There's something so weird about knowing that Igwe shares a VA with Javik. This man should be telling me to throw someone out of an airlock, I just know it.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Category: Gen
Characters: Dayo Igwe, Mikhaila Ilyushin, mentions of Morgan Yu, mentions of January
“Do you think it’s listening to us debate all this?”
“No, because ceramics aren’t capable of any biological function.”
“Certainly. But this one is not ceramic.” Igwe pushes his glasses back up his nose, tilting his head. “We’re being held hostage by coffee,” he says finally.
Mikhaila takes a page out of Morgan's book in attempts to flush out a mimic.
[full 891 word fic under the cut]
“Do you think it’s listening to us debate all this?”
“No, because ceramics aren’t capable of any biological function.”
“Certainly. But this one is not ceramic.”
Dayo Igwe and Mikhaila Ilyushin are staring at the table in the medical bay. Igwe’s brow is knit together as he chews the inside of his cheek. Mikhaila has her arms folded across her chest, idly tapping the toe of her boot against the floor.
The plan had been to scavenge more parts and schematics for the recycler and fabricator in Morgan’s office. That way they could set up a more proper base of operations. January had even urged the two of them, hoping to aid ‘Morgan’s intended goal’, though the Operator refused to give any further detail than that. The lobby had been fairly quiet for a while, and the turrets instilled them both with enough confidence to venture outward.
Until the silence left the realm of reassuring and became a genuine case of too quiet. That’s when the jumpiness set in, and they laughed at themselves. Jumping at shadows, random squeaks, sounds of the station settling. Jokingly pointing out anything they saw multiples of. Two medical operators! Two doorways! Two keypads!
Two cups over there on the table.
…but hadn’t there only been one?
Very funny. No more jokes like that. You are joking, right?
And now the two feel trapped by two empty coffee mugs, standing between the med bay’s half-wall and the door. The “safety” of Morgan’s office just a single tantalizing stairwell away. And those mugs have the two scientists cornered.
Humiliating, certainly. And entertaining. A mind game, almost. A puzzle. Some sort of weird relief amidst the chaos and tragedy enveloping them.
Igwe pushes his glasses back up his nose, tilting his head.
“We’re being held hostage by coffee,” he says finally.
“Well, we can’t just stand here and never walk through the door and back to Morgan's office,” Mikhaila says finally. “What would they say if they found us like this?”
“They’d laugh,” Igwe concedes, still eyeing the two mugs perched on the low table with a degree of annoyance and suspicion.
Mikhaila narrows her eyes, trying to bait one of the mugs into moving.
The mugs do not flinch under her gaze.
“In fairness, there may have been two,” Igwe sighs. “The situation on the station has left me... appropriately paranoid.”
“Well. I’m going to do what Morgan would do,” Mikhaila says, hands dropping to her sides.
“Laugh at us?” Igwe turns to watch her vanish into a nearby alcove.
“Maybe once I’m done,” she calls. He can hear drawers slamming open and Mikhaila rooting through them. Igwe’s eyes dart back to the mugs, breath hitching as he realizes neither of them were keeping an eye on the objects
There’s still two. They’re still there.
Mikhaila appears in his periphery again.
“I’m going to pitch these baseballs at them,” she says, winding up for an underhand throw. “And if that mug grows legs and runs, I’m going to slam it into the carpet with a wrench.”
Igwe watches as the ball arcs through the air— landing just short of the table with a thud, rolling underneath it and out of sight.
“Mmm,” he offers helpfully. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a throw.”
Mikhaila takes a few steps back and changes her stance. Igwe lets himself pull his eyes away again to watch her.
She has the other baseball in hand, arm wound back for a proper overhand pitch. Something gleams in her eyes.
“Once more, with feeling, ” she says, sending the ball flying. It hits its mark, shattering both mugs in an instant, drenching the table and floor in whatever long-forgotten drink had been in them. Igwe claps, a smile breaking across his face.
“I’ve never been much of a baseball man, but you’ve convinced me now,” he jokes. Mikhaila dips her head, plucking the wrench at her side back off her belt.
“Thank Harley— he’s the one that got me learning how to pitch back in the gym. I felt a bit bad after he rambled about it to me all lunch. I didn't know much at all, and he missed it a lot. And now it's saved us from ceramics.” She holds her hand out, gesturing toward the exit. "After you."
They both stroll forward, back toward the dangers and peril of ascending a single stairwell, before Mikhaila comes to a stop just inside the automatic door.
There is a third mug perched on the table. Gleaming in the light. One she’s sure she hadn’t seen before.
Igwe is already halfway to Morgan’s office. She could just follow.
Curiosity and safety have an ill-fought battle in Mikhaila’s mind, until her I’m going to do what Morgan would do thought wins out once again. Bad idea, a more logical part of her hisses, as she raises the wrench above her head.
She swings it like a hammer, bringing the full brunt of the force down on the mug.
Igwe comes running when he hears the scream.
By the time he reaches the door, Mikhaila is laughing, wide eyed. She turns to look at him, mouth still agape, wrench gripped in her hand.
The now-dead mimic exists mostly in viscera and dark stains on the table and floor.
