#the deal is kopaka has Trauma about the akaku due to looking down at himself and seeing his Disgusting Organs in 4k HD as they formed

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"I have something for you," Vakama announced when he arrived, hands fumbling with something wrapped in a cloth. He was very quick to warn them as he began to pull the fabric away: "Don't get your hopes up now, though - I'm rather rusty and there are still prototypes, too, so be careful."

They leaned towards him, curiosity piqued, eager to catch a glimpse of whatever mysterious gift he'd brought them.

It took less than a second for Pohatu to recognize the long sockets stretching vertically across brown protodermis: ignoring the Turaga's heed to caution, he enveloped the much shorter being in a tight hug that seemed bent on crushing him between his awfully frail arms, even smacking his face against the Huna - not hard enough to make his nose explode into a fountain of ichor or blood or whatever that was like he'd done with Lewa when he'd first tested out this "kiss" thing he'd seen the Agori do, but still producing a horrifying SDOCK! sound that frightened the other two out of their minds for a moment.

His dark hands shot down to grab the mask, but to his great surprise he found himself grasping the air instead.

"Careful, I said!" Vakama reprimanded him from the two bio of distance he'd put between himself and the not-Toa-looking Toa in barely the half of a moment.

Takua had once described Kapura's uncanny ability to teleport by achieving a tardiness so incomprehensibly slow that it wrapped back around to being impossibly fast, but to see such a thing in action so close to oneself was really something else. No wonder Jaller had always seemed a little disoriented whenever he had to deal with the overly calm Ta-Matoran.

The Turaga held both masks a little closer, giving the other two beings a stern look to make sure they would follow his warnings.

Pohatu instantly pulled his hands back in his lap, trying to make a show of how patient and cautious he would be while his legs couldn't stop fluttering in excitement.

He was trying, at least.

Perhaps that convinced Vakama to approach them again.

"They are only Great kanohi," he told them almost embarrassedly as he handed them over (he had to hold the Kakama at a slight distance so that the Toa of Stone wouldn't rush to catch it once more, while the Akaku almost had to be nudged in his brother's palm): "I had Nuhrii's help, but we couldn't hope to replicate anything close to what comes from the forges of Artakha himself..."

"Is fine, Tulaga," Pohatu was quick to reassure him with eyes still shining and a smile that split his face in two.

As soon as he had it in his grasp he began running his fingers all over the protodermis, reacquainting himself with his first identity, its smooth texture, its hollows and edges, its color and weight; he clicked his tongue over and over, thanking the mask maker in what little of the poor facsimile of their mechanical language his now organic body allowed him to reproduce.

Kopaka held his own mask, not saying a word.

It was nostalgic, for certain - although it felt like he'd worn that same kanohi just yesterday, when he'd first met his siblings. Time passed so quickly, and the mind could only catch up to it so much.

His digits ghosted over the upper scope. He fiddled with it thoughtlessly by reflex; the small familiar motions brought to his mind the slight annoyance of trying to adjust its focus on his Akaku Nuva or its adaptive counterpart and pinching the air instead, finding only one in place of three.

His innards coiled hard around themselves within walls of flesh.

His fingers tensed.

He parted his lips, but a sudden heaviness in his lungs held back any words he would have liked to pronounce.

So, instead, he placed the mask in his lap and extended one arm towards the Turaga; he dipped his other thumb into a tin full of water near his bedside, and fighting the shivers that painfully seized his muscles as he tried to use an inkling of his elemental power he dragged it over the soft skin, willing the droplets left upon it to freeze in the shape of Matoric letters: you are a splendid mask maker still.

Vakama gave a short laugh: "You flatter me, Kopaka," he replied, his voice softened by a sort of small smile. "They're only a first attempt, I told you... Definitely not my best work."

Pohatu chimed in with something spoken far too fast to be comprehensible but in an undeniably positive tone, kanohi held flush against his chest like a prized childhood doll, still grinning in delight. Lightning quick he reached out his hand, grabbed the Turaga for a second time (not violently or forcefully, but suddenly enough that he found himself befuddled if not outright paralyzed by the surprise) and pressed his face against the side of the Huna with a little more regard for him own safety to gratefully kiss him again.

The poor mask maker huffed, flustered, but did not reprimand him. If his straightened shoulders were any indication, some part of him still reveled in his skills being recognized.

Sitting properly once more, the Toa of Stone squirmed and held up his mask: "Can we?" he asked.

"Oh, of course, of course! I've brought them for that, for you to try," Vakama nodded eagerly, invitingly, gesturing as though he would gently push them on their faces himself: "Put them on, I need to see how they work for your new heads - but do be careful with them."

Kopaka watched his brother try his best not to spontaneously blow up with excitement.

For someone whose body had been changed into something for which the chance of sudden self-combustion seemed highly improbable, he made it look like a grueling task.

The protodermis was a deeper color than his skin, darker, richer - a shade of brown closer to his hair, which in his haste he struggled to pull away from his face as it kept stubbornly curling around it so it wouldn't get caught up in the internal ridges and vents of the mask, ending up in his eyes or nose or mouth. With his mane at least somewhat domesticated, his unnatural appearance finally faded into a comforting shadow as the kanohi covered it, hiding his monstrous metamorphosis completely.

The long slits of its sockets allowed little light within themselves. They waited for an orange glow to fill them.

Vakama's warm digits brushing his knuckles shook Kopaka out of his musings. He flinched away for the surprise and nodded stiffly, almost annoyed, before turning his gaze back on the Akaku.

It was stark white in his dark hands, like the last patch of snow that still refuses to yield to the spring's warmer sun.

His innards coiled hard around themselves within walls of flesh.

He turned the mask around so that the scopes would face his lap, raised it up to his head, and shut his eyes tight as he carefully placed it on his face. Before any part of it could hit the metal his lips found something round and flat, a magnetic stud: familiarity taking over any other thoughts he might have had, he parted his mouth just enough to welcome it - as naturally as a gear slots upon a screw.

He kept his eyes closed, and waited.

He felt nothing.

No, that wasn't right. He felt the mask.

It was disquieting. Grotesque, really. There was no surge of power (not that he'd expected it, and frankly it was a relief), only an onslaught of tactile sensations. He could feel a light pressure against the tip of his nose, a naked space across his forehead where the vents opened, a long stretch of matter flattening his hair beneath it, the shape of the scope's internal ridge encircling his eye, the familiar circle fitting between his lips, the magnet's acrid taste slowly seeping into his mouth, the smooth protodermis grazing his temples; his fingers were carefully wrapped around the cheeks of the mask, but he could not feel them on his skin.

Wearing a kanohi wasn't supposed to be like that. The difference between it and the skull was only perceivable so long as the former was visible to the bearer: with a click that lasted only the fraction of a second it became an organ or bone like any other, indistinguishable from the body it was attached to. It wasn't supposed to sit on him; it was supposed to be a part of him. A natural continuation.

From behind his tightly closed eyes he heard a strangled sound, some sort of sputter followed by an awkward fumbling.

"Ah," Vakama's voice came to his ears: "So they don't stick."

"No, no, I holdit rong," Pohatu quickly replied. Kopaka could imagine him clearly as he clearly tried to fit the mask back on himself: he heard him hum something, mouth completely clogged by the protodermis, before his grip slipped again and he had to catch the kanohi as it fell off for a second time.

"And you cannot talk like that, either..."

"No! I holdit rong, I just-"

"You're holding it the only way it's designed to be held, and it simply doesn't work," the Turaga cut him off gently. "I should have figured... I still hoped - ah, no, no, it's just can't adapt to a face like yours. It's the same for you, isn't it?"

The Toa of Ice took a few moments to realize the question was meant for him. He did not bother trying - the mask was unstable enough in his hands: he just placed it in his lap again and nodded stiffly.

Vakama collected it with a saddened sigh, fingertips ghosting gently over the scopes; his face scrunched up beneath his Huna as he murmured under his breath about new designs, different schematics, maybe closer to helmets, asking for help from the Agori, would they be even considered Kanohi at that point, and what about the powers, could they still be used, but how would that work, how could he make it work?...

Caught up in his sprawling thoughts he walked out of the room with the prototype Akaku, still muttering to himself.

Fifteen minutes later he hurried back in: "The Kakama-"

"I lostit." Pohatu replied instantly.

Kopaka, who was trying to regain his mastery over ice without having every fiber of his being seize painfully to get his mind off of the previous unpleasant interaction, continued to pluck misshapen ice pieces from his tin of water with one hand; the other lifted up to his brother's soft face to carefully pinch his cheek and pull, pull, pull--

No smackings or whines could move him. In the end, the Toa of Stone had to fish the mask from the pillow he'd hidden it beneath and hand it over to the Turaga before his friend managed to yank the skin right off his skull.