You sit beside him. “So… rematch?”
“NICE MOVES, DARLING! BUT CAN YOU KEEP UP THE PACE?” mettaton ex fight simulator
He extends one metal leg, and the floor tiles start lighting up in sequence: a deadly game of Dance Dance Revolution. Miss a step, and a bolt of glittering lightning shoots up your leg. You hop, slide, and pivot, your sneakers squeaking on the polished stage. The audience “oohs” and “aahs.” You sit beside him
Mettaton twirls, launching a mirrored disco ball into the air. It splits into four smaller spheres, each tracking your movements. You sidestep left—laser. You duck right—another. Your SOUL flips red, then green, then blue as you dodge in rhythm, almost like a dance. Almost . Miss a step, and a bolt of glittering
“I COULD HAVE BEEN A WEAPON. INSTEAD, I BECAME A LEGEND.”
“No,” you say. “You’re not a weapon. You’re a star. And stars don’t need to destroy their audience.”
Backstage, Mettaton sits on a prop crate, his chest panel open, wires sparking faintly.