[ Waking up somewhere soft is weird. Somewhere sterile, full of space. Then again, a lot's weird. His dreams too, or what he assumed was the last shot his brain had at giving him some sort of whatever it had left. What he got was a lot more spectacular, visions of space dust and stars, all manner of destruction.

Voices making promises, wanting allegiance. Trading strength for life, like always.

Mikazuki wakes up to his paralyzed body restored. Right eye no longer dim and blind, right arm able to flex, right leg able to swing itself over the edge of the bed (and then not even touch the ground because that's what 157cm gets you) so he can sit upright. He's too focused to be confused, even if it takes him longer to digest info he's been fed. It's a focus that flicks up, to the opposite bunk, honing in like he's about to snap his teeth at the next living thing that gets too close. That happens to be you, but luckily, he breathes, in and: ]

Hey. [ a+ entry ] Did you die?

[ Like most things he deals with, Mikazuki plans to do so with a full stomach. He woke up starving. If that means he has to stuff his face with radioactive-looking vegetables or clear, gel-like pudding, and something that suspiciously resembles eggs but also sort of doesn't? — it's all going down the hatch. Forget the Storm, it's his stomach that's the real universal singularity for someone so small. Though there seems to be something he's ignoring. That weird meat tube thing.

He thinks it's just moved. Trying to escape, maybe. ]

If it's meat, I don't want it.

[ All yours, friend. ]

[ This is familiar. The smell of alloy dust and oil, chilly space bearing down on all sides of the deck. Mikazuki likes hangars. This one is bigger than anything he's ever seen, stretching onwards, full of unfamiliar suits and machinery. He's on a catwalk, one hand extended to meet the likewise extended "hand" of a mobile suit (III-A): ]

Sorry. [ He pushes his palm against it. ] I don't think I'll work with you.

[ Glancing over his shoulder, he notes the presence of another person, tipping his head aside in consideration. ]

You can give it a try though.

[ Or maybe you've come up on him (III-B) when he's finally stopped his purposeful but exploratory stride through the hangar, having found what he's looking for. He was assured it'd be here, and he had to make sure with his own two eyes. So Mikazuki floats in the zero-g, arms hooked easily against the rails overlooking a white suit, all limbs and sharp angles. It's dormant, stationary on its platform, looking as though it's been locked into place. Yet Mikazuki kicks his feet gently against his perch, humming in his throat. ]

So they fixed you too.

[ Looking for things has been the name of the game. Proof of what he was promised for this second shot at... well, whatever they'd call this. Life? Maybe. If it can be called that, with his cause and purpose locked away, safe and sound like his Gundam and, well.

Alive.

Mikazuki sits outside one of the stasis pods, tucked far into the aisles upon of them. He'd tracked this particular one down. His posture is loose, knees crooked and arms rested on them. A handgun rests thoughtfully in his grip. Tipping his head back to look up, his hair brushes against the metal casing separating him from whoever's inside. ]

I made a promise to someone other than you, this time.

[ A breath, almost amused, in a weird, pale kind of way. ]

Was that okay?