Hello again, dear readers, and thank you for your patience! This may be the longest chapter of this fic to date, and it's certainly the most intense - TRIGGER WARNINGS on this chapter due to violent sexual imagery discussed inside. Consider yourselves warned.

Thanks, as always, go to the lovely people who have read, liked, fav'd, and/or reviewed- L, I'mjustthatAnimeFan, suntan140, Kara Black, Ice Dragon, Fluxybabes, abesgoldenfriend, and Numbah12, I heart you all! Please, do let me know what you think, either by review here or on tumblr or even email, and if you ever get bored, there's always my tumblr listed on my profile, where I tend to ramble, post odd things, and rant while I write.

Ready? Let the games begin!

Chapter 13: Where Darkness Dares to Tread

Flying business class to Florence, Italy. They recline in luxury seating, propped up by down pillows, as soothing jazz music plays through the small cabin. A small glass sits by his hand – scotch on the rocks, beads of condensation rolling down the outside to puddle atop the foldout tabletop. A news feed flickers across the muted television. Beside him, Spirit stirs and lifts a finger; a primly dressed stewardess is immediately at their side to refill his snifter of brandy.

"Don't you think you should slow down on the drinking, Sempai?" Stein asks.

His companion rolls his eyes. "We still have six hours to go before we land, Stein, lighten up a little." He swirls the amber liquid in the glass thoughtfully. "Besides, it'd take more than three glasses of brandy to get me drunk."

"That's your last one." Stein draws a finger through the puddle of condensation on the table before him and begins tracing out numbers, mathematical formulae. "As long as I'm your Meister, I'd like to keep you sober."

". . . you're not my Meister, Stein." The vehemence in Spirit's voice draws the younger man's gaze upward. He stares at his former partner, lips pursed in a scowl; he tilts his head back and under the long cherry-red hair there is a thin white scar, so thin that it's nearly invisible against his pale skin, running the length of his throat. Stein knows without having to see that there are dozens more just like it etched into the other's skin. "You broke our partnership when you gave me these."

Stein lifts an unsteady hand to crank the screw in his head.

"You know what really gets me?" A glass of brandy might not make him drunk, but it has loosened his tongue. Spirit sits up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, an earnestness in his voice rarely ever heard. "You never even apologized, Stein. All those times you used me as your personal lab rat – without my consent, I might add – and you've never had the decency to even say you were sorry for it! What the hell, man? I trusted you!"

"You would prefer I lied to you?"

Shifting up straighter, Spirit tilts his head curiously. Stein begins spinning a little silver-plated lighter in his fingers in lieu of the cigarette he so obviously wants to light up. His gaze fixates on the scrolling news feed, the window, anywhere but his ex-partner's face. "I don't expect you to understand, sempai," he begins. "I can't apologize for what I'm not sorry for. I don't regret the experiments themselves. The knowledge I gained from them has served me well, made me more efficient at fighting, even more skilled at healing." When he finally does meet his companion's eyes, there's a hint of alien emotion there, of something the younger man is not accustomed to feeling. "I – am sorry that my actions broke up our partnership."

Long fingers tap against the brandy snifter. ". . . would you do it again now? The truth, Stein."

"No." No hesitation in his voice. "You asked once if I really wanted to live in a world without gods. I tried living that way once. I learned, but I lost the only friend I ever had." He grasps his watered-down scotch and downs it in one go. Behind Spirit, outside the airplane window, a little prismatic insect dances in mid-air, skittering on stick-figure legs as its three eyes stare through him. "The knowledge was worth it then. I know better now."

Spirit stares at him thoughtfully for several long seconds before setting his drink aside. "Okay."

"Sempai?"

"No more drinking for me. You said you wanted me sober, right? I should probably do as my Meister says." He waves the stewardess over, regretfully exchanging his fine brandy for a can of ginger ale. Stein blinks in surprise, his eyes widening behind his glasses. "You've been honest with me, so . . . I'm going to trust you. My ma taught me that everyone deserves a second chance. This is yours. Don't make me regret this."

A soft smile spreads across his face; Stein's lips curl up at the edges, canines bared.

"Oh, but sempai."

The television begins to scream static.

"You will."

Stein's eyes snapped open.

His new cell was dark save for what little moonlight came in through the tiny window high up on the wall; he lay flat on his back in the cramped bed and stared up at the ceiling, expecting to see the signs of Ashura's Madness wavelength dancing across his vision and strangely disappointed when they never came.

"Everyone deserves a second chance."

He lifted a trembling hand to the screw in his head.

"Don't make me regret this."

How long ago that seemed now, that flight to Italy, the two of them sent after the Demon Sword. Spirit's face, so open and honest and disappointed. The strange, somehow soothing elation he had felt at his sempai's willingness to accept him again, to rekindle their broken friendship. And they had done it, picked up where they had left off all those years before as if nothing had ever happened, until –

"I want you to fear me."

The screech of metal on bone reverberated in the room as he viciously cranked the screw back. Pain lanced through his skull – he welcomed it, welcomed the pain and the endorphin rush, anything to block out the reminder of

(of a face soiled by blood and cum, tears washing clean streaks down the sides of his cheeks; of the scent of clove cigarettes masked by that of burning flesh; of hoarse cries of pain, so sweet to his ears, ohgod the pleasure as he thrust again into the thin body below him, tight and hot)

(of empty blue eyes staring past him, seeing everything and nothing; of a body that no longer fought even as he forced those bloodied lips to part a third time for him; of tears and red and salty white and the sight of his sempai slumped on the floor, the final brittle snap of a soul shattering and he was the one to break it-)

A click, and blood began to trickle from where screw met scalp. Hollow laughter echoed throughout the room – Stein stuffed the blade of his hand in his mouth and bit down to muffle his laughter before it could turn to screams. The corners of his lips were wet and salty, wetness on his cheeks turning cold. It was what he had wanted, wasn't it? An experiment. The reaction of the human mind to torture, to stress. Spirit's reaction to the pain he had inflicted on Stein all those years ago, when he had deserted him, left him burdened with feelings and thoughts and emotions he didn't understand and couldn't handle, all because of a few harmless little experiments, and why couldn't he understand how important those had been to him?

How important his trust had been, how much Stein had relied on him to understand and comply, to accept his quirks and keep him restrained – did Spirit even understand how hard it had been to learn to hold himself back, to adjust to the social mores of a world he didn't always understand? Didn't he understand just how much he meant to his Meister?

He rolled over onto his stomach, arms dangling off the edge of the bed and huffing hot breaths through the thin pillow. No. No, he probably hadn't. God knew Stein had never told him.

And why couldn't Stein accept how sacred the concept of privacy was, of personal space, of the body as a temple – that Spirit wasn't his pet but his equal, his partner?

(On his knees before him. Trembling, lips forced apart. Teeth and tongue and tears and the power, if he couldn't control the Madness couldn't control himself couldn't control his MIND his SOUL he could control THIS, his experiment, his to CONTROL, his creature to suffer at his whim, and a voice had hissed in his ear to keep going, to break him down, to take CONTROL, to take and take and TAKE-)

With a low grunt of frustration, Stein grit his teeth and shifted on the bunk. In his desperation, his fear of being powerless over his Medness, he had slipped and let the Madness take control. He had taken – and taken, and taken – exulting in the other's agony, in the illusion of power, until there was nothing left but fear and ruins, a friendship shattered beyond all repair. Those terrified blue eyes – even now, over a month later, it was obvious. Spirit was utterly terrified of him. And with good reason.

"I'm going to trust you."

Part of Stein wished Spirit had never trusted him at all.

"This brings back a lot of memories."

The fresh, raw pink surgical scars stood out bright against Spirit's pale chest, vivid amidst the nearly invisible white of older, random scarred cuts and gouges. The deathscythe sat in the center of the hospital bed, unnaturally shy as Kami cut off bandages and peeled away gauze. He was normally a hound for attention, and while his ex-wife harbored suspicion that he secretly had a fetish for ladies in nurse uniforms, he seemed completely uninterested in the idea of her tending to him. Quite the opposite, in fact – every unexpected touch made him flinch, and it was difficult to make him sit still. He was acting almost paranoid, frightened in a way his ex-wife hadn't seen since-

Her delicate nails traced over the thick scarring across his broad shoulders, the word carved into his flesh. Not since they had been students.

Not since Stein.

". . . Kami?"

Spirit stared down at her, blue eyes distant and anxious; she shook her head and took up a roll of sterile bandages, soaking them down with antiseptic. "I- I mean . . . do you remember when Maka was in preschool – she had the flu? You decided to stay home and take care of her so I could teach. And she was so miserable, and you couldn't think of any other way to distract her-"

For a moment a spark of life lit up his faded blue eyes. "I remember that." He winced as she dabbed at his still-tender ribs. "I looked everywhere but I couldn't find the crayons or the coloring books, so I got out the markers and . . ."

". . . let her play connect-the-dots with your scars. You two were covered in permanent marker when I got home!" Kami smiled back at him, washing over the ragged network of healing scars that marked where his left arm had been torn off. "Maka and her Patchwork Papa. I could have strangled you for letting her make such a mess, you know. But . . . you two were enjoying yourselves so much. I didn't have the heart to be mad."

He huffed a sigh, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a crooked sort of half-smile. "We had some good times, didn't we, Kami?"

"Yeah." She glanced up through pale blonde bangs, her dark eyes unreadable. "We did."

"Why are you here helping with all this?" Spirit asked. "I mean, I'm glad you're here, Maka needs her mother now more than ever. It's just . . . ." He looked down at his hand, the fingernails someone had neatly trimmed for him while he had been comatose. "I thought you hated me."

". . . it would be easier if I did." Kami sighed, tossing the soiled bandages aside and reaching for clean ones. "I don't hate you, Spirit. Disappointed in you, yes. Angry, yes. But I don't hate you."

Long calloused fingers raked his hair back from his face. "Wish you could convince Maka to feel the same way."

"Maka still loves you. She's just . . . really confused right now." Kami bit her lower lip. "She's not entirely happy with me right now either."

"With you?" Spirit's brow furrowed. "What happened?"

"I-" She sat down beside him, folding her hands in her lap. "I've been seeing somebody. As in – dating."

Any sense of good humor left from their previous conversation seemed to instantly dissipate. He turned his head away. "You knew we were never getting back together, Spirit," she said. "And I – it was time for me to move on. We were too young; it was doomed from the start. Now that I'm older and I know what I want-"

"It's OK."

She stopped, lips parted in shock. "I knew it would happen eventually," he said. "And I don't blame you. You deserve better than what I can offer. Part of me will always love you, Kami, but . . . ." He shook his head, his voice trembling. "I just want you to be happy. And I know that's something I can't give you." Letting out a long, slow breath, Spirit rolled his shoulders back, wincing as his joints popped and cracked. "Whoever the lucky guy is – make sure he treats you right, OK?"

Kami laid a hand on his good shoulder, squeezing it gently. This wasn't how the conversation was supposed to go – he was supposed to be panicking, begging her to come back to him, proclaiming his undying love, anything but this terrible, defeated surrender. Spirit wasn't supposed to be the calm one. Not over something like this. "You're taking this awfully well. Are you sure you're not sick?" she teased, placing a hand on his thigh as she leaned forward to look in his face. "Maybe I should take your temperature."

Tension thrummed, the muscles in his thin body taut; it was impossible to miss how he flinched at her touch. "I've just had a lot to think about," he said, his voice distant.

". . . what happened between you and Stein, Spirit?" She touched his face, trying to tilt his head up and make him look her in the eyes. "I know it's more than just a fight. Shinigami-sama might be able to fool the rest of them with that story, but I know you too well to believe that."

The deathscythe inhaled sharply. "N-nothing."

Her hand dropped from his face. "Nygus won't let me look at your medical charts. Shinigami-sama's orders. What are you hiding?"

Faded blue eyes flashed a fathomless hurt, betrayal, beads of moisture forming at the corners. ". . . Kami, please," he breathed. "Don't."

"Spirit, why are you protecting him? Maka keeps asking what happened to you and I don't know what to tell her!" She threw her hands up in the air, exasperated. "I can't believe you even let him that close to you in the first place! Remember what happened last time you trusted Stein?"

"Do you think I could forget?" He rounded on her, suddenly furious. "Shinigami-sama ordered me to partner with him, to watch out for him – I didn't have a choice! Someone had to-"

"And of course it had to be you!" Their voices rose, the familiar angry tones that had marked their last few years of marriage – it was so easy to slip back into the old roles, even without the bands of gold bonding them together. "You always have to be Shinigami's pet, don't you, Spirit? I couldn't get you to do anything for me, but all he has to do is snap his fingers and there you were, wagging your tail! You could have said no!"

He rolled his eyes, fist clutching at the blankets. "I'm a deathscythe, Kami. What part of that do you not understand?"

"You knew better than to let him near you, especially when he wasn't in control of himself! And what about Maka? Did you stop to think about her? Why did you let her get so attached to that crazy bastard? She shouldn't be near him!" Kami leaned forward, poking him in the chest with one slim finger. "You – you knew better, you had it coming for being stupid enough to-"

A hand lashed out; the hard crack of flesh striking flesh echoed through the room. Kami fell back hard on the cold tile floor, her cheek scarlet and beginning to swell. Spirit sat above her in the hospital bed, trembling, his arm outstretched. He stared down at her with eyes wide and wet and terrified before looking at his balled-up fist.

He'd struck her.

Spirit, who had never once raised a hand against his wife, had hit her.

She flinched as he lowered his hand; he drew in a pained breath when she moved away, as if her reaction was a physical blow. "Spirit?" she began, her voice tiny and hurt. "How could you?"

The deathscythe mumbled something, too low for her to hear; as she watched, he gripped the side table next to him and exhaled a shaking breath. Drops of water began to trickle down his newly-shaven chin. "Spirit, what-"

"I know it's my fault!"

The scream tore itself from his lips; his shoulders shook once, a heaving breath. "I already know it's my fault, Kami, why do you have to keep reminding me?! I didn't want this to happen!"

"I – I didn't-"

A glass of water went sailing, shattering against the wall just feet from her head. "Get out," he snarled, and when Spirit lifted his head to look at her his face was contorted with self-loathing, eyes red-rimmed and spilling tears. Ignoring the strain the movement put on his injuries, he reached out with a hand that was no longer there to snatch up a water pitcher to throw and fell forward on his stomach in the bed, throwing himself off-balance. "Fuck-"

Kami hesitantly reached out towards him and was shaken off, the stump of his left arm jerking away. "Don't touch me!" he screamed. "Just go!"

Choking back a cry, she turned and fled the room; the click of her shoes against the tile wasn't loud enough to mask the sound of her crying.

Spirit cursed under his breath, his fist pounding uselessly against the mattress. Rage boiled within him, the hungry howl of a Wolf echoing in his ears; screaming, he lashed out and swept everything off the side table. Pitcher, lamp, books – everything crashed to the floor, glass shattering over the floor, water spilling, papers flying, soaked and ruined. Another strike and the table cracked in two, split apart by a chipped and rusted scythe blade. Breaking, breaking everything, because it was all coming apart, he was shattering inside and he couldn't make it stop-

Dark eyes observed him as he collapsed against the bed, shoulders heaving as he raged against his own bitter tears.

"Dead?"

"Thirteen civilians. Two Weapons, one Meister. The other Meister is in critical condition." Sid folded muscular arms over his chest. "The kishin have moved since then – the Palestinian territories and Israel have both reported attacks. A new witch's coven has branched out in Thailand. Austria reported-"

Shinigami held a huge hand up to silence him. The Reaper leaned up against his huge ornamental mirror, his mask blank and his shoulders drooping. Beside him, Kid stood with hands perched on his hips, looking between the two in concern. Ever since his father had managed to settle Death City back in its proper home, the reports of pre-kishin and witches had been flooding in, all amidst their own troubles; reconstructing the city after it had torn itself from the ground was proving to be a challenge in and of itself. Help was pouring in, but their resources were already strained. And to make things worse, international news agencies were lined up outside the city walls; journalists with less than stellar ethics kept trying to sneak into the city or the Academy itself to get the scoop on what was proving to be the biggest news story of the year. Kid did not envy his father the difficulty of managing so much unbridled chaos.

Not to mention other unresolved issues . . . .

"Send Justin to Israel. Tezca and Djinn can scout out the Thailand issue – I'll have Pushka assist them once they get a fix on where they're convening, if he can be spared." Shinigami's voice was weary. "Go through the roster of our former students and see what three-star Meisters and Weapons are still active. We may have to call them back to the Academy to assist for a while."

"Why can't the current EAT students handle this, Father?" Kid asked. "Ashura's no longer a threat."

". . . just because Ashura is gone doesn't mean the witches and pre-kishin affected by his Madness will go dormant again." He tilted his head back. "Quite the contrary. Some may take longer to come into their power than others, but there may be more witches active now than there has been in over 800 years. Not to mention the numbers of kishin. It could take years for the world to get back into balance."

Kid twitched. "The simple fact of the matter is," he continued, "there aren't enough qualified students here to handle it all. I never thought I'd say it, but we don't have enough deathscythes to go around."

"What about Marie, sir?" Sid asked. "She could be a lot of help with some of these issues."

"She resigned, remember? Technically she's no longer a deathscythe. I can't order her to do anything. And she won't leave his side."

The zombie shuffled his feet slightly. "Speaking of Stein . . . ."

"We've discussed this already."

"Can we really afford to keep him locked up in a cell, though? With all this going on? You have to admit, with him and Marie helping us-"

"Not happening." Kid almost flinched. The sheer amount of anger in his father's voice when discussing Stein was near the same level as he had reserved for Ashura.

"You haven't even charged him with a crime yet." Sid uncrossed his arms, scowling as much as his stiff face would let him. "The students are talking, and it's not good. A lot of them are very fond of the professor, and they don't understand what's going on. Leaving him locked up without explaining why is raising a lot of suspicion, especially when it's obvious that we need his help! Letting him out now and then to help the medical staff isn't enough when they know something's wrong – nobody's forgotten about DeathScythe and-"

Shinigami stood up straight. "Stop right there, Sid." The mask tilted slightly. "Kid, I need you to leave."

The adolescent Reaper blinked. It was one thing to walk away, to not have to deal with further knowledge of this sordid business – but hiding this secret from his father now just felt wrong, especially now. He drew in a deep breath and looked the taller being square in the eye. ". . . I already know the truth, Father."

Silence fell over them. Shinigami turned to his son, sad golden eyes staring out from beneath the mask, appraising him before his shoulders drooped even further. "Oh, Kid. How did you find out?"

He squirmed under his parent's worried gaze. "I – after Spirit started staying at the Manor, Liz and Patty and I, we . . . you were carrying him and we heard . . . we saw the bite wound – Liz explained what it meant, and-"

"Have you told Maka?"

The boy shook his head. "No. I – I wouldn't even know where to start. Liz and I thought it best to keep it a secret, since you weren't saying anything about it." He paused. "So it's true? Professor Stein really-?"

"Shinigami-sama." Behind them, Sid shuffled his feet. "If those two could figure it out from just that much information, it won't take long for the students to piece together an idea of what they think happened. And it might not be the truth they decide on. Do we want to risk the spread of rumors, or do we want to settle the truth once and for all?"

". . . you still don't believe Stein raped him, do you, Sid?"

Kid stared in disbelief at his teacher, who shook his head slowly. "No. I don't. We only have your word to go on! You've seen what we've collected – they might have fought, but I think the evidence makes it pretty clear DeathScythe was enjoying whatever sexual acts were going on. And for a man to let another man-"

Shinigami swung his hand through the air in a vicious cutting motion. "That's enough. That's exactly why I didn't want this out in the first place!" His voice, already bitter, dropped an octave. "Fine. We'll get an official victim's statement from him. All according to law – will that satisfy you, Sid?"

The zombie bowed slightly. "I appreciate it." He paused, his voice softening. "I don't mean to put you in between a rock and a hard place, sir, but . . . with all the secrets that've been held lately, we've lost a lot of trust from the students. We've got to do what we have to, to earn it back. And we can't prioritize personal feelings over the needs of the Academy."

For a moment it seemed as though the Reaper was going to snap at him; instead he drew himself up tall and turned away. ". . . go bring Justin up here, and then start searching through the student rosters. I'll contact you once Spirit is prepared to give his statement."

Kid didn't even wait for Sid to close the door behind him before turning to his father. Hesitantly, he reached out and grasped the ragged edge of his cloak. As a child he would have tugged on it, barely reaching his parent's 'knee'; now he simply held on to it, head nearly to the taller being's shoulder, and cleared his throat. ". . . you need to rest, Father," he said quietly. "You're working yourself too hard."

"I'll be fine, Kid."

"I'm serious, Father."

Shinigami tipped the mask back with one giant finger, turning weary golden eyes to look over his son. "I know. I'll rest tonight after all this is taken care of. It's just – there's so much to take care of." His face took on a distant cast; Kid knew exactly where his mind had gone, and it wasn't on the international matters they had spoken of earlier.

But while he still didn't understand his father's obsession, he could understand loyalty – and he would not begrudge that to the broken man who had nearly given his life to save his father's.

As if reading his mind, Shinigami laid a hand on Kid's shoulder. "I've been neglecting you, son. I'm sorry. I'll try to do better, I promise. It's just . . . ."

"It's OK, Father. I understand, really." He glanced away, then back up at him. "Is there – is there anything I can do to help?"

"Kid." The Reaper smiled almost sadly and pulled his young son in for an overbearing hug. Kid wrapped his arms back around his father, not caring at the moment if it made him look immature or not. He hadn't been hugged like this in ages, it seemed, and in the uncertainty and chaos it was welcoming and safe. His father was heavy, slumped forward, the weight of the world pressing him down like never before – Kid could feel it in the slow undulations of the other's soul wavelength. "Be there for your friends, son," he said. "Be strong for them.

"Be strong for me."

"Why don't we start at the beginning, DeathScythe?"

The setting sunlight filtered through the tiny cracks in the closed blinds over the window. Spirit sat below it, wedged into the corner of the cushioned chair with his one arm draped over his bandaged torso and his knees loosely drawn up below him in the chair. Slowly fading scars crisscrossed the bare soles of his feet. The only piece of clothing he could comfortably take on and off without assistance was a pair of old green jogging pants – threadbare at the edges, baggy, and not nearly enough protection against the intense stares of the other two people in the room.

Sid merely tapped his pen against his notepad, comfortably seated on a folding chair mere feet away. The zombie's gaze was, as always, blank, but his eyebrows were furrowed, the air of congeniality gone. Next to him, Shinigami stood against the wall, tall and inhuman except for the glimpse of golden eyes behind his mask. Spirit glanced resentfully at the latter, bruised eyes lifting a bit under his tangled red hair, before turning his tired gaze over to Sid's direction. "Well, when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much-"

"Spirit." Shinigami's shadow flickered.

Sid flipped through his notebook, ignoring the snide comment. "We already know you were at the bookstore over on 5th and Madison, then at the student apartments." He scribbled something down. "What time did you get home that night?"

". . . I left Maka's apartment at ten after nine. Usually takes fifteen minutes to walk to my place from there, so . . . nine-thirty or so." Spirit picked at a loose bandage across his stomach. "The door was cracked open when I got there. 'S how I knew something was wrong."

"You didn't know who it was? And you went in anyway?" Sid glanced up from writing, his heavy brow lowered further. "Why didn't you call the City police?"

The redhead shifted a bit in his seat. "I thought I could . . . handle it on my own." His voice quavered; Shinigami twitched, enormous hands lacing themselves together.

"A-at any rate, it was just-" A deep breath, and the name was forced out through gritted teeth. "Just S-Stein. Said he wanted to – talk."

"And you took him at his word? After he broke into your house?"

The Reaper turned his narrowed glare at the zombie. "Sid-"

Spirit shook his head. "It wasn't the first time he'd pulled that stunt. Used to do it all the time when we were kids. Have my bedroom locked and come home to find him snooping through my bookshelves." The bandage on his abdomen began to fray from the constant picking. "He's always been weird like that. I didn't think anything of it."

"I see." Sid leaned back in his chair; the rusty metal hinges squeaked under his weight. "Did he say anything to make you think there was something wrong with him? Do anything suspicious?"

"At first, no. Until we started discussing the past." The deathscythe took in as deep a breath as his broken ribs would allow him and sighed. "He told me h-he had wanted to catch me while I was asleep. Three guesses as to why." One bony hand reached up and rubbed along a pale, thin scar along the side of his throat. "I knew he was under the influence of Madness as soon as he said that."

Shinigami turned his gaze to the floor guiltily. The history the two had shared – the years where Spirit had been Stein's unwilling test subject, vivisected and used for God only knew what – would forever be a point of contention between the two. "And then?" Sid prodded.

". . . he hit me. Soul Force. I- I didn't see it coming." Spirit rubbed his hand over his still-healing ribs, wincing as he touched a particularly sore spot. "He was – it wasn't a normal fight. Not his style to take initiative like that."

"Hmm. We have your injuries from that documented. Did you give him any?"

"A few." The deathscythe shifted uncomfortably, looking away. "Get hit with Soul Force too many times,and it – it disrupts your soul wavelength. After a while, I couldn't-" He lifted his left shoulder in a shrug.

That certainly corroborated his story. Soul Force was a truly effective technique, but against Weapons it could be devastating; used too many times it could knock a person's soul wavelength out of balance and render them unable to transform themselves, or utilize any of their abilities. "How many times did he use that against you?" the Reaper asked.

Spirit closed his eyes and was silent for a moment. ". . . six? Seven? Maybe more."

Even Sid looked startled at that. "I . . . see," he said, noting it down. "What then?"

"H-he got me to the floor. Said I'd forgotten how to fear him." His voice was beginning to shake. "I couldn't see it, but I could feel it. H-he had a scalpel. Just started – carving into me." A faint, wobbly smile crossed his lips. "I wouldn't scream for him. Think that pissed him off."

Shinigami's fingers tightened into his cloak; the tattered fabric tore under his grip. "I see," Sid said, leaning forward onto his knees. "And then? When Stein was done with that?"

Spirit's eyes darted between the two of them; he nervously bit his lower lip. "I – he – he pushed me into the corner. Choked me with my tie – I think I blacked out for a second. When I could breathe, I . . . I screamed at him. Cursed him out." He took a shuddering breath. "He started laughing. Used his Soul Sutures to sew my arms together behind my back-"

His voice cracked; curling tighter into the corner of the chair, the deathscythe rested his head on his knees to hide his eyes from the other men. ". . . and?" Sid pressed, relentless.

"Flipped me on my back." Shinigami's hands clenched in rhythm, his golden eyes turning hard. "Said he could-" His voice dropped to a near whisper. "Said he could see inside my mind."

Sid looked up at the Reaper, who nodded. "And that's when you say he raped you, DeathScythe?"

There was no sound from him; he simply nodded, once, never lifting his head. Shinigami moved toward him, laying a gentle hand on his back and rubbing in soothing circles. Spirit flinched before settling down – he wasn't relaxing, but neither was he moving away. "I can't do this," he whispered.

"You've come this far," Shinigami said. "Don't let him win now. I'm right here. I won't leave."

He took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, then nodded again. "What exactly did Stein do to you, DeathScythe?" Sid asked.

". . . I fought." His voice, already soft, took on a distant cast, as if pulling the words out of the distant past. "Kicked him in the face. Stomach. Didn't do any good. I couldn't stop him. He bit me. Told me I was being spirited tonight." A manic little laugh escaped him. Spirit raised his head, pale blue eyes hazed over with tears. His fingers clawed rhythmically at his pants leg. "When h- he pushed in and – it hurt, oh God, it hurt so much." The young man began to tremble; his voice grew thick, as if he were about to vomit. "I tried to stop him. I tried. He just wouldn't-"

"We found traces of your semen-" Sid began, and Spirit nearly screamed.

"No! I didn't – it hurt and he kept touching me and I couldn't control – I didn't want it, I never wanted it! It fucking hurt, all of it! Just – on top of me and calling me sempai and – and he wouldn't stop-" Choking, he his his face again, but not before they could see the gleam of unshed tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.

"Breathe, Spirit. It's over." Shinigami ran his hand up and down the younger man's scarred back. His eyes went to Sid, piercing him with an angry glare that made the zombie wither in his seat.

"I apologize, DeathScythe." Sid set the notepad down. It was difficult to see the man in such a state – most of his emotional breakouts were acts, put on for the benefit of his daughter or the people around him. Seeing him this truly upset was disturbing on multiple levels. He wasn't a weak man. A man with a weak constitution, a weak soul, would never have made it to the rank of deathscythe. But for someone so strong to be laid down this low . . . it made Sid reconsider a few things he didn't want to think about. "I have to take down all the details. Just doing my job."

Spirit shivered. "I – he wanted to – he said he needed to see the fear and-" One huge gloved hand brushed cherry-red hair back; Shinigami knelt down beside his Weapon partner and let the man lean up against his shoulder. "He threatened Maka if I didn't do what he wanted. I couldn't let him hurt my little girl, I couldn't-" He choked back a sob, rubbing the fast-falling tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

"You performed fellatio on him."

The man's face crumpled, his cheeks burning in shame as he nodded once. "Did you really think he would have attacked Maka?" the zombie asked, his tone a bit incredulous. "As far away as she was, and in the state he had to have been in after-"

"Do you think I was going to take that chance?!" Spirit violently shook his head. "When he . . . finished . . . I started choking and – " Curling up, he turned his face away from them, trying to compose himself. "He hit me with Soul Force again. I blacked out."

"I see." Sid glanced at Shinigami, who nodded. "That doesn't explain the cigarette burns on his body, though, or-"

"That wasn't the only time that night Stein attacked him." Shinigami turned his head to Spirit, who trembled violently under their collective gaze. "Was it?"

The deathscythe abruptly pushed himself up out of the chair, taking several shaky steps across the small room to the far wall. "No more," he stammered, his thin shoulders trembling; the vicious scars across his back stood out in plain relief, the fear inside him forever carved into alabaster skin. "I can't do this, Shinigami-sama, I can't-"

"You can." The Reaper tilted his mask back to expose his face, tired golden eyes never wavering even when Spirit turned to face him, faded blue eyes despairing and terrified. He rose and crossed the room to kneel at his Weapon partner's side. "I know it's hard. Just a little further. What do you remember?"

Spirit let out a long, shaky sigh. When offered one oversized gloved hand he took it, his smaller hand engulfed in that comforting warmth. "I – I remember the lighter. He kept . . . lighting up cigarettes, letting them burn. Putting them out. On me." The quaver in his voice had returned. "I told myself I wouldn't scream. I lied."

Shinigami flinched, briefly closing his eyes. Spirit's voice kept growing fainter, more distant; his eyes were beginning to glaze over into a thousand-yard stare. "He wanted me to . . . ." He licked his lips and shuddered. "He pinned my arms down with his knees. Put it – I started choking. He laughed, he said he wanted to watch-"

"I think we get the picture," the elder being said, his voice infinitely gentle - but the irises of his eyes had turned a furious bloody red. "How many times did he make you do that, Spirit?"

". . . it wasn't enough for him." Spirit kept going as if he hadn't heard the question. The words tumbled from his lips faster and faster, poison escaping the wound. "He said I needed a last lesson on fear before he left. He lit up another cigarette and got on top of me and-" A sob choked him; he ripped his hand away and covered his face as he began to cry. "And I stopped fighting back."

Shinigami was up before the harsh sobs could begin, hesitantly placing an arm around his friend's shoulders and pulling him in. The young man was incoherent now, doubled over and trying to muffle his hysteric weeping with his hand. "I stopped – I didn't – why couldn't I-"

With no answers to give, all Shinigami could do was hold him – hold him and fight back the tears of his own.

Sid shook his head and pocketed his notebook as the Reaper desperately tried to console his Weapon partner. There was nothing more he could get from the man, not in the state he was in. What he'd seen – what he'd heard – it flew against everything he'd been taught, everything he thought he knew. Surreptitiously clicking off the audio recorder he'd tucked away in his pocket, he exited the room as quietly as he could.

He didn't envy Shinigami the job of piecing together that mess.

The zombie took a step forward and bumped into something; it fell to the ground with a cry and he glanced down, unblinking. ". . . Oh, hell."

Below him, Maka Albarn sat on the floor, her face flushed, tears streaming down her cheeks. "How much of that did you hear?" he asked, rather more roughly than he meant to.

Her choked cry was all the answer Sid needed.