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“Little more than just a skeleton then…”
“A little, yeah,” G drawls, watching as you delicately turn his hand for further inspection.
Now safe enough and free of diversions, you’re allowed the opportunity to freely examine one of the ungloved hands that so readily instructs magical tools of destruction in your defense.
“What I mean is: when you said skeleton monster, I thought that your— that you’d be pretty similar to a human skeleton.” The gap between your beds is further than initially thought, thus you shift closer to the edge of yours, as you’re sure he won’t move any more than he already has. He’d already shown mild annoyance at going from prone to sitting hunched at the edge of his bed at your request.
G’s hand appears both familiar, and not. It is skeletal to an extent, however, whereas the bones of an average human’s hands are spindly and appear somewhat frail, his are thicker; fuller, sturdier and held together by some unknown force—or rather, magic. In fact, his hand almost looks the simplified facsimile of a human’s full-fleshed one. Just… sectioned until the fingers connect with the palm, and made entirely of what you assume is bone. With a very prominent hole replacing quite a bit of his palm. There’s a type of semi-buoyant softness to it as well that, if possible, throws you off a little more.
“Wait,” you pause, eyes flitting from your perpetually disgruntled companion’s hand to his face as you have a revelation of sorts. “Can I see one of those, uh—” honestly, you don’t know what to call them beyond the obvious, “your floating hands.”
His frown, while prevalent, is soft as he forgoes silently observing whatever the television shows to spare you a glance, then back. Seeming wholly uninterested in your endeavors, his other hand preoccupies itself with switching television channels, leaving you to think that he isn’t going to comply. Arms growing tried from reaching over, you release him.
“Why’d you think that?” He briefly stops on a channel, then grumbles and continues.
“Think what?” A hand materializes at your side, startling you. He grins a little.
He hunches a bit more to rest his forearms on his spread thighs, remote hanging loosely from the hand that falls between them. You look away. “Anatomical human likeness.”
Making a little, indecisive noise in the back of your throat, you shrug while leaning closer to the hand and waiting a moment before reaching out, “point of reference.” The otherworldly hand makes no move to resist when you take it into your own and pull it close. “Or, well, lack thereof.”
Talk of the two known skeleton monsters is done fleetingly and never goes beyond politics— with only one ever really being addressed. And you’ve only ever seen him via pictures and short videos; all sharp angles and scowls.
G doesn’t respond beyond a hum, which is for the best as you’re far too invested in the differences and similarities that this ‘new’ hand shares with a human’s, and the ‘original’ ones attached to him. Truthfully, you wish that you hadn’t destroyed and abandoned Tony’s phone along with his other belongings, if only for the fact that you’d have a diagram readily available. Then again, would the internet, even given its vastness, really have any information on someone like G? It certainly could… but considering where you found him, results don’t seem feasible. At least, not where you’d be able to safely find them.
Your thumb runs along the edge of the new hand’s matching appendage. It’s… odd. More so than those attached.
Completely bare of G’s ‘skin,’ leaving it rougher to the touch, this one is truly skeletal, fairly similar to a human’s structurally with thin, long phalanges resembling that one anatomical model you saw in the hospital five or so years ago. Right until the fingers meet down at the heel of the hand where what is supposed to be a multitude of bones has been simplified to one large, solid stone of a bone. It looks almost like a fusiform of his original and a human’s hand.
At best, you can only assume that the majority of his body is made of bone with a type of cartilage overcoat. Somehow it feels like a crude description and it makes your face twist in mild displeasure, but truthfully, it’s all you’ve got. Asking him to give you a rundown of how he’s made seems rude, and you’re pretty sure that at the end of any explanation he does give will just whittle down to ‘magic.’
From what you’ve gleaned through contact, he feels like a skeleton throughout. Though you haven’t explored his physique much beyond clinging to him for dear life. Furthermore, he’s always dressed in padded clothing that conceals a majority of his body. Hell, seeing his hands now could be considered a treat, as he seems keen on wearing gloves.
The futility of ever fully comprehending G’s magical physiology isn’t lost on you and has a sigh pushing past your lips whilst you lean back to rest on your elbows. Of course, the need to understand him isn’t all that necessary since today will be that last time you ever see him.
With an irate grunt, you scoot further onto the bed and curl into yourself a bit, all accumulated injuries deigning your position unacceptable and informing you as such by sending seething pain along your torso. It’s just passing curiosity, you decide. Something to take your mind off of all that’s happened and that you’ll have to deal with moving forward.
And, as you lay on your side struggling for comfort and drifting further into preparatory thoughts of acquiring a new phone, tickets to varying occurrences, and possible excuses to use if you can’t make it back in time for work on Monday, that anomalous hand stays neutral within yours.
It allows you to fiddle with it unperturbed for an unspecified amount of time, and you certainly forget that it is, in fact, a living part of the man seated on the bed across from you. Until it decides to respond to his sonorous command of something muted and lost amid your louder thoughts, where it then flexes to life and slips from your hold easily during your shocked confusion. The suddenness of it all, coupled with G standing and moving to lean over you with an outstretched hand proves to be enough to send you on the path of flight and you jerk away, quick to scoot further towards the headboard.
G’s scowl is light but gives way to his displeasure. That, and the weary sigh as he speaks. “You’re like a Moldsmal and a Whimsun in one. Fuckin’ sit still.”
“Considering what I know about those two monsters, I’m not really sure if that was meant to be some kind of backhanded compliment or not.” You respond immediately, incredulous and following it with a light, strained laugh whilst shoving that extra floating hand back towards him as he stands straight.
That scowl gives way to a slight grin “Brainless beauty, prone to fleeing,” he says condescendingly, grinning more as you visibly bristle. “Doll, if that ain’t you then you can put me back in shackles.”
“Well, you’d better lift those wrists, pal, because while I may be a lot of things, ‘brainless’ is not on the list. And, if I was to be any known blob monster, I’d be a Moldbygg—" stopping yourself from straying too far off-topic, you shake your head and hold a hand out in a halting motion, “you said something earlier, and I didn’t quite catch it. And considering that you’re hovering over me like Onionsan does over illegal vessels crossing Ebott’s borders, I think you need to repeat yourself.”
In the interim of your rambling, G’s grin has fallen, and now he simply stares, orbits squinting. “Should something happen, you’re likely to be more of a liability than anything else,” hand moving to rest beside your ankle, he leans in further and enunciates, “again.”
It’s your turn to stare at him, take in what’s being said, and pick your words. “Okay, first of all,” you start after adjusting to sit upright and raising a finger to wag at him as if he’s some insufferable child, “rude. Second: I’m not that much of a liability, you jerk. If I recall correctly, and I do, you’re the one that disappeared at the diner—” Pausing, you huff, brow furrowed via an amalgamation of confusion and annoyance. “Maybe if you’d taken the time to discuss a game plan with me, the situation wouldn’t have turned out so bad. But whatever, it’s over. What are you trying to do now?”
“Let me heal you,” he continues to enunciate around a snarl that makes it seem like he has a harder time saying that command than anything he’s done so far.
You know, like a drama queen.
Feeling no further need to run away, you lean forward, peering up at him skeptically and mimicking his tone. “Why?”
Scowl back in full force, when he speaks, his teeth bare menacingly, voice lowered and laden with a backbiting growl, “your incessant need to unnecessarily push back against something that will benefit you is infuriating.” That red-dwarf of an eye glares bright and angry, following the trail down his nasal cavity to rest on you.
“I’m not pushing back, I just…” You are, very clearly, doing just that. But only because— “I’m just trying to understand. Look, the last time I just went along with some seemingly innocuous idea, I ended up in a borderline riot zone with a bunch of extraterrestrial enthusiasts. So, forgive me,” your tone, while still biting, has lowered and become just a bit more docile, fatigued, “for wanting a little extra clarification.”
At that, he seems to relax, if only just, and settles into himself. “The two of us are fugitives—one of us more so than the other. Carmella may be the only one you have to worry about, but I’ve got a little more on my plate. Nothin’ to this beyond me lessenin’ my load.”
Fair enough, you think. That checks out. While the situation may be more nuanced than that, and you don’t appreciate being called a fugitive (realistically, you aren’t, not until proven otherwise), you feel fine leaving it there. “Okay.” Pronounced loudly and airily enough as if alleviating all the tension held within the situation, you lean away from G after saying it and gradually roll your shirt up to rest just under your breasts. “I’ll stop looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
While he seems to have gone from irate to generally apathetic, G struggles to release the remnants of his grimace. “If only you were always this compliant.” There’s this unwarranted level of exasperation held within his voice that has you rolling your eyes.
“If I were any more compliant,” you follow after a beat, trying not to focus on how you’re exposing your soft underbelly to a murderer and expecting to be healed, “I wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“Hm.” That extra hand that’d been floating around promptly ceases to exist as G moves to place an original gently against the welt along your stomach, almost speaking as an afterthought as heat begins emanating from it. “But any less and you’d probably be dead.”
With a huff, you focus intently on his hand for a moment before diverting your attention to the television off to the side. Yeah, why wouldn’t he bring up the possibility of your death while you’re in a precarious position that he has full control over?
The tepid warmth that gradually blooms beneath his touch spreads around to your back and an inadvertent sigh blows passed your lips. Having never undergone recovery via healing magic, the sensation is a bit much to take in all at once. That’s not to say that it is unpleasant. Quite the contrary, really.
As a matter of fact, you’re more likely to say that it’s… too pleasant.
So much so that, as you struggle to keep your eyes from closing and body going completely lax, you toy with the idea of pushing him away. To hell with the struggle; you’ll make it, push through the pain. Because this? It’s too much. An absolutely unwarranted level of intimate vulnerability on your end.
Like being pulled into a warmed shelter and fed after standing outside in temperatures that have been far too low for far too long. The loving embrace of a truly trusted lover followed by a showering of affection. Just being alive and not having to constantly be on guard because—
Both gradually but fast enough that the exact moment can be pinpointed, the sensation becomes cloying; numbing pain that overtakes every pleasant feeling before it. “Wha—”
It’s like a sucker-punch, followed by the longest case of paresthesia. But this feeling of pins and needles far exceeds the barrier of ‘weirdly unpleasant.’ By now, your struggle to reach out and push his hand away is no longer an idea that is just being thrown about, but an actual necessity that isn’t being met because you can’t will your body to do much other than seize up in pain. Leaving you damn near begging him to “st—staah—stop” amid breaths heaved between constricting throat muscles.
And he does. Pulls his hand away, but the feeling still lingers and there’s nausea that worms through your guts and doesn’t mingle well with last night’s leftover alcohol— you just know that you’re going to hurl. So much so that you spend the next few moments striving to keep your mouth sealed and will away the wetness gathering within it as G speaks.
Thing is, you can’t understand most of it, and only know he’s doing so because of his distinct timbre. Hell, you can barely see him because the room just insists on spinning. You lie there, pressed back against pillows and folded on your side, half-listening to the muted rambling of infomercials until you can’t anymore because everything in your stomach is definitely coming back up to say ‘hello.’ It’s an inelegant dance of crawling and shambling that gets you to the restroom and face-first into the toilet, just barely managing to kick the door closed on your way down.
The moments that follow are long and arduous. Filled with your retching and the sloshing of fluids, until, “G, what the hell,” you whimper through the door, with a voice that is raw and pathetic and breaks off into a coughing fit immediately after. If all of your energy for today wasn’t just flushed down the toilet, you’d put forth more of an effort to sound incensed.
He calls that healing? If so, you’re loath to think about how his attacks feel.
His response comes when you’ve managed to stand and have begun shedding what little clothes you have on, bent on taking a shower. “Shit ain’t easy, sweetheart,” he says, muffled by the door and running showerhead. Stepping into the shower and leaning heavily against the wall, you have every intention of calling bullshit after you’re done. Because, at the very least, he could have given you a heads up. But, as you reach back out of the shower to grab the provided washcloth that would have been too far away to obtain comfortably an hour ago, and move back to run it along the significantly diminished welt across your stomach, you decide to cut him some slack.
The walk from your hotel to the Disney Concert Hall isn’t tedious, taking only ten to fifteen minutes, but renting a car may become necessary at some point, if only for avoiding the overly observant public. Or the not so public. And, though it doesn’t concern you, as you won’t be attending, the Hollywood Bowl isn’t going to be as easy a walk. Neither is the pier. You don’t feel incredibly inclined to help him, but you do feel enough to put forth some effort. If only to pay off some unseen debt. Plus, you’d be creating a helpful paper trail on your end.
“Tell me again why you decided to come here.”
“Plausible deniability.” Dodging random passersby, you walk and stand just short of the last person in the forming line, giving a sort of half-shrug. “Kind of.”
G stands at your side, hands in his pockets, taking in the architecture with dull intrigue. “Not sure you fully understand how that works, Sweetheart.”
“I understand that not having a trail before this works both ways,” the line moves forward and someone stands behind you, so you lower your voice, “and that I can’t backlog, but this will still help. Carmella showed up last minute with plane tickets, and this is a three-day weekend for me.”
Two attendants finish their transactions one after the other; you and the person in front of you approach. “Make it back before work on Monday, and I’m golden,” you reaffirm sotto voce, more to yourself than G.
The attendant is of the matronly sort, and when she smiles, you can’t help but return it. It’s nice to see a friendly face; someone that doesn’t know what you’ve done. “Hello, how may I—“she starts, then pauses as her eyes take on the light of recognition, “well now, I haven’t seen you around in quite some time. How have you been? New York treatin’ you well?”
You’d been in the middle of returning her greeting before she went off on a tangent, and now as you struggle to hold your smile in place, you hope that your confusion doesn’t show too much. “I…” you try not to stall for too long, going through mental gymnastics to come up with a face and name from way back when, “I’ve been well, Ms. …Olivia! You-you’re right, it has been a while—time flies. How have you been?”
“Oh, I’ve been just fine,” she says with a quiet little giggle whilst settling into herself, “just fine. You know Marshall joined the program not long after you left, that boy sure does look up to you. Mhmm, always watches you on that laptop of his.”
G shifts at your side, but you pay him no mind, too busy paying attention to Olivia and fondly remembering your time with her and the team. Your internship here hadn’t been that long ago; two, maybe three years, but it felt like four to six. “Tell him to watch real conductors—“you laugh, but she cuts you off.
“Girl, what about you isn’t real? You’re standing here, aren’t you? You put in the work to become an Assistant Conductor, didn’t you?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do, but we don’t abide by that talk around here, young lady. You know better.”
Olivia gives you a stern look to go along with her reprimand, but it only makes you smile wider. “You’re right,” you acquiesce, “but still, make him watch the Greats: Mahler, Alsop, Bernstein, Parra, et cetera.”
She waves you off and smiles dismissively, “alright, alright…”
“As a matter of fact,” you continue with a giggle, fingers drumming along the desk, “I’m here to see one myself.”
Nodding, she turns back to her computer, “well I suppose you are, aren’t you? What can I do for you, honey?”
“Dudamel is doing Gershwin and Copeland tonight, right? One of whatever is left of the terrace and balcony seats, please.” You really hope there’s a seat left. You could try someone else, but you want to treat yourself. Plus, the spontaneity would make a little more sense, if anyone asked.
She takes a few moments, mumbling to herself as she makes her way through the directory, so you turn towards G. He’s moved away, taken to leaning against the wall and fiddling with his lighter. The socket that never houses a red light is facing you, so you’re unable to make out what he’s looking at, but you assume that it’s nothing in particular.
“Alright, hun. You’re a lucky one, I’ve got one for you. And you said anywhere is fine?” Olivia says, gaining your attention once more.
With a nod, and your smile still in place, you pull out your wallet. “Right.”
After the transaction, the reminiscing, and catching up is done, both of you decide that her station shouldn’t be held up any longer and you depart feeling a little bit lighter.
Then you think about everything else that needs to be done, and the wind is taken right out of your sails. “Okay,” you sigh out, “I’ve got to get a car. C’mon.” Walking to the Waterfront is a no-go.”
Arms crossed and hip cocked, you take in G’s form as he hunches over the kiosk. “Skid Row is a couple of blocks from the concert hall, you’ll probably be fine.” It’s a shitty thing to say, and honestly, you kind of feel bad for him. But you also understand that this is out of your hands. “Heard they’ve been trying to gentrify it— which is absurd. They’ll find a way to do it, I’m sure—”
“What,” G begins through tight lips, not bothering to look your way, “are you talking about.” Those long fingers of his tap rhythmically against the kiosk screen.
You can tell that he’s going over the situation, trying to think his way around it, but you answer anyway. “It’s where most of the homeless people congregate.” Initially, you’d been half-joking, but now, having to explain it to him and thinking about him wandering the area…, “it’s honestly pretty awful… but it’d be a decent place to hide out in— if lying low is your goal.”
Growling acknowledgment, G pushes away from the kiosk and makes for the nearest double doors outside with you on his tail. As soon as he’s out, he retrieves his pack of cigarettes and places one between his lips, then, much to your surprise, offers you one. You politely decline.
Moments pass as you watch him light and take a long drag, turning away and facing the boat laden waters just beyond the pier shortly thereafter, lips twists in displeasure briefly because damnit you don’t want him to feel too bad. “If you did go there, I can only see someone bothering you once. After you make an example out of that poor fool, you’ll probably end up garnering some weird following. Or you can forgo Skid Row all together and take your chances with Malibu and Beverly Hills. Some of those estates have got to be vacant.” Reaching out, you brace yourself against the pier railing, smiling wryly as you roll your eyes. “The owners will probably be out gallivanting around… Monaco or whatever. Just don’t get caught for a month and you’ll be fine.”
G doesn’t respond, and when you turn to look at him, you expect to see him walking away from you, not the remains of his rapidly declining cigarette trapped between the beginnings of that Cheshire grin. His orbits squint a little as he stares, silent, and you’re not sure what to make of his temperament.
Your confusion gives him the opportunity he needs to reach out and pinch your cheek and coo, “guess you aren’t as brainless as I thought, huh, Sweetheart?”
Somewhere between astonished and incensed, you take a swift breath in and push his hand away. “Oh, fuck off.”
The cherry glows fiercely as he inhales, regarding you with orbits crinkled by his smile, “Nice to know you’re still worryin’ about me—“
“I’m not,” you insist, giving a smile to counteract his, an irreverent tilt to it. “Have fun slumming it, asshole.”
G’s huffed chuckle comes across as him not believing you for a second, but he doesn’t push the subject. Instead, he changes it to subjects more grave. “Do you know why travel to Ebott is so restricted?”
“Strained relations,” you shrug and turn back to the water, taking in the reflection of gold fading into auburn into crimson into cerulean. “When did… when did they take you? How long were you down there?” Human-Monster relations are common knowledge, have been for a while. So, for him to not know is a little…
Juxtapose to you, he leans against the railing and faces the skyline, making a low sound in thought. “Around the time of the… exodus,” his laugh this time lacks the distinct intonation of joviality. “Yeah, that’s what they called it. When their Angel— their Little Messiah first ushered all the scary monsters up above.” G speaks slowly, deliberately, almost as if he’s remembering and affirming the events to himself all at once. It’s confusing and off-putting and the same can be said about his face when you look over at him; his eye trumping the cherry of his cigarette in terms of luminosity, piercing through the shadows quickly overtaking his form in wake of the sun’s rapid descent.
Nodding, you press on despite the sudden dryness of your mouth, “during the first wave, then.” This somehow feels wrong but you can’t exactly pinpoint why. Meaning you can’t come up with a logical reason not to inform him of what transpired while he was… underground. The overhead pier lights flicker alive individually, one shining down directly above.
“Well, after the first wave, there were about five more— bigger each time, Frisk led them all. Of course, there are a lot still underground and a lot that don’t want to fully integrate, and a lot of humans that wholeheartedly agree— which is where Ebott comes in. It’s like a… sovereign state, or on the cusp of becoming one I think, I don’t know, I’m not too big on politics. Either way, the only human living on that island is Frisk— they’re the only one allowed to live there. The King and Queen have set up strict borders and have only agreed to occasional tourism. They don’t want humans there, and neither does the U.S government, so both sides win… I guess.”
“Where are the Monster vessels located?” G follows quickly.
“I don’t know. That’s not something they want humans in on.”
“Describe ‘em.”
Your brows furrow and you stumble over your words in uncertainty before finally settling on “what?”
The last remnants of cigarette smoke puff from the shadows and disperse into nothingness soon thereafter, G snuffing out what’s left of the cigarette. “Monsters.” Somehow, the lights don’t catch him, as if he’s just out of their range; but that doesn’t make any sense.
It’s an odd request, but one you fulfill anyway, saying the first adjective that comes to mind. “Uh… rough?” Then tilt your head with squinted eyes and pursed lips, confirming with yourself that that is the word you want to use. “I mean, they were when they first came up, but a lot of them have calmed down.”
When G steps forward, he’s got the air about him that was there before the subject change; that sharp grin in place as he slips an arm around your shoulders and waits a moment for you to adjust your stance, pulling you closer to him as soon as you do and forcing you to walk back to the darkened city streets with him. “Good,” is all he says for a long while after that, underlain with a deep growl.
Smart Casual dress isn’t too hard to pull off, at its basic level. A clean, button-up shirt here. Neat loafers there. Paired with slacks, or chino pants and you’re all set. You… well, you’ve got newly swiped jeans, a slightly wrinkled button-up, and dust-covered sneakers to work with. Not the greatest, not the worst. With the shirt steamed during your shower, and shoes wiped down, you’re well on your way to presentable.
“Am I dropping you off?” In the midst of doing your hair, you focus on his reflection. “Not sure when Mettaton’s concert starts.” G, reclined on his bed with an arm bent back to support his head and sockets closed, grunts in response. The non-answer prompts you further. “For someone interested in attending, you don’t seem too enthusiastic.” By the time he answers, you’ve deemed your hair ‘good enough’ and have turned to lean against the dresser with eyes focused on him.
“Doll, I’m so excited, I don’t know what to do what myself.” He says in a kind of deadpanned drawl that has your brows knitting in scrutiny.
G has been fairly reserved since the pier. No teasing, not many sarcastic quips besides the one just given, even his general proclivity for being irritated appears absent. You don’t know why, and probably never will, but that doesn’t alleviate your baseless worry. On your way to the Hollywood Bowl, you find yourself making excuses for his behavior.
Maybe he’s just shaken by how much he’s missed since he ended up in a government basement. Maybe monsterkind has changed? Maybe he’s just worried about the long wait for the next boat to Ebott. Truthfully, he’s got just as much as you to worry about, given what you know, and there is no telling what he’s holding back.
Unfortunately, the thoughts linger like the smog above Los Angeles after you drop him off. Even though you repeatedly affirm that his problems aren’t yours and that no, you are, in fact, not worried about the weird, murderous basement monster that you’ve spent a little under two days with. He doesn’t deserve your concern. You do. You’re the only one you’ve got and are too close to the goal to fuck this up. Less than twenty-four hours out— all you’ve got to do is lie low until your flight. Sure, some changes will have to be made once you get back— you’ll have to take some self-defense classes, and learn to properly handle a gun, but you’ll deal with the intricacies when the time comes.
For now, you breathe in deeply and let the smile pull at your lips unimpeded, sitting high above the orchestra. Allow for the music to overwhelm you, ease the accumulated tension from recent days passed held within your being. Observe, study, and revel. Shift as comfortably as you can in the cramped seat and simply be in the moment of solace.
Intermission arrives swiftly, and you’re on your way from the restroom when anxiety strikes. Prompted by a worried mother speaking to her husband in passing.
“Honey, honey— David!” She says when he doesn’t pay attention quickly enough. “We need to— there’s a problem at the Hollywood Bowl, Jessica sent a text— go get the car, go get the— now, David. We need to pick them up from the concert, there’s been a— Jesus, there’s been an explosion, David!"
The claws sink in quick and deep. Deeper than your nails into your palms, and teeth into your lower lip. Quicker than David and his wife running down the hall and out of view, and the sudden build of muttered concerns among random pairs and groups flashing phone screens at each other. Every step you take thereafter is deliberate, and you’re driven forward by adamant denial back to your seat. The situation is an awful coincidence. It has to be because he wouldn’t— he can’t have—
Once you’ve taken your seat, you’ve done so stiffly, profusely focused on even breathing and staying calm. Even if it is him, he made a point earlier about how you’d be a liability— he was probably right, so why should you go? He can take care of himself. Has proven it multiple times now. Your presence won’t help him at all. The area is open; there’s ample space that allows for easy movement, and plenty of foliage to hide in. He’ll be fine. Explosions don’t automatically mean that Carmella or military forces have shown up. For the barest of moments, you grin at the thought of men in black having tracked G down; as if he actually is some alien that needs to be corralled. The culprit could be anyone. Gangs. Cops. Any other form of terrorist. Hell, it could have been some freak accident. Mettaton’s shows are known for their grandiose stage sets and effects.
The venue lights dim briefly and your brows knit, hand moving to brace against your forehead. You can’t. You have nothing to offer. You’re supposed to be lying low. Leaving would be the opposite of that. You’re so close. It would be a dumb decision. It would be the worst decision.
But what if he needs help? How many times has he helped you?
Some help is better than no help… right?
The next time the lights dim, they don’t come back to life, and you’re hastily whispering polite apologies as you go against the crowd.
“Goddamnit, G…” The surrounding area is, understandably, a bit of a shit show full of bright flashing lights and distraught fans, some being looked after by equally distraught guardians or level-headed paramedics. You don’t beat the cops there. Logically, there was no way that you would, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you had hoped otherwise. Honking cars deadlocked in the parking lots, sirens howling as more patrol cars arrive, the rabble erupting into frenzied commotion as chunks of concrete and dust flare up and out from a sudden impact further within the venue that is still far too close for comfort. Of course, none of this is comfortable, and just what the hell is going on?
An unexpected touch to your upper arm, while gently assertive, makes you tense and pull away. “Please stand back ma’am.” Says the officer that initiated the contact, tilting his head forward in indication when you turn to look at him. “Ma’am—“
Taking several steps back, you smile, unsure if your bashful demeanor is only for show. “Sorry, sorry.” You’re quick to retreat shortly thereafter, squeezing through the masses with eyes following the walkway in search of a more secluded area. You only speculate that G is still in there and that he’s likely the cause of the commotion. That being said, you didn’t see him among the crowd, and he isn’t exactly hard to miss.
A majority of the walkway is sectioned off by police, but with the surrounding area being as wide as it is, surely there is a way to slip by. When the moment arrives, you take it, aiming to be as swift and inconspicuous as you can to hide behind buildings and among the foliage that lines the walkway. Along the way, the sound of destruction fluctuates and only ever stops for seconds before it begins again. Its visual representation doing the same with a momentary, almost blinding white light that blooms just before the resounding roar of an impact. That alone gives you some small hope that G isn’t responsible; you’ve never seen his attacks emit light.
It’s when you’re around ten steps from the top of the flight and faintly out of breath that you stop and consider doing something about upping your stamina, and also if G is worth the danger that skulking around an active battleground presents. An annoying fracas between multiple sides of yourself, all with valid points that you mull over as you continue and, upon taking in the devastating visage of the Hollywood Bowl, promptly agree with the side that was vehemently against coming.
To be fair, the sight of burning upended benches, stone, and iron shouldn’t be as surprising as it is, considering what has been heard and seen. But the full, vast extent of the destruction is still a harrowing sight. One that seems to have stricken you blind because you don’t see G before he appears at your side, wild-eyed and battered.
Sooner than you can get a word in, his right hand wraps around almost the entirety of your neck, softened by his glove yet still firm enough to be unnerving. Pulling you back securely against his front, he leans down, the side of his hooded head running along the top of yours until he turns inward. “Heya, Sweets,” he growls into your ear with hot breath and off-putting joviality, “just the girl I wanted to see, glad ‘ya could make it,” when you place a hand atop his forearm and attempt to pull away, the pressure he applies is a clear warning against the action, “now, be good and stay quiet.” On your next breath, he teleports.
It seems that no matter how many times he does that, you can never fully get used to it. Especially when it is done without warning. He plants the two of you on solid ground, and for that you’re thankful, but that only does a little to stop the spinning, so you make him your anchor and lean into him, latching onto the arm that holds you steady.
G chuckles and you want to tell him to shut up because whereas it once brought you some semblance of comfort, that is no longer the case. It’s quite the opposite now. Especially given the current state of things. His words, too, instill an extra level of discomfort. “Let’s try this again— and be sure to think real hard about your answer. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to one of your little human fans.” The hand around your neck moves to grasp your chin, steering your head in the direction he desires; towards a hovering Mettaton. “I’m sure the Humans are already trying to get rid of you,” G’s voice is light and tinged with laughter but heavily emphasized with derisive censure, “and if something were to happen to this girl, whose death will undoubtedly be twisted into some form of martyrdom, imagine the political fallout.”
Panic lacing with anger, you thrash. “Y-you asshole, I—“
‘Came here to make sure that you were okay’ is what would have followed, but G makes sure that the rest of your outburst catches in your throat, only letting up when your eyes water and desperation takes control of your movements. Between stuttered breaths, you try your best to assess the situation. He’s using you as an ultimatum, but you’ve no idea what for. The threat of death shouldn’t be as jarring as it is— he’s playing Mettaton.
But… there is still that part of your mind that screams ‘danger’ and shakes what little calm you’ve gathered. The part that flings ‘what if’s’ and ‘why’s’ because you just can’t help working yourself up. Whether he’s bluffing or not doesn’t matter; you shouldn’t give him the benefit of the doubt.
Your view of Mettaton is partially obscured by the tears that won’t fall, but you’re sure that he’s taken on a version of himself that you’ve never seen before. While he’s always been a bit angular, this look is turning that normalcy on its head. Vibrant metallic wings spread wide, shoulder pads that challenge the length and lethality of his heels, two of his four hands donning cartoonish blaster guns certainly seen on an animated show somewhere. The new equipment is both intimidating and bordering on goofy. This whole situation feels like a potential fever dream. Maybe you've passed out on the hotel room’s bathroom floor thanks to G’s peculiar healing abilities.
Ugh, you hope so.
“Another war because the puppet wouldn’t answer a simple question.” G’s thumb runs along the column of your throat. “The King and Queen will be furious. That what you want?”
“No…I… stop calling me—” Mettaton tries, but falters and flinches when another police siren sounds. The three of Mettaton’s four eyes that aren’t covered by an assumed scope widen, flit from G to you and back.
“And get this: The Puppet may have tipped the scales, but its Master is the one that will be held accountable.” Mettaton’s obvious, building distress only spurs G further. “I know you don’t want that. Last I checked, her punishments were pretty damn sadistic. Likes to draw ‘em out too. Get creative.” G’s chuckle is as mean-spirited as his words. “Now, I’m going to pose another question— I know you’re already struggling with the first, but try to keep up. How much pain do you want to be in? Because if you keep pissing me off, this girl is gonna die, and you’ll come just short of it. Whatever’s left of you will be left for your master to toy with.”
“Who are you?” To Mettaton’s credit, the question does sound more like a demand. However, though he’s found some small resolve and sports a mean frown, his gunned arms tremble, lowering and raising mere inches, clearly torn between surrender and resistance. “What are you?”
G scoffs. Probably rolls his eye too. “Someone that’s losing his patience.”
“You’re wrong.” Mettaton counters previous statements, recoiling further into himself, “It’s different up here; she’s different.” A pithy attempt of an excuse for what sounds like a strained, if not abusive relationship involving Mettaton and some unknown. He hangs high above, staring down but eyes swelling with unshed tears and shoulders slumped; it’s hard not to feel sympathy for the distressed idol, and at least some ire towards his perpetrator. Perpetrators.
The only one you know of and is currently present tightens his hold once again and prompts choked whines from you, not unlike a dog’s toy. “Am I.” By his tone, G’s interest is quickly waning. A startling revelation. “All the work that the Kid put in, and you’re willing to fuck it up over a simple question. A lot of people are gonna die because of you.” It’s said so flippantly, that you never would have guessed it to be the final nail in the coffin.
Mettaton opens his mouth, assumed words coming out inhibited, quaking, and unintelligible as if he’s too terrified and or confused beyond speech at the moment. As his heels meet the rubble covered stage, he breathes deeply and tries again, “she’s,” his tears finally fall, “she’s in...Washin—in-in-she-in-“
This next bizarre pocket of time begins with his head; his mouth seizes, skipped speech halts and tapers into a constant low drone, the lights of his eyes dim, abrupt twitching of his head that shifts into cocking repeatedly to the right. The rest of his body shudders and gesticulates in an odd display that is unnerving enough to make you recoil. For all of G’s antagonism and constant use of the term he forced upon Mettaton—and Mettaton’s insistence against the title—the shining Idol of The Underground looks, for all intents and purposes, like a puppet having its strings pulled in multiple directions.
Then, all at once, he stops. Body uniform and unmoving. His flickering eyes the only warning given before his guns snap to attention and, with virtually no charge time, fire.
Instinct kicks in, prompting you to push further back, whimpering and stumbling over yourself and G even though you know you’ll never be able to move away in time. It would be nice to say that your life flashes before your eyes, or something equally benign, but all you get are brief instances of darkness and multiple angles of the destroyed stadium. Followed by anxiety-riddled nausea and fatigue, which can be seen as a plus, given that you’re still alive enough to have the sensations.
“Got her attention.” G adjusts his grip on you, no longer deigning to hold you by the neck like some ragdoll, but instead securing hold around your middle with a single arm. Like a ragdoll. Then you’re both perched upon one of the few benches that are miraculously undamaged, the impact of another shot echoing in your head along with your whining. “Hey.” He says, apparently trying to get your attention because when you don’t respond, he provides insistent slapping on your cheek until both are squeezed together in a hold that angles your head up so that you meet his eye. “Stay awake.”
Easy for him to say. A jump later and you manage to dig deep within yourself to moan out a ‘stop,’ a command that you’ve been giving him a lot today. While you know that if he does, the likelihood of your death is exponentially higher, your insides feel like they’re twisting enough to rupture and death is starting to seem like a more attractive notion than this multifaceted pain.
Okay, that’s a lie. You’re very much clinging onto life right now. As well as your burning indignation at the monster that you so foolishly worried about. Frown now accompanying your squished cheeks, you do your best to speak. “You,” an instant later and you’re struggling for purchase on a pile of crumbled rock, “suck.”
G stands just fine, hunched over you like a gargoyle with that unnerving smile wide and sharp, reaching his sockets enough to make them crinkle. His excitement is back in full form, so palpable that you almost feel it running along your skin. “Atta girl,” he says with all the reverence of an owner to their pet whilst releasing your face, then pats you lightly on the cheek. Another moment, another blast sounding behind, and you’re both closer to Mettaton. G looks from you to the idol. “Hostage situation not doin’ it for ‘ya? Straight to a cover-up?” He makes a sudden, swift gesture that you feel more than see, but you assume that Mettaton’s following downward collision into jagged rubble is the direct result of it. “You always were a nasty bitch.”
“She’s an h-hostage, but you—you won’t hurt her.”
Call it the after-effects of magical poisoning coupled with teleportation, but the voice that echoes from Mettaton doesn’t sound like the one he usually uses; nasally, not as deep, less mechanical.
“Or let her die. That w-wouldn’t benefit you.”
With a shrug and huff of laughter, G summons enough extra hands to keep Mettaton in place. “Ya' got me.” As soon as they do, at least a dozen spikes vault up from the ground directly underneath him, consecutively plunging through the metallic framework with ease.
You hadn’t expected much in the likes of blood or viscera, but such thoughts are proven incorrect and you are thoroughly rewarded with what is hopefully oil dribbling down the spikes, along with a few of them having snagged wires and thick, leaking tubes that were pushed and pulled out on the way through. Every spike avoided his head, and you can only assume that the result makes the attack look worse than it actually was. Mettaton had and remains silent throughout the ordeal. Either he doesn’t feel anything, or refuses to show otherwise.
Swallowing thickly, you try not to focus on the sight. As heartening as G’s dismissive confirmation is, it isn’t enough to negate the trepidation interwoven into the situation. Not much can at this point. Not with the sirens still sounding, police still shouting, and the helicopter in the distance that you’d be foolish to think isn’t coming your way. For all they know, this is a terrorist attack.
You can’t say that it isn’t— and here you are, stuck in the middle of it. Yet another situation with the exceedingly high potential of lasting repercussions. Clutching desperately to the person that landed you here.
Honestly, you landed you here. Again. It’s sickening.
“But I got you too.” For whatever reason, G finds this all very humorous. Sure, he tends to revel in chaos— especially that of his own making, but his enjoyment of this… seems different. More. Deeper.
In your current state of mind, the mere idea of this situation spiking in absurdity hadn’t occurred; it seemed implausible. Higher levels of criminality and lethality? Absolutely. But what could be more preposterous than your fugitive companion attacking world-renowned superstar, foremost runner of monster entertainment, Mettaton—who also happens to be speaking in a voice and manner that doesn’t appear to be entirely his own?
Leave it to G to not only inadvertently plant the question, but provide the solution, and make it a reality.
As of late, standing as been a sort of endeavor. Both because of unstable ground, and fatigue. But as the gradual building pressure comes to light and bears down upon you, you know that the feeling can’t simply be fatigue. And, as you sag and rely almost entirely on G’s support, breathing becomes just a bit harder— just enough that you have to focus on doing it, sweat dots your brow and ringing makes itself prevalent. Yet, despite the added complications, you persevere. Passing out wouldn’t be in your best interest. You’ve been through too much to let this do you in.
No, what does you in— what finally causes your eyes to roll up and then back into your skull and leaves you limp in G’s arms isn’t the aforementioned or the shrill sound of tearing fabric sounding somewhere above and cutting through the ringing.
It’s the absolute monstrosity that follows.
The massive, jagged skull that looms overhead, looking the consolidation of cow and canine, bright red orbs for eyes, its snarling mandible splitting down the middle and opening wide to reveal yet another writhing red orb that grows and grows and grows until it resembles a lesser, brilliantly burning sun.
“See ‘ya soon.”
That is what does you in.