Soul
He's still enamored with his bike. It continues to gleam like new, and purrs delightfully in his grip. It's kind of nice to just get out of the apartment and drive.
...Who is he kidding? Soul wants nothing more than to turn around, get Maka back from Gallows Mansion, go home, crawl in bed, and erase everything that had happened today beyond Sexy Shower Time. Well, maybe he'd make an exception for that little moment in Kid's driveway.
Still. Apart from that relieving moment, he is not okay with how unsure of the future he is. Once he got back in traffic, the comforting reprieve had faded. His headache remains, pins and pitchforks distributing electric pain behind his eyes, skull pounding at every stoplight to Shibusen.
Finally arriving, Soul idles his motorcycle in front of the intimidating steps of the school. He's been told several times to not park here, but it's not like anyone's going to class right now, and he hopes it's more than just wishful thinking that his little visit will be short-lived.
Because he should be at home, with Maka, figuring shit out and enjoying what should be the best morning of his whole freakin' life.
"You've never let the Black Blood win in anything before!"
Trudging the long march up to the entrance, he battles feelings of weariness and discontent. His shoes sluggishly stomp the beat to the pulsing ache in his temples. Shibusen looms forever ahead, like the embodiment of everything just out of reach.
He's not letting the Blood win. Hell, he doesn't even have to fight it, now that he's entrusted his sanity to Maka. Shingami said it himself that she keeps out the dark! As long as they're together, the blood won't win anything.
Then again, he thinks as he enters the building and heads toward the ballroom, they're not defeating it, either. They're stuck in a stalemate, and his being denied the Death Scythe position is only further proof of that fact.
Personally, Soul's fine with the status quo, but he knows clear to his soul that Maka is never fine with not winning. If it were only his life being affected, he'd be content. But they are connected. They are a unit. Her promising future is affected by his, and his blood has stunted it.
It's not cool to be a hindrance.
The ballroom is empty, save for all the tables and decorations he and Spirit had assembled the day before. Maka's father failed to tell him where to meet while blabbing on the phone, and Soul has no desire to go searching for a man that might kill him on sight. He drapes his leather jacket on the back of a chair, at a loss of what to do.
Had it really only been yesterday that he'd pleaded 'not guilty' to sleeping with Maka? Now he is, on multiple counts, and the truth of it has probably rewritten his genetic code to somehow emit tiny father-figure-perceptible sound waves that scream 'I fucked your daughter, and it was amazing', and the moment Spirit hears them Soul can kiss his own ass goodbye.
He smirks, despite his headache. It was worth it, he admits to himself, though it's not so much an admittance than simply a cataloguing of truth. He'd do it again. Except for that part when he'd taken everything personally in the stairwell, blowing a fuse.
...Because it sounded like Maka had regrets. He felt his meister's brooding for the next hour, the link a constant whispering of doubts and confusions like wind rustling through pine needles.
Soul huffs, the sound small and insignificant in the large ballroom. He doesn't want to think about it anymore. And where the hell is Spirit?
Resigned to his fate of finding the man who is both his meister's father and the one deathscythe he apparently is unfit to replace, Soul stalks away from the hollow room with its lifeless decorations.
Walking in the general direction of Shinigami's room, he cringes and softens his footfalls, so the echoes of his shoes bouncing off empty halls do not further agitate the pounding in his skull. He'd dryly hoped that getting some distance between himself and Maka would ease his headache, seeing as he can't perceive souls without her nearby. Unfortunately, it lingers, and may actually be worse than before.
He just needs to eat something, probably. But a thought makes him stop in his tracks- hadn't Maka commented on his health this morning? Maybe he'scoming down with something.
Soul shakes his head (regretting the movement immediately because it rattles his brain inside his skull), and decides that no, he just needs some food. But then he looks to his right and sees a set of double-doors. It takes him a moment to place the tarnished french handles- they seem oddly familiar...
In midst of his musings, he happened to stop right in front of the music room he hasn't entered in years. Oh. Perfect. Gleeful to shove aside his worries for just a small while, Soul half-smirks as he pulls open the doors. He doesn't feel like looking for Spirit anyhow, and he's been wondering if the piano still exists. Some steam needs to be blown off.
It's not at all how he remembers. He's startled to find his memories of this room to be severely lacking when overlain by reality. Soul had always felt he knew this room on an intimate level- the place where he had first met Maka Albarn- but he doesn't recall the ornate chandelier, or the plush oriental carpets, or the heavily framed prints of composers of centuries past.
The room is smaller, for one. Or maybe he had been smaller the last he'd been present. Strangest of all, a faint smell of freshly used polish seeps through the musky thickness of stale air and collected dust. Sure enough, the very grand piano he's played once before still stands, a little off center, glittering as if ready for a fully booked performance. Not a speck of dust can be found as Soul lazily runs a finger across the spotless fallboard.
It's almost like it's been expecting him. Which is just as well, because the song- their song- is finished. This morning, before everything had gone awry, he heard the ending in his mind. He breathed in the smell of Maka's shampoo and he abruptly knew exactly how it should go.
He wants to play it. He wants to play.
Soul takes a seat on the bench, feet lightly tapping pedals and feeling their weight. How many years has it been since he's played this one? He looks over his shoulder, to the entrance of the room, and easily pictures a tiny, young Maka, head slightly cocked to the side, still partially lost in whatever world his personal strangeness had taken her. Looking back at the keys with a small smile, his hands become poised, hovering over the glossy instrument.
He blinks, smile faltering. He lets his left hand slowly fall, pressing a few keys in harmony. He blinks.
"What-" Soul hears himself say, a quiet noise in a silent room.
...How does the beginning go, again? He plays a different set of notes. No, that's not it. This? No. It's C-sharp minor, he knows it is. His hands are in the right place. Yet, for the life of him, he can't seem to hear the opening measure. Tries again. Tries again. He feels a lick of panic flare to life in his gut.
Woah, woah, woah. Calm down. He doesn't give a shit! He's just burned out, that's all. He feels like shit, this morning had extra helpings of stress, and he's been working on the song for so long that he must have lost it somewhere between reflex and muscle memory.
So, whatever. He'll start from Maka's movement, instead. He knows that well enough- the rest will come back to him.
This time, he doesn't even know where to place his hands. In fact, his hands look almost as alien to him as the piano keys themselves. How had this worked, before? Heartbeat quickening with frustration and dread, Soul tries to remember the notes he's scribbled on napkins and paper bags and hotel notebooks, but it's all a blank. He knows he wrote them! He knows it wasn't a dream!
This is bullshit. The song was in his head this very morning. It can't just fucking disappear! He would merely think of Maka and her theme would pour from his fingers-
CLANG .
Soul leans back from the keys, fingers sliding off ivory and ebony. That's not what she sounds like at all.
His mind is a complete void. Even the part he figured out this morning is missing. It's gone.
The more he tries to recall, the stronger and more irritating his headache becomes. Hurriedly, Soul tries to think of something else, of any other song-
His fingers fly to the stuffy, predictable music of the composers on the walls. Soul knows them without thinking, pieces of waltzes and nocturnes and scherzi pouring from his fingers. Hands glide over the same notes that have been played by millions of other hands, written by Brahms, Liszt, Rachmaninoff, and he finds no resistance. Even Bach and Beethoven, whose compositions make him cringe.
He remembers. But his song is gone.
As a last-ditch effort, Soul's aching fingers robotically tap out the notes to that silly lullaby that he had dreamed up ages ago. At least he remembers it, but it comes out sounding emotionless and inexperienced, like the first time Maka had hesitantly pecked it out in the room of his soul. What is this crap? It's like anything he tries that he associates with his meister, he has a … a brain fart. There's a gap, or maybe a wall, and it hurts to push against it.
Soul notices he's breathing heavily, like he's just climbed a god damned mountain. Everything from the crown of his pounding head to his toes uneasily jittering on the piano pedals is tense and cramped. He's somewhere between being completely panicked and so alienated from himself that it's numbing.
He feels nauseated. Maybe it's stress? His hands are clammy as they rub the back of his stiff neck.
How lame.
"Hey."
"Ahg!" The act of jumping in surprise with his already tense body just makes him hurt more. "WHAT the- Stein? Ah, crap."
The professor lurks in the open doorway to the music room. His presence reminds Soul that he should have been looking for Spirit, many shitty etudes ago.
"You do know Death Scythe is looking for you."
The emphasis on Spirit's position- the one he'd been denied- is like an extra little confidence-mutilating stab in Soul's fanfuckingtastic morning. "Yeah," he says shortly, staring at the glossy, despicable keys before him. He moves his arms reflexively to shove his hands into comforting coat pockets, but he realizes too late that the garment is still draped on the back of a chair in the ballroom. Soul scowls, awkwardly resting his forearms on his thighs.
"He's in the Death Room," Stein prods.
"Right."
With a sigh, Soul heaves his body to his feet, leaving behind yet another perplexing enigma recently added to his ever-growing list of Shit-He-Doesn't-Know-What-To-Do-About. On the way out of the room, he can't help but notice the very annoying and persistent expectant stare Stein wears. The professor's spectacles glare in various overhead lights as his face pointedly swivels wherever Soul moves.
"What," he blurts out, his patience falling painfully short. But Stein plays innocent, which is about as convincing as Black Star pretending to be humble.
"Hmm?" The meister gives his head a little violent twitch, and Soul has no idea if the crack he hears is from the older man's neck or the unassisted screw in his head turning one creepy little cog. "Hurry up. Sempai is becoming a handful with his impatience."
Soul gives him another questioning stare down, but the professor only blinks, revealing nothing.
Why is it, whenever he has an argument with Maka, he ends up in servitude to her father? After the stupid medication fight, he'd woken up to a scythe in the face. After the verbal explosion about Soul Sway, he had slaved away in a boiling ballroom.
And now, dirt.
Soul slouches, trying to swallow his headache while the bright blue faux sky of the Death Room shines twenty-seven times too happily in his peripherals. "When I said 'in a pot', didn't mean in a trough, or in a coffin, or in a wartrench."
"It's called a window box," Spirit says dismissively, tying on an apron.
"It's the Grand friggen' Canyon!" he exclaims, though warning bells ring in the back of his mind about how he shouldn't push is luck- any instigation might accidentally turn into an admittance about having slept with the man's daughter. Twice. " How are we supposed to take this home, later? Strap a trailer to my bike?"
"Whatever works."
Soul suppresses a snarl. He'd rather run his weapon form through a pipe bender. "And why here, of all places?" Shinigami's room is kind of a random-assed place to be planting flowers.
The older man pulls a spare pair of gardening gloves out of the back pocket of his slacks and tosses them to Soul. "So you won't complain about the air conditioning." The word 'wuss'is easily read from Spirit's unaffected grin. "Just shut up and help me."
He can't punch him. He's Death Scythe and Maka's old man. Soul stares forlornly at the disturbingly uncool gloves in his hand. Pink cotton adorned with yellow duckies nearly smiles back in cheery happiness. He wearily glances to his left, where Head Skull-Cheese sits primly in a high-backed chair, holding a tiny saucer and teacup in his massive white hands. He silently implores the God of Death for any kind of advice. Shinigami only sips tea through his mask with a bubbling slurp, neutrally watching the two scythes as one watches a weather forecast, Stein quietly speaking at his side.
Resignedly, Soul glances back down at Spirit and the plethora of individually-packaged vegetation surrounding them both. The immediate area smells like fertilizer and wet dirt (and consequently, mushrooms, which the very thought makes his head swim and stomach uncomfortably gurgle), and he wouldn't be surprised if Spirit had purchased the entire stock of whatever plant nursery he had graced with his presence.
Soul kneels to the floor, adorning the gardening gloves and grudgingly wondering how on earth Spirit had found such girlish print in a man's size. "Plant the herbs," he says as he tires of watching Spirit try to make up his mind on which variety of plants and flowers to start with. "She likes stuff that can be used for other...stuff," he offers lamely.
"My ever-practical baby."
"Gag me."
He doesn't know what to say afterwards, annoyed that the awkward silence between them only seems to be affecting himself and not Spirit at all. All Soul can think about are job positions and a possibly homicidal father giving deranged, almost-permission to marry his daughter, so he starts digging holes in silence.
Maybe this is okay. Maybe he never really stood a chance at replacing Maka's old man. Spirit's not even that old. He's experienced. He's clearly qualified, else Shinigami wouldn't have kept him for so long. He probably cares for Maka on a level that Soul can only dream.
Maybe he should just give up.
"Quit slacking, heathen."
Soul rolls his eyes and removes another root ball out from its plastic container. Despite his lack of wanting to cooperate, he still gently handles the plants. They're Maka's after all.
Uhg! There has to be a way to un-fuck-up his shit! If the Black Blood were gone, he could be twenty times the weapon Spirit Albarn is! ...That's what she would probably be saying, if she was in range of the link, anyway.
There's something kind of therapeutic about transferring plants into loamy dirt, even if it doesn't help his nausea very much. After awhile, he notices just how tightly packed the gigantic 'window box' is becoming with vegetation.
It's the stupidest question he's ever felt the need to ask, but, "Should they be... this close together?"
Spirit Albarn shifts his weight as he leans back on his knees and studies the mess of herbs. He shrugs. "Beh. Better too much than not enough!"
"...I guess..."
"Too much and there won't be any, Albarn," comes a voice from over Soul's shoulder.
"Sid!"
"Sid?"
"Sid-sensei to you, Evans," the zombie says to the side before turning back to the man across from him. "Spirit, you can't cram that many in there."
Spirit merely harrumphs, dismissively waving a dirt-encrusted, gloved hand. "They'll be fine!"
Shifting his weight to one foot, Sid grunts. "Trust an undead man when he says he knows a few things about dirt." Soul muffles an abrupt laugh-turned-choke into his shoulder, but Sid pays no mind. "You should know by now that smothering never ends well."
Maka's father splutters, and Sid kneels, intervening the whole planting fiasco. It's become a fucking weird, but not unpleasant, atmosphere, and Soul finds himself wondering just what the hell is going on. Every person/god in this room had been a part of his last mission, right? Had he really been set up to lose, like Maka believes?
It doesn't feel like it, shoving his hands in potting soil, surrounded by the people who would be in on the conspiracy- if that was, in fact, what it had been- that screwed them over. Looking over his shoulder again, Soul watches Stein continue speaking with Shinigami, occasionally glancing in his general direction, glasses still gleaming suspiciously with the movement.
Okay, maybe it feels kind of like a conspiracy. But that's hard to get around if Stein's involved.
Tiredly sighing for the hundredth time, Soul glances at Spirit, who now whistles something not even close to being in tune with itself, as the older scythe happily waters a newly transplanted... whatever it is. Green Thing. Soul grimaces, headache thrumming silently in his temples. The father is just as tone deaf as the daughter.
Sometimes they're so alike he feels like an outsider.
"Sempai, come here a moment."
He doesn't even stop whistling, Spirit dusting his gloves off on his apron and strolling over to Stein and Shinigami, molding into that hush-hush secret conversation stance.
Probable conspiracy points: plus ten.
Soul quietly hisses to his remaining companion. "Hey. Sid."
"Sensei."
"Mmmgrr, Sid-sensei."
"Yeah," the meister responds, never faltering in his planter-arranging.
"So... guess that bird-broad got the jump on you?"
Sid turns his head marginally to the left and gives him a very blank, undead look. "In Madagascar?"
"Yeah," Soul confirms. Sid only looks back at the planter, providing no answer. Soul presses on, anyway, determined to get to the bottom of this. "Hypnotized by harpy tits and got kidnapped, maybe?"
The zombie's very catatonic-like mouth tries to twist into something resembling an incredulous frown. "I was, and amnot, the type to be distracted by scantily-clad old women," he states, firmly patting around a plant he's recently backfilled.
"...Just mummies, huh?"
That might have been a wry smirk on the teacher's face. Sid upends a potted plant over Soul's head, rubbing it in.
"Ah! Stop, shit, okay okay okay!"
So. It had been a setup, clearly. Sid would never have just let himself be toted off by that low-class witch for any other reason than On Purpose. It had been, at the very least, a test for Soul, if not one designed to fail. He frowns to himself as he attempts to get the potting soil out of his hair. "Sorry you got kidnapped for nothing," he says bitterly, though not for a lack of sincerity.
But he hears a reply he doesn't expect.
"Nothing? All meisters are glad to help any weapon become Death's, not just their own."
Soul's hands freeze in the middle of brushing off his shoulders. God, how he wishes he had Maka's Perception right now. He stares openly at Sid, looking for any helpful clues at all. "But... What? I failed the test. You helped for nothing," he says slowly, unsure of what he's saying is true anymore.
The almost-incredulous frown tries to make an appearance again. "Failed?" he remarks quietly, cleaning off soil from the leaves of what might be basil with a gentleness not easily perceived from such an intimidating-looking man. "Isn't the clock still running?"
He must have a stupid look on his face, because Sid snorts. Soul tries to find his cool. "Uh. Have you been taking freakin'... cryptic lessons from Skull-Cheese?"
The zombie laughs outright, and Soul, through his confusion, feels like he has the slightest sliver of hope that he may have a second chance, or rather, his first chance had never ended. Sid leans to the side a little, and the weapon recognizes it dimly as that notorious hush-hush top secret stance everyone else has been using. More quietly than before, Sid says, "We're giving you all the help we can, Evans... Some things you gotta do for yourself."
He might just be able to un-fuck-up his shit after all.
"Shouldn't you be cleaning up for that dance? Or aren't you going...'cause it's starting soon."
"What time is it?" Soul blurts out, standing to his feet and ignoring the swirling in his head, because his and Maka's future might not all be for naught, and if he's late picking her up she'll kill him before he can tell her what he's just figured out.
He hates formals! He hates formals, and yet he's giving such a shit that there's no way he can remotely appear cool right now. Peeling off his girly gloves and tossing them to the floor, he says "Spirit! Gotta go, do it yourself!"
Soul half-jogs to the exit, and he's almost there before he hears a "Just a moment, Soul-kun~"
Ah, hell. He swivels on a foot, wondering what shit he's got himself into this time, and sees Shinigami waving him over while simultaneously speaking into his mirror. Strolling forward he hears Death the Kid's voice from the other side, which is pretty random because he doesn't know why Shinigami would need him for a conversation with his son, and even more strange is the sight of Stein restraining Spirit, who looks like he really wants to talk to Kid.
"Maka-chan, this call's for you, actually," the God of Death says. Oh. That explains some things. He'd already forgotten Maka was over at Kid and the Thompson's place/palace.
"Y-yes?" comes her confused voice, and he finally comes in view of her, Shinigami moving slightly to the side to make room, Spirit and Stein still curiously on the sidelines. He hears Sid rustling around with more plants on the other side of the room as she exclaims, "Oh my- what happened to you?"
Her dress is awfully familiar, and he really hopes his face isn't as hot as it feels. "Long story. Uh-" Crap, he needs to think of anything besides what they were doing the last time she was in that number, because he's facing Kid and standing next to his father, and Maka's father is standing not even ten feet from him.
Then she flushes, and he bites the inside of his cheek. It's strange to see her made-up. Rare. It's difficult, but exciting to match this meister to the one that screams in rage, swinging him in her deft hands.
He really, really needs to talk to her. Privately. And away from the conspirators in the room.
Soul tries to brush a little more of the dirt out of his hair, feeling extra inadequate in front of her. "Anyway. Um. Right. I'mma go home and grab my shh-" he probably shouldn't swear in front of his would-have-been/could-still-be future boss, "...stuff, and then come get you."
Her voice is tight with embarrassment and it's so damned adorable. "Actually, I can ride with Kid and everybody, if that makes it easier," she offers. One of her hands comes up to fiddle with a bundle of curled hair resting on her neck, and he knows she's paranoid about the mark he left on her. The bite in his cheek may as well be considered a sore at this point. "They have a limo."
And then the image shakes like in an earthquake. At first, he glances at the mirror, wondering if something is causing it to move erratically, but after hearing the noise Kid makes after the shaking ends, he realizes the tremor is on their end of the conversation.
"What the hell was that?" Suddenly the distance between Soul and his meister seems much more vast when he can't feel her wavelength and she's anywhere near something that could cause her harm without him there to stab it very dead.
Shinigami, however, remains as calm as a fucking Zen garden. "How is that extraction coming, Kiddo?"
"Awful," replies Kid, who appears to be ten seconds away from having a mental breakdown.
"Extraction?" Soul asks.
Maka pipes up. "Mister Kraken," she says, as if describing someone else's toddler throwing an unbecoming tantrum in public. Soul swallows down another wave of nausea just thinking about that blob of creepiness.
"I must get back to my pool," Kid mutters, nearly slipping in his haste to save his property. He's caught by Liz in the distance, who exclaims something about being pretty, but he's distracted by Patti popping into view.
"Heya Soul. Hi Grim-face!" she waves.
"Hey."
"Yo!"
Liz, somewhere out of his line of sight, calls for her sister's assistance to strap Kid into a car and says, "What's the status, lovebirds?"
Lovebirds? Who says that anymore? He shoots Maka a worried glance. Her nervous face tells him the cat is already out of the bag, but he asks anyway. "She talking to us?"
His meister gulps. To the side she calls out, "I'm coming with you guys!" She totally avoided his question! "I'll meet you there, okay?" she says to him with that patented you-can't-be-mad-at-me glance.
"...Ah. Sure." Uhg, he sucks! He sucks, he sucks, he sucks at being cool.
"O-okay. See you."
The tone in her voice drags his attention away from his complete lack of Rico Suave. She looks partway expectant and glances awkwardly at Shinigami before focusing on him again. He wishes he knew what the hell she was feeling, the lack of their link becoming painfully obvious.
Then again, he kind of knows already, doesn't he? This is the same pathetically uncomfortable dance they took part in the last time they said goodbye.
...Shit.
Well if she's not saying it, he's not saying it! Especially with Spirit practically foaming at the mouth in his peripheral. "Mm," he grits out. "...Later."
Just bow to Skull-Cheese and get the hell out. They can exchange all that mushy stuff later when he's not under the threat of death. He needs a shower and something to eat...
"Soul!"
Man, it takes all the self-restraint he has from outright running back to her projection. "Yeah?"
"Ummm. Cufflinks."
That is nothing close to what he expected to hear from her. "Haah?"
There's a weird glint in her eye, and her blush reaches down her bare shoulders. "They're on my bedside table," she says with a secretive smirk. "Don't forget them."
It takes him a moment, but only one. A grin crashes on his face, feeling better now than he has since breakfast this morning. "Yeah," he says with a wave, trying his best not to cackle. "Won't forget."
How could he? She practically proposed to him with them. Soul waves at Sid, who raises a blue-tinged hand in farewell, cleaning up the debris around the newly finished window box for Maka. Once outside of the Death Room and headed down the hall, he snickers to himself.
Black Star'll be his maid of honor.
Sour mood mostly lifted, and headache lowered to an almost ignorable simmer, he feels it. It trickles in the back of his mind so softly that he has to stop and make certain it isn't his imagination. The music.
The music!
Quickly he looks around for the music room again. He wants to play, but he's also short on time and Maka was already dressed (and smoking hot) while he's still covered in assdirt. Just one moment, though, is all he needs to fix his self-esteem. It shouldn't take long. Where did that room go, again?
He trots down the hall and finds the doors still open. Soul doesn't even bother sitting down, just leaning over the bench and placing his hands where they belong with a smug grin.
Before his fingers even touch the keys, he's surrounded by blistering, head splitting pain, so burning hot it could melt steel, so abrupt and unannounced that his knees unbuckle and he scrambles for the piano and bench both to keep steady. He can't breathe, he can't see- what is this? Is this what people mean when they talk about having migraines? Surely not. This is unreal- his eyes are stinging with tears!
He stumbles away, to get to the hallway and the tiled floor because he knows it's cooler and he just wants to lay on it and put out the fire searing through his body. Once he gets there, leaning with one hand on a wall, he can breathe more easily. He's tired from the ordeal, but almost as suddenly as it had come, the pain fades into a distant murmur.
He gives up the idea of laying on the floor. A little more wobbly than he'd like to admit, he continues to the front doors of Shibusen, wanting to get home, take an aspirin or something, and maybe calling Maka to come home because that had been kind of scary as shit. If he can make it home in the first place.
The moment he steps outside, Soul rethinks his decision about going home. It's raining. He really doesn't want to juggle driving on wet roads and possibly having another... whateverthat was at the same time. Maybe he should stay put and go to Stein to get checked on.
Except, as Soul warily glances at his bike, Stein is sitting on it. And looks like he's searching for keys.
"What the HELL, Stein?" Soul hollers down the stairs, taking two and three at a time down, despite his legs still feeling like rubber.
"I need to borrow this." Stein says, like the bike is a fucking pencil or paper clip.
Soul tries to catch his breath, furious, tired, and confused. "What the crap for?"
"My specimen... it's getting rained on."
"...At Kid's place?"
A nod. "You've seen what water does to it, I imagine?"
Water? Well, when it got in the pool it turned into a gigantic squid-kidney... if it got rained on-
"Oh, shit. Are they okay? Is Maka okay? Because that's kind of important."
"They've already left. Black Star and Tsubaki are on their own right now. I could use your keys."
Soul glowers, not particularly enjoying how Stein handles grand theft auto like borrowing a cup of sugar, but he's glad to hear that Maka is not facing danger without him. "Hell no. I'm driving. How am I s'posed to get home if you got bike anyway? Move over."
He should have grabbed his jacket. The rain pelts him like needles, and the speed that Stein urges him to use makes the water freezing in the wind. He catches himself chewing on the sore in his cheek at a stoplight in frustration, feeling like a cat who really does not want to be involved in a bath.
"Do you want a helmet?" Stein calls through the pelting rain. Soul barks over his shoulder which compartment it's in. He'll need it to be able to see, and he should have grabbed it before they left, hair soaked and muddy and rain constantly in his eyes. He refuses to acknowledge the weariness in his arms, and the reluctance his foot has while trying to shift gears. Stein had been about to hijack his bike (for the second time!), so whatever shit is going down at Kid's place must be pretty important. He needs to keep going.
The light turns green before he can put on a helmet, so it'll have to wait til the next light. As they cross the intersection, he feels something that sounds a lot like C-sharp minor tickling his ears, and he hopes it's Maka passing them, and not the prerequisite to another headache attack.
Soul's luck holds. He gets the helmet on eventually, which allows him to drive with more ease with the ability to see shit. They pull into Kid's driveway about fifteen minutes later, soaked to places more deep than mere bone.
"Okay get off, I gotta go home and-"
But a very large... mass of flesh rears into the sky, originating from somewhere behind the roofline of Gallows Mansion, slowly coming down to smash into the eastern wing.
Soul groans, Stein moving to dismount the motorcycle. "Kid is gonna be so pissed."
"Huh. That's a different exponential rate than I was expecting," Stein mutters. "You're probably going to be late to the formal," the professor informs him.
His gut sinks. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be," he deadpans, tugging off his helmet and rubbing his drenched head with a shaky hand. Soul follows Stein around a demolished security fence and into the wasteland that had once served as Death the Kid's backyard.
Soul stops walking the moment the majority of the beast is in his line of sight. It's just so... huge. He's forced to simply stare at the globulous blob of 'Mister Kraken' wreaking havoc anywhere its slimy limbs come into contact. It's almost majestic, in a creepy apocalyptic kind of way.
"Well," Stein speaks up, "I'm not supposed to wield you for the time being, so... you'll have to watch my back."
He should have brought his jacket.
"Yeah, sure," Soul replies blandly, watching Black Star, of all improbable people, being backed into a corner of rubble and what might have been lawn furniture. Both he and Tsubaki are on defense, attacking in near unison with the electric-like attack that he's seen Stein use on occasion, using it whenever a tentacle of the beast comes near. Not that it helps much- Soul notices the split second of whatever reverse-engineering their wavelengths induce on the monster, temporarily shrinking a limb or arm or leg or whatever the fuck those are, but the results are almost immediately counteracted by the rain, and then some.
The smell of formaldehyde is still present. It makes him retch suddenly, not expecting to be so affected by the stench. He feels quite ill now- he can admit it to himself. The rain is a lot more cold than he remembers, he's kind of dizzy, and that damned headache...
Soul takes a deep breath, watching Stein stalk off towards his 'specimen'. But he stops abruptly, looking back at him curiously with that analyzing, stupid, obnoxious, nosy look on his face! "WHAT," he snaps at him, tired of that stare and irritable, and shouldn't they be trying to help out Black Star and Tsubaki or something, and not eyeing him like an experiment?
In reply, Stein takes long strides back to him, reaching into his lab coat. Oh good, maybe it's something awesome that will calm his pounding head. Except it's not.
It's a scalpel.
"Wait. What- that's... That's for that thing, right?" Soul worriedly says, pointing at the gooey monstrous blob behind the professor.
"No," Stein reassures him, but it doesn't work. Soul doesn't even try to defend himself, so shocked that he can't process what's happening, because oh, great, and now this is the moment Professor Screw-ball decides to go berserk. Fantastic. He should have grabbed his god damned jacket, god damn it. Fast as lightning, the man leaves a thin slice behind, his razor-sharp blade flying across Soul's right forearm.
"What the FUCK!" he howls, hand coming to the wound and pressing on the searing pain the scalpel had left behind. He glances down, and back up at Stein to see if he might do it again, but the man is staring at his handiwork. Soul looks again, seeing obsidian leaking between the squeezing fingers trying to keep the wound shut.
Hang on a second. That should be red, shouldn't it?
"Your blood is black."
Soul warily looks at Stein, blinking water out of his eyes. Stein gazes back, and it's the first time he's ever seen the seasoned meister at a loss of what to do next.
And then, in the corner of his eye, the beast eats Tsubaki.