Not all of them! I'm flattered... I AM the only robot quite like me. In all respects. I would say I have a verve for all I put myself into. Not just crude medicine.
[Thank you, helpful Wilder, for the tip about the canteen. Mettaton trades it for the antiseptic with a flourish of his wrist, idly moving to the trio on easy steps. Their wounds are awful up close, he thinks with an appraising eye, and glances over the first kid's shoulder at how comparatively unscathed Asura is. They must be thinking the same thing: he easily outclasses them all. Doesn't this count as justification?
Mettaton considers shortly his perception of Asura's ability to deal a killing blow. Asura's right: he has nothing to compare him to save for a small human child with an absence of killing intent, whose strike was practiced, straight and true, but void of the desire to kill. It all comes down to his feeling. For a monster such as himself, intent is palpable. No longer can he yank people's souls from their bodies and examine it for himself, but it's something electric in the air. Their experience, their mercy, their passion, their joy, all put on display when they land a strike. Mettaton thinks fondly about how expressive these creatures of flesh are, even without the magic of a monster's soul.
...Never mind any of that. Intuition's enough for Mettaton, who saw readiness and ease. It wasn't a clean operation, sure, but he decides that's the most fluke part of all.
(An error, on his part. Weapon though Mettaton was built to be, he's not programmed with anything special to help him play the role, to his detriment. All he has are his observational skills, which are trained by human dramatization.)]
You could say I also have a good eye for talent. You could have had a stroke of luck... But that was something else.
[He'd been working on one of their shoulders, the Monster girl handing him the supplies he'd need in the order she thinks they go. The three don't seem to mind that they're no longer scrutinized for their poor performance, and watch eagerly as the King of Summer wraps up his preparation for divination. . . . .
And curses. Mettaton freezes. If his ears weren't wrapped, and if they weren't useless as-is, they'd stand upright in attention. He feels the impending sense of danger, or he thinks he does — he's only felt it once before, to his recollection. The TV star tilts his chin down, watching carefully as the trio of Dorch's Wilders try to calm their thudding hearts.]
no subject
[Thank you, helpful Wilder, for the tip about the canteen. Mettaton trades it for the antiseptic with a flourish of his wrist, idly moving to the trio on easy steps. Their wounds are awful up close, he thinks with an appraising eye, and glances over the first kid's shoulder at how comparatively unscathed Asura is. They must be thinking the same thing: he easily outclasses them all. Doesn't this count as justification?
Mettaton considers shortly his perception of Asura's ability to deal a killing blow. Asura's right: he has nothing to compare him to save for a small human child with an absence of killing intent, whose strike was practiced, straight and true, but void of the desire to kill. It all comes down to his feeling. For a monster such as himself, intent is palpable. No longer can he yank people's souls from their bodies and examine it for himself, but it's something electric in the air. Their experience, their mercy, their passion, their joy, all put on display when they land a strike. Mettaton thinks fondly about how expressive these creatures of flesh are, even without the magic of a monster's soul.
...Never mind any of that. Intuition's enough for Mettaton, who saw readiness and ease. It wasn't a clean operation, sure, but he decides that's the most fluke part of all.
(An error, on his part. Weapon though Mettaton was built to be, he's not programmed with anything special to help him play the role, to his detriment. All he has are his observational skills, which are trained by human dramatization.)]
You could say I also have a good eye for talent. You could have had a stroke of luck... But that was something else.
[He'd been working on one of their shoulders, the Monster girl handing him the supplies he'd need in the order she thinks they go. The three don't seem to mind that they're no longer scrutinized for their poor performance, and watch eagerly as the King of Summer wraps up his preparation for divination. . . . .
And curses. Mettaton freezes. If his ears weren't wrapped, and if they weren't useless as-is, they'd stand upright in attention. He feels the impending sense of danger, or he thinks he does — he's only felt it once before, to his recollection. The TV star tilts his chin down, watching carefully as the trio of Dorch's Wilders try to calm their thudding hearts.]
...Asura?