The trip to the main house is unnervingly silent.
It's unlike Soul and Kid to remain so hushed. Usually, when the two of them are kept in a confined area together, there is at least bickering, if not some shoving and eye rolling. The two of them are like toddlers, and trying to make them keep their hands to themselves, even at the dinner table, is a project and a half - so this silence is unsettling. Neither of them say anything at all, no ribbing or sarcastic remarks or jibes, they just stare morosely down the road as Kid switches on the blinker and turns down a side road.
What is there to be done about it, though? These two are mysterious in their own ways, but even now Maka can tell they're stressed. Those masks they wear so often and so readily are cracked, and she thinks she can see the true color of their eyes, for the first time. The true weight of their reality has finally begun to sink in and she doesn't like it one bit.
It doesn't suit them to be so tense. They're rowdy in their own ways, and they're lively and youthful and so damn stubborn she doesn't know how to deal with it sometimes. But they're not this, whatever this is. Whatever the tightness in Soul's jaw is.
Maka leans back in her seat and stares out her window, too. The rain patters against the pavement and it's so ironic, she thinks, that the sky has chosen today to cry. Or… maybe ironic isn't the word, and she dithers on it instead of trying to pick apart her boys' moods, pressing her cheek to the glass of the window and watching raindrops slide down the other side. Alanis Morissette has lead her astray; there's nothing ironic about rain on a miserable day. That's coincidence. And a bummer.
The song buzzing from Soul's headphones switches to something equally as brooding and confusing. He'd muttered something incomprehensible when he'd dragged his feet and slouched into the passenger seat, looking every bit the mopey teenage-badboy he strives so hard to be, but there'd been a rawness in him as he'd shut his eyes and tugged the cans over his ears, something far too honest to be an act.
She wants to poke his shoulder and ask him how he's doing. Since his little rooftop escape days before, he's made himself sparse, seemingly avoiding her at every corner, and because of it she hasn't had a chance to properly talk things out with him. And it's stupid of her to feel so lonely because of it - because she has Kid, and he's more than enough for her, really! There's just something unsettling, now, about going days at a time without bumping into Soul in the hallway, or teaching him how to properly throw a punch in the backyard, or….
Well, the list goes on. Maka squirms in her seat and swallows her heart. It's not like she can talk things out with him while he's blasting Nirvana, anyway. She'll let him finish angsting out and then try again later.
.
They arrive about twenty-five minutes later, a few towns over from where they'd started. The quiet, tense atmosphere in the car is unceremoniously shattered as Soul slams his door behind him, grunts, and walks around the house and into the backyard without a peep.
Maka goggles after him. "Isn't he supposed to-"
Kid shakes his head and clicks his keys. The car doors shift into lock. "Let him be. He'll clean up his own messes. It's none of our business."
It doesn't lessen that hollowness in her chest. It's silly, but in the months she's been here, she's grown quite… accustomed to having him around, even if his presence was often nothing more than snoozing in her bed while she did her homework or a kitten in her lap while she reread her Mama's favorite books. This distance just feels empty, like he's farther away than he actually is.
It's silly. He'd sat in the car with her. He's right outside the house she's about to enter. Soul's not that far away at all.
"Shall we?" Kid asks, nudging his head toward the front door.
She can't think Soul's a drama king and then stand brooding about him ignoring her. Whatever; there will be time to clear the air between them after. This trip is bigger than her, anyway, bigger than her dumb girlish feelings being hurt. It's selfish to worry about it when there's an obvious slouch in Kid's normally perfect posture.
He needs her, now more than ever before. Whatever lies behind the front door - it terrifies him, even if he's too polite to admit it.
She's his friend, after all. And friends stick together, through thick and thin, and support each other. More than anything, she wants to be there for him - be there for the both of them, cat and rat.
"Of course," Maka says, tugging up the hood of her jacket. "We'll get sick if we stand out in the rain, anyway."
Kid smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "We'll make soup."
"Soul doesn't like soup."
He doesn't even roll his eyes. "Soul's too picky for his own good."
His words lack a certain bite to them, but Maka doesn't push it. If all he can manage is going through the motions of complaining about the cat, she'll play along. If it's the most he can muster of his routine, okay, fine. She feels a little off-kilter too. She gets it.
Kid's hands shake at his sides. Without thinking about it, Maka reaches for his hand and grasps tight, fingers locked. They're wet, almost clammy, and whether it's from nerves or the rain she can't tell. Either way, his trembling stops, even if his hand goes lax in hers moments later.
It's only after, when he gasps and looks up at her does she realize she's broken house rule number two. It'd just been instinct, to reach out and offer him support - there's comfort in physical contact, and when she'd been a scared, sobbing child, the one thing she'd always wanted was to hold her mother's hand. But- it's wrong of her to do so without asking, especially since this family has such a thing about physical contact, and Kid- Kid minds his space and never crowds her, even when it's clear she's not feeling well either.
"Oh!" she gasps, too, jerking back, releasing her grasp on him. Maka mutters a quick, feeble apology, but then that wrinkle in Kid's brow irons out and he reaches for her hand again without saying a word.
He holds on tight, this time. His hand doesn't shake at all, and so Maka squeezes his hand back, just to let him know that she's here and not going anywhere.
.
Together, they make their way up to the front door. Ever proper, Kid makes sure to knock twice, and when there's no immediate answer he rings the doorbell, too.
"Maybe there's nobody home," Maka mumbles.
Kid squeezes her hand. "We'll never be so lucky."
When the door finally does open, they're greeted by a slight girl, barely any taller than Maka. It's clear that she is not the dreaded Medusa, because Kid relaxes at the sight of her. Her most striking quality is her dark eyes, framed by long, white hair, and Maka thinks there must be something in the water around these parts, giving this family such strange hair colors.
"Eruka," Kid says, nodding.
Oh. She recognizes that name - this is Free's friend, apparently. Free's only friend? Aside from Kid, which still confuses her, admittedly. They couldn't be more different, and this girl - well, she doesn't seem particularly goofy or into fitness or Cheeto dust either.
"Nice to see you, Kid," she says. "Did Free send you?"
"Just passed the message along that I was being summoned," he replies.
She doesn't say anything to that, though there is a wash of sympathy that spreads across her expression. Her lips are painted a dark, dark black, and though the color draws attention to her faint grimace, she doesn't give much else away, just opens the door wider to allow them entry.
"Who's this?" she asks, then, glancing at Maka.
"A friend."
Eruka scrutinizes her for a moment. "A friend," she repeats. "Oh. You're Maka, aren't you?"
She's not sure she likes everyone in the house knowing her name. It's a little uncomfortable, but Maka tries her best not to let it show. These people, this family - they're nearly fantastic at withholding their emotions, at being frustratingly unreadable except in desperate times, and it's sort of something Maka both respects and hates. Wishes, though, that she could emulate herself. Mama always said she was an open book, wore her heart on her sleeve.
She hates it. It feels like a weakness. She can't afford to be weak anymore, not while she's on her own, not while people are relying on her.
"Hi." Maka swallows the lump in her throat. "Yeah, I'm Maka. Free's told me about you."
"Oh god."
"It was nothing bad!" she insists. "He just… mentioned you?"
Still, Eruka rolls her eyes as she steps aside to let them in. "He has a big mouth," she says quietly as Kid leads Maka inside and shuts the door behind them. "A big heart, too, but sometimes he just gets talking and I think he forgets not to show his hand."
Everything about him is pretty big. Maka chooses not to voice that thought aloud and instead nods. "Did he say anything about me?"
Eruka shrugs. "Just that you were tiny and reminded him of bunny rabbits."
"What?!"
"Something about your hair, I guess." Eruka blinks at her. "... Pigtails."
Pigtails. Of all things he could've taken away from their encounter - her offer of friendship, her living with Stein and Kid - the most memorable thing about her had apparently been her hairstyle. They say beggars can't be choosers, she supposes.
Then again, Maka's not sure what she'd been begging for. A memorable quality? To leave a lasting impression on someone, for something other than her appearance? To mean something?
It's not about her. This isn't about her. Maka squeezes Kid's hand again.
He gets the idea. "Is she in the throne room?"
Eruka nods again, though it's more hesitant now than before. Actions speak louder than words and her pause speaks volumes. When she wordlessly turns and leads them down the hall, Maka knows that nothing she's experienced before will have prepared her for whatever waits in this throne room. Maybe it's in her nature, to be weary, or to be obedient, or whatever that intangible something had been that'd caused Eruka pause, but it still doesn't make the reality of this any easier to swallow.
It's not like she's ever been religious. As a child, her mother had never really brought up the topic of religion, and at seventeen, when Mama had passed, Maka had decided then and there that there was no such thing as a higher power. It wasn't right, to allow anyone to be so alone in this world. The only higher power she believed in was hard work, determination, and a whole lot of elbow grease. And a whole lot of her. A whole lot of Maka, pulling herself up by her bootstraps, taking on the world before she was even old enough to do her own taxes.
So she's not sure what she'd been expecting, really, at the first meeting with Kid and Soul's god. Of all things, though, it probably wasn't a pale woman with long, burnt-gold hair braided down her front, eyes cold slits.
A chill runs down her spine as the door shuts behind her. Those eyes aren't human, nor is the way she blinks. It's unnerving, watching her move, watching her mannerisms, and when Maka tries to suck in a breath, tries to gather her footing, this Medusa licks her lips.
Kid's gulp is nearly audible. "My lady."
Medusa's legs are long and draped over the arm of her throne. Why she needs a throne, Maka wonders, is beyond her, and though it might not be the time or the place to question such trivialities, the petty, angry part of her still wants to ask why.
When Kid makes no further attempts at greeting his god, Medusa simpers and rubs the end of her braid between her fingers. "Rat. It's good to see you again. How delightful of you to show up."
Her voice is honeyed cyanide. Carefully measured, equal parts threat and promise.
"... Yes," he says, tightly. Maka's never heard his voice go so high before; he almost sounds like a child, with that strangled rawness caught in his throat, and she wishes holding his hand could do more for him. Wishes, too, that she could do more than stand there, glaring at God like a fool. "My apologies for this late… attendance, but school has been… "
"Distracting?" she asks, raising a brow. "There is a reason I advised against public school. But no, you begged and begged, and I've been so gracious to allow you to attend. If this is the thanks I get for being right-"
"Never," Kid assures, and his hand is clammy in Maka's again. "Never distracting. It's only a new chapter in my life. There's a transitional period, I assure you, and that is all."
"Hm." Her legs swing down so she's no longer lazing about but perched tall, brows furrowed. It's less snide and far more sinister, more commanding. "Because you'd never avoid me. Would you, now?"
Something passes between them. An unspoken threat, perhaps. Regardless, Kid goes silent, hand shaking in hers, and Maka finally steps up to the plate. "... I'm sorry."
Even the way Medusa blinks is unnerving. It's not quite out of the uncanny valley, the way she moves - clearly meant to be human, or at least emulate the way humans move, but there's something that's just too far off for comfort. An imperfect model. "You must be Maka."
She knows her name. Of course she knows her name. Eruka had known her name, too, and Free hadn't been surprised to find her in Stein's home, but still - it gets under her skin, all of these strangers knowing things about her. Even something as mundane as her name, it's still something she hadn't shared with them. Something they'd taken from her, gossipped about, as if she was some sort of pawn, some sort of plaything.
This isn't about you. "You know my name."
"Of course I know your name," Medusa says, licking her lips again. "I know everything. I hear everything. I'm only offended that Kid never thought to introduce us. After all, it's a shame, keeping such a pretty girl all to himself. A pretty girl I allowed him to befriend."
Maka is not that pretty. She's trying to weasel her way under her skin. She won't have it. "I get the feeling Kid is just shy."
"There is no place in the zodiac for a shy rat. He's a leader, that one. Full of wit."
To be wise and to be socially apt are two completely separate things. They are not mutually exclusive and he can absolutely be both. And he absolutely is.
He doesn't defend himself, though. If it were Soul, she knows that he would in a heartbeat. He'd be classy about it, or at least play it off so, with his chin held high and drawn-on eyebrows impeccable. Kid and his damn high horse, as Soul would say.
But he doesn't defy his god. Or… whatever it is that's happening here. Kid bows his head almost as if he is praying and keeps his mouth shut, expression solemn, almost guilty. It's bizarre, to watch him flinch as Medusa stands from her throne and approaches him slowly, slithering forward. If she was inhuman before, she's almost monstrous now, that uncanny something about her downright terrifying. When she blinks, her eyes seemingly glow yellow.
"And he should act like one," she says, staring at their clasped hands. "It's his duty, after all."
"My lady."
"But I will forgive this oversight on your behalf," she says, hovering, raising her glance from their hands to instead stare at Maka, "because you have brought your dear guest to meet me. I thought I was never going to get the chance! I've heard so much about her, too."
"My sincerest apologies," Kid says, though it's clear the effort to do so costs him greatly. "This is Maka."
Medusa has that same sharpness about her that'd been so apparent in Stein. It does a spectacular job at getting beneath her skin, and Maka feels a little slimy, standing there as Medusa continues aiming all of her attention at her. It's not unlike being pinned beneath a microscope, she thinks. Just as invasive, just as impersonal, just as clinical - when Medusa gives her a literal head-to-toe once over, Maka feels a shudder run down her spine.
"Albarn," she says, without missing a beat. "Albarn, I presume?"
Is it written on her face? Well, she hadn't gotten her eyes from her mother, that is for sure, and they say eyes are the windows to the soul. Perhaps she'll never be able to wash the Albarn from her person.
Maka presses her lips together. "... Yes. Did Stein tell you that?"
"Dear," Medusa says, voice dripping with condescension, "Do you think I'd allow my boys to live with some strange girl without doing some sort of a background check? You must understand that I have to look out for my people. It's my job, after all."
"Of course," Maka says through gritted teeth. Kid's hand in hers tightens, palm still clammy, and their hands slip together, for a moment, uncomfortable and sweaty.
"You really do look like your father, though," she says, and it's so carelessly thrown about, the mention of her father, that it catches Maka off guard. She gapes for a moment, blood heavy in her veins, as a smile curls across Medusa's face. "Especially when you frown. There's something so very Spirit about the way your brows wrinkle- like that!"
Maka wonders if her father feels sick to his stomach every time she's brought up, too, or if he even cares. Wonders if she's even a thought in his mind, the daughter he'd left behind, the family he'd never wanted. To have Medusa standing there, smiling as she taunts her - it makes her stomach curl more, and for a moment Maka's afraid she might need to make a quick exit and locate a bathroom, lest her breakfast make an unannounced rerun. But she cannot leave Kid like this, alone in this room with the devil, and so she swallows thickly, hand just as clammy as his now.
"I've never met my father," Maka says, then, as carefully measured as she can manage. "I wouldn't know."
Her voice betrays her, though, and the single crack is enough for Medusa to burrow her way into. "A shame. Well, that can still be arranged. I'm sure Spirit would be delighted to be reunited with his long-lost daughter. Don't you think so too, Kid? What an idea! We could make a whole lunch date of it, here at the house."
There's no polite way to say not a chance in hell. She'll have to just settle for the next best thing. "That's really not necessary."
"But Spirit would just love it," Medusa insists, reaching forward to brush the hair from Maka's eyes; the baby hair along her neck stands on end, and Medusa's touch is ice cold as she brushes her forehead. "His own flesh and blood mutt."
She is no helpless little girl, no damsel in distress. She hasn't been, not since Mama passed, not since she was domesticated and deemed a glorified housekeeper and babysitter, not since that day on the porch with Soul and his endless eyes; she's her mother's daughter, dammit, and any man who ran from a pregnant wife with his serpent tail between his legs is no father of hers.
Her family is what she makes of it. And if her family consists of two scrappy sisters, a shy rat and a frustrating stray cat, well, so be it. Her found family will support her more deeply than any man who'd done nothing more than fertilized her mother's egg and left soon after.
Kid tugs her back by her hand. Maka stumbles into him, brushing shoulders, and Medusa stands there, hand still outstretched, lashes low.
She sets her sights on Kid. That clammy hand in hers never falters for a second, and he's stone in her grasp, immaculately carved marble. The immovable man. "We're not allowed to touch her without her permission. It's a house rule."
Medusa doesn't blink. "A house rule."
"Rules are important," he says, voice far smoother than it has any right to be. Kid had been a nervous wreck driving here, hadn't been able to hold a conversation with her, hadn't been able to keep his mood to himself. It'd been tangible, that anxiety, but now - now, he doesn't budge and stares down his god like some sort of hero or something.
Like she needs a hero. Maka nudges his shoulder. He doesn't return it.
What a frustrating tug of war. She's caught between being thankful for his sacrifice, impressed by his bravery and frustrated with this hero complex of his. Maybe Soul was right; maybe she's not the only one in the house with an almost obsessive need to protect someone. Maybe she and Kid have more in common than she'd originally thought.
"Figures I'd find you three bickering about rules," comes a voice from behind them, and Maka doesn't even need to turn around to know her cat's found his way home again.
Funny how he does that. All she has to do is think about him and he'll find a way to show up.
.
He's leaning in the doorway, arms crossed and one boot scuffing Medusa's freshly waxed wooden floors, but Maka can read the tension in his stance from a mile away.
Honestly, Maka had half expected to find him grazing in the backyard garden or something, and had fully expected to have to drag him into the throne room by his ear, so to have him standing here of his own free will is surprising, to say the least. She knows she's stubborn, but if Kid shares her protective compulsions, Soul shares her bullheadedness. She has more in common with these frustrating, complicated boys than she cares to admit, sometimes, but this - well, Maka knows the only reason she'd shown up was to support Kid (and maybe get a chance to tit-punch God) and somehow she doubts Soul shares her same motivations in this particular instance.
She means protecting Kid. Soul would probably punch God. Maybe not in the tit, though. He seems more like a nose-punching kind of dude. But he definitely wouldn't go out of his way to stick his neck out for the rat.
Which is why his appearance is shocking. She gapes at him for a moment and he stares right back at her, an unreadable set to his jaw. It's unnerving, looking him in the eye so blatantly, especially since he's been so hard to get ahold of lately. He's made himself so scarce around the house, and now, to have him so near, to have his attention on her and her alone, despite the literal god in the room - well, she doesn't know what to make of that, either.
From her side, Kid sighs. "You're late."
"Only nerds show up on time." He still won't look away from her. She won't be the one to break it, either. "Didn't really think it was that much of a big deal."
Kid mutters something incomprehensible. Medusa, for her part, seems wholly unsurprised by Soul's little… show(?) and moves past Maka smoothly. Her strides are long and her bare feet make no noise as she glides through the room. It's only when she physically puts herself between the two of them does Soul finally break eye contact with her, only when he's literally forced to actually acknowledge the problem at hand head on.
"You never were timely, cat."
Soul snorts and shifts his weight. His boot clanks against the floor. "It's kind of my thing."
"Hm hm," she hums. From where she stands, literally body-blocking Maka from watching Soul (probably) roll his eyes, Medusa tugs her robe further up her shoulders. It's long - too long for her, surely, judging by the way it drags behind her - and black, embroidered with what appears to be the animals of the zodiac, trailing down her back. Gaudy.
"... Anyway," Soul says, shifting again, floorboards creaking beneath him. He stands taller, now, like the funny beanpole he is, peering over Medusa's shoulder to stare at her again. His eyes are bottomless, she thinks for not the first time. Endless, dark red, not unlike wine. She wishes she knew what any of this meant. "Apparently you requested me?"
"You skipped our last appointment as well," Medusa says, very smoothly, but there is more venom in her tone than she can mask. "I really don't appreciate being ignored, cat."
Maka's fingers itch. He has a name. God, Soul has a name. To refer to him only as cat is… dehumanizing? She can't put her finger on it; Maka chews her lip as Soul exhales. "... Must've missed the memo. Don't really have an address."
And then, something shifts.
It'd been tense the entire time, of course. Nothing about this meeting had ever been comfortable, but for the life of her, Maka hadn't been able to put her finger on what was wrong about it. There'd been layers - the way Medusa regarded her, of course, as if nothing more than a mere irritation, a mutt, and the way Kid had tensed up when she'd approached him - but it flares up, now, that something in complete full throttle. Medusa gives it a name as she slaps Soul across the face, the sound sharp and sudden, and Maka's gasp cuts through the air like a knife just as cleanly.
Cruel. She's cruel. Violently so.
Maka immediately pushes forward, and though she doesn't know what she'll do when she reaches them, to just sit and watch as Soul takes the hit without flinching, cheek pink and raw - it's unthinkable. It's a burning in her blood, this righteous fury, and it's only Kid yanking her back that keeps her from wrestling God to the ground and finally relishing in her tit-punching destiny.
"What-" she shrieks, but Kid's tugging her further back, still, and his grip is iron clad now. The only way to break free would involve taking his hand in hers and ripping herself away, hurting him in the process.
But the only other option is to sit and watch, which-
"You are to always obey," Medusa says, and that venom has finally begun to sting. Her voice is low, now, former false-pleasantries shattered unceremoniously. "Don't play cute."
Soul doesn't grimace. "I've never been cute."
God takes his jaw in her hand, now, and forces the cat to address her properly. "That's a good boy. I'm glad you finally understand."
He doesn't struggle, but there's a tightness there, in the way he holds himself. Teeth grit. Brows furrowed. "I really didn't get the memo."
"There was no memo," she hisses, and those jagged, sharp nails dig into his cheek like talons. They leave little crescent-moon dips in his skin, pale white, sure to pink later, and it's physically painful for Maka to sit by and watch while Soul's being handled like this, like he's nothing more than garbage on the street. "You know you're supposed to check in with me twice a month, cat. You've been doing it since you were just a kitten. I know you remember. Don't think I can't take away your little toy just because things have seemed so pleasant for you. Things are not the same for you. They've never been."
His little toy. Maka's blood rushes to her head and pumps around her ears, loud and constant, and she can't help it. It's just how she works, how she ticks; she cannot sit by and watch someone else be hurt, not like this, not ever - and certainly not Soul, who'd been so kind to her, so understanding. Not Soul, who'd looked at her with those moonlight eyes while she'd cried, not Soul, who still has no place to call home.
"Let me go," she grunts, twisting, squirming, yanking her wrist away from Kid. There's a flash of hurt on his face, just for a moment, and it doesn't sting the way she thought it might; he only shakes his head.
"You can't," he says, hushed. "It won't- you'll only make things worse, trust me."
"It's not right!" she shrieks, turning, and then Medusa is right there in her face, towering over her, eyes like slits. "I-!"
"Do you have something to say, dear?"
She has so much to say that she doesn't even know where to start. These intimidating tactics, these games of fear she likes to wage - it's child's play, now that she's lived with Stein for a few months now. Nothing she can't handle. Besides, Maka grew up in Kami's house. Matriarchal figures that aren't her own are powerless.
"No," Kid says, very smoothly, and his hand is just as clammy over her mouth as it'd been held in hers. Heart slamming in her chest, Maka struggles, but Kid keeps his grasp on her tight, heartbreakingly so. "No, Lady Medusa. Her apologies."
How dare he speak on her behalf. How dare he! Maka trembles in his grip, so angry that she can't help but vibrate all over like a bitter, mean little chihuahua. Ninety-five pounds of pure, unfiltered rage and fight.
Medusa's smile is unnecessarily wicked. As if there's anything else she could do to make Maka hate her more. Not while Soul's still standing there, waiting for further punishment. "Don't worry your pretty little head about him, dear. The cat's not the same as the others, you know. He's monstrous. He's meant to be locked away. It's only a matter of time before he fulfills his destiny and we throw him aside."
Put him away. Maka bites Kid's hand and he flinches back. "What-"
"It's the best for everyone," Medusa says, far too gleefully. She takes far too much pleasure in this power she has, Maka realizes. It tickles her, the way these boys take her abuse without batting an eye, the way everyone in this cursed house ignores the way Maka's been literally screaming at their god.
We all have things we don't like to talk about around here, he'd told her once. Family drama, he'd said, looking spellbinding and unbearably sad, and that ache from before doubles. She'd been so selfish, crying about something as trivial as a wayward father.
"I don't see how it could be the best for him," Maka says icily.
Medusa laughs. "Oh, he hasn't told you anything, has he? What, do you think he's just an unlucky little kitty? Why would we shun him if he was just a cat? Foolish girl."
The floorboards creak. Soul's stony mask cracks, and there's something there, in that half-second before he turns and flees the scene. Something there that hadn't been before, even as Medusa had raised her hand to him, even as she'd spit such terrible words. Fear, white hot, blazing in those deep eyes of his like wildfires.
The door slams behind him, and as his rapid footsteps echo through the hall, Medusa slithers past her and plops herself back down onto her throne with a heavy sigh, as if the whole thing had been actually exhausting for her or something.
"Scaredy cat," she says loftily. "Well, what can he expect? He'll be locked away by graduation anyway. Couldn't even muster up the courage to tell you the truth. He's a coward. I can't say I blame him. Who could love a freak?"
Maka doesn't think twice, just flashes Kid a heated look and takes off after Soul without waiting to hear more. It doesn't matter, she thinks angrily, shoving past the door and barreling down the hall, nearly tripping over herself in her haste - Soul'd been more afraid in that one moment than she'd ever seen him before. Skeletons in the closet don't matter to her one bit; even if he's the real monster of this strange tale she's found herself all twisted-up in, well, then he's one worth saving.
Or hearing out, at the very least. Everyone deserves a fighting chance. Even someone born into a role he'd never wanted to play.
