Notes: To be perfectly honest, this completely and utterly spiraled and deviated from where I originally wanted to take it.
The initial chunk that I wrote ends at "The answer is neither the Angel or the Scythe"; and then I wrote the rest on a few different days. I'm not really sure how it happened because I feel like my initial plan, whatever it was, took a spiraling turn and now I don't really know how to salvage it. It was also initially supposed to be much shorter, very brief, not very detailed and in small little chunks like the beginning parts. So basically I'm not sure how this happened, and as I reread it and edit it I stare at it like "...?" but here is the finished product anyway.
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He's a murderer, she's a murderer, and if they fall in love, then all goes to hell, now doesn't it?
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News ::
Serial killer by the code name of "Angel of Death" has struck again. Murder of Takashi Mizuhiro has been confirmed. Any family members please contact your local police department. Number of victims has risen to thirty-three.
Serial killer by the code name of "Demon Scythe" has struck again. Murder of Ayame Kazuki has been confirmed. Any family members please contact your local police department. Number of victims has risen to thirty-two.
Civilians are advised to stay within the protection of their houses at night. Please be cautious as soon as night falls and do not let your children out after 6:00PM. Lock all doors and windows when within your house and cover all windows with curtains. If anyone witnesses a murder by the "Angel of Death" or "Demon Scythe", or sees any suspicious personnel within the area, contact the police immediately. I repeat, civilians are advised to stay within the protection of their houses at night…
x x x
They met for the first time on a red-moon night.
She shot a man dead with a gun in his mouth and three bullets lodged down his throat, preventing him from speaking anymore lies.
Just nearby, he sliced a woman's body open, innards spilling out along with all the dirty, dirty secrets she kept inside.
She moved, he didn't; she had a gun pointed to his throat and he didn't bat an eye—he had the tip of a knife pointed at her stomach.
She smiled, he grinned, they took one step away from each other and vanished into the night.
x x x
Their numbers aren't a contest. They come too close if it was, anyway.
The number of "wins" and "losses" rises and falls, rises and falls.
But they don't care.
The Angel of Death is just one murderer, the Demon Scythe just another. The numbers they rake in comparison to each other are nothing, nothing at all.
All that matters is the numbers they rake in themselves, nothing else.
x x x
Second meeting starts with shared prey.
They actually don't notice each other until his blade and her gun clash against each other to deal the final blow.
His eyes widen, her mouth forms a line.
The victim's got a gun and a blade crossed at his throat.
He twitches, and as if a silent agreement passes through the Angel and the Scythe, the victim is dead from a bullet down his throat and fatal strike into his heart.
And as if in a peace treaty, they cross their weapons again with a smile and a grin, just like the first time, just like their first meeting on that red-moon night.
The witness said that they seemed like two saviors bringing punishment to sinners, bathed in moonlight upon a trash heap with a body between them. She looks unsure of herself, but that is what she and three others saw; there is no denying it.
…the police begin to wonder.
x x x
The bodies are nameless corpses.
No record of their births ever come into existence, and no relatives ever come forward to mourn. And mysteriously, the bodies crumble into ash a few days later, always, without fail. The autopsy reports are strange—strange as in inexplicably strange. The bodies are human, they contain the same intestines and heart and stomachs, but they operate like no human body—the corpses are like no human body, as if they are missing a soul. The doctors are uneasy, as if they are dissecting a human monster, and the reports are strange, strange, strange. There is no way to describe why the police begin to doubt the motives of the Angel and the Scythe.
In their mysterious killings, the other mysterious killings stop.
So who is just and right?
The killers, or the killers who kill the killers? When it all comes down to it, are they not all murderers?
Who are the police supposed to apprehend?
The answer is neither the Angel or Scythe.
x x x
The third meeting is nearly their last, and yet it is also their first true meeting.
She winces from the gash in her side, white gloved hands coming away sticky with blood. Her hair looks like a silvery curtain behind her—her own hair is partially blinding her, due to the loss of her ribbons. The air smells of gunpowder and rotten flesh. The murderer—no, monster—pursuing the Angel grinds its teeth on bone, the form only resembling a human shell.
(The witness shudders, covering her ears with her hands, remembering its guttural roar as she prays not to be seen)
Suddenly, where there was one there is two—and with the other monster hurtles another human body; they collide. The Scythe lets out a surprised grunt, the Angel lets out an annoyed yelp. But they've no time to apologize, no time to do anything else but to drag their weapon across the monster's skin, nothing else but to bore holes into the other monster's chest.
It is a quick and flawless teamwork, and the creatures are flung back, groaning.
The Angel wipes her cheek of monster blood, clutching a hand to her own candy-red side. The Scythe's got a shallow gash down his chest, bleeding freely. They glare at each other, not because they are irritated, but because they are frustrated at the difficulty of the battle and the extent of their wounds.
They quickly shake hands as the monsters regain their position, because why the hell not?
"Maka Albarn," says the Angel.
"Soul Eater Evans," replies the Scythe.
They grin. She hands him a slightly worn pistol. He trades her one of those chunky butcher knives, and she looks at him with a raised eyebrow, but makes no comment.
He shrugs, and they split.
(The witness trembles, not sure how much longer she can hang on because the smell is overpowering and the fear is making her weak; she's afraid to vomit, for fear that they might hear her and find her.)
Turns out the Angel is fairly comfortable with blades, and the Scythe isn't shabby with a gun.
She chops off an arm, he shoots out an eye.
In the end, it is a frantic scramble; she lodges the rectangular knife into the monster's throat, he shoots six bullets down its throat and embeds three throwing knives into the other's stomach while she does the same with her own pistol.
When it ends, they are both covered in a mix of black-and-red blood.
(The witness trembles as they begin to move.)
They stop in front of the witness, a horrible mess, like monsters themselves.
"You should get home," says the Angel with a tired voice. She points a finger to the left, ignoring the girl's shuddering form and cascade of tears. "Take a left at the first intersection and you'll find yourself back in town. The junkyard is never a place to hang out, nor should you ever use it as a shortcut for anything."
The witness takes a quick moment to peer into the Angel of Death and the Demon Scythe's faces. They are relatively young, worn, exhausted, burdened. But she scrambles away before she can deduce anything else.
(She thinks she'll never stop shaking.)
But after her departure, the Scythe, Soul Eater Evans, stares at the Death-Angel, Maka Albarn.
She motions for him to follow, and in the end they arrive at a tiny, temporary apartment. Most of the shelves are filled with medical supplies and there is some old beaten furniture lying around; he assumes that this is her apartment.
They know how to treat themselves by now, so they simply do just that. He makes himself comfortable on a tiny couch. She gives him a cup of juice and some store bought cookies to replenish his blood sugar; she consumes her own share.
There is a silence.
"…Do you think this will ever stop?" She finally questions, staring at the little ripples in her orange juice as a result of her slightly shaking fingers.
"Hard to tell," Soul replies, downing his cup. "How long?"
She doesn't need to ask what he means.
"Three and a half months."
He nods, so she assumes that he started hunting these creatures at around the same time.
"You a cop?" He questioned, motioning to her array pistols. She gives a wry smile.
"Something like that, I suppose. You?"
He smirks, leans back in his chair. "Circus freak, or something like that."
They grin.
She leans against the wall, staring down at her boots that are splattered with gore. She realizes that her skirt is stiff with blood. She goes into the bathroom to change (she doesn't forget to bring a pistol with her), and comes out in a simple shirt and jeans, barefoot. Her boots are in the bathtub; she decides she'll deal with their cleaning later. Her clothes are soaking in a bucket of water.
Maka sees that her guest has already fallen asleep; she chuckles to herself. In a sense it's rather rude to make himself so comfortable in someone else's home when they are just barely acquaintances, but she doesn't mind, because they have both saved each other tonight. She meant to send him off after the medical attention, but she doesn't have an objection to his stay. Besides, she has her pistol to keep herself safe if need to be.
She goes back to her small room and sleeps.
x x x
She wakes up earlier than he does, but he leaves later on that day. She makes breakfast; he is grateful for the food. She gives him a smile, he gives her a grin, and leaves.
Of course, six nights later when she grabs her pistols to chase after another monster, they meet again.
It ends quickly that night, with a bullet hole through the skull that fills with blood and a knife pinning the tongue to his jaw.
"Things are getting worse," She says, looking at the human corpse. Even when the monsters morph into unrecognizable shapes, their corpses are human. When they die, they return to humanity, if they ever possessed it in the first place.
Or maybe it's just to give the hunters are hard time.
"We can't be the only ones hunting them," he replies, stuffing his tainted daggers into the loops of his belt.
"Then it would be nice to meet the others," Maka sighs, doing the same with her firearms. "It would be nice to know more about this."
There is a silence. It would be nice if a lot of things. A lot of things that just don't seem possible.
The moon is orange and it seems to be laughing; the two sigh. It gets tiring, this hunting, and actually they're not really sure how to deal with them. In the end, it is all just a haphazard fight for survival—both theirs, and others.
"Have you eaten dinner yet?" She asks, and he grins, eyes lighting up at the question.
"Not yet," Soul replies nonchalantly; she laughs, and in the end they end up dining with each other at her apartment, only this time they're not so covered in blood.
They smile.
x x x
He comes around often.
She's moved three times since then, but she doesn't have a problem giving him the address. They have a friendly companionship; although, just in case, she knows exactly how to disarm him—not to mention, she knows full well how to give him a bullet that he'll receive with his heart.
(Likewise, he knows exactly how to dodge her pistols and how to pin her throat to the wall with a blade if need to be.)
She still lives within town, but she moves every so often just in case—just in case for many things.
They chat over tea and coffee, they sit by the window like two regular adults having a conversation—they would be two regular adults if he didn't have ivory hair, red eyes, sharp teeth; they would be two regular adults if she never left the house with less than three pistols in her belt.
They would be two regular adults if neither of them had to hunt abominations in the night.
He learns that she used to be an agent—she doesn't specify, he doesn't ask—which explains her array of firearms and ammunition. Apparently she didn't turn them in like she was supposed to. Now, she's just a simple office worker.
She learns that he is, indeed, a circus attraction—but he ran away some time ago, along with a suitcase full of knives that the circus had because they were not a circus for the general public. Now, he just runs around doing miscellaneous work for people who won't judge him for his looks.
Maka learns that he doesn't have a place to stay, so she offers him a place in her own apartment. He refuses at first—they're friends now, but they still don't really know each other and besides, she's a girl—to offer something like that is both careless and dangerous. However, they both admit that despite the friendly exchanges they've come up with several situations and methods to disarm, injure, render defenseless, or even kill each other if something goes horribly horribly wrong.
And besides, isn't she being a little too careless? On several occasions, Soul thinks she's being too nice. He takes what he can get, but of course, that time she offered him cookies and juice he made sure they weren't poisoned.
Maybe they're both a little paranoid with all that's happened, but in the end he stays.
First week is awkward and tense.
But the months pass and they become comfortable; after all, they are hunting abnormalities together and saving each other's hides when situations become dangerous.
They watch the shadows shift on red-moon nights, sitting by the window and chatting over tea and coffee.
x x x
Suddenly, everything ceases.
There are no attacks, no victims. The days pass, then weeks. Even the news is concerned—it looks like the media has caught on, somewhat, that what the Angel and Scythe have been reaping are not human souls, however human their corpses appear.
Maka and Soul simply wait the nights out in confusion, in anticipation. It throws them off, because they can sense nothing; it makes them a little paranoid, and their fingers twitch towards their weapons at a crunch of a leaf during the night; they watch the huddles of night-owls out partying in town with cautious eyes.
Soon after it appears that the town is devoid of demons, a boy with striped hair and a man with a skull mask come to visit; it is immediate that their aura is not that of normal humans, it is immediate that they are more like Soul and Maka.
They are part of the 'others' that the two have been waiting to meet; the boy's father is special; within the weeks they arrived in this town he weeded out all the roots of demons. Temporarily, at least. One does not simply permanently root out darkness.
They speak of the history of demons, of souls, of evil, of weapons—of an organization; an organization of experienced hunters that work in partnerships to protect society—an organization that teachers their hunters how to execute. The boy with striped hair and his father extend a formal invitation that the Angel and Scythe both accept, because once you have hunted monsters you cannot ever run from their demonic images—you cannot simply pretend they never existed and live normal lives.
The boy with striped hair and his strange father smile; they bow and extend their gratitude for their assistance. To be a hunter is not easy; it is gruesome work, but it must be done, for survival. The organization is small—they are constantly recruiting, searching for the survivors that rise up from the mass of corpses.
The attacks on their town are done, but the two have decided to continue hunting and they wonder why. Finding an answer is difficult, because they had never thought of themselves as heroes, ever. They never engaged in battle sorely for the fact to protect humanity—they aren't that righteous or generous.
In the end, perhaps it is all just a selfish battle for their own interests, for venting purposes, for pride, for the feeling.
That night, they watch the moon holding hands, holding on to the only good thing that evolved from all these bloody battles—their partnership.
x x x
They arrive at the castle with their bags in tow.
They've decided to fight, to continue for many reasons. It doesn't matter that they don't fight for humanity, what matters is that an end is put to the abominations that consume flesh during the night. But one thing that they can agree is on that she fights for him, as he fights for her.
They arrive with their bags in tow and their hands grasping each other's firmly.
"Fight with me," She says, with determined eyes.
"Stay with me," He replies, with fierce courage.
They walk into the castle with synchronized heartbeats, with synchronized souls.