The dim blue light of the computer illuminates Dexter Kid's face, pale and thin-lipped, eyes shuddering closed with every click of the mouse. His coffee, long cold, sits precariously close to the edge of the grand desk. Hand carved, it was a prized item his father's collection. His papers had pushed it to the edge , the numerous stacks haphazardly organized, very unlike himself.
He didn't bother fixing it, as he would have any other day. He could almost hear Liz and Patty, his keepers, for a lack of a better word, tease him and claim he's finally loosening up.
He sighs and turns back to the video on the screen. He clicks on the red and white play button, and waits, the wi-fi at this altitude is sketchy at best and the phone reception non-existent at worst, making communication difficult.
"Kid," says a crackly voice.
Except the hand-held radios.
Kid squeezes the radio with his empty hand. "What is it, Patty?"
"Time for bed, Kiddy-cat!"
He winces at his childhood nickname, bestowed upon him by his youngest foster sister and head of security, Patty. They're all of age now, but old habits are hard to break. Especially if no effort is given to break them.
"Just a minute please," he replies.
"Kiiii-iid," Patty whines, adding innumerous syllables to his name.
"I'll set the alarm," he offers.
There's a pause over the radio and then, "AND you have to turn off the fans."
Kid leans his forehead on the radio in regret and grunts. With a curt "fine," he shuts off his radio just in time to hear Patty say "Yussssss," and tosses the radio on the short stack of papers.
He turns his attention back to the computer and clicks play.
The stylized black, white, and red opening for Spirit Slayers gives the impression a iMovie template, but he leans in closer as the host, an energetic man with bright blue hair, describes his location.
"'Sup, Spirit Slayers! It's your host, Black Star. Here we are in Reno, Nevada, as we explore the city's most haunted places…"
The man with the unfortunate moniker talks faster as his excitement grows, and Kid can't help grinning along with with him. They're on a college campus, where there have been reports of disembodied voices and sightings, strangely, on the first and sixth floors only.
They move on to a different building on campus when the dorms come up empty.
"This building to be a slaughterhouse," the voice over explains in a low, gravely voice.
"Sick," says Black Star, seeming to respond to the voice over, eyes marveling.
They creep in deeper into the building, when something dark races across the screen.
"There," Black Star whispers, and launches himself after the shadow. The camera shakes in an effort to keep up with the blue streak ahead of them, when the blue suddenly stops.
The camera pans to the ceiling, where the shadow sticks to the very corner where the wall meets the ceiling.
"Woah," says Kid, in unison with Black Star.
Black Star creeps closer with his hands raised. The camera zooms in closer over his shoulder to peer into the shadows.
Red eyes glow from deep within the dark.
"Shit," Black Star hisses, and the red eyes, now framed with horns and steaming nostrils, comes rushing towards the host.
Black Star yelps and dodges the charging shadow. The recording jolts as the camera man leaps away. They hit the ground as the dark shadow charges again, focused entirely on the host. Black Star stands his ground, reaches around to his back pocket and whips out a small, leatherbound book. He opens it and begins to read outloud.
The shadow shudders to a halt. It solidifies to broad haunches and stamping hooves. Black Star does not falter. He raises one hand and makes the cross sign in the air. The shadow, snorting, steam rising from it's enormous nostrils, shakes violently, the very edges of it's form trembling.
Black Star finishes reading the book and throws the entire bible at the shadow.
Upon impact, the shadow explodes. Ash rains down on Black Star, who grins triumphantly.
To the camera, he says, "Another spirit slayed by the one, the only Black Star."He gives the camera an exaggerated wink and salute. As the credits roll, the gravely voice reveals that the university saw a great reduction in cattle sightings on the first and sixth floors. The voice thanks the University for their patients, and gives a link to a fundraising site. The voice requests that viewers donate to help cover the damages seen during the episode.
Kid clinks on the link. He scans the description, which links back to the episode he just saw.
Kid's arrow hovers over their contact information.
He glances over one of the smaller stacks, the pathetic pile of entrance tickets sold over the weekend, and then to the framed picture of his father, white streaks in his pitch black hair, so similar to his own.
Sorry, father, he laments.
Kid squares his shoulders and clicks the button with an air of someone signing a petition just to make solicitors go away. In the subject box, he types Ghosts in a Castle?
Maka paces back in forth in front of her favorite window, careful to keep her steps firmly on the threadbare rug, occasionally glancing out at the curing driveway. Every rustle from the perpetually humming fans made her turn her head towards outside, giving herself whiplash and smacking herself in the face with her own twin-tails. Liz teased her about them, telling her to literally let her hair down for once. Maka found the hairstyle practical and, frankly, she thought it was a cute look. Perhaps not suiting to a woman in her third semester of graduate school, but whatever Maka liked it.
After another short turn on her cardboard perch, Maka re-read the information on her clipboard.
… tv crew…
...four overnight guests….
...ghosts finder people…
Maka snorts and tucks the clipboard behind her back, never ceasing her pacing. Her eyes dart to the window again, trying to get a glimpse of the van that she knew was coming.
Her hands tighten around the clipboard; she ignores the creaking plastic threatening to snap in her palms. Her newly found yoga practice was the only thing that kept her from throwing it, full force, at Kid's head when he told her that a camera crew was coming to Death Castle.
With their equipment.
And they would be staying overnight.
Not even she got to stay over-night, she pouts to herself.
She's on the third floor, but her ears pick up the crunch of gravel and she scurries out of the library and down the narrow stairs as fast as she can in her professional looking ballet flats.
Maka weaves in and out of the intricate hallways, every inch of limestone and granite engraved in her heart. She did, however, trip on the same gnarled rug she always did. She picks herself up, quickly brushes the dust off of her neat plaid skirt, and continues on her way to the drive way.
She barely has time to straighten her smart blazer before the van grinds to a halt and a rather muscular man with blue hair pops out of the passenger seat of the van.
He yawns, obscenely loud, and stretches his arms over his head. Maka fixes her gaze on his wide open mouth, fastidiously ignoring the tumble of fast food wrappers spilling out of the van in his wake.
He scratches his stomach with dirty fingernails and smiles when he spots Maka.
"Ah, a fan," he says, and winks at her. Maka stifles her eye roll and sticks out a hand.
"Site Historian and Lead Docent," she corrects stiffly.
His grin only grows wider as he takes her hand and introduces himself. "Call me Black Star. It's my stage name," he whispers as he leans in conspiratorially.
"Wouldn't have guessed," Maka says flatly.
Black Star eyes her carefully, pigtails to sensible work shoes and back up, before busting out into a full belly laugh. "You're going to be fun to fuck with," he chortles. He drops her hand and shouts to the other passengers in the van. "Get your asses in gear, chumps. We've got ghosties to get."
The van door bursts open and more men clad in black hop out of the vehicle. They begin to unload in practiced rhythm, dancers with the bulkiest props Maka has ever seen.
"You need to sign in," Maka begins, remembering herself. She whips her clipboard out of her blazer- ignoring Black Star's where the fuck did that come from- and produces a stack of name tags from paperwork.
Black Star plucks the name tags from her hands with two sticky-looking fingers. "You seriously don't know who we are?"
"There is no we, Star," a low voice interrupts. "Spirit Slayers is a web series."
Maka turns to glare at the source of the voice but stops as she takes in a bright orange shirt under a leather jacket, the sleeves of which rolled up to reveal strong, tanned forearms. Intricate tattoos peek out from his jacket sleeves, tiny music notes twisting their way around to reach his wrist.
The man starts under her stare and rapidly sets down his armful of equipment, his sleeves tragically slip down, hiding his forearms away.
"Hello," he says seriously, and pushes his white hair off of his forehead. "I'm Soul. It's nice to meet you, ma'am."
Ma'am?
Maka takes his hand outstretched, satisfied when he flinches in her grip. "It's Maka," she says through grit teeth. "I'll be your guide."
"Great," Soul says, gingerly taking his hand back. "Looking forward to it."
He steps away from her slowly, not turning his back until he's well behind the cavernous van.
Glaring at his retreating form, Maka turns back to Black Star.
"Here is your itinerary," she says mechanically, shoving a select stack of papers from her clipboard into his gut. "Welcome to Shibusen Castle."
"Sweet," Black Star grins. He drops the stack of papers in favor of shading his eyes from the bright morning sun, sending Maka's meticulously organized itinerary into the dirt. Maka emits a sound from the Cretaceous Period and scrambles to pick up the paperwork. "You know anything about the ghosties that need gotten?"
"What," Maka snaps.
He opens his mouth, undoubtedly to say something else incredibly stupid, but his eyes catch on something behind Maka, and his jaw hangs a little looser.
Bewildered, Maka follows Black Star gaze, then rolls her eyes. Her boss, Dexter Kid, steps gracefully onto the sidewalk next to Maka, clad in his usual black, rings glittering in the sun.
"Welcome," he says to Black Star primly, extending a pale hand. "Dexter Kid. I summoned you here."
Black Star gleefully takes Kid's hand in his, squeezing it in a battle of masculinity or sheer lack of wits, Maka can't decide. Kid, unfazed, equals the pressure easily.
Black Star backs off quickly and takes his hand back, rubbing it thoughtfully.
"Dexter Kid," Black Star says. "You got a nickname?"
"Most people call me Kid." He shrugs at Black Star's wrinkling nose. "It's better than Dex."
"True that," agrees Black Star, holding out a fist for Kid to bump. Kid obliges with a small grin, which forces Maka to turn away from the sheer bro-ness of the moment.
Maka steps up onto the curb, her back turned stiffly towards them. She fixes her glare on marble staircase she had regrettably descended from.
Another Boys' Club, she seethes. More male bullshit she would have to endure.
From behind her, someone mutters, "She's either 14 or 40; I can't tell."
Fire erupts in Maka's veins. She whips around and launches her clipboard at the speaker.
"I'm 27," she screeches.
She hits her target, as always, and Soul, who had introduced himself so politely, doubles over, the clipboard and assorted papers strewn at his feet.
Maka's anger seeps out of her and is left with the dredges of embarrassment.
"Ah, I see you're getting to know each other," observes Kid. "Perfect. Tonight will be less awkward, then."
Maka blinks. "Tonight?"
"Yes, they're staying the night with you as their host."
"Noice," Black Star says approvingly. "We'll get you to lighten up, no problem. We've got beer!"
"You're not drinking in the castle," Maka says furiously. She Kid to says, "Why do I have to watch them?"
"I have meetings, you know that. And besides," Kid says, lowering his voice. "You're the only one I trust to protect the castle, and keep the integrity strong."
Maka's ego inflates without her permission, but she says nothing and purses her lips.
Kid eyes her expression carefully. "You can stay in the Celestine," he offers, dangling the last carrot.
"Fine,' Maka bites out, pretending to still be put-out. "But it won't be my fault if that asshole ends up taped to his bed post."
"Careful," Black Star interrupts, gleefully shoving his way in between them. "I might be into that."