Hello again, and my apologies for the long wait! I had to have a couple of my wisdom teeth removed, and that along with another cold and work issues (company picnics aren't all that great when you're allergic to nature in general) delayed things. I'm sorry! I also apologize - this chapter just had to squeeze out a bit more character relationships before the fighting. The next one had better be fight fight fight or I'm going to be very upset with myself.
The bit about Maka's mother's wedding ring is derived a bit from the manga; it was too important a character development point for Spirit to ignore, so I added it in here (with some changes/additions). The names of the Australian Prime Minister and RAAF Vice Marshal are of the real people, as are the Anangu - I did a bit of research for this chapter. If you're famous enough to get your own Wikipedia page, you're famous enough to be covered by the Fair Use policy -this work is a nonprofit derivative fanwork, I own nothing, etc. Covering my ass here, nothing to see.
Thank yous to the lovely Kara Black, L, abesgoldenfriend, Unleashed111, and Fluxybabes - reviews always make me happy, as it tells me what I'm doing right or wrong. Please do read and let me know what you think!
Chapter 8: In Rag and Bones
Jasmine was a little-known Thai restaurant on the western end of Death City, tucked away inside a rundown strip mall. Maka knew it well; it had been a favorite of the family, in happier times. Seeing it now, knowing her mother wouldn't be there with them, was a bittersweet emotion. The last time they'd been there together had been . . . the day she'd been accepted to the DWMA. Her parents had been all smiles and warmth, a false front manufactured especially for their daughter.
Looking from the street, she could see the silhouette of her father sitting at a booth in the restaurant, shoulders hunched over, head resting against his clasped hands. As she watched, he raked a hand through the back of his hair, pulling at it before slumping down further. It seemed wrong to watch him be so unguarded like this. As open and freely emotional as he acted, much of it was just that – an act. Being freewheeling and happy-go-lucky was his normal coping mechanism. Quiet brooding and reflection was just unnatural.
Someone on the sidewalk nearly bumped into her; Maka realized with a start that she'd been standing outside for at least ten minutes, just staring.
She scurried into the bistro. The bells on the door jangled merrily to announce her; she bypassed the waitress and made a beeline for the corner. "S-sorry I'm late, Papa," Maka said once she was at his side. She slipped into the other side of the booth, nervously kicking her legs against the seat. "I didn't make you wait, did I?"
"No," Spirit said, finally looking up. Exhaustion was taking an obvious toll on him, but the smile he turned on her was genuine. "It's fine." Unspoken was his surprise that she had come at all, and he looked as though he had planned to wait a while for her; a heavy book lay on the table, bookmarked a few chapters in, and the ice in his chai latte was half-melted. "I'm not interrupting your plans, am I?"
"I've got everything packed. Soul's stuff too." She fidgeted with her place setting. "Our plane leaves at 9AM, I think – we just have to stop at the Academy first."
He nodded absently. "We'll be giving everyone their final assignments and plane tickets at the school, plus extra safety gear and equipment depending on which area each student is going to. I won't be able to see you off in the morning." A slight frown crossed his face. "There are a few more logistics problems I'll have to settle in real-time. We don't think Arachne's forces know we're moving, but just in case, we have certain cooperating nations escorting your planes. It's the border handoffs that'll be tricky."
Maka blinked. "You think there might be trouble?" she asked.
". . . no! No, honestly, I don't think there will be any issues there. It's more symbolic than anything." The deathscythe pulled at his collar; he had loosened his necktie and undid his collar before she arrived, and it was plain to tell that wearing the formal gear was uncomfortable on his wounds. "Sometimes the UN gets a bit . . . testy about the DWMA handling major issues like these without consulting them. Involving them like this lets them keep their pride and show their home nations that they're effective, and itreally costs us little, so it's better to cooperate. Diplomacy's a game, really." He chuckled a bit. "Just the kind where you win if you don't have a migraine at the end."
It wasn't often that her father discussed the more diplomatic facets of his job, and she found it fascinating. And a bit humbling, truth be told; many times she tended to forget that he did far more than just turn into a giant swinging blade of doom. "It sounds like a lot to deal with," she reflected. "Are the other deathscythes helping any?"
"Azusa is handing the majority of the logistics." He waved a waitress over. "Everyone else has other assignments. I'm fine, Maka. It's nothing I can't handle. But it's sweet of you to worry about your old man."
Her cheeks turned scarlet. "W-who said I was worried?" she blustered, snatching up a menu. "I just wanted to make sure you were doing you fair share of work! -ah, Pad See-ew, please. And a chai latte?"
"Panang curry." Spirit smiled slightly and shook his head as the waitress left. "I always do my fair share of work, Maka."
"Except when it comes to your marriage."
Maka slapped her hands over her mouth as soon as the words came out. Yes, she meant them, but not now, not when her father was already so downtrodden. "I'm sorry," she squeaked.
"No. You're right."
Her hands fell.
"I didn't give your mother the time and care she deserved, and that's my fault." Spirit had turned himself slightly, and was now gazing out the window, his eyes shadowed. "I made life harder on both of you . . . and for that I'm sorry."
She fidgeted in place. "Is that what you asked me down here for?"
"Not originally, no." He shifted his weight to his uninjured side. "But it doesn't make it any less true. A man has his pride, and I don't like to admit to my mistakes, but right now pride is-" One shoulder lifted in a half-hearted shrug. "It's unimportant."
It wasn't unimportant; it was almost nonexistent. Soul Perception was a powerful tool in moments like these, and it whispered the secrets he would rather keep. While his soul was no longer quite as dented or ragged as it had been, it was still tiny and withdrawn and cracked down the center. It flickered, strangled by self-doubt and a heavy sense of shame (in what, she couldn't tell); the only thing she could feel remotely resembling pride was . . . in her.
He was proud of her.
Maka bit the inside of her cheek to keep her eyes from welling up.
"I have something for you, actually," he was saying, oblivious to her inspection. One hand dug around in his blazer pocket before pulling out a small box. A very familiar little box, the velvet worn off around the edges; she opened it up to find her mother's wedding band, strung next to an antique crucifix on a golden chain.
"We didn't have much money when we eloped," he explained as she lifted it out. "I bought the ring off an old gypsy; she said it had anti-demon powers. Whether that's true or not, I don't know, but . . . I want you to have it."
With trembling fingers, she examined the script inside the ring, now so old and worn it was illegible. The crucifix next to it was even older, a simple silver cross with golden 'cloth' draped over the arms. "The crucifix was my mother's," Spirit continued. "Your grandmother's. You have her eyes." His voice roughened, dropped a bit. "She never took it off as long as I knew her, and she made me promise to keep it after she – after she passed. I've always kept it on me until now."
She looked up at him in surprise. It was rare that he would speak of his family without prompting; for him to bring this up so openly was a shock. "Papa?"
"I wish you could have met her. You two would have gotten along very well, I think." He reached out and took the necklace back, unfastening the clasp on the chain. "I think it would make her happy to know her granddaughter is wearing it now."
Maka slipped out of the booth and crouched in front of her father, letting him place it around her neck. The trinkets hung over her heart, heavy and comforting. "Looks good on you," Spirit said, brushing a stray hair out of his daughter's face. It was too painful to look directly into his eyes, but she forced herself to do it anyway, to see the pride warring with the sadness and concern.
"Papa, I-"
The arrival of food (and Maka's traitorous rumbling tummy) broke up the family moment.
It was several minutes into their meal – Maka was at least eating, Spirit preferring to push his food around and nibble halfheartedly at it only when forced to – when the young girl spoke up again. "What's going to happen to Crona?" she asked.
"Shinigami-sama is still deciding that, Maka." She stared pointedly at his plate, then back up at him; he sighed and took a bite of his curry. "I put in a request for leniency like the rest of you. It's up to him now."
". . . what about Medusa?"
"We can't touch her," he said slowly. Her eyes were bright upon him, indignant. "You know the deal."
She scoffed. "Making deals with witches."
"Shinigami-sama did what he thought was best, Maka. I can't say anyone likes it any more than you do, but-"
"What about Professor Stein?"
Spirit stopped mid-sentence, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. He swallowed hard. His soul, already folded in on itself, constricted even tighter, trembling under her perceptive gaze. "Wh- what about him?" he managed.
"The Academy hasn't really given up on finding him, have they?" Her voice was desperate. "I know he can be creepy and I know you two had a horrible fight but he's one of the best teachers at the Academy and he's always been there for us when we need him-"
He glanced at her open face, then looked away. "It's not that simple," he managed, his voice shaking.
"Why not? What else did Professor Stein do that nobody wants him back?"
"Maka." He held a trembling hand up to stop her, flinching as she spoke the dreaded name. "We – the Academy – I don't-" A headshake, before: "He's with Medusa. As long as he's there, we can't do anything."
Maka's lower lip trembled. Just like the others, he was evading her questions – keeping secrets. "But he's your friend! He was your Meister! Can't you forgive him?"
The deathscythe turned his head away, jaw set and eyes closed tight. One hand involuntarily went to touch the angry bruises at his throat. "Maka, please . . . ." There was a desperate edge to his voice now. "Just . . . stop. Please."
And there it was again. A once strong soul, now timid and irrevocably cracked; once strong hands now trembling faintly; where was the rock she had known, the man known as the DeathScythe, the Reaper's personal Weapon, the man who had never seemed to have a serious bone in his body? Where had her childhood idol gone, and who was this frightened beast who had taken his place, this sheep in wolf's clothing?
They sat there in silence, the table between them a chasm that seemed insurmountable. Maka stared at her hands. Her appetite had left her. "Sorry," she muttered, drawing squiggles in the condensation on her drink glass.
". . . don't be. It's not your fault." He pulled out a few bills and tossed them on the table. "I have to get going – there are still a few things I've got to review before tomorrow's missions. Promise me you'll be careful?"
She nodded. Spirit slipped out of the booth and stepped over, pressing a kiss to the top of her head; she gave him a watery smile in return. "I'll see you when you get back, then." Hegave her a fleeting smile before slowly limping his way out. Maka's hand went to the necklace he had given her, and the trinkets hanging there; she held on to them and willed her eyes to stay dry until after he had slipped through the restaurant door.
Traveling at night, sleeping during the day; the edge of the desert was visible on the horizon, sunrise just beginning to color the edge of the sky red when Marie called a halt to the day's trek. Crona gnawed halfheartedly at the rations she passed out while she looked for her guide book. "I think we'll take a short break here, and then push on," Marie said, tossing a map aside. "We'll catch a plane when we hit Mexico City. Do you have enough water there?"
Crona shook his canteen and nodded. "Good," the deathscythe continued. "I think-"
An envelope fell out of the book she was holding.
"-I think I'm going to go lay down, actually," she mused, picking the envelope up. "We won't be resting for more than a few hours, so nap if you need to."
"Yes, Miss Marie."
The rocky outcropping Marie curled up under barely let in enough natural light to read; she pushed her bedroll under her head, checked to see where Crona was, then slit the envelope with a fingernail. Inside was a single sheet of paper, scrawled over with a rushed hand. She unfolded it, holding it above her head, and began to read.
Marie,
If you're taking the time to read this, please understand that it brings me no joy to write it. I'm going against Shinigami-sama's direct orders by doing this, actually; he's told Sid and I to tell no one what we know regarding what happened between Stein and Spirit. I can't keep it a secret, though, not if you're going up against him on your own. You're in danger, Marie, and I can't beg you enough to turn back while you can. I know you won't, because you have it in your fool head that you can save him. If you have to go on this fool's errand, though, I can at least prepare you for what you're going up against.
Stein r-
Marie had to bite down on her hand to stifle a gasp. Her eyes scanned the sentence over and over in disbelief. But no, rereading it only ingrained it further into her mind. Each letter, each loop of Nygus's handwriting – it was no farce.
But did she believe it? Would Stein – could Stein actually do something so heinous? To his own partner, his best friend? Her heart wanted to scream no-
-but deep inside, the part of her that knew his Madness . . . that part had its doubts.
If he could hurt Spirit like that, what could he do to Crona? To me? To himself, once he realizes what he's done? Oh, Stein . . . .
She didn't even realize she was shaking until Crona came up behind her; she nearly shrieked when he spoke. "Miss Marie?" The child's owlish eyes turned to her, concerned. "Are you all right? You hurt yourself."
"Y-yeah. It's nothing. I'm fine." She took one last look at the letter, then folded it up and stuffed it back into the book she'd kept it in. "Crona? Are you sure you want to do this? It's . . . it's going to be dangerous. Really dangerous."
He blinked, confused. "I know," he said, matter-of-factly.
"But Stein-"
"Professor Stein might try to k- kill me if he's under Medusa's control." Crona stared at his shoes, his voice quiet but firm. "Medusa will try to. I know what I'm going into, Miss Marie. Please don't try to talk me out of it."
She sighed, staring at the book and its contents for a solid minute. "Get your stuff together. We don't have time for a break after all, and we're going to have to talk as we go." She slipped the book back into her pack. Her hand, red and angry with teeth marks, throbbed as she lifted the backpack up onto her shoulders. "Tell me, Crona – how much do you know about Stein's fighting style?"
"Spirit, you should try to rest. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow, y'know."
The deathscythe sat at a desk in the Manor library, face drawn and eyes bleary; he waved his Meister's concerns off with one hand, the other holding a phone to his ear. "I'm sure their concerns are valid, but – I understand it's sacred to them, but you've got to prioritize, Prime Minister! Ayers Rock is – yes, I've been there once, I-" He sighed deeply, resting his head in his free hand. "If that device isn't destroyed, your entire nation is at a much higher risk for its people going stark raving Mad-with-a-capital-M. Not regular crime, not regular murderers, but pre-Kishin roaming your streets."
Shinigami quirked an eyebrow; he gently laid a hand on his Weapon partner's shoulder. DeathScythe was so tired he didn't even notice. "We will do everything we can to ensure that Ayers Rock is not damaged, but we can't promise anything. Our contact – my ex-wife, actually, but – er, yes, if she said that then we will do our best to uphold her bargain." Hi shoulders fell further. "She's not there, is – no? I see . . . no, it's fine. The RAAF know to meet our incoming staff at – that's very generous of you. Please give my thanks to Vice Marshal Hupfeld." He paused. "A message to Kami? Ah . . . Just tell her to be safe. Thank you. I will tell him – yes, I will. Thank you again, Prime Minister. Goodbye."
"Australia?"
Spirit hung up the phone, rubbing his face with his hands and exhaling slowly. "Yeah. A few of the native Anangu have some reservations about our conducting what amounts to warfare at a sacred site. They want the madness amplifiers gone, but they don't particularly want us doing the removal. Prime Minister Gillard gives her regards, by the way."
He squeezed the younger man's shoulder in a comforting gesture; the deathscythe startled before looking up and giving him a slight smile. "What was the Prime Minister saying about Kami?" the Reaper asked hesitantly.
"Ah . . . that." The smile slid off his face. "She wants to take some of the Anangu with her group and let them break down the machine while her team takes out the Arachnophobia agents. It's risky as hell, but if anyone can pull it off, it's her." Once upon a time there would have been pride in his voice, talking about his former Meister; now there was just a bittersweet sadness, an almost final tone.
". . . you should be sleeping." Worry clouded the older being's golden eyes. "I could have handled this."
He shook his head. "I can't sleep. We have to be back at the Academy in four hours anyway; I might as well get some work done."
"Try?" Shinigami's tone was almost pleading. Spirit looked up at him, unable to keep the confusion out of his face as gloved fingers gently pushed cherry-red hair out of his face. "It's obvious you're exhausted. Even if it's just a nap – you can't function without some form of rest, Spirit." He hesitated, the backs of his fingers still resting against his Weapon's high cheekbone, then dropped his hand. "Please?"
Spirit relented, pushing himself up off the chair with a sigh. "Fine. I'll give it a try." Giving his Meister a wary look, he stretched until his joints popped. "You might want to take your own advice, though, old man. Tomorrow's going to be hell."
The Reaper just smiled and waved him off, the smile falling from his face once the younger man had left the room. He sat down hard in the now vacant chair. It was still warm, so warm against his perpetually cool skin; he closed his eyes and leaned back, letting the mask of calm slip and the exhaustion show through.
It wasn't until he felt his Weapon's soul wavelength fade down into the steadiness of sleep that he allowed himself to drift off, surrounded by the warmth the man had left behind.
Tell me, Spirit . . . what is the opposite of Fear?
The bleakness of the Room (Spirit had begun calling it that in his mind, just the Room – as if a space defined by bleak concrete could be called much else) seemed to have gained a new feature since his last impromptu visit. There was still four concrete walls and a concrete ceiling and floor; there was still an ancient projector running in a closed loop (and boxes, plenty more battered old boxes piled around now, some newly labeled 'DANGER STAY OUT' in red marker over the brittle tape that held them closed); and, of course, there was still the Wolf . . . .
. . . or, at least, what looked like the Wolf. This beast, however, was tiny, no larger than a medium-sized dog, blue-furred where the other was red, eyes mismatched in the opposite pattern. There was no sign of the Red Wolf, save for the claw marks it had previously left in the floor. "Wh- who the hell are you supposed to be?"
The Blue Wolf cast mismatched gold-and-silver eyes upon the other's nearly-nude form, silently appraising him. Answer my question and you'll answer your own.
The deathscythe crossed his arms over his bare chest. "Is this a trick?" he asked, staring at it in contempt.
It looked at him, strangely solemn. If you don't know the answer, just say so.
"The opposite of fear? Courage, I suppose." He scowled down at it, then snorted a laugh. "You're pretty pathetic to be anyone's sense of courage."
What was the saying your mother was so fond of? 'Have the faith of a mustard seed, and you can move mountains'? I wouldn't be so quick to judge by size. The beast flicked its tail and stretched, yawning; its razor-sharp fangs glistened in the light. Since you have doubts, answer me this: what is courage?
This time the answer came swiftly. "The absence of fear."
It rolled its eyes, pacing closer to him. Save the smartassed comments for the peanut gallery you call colleagues.
"I'm being serious!"
You're not being serious enough. Give me a real answer.
"What other answer do you want?" Spirit glared at it, fingers digging nervously into his biceps. "It means not being afraid of everything! Not jumping at every damn shadow I see! Not being stupid-"
The Blue Wolf lashed out with a heavy paw, the blow striking with tremendous force despite the creature's small size. Spirit went sprawling, the back of his head colliding with the wall hard enough to send stars across his vision. Wrong again. It began to pace in a semicircle around him, mismatched eyes glaring him down. What is the Reaper relying on you for?
He backed up into the wall, drawing his knees to his chest and eying the Wolf warily. "He – he needs a deathscythe to maximize his power."
It huffed in aggravation. Then why doesn't he just use Azusa or Justin?
"He needs an actual scythe."
Pivot. Step. Silver met blue in a fierce glare. Why?
"He's strongest with a scythe, is what-"
Another aggravated growl. Close. Why would he be strongest with a scythe?
"I don't-"
You know. Why?
He bit his lower lip, trying to think past the panic of being hemmed in. "-it has to do with Ashura. We're fighting a-" He stopped. "– Kishin Hunter. That's it, isn't it?"
The Blue Wolf stopped in front of him, nose mere inches from his own. And what has to happen in order for him to use Kishin Hunter?
Spirit's breath caught in his throat.
Soul Resonance will bare your soul open to him further than even Marie's Healing Wavelength could hope to accomplish, it said with a hungry grin. Its fur flashed – and the Red Wolf, the embodiment of his Fear, stood above him, huge and feral. Every touch, every sound, every scent you can remember from that night, every single moment – the Reaper will see it too. And you'll get to feel it from his side – all the pity he's hiding, all the disgust at having to deal with a washed-up old whore like you. You'll get it all. The Wolf placed its paws on his knees, pressing them apart. Won't that be a treat?
His hands clutched at the beast's paws, pushing at it with all his strength. "Don't even start," he growled.
What's wrong, little boy? It lowered its fangs in his face, pressed nose-to-nose with him. Can't take the reminder? Can't stand the feeling? The lupine embodiment of Fear pushed back, the rolling memory of weight and touch and prying fingers creeping over Spirit's skin. The projector began to whine behind them, soft murmurs and cries replaying on loop – Stein's voice laughing, his own pathetic pleas.
"Get off of me-"
The scent of cigarette smoke and burning flesh began to waft into the room; his wounds throbbed, aching as phantom blades retraced raw scars. The Red Wolf drew its tongue over his cheek, over flushed cheeks and nascent tears. How will you survive Resonance if you can't deal with your own memory, hmm? If you're afraid to relive your own weakness? You'll fail the Reaper, you'll fail your daughter-
"I won't fail!"
Spirit's fingers dug into the thick fur, wrapped around his Fear's throat, and bore down, throttling the breath out of the beast. "Yes, I'm fucking terrified!" he screamed. His eyes were wild, furious and bright; he bared his canines in a snarl. "I know what I'll face when we Resonate! I already know! And I don't care!"
You- It gasped, now backpedaling to try and get loose of the chokehold that was strangling the breath out of it. You lie. You do care!
"I can afford to care about it when Ashura is dead and my Maka is safe!" He shoved the Red Wolf away as hard as he could; it tumbled across the floor, knocking the projector off its table. The audio feed snarled, went silent. "If Shinigami-sama does hate me? If I disgust him? That's OK. Hell, I disgust myself, why would I expect him to feel any different?" Spirit rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand, angry tears blurring his vision. "Yes, I am scared to death of what I'll see, but I am not letting that stop me! Maka is all I have left, and I will not lose her! So just stop it! Stop trying to make me fail! Stop it because I won't let you win!"
Silence reigned for several moments in the Room, punctuated only by the scrape of claws on concrete and his own heavy breathing. It took several moments for the Wolf to regain its footing; its fur rippled as it did, racing red and blue until it settled somewhere in between, red-violet with a splashed mask of blue over its mismatched eyes. And here, it panted, I thought you might have understood the meaning of true courage.
He blinked. ". . . what?"
Do you really think you have nothing left to lose but your daughter? It regarded him thoughtfully. Do you truly think she is the only person you have left in this world?
Confused, Spirit drew back a step, flattening himself against the wall. "What – what do you mean?"
You do, don't you? The fight was gone; pity now ringed the Wolf's voice. You foolish little boy. You're so afraid that you've convinced yourself you've lost everything, just so it won't hurt if you do lose something else. You're letting fear take away your ability to hope. It stood in front of him, ears drooping down. You're letting Stein win.
"I-" Spirit bit his lower lip. There was nothing he could say. The worst part – and it hurt to admit it, even in his mind – was that the Wolf was right. "It's hard," he finally muttered, shame-faced at the weak excuse.
Yes. It is. It turned its head back at the projector, at the boxes lined up around it, then back at him. It is far more difficult than you can even imagine. You have so much to lose . . . and yet so much more to hope for, so much to gain. Which will you choose, in the end?
"I'm getting really tired of your cryptic bullshit-"
The Wolf let out a tired sigh. What is true courage, Spirit Albarn? The Room began to grow warm, his hands translucent; the dream was beginning to dissolve. Think about it.
His voice cracked in desperation. "Just tell me what you mean for once!"
. . . I'll tell you this much, just this once. Its eyes were the last things to fade, hanging in the darkness like sun and moon before fading into eclipse. You may have won this battle, but the war has just begun.
"Spirit, will you stop pacing? You're getting on my nerves!"
The deathscythe stopped in front of a monitor, scanning over the readouts. "It's only been six hours since they left," Azusa continued. "They just rendezvoused with the USAF an hour ago! You'd think you were the one stuck on a plane for ten hours, not the kids!" She rested her elbows on the low table Shinigami had provided, stabbing another slice of cake with her fork. "And-"
"Four more hours until they land in Rio. Thirty minute layover, expedited, before the Brazilian Army takes them by air fifty miles outside of Baba Yaga Castle. They'll go forty more miles by caravan, and the rest of the way by foot. Final contact to be made with us when they are five miles out from their target." Spirit's voice was a monotone; his hands were clasped tightly behind his back, the fingernails digging into his palms. "Antarctic team is five miles out and waiting. Australian team is awaiting orders before the RAAF take them to their final destination. Chinese team-"
"Spirit?" Shinigami looked up from his tea. "You just briefed us on this thirty minutes ago."
He raked a hand through his hair; from the way he winced, the gesture had to have pulled on something. "Sorry. I'm just – I-"
"You're worried about Maka." The Reaper's hollow gaze fixated on him.
". . . yeah." The tone of his voice suggested that Maka wasn't the only thing he was worried about. A panel beeped; he leaned over and tapped it. "Ah, Shinigami-sama, it looks like the police force is just about finished with the evacuations. Looks like we're right on track."
Azusa looked up, startled. "Evacuation? Of what, Death City?"
"Yup! Everyone's being sent by bus to Phoenix except the most essential DWMA personnel." Shinigami sipped at his tea. "We don't need civilians around if things get rowdy, y'know!"
". . . rowdy? Spirit, what the hell is he talking about?"
Spirit turned to his Meister. "You mean you didn't tell her?"
"I didn't see a point. We don't know if it'll work or not, after all." Shinigami shrugged. "I'm placing my faith in tools that haven't been used in centuries . . . ." He looked sidelong at Spirit, golden eyes glinting under the mask. "And in my friends."
"The Magic Tools?" Azusa leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I was wondering why you were collecting them. It's common knowledge Joe's making something with them, but what nobody can figure out."
Spirit leaned against one of the monitors, letting it support his weight. "Long story short, Shinigami-sama can't leave the city. The Magic Tools are going to help us circumvent that." He gave her a lopsided grin. "You didn't really think we'd send a bunch of kids to take out Ashura, did you?"
"And Justin," the Reaper added.
"Justin's still a kid, he doesn't count."
Pushing her glasses up on her nose, Azusa flashed them both a glare. "You've had this plan for how long and didn't bother to tell me?! It would have helped when I was coming up with strategies to-"
"There's no guarantee it will work." Shinigami folded his hands on the table and gave her an even look. "Even if it does, the fewer people who know about it, the better. I'd rather not have our enemy knowing what we have planned. I'm sorry if I've hurt your feelings by not telling you, but I thought it best to keep it between myself, Joe, and Spirit."
"But . . . how are you going to fight once you get there? We haven't-"
Spirit coughed into his fist. "I'm injured, Azusa, not an invalid," he commented; she flushed red as the memory of having snarked those comments at him came back to her. "I wasn't there for Shinigami-sama when I should have been before; I'm not leaving him alone this time."
A bell chimed; the three looked up to see the image of Kid flying in on his skateboard appear on the large mirror behind them. "Ah, looks like it's about showtime," Shinigami said cheerfully. "Spirit, would you mind waiting up here and keeping an eye on things for me? I'll need to know when the evacuation is finalized. Azusa, meet me down in the dungeon if you want to see the fireworks." He leaped up, clapping his hands together, and whisked his way out of the room as fast as he could, a little trail of dust following him.
Azusa lingered behind, worried eyes on her colleague. "Spirit? You're still in pretty bad shape," she said gently. "Are you sure you're up for this?"
"I'll be fine," he said. His faded blue eyes wouldn't meet hers. "I let him down once. I won't do it again."
". . . but if it gets you killed – "
"It's our job to lay down our lives for our Meister, isn't it?" He reached out and brushed his fingertips against her shoulder, the slightest nudge for her to move along. "Why do you think Shinigami has you here, instead of on the battlefield?"
Even as she refused to acknowledge the idea, her eyes began to mist over. "Spirit Albarn-"
"Besides, I can't think of anyone better to serve as my backup in case something happens." Spirit forced himself to smile, just the slightest quirk of the corners of his lips. "Now go on. You'll miss the show, and you know Shinigami-sama will be disappointed if that happens. Besides," he added with a bravado he didn't feel, "It's the only action you'll get. Unless you count sweeping up Ashura's ashes, anyway. I imagine we'll make short work of him. You can just sit back and relax for a change."
Azusa made a show of adjusting her glasses to hide her wiping at her eyes. "You're an ass, Albarn," she said, smiling a bit.
"Yeah," he said, turning back to the monitors to hide the trembling in his hands. "I know."