"What the hell have you done."
The statement - and it is a statement, not a question, even Mikhail can tell that much - pierces its way through the consistent waves of pain that have ebbed and flowed but never dried up. It's a new voice and Mikhail, who has grown very used to screams and begs and the sickening drawl of his tormentor, cannot help but be intrigued.
Any distraction from the burning in his chest, however slight it may be, is welcomed.
He's not hopeful. He gave up hope a long time ago.
"Ahh, it's you," the voice he hates so much hums, distant and cold. "I suppose I should have anticipated your eventual return."
"Shut up," the newcomer hisses. "Shut up! What have you done?!"
"Well, you can't expect me to both be quiet and explain. I thought you had more sense than this."
The newcomer lets out a frustrated growl, but Mikhail is more concerned with the sudden flare of pain that leaves him gasping and writhing on the floor. He moans, ignoring how the sound chafes at his throat, the throat that has been scratched dry by his screams.
"Children," the newcomer whispers. "You've used children!"
The pain subsides to a more bearable level and Mikhail slumps flat. He thinks the two are moving, stepping over the too-many bodies crammed in the room to circle each other. He doesn't have the energy or the willpower to look and confirm.
His tormentor chuckles to himself. "Oh, Minoth, I do this for the greater good," he declares, and oh, Minoth.
Mikhail twists, biting his lip to refrain from crying out as the action aggravates the damage to his chest, and lets his head flop to the side. The cool marble tile is a surprising relief against the flames charring his broken body to a crisp, despite only having a tiny effect. He forces his eyes open and, yes, that's Minoth, looking exactly the same as when Mikhail last saw him, only days or months or years ago - he doesn't know how long it's been anymore.
"The greater good," Minoth scoffs. "What greater good is this, torturing and- and experimenting on innocent people? On innocent children?"
"No one is truly innocent, Minoth," Amalthus says with a smile, and that expression makes Mikhail want to vomit (or maybe it's the pain, which is definitely getting worse again). "I see this as a necessary evil."
Minoth steps forward, features twisted into plain anger. "You're sick," he says simply. "What even is this? Some kind of super-human mutation factory?"
"Well, that description does fit the first attempts rather well. But no. These are my Blade Eaters," the Quaestor - no, Praetor - answers, spreading his arms as if inviting Minoth to witness. "My greatest success to date."
Fists clench at Minoth's side. "Oh, thanks," he snarls, punctuating his words with a jab at his two-toned core crystal. "That makes me feel so good about this. Was it not enough for you, what you did to me? You just had to go and sink even lower. Congratulations, I didn't think it was possible."
"Come now, Minoth, did you really think I would stop with a failure like you? No, there was so much more to discover, so much more to explore, and look at what I have achieved."
"This is no achievement. This is- this is a new level of fucked up. This-"
Someone screams, loud. Not Mikhail, not this time, but someone behind him, and Minoth turns to look.
And Mikhail sees the exact moment Minoth recognises him. Sees it in the way he stiffens, cuts off mid-sentence, mid-thought, drops his pointed accusations and bitter anger and stalks in Mikhail's direction.
"I'm taking this one."
Mikhail blinks helplessly up at his maybe-saviour.
"I don't think so."
"What, afraid of your dirty little secret getting out? Don't worry, this one's already dead, he won't tell." Minoth crouches next to Mikhail's head, carefully blocking Mikhail's view of- no, cutting Amalthus' view of Mikhail. "And we both know no one will believe me."
Amalthus takes a step towards them, Mikhail hears it, and he tries to hold himself quiet and still, to fake the death that Minoth has described, but it'll be obvious that he's alive if Amalthus comes close enough to see the truth, so Minoth turns away to face the threat, and-
A shot rings out - a sudden boom that slices through the moans and screams filling the room, silencing- no, not silencing them, the agony is too great to be silenced. Surprising them into a brief respite. Mikhail would have flinched if he wasn't in so much pain.
"So quick to anger," Amalthus murmurs. He doesn't move.
"How are you planning to stop me?" Minoth asks, half-turned towards Amalthus, arm outstretched and pointing a single gunknife at his driver. The threat is clear. That first shot, a warning, had gone wide. The second, if fired, will find its mark. "We both know you're no fighter. I'm taking this one with me."
"You may get it out of this room, but good luck getting it off this titan. Any combat abilities you possess are no match for the numbers on my side. You won't make it out of the Praetorium."
The pain returns - not that it ever went away, but it worsens, and Mikhail can't hold still, can't stop himself from writhing as it courses outwards from his chest and burns burns burns, barely holds back a scream, grinds his teeth deep into his lip to repress it, and this is it, any attempt Minoth has made to save him has just been ruined, but-
Steps, distant, float to him through the haze of pain. A door, familiar, a sound he has come to hate, the sound that signals Him.
Amalthus has left.
"Thank fuck," Minoth breathes, his gunknife disintegrating into ether. "Let's get out of here, quick."
He reaches under Mikhail in an attempt to scoop him up, and the slight jostling has him screeching in pain.
"Okay, okay kid!" Minoth says, backing up with his hands splayed defensively. "Shit. Shit. Right. This is going to hurt. I'm sorry, but we've got to get you out of here."
He reaches in again, lifting Mikhail from his bloodied marble bed and ignoring this time how Mikhail screams, his hands scratching feebly at the fabric of Minoth's shirt in search of any form of release from the pain.
"I'm sorry," Minoth says again. "I'm so sorry. I'm not leaving you here."
Mikhail wails, squeezing his eyes tight shut as if that will help dull the pain. It doesn't. Nothing does. They start to move, and each step resounds in his mutilated chest, lancing fire outwards throughout his entire body. He can't see where they're going, can't tell how far they've gone and how far they have to go. He can only endure the enveloping pain.
Minoth swears softly, backing around the corner he'd just rounded. The sound of his voice breaks through the pain, reawakening Mikhail's consciousness to their surroundings. He holds his breath as soldiers thunder past, partly in fear of discovery and partly to restrain any sounds of pain from escaping.
They can't fight, he realises belatedly. Not while Minoth is carrying him.
He needs to stay quiet, needs to draw as little attention as he can manage through the pain so that Minoth can get them out without fighting, but-
But it is as he comes to this realisation that the pain decides to flare up, worse than it has done for a while, almost worse than he can remember it ever being, and it hurts, he's so hot, it's too much, he can't bear it he can't escape it it's everywhere it's everything and he screams, he screams-
Minoth looks down at his armful of screaming wriggling child in horror. "Shit," he hisses for the millionth time since he set foot on Indol. The kid is clearly in a hell of a lot of pain, but he's been pretty good at not vocalising it too loudly since they left that room - until now. They can't carry on like this; Mikhail's a beacon that will bring Amalthus' soldiers running. It's a miracle they haven't already been found.
He looks around, swallowing the urge to panic, and assesses their exact location. The Praetorium is hauntingly familiar; he has spent too much of his life roaming these halls, and for once that knowledge is useful because he knows exactly where they are: down the corridor from Amalthus' old Quaestor's office. His almost-soundproof office. Minoth knows this, knows some of what has occurred behind those closed doors, knows why soundproofing was a necessary investment. Amalthus is Praetor now, a Quaestor no longer, but the promotion is still a new one, and Minoth cannot see Amalthus having abandoned such a conveniently soundproofed office so quickly - hopes he has not, at least.
Mikhail thrashes, catching Minoth's cheek in a glancing blow, and Minoth struggles not to drop him. That decides it: they have to stop.
Hopefully they would not expect him to hide in their boss's office. He prays that the unlikeliness of the move keeps them from thinking to check it.
He hurries down the corridor and ducks into the office, placing Mikhail as gently as he can onto a chair that Minoth has never sat on (because he is a Blade and Blades are made to serve, not sit) but Malos definitely has (because Malos was confident in his power and happy to rebel), rushing to close the door once he is semi-confident that Mikhail won't flail his way into falling off.
The kid is still shrieking. Minoth thinks he's forgotten how to stop. He wants, desperately, to help, to do anything to alleviate the wrongs done by his driver, but he can't, has no idea where he could possibly start. Instead he does what he can do: places himself beside the door, manifesting his weapons ready for any possible intruders. He can't heal, but he can do his best to protect.
He takes this brief respite - a respite for Minoth, not for Mikhail, the poor kid is still suffering - to properly check Mikhail over. He hadn't when in Amalthus' presence; from the moment he'd recognised Mikhail amongst the many bodies in the room his only goal had been grabbing the kid and getting him safely out. Now he has the time to examine the extent of the damage.
Mikhail's chest is a mess of bruises and scars that circle what is clearly a core crystal, the flesh surrounding it reddened and disfigured. It's not neat, not like core crystals are on Blades: it's a glowing chunk of rock lodged messily in the skin.
When Minoth had heard about Spessia, he'd assumed Mikhail was dead. Assumed the same of Lora, and of Jin and Haze by association. There were no survivors documented; he'd had no reason to expect anything but their deaths.
No survivors documented because Amalthus had secreted them away to serve as experiments.
Should he be looking for Lora? Has she suffered the same fate?
He forces himself to dismiss the thought as soon as it arises. It's possible, uncomfortably possible, that she has, but equally possible that she's dead in Spessia. Either way, Mikhail needs him. He doesn't have time to scour the Praetorium for that possibility when Mikhail needs Minoth's help to get out.
It feels like a betrayal, to not even look, but Minoth knows that Lora would want him to focus on Mikhail - would be angrier if he didn't. She loved him.
Mikhail has stopped screaming. Minoth isn't sure if the pain has subsided or if his lungs have lost the capacity for it. He's stopped writhing, too, his head slumped at an unnatural angle over the back of the chair - squirming, but lacking in the intensity of his previous contortions.
"You okay?" he asks hesitantly.
The answer is an obvious no, but Mikhail slowly lets his head fall forward until their eyes meet, and gives Minoth the slightest of nods.
Well. That's something. An improvement?
It doesn't do much to help their situation, though. Mikhail may be able to stay quiet again for now, but how long until he's screaming again? Minoth doesn't know if he can get him out like this, not when Mikhail needs to be carried, restricting Minoth's ability to fight.
Frustrated, and aware of Mikhail watching him, he scours the room. For what, exactly, he's not sure. Some kind of miracle escape route would be nice. All that catches his eye - there's not much left in the room, Amalthus clearly is in the process of moving to a fancier office more befitting of the Praetor - is a lone core crystal sitting on the desk.
Huh. That's unexpected. What's so special about this one core, special enough for Amalthus to leave it in his private office?
Maybe Minoth should awaken it and find out. He could certainly use a hand in getting Mikhail out of here.
He remembers too late that Mikhail is still watching him when the kid lunges for the core.
Why not? If he doesn't have the potential, then fine. It can't hurt more than he already hurts. And if he dies then great, that's problem solved for Minoth, and relief from the burning pain for him.
And if he does have the potential, that's fine too. They have another ally. Problem made slightly easier for Minoth.
So he reaches for it before Minoth can stop him, closes his fingers on it, and everything goes white.
And, finally, the burning ebbs away, cooled by a soothing wind.
"Hello, my name is Fan la Norne."
Minoth stares, stuck in his half-aborted too-late dive to stop Mikhail from potentially killing himself. That hasn't happened, thankfully - the kid is curled up on the floor, clutching a familiar staff.
And across from them-
"Haze."
Well, that solves the Lora dilemma.
Haze tilts her head slightly, confusion settling across her face. "Who is Haze?"
"Uh." What sort of question is that? "You are?"
"No," she says, furrowing her brow. "I am Fan la Norne."
They all stare at each other.
"Aren't I?"
Minoth tries to respond - he has no idea how to deal with Haze providing the wrong name, but he tries anyway - when yelling loud enough to pierce the almost-soundproofed office echoes from the corridor. He swears, grabbing for the door, holding it closed.
It rattles, briefly - someone trying to open it from the outside. Minoth keeps it shut tight, hoping they'll think it locked, and they must do because the rattling doesn't last long, and Minoth hears the yelling drift quickly away.
He relaxes, letting go of the door and turning back to face his companions. Haze has helped Mikhail up, retrieving her staff from him in the process. The kid is pressed tight against her side, using her body to keep himself upright, but he's standing mostly by himself, which is more than Minoth thought he'd be able to do. Haze must be easing his pain.
"We need to get out of here, I assume," she says, glancing between Minoth, her driver, and the door.
"Yes. If they catch us they'll kill your driver." He doesn't mean to scare the kid, but Haze as she currently is has no reliable stakes in anything other than her driver's survival. Minoth needs that motivator, needs her assistance. "I can navigate, and if you help him I can fight."
She nods, her expression set firm like it was before their final fight against Malos. "Lead the way."
"Can you run?" Haze lowers her voice to ask, and Mikhail musters a nod. He thinks he can, now that Haze is here and doing whatever she's doing to soothe the pain. It's not gone - he can't imagine it ever being gone - but it's become so much more bearable.
She offers her hand, and Mikhail slips his into her familiar grasp.
And then they're running.