AN: Alternative title: "Hell Inside His Head, Part II"
The sword slashed viciously into Marceline's side, taking with it a string of flesh and blood. She yelled as she fell forward, enraged and terrified simultaneously. Time moved so slowly as the shock kicked in, mercifully sparing her conscious from the pain of being gutted open like a fish. The detached arm of the shade, crept down the tree, stalking close to her like a vulture moving in on weakened prey.
Oh God. Marceline thought. I'm gonna pass out, aren't I?
Her survival instincts still thrived, in spite of her failing vision. She crawled forward along the ground, pulling at the grass to inch herself forward, however futile it seemed. "Where am I going?" she mumbled to herself, losing sense of direction. Her eyesight was getting hazy.
Ultimately, she lost the strength to move altogether. The most she could do was mumble an apology against the dirt. "Crona...I know you told me not to die here, but if I'm being honest...not feeling so hot right now. My bad."
She took her last breath and stopped moving.
/
Marceline shot awake with a gasp.
She was in her room. No pain. No wounds. She was, however, floating rather close to the ceiling. Disoriented, she scanned the room for a second to make sure everything was in order. "Well, there's Crona on the floor... Hold up, who's that?"
She squinted at the tramp sitting mere inches from Crona. "Hey!" Marceline shouted at her, getting no visible reaction. Who did she think she was, barging in with her black hair, pale skin, red boots...
"...Shit." Marceline put two and two together, realizing she was looking at herself from the third person; she could hardly be blamed, having not seen her own reflection in centuries. She looked at her hands (not the hands of her unconscious, meditative self next Crona), realizing they had taken on a transparent form.
"So. I'm a ghost." She said. Had she really died? Floating over to herself, she noticed her physical self was still breathing, slowly and carefully; that was a good sign. "Looks like I'm not wounded here, either. None of it was real."
She looked to the ceiling. "But I still gotta get back in there. For Crona."
She shut her eyes and concentrated, knowing that she was going to be dragged back to a Hell should she try.
/
Pain, light, and sound. She returned to Crona's mental world exactly as she had left it, before her very brief departure: lying on the ground, half-dead. Marceline heard it shuffling in the grass: the shade's arm, carrying the sword in preparation to finish what the first slash had begun.
She knew she couldn't blow her second chance; any more slip-ups like before and she was a dead woman.
It's not real. She thought, purposefully ignoring that she could very well be killed here, in this abstract place. The thrill to preserve her own life took precedence over her fatigue, running with her bum leg and slashed gut. None of this is real.
Her gait was sloppy, but forceful, exchanging finesse for distance and speed alone. I'm not hurt right now. It's all in Crona's head. In a few minutes, we're gonna wake up like nothing happened.
The mantra gave her strength, movements gradually becoming imbued with vigor once more. Not even basic fatigue plagued her anymore. It wasn't just the placebo effect of willpower anymore; she was mending her mental form with thought alone. She brushed her knee her palm when she had the chance, feeling the distinct lack of the prior cut she had sustained.
The shade was not mindless or fearless. When it noticed Marceline had regained a semblance of strength, it withdrew into the cover of trees and bushes, biding its time to strike again. Now, the onus fell on her to pursue her foe.
There were limits to the imagination, naturally; if there was a way for her to wish herself to be transported to the end of this labyrinth of mind, she would have done it in a heartbeat. So, she worked within her limits. If this were real, I'd be able to hear this thing's footsteps.
The initial return of her heightened sense was jarring, and unpleasant. And then, it was liberating. She could hear a bird beat its wings from across the greenhouse. She could smell the honey in the air. She could see the nuts and bolts that fastened the infrastructure of the ceiling, dozens of feet up.
A twig snapping underfoot gave away the shade's position. Marceline stayed calm, not showing any signs that she'd noticed it. About thirty feet away. Seven o'clock. Shuffling close as a constant speed.
Then came its attack: with the same, unfeeling motion, it severed one of its arms with a sword, sending the sliced limb slithering across the ground like a snake. She resisted the urge to look at it, and give away the facade of ignorance.
Even now, Marceline continued to underestimate the tenacity of the shade, its arm slithering through the taller patches of grass in an effort to avoid detection—not that such a tactic would save it. As soon as it darted within reach of her, she stomped down viciously with her boot heel, right on the inner elbow. The limb went limp, bleeding black into the grayed grass.
A pained moan came from behind the trees, revealing in full the shade's body. "That hurt? If this is too much, what's next ain't gonna be pretty." Marceline said, making an open target of herself with outstretched arms. It was a dare, certain to be almost irresistible to the crazed hunter.
She was right; the shade did not stray from the challenge, instead charging forward with a discordant howl with its two swords. Marceline held her ground and waited for danger, as if in the storm's eye of a hurricane.
The shade launched on the offensive without patience, leaping at Marceline with its two swords held behind the shoulders. This monster's fast. Marceline stole a breath as she weaved to the right of the plunging strike. But I can read it like a book. She countered swiftly with a kick leveled at its abdomen, and there was an immediate satisfaction that came with making contact.
The shade grunted, and took one step back. This close up, she could make out the lights of eyes, like dull blue candlelights burning within its head. She should have expected this, fighting unarmed, but the shade wasn't slowed down. It screamed at a deathly volume, and lunged. Taken aback by the screech, Marceline had no defense for the incoming shoulder bash, knocked to the ground by the sturdy force that it put forward. The shade wasted no time in moving for the fatal strike, wrist poised to slash a bloody line along her throat. Caught in the headlights, Marceline rolled on her back, the sword only slicing her nape and a large swath of her hair.
That was the wrong move—in anticipation of the roll, the shade swung his hefty blade in a horizontal arc. No time left to dodge. No time left to block. She only had a second to think, and think she did.
It manifested in her hands at the moment of her greatest peril; a tool suited both for setting men's hearts at ease and taking heads. In centuries of battle and bloodshed, its minor dings and scratches were a testament to its tenacity and will to carry on, much like its destined master. The weight of the ax bass felt supremely right in her grasp, and with one swing she beat back the shade's sword, metal against metal echoing throughout the forest.
"I've got a lot of reasons to give my dad grief..." Marceline traced her finger against the roughened handle of the weapon, still shining in the sunlight. "This isn't one of them."
The shade took a haggard breath, appearing fearful for once. Something about that sight unsettled her, but there was no room for her heart to relent. As she ran, the shade put up its two swords in an x-shape to guard; she kicked with her good foot forward. His defense broke, and the battle may as well have ended there.
She lifted the battle ax high behind her back slowly and swung down fierce, making a bloody mess of the shade upon striking its head. Its hat flew through the air and landed, just away from a goopy puddle of its own ethereal blood.
After taking such a violent blow, the shade crumpled rather gracefully, sinking down its knees. Its chains looked so heavy, and although the shade embodied something vile, it was still in the threshold of Marceline's pity.
She heard a rustling in the grass, looking over to see Hambo, that worrisome rabbit, who silently watched the death of the hunter that terrorized it in life. As the shade slumped, it stared back. How was Marceline supposed to feel about this? Triumphant? Somber?
Juxtaposed like this, it didn't take long at all for Marceline to notice a common thread between these far-detached entities; for as simple as the comparison seemed, the fact that predator and prey both shared eyes of a deep blue color was no coincidence at all.
She sat down, looking at them both—or rather, him, singular. "Crona." Her eyes searched for meaning in this, and answers.
No answer dared show itself to Marceline. Not the shade. Not the rabbit. Not a voice on the wind. Nothing could hope to explain the guilt, no, the active self-hatred that perturbed Crona so deeply. Being able to talk to him, face-to-face, would be so much easier...
But that wasn't the hand she was dealt, and there was no one to complain to here. With the ax bass slung over her shoulder, she walked the final stretch of the greenhouse where the exit door laid, but in all likelihood, she had a strong suspicion what awaited her on the other side wasn't any safe haven. Would it be a distinct memory like the last, or a veiled trauma like this?
Hambo tailed behind, then beside her, with an upward gaze seeking some kind of approval from Marceline. She regarded him, Crona, that is to say, with simple curiosity. With a short sigh, she was able to put her laments to rest; even if this wasn't the Crona she knew, she took comfort in the fact he still accompanied her in some capacity—the same, bittersweet pill she had swallowed with Simon long ago.
Her hand resting on the gold doorknob, she stopped for her farewell. "I'll see you soon." She said. It was a statement laden with hope, hope that she might walk out of this with a fairy tale ending. In a long existence full of twists and betrayed expectations, she prayed for simplicity just this one time.
Marceline opened yet another door, hit with whiplash as she was thrust into another unfamiliar locale, completely different from the last, and the one before that; it was as though the simple act of opening a door brought into her into a different dimension each time.
The white noise was abundant, a thousand conversations going on at once in a dense hallway. Light poured in from windows high on the wall, the day bright outside at the peak of midday. The people passing to and fro, humans, in fact, seemed to be a bit younger than herself, stopping at lockers or just generally meandering around the place, having fun.
She squinted. This concept, the whole scene, struck her as vaguely familiar—like something she had heard about, but never experienced herself. Then, it hit her: she'd seen this in a few movies before. "Oh yeah." Her eyebrows shot up in recognition. "This is one of those...high school...things."
This wasn't her scene; she felt too old to be around here, on top of already standing out thanks to her rather rugged fashion native to Ooo. At the very least, the ax bass strung on her back wasn't getting any dirty looks. Crona told me he went to school once. This might be it. She thought, searching for his form among hundreds of others.
"Excuse me," a thin voice caught her ear, as someone brushed past her shoulder in the middle of the hall.
"Crona?" she blurted out clumsily; it might've been smarter to follow for a bit before immediately making her presence clear.
He turned around after a second, seeming rather lost in his own head. "Hm?" Nothing in his demeanor suggested he remotely knew Marceline, distrust evident in the thin grimace he wore. Only now did it occur to her that he looked noticeably more youthful than his current self; subtract about four years from him and you would have the person standing in front of Marceline now. His sole item of clothing besides his old-fashioned shoes was a long-black robe.
She swallowed a quick gulp, having already dug herself into a hole. Time to put your social skills to the test, Marcy.
"Are you doing okay?"
It became clear to Marceline very, very quickly that she had no idea what she was supposed to do inside this mundane memory. He seemed flabbergasted by the question; poor kid probably wasn't used to hearing it much. Blinking, Crona opened his mouth to speak, slowly.
She placed a hand on his shoulder to cut him off from answering. "Y'know what, don't answer that. Haveagooddaydon'tgetkilled!"
At the earliest opportunity, she darted away, turning invisible once she was out of Crona's sight. Although she knew it was beyond his control, being regarded as a complete stranger to him...stung a bit. She pondered the possibility that if they had met in different circumstances, she might've not even piqued Crona's interest.
She shook away the doubt and cursed herself for it. Now was not the time for self-consciousness, especially within the confines of someone else's head. Her priorities back on track, Marceline realized that being able to turn invisible again would be an invaluable tool in navigating the school. With stealth rendered a non-issue, her watchful eyes sought out Crona, who she'd let slip only a minute ago in this presumably vast school. It was an affair of all the senses, including one's sixth, if inclined to believe in it, tring to find him.
Out of natural curiosity, she eavesdropped on anyone who happened to be nearby, only to stumble upon a concerning truth: the conversations had by other students consisted of pure nonsense words and meaningless sentences. Even as the twisting, surreal hallways became more grounded with her slow approach to Crona, the students and faculty talked the same babble, and she wondered if these people truly meant nothing to him.
After much time spent hovering around invisible, she found him on the first floor in a small hallway, alone. While he thought no one was watching, he smiled wide, far more excited than she was used to seeing him.
She almost flinched to see the monstrous, but small thing violently emerge from his spine. "Can we be done with this girl already? You utter clown, I'm too hungry for you to be standing around makin' friends!"
After a moment's confusion, she recognized the voice as Ragnarok's. He's just a sword, isn't he? She narrowed her eyes, somewhat boggled at his impish form in mighty contrast to the long, menacing blade that she had associated Ragnarok with previously. However, she couldn't say that the appearance didn't suit his personality.
"You've never had friends." Crona said, his smile unwavering. "And neither have I. Please don't ruin this."
As she tailed Crona undetected, Marceline began forming a rough timeline in her mind of the memories. At some point between now and childhood, Crona was a killer—she guessed as much in interpreting the muddled memory within the rabbit patch just prior to this school setting. She could see no other way of making sense of that twisted scene, and...she made peace with it. He's made mistakes, she thought, then correcting herself. No, someone coerced him, definitely that witch.
Maybe it was just her perception of Crona as a gentle person averse to conflict that prevented her from tainting her present image of him. Or, a millennium of living had desensitized her moral compass to the act of murder. Even Marceline herself had killed more than she could count on hand—granted, bad people, but people nonetheless—and her father was an unrepentant, soul-sucking fiend, and she still loved him; it would be hypocritical for her to cast judgment onto Crona.
But as she watched him, branding the past Crona as 'evil' seemed harsh: he was just some kid, walking outside with a hopeful gleam on his face. Showing no signs of tiring, he traversed lonely side streets and alleyways through a bustling city, under a laughing sun—
Wait.
After taking a passing glance at the sky, Marceline's gaze shot up to make sure her eyes hadn't fooled her completely. First and foremost, the sun looked dangerously to the planet, and secondly, it had a face. She tried to give it some thought. Maybe that's supposed to represent... Yet, pitched ideas and reasoning utterly failed to explain why the sun laughed ceaselessly. Yeah, not gonna bother this time.
Marceline had spent so much time in bewilderment at the sun that she lost track of Crona. Thankfully, she wasn't a total stranger to deductive work; she owed Bonnie for teaching her some nifty tricks, so long ago.
She purposefully widened her eyes, staring at the ground while she walked. Staring, until she could make out the faintest outline of his dust footprints on the ground. Naturally, this was a technique one could only manage as a vampire—Bonnibel just let her realize she could do it.
"Good thing I'm not a stalker, otherwise, I'd be using this way more often." If only to lighten the mood, she joked to herself, not sure what to anticipate from this fragmented memory. The last one started like this too: seemingly innocent and pure turned warped into madness abruptly. Was this a safe haven, or only a deeper descent into the abyss?
She was so focused on following the dust prints of his shoes that she actually flinched upon hearing a basketball bouncing on pavement, jerking all of her senses back to reality at once. In front of her stood a short fence immediately preceding a steep drop below to an outdoor basketball court, unkempt but dignified in its identity as a rebellious teenager's stomping ground, the walls drenched in graffiti and weeds poking out of the cement cracks.
Not revealing herself just yet, Marceline leaned against the railing to observe. It was a lonely way to interact with this seemingly living, breathing world, but it was probably for the best.
"Come on, Crona, take the shot!" A boy with a domineering presence swerved around Crona, trying to get ahold of the ball without actually moving in on him.
"Jesus Christ, Black Star." A tall, long-haired girl with a visage just a little too hardened for her apparent age muttered from the sidelines. She flexed her fingers close to her face, blowing on a fresh coat of nail polish. "Does the concept of a casual game ever cross your walnut brain?"
"I know!" he said irrelevantly. "But how else is Crona gonna get better without some fair competition?"
Oh. The longer Marceline watched, the more out of place she felt here. He was among his friends, but not ones she knew—not from Ooo. She loosened her shoulders and drew back a few steps in a subconscious effort to look smaller, even if invisibility made that redundant.
Seated on the bench, a drowsy-looking guy puffed out a breath skyward. "Yeah, sounds cool enough, but is basketball even his thing? We kinda dragged him along without asking if he felt up to it." He looked to the court, stark white bangs dangling in front of his eyes. "Hey, Crona, you know you can stop when you want, right?"
Despite all signs pointing to visible discomfort, Crona managed a stilted smile and got into the game a little bit. It was at least evident he was trying, dribbling around Black Star with the form of a shaky beginner. "I-I'm fine," he insisted. "I wanted to be here."
Watching him left Marceline awestruck: he ran with a rarely-seen energy, moving as though he was glad to be alive. His best foot forward, the ball flew from his hands to the hoop, on just the right trajectory to land right in...
She was certain he would have made the shot, but alas, the basketball hit the backboard at the wrong angle, forcefully ricocheting towards the sidelines. She saw Crona's whole body tense up, as though pulled by strings, while the ball bounced in wide arcs towards an oblivious girl with her face in a book.
He rose his voice, against his own nature. "M-Maka, be careful—"
Without so batting an eye from the pages of her study, the girl raised her palm knowingly and secured the ball in hand. Her emerald eyes rose up from the thick book, hitting Crona with a down-to-Earth grin. "It was a good try, Crona. There are a couple things you could improve on, though."
Thereafter, she began to coach him on the court with a firm, but forgiving hand—besides some sharp asides aimed at her other friends on the court, the bulk of the reprimands directed at Black Star. Crona was focused intently on each word, even mundane instruction, holding eye contact and nodding. With her, he looked to be deeply engaged with reality, brief sparks of life evident as his usually rigid face showed shades of confusion, realization, triumph, and disappointment. Marceline observed all this with an unsure smile, hoping for Crona's sake that she had witnessed the last of the tragedy within his memories. Maybe this was it; maybe things ended on a happy note in this recess of his memories.
Time passed quicker than she had expected. After what seemed like only a handful of minutes of watching, the true blue afternoon sky turned a fiery orange, and the sun's expression began to deflate as it tired. With night's approach, Crona's friends gradually took their leave, vowing to catch up tomorrow or the day after, and leaving on an upbeat note. The last to go were the emerald-eyed girl and the white-haired boy, who seemed to share a common destination.
"Are you sure you don't want an escort, dude? It's a long walk back to the DWMA from here. I could literally just get my bike and drive you over."
Ragnarok's diminutive form splashed out from Crona's back. "He won't say it, but he's never been on a motorcycle before! That's why he'll refuse you! Let us experience some thrills, you—you—!" He pounded on Crona's head ineffectually, though still eliciting a flinch with each blow.
"I'm—" Crona began, interrupted by another thwack. "Y-You're very kind. I think that you and Maka should get home before it's too late..."
His smiled might've implied contentedness, but the passiveness of his voice told a different story as to his emotions. Marceline could only imagine the doubt and self-hatred wracking him, in this moment.
The girl, Maka, looked reluctant to let him go like that. "If you change your mind, don't be afraid to come to our apartment. We'll call Miss Marie and get it sorted out for the night, okay?"
It was hard to notice in daylight, but as the world darkened, Marceline could make out a faint glow emanating from Maka's back: a whitish light, hanging around her like an aura. In a word, it looked angelic. That was probably another product of the dream: his perception of her, as an otherworldly savior.
He nodded. "Yes. I'll keep it in mind."
Eventually, Crona was alone on the basketball court, his silhouette bathed in moonlight. By now, Marceline was confused—shouldn't the memory have ended by now? What was prolonging it? She began to dread, holding her breath with each minute step he took on the court towards the center.
He turned his head, looking upward. It was no random glance that aimed in her direction.
"I know you're here, Marceline."
Instantly, she revealed herself, plainly shocked. "...Hey." She mouthed, dropping down from the fence onto the court. "How did you know—?"
"We're in here, Marceline." With a bony finger, he poked the side of his head to reinforce the point. "I am acutely aware of everything that's happening, whether or whether not you're invisible to the eyes."
It was surreal, listening to a younger Crona talk to her within his own memories. "I don't get it. The experiences before this one seemed so...negative. Why this? What went wrong here?"
He turned his gaze to the mocking crescent moon above, and smiled warmly. "Nothing," he said. "This is the happiest moment in my life."
Her breathing hitched, not sharply enough to be called a gasp, but taken aback nonetheless. She nodded. "...I saw."
"Even though I'm horrible, and I've done horrible things, I can come here and relive this—my speck of happiness." He said. "Ever since I didn't wake up the other night, I've replayed this memory...within the vicinity of a hundred times, now."
Confusion and heartfelt frustration took hold over Marceline and compelled her to fly over to Crona, clutching on his shoulders while she searched for clarity in his eyes—some kind of acknowledgment that he knew he was talking madness.
"Horrible things? What—how are you horrible? Would it kill you to start saying something that makes sense? Please?!" In the heat of the moment, she shook him, and regretted it. Her hold over him loosened, allowing Crona to slip away as he took a few retreating steps.
Strained silence.
"You know..." He looked over his shoulder with a desperate, almost begging smile at Marceline. "I've been doing some thinking, and...maybe I'm better like this! In the real world, I m-mean."
Marceline opened her mouth to object, but Crona went on. "I d-don't expect you to take care of me for that long. J-Just a proper burial, would be perfect for me, yes. It doesn't even have to be marked! I don't want to be a burden—"
He looked at her, and must have seen the impatience and demand for answers in her face. He paced as he talked.
"You should find someone else. I'll be happy. You'll be happy. It works out."
"But I'll miss you." Marceline said, a simple, but powerful admission. He flinched at it.
Crona's small fists were clenched tight. She almost expected him to snap, but he didn't. The only indicator that he was even mildly angry was the terse quiver to his voice.
"Go. Never come back to this place. Leave me here." He said. "I'm asking you as a friend."
"And I'm trying to save you—as a friend!" Marceline shouted. "You're an idiot if you think I'm just gonna sit around and wait for you to die!"
His smile was cracked and chipping. "You'll judge me."
"I won't."
"You'll hate me...!"
"I won't."
He was backing away from her. She approached. The skies were blackening, and not in a natural way. This memory's end was nigh.
He fell to his hands and knees, retreating and stumbling. "Marceline, you don't know what you're doing...! If you see this, then..."
"Then you can wake up, and it'll be fine."
Crona hit a wall. He screamed, shrieked, in anguish and fear, clawing at the air and rending a crimson portal from the motion of his arm. Marceline stopped, gazing into the blood-red abyss that the portal presented to her.
By now, the teenage Crona had crumpled into a ball of himself, cold and broken and alone. He shuddered, and shook his head over and over. "I warned you. I warned you and you didn't listen to me...!"
She was staring at the entrance to a grim and bloody end—the passage to Crona's most guarded memories.
After standing frozen momentarily, Marceline moved forward defiantly and swiftly. "This ends now." She ran into the unwelcoming void, absorbed into it as soon as she had fully crossed through.
AN: I said last chapter that I didn't plan on this being another trilogy arc, but I resolved that I wanted to hit a chapter a month as opposed to a hiatus for one, longer chapter to conclude this. Forgive me for going back on my word there.