Chapter Text
“It just has to be hidden.”
— Spirit Albarn, DWMA student, moments before disaster
It was mid-morning. The corridors of the Academy rested quietly, most students and faculty members either in class or training.
In Lord Death’s personal archives, there was a pleasant flutter of papers. On the floor sat Kid and Spirit, both surrounded by boxes, paper stacks and one worryingly empty trash bag. Every now and then, the gentle rummaging was interrupted by one of them making a comment on a particularly good find.
“Aww,” Spirit cooed, holding up a drawing of a monochrome tadpole person signed by Deth the KIb. “This one looks just like you!” He turned it sideways. “Or your dad?”
“Let me see.” Kid squinted at it. “It’s wailing. Must be you.”
“Wow.” Spirit lowered the drawing and side-eyed Kid. “Cool escalation.”
“It could be Father’s nose and not a mouth, I suppose,” Kid corrected himself. He waved his hand at it. “You can throw it.”
“No way!” Spirit whimpered, holding it close. “If it is me, I want to frame it.”
Kid rolled his eyes, not fully hiding his smile. “Go ahead.”
Carefully, as not to topple it, Spirit put the drawing on top of his lopsided pile of keepsakes. It slid right down. He lifted a confiscated single-use camera and placed the drawing securely under it, nodded when nothing moved—then got back to the obscenely large stack of Kid’s old drawings. He kept giggling and cooing at each one, as if they didn’t all look almost exactly the same.
Kid, meanwhile, was looking through a box of assorted papers and files. There seemed to be no real rhyme or reason to its contents, except that it was all obscure, obsolete, or both. One of the folders was marked “redacted” with big, bold letters and a small, winking skull. Unmistakably Kid’s father’s handwriting. Odd combination of word and picture—yet nothing out of the ordinary, considering the author.
Kid sniffed a laugh and flipped it open.
It was a personal file. A slightly faded ID photo was paperclipped to the front page. He smiled in recognition, slipping it free to study it. The boy in the photo looked about Kid’s age, perhaps a little younger. Hair shorter, jaw softer. Cocky-looking—that hadn’t changed much.
Kid shifted his gaze back to the text.
Slowly, the smile warped into a confused frown.
His spine straightened.
“Spirit?” he said.
The cooing stopped immediately, and Spirit turned to him. “What’s up, buddy?”
“There’s a file here.”
“Right.”
“About you.”
“Okay.”
“Because this is you, right?” Kid held up the photo. “You’re a teen, but it’s you.”
“It is.” Spirit’s face burst into a delighted grin. “Almost as realistic as your tadpole.”
“It is you.” Kid waved the photo. “But the name’s wrong.”
With that, Kid pointed to the folder on his lap.
Eyebrows hiked, Spirit scooted closer. His eyes tracked the text by Kid’s finger.
His grin froze, just for a second, before flickering back on—twice as bright.
“Huh,” he said lightly. “Would you look at that.”
Kid gently tapped the folder with the knuckle of his index finger. “Everything else seems in order. Date of birth, weapon type, gender, height—”
“Well, I’m a little taller now.”
“—but this isn’t your name.”
“Nope. No, it’s not.”
“Why is that?”
“Yeah. Why IS that?”
Spirit nodded thoughtfully, then looked over his shoulder. Then the other, a conspiratorial frown settling on his face. He lifted his hand to his mouth and leaned forward.
Kid leaned in too, turning his ear toward Spirit.
“That’s my twin,” Spirit whispered. “And I’m the evil one.”
Kid sat back up, giving Spirit an unimpressed stare.
“Tough crowd,” Spirit muttered. He planted a hand behind himself and leaned back. “It’s just an error, Kid. I wrote the wrong name on the application.”
“You accidentally—wrote this name.” Kid tapped the name in question. “On your application. Instead of ‘Spirit.’”
“Now, I can see how that’d sound confusing.” Spirit waggled a finger at Kid. “I’m still baffled, myself.”
Kid blinked slowly, face growing from unimpressed to impatient. Spirit’s smirk wilted into a grimace at the same pace.
He curled his finger back in, hand drifting to his neck.
“Fine.” Spirit scratched behind his jaw. “You know how we’re allowed to go by names other than our legal ones here?”
“Yes, like Soul.”
“Yeah, like him. Who the hell calls themselves ‘Eater,’ anyway? It’s really raunchy if you think about it.” With a grunt, Spirit pushed himself to his knees and shuffled back to the box of drawings. “Considering how many teenage boys there are around here, I’m surprised he doesn’t get bullied.”
He plopped back down, shoes scraping as he folded his legs criss-cross.
Kid waited.
When Spirit just kept sorting drawings—no cooing, now—Kid spoke softer.
“Spirit?”
“Hrm,” he grunted.
“You should know that I know everyone’s legal name.”
Spirit’s shoulders hiked up.
“Your legal name, as far as I know, is also ‘Spirit.’”
Spirit straightened and turned around, eyes wide.
“And this name,” Kid pointed to the file, “as opposed to ‘Spirit,’ is in no record. Anywhere.”
“Really?” Spirit brightened, a mushy smile spreading over his face—almost too relieved. “Wow. He really did go all in, the old bastard.”
“Do you mean Father?” Kid immediately put the folder aside and crawled closer. “So, you changed it after you enrolled, then? Or he did, I guess?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”
Kid waited.
Spirit nodded.
Then he nodded some more.
He started tapping a rhythm against his knees to the beat of the nods.
Clicked his tongue a few times, forming his mouth to change the pitch—and then turned back to the drawings.
“Spirit,” Kid prompted.
“That’s my name,” he said loftily. “Very legal, given, only name. Except for Death Scythe, I guess. Isn’t it weird that I got a title, and suddenly everyone thinks I’m actually named—”
“Spirit.”
Spirit quieted again.
“Won’t you tell me what happened?”
Spirit’s jaw worked. He looked up at Kid, scanning his face. Kid’s eyebrows were furrowed, pleading more than confused now.
“Please?” Kid said. “It’s about you and Father, right?”
Spirit’s eyes slid closed, nose scrunching. A low rumble escaped his throat.
“…Please?”
Spirit heaved a deep sigh.
“Fine,” he muttered. “There was a fire, your dad found it funnier than mine did, and then I changed name. Happy?”
“No.” Kid scowled at him. “That’s really bad storytelling.”
“Hey! I’m a great storyteller.”
“I know—that’s what I mean!”
Spirit grumbled and glared back at Kid, though not nearly as fierce. The battle of glowers went on for several seconds, until Spirit looked down to his hands.
It was silent, until—
“Ughh…”
Spirit groaned and spun where he sat, turning his back to the bookcase.
“Alright.” He pushed himself backward until the frame was close enough to lean back against. “You know how Stein was a downright teen-terror and pulled me into all sorts of trouble, all the damn time, and I always got the short end of the stick?”
Kid seemed to battle an instinct to correct him, but he didn’t. “Yes, you’ve told me.”
“Well, this time, he’d gotten cigarettes. More cigarettes, I should say—we already smoked more than we should.”
Kid squinted. “How old were you again?”
“Definitely not old enough to smoke. Anyway…”
The linen closet is dark. Even though it’s lunch hour and the nurse is out, Spirit doesn’t want the lights on. Stein rolled his eyes at him when he said it, and muttered something probably unflattering in German before flicking the switch without arguing.
A flashlight rests on top of a pile of sheets, propped up by a pack of paper towels. It casts spooky shadows over Stein’s grinning face. His eyes are ghost-like, the usual green washed pale yellow in the sharp little beam.
The wafting smoke only makes it creepier.
“I still think we should’ve gone to the grove,” Spirit mutters and flicks the lighter on. He’s feeling queasy. This is his fourth cigarette, and his lungs feel like they’re coated in tar and grease.
Stein is on his fourth, too. If he’s nauseous, it doesn’t show.
He blows smoke in Spirit’s face. “What’s exciting about that?”
“It doesn’t have to be exciting.” Spirit puffs his cigarette alight and takes a drag. “It just has to be hidden.”
“Wrong. Exciting’s the point. Why else smoke on the grounds?”
Spirit doesn’t really know what to answer. He counters weakly: “Well, this is stupid.”
“If you say so.” Stein taps some ashes loose. “I like this brand better than the last.”
“Yeah, it’s alright,” Spirit says. “I liked the menthol ones.”
“Did you?”
“Mm, it wasn’t as rough.”
“I like the burn.” Stein takes a long drag, keeping it in his lungs before blowing out a thin, milky ribbon. It seems to glow in the beam. “Maybe we can try another flavour next time.”
“Yeah.” Spirit brings the cigarette to his lips. “That’d be—”
K-chk.
They freeze.
The entrance door handle turns.
The door creaks open.
There’s the scuffing of slippers—the nurse.
She shouldn’t be back yet.
She can’t be back yet.
Spirit tries to keep his breathing quiet, but a small hitch escapes. Stein’s free hand slides over his mouth, clamping down. Spirit’s breath stutters against his palm.
Spirit glances sideways, at Stein. He can see that Stein notices he’s scared—his eyes lock with Spirit’s, half-lidded and calmer than what’s fair.
Stein blinks slowly at him, then shifts his gaze back to the crack in the door. So does Spirit.
He hears Stein reaching behind them, hand patting for the flashlight. The soft fumbling continues for a few seconds, linen rustling softly. Then a couple taps of fingers against plastic. A soft click. The small light goes out just as the slippers shuffle past the door—and stay.
Stein doesn’t move a muscle.
He doesn’t breathe.
Neither does Spirit.
It’s dark.
It’s so, so dark.
She’ll be so angry.
Spirit can hear his heartbeat. It slams in his chest, sharp and painful and too, too fast.
Why is she just standing there? What’s she doing? Can’t she move? Spirit needs to breathe—if she moved, he could breathe.
Like answering a prayer, she does.
He draws a shivering breath.
Something smells off. It’s not like cigarette smoke—it’s sharper.
There’s orange in the corner of Spirit’s eye.
Then a whoosh—room turning bright.
He screams.
Stein’s body slams into his back, and Spirit’s shoulder into the door.
They tumble out—Spirit still screaming—crashing onto the floor.
A shriek—the nurse.
He can barely see her moving.
A metallic clank, a flash of red in her hand.
An ear-deafening roar, crackling and sharp.
A stream of white. Smoke, fog, something—everywhere.
The orange dies.
The flames flicker out.
From the linen closet, smoke billows out, thick and grey.
He coughs and coughs into his hand. His eyes sting, his lungs burn. There’s white powder all over, dusting his jacket and hands and the room.
Stein is covered in it, too—but Stein’s not looking at Spirit.
There’s a hollow clank.
The nurse sets the fire extinguisher down, right in front of them.
Spirit wishes he could sink through the floor.
Spirit slid down an inch, head thumping back against the bookcase.
“She didn’t even look mad,” he said, staring into the mid-distance. “Just… shocked. Obviously not what she’d signed up for.”
He tipped his head to the side to face Kid.
Kid’s eyes were wide, mouth hanging open.
“Yeah, a little like that.” Spirit winked. “Then she looked, I dunno, disappointed? But she still didn’t yell at us.”
“Really?” Kid sounded sceptical. “No reprimand?”
“Yeah, really, which honestly made it worse.”
Kid seemed to consider that for a moment—then nodded like he agreed. Spirit nodded back and smiled briefly, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“She looked us over,” Spirit continued, fingers pulling at a tress of copper. “Her hair was singed, her face grey with smoke, the whole closet covered in powder and reeking of burned cotton—and she still went straight to fussing over us. A lesser person would’ve smacked us on the spot. Man, I loved that nurse. A damn saint. Retired before you started school.”
He looked at his left hand, brushing his fingers over a small, imaginary spot.
“She patched Stein up.” He tapped the spot twice, then wrapped his fingers around it. “I wasn’t injured at all—except for a bruised ego—but Stein’s hand got burned. Just a bit. He’d held it right by the flames.”
Kid looked from the hand to Spirit’s eyes. He brought his knees closer to his chest, arms loosely wrapped around them. “So, Professor Stein started the fire?”
“Not on purpose—which feels weird saying, considering who we’re talking about—but yeah.” Spirit grinned and laced his hands behind his neck. “We think it happened when he fumbled to turn the torch off, cigarette in hand. And he calls me clumsy.”
One of his feet slid forward a few inches, sole scraping softly against the stone.
“Anyway, when she was satisfied that we were alright, she told us to stay put. Don’t move a muscle, she said, while I go and get…” Spirit tipped forward and lowered his voice. “…Lord Death.”
He waggled his fingers at Kid in a manner that might’ve been frightening to a five-year-old at a campfire. As it was now, the motion was met with mild disinterest. Kid leaned forward, though, neck stretching. He was clearly captivated.
“Then what?” he murmured, eyes wide. “Father must’ve been pretty cross.”
“Oh, yeah.” Spirit nodded sombrely. “I mean, probably.”
Kid blinked. “Probably?”
“What, you think I stuck around to find out?”
“Well, you—I-I—” Kid sputtered, scandalized scowl on his face. “Yes!”
“Nah, not me. I bolted.” Spirit grinned and stretched his back, spine crackling softly. “Speaking of which, I’m ready for a leg stretcher. Got pins and needles all over. Coffee?”
Kid looked like he might object for a second, then he released a sharp huff.
He rolled onto his feet and stood.
“Okay, we can get coffee.” Kid jabbed his index finger toward a spot between them. “But we bring it back here, and we pick up right where you left off.”
“Negotiating, huh?” Spirit mused, still seated. “Then I have a condition, too: you go grab it for us.”
“But—” Kid’s mouth opened and closed. “But you wanted the leg-stretcher!”
“Changed my mind.”
“No, you didn’t!” Kid’s eyes narrowed. “You’re planning to run off, aren’t you?”
“Now that’s an idea.”
Kid crossed his arms over his chest, foot tapping rapidly against the stone.
“Aw, don’t give me that,” Spirit pleaded, forcing down a goofy smile. “I haven’t earned that today, have I?”
“We walk to the lounge together,” Kid said, foot still tapping sharp and impatient. “Grab the coffee. Then go straight back here. And remember, I’m faster than you.”
Spirit wheezed a laugh and pushed himself off the floor.
“Alright, alright,” he said, patting dust off his slacks. “We go together.”
“No running?”
“Promise.”