Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater nor any of it's characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people. Other real-life stuff and references to other Anime/manga things... I don't own those either... like Sharpies(Frederick W. Redington, Tom Sharp, William H. Sanford, Jr.) and Lysol(Reckitt Benckiser)? Not mine.
Chapter 3:
"No more!" Ragnarok grips short inky locks in distress as the song replays on loop. "No! No! NO!" He screams, burying his face into the rough bedding covering his ears with his forearms, toes beating at the material like drums with every kick, trying to drown out the all-too familiar melody.
"Ragna-" It scares him when he gets like this. Crona tries to say something, anything to lessen his brother's outburst, but is cut off.
"NO!" The word comes out muffled, but the message clear. He's tired of this. Well, Crona is too. He hears it when he sleeps, it follows him even when he showers. The speakers are unseen but everywhere. They can't get away from it.
How many times since that one morning have they heard this song? Had to see these awful letters dance across the screen along to cheery singing from an invisible person? He doesn't know, Crona can't count that high yet. But, it's a lot.
"Ragnarok, Doccer want us learn." He tries again, but his voice is barely even audible above the happy tune. The pink-haired boy scuttles over from his perch on the cold floor to his brother's cot, his tiny fist timidly knocks on the metal bars to get the boy's attention.
He doesn't touch his brother and Ragnarok doesn't touch him. Touch hurts. It always does. They don't want to hurt any more than they have to. Crona waits patiently before knocking again, a little louder.
"Ragnarok?"
Ragnarok stops kicking, the grip at his scalp loosening, his back moving up and down rapidly as he catches his breath. Slowly, he turns his head. His normally pale cheeks are almost look ashy, dirty, little dark brows set in a deep scowl among slit moisture-rimmed blue and bruised bags.
The small pinkette knows he's not mad at him, it still doesn't make him feel good. Tilting his head, a weak sympathetic smile on spreads across tiny dry lips.
"I sorry."
"Shut up." His brows furrow further, but his lips twitch upwards.
The music stops and the screen goes blank. All is quiet. Ragnarok heaves an astonished chuckle, baby blue eyes brightening as he flips his body around to lay on his back, propping his leg up on a knee.
"It's gone!" He giggles loudly, cheering with chubby fists.
"All gone!" Crona smiles and joins him in his relieved laughter.
A new tune filters through the room, their chuckles die on their lips, arms fall limp as they immediately scan the screen for the next torment, their next lesson. Both boys, watch intently as the different hues and unfamiliar words cross the screen. They will soak in everything, do as they are told. What else can they do? They are surrounded, this is what they are supposed to do; what their mother wants for them. How many days will this last? Will this haunt their dreams as well as that 'alphabet' thing?
Probably.
Crona looks over at the raven-haired tot, lain out on his metal-framed bunk, smiling a little. At least he has his brother, they will never really have to be alone.
Ragnarok's head whips over, narrow orbs falling on Crona. The pinkette tenses, startled at the sudden attention. Ragnarok smiles back, his similar blue eyes softening as if he read his mind. They are in this together.
O.O.O
With a jolt and a sharp inhale, Crona's eyes spring open, automatically searching the cot across the way.
It was just a dream.
It felt so real. Like he and his brother were really just kids again, that he was still with him, still in this room, still learning basic vocabulary... And not alone.
His stomach clenches. He hates this, doesn't want to be alone now. The teen wants to see his brother, feels so incomplete, empty without him here. But, he can't. Doctor Gorgon has taken him, split them up, something neither thought to be a possibility. The blonde woman said he's stable, that he's okay.
Her word is law.
Crona should believe her, he doesn't have any reason not to. But, he can't help but feel that something isn't right. Something is wrong, so wrong. He still doesn't know, can only run with what his mother has given him. The pinkette can only put his trust in those cold yellow eyes, that serpentine smile... In her love. Crona shivers at just the thought of that word.
Running a shaky hand through choppy locks, careful not to touch his scalp, he blows out a ragged breath. It doesn't mean he has to like the situation. He despises it. But, his feelings don't matter. They are her subjects, tools and research. Emotions, those are pointless. She must have a reason, one that he'll never be privy to.
That should be enough, but he craves more. Crona clenches his jaw, squeezes his lids shut, a palm flat against his pounding chest.
"You've spent enough fucking time in this room, don't you think, dipshit?" That vociferation growls, it's such a relief. Just to hear it again, if only he could see him...
"HEY! GET THE FUCK UP!" Crona snorts at this, a small grin forming as he lazily rolls from the cot to the floor.
"Nnngh." Groaning a little, the boy hits hard icy surface with an 'oof.' He doesn't want to open his eyes, but cracks one anyway. Disappointment doesn't surprise him, he knows that was just his imagination, his own way to deal with his brother's absence. Still, he can wish, right?
Pushing up from the floor, he heads through the door and into the large house -once again, like he has for at least a week now- to soak in as much of what little of the world he can. His pulse quickens, he picks up his pace down the stairs and onward to those double doors.
He'll see her again.
Knowing this, it excites him that she is a near-constant now in his day-to-day. Even if she never truly notices. Her momentary presence is something he looks forward to; like reading the next line of text within a paragraph, unfolding mental imagery piece by piece.
That soft melancholy in her emerald eyes calls to him, her movements mesmerize him, the air of isolation sparks a flame of kinship within him. She seems so unlike the other people that pass, their faces forgettable; blurs of features that seem unremarkable. Though, the pink-haired boy could never forget her.
She is the first he saw, the only he really seems to see any more.
It's weird to think that he is so mentally attached to someone he doesn't know; that doesn't know him. But, that is just how it is, how it has been. She captivates him, intrigues him, piques his interest.
Crona ambles in careful steps across the gravel, practiced, skilled enough that now it doesn't even sting, to sit at the fence. Watching. Waiting.
~O~O~O~
It all started with her locker room heist. The rush, instant gratification, the idea of retaliation, of taking what she should have, replacing the things that she has lost. Then she started picking up random unattended odds and ends, including the occasional coinpurse or unbitten hotdog from momentarily abandoned tables. And now, she stands outside of the first actual store on her hit-list, biting her lips and bouncing in anticipation.
These fuckers. Oh, she's going to fucking show them!
Snooty employees told to black-list her fucking application, making it impossible for her to find work; not just here, but in the whole damned town. It left her unable to support herself, eat, or provide common everyday necessities. Unable to escape. Well, they are in for a rude awakening. It's their fucking fault, just as much as her father's... and her own. But damn it if she's going to do without!
If Maka is to be shunned, taunted and held in contempt by those around her, she's going to give them a damn good reason! She brushes off her blouse and rubs the creases out of her pants, straightening her bag as she walks in with her head held high, a determined glint in her eye.
"Good mor-," a red-headed door clerk begins, waving, but quiets as he takes her in, "-ning." His hand falls limply at his side. She scoffs, passing by without a word.
She can feel the stares. They are always around, always watching, always judging, tearing her down silently. Meeting each gaze in turn, her own narrowed, daring, she treks the shining laminate flooring through the overly bright center, light paling her image and dulling her existence further as she glides to the health and beauty section. Far too quiet is this packed store, it's just the clicking of shoes and a murmur of whispers to accompany her along her stride, prodding her nerves, making the blonde's hair stand on end.
Every aisle she turns down mysteriously empties, shuffles of clamoring feet hurrying over to the next row, leaving her alone to do as she wants. It's hilarious, actually. Fully grown adults and teens alike fear her for what they don't know that she doesn't have. Scuttling away like skittish sheep being rounded and corralled. A chilling flame burns within, the girl's heart twinges at the threat of frostbite but she doesn't even flinch. The only way to make this better is to show them, acquiring the things she wants without a second thought. These people won't stand in her way, figuratively, of course... They won't come anywhere near her.
Maka plucks toothbrushes and pricey miniature toothpaste tubes from the 'travel-sized' shelves, tossing them from closed-palm discreetly into her opened pouch at the side of her bag. Moving on, opening a pack of tampons and slowly transferring the contents into her bag, she looks at a different product.
It just so happened to be hair-coloring for down-stairs and she giggles, unable to help herself. Of course that would be what she'd pretend to be interested in. As if she wanted to show off a newly violet-tipped bush.
Pssh. Much like shaving, no point. It's silly, none-the-less. Who dyes that? Maka wanders as she ponders the many scenarios of mis-coloring she has experienced in the past, relating them to the cooter area. The resulting mind-pictures are beyond disturbing.
Somehow, she finds herself skipping through the store, humming "London Bridge" to herself; dye distraction and adrenaline fogs her head as she unloads granola bars one by one and other snacks into her bag. The emerald-eyed teen's hands move quicker than she thought they possibly could. Fingers on her deft hands twitch, itching to grab on to more but at a loss with the store's lack of selection.
Meats, dairy, cans, nothing but a waste of precious, precious space. Why bother when refrigeration is out of the question and the aluminum would just add to the weight of her sack. With the conditions the blonde has been living in, it just sounds like wasted effort.
Suddenly she finds herself stopping at the nearest register at the store's exit, the racks of candy catching her hungry pointed stared. It looks so good, she wants it and at this moment, Maka will get what she wants. Plucking a little bag of M&M's from the shelf, she tears into the package and dumps them into her mouth.
She's in plain sight, but doesn't care. Looking the cashier in the eye, she flips her off and chews her candy-coated chocolate. Airy chuckles jerk her about, escaping her nostrils as she stares the girl down, as these shoppers watch her eat the pilfered junk holding an obscene gesture toward the flustered register operator, unsure of what they should do. The pig-tailed blonde swallows and drops her hand, giggling as she backs out of the sliding door with a brown tongue out.
Maka hears their whispers, the gasps, feels their shocked stares burning into her like an inferno blazing over her flesh, or maybe that is just the atmosphere outside that just blasted her as she left that cool building... Whatever, it tickles and only makes her laugh harder. Her ribs ache, her body is jittery, but she keeps on, turning to prance along the sidewalk with an almost demented merriment.
Because they won't do a single God damned thing to stop her.
The girl's full-out cackling now, outside of the store's view and in the desolate filth-ridden side-alley, doubled over. Forgotten papers rustle across mold-sticky concrete, accentuating the giggles, her lungs forcing them out in violent wracks. It's sharp and painful, even. Her head is swimming against harsh currents, unable to stay afloat, but does she even want to?
They... They won't stop her. She can get away with any damn thing she wants, because they all want nothing to do with her. Maka is so fucking free; no responsibilities, no repercussions... Nothing. It feel's so good, right? ... This freedom jolting along her sides with that ghastly sound?
The ground is wet. Why? Why is the ground wet? Absently, she wipes at her face with a shaking palm. The answer is clear: those weren't laughs. Somewhere along the line, she started sobbing, loudly, uncontrollably.
But, when the hell was that?
The blonde falls to her knees the salty moisture soaking her joints as the rubbish beneath sticks to the fabric. Her thigh pulses, stinging as each cut crackles open from their scabs, staining her black pants a darker shade at the outside seam.
"Well, isn't that something?" The question cracks, she leans back on her heels. Maka sniffs, tracing the growing smear at her leg with an idle finger. "I could have it all..." Chuckling dryly at her own paltry joke, she stands.
"I really could, huh?" Words pass her lips on a sigh and she stumbles out of the shaded alley. "Maybe I'll test the theory one day."
The teen's tired. Not really physically, though, maybe she could use some sleep, too. She can't look at the faces all around her, can't handle walking about knowing that all they will do is stare at her. Those people will judge her, condemn her.
She just wants to forget; slip away into another realm where she is omnipotent, watching over others lead their strange lives, having unfathomable adventures.
Here, in this overpopulated city, crowded with people packed into apartment buildings and residential communities like sardines in a can... It's lonely. It's cold in this heat with no one to confide in. All she has is herself, all she needs is herself. But what good is the girl to herself if she's just a shell, empty and hollow with no purpose?
She's just... Not.
A loud car horn startles her and she finishes crossing the street, stepping up onto the sidewalk.
Shit. They won't even dare to hit her with their vehicles. Snorting, the blonde rounds that familiar bend with inky black bars at her side.
The hairs on the back of her neck stand again, her nerves tingle and goosebumps spread. It's been like this every time she's come to the park lately. Once again, she searches the pavement on all sides of her, looks into the park... Nothing. Maka turns around for one more glance.
That's when she finds them.
Those eyes that watch her in curiosity, not out of malice or pity. The person that has always eluded her scan, hidden well by a high fence. Yet that person hasn't moved an inch, those blue orbs only slightly widen, yet steady and on her from beyond planks of grainy wood.
She freezes, Maka wasn't exactly expecting to find anything. It's kind of awkward, actually. Should she wave? Carry on and Ignore this person? Yell? Gesture obscenely? Smile? Walk over?
It's odd not to be the center of negative attention. Even more so, by this person with such an awed inquisitive stare.
She runs a hand through a blonde pig-tail and scratches the back of her neck, quirking a brow and shaking her head as she slides past the creaky ebon gate. Maka can't deal with this right now. It makes her feel weird.
The green-eyed girl just wants to read.
Plopping down between the cozy gap between roots, she pulls her book and cracks it to the folded page. But, she's not seeing the words no matter how much she squints or how low her brows travel attempting to grasp at concentration. All she can see are those huge eyes, so light, so deeply blue looking at her from the pages.
Groaning in frustration, Maka rubs at her face. Fuck it. She'll just shoot for sleep. Anything to take this day far, far away.
~O~O~O~
She... she saw him. Looked straight at him, and he just froze. Struck still in time as soon as those emerald eyes focused on him. He could not blink, couldn't move. Crona is almost certain he wasn't even breathing, judging by the gasping inhale he took as soon as she faded into the greenery, beyond the black.
The boy can't think straight, most likely couldn't form a coherent sentence if his life depended on it. The first person he's ever seen beyond this home has just become the first to notice him. It's surreal, almost... If he wasn't sitting on jagged rocks and stuck behind this wooden fence. If he had his brother here to witness, to experience this.
Has he done this? What has he been doing? What is he doing right now? What does Doctor Gorgon have planned for his noirette twin? ... For Crona? The gravel scrapes against his skin, digging deep into his palm as the blue-orbed teen grips his fist.
"There's got to be something..." Focus shifting, Crona mumbles. He's thinking, probably too much. But, he has never gone this long without ending up on that cold metal slab and if it's not him... Crona gulps, swallowing past the lump that has formed. "Ragnarok..."
"God, quit your whining!" That Ragnarok-esque modulation growls, causing the pinkette to loosen grip on the rocks. "You sound like you should be slitting, listening to music by singers with Flock of Seagulls haircuts and tears in their make-up lined eyes, you puss."
"..." Crona tilts his head, bewilderment written all over his features. "W-what..?" For some reason, he can't catch a good enough breath to speak more than an airy whisper. But, he has no clue what... just, what? Shooting a glance over each shoulder, he frowns, even more confused. That made no sense! He grits his teeth, hands gripping at his garment's hem.
The boy doesn't understand.
Yes, this voice is comforting in a sense, but just as much so, it increases his need to see his brother. Something he can't have until their mother permits it... If she ever will. Not only that, but it says things that only his brother would. How is it possible for his own mind to subconsciously think up these things?
Is so much time together to blame? It just doesn't seem like that would be the answer. Too simple. Nothing this troubling is that damn simple!
Crona's knuckles are white, he's twisting the fabric so tightly, wringing it in his frustration. A sharp pain shocks him into the now, and he releases the material, fingertips flying to inspect the sudden infliction. A small gash in the middle of his bottom lip, it stings with the grit on his fingertips so he licks it to lessen the mess.
He didn't think his hands were that dirty, they were just strangling cloth. Surely that would have gotten the gravel dust off of them, right? Even though the pain ebbs to nothing, he still looks down to inspect them.
Crona gasps.
It's as if everything but his digits fade away into nothing, for that is all he can see; all that he can focus on. It... It wasn't just a dream. This wasn't just his imagination, or a side-effect hallucination caused by medications...
His, it really was... His blood... It's black. His blood is black.
Rubbing the ink-like substance between tremorous lithe fingers, he watches dazedly as it spreads, coating his tips, dipping into his prints, the wetness sliding down their lengths lazily as he lifts them higher; eye level.
And he laughs, confounded rasps escaping his gaped, blood-smeared maw.
"... My blood," Chuckles the nescient-drunk teen, the rasps gritty, heartier as an odd grin stretches across features as his mind snaps, "My blood is black."
"Alright, the creep is strong with you. Point is made and crystal fucking clear, now stop with the evillish 'mwa ha's' and chill!"
Crona only laughs harder. He doesn't understand! He never understands, but this! Oh, this, all of it, takes the prize. He's blanking, doesn't know what to think. And, at this very minute, he doesn't need to.
It's a relief! He feels so light, so tingly! His flesh is drowning in the pins and needles and numb. It's so... weird. And funny! The pinkette doesn't know what's going on. He doubles over as the giggles come in strong waves, his ribs ache. He never knows! He'll never know, pressing palms to his sides, he laughs even harder.
Because it's so sad that it's funny. His whole existence, this, his brother, that voice, the blonde girl, every one else in this big world he's only seen a fraction of, his mother, love... It's all one big fat joke, right? He gets it, it's absolutely hilarious!
O.O.O
Calignosity paints the desert sky above as a warm breeze rattles leaves upon branches and crickets call into the night. Everything is so loud. So loud, but silent all the same. Porous stones below dig into his trembling limbs as his orbs stare blindly at and beyond the wood.
So dark. When did it get so dark out? Wasn't the sun just out, broiling everything under it? The pinkette doesn't like this darkness, it's unfamiliar, deep, suffocating... It's black. Black like the ebony ink that apparently flows through his own veins.
Crona doesn't move, he can't. This... He expected to be different with all of Doctor Gorgon's research, with all of her experiments and testing. But this...
Everyone bleeds red. Every living person. So, does this make him more or less than everyone else? Is he even human anymore? Body so heavy, this new burden, new responsibility, it's so much. Too much. What does she want with him? Does she want to do this to the people out there? What does this even accomplish? The boy's eyes burn. They're dry, he doesn't even know if he's blinked since he noticed the sky.
Does Ragnarok have black blood? Is that why his incisions scarred that color? So it wasn't an infection...Or maybe it is. Crona's breath comes in rapid pants, crystal eyes dilated, scanning the night air for nothing in particular.
He can't grasp this information, can't process it in a way that will make any sort of sense. What is the purpose? What is his purpose? Biting at his lip, he winces at his own pressure and sucks at the swollen tender cushion to soothe it.
He blinks.
Was this what she wanted? Is this a sign of success or failure? Shakily, he rubs at his numb legs before stumbling to a stand. Rocky edges dig into bare soles, sending shocks and stabs of racing prickling pain up his sleeping limbs, his knees buckle a bit. The boy steadies himself against the fence's grain, until the sensation fades. He needs to go inside. He needs to escape the shadows, needs the light. Crona needs familiarity.
Toeing cautiously across the gravel, past isolated trees and foliage he reaches the doors, opening them with a grinding creak.
Crona flinches.
Everything seems so loud when all else is silent, this bright house illusory in contrast with the jet expanse outside. It gives him a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he swallows it down, following the path he's recently taken many times.
The marble beneath him works with each step to chill his feet, cold travelling up his legs spreading rapidly to freeze him to the core. The pinkette shivers as he grasps the handrail at the staircase, taking a moment to gather himself.
Stairs aren't helping that anxious boring pit within him, at all, but he forces himself upward; grip taut, knuckles ghostly white as tugs close with every jarring footfall. Reaching the top of the flights, he puffs out in relief, wandering onward. Passing through the halls in padding and hush, the boy eyes every door with longing. Just like every other time.
He just wants to know, to see, to open these doors just for a peek. Would they still be locked, like the times before? Or, is one of them open for him? There is only one way to know for sure.
But, should he? Shouldn't he trust his mother's -Doctor Gorgon's- word? Would it upset her if he nosed about without regard to her given affirmations? Crona exhales a conflicted growl, stopping his hand from reaching for a doorknob.
He will go to the room, will sleep, and ultimately spend his idle time waiting. To hear of Ragnarok, see that girl... for comprehension. Everything. The teen will bide his time obediently because Crona is nothing but what the doctor makes of him and has nothing but what she provides. He is her whim, work, tool, puppet, experiment... He is Doctor Medusa Gorgon's son.
Small strides take him to the metal cart splayed with an array of cold soup, oddly colored puree and most likely, warm water. Crona walks past it, into the brightly lit bathroom. Clean marble and white hard plastic gleam beneath the ever-blazing beams, showcasing all the white. A blank canvas sorely in lack of all color. Barren, sparkling in all it's antiseptic glory.
The pink-haired teen closes the door, shedding his day-dirtied wear and grabs a towel from the closet. Needing to cleanse himself, clear out his thoughts, to scrub away his issues, and forget, for just a moment, that he is not and will never be normal. That he lives only for a scalpel and microscope; to be poked, prodded, stuck and sliced.
The boy thirsts to dismiss the fact that his heart pushes viscous ink through his veins and that he may never see his brother again... Or, unless until Doctor Gorgon deems fit. In a daze, he steps into the rubber-lined shower, pulling the frosted curtain and flipping the cool metal faucet to the highest setting. Crona doesn't flinch at the sudden burst of arctic rain, nor does he hiss at the scalding spray as it heats. Pale blues shut, he's just too preoccupied.
Because in this moment, he can pretend. The pinkette can imagine that Ragnarok is picking trashy electronic books to read, grumbling about Crona using all of the hot water 'like a chick,' even though neither of them really know that information.
As the water beats at his flesh, stinging, burning him in sheets of sterilizing wash, he can envision himself walking into daylight, amongst people, into the grey-scale lined city or through that vibrant park to feel grass with his fingertips and observe how such colorful contraptions he's seen are actually used.
In this instant, he is a normal boy. The water glides down heat-flushed skin as he works the astringent soap across his face and body. Derma tightens as lather slides from his limbs, making him feel slick and squeaky. Crona stands there, beneath the shower-head, forearms resting against the wall cushioning his forehead as the rain hammers along his back and his mind relishes these day-dreams.
The water will run cold soon and with it, frigid truth will flood. But right now, he can pretend. It's all he has.
~O~O~O~
"This is very special to me, you know?" Purring into his ear, the tip of Medusa's tongue slowly traces the indent of Franken's scar as his hands run down her sides, her faint gasp like a cool breeze on the sensitive tissue, humming with warmth.
"Is it, now?" Huskily the man chuckles, raising a brow as he catches her lips when they draw close, taking the bottom between his teeth. He sucks lightly on the flushed, pillowy cushion as she pulls away nodding. Eyes so bright behind pleasure-drunk heavy lids in this dim room, her skin's like heated silk in spite of the chill surrounding them, her hair perfectly twisted although she was just writhing beneath him moments ago.
"Don't you remember?" Playful breath tickles his lips in her askance.
"Of course, I do," Catching her gaze, an amused smirk rips across his features, "my dearest sister."
"Tell me." Medusa whispers into his ear, heating it with every word, her plush maw ghosting across the lobe down tender skin at the crook of his neck, "I want to hear it all from your filthy little incestuous mouth." Biting, sucking at his hot flesh, he groans, leaning into her. Taut arms encircle her, pulling her closer, pressing every feminine curve to every bit of him. Just to feel her... it's intoxicating. Franken doesn't want to talk, especially not with what magic she's weaving with her mouth.
"Why?" Her ministrations leave him struggling to find voice, his arms slacken, submitting to Medusa's will. Dainty fingers trail fiery passes from chest to his thighs, blood is pumping so quick, his mind is fogging, heady with her touch, her lips.
"Because," Medusa speaks softly, following the path made by her hands with open-mouthed kisses, slipping through his embrace easily, "I like knowing you would do anything for me, pet. So, tell me our story."
"As you wish." He manages between pants and moans as she licks the taut scars at his lower stomach. She'll keep going if he does. Stein doesn't want her to stop.
His mind leaves him as his body prattles on in strangled moans and throaty croaks, unable to think past the slick heat encompassing his length as the tension, such delicious frustration, builds once more.
O.O.O
"So, he's gone again?"
"She is, too."
"I don't understand why you two care so much. It's not like this is anything new." Arachne's silver-lined ebony orbs narrow at them on the steps as she strides past, head high and lips pursed.
"I'm going out, you two be sure not to die or anything stupid like that. I'd hate to have to pretend to be upset." Long, shapely legs carry the young adult through the spacious abode with only the clack of heels to break the silence. Medusa grins at this before she lifts her ear awaiting the creak and click of the doors.
"Well, it seems we are clear and free to continue some of our work." Franken speaks hushly against her temple, jagged, chopped locks tickle his chin as she nods.
"Though, to manipulate the human body, we are in dire need to learn it intimately. There is only so much that outdated textbooks can provide us. Wouldn't you agree?"
Pale lithe fingers push his frames up the bridge of his nose and he tilts his head, lips tugging upwards despite his restraint. "I would agree, Meddy, but you see, our prime candidate just left for the night to follow in mommy's footprints."
"Ah, well, it's a good thing I took this then, isn't it?" The girl undoes the first few buttons on her shirt, revealing creamy, ivory skin. Dragging teasing fingertips along her chest, dusty jade orbs take in her movements, high in anticipation, driven to it's peak by hormones raging through this young teen. Braids swaying above her shoulders, the blonde pauses, grinning at a choked growl that grates from the boy. Finally, reaching into her lacy black brassiere, she pulls from it a small vile of crimson fluid. It sloshes thickly as the tube runs along her flesh.
"...And she didn't even notice?" Cocking a platinum brow, Franken allows an amused smirk to shine in all of it's glory. Chuckling, the fair-maned male shakes his head. "Someone's getting sneakier.~"
"But tell me, how exactly is that going to help with our... studies?" Clearing his throat of the sing-song that lightened it, he shoots the girl a look etched with confusion.
"Aww, but my dear brother, the mystery is only part of the fun!" Faking a whine, the golden-orbed teen pouts pitifully as she shakes the tube's contents in his face, those grey-green eyes following the liquid in almost a trance. "You wouldn't want to ruin the fun, now would you?"
"Certainly not. At least tell me... Has our lovely harlot of an elder sister gained us anything interesting to manipulate?"
"You'll just have to wait and see, now won't you?" Her velvety tongue flicks out, moistening her upper lip before she nips the bottom sending the boy a wink. "But, I will say that I have some side experiments going that counts on her... extracurricular activities."
"You tease."
"You don't know the half of it, dearest."
o.o.o
"So, you're saying that there's no way we can use Arachne?" Worrying the inside of his cheek, he looks around the clean little makeshift lab they created together just over two years ago; beakers and vials, tubes and flasks, alembics bubble softly as electrical currents and small flames work through the various concoctions. All of this work, painstakingly crafted and forged with their own hands, stormed with the combination of their intelligence; it will all be for nothing if there is not a subject to study. One that won't be missed, wouldn't mind scarring and fear side effects.
"No, I've told you, we need live tissue. To study the density of bone, elasticity of muscle, the movement of blood, networks of nerves... It's critical that we are able to track the progress of our serum. I can only do so much with hypothesis and theorems, Franken." Medusa's bright amber eyes dull, shutting momentarily as she rubs her temples.
"It should work, we've done all we can with her laundry-list of ailments. I'm almost positive it will work and your studies are coming along nicely... Everything is falling right into place... except for this. She would never agree, she doesn't even know..." Sighing, she refocuses on him. It's alarming. The girl looks so resigned, defeated.
No. This is not what they've spent years planning! Something as huge, life-altering as this should not be forsaken! He can't stand for it! Won't allow it! All of the animals they've experimented on, the ones that have died, sacrificed to dissection pinpointing the roots of their problems, petri dishes borning bacillus only to be stripped, reversing its properties to create it's synthetic counterweight, the countless hours staring down the barrel of a microscope noting differences in platelet patterns until the boy's eyes couldn't adjust to anything but tunnel-vision and floaters... NO! It can't just be ruined, not when they've come so far, not when everything they have ever wanted is within reach. NO!
"I'll do it." Medusa blinks at his steady resolve, Franken's chiseled unwavering features, his hard eyes alight behind rounded flashing lenses. Her heart speeds, she bites her lip and smiles at him before reaching into her coat pocket.
"Very good, my pet." He doesn't think twice about the name when one warm hand lifts to palm his cheek, her long fingers gently pushing white capsules into his mouth. She moves in, nuzzling his throat with the bridge of her nose, her pliable lips leave a scalding trail in their wake.
He swallows out of reflex. Mind fogging with a blissful obscurity, senses filling with antiseptics as they erode along their journey, and that heated scent of womanly musk that is pure... her. The medicine works it's way through his system, dissolving almost instantly, sending fire through his veins to match the blaze her touch raises upon his flesh. In this moment she is all that he sees, feels, thinks and breathes. Her words are the only ones that make sense, his world is her, and Medusa Gorgon is his law. Being around this girl feels... amazing.
The platinum haired boy can't make head nor tail of much else, but does he really need to? The body doesn't lie. He wants this, to be servile to the one who brings this out of him. He chuckles because the lick of medicinal flames tickle and laughs harder because he can't control it. Silver flashes in the bright lights above him, yet he doesn't recall how he got to this table. But, does it matter? She's smiling, pleased that he is at her mercy. That's what he wants, right?
Yes.
The blade bites into his flesh skillfully and it doesn't hurt! Oh, it doesn't hurt. The drug drunk teen feels a little disappointed at this. Franken wanted to feel her cut her way inside of him, touching each part so very intimately... like no one has ever done before. He wants the pain as a reminder. Despite the slight dissatisfaction, he smiles below as she grins so largely it aches.
He's temporarily craven, obedient, putty to be bent at her will. And with help, he will stay that way. Impossibly, her simper grows further, matching the long slice now decorating the subject's scalp. Only a few more inches to make room, only a few tools left to use, mere hours before she can claim her true prize... and give Franken his.
O.O.O
"Anngghhh!" Stein moans loudly as his abdomen tightens, body locks at the overpowering wave of raw pleasure coursing through him, igniting every nerve ending in sweltering cool and over-sensitized urgency. Half-lidded gold watches him from below, his every gasp and pant glazes them further in lust, possession, mirth.
Her tongue curls around the head of his member as her lips tighten, massaging him with every rapid bob of her head. Medusa's nails dig into his hips, keeping his thrusts at bay as she works to bring him to the blinding brink.
Unable to draw a full breath, his chest heaves, leaving him nearly whimpering with need. He's about to explode. Every droplet of sweat that drips down his chest, every pass of that wet velvet, every pull, suck, scratch, brings fireworks to the back of his lids.
His muscles are twitching, contracting. He's not even sure if he's even breathing any more. So close, he's so close to falling off that steep edge only to plummet straight into absolute ecstasy.
Smirking with one final lick, she pulls from him, he pops from her mouth and his throat squeaks a strangled frustrated cry. That blissful precipice retreats, as he's pulled down the cliff, the freefall directly into promised pleasure becomes nothing but a fading unfulfilled memory. The braided woman laughs airily at his distress before wiping at her mouth with a thumb, coming to a stand.
"Nnt-nmm... Where do pets belong, dear Franken?" She coos as her nails rake along overheated skin, pushing him from his seat, taking it for her own. The man's panting. Can he even speak right now, beyond the mounted tension, more than choppy grunts?
"On the floor." Manages Stein, between hyper breaths. He knows the rules, they've played this game for years. It's always the same. Ever-addicting, always exciting.
"Mm-hm." Drawling the sounds, her head falls back as his hot, rough hands travel the length of her calves and upward. He parts her knees with his chin, swollen lips plant feather-light kisses as his tongue dares to paint her inner thighs in torrid lines.
"Good boy~."
Medusa comes first, in all facets. A lesson, law that has been drilled from the very beginning. Oh, she can be cruel... But, her kindnesses outweigh it by far. He laps at her sweet slick folds, tasting her as if to memorize every bit of the woman, suckling at her in pulses. Her husky cries send Franken on a sensual high, he growls into her.
No, he could never tire of her. She's his drug, so beyond addictive... it's maddening.
~O~O~O~
Restless sleep reigned supreme through the night and Maka is surely paying the price this morning. She must have passed that fence ten times along her walk, just trying to get her blood flowing and the exhaustion to fade. But, there was nothing between the slats aside from rocks and plants each pass, from beneath starlit sky until the warm cotton candy sunrise painting the heavens, currently. No one. Those blue eyes are void from the property, the ones to blame for her lack of sleep.
Hanging a right, the girl trudges into town with an undead tread, passing through the normal parting crowd with burning gazes that don't even phase her. Legs like lead, her orbs throb with the need to close but she keeps on, pushing herself to her energetic limit.
Because it would be useless to even try. Every time her mind would lull, falling steadily into the abyss, she would think 'Hey, why was that person looking at me like that? Do I know him or her? Why isn't he or she afraid of me? Why isn't he or she disgusted by me? Why are those sky-like eyes always looking at me? ...They were pretty, weren't they?' In short, her brain can pretty much fuck off.
A bell jingles as her palm forces the sun-heated glass barrier open. Immediately, Maka is assaulted with the warm, rich aroma of sweeteners and chocolate and the smell that is purely unique to the elixir of life itself: coffee.
It takes her a moment before she realizes that she's just been standing in the middle of the store, sniffing the air with a dreamy smile, a steady string of drool slathering down to decorate it. Wiping her embarrassment with a thumb, the worn out blonde walks over placing herself in queue with a grunt, eye twitching at the stares and whispers. Especially when she finds herself at the front of the line.
It's not that she's not ecstatic that she has a fast-track for liquid alertness, no, she's fucking thrilled. But the cashier, he is sweating as he takes her in. Is he gonna puke or something? Maka sniffs herself in confusion. Nope, she still retains a lovely fresh daisy scent.
"You going to gawk, or take my damn order?" Growling at the boy, she taps out her impatience upon counter top. The sandy-haired kid eyes the spot in barely contained panic, she grits her teeth.
"H-how can we at Deathbucks help you today, miss?"
"Iced venti, hextuple, whole milk, white chocolate mocha." Grinding the order through clenched teeth, the girl is seething, annoyed that the cashier is still watching her fingers with those anxious granite orbs, and not ringing her up.
"You got that?" Brent, as his name tag reads, calls behind him to the petite barrista working at the bar. The girl nods, her strawberry blonde pony bobbing with the antic as she grabs a clear cup, marking it quickly with a rather pungent sharpie. Shuffling uncomfortably, the cashier lets off a horribly fake cheer.
"Congratulations! You're our fiftieth customer of the morning!" An awkward celebratory fist pump from the pitchy, crackling teen violates airspace.
"And?" Maka raises a brow, emphatically unamused by Brent's antics.
"Your order is FREE! Haveagoodday! Next please!" The wheat-haired boy flashes smile that makes him look like he's nauseous behind a trembling thumbs-up, abruptly trying to dismiss the blonde girl, he attempts to wave the next customer up.
Oh... Everything clicks, painfully clear. Maka doesn't move away quite yet as she bites her lips and shuts her eyes a moment, pushing down the intent to rip off his face. She reopens them when sated in retaliatory zen, staring down the boy. She blinks. A nasty grin curls tight lips as her hands begin furiously, aimlessly wiping at the counter, tracing over every available surface before she leans in and pats the boy on the chest.
"OH! THANK YOU SO MUCH!" With emphasis on every syllable, she breathes all over the counter and in Brent's bony, dickwad, ignorant face before heading to the hand-off plane with a grumble. Of course that would happen.
Though, she cracks a real smile, laughing a bit to herself as the brunette boy pulls out some lysol, spraying the surfaces frantically, mindlessly turning the canister on himself, he squirts his eyes and open mouth in the process. Serves him right. Maka genuinely hopes Brent enjoys the bitter, sour, lemony-fresh taste of idiocy. If only a majority of Death City would have the same fate. Is that too much to ask for? Yeah? Okay.
Sighing, she grabs the cool cup when it's slid to her and peels a straw she's been unmindfully twirling like a baton artist, thrusting the tubal plastic through fluffy whipped cream and the clamorously protesting ice. Gulping down the bitter-sweet liquid, she ambles across terracotta tiles and out the jingling door.
Six shots of espresso and over-sugared syrup should be enough to power Maka's walk back to the house, she hopes at least.
An abandoned foundation and walls where an escape from the park, judgement and those eyes can be found. Where she may finally be able to get some sleep, amongst the dust and atop a tiny worn mattress. Maybe... That much espresso may have been a bit of an overkill.
Still, heavy shuffling steps and gurgling sips lead Maka through her route, beneath a now brilliantly blue sky, the golden sun spilling through the cityscape as the pig-tailed girl passes looming grey buildings and silent reproachful stares, across shining, cacophonous, traffic laden roads and to the head of her street.
She stops still.
People crowd the sidewalks, packed and messily flailing, all the way down the road's length on either side, shouts and chatter polluting the air. There is no way she could sleep through this shit, whatever the hell is going on. Turning on her heel, she chucks the empty cup with clattering ice into the stop sign's rusty resident trash bin. Back into town she goes, for the moment at least.
Absently the teen rubs her stomach as it gurgles, her legs pumping quicker with every step, taking her around a corner and back onto the path to town. Maybe it's time to eat something other than granola and candy? A dry chuckle escapes her caffeine viscid gorge. With how things have been, maybe she'll be able to eat for free, too. Why the hell hadn't she done this sooner?
~O~O~O~
The air is colder than any time before, shivering beneath the thin layer of his robe he turns to warm the other side of his body against the coarse fabric of his cot. Crona's drowsy eyes open fleetingly as he groans at the frigid, unkind movements before he closes them again. Only to do a double take. It makes sense now; the temperature change, the unease. Doctor Gorgon's cool gaze holds, observing his form with stern concentration.
The silence stabs at his nerves, tingles race along his spine like icy spikes digging in, biting at him, putting the groggy teen on edge. Even with all this skittish energy, it's an unspoken rule; never show her fear, never disrespect Medusa with his unworthy glance. Eyes are like windows to the soul. One look and she would be able to see him for all the things he'd like to keep hidden. It would break the rules. It would most likely break him. One small peek could show him all the disappointment that his existence causes this woman. His mother, the only other in his life... the only, currently. A pang grips at the pinkette's heart, so hollow with the raven-haired boy's absence, it hurts. He swallows the ache, vision out of focus, thinking back to a less solitary time, he hums on a sigh.
When the braided doctor finally starts to speak, Crona almost screams at the suddenness of her steady tone, just barely containing both voice and jumpy limbs.
"I have a favor to ask of you." The way her line of sight is threatening frostbite, she isn't really asking anything. It's an order, to decline is not an option. Failure, disappointment... fear... is not an option.
Steeling himself to raise up, he lifts sky blue pools to meet with those of arctic sun. The boy's voice comes out thick and gritty, as if he hadn't spoken his entire life. "Y-Yes, Dr. Medusa?"
~O~O~O~
Hungry, pissed off, a caffeine headache squeezing at her brain and pure exhaustion leading her, mindlessly the blonde plops down at a bench, eyes clenched shut. Cars provide her with momentary relief of the heat beating relentlessly from above. Maka sighs, sliding all the way across the miserably hot wood, laying, sweltering. She sees nothing beyond the red veil and veins of her lids.
This uncomfortable bench is in full view of any passers-by of the city, but they won't near her, won't touch her. They don't want anything that she has. These things, money, everything she has acquired... It's all useless to them.
Vile.
Why does she even bother to hide behind walls? Behind that gate and between the roots of that sturdy tree. This town is her damn bed and she is safer than most. Others have that chance, the danger of robbery, rape, senseless beatings. She can't even get that much. Not like she's begging for any of that, but it would be nice to feel like she's normal. To have that fear, experience that sensation of 'fight or flight' instead of wallowing, drowning in this... nothingness. Groaning, she turns to situate herself more comfortably, waiting bus passengers be damned.
As the sun's suffocating rays beat down along her tan stretched limbs, she finds herself drifting, swaying and falling into a red-tinged blackness.
Images swarm her fuzz-filled brain. Those blue eyes that haunted her so fervently in her waking hours keeping her from her dreams now follow her through her unconsciousness. Maka would scoff at this, but she is incapable.
A being of nothing but the air itself, she nears these orbs. They are giant, deep pools of sky as she floats ever-closer, so close that her invisible fingers could graze their glassy surface, and she tries just that, though Maka can't make out her own movements.
Upon impact, the image breaks, particles of what once was evaporate into swirls of white and blue plumes that fade upon rise, a strange maniacal laughter rings in her ears. So distant, yet it echoes, shaking this space like a ghostly avalanche.
It silences, cut off abruptly as if time came to a stop. Everything stills in this void, suspended and snuffed, as if there was an unseen light that's stolen, it goes black. Deeper than pitch, with no discernible floors, ceiling or walls, the girl is lost within her own mind, the decaying depth of her very soul.
Despite the heat that her physical body feels somewhere in the pit of subconscious function, she is submerged in a damnable chill. It cuts to the core, absently she rubs at her arms. Shocked with the feel of herself, Maka gasps, looking down. Even though the entirety of this place is dark she sees her now-tangible body, skin glowing from within, just enough to break the calignosity.
The blonde is cold, naked, and absolutely certain that she's dreaming, so she just shrugs and raises her sights again. But, that void has vanished, in it's place suddenly, she's back at the park. Though the grass is so much more vibrantly green than she recalls, flowers of neon sprout along the rustling blades as she walks into the wind, deeper into the colors amidst canned chirps from memory playing in loop.
More laughter rings out, far less alarming than the first, this trill coming from children. The girl's breath catches, painful and burning in her chest. These kids, they... They're her friends. Well, used to be.
Her own small frame stands out among the others, the sun highlighting the tot's actions as she kneels in the sugary grains building a sandcastle, lively and smiling broadly at the others around her.
A single small, chubby hand breaks from it's granule construct to grab that of the red-eyed child, looking solemnly outward, beyond the sandbox toward his parents and their older son. Watching as they actively ignore him. His messy tousled, snowy head whips over at little Maka, taking in her happy face and sparkling emerald eyes, the stout little digits laid so strongly, yet delicately over his own. He smiles. As if that little girl could sense his troubles and her touch was a balm to soothe them.
He turns his head, hiding the trail of a single tear that fell from the little girl, and he giggles thickly poking a careful hole in her hard-worked, yet sloppy spire. Stubby pigtails whip around, in one swift motion the tot clocks the boy on the head with a little red plastic shovel, green eyes narrowed and flaxen brow cocked.
A choked laugh bursts from her constricted throat, swiftly Maka covers it ashamed of it's sound. That little girl didn't see, but the teen saw it all. She was there for Soul when no one else knew a thing, always there to knock him out of his unfair reality. She saw it all, and somehow the temperature dropped along with herself. On her knees, she squeezes her eyes shut, willing it all to go away. It's all so meaningless. It's just a dream... There's no point on dwelling on anything...everything. Just go away...
Go away!
Her orbs open to the blinding, blazing sun above. She shifts to block the damned light from boiling her eyes from the sockets with a hiss. Weight shifting, something tumbles to the ground, crinkling and crumpling with impact upon the hard concrete.
"...The hell?" Grumbling, the blonde eyes the bag suspiciously, snatching up the bright sack with a sleep-tingly hand.
"Huh." Her hard gaze softens as she peers into it, growing more confused by the second. The girl's heart aches, tears prickle hotly at her ducts.
"...A sandwich?" Both nonplussed and touched, the question wisps out in an breezed chuckle, though it only leaves her feeling more hollow. Pulling it from the bag, she inspects it quickly for any signs of foul play, nodding approval the whole time. One last wristy rotation brings the rich, savory smelling thing to gaping gullet, and she devours it with speed enough to put any Saiyan to shame. But as her focus shifts, she looks around, no longer tasting the meat, nor the flaky, butter toasted bread. No... the only thing she notices is that she is alone... Still alone. Whoever did this pitied her enough to throw their lunch to her, but did not care whether or not she appreciated it, didn't care to stick around, didn't care to wake her nor be in her presence.
The sandwich fills her stomach, but she is left feeling emptier than before. But, shouldn't she feel happy? Thrilled that at least someone noticed her? Be content that her stomach acid isn't working to devour herself from the inside out, that her body has energy to keep going, without having to stoop to stealing? Shouldn't she feel some sort of damned positive emotion right now?!
Crumpling the waxed wrapper and bag into a tight ball with one fist, she squeezes the items far past necessity while other hand idly sifts through her purse, it's dark inner walls wafting cool fabric against her busy skin as each digit clicks through the bag's contents, dimmed dull sage staring blindly out at the street before her.
Nimble fingers grasp at their target absently, sliding the thin sliver across the calloused tip of her thumb. It stings between minute throbs and, just for a moment, all is right. Because, it banished the numbing. Each little accentuated pulse a heat to rival the growing cold. Maka loosens her grip on the disassembled razor's blade, allowing it to fall back into the depths of the satchel, taking her air in deep, even nasal breaths. She closes her eyes, letting the feeling sink further, the fleeting serenity soothe her.
This momentary peace, she knows she's going to need it. Just as much as she doesn't want to, she needs to go back to that hospital, has to see that sickening face of the man that wrought this hell upon her. Her lips twitch a bit, caught between a twisted grin and deep frown. The teen wants to watch as that drunkard, garnet-tressed womanizer suffers his fate; wired, tubed and ultimately defenseless, dying a slow and hopefully agonizing death. That bastard sent her family into ruin... He's not her fucking father, he's nothing but a nuisance, a tricky one that fooled her all throughout her younger years. Maka will observe his every mechanically-aided breath until he crashes. And, maybe, just maybe, she will laugh as he burns.
~O~O~O~
If there is anything to be made blindingly clear, Crona has recognized it: watching is far different than participation. Leaving the safety of his fenced-in sanctuary, he clings to various walls, having catapulted into the bustle of scratchy cement paving and people coming and going, passing by way too close with their waving limbs and rustling clothes. A pant leg bristles against the silken robe at his thigh and he cries out, unable to escaped the unwanted touch. This garners odd looks, but he doesn't care to really notice, his poor nerves can't take much more, this quaking body isn't conditioned for such spacious vulnerability. He skits along further, taking note of openings in the varied crowd, between skirts, dresses, pants and shorts, dirty, feely hands and pokey elbows, but always scurrying back to buildings, letting their surfaces calm him, anchoring him in this sea of creatures he knows both too much and nothing about.
Though, all the same, being so near the lives he's observed, he has never felt so alone. No one is paying him much mind, it's as if these people are disconnected, a fact both relieving and wholly disheartening. His narrow shoulders tense as he pulls further into himself, one hand sweatily gripping a crumpled, beige bag, the other tightly clutching the scrawled directions and his other arm. Crona's feet scrape against rugged concrete with every shallow, rapid step, alert eyes darting from street signs to the musky hot bodies in discomfort and anxiety.
He ducks into and navigates the streets like a meek little mouse in an ever-moving live maze, the cheese looking increasingly less likely an outcome, exertion wearing on his swift-moving body, the boy pauses, holding up mid-tread, the surface he's using is small, ridged, not really all that comfortable, but he's just trying to rest-out the burning of his overworked muscles and the restrictive, stabbing stitch at his ribs. Through choppy rose locks, his doubled-over form takes in the home with weary cerulean eyes between ragged breath, only really able to focus on one thing at a time until his lungs calm and respiring comes easily. Sighing, he laughs out once in disbelief.
He has no idea how he managed to get here, leaning against a tree as his lungs still tingle from their burn in protest. It's all a blur. The people, the signs, stores and numbers, all swirling about in his mind, covered in a soft layer of fog, just barely out of comprehension. The teen could almost say that being drugged provided more clarity than his exposure out here. Nothing is memorable other than his blaring nervous apprehension. Too much stimuli? Most likely... And he didn't like it one bit.
A small trill fills his ears as two children run from the home and wait by a tan vehicle on the drive. They chatter amongst themselves as a lithe, worn, braid-bearing woman locks the door and makes her way to the kids, smiling with what looks like all the energy she possesses. But it's warm, and the look she gives the talking tots is an adoring one. It fills Crona with a sense of sadness masked by a twinge in his chest. Never once had Ragnarok or he ever received such a look.
Ragnarok.
Absently he watches through the windshield as the boys are buckled into their seats. Their bright smiles and rosy cheeks standing out from dark complexions, the mother rolls her eyes at something said pulling herself from the opened door, closing it as she chuckles to herself. Their familial camaraderie, the robed boy is filled with a sense of envy that naggles, wriggling in his chest like some sort of monster fighting it's way through, wanting to take it all, claim it as his own, if only to fill the space left gaping within him because his own has been taken. Though, he did, at one point, have such a thing at least.
Crona sighs seeing the woman settle into the drivers seat, tinkering with something in the center. Finally, the braided brunette secures a safety belt over her torso, and running her hands along the tan hide wheel, cranks on SUV, pulling out of the paved drive and drives away. His nostalgia-hazed orbs follow the vehicle, sun reflecting from it's shiny surface as it turns, becoming one with the traffic flow, light brown in a current of multicolored shells pulsing through the grim grey-scale city.
Somehow, the package the boy is carrying feels lighter than it had. Doctor Gorgon has given him this much, an opportunity to achieve some sort of small greatness, a chance to help out this family, these children. To provide them with a life free of the tribulations his mother has worked to rid for nearly her entire existence. The pinkette's sore, naked feet move quickly as he crosses the scorching murky, pebbled street, a smile tugging his lips hard. He's able to do something for others, personally, not just with his data, not with his statistics... With his own two hands and the will in his limbs he is able to strengthen these people and prove to Medusa that he is not a failure, that the timid boy can be of use to her.
Pulling a key from the bag, he twists the warm fluted metal in the shimmering brass lock. The click is so loud, booming much like the heart in his chest and blood in his ears. Digits fidgeting, brows knitted in concentration, he tries to focus beyond this buzzing frenzy, nipping at his lower lip to counterpoise the jitters. Pushing through the red-trimmed door, the teen enters the dimmed home, readying his tools, he pulls a slick glass tube from the rustling sack and heads toward the kitchen.
The dwelling is simple enough. Clean black carpet caresses his tired feet as he ambles through it's shag and modern living space, angular sofas and interestingly shaped entertainment pieces litter his tunnel vision, determined to fulfill his duty quickly, breathing in the crisp, cool air, he moves onto chilled tile and passes a lived-in dining room, complete with hand-drawn placemats and dinosaur toys, into the kitchen. That envious twinge grows stronger, a pang in his chest that makes breathing difficult, but he continues further, pulling open the sleek black refrigerator. The contents lining it's door clink and clank together with the sudden motion, Crona jerks at the sound drawing a sharp breath, the hand clutching the brown crinkled bag presses to his chest as he embarrassedly urges the furiously pumping organ beneath his palm to slow.
Uncapping the vial, he sets to work, cupping the small red, rubbery cork with his thumb and hand, using his knuckles and fingers to open containers, sprinkling the powder into edibles and liquids of all consistencies and shades. Being very thorough in his work to cover everything completely, mixing juices and soups until the substance is fully dissolved, with firm concentrated purpose and a lip trapped between straight teeth he will help this family, make those boys and their parents strong so that they may endure a long and healthy life together. Warm and cozy, much like this home in which he is nothing but a heroic intruder.
His purpose is to help mankind, much like his brother. He will not fail them.
Crona thinks of those small boys, their childish joy that seems to have glowed from the inside out, all of that bubbling life belting out in shrieking giggles as he finds his way through this stylish yet quaint darkened house, back out into an environment as foreign as the warmth he just left. A sad smile paints his face as he remembers his own brother: their comfortable companionship and ridiculous one-sided debates. His face grows hot as the tears begin to fall, minute choking sobs chopping his breath in spurts, but pays neither mind as he weaves through the crowded, clamorous streets adrift and addled once more.
Ragnarok is fine. He is strong, just like that family will be.
Because, Doctor Gorgon said so... She has no reason to lie.