Perspective
Something isn't quite right with Antauri.
They've been drifting in space for forever, although it's been more like two weeks, and Chiro still finds it hard to sleep, still has his dreams filled with briars and inhuman screeches. So maybe he's not one to judge. After all, if it's not a sweet ride coming back from being a monkey-human hybrid, then it must not be that great of a feeling to have been dead.
Otto and Sprx try to goad Chiro into playing games: games where you massacre zombies; games where you massacre robots (Chiro is somewhat glad his girlfriend is still at home and not there to comment or react, though he still worries for her); games where you massacre bizarre toad-like beings. But after seeing what he saw in the pit, the Chosen One isn't really into massacres. And sure, maybe he's being melodramatic. Maybe he's being irrational. He's the Chosen One, after all. Fighting's kind of his thing. Skeleton King really isn't one for small talk and hugs, and this Dark One worm seems less convivial.
So maybe Chiro's kind of paranoid. But there's that look Chiro saw—that look as Antauri went into the pit—that calm look, that okay look. Like Antauri knew he doing the right thing, like he knew everything would be okay.
Chiro doesn't see that anymore. Antauri watches his team members from a pod chair, never meditating or resting, but instead sitting straight and attentive. There's no contentment or amiability. It's scrutinizing, distant, like how Ranger Seven observes Shuggazoom; Chiro knows that Antauri isn't one to emote, but there's nothing okay anymore. He doesn't even smile when Otto gets particularly excited at seeing a shiny new planet on the computer screen, and Gibson sighs and says No, Otto. And then the blue monkey wearily explains that there's nothing but a dense collection of space dust or a particularly large asteroid.
Sprx sees it too, the silver simian's strangeness, but he shows less concern and more suspicion. The red monkey mumbles that Antauri's acting pretty weird, and did he really get over the fact that his ol' buddy Zan was in cahoots with that bag of bones? Nova will whisper that he's being stupid and that Chiro'll hear those things and Gibson will affirm her words and say that, yes, Chiro's still in recovery.
Gibson is at the main screen; he's listing off coordinates, arguing with Sprx about which direction the Super Robot should fly; Otto is trying to mediate and Nova assures that she isn't afraid to mediate with her fists if you guys don't stop being stupid. Antauri observes from a distance in one of the pod chairs, his metal digits stitched together and against his chest, his chin uplifted and his eyes hooded. His lips are slack. Chiro stands near his mentor's chair, puts a hand on the cold material behind Antauri's back.
"Antauri?" The boy's voice is—scratchy. That's the best word that comes to mind in Chiro's head. Worn. Like rock eroded from a flash flood. His hands are shaking, and Chiro realizes that he hasn't even spoken yet—or maybe he just moved his lips. Antauri doesn't move, doesn't register (or simply doesn't care about—no, don't think that) Chiro's presence.
"An—Antauri?"
It takes Antauri awhile to respond, like he doesn't even recognize his own name.
The silver simian turns and looks at the boy. "Yes—Chiro?" An there's that pause, the way his forehead sort of scrunches above his eyes. Confusion—no, annoyance. Since when has Antauri ever been annoyed by something? Even when Chiro did stupid things, there was always a gentle admonishing followed by sagely advice.
"Are—Are you okay?" Chiro rasps, his eyes looking pained.
"Yes, Chiro," Antauri says matter-of-factly, looking away. "Quite fine, actually. And yourself?"
"Um, I'm okay. Do you think we should train . . . or—"
"Yes, later." Antauri's voice is light, reedy. But Chiro doesn't pursue anymore, more out of weariness than resolution. It's Antauri. And nobody's more reliable than Antauri, right? Even if he's kinda off. The boy goes to join the others.
The silver monkey examines his hands, his arms. Strong, yes, but fully metal. Hmm, he wouldn't have to eat, wouldn't have those tedious biological imperatives. The silver monkey ponders how this would change Antauri's demeanor—if Antauri was still here. Shame. Antauri was one of the more reasonable ones.
The silver monkey stands and strides toward his former—no, his current team members. He watches the hairless monkey's back, the slouched shoulders. He'll have to do something about such weakness.
Mandarin smiles, knowing that with his understandings about his team—about Antauri's disposition—that he will be able to continue this charade until it no longer benefits him.