye and bewilderment, taking a step back, ears high, body on skittish alert.]
Where...
[His arm. The crowd. Mettaton huffs. The attentions not on him anymore, and he stoops down to retrieve his arm with an air of indignation. He turns to Gon, clutching his limb close to his sparking socket.]
Well. I guess I don't want to fight after all. [That's spoken truly through the lens of a Puca's spite, his ears fold back in ire. But he fixes his attention on Gon again, tilting his head.] Gon, what just happened?