I'm back! Been revisiting my stories during my break from school and thus, here we are. Also, the cover image for this story was drawn by none other by molotovmullet on tumblr, someone who encouraged me from the very beginning to explore this AU. Please, enjoy this chapter! Been on the back burner for a long time. As always, please review!
Chapter 2
"Do not pray for easy lives. Pray to be stronger men."
— John F. Kennedy
I.
"What in the fuck is that?!"
The ground erupted beneath Soul's feet with a surge of energy and catapulted him into a parked car. The alarm went off, blaring in his ears, and he ripped his lucky jacket on the shattered window. Just his luck.
God, this vigilante business really, really wasn't his thing. Two months into it and he was already a sight for sore eyes. Dirty scruff, unruly white hair, scars out the whazoo, and grubby clothes. He did not sign up for this shit. Unless, per say, somebody argued that by opening the blue fuckbox that got him into this mess in the first place was enough to accuse him of signing up. Then yes, he was guilty. Sue him.
"I don't fucking know, Star," he spat while dodging another blast. "But we sure pissed him off."
"You think he's a Reaper? Because the white jacket really isn't their MO."
Soul cringed at the red staining his own jacket. His favorite jacket. "Neither is the random spurts of teleportation and the fucking seismic quakes."
BlackStar ducked into an alley and called out, "Touché!" What a fucking tool. "So look, Electro Man. I'm not big on having my ass roasted by some scrawny dude in a white trench, so...I'll let you have this one. Consider it a gift from your god."
Soul scoffed. Some gift. Though, seeing as how there was a fire in BlackStar's eyes—lighted by the gasolinic prowess of anger and envy—Soul decided it was best not to comment. With a curt nod from him, BlackStar made his exit. The poor guy's curses echoed down the alleyway like a broken record.
Man, Soul really needed a lesson in confrontation because Star's jealousy was going to tailspin sooner or later. Too bad he lacked a backbone and basic human compassion—he blamed that on being feeling-repellent. Score one for anxiety, and nothing for poor ol' Soul. Pity.
"Die!"
Soul barrel rolled across the street as a mix between a shrill and a growl—hardly human— insisted that he kick the bucket via energy quake. Not today, he thought. Cars went airborne and littered the city sidewalks but he was still in one piece. Though when he scrambled to his feet only to come face to face with a bright light materializing into a white jacket with a skeleton printed on it, he started to rethink his odds.
First thought, why the fuck was he not graced with the power of teleportation? And second thought, the bones on the jacket meant this asshat was a Reaper. A Reaper on conduit steroids.
The energy quake hit him point blank this time, scorching his favorite jacket and launching him across DC Boulevard like a rag doll. Now, instead of being cushioned by a parked car, he landed on a bed of asphalt.
"Son of a bitch," he grumbled under his breath. He sat up and winced, wondering if he broke a rib or two with that impact or if he was too invincible for that shit anymore. Seeing as how he managed to get to his feet after two tries, he'd side partially with the latter. The pain still lingered though, like he'd been run over by a truck...twice. It was just one of those days.
"Die! Die! Die!"
More shrills, more quakes, more acrobatic dodging on his part. Soul would give the juiced-up conduit an A for effort, but its accuracy was starting to circle the drain. Its attacks were sporadic now. Patience, obviously, was not something this thing valued. Quake, quake, quake. It wouldn't stop with the damn quakes. DC Boulevard had turned into a shit-fest, torn apart at the concrete seams by this trigger-happy conduit.
Soul jumped to the side and gripped onto a building window pane, thanking god for all those years of reckless city parkour with Star. He needed to buy time for his next move. Hell, what he really needed was to go on the offensive. No more dodging or getting hit. He couldn't stay the butt of this conduit's joke for too much longer.
"Play with me," it hissed from below, and he nearly shook in his boots. Creepy as fuck.
"I'm nobody's plaything," he growled. "Especially not for the Reapers."
An incoherent string of high-pitched shrills and animal-like growls answered him, and he rose a brow in question.
"S'cuse me?"
"You are our plaything," it snapped. "Killing you is the ultimate prize."
A little rough around the edges, but Soul got the message this time.
"I'm flattered. Really, I am. But I'm here to kill you, and every one of your fuckboy friends. This prize is out to bite you in the ass."
He really had a way with words. Maka had said so once, but that might've been the time he coerced her into drinking one night after having a bad day. He couldn't remember. The memory was...well, fuzzy.
"We will see about that."
Soul blinked. There was something eerily chilling about how close the Reaper had sounded, like it had just whispered in his ear. He looked up and, lo and behold, there it was. The asswipe was standing on the very edge of the window pane, an inch away from brushing his fingertips.
"Fuck teleportation," he griped. It really wasn't fair.
The shrill and growl morphed into a strangled chuckle as it charged another quake in Soul's face—which was in perfect roasting range, mind you.
"The prize is mine," it hissed in his ear.
Strangely enough—but not really—Soul thought of Maka in this moment. Her smile, her laugh, the green of her eyes. The mint sparkling in his mouth tasted bittersweet now, but it was there. Which reminded him, actually, that a real first kiss was still on his bucket list. He was still on Maka's bench for an eternity. How could he check out so soon before Maka called him up to bat?
"Not today, Reaper scum," he seethed as he grabbed its ankle and unleashed the hellfire in his blood—a high wattage jolt of the good ol' Evans electric love.
The Reaper screamed, sounding more human than it ever had before, and tumbled off the window pane. And, since Soul was stubborn as hell, he held onto the bastard's ankle and took the fall with it. It hurt like a bitch, but he wanted to make sure he roasted the fucker. He wanted Reaper barbecue.
After about a minute or two of overkill, Soul let go and stood over the Reaper carcass, exhilarated. It felt good, but utterly wrong. But good? It baited him and wanted his head on a platter, so he defended himself...by burning it alive from the inside out.
"Bite me," Soul quipped to no one in particular aside from the conduit jerky, and then he turned his back on the beaten DC Boulevard and started walking. Like in the movies, he thought.
He didn't hear the strained, gravelly grunt or the whoosh of a jacket being pulled aside, but he sure as hell heard the bang.
Something jumped up and bit him in the ass, and he fell face-first into a bed of asphalt with an unmanly yelp.
Just one of those fucking days
II.
"One more time, then I swear I'm done," BlackStar insisted, and there was an annoying chuckle booming in his voice. "So you told the Reaper 'this prize is out to bite you in the ass' and then you get shot in the ass?" He stopped to laugh until there were tears spewing from his eyes. Asshole. "I'd say you were the butt of the joke today, Grease Lightening."
Soul groaned and hid his face in the hospital-brand pillow. He did not deserve this kind of humiliation. "I didn't know he had a gun," he grumbled pitifully. The creeper was supposedly barbecue, too.
"No shit?" BlackStar's laughter echoed down the hallway, probably to the next room a floor above them. That loud. God, Soul needed to invest in better friends.
"You need to be more careful," a quiet, angelic voice spoke up.
Oh. He forgot. Listening to BlackStar's awful jokes and puns was annoying, but tolerable. He could take it. What he couldn't take, however, was the fact that he was lying face down on a gurney with his pants around his ankles while the woman he's been pining after for months was casually poking and prodding his ass with tweezers to take out the conduit fuckface's bullet. He'd officially hit rock bottom, folks. Pray for him.
"Your right ass cheek has a peep hole now," BlackStar commented with a cackle.
"Do you have to be in here? This is an invasion of privacy."
"What? Don't you remember the high school locker room days?"
Soul shuddered. "I try not to."
"Blake, how about you go and find a working vending machine," Maka offered suddenly. "I heard a rumor that one of them has a Gatorade, and Soul could really use the electrolytes."
BlackStar's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree at the mention of the G-word. His little high school jock heart couldn't take it. His kryptonite was the mother of all sports drinks—a dying breed, nowadays. Now that was his crack, and it never ceased to amuse Soul.
"Don't worry, bro. I got you," BlackStar said, and he darted out of the room.
"You did that for me?" Soul asked and, despite the fact she was playing operation with his ass, he managed a grin.
"Maybe."
"So does this mean I'm not coming out of this with a Gatorade?"
She giggled and it was music to his ears. "No, sorry."
"Damn," he mock cursed. He missed their subtle, under the table like flirting. A lot, apparently. The nostalgia was killer.
"Soul?"
He hummed his acknowledgement.
"You made me a promise that you'd stay out of trouble."
Shit.
He sighed. "I know, I know, I'm sorry. But I also made a promise that I'd give the Reapers hell for what they did...and what they still do." Not to mention redeem himself for his mistake that decimated seven city blocks, figure out the identity of the stranger, and get that real first kiss. That was his to-do list in a nutshell—simple and straight to the point.
Maka frowned. "If that Reaper aimed any higher, at your head, maybe, you wouldn't be here right now. This isn't a game, Soul. This is your life and you're living it too close to the edge...I don't want you to fall."
At that, Soul deflated. This beautiful spitfire of a woman actually cared about him, and he was touched. Still too chickenshit to admit to a wide spectrum of deep feelings, but he was touched. There was a lot of guilt, too. With that in mind, maybe he wasn't emotionally constipated. A little stunted, yes, but with Maka something was there. He could feel it.
"I won't fall. And even if I do, I'll pick myself up and walk my ass to your hospital doors for a patch up."
Was that poetic in some shape or form? He didn't know, but at least he put in an effort.
A long, drawn out sigh was his answer. "What am I going to do with you, Soul?"
"Well, right now you're doing me a real solid. I've had quite a few dates in my time but this one really takes the cake."
He didn't mention that he's only officially had three dates, two of them never getting past date one for obvious reasons—cough, cough, his anxiety. And the third, well...he'd like to consider his entire DC General experience as one big date with you-know-who.
Maka laughed. "A date? Really? Wow, Soul, you sure know how to show a lady a good time."
He blushed, shit. "L-Like the view?"
A slow, agonizing pause. God, he wished he could see her face right now.
"Aside from the obvious gunshot wound, yes." She patted his hip and he gasped. "You have a cute butt, Soul."
His blush ripened across his cheeks and climbed to the tips of his ears. Their under the table like flirting gig had ascended to greater heights in a heartbeat. Speaking of heartbeat, his sounded like a freight train beating against his ribcage. Fucking King Kong was performing an epic drum solo in his chest. Not cool. But fuck, was he in deep.
He opened his mouth to reply, praying to god that he wouldn't stutter like a total loser, and a deafening cry caught in his throat instead. His ass. His poor, poor ass. It was being torn apart from the inside out because somebody decided to pull out the bullet without so much as giving a fucking warning first.
"Son of a bitch! What the hell, Maka?!"
A metallic clink sounded next to him as nurse asswrecker dropped the bullet into a jar. She didn't even bat an eye at him or offer him a smile. Instead, she said, "You brought this upon yourself, Soul. Consider this karma."
"You're so cruel," he whined. "What happened to the Maka that said my butt was cute?"
"She's still here."
"Lies."
Maka rolled her eyes at him. "You're such a baby." And with that, he couldn't even have the last word because she jumped right into braiding his ass with stitches and fuck.
"Y-You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"I don't know what you mean."
He swore he could hear the devilish smile in her voice plain as day even if he couldn't technically see it.
"Jerk."
"Bitch."
He blinked. That tone. No fucking way. The response was too distinct for him not to pick up on. Was he reading into things too far? He didn't know, but it was worth a try. His little closet nerd heart couldn't take the anticipation.
"Supernatural?" he offered with a touch of hope in his voice. It was a leap of faith that had the potential to shatter his cool ego into a million tiny pieces. If Star knew he had a soft spot for probably the most tacky, monster hunting show ever made, he'd never hear the end of it.
Maka grinned. "I guess I'm Dean, then."
God, it was like he typed up the perfect woman into Microsoft word, clicked print, and, lo and behold, here she was in the flesh.
"Oh, come on. I'm the one with all the wit and sarcasm in this relationship."
Maka gave him a look. "You're also the one with strange, mystical powers in said relationship."
A pause, and then a dramatic sigh.
"I guess I'm Sam, then."
"That's right, Sammy."
Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. He tacked on a scowl for good measure to let the scorn really sink into her. She didn't even flinch. Damn her. Wait, wait, hold up. "Did you just second the relationship—Agh!"
That last stitch really bit him in the ass thanks to you-know-who.
"All done," Maka replied smugly, and she placed the bloody tweezers on the table next to his face. It was like a mic drop. "Feel free to get dressed. Oh, and would you like a sucker on your way out?"
Soul groaned as he started to hike up his pants. "Ha ha, you're hilarious."
"I'm bitter, actually."
He bit his lip and kept quiet out of courtesy. No smartass remarks or jokes to try to lighten the mood because it wasn't the time for it. Man, he should've known he couldn't weasel his way out of trouble with Maka. His acts of rebellion had really hit a sour note with her, and the guilt echoed in his chest like a gong.
Meanwhile, Maka busied herself with putting her instruments away. The only noise in the room was metal clinking, cabinets opening and closing, and her shuffling feet. Otherwise, silence.
Growing up in a family of musicians, Soul had grown accustomed to lots of noise in his life; he craved it even when his ties to his family grew thinner and thinner (until the rope finally snapped). Silence left him alone with his thoughts, and he couldn't have that.
"Maka, I—"
"Don't."
"Just give me a chance to make this work. I'll make it work, I swear. Don't give up on me."
She shook her head and her body slouched, like a drooping flower unable to support its weight. He'd never seen her like this, with no vibrancy shining in those green, green eyes. Now he felt like a real piece of shit.
"No, Soul. It's you that shouldn't give up on me."
He blinked and gave her a look. What? And before he had the chance to ask what the hell is that supposed to mean, the lights started to flicker and cut to black.
"What the hell?"
"Shit. This isn't good." She sounded panicked. "Quick! Help me find a flashlight."
"No need." Static encased his arms on command and gave off a soft, blue glow. "Call me the human glow stick."
Maka scowled. "This isn't the time for jokes, Soul. We got to move."
She grabbed his arm—his arm that was bristling with fucking electricity—and pulled him out of the room. He yelped and stared at her, looking between the static and the untouched, porcelain skin of her soft, perfect little hand. Shit, he was falling down the rabbit hole again. Also his anxiety had officially bursted through the atmosphere into space. Her hand. Should be. Burnt to a fucking crisp by now. What the actual fuck.
"Soul, come on!" He was stiff and immovable. In shock, really. "Some people actually need the power to, y'know, breathe!"
"Your hand."
She blinked. "Yes? What about it? Seriously, we have to go."
"It's not burning."
"Well thank you, captain obvious. Now let's go."
"B-But the electricity—"
"Shut up and get a move on!"
She nearly pulled his arm out of its socket as she dragged him along the dark, eerie corridor (honestly, the hospital was scary as shit when the lights were out). He tried to jumble out some words, anything to get Maka to slow down, until she gritted out something about sealing Soul Jr. shut with his ass laces. Then he kept quiet like a good boy. Though the mystery of Maka's perfectly un-crisped hand was still making his head spin.
"Stein! What happened?"
Maka skidded to a stop in front of Dr. Creepy while Soul promptly fell forward after her. The girl could stop on a dime. Quite impressive, actually. Though he couldn't count on himself, considering how he just managed to trip into Dr. Creepy's arms. Dr. Stein's arms. His arms. The arms with the hands that wanted to pry him open like a fucking clam. Not cool.
"Ah, Soul. It's so good to see my star patient again. Especially in a time when we are in such need of your...luminosity."
Soul jumped out of his arms and nearly into Maka's, of which she promptly shrugged him off. He tried to gather whatever bravado he had left, puffing out his chest as he replied, "Ha ha. Very funny, Doc." Soul crossed his arms and slouched, pretending like he didn't just see Maka roll her eyes from the corner of his vision. Just perfect. He felt like an idiot.
"I didn't go to med school to become a comedian, Mr. Evans."
"Could've fooled me," Soul pouted, and this time he pretended like he didn't see Maka's stink eye pointed in his direction.
"Stein, what happened to the power?" she asked, still fired up from earlier. Her dedication to her patients was admirable. Hell, he knew firsthand she was willing to take a bullet for them. This was her job, her life. She lived here to help those in need. She was a healer. And, with that, she had officially flown higher up his sexy radar, fuck.
"There are rumors circulating about The Reapers tampering with the electrical circuits in the sewers. They want to take over Death City's electrical grid. Looks like they've just gotten started."
Soul watched Maka's fists clench and her face turn red as she said, "What about our patients? What do we do?"
Stein sighed. "For now, all the power we have from our backup generator is being rerouted to our equipment rather than the lights. However, the generator isn't in the best of shape. It won't be long before it burns itself out. And when that happens...well, I'm sure you can connect the dots."
"N-No." Maka started trembling. "N-No, people will die. They can't die like this!"
Soul watched Stein whip out a cigarette and a lighter, of all things, and lit it up right there, right in the middle of the hospital lobby.
"I'm afraid there's nothing we can do," he said with a nice, smoky puff. "So yes, people are going to die. It's best that you come to terms with that now, Ms. Albarn. It'll be a tough pill for you to swallow."
It was as if someone just dropped a nuclear bomb in the middle of the room, blowing everyone and everything into smithereens.
Soul caught Maka before she fell to her knees in a heap of despair. Her eyes were glossed over with tears, and her teeth dug into her lip until a streak of blood dripped down her chin. Her knuckles were white, matching the complexion of her face. Ghastly. Her green, green eyes looked dull. Not a spark of life to be found.
"What the hell, Stein?!" he yelled. "Don't you think that was a little harsh?"
Stein took a long drag of his cigarette and replied, "It's the truth. The reality we live in now. Hasn't it always been harsh?"
Soul bit his lip and tipped his head down. Maka shook in his arms. His arms. She seemed so small and frail, like if he squeezed her any harder she'd break like glass. This wasn't the Maka he knew. Not at all.
And then, like that, somebody upstairs flipped a switch.
Her green, green eyes hardened like stone and she broke out of his grip. He fell back like a leaf and lied still, watching. That small, perfect, un-crisped hand wiped the blood from her lip as she said, "Where are the blueprints?"
Stein rose a brow. "Excuse me?"
"The blueprints of the hospital. It'll map out some of the sewer lines, correct? Maybe even the electrical grid in our sector?"
Stein shook his head. "That could be anywhere. Tucked away in a broom closet, for all I know. I'm sorry. There's no way we'd find it in time."
Maka swore under her breath and the tears brimmed her eyes again. This was when he decided to step in.
"I know the sewers like the back of my hand. Did some work down there once with 'Star."
Not exactly legal work, but he didn't think that mattered. "I can make my way down there and find your generator and jump start it." He glanced down at the static, still bristling against his skin. "I'm good enough for that, at least."
Stein dropped his cigarette and stepped on the bud. "Are you sure about this, Mr. Evans? You've already done so much. You know quite a few Reapers will be waiting for you down there. You've got a lot to lose for sticking your neck out there for us."
Wrong, he thought. He had nothing to lose. After the blast, he didn't deserve to have anything worth not losing.
"I owe this hospital for saving my life. It's the least I can do. And The Reapers can't get away with this. I won't let them."
"I'm coming with you."
But then there was her.
"No, no way in hell are you going down there. It's too dangerous for—"
"What? A nurse? Who do you think you're talking to, Mr. Evans?"
He flinched at the malice she wove into his last name.
"For your information, my Papa used to be chief of police."
Soul perked up at that. Her father was one of the blue collared cowards? Or maybe one of the unlucky ones. He didn't have a clue. She'd never mentioned her father before. Her mother, yes—though that was a touchy subject, too—but not him. Never him until now.
"He taught me how to defend myself, so believe me when I say I know my way around a gun."
At that, Stein pitched in. "She is quite the marksman. Her father bragged about that at too many get togethers for me to argue against it."
"That's the only thing I owe to that bastard. Nothing else," she grumbled under her breath, and he decided quickly that the daddy topic was not meant to be brought up again any time soon.
He started shaking his head. "No, just no. I don't like it. I can't put you in the line of fire like that. That'd be stupid."
"Soul," she said, green eyes piercing through him like a knife. "Don't give up on me. Please, I can help. I can't just sit here and wait. I want to help, and you're going to let me. You have to."
He frowned. He didn't like how she could throw something like that in his face to get what she wanted because she knew it would work. He'd cave. He was a sucker like that for her. Just her. Fuck, he was making a big mistake for the sake of his racing heart.
"Fine," he grunted. "But if a fight breaks out, you're running in the opposite direction. You got that?"
She nodded, and the smile she wore was clearly etched together with a lie. "Yes, Soul. I got the message. I'll stay out of trouble for you, don't worry."
He cringed as the words slipped off the tip of her tongue. Again with the subtle, verbally thrown punches. This really, really wasn't a good idea.
"Hey, don't forget about the great me!"
A flying projectile with wild blue hair flew into Soul's line of sight, followed by the candid drop of an empty Gatorade bottle. An entrance fit for (an idiot) a God.
"I know those sewers better than you! I was the guy that gave you the grand tour, remember? There's no way I'm backing out of this one so count me the fuck in."
Great. The last thing Soul needed was to have two morons tagging along with him in enemy territory. But BlackStar made it pretty clear he was going, whether Soul liked it or not. The guy was so fucking stubborn.
"Fine, you can be our plus one." Maka shot him a look and he shrugged it off. "Just don't do anything stupid."
BlackStar grinned and started parading himself over to the doorway. "Pfft, like the great me would do anything stupid. I'm too great for that! Don't ya know? It's you that should be worried, Lighting R—"
The moment BlackStar pushed open the door, just when he thought he was leading them into battle, a woman with long, black hair—and not a single article of clothing—fell into him at the doorway.
"H-Help me," she uttered between bated breaths. Though he and BlackStar were too busy ogling her obvious...indecency. Maka elbowed him in the ribs and mumbled something about men being perverts, which broke him out of his reverie in a heartbeat. Now, instead of the mystery woman's assets, he focused on the dark tattoos intricately covering her entire body. They were so distinct, and if he stared long enough, he swore he saw them move. But his eyes must've been playing tricks on him, he thought.
"S-Shit." The blood dripping from BlackStar's nose was hard to ignore and borderline pathetic (but Soul still swiped a finger under his nose, just in case). "What do I do?"
"P-Please." She stopped to cough and blood splattered against BlackStar's shirt. "H-Help."
Something softened in BlackStar's eyes, like nothing Soul had ever seen before as his friend replied, "Okay, okay. I gotcha. It'll be okay. Just...focus on your breathing or something. In and out, nice and easy."
This was the most mature Soul had ever seen BlackStar. It came naturally, which came as quite the shock. Soul didn't think the guy would ever grow out of his teenage, jock-hood days of pranking everyone and everything with a potty mouth and a big lack of respect to boot. Oh, what a time to be alive.
Soul stepped up and clapped 'Star on the shoulder. "Looks like you've got your hands full."
"Yeah, whatever. Just...throw in some punches for me down there, will ya? The Reapers need to feel the wrath of their god."
Soul chuckled. "You got it."
BlackStar nodded, his eyes pointed down as he lifted the woman into his arms and asked Stein if there was a room available. For a moment, Soul watched him go. Something prickled in the air between them, making him tense. His skin tingled with uncertainty, and the electric blue of his eyes crackled as he watched BlackStar's back before he disappeared into one of the rooms. Something felt...off.
"I don't think I'll ever understand your friendship with him."
He sighed. "Yeah, you and me both. But he's a good guy. A little out there, but a great friend."
"More like way out there," Maka replied, and he rolled his eyes.
"Don't we have a job to do?"
As soon as the words came out of his mouth Maka was already halfway out the door, shouting, "Come on! We have people depending on us with their lives!"
"Hey, wait up! You stay behind me!"
"Then pick up the pace, Grease Lightning!"
He groaned. "Not you too!"
She laughed. Despite all the tragedy surrounding them, she laughed. And it was music to his ears.
"I think it's time for a test, Soul. For your sake and her's, I hope you pass."
III.
As their feet sloshed together on the slick, slimy cement in perfect harmony, Soul started to remember why he'd only taken up BlackStar's offer to do some off road parkour a handful of times. He also vaguely remembered being drunk whenever the offer was posed. Yep, his intoxicated judgement was not one to be proud of. And, frankly, neither could his current judgement. He was going to stink for weeks.
"You're right. You are a human glow stick," the woman, who somehow knew where all his hidden loopholes dwelled, said from behind him.
"Y'know, that was only supposed to be funny when I said it."
"Well now I said it, and I think it's funny."
He scoffed. "Sure thing, Albarn."
"Oh, you're just mad because your sense of smell is enhanced with the conduit gene."
There was a lot more to be mad about than just that, but he'd humor her.
"Ding, ding, ding. Give the girl a prize." He grunted and scrunched up his nose. "Smells like the inside of somebody's constipated asshole down here."
Maka cringed. "Ew, Soul. Really?"
"Really, really."
"That's disgusting."
He rolled his eyes. "You're telling me."
"Is someone there?" a small, frail voice called out, and they stopped dead in their tracks.
Soul turned off the lights and set his arm out in front of Maka, ignoring her sharp glare and gasp of offense. He pressed his finger to his lips, signaling her to be quiet, and she huffed. God, didn't she understand the idea of lying low? They were in enemy territory for fucks sake.
"P-Please, it's my son. He's sick and I-I don't know what to do. We're trapped down here, a-and he can't walk."
Soul gave Maka a look, begging her with every fiber of his being not to make a sound, but he should've known better. There was a fire in her eyes. A fire he could never put out no matter how hard he tried.
"We're here to help, ma'am." She pushed his arm out of the way, of course. He gritted his teeth and lit his arms up again. "Are you alone?"
"N-No, there's a group of us living down here. Used to be m-more before but then—" the woman stopped, and Soul could hear the choked sob she was trying so desperately to swallow. "T-The Reapers came and—"
"Shh, we understand. You don't have to say anything."
The woman tried to muffle her sobs as Maka led him toward a light shining where the corridor opened up into giant platform. There, they saw a wasteland of shredded tents and pitched campfires fed with old, tattered clothes. Tired eyes stared at them, mostly eyeing the electricity encasing his arms; out of courtesy, he stopped. Their stares didn't waver. Many lied on the cold, damp, cobblestone floor, shriveled up in a ball and groaning in pain. Their ghostly skin was slick with sweat, yet they shivered. Dried blood caked their lips and stained their wet clothes and sheets. They looked like the living dead, hardly human and hardly alive.
This was what the plague did to the people of Death City.
He bowed his head, imitating a moment of silence, and looked up to see Maka on her knees next to a young boy and who he assumed to be the woman that called for them—the poor boy's mother.
"His name is P-Peter," she uttered. "H-He's only ten."
Maka, the brave heroine dressed in scrubs—with a .45 tucked into the back of her waistband, much to his dismay—examined the boy from head to toe. She checked everything. His pupil dilation, his temperature, his pulse; she poked and prodded every inch of his body until she froze.
"P-Please, tell me my baby's going to be okay."
Soul took a step forward, eyeing the wary spectators around him, and looked over Maka's shoulder. He blinked. Peter was deathly still, like he wasn't breathing. And that was when it hit him.
"I'm sorry," Maka said, shaking. "He's gone."
He watched the mother's heart sink low into the pit of her stomach and drown as she replied, "W-What?'
Maka bowed her head and clenched her fists against the slick cement. "Peter's not suffering anymore."
From what Soul could tell, Maka was not used to having bad outcomes with her patients. That's why she was down here with him in the first place risking her life. That's why she shredded the first tear, before the woman who just lost her son. Because she cared so damn much.
"Y-You mean, Peter is…" the woman trailed off, in shock.
"There was nothing I-I could do. I'm so sorry for your loss."
Soul hung his head and rested his hand on Maka's shoulder. She flinched, but accepted it all the same, slowly leaning into his touch. The small intimacy put him at ease, but at what cost?
He stared down at Peter and tried to imagine the pain he must've felt. In his final moments, and during these past few weeks that he'd probably been infected. The plague had torn through his body like poison, bubbling beneath his skin and attacking anything it could get its dirty hands on. Now the boy was at peace. That was all that mattered in the end.
The mother pulled Peter to her chest and weeped. All around them the people of the sewers cried for the fallen, and for the sick. Soul looked around, taken aback by how the people suddenly appeared to be surrounding them. All eyes fell on Maka and then on him in a vicious cycle he couldn't seem to grasp. Their eyes looked sharp and unforgiving.
"Maka," he tried, uneasy. "We should keep moving."
Maka didn't budge and he frowned. He didn't have time for this. And neither did she, for that matter. What happened to all that pent up determination and commitment to save the people she looked after at the hospital? Did her spark flicker out?
He gritted his teeth and started shaking her by the shoulders. "We have to get out of here, Maka. Are you listening to me?"
"Y-You're not going anywhere."
Soul blinked and looked up, eyeing the woman holding Peter's corpse in a vice grip. Her body shook, with fear or resolve, Soul couldn't tell. Though her eyes revealed a harsh verdict that he would've never expected.
"Maka," he whispered. "I think we've worn out our welcome."
"My son is dead," the woman cried, looking to the others surrounding them for support. "We're all dying, and someone needs to pay!"
Against his better judgement, static started to bristle around his arms. "We're very sorry about your loss, but you can't pin everything on us. We didn't do this to you." Or did he? The explosion echoed in his head, followed by the screams of the dead, and suddenly he questioned his role in all of this. Was he the reason Death City was suffering from this plague? Was this his fault too?
"The Reapers will have you now."
Soul shook the explosion out of his head and dove out of firing range with Maka tucked under his arm. He took cover behind uneven, broken concrete, swearing under his breath. Demonic cackling echoed in the sewers, and shots rang out quickly and sporadically. He watched the woman fall with Peter in her arms, among the other innocents that lived here. All of them dead in a matter of minutes. Martyrs for the Reapers to toy with and get a high out of killing.
Soul scowled and clenched his fists. "Reaper scum," he seethed. He got ready to unleash his wrath, but faltered when a shot, unlike the others, fired from his left. He looked over and blanched at how comfortable a cold .45 looked in her hands. Whatever trance that immobilized her before had disappeared because now he watched her as she fired relentlessly at the Reapers, hitting some and grazing others. He balked. Nurse badass, he thought. But he also didn't like seeing her fire a gun. She was a healer, not a killer.
"Maka?"
"Shut up and help me, Soul!"
Like a good boy, he listened. He started firing electricity at the Reapers who, Soul angrily acknowledged, were using the bodies of the dead to barricade themselves from Maka's shots and his attack. What they didn't expect, however, was Soul's power to pass through the remaining water inside the dead and electrocute them. Like a medium of death. He cringed at how his electricity contorted the dead and did his bidding. The Reapers screamed and collapsed in a heap of death of their own, joining the innocents. He stopped and stared down at his hands. His murderous hands. Very, very lethal.
"You have no idea just how lethal you are, Soul."
He shuddered.
"Soul?"
He didn't budge.
"Hey, Soul?"
He refused.
"Damn it, Soul. Listen to me!"
"You didn't listen to me before," he mumbled.
"Well, I'm sorry, okay? I had a lot on my mind. But like you said, we have to keep moving. We can't stay here." She paused, eyeing the dead around them. When her eyes landed on Peter, still gathered in his mother's arms, her very soul wilted at the tragedy. "We couldn't save them... and I will never forget that," she said, eyes cast downward. "But we still have a chance to save the people back at the hospital. That's what matters most now."
"Maka, are you afraid of me?"
"What?"
The way she looked taken aback by his question was reassuring, even if only for a second. But that wasn't enough to put him at ease. His power had a will of its own, overtaking the dead and silencing his enemies, and that terrified him. What was that phrase again? With great power, comes great responsibility, he thought. Well, the universe had chosen the wrong guy to wield such power, seeing as how he'd never known responsibility. Call him a rebellious, spoiled, rich kid that had just been cut off from his family fortune a little over a year ago. A rebellious, spoiled, not-so-rich-anymore kid that took a sketchy handout to save his own hide from eviction, at the cost of people's lives. He didn't deserve anything. Not this power, and certainly not Maka's blind faith in him.
"We are not doing this now," she insisted, suddenly, and this caught him off guard. "We can't make this about you right now. We have people counting on us. Sick, helpless people. So, enough with your pity party!"
"You didn't answer," he replied, slowly, as if to let the idea of her being afraid sink in and normalize in his head. Maybe she should be afraid. Maybe pursuing more than friendship with her was too daring, too dangerous. Maybe he should start rethinking everything. Maybe...
"Oh my god, Soul. You're harmless. Sure, you can fry Reapers. But I find that endearing, personally." At that, he quirked a brow at her to say he was listening. She smiled softly at him with those green, green eyes crinkling at the corners, and took him by the crook of his elbow. "C'mon, could use some lights, Mr. human glow stick. I don't burn easily."
Soul couldn't put down the guffaw riding up his throat. So it roared, instead, merrily and awkwardly off his tongue. How did he get so lucky? he asked mentally. Her blind faith in him seemed, on the surface, irrational, but it lit a match in his blood and propelled his confidence to heights he didn't think possible. Her spell on him never ceased to amaze him. Even here, where his integrity is being drilled in his head, she found a way to bring him to his senses. Man, was he so smitten with this little firecracker of a nurse.
"You've got me. But paws off, just in case." He shook her off, eliciting a small huff from her, and carefully used his powers—for good or for evil, he didn't know or couldn't care less right now—to resume glow stick status. "There. Are you satisfied?"
"Yes, actually."
"Are you aroused?" He waggled his eyebrows enticingly, hoping she'd catch his playful tease before deciding to give his head a nasty dent.
She blushed and gawked at him. Victory! "I said the way you fried Reapers was endearing! I didn't mean—"
"Shh, don't spoil it."
She smacked his shoulder, lightly, he noted, and stormed ahead of him. "I swear you can be such a pain in the ass."
"An endearing pain?" he tried, and the way his electricity made her eyes glow with malice in the dark was worthy of his greatest nightmares. "Forget I said anything," he quickly tacked on as he jogged after her. She didn't reply. But she didn't hit him, either, so that was victory enough.
A half hour of walking around in the dark surrounded by water and its gross sludge counterpart, and he got, "I can't see anything. Can't you turn it up a notch?"
His insecurities dialed it up a notch instead, and Soul scowled. "I don't think so. Almost out of juice, if that's possible."
He heard her sigh. "Great. Do you at least know where we are?"
"I think so. The generator should be up ahead a little ways." He started walking faster, trying to cut her off, and grunted when she refused his attempt at merging lanes. "Maka," he warned. "The closer we get to the generator, the more likely we'll run into Reapers. I want you behind me."
"I'm fine where I am. Don't push me, Soul."
He groaned. She was stubborn. Too stubborn. "Didn't you say you'd run in the opposite direction of danger for me?"
"Didn't you promise to stay out of trouble for me?" she challenged, and he cursed under his breath. This would come back to bite him in the ass. But damn, did it have god awful timing.
"Maka, like you said, we're not doing this now."
Maka looked about ready to knock his lights out. All of that pent up rage and frustration bubbled beneath her porcelain skin and up to the surface, but a noise stopped her. A noise stopped him. They looked ahead at a small, blustering light. It moved like flames and was trailed by an insistent hissing and inhuman snarl.
"What the hell?" he heard her say, but his focus centered on the angry flames coming straight for them. Soul looked to either side of them. Water on both sides, trapping them on this thin, cobblestone path with fury flying in their direction. Upon further inspection, he realized a hooded figure with flames for fists was bounding toward them. A Reaper, he thought. His heart skipped a beat. A suicide bomber.
"Maka, duck down!" he yelled and, surprisingly, she listened. He held out his arm and took a few shots, missing as the Reaper sidestepped every bolt. His arm started to shake but he didn't stop, refused to. He'd use up all his energy before letting this Reaper scum blow him and Maka to smithereens. But his conduit gas tank was teetering on empty. His outputs became more and more taxing, and his misses more and more frustrating. Honestly, what was with him? Was Maka expendable according to his conduit gene? At that, his power spiked and his attacks started acting as drones, hot on their Reaper target's heels. The bugger got awfully close, but Soul finally nailed him.
And then everything blew up in their faces.
A flash of white, orange, and red had him reeling. It left him dangling over the water, his hands burnt and holding onto the slick concrete edge. He let out a string of curses because suicide bomber, it was a fucking suicide bomber, of course he'd blow up! The water bristled menacingly when his electricity got too close. Cringing, he pulled himself over the edge and his eyes immediately landed on Maka, lying motionless and face down a few feet from him.
A hot panic ignited in his blood.
Soul scrambled to his feet, rushed to her side, and flipped her over in his arms, a breath hitching in his throat. Was she breathing? He waved a hand over her mouth and felt a slight puff of air leave her lips. She was alive. A gash marred her forehead and left a trail of blood down the side of her face, but she was alive. Then, her eyes fluttered open and he stared joyfully into green.
"Hey," he rasped, and she winced, gesturing to her ears. They were blown out. Against his silent wishes for her to take it easy, she sat up abruptly and prodded her forehead. "Don't," he said gently. "You'll agitate it." Her, being the nurse, still didn't heed his words and played with her gash. He took her hand in his, ignoring her protests, and rolled his eyes, mumbling, "Dummy. I said stop. You're making it worse."
"You were the one that made the Reaper go boom," she slurred. "So who you calling dummy?"
Soul chuckled. He'd almost signed their death warrants with his bout of heroism, signed her death warrant, but still managed to laugh it off. How cynical of him. He helped Maka back onto her feet, her still wobbly and him not that much better, and pushed on. He considered having Maka be benched, but he couldn't leave her behind in Reaper territory or abandon the mission. People were counting on them. Them. As much as he wanted to ride solo, he had no choice at this point.
"Look," Maka said. He shuddered, since she'd been leaning against him and breathed her words into his ear. Get it together, Evans. "I see the generator." She pointed to a platform up ahead, lit up with dim lights and weak static outputs. There lied the generator in all its glory. "We made it."
"With plenty of bumps in the road," he added.
"Still made it."
Once they reached the platform, Soul helped her transition from leaning on him to carrying her own weight. Maka staggered for a moment, but quickly caught her balance. She beamed at him, expecting praise, of all things, and he rolled his eyes. When she pouted, he grumbled, "Yeah, sure. You get a gold star for standing. Happy?" At that, she elbowed him, making him wheeze and approach the generator with a stumble in his step.
"Think you can turn it back on?"
He eyed the control panel, reading in tech lingo he couldn't grasp, and shrugged. "Worth a try, I guess." He looked up at two opposing circuit lines facing one another, with nothing but air standing in a gap between them. He squinted his eyes. Was electricity meant to bridge the gap? "I think I got something." He stood between the two structures and tried to calculate how high he'd need to jump.
"Soul?" Maka asked, the hospital most likely clouding her head. "Hurry, please."
He nodded. "Sure. Just, don't freak out."
He didn't give her a chance to respond when he jumped, grabbing each end of the circuit reaching into the gap, and forced every ounce of his electric being into the generator. The charge ignited within him, and he yelled his frustrations and pain into the gap, cursing, begging for it to spark. He kicked out his legs and fastened his grip into a choke hold on the circuit. Eventually, he brought his hands together and the circuitry kindled into a healthy, charged beam where his body once was, because now he lied on the floor. Didn't remember falling, but he had certainly fallen.
"Soul!"
He listened to Maka's screams and the generator rotor whir to life as everything went dark.
"Well played, Soul. Well played."
IV.
A deathly thin figure, hiding their pale face in their collar, entered a lavish chamber with a rattle in their step as no good news was on the tip of their tongue. Or so they thought.
"Yes, Crona?" their mot- master said, acknowledging their most likely unwanted entrance.
"L-Lady Medusa," Crona stuttered. "S-Someone meddled with one of our generators. The p-power is back on in sector f-five."
Lady Medusa sighed, more annoyed than angered, much to their relief. "The little conduit pest has done it again. Oh, how I loathe his pitiful heroics."
Crona stood there, shaking, and jumped when their Lady's snake eyes landed on them once more, searching.
"Is that all?"
They shook their head sheepishly. "There's a r-rumor about a death c-conduit." At that, their Lady raised a brow and prompted them to continue with a curt wave of her hand. "A boy w-with the Grim R-Reaper's touch. He touches y-you, and you d-die instantly."
"Interesting. I'd love to meet this boy."
Crona stood there, again, unsure of what to say or do next, and startled when their Lady suddenly raised her voice. "Out of my chamber, Crona!" They shuffled away and tripped on their way out, mumbling their apologies as they shut the door.
"The boy made of lightning, and another with Death's touch," Medusa said aloud, mulling it over in her head. "What interesting players I have on my board. Who will cry uncle first, I wonder?"
Meanwhile, somewhere deep in the city, a boy desperately dug through the trash, searching, hoping to find anything to cover his skin so it would never see the light of day again. So he wouldn't live up to the name the Reapers had so harshly given him.
Death The Kid.
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