They are The Sown, white uniforms crisp and new, the pure color at odds with their profession. Under the dull blues and whites, Maka feels the ache of Medusa's last arrow, the consequence of her misplaced Faith. She was used and gained nothing again. Soul is a Deathscythe now, but there's unfinished business.
Kid is gone. Witches shelter in Death's School. Black*Star is only just recovered. Her soul has wings.
A target is painted on her back for all their enemies to see as her soul perception grows. Maka can't help but want them to come to her. She wants answers, to find Crona, to stop the corruption of Asura. It's overwhelming and she isn't sure she's up to the task.
She looks from the sky with clouds as fluffy as her imagined wings to the bench where a paper-wrapped parcel sits. It's Black*Star's uniform for their unit, signifying he is also a two-star technician as well. She exhales slowly. Her fingers unlace and she finds herself plucking at the edge of her glove.
She stares at her Words and tries to stem the wave of anxiety that flows over her. Somehow they'd scraped by in each of their battles, but with fifteen year olds rushing to the frontlines, could that luck hold out? Maka runs a finger over the Letters, stark on the vulnerable skin of her wrist. Her mouth sets in a stern line and she pulls the glove down, eyes away.
Maka picks up the parcel and heads to the infirmary room with Black*Star's name on it.
The window is open and the cool breeze floats in, raising goosebumps on his arms. He's finally free of gauze and medical tape, no more splints or redressing wounds. His skin is no longer discolored and most of the aches are gone. He's meditating on the floor between his cot and the window when he hears steps outside the door. They're light, but steady, until a small stutter at the door.
A small knock and the knob is turning and Maka walks in. When he doesn't speak, she moves forward and places something on the cot and stands next to him. She's on his 'blind side', but he doesn't mind; Maka isn't an enemy.
The lid on his right eye is still difficult to lift, though the eye was saved by Kim's magic. So he turns his head to look at her with his left. She's standing with her arms folded behind her back, weight mostly on one leg.
"We're going back out to the field to train with Soul's powers and my wings more," she says. Her voice is kind of flat as though she's talking about something other than she's thinking. When she holds back her opinion. He wants to sigh at her and ask her what's wrong, but they aren't kids anymore, not really. She knows she can come to him if she wants to talk. "Your new uniform is in the package."
"You always ruin the surprise, Mak."
A little levity comes back to her. "I don't ruin things… I'm an angel…"
She's teasing, but now he's suppressing a laugh and just ends up spitting through his lips as his shoulders shake.
"Sure, Mak, keep telling yourself that."
"Does your shoulder hurt?" The abrupt change of direction and the sincerity and concern in her question snaps his spine straight. He remembers he isn't wearing a shirt and his star tattoo is facing her, the deep slice through it still ragged on the edges under the bandages. Black*Star steals a glance and finds relief that his wrist is covered.
"It's healing."
She hums and turns away. Maka's taken one step before she's tossing a 'gotta train, see ya later' over her shoulder. He stands as she gets to the door, still not facing him, a hand curled on the frame. He's managed to open his right eye and Maka's head turns enough to make eye contact. Her eyes flick away.
"Thank you, 'Star." Her fingers tighten on the wood then relax. "For coming back."
Then she's gone and he's left alone with an open window and the parcel on his infirmary bed, wrapped in brown paper. A soft tan scarf is folded on top of it, unmarked by Death's insignia.
Maka flops on the cot of her room at the desert satellite campus. Her new uniform tie floats to land on the floor next to the bed and the buttons on her white jacket are undone. She's staring at the ceiling, blearily, until a wave of irritation swells from the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, she's on her elbows and knees on the thin mattress, punching the lumpy pillow with all she's worth.
She knew people were after her, that there would be attempts on her life. She knew this, but still tried to cling to a last shred of innocence. She wanted to be an angel, soft and sweet, pure.
"Angel, my ass!"
Her fist clenches and unclenches as she tries to steady her breathing. Everything is happening so fast, too fast, and she just didn't want to let go, take the leap like everyone else had.
She leans back and slips the jacket off, fingering a small tear in the new fabric. It joins the tie on the floor.
"Heh…" the small depreciative laugh echoes in the empty walls and she lies back down, curled on her side towards the wall. Maka plucks at the closure of the band on her wrist until it comes off.
She wants to blame the way she feels on the fact that it is days from the anniversary of Asura's resurrection, three days more from her fifteenth birthday. The childhood she tried so hard to run from, to become a technician, is fleeing her now and she can't grab it.
She has to let go.
The dark Lettering on her wrist is calling her, demanding her complicity. She runs her forefinger over the Script, bold and black. It tingles, but Maka doesn't know if it is a sign or if she's managed to tickle herself.
It's late though, so Maka tries to shove her thoughts away into a box in the back of her head, tucks her Marked wrist under her pillow and falls asleep in her partial uniform, on top of the covers.
It's so obviously a date that Black*Star wonders why Patti and he are even there. Liz and Tsubaki are sitting hip to hip on the ledge of the fountain in the brightest and most open courtyard in Death City's food and art district. He's trying to give them some privacy, but he accepted the invitation before he knew what was going on. So he sits a bit away, munching on some ice cream, watching Patti run from booth to booth.
He's sore from his last sparring session with Stein, but it is the kind of ache that needs to be learned and overcome with repetition. His soul is strong and Stein is forming and shaping him into a more finely tuned weapon. The speed at which he can pulse out his wavelength is increasing, the lull and recharge is lessening and his movements without handling Tsubaki are smoother, more fluid than ever. The doctor is relentless, but a good teacher.
The booth Patti is hassling has a flyer pinned to the wooden post, offering discounts for the week up to the creation of Death City. That's right, he thinks. The Kishin was released the same day they were celebrating Death's founding a school here. It's been two years already.
He finishes off the cone thoughtfully. Maka's birthday is in a few days.
As if the thought of her could summon Maka here, Liz's voice carries over to his ear: "Maka might be feeling worn out after turning Soul into a Deathscythe… Hopefully, she won't burn out."
Liz is talking to Tsubaki, but he can't help interjecting.
"It'll only be temporary… She'll be back with us soon."