8: Awaken! The Demon Weapon Remembers
It wasn't unusual for Maka to be called to Kid's office these days. She'd probably been it more the last few weeks than the entire time he occupied that space before combined.
"What is it, Kid? Have we gotten any more updates?"
Spirit, who was also in the room, exchanged a glance with his employer. Kid shook his head.
"Not exactly…" The shinigami cleared his throat.
"Maka," he began. "I would like you to consider taking a new partner."
Maka sat in steely silence. She couldn't believe she was hearing this from her friend. Spirit looked between the young Lord Death and his daughter, unable to say anything that would ease the rising tension. Of course this wouldn't be taken well.
Kid frowned. "Maka?"
"You're joking." Maka deadpanned.
Spirit sighed. "Maka darling, please hear him out. He's only trying to do what's best."
"You want me to listen to Kid tell me to give up on Soul, Papa. Are you serious right now?" She shot her father an incredulous gaze.
"Maka…" Spirit warned.
This couldn't be happening! "No! It's only been a month since he's left, I think we can still get him back!"
"It won't be a permanent thing," Spirit said. "Wes has been sending us more and more updates about Soul. It seems like he may make a breakthrough soon at any rate, and we're going to see if we can trigger something in about eleven days."
"And that's still eleven days I'd be abandoning my partner, cheating on a promise I made to someone I love! You, of all people, should know my loyalty will always stay true!"
"Maka, listen to me for Death's sake!" Kid intervened. This was no time for any arguments, especially among family.
That got Maka to stop. She stared at Kid, surprised he would use his own name in vain.
Kid took a deep breath before continuing. "Maka, I hate to do this. Truly, I do. If it were up to me, we would be rehabilitating Soul and making this Priority #3. However, we have a more pressing matter at hand. Two, in fact.
"The first is, of course, defeating the rogue witch Echo. She's made a reputation both to us at the DWMA and to the Witch Order. Both parties are working together to try and locate her, as well as come up with an appropriate sentence for her crimes."
"Which is…?"
"Still up in the air. And that's Priority #2," said Kid. "Figuring out the finer points of our alliance. Now back in the day, we would award the witch's soul to the meister and weapon who defeated her. With this alliance, however, the witches are requesting to keep the soul of their fallen sister."
"But that's dangerous!" said Maka. "Who knows what may happen if another witch who follows Echo decides to revive her!"
Kid nodded. "And that's our concern. As you know, I do not distrust the witches, unlike some others I am aware of. However, the workings of the council are still a mystery to us all. Even with Kim and Ox as envoys, there's only so much information we're given. It would help the general population relax if they knew that a shinigami such as myself were to hold on to this witch's soul."
"So why won't you?"
"Because of the alliance."
Maka was ready to protest, but Kid held up his hand.
"Think of it from a witch's perspective for a second. To them, the soul is handed over to an institution whose founding purpose was to hunt and kill witches and use their souls to create stronger weapons that were used to hunt and kill more witches. By me possessing Echo's soul, it would be the perfect ingredient to return to our old ways."
"But that's not true!"
"I know. But that's what it looks like." Kid sighed. "The DWMA's reputation hangs in the balance with the witches. My reputation hangs in the balance with the people. We need this alliance to work to secure peace. That is why I am doing everything in my power to ensure it will succeed."
When Maka didn't reply, Kid stood up.
"Maka, that's why I want you to consider a new apprentice among some of the partnerless weapons. You are the meister who helped create the Last Death Scythe."
"I'm also the partner who got him almost killed," she muttered. "More than once at that."
"That may be the case, but nevertheless there are many who look up to you. By having you out of commission due to Soul's absence, there has been a drop in morale." Kid paused, turning to her. "At the very least, will you consider helping teach some of the combat classes here? Your soul perception in itself is a gift. I'm sure the teachers would appreciate your help."
Maka groaned. Kid was right. Kid was so right it hurt, but she had to trust him.
"Fine. But i won't take another partner until the new school year starts."
"I'll accept those terms," said Kid. "If there is an emergency situation that will arise, I'll have you would your father."
"Fine," she repeated.
Spirit was doing his best to hold back tears. A chance to spend time with his darling daughter? Fantastic!
. . . . . . . . . .
Soul pulled at the necktie one last time in a futile attempt to loosen the chokehold it had on him. It proved just as useless at the hundreds of time he's done it before. He groaned slightly, trying to entertain himself among the throng of people in the Evans' garden.
The family gathering wasn't an unfamiliar one to him. Sure, all of his estranged cousins were older and there were more dressed-up children than the last one he remembered attending, but aside from that it was the same. Here he was, Solomon Evans, standing off to the side wearing a blue suit that didn't suit him in the slightest and a t-shirt underneath the button-up. He could feel the disapproving looks he was getting, but quite frankly he didn't give a shit.
Voices were all around him, distracting voices, conversations he wanted to listen to, and at the same time, drown out.
"But to think he chose such an…alternative lifestyle in Death City."
"Many would way it's an honor though, considering what great things he accomplished there."
"True, true…"
Soul's ears perked a bit at that, but left it.
Death City. He'd woken up in Death City in a hospital after what the doctors told him was a nasty accident. They never really told him what happened, and his parents chalked it up to a motorcycle accident, but something felt off. This family gathering was proof of that.
No matter where Soul went, he felt like everyone was watching him and whispering about him behind his back. It made him uneasy, as if they were all in on a secret he wasn't aware of. He merely wanted to escape out of visibility, hide away in a corner where no one would see him, find him, but there were no crevices to slide through, no unoccupied corners out of sight. Seriously, why did this party have to take place in the garden?
A voice broke his attempts to block out everyone around him. He couldn't ignore this one.
"Soul?"
Soul straightened his back and walked over to his mother, who was waving at him from a nearby table.
"It's been awhile since we've heard you play the piano. Won't you be a dear and show Aunt Miranda how much better you've gotten."
"Of course, Mother," he said, nodding slightly.
Making his way to a platform set up just for performing, he found the grand piano waiting, among other instruments. It was natural that his parents would set up for potential performances. Music was every Evans' middle name (undeniably his too, as much as he wished it not to be) in terms of anything they were recognized for.
Sitting on the modern, slick black bench, Soul raised the key guard in place without a sound. Real gentlemen didn't yank anything open or slam anything closed, the exact behavior he knew he needed to exhibit. Placing his fingers on the keys, he pondered what he would play as he felt all eyes on him.
The music came to him slowly, as if he was learning the song as he played. The repetitive cadence was fluid, and he found himself swaying to the rhythm as it washed over him. Soul closed his eyes. His fingers danced along the keys more certainly.
The souls of my family made these notes.
Then came the headache.
Soul grit his teeth, hands slamming down on the keys in a way that caused all the listeners to gasp. He stared blankly at the piano, panting, body drenched in cold sweat. He sensed his mother getting up, his father telling her to sit. Footsteps came closer.
"Soul?" His father's voice, tinged with worry. "Are you alright? You look pale."
"I… I can't do this right now. I'm sorry" Soul bowed, a wince in his expression as he tried to suppress the pain in a way that didn't attract more attention.
"Step down for a moment then. I'm sure everyone will understand. Perhaps a refreshment?"
True, he hadn't eaten yet. Agreeing to his father's suggestion, Soul stepped off the stage and made way to the beverage stand. Taking a small glass of water, he turned and took a sip, hoping the hydration would soothe his nerves.
It didn't though, as he felt the presence of others nearby, making way to check on him after such an abrupt display. Soul turned to excuse himself from the attention, though, trying to create a viable reason to walk away from this party right now.
The first thing he caught glimpse of was not the new curious crowd, though. A spider crawled near one of their shining shoes. As it was about to get trampled, something about it bothered him to an unexplainable degree. He looked in fear for the eight legged intruder, lunging as his plastic cup was crushed and dropped to the ground and shoved the soon-to-be murderer aside.
Gasps. Everyone stared at him even harder. Why did he let such a trivial loss of one bug get to him so much? Now he was shaking uncontrollably. Everyone's hands reached to touch his shoulders. Arms coming around to hold him steady in sympathy, or rather to possibly cover their disappointment in the loss of his composure.
"Don't… don't touch me! Please, just get away!" Soul swiped away the guests' attempts to confront him as a wave of despair washed over him, an unstoppable misunderstood force.
Stepping back cautiously, Soul knew he couldn't make his exit so disgracefully, so he dodged nervously about the crowds, avoiding the shoulders and hands of anyone and everyone until he saw his dad.
"Please excuse me for a minute. I… I need..."
His father looked concerned. Had it been his mom, it'd be a look of disappointment.
"Soul?"
"I'm sorry, Father," he quipped. "I'm feeling a bit lightheaded."
All because of a spider.
Thankfully, Tom Evans didn't ask any questions. "Go sit then, and come back when you're better. But please see to it that a maid goes with you. Just in case."
In case of what? Soul was reluctant, but he knew he couldn't stop them. He could, however, out-walk them.
"Master…" the maid called as she hurriedly tried to keep up without reverting to a run through the halls.
Along the way, Soul shed the coat and tie that seemed to choke him of his freedom. He could always come back for them later. Or even better, the maid would probably pick them up on the way. Either way, he didn't care. He just needed to be away, away from everyone.
"Not right now. Please, please just leave me be. I'm… I'll be okay." Not that the statement would make her actually leave.
It was as if a nightmare was coming on. Soul shuddered. He could practically feel the spiders crawling down his spine, like the one that was about to be stomped innocently prior. Was it fear or excitement he was feeling from the pins and needles sensation? Or was it something entirely different. Soul had no idea, but the blood pounding in his ears felt like a sign as to something happening. Another major headache perhaps?
"Young Master?" the maid pleaded again.
"I said leave me alone!"
Soul swung his arm blindly in the direction of the persistent maid, his arm hitting the wall with a solid thud. Only instead of the feeling of his fist colliding with the wood and wallpaper there was a flash of light followed by a dull sensation. Soul opened his eyes at the unfamiliar sound and turned to look at his arm.
He paled immediately.
That wasn't an arm. That was most definitely not an arm.
It looked like a blade of some kind.
The maid was also staring, but her gaze had a melancholy expression to it.
"I was wondering when this would happen," she said. "I was told not to tell you about this. I will inform your parents."
She dipped her head a bit.
Soul wrenched the blade out of the wall. He fell back at the force, wincing slightly. He got up and ran to his room, locking the door behind him. Belatedly, Soul remembered he'd actually stabbed one of the pictures in the wall. It was an ugly thing, some abstract mannequin piece his mother found in France some years ago, but still. Soul let out a long, shaky breath as he slid down the door with his back to it until he was seated on the floor.
It wasn't even a minute before he heard running footsteps. As he suspected, they stopped in front of his door. There was a knock.
"Soul? Are you there?"
His dad.
"Soul?" he tried again. "Soul, please. Open the door. We should talk."
"Go away," Soul muttered.
A pause, then:
"I'll go get your mother. Stay there."
Soul ignored his father. He walked over to his bed and collapsed, staring at the blade that was once his hand. What the hell was going on? Where the hell was his forearm? Was this just some sick dream?
The blade-yes, it was a real blade-made a rattling noise as Soul shook. He was halfway between awe and a panic attack. Soul reached out with shaking fingers on his regular hand. His hands met the blade. It was cool to the touch. He had no sensation in the blade arm.
Is it sharp?
Curiosity getting the better of him, Soul slid a finger along the edge and winced, pulling away. A thin cut ran along his index finger. Blood was beginning to well from it in a thin river of red.
Well, that answered his question.
Somehow the pain grounded him a little. Soul took a few deep breaths, willing away the pounding of his heart.
As he began to calm down, Soul took a moment to sit up and examine his arm-blade.
It appeared to be the blade of a scythe. It curved slightly towards him, the sharp edge black and the inside red. A zigzag pattern ran halfway down the length, finishing in a smooth line and separating the two colors.
The first thought Soul had was, Oh my god, I could totally attend the Death Weapon Meister Academy.
The second thought was, Do my parents know about this?
That got Soul thinking. The past few weeks with the half-hidden stories, the weird dreams, the inklings of memories. Could those be tied to his arm? The maid didn't seem all too surprised that his arm suddenly was a blade, after all.
The more Soul thought, the more he began to doubt the story he'd been fed.
My parents said that at the age of thirteen they sent me to a prestigious private school in Pennsylvania. There I continued my lessons in French, Latin, and Italian. I was a music student. I was a bit of a loner, so I didn't have any friends who would contact me following my memory loss.
But it wasn't adding up.
Why then, did he get in a motorcycle accident in Death City? Death City was where the DWMA was located. Was he there because he knew he was a weapon? It seemed like the maid knew. And judging by her lack of surprise, everyone else knew too.
My parents know.
A heavy knock pulled Soul from his thoughts.
"Soul, open up!"
His mother. His mother who probably knew the whole time and hid this from him. Soul found himself feeling a new emotion he hand felt once since returning home.
Anger.
The banging on the door became persistent.
"Solomon Edward Evans, you open this door right now!"
Soul held up his arm, willing the transformation away. And it worked, much to his surprise. His blade-arm was engulfed in white light, melting like putty and then reforming into his actual forearm. Soul flexed his fingers a few times, marvelling at it. It was as if nothing had happened.
But something had happened. His arm was a blade. He could control it.
He was a weapon.
Soul turned and faced his bedroom door. He opened it, unsmiling. His parents were both there, father cowering a bit behind his mother, whose expression was unreadable. His mother was looking at him in shock, examining his arms for what she might have expected to be said blade.
Soul's teeth were gritted. He was livid, he was confused, but most of all he needed answers. Now.
"Explain."
