Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The war against the kishin ends slowly and all too quickly all at once.

The desert sky is bright blue now, cloudless. It’s as if trying to make up for the months and weeks where it was consumed with twisting black and red clouds, aging viscera splattered across the dome of the sky. Angela marvels at the panting sun from her perch on your shoulder, how clear your view of it is. You’re suddenly reminded of how much of her short life she’s spent in hiding.

The path to the DWMA building proper is a long, winding one. During which you pass the shattered remains of the city itself slowly being rebuilt at the hands of civilians, academy students among them. A boy with a clean shaven head and coke bottle glasses regards you cooly from where he sits atop a ladder, slowly smearing grout to lay bricks into with all the patience of a scholar. Your skin crawls with his stare, but you can’t for the life of you remember where you’ve seen him before.

It may be possible his cold stare is not reserved for you, or for the case of katana slung over the shoulder Angela isn’t seated on, but the little Witch. Her gaze flits around the city like a curious bird, humming contentedly at her new surroundings. She certainly looks the part, with her green patchwork dress and leering chameleon hat, even if he isn’t one of those gifted with the ability to sense souls-- not that he needs it. Angela is too young to have even learned her own version of Soul Protect.

You clutch Angela tighter with something approaching instinct.

The academy is eerily quiet, and eerily easy to get into. Your footsteps echo through the arching halls, on high alert for any signs of life.

To your unending surprise, it’s not Black Star who finds you. Even with his seemingly uncanny sense of your whereabouts and knack for getting the both of you into trouble, it’s the blue-skinned zombie man you met once before on Lost Island who first spots you. You feel like you should apologize for spearing him with your swords, but you hold your tongue.

“Oh.” says the zombie man, making no move towards or away from you. He carries a basket of bandages and what might be medical records. He’s no longer in the tactical winter armor you met him in but instead a loose fitting pair of jeans and a tee shirt. He’s still wearing the cap, though. “Surprised to see you here.”

You grunt. “I am as well.”

His undead face cracks with a grin. “End of the war make you change your mind?”

You’d shrug, but you haven’t the space to, with Angela and the case of katana weighing you down. Her hands, still so small, clutch at the fine hairs at the base of your neck. Her grasp feels like a searing red brand in this building, standing but feet from this man. “More like a certain student of yours. The blue-haired Star Clan boy.”

The noise he makes is somewhere between a chuckle and a groan, “Of course it was him. That sounds an awful lot like Black Star.”

You roll the name across the back of your tongue and refuse to think of his predecessor. It would only be disrespectful, after the mercy Black Star showed you.

“Where… is he?” you ask. Carefully, measuredly.

Angela’s fingers tighten against your neck. You squeeze her calf in return.

“With the rest of his team.” The zombie begins walking, a quick glance over his shoulder ushering you to follow. “Shacked up in the medical room. They took an awful beating, facing off the kishin like that.”

You stutter step in surprise and Angela yelps her disapproval. “Sorry, Angela— they actually did it? They won?”

The zombie man-- you really need to get his name, sooner or later-- looks back at you with a grin. Or, really, the best his face can manage, with lips peeled permanently back and cheeks venting air around his teeth. “The Madness is gone, isn’t it?”

You’re quiet as you follow him to the medical room. You suppose it is, though you’d never been particularly clear on what all that entailed. You’re just a hired sword, after all. It wasn’t like Arachne was divulging the innermost secrets of her plans to you, for all she kept you at her beck and call like a prized hunting hound.

“I never caught your name, by the way,” he says, startling you out of your reverie.

“Mifune.” you stammer in return, caught off guard. The urge to give a false name weighs heavy on the tip of your tongue, but you’d promised utmost honesty with Angela from here on out. She even had you pinky-swear on it.

“Sid. And you, little lady?” Sid opens the door of the medical room with his elbow. He has a twinkle in his eye familiar to those who often find themselves around children, smile softer.

“Angela,” the girl introduces herself, curling into your neck with an uncharacteristic shyness. But, for all you’ve filled her head with tales of the DWMA and its Witch-hunting efforts, not to mention those the elders of the Witches Mass had, you suppose she’s taking this all rather well. She hasn’t attempted to run screaming, at least, her trust in you to be her ultimate protector holding strong. It makes your heart swell with the sweet, warm notes of a flute.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Angela, Mifune. I think there’s someone you’d both like to see.”

You follow Sid carefully into the medical room, immediately greeted with multiple shouts of surprise and a room full to bursting with people you’ve never met before (and some you have).

From the left, a woman wrapped head to toe in bandages, dark skin peeking out around the holes left for her eyes and tips of her fingers. She sits at a wide nurse’s desk, sorting through the papers Sid sets down for her.

A curtain is drawn back to the wall, revealing a row of three beds and their occupants. Black Star lays in the one closest to the door, a look of utter surprise on his face, as if shocked you actually kept your promise. His weapon, the Nakatsukasa Dark Arm, sits on the edge of his bed. The Nakatsukasa girl is heavily bandaged herself but sits up straight, unsupported.

To their right sits another bed, where a girl with ashen-blond pigtails and green eyes smoldering in apprehension lays. A boy with white hair and skin so pale it almost matches his hair is to the right of her, a frown etched into his features. Chairs are clustered in the corner at the foot of his bed.

A pair of blond girls, both heavily bandaged and similar-looking enough they must be related, sit in them. Another pale boy, though he’s dark haired, and the pallor of his skin is more corpse-like than that of one with albinism, leans against the arm of the taller blonde’s chair. He’s seemingly unharmed. He frowns in your direction as well, though the piercing line of his gilded irises is directed towards Angela on your shoulder more than it is to you.

You angle yourself so Angela is mostly blocked from the golden-eyed boy’s view by your head. You lean the case of katana against the cabinet to the right of the door in a display of good humor, holding up your now empty hand.

Black Star points suddenly, looking as if he wants to launch himself at you. His resulting wince at the movement confirms your suspicion he’s nursing a few broken ribs.

“You!” he shouts, loud enough that your ears feel as though they should pop. Several occupants of the room wince.

“Me.” you confirm, right as Angela is pointing back and shouting her own “You!” of accusation.

“I didn’t think you’d actually show up! Took you long enough!” Black Star makes to remove himself from the bed again and his Weapon holds a hand to his chest in a surprising display of strength. You hadn’t thought her long limbs possessed such musculature, but you’ve been surprised a lot lately. You really should be used to it by now.

You actually do shrug this time, albeit one shouldered. It had only been a week, but you’re beginning to sense Black Star exaggerates in far more than just battle.

“The desert takes a while to cross.”

Sid looks up from conversing in low tones with the woman in bandages, who you’ll later learn is called Nygus, and fixes you with a look. His blank eyes bore into you far more than that of any other man you’ve encountered— except perhaps for the golden-eyed boy, who still has yet to look away from Angela.

Sid clears his throat. “I’d love for the two of you to keep playing catch-up, but I think it’s high time you met with Lord Death.”

You shiver. Right. That was a bit of a prerequisite for coming here, wasn’t it.

Sid leads you out. Angela sticks her tongue out at the room as you follow, her chameleon hat doing the same.

The path to the center of the Death Room is bracketed with guillotines, and with every step you feel the weight of your past sins weigh heavier on your back. The case of katana feels weightless in comparison, even with the trail of blood it leaves behind. You blink and it’s gone, but regardless, you feel the scummy residue of dried blood you’ll never be able to wash away on your hands. You’ve felt it ever since you first signed yourself up to be Angela’s protector and every swing of your blade had that much more meaning behind it.

Angela walks beside you, tiny hand burning hot in yours, clutching the skirt of her dress with her free hand. She’s small, so small, and she seems even smaller so in this gigantic room with no end in sight. Just a sea of crooked black crosses, dug deep into the parched desert terrain.

Sid pauses at the white dias, raised just a few steps above the ground. He motions you forward. “Lord Death, the samurai has come to see you.”

The Grim Reaper is tall, taller than you, but a kind of large where he seems to go on forever and not at all. His form is jagged, a black hole punched into the very fabric of the universe, cartoonish mask like polished bone. You dip into a low bow at the waist, feeling Angela do the same as you’d taught her, clutching onto her hat so it doesn’t fall off her head of frizzy strawberry-blonde.

“Aha! Well, isn’t this a nice surprise!”

You refrain from jumping out of your bow in shock at the pitch and timbre of the Grim Reaper’s voice, even though it’s hard to contain your surprise.

“There’s no need for such formality! Come, come, take a seat, samurai.”

The Grim Reaper waves a blocky, cubic hand as you stand, and a low tea table that wasn’t there before blinks into existence in the very center of the dias. The familiarity of the red clay pot and padded cushions eases something in the back of your mind, like a muscle you hadn’t known was tense until it began to unwind. “We really should have a talk, you and I. You’ve made quite the reputation for yourself, you know.”

“So I’ve heard,” you grunt in response, steadying Angela as she climbs the stairs-- they’re nearly to her knees-- leaving your case of katana at a polite distance leaning against the bottommost step.

“Ah, actually, I was thinking Sid here could take Miss Angela on a tour of the D.W.M.A. If all goes well, she should be knowing the layout of her new home, hm?” There’s something almost challenging laced underneath the Grim Reaper’s jovial tone, but you can’t quite parse what it is, exactly.

Angela gives you a reluctant look, hesitant to leave your sight with so many unfamiliar, dangerous people about-- or perhaps concerned for your own safety, your big-hearted girl-- but scampers back towards Sid when you squeeze her hand reassuringly. You watch her leave the entire way back you came before you sit down.

The Grim Reaper hums thoughtfully as you fold your legs beneath yourself, gesture as familiar as settling into an old wicker chair that’s come to know your shape with the intimacy of years.

The Grim Reaper pours the tea for you both before you can offer. The warmth seeping through the clay cup is a balm to your sore bones. You aren’t an old man by any stretch of the imagination, but your hands have seen far too much use in your few years to be a young man’s hands anymore. The pinky on your left hand still pops out of place occasionally, from a fistfight gone wrong several years ago. You’d been a much stupider man then, barely more of a man than a boy.

Taking care of Angela has changed much about you. At the time you lost that fistfight, you could never have imagined sharing tea with the Grim Reaper himself. Hell, you could barely imagine it a month ago, when you were still under Arachne’s thumb.

The Grim Reaper sips his tea for a few long moments before speaking. “You caused quite the stir, you know.”

“I was only following the orders given to me, sir.”

Your mouth feels dry. You sip at your tea. It’s a blend you’re unfamiliar with, though it tastes familiar for whatever reason, like something you’d known in childhood but haven’t encountered again till now. “Before that I was solely the Witch Angela’s protector. While I… apologize for the harm that came to your students and your men under my sword, I can’t take it back. I understand if you can’t forgive my actions.”

The Grim Reaper hums, sipping his tea. It disappears mysteriously into the blank scape of his mask where a mouth should be. It’s almost unnerving, the dark holes gouged into his mask where two eyes and a nose would have been, but it’s nothing when compared to the malignance radiating from Arachne’s half lidded glare.

You still feel her stare weighing heavy on the back of your neck like a vice, though there’s never anything there when you turn around.

You haven’t had pleasant dreams at night since you were a very young man, but lately the quality of your dreams has taken an even further downward turn. The rattling of chains, the buzz of that brazen Weapon’s chainsaw, the hum of a mosquito right by your ear. But there’s never any visual, just inky blackness as far as your slumbering subconscious can imagine.

In the worst dreams, you feel your body held in place as Angela is taken away, played on an endless loop over and over and over again til you wake. It’s times like those that you’re more than grateful you’ve never had much to your name, just your swords and your skills and Angela’s hot little hand tucked in your own, never enough to afford particularly spacious lodgings while travelling. Angela sleeps curled up in the crook of your arm every night, and it’s only the faint feeling of her breathing on your neck that assures you she remains alive, untouched, deep in the darkness of a desert night.

“Do you regret it? Your actions?” the Grim Reaper asks after a long moment. Your fingers clench on your clay cup, blunt fingertips turning white around the edges.

“Yes.” You duck you head. Not in shame, though you can’t quite place the emotion you’re feeling at the moment. Awe, perhaps. “I cannot bring myself to say I regret protecting Angela, as she’s worth more to me than my own life ever will be. But injuring your students, your men, causing the Academy harm and slowing what progress you made: that, I regret.”

The Grim Reaper laughs, a joyous little tutter. If you hadn’t been exposed to far more ridiculous things in your own short life you might’ve dropped your cup by now. The tea calms your ragged nerves when you take another sip.

“Then I don’t see any reason to punish you!”

Your head snaps up so fast several joints in your spine pop one-after-the-other. “What? You won’t punish me, even after all I’ve done?”

“Ah, well, not exactly, no,” the Grim Reaper holds up one blocky finger to the approximate location his chin would be had he a human face. “I suppose teaching at the Academy is punishment enough.”

The Grim Reaper doesn’t have eyes, but you swear you see something in them twinkle.

“You’re quite accomplished with a sword, yes? I think it would hardly be a challenge to teach my Meister students how to better handle their Weapon partners.”

Your mouth works for a second, opening and closing dryly. You take another sip of tea to wet it before you speak again, lest the words come crumbling out like so much desert sand.

“I’ve never handled a Weapon before. Surely I can’t be all that much help?”

The Grim Reaper chuckles again. “You wouldn’t be teaching soul bonding mechanics, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just the finer points on handling a weapon, especially those of the bladed type. You can manage that, yes?”

“Yes, of course.” There is no hesitation in your answer, nor in your next question. “And Angela? Will she be permitted to stay?”

“I don’t see why not!” The Grim Reaper leans in conspiratorially. You lean in as well before you can register what, exactly, you’re doing.

“Between you and me, I’ve been drafting up a plan for a peace treaty between the Academy and the Witches. We actually have one student who’s been living as a perfectly normal Meister for the past several years. I’m sure she and Angela will get along just fine.”

He pauses, tilting his head in the direction of the guillotine lined walkway. “Actually, they should be arriving any minute now.”

It’s barely seconds before you hear the rapid patter of Angela’s little Mary Janes on the walkway. She comes running into view yelling your name, followed by a young teenage girl with pink hair and desert-sky-blue eyes. Sid trails a reasonable distance behind the both of them.

For the barest moment, you lock eyes with the pink haired girl. A jolt of recognition hits you.

You’ve seen those eyes before. Under the shadow of a hood, hidden beneath a veil, but you’ve seen them before at the Witches’ Mass. It’s hard not to recognize the caustic wit shining sharp in them like a freshly sharpened blade, blood heading up at the touch.

You go to say something, call to her, but stop. It wouldn’t do any good anyhow, considering Lord Death already knows of she as a Witch. But you’d be hard pressed not to recognize those desert-sky-blue eyes— no matter the disguise, the glamour, the skill level in magic, the hardest thing for a Witch to hide is their eyes.

Eyes are, after all, the windows to the soul.

The Grim Reaper chuckles again. When you look back the table with its tea service has disappeared, as if it was never there in the first place. You move your hands from their hover to wipe your sweaty palms on the worn denim of your jeans. He doesn’t have eyes, but you could swear the Grim Reaper winks.

You aren’t quite sure if you’ve heard him correctly because in the very next moment Angela is tackling you, but you could’ve sworn he said, “Settle in quickly, Mifune. I have plans for you.”

The student, Kim Diehl, and Sid take you on a tour of the facilities. Angela slumbers on your back, tired from the exciting day she’s had already. Kim manages to duck out of the tour midway through without your notice, and the drooling sun is beginning to set as Sid brings you back around to the entrance. The light of the drowsily setting sun washes Sid’s cool blue skin in a warm, hazy glow.

“Well, that’s all I’ve got to show you. Kim probably peeled off to go help with the rebuilding efforts or somethin’.” Sid scratches the back of his head. If it’s possible for a zombie to look bashful, he just might. “Nygus and I have a little apartment in the lower level of the school, we passed it earlier on the tour. We have a spare room, if, uh—“

“I’d enjoy that, yes.” You hike Angela higher on your back, a small smile gracing your features. Sid grins.

Both your stomachs grumble.

Sid laughs, a full bellied, unrestrainedly joyous thing, and you can’t help but throw your head back in laughter as well.

You haven’t many belongings, nothing more than the shirt on your back and your swords. Angela has little more than that. Anything either of you had that you weren’t already wearing was destroyed or confiscated during the attack on Baba Yaga castle.

You never had many things of your own in the first place. It only made it harder to pick up and move at the first whiff of danger.

You set Angela down in the bed to rest, cracking your back and removing her shoes, her hat, her little half-cloak. You leave the door slightly ajar behind you, enough that the noise of Sid puttering about the kitchen with dinner wouldn’t bother her but not so much so that any sound from inside would be muffled should Angela need you.

Sid looks up and smiles when you pass him in the kitchen. He’s putting together something for dinner that you can’t quite make out but smells strong, warm in a way that makes your stomach growl. You turn to hide the flush on your cheeks, to keep from confronting Sid’s amused chuckle.

Their apartment is decorated in such a way that you can tell it’s been lived in for multiple years now. There’s pictures tacked up everywhere on the walls, throws and rugs scattered about, creases in the leather couch and clutter left around the sitting room. A half-drunk mug of tea, a dog-eared novel, a set of knives in leather sheaths and a tin of silver polish on top of a black-stained rag.

There are pictures framed along the walls and on shelves, all along the mantle of the fireplace and on the low side tables bracketing the couch. They depict some people you recognize and others you don’t. You see the children from the medical room at varying ages, most prominently Black Star from infancy till likely less than a year ago; Nygus, with a ragtag group of other DWMA staff; the red haired DeathScythe, a blonde woman with an eyepatch, a tall, scarred man with silver hair and a screw in the side of his head, a black-haired woman with sharp eyes and smart glasses. There’s even a few of other students, Kim and the bald boy from before, among others.

They’re all featured multiple times over at the very least, but there’s one frame in the corner that looks like it’s been passed over when the other frames are dusted. It pictures two people: a young man with purple hair refracting red paisley-patterned light, wearing dark clothes and head thrown back in laughter. His arm is thrown around the shoulders of another young man with long, light brown hair in a low ponytail and a loose, open-chested shirt, snickering with his head turned down and fist held to his mouth. A gold earring glints in the first man’s right ear, a matching one in the left ear of the other.

You frown, running a finger through the layer of dust on the frame. There is no name, no inscription, not even a date that you can see.

“Dinner’s ready!” Sid calls from the kitchen. You turn away from the picture and the ghosts undoubtedly dwelling within. You rub the dust between thumb and forefinger and go to join your host.

Chapter Text

There is a black dragon winding across your back. 

Its head sits against the back of your right shoulder. Your long cotton shirts cover it, hiding it. The promise you made when it was first inked into your skin sits as heavy on your shoulders as a living dragon’s head would. It sits heavy on your shoulders whenever Angela tucks her hot little hand in yours. It sits heavy on your shoulders as you quietly and politely eat the tomato soup Sid has prepared for the three of you, sitting around their small dining table like the good house guest you’re supposed to be. 

You ignore the dragon. The dragon ignores you. This is how your relationship with the dragon has functioned since it first became yours, your silent passenger that made your body feel as if it had been tattooed with lead. It weighs down your every step in the wrong direction and laughs at your misfortune. 

You ignore the dragon. You eat your soup. 

“So, Mifune,” Nygus starts, dipping a thick slice of garlic bread into the soup her Meister has prepared. “Tell us about yourself. Where are you from, what do you do, that kind of thing?” 

“I’m sure we already know he’s lethal with a sword– literally.” Sid cuts in, chuckling quietly to himself. The dragon growls from beneath your skin and you laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound nearly as awkward as it feels coming out. “You got me good on Lost Island, I can’t lie.” 

“I know.” You duck your head abashedly, hair brushing past your ears. Your mouth feels odd without the toothpick sitting in the corner of it that you’ve long since grown accustomed to. Another weight, another presence, another something for you to sink your teeth into when all you wanted to do was scream. ”I’m so sorry.”

Silence falls for a beat, two, around the table. The dragon chuckles amusedly at your blunderings. 

“Hey now, no reason to feel ashamed.” Sid laughs again, and the dragon laughs louder, mocking. “Half the kids in this school are beating the snot out of each other at any given moment, it’s kind of par for the course.” 

Sid claps a hand on your shoulder and you look up, trying not to cringe at the genuine smile on his face (as much as a zombie can smile, of course). 

“There really is no reason to be ashamed, now.” 

“Aside from the fact that I should’ve known better at the time.” you say. Frustration bubbles up in the pit of your stomach, and the dragon laughs louder. You wish you’d never gotten the damn thing most of the time, especially with the path you’ve been most recently treading. 

You let out a long, slow breath through your nostrils, abandoning your food (not that you’re hungry anymore) for your toothpick. It settles comfortably back in the corner of your mouth like a much richer man’s cigar, just as chewed. 

There are wind bars on your skin as well, traditional space fillers in Japanese tattooing. Since all you had really asked for was a black dragon, as big as possible you suppose it's not really your fault, how the wind bars creep so far down your arms. You’ve been relegated to wearing the longest sleeves and highest collars you can find to keep your past a secret. 

Except you should’ve stopped the artist as soon as they reached your arms— like how you should’ve walked away from Arachne before she even made the offer. 

“My apologies.” you say, collecting yourself and making to stand. “You’ve been nothing but gracious to myself and Angela, and all I’ve done is make things uncomfortable. If you’d prefer for us to leave, we will.” 

Sid shakes his head. His weapon partner frowns behind the layers of cotton bandages swaddling her face and body.

“Really, Mifune,” Nygus says, reaching up to grip your forearm where you stand. You hover over the two of them at the table like an unrepentant ghost. “All of us have made mistakes. You did what you did, there’s no going back. Make your peace with it before it eats you alive.” 

You swallow uncomfortably. You haven’t made peace with anything, much less yourself. You’re not even entirely sure you can. 

“And in the meantime,” Sid says, as your stomach grumbles loudly again and breaks the tension for you, “eat your dinner. Nobody stops feeling sorry for themselves on an empty stomach.” 

Cowed, you sit back down. A hot flush rises to the back of your neck, your cheeks, all the way to your hairline. You duck your head again and tuck your toothpick behind your ear— the spot where it lives when it’s not in the corner of your mouth— and do as the man says. Maybe one day you’ll be able to feel full. 

—

The first thing you and Angela learn about Nevada is that it’s hot. Unrepentantly, unrelentingly, hot. 

“While the school is still being rebuilt, you and little Miss Angela should get out there and help.” Sid suggested that morning over breakfast. It was cool, and dark, and even a little damp in the bowels of the school where staff could take up apartments. It was easy to get used to, the cool comforts of the home you were borrowing. It was a lot harder to get used to the drooling Nevada sun, beating down on you from all angles. 

“You should get to meet some of your future students.” Nygus had added. “It’ll help you teach them better, once the school year starts up again. They aren’t exactly going to want to learn from a stranger– especially not one who they previously fought against.” 

The truth of her words stung. Even so, you’re not the kind of man who goes back on his word, and you’d already vowed to teach these students as best you could. If it meant (metaphorically) rolling up your sleeves and getting your hands dirty, then you’d do it. 

Besides, it wasn’t like Lord Death had given you much of a choice. Either you taught, or the Grim Reaper found another, much more fitting punishment for your sins. All things considered, you’re getting off quite lightly for everything you’ve done, everything you continue to do. 

But that doesn’t erase the fact that it’s hot. It’s hotter than anything you can say you’ve experienced before, and you’re a particularly well-travelled man. The heat is oppressive and dry, and your eyes roam for a patch of shade to park Angela in. You have no idea how any of these citizens live in such intense heat all year round when crossing the desert almost did you in, but you’re here to help either way. You’ll just have to grit your teeth, even with the taste of red sand between them. 

“It’s hot,” Angela whines, meltingly. Sweat rolls down her forehead, and you can’t say you’re much better off. 

You hum in concern, patting her bare head. She’s shed most of her usual Witchy attire for something a little more breathable, a little more Human. Nygus had dug up a little pink romper dotted with white polka-dots from somewhere in their apartment. 

Momentarily, you picture a young Black Star wearing the same thing. You aren’t sure whether the mental image is humorous or disturbing. 

“I know.” you affirm, holding her gloveless hand. She seems much cooler, but she keeps rubbing her bare arms as if she’s too cold, clenching and unclenching the bare hand that isn’t currently held in your own. You’d left your case of katana, every single sword, back in the bowels of the academy. You understand the feeling of being without your usual protections. 

“How about this?” you start. Angela perks up. 

You kneel down to her level, sand and construction dirt prickling against the knee of your worn jeans. “If we can find an ice cream stand, I’ll get you a popsicle, okay? But until we see one, we’re going to stick to the shady areas. How does that sound?” 

Angela nods enthusiastically. “I’ve never had a popsicle before!” 

Your heart pangs for the childhood you’ve been unable to give her. You force a smile around your toothpick anyway. “It’s certainly exciting. Let’s go find somewhere to help, alright? Maybe you can make a friend.” 

—

It takes an embarrassingly long time to find somewhere the citizens give you more than a second glance. Death City, Nevada’s residents are welcoming, but you are still a stranger bearing an unknown Witch into their midst. You settle for looking for familiar faces, keeping pace with Angela at your side. You’re sweltering in the heat and your long clothes, but at least she’s a little peppier with the promise of frozen sugar on the horizon. 

Eventually you find a familiar face. The bald boy with the coke-bottle glasses and another boy assist with the rebuilding, chatting amicably. After a few moments, it strikes you where you’ve seen the former before, like with Kim. He’s no Witch, but you recall a trio of figures from Baba Yaga castle: Kim, the bald boy, and a Black boy you’ve yet to see, all wearing the cloaks of Arachne’s followers. The weapons they bore must have been their Weapon partners, henceforth unseen to you in their human forms. 

“Excuse me,” you speak up, clearing your throat. Angela tugs on your hand, waving excitedly at the pair. 

The bald boy looks up, paling behind his glasses. The other, assumedly his Weapon partner, continues hammering away at the wooden arch they’re constructing together. The other boy is tan skinned, with spiky black hair pulled back in a high tail and dark glasses. He frowns when his Meister falters, pausing. The bald Meister points shakily at you. 

“Ox, what’re you– oh.” the Weapon says. He raises an eyebrow behind dark lenses. “Have we met before?” 

“No, no, we’ve never met before. Definitely not in Baba Yaga castle, or anything.” the Meister, assumedly Ox, stammers. He creeps a hand towards his weapon partner, gripping the other’s sleeve desperately. His voice comes out too loud, fearful, even as you’re sure he’s attempting a whisper. “Harvar, transform!”  

You let go of Angela’s small hand to hold up both of yours in deference. You feel properly naked without your usual cache of swords, but apparently you’re intimidating enough even without them. “You’re mistaken, I’m not here to harm anyone.” 

The Weapon, Harvar, furrows his brows. His voice is guarded when he speaks. “I’m sure.” 

You open your mouth to explain, toothpick hanging precariously, when you’re interrupted by Angela’s delighted squeal. She runs off in the direction you just came from, arms waving excitedly. Your heart thuds into your boots for a moment before you recognize the pink head of hair headed your way. 

“Kim!” Angela squeals, scurrying up to the older girl.

Kim’s perpetual cool stare breaks into a soft smile. She leans down to intercept Angela, lifting the little girl onto her hip. Angela isn’t a particularly large child, especially not for her age, but you’re still impressed. Angela wraps her arms around Kim’s neck, beaming. 

“Hi, Miss Angela.” Kim says. She looks around, spotting the pair atop the arch and levying a practiced stink-eye their way. “Are these two giving you trouble?” 

The girl with Kim, slender with straight black hair, muffles a giggle behind her hand. Kim smirks, bumping her unencumbered hip against the other girl’s. 

“They’re scared of my Mifune,” Angela stage-whispers to Kim. Kim gapes. 

“Really?” Kim exaggerates, tickling Angela’s stomach with a free hand. Angela giggles and kicks, grinning. 

You attempt to reign in your surprise at how good Kim is with Angela already, and tamp down the small spike of jealousy of how much longer it took you to become fluent with your girl. You aren’t bad with children, but your stern face and severe silhouette can still be scary. That’s why you took to carrying those candies around in the first place, anyway, as a bargaining chip.

It took a bit of trial and error to find a flavor children liked more than your preferred salty seaweed, though. 

Kim looks back up at the boys on the arch, bumping shoulders with her Weapon partner. Kim cocks her head towards you. “He doesn’t seem so scary. What’s your problem, Ox?” 

“He did cut Black Star up pretty bad.” Harvar attempts. You cringe. 

“Yeah, and then Black Star totally kicked his ass for it.” comes another voice. You look over to see the final Meister on their team, the Black boy with glasses, come striding up. He’s bracketed by two small children, twins in matching orange-and-yellow outfits. The three of them hold hands, with each of the small twins holding a popsicle in their free hands. 

The dual-wielding Meister grins, sticking his hands in his pockets. He gives you a cool nod. “Don’t you remember?” 

You nod. Your body certainly remembers, even if you weren’t fully conscious for the last of the final fight at Baba Yaga. Long lines of scabbing tissue line your body, sword slashes still yet to fully heal. You have a vague, semi-conscious memory of the Tsubaki Nakatsukasa helping you through the halls of Baba Yaga, while Black Star burst through walls in hot pursuit of Angela. 

You think you’ll be in debt to those two for the rest of your life, in many ways. 

“He did kick my ass.” you confirm. The students seem to relax a little, hearing a curse word out of this strange adult’s mouth. You affect the most relaxed posture you can, even though it feels deeply awkward. “And I will forever be grateful to him for it.” 

“See?” the Black Meister says, motioning to you with a hand. His twin Weapons peek curiously around his legs as they eat their popsicles, their huge, pale eyes directed at Angela. 

Ox and Harvar don’t seem entirely convinced, but you can tell Angela is all but vibrating out of her skin with the excitement of finding other children her age, her grip on Kim’s shirt collar white-knuckled. You crouch to one knee, gaze soft as you look towards the small twins. 

“Hello, there.” 

They shift their gazes to you, just as wide-eyed. Popsicle sugar melts down their little hands. 

“My name is Mifune,” you try, pressing a hand to your chest. You motion to Angela, still held aloft by Kim. “That’s my–” 

Your tongue trips over the words. You’re unsure what to claim Angela as, what she would claim you as if asked. You settle for the safe bet. “That’s my Angela. Would you like to play with her?” 

Angela shouts in excitement, wiggling. The twins continue to peer at you, though you can’t tell if it’s out of suspicion or shyness. Their Meister nods encouragingly. 

“I’m Kilik.” he says with a nod. “That’s Thunder in the yellow, and Fire in the orange. They don’t really talk, but I’m sure they’d love to play.” 

You nod as well, standing back to your full height. Kim sets Angela down. Angela scampers up to the two other small children, smiling wider than you’ve ever seen before. Her hair frizzes up around her head in the kind of halo ever-present with small children, exacerbated by the dry heat. 

“Hello!” Angela says, this close to shouting. Kilik pats each of his Weapons’ shoulders, encouraging. 

“Go on, guys!” 

Thunder steps hesitatingly out, first, followed quickly by Fire. Angela stands there awkwardly for a moment, unsure. Your heart pangs for the fact that she’s never interacted with other children her age before. 

Smoothly, Kim steps in. “Hey, why don’t we play tag?” 

She points at the boys assembled, as well as yourself. “And you all can keep rebuilding! Bye!” 

Ox and Harvar groan and Kilik rolls his eyes, but as Kim and her Weapon partner scamper off to watch the playing children, everyone is smiling. You even feel the beginnings of a grin tease at your own lips. 

You set your hands on your hips and address the assembled boys, ever dutiful. “What do you need from me?” 

—

You’re caked in dust and sweat and wood shavings by the time the sun begins to set, drooling. Your muscles ache in new and unfamiliar ways, but by the time you and the boys finish all three are chatting easily with you. You remain quiet more often than not, allowing the newness of the situation to wash over you, listening to the chatter from your soon-to-be students. 

The three boys talk fairly freely, clearly used to each other, about school and their teachers and classes. They’re eager to get back to normalcy after the end of the war. They hesitate when they come up to topics of enemies faced, Ox still casting furtive glances your way, but you nod and acquiesce with a little talk of your time at Baba Yaga castle. They seem to relax, knowing you hold the defeated Arachne in as little esteem as they do. 

Kim and her weapon partner, Jackie, eventually return with the three children once the four of you have finished erecting a wooden pagoda. You suspect the teen girls just wanted to avoid the sweaty work, but you’re still grateful for the chance for Angela to socialise. You bow gratefully to your new students, and surprisingly receive a few bows back in return. Nevada is far from your roots in Japan, but old habits die hard. You’re just glad to see the Grim Reaper’s traditional Japanese tea service was more than ceremonial. 

Angela drapes over your back, muttering sleepily. She’s tired and sweaty and more than a little sticky on her face and hands, undoubtedly from the promised popsicle, but she’s smiling. You hike her further up your back and make for Sid and Nygus’ apartment. 

— 

Though Sid and Nygus have yet to return, you were offered free reign of their small bathroom over breakfast. You’re more than grateful for it now as you strip Angela out of her dirty clothes and dunk her in a warm bath. 

Angela is easy enough to bathe, sleepy and pliable, and you swaddle her in the biggest, fluffiest towel you can find once she’s clean. She falls asleep easily on your borrowed bed, damp hair haloed out around her head on the pillow. You close the bedroom door quietly behind yourself and resolve to scrub your own skin pink. 

While bathing was not always a practice afforded to you on the road, and was something of luxury in the darkest of your mercenary days, there is something blissful about showering. Letting the warm water run over you, washing away the dirt and grime, taking stock of your body and any injuries. There is some blood you’ll never be able to wash your hands of, but after today, the grime feels a little lighter. 

Your body is covered in scars. New and old ropes of scar tissue cross your flesh, some as small as cigarette burns and pinpricks and others as large as sword strikes and expansive lattices of road rash. You’ve seen much life in your twenty-something years, years you’ve given up trying to keep track of the way you’ve given up trying to remember who you were before you became Mifune. You’ll never return to that man, to that little child, to that woman you were once promised to become. Even with the slight softness of your chest, there is still hard-won muscle beneath. 

Of course, there’s also the issue of your tattoos. You cringe at some of them despite the obvious artistry. Taking ink into the skin is a permanent act, and the sentiments inked in by the traditional tebori were meant to be permanent as well. It was funny, then, that you’d been allowed to get a piece as meaningful as a black dragon tattooed into your skin, especially considering how young you’d been at the time. But people didn’t tend to argue with Yakuza. 

You let your head fall against the smooth tiles of the shower wall. The warm water washes over you, slicking your flaxen hair to your skin. You carried a foreigner’s skin, foreigner’s hair and eyes and a foreigner’s name, but you still considered Japan your home. You’d been renamed there, reborn there, accepted there. It was just a matter of fact that you’d done heinous crimes against those in the place you claimed to love, too. The people of Japan were forever stained by your Yakuza hands, your mercenary sword, and that wasn’t even counting those outside of the island. 

You bang your head against the tile wall a few times. Not hard enough to bruise or draw blood, but enough that you feel it. Any harder and you might wake Angela, much less hurt yourself and cause her concern. 

Your muscles tighten and relax, tighten and release. The warm water does nothing to wash the guilt away– but maybe today, you’ve started to.