Author's Note: Almost there! Probably one more chapter now and an epilogue. I have settled on writing a sequel, though it still needs fleshing out. Not really a direct sequel, but something that does pick up on the consequences of this story. You're reviews and speculations actually helped get me to the idea, so thank you for that as well as all your feedback! Anyway, FYI on that front. As always, thank you for reading, hope you enjoy the chapter, and let me know what you think!

To say that it pained Soul to discover Maka literally in the stairwell of their apartment complex, on her way to find him, was an understatement. Not because he was unhappy to see her standing and generally in good physical condition, but because it meant Vera had been right. And it wasn't that he begrudged Vera her victory of intuition either. It was something else entirely. When Soul saw Maka at the base if the stairs his heart had dropped right out of his chest because it meant everything Vera had said was correct. Everything she had seen was real. His friend, the person he cared for emotionally and physically, the person who had become almost like a younger, vulnerable sibling to him, had indeed thoroughly thrashed two of his professors. Not just any two, perhaps the strongest weapon-meister pair currently at the DWMA after Lord Death himself. If Crona could do that at all, let alone in a matter of minutes, then nevermind getting him back, their mere survival was in question. And that, in Soul's mind, was pretty worst-case scenario.

"Why are you just standing there? Come on," Maka berated, venting a tongue of the noxious concoction that was pulsating inside her and running up the stairs to meet him. She gripped his wrist and gave a sharp tug, emerald eyes forward, unconcerned as to whether he caught on in time to maintain his balance or if he was on his way to a face-plant.

"Wait," he rasped, clearing his suddenly dry throat but keeping pace with her.

"We don't have time for that Soul! We need to get to the Death Room."

"Yeah, I know, just… just wait."

She ignored him, continuing to pull forward, out the door and onto the uneven cobblestone. So he pulled back, planting his feet and dropping his weight. Maka was strong, but not so strong as to be able to out muscle him. His sudden lack of momentum jerked at her shoulder and she fell backwards as if clotheslined. 'Ignited' would imply that the fury wasn't already in Maka's gaze, which wasn't even remotely true, though she had been containing it up until that moment. When she rounded on Soul it was more appropriate to say the fury emerged, scalding.

"What part of we need to get to the Death Room is hard for you to understand," she chided, not bothering to moderate the volume of her voice.

"I know," Soul snapped back, losing patience and yanking his wrist free of her constricted fingers. "I know, okay. Just wait a second; I need to tell you something."

"Like what?! What could you possibly have to tell me that's more important than getting to the Death Room?!"

"That I know!"

They just stood there in a frozen moment of silence, or maybe stuck would be a better word. A moment caught in the viscosity of their fear, restrained by something so thick it halted the passage of time. Until, finally, Soul clarified what Maka already knew.

"Vera."

"Can she see him," Maka breathed, the faintest traces of hope brushing her face like the graying of the dawn. "Can she track him?"

"She thinks she knows a way- that Crona told her a way, but-"

"Shh," she cut him off sharply, closing the space between them and placing a clammy hand over his mouth. Her eyes swept their surroundings, hardening with resolve. Soul's eyes, in turn, narrowed, suspicious. He spoke as soon as she lowered her hand, but quietly. Conspiratorially.

"What are you planning?"

She didn't answer right away. Tension stitched her features into a simmering mask, the face everyone expected her to wear. Soul knew her better than the mask, could see the gears turning just past her skin and bone. Gears that lined up, the propelled a greater engine towards a greater purpose. In truth he didn't need to ask what she was planning; rather, he wanted to know how she intended to execute the plan. That answer was more elusive and it seemed she was just as keen to conceal as he was to hear it.

"We need to get to the Death Room," she repeated in a low tone without looking at him. "We need to get there now."

Despite what the name and function might imply, the Death Room was usually quite jovial. Lord Death preferred it that way, cultivated the environment with care to ensure just such an effect. Much like his entire persona, the room was crafted to be friendly and inviting, to encourage discourse rather than terror. There was a time predating the DWMA when terror was preferable, when Lord Death and the very first weapon-meister partners had brought a new understanding to the word 'hunted.' In those days there had been no room to contain him nor power that could stand against him. Nothing could stem the reckoning of balance he brought down upon the world. At least, nothing until the Kishin. Things change, time takes its toll, and Lord Death had found his original façade much too unsettling for children to stay close to him, let alone learn from him. Thus the reckoning had halted, his face had softened, and the room with its fluffy clouds and eternal sun was built up around him. Jovial and inviting. As a rule.

But all rules have exceptions, all cycles revisit the same point, and the snake devours its own tail. The Death Room was not jovial now; the air was somber and saturated with a cocktail of fear. No physical change was evident; the sky remained brilliantly blue, the clouds soft and fluffy, and the sand golden. So it wasn't the room that was at fault for the sour mood. In this instance, the people were entirely to blame. Lord Death stood before his mirror, looking exactly as he always did yet emanating a terrible intensity. To his left was Spirit, eyes the exact shade of the sky looking into a distance no one could fathom as he smoked. To his right Professor Stein leaned against the couch they'd brought in for Miss. Marie, given her injured leg, also smoking and alarmingly dispassionate. Marie cradled his burnt hand awkwardly, fixating on the bandages that wrapped his palm as a distraction to keep herself from crying. Across from them were the students, Black Star and Tsubaki pokerfaced to the left, Kid with his fingers laced on his throne, flanked by a visibly upset Liz and oblivious Patty, to the right. Maka and Soul, the last to arrive, took the middle. Directly in the line of fire, to use a metaphor that was literal enough for them both to be concerned about the composition of their features. Did they look angry enough? Sad? Frustrated? How were they supposed to look? How were any of them supposed to feel?

No one spoke- no one wanted to speak. The silence was too gelatinous, hardening all around them in the absence of warmth and kindness. They couldn't move through it, couldn't traverse it or get above it. Simply put, each was trapped in one way or another, bound tightly by the chords of their own experiences and values. A lesser bunch would've panicked, which is not to say there wasn't a wisp of panic on the air. But each had it under control; an expanding ball in their chest that needed to be compressed by their own muscles and ribs. Putting a painful pressure on their hearts. Testing their endurance. Until finally the inevitable happened.

"Professor Stein," said Lord Death, curtly, coolly. "Would you please get everyone up to speed on the details of the situation."

"Less than an hour ago the witch Pendra, having presumably become aware of our plans to release Crona from her control, sent the Demon Swordsman to end the project before its completion."

Stein hadn't hesitated in his response, but now paused to take a long drag on his cigarette, pointedly ignoring Maka's admirable restraint as she bit back her own commentary. Pulling his hand from Marie's grip, he put out the embers in his own bandaged palm with a brief but distinct grin, then pulled a lighter from his pocket and quickly lit a second. Marie curled her hands into fists and pressed them into her lap, staring intently at the ground and bracing herself for the continuation.

"Ultimately Marie and I were able to fend him off, and Blaire was able to transfer Maka's activated blood into the quartz. It should be noted, however, that this was nearly not the case. Crona was formidable before; now Pendra has unleashed his full potential. The Black Blood exclusively manifested in the previously detailed vines and now they seem to be poisoned with something that disrupts one's ability to engage in Soul Resonance. Both Marie and I have been… infected. We cannot function as partners and can only hope the effects are temporary."

"What kind of poison," Kid interrupted, speaking from behind his hands. "Is it a chemical of some sort? A toxin? Some form of magic? How did you become infected, as you put it?"

"Unknown form as of yet, though I think we can assume it's blood borne," Stein clarified, tilting glaring lenses in Kid's direction. "Both Marie and I were cut by the thorns. Single exposure."

"That is an incredibly dangerous ability," Kid continued to observe, detached. "Soul Resonance is our most powerful and indeed only weapon against witches and Kishin Eggs. Without it the vast majority of the DWMA becomes useless."

"Speak for yourself," grumbled Black Star, setting his jaw and folding his arms. At his side, Tsubaki tensed.

"Indeed," it was impossible to be sure to which comment the professor was responding.

"But none of this is Crona's fault," Marie burst, squeezing her golden eyes shut to hold in the tears. "This isn't what he wants! He doesn't mean to do any of it!"

"That's not the issue here," Spirit sighed, also refusing to look at anyone. "Marie, no one doubts that Crona is the victim, no one's saying it's his fault."

"Then what are you saying? Why are we here, talking when we should be searching," she bit back, anger finally pulling her gaze from the floor.

"Of course we're going to go after Crona! But first we need…"

As Spirit spoke his eyes arced, snapping up to meet Marie's accusatory glare, then faltering, darting upwards and around the room as he trailed off. Unwilling to move forward.

"We need to determine in what capacity we will pursue Crona," finished Lord Death, matter-of-fact.

Maka went red and opened her mouth, but in a single smooth motion Soul placed a restraining hand on her shoulder, stepped up to her side, and cut her off.

"I'm sorry," he said with practiced professionalism. "But I don't think I understand what you mean. We only relate to Crona in one capacity."

"Don't deny your own intelligence, Soul, it's unbecoming," Kid chided, his eyes moving to glare at the scythe even as the rest of his body remained statuesque. "You know perfectly well what we're getting at. Things are sticky when it comes to Crona; they always have been."

"He's my friend."

It was a simple statement, spoken softly, and Soul didn't take so much as a step out of line when he said it. Yet at the same time his tone was subversive, accusatory, and his sneer was actively aggressive. Kid lost it. Leaping from his throne in a quite literal blur, he threw his fists to his sides and positively screamed:

"Damn it Soul he's my friend too! That's not the point! The point is that he's dangerous, exponentially more so than when he was with Medusa. He has the capability to threaten if not outright destroy everything we've built here! He's unlike any other adversary we've ever faced! Without Soul Resonance we are severely handicapped, entirely reliant on an untested piece of magic that might bring back the Crona we remember, that might help him control his Madness. As much as we are a force of order he has always been a force of chaos, a counter to any balance we bring, a creature that by his very existence makes achieving balance impossible. It's not about desire, it's not even about choice; it's about nature and what's in your blood! I asked you this once before and now I'll ask everyone: how many chances does Crona get? How many times are we going to have this meeting?"

"But it is about desire and choice," Tsubaki's soft voice cut through the air like her brother's blade, paradoxical and undeniable, her mask peeled back to show the steel that was intentionally hidden inside her. "Balance is by its very nature about choice. The choice to put power before morality and become Kishin, the choice to sacrifice personal comfort and happiness to remove those who would become Kishin, in both cases it is the choice that tips the scales. Blood may impact the choice, may even direct it, but blood does not dictate anything."

"Tsubaki, we appreciate your unique perspective, but let us remember that this case is quite different from yours," said Lord Death, softening just a little.

"Yes, I am aware of that," she answered curtly but respectfully, turning to face him. "I know that Crona is not myself or my brother. My brother became what he became because that was his desire, and I killed him because… that's what I desired. Black Blood and all its destructive potential, both internal and external, was never something Crona asked for. He's not in control of himself; he may be an incredibly devastating victim and yet a victim he remains. If we act independently of that fact then we're no better than Pendra, or Medusa for that matter. If balance is the goal we must let Crona choose his path, regardless of how dangerous he may yet become."

"Tsubaki's right," Black Star cut in gruffly, his eyes sparking. "We choose our destiny, we get to decide what we become. Whether we control our Madness or roll over and let ourselves be controlled by it. Nature doesn't matter. Blood doesn't matter. Surpassing god isn't in the natural order, but I'm going to do it anyway. That's how big of a star I am. When Crona had a say he wanted to be with us; what's different now? What's the hang up?"

"Your faith in your friend is admirable," commended Lord Death, though he remained statuesque and distant. "And your point is well taken- both of you. Now, consider the scenario where you're wrong. Consider the consequences."

There was a stillness crawling with retorts and other less severe counters, yet none of them could mature enough to be voiced. The consequences would be very bad and no one there was stupid enough to argue otherwise. What needed to be asked, what was fermenting in the silence, wasn't a rebuttal in that sense. Rather a rephrasing: consider the consequences if we're right. Or even better, a synthesis: consider the consequences of incorrectly assuming Crona's cognition.

"Where's the quartz now? Is it ready," Lord Death redirected, turning to Stein and staring through his cloud of smoke.

"Maka has it," he answered simply, distracted by visions in the coiling tail and plumes. "The blood has charged the crystal, but it can't hurt to saturate it with her wavelength."

"And will it be effective in restoring Crona if we can break the witch's control?"

"There's no way to know before hand. We lack the capacity to do any kind of informative testing."

"I see. Now where are we on being able to locate Crona? Is Soul Perception still proving ineffectual?"

"Both Maka and I have tried but Crona's location remains elusive. Pendra may be using some form of Soul Protect to shield him and herself. We cannot find them that way."

"And the girl Vera? Last I heard exposure to the witch's magic for such an extended time left her with some ability to astral project. Has she made any progress?"

Soul opened his mouth but Maka beat him to the punch. With a smoothness that only smelled different from her usual abrasive behavior, she grabbed the reins and took control of the conversation.

"We were able to help Vera astral project yesterday morning," she started, professionally, coldly. "And she saw Crona, but it wasn't a physical place. She can find his mind, she can see what's being done to him, but she hasn't been able to intentionally manifest on this plane of reality. She's been unable to literally find Crona; we seem to have been mistaken."

Imperceptibly, Soul narrowed his eyes and tightened his face. Maka felt his stiffness at her side and, quite by instinct, brushed his soul with hers. Stand by me. Her face remained hard and forward, willing the room to believe her, willing them not to keep pushing.

"That is unfortunate," Lord Death murmured mildly, giving no indication he either did or did not notice the exchange. "Well, until we develop a concrete way to locate Crona, or until he attacks again, there doesn't seem to be much we can do about the situation. One thing, however, has become clear to me: we must brace ourselves to terminate Crona."

"How can you say that?!"

Marie's outburst was shrill and piercing. Stein placed a calming hand on her shoulder and Lord Death, to a much greater effect, raised a silencing palm in her direction. His vacant, dark, devoid eyes remained forwards, looking at all of them and none of them simultaneously.

"That is not an order to kill him on sight, merely a statement of the obvious. I do not wish to see Crona dead, I quite like him myself, and yet we are the guardians of this world. We cannot allow the destruction of the many out of compassion for the one. We cannot sacrifice our creed to our affections. We cannot hesitate in doing what needs to be done. Remember," he looked directly at Maka now, swallowing her in the darkness of his gaze, burdening her with a pressure she could hardly stand. "We save these poor creatures from themselves as much as we save innocent lives. We save them from what they have become and cannot escape alone. With the death of a Kishin, Kishin Egg, or witch we release the soul of the innocent they used to be as much as we destroy the monster they have become. Have I been understood?"

Maka's irises shone and distorted with the volume of tears she was trying to hold back, pulsating with a current as more and more collected. Until gravity defeated her intentions, until nature went against her will, and they fell. Rolling down her marble face, getting caught in the groove of her nose, on her lips, collecting at the point of her chin. Soul reached down and grabbed her hand, interlocking his fingers with hers, her weapon and her support. She could feel him at her side, a reservoir of power from which she could always draw. There were murmurs of affirmation all around, but the only one that mattered came last, breathy and dry.

"Yes," Maka whispered with a small nod. "I understand."

Much to (most of) their indignation, Lord Death dismissed the students after that so the "adults" could strategize. The first clue that there had been some dishonesty by omission was that Maka, of all people, didn't seem affected by this in the slightest. Didn't so much as bat an eye, let alone express outrage that she wasn't already being sent to search for and save Crona. When Soul had opened his mouth to protest, Black Star had balled his fists, and Liz had nearly bit off her own tongue restraining herself, Maka had just bowed, turned, and left. She passed down the stairs and through the guillotine arches silently, stiff but serene, calculating inside her skull. It didn't go unnoticed by the more observant members of their group, and really, it wasn't particularly hard to figure out what she was up to. What sorts of calculations she was doing. When they got to the base of the stairs and had exited into the main academy, Kid took the only course of action that befitted someone who was both her friend and a Reaper. Folding his arms, he stopped and confronted her.

"My father knows what you're about to try," he cautioned in a low voice.

"I know," she answered mildly, pausing but not turning to face him.

"And myself?"

"I wouldn't insult you by assuming otherwise."

"Then I can conclude that, despite this, you're going to do it anyway?"

Her shoulders tensed and, sensing the impending conflict, Soul moved in closer to her, resting a heavy hand on her shoulder and giving Kid a cool, warning look. Offended, she brushed him off with a shrug and twisted her head, staring at Kid with mildly annoyed features and outright livid emerald eyes. Kid met her crystalline stare with his own hard, metallic gaze, but gold is soft for a metal. Malleable. You could even accuse it of being sentimental at times.

"What choice do I have," Maka whispered. "I can't just roll over; I don't know how. I can't just stand by and wait for my superiors to come up with the "right course of action" when I already know what that is. And besides that, more than that, everyone's given up on him at one point or another, even me. Even though I promised I wouldn't, I did anyway. I didn't fight for him when he needed me, and now we're here. So yes, I'm going to do it anyway, because I'd rather die trying than give up on him a second time."

"I see," Kid answered after a moment of uncomfortable silence, unfolding his arms.

"Is that all," Soul added quietly, meeting Maka's brief stare as her eyes flicked to him then back to Kid. "Do you just want to be in the loop? Or do you want to try and stop us?"

The grip of the moment, and their partners/sister, kept even the most inquisitive among them locked in silence. Wound like a spring and ready to go off in any direction. Which direction, Tsubaki wondered as her white fingers dug into Black Star's rock-hard bicep, would their aggression choose. Maka, stone still and picturesque, her back to Kid but her face staring at him from over her shoulder like an owl. Soul, by her side and completely at ease, slouching a little to create the illusion that he was unprepared. And Kid, a hybrid of the two, with his hands in his pockets and shoulders pulled back. Something fragile hung in the balance and for a flickering moment Tsubaki felt afraid for what came next. For the direction she and the others would choose after the pyramid crumbled. But then it passed and Kid gave a half smile, dropping his chin and shaking his head just a little.

"No. No I don't want to stop you. I should, that would be the safe thing to do, and yet that's not what I want at all. In a perfect world balance is easy to achieve, things are black and white, and someone who is grey, some one like Crona, simply doesn't exist. We are not in a perfect world and Tsubaki is correct, balance must be achieved through choice, regardless of the mess that choice creates. So even as I understand my duty and compulsion as a Reaper, I am not so out of touch with reality that I think I can dissuade you."

"Then what is this," snapped Maka, impatient. "What do you want?"

"I want to go with you."

He brought his gaze once again to Maka's, hard, metallic, and a perfect fit for hers. The smile was gone, the pretense was gone, and for the first time in a while, the two were perfectly honest with each other. She evaluated him from a distance, not with skepticism like before, but with a soft, budding, primordial form of hope.

"I too gave up on Crona. Let me make that right- let us all make that right. You will need our help to get close to him, even if you haven't considered that you will, and we will not sit idle and be left behind. It's your move, Maka; what do you need to make this rescue happen?"

"Transportation across the desert," she said instantly, finally turning fully to face Kid and grabbing Soul's elbow gently. "Meet us at our apartment as soon as you find it. If Vera has managed to get her shit together, she can be our compass."

To continue Maka's metaphor, Vera did not have her shit together. On the contrary, she couldn't remember a time she'd ever been quite this frustrated by an achievable task. At least, Crona seemed to think it was achievable. Because Crona was the authority here. Follow the threads- the fuck was that supposed to mean?! She'd looked everywhere for them, literal threads, figurative threads, pictorial threads, very long hairs that might've been mistaken for threads. There were no threads. Just a lot of nothing and white pages. After thirty minutes of trying Vera had been on the verge of rage induced tears. When Maka and Soul walked in and she still had nothing to show for her efforts she snapped.

"When I'm ready," she started quietly, but rapidly accelerated into a full-blown scream as they opened the door to Crona's room. "I will tell you!"

"Then we can assume you have nothing," Maka retorted, scathing.

"I need more time-"

"We are out of time! We need to go now and we need you to tell us where!"

"I don't know where! I don't know how to find out where! I don't even know why I thought I could do this in the first place!"

Maka had no idea what she was going to say, what was about to be born from the churning anger and hope and despair and horrible, devouring terror that was twisting her insides into braids, but it was going to be scalding. For a moment she gasped like a fish, working her jaw as the explosion charged inside her, but before it could reach capacity Soul literally stepped in. Approaching Vera, he sort of waved or did something with his hand behind his back to indicate to Maka that she should be quiet. Her desire for results outweighed her desire to spread her suffering while being right at the same time and she clammed up, taking out her disappointment on the wall instead. Vera flinched at the sound of Maka's fist breaking through the drywall, wrapping her arms around herself defensively and sitting back onto Crona's bed. Soul knelt before her, just on the edge of a respectful distance.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to him, keeping her amber eyes on her own lap. "I know I have everything I need, I know I should be able to do this, but I can't. I'm sorry."

"You've barely touched the journals," he observed, trying to refocus her away from her own emotions. Not that they weren't valid or understandable, it was just that Maka was right; they were out of time.

"Figured one's like the other," she said with a shrug. "Anyway, I don't like how they feel, cold and heavy and… like they don't like me any more than I like them. And before you start yes, I did consider that might be a "thread," but even if it is it doesn't go anywhere. It's just a feeling, nothing more."

Soul didn't answer her verbally, or with any sound at all save for the rustling of his jacket. With one hand he unzipped it and with the other he pried her fingers from her arm using the tender firmness she was starting to expect from him. Then he did something she didn't expect; he brought her hand to his chest and pressed her palm over his heart. Vera looked at him sharply, instinctively tugging against Soul's grip, pulling away. He held fast, smiling just a tiny bit at her surprise.

"What do you feel," he asked.

"Soul, what-"

Again he silenced Maka with an uncoordinated wave, never moving his crimson gaze from Vera's face. From her amber eyes, frowning at him, shining with the precursors of tears. Instead of answering, she chewed her lower lip, uncertain.

"Work with me here. I'm trying to help."

She twisted her head in a way that might've indicated skepticism, narrowing her gaze and chewing with increased intensity.

"You're safe with me, you know that right? I will keep you safe, just trust me. Just… what do you feel?"

"I can feel your heartbeat," Vera finally answered in an uncharacteristically timid voice, blinking. "I can feel cloth and muscle and… warmth."

"And now," Soul pressed, sliding her hand to the center of his chest, just below his sternum.

"The same. Minus the heartbeat."

"Look harder."

"For what?!"

"You know I have Black Blood; you're the one who told Pendra, right?"

Vera managed to recoil and tuck her chin in aggression at the same time.

"The first night Maka and I fought Crona," he continued over her conflicted response, holding eye contact. "He got me pretty good, sliced me open from shoulder to hip. But when the Professor and Maka's dad showed up, well, he lost his fair share of blood too. Some of that blood got into me, inside this scar across my chest. It's still there; the Black Blood is a part of me now, it connects me to Crona the way these journals are connected to Crona. Like this bridge of Madness built with Medusa's magic. You can feel that, can't you."

"No," Vera all but whined, shaking her head. "No I can't. All I feel is you."

"Pretend that you can," Soul insisted, encircling her wrist with his other hand as if to drive her arm through his chest. "Close your eyes and focus. Look for the weight, the aching cold, that sense of disdain for your humanity. Feel it radiating up your arm and biting into you. It wants to devour you and right now we need you to let it. Make yourself believe this is real and let it happen."

"I'm scared," she breathed so only Soul could hear, closing her eyes nonetheless. "Oh fuck, I'm scared."

"I'd be worried if you weren't," he whispered back with a forced chuckle. "But you're stronger than this. And in the moments when you're not, I'll make up the difference. Do you believe me?"

"Yes," when her voice emerged from the hesitation it was firm, her fingertips tensing against Soul such that her nails were actively irritating him. "I do."

And she believed all of it. She willed the cold into existence, horrible, heavy, aching like slow exsanguination. Like needles digging into her, consuming her- no, dissolving her. She pictured it as run off from a glacier made of ink, a smooth yet pulsating glacier, spherical and distant. There were dozens of rivers branching from this source, winding and twisting into the void. Dozens… more… An entire network reached towards where she stood- but wait, that wasn't right either. Vera had her arm elbow deep into one of the streams; she was kneeling right at the edge, an unwelcome voyeur into a secret world not meant for human eyes. That realization… had consequences.

From Vera's perspective the waters all constricted, seizing up to form arteries instead of rivers, grotesque, glistening, domes that stretched and retracted in waves. The walls of the world reemerged, surreal, opaque, red-black or perhaps just coated in a red-black sheen. Arms like tumors with fingers too short for the palms grew from every surface, flailing and melting back into the ooze only to be born again to flail some more. Medusa's journals were covered in a capillary bed as the scar across Soul's chest bulged from his flesh, shoulder to hip, then downwards and into the network like an umbilical. It wasn't the only satellite; the artery of Soul's scar had grown branches, three or four thick tendrils that had encircled Vera's hand and forearm and sent roots down into her flesh. For some price she couldn't sense, they had granted her access to the network. For a toll she didn't understand, they had finished what Pendra had unknowingly started and granted her a witch's eyes.

So you could imagine that from Soul's perspective, in spite of everything, things were more disturbing. He felt the Black Blood inside him mobilize and collect around Vera, painfully cold and hollow. He heard her breath go ragged as she dug into his chest, tensing. Then he saw her relax, roll her head back, and open milky eyes. Soul gasped and tried to pull away, to break the contact and abort, but Vera moved with him, clinging to his chest.

"It's okay," she said in an oddly calm, distant tone, like someone fast asleep. Her eyes glittered with a rather beautiful opalescence when she looked at him, ethereal and unsettling. "It's weird and creepy, but okay. Don't pull away again; I don't know if I can keep this up on my own."

"Has she done it," demanded Maka before Soul could respond, unable to restrain herself any longer and coming up behind the pair. "Soul, what's happening?"

"I found the "threads," though "threads" is a pretty massive misnomer. They're more like… like massive veins. They go to Crona, I'm sure of that at least," Vera explained, clearly disgruntled by not being addressed directly, yet Maka didn't react to the news.

"Soul," she repeated, reaching out and grabbing his shoulder.

"Huh, guess she can't hear me. Or maybe I'm not actually speaking? Whatever, we'll pretend we're five. Soul, would you please tell Maka that I'm able to guide you to Crona and that she needs to back up because she's like some kind of god damn lighthouse and it hurts my eyes."

"This is way to weird to be cool," Soul sighed, though he couldn't help but grin just a little. "Vera says she's found the "threads" and can direct us as long as she keeps contact with the Black Blood in my scar."

"Good," said Maka briskly, unfazed by Vera's strange new look, the involvement of the Black Blood, or the fact that, apparently, her weapon partner was now psychically connected to this gal they'd met maybe a week or two ago. "Finally, something took only a little longer than it should've. Alright, let's go. Kid should have found something by now."

With that she turned and exited the room, not bothering to check if they were following. To the casual observer she might've looked detached, however, Soul was never casual in his observations. She was about ready to burst. In fact, it was taking every muscle in her body to hold it together, to keep the warring emotions contained within her skin. Hope, doubt, fear, rage, anguish, all caged within an iron determination. If necessary she was going to fling herself into the deepest pit of hell to get Crona back and Soul was going to be right there with her. He embraced the consequences of her actions, that was the deal he'd made with himself and with her, and yet Soul found himself hoping it didn't come to that. Perhaps even recklessly optimistic about their chances.

He scooped Vera up, supporting her back and under her knees so she could continue siphoning his strength and the magic from the Black Blood like a continuous chill. Uncomfortable was maybe just a little too mild of a word for it, though he doubted Vera knew what she was inflicting. Her white eyes followed Maka through the wall, this pillar of burning magnesium light. Just as Soul allowed himself to dream of success, she distanced herself from the reality of her choice and the horror that most assuredly came with it. Just as Maka employed her hard resolve as a coping mechanism, Vera obtusely pretended there was nothing strange or urgent going on at all. Or maybe that was a condition of her new state. Regardless, all her anxieties disappeared like a switch had been flipped, leaving Vera feeling completely, disturbingly normal.

"I'm also fine, thanks for asking," she called, knowing full well that only Soul could hear her and settling into his arms without concern for how nice it felt to be there, even considering the circumstances. Then, perhaps taking advantage of the situation a little, she added: "Bitch."