[They've been possessed with little reason to move, and so they have not; remaining in place, back ramrod straight, staring dully ahead as they try and fail to sway their mind from the rapid pool and flow of thoughts they've no desire to dwell upon at large.
And then, Mettaton.
He is inorganic. He has little to concern himself over in terms of his own life, even they cannot claim he does not care to an uncertain extent for two thirds of the unfortunate trio of children native to his world. And said two thirds, naturally, care blithely back, leaving the responsibility of keeping him alive squarely upon their shoulders.
It is going poorly.
Exceedingly so.
He does not move when it requires undue effort, when he moves at all. His actions have become dulled and sluggish, as though a heavy pall has mantled itself over the slope of his shoulders. He still speaks, but his commentary is less and less frequent. He does not look pained so much as he simply appears to be...empty. Everything spilling by in an untextured, dispassionate rush while he sits idly by. He can deny the warning signs, if he wishes. He is a member of that species lucky enough to simply lose the will to live when enough hopelessness has been piled upon them, and it seems he lacks the energy to conceal the warning signs any longer.
When he speaks, Chara at long last flicks their gaze in his direction, balefully. One corner of their mouth twitches.]
no subject
And then, Mettaton.
He is inorganic. He has little to concern himself over in terms of his own life, even they cannot claim he does not care to an uncertain extent for two thirds of the unfortunate trio of children native to his world. And said two thirds, naturally, care blithely back, leaving the responsibility of keeping him alive squarely upon their shoulders.
It is going poorly.
Exceedingly so.
He does not move when it requires undue effort, when he moves at all. His actions have become dulled and sluggish, as though a heavy pall has mantled itself over the slope of his shoulders. He still speaks, but his commentary is less and less frequent. He does not look pained so much as he simply appears to be...empty. Everything spilling by in an untextured, dispassionate rush while he sits idly by. He can deny the warning signs, if he wishes. He is a member of that species lucky enough to simply lose the will to live when enough hopelessness has been piled upon them, and it seems he lacks the energy to conceal the warning signs any longer.
When he speaks, Chara at long last flicks their gaze in his direction, balefully. One corner of their mouth twitches.]
I petitioned one simple job of you, Mettaton.
[Try not to die. Does he remember?
He is failing even in that.]