Professor-Maka, Iarual, Lunar-Resonance, Meisterful: Thanks for the much needed feedback. I heart your faces.

I do not own Soul Eater, Greyhound, or the Alabama Shakes lyrics the title of the fic and chapter come from.

Chapter 1: I Got to Get Off This Rock Somehow

The air permeated with a stench that might have been stronger than his big brother's socks at the end of recital. The bathroom had long been clogged, the remnants of some poor motion sick soul's lunch sloshed on the plastics of the cheap linoleum. The bus jumped and lurched along the ancient dirt road, stirring Soul's sticker-smothered guitar case. He kept it on the bus, next to him at all times, after he arrived in Charleston and the harried driver threw it bodily at him, and cracked the vinyl top. After a tumble off the overhead compartment during a nasty near-accident, he bought the damn thing its own seat with his last $100.

Soul stretched and sighed. His back creaked as he twisted and reached up towards the carpeted roof of Greyhound. The woman sitting across the aisle gave an appreciative hum. She eyed him, gave him a pale-lipped smile, and winked. Her pink hair looked dull in the light of the mid-night moon. Soul scowled. He turned up the collar of his black leather jacket and wound the straps of his beaten up backpack tighter around his legs.

"Hey, stranger." Her voice was soft and her smile bright, despite Soul's cold gaze. His mama would have been ashamed. He turned towards the bullet-proof window, determined to watch the cactus pass. He squinted through the darkness. Cane cholla, Texas rainbow, horse crippler. He ticked them off in his head, annoyed at the botanical information still lurking in his mind. He didn't need any of that now. Hell, he never used it back home either. Pinky leaned closer to him, bending over the armrest to poke him in the bicep.

Her companion, a woman with pin-straight black hair and bleary eyes under a black satin sleep mask, tapped her pink-haired friend on the shoulder and hissed "Kim, shut up and go to sleep."

Kim shook her friend's hand off and said, "Got a lot on your mind?" Persistence, a trait he could begrudgingly admire. Soul shook his head. He tried to bury himself deeper into his seat, but the economy class seats only had so much give, he discovered.

"You dye your hair that color?" She nodded her head towards Soul's scalp. His hand raised and combed through stark white locks, the color garish in the dim fluorescent lights of the bus. He shook his head again, slower.

Kim smirked. "Yeah, that shit is as natural as mine." She gave an end of a short pink lock a tug. Soul scanned the edges of her pink bob out of the corner of his eye, avoiding her gaze directly, and noted the brown roots.

"Over due for a dye job," he grunted. "Better high-tail it to Hot Topic."

She laughed, hasty and embarrassed. "Haven't been to a Hot Topic since I was 12. This is CVS, Hot Pink number seven-oh-four." Soul remained silent.

"Thinking about changing it though."

He began sat up and turned slowly, facing her. Kim leaned in eagerly, glad to have his attention, some alleviation to the monotonous, shaky bus ride. Maybe they'd hook up at the next rest stop, where he'd give her some much needed stress relief. Kim loved her friend Jackie, but there were some lines Jackie drew that Kim had been forbidden to cross on this trip. Kim needed male company, and this pale-haired stranger might be her ticket to relaxation, without having to spend the last of her quarters on some motel bed's magic fingers.

"I don't think they have this color in a bottle."

Soul leaned forward, his face out of the shadows and into the flashing light of the street lamps that lined the roads.

"Or these eyes."

His red irises glowed mercilessly against the whites of his eyes, fresh blood on snow.

Kim squealed and reared back, falling backwards on to her friend. Jackie ripped of her mask and tried to push Kim off of her, but Kim scooted all the way onto her lap, cowering.

"Or these."

Soul bared his teeth, his lips pulled back to his gums. Two rows or sharp, serrated fangs drip with saliva. The girls stared at him, horror and fear etched on their faces.

He snarled at them.

The girls screamed and launched themselves out of their seats, leaving their bags and a trail of pink earphone coils in their wake. Soul slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes. He listened to the roar of the bus engine as they crept closer and closer to his next stop, closer to the next motel room, the next bed.

Death City.

Only 30 miles to go.

The ancient Greyhound hissed to a stop. Soul remained in his seat, and watched as his fellow passengers gathered their things and formed a queue in the carpeted aisle. Kim and Jackie stared straight ahead, their luggage, as pink as Kim's dye job, clutched tightly in their hands. Kim cast him an occasional nervous glance as she inched passed him, holding Jackie's arm tight. Her companion didn't seemed to mind the grip on her arm, and was more successful in avoiding Soul's eye. He chuckled to himself as they jumped off of the bus. His peculiar looks were still hidden by the darkness of the night, but he patiently waited until the last passenger stepped off of the bus before strapping his guitar to his chest and getting off. Outside of the bus, he sucked on the butt of a cigarette and eyed the driver as he unload Soul's beat-up duffel bag from underneath the bus. Kim and Jackie's matching pink set was dinged and scratched and sprang open as soon as the driver plunked it down on the steaming asphalt, springing an assortment of feminine products free, to their obvious displeasure. Soul learned early on in his trip to travel light, and his singular black duffel, distinguishable only by the red duck tape holding the unraveling edges together, was tossed out last.

He trailed after the other passengers and felt his eye twitch at being herded by the station attendants. The harsh fluorescent lights of the bus station gleamed in Soul's eyes as he stepped inside. He blinked rapidly and took in the sight for the first time.

The walls, once white, Soul figured, had faded to a dingy yellow, from grease or age, or perhaps from the cigarette smoke that clouded the air. The benches, lined up against the walls and in random rows, were wooden and backless, and looked as if some one had simply dropped them in the middle of the room and didn't bother to arrange them. People sat and lay on the benches, their ragged clothing layered and their luggage sparse; free spirits like him, Soul thought. Soul trudged along, weaving his way to the glass double doors leading to Death City itself. No one followed him; most of the people on his bus, including Kim and Jackie, split up between the windows of the ticket takers, doling out money for a ticket to their next destination or slumped on the benches, idling around while their next bus arrived. Soul stepped out into the cool air, alone on the curb, and waited for a cab. When none came, not even after 2 cigarettes that failed to keep him occupied and warm, he heaved a sigh. His guitar in his hand and his duffel slung across his shoulder, Soul started down the dirt path.

If this was what Death City's finest bus station had to offer, he didn't hold much hope for the rest of it.

He squinted through the darkness and tried to read the green and white signs stuck in the dirt on wooden posts. Death City, pop. 721. He had to lean in close to read the second line of text. 2 miles. He groaned out loud and cursed, unafraid of being overhead by the cacti. He gripped the strap of his duffel tighter to his chest and started walking. He kept his gaze locked onto the ground, watching for the long ends of snake tails, his eyes darting towards every sound. He glanced up at the moon, thankful for the light, and stumbled to a stop.

The stars, bright against the pitch-black background, blinked back at Soul. He had never seen so many, so distinct. They formed indiscernible patterns, vast and spanning across the sky. They had no end; they swirled and danced, and Soul wistfully wished to join them. They were enigmatic, significant, and made him feel so small.

A runaway breeze shifted the tumbleweeds beside him, reminding Soul that he was walking on a deserted road surrounded by spiny plants and hissing wildlife. He walked faster down the road, glad for the boots that covered his ankles and the jacket that kept him warm on a cool desert night.

The pink edges of the sunrise had slowly begun to erase the last vestiges of the stars when Soul reached Death City, although to call it a city was to be extremely generous. As far as he could see, as he walked around in the early morning light, the city consisted of a couple of official looking buildings, one small, independent building with lights beaming out of the wide windows, and a few apartment complexes. He could see houses in the distance, plain and square, too far to count. Soul kept dragging his feet. He tried to shake off the exhaustion of travel, but his back was aching and his shoulders burned from carrying the weight of his pack and his guitar. He spotted a wooden bench in the middle of a traffic island, a patch of yellowing grass and concrete that separated the opposing sides of the road. It was much more comfortable looking than the ones at the bus stop, complete with a slated wooden back, so he threw himself on it. He hugged his guitar to his chest and slipped his duffel off, but kept his arm wrapped around the strap, securing it to himself. The wooden planks dug into his ribs, but it was not the least comfortable place he had slept, by far, and as long as the hick town had some slow waking sheriffs, Soul was in store for a mildly restful nap.

He woke to the sound of people.

It was much brighter than when he fell asleep, though it couldn't have been more then a couple of hours later. Cars rolled and people strode past him slowly; the drivers, passengers, and pedestrians ignored him, as if white-haired men with guitars and shitty duffel bags knocked out on traffic island benches all the time. Soul pushed himself off of the bench, scooping up his pack and his guitar. He sucked in the cool air, fraught with car fumes and… French fry grease. His stomach rumbled at the thought at of deep fried potatoes and red meat accompanied by black coffee. He followed the smell, no longer dragging his feet. It was one of the first buildings he came across, the one with the lights on. The sign on the cheap plaster wall read "Death's Door." Through the window, he saw marble counters laden with customers and food. Women in matching black and white dresses and aprons skirted past hairy-armed men in faded baseball caps, their trays balanced and piled high with dishes. A diner. Perfect. Soul quickly dug through his pockets and, to his dismay, came up empty.

Soul growled to himself, not caring if a couple walking into the diner shot him panicked looks. He stood there for a moment, trying to decide whether French fries and coffee were worth self-degradation. He took a deep breath, trying to settle himself, but the smell of frying oil was overwhelming.

Giselle, he sighed, time to sing for your supper. He plunked himself down on the sidewalk, his legs sticking out into the street, and popped open his guitar case. The golden curves of the instrument called to his hands, and he ran a finger down the neck indulgently before plucking it out and strapping it on. He began to strum.

"Ain't no sunshine now you're gone…"

His eyes closed. His body rocked, his fingers danced along the taught strings of the slick guitar neck. He took vague notice of the people who stopped to stare. When Soul finished, he nodded gruffly at the people applauding, trying to hide his red face. He launched into the next song, one about walking by trees at midnight. He played for about an hour, song after song. He sang until he finished the song, the last chord echoed in his head and burned in his fingertips. Coins clinked as they fell into his guitar case. He waited until the small crowd dissipated, though no one seemed to hurry along in their morning commute. Soul fingered the money that lay in the soft plush velvet along with a couple of sticks of gum. Just enough for some fries and a cup of coffee, he hoped. He whipped off Giselle and gently placed the instrument into the case, shutting it with a snap. He hurried into the diner clutching his stomach. His brother would have said he was being melodramatic, but when Soul was hungry, he was hungry.

He pushed the door open, it swung, and he barreled in, right into a small blonde waitress bearing a precariously balanced tray on one hand. She went sprawling across the floor, sliding a few feet in a flurry of hashed browns, scrambled eggs, and orange juice. Soul blinked at her stupidly as she wiped the ketchup from her eyes. She sat up, her pigtails drooping sadly.

She glared up at him, and Soul was hit with the full force of dark green eyes staring daggers at him. He blushed redder than the ketchup splashed across her cheek.

She glanced around the diner, a flush rising to the surface of her skin, looking expectant, but then sighed when the clink of forks on plates continued. The little waitress began picking up broken pieces of dinnerware off of the floor, muttering.

Soul stared at her stupidly. His empty stomach twisted inside of him.

"Sorry." He kneeled on the linoleum, picking pieces of broken glass off of the floor and piling them back on to the tray, his duffel and guitar lay forgotten by the door.

The little blonde, who couldn't have been older than 17, started, the edge of surprise in her gestures as she waved him off.

"It's fine," she said, scooping up fresh fruit with half of a broken bowl. "I can clean this up. You can go sit where you like, sir."

Soul hesitated. He did not know what the health codes were like in a place like Death City, but he fervently hoped that adding body fluids that weren't on the recipe cards were taboo. The little waitress gave him a strained smile; all teeth and no warmth. She took in his flushed face, and her eyes softened slightly. "Go ahead. Liz will take your order at the counter."

Soul rose to his feet and stood dumbly for a second, torn. His fingers twitched towards the plates still strewn across the floor, half wanting to help clean up the mess he helped make, and his bags against the wall, wanting to sit in an actual chair and eat a real meal. A slightly taller woman in the same dress and apron slid by, carrying a steaming bowl of chunky chili. The smell of meat and soup was intoxicating, so Soul grabbed his things and sat at the counter, on the opposite end of where the little blonde kept cleaning, disappearing for a second before coming back with a clean apron, a broom, and a dustpan. A rosy-cheeked waitress with chin length hair swept by her, plucking a small chunk of scrambled eggs out the little one's pigtail, giggling like a tickled toddler.

The little waitress gave her co-worker a genuine smile.

He was violently thrown back to the stars he had seen last night, brilliant and true.

"Ahem."

Another blonde waitress, Liz (according to her nametag), gazed at him expectantly, her long ponytail swinging as she ducked down to snag something from under the counter. She deposited a menu in front of him and tapped it with her white Bic. "Welcome to Death's Door," she droned. "Home of the Death's Double Donut Cheeseburger, which is a hundred percent angus beef patty, two slices of cheese, and two glazed donuts. We also have the Death's Delicious Malt, a chocolate milkshake with crumbled chocolate cookies. The soup of the day is Death's-"

"There's a theme here, huh?"

Liz rolled her eyes. "It's cheesy but I've got to say it."

"Don't," Soul pleaded. He scanned the menu, zeroing in on the prices. "I'll just have coffee and fries… Chili cheese fries."

"You sure you don't want Death's Dangerously Spicy-"

"No," Soul said firmly, as he closed the sticky, plastic menu and laid in on the sticky, cracked counter. "Regular, normal, non-death related fries. With chili. Not spicy. Please."

Liz laughed and stuck her Bic in her ponytail. "Oh, wow. He says 'please.'" She eyed him, scanning his face incredulously. She paused briefly at his white hair and Soul fought the urge to sink down in his seat. "Coming right up, Old Man." She reached under the counter again and placed a ceramic mug in front of Soul. She poured in coffee from a red-rimmed pot. Soul tried to restrain himself from gulping down the whole thing, but burning his tongue off was less than appealing. He lifted the mug to his nose, and inhaled the rich, bitter scent.

A high-pitched giggle caught his ears. Soul turned too quickly, spilling some of his precious black coffee on the counter. He dabbed at the spill absently with a napkin, watching the giggler in question.

She had cleaned up, though coffee dotted her apron and ketchup stained her puffed black sleeve. She laughed with the rosy-cheeked waitress, a half empty pot of decaf in one hand. She spun away from her cheery friend, ducked around Liz's plate-laden arms, and flipped open a note pad, coming to a halt in front of a heavy set man with a leather vest and a filthy plaid shirt. Fading tattoos peeked out from below his rolled up sleeves. She smiled warmly at the hairy man who leered at her small frame.

She weaved through the tangle of tables, twisting and turning gracefully. It was odd, a lithe ballerina among plundering elephants in the middle of a circus ring. He recognized her. He saw her in the dark circles under the eyes of practiced musicians who had slaved over pieces of music far under their level.

Liz slid into his sight line. Soul, slumped on the counter, was eye to eye with her name-tag. He reared back, putting at least two feet between his nose and her cleavage. Liz laughed, loud and surprised.

"A gentleman. Rare, around here." She grinned at him, and plunked a steaming plate of fries laden with chili and cheese down on the counter in front of him. "Orders up, old man."

"Not old," Soul grumbled, and picked up a fork. Liz snorted and leaned on her elbow across from him. She watched the pig-tailed waitress talk to her apron-clad friend. Liz smiled at them affectionately, and hummed. Soul poked at the thick meat sauce smothering his French fries, and tried to pick out the whole dried chili peppers that infiltrated his meal.

"You plan on being here long?"

Soul frowned at his stray chilies. He shrugged and scooped up a mouthful from his bowl, failing to keep in the pleased moan. The diner made it with cornbread at the bottom of the bowl.

"Like it?" Liz turned towards him, folded her arms on the counter, and put her chin on her crossed arms, trying to peek up at him.

Soul reared back, choking on his third spoonful of the magical cornbread/chili combination.

"What do you have against personal space?!"

"I need a favor."

She cocked her head towards his waitress. She was holding her pencil against her paper pad, her smile strained as another hair man in leather leered at her. Soul set down his spoon, then picked it up again, poking his chili. He wasn't worried about her. She was a waitress. She was probably used to it, like all the other waitresses he had encountered.

Instead of eating more chili, as he should have done, he said, "what do you want?"

"Stay until 7."

Soul contemplated shoving the spoon further down his gullet; the taste of rust and blood and a trip to the ER would be less painfully odd and awkward than the promise he did not want to make.

"What for?"

Liz pointed one glittery blue nail behind her shoulder. "That's when my sister and Maka get off."

The rosy-cheeked and the pigtailed waitresses were huddled together again, though the giggles had faded. They cast grim glances at the booth with two men in matching leather vests, the backs of which announced their membership to "Death Dogs." A stitched black dog foamed at the mouth under the red and black lettering. The men, one with an eyebrow tattoo, the other with about a dozen silver rings on his face, leered at the girls. Tattoo-Brow clicked his tongue and raised his empty mug, swinging it from one greasy finger. Soul watched, wary, as the pig-tailed waitress's spine stiffened. She gripped a pot of fresh coffee tightly, the tension in her hands turning her knuckles white, and walks, feet dragging, to the bikers' table.

"Watch out for them. Make sure they don't get into any trouble."

"Is blond a requirement for waitressing here?" Soul snipped, tearing himself away from watching the small girl. One of his hands found the other and began to wring, one hand rubbing the back of the other and then switching, before cracking his knuckles. The pop soothed, then amped him up, the looseness familiar, akin to a performance ritual.

He has to know.

"Which one…."

"Which did you run over?" Liz asked with a smirk. "That'd be Maka."

Soul frowned.

"She wont bite-"

A loud crash of groaning metal shook the foundation of the diner, and Soul whipped around towards the source of the commotion.

Maka, the one with giant eyes, pig tails, and a half hearted smile, stood over a man with her foot planted firmly on his back, his eye brow tattoo rubbed red from the ancient tile.

"Men," she growled. "Can't keep your hands to your damn selves."

She picked him up by the collar and threw him bodily out the door, graciously held open by Patty.

The heavily pierced man followed his tattooed friend, spitting venom about the Death Dogs and vengeance.

"Get moving, Giriko, or you'll be leaving Death Diner by air."

Maka brushed invisible dust off of her apron (dramatically, Soul thought) and moved to bus the recently unoccupied table. Soul's fellow diners sipped coffee and swallowed spoonfuls of oatmeal as if nothing had happened. He briefly contemplated how often a scene like this one took place in Death Diner.

"Anyway," Liz said, folding Soul's napkin into fourths. "She won't bite unless you say something stupid. Can you stay?"

Soul chugged the last bit of his coffee.

"Doesn't look like she-they- need protecting."

"There are worse things than Giriko and Free," Liz remarked darkly. "They all seem to find a way to our tables."

She grabbed his hand. Soul flinched and pulled back, but Liz had a death grip tighter than his brother's hand around the last Halloween chocolate bar. His palm erupted in sweat, but remained captured in Liz's. Her pleading blue eyes did not stir the sympathy in his heart. But, behind her, Maka, the little blonde waitress with what was apparently the strength of a weight lifter hidden under a black and white uniform, skirted from table to table, taking orders and clearing plates, her smile reflecting sunlight like a star.

His head nodded without his consent from his brain.