Chapter Text
SIBLINGS’ SCHOOL SENTENCE
|| CHAPTER ONE ||
| The Burnedeads and Easton Magic Academy |
OPENING BELL ARC
MASH stood in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“So, we somehow won the case,” He nonchalantly said, before appearing a little sheepish. "Uh, Pops... Can they, um, stay here while we try to arrange the stuff at school?"
Regro blinked in surprise. His mind immediately raced, not just because of the request, but because of everything that had happened—everything, or in this case, everyone that Mash had brought home with him.
Five... brothers? Criminals too! He thought to himself. “What’s going on in that boy’s head?” But he didn’t let the question show on his face. Instead, he focused on Mash's genuine, albeit awkward, request.
"Stay here? Well, of course, Mash. You know they’re welcome here anytime, but…"
He cut himself off, rethinking all about it. A mix of concern and affection crossed his face. This is... a bit much, isn’t it? Five strangers, but they're Mash’s brothers?
“I know he’s been through a lot... but this feels like a lot more than I was prepared for.” He frowned, “I suppose it’s my fault… Mash must’ve felt lonely not having a big brother to rely on. This... this is my son. And I’ll help however I can.”
“Just... tell me what I need to prepare for," Regro swallowed hard.
Mash’s gaze darted to the side of the room, as if he’d just remembered something.
"Wait, pops, lemme get something from my room. I’ll show you something." With that, he turned and left the room quickly.
Regro let out a soft sigh, his hands resting gently on the back of a nearby chair as he processed the situation. Six brothers under his roof. This is... a bit overwhelming. But they’re Mash’s. And they’ll need someone...
The room fell into an awkward silence, and Regro couldn’t help but feel the weight of it. Doom, Famin, Epidem, Delisaster, and Domina were all sitting stiffly, clearly unsure of what to do with themselves. Even that blonde disaster, typically the loudest of the group, looked off, his broad shoulders slumping slightly.
Regro couldn’t stand the silence for long. He needed to say something, anything, to break the tension.
"So… you five are Mash’s biological brothers?" His voice was soft and friendly, almost apologetically.
The brothers froze, collectively trying to hide their discomfort. Delisaster was the first to speak, “Yeah, but don’t associate me with that guy! He’s dumb!”
"Yes," Famin added, almost too quickly. Regro couldn’t help but notice how quickly they jumped into defense mode, trying to avoid the subject as if it were too personal to touch.
Epidem gave a short, noncommittal grunt, "I suppose that Mash is my relative."
Regro chuckled softly, shaking his head in amusement at their responses. He could sense the walls they’d put up, but he refused to be deterred. He remained patient, keeping his voice calm and friendly.
"I see… Well, I’m glad my Mash not only have friends, but also brothers! You five are always welcome here, no matter what."
The awkwardness lingered but... The brothers were starting to relax, just a little bit. Regro decided to press on. “I’ve got to give them space. But I also need to know them, to help them.”
"So... what are your names then?"
Doom spoke up immediately, "Doom. Just Doom.”
"…Famin," The clown said with an almost bored tone, barely meeting Regro’s eyes.
"Epidem, kind sir." He replied, neatly folding his hands.
The blonde one looked sheepish, unlike what he was earlier. He scratched the back of his head, “It’s… Delisaster for ‘ya.”
Regro gave a soft smile. “No last names?” he thought to himself. He was certain Mash had said Innocent Zero had a full name, but it just felt off—these kids, with names that clearly pointed to something grim, seemed a bit too much for him.
Like seriously? Epidemic? Famine? Disaster? Freaking “Doom”?! Regro felt a bit frustrated. Who would name their babies after those words, honestly?
Then he turned to Domina, who had yet to introduce himself.
"Domina Blowelive," He answered, his voice curt, "That's my name."
Regro paused for a moment. "You have a last name?”
Domina tried to look nonchalant. He crossed his arms and looked away. "It’s my mother’s name... but she abandoned me after what happened at Walkis."
Though his words were clipped, his shoulders tensed, as though the memory still stung.
Regro’s heart ached at that. He could feel the pain in Domina’s voice, even if it was barely perceptible. They’ve all been through so much. These boys... they're carrying so much with them.
“My son brought them here, even if they grew up as terrible people. You see something in them, don’t you, Mash?”
Regro couldn’t hold back the surge of warmth that filled him.
"I have… something to say. You five are my son’s biological brothers and, well…” He paused, then added, "In that case, how about I suggest you all take on the Burnedead name as well? If you want, that is"
There it was. The offer was simple, but it was all Regro had to give. They might not be my biological sons, but that doesn’t matter. They’re here, and they’re Mash’s brothers. And that makes them his family, too.
Doom, Famin, Epidem, Delisaster, and Domina exchanged uncertain glances. None of them had expected that.
"Burnedead, huh?" Delisaster repeated, "What, you think just because we're blood, we gotta be family in name too?"
"You offering us some kind of second-rate title now? What does that even mean?" Famin leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, clearly skeptical but also hesitant to fully reject the idea.
Epidem added, "It's an unusual request. I can’t say I’ve ever considered something like that."
"I don't know, man. I mean... I don’t even know how I feel about being here, let alone taking your name. But..." Delisaster hesitated, then scratched the back of his head, "I guess it doesn’t sound all bad." His voice softened slightly, a trace of vulnerability creeping through.
Domina, however, remained still. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Instead, he clenched his fists, his body rigid. "I don’t need a name. I’ve got my own. This... this offer doesn’t change anything."
Regro observed them all, the awkward tension palpable. His heart ached seeing their uncertainty, the walls they’d built around themselves. But he knew this wasn’t going to be easy. It wasn’t just about offering a name. It was about trust, and that couldn’t be rushed.
He gave a small, understanding smile and leaned forward slightly.
"You don’t have to take the name, not if you don’t want to. I’m not trying to force anything on you. But if you do... it’s yours, if you want it. You’re Mash’s family, and that’s enough for me." His voice was gentle, no hint of pressure in it, just the warmth of an old man offering what he could.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
The brothers were still processing, the offer hanging in the air like an invitation they weren't sure how to accept.
Delisaster rubbed his face, a little exasperated but also touched by Regro's offer. "I’ll... take my time with this, alright?”
Regro simply nodded, accepting their responses without any disappointment. "Of course. Take all the time you need. Just know that the offer stands, and you have a place here whenever you're ready."
The room remained quiet again, but this time the silence felt less heavy. The brothers weren’t ready to accept everything, but maybe, just maybe, Regro’s offer planted a seed. One that could grow fruitfully, he hoped.
“Pops.”
Regro looked up as Mash returned, carrying something absurdly oversized.
It was a metal tray, stacked toppling-high with cream puffs. So many that Regro momentarily wondered if his son had robbed a bakery.
“…Mash?”
He set the tray down like it was nothing, “I made 143 cream puffs.”
Regro blinked. “Why that many?”
“Because I was gonna give a speech, but then I forgot.” He looked at his brothers. “So this is the speech. In cream puff form.”
“…You made edible feelings?” Domina asked.
Mash nodded solemnly. “It took six hours, two mixing bowls, and one broken counter.”
Famin narrowed his eyes at the tray. “What, this is some peace offering? A bribe? A... ‘let’s be family’ guilt bomb?”
Mash tilted his head. “No. I just thought you guys might be hungry.”
A pause.
“And if not, I’m gonna eat all of them anyway.”
Delisaster squinted. “You made these. For us?”
Mash nodded again. “Yeah. They're not poisoned.”
“Tch. Like I’d believe that.” He didn’t move. But then, without making eye contact, he slowly leaned forward and snatched one of the puffs off the tray. “…I’ll taste it. For funsies.”
He bit into it. His eyes twitched slightly.
“…Hmph.”
It was… good. Rich. Fresh. Not soaked in alcohol or laced with weird magic. It felt weird being offered something not booby-trapped. Deli was used to having spiked meals, so this was nice.
He looked away.
“…Still too sweet,” he muttered, stuffing the rest of it in his mouth.
Epidem picked one up. “Surprisingly firm structure. Flaky, even.” He took a bite, then chewed with slow, thoughtful consideration.
“Hmph… Pudding remains unparalleled, of course. But this cream puff…” He took another bite, nodding slowly. “It earns a respectable second. A rare honor.”
Domina gave a small nod, already holding a cream puff. “I’ve had enough of these to know. He’s not playing around.” He took a bite. “Bakery level.”
Mash looked modestly proud. “I tried folding the dough twelve times. I think that’s a baking thing.”
Famin hovered by the tray, arms folded, glaring at it like it had personally offended him. He didn’t move for a solid thirty seconds. Then, wordlessly, he reached out and grabbed one, stuffed it in his mouth in a single gulp.
His face didn’t change. He just stared ahead.
“…Huh.”
This was the first thing he'd ever received without tricking someone or taking it by force. He didn’t know what to do with that, so he didn’t say anything at all.
Doom silently grabbed one, took a bite. Chewed slowly. Then…
“Mash.”
“Yeah?”
“Can we bake cream puffs together sometime?”
Mash nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
A pause.
“Can we also bake pancakes?” Doom asked.
Mash blinked. “What.”
“Pancakes.”
“…What?”
“Pancakes.”
“Oh sorry,” Mash said flatly. “I was on the phone.”
He wasn’t holding a phone.
Domina choked slightly on his cream puff. Famin actually snorted.
Regro stood back, watching them. Watching this. The barely-held-together awkwardness of five boys trying not to admit that maybe this wasn't so bad. That maybe, just maybe, something small and stupid like a cream puff could make them feel something again.
He said nothing. Just smiled to himself, tucked his scarf tighter around his neck, and quietly grabbed one for himself.
Mash sat back down and grabbed another. “Cool. Now we only have 134 left.”
< • >
The Burnedead brothers stood in a stiff line at the front of the assembly hall, eyes squinting against the tall stained-glass windows and the stares of dozens of curious students.
Wahlberg tapped his staff once, and the room fell silent.
“We will now sort the special students into their dorms,” he said with a voice that echoed over polished marble. “Touch the unicorn's horn, and through magic, it will read your thoughts and ideas to select a dorm that suits you.”
Before them floated a gleaming, skeletal unicorn—alive, glowing faintly, with hollow eye sockets that followed every move like it was judging everything you’ve ever done in your life.
“Huh, this one’s different.” Mash commented.
Margarette crossed their arms, “It is. This unicorn is made for them."
“Creepy,” Famin muttered as he stared at the skeleton.
“You’re one to talk,” Delisaster replied.
Abel, Rayne, and Margarette watched from the side, flanking Mash, who munched a cream puff calmly as if none of this was weird.
“This better not explode,” Rayne muttered. “This is the first time we tried sorting former criminals.”
The unicorn’s jaw creaked open.
“Epidem.”
The pudding man stepped forward gracefully, offering a polite nod. He placed his hand on the unicorn’s horn without hesitation.
“Brilliant, precise, and morally flexible, like if a scalpel gained sentience and decided ethics were optional. Once viewed people as experiments rather than individuals, wielding his intellect with utter detachment. Socially? He’s got the charm of a damp sponge and the unsettling habit of retreating into a mental sanctuary made entirely of pudding. Yes, pudding. Disturbing? Absolutely. But within that twisted mind lies a spark—empathy, curiosity, potential. If placed among peers who value purpose, he might just start seeing people as more than test subjects. Until then, keep him in Orca, where schemers go to grow... or at least cause marginally less harm.”
The sorting unicorn spoke. “You have wisdom and willingness. You are in Orca.”
Epidem blinked. “Huh. Orca, is it? A fine selection.”
He turned and walked away but paused just long enough to whisper to Mash. “Reserve a cream puff for me. I shall conduct a comparative analysis against the offerings of Orca Dormitory’s mess hall.”
“Domina.”
The pink-haired boy stepped forward without being asked twice. His stride was brisk. He placed his hand on the horn like he’d done this before.
“Devotion. First to a tyrant of a father who discarded him, and now to a brother who didn’t. Emotionally, it’s less ‘growth arc’ and more ‘golden retriever with abandonment issues.’ His loyalty is intense, bordering on obsessive, as if following Mash Burnedead to the ends of the earth will somehow fill the crater left by paternal rejection. It’s unhealthy. It’s misguided. But make no mistake, it’s powerful. He’s simply a young man clinging to purpose like a lifeline. Perhaps, within Adler—among those who lead with principle rather than dependence—he might begin to understand that loyalty is not identity, and love does not require self-erasure. Still… someone get this man a therapist! And maybe a hobby!”
He finally spoke, “You have courage and conviction. You are in Adler.”
Domina didn’t react and just gave a firm nod.
He returned to his spot beside Mash.
“Doom.”
The tall man approached calmly, eyes half-lidded, radiating a silent strength that seemed to make the unicorn's bones creak louder.
“Power so raw, restrained, and terrifyingly precise. He could level the school before breakfast and still have time to brood about it. Doom has long used strength as both shield and sword, wearing silence like armor. Yet beneath the menace lies something unexpected: aspiration. Not for dominance, but for dignity, for something like Malta. It’s not romance, but reverence. He sees in her a vision of strength guided by principle, and quietly, he wants that too. His ambition smolders—quiet, steady, oddly wholesome. He wants to fight with purpose. He also wants to bake. Yes, really. Let the man make pancakes. Lang Dorm it is, where ambition simmers, and occasionally, so does batter.”
It spoke. “You have ability and ambition. You are in Lang.”
“I see.” He replied, even though he can’t really see. “Mash. Is there a baking club in Lang?”
Mash nodded. “If there’s not one, we’ll make one.”
“Famin.”
The clown skipped up like he was going to steal the unicorn’s horn. “Yoink!” he whispered, grabbing it with a creepy giggle.
“Yikes. That’s a lot of noise in one brain. Chaos. Greed. He takes what he wants until the thrill fizzles out, then carelessly discards it like yesterday’s snack. It’s a pattern, predictable in its recklessness except… hold on. What’s this? A new hunger. Not for power or possession, but for something entirely foreign: connection. Attention. The heady rush of being seen. His brothers, their strange little friend group. He doesn’t quite get it yet, but he’s craving it, and in this rare moment of self-awareness, it’s clear: this hunger for belonging... is ambition, just in the oddest, most unsettling form. Lang."
The sorting unicorn shivered, “You have ability and ambition. You are in Lang.”
Famin turned around, not really feeling anything. “Cool. Cool.”
He winked at his older brother. “Bet we’re roommates, Doom. You snore?”
“I don’t sleep,” Doom replied flatly.
“Delisaster.”
The blonde disaster swaggered forward, winked through this fanfiction’s readers sitting in the front row, and tapped the horn.
“Ah yes, the party boy. Slick hair, smug grin, and the emotional depth of a kiddie pool. He wears chaos like cologne—flirt, clown, drunk—and hurls himself from party to party as though silence might kill him. And perhaps it would. Beneath the bravado lies a yawning void: no ambitions, no plans, just vibes… and possibly a few questionable test results. He lives for the thrill, the crowd, the noise... anything to keep the loneliness at bay. What does he want? Not power. Not prestige. Just to be seen. Two familiar faces always on his mind. Hm. No clear goal, but plenty of conviction. Under the ego... is a lot of sad confetti. Still, perhaps… Adler.”
It spoke formally, “You have courage and conviction. You are in Adler.”
“Wait, what?” Delisaster blinked, “Damn, I thought I’d be more of a Lang guy.”
Then he saw Finn waving awkwardly from the back.
“…Actually, yeah. Cool.” He popped a mint in his mouth. “Adler, here I come.”
As the last name echoed through the assembly hall, Wahlberg gave a final nod of approval.
The Burnedead brothers stepped away from the sorting platform, each now branded with a new dorm. Their fates were sealed by some vague magical mind-reading unicorn. So uh, that’s cool.
Mash popped another cream puff into his mouth and clapped Domina on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”
Domina stared straight ahead, silent, but his grip on the dorm badge in his hand was tight.
Wahlberg approached Regro, who had stood quietly near the back through the entire ceremony. The old headmaster gave him a respectful nod.
“The hardest part is not the sorting... but what comes after. But I believe in Mash. And I believe in what his family could become.”
Regro smiled faintly. “They’ve already surprised me.”
“Oh, Mash,” Wahlberg interjected, lifting a hand to stop him. “You don’t need to.”
Mash blinked. “Huh?”
“The prefects of each dormitory will be in charge of the tours for our… special students,” The headmaster claimed. “You may return to your room and wait until your brothers have completed their tours.”
Mash glanced at his brothers. None of them looked thrilled.
“I’m not walking around with some random teenager,” Famin muttered.
Domina folded his arms, silent but seething. He wanted Mash to tour him.
“Do they at least have snacks?” Delisaster added.
“They have rules,” Wahlberg replied calmly. “And your first step is learning to follow them.”
The Burnedead brothers didn’t respond, but their collective scowls could’ve curdled milk.
The Easton Academy prefects stood before their newest... responsibilities. The Burnedead brothers, notorious for their criminal pasts, were now officially enrolled students, part of a so-called rehabilitation.
Rayne stood rigid in front of two new Adler students.
“I’m not parenting two delinquents.”
Delisaster smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re hot when you pretend you don’t care.”
“I don’t care,” Rayne replied icily.
“Then why are you blushing?”
Rayne’s eye twitched as he began muttering the incantation for what was likely a high-level murder spell.
“Delisaster, shut the fuck up.” Domina rolled his eyes.
Across the room, Margarette looked rather interested. They already had one problem child in Orca, one that they hoped to have at least made some friends.
“My dorm just got exponentially more unstable,” They muttered.
“You say that like instability isn’t the natural state of the human psyche.” Epidem commented.
Meanwhile, Abel raised a brow at the one called Famin. He was trying to uphold the dignity of Lang Dormitory, despite knowing what people his dorm had just gotten.
“Lang is where ambition thrives,” Abel said solemnly. “May they be challenged and survive.”
“I’ve already eaten one of your houseplants,” Famin smiled widely.
“I want pancakes,” Doom stated.
Abel blinked. “…You two may stay.”
At the center of it all, Mash raised his hand, cutting through the formal atmosphere. “Cool. Can we eat now?”
Wahlberg sighed, rubbing his temples. “Mash, we’re in the middle of a ceremony...”
But Mash was already unwrapping another creampuff.