There's a camping shop in the mall, so her priority is to make up some bedding while Soul goes to scope out the Costco to see if he can find anything to make any sort of food with.

She's hesitant at first to go anywhere on her own, but while she doesn't entirely trust her new companion, he trusts him enough that she knows he's thorough – every zombie that was ever in this place is now gone or dead.

It's spooky, in a way. Maka doesn't mind – in fact, she prefers a touch of spook over actively life-threatening situations, luckily.

She doesn't find any sleeping bags. It looks like the mall has been looted badly – probably at the point of initial outbreak. Most places were, unfortunately. Supplied ran low in many areas. Maka wonders how Soul's getting on with searching for food.

She finds a small home supplies store and grabs about four duvet covers and a pile of pillows, chucking the haul into an abandoned shopping cart with a dodgy wheel. It keeps her amused for at least a little while, the pretence of just a normal day out at the mall, loading up her cart.

He was right about that, she thinks. Small moments of joy kept you sane in this world. Soul, cooking himself a poor man's version of post-apocalyptic sushi just for a bit of excitement. Listening to Coldplay in the car for hours. This stupidity.

What the purpose of life after the apocalypse?

For years, it had been survival, survival, survival.

Now, survival didn't seem like enough. She's not sure what's changed. Maybe it was the fact that her mind had started to turn on her; that she couldn't even trust her own thoughts anymore; her own sights.

A talking cat.

She finds herself pondering whether life before the apocalypse really had meaning, either. Or whether it was just social pressure that dictated why and how people went about their daily business. What do you do when that social pressure doesn't exist?

"Maka," she hears a gruff voice from a bearded albino man that appears in front of her, and nearly jumps out of her skin. "Maka!"

"W-what!?" she squeaks, having been effectively thrown from her existential reverie and back into the harsh real world. "I was just…" she looks around her and realises that she's staring into the distance clutching a shopping trolley full of pillows, having not achieved very much.

He gives her a strange glance and frowns. "Is everything okay?" he asks, all concerned. His concern starts spreading to her quicker than anticipated.

"What? What happened? What did I do? I don't remember anything…"

"You were…" he chooses his words carefully. "Out of it. Sit down, here. I'll get you some water."

Her breath speeds up as he gets up to leave and she clutches onto his sleeve, hands suddenly trembling without control.

"No, no, no. You can't leave me, I'll die! NO!"

He stops and holds her shoulders gently. "Okay, okay." His voice turns gentle. "Just sit down." He grabs a pillow from the cart and firmly guides her so she's in a sitting position.

"Don't leave," she whispers, hoarsely, lucid at least enough to feel embarrassed.

"I'm not going to leave," he tells her. "Okay, just relax. It's okay. Talk me through what's wrong."

She breathes in once; rapidly; and out again. "My mind… I'm losing my mind…"

"You're not losing your mind, you're just freaked out." he says gently, rubbing her shoulder. "Hey, Maka. Look at me," he instructs, and she slowly raises her line of vision to make eye contact with him.

For the strangest reason, his glowing red eyes are a calming force.

"Listen. You're safe; we're safe. I checked the building, I'm protecting you. Nothing's going to happen to you now," he continues to reassure her.

She nods tearfully. "What if I'm losing it…?" she repeats.

"You're panicked, you're not thinking straight."

She nods, hanging onto his every word. His voice is relaxing. "Keep talking," she tells him, her own voice cracking stressfully. "Just… talk. It's helping."

"Okay, uh…" he hesitates. "A-about…?"

"Doesn't matter. Anything. Please," she requests again, her hands still shuddering as her heartbeat skyrockets.

He blinks. "Okay. Uh… I'll talk about music. Music…" he runs a hand through his hair. "Fortissimo, that's Italian for loud. Pianissimo; very quiet. All these terms are in Italian, I don't know why. I think it's because they sound fancy and musicians are all pretentious assholes. There are not many Italian composers I'd rate, but what do I know… okay, uh… Rubato means gradual slowing or speeding up of a pace for effect. Like if you were playing an intense part, then you might speed up for effect, that's rubato…." He pauses. "I play serialistic jazz, that's what my brother would call it. My mother would call it a disgrace to classical music as a genre…" he garbles on, getting a little lost in his train of thought.

"What's serialistic jazz?"

"Uh, it's a style of jazz where key signature and tempo is largely ignored. It's very freeform. If you didn't like music much you might think it sounds discordant, and I guess it is. I just… I think there's a form of art to it."

"Key signature?" she asks breathlessly.

"So… whether a piece starts in C, or A, or D…. et cetera," he pauses. "That's an oversimplification," he continues, but as he eyes up Maka's calming demeanour, he half-smiles. "Oh, who gives a damn." He swallows. "Is this helping?"

She nods frantically. "Uh-huh." She pauses to think. "You play piano?"

"I played piano. And guitar, and a fair bit of violin… my brother is… was a famous violinist, before he died." He takes in a breath. "He played with the California Philharmonic… it was his whole career."

"And you? What was your job?"

He clears his throat and considers this. "I worked… for the military."

She feels herself much calmer now, able to concentrate on the room around her. Whatever had happened to her brain seemed to be fading and she's sitting up straight. Out of genuine curiosity she asks: "Which branch?"

He can clearly tell that she's feeling better because his gentler bedside manner reverts to his usual gruff self; as he shrugs. "Does it matter?" he fishes a cigarette box from his pocket and lights up, looking away from her.

She thinks that it's a weird answer but figures that he's probably sick of talking about himself already. "Thank you, Soul. I feel a lot better." She reaches out and squeezes his non-smoking hand. "Sorry I made you talk."

"Sorry about the monologue.."

"It was interesting," she smiles. "I only wish I knew anything about music."

He blinks at her hand, still on his, and looks away- taking his hand with him. "You should get some sleep. I'll keep lookout for a bit, okay?"

She's almost unconscious by the time he finishes his sentence.

"That boring, huh," she faintly hears him whisper under his breath as her eyes close and she curls up into a fetal position, her knees tucked neatly under her chin.


She wakes up hours later and finds that he's propped a pillow underneath her head, and found a few blankets to cover her with.

He's still sitting there, awake next to her.