Chapter Text
When Maka opens her eyes, the ground is cold and hard beneath her. There's a persistent throbbing behind her eyes made worse by the fuzzy glow of the fluorescents high above. As much as it tempts her into covering her face and attempting to go back to sleep, too many things are off for her to settle down.
Instinct forces her to sit up, even as the world spins. The heel of her palm grinds into one eye until stars light up her vision; they do nothing to make the headache subside as much as she wants them to. The hand on her shoulder is startling at first, but the familiarity seeps in-- Soul's soul ebbs and flows with her. She knows it as well as she knows her own. It's a grounding presence, letting her focus on something other than the pain.
It's concerning that they were seemingly both knocked out, though. His default scowl has some force behind it now, wrinkles in his forehead all too normal for when he's trying to pretend he's not in pain. Unsurprisingly, she's seen that a lot.
He squeezes her shoulder lightly, settling back on his knees. "You okay?"
"I think so..." The ache's spreading to more of her body now. It doesn't feel like it usually does after hard labor-- the strain of her muscles and pulled tendons are etched into her memory-- but there's still that twinge of something that makes her disregard it for now. Even if she is injured, it's nothing she can't put to the side while they do...
Whatever it is they came here for. It's escaping her entirely, even though she knows it was probably a mission and that they can't let whatever it was that they were chasing get away.
When Soul offers his hand, she takes it and hauls herself up to him. Absently, he brushes something off her other shoulder, then looks around at the crates stacked around them. It smells heavily of fish in here, forcing her to press her lips together before she can get sick. Damn him and his love of seafood, he's not struggling at all. "I don't see anything around. They must've shaken us off with... whatever they did. You remember anything?"
"No." Frustration leaks into her tone. She sighs, forcing her shoulders to lower as she assesses the area herself. Small breaths in and out of her mouth mitigate the smell slightly. Nothing much is revealed, though. It just seems like a regular warehouse, albeit cold to keep things preserved for longer. "We should get looking, though. I don't know how long we were out, but..."
"Secure the premises, yeah." He pulls a face briefly before holding up his hand. "We can get a check-up later."
"It feels kind of like a concussion." That certainly means they should leave, but damn if she's willing to leave the job half done-- she can force herself to work around some dizziness. It's not as bad as it could be, anyways; she'll be fine for the next while until they solve this. She claps her hand into Soul's. "Let's get moving."
Soul nods. He does not transform.
"...Do you have a concussion?"
"No," he grumbles. His gaze is fixated on their hands, annoyance clear on his face like something about their usual system has suddenly changed to spite him and him alone. Tightening his grip changes nothing. Glaring more also does nothing. It's starting to get awkward, and even with her gloves on, she can feel how sweaty both of their palms are.
He steals his hand back from her, glowering at it, before he's accusing the other one instead. He doesn't usually show his frustration this obviously-- at most, it's passing crabbiness as he tries to hang on to his facade of being cool. That is tossed straight out the window as he shakes one arm like there's ants crawling on it and curses.
"Soul?"
He's quiet for a moment. He avoids eye contact too, even when she tries to get it; he tilts his head to look at the ceiling above them instead. It's annoying and she says as much in an impatient little noise.
Eventually, he bites out, "I can't transform."
"What? You're kidding."
"Pretty fuckin' sure I know how to shift things around at this point, Maka, and nothing's happening." To drive his point in, both his arms raise and flap uselessly, no metallic glean of his black and red scythe form in sight. They're dropped with the same gusto, hands shoving themselves into his pockets. Soul slouching is normal, but this is rigid and forced. It makes her own shoulders twinge in sympathy-- or maybe that's the ache getting worse.
If he can't transform, they can't fight. If they can't fight, they're worse than useless here; they're incredibly dazed sitting ducks that can be picked off by whatever they're hunting without them even having a chance.
"Oh," she says quietly.
His lips press together. He looks around the crates again, suspicious and on edge. "Sorry. Let's find a way out."
"Right." As much as she despises leaving anything half-done, there's no other option here. They'll have to contact Kid when they get out and see if another team can fly in, even though the idea of confessing they can't do it bruises her pride something fierce. The Last Death Scythe and the meister who got him there, utterly incapable of doing a mission they should be able to pull off in their sleep. Her nails bite into the gloves' fabric as she fists her hands, carefully selecting what pathway seems most clear and motioning Soul along.
It's strange; she can't sense any soul besides their own here, and even Soul's seems muted now despite him hardly being a foot away. It's hard to imagine they're lucky enough that whatever it was actually ran off. That kind of thing has never worked out for them. But she can't feel the presence of a person nor a pre-kishin, connection feeling thin instead of the blanket she's used to.
The corridors of this warehouse have no differences. Same product, same boxes, same unintuitive way to stack them. It legitimately bothers her. How is anyone supposed to get in here without getting lost right after? Instead of straight, exact lines, there's turns they have to follow that happen seemingly at random like whoever stocked the place was wildly drunk mid-afternoon and thought it'd be a funny prank. If she finds that the path they're going on is a dead end, she's going to sue the company, the technicality of breaking into their building be damned.
Nothing about the boxes strikes her memory, either. The logos imprinted on the sides have two crossed swordfish and Cyrillic letters scrawled across them; it at least gives them an impression of where they are, but Russia is a big place and this doesn't narrow it down further than that. She saw nothing like this in their trip to Moscow. Then again, companies come and go all the time.
"Maka, watch out--!"
Instinctively, she pivots and presses her back against the crates closest to her. This must've been what they were looking for: a monster with spines growing from its skin, body emaciated yet still threatening and-- a witch? She floats casually on her broom behind it, legs crossed and face serene as she enjoys the scene playing out in front of her. Maka would love to deal with her, but they're still down for the count without a weapon.
Why didn't she sense them coming either? Even now, there's no flicker of recognition, nothing coming from neither the monster nor the witch. Soul Protect isn't that perfect. It doesn't mask them completely, instead presenting them as a mere human, but not even that sits in her perception. There's nothing. Even Soul sensed them coming first, a guy who readily admits that he can't and really doesn't care to see souls, whose perception is spent on the physical and emotional instead.
It strikes her very quickly and with a vengeance that she's useless here.
There’s a flash of silver as the monster slashes at them. Soul doesn’t hesitate to throw himself in front of her, arm lifted in defense, but instinct betrays him this time; there’s no tell-tale flash of light to transform his arm, and instead the skin’s clawed through pathetically easily, jacket torn through without a struggle. He makes a choked sound of pain but even still doesn’t stop himself from trying to wrestle the creature back, its hands grappled in his. His horrible posture is useful for once; the spines, bending and cracking unnaturally, can’t quite reach him like this, but that isn’t going to be the same for long.
“Maka!”
“Right!” There’s no time to waste. Her eyes snap to the witch where she’s smugly watching them. It's not anything new for a witch to set up a game like this, running circles around meisters trying to fix the problems they caused, but it is illegal. She isn't to be killed, of course. Her name isn't on the Reaper's List as far as they know. But they're definitely going to arrest her and get her to fess up what she did to them.
Maka has a feeling that this reeks of magic more than it does a snappy pre-kishin.
Leaving Soul to handle the monster, she launches herself up the stack of boxes, biting down the nausea spurred by the quick movement. Her fingers hook on the end of the crate and she lifts herself up quickly, putting her and the witch on the same level.
The witch smiles serenely, head tilted to the side, ears twitching in excitement. She has several tails hanging down from the broom-- Maka can count five, making this fox witch all the more a threat.
It's impossible to successfully capture a witch when you don't have a weapon or magical tool or even a clear head, but that doesn't stop her from trying. She's one of the best at hand-to-hand in the meister class. She's even stood up to Patty's assault longer than anyone else so far, reigning champion of the olympic sport that is fighting the younger Thompson.
The witch giggles as Maka sprints towards her, deftly avoiding any swipe at her broom or tails or the trailing fabric of her robe. It doesn't help that Maka's balance is off from whatever mysterious injury she's already got. She doesn't fall off the crates, but she becomes startlingly close, teetering off the edge of one with pinwheeling arms.
A hand to her spine saves her and pushes her back forward. Soul, now with significantly more holes in his jacket (and himself) than before, throws himself upward as well, getting to his feet awkwardly but quickly.
It admittedly feels a lot better to have him up here even if they're still screwed. Whatever happens, they'll face it together.
The scratch of claws against wood is obscenely loud. The spiny creature comes to meet them with an uneven gait, bent to allow itself to walk on its hands and feet. If that gets too close to them, especially with all its spines on display, the only thing they can do is get gouged.
"This doesn't look great," Soul mumbles. He presses his back to hers, facing towards the crawling monster.
"We've been in worse places, right?" Maka stares at the witch still watching her personal show play out.
"Yeah, this definitely ain't as bad as Black Star's room."
The joke gets a small, high-pitched laugh. Looking over her shoulder, it's clear the pre-kishin is going to attack, lowering down on its heels in preparation to spring.
Maka grabs Soul's hand and laces their fingers together like they have a thousand times before, some hopeless want for familiarity and comfort before they get killed driving her, and then something shifts.
There's often a state of mind Maka slips into while fighting. Keeping her head on straight is a necessity, even if she still follows her impulses. It's years of experience that lend itself to her quick reaction time and split-second decision making, and when that's combined with a clear mind focused on a single goal, there's nothing that can make her give up the hunt. Not even Soul sometimes if she's so passionate about it.
Their fingers intertwine and it's that same feeling, brief but extreme, a clear mind and a clear soul even in the face of danger. Maybe that's why it happens, why the world suddenly seems infinitely strange even though she can still see it.
"Woah," Soul breathes out, before sloppily defending himself from the monster, keratin against metal.
He's not used to fighting with something other than his own hands and blades. He's never wielded a scythe before.
"Oh, isn't this interesting?" the fox witch titters, fingers curling over her mouth in mocking surprise. "I didn't realize it'd be that successful. You're quite the perfect test subjects for this experiment."
The downside to being a scythe, Maka finds, is the inability to launch herself at this witch and strangle her.
Another downside is the fact that she's a fucking scythe somehow and the one person who's the worst with a weapon in hand has to play the meister against a monster much more used to fighting than he is. She loves Soul, she does, but he hasn't done the same footwork practice she has to make her techniques flow. His only defense is striking hard and fast, and even then his aim's off.
"Soul!" Maka hisses. The reverberation surprises her-- she's used to that happening to his voice, but it makes her sound unnatural, like someone else. She pushes that thought for later, more focused on the clash of her blade against strong spines. "You aren't swinging right! Hook--"me?"-- it around and pull. Come on!"
"Shit, sorry for not picking this up immediately! Wonder whose problem that is!" His voice pitches up in a strangled yelp as there's another swipe at him. He listens to her advice, though. Tries to, at least; he can't pull the blade back or with the right leverage to do more than crowd it towards somewhere, and that's unfortunately mostly towards him. His clothes tear more, worsening the injuries he had before. It's the same as it was when he was on the ground-- fighting alone with no hope of really defending himself, even with her in hand, desperation fueling every step.
If this continues for too long, he might bleed out. Their mortality has never escaped her, but the possibility still frightens her. Being unable to even do anything about it is worse, and even though he's still on his feet, some part of her heart squeezes itself at the memory of him hardly breathing on the ground with his chest sliced from shoulder to hip.
They're lucky the witch seems to only want to observe, but whatever her experiment is doesn't seem to cut any slack for them surviving this.
There's nothing she can do.
"Well, isn't that negative? Always options, always options. Maybe you'll be more inclined than that killjoy."
She doesn't recognize the voice at first. Her perception snaps back into the void she's in, vision strangely split between what's outside of the blade and the infinite expanse of the inside. She stares at her hands, at the nothingness around her, more confused than ever.
"What are you waiting for? He's going to die if you don't play... if you can't play."
Her gaze snaps up. There's a door just there, light pouring from it even though there should be nothing but more void behind it. There's a little demon leaning out, suit impeccably tailored despite its unusual appearance, snapping its fingers to get her attention more. She's only seen it a handful of times with more and more time between each visit, Soul saying he's shooed Oni out for the time being whenever she enters. Yet here it-- he?-- is, here the door is, and there's only one thing to do next.
She floats towards the door. Oni evacuates the doorway to allow her to step inside. Electricity dances over her skin as she steps into the room, only stopping once her heels click against the tiled floor. The visual of the familiar black dress is comforting, but it's never felt like this before. Like a second skin. It clings to her not uncomfortably, but as if it's glued to her instead of a mere dress.
Music faintly plays from a phonograph. The record keeps skipping and, if she keeps an ear out, she can time it to each strike against the blade-- her blade. It is skipping an awful lot.
The room isn’t any different from how she remembers, but something about the feeling this place gives sinks beneath her skin, behind her eyes. Is this what Soul feels every time he enters here? She stares at her hands like they aren’t her own, only pulled out of it when the little demon snaps his fingers again, standing next to the grand piano that’s played in her mind every time she’s fought.
“What are you waiting for?” the demon asks.
Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. “I... don’t know how to play.”
Soul’s very occasionally tried to give her pointers, but it’s been clear that she much prefers listening over learning how to play it herself. She’s regretting that now, wishing she spent more time at least learning the keys. It wouldn’t be any use, there’s no music sheets propped up to guide her, but at least she’d have something.
“Maka,” Soul’s voice echos faintly. “I need a-- shit-- I need a hand here!”
“I don’t know how to play,” she repeats, louder this time. Even if she did, it’s hard to imagine she’d play anything Soul liked, much less something they could resonate on. She isn’t musical, never has been, and even what she does enjoy listening to getting scorn from his snobbish tastes. Her eyes focus on the black and white keys, on the bench waiting for her in front of the piano, frozen in time. “I can’t play, Soul, just--”
“Keep myself safe? Sure, yeah.” In her split vision, she can see him. He’s still standing and has even gotten a bit better at swinging the scythe around, but it’s clumsy and nothing’s hitting so much as a handful of attacks are being deflected, the others finding their mark against his form. He swears again with passion. There’s a weight to his arms; he’s flagging with how heavy she is, the unusual strain of wielding a weapon. “Whatever you’re doing in there--”
“I’m in the Black--”
“--Do it fast,” he rushes out.
A noise of frustration tears from her throat. She can’t play, she doesn’t know a song in the least, and somehow Hot Cross Buns feels like it’ll make the situation infinitely worse. The demon raises an eyebrow at her, grinning when she snaps out: “What are you good for?"
“This is your room now, not his,” he points out. It doesn’t make any sense to her, but he doesn’t seem concerned, his finger snaps a beat off from each record skip. “You better figure something out if you don’t want your partner to get too hurt. Let me help you.”
His hand extends towards her. Shivers wrack her spine, goosebumps raising on her arms. Soul’s never liked this demon much, but this isn’t his room anymore-- if it’ll help them, there’s no reason not to take the offer. The price will never be too steep for saving Soul.
“You better keep your promise,” she stomps her heel down, glaring down at the demon. He smiles and gleefully laughs. As much as it unnerves her, she moves to take his hand.
“Don’t!”
Soul’s voice is much more of a surprise this time. Her hand flexes as she pulls back, the disdain on the demon’s face a secondary concern as she stares upwards at the ceiling. “We can’t do this alone, Soul!”
“You can--” The sound of tearing flesh is all too familiar. He struggles to suppress a yell, teeth grinding together afterwards as he tries to steel himself. The monster slows, relishing the sight. Maka can’t see the witch through her blade anymore and she can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing.
Soul’s quiet for a few long, intense moments. The staring contest with the monster does little to persuade it to not kill them. Eventually, the words come to him. “You can sing, just hit the strings as hard as possible. Okay?”
“I don’t--”
“You can carry a tune,” he interrupts, which is possibly the nicest thing he’s ever said about music concerning her. It nulls the aggravation of being interrupted, mostly. “Just sing whatever song you can think of and I’ll--” He grimaces, no doubt remembering all the songs she has saved. “--I’ll manage, okay? Just do it.”
“...Okay.” The embarrassment of singing to an empty room strikes her. Her mind blanks. What songs does she listen to that even have lyrics? All that’s coming to mind is Hot Cross Buns again, and it makes her want to scream. What other songs does she know-- what is she brave enough to sing to an audience while lives are on the line?
What’s one of the songs Soul likes? She fumbles for a moment before remembering. Her hands fold on her chest as she takes a deep breath, hoping it doesn’t sound as ridiculous as she thinks it will.
“It’s... It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in--”
“Death, Maka, really?”
She tries to ignore the flush of her face at his audible excitement and struggles to not lose the beat of it. The phonograph is quiet now, sound slipping away without her noticing. “Th-there’s an old man sitting next to me, making love to his--” What are the right lyrics? She stutters. “--cola and gin...”
“That’s definitely not right.”
He’s lucky that she can’t snap at him. Singing takes more of her attention than she wants it to, struggling for the right words. There’s no familiar feeling of soul resonance, none of the same calming effect Soul can produce. All she can feel is something akin to spindly wires surrounding her, thin enough that she’d miss them if she wasn’t focusing so hard on everything around her. They almost cut into her.
...Not wires. She forces herself to continue through the shock of realization that these are threads instead, a spiderweb connected to everything else, including nearly all the spines on the creature attacking them. It’s entangled in a trap she didn’t even notice; she leaves Soul’s witch soul-given powers to him, practicing with them in a much different way than he does. She’s only ever been concerned with the physical applications, but here, in the Black Room, she can feel where everything connects even more intimately than her Soul Perception would ever allow.
Just hit the strings as hard as possible. This has to be what he meant.
The regret of picking a slower song strikes her. Knowing they’re there is one thing, making effective use is another. She inhales, ignores the heat in her face, eyes shutting tight so she can see only the silver web extending outwards. She turns everything towards the knot that is the creature as the chorus starts.
“Sing us a song, you’re the piano man!”
She never expected Billy Joel to save them, but the world surprises her even now.
The strings tighten, force snapping the spines at once. The cry of the creature and the shock of the success stop her entirely, eyes now open wide. The spines hit the ground like hailstones. All three of them seem to not know what to do, caught in an impossibility.
“Soul!” she urges. He lurches into action, summoning enough strength to lift the scythe and slam it straight down at the monster, piercing through its back and killing it in a final blow. As it falls apart, flesh and blood turning to ribbons to cover the red soul left behind, Maka and Soul take a deep breath in.
The demon scoffs at her. She, stumbling, heads for the door and falls into the deep, deep abyss, only opening her eyes when she feels a warm hand in hers.
Like she saw from within that... realm, the void, whatever it was, the witch is gone, and the warehouse is silent. The soul still floats there, both normal and entirely too strange for either of them to deal with yet.
Soul doesn’t look good. The exhaustion weighing his body complements all the blood staining his clothes. It’s bizarre seeing him in such a rough state-- while she still gets scratches, the damage is mitigated by her skill, the worst of the worst avoided and the rest left as mild scars. But he doesn’t have that same skill, that same experience, and in an even stranger reversal for the situation they’re already in, Soul’s the one collapsing to the ground after a difficult battle, leaving her to somehow carry him out of here.
“Soul--!”