State of a Spirit

Come on.

His hand gripped the throttle tight, a flash of mist burning up his arm.

Come on!

A red light blinked, the bar flickering into the white to sear straight through his retinas, teeth clenched tight enough to crack. Just a little further. Just a little more.

He pushed it to the top, everything a red and white haze, hanging on by the skin of his teeth, pins-and-needles clawing into his shoulders. Hot breath on the back of his neck, prickling at his hackles. Mist and sharp edges flickered in and out on his hands. Just the left. One tiny leap.

He clicked it and pushed.

Fangs snapped around his throat.

A piercing tone sliced through the storm, and the flow of blinding light abruptly cut off, both throttles snapping back to neutral in spite of his grip. For a long moment he just sat there, panting, as the last glitters died away.

He couldn't do it.

His hands clenched tight around the grips, and he forced down the growl itching in the back of his throat, deliberately releasing his fingers, popping the hatch, and climbing out. Wasn't like this hadn't happened a hundred times already. Just another failure.

Just another damn—

He tore his helmet off and hurled it, the crack of it hitting the wall ringing through the room under the ugly snarl that escaped past his teeth. "Bloody Mary's nine blind illegimate children— damn your bloody sparkling arse to hell, an áit thíos atá ceapaithe duit, a dhiabhal!"

Absolute silence reigned in the quiet training room, apart from a violent hiss between his teeth as he slumped back to sit at the mock-up core's base, letting his shaky limbs rest. Not a soul to see him throw a tantrum, what luck.

Scraping a hand through his sweaty hair, he exhaled a forceful sigh. Fat lot of good yelling at it all would do. Da would've had a few wise lecturing words to give him for all that, after he checked to make sure the wall and helmet were alright.

"Shite." He scraped his hands down his face, massaging at his temples. "One second is all I ask. Is that so hard? How the hell does anyone get to Spirit-state?"

"My my, someone has a terrible temper." A familiar voice made him stiffen, and he looked up to see Kyubi pluck the helmet off the floor, brushing off an imaginary speck of dust. "For a start, Spirit-state requires a calm, focused mind."

How long had she been there? He propped his arm on a knee, eyeing her warily. "That's funny, because I could swear Ariake's been there multiple times."

She smirked, swaying over to him and graciously offering the helmet. "Ari-chan is a very focused individual. He may have a temper worse than yours, but he also knows how to channel himself. You, Roku-chan, do not."

"That so." Reluctantly, he took it, studying it for any cracks and checking the radio briefly. Didn't seem damaged, at least. "Does he happen to do zen exercises or anything?"

She laughed, leaning on the front of the core and smiling down at him from a very questionably-professional angle, the fox ears and tail ruining the effect a bit. "He knows his core, how to be in sync with his spirit for that moment when he becomes one with it. I wonder what lies at your core, Roku-chan."

"If you want to find out, you'll have to ask properly." He arched an eyebrow, studying what might be a slight dent. "Lady's got to do more than drop a suggestion, I'm afraid."

"I have to say, I enjoy your attitude," she purred. "Few mortals dare to, these days. Well then, I will ask directly. What drives you, Roku-chan? Why are you here, hm?"

"Thought the academy president would've filled you in."

"I know holes in a story when I see them, child. There were many half-truths, but no full story in what you gave. You're after something, I can see it in your eyes. So what is it?" Her sharp eyes met his in the visor's reflection, an unnatural glitter in them. "Revenge, perhaps?"

Of course she'd think that, thanks to the scars. He smiled faintly to himself, resting the helmet in his lap and tugging his gloves off, flexing tight, achy fingers. "There's nothing left to take revenge on. You and the SC made sure of that."

"The Kings of the Corners, I assume?"

She'd done her homework. "I just plan to make sure it can't happen again. Not much to it."

"And perhaps, if there does happen to be anyone who escaped...."

He very carefully didn't close his hands into fists, forcing a smile instead as he went through a few loosening stretches. "Well if there were, I wouldn't be surprised if they tried to come out of the woodwork again. I'd just be doing my job."

"Indeed." Her tone was too knowing for his taste. "And were you doing your job when you went on your own little rampage in that train station?"

He froze.

"I had access to every report on the Wren-Day Massacre. Every detail."

The patchwork of tight skin on his hands stretched to cracking point as he flexed them, half a breath stuck somewhere down in the pit of his stomach.

"There was a very interesting story about a 'faoladh' who'd killed one of the attackers, and gone after another. I'd always wondered about that, as the first was messy, and the second managed to get away. It isn't easy to kill an obake, especially if you're injured. Even harder to kill one empowered by Ki. I could only see a newly-created obake managing it."

He curled them into fists, lips pressed tightly together. The phantom taste of blood lingered in his mouth. If he blinked, he could see a blank mask staring down at cooling bodies, crimson dripping from its motionless sword, just as it dripped from teeth that didn't belong to him. He chose not to.

"You're lucky he managed to accidentally split your soul. You're also lucky no one else was left alive, otherwise I believe this conversation would be very different."

She'd seemed sympathetic when he'd alluded to what happened, months ago, when she'd picked him up off the street. He should've known better. Every word was a carefully honed knife, slitting in through his ribs, just like that bloody sword had casually cut down everyone who mattered to him with clinical precision.

The scars on his hands stretched taut, an angry red around the edges. "He killed my family."

"Yes, and I'm sorry about that. It's always the innocent who suffer in another's quest for power. Or revenge. Especially when there's no focus for that revenge."

His fists pressed hard enough into his knees to bruise, shoulderblades digging against the metal of the simulator. "I knew what I was doing. I wouldn't have hurt anyone else."

"Your actions under Ki suggest otherwise. Anyone in your way likely would have ended up a casualty along with that child."

She was wrong. The effects of Ki were different. He forced out a snort, trying to ignore the clenching of his stomach. "Is everyone a child to you? Even killers?"

"Yes," she said simply. "But in this case, it's not an exaggeration. You didn't notice, did you? Those who attacked you were only young, most barely into their teens, if that."

What?

That couldn't— He snapped his head up, opening his mouth—

Nothing came out. He met her steady gaze, and the words died on his tongue. Why would she lie? Why would she mess with him by lying? He wished he could see some kind of malice in her eyes, some sick joke, but there was nothing like it. The truth there was a weight tied to his ankle, dragging him under the ocean.

He swallowed, and he could taste bitter iron on the back of his tongue.

"The bodies weren't easy to identify, but that was clear."

He breathed in. He breathed out, turning away. "What sick bastards would put kids in suits they knew would kill them and send them off to die?"

She only hummed. "If you'd known, would you have still killed him?"

Why was she telling him any of this? "If I hadn't, he would've killed more," he rasped, closing his eyes. But maybe he wouldn't have—

Blood on his tongue and claws he couldn't feel scrabbling at him as he tore into that too-small neck again and again, deep enough to crunch bone and taste sizzling glimmer, shoved at the back of his throat. He resolutely pushed the back of his hand against his mouth, scars scraping his lips, and swallowed hard.

"You're too young to throw your own life into such a harsh calling, Roku-chan. Surely you know you won't find what you're looking for in a post at Kaijan."

Lachlan took a deep breath. "If you're trying to convince me to drop out, it won't work. You'll have to expel me if I don't meet your expectations."

"Oh, no, you meet my expectations." He could hear the smirk in her voice. "Once you learn to channel all that vengeance, you'll be a force to reckon with, but I want you to think. If you choose to go down this path, you might not be able to come back."

She pushed away, clearly done with her little anti-peptalk, and he managed a crooked smile. "Haven't got anything to come back to."

A sideways smirk flashed over her shoulder. "Is that really true?"

And with a flick of her white-tipped tail, she left.

That night, he dreamed of a burning core that dragged him in and tore him apart, sending him back to a cold floor in blinding agony, forced to become a monster in his dead mother's arms, choking on her blood. Don't look. Don't look.

He never could help himself.

Red blinded him, coiled muscles launched him at a flickering ghost just as the mask turned to look at him, and his mother screamed. It looked at him, and it had his sister's pale face, Aiko's mouth opening, tears in Tobira's terrified eyes.

His fangs met flesh.