[Asura says he likes it, and Mettaton knows he doesn't mean his answer. He likes these tangled brambles and the thick green, the monstrous plants and even more monstrous creatures. His eye skirts to scan the furthest distance he can see as he takes it all in, comparing Asura's energy with Dorchacht's Wilde. Mettaton tips his head thoughtfully, taking it in, before pulling his attentions back to their situation.
The intensity with which Mettaton watches Asura isn't robotic or impartial, nor is it uneasy any longer. It's with a quirked brow, a gleam of intrigue in his golden eye, noting the texture of his hair and the shadows cast by his lashes while he moves from hovering over the carcass of a beast to taking care of business. This is business, after all. Mettaton plants his gloved hands on his hips.]
Ha. And a robot like myself should be any better? I relegate even my own repairs to other capable hands... Which could hardly be considered "first-aid" by any stretch of the imagination.
[Of his many Puca features, most are hidden under luxury fabric. But his incisors are long, the tips of his pink heels mutated into silvery rabbit toes, blistering skin, and curling metal. His thighs bow, making way for wider hips and thicker muscle. ..."Muscle." It's an awkward ordeal, being part-way through a transformation with months left to go. Worse yet as a metal Puca with nothing suggesting "health" anywhere organic on his body. For Dorchacht's young Wilders to be giving him shiny, pleading eyes for first-aid by his hand instead of Asura's by preference, then, speaks greater volumes about the Witch than it does about him. They do not want to be handled by the likes of this rough, powerful beast of a man, so much that they'd take the dubiously experienced robot tending to their injuries.
Mettaton can't help smirking at the situation, amused. He eyes Asura's pack, recognizing some of the supplies. (A blessing and a curse: while some he recognizes from his time in Aefenglom, a lot are recognized from... movies. He thinks that's a good thing, but objectively, not so much.)]
However. I have been seen in the Coven for medical reasons more times than I'd care to count... So I'll consider that "good" enough. [A wry smile directed toward Asura.] I should be able to muster some of the tenderness complimentary to a man so rugged and commanding. Besides. Scrying, at a time like this, is incredibly helpful.
[He goes right into action, much to the pained relief of the recruits. They try not to show it, of course, (especially not the two who consider Asura to be their mentor,) but they both perk up and relax all at once. Mettaton starts by dramatically pulling at the black glove he wears over his hand and moves next toward looking for whatever is meant to clean. He thinks that's what happens first. Especially as blood mingles liberally with dirt and grime. A decent call for someone who's never done first-aid.]
Poor at first-aid or not, you have quite the talent for killing. It's something I've never witnessed before. [Puts his own half-hearted attempt at murder to shame!]
no subject
The intensity with which Mettaton watches Asura isn't robotic or impartial, nor is it uneasy any longer. It's with a quirked brow, a gleam of intrigue in his golden eye, noting the texture of his hair and the shadows cast by his lashes while he moves from hovering over the carcass of a beast to taking care of business. This is business, after all. Mettaton plants his gloved hands on his hips.]
Ha. And a robot like myself should be any better? I relegate even my own repairs to other capable hands... Which could hardly be considered "first-aid" by any stretch of the imagination.
[Of his many Puca features, most are hidden under luxury fabric. But his incisors are long, the tips of his pink heels mutated into silvery rabbit toes, blistering skin, and curling metal. His thighs bow, making way for wider hips and thicker muscle. ..."Muscle." It's an awkward ordeal, being part-way through a transformation with months left to go. Worse yet as a metal Puca with nothing suggesting "health" anywhere organic on his body. For Dorchacht's young Wilders to be giving him shiny, pleading eyes for first-aid by his hand instead of Asura's by preference, then, speaks greater volumes about the Witch than it does about him. They do not want to be handled by the likes of this rough, powerful beast of a man, so much that they'd take the dubiously experienced robot tending to their injuries.
Mettaton can't help smirking at the situation, amused. He eyes Asura's pack, recognizing some of the supplies. (A blessing and a curse: while some he recognizes from his time in Aefenglom, a lot are recognized from... movies. He thinks that's a good thing, but objectively, not so much.)]
However. I have been seen in the Coven for medical reasons more times than I'd care to count... So I'll consider that "good" enough. [A wry smile directed toward Asura.] I should be able to muster some of the tenderness complimentary to a man so rugged and commanding. Besides. Scrying, at a time like this, is incredibly helpful.
[He goes right into action, much to the pained relief of the recruits. They try not to show it, of course, (especially not the two who consider Asura to be their mentor,) but they both perk up and relax all at once. Mettaton starts by dramatically pulling at the black glove he wears over his hand and moves next toward looking for whatever is meant to clean. He thinks that's what happens first. Especially as blood mingles liberally with dirt and grime. A decent call for someone who's never done first-aid.]
Poor at first-aid or not, you have quite the talent for killing. It's something I've never witnessed before. [Puts his own half-hearted attempt at murder to shame!]