Author's Note: Here's the good news, a lot of my inspiration, especially for this piece, comes from my own experiences with my bipolar, so these episodes keep the "source material" fresh. And they're a potent reminder of just how malleable our constructs of "reality" are. But damn I swear they just get worse every time. Which is half the point of this story, so it keeps me honest, but damn... Anyway, that's where I've been. Probably another long update interlude coming, though this is the recovery phase so it is actually coming. Thanks so much for reading and sticking with me. It's ironic, but sometimes the only place you can be 100% honest is with a bunch of people you've never met.


Vera remembered the party, talking to Ethan, and the crack on the head from behind. She remembered her mission and that her last conscious wish had brought her to fulfillment. Through the darkness and mist to Professor Stein and Mrs. Marie's dinner table. She remembered what she'd said to them, the insurmountable fatigue that had swelled up around her like an unexpected undertow. And she remembered surrendering to it, allowing herself to be carried out into a sea of fog. Time is such a strange thing, a concept and perception and physical entity all in one. Its passage really depends on which definition one chooses and the results can vary wildly. If, for instance, an intensely frightening experience feels long and drawn out, does it really matter that the event bridged mere seconds? Of what consequence is the physical reality when handling matters of perception? Does perception matter in the face of cold hard fact? Is there such a thing as "timeless?"

For Vera, timeless was the only descriptor for her experience, which hovered in the space usually occupied by lucid dreams. She knew time was passing just as clearly as she felt outside of it. Asleep in a world of dense, swirling mist that granted her passage only if she moved slowly. Her first indication that the entire world hadn't joined her in this stasis was an intense, lacerating sadness. Or was it? The emotion was centered in her right palm, a burn without fire and pain without damage. How do you know what you're feeling? How do you know it belongs to you? Take sorrow, there's a sinking sickness in the gut or a crushing ache in the chest. Compression in the throat, burning in the eyes, dripping from the nose, gasping, all rather like some kind of intense allergy. Or sometimes there's just nothing, just the absence of hunger and desire and contentment. Nothing for it but to curl up and leak. All of these were full-body experiences, they had a physicality to them, a response from the body that had no origin, path, or apex. And still the sadness was in her hand.

In her Black Blood.

Then came the pain. Physical, yes, like a fire being generated in her flesh, cramping and unbearable. But also anguish. Remorse and fear entwined, braided into a terrible knowledge of what was to come. A fatalistic warning of what rested at the end of this path dripping with a rare denial that can actually anchor one to sanity. Hope that you've done enough to stop it, that it can't happen again. Then that, too, was swallowed by the pain. And, for now at least, time started again.

Vera was greeted with viscous, surging fog when she opened her eyes, an infinite cloud surrounding or perhaps stemming from the glassy surface on which she stood. It was both immeasurably vast and claustrophobic; the fluttering edges of the thin pool gave the impression it was compressing inward with only the thin rim of water to keep it from swallowing her entirely. Still, this place was familiar to her and she wasn't afraid. Not for herself, at any rate. Her astral body squatted, relieved not for the first time that she really thought of herself as more of a hoodie person and thus didn't have to proceed in a dress. There was something different about the pool, a murky quality that had been historically lacking, like the fog was seeping beneath the lip, boxing her in from under her feet. Which was new… Frowning just a little, she stretched out her pointer finger and tapped the surface, hard like glass but still rippling like water, and in the wake of her disturbance the cloudy composition cleared and she was allowed to look down at her physical body.

From what she could tell Kid had been successful in arranging the partygoer's limp forms into what he considered to be an aesthetic display, hers included. She couldn't see Kid, only her contribution to his art, an unceremonious peak to an unceremonious heap. Her head lulled against some random dude's shoulder and, though her hair and his suit were shining with blood, none seemed to have gotten on her dress. A small miracle considering the volume even a minor head wound can produce, but one for which she was grateful. Random man was gonna have one hell of a dry cleaning bill, though. Bending a little closer, Vera looked past herself, searching the room for signs of what had awoken her. Soul and Maka were curled up on the stairs, Kid was retching in a salad bowl, and everything else was entirely stagnate. The pain wasn't in this room, of that much she was certain. If anything, she thought as Professor Stein and Mrs. Marie burst into view, things were looking up here.

Please… help me…

Her head jerked up so violently it gave her vertigo, opal eyes searching for the voice that wasn't a voice at all. Like the sadness, like the pain, it was a sensation, and like those sensations it wasn't coming from around her. It was coming from her hand- her Black Blood. Inside her chest her ribs bent, her heart cramped, and her intestines squealed. Panic stilled her breath as blood rushed to her face before draining just as quickly. She felt sick, lightheaded, like everything inside her was sinking, and recognizing that feeling only served to heighten it. With a twist of terror she understood: it was coming from Crona.

Pleas don't let this happen. Not again. I don't want to be like this again.

One edge of her pool turned viscous and black and from it a doming, pulsating vein of Black Blood grew, reaching out into the mist. Reaching for its source, for Crona, drawing her like a moth along with it. Understanding that didn't make what she had to do any less necessary, didn't make the decision to do it any more thorny. Vera could feel it, the fragile connection she had to herself fraying as she stared at the path of blood, and deep down she knew what that meant. If she followed, if she went to him now, it was going to be difficult to get back. If she wanted to be strong enough to confront him once she got there, she was going to need to cut ties with her own flesh. But what if she didn't go? Maka was not going to make it in time to prevent what was coming, that was just a fact. And, another fact, Vera could. With conviction, and for a price, Vera could make the difference.

Combing coal black hair from her eyes and swallowing, she gave her body one last, longing look and stood. This place was timeless after all; when she eventually found her way back it wouldn't be too bad. Surely. The fog around the vein had lost some of its density, but none of its weight. Moving through it was an arduous task, chilling but not thankless. Locations were connected by thought and emotion, built by them like a cairn from stones. Whispering stones… remembering stones… Shadows in the distance. Ethan with his face first smeared in ash then streaked by tears, past caring about his own burning flesh as he dug through still smoldering rubble. A girl with dark skin and a high forehead, blank and empty and limply holding what used to be a toy train. Another with coily hair around her shoulders, hunched over on her hands and knees, making no sound as she screamed into the cobblestone. And a young man with strikingly green eyes who seemed to look right at her as he spoke.

"Those who die a violent, unjust death… they can become lost. Their path is twisted and unclear and for so many… hopeless. Ghosts are made like this; ghosts are what happens when no one goes after them. It's not enough to just die, we have to die like they did if we want to follow. We must be murdered by the same person that murdered them- he's the gateway. That's the only thing that makes sense to me and I won't risk being right. I will die by Crona's hands and I will see my brother again. Anyone who wants the same is welcome to join me."

"Crona won't kill you just for asking," she felt compelled to answer, looking back sadly and knowingly. "He's not some animal you can command, at least not anymore. Doesn't matter what your reasons are."

To her surprise he responded with a head tilt, squinting as if he could see her too but didn't quite believe she was there. It was so unnerving that she paused for a moment, standing in anxious anticipation. Then he faded into the fog again, like all the other phantoms she'd passed, and Vera let out a sigh of relief. She was close, so close that their intense memories were tainting the spot like excrement. Soon she'd find Crona… or whatever was left of him. How they thought they were going to provoke him into murder was not something she wanted to think about; the mere question churned her stomach and reignited her anger.

It wasn't like she didn't know how they felt or didn't understand why they were clinging to as close to a fairytale ending as any dared imagine. Hell it hadn't been that long ago that she'd been the same. Whatever the motivation, her actions had been a sin, a force that had catalyzed events with destructive speed, initiating a cascade she couldn't take back. And as her goal emerged from the gloom, the despair that seemed to pull the blood from her body told her this would be the same. In this place without time she could see the coming ruin blooming around him, though its shape remained elusive, and then with the blink of an eye it was just him again.

Crona was on his knees, feet splayed to either side to make a space for his limp arms. His torso was bent over backwards, spine arched so much it was near bent in half and his pink hair was brushing the ground between his feet. Rattling breath punctuated with low whimpers wept in the stillness, the tears in his wide, ice blue eyes shimmering and breaking free of his eyelashes to pulse over his forehead and temples into his hair. The reason for all this became apparent when she got closer, and Vera had to fight off the urge to retch when she saw it. His clothing was not just black, it was Black Blood and it was moving. Hundreds of thin, thorny vines moved like serpents across his pale skin, rising from puckered edges and coiling around him, birthing more where the points pierced his flesh. They'd wrapped themselves around his arms and legs and trunk, thick where the major arteries pulsed, around his throat, exiting and entering as they lacerated him inside and out. Consumed him- or maybe the better word was dissolved.

"Oh god," Vera whispered, swallowing her own shaky breaths and approaching him. "Crona can- can you hear me? What have they done… Crona? If you can't speak then listen: you told me the astral plane was a place where powerful wishes could manifest, remember? So wish for me to hear you. Wish for me to help you and I'll make it happen."

His pale eyes tracked to her and narrowed, then he lurched, contracting his abdomen and flinging his body over his hips. Catching himself on his forearms, Crona let out his first scream, a horrible, shattering noise that forced her to cover ears that had no physicality and thus could not be hurt. For just a second she flinched away, the fear of being overwhelmed by his Madness catching her like an actual blow. But it passed, just like his screaming, and she closed in, kneeling without touching him.

Vera… He didn't speak and yet she understood, meeting the abyssal gaze he brought up and cast through his pink hair. What are you doing here? How can you be here when I'm not even here? Where-

"Don't waste your energy on pointless questions," she chided perhaps a bit too harshly, reaching out to grab his thorny shoulders before thinking better of it and pulling back again. "Fuck. Just tell me how to help you. Maka is on her way but you don't look like you're gonna make it. Tell me what I need to do so you can make it."

I can't ask you to do that. There was a horrible sadness to the sensation in her mind, and a resignation. You've paid too high a price already, just for coming after me. I can't ask for more.

"Don't ask. I make my own bad choices, Crona, and we don't have time for me to lecture you about the patriarchy or whatever until you give me what I want. Tell me what you need. Tell me- or if you can't tell me then show me. Now."

Shaking like a dry leaf in the shredding wind, Crona pushed himself up into a sitting position, vertical if only for a moment. The vines around his throat seethed and twisted, growing and encircling and undulating until the only part that was recognizably Crona was the pale skin of his Adam's apple. In his eyes, in the sclera, capillaries were becoming enflamed, turning the white grey and rancid. Their source veins bulged, fingers around his ocular orbits reaching for his cheeks and temples. Releasing a rattling breath through his nose, Crona held out his right hand with his palm towards her, indicating she should do the same. Vera swallowed her fear again and complied, bringing the pulsating black scar up without touching him. She didn't need to; the proximity to Crona and his berserk Black Blood sent hers into its own frenzy. Like his it went wild beneath her skin, long worms thrashing up to her elbow. Extracting a yelp they burst through her, thorns glistening with her own crimson blood. Crona gave her a very small, very sad smile, carefully coiling his long fingers around her wrist and bringing her palm to his brow. He winced when her vines attacked him, clawing at his temples and burrowing into his ears. Vera, though, Vera understood and tightened her grip on his skull. The Black Blood was designed to be subjugated to a stronger will and, in the absence of such a will, would follow its own objective independently. Whatever his kidnappers had done had caused Crona to be overrun; she was going to have to act as his surrogate until Maka arrived.

Setting her jaw, Vera gave Crona a single nod and then willed herself into his reality.


Being accustomed to pain isn't the same as not feeling it, or even not noticing it. Rather like being cold, there's an adjustment phase every time where the body sinks into itself, pulling away from the skins surface and letting the subcutaneous fat do its job as an insulator. Same with sound or light, the human body can recoil away from overstimulation and allow the host soul to continue to function. Pain's perhaps harder to manage, since the instinct is to cease whatever action is aggravating the injury and recover, but damage can be endured to increase survivability. And so the body presses onward, not because it wants whatever goal the soul has dictated, but because it does not want to die. This fear, this awareness of mortality, could motivate just about anything. One might even say that the desire to avoid death is the very pulse of life.

Maka's insides were screaming like she'd eaten rocks not cupcakes, her flu-weak muscles cramping and aching as she forced them to work. Frigid, dry air whipped around her and stung her, testing her balance like a sadistic sparring partner. The rough surface of the skateboard bit into her bare feet, rubbing raw spots as she sped through the winding streets of Death City with more speed than was really wise given her condition. She was aware of all of it, this pack of crying animals in her head, and she ignored all of it. Because her survival was one matter, her motivation to preserve her own existence, was one matter, but Crona's was something else entirely. The relativity of her pain compared to his agony diminished so as to make it negligible, especially in the face of her terror. Or maybe it was all due to her terror, to the only thing that trumps the fear of death. Fear of loss. And she knew she was losing what was most precious to her, could feel his soul twist and distort with every spasm of the second hand she had ticking monstrously in her head. Was she already too late? Had she been too late the moment she'd eaten those damn cupcakes and drank that accursed punch? Before that even, had she lost him when she'd decided to throw the party?

Kid's manor was near the peak of Death City, near the Academy buildings, and the further one moved from it the more like a regular city the streets and buildings became. Down near the base the neighborhoods were quartered, divided into clusters linked by similar function funneling upwards in literal lines of production. At the foundation where there was space were the factories and warehouses, then refinement and processing one ring up, and finally commercial shops integrating into the residential. When Medusa had attacked one year ago the factories had made for easy and spectacular targets. Cobblestone had helped with the spread of fire from one facility to another, yet within the complexes embers traveled freely. Most of the production facilities had been repaired and the isolated economy of Death City had flourished anew. However, some of the warehouses were still being neglected. Crona was behind the massive sliding doors of one of them.

Without ceremony Maka launched herself from Beelzebub and tripped on the landing. She broke her fall with her hands, grunting and scraping her palms against the sharp asphalt. The injury wasn't bad but this new wave of pain caught her off guard; her gut heaved and she vomited with fresh force. Damn drugs- another round and then she was allowed to spit out the remnants and push herself back to her feet, shaking violently. The loading doors were massive and far too heavy for her alone and in her sorry state. Fortunately, there was a side door meant for human traffic. Beyond it Crona's soul was devouring blue lights, mutating into something unrecognizable. Staggering like a desperate drunk and panting with effort and fear, Maka rammed the door with her shoulder and burst into the cavernous belly of the building.

Her assessment was brief but thorough, eyes flicking to the four perpetrators encased in Crona's black thorns, bleeding, whimpering, but breathing. Poison seeped into them, the caustic concoction of Crona's pain and Madness; they were going to need medical attention when this was over. But while the disaster was still unfolding, she noted with more than a little malice, they would be unable to escape. They would face justice, even if their current suffering was deemed sufficient punishment. Beneath them the black floor seethed with a hundred two-dimensional vines that originated from a metal chair almost dead center. Or more precisely, from the figure kneeling next to that chair, from the place his body contacted the ground. Vera stood over him with her palm pressed into his brow, black hair over her face like a mask that obscured everything except her glowing opal eyes. Her attire and the way the air was shimmering like a mirage around her told Maka this was her astral self, drawn through the Black Blood. She didn't look away from her charge when Maka entered, not at first.

"Glad you made it," she grunted through clenched teeth. "I don't know how much longer I can hold him. He's fighting not to be swallowed but-"

"It's okay," Maka cut her off, advancing recklessly and resting a hand on Vera's surprisingly solid wrist. "I've got it. You can let go now."

"I-" the air caught in her throat and she swallowed hard to clear it, moving her gaze to connect with Maka's. For the first time since they'd known each other, she could see fear and vulnerability in Vera's expression, a show of weakness previously reserved for Soul and Crona alone. At the time, Maka didn't know what that meant. "I'm not sorry I did this. Would you tell him that when he wakes up? That I don't blame him and I'm not sorry."

"Yes," Maka said perhaps more curtly than was necessary, growing impatient in the face of Vera's sentimentality. "Yes, I'll tell him. Now let go."

"Alright," Vera said dryly, lips twitching into a resigned half-smile and taking a deep breath. "Later."

With a swirl like oil drifting across water she was gone and Crona's head fell forward onto his chest. Maka dropped to her knees, taking up Vera's position before him and evaluating. His body was covered in thorns, small barbs not unlike the pikes that had accosted her the first time they'd done this. And like then, she couldn't be worried about her own wellbeing if she wanted to reach the terrified pink soul beneath. She needed to dive into the thicket without concern for the consequences. Fortunately, Maka was used to operating just on the edge of recklessness.

"Nothing I do matters, none of it makes a difference. Not now, not in the end. So why did I do it? What was the point if it was going to end up like this anyway? Still I'm trying… why am I trying? Even now, why can't I just let it happen? What am I holding onto?"

Crona was mumbling in such a low tone that she hadn't even heard him until she'd gotten close, down on the ground beside him. Even now, with her ears no more than a foot away from his mouth, the words were indistinct and slurred; she only understood maybe half of the continuous stream. It was enough.

"It's okay now," she whispered in a suddenly gentle voice, reaching out with both hands and cupping his cheeks. He leaned against her easily, allowing her to lift his head and bring their faces together. "It's because you don't want to be like this, remember? And what you want matters. It's important and it's a good enough reason to try."

"Maka," he asked with a little more force, his pale blue irises fluctuating in a battle with the black and his gaze unfocused. "Maka you- you came."

"As fast as I could. Now I'm going to resonate with you, and it's gonna be hard, but I need you to keep trying for just a little longer. Okay?"

"Maka I'm so tired… The other me- the real me, he's stronger than I am. Vera pushed him back… pulled me up… I can't do it on my own. I can already feel myself sinking… dissolving…"

"Crona, you stay with me," Maka snapped, giving his head a little shake before releasing it, moving in and encircling his back with her arms. The thorns of Black Blood pricked her bare skin, yet as of that moment were unable to break through. "Please stay with me. Please come back to me. That's what you want, isn't it? To be with me?"

"Yes… That is what I want. Ever since I met you, that's what I've wanted."

His words- his confession, were like an opening into his soul, a break in the Madness through which she could slip. Maka burst through with her Anti-Magic Wavelength, like thrusting herself into the gears that were grinding against each other and beating them back into alignment. She grunted in pain and effort, pressing him into her body and closing her eyes. For Crona the process was more painful, blisteringly hot with more than a little of the torture he'd just endured. His hands shot up in an instinctual attempt to remove the source of the pain but he caught them, forcing them back to the ground with a whimper. Instead he reached back for her with his soul, an excruciating extension of the twisted mass inside him like muscles ripping. But when they finally made contact, when they started to come into alignment, the burning mellowed into soothing warmth, midmorning sunlight seeping into his frozen core. Ribs unbinding, throat loosening, neck and back relaxing as the sanity that had been stolen from him returned like a scared cat, hesitant and insistent. Again his hands reached up for her, but this time the just hooked lightly on her shoulders, holding her with what little strength he could muster as he let his head rest in the curve of her neck. Her pulse raced against his cheek and her muscles, in contrast, were wire taught.

Slowly the Black Blood stopped squirming; the thorns sank back into vines and the vines melted into a pool on the floor. Then equally as slowly it returned to him, flowing across the floor and back through his skin. Some was lost to his suit, which was now stained a dark grey, still, over the course of minutes, he was finally able to rein it in. It wasn't until then, until Maka's soul was in perfect resonance with his, that the reality of what had happened sank in. A sob tore at his raw throat and he started to shiver anew, this time with sorrow instead of insanity, burying his face into her. Maka tightened her grip, adjusting so she could hold his now soft body against hers and cradling his head with one hand. It took some time for Mrs. Marie and Professor Stein to catch up, but when they did that was how they found the pair: Maka gently stroking Crona's hair as he wept, limbs and souls comfortably entwined at last.


It wasn't the first time Crona had slept like this, dreamless and stagnate, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Still, the moment he became aware of his sleep, the moment awareness returned to his consciousness, he felt a deep despair to have found himself here again. Recharging after pulling back from the brink, after losing his balance at the point of no return. After experiencing the most uncontrollable form of insanity, like a literal intruder in his skin and mind. When he'd slept as a child it had always been like this, empty and more of a jump through time than a rest, because his nightmares were indistinguishable from or sometimes less terrifying than reality. When Lady Medusa had returned for him and twisted him against the DWMA his sleep had been like this. And in the moments Pendra had allowed him for rest, it had been like this. Dark was even too descriptive of a word. Just… nothingness. A void in which the Crona he wanted to be reconstructed himself, emerging with regret and distorted memories. Knowledge that it had happened again.

"Are you awake enough to talk or should I wait?"

Crona recognized the voice but was surprised to hear it under the circumstances. Always when he came out of this sort of stupor she was there, daybreak made flesh, and it gave him the strength not to go back to the darkness. Not this time though. Someone else was waiting for him this time. He was not entirely unwelcome, just very, very unexpected. Unsettling, if he'd had the energy for that.

"Where's Maka," he asked, cracking his storm cloud eyes and rolling his head on the pillow so he could gaze into the expectant golden orbs that had no doubt pressured him into wakefulness.

"She's just outside," reassured Kid, standing and moving closer to his bedside. "I wanted to speak with you before anyone else. It was a fierce battle, but in the end rank does have its privileges. Or in this case, genetics."

"The hostages, are they alright? Did they get hurt, even though I followed the rules?"

"Hostages?" Kid frowned and tilted his head ever so slightly. "There were no hostages as far as we could tell; only you were taken. If they mentioned hostages it was a bluff."

"So no one was in danger. That was just another lie and I had no reason to…" Crona moaned, not comforted in the slightest. He sat up slowly, then brought his knees to his chest and hugged them there. "What have I done… I tried to stop it but I couldn't. I never can. Now-"

"Now nothing," Kid cut him off decisively, reaching out and placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "That's why I wanted to be the first to speak with you, to tell you that we've already discussed the situation with my father and there will be no punitive action taken against you. It is not only clear that you are the victim in this situation, but also that you showed remarkable restraint against your abductors. They suffered only minor injuries which could be treated at the civilian hospital. You are to be commended, not punished, is that clear?"

"You don't understand," insisted Crona, morose and unable to bring himself to meet Kid's stare. "I lost control, despite everything I've been trying, despite all my resolve. If Vera hadn't stopped me and Maka hadn't saved me I could've-"

"You didn't, therefore it doesn't matter. Our judgment on the matter is final. Rest now; there is plenty more to discuss but it can wait until after you've recovered your strength."

"More…" He repeated the word slowly, suspiciously, lifting his head to evaluate Kid. That cold golden gaze met his, but it had softened significantly since their first meeting, sometimes Crona could even glean affection. Now, though, now he sensed something else, something that made his chest tighten. "Whatever it is, I want to know now. Or are you worried about what I'll do when I find out?"

"It is not my intention to keep secrets from you," Kid said carefully, sliding both hands into his pockets. "However, I also wanted to avoid upsetting you right now. Are you certain?"

"Yes, more so now."

"Vera is in a coma. Professor Stein believes that the combination of her efforts to contain the Black Blood in her astral form and the injury she sustained to her skull have caused her astral self to become… disconnected from her body. Physically she will heal, but until her astral being finds its way back there isn't much we can do to wake her."

Crona straightened, turning his neck to look Kid full in the face, though his knees remained against his chest. His jaw tightened so much it cracked his teeth against one another, his nostrils flared, and his eyes went ice blue. Breath that had been relatively regular shortened, hands that had been relaxed clenched into white-knuckled fists, and Kid pulled his hands swiftly from their resting place to try and tamp down the radiating air around him.

"Medusa, Pendra, these nameless victims I helped create," Crona whispered, unblinking and unnerving. "They use me, twist me inside out, strip away every layer of self I manage to cultivate until I am the monster they envision. Until even I have no concern for my own morals and desires. Until I commit the crimes they set before me. I'm so tired of it-"

"This is not your fault, Crona, and we are already researching ways to rectify the situation. I don't want to give you any false hope or make promises I can't keep, but there's no call for fear."

"I'm not afraid," he growled, a low and oddly ominous rumble in the stillness between them. "I'm angry."