Cracked Earth Chapter 1, a soul eater fanfic

A/N: Well, I never ever ever thought I'd actually want to do a western ANYTHING, but I figured that since I have to relearn U.S. history for the trillionth time, I may as well use some of it to my advantage.

Anyway, more about this fic!

It's uh... It's a western AU.. I'm going to try really really really hard not to make it cheesy or silly, because this sort of thing can easily go in that direction. Mostly because of the accent/dialogue. I'm doing some minor research for this thing to keep it from being silly. I'll do my best to keep it all plausible and in character as well, for Okubo has made some wonderfully developed characters and I'd hate for them to be wasted.

Inspiration came from flipping channels when there was nothing on, and luckily finding that the History Channel was not playing Ancient Aliens/Nazi stuff for once and began watching a cowboy documentary... And also Death the Kid's... cowboy...ness...

SO! Let's see how this goes... o.e

I don't own SoulEater

It was mush for breakfast today, thick and sticky and smoking with thin, swirling steam that drifted up into her face and condensed on her dry skin. Papa's sat across the table, steaming just as welcoming as her own with a nicely cleaned spoon laying cold and untouched next to it on the worn wood table. It sat under the glare stemming from her normally soft honeydew eyes that had turned to hard jade in the presence of wasted food.

Her fists were pushed up under her jaw, holding her head at just the perfect level to stare at the empty, empty, wooden chair. A sigh came out through her nose and her lips tightened and twisted into a sneer. Her eyes, hard like precious gems, traced each and every groove of that chair. The dark wood, with spiraling, though very specific, pattern and precisely three light brown scratches cutting through it, sat far too perfectly under her gaze when it should be blocked from her view by Papa's chest.

There should be a threadbare shirt, smudged with dirt that would never come off and covered by a vest and maybe a jacket, depending on the weather. There should be a pin on his vest, a bit bent and smudged from age, that indicated his position. It would be a little star-shaped thing made out of real gold, the left point bent ever so slightly, with the word "Sheriff" engraved into it's surface.

Maka didn't know how her papa had gotten that pin. He doesn't even really do anything. In fact, he can't really even do anything, not without his meister anyway. He should be the sheriff, not her papa. But Doc Stein was already the town doctor and barber. She figured they just wanted someone else with the title.

She supposed, as she glared at that far too empty chair, that she should assume that the reason it's normal occupant is absent is because of his duties as sheriff. She supposed she should assume that he had been hauled up with some sort of problem with a criminal. She supposed she should assume he was doing something important.

But she knew he wasn't.

He never was.

Nothing happened in this town anyway. It was a hastily built place, thrown up in six months next to a newly discovered silver mine. It'd be empty again in a year or two and then her and her good-for-nothing-papa would move on to the next town. No one ever really came through here much anymore anyway. The silver mine was drying up, closing over like a scab that would no longer bleed it's riches.

No one ever came here. Papa wasn't doing a damned thing.

He'd just been out gambling or drinking too late again.

So she sat, staring at the wasted mush that was cooling into useless slop she'd have to feed to the horses or something. It would not go to waste, that was for sure. She wasn't going to let him waste any more of the food she cooked for him. She'd figure out something to do with it.

Maybe she should wait for him a little longer. Maybe she should wait and see if he comes home.

No. Not today.

With intense movements, her hands slipped from her face leaving one elbow to fall onto the table and the other hand to grip her spoon tightly. Her eyes were still hard as she dug her spoon into her own mush, leaving a dent that would take a while to refill itself, and stuck it into her mouth.

No. She was not waiting for him today.

Hinges creaked and moaned as she swung the door open and her boots echoed over the rotting wood of the porch, turned soft and smooth by the wind and sand and then scuffed over by so many feet. A thin layer of grit had ground itself into each and every crevice and there was a layer of dust on everything that would never be cleaned off. Not even the air was clean.

The air was hot and thick with the dead, dry, dirt of the desert, stifling and choking and so desperate for water it took every bit from her creamy skin and cracked her lips open until they bled. She licked them in hopes to restore them to the soft rosebuds they'd never be again, a thin copper taste coming off on her tacky tongue.

Her gums stuck to the inside of her mouth as she swallowed, trying to sooth her stinging throat. She inhaled dust as she gripped her long, flowing burgundy skirt and held it up with one hand and clutched a bucket with the other as she stepped down the two shallow steps and into the dirt of the street. The sand was embroidered with horse prints and the trails of wagon wheels and so many foot prints that would be blown away in less than in hour, gone without a trace.

Little clouds of dust swirled up around her feet as she walked, clinging to her boots and to the hem of her skirt, like pestilent children that would not leave her alone. She glanced over at the sheriff's house only briefly as she walked away, and noticed something had changed. The same Wanted Posters that hung there had been joined by two others. On two sheets of parchment in neat black ink were drawn the faces of two young women. One who appeared to be older had long hair and, quite honestly, a strikingly beautiful face. Perhaps it had been exaggerated. These posters weren't always accurate after all.

Wanted

Elizabeth Thompson

Dead or Alive

Reward between $400 and $500

That was one hell of a reward, or at least, it was one of the higher one's up there. The other new face, also a young woman, was framed with short hair. Something inside Maka made her wonder what in the world would possess her to cut it off. Her poster read:

Wanted

Patricia Thompson

Dead or Alive

Reward between $200 and $350

Maka sighed. Maybe her Papa had in face been doing something important and that had been why he hadn't come to breakfast. But then again... what were the odds?

She just shook her head and walked away.

Maka paced through the baking streets, the sun already getting hot even in the early morning. The streets were becoming occupied and the sounds of chatter and squeaking wagon wheels sounded through her ears. She half-heartedly wondered where her Papa was, but shrugged the thought off quickly and continued on her way.

She wove her way through the people and around the corners of hastily built buildings, the shadows distinctly colder than the rest of the world when she walked through them. She adjusted her grip on the smooth handle of her bucket as she took step after step. Her tongue stuck more and more to the roof of her mouth as she walked and every bit of the air seemed to get dryer and dryer as she thought of her destination.

Please let there be some...

Please let there be...

Please let there...

Please...

Her dry and bleeding lips tightened, and her eyebrows pull together even further, though here eyes were already scrunched tight to ward off the bright morning sun. Her hands would've sweat if they could. Instead, they were as cracked and dead as the earth under her feet.

Everything here was just dead, dead and ground to dust. The earth was simply naked bones with no skin to protect it, no muscles to hold it up, and no fat to keep it nourished. It was just dead as dead can be, a long forgotten corpse of what it may have once been. If it had ever been alive, that is.

It was hard to imagine this place, built of sand, rocks, and dried out plants, could've ever been alive. She swallowed, trying to wet her parched throat.

Please let there be some...

Please...

She took a deep breath as she rounded another corner and came to the edge of the tiny cow town. It was right there, stuck into the ground like a perfect, shining ,trophy, all covered in grime and rust. Her footsteps hastened, her dirt-caked boots kicking up more dust as she trotted toward the well.

She placed the bucket underneath the spout, the handle falling down with a clank, and gripped the iron handle tightly.

Please...

She pushed down on the handle and, thankfully, there was force pushing against her. She let out a breath and pulled it all the way down. Water, shining and beautiful like precious precious diamonds, dripped from the spout and sloshed into the metal bucket, though it was dyed brown with dead, dead, dirt.

She let the handle go up and then she pulled it down again, more water spilling into the bucket all lovely and dirty. And then she did it again, and again, and again, and again, rhythmically like she did day after day until the bucket was filled as high as it would go without spilling over.

She sighed a bit more, a bit of sweat creating a film on her brow. She gripped the handle of the bucket and lifted it, though it was heavier now, with perfect ease.

And then she walked back around the buildings, through the dirt and the grit, and through all the busy people under the laughing, smiling sun that seemed to be working his hardest to bake them all alive, and back to the sheriff's house.

She walked through the worn wooden place and out the back door that hung on loose hinges. She gripped her skirt as she walked down the couple of stairs, cold in the shadow of the buildings. The ice of the shadows felt good on her back, so hot and burning from the heat under her worn white button-down shirt.

The dirt here was stiffer and less dusty under her feet and still cool from night. Her boots left deeper prints that would take a little bit longer to erase.

Maka walked over to the stable where they kept their horse, a chestnut one named Poppie-Seed, and dumped the water from the bucket into the metal trough that sat before her, spilling into it like a beautiful waterfall, a fountain of life. The horse was still sleeping.

She'd brush and feed her later. For now, she had to go back through the house, through the sea of people and dust, across this skeletal husk of land, around the buildings and back to the well.

The bucket was dropped below the spout and she cranked the handle down, over and over again, forcing water from the ground. It sloshed and spilled and occasionally trickled into the bucket until it was as full as it could be, and then she picked it up and dragged it all the way back through the growing throng of people and dust and through the house and into the back.

This bucket was dumped into the barrel that was only half full at the moment. Once the bucket was empty and light, she'd go back back back and do it all over again, through the crowds, around the buildings, pumping water out of the ground and into the bucket and then back. Back and forth, over and over. Just repeat, repeat, repeat, until the barrel was full.

She was almost done now, she figured. She'd only have to do it one more time. She only needed one more bucket-full and then at least this chore would be done. Then she could go figure out where her papa had gone, maybe.

When she got to the well this time, though, she had to wait her turn, as someone was already using it. So her rhythm broke and she had to stand still, the bucket clutched tight in her grip, and wait. Not that this was a problem. She'd just been lucky enough so far not to run into anyone yet today.

She'd never seen this person before, though. She definitely would've remembered with the way he looked. He was her own age, or a bit older, and he was absolutely striking.

If she couldn't see his face, with soft tanned skin and young features, she'd never have known he was as young as he was, though. His hat was strapped to his neck and hanging on his back, so all of his hair was visible, all of his snowy, alabaster hair as pure and soft as the clouds she wished she could say were in the sky.

He didn't notice her though, or at least didn't mind, as she waited. When he was finished with his task, his own bucket full, he wiped the sweat from his brow and looked up. He briefly glanced at her as he walked away, and her eyes went wide and she couldn't keep her mouth from falling slightly.

She couldn't be seeing him right. She couldn't be. But those were his eyes...

His eyes were ringed with tired bags, and his irises were crimson as gushing blood.

D-deamon...

Maka had finished her water chore and cleaned the horse and fed her and brushed her. She was done with her chores at the moment. It was nearing noon now. She'd have to go shopping soon, but she figured she could spare a few minutes to find her papa, even though she didn't have to look that hard.

She knew right where he'd be.

She pushed open the little wooden doors of the saloon, the walls coated in pretty red wallpaper all full of bullet holes and the floor boards stained with spilt whiskey. Men were talking loudly, avidly, all sitting around tables and already playing cards and drinking this early in the day. A piano was playing in the corner, a lively and quick tune vibrating off flitting strings and little white keys.

She walked through the place determinedly, weaving around people who didn't even notice her and stepping carefully around tables, her hand clutching her skirt the whole time.

Then she sighed for the hundredth time that day.

There he was.

And she walked right up to him, as he sat in a corner table with a woman hanging onto his chest. She had curly black hair, and oddly yellow eyes like honey, and that perfect perfect body he loved so much strung into a corset. He was talking softly to her, his long red hair hanging down in his face and hiding his turquoise eyes.

"Papa..." she said, a growl in her voice to announce her presence.

He looked up at her, surprise and embarrassment in his eyes.

"O-oh, Maka, um..." he stuttered as he took his arm of the woman. "Wh-what is it? What're ya' doin' here?"

"You weren't here for breakfast this mornin'" she said, a quick, disgusted glance landing on the stupidly confused looking woman. "An' I kinda jus' wanted to tell you that I'm done with my chores."

She was starting to feel dumb for coming here.

"Oh," he paused. "Good. Good."

"Yeah."

"And uh, sorry 'bout this mornin'..." he apologized like he always did.

"Mhmm..."

"I'll be home in a little while. I ah, got hung up wit' Stein last night," he said. "Don'chu worry, though. I'll be back home in a little while."

"Yeah."

He nodded dismissively.

"I guess I'll jes' get goin' then..." she said, an angry sneer on her face.

And she walked off, angrier with him than when she'd come.

"Wait, uh, Maka?" he called after her when she was several steps away. She stopped and turned around. "C-com'ere. I needa tell you somthin'."

Then he whispered something to his lady and she pouted and got up and walked away. Maka walked back over to him, arms crossed.

"Here, sit," he said, tapping the now empty chair.

She sat.

"An old friend of mine's son is goin' to be stayin' with us for a while," he said.

"Aw, Papa, why?" she responded without quite thinking, her frustration with her papa overcoming her opinion on this houseguest.

"Hey, now none o' that," he said sternly. "His father's a very good friend o' mine and you should show him some hospitality when he comes. He'll probably be here in a week or two."

"Yeah, Papa, I will," she said earnestly. "How long's he stayin' for, though?"

"I dunno," Papa said. "He's got a nervous condition and needs to get outa' the city for a while. Fresh air, y'know?"

"Well, there's not any fresh air 'round here," Maka mumbled.

"Yeah, well," he nodded agreeingly. "Well, just treat 'em nice when he get's here. Who knows, you might like 'em."

"Awright," she said, standing up with her arms still crossed.

"I'll be back home later," he said again, ending the conversation. Maka nodded. She stood there for another awkward moment before walking away again.

She paced back through the place, around chairs and tables and people. This was where everyone went to meet and talk every day. It was always packed full.

As her boots fell over and over again on the hard wood floor, she took a deep breath and decided that having a house guest would at least make life more interesting. Someone new to talk to was always a good thing. He also would be able to help her with chores.

The one thing that stuck in her mind, though, as the ivory keys of the piano sang beautiful notes into existence that were muffled by the loud words that erupted from the mouths of everyone in here, was the word "nervous condition". She hated that word and all of it's vagueness. It could mean just about anything. It was just a label they gave you when they didn't know what was wrong with you.

As she neared the door, and the piano that sat just next to it, she inhaled dusty air and closed her eyes briefly. That was such a dumb word with a fickle existence. It was a label that ruined people's lives. She wondered if he was like...

Then her eyes flicked to the side, suddenly and almost without her consent, as she was almost out the door, to the well-used piano just next to her.

Her breath held itself in her chest, unwilling to leave. The piano, all wooden and worn at the corners with yellowing keys and tarnishing foot petals that played such lively and wonderful music, was being played by sun-kissed hands that flew so gracefully over each key. Each finger touched it so delicately, strangely lovingly, and then moved onto the next in a perfect rhythm. Those hands were worn with work, but still so young. This was not what shocked her, however.

Long white sleeves puckered around his wrists and folded around his elbows, smattered and smeared with the dirt of the land. A standard vest hung on his shoulders as well, but this too was not at all shocking.

Around his jaw fell hair as white as the snow and clouds she'd never seen. It fell in his face softly and loosely, hiding eyes she knew were crimson as cactus blossoms. It was him again. It was him.

And she watched as his hands, connected to a body that looked so much like a daemon's, pluck beautiful music from handpicked keys. As she watched him so intently, his chest began to glow beneath only her eyes. An orb, shimmering blue and calm and cool, hung inside his ribcage for only her to see. He looked so daemonic, so unnatural, but his soul was so incredibly human, and perfectly normal. Though, she saw, he was rather timorous, which is why she shouldn't have jumped when he smashed down on the keys.

All noise stopped, all the music and all the talking as everyone turned to look.

"D'you need something?" he asked calmly. There was something in his eyes, though, as he looked at her without turning his head, that contradicted his deep, collected voice.

"N-no," Maka said hastily. "Sorry."

And then she was out the door and into the dusty streets, her heart slamming into her ribcage and her feet moving without her consent.

A/N: so um... yeah... I hope that was acceptable for the first chapter. Next chapter will involve BlackStar. He was going to be in this chapter but... idk... I didn't think it fit.

Terminology: Mush: Basically, oatmeal. Only nowhere near as sweet as we make it now.

Hopefully next chapters will be longer. Kid will also be quite important when he comes in, because I just can't help it. He's too adorable and it's too easy to imagine him in this setting. xD