A Missing Meister and a Woeful Weapon
Rain spattered against the windows of the dark, still apartment, lit only by the malicious moon. A lone soul silently entered the dismal grounds, dropping a water-drenched jacket on the floor of the spotless apartment. His white hair was slick with water, making it stick to the back of his neck, as he collapsed on the couch. The storm had made it so no one could distinguish tears from rain, which had been all the better for Soul Eater Evans.
It was a mission in France, Soul had thought. Nothing bad ever happens in France. City of cool pastries and romantic stuff.
He had quickly, however, been disproven. A sorceress lived in Paris, where he and Maka had flown for a quick mission. They had been given three days to accomplish their goal, to acquire the witch's soul, making Soul a death scythe. The first day, he and Maka had toured the city, which Maka had called "familiarizing herself with the city in case something happened". Wherever croissant eating and going to the Eiffel Tower fit into that category, Soul would never know.
The second day was when things got bad. That day, they had found the witch, hiding beneath the Catacombs of Paris. Maka dreaded fighting underground, saying how it made it harder to wield Soul, but had insisted they continue to make Soul a death scythe. Admittedly, Soul had wanted to become a death scythe, but had not wanted his meister to risk her life on his behalf. He had suggested they wait another day. Maka had charged into the catacombs, not looking back.
By the time night had fallen, a lustrous soul was theirs, along with many major wounds. Soul had carried Maka out of the dark underground caves on his back for only a mile or so, before both collapsed, unconscious, in the streets, rain pounding on their weak backs. An old shopkeeper had spotted the wounded partners and telephoned the ambulance.
In the third day, the situation had gotten from bad to worse. Soul had recovered from his wounds, and was able to be discharged from the hospital. Maka, on the other hand, was having trouble making a full recovery. She had not woken up. Wires and tubes were keeping her alive. She didn't look like the meister Soul had fought with. This one was… broken.
Soul used the hospital phone to call Death City, asking for a few more days in Italy. Lord Death had insisted the two return, even after being informed of Maka's state of health. He said that if anyone knew how to help Maka, it was the nurses of Death City, who were accustomed to treating wounded teens.
Two days after they returned home, Maka passed away. Soul was there. He watched as the blips of her heart on the machine died, striking a single note that seemed to pierce through his soul. He had snuck in at night, visiting after hours; no one was around to bring Maka back.
The despondent death scythe glanced out the large apartment windows from his spot on the couch. A bloody smiling moon seemed to be laughing at Soul. Mocking him for his sorrow. The weapon scowled, shoving his hands in his pockets and getting off the couch. Soul sullenly sauntered into Maka's room, with its perfectly folded bed sheets and alphabetically arranged bookshelf. He had not been in her room since they got home, assuming she would have Maka Chopped him if she found out he had.
He sat on her bed, staring at the room. It smelled like Maka, a familiar, calming aroma. He glanced at the book on her desk. A biography on Mozart. He smiled. She had still been trying to understand his love of music.
A blue light pulsed in his pants pocket, and a few piano notes rang in the silent air. Soul's cell phone. He flipped open the small blue phone, analyzing the screen in the dark. Unknown number. Soul almost sent them to voicemail, fingering hovering over the button, but abruptly decided against it. He pressed talk.
"Hello?" his voice answered in the silence.
"Hello, Soul. What if I told you that you could do the impossible?"
"Eh?"
"What if I told you that you could bring Maka back?"