MIKADO

The last time Mikhail saw Malos's Monado, it was a stray glimpse over the smoking walls of Auresco to where the Dark Aegis was pontificating about the consequences of human life and the petty goals they set at the willful cost of all others'. Fascinated by machinery and all mechanical marvels from the very youngest of ages, he'd been just as captivated by its deadly appearance as he was by his disdain for the man that wielded it.

That was nine-year-old Mik. Five-hundred-and-nine-year-old Mik (well, it's actually five-oh-three, but who's counting? Mik is) forgets his longing sometimes, but now that the chance is within reach once more, he's practically salivating. Akhos and Patroka have never seen it, and while the concept of the Aegis back to his full strength is tantalizing, they're not, all things considered, that invested.

So Malos is back. Back on the Marsanes, and back in black ready to steamroll God, or whatever. He doesn't seem to be particularly enthusiastic, though. After the shock of Jin's circumstances has worn off, he comes to the control room, and leans boredly on the wall.

"Everything okay, Malos?" Mik passes back casually over his shoulder. "Sure," answers Malos. "Peachy."

"Got some really fancy powers now, huh? You need to try them out? To practice?"

Malos groans, rolls his eyes, though Mik can't see. "I'm the Aegis, dumbass. I don't need to 'practice'."

Right. Of course. But... "So what you're saying is," and here he abandons the terminal in front of him and swings around with arms spread wide, "I, Mikhail, can take ye olde Monado for a spin?"

"You what?"

"Y'know," Mik continues, pretending that several parts of him didn't seem to shrink several sizes at the grumpy retort, "I've never really seen it in action, and I haven't had a chance to practice with weapons other than my own in a while, and..." Puppy-dog eyes would have to carry it from here.

Astoundingly, Malos relents all too quickly. "Sure. We need a distraction around here, at any rate." He summons the flaming purple blade, takes a deep breath and considers something (or maybe prays to his father, who knows), then flips it over and places the hilt into Mikhail's waiting hand. "Don't do anything stupid, alright?"

Don't do anything stupid. Of course, Malos. Wouldn't dream of it. And then Mik, the dreamless man himself, brandishes the sword, watches the halo flicker, and promptly slices a hefty chunk of riveted iron out of the side of the console.

Malos's eyes go wide, as do Mik's, and both crack their necks as a futile anti-fussing fidget, and then they usher each other to the practice room, where no such non-bodily injuries can occur. Along the way, Mik makes several more dents, and eventually Malos has to snatch the offending implement back, but in the slight struggle that arises of Mik's foolish pride, the surrounding bulkheads suffer again, and again, and again.

By the time they make it to the kitchen, where the other two surviving members of their crew are dawdling, Malos has hit Mikhail over the head with his Monado quite a few times, and a convenient readout on the wall registers a fair amount of unintentional juddering on their course - they're already going down, so that's fine, but for the love of all that's good and holy, Mik, we don't need to sink our way down to Morytha.

"At least you didn't take out the fucking fridge," Malos gripes, striding over to yank it open - maybe he intends to tear it limb from limb, pulverize it to bits, himself, and at this point he certainly could if that was the Endbringer's desire. He gazes inside for several tense seconds, and Akhos and Patroka, as ever, just watch on.

The clock, broken on the wall, doesn't tick. Mik's stopped bothering to haul out the ladder to climb up and fix it since Cressidus...you know. Since he lost his best buddy. Then again, if Malos barked at him to fix the damn thing right the fuck now, he'd do it. He'd do anything, wrecked warship home or not.

Just as he's about to venture a timid "Malos?" the fridge door wobbles. Malos is clutching tighter at the handle.

"Kid..."

Oh. That's not good. Malos only breaks out the "kid" title for him when he's really, really pissed. Like, Torna-sinking pissed. And he wasn't even that mad then, more just crazy. Well, maybe he was mad at Mythra, because he'd been so ready to be proud of his baby sister but then she just had to go and ruin everything, and not in the good bad way, and fuck, as if this day couldn't get any worse, now Mik's reliving Milton's last shaky breaths--

"Yeah, Malos?"

"Where the fuck is my fucking apple juice?" The gray-eyed gaze is still laser-focused to the very back of the fridge, by the backlight. Is that good? Maybe? No. Not a chance.

So Mik tries to be casual. Tries not to make it obvious how well and truly fucked he is and knows he is. "We ran out, so I got more." It's only true, anyway. While Akhos was out collecting Jin from Temperantia and Patroka was, like, following Mòrag around to flirt with her or fight with her or some strange, strange, strange combination thereof that only a woman could dream up, Mik had gone grocery shopping. Cute. That's what they call malewife behaviors. But anyway.

In response, Malos unsticks himself from where he's been magnetized to the fridge, and brings a nondescript glass jug with an industrial steel stopper out with him. "This is orange juice," he says flatly.

"Oh." So it is. It's definitely very orange - kinda pulpy looking too, so it's pretty odd that he wouldn't have noticed when he bought it. Maybe the carton it had come in had had confusing, useless print on it.

He'd learned to read diagrams and formulae way more easily and efficiently than he'd ever thought possible, but when it came to standard signage, his standard operating procedure has become to ignore unless there's a clear picture denoting the contents. If what's inside is worth the time of enjoying it, then what's outside shouldn't be wasteful.

Eh? Eh? No one?

Okay, yeah. You're an idiot, Mik. How the fuck did you come home with the wrong juice? You know how important Malos's apple juice is. But whatever. He'll pass it off. Cue in...

"Oh?" repeats Malos, dangerously. He's cocked his head in cheekbone-first, and there's a violent violet glint in his leading eye.

"I mean, yeah." Mik shrugs. "It's better anyway. What do they call it, Vitamin C? You know. It's got all the good stuff. Architect knows we could stand to eat a little bit better around here." With Jin gone...yeah. Sure. To an additional note: he'd almost asked what do "humans" say, forgetting that he himself was once just such a one. And so everything, every little everyday moment, brings with it a philosophical quandary. Even jumbled-up juices.

Malos looks at Mikhail. Mikhail looks at Malos. Malos looks at Patroka, and Patroka elbows Akhos instead of looking back, and Akhos wrinkles his nose at her and makes a sneering face, and she licks her finger and smudges it clear across his glasses, and if Malos wasn't so, if I may repeat, fucking pissed, he'd be endeared, but unfortunately for them and him and Mik and the whole Architect-damned thousand-kilometer radius of their current position, he's none so placatable.

Malos looks at Mikhail, again. "You're on thin fucking ice, kid," he grinds out between gritted teeth. "Now get me a cup."

"You're actually gonna drink it?" questions Mik, incredulous, but he bounds to the cabinet to fetch a glass nonetheless. "Out of the jug?" he adds, but Malos perceives it as a clarification, an amendment.

"Of course I'm not. What do I look like, a fucking barbarian?"

The kids share a final ring of glances. "No comment, Malos," they say in unison, and shuffle away to clean up the rest of the Marsanes - Mik first, shoved at the shoulder blades on either side.

Alone in the kitchen, Malos stares disgustedly at his glass of orange juice, then takes a swig. Even the first taste is enough to make him recoil, half-gag, and scrape his tongue over his teeth like a cat. "Ugh! Bitter." (Luckily it does happen to be the pulp-free variety.) "Mik's gotta be out of his mind to drink this stuff. Jin would never..."

Later, when Jin returns, Akhos relates the incident to him, complete with all theatrics and a hangdog Mikhail slumping shamefacedly by, and though he doesn't show any of his amusement on his face - he never does, so let's not expect him to act out of character now - he does offer one singular brief remark.

"I wish he would get used to orange juice. I've always liked that better."

Has he ever mentioned this to Malos? It's unknown. But the other three silently swear never, ever to tell, end of the world or not.