There are some scientists in the world that believe that theory is the be-all and end-all of research. If the numbers add up and agree on a piece of paper, then they are quite happy to declare their pet theory a fact and go about their day. They would not dream of donning a lab coat, walking into a laboratory and testing their ideas in the messy, uncertain place that is the real world.

Medusa had nothing but contempt for those scientists, if they were even allowed to call themselves that. For her, experiment was the foundation upon which all of science was based. After all, no matter how nice the equations may look, if they don't work in reality then they're nothing but wasted ink.

Not to mention that experiments could be highly rewarding as well.

She stood over her latest experimental subject and observed it with a cold, appraising stare. It was strapped down to an operating table, illuminated by the icy white glare of strategically placed halogen lamps. A small tray of surgical tools stood to one side and she walked over to it, running her hand over the scalpels and forceps like a pianist might caress the piano keyboard before beginning a concerto. She selected a small scalpel, its curved blade gleaming eagerly in the harsh light, picked it up and walked back to the operating table.

She held the blade in front of the subject's face, allowing it to see its reflection in the stainless steel with its one remaining eye. At the sight of it, the subject began to make muffled noises and move against its restraints. Medusa paid it no heed – those straps, fashioned from her own vectors, could restrain oxen. The weak thing under her blade had about as much chance of escape as it did of survival.

At a whispered command the vector around its neck (or what was left of its neck) tightened and the subjects muffled screams turned to muffled choking. When she was satisfied that it would not make any more annoying sounds she reached into the pocket of her lab coat and thumbed on a small recording device. Speaking into a microphone clipped to her lapel, she began to dictate notes.

"Vivisection today of test subject 31. Subject is human weapon, male, approximately sixty years of age. Weapon form is that of a ballista, of seemingly Ancient Roman design. Subject underwent locking procedure thirty-six hours before current time. Procedure was considered…"

She looked down at the ruin she had strapped to the operating table, trying to come up with a word that would encompass what had happened to it. The right side of the subject's body was still in its human form. Pale, wrinkled skin still twitched and moved with the action of blood in withered veins. Its chest still rose and fell as one lung continued to inflate and deflate with a ragged wheezing noise. A hand, old and withered and reminding Medusa of a bird's claw, clutched spasmodically at nothing. One eye, slightly clouded with cataracts but functional nonetheless, stared wildly.

But if she switched her gaze to her right, across to the subject's left side, she saw a nightmare tangle of twisted wooden beams and broken twine. It looked like a marionette that had been fed into an industrial shredder. Broken spars and slats jutted out like splintered bones. Gears gnashed at thin air as it tried to move its left half. Half of its skull had been replaced with an empty scaffold of wood and high-tension wires. The thin creak of wood echoed around Medusa's laboratory, along with the wheezing sound as the thing tried to suck in air down its ruined, half-wooden windpipe.

"…considered a failure," she finished.

Really, what else could you call it? This was far from the first time she had attempted to lock a weapon in its weapon form, and each subject seemed to come back more deformed than the last. It was proving to be a much more complex endeavour than she had ever suspected, even with the writings and technical drawings of Eibon himself to guide her.

But there was no such thing as a useless experiment and even though the results she had been hoping for still eluded her, she was not about to let a test subject go to waste. And so she began her vivisection, starting with the ragged and splintered interface between old flesh and broken wood. Her running commentary into the recorder provided a nice way to focus her thoughts, and helped to drown out the breathy wails of the subject.

"Making a small incision around the right orbit…"

"…removed for further analysis…"

"…interface proceeds down the heart, moving between right atrium and coronary artery."

"Left arm completely replaced, no overall structure noticeable. Some flesh remains on remains of left had, no apparent connection to rest of body."

"No sensory response from left half of cranium, state of neurological functionality remains unclear…"

Eventually the subject stopped making noises, slowly running out of both air and blood. She continued her work, reminding herself here and there of possible new avenues for research as she came across various structures and inconsistencies in the body. Finally, when she was done, she set her scalpel down and headed over to the sink. Scrubbing her hands clean, she pondered how to best carry out the second experiment she had planned for the day.

Reaching a decision, she turned and tended to the slowly-cooling corpse some more. Then she walked over to the door of her laboratory and pushed it open. She looked down at the young boy sat next to the door, on a plush chair such as you might find in a doctor's waiting room.

"You can come in now, Crona," she smiled.


Crona had to force himself to walk into the laboratory. He had been sat outside the door for almost two hours, listening to what had been going on inside. He had heard the cries of the 'subject', heard the calm and dispassionate voice of his mother (no, of Lady Medusa) as she butchered an old man on a cold steel operating table. He was used to violence, yes, but this seemed like too much.

But it was not his job to question her methods, or motives. His was to do what she said, right? And so he steeled himself and followed her back into the lab, wincing only slightly at the stench of blood and cleaning fluids that washed over him as he crossed the threshold.

Medusa walked back over to the sink and carried on washing her hands. Crona forced himself to look at the body on the table – or at least at the mish-mash of wood and skin that he assumed was the body, and not some grisly puppet. See, it's not so bad, he desperately told himself. Just an old man. Some weak old man with no future and no purpose. But Lady Medusa gave him a purpose, didn't she? Gave his death meaning. It's fine, really. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

"Was… was the experiment successful?" he asked, in a small voice.

"No," she replied bluntly, still scrubbing her hands. "Not at all. Now be a dear and get rid of the body, would you, Crona?"

Crona swallowed and walked over to the table. Now he looked, he could see that it was on wheels to allow easier transportation. What am I meant to do with it? he wondered.

"The incinerator, Crona," Medusa said.

Crona wondered for a second if she could read his mind, but kept that question to himself. He laid his hands on a handle at the head of the table, getting ready to turn it and push it out of the doors, when everything suddenly seemed to happen at once.

The man wasn't as dead as he had thought. His one eye snapped open and glared into Crona's own. His mouth flopped open and he took a deep, rattling breath. Jerking upright, he rolled off of the table and onto the floor with a resounding crash.

At the noise Medusa started to turn around, but the man was tremendously fast considering his ruined body. Crona watched in horror as he sprang to his feet and bore down on Lady Medusa, drawing back one sharp, splintered arm in obvious preparation to attack her with it. Time seemed to be passing at a crawl. Crona could see Medusa still turning, a slightly confused expression just starting to form on her face. He panicked, throwing out his arm and ordering the black blood into the form of a blade. He started to ready his magic as well.

Let her die.

The thought came out of nowhere, bursting into his mind and taking root. She is evil and you know it. She wants to kill everyone, destroy everything. You know what she will use this research for if she succeeds, even if you pretend you don't. She treats you like garbage – you! Her own son!

Crona hesitated. He knew that he should be vaulting over the table now, dispersing the man's probability of hitting his mother, cutting him down with his black blood. He should be protecting her, like the good boy he strove to be. And yet…

She took everything from you, made you a slave.

The man's jagged, ruined arm started to swing down, straight for Medusa's head and a killing blow.

Let her die.

Medusa finished turning around, her eyes going wide in shock as she saw her test subject bearing down upon her.

She deserves it.

The man's arm came down, whistling through the air, and shattered itself upon a sheet of hardened blood that was not there half a second ago. Crona, suddenly at his mother's side, punched the man square in the face and he collapsed onto his back with a clatter of falling wood. Crona lifted his foot and stamped down hard on the man's head, putting the weight of hundreds of himself behind it.

There was crunch, a splash of red, and the man went still.

And then it was all over.


After she had consoled Crona, hugged him and told him everything was all right and sent him from the room with the promise of his favourite food for dinner that night, Medusa looked down at the crumpled body with a very cold expression.

She reached down and retrieved the snakes that had animated the subject's corpse. The results of her second experiment were more than clear.

Crona had hesitated.

He was supposed to fling himself between her and danger without thought, not stand around thinking about it. And worse, it wasn't even hesitation born of fear. That, at least, she might yet be able to understand.

No, this was hesitation born of disobedience.

She narrowed her eyes in thought. Clearly, Crona still needed some educating.

The corpse on the floor seemed to mock her with its ruined state, jeering at her inability to succeed in her research. There is only one man who has succeeded in fully and permanently 'locking' a weapon, she thought. And he's not really a man any more.

It was time, she decided, for Plan B.


Author's note: There comes a time when you realise that you just haven't written enough Medusa, especially after two chapters of 'X beats up Y for a bit'. I hope I've got her characterisation right – she's probably one of the harder characters to write in Soul Eater. My thanks to everyone who has reviewed this fanfic so far: I do very much appreciate your comments. Until the next chapter, my thanks once again for reading.