Lookit, it's an early update! Actually, I will just be too busy tomorrow to be able to edit and post things, so I am getting it out of the way today. Chapters four, five, and six will be posted today, and chapters seven and eight will be posted on the 16th. Please enjoy.

9 Stations Changing

The lights are just the first in a long list of weird going on in Maka Albarn's life.

"Oi. Oiiii. Lady."

She could blame it on long hours and grueling schedules, but that would mean she's prone to hallucinations. She could blame it on ghosts, but that would also mean she's prone to hallucinations.

"Couch-lady, hey. Ooh, you smell really good."

If nothing, she's at least consistent. Without fail, after another day of stress at work and promptly falling asleep on her couch, the dreams occur. Dreams aren't so bad, and recurring dreams happen to a lot of people. It could be worse.

"Woman, wake up, I'm thirsty."

"Mmf. Get yer'own drink."

But now she's talking in her sleep, and that's just not acceptable.

"But if you don't do it, I'll die," calls a rumbling, teasing voice near her ear.

"Oh you're such a lazy-"

Maka jerks, her own voice waking her. It's dark in the apartment, only vaguely lit up by the glowing red of the Christmas tree. What had she been saying? And to whom? She tiredly rubs her eyes and stretches her stick-like legs. How is she supposed to get any sleep if she keeps waking herself up?

She notices a faint noise- a weird, smacking sound- that reminds her of Blair when she's lapping milk...

"Ah! Blair!" she exclaims, spotting a red and black cat-shaped blob underneath the tree. She gracelessly rolls off the couch to shoo the feline away from the tree's water supply. "Don't drink that, he's gonna dry up-"

Maka stalls in her living room, squinting with confusion. He? Seriously? Maka grunts disapprovingly. She needs to get out more- she's starting to sound like Black Star. She shuffles to the kitchen and retrieves a pitcher full of water. Pouring it into the tree stand's reservoir, her mind worriedly flutters about her mental health. She crawls backwards to get out from under the tree, and wonders if she's been working too much.

She feels fine, but she can't logically explain all the weird things that have been going on. Well, maybe that one time coming home and finding Blair tarred and feathered with sap and pine needles could have been a strange case of feline mischief, but the other things are unclassifiable. ...Unless she must come to terms with being plagued by hallucinations, which she refuses.

But she keeps seeing shadows move in her peripherals! And once, while in the shower, the curtain rod had fallen and she could have sworn she smelled cinnamon though all her soap is unscented. No matter what she tells herself, she can't shake the feeling of being watched.

Maka's fingers hollowly drum on the empty pitcher. Great, maybe she's suffering from paranoia, as well as hallucinations. She needs to get herself together! She still has work to attend, as well as Tsubaki's Christmas party in a few days.

...Maybe she should text Tsubaki and invite her and Black Star over for dinner. Maybe they'll see the weird things going on in her apartment. Maybe the weird things will stop.

She walks back to the couch and hunts around for her cell phone, finding it wedged between two cushions. Opening it and blinding herself with the bright screen, she realizes dinnertime was five hours ago. Her face contorts into a grimace.

Deciding to heat up a can of soup and go back to sleep, she turns on the lights in her apartment. Maka digs through her pantry for some soup and saltines.

The random popping noises from the heating element on her stove top echo loudly in the silence. Maka catches herself glancing out the corners of her eyes periodically, ever watchful of shifting shadows and any other strange happenings. She pours the can of soup into a saucepan to warm, vegetables plopping noisily.

Something tickles the backs of her calves, and she squeals so loudly her voice cracks. Jumping in fright, she lands, foot on something warm and very not hers. An angry yowl is shot back at her. It's Blair, with tail caught under Maka's right foot. Hastily lifting her leg, she exclaims, "Blair! Sorry, sorry, sorry kitty-" and the, shortly after watching the cat sulk away, follows up with, "Well you shouldn't have scared me!"

Leftover adrenaline still makes her fingers and toes tingle, to her dismay. She's getting worked up over the dumbest things! Uneasy with the silence in her home, she pads back to the living room to turn on the small radio she keeps above the fireplace. Quiet music seems like a good idea for some background noise.

So close to the holiday, she finds all her usual stations are playing Christmas music this late in the evening, which she doesn't care much for. Who wants to hear the same songs covered over and over? With a frown, she picks a station at random and turns the volume low, so she can't hear every little note but still be aware of music playing.

It's a little better, at least. Maka leans on an arm of the couch, crossing her own. Olive eyes slide over to the tree, which glows innocently back, Christmas music tinkling in the air. She can't help but note it looks rather bare, and she almost feels... bad for it, even with the garland and lights. Maybe she should have grabbed some of those glass orb things.

She huffs, irritated. She doesn't know anything about that stuff. As for feeling sorry for a tree, she's going to blame sleep deprivation.

Well, she can't mull over it any further- her soup is starting to smell good and she should stir it. As she walks away from the living room, Maka hears a loud squawking, and she looks around wildly until she eventually recognizes it as the noise of her radio changing stations. At first, she believes she the device merely has bad reception as she walks back to the kitchen, but then the static and electronic crackling grows louder, DJ's voices and tiny, unrecognizable slices of music ringing out at random.

"Great. Now my radio is broken," she mutters, stirring her meal quickly. After turning the stove top's heat off, she sets her spoon down and hurries back to her radio to silence the din. However, the moment her hand touches the power switch, the radio finally lands on a station. She's greeted by a clear female voice, though she thinks the woman may be smacking gum while broadcasting.

"Everyone here at K-DWMA hopes you're havin' a pleasant and chill holiday so far. We got some classy Crosby and a goodone by Buselli-Wallarab you're gonna like, trust me. This is 'Lizabeth Thompson's quality hour."

Sure enough, Bing Crosby's smooth voice begins to sing, and Maka's outstretched hand slowly falls to her side. She can deal with this style of seasonal music, she supposes. Heck, she might even admit to enjoying it, if not for the whole creepy possessed radio stations thing.

Keeping a wary eye on the device, she eventually settles down on the couch with a warm bowl of soup in one hand and an unfinished novel in the other. She gives the radio one last pointed look before sipping some of her meal. Frank Sinatra casually replies with a sleepy rendition of 'The Christmas Waltz'.

With a defeated sigh, she thumbs open her book, comforted by music, despite her disdain for the weird goings on in her apartment. A few sentences in, and a part of the song jump-starts her memory, bringing old times to the forefront of her mind. Her mother had listened to this kind of music, hadn't she?

"Hand me another one, sweetie. Where should we put it?"
"Umm, next to this one? What is this place?"
"That's Chitchen-Itza, baby. It's in Mexico."
"ChickenPizza?"

Maka abruptly closes her book with a loud snap, eyes growing wide. "Chitchen-Itza," she blurts to no one. She takes a few gulping chugs from her soup and flies out of the couch, bowl and book still in either hand. Trotting to her cozy bedroom, she shoves the book under her armpit and swings open her closet door. Maka stands on tiptoe, blindly searching the top shelf for a shoebox she knows is there. Dust and grit slides under her nails, but she grimaces and deals with it, pulling the box down.

She sits cross-legged on the floor, opening the lid while sipping once more from her soup. Her mother hadn't bought obnoxious ornaments either! That's why she couldn't remember them. She recalls helping her mother decorate the tree when she was younger, before the divorce. Mama had carefully saved numerous postcards and had Maka pick out the ones she liked to put in the tree.

She doesn't have any idea where all those cards have gone since the separation, but she's been saving her own stash for the many years afterward, and it had only recently occurred to her what she can do with them! She digs around for awhile, pulling out a faded postcard her mother had sent the first year she was gone.

On the front is an image of a Mayan pyramid. Maka flips it over to find her mother's familiar handwriting. She smiles, seeing the postcard simply addressed to 'My Lovely Daughter'. "In Mexico! It's perfecthere. Hope to see you for Christmas, babygirl! Love, Mama." Smiling, she places the card back in the box and takes the whole thing to the living room.

Mama hadn't come that year, but the picture on the front is nice and somewhat nostalgic, though Maka has never been there. She balances the postcard in the branches of the tree. She ditches her book and now-empty bowl on her coffee table and digs through her shoebox once more.

Switzerland, Singapore, Venice, Egypt... They're all pictures of places she's only heard of. So far away, they sometimes feel like imaginary lands in a fantasy book. The kinds of places her mother stays, now.

Most of the cards say much of the same thing. 'Hope to see you soon', or 'I miss you so much', or 'Can't wait to visit!'

She gingerly places all of these in the tree, though her nostalgic mood has turned mildly numb with the same feeling she's had every Christmas. By the last card, she's stopped reading the messages on the other side. She does end up smiling slightly, however, seeing the picture on the front. A silly looking, great white shark in a Santa hat grins, a banner above it reading, "Merry Christmas From Miami!"

A swinging instrumental starts up on the radio, and Maka places her mother's Christmas card on the tree. The cat finds its way around her ankles again, and Maka can't find it in herself to jump in fright again. Somberly picking up the feline in her arms, she curls up once more on the couch, idly petting Blair. She wonders where Mama is these days; if she still travels, if she remembers her. She wonders, before she lightly dozes off with the cat nestled by her stomach, what it would be like to have someone show up on her doorstep on Christmas morning, like she used to always hope for.

"Sleeping on the couch again?"

Warm fingers trace along her forehead. She turns, rolling to her back.

"You're gonna catch a cold, you know?"

She smells cinnamon and hears a gentle sway of jazz and Ella Fitzgerald. For a moment, she's comforted. For a moment, she gets the impression she's sleeping in a warm, full house.

Maka wakes with a start, forgetful of her age and what decade it is. Blair, annoyed with her owner's shifting, yawns and jumps off the couch to walk underneath the coffee table. Maka rouses enough finally to decipher the words coming from her radio.

"And that was Skafish with 'It Came Upon a Midnight Clear', and seeing as it is midnight, that concludes the Quality Hour. We'll be back tomorrow, same time, same place. I'm out!"

Rising steam catches her eye. Atop the novel she'd left on the table rests a warm mug of apple cider.