"Tell me again," Lucien muttered, his voice low, muffled by felt and sweat, "why am I doing this, mon ami?"
"Shut up and keep dancing," Akuma growled beside him.
"Yes, Lucien,es macht ziemlich viel Spaß, no?" Adalbert's voice boomed, full of obnoxious cheer..
"Dah! Ochen; Veselo! Very Fun!!" Mischa barked, his accent loud enough to drown out even the keyboard he was hammering in wild, uneven chords.
The scene outside the Ishigawa Academy gates was nothing short of madness.
Mischa stood behind a folding table piled high with t-shirts, hats, buttons, and plushies—all stamped with Machan's round, smiling face. He wore at least three shirts at once, a foam hat shaped like her head perched crooked on his, and shouted prices like a street hawker.
Adalbert sat at an electric keyboard set up on the curb, pounding out some strange medley of classical overtures and Machan-inspired jingles, singing half-lyrics into a tinny mic.
And in the center of it all—Akuma and Lucien.
Both men wore oversized mascot suits, the same absurd thing: giant Machan heads with wide, innocent grins, stubby little legs, and wobbly felt arms. The heat inside was suffocating, their movements clumsy, but still they danced—if it could even be called dancing. A mix of stiff shuffles, exaggerated waves, and awkward hops.
Children pointed and laughed. Parents snapped photos. Fans filing in and out of the gates gawked, some amused, some horrified.
From the academy steps, Machan stood frozen, wide-eyed, staring at the madness like it was some fever dream.
It only got worse when Tachyon appeared at Mischa's table, holding a vial of something suspicious. "Observe! The durability of these shirts! If I introduce hydrochloric acid at a steady pour—"
"NOPE!" McQueen tackled her in a blur of white and lavender, dragging her kicking and flailing back into the building while shouting apologies at the crowd.
Akuma kept dancing, sweat dripping down his back, his scowl hidden beneath the oversized felt head. He was dying inside, but he refused to break character.
Finally, Machan's feet carried her forward, almost against her will, until she stood before him. Her voice wavered. "…What is all this?"
Akuma stilled. He turned the oversized head toward her, awkwardly lifting one felt paw before sighing. "…Well. I hafta sell merch."
Machan blinked.
"And who else is better than you, since you're already an established Uma?" he added quickly, voice flat, as if reason could disguise the embarrassment bleeding into his tone.
Her lips parted—but before she could answer, McQueen suddenly appeared behind her, now wearing one of the shirts herself, her proud smile brighter than the sun.
"He's lying," she declared.
"McQueen—!" Akuma hissed, but it was useless.
"He's doing this because he wants more people to get to know you, Machan. Because you deserve it."
Machan's eyes widened, but she didn't get the chance to respond before Special Week barreled into view, holding up cardboard signs taped together with Machan's face drawn in bright crayon.
"He's sooooo pumped for this!" Special beamed, bouncing on her heels. "He wouldn't shut up about it all morning!"
"…Tch." Akuma clicked his tongue and shuffled backward, trying to hide in the crowd.
"Coward," Lucien muttered from inside his own suffocating suit.
"Talk about the pot calling the kettle black," Akuma shot back.
The absurdity escalated further when two familiar figures strode into view—Scarlet and Vodka, striding arm in arm, their energy loud enough to pull the whole crowd's attention.
"There she is!" Vodka shouted, grinning wide as she pointed at Machan.
"Machan!" Scarlet added, voice clear and warm. "I'm so happy we're going to be together from now on!!"
The two of them joined the fray without hesitation, grabbing leftover signs and cheering as though it were a festival.
"C'mon!" Vodka laughed, looping an arm around Machan. "You gotta sell stuff with us! Meet your fans!"
"Exactly," Scarlet said, her smile softer. "They're here for you."
Machan's stiff expression cracked. A laugh—small, uncertain at first—spilled out of her. Then another. Her shoulders shook as the laughter grew, breaking into the first real, unguarded sound she'd made in months.
Rice Shower appeared almost on cue, dragging her violin out of nowhere, her haunting music blending strangely well with Adalbert's chaotic keyboard.
And at Mischa's table, the chaos peaked—because Gold Ship had shown up.
"I'll take it all," Gold Ship declared, throwing down a wad of cash. "Every last item. Then I'll resell at twice the price, make bank."
"Niet! We haggle!" Mischa barked, slamming his palms on the table. "You think you scam me? I scam you!"
The two of them leaned nose to nose, hissing prices at each other while customers looked on in bemused confusion.
Akuma, still trapped in the sweltering suit, finally gave in. A low chuckle slipped from him—then another, until he was laughing outright, shaking his oversized felt head.
Beside him, Lucien's laughter joined, smoother, softer, as though against his will. They stood side by side, two ridiculous men in ridiculous costumes, watching the chaos unfold.
And there, in the middle of it all, was Machan. Laughing, smiling—her real smile, wide and bright and alive. The one neither of them had seen in years.
Lucien's laughter faded. His smirk softened into something gentler, more fragile. He leaned close, his voice low, almost swallowed by the noise.
"… Merci, mon ami. Thank you—for allowing me to see this."
Akuma didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Because for the first time in a long time, Machan wasn't forcing a smile.
She was simply happy.