Author's Note: Hello again! The school year has started and I'm afraid I don't have a lot of creative time. But I'm still chugging! I got an interesting question about my OC's and if they're self-insets. Short answer is no, I'm an asexual aromantic and could never pull of the seduction Pendra tries or the attraction Vera has towards Soul. But there are parts of them that are parts of me I don't really present. For instance, Vera has a total lack of regard for how she's seen by others and doesn't mind "being the bitch," which is something I share but to a much lesser extent. Pendra was very manipulative and unconcerned with collateral damage so long as she got her way, which is something I struggle with. They're pieces of me and people I relate to, but neither one is particularly like me. I'm most like Crona actually, trying to find a way to live a normal life with a condition that makes you not normal, and often failing in that endeavor. Anyway, interesting question! I'd never really thought about it. Now, enjoy!

Again the black. Again the stillness. But something was coming; something always came. He never saw it, not directly, but he could hear it. Snapping and crunching… squelching. It wasn't human, but it wasn't an animal either. It spoke, whispers of Black Blood from a place just behind him. It never hurt him, but he could sense the danger. It… it was him, a version of him that had been contorted into a monster, though he couldn't admit to that. He couldn't even think it. So they played this game in the black, a predator toying with its prey. A cat with a mouse cornered, except this mouse couldn't run. He couldn't move or even breathe. He just had to wait for it to come, to slink out of the blackness and breathe down his neck. His heart hammered, wondering if this was it, now was the moment his oppressor would grow tired of the game and finally do whatever it was he was waiting to do. Pain was certain with this creature, this existence, he just didn't know when it would come.

"Hey," came the voice that was so like his own, a low hiss from right behind him. This time there was contact, the sensation of fingertips between his shoulder blades. And where the other touched his skin split open. He screamed, but not loud enough to drown out the inevitable truth that always accompanied this encounter. "My blood is black."

Crona bolted upright, breathing hard through his nose. A clock to his right flashed 5:27 am and the desert dawn was blooming outside his window. The apartment, though, was dark and silent save for the ragged sounds of air passing back and forth through nostrils. He had been here, with Maka and Soul, for what felt like a long time but was quantitatively only a week. And for the duration of that week he'd had this nightmare. Every time he closed his eyes that endless blackness was there, and the other inside it. He was a monster, of that much Crona was certain, a beast who had been ripped apart from the inside. Something that had Black Blood pulsing in his veins. Something that had to be Crona. The real Crona.

Crona had been an excellent scientist, inquisitive and thorough, and he'd learned a lot about the Black Blood from his notes. Unfortunately, the stream of consciousness style of those notes meant he also learned a lot about his life. His intense shame, his loathing for the Madness inside of him, his desperation… Anyway, it seemed he had two problems: the Pull and the Madness. But these were also one in the same, the Pull being a magic-specific form of Madness. Use of magic released an addictive Madness of destruction, use of the Black Blood releases a garden variety of Madness.

He'd had countermeasures in play, the pendant of blood from the girl Maka, which possessed Anti-Magic properties being the most potent. As one might expect, it responded predominantly to magic, but would burn when the Madness of the Black Blood got too powerful as well. This effectively neutered Crona; he was helpless to defend himself save through a third source of power. Resonating his soul with that of his weapon partner Ragnarok allowed Crona to use his Black Blood without encoring the wrath of the Anti-Magic pendant. Later notes also point out that electricity could trigger the Black Blood, a lesson learned through what had to have been torture.

This led the new Crona to conclude the Black Blood functioned rather like electricity itself in that it could derive power from multiple sources. As electricity can be generated through harnessing sunlight or the manual turning of turbines, the Black Blood could source its power from magic or soul resonance. Historically Crona had always used soul resonance except in cases of crisis. But the Black Blood powered by magic was much more volatile; it's ability to consume the mind of the user was increased exponentially. The Madness generated was much more overwhelming. The new Crona gathered that there had been no intentional experiments with using magic to power the Black Blood, merely instances where an instinct had taken over. Life-or-death instances.

The new Crona had no means of using soul resonance, no partner nor desire for a partner. There was no mention of Ragnarok's whereabouts in the notes Crona had retrieved, even though he seemed to have been an intimate part of the old Crona's life. Thinking about Ragnarok made his head hurt and besides, he was obviously not present now. So Crona would need to resort to the other option and use magic to activate the Black Blood. This was a risky proposition as it triggered the Madness, but he felt confident that his particular strain of magic would be less damning. It didn't agitate the Anti-Magic pendant around his neck after all, perhaps it would be safe to use with the Black Blood. Assuming there existed a compatibility; the Black Blood was tied to Madness and there may be no way around generating Madness when the Black Blood was in use, at least to some extent.

In reading his work the new Crona had come to both admire and detest the old Crona. From one perspective he was brilliant, dedicated and creative with his research. He was also very much in love with the girl Maka, the same girl to which the new Crona felt so powerfully attracted. He had a purity of intent with her that had no peer. On the other hand there was no doubt that Crona was a pitiful sort of monster, always just a hair's breadth away from losing control and destroying, well, everything. He was pathetic, so powerful and so without direction. It was clear to anyone who read his notebooks that he hated himself. The Panacea had been a source of great hope for him, but the entries stopped after he went to find it. From what Soul and Maka had said, which was hardly anything at all, the encounter had not gone well.

And now he was here, in that Crona's place. Breathing his air, sleeping in his bed, longing for the woman he loved. Dreaming about him when the sun went down… It had all been so obvious when he woke up in the depths of the DWMA, and in a way it was obvious still. He needed to learn about the Black Blood and more instructions would come to him from that formless entity that had created him when they were due. But still…

Crona slunk out from under the blankets, grabbed a fresh change of clothes, and padded to the bathroom. He'd just clicked the door closed when he heard the squeak of Maka's door; no doubt she'd been listening for him. She seemed as drawn to him as he was to her, though much less willing to admit it. For a moment he lingered, pressing his fingertips to the wood as if he could feel her heat move down the hall. Then he broke contact and continued his duty. He'd been sleeping in Crona's black robes out of convenience mostly… but the black fabric did have a certain nostalgia. He pulled it off and dropped it on the floor, standing naked before the mirror. Usually his next step was the toilet, but today something in his reflection caught his attention. Little flecks of white scar tissue across his chest and shoulder. How long had those been there? Pausing, he frowned at himself.

"You are Crona," said a high, feminine voice behind him.

He jumped and turned, looking for another person in the bathroom with him. It would've been a tight squeeze; surely he would've noticed them. But there was no one. No person, anyway. The lamp-like eyes of a black cat greeted him from a pile of towels, golden with wide black pupils that suggested it was going to take a swat at him. Crona blinked, scrutinizing the "cat" for a long moment.

"What are you," he finally asked, keeping his distance. "When did you get here?"

"I live here," the cat- she, said indignantly. "I'm Blair."

"You have magic. I would've known you were here."

"Blair can avoid being seen, though she has little cause to. But you, you're something different. Blair didn't know if you were safe."

"Why wouldn't I be safe? You're the one hiding in the bathroom."

"I live here. And you… you smell wrong. Stale. You look like Crona, and I think you are him, but there's something wrong with you. Blair doesn't like it. You should leave."

"I have no where to go. Besides, I'm supposed to be here. Your Lord Death said so, at any rate."

"I still think you should leave. Go figure out what's wrong with you and fix it. I don't like the way you smell."

"Hey," he changed the subject on an impulse, gesturing to the scars he didn't remember getting. "Do you know what these are?"

"No, Blair doesn't know much about Crona. He's very shy and Blaire gets yelled at when she pries. But I know about the one on your stomach."

"What do you mean? I don't have one on my-" He tried to deny it, but as he reached for flesh he thought smooth a rope like protrusion greeted his fingertips. His eyes jerked down, wide and suddenly afraid.

"That's where Medusa almost cut you in half. There's one on your back too, because the arrow went straight through."

Crona traced the scar, wincing as it ached under his touch. It felt cold somehow, and his muscles were weak like his strength was draining from him. He could see in his mind a place with green light and black cubes. Golden eyes like this cat's, but reptilian, pupils black slits as they starred at him. Disapproving and he feared their disapproval. But not this time; this time he fought back. And it almost killed him.

"I don't want to talk about that," he said, pulling his hands away from the scar and returning his attention to getting dressed. "I don't want to know about Crona's life."

"You are Crona though," Blair replied, perplexed. "A twisted Crona, but still Crona."

"No I'm not. I can't be him, can't be Crona. If I were it would mean something terrible."

"Then why ask me about the scars? Shouldn't you know?"

He paused, looking into the mirror again. An angular face looked back, with a sharp chin and an upturned nose. Uneven pink hair hanging across eyes that had gone ice blue with anxiety. His face. Crona's face. His head ached and he felt sick, but still he had to look. Staring at the patchwork of tiny scars across pale, paper-thin flesh. For a moment he felt the shadow of an impulse to reach up and claw into himself, use his nails to cut through that flesh and get at the Black Blood underneath. A desire to feel pain in his skin because that was better than the pain in his mind. Because it was the only way to stay calm.

"Yes," he answered absently, fingering one of the scars. "I do know. These I did myself."

The ache erupted into a boil behind his eyes, screaming at him to stop looking. To stop thinking. And he obeyed, pulling the green shirt over his head to cover up the offending marks. Without speaking to the cat further he put on his pants and emerged from the bathroom. Down the hall he could hear voices: Soul and Maka having one of their conversations they thought he couldn't hear.

"Why is a clone so outlandish? After everything we've see, is it really that strange of a suggestion? I mean, a clone wouldn't remember anything either."

"No, a clone wouldn't remember," Soul's voice answered, hushed. "But how did it get so deep into the DWMA? Why would its soul be so like Crona's? And shouldn't you be able to sense the real Crona if he was out there?"

"Maybe he's hidden? Remember Pendra used veins of magnetite to confuse our Soul Perception before."

"Yeah, that's true. But what about my first point: how would a clone have gotten into the school?"

"Witches have all kinds of resources. I don't think it's that crazy of an idea."

A twisted tangle of emotions stirred where the calm of moments ago had settled, breaking through the artificial crust of acceptance. A part of him railed against the idea of being a clone, of not being himself. Another grasped at it, desperate to be anything but Crona. And in his head the ache hammered, warning him not to ask the question that was burning on his lips.

"His scars," Crona butted in, emerging from the shadows and approaching the table. They both started, but he continued, rushed and afraid. "Would a clone have his scars?"

The cautionary pain mounted and Crona had to press his face into his hands to try to relieve it. He didn't see Maka and Soul exchange meaningful looks. He pressed his eyes into the heels of his palms until brightly colored spots winked across his vision.

"That's… a good question. I wouldn't think so… Why? Why do you ask that?"

Maka's voice came from far away. From the other end of a dark cavern, from past a single light that pierced that cavern. Why did he ask that? He wasn't supposed to, wasn't supposed to ask nor to care. But he did. Something was happening inside him, something was surging to the surface, clawing its way outward. Eyes that were pitch black and huge, a cut-throat smile dripping with black. Horrible cracking, squelching noises. Then a white light that burnt away the darkness and doubt. A certainty that was narcotic. He was not Crona. It didn't matter what the evidence said because he was not Crona. He couldn't be Crona because he knew he wasn't and that was all there was to it. He needed to learn about the Black Blood.

"Are we going to the lab today," he asked, dropping his hands and staring at them with glassy grey eyes.

"Crona, if you know something-" Soul tried, but was cut off.

"I don't know anything about that. I was just curious. I'd like to go back to the lab today."

"Not today," said Maka slowly, looking at Soul then back at Crona. "We thought we'd go see our friends. It's been a week, so you should be ready to meet them."

"Will we go to the lab later?"

"If there's time, we can go to the lab."

"Good. I need to learn more about the Black Blood."

"He thought he had us for sure, but I just transformed Tsubaki into her chained scythe and hacked my way out! Kishin Egg had no idea he was eating the person who will surpass god!"

"That does sound impressive, I have to admit," said Kid, taking a long sip of black coffee. "But only if you made the cuts symmetrical. They were symmetrical, right?"

"I still can't believe you managed to get eaten in the first place. First time for everything, I guess."

"To be fair," Tsubaki added with a little smile which suggested she too was rather proud. "It was a very large Kishin Egg. I've never seen anything like it."

"What do you think Crona," Maka pressed, holding her coffee tightly and hoping provoking him wouldn't turn out badly.

Crona looked up at her, then back into his coffee and cream, then around the shop. Maka's friends were numerous; they took up most of the seating in the Deathbucks. Kid and Soul were on the couch, where Black Star had been before he'd worked himself into a frenzy telling his story. Everyone else was in a chair they'd dragged around a little table that was more decorative than functional. Big comfy chairs, wooden dining chairs, every chair the place had to offer. He himself was in a rocking chair, though he'd been working very hard to keep it still. He felt the need to be still around these people. Not uncomfortable exactly, but cautious. He scanned their faces, then settled on one that looked the most friendly. Creamy skin and an oval face, with long black hair tied up. Tsubaki.

"I think it was reckless," he mumbled. Tsubaki tilted her head to show she, at least, was interested to hear his opinion, so he pressed on. "You should never have gotten close enough to be eaten in the first place. Why attack this Kishin anyway? What's the purpose?"

"Hunting Kishin Eggs is kinda the point of the DWMA," said Soul, almost scoffing, but he caught himself. Crona really didn't know better.

"It's about maintaining perfect balance, perfect symmetry, in the universe," Kid pushed his way into the conversation, leaning towards Crona and stretching out his hands as if to denote two halves. "There is good, represented by the DWMA, and evil, represented by the Kishin, Kishin Eggs, that is to say, those who would become Kishin, and witches. The DWMA hunts the evil in the universe so it doesn't grow uncontrollably."

"But if you're constantly pruning the evil, doesn't that lead to excess good? You should let it propagate if your true goal is balance."

"Not necessarily," Kid corrected, shifting in his seat. "Kishin are creatures of destruction, of disorder, and they have a purity in that purpose that the side of good lacks."

"What Kid means," said Maka. "Is that everyone has Madness. Everyone has the potential to do evil alongside the good. Just because we're at the DWMA doesn't mean we're fully good. We're trying to balance the two sides within ourselves and correct it in the world."

"You do evil and good, while the Kishin only does evil? So then is the act of killing a Kishin purely corrective, a "good thing," or is it an act of internal balance? The wrong thing for the right reasons?"

"I don't follow." Maka frowned at him, setting her coffee on the table.

"He means," Tsubaki cut in, soft and slow. "Is it wrong to kill a killer. If it is not, then the act of killing a Kishin leads to excess good. But if it is both right and wrong at the same time, then it balances good and evil within the individual."

"Of course it's not wrong to kill a Kishin," Black Star scoffed, settling back onto the couch and folding his arms. "They hurt people and we stop them; it's that simple."

"But is it," Crona pressed, interested for the first time. "If your goal is to balance good and evil, and killing a Kishin does not lead to an excess of good, then there has to be some evil in the act."

"A Kishin chose to become a monster," Maka almost snapped, but she restrained herself. "They gave up their humanity for power by consuming the souls of the innocent. There's nothing wrong with killing them; it's the only way to keep the world safe."

"And a witch? They don't choose to be evil; the Pull of Magic twists them."

"Some of them do Crona," sighed Soul, folding his arms. "Some of them like it."

"I think you like it too," Crona shot back, setting his coffee down on the little table and sitting up straight in his rocking chair.

"It's a necessary thing. There is no question that Kishin and Kishin Eggs are destructive creatures that need to be managed. Their evil must be contained, some witches too, for the good of the innocent," said Kid curtly. "People are better off because we do this. The rest is academic."

"He just doesn't remember what it's like is all," mocked Black Star. "If he knew what kind of weapon he had inside him he wouldn't be so judgey."

"What do you mean," asked Crona, frowning at them. "Are you talking about magic?"

"Magic, yes," Tsubaki answered, taking a sip of coffee as she tried to remain aloof from the tension. "But mostly the Black Blood. It was created to be a weapon, to make a Kishin."

"But I'm not a Kishin. I don't want to destroy anything."

"You also haven't used the Black Blood," pointed out Soul. "Crona lost the use of the Black Blood after… well… if you could use it, you'd understand why it's so important to keep Madness in check."

"Understanding would be a happy consequence of using the Black Blood," sighed Crona, letting his spine curl just a little. "I've been researching it ever since I can remember and it's still no clearer to me than it was that first day how to use it."

"Have you tried? You know, using it," asked Liz. The silence that followed made her acutely aware that she'd spoken and she took a mouthful of sweet coffee to avoid having to clarify. The question came anyway.

"What do you mean "use it?" There's nothing in Crona's notes about "using it," only containing it. The way he writes it's this unstoppable force over which he had no control, but my blood is just that. I've felt nothing."

"Maybe you need to try it out," offered Black Star enthusiastically. "The Black Blood was made for combat; you'll never understand a weapon you don't know how to use."

"Are you suggesting I… fight someone? That that will teach me about the Black Blood?"

"I'll fight you right now! Crona was pretty good, but he was nowhere near as big a star as me!"

"Black Star-" Maka admonished, but Soul cut her off.

"That might be a good idea, actually. Crona was an expert, maybe there's some muscle memory. Something to get him thinking at least."

"I'm not Crona, so I won't remember anything," Crona said in a huff. "But I would be interested to see if combat provokes a response from the Black Blood. Very well, tell me what to do."

"Not here," said Kid, narrowing his eyes at Crona and placing a hand on Black Star's shoulder. He agreed with Soul that a sparring match might spark Crona's memory, which was their goal. But "provoking" the Black Blood was never a good plan. Crona had dedicated his life to restraining it; it was dangerous at best to deliberately invoke its power. "In the park, where there's space."

"Crona," Maka whispered, coming up beside him and grabbing his elbow as he stood. He blinked at her with those large, critical eyes and she hesitated. "Are you sure about this? Because I'm not."

"I need to learn about the Black Blood," he replied simply, though he didn't pull out of her grip. Instead he brought his other hand to her's, placing it lightly but reassuringly on her forearm. "If a fight can help me do that, I need to try. Besides, this will keep any Madness at bay, right?"

He pressed his palm against the black fabric of her trench coat for a moment, feeling her warmth through the cloth, then brought his long fingers up to the crystal around his neck. The garnet red blood glistened in the perfect quartz, beautiful and macabre at the same time. Maka bit her lip and frowned. Yes, her blood had pulled him back from the edge of Madness before, at least, it had pulled Crona back. If this was not Crona, if he was something else that happened to have Black Blood… but how could they know if they didn't find out. And a stress test was about the only thing they hadn't tried.

"Yes," she answered after a long moment, releasing his arm. "If anything happens that should bring you back."

The walk to the park was a blur in Crona's mind. Maka's friends chattered and debated, but his mind was set. Something inside him recoiled from the idea of combat, though he doubted someone as inexperienced as himself could do any harm to a master like Black Star. Someone who could carve his way out of the stomach of a Kishin Egg. Nevertheless, he didn't want to hurt anyone, even by accident. But there was another part, something deeper, something darker, that was excited. A part that knew what to do, even as he accused these other people of liking the violence. When they got to a clearing in the trees, an open space with which the group seemed familiar, Black Star picked up a short but thick branch from the ground. He spun it in his hands expertly and gave Crona a savage grin.

Crona did not smile back; he felt anxious with anticipation. Someone was explaining what to do, and he heard it, but he could also hear something in the back of his head. He needed a weapon. His back ached at the thought, but whatever his body was expecting didn't happen. Instead he searched around the clearing and found a long branch that tapered at the end. He ran his hands over it, assessing it, then broke off the tip at a length he deemed appropriate. The weight of the branch felt excessive, but something about it also felt natural. Looking at it, he spun the sword around, testing it and feeling the echoes of memory guide his arm. His body knew what to do with this and the thought scared him; he quickly put it out of his mind.

"Alright, this is a simple sparring match," announced Kid, signaling that they should make space. "There are no winners or losers, the point is just to have fun. You hear that Black Star, don't go showing off."

"A star as big as me can't help but show off," Black Star boasted, spinning his chosen weapon around again for the explicit purpose of showing off.

Crona gripped his own stick with both hands, holding it defensively in front of his body. Black Star advanced, knocking the stick to one side. Crona took a step back, reorienting and frowning. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't happening. Again Black Star struck a blow and again Crona fell back. On the third round Black Star let out a heavy, frustrated sigh.

"That's no way to fight," he chastised. "You need to attack me!"

Crona swung his stick-sword at Black Star's stick-knife, but Black Star rose to meet him. Their weapons locked for a moment before Black Star pushed him back again. Crona stumbled.

"Like you mean it!"

"Black Star," cautioned Kid, folding his arms, but Black Star paid him no heed.

"You can't learn anything from a fight if you don't put your soul into it!"

"Go easy on him," Soul yelled, again to no avail.

Black Star aimed a strike not at Crona's weapon this time, but at Crona himself. Gasping in surprise, Crona brought up his stick and was able to deflect it, but the force of the impact sent him back a step. The next blow brought him to his knees. When the third one came he felt frustrated and angry. So he fell back to the only thing he knew. Lowering his stick-sword entirely, he looked Black Star right in the eye, and stopped his attack with telekinesis. Black Star snorted in amusement.

"Magic huh," he taunted, pressing against Crona's barrier. "Crona never had to resort to magic. He was an expert swordsman, not as good as me thought. He would've been able to fight me man to man. Besides, a star as big as me can't be stopped by magic."

He heaved against Crona's barrier, meeting his eye with a ferocious intensity. Crona felt sweat dampen his forehead as he fought to keep the attack at bay, but Black Star was unrelenting. With a scream of passion he overcame the magic and his stick-knife collided squarely with Crona's temple. For a moment everyone just sat in a sort of shocked silence. A small offshoot on Black Star's stick had punctured Crona's skin and from the wound a little bead of Black Blood welled to the surface. It reached capacity in the silence and ran down his cheek, catching the light in an odd juxtaposition. Inside Crona was dissolving.

His vision went dark for a second, black, like his blood. And like his blood there was a hunger in the blackness. He hadn't noticed it before, but it was there, waiting for an opportunity to show itself. Starvation, really, an emptiness in which everything would be digested. Taken apart like it was taking Crona apart right now. The space between the pieces of himself hummed with power; he felt his blood consume that power like ice rushing through his veins. Then suddenly not rushing anymore- no, it was coming into alignment. The pain was acute, screaming in his head, but he found he could focus around it in a way he hadn't thought to before. Life was pain, existence was agony, and the only way to make it stop was to feed. This simple truth echoed in his mind, whispers from a time before he could remember, serpentine. He knew what to do.

Black Star was moving, reorienting for another attack because it wasn't in his nature to hold back. Crona stood slowly, then reached one hand across his chest just as slowly, gripping his arm above the elbow with white knuckles. The strike came and, instead of deflecting it with his sword, he let go of the hilt, reached up, and caught the stick. The wood was hard, but his blood was harder. He squeezed until it cracked, and then more until it splintered. He didn't realize how funny it was until the giggles slipped from his lips, resonating in the silence. Something was squirming inside him, overwhelming need. It wasn't enough to disarm this person, nor to defeat him. No, Crona had to eat him, to satiate this unrelenting hunger.

"Crona!"

The voice was so familiar. It was coming from inside him, from inside his own skull. A light in this dissolving darkness. Around his neck the pendant full of blood began to burn. Another light piercing through his chest. It hurt, but not like before. This pain was like fire, and it purged the insanity from his blood. His body relaxed and Crona gasped, blinking rapidly in the sudden sunlight. All around him Maka's friends were battle tight, their faces etched with sharp concern. Something had happened to him, something they'd seen before. Something that scared them. It scarred him too; for a moment he'd been entirely and completely out of control. He looked around with eyes that had gone ice blue, then found he couldn't stand their accusatory glares. He had to be alone. Without a word he turned and went off into the trees.

"You need to go after him," Soul said into the stillness, giving Maka a sideways glance. Her lips were pressed together and her eyebrows were pulled down into a frown. It was as if she hadn't actually expected the Madness of the Black Blood at all, as if she'd really believed this wasn't Crona and was surprised by the outcome. Soul sighed through his nose, irritated. "He can't be alone."

"I know," said Maka, her jaw tight as a spasm of emotion shot through her chest. "Just… wait here for us. I'll bring him back."

"Oh Black Star," she heard Tsubaki sigh as she followed Crona into the trees.

She found him by one of the many ledges in the park; the whole city was built on a steep hill and to have any sort of flatness the trees had to be encased in retaining walls. He had his hands pressed into the stone balcony, so hard his fingernails had gone white. The wind caught in his pink hair, pushing it across a face that was statuesque in its tranquility. But Maka could feel the tension like a static in the air. She could see the goosebumps running down his arms, despite the desert heat. Silently, she came up beside him, licking her lips and searching for words. He saved her the trouble.

"My skin's crawling and I… I don't know what was so funny before…"

His voice was calm, controlled, but Maka sensed the fear. The uncertainty.

"Does it hurt," she asked, flicking her eyes to the blood trail on his face. Crona didn't look back or give any indication that he'd heard her. His icy blue stare was fixed on the horizon. Maka licked her lips, then made a decision. Pulling a handkerchief from one of the interior pockets of her trench coat, she grabbed his chin and tilted his head. "Here, let me."

He complied, letting her guide his face. The wound itself had healed and the blood, still wet, came away easily. They stood like that for a moment in an uncomfortable quiet.

"Was that Madness," Crona finally asked when Maka dropped her hands, looking at her imploringly.

"Yes," she answered reluctantly. "That was the Madness of the Black Blood. It distorts your soul wavelength, makes you into something you're not."

"Everything was so clear… I knew what I had to do and why I had to do it, but the logic was all wrong. It doesn't make sense."

"There's nothing logical about Madness, Crona. It's destruction for the sake of destruction."

"But it wasn't because I wanted to. I had to do it, and I had to keep going. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't been there." He frowned, breaking eye contact and looking down at his feet as if they were saying something compelling. "No… that's not right. I'm afraid of what I would've done if you weren't there. I'm afraid of what Crona did, of what made him so passionate about restraining the Black Blood. I understand now."

"What are you going to do?"

For a long moment he said nothing. Tension made the tendons stand out in his neck, his breath was too deep and too even, like he was working very hard to contain himself. His lips parted, then pressed together, then parted again as Maka waited. Finally, swallowing hard, he reached out and curled his fingers around her hand. She looked down, not quite surprised, and watched her own fingers curl back, entwining with his.

"I'm safe with you, aren't I." It was a statement, not a question. "If you're with me, then I won't hurt anyone. It's not control, exactly, but…"

"What are you going to do," she repeated, firmer this time. He shuddered, keeping his eyes downcast.

"What else can I do? Regardless the Black Blood is a part of me; I need to know how to use it. Not like this though. I wanted to… I don't want to get lost in the Madness again."

"Okay," she said, squeezing his hand. "Okay."