For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord
Plans to Prosper you, and not to Harm you
Plans to give you Hope and a Future

Craft: Chapter 1 Part 1

   What a story, really, how can I begin to tell it?  Beginning really is the hardest isn't it?  Or maybe it's the middle of a story, the monotonous parts that seem to mean nothing until the culmination at the end.  Perhaps though I'm wrong on both counts, and it's really the end that's the hardest.  All the pressure that's built up is finally coming to it's apex.  And like a ballerina executing a beautiful leap, any lack of control will send it spiraling into disaster.
   So, perhaps I should just get if over with, and just tell the end first.  But there's no grace to a beginning that starts at the end, cause then it's lopsided.  But starting in the middle is confusing, so I can't start there either.  Well, se la vie.  Looks like I'll just have to begin .... at the beginning!

Craft: Prolouge

   Looking back, I'm struck by the absurdity of it all.  The cliche's, the sad truths, the stubborn lies that people are going to go on believing for the rest of their lives.  And my role in it all; that's what's the most absurd.  I mean really, the way that I just got swept up in it is rediculous. 

   Sometimes I forget now, that the real world is just outside, and sometimes all around us.  But it's true that secrets don't breed friends, and so outsiders rarely get in.  My mind always travels back to that first Halloween spent in Mesa with Mallory and Sullivan.  I remember that we made Logan stay in the apartment for his own safety, seeing as if he had gone out someone probably would have tried to kill him.  He was so pissed about that.  Not that I blame him, living in a hostile nation filled with gun toting fanatics is never fun. 

   Halloween is such a joke in Mesa, a Witch friendly community (though the normal residents don't know it).  When normal people dress up as the scum of the underworld, we go as ourselves, 'cause hell, if we're gonna call ourselves Witches, we might as well play the part, even if it is a lie. 

Soul Eater: Offspring, Chapter 3

I checked the registration list again. There was no way. I never expected this to happen. Why would she do this to me? It must just be a different pronunciation, or maybe there was another family with the name Albarn, it wasn’t that uncommon was it? “Lillian…. Is it Albarn?” I asked the class full of students. I tried to keep my voice steady, to not betray the fact that the name had shocked me so much. I willed the girl who was now raising her hand to correct the way I said it. “Sir, I’m registered as Ripper Albarn; no one really calls me Lillian.” I stared at her for a moment. She was probably about sixteen, short-ish, skinny like her Mom had been, and she had light green eyes that also looked exactly like Maka’s. Damn. But her hair was white, as white as mine, and her nametag read, “Ripper Albarn, Weapon.” She was a Weapon. That probably explained the name. I guess that I had been staring for too long, Stein cleared his throat loudly. I took a deep breath. “Ripper…. Alright.” I continued down the list of names. Albarn, Ripper Albarn, Lillian Albarn. Could she really be Maka’s daughter? I finished the list, there was only one student missing, probably late. A Bad Luck Smith. Oh well, the name said it all. I stepped back, careful to keep my eyes on the floor and off of the young lady in the crowd. Stein asked all the Weapons who didn’t need Meisters to go with Sid. I looked up to see if Ripper would be one of them. She wasn’t. She looked nervous, nervous as all the others were. I wondered what they were all thinking, the others in the room who knew the name Albarn, who knew Maka. Stein finished his little speech and dismissed the kids. They left; I kept my eyes on the ground. No one said anything, yet. I knew it was only a matter of time before they did. So I said nothing, and walked out of the room. I made my way down the lesser known hallways of the academy, keeping my thoughts to myself. If she was really Maka Albarn’s daughter, well, that meant that Lillian ‘Ripper’ Albarn was also my daughter. But she could be a different Albarn. The similarities in appearance between Maka and Ripper, and even between Ripper and myself, could just be me being paranoid. Besides, I thought to myself, even if that is Maka’s daughter. She doesn’t know anything about me. Maka made that very clear. I am not that girl’s father. And no one besides she and I know for sure that the child is related to me. Just then I heard a second set of footsteps on the hard hallway floor. I stopped, but didn’t look behind me. “Lord Death wants to see you in the Death Room.” Liz’s voice was uncolored. She must have some idea what this was about, but she wasn’t showing. “Fine.” I answered, “Now?” “Yeah now.” “Alright then.” Liz’s high heeled footsteps walked away. So, the big man himself wanted to see me. I could be over reacting, which wasn’t cool in the least, or it could just be a normal meeting. In any case, I was a Death Scythe; I had to report to Lord Death. I made my way to the Death Room in silence. I passed underneath the hallway of guillotines and recalled all the times that I had been called through this hall by the last Grim Reaper, as a student, usually because of something I had gotten in trouble for. Only then Maka would have been with me. Ah well, that was a long time ago now. I knocked on Death’s door, and it opened slowly. Across the room, looking into his magic mirror was Lord Death. He was still wearing his Reaper robe and mask, which made him look almost exactly like his father had all those years ago. I was reminded of being called into the principal’s office more than ever. “You wanted to see me?” I asked, my tone on the defensive. “Yes.” He answered me in one word, without an explanation. “Well?” I asked, “What’s this about?” “It’s about Ripper Albarn.” Lord Death answered me, he turned away from his mirror and I could see that he was watching her in it. She was being taken on a tour of the school with all the other new students; she looked rather bored, but also nervous. I pressed my lips together in an attempt to keep myself from immediately yelling. I needed to keep my cool. “Well that’s not creepy at all is it, Kid?” I used Lord Death’s name as I knew it. We’re friends, I reminded myself, there’s no reason to get upset just now. “Why don’t you take off the robe and mask? I feel like I’m talking to your father.” “Well that is kind of the idea.” He sarcastically commented, “Tell you what, I’ll take off the robe and mask, if you take the red napkin out of your pocket, it’s frightfully unsymmetrical, seeing as you don’t also have one on your right side.” I chuckled, that was Kid for you. He had gotten much better at handling his neuroticism in the last ten years or so, but things like that still bothered him. I pulled the silk handkerchief out of my suit pocket and put it inside my jacket. Kid did me the courtesy of lowering the hood of the ragged robe he wore, and removing the white bone mask. “So. What about Lillian Albarn?” I played dumb, reminding myself that there was really no proof that she was my daughter. Kid frowned and ran his hand through the white stripes that colored only one side of his black hair. “Soul, really, don’t make this more complicated than it has to be. Normally I wouldn’t even touch the subject, but she’s a student at my academy. And I am Lord Death. I need the truth. Are you going to tell Ripper Albarn that you’re her father?” His brow was somber and serious; the teasing tone of a moment ago was gone. I stared at him, not blinking, not speaking. My strong emotions were bubbling to the surface, but I kept them hidden, I had always been good at that. “Well?” Kid asked again. “You don’t know that I’m in any way connected to that girl. I’m not interested in your speculation, or the rumors that you’ve heard; they can all go to hell.” I snarled. “Oh please, Soul I don’t need proof. Before you became a Death Scythe sixteen years ago you and Maka Albarn were the most promising Meister and Weapon pair at the DWMA. I watched you two bring down Oshura together. You were closer than close. You know as well as I do that people suspected you were sleeping together. Then, out of the blue sixteen years ago you become a Death Scythe, and as far as I know you and Maka haven’t even spoken to each other since. Partners like you don’t just stop talking when the Weapon becomes a Death Scythe. Three weeks later we all find out Maka’s pregnant. Connecting the dots isn’t as hard as all that, Soul.” Kid sighed heavily. “If you want evidence more concrete than all of that, well then Ripper is a Weapon, a scythe no less.” “She could have inherited that from her Grandfather. He was the last true Death Scythe. Doesn’t seem like that much of a coincidence to me.” I looked at the ground though. Kid was more right than he knew, but the situation was far more complicated than he made it sound. There was no way I was just going to out and admit something that I’d been denying for sixteen years. Not once since that day sixteen years ago had I claimed, out loud, that Maka’s child was also my child. Kid groaned in frustration. “Fine then. Obviously you aren’t going to admit to her or me that you’re her father. I will, however, expect you to treat her the same as you do all the other students. Avoiding her will be impossible. So if you really are planning on keeping up this charade then make sure it’s convincing.” Kid replaced his mask and hood and turned back toward the magic mirror. Ripper was now sitting on the bed in her dormitory with a look of true frustration on her face. I tore my eyes away from her face, which truly was such an incredible mix of Maka and me, and strode out the door of the Death Room. The door slammed behind me. As I stalked out of the school and into the town I did my best to smother the guilt that Kid’s accusations had aroused in me. I had no responsibility to this child. Her mother had not permitted that, and now it was too late. She was grown, and I was a Death Scythe. Maka and I were over sixteen years ago. I would not give away my feelings. I would have to keep my cool more than ever around Ripper Albarn. I could do it. I would do it.

Gandor, Chapter 3

Firo Prochainezo whistled as he strolled along the roads that ran parallel with the Hudson River that morning. He was one of the youngest and most promising of the Martello family camorristi, more commonly known as a Capo. Unlike many of the other Capos of the Martello organization, Firo did not have a father or a brother in the Martillo. In fact Firo had never known his family. As far as he knew he was the bastard child of a prostitute and one of her clients, a no one. But one of the Martillo, a man named Lando, had also seen this woman, and had decided to take on little Firo after his mother died in childbirth. As such, Firo had grown up around the Martillo and he was something of a son to all of them. He was also close with the Gandor brothers, the three Capos who ran the Gandor family organization. The youngest, Luck Gandor, who was five years Firo’s senior was something of an older brother to Firo. And then, of course, two years ago Firo had received his official initiation into the inner circle of the Martillo family, he had become a Capo. What an eventful night that had been. What changes it had brought. This morning he was on his way into the poor section of the city, to a warehouse owned (allegedly) by the Martillo. The warehouse its self functioned as a storage space for one of the legitimate part of the Martillo’s business (manufacture of mechanical parts). But in the basement some of the Martillo’s associates ran a distillery. Firo was going there to inform the managers that the source of their ingredients would be changing. Normally such a low profile errand would have been delegated to someone much lower down in the organization, but Firo wasn’t busy that day, and he was as friend of the manager, Milo. He turned a corner into a narrow alley and knocked on the cellar door to the large building. When the door opened steam seeped out and the delicate smell of raw alcohol rose. The door was opened by a young guy in overalls who recognized Firo as one of his employers and welcomed him. The worker took Firo to a small closet-like office without windows to meet Milo. “Firo! My friend, to what do I owe this transcendence of status?” Milo was a tall thin man with a thin blond beard and curly head of hair; he rose to meet Firo with a smile. “Oh come on Milo, you don’t think that just because I’m runnin’ the show now, that I’m not going to come by and see how things are, do ya?” Firo grinned and they both laughed. “Well what can I do for you?” Milo asked, sitting down and pouring both Firo and himself a small glass of scotch. “I’m just here to tell you that your supplier is going to be changing soon. Next week I think. The crates should be addressed 1287 Blackman.” Firo answered. “Is that all? I would think that they would be giving a Capo like your-self more important jobs than getting messages to distilleries. Don’t you have people for that, Firo? Not in trouble with the Don are you?” Milo teased. “Actually things have been pretty quiet as of recently. I could have sent someone, but then I wouldn’t be here drinking scotch with you now would I?” “That’s true,” Milo chuckled. They finished their drinks and bid each other farewell after a long conversation about what was going on in their lives. Firo saw himself to the back exit and began the lengthy walk back to the Martillo headquarters. Just as Firo turned a corner back to the river-side street he heard shouts coming from a nearby alley. Firo paid no heed at first, but he had to pass by the alley mouth anyway and decided to pause to see what was going on. He was glad he did. In a moment Firo took in the situation. About seven or eight men were crowded against the wall of the building on the left. In their center was a big guy, about six feet tall and built heavily. He was holding a young woman against the wall. With his right hand he had her wrist and his left was ripping off her dress. The look on the woman’s face was agonized, but she didn’t scream. Her lips were parted but no sound came out. It was as if she didn’t have the will to protest. Firo yelled at the thugs, “Hey you! Bozo, get your hands off the lady.” He was enraged, but he managed to keep his cool. That had always been one of Firo’s advantages; he didn’t lose it even when he was angry. The molester turned his head in Firo’s direction and he could tell by the out-of-it expression on his face that he was just drunk enough to be dangerous. The group didn’t do as they were told and they didn’t answer him so Firo repeated himself, “I said, Get. Your. Hands. Off. The lady. Or didn’t you hear me? Last chance. Finally Firo got a response and was relieved to see the drunk take his left hand off the girl’s breasts. Firo could see red marks where his hand had been. “Who in Hell are you?” the drunk demanded. Firo was really pissed now. He didn’t answer the guy till his voice was under control. “I’m Firo Prochainezo of the Martillo family, not that you need to know. All you need to know is that I’m the guy telling you to leave the lady alone, or regret it.” The family reference was sometimes enough to frighten away confrontation, and avoid blows, but Firo really hoped that these thugs were too drunk to make a good decision; he wanted the chance to beat on them. The man responded in a predictable manner, “Like you’re gonna do anything to us, kid. Get lost, mind your own business.” Firo laughed to himself quietly. Often he would get the “kid” comment. It annoyed him, but he figured that he better get used to it, he was going to be getting it for quite a long time. He murmured to himself, “Well, I tried to warn ‘em. But … then again. I’m not sure that they even deserved that chance.” Firo stepped forward languidly, taking his time; he didn’t want to scare them into hurting the girl. But he could see that even in their state one or two of the smarter men were beginning to back away slowly. The others grouped together, sure that the seven of them could handle this smart mouthed punk. The main guy sneered maliciously and jerked the girl up off the ground, taking his eyes off Firo for a second. That was all Firo needed. He ran the last couple steps to give himself momentum and slammed his fist into the guy’s jaw. Damn! Firo thought to himself, this guy’s got a hard head. That drunkard reeled back, howling and let go of the girl in the process. But now two of the others were coming at Firo. He grabbed the first by his swinging arm and twisted him around to slam into the other guy. One of them was knocked unconscious the other ran. Another guy tried to punch Firo head-on, but Firo dodged him, losing his hat for a second, but catching it as he round-house kicked the bastard in the head. The next guy tackled him from behind, but Firo only flipped him over, knocking him out. Two ran away, and Firo finished the main guy with a sound kick in the spine. The dust settled and Firo brushed and re-shaped his felt fedora. He turned to help the girl. This was the first time he had taken a good look at her, she was pretty beat up. He was half-holding herself up half sitting on the dirty ground. The grey dress she wore was completely ripped, exposing a simple cream-colored brazier. Firo averted his eyes, but not before taking in that she had very beautiful breasts, despite the red handprint on them. She was small, anorexically thin. She looked fragile. Her skin was pale in the extreme and her features were delicate. Her gold-brown hair was tangled and fell across her shoulder. Her face was a sweet shape with full lips and hazel eyes underscored by shadows that peered up at Firo with confusion and deep sadness. Was she alright? “Sorry that took so long.” Firo apologized softly. Now, looking at the bruises forming on her wrist and arm in the places where the thug had grabbed her, he regretted wasting any time by talking to her assailant. “You alright? He asked with worry, “My name is Firo Prochainezo, Miss…?” “Aeda...,” the girl started but could not give her last name because she began to cough violently, and fall completely to the ground. Firo’s chest seemed to contract with sadness as he realized that she was very sick. “Please, don’t come near. I have a fever. I’m going to die anyway.” He found himself on the verge of tears for this girl. She was totally giving up on her life; she was going to die anyway. Firo controlled his expression and voice this time to mask sadness and protested, “Now, don’t talk like that! I’m not about to let ya’ die on me, just now that I’ve saved you.” He gently as possible scooped her up in his arms and began walking toward the closest main street; he would hail a taxi cab and take her somewhere that she could get help. The hospital? No. They were always over run with poor patients, and during this time the sick rarely got the help they needed there. But luckily, one of Firo’s close friends in the Martillo was also trained as a doctor of sorts. Perhaps Maiza could help. The sick girl in Firo’s arms murmured, “You shouldn’t.” Firo steeled his voice to answer, “Yeah I should, and don’t worry about me. I don’t get sick.” He expected a question but got none. He looked down with worry and saw that she had passed out; her breathing was shallow and pained. He walked faster, finally coming out on a busy street just as a taxi was passing. It stopped for him and he paid the driver to take them to the Bay Road store. The store was the front for an extensive hideout of the Martillo. In the cab Firo held on to the girl, who said her name was Aeda, hoping that she wouldn’t die on him. He held her head against his chest. She felt so frail in his arms. They reached the store, and Firo practically ran into the back with Adela in his arms. It was a dramatic change from the bland colors of a small convenience store to the luxurious blacks and reds of a high end bar and ballroom that was the real business going on here. Firo took the stairs to the basement and called out, “Maiza! Maiza! You down here?!” As he walked hurriedly down the hallway, which was decorated in the same fashion as the ballroom, Firo ran into a tall, thin young woman with short brown hair wearing a black suit with a white shirt underneath. “Ennis!” Firo exclaimed relieved, “Sorry, have you seen Maiza? This girl needs a doctor, now.” Ennis was quiet by nature and her eyebrows bent with concern and confusion, but she was always good in a tight spot and said, “I’ll go get him. Put her down on the couch in the next room. It’ll only be a minute.” She strode off in the opposite direction and Firo took her advice and walked into the next room, which was a parlor, and set Adela down on one of the red sofas. He crouched beside the couch and felt her forehead with his left hand, she was burning. A moment later Ennis entered the room followed by Maiza. Maiza was a tall man with thin features and a kind face. He wore brown slacks and a white shirt with matching brown vest. To look at Maiza a person wouldn’t think that he was anything special, he had a calm countenance, and no one would guess that this seemingly-young man was over 200 years old. He immediately crouched down beside Firo, placing his left hand on the girl’s forehead and checking her pulse. “Firo, who is this? How long has she been like this?” He asked in a rush, his squinty eyes showing signs of stress. “Why did you bring her here?” “I don’t know her Maiza.” Firo answered, a little embarrassed. Bringing random people into the Martillo hide-out was not particularly smart. “I found her being attacked by a group of smashed bozos. I gave them an ass-kicking that they won’t forget, but then I saw that she was sick, and I couldn’t just leave her. I thought about taking her to a hospital, but I didn’t think she had that kind of time. So I brought her here, I thought maybe you could help her.” Maiza nodded in understanding, but hung his head. “Ennis, would you please get a blanket for her, and a bowl of cold water. Then, would you run a cold bath with ice please.” Ennis nodded and was off. “I hate to tell you this Firo, but I don’t know if we can save her at this point. She’s been sick for some time, and she probably hasn’t received any treatment. She may die on us.” Firo nodded to show that he understood. “But, I was right to bring her here wasn’t I, Maiza? I mean, I shouldn’t have left her should I?” Firo was not used to immortality himself, and sometimes things like this upset Maiza. “You most certainly were right.” Maiza insisted with passion, “We may be mafia, but we do have some standards. And what’s the use of being immortal if you don’t take time to help others?” Firo smiled. Ennis returned with the blanket, which covered Adela’s ripped dress, and Maiza began to mop her face with the water. Ennis, always practical, asked the indelicate question, “Is she going to die, Maiza?” He looked up at Ennis with a sad smile, “Possibly. But not if we can help it. She’s in a bad state.” Ennis was silent, but she did take her right hand and stroke away the hair on Adela’s face. Mid-stroke Ennis suddenly jerked her hand away with a yelp. “What’s wrong Ennis?” Firo was up and to her side in a second. She was dumbstruck, staring at Adela’s unconscious face. “Ennis?” Maiza’s face was just as confounded as Firo’s, but a small light seemed to go off in his head and he very carefully placed his right hand on Adela’s head. He jerked his hand away as well. “My God!” Firo hadn’t seen Maiza this shocked since Szilard Quates had shown up in the Martillo ballroom. “What, Maiza?” Firo demanded, “What is it?” “Firo, take your right hand and put it on her head, carefully though. Tell us what you feel.” Maiza instructed. As Firo reached toward Adela he suddenly had an epiphany as to what might be going on. But that’s not possible. Firo thought, she couldn’t be. But as he set his hand over her head he could feel it, the telltale sign of an immortal. He could feel a mental connection between them, like a light flickering from far away. Firo jerked his hand away as fast as he could. “Maiza! How is that possible? She’s immortal!” Firo was flabbergasted. Not only were Firo and Maiza the only ones who knew the secret of how the elixir of immortality was made, but even if someone did get the elixir it would make it impossible for them to get sick. She defied both these paths of reason. Maiza began to regain his composure, “I don’t know, Firo. But I do know, without a doubt, that she’s dying. Unless either of you feels comfortable devouring her right now, the only way that we’re going to find out what is going on is to save her.” Ennis and Firo both agreed, and Ennis helped Maiza get Adela to the tub full of ice. As they set her in, her weak body writhed a bit, fighting against the freezing water. They held her down through her feeble protests. The water brought her temperature down quite a bit, and finally Maiza said that he thought that it was safe to take her out. Firo had waited outside, and now he carried Adela, wrapped in a blanket to a bedroom on the even lower level of the building. This floor was not red and black anymore, instead the walls were paneled with dark wood. A few of the Martillo lived in the building, Firo and Ennis both did. They set Adela in the bed and began to light the lamps in the room. Maiza left, saying that he’d be back in about an hour. “It feels strange doesn’t it?” Ennis asked Firo quietly. “What feels strange; the fact that an immortal that we’ve never even heard about is lying there sick?” Firo asked her. There was a small wooden table and two chairs in the room, Firo sat down in one of them and covered his face with his hands, he peered at Adela’s body through his fingers. “Well yes.” Ennis answered, “But more than that, that she might actually die. That you saved her, only to find out that she was dying. The whole situation is strange.” “Yeah.” Firo agreed with a deep sigh, and a groan. Ennis looked at him questioningly. “I just don’t like to break promises. By saving her from those men before I feel like I made a promise to protect her. But now…. Even if she lives through this, one of us may still need to devour her, depending on what her story is. How did she even get like this?” He asked the air exasperatedly. Ennis looked off into space contemplatively. “What about an imperfect form of the elixir?” She asked. “But Dallas Genoard and his thugs got that, and even they couldn’t get sick.” Firo protested. “Look into Szilard’s memories.” Ennis suggested. Firo shuddered. “I hate looking into that old monster’s thoughts.” Firo argued, “He was so heartless, it makes me feel dirty.” “But I thought you said you promised to protect her.” Ennis answered. “It might be as simple as saving me was.” Firo thought back to that night. He had just devoured Szilard and knowing what to do to save Ennis, Szilard’s homunculus, had just come to him. But now, years later, if he looked into Szilard’s thoughts, it would take effort. Firo sighed and then stood up, steeling himself for what he was about to do. He took a deep breath and held it. Trying to focus only on what was going on in his own head; Firo began to feel around in the dark recesses of his subconscious. He touched something cold and slimy, he’d found Szilard, the evil immortal, who had created Ennis as his slave. Two years ago Firo had devoured Szilard and now he had access to all the memories of the former murderer. Firo hesitated and then plunged in. Killings, bitterness, and the warped morality of the old man’s mind accosted Firo at first, stunning him. But eventually Firo began to sift through all the experiences and thoughts in order to find anything that might help Aeda. Nothing that Szilard experienced directly concerned Adela’s situation. But perhaps there would be something in the minds of the multiple people that Szilard had devoured. Here thing’s were much more fuzzy. And sound was minimal, an imperfect connection. But there, in the dark corners Firo found something. He opened his eyes and gasped like a whale resurfacing for air. Maiza was back in the room now, inserting the needle of an IV into Adela’s arm. “Find anything?” Maiza asked quietly. Firo dropped into the chair across from Ennis. “Yeah, sort of.” Firo answered. “There was a guy that Szilard devoured. His name was Barns I think.” Firo looked up at Ennis for conformation; he had seen that she had known him. She nodded. “Anyway, he used the finished product of Szilard’s to figure out the formula for himself. But one of his failed attempts might be what she took.” “What did this imperfect formula do?” Maiza asked. “It made the drinker totally immortal, but only if they lived through a potentially fatal disease first. Barns was old, he didn’t want to take the risk, so he kept looking for the finished formula.” “Did he give it to her?” Maiza asked. “I have no idea.” Firo answered, “His memories were fragmented, but I don’t think it was him.” Maiza’s face was troubled. They all sat there in exhausted silence for a few minutes. Finally Maiza spoke again. “Well there’s nothing more we can do right now. Firo, you and I are needed in the conference room upstairs. After the meeting it would be best if you’d try and explain her presence to the Don. It’ll be best if he hears about her from you.” Firo nodded and put his hat back on his head. Ennis stayed with Adela, and the two men headed for the large meeting room of the Martillo. Inside were all the Capos, young and old. At the head of the square table sat Don Martillo, the family head. The meeting itself was nothing interesting or out of the ordinary. But some of the older men continued to flash curiously disapproving looks Firo’s direction, they must have heard about his antics. At the end of the meeting Don Martillo, a short muscular old man looked directly at Firo and spoke. “Well. Firo, my son. I have heard a disturbing rumor this day. Some say you brought a complete stranger into this house. Is this true?” His black eyes peered at Firo’s face from across the room demanding an answer. “It is true.” Firo knew that it was best not to sugar coat it. The expressions on the Capo’s faces seemed to harden. “Did you have any good reason for such an act of stupidity? You know the consequences of your actions; it will not be you that suffers, but her.” “I know what the consequences for such actions are. But, please, allow me to propose my intentions, Don Martillo.” Firo spoke in deep respect. His loyalty belonged to this man; if he was ordered to kill Aeda, he would. But he was obligated by the silent contract that he felt he had signed in saving her life, to persuade the Don to reconsider. Besides, she was immortal. He could not explain this to the Don. It was a secret that those who carried immortality kept fastidiously. He had to find out how she became one of them. The Don silently regarded Firo for a moment, and then nodded. “I felt obligated to try and save the life of a dying girl out of honor. I saved her from a group of molesters only to find out that she was dying. I could not have seen myself as any kind of man if I had allowed her to die there.” There was a small consensus from some of the Capos, but the overall tone of the room was stony. “Please, allow me to bring her back to health and offer her a place working for us.” Firo asked. “What makes you think she is worthy of such an honor?” the Don asked Firo. “I have no reason; but let me assure you. I will take her on as my own responsibility. I will keep a close eye on her. She won’t betray us; and if she tries to, I will kill her.” The room remained silent as both the Don and the Capos considered Firo’s plan. Firo held his breath. “If I may,” Maiza asked the Don. Don Martillo nodded. “I will assist Firo in this venture. I will also take on responsibility for this girl.” Firo let out his breath quietly. Having Maiza support him would mean a great deal to the Don. “Do you really think that you can control this person?” Another Capo, Antonello, skeptically commented, “We gain nothing from this venture. It is only for the sake of Firo’s pride that we would do this.” A few other Capos nodded in agreement. “No.” The Don said; and the room fell silent, “It is for Firo’s honor.” He stood and sighed deeply before continuing, “Firo is our brother, son, comrade. We must support him in this venture. His loyalty is with us. But he keeps his honor. It is what sets us apart from the common criminals of this city. Onorare!” The Capos fell silent as they accepted the Don’s ruling. Firo was filled with relief. There was a knock on the door. “Now, please my brothers, I have a meeting to attend with our good friends the Gandors. This meeting is adjourned.” Firo and Maiza got up and exited with the rest of the Capos.

Milost City of Grace: Chapter 3

“So, I don’t think either of us is going to find our alcoholics tonight. Fancy a coffee?” The strange, tall man stared down at me with perfect innocence. I stared back incredulously. I was too off-guard to think up a good response and I found myself accepting his invitation. “Sure, sounds good.” How lame was that? “Great.” He and I walked to a nearby coffee shop, not the one that I had been in earlier. I ordered tea. “So, is the woman in the black skirt your younger sister?” He asked me casually as we took a couple of leather seats in the corner. He certainly didn’t mince words. I took a sip of my tea before answering. “She’s older than me actually, and she was my foster sister.” His face wore the classic foot-in-mouth expression. “Oh, umm, sorry about that. She just looked kind of … umm.” Instead of being offended I laughed. “Yeah, I get it. Let’s just say you thought her style was a little… juvenile.” I offered him up an excuse. He smiled sheepishly, his wide lips pulling up attractively. “Candy’s always been like that. She loved being seventeen. You know, that blissful existence before real life catches up to you.” He chuckled. “So, you must still live together then, if you’re driving her to meetings.” He made another assumption. “No. Candy lives with a boyfriend. I just drive because he works days, and can’t make it to take her. I live close enough to check on her every once in a while, but not close enough for her to be constantly crashing at my place when Ernie’s fridge is empty.” “Smart. I had to make my alcoholic move in with me. Figured it was the only way to be sure he was cleaning up. He always says to me: Carter, if I wasn’t so stuck on getting sober, I would get up right now and tell you to get a life.” His face had turned a tad serious. “You two must be pretty close. Is he a friend or….” I let the sentence trail off suggestively. This was Portland after all. “Hahahaha!” Carter’s face pulled into a full out laugh. “No, no. Jared is just a friend, more of a colleague actually. Nothing romantic. Away, that’s not really my area.” I blushed. “Sorry.” I apologized, once again embarrassed. “Don’t worry about it.” His amused smile lingered. “So what kind of work do you do, if you and he are colleagues?” I tried to put a positive spin on the conversation topic. “Well, officially speaking, I’m a cartographer. Jared is kind of a jack-of-all-trades. We’ve worked on several projects together when I have to map somewhere remote. We met in the Australian outback. I was mapping plateaus and Jared was in charge of the free-climbing squad. We worked together again when I was mapping large ice floes in the arctic. Jared was working as a dog-sled driver that time.” He said the whole thing nonchalantly, which impressed me. As if free-climbing cliffs and dog-sledding over ice-caps was just another every-day occurrence. “Sounds like thrilling work. But, Carter the cartographer, it’s a bit of a tongue twister. Carter the accountant or Carter the builder would be much easier to say.” I teased him. His smile was warm. “I suppose so, but I kind of like it.” We reached a lull in the conversation, and I took a sip from my earthenware mug. The shop we were in was a tiny, hole-in-the-wall kind of place, but with plenty of personality and pizzazz. There were elaborate rugs hung on the red walls and all the furniture was mismatched and harmonious. “So what do you do?” he asked me seriously. I sighed. There was no way I could compete with ice-caps and plateaus. “I’m a waitress.” I was evasive. “But that’s only temporary. I’m going to school to get my degree in linguistics.” “Really?” He looked genuinely interested. “What kind of linguistics? Do you have a focus for your studies? Do you want to be a translator or something?” “I have a focus, but the only people who I could translate for are dead.” I laughed. He looked bemused. “My focus is in dead languages.” I explained, “Latin, Aramaic, Church Slavic, Langobardic, you name it.” I was pleased with the clearly impressed look on his face. “That’s so intriguing.” He commented. Just as he was about to say something else, a voice called from across the shop.

Soul Eater: Offspring, Chapter 2

Next they took us on a tour of the castle or at least a tour of everywhere that we were allowed. Professor Stein was right; some partnerships were obvious and immediate. The big guy, Bull Ratkin, and a tall skinny boy named Roy parted ways at the end of the day with a handshake and a promise to start training together first thing tomorrow. A short stout boy and a tall skinny girl had clicked immediately. And two girls that had never met each other became fast friends right away. I headed back to my dorm bed and flopped down in exasperation.
“You didn’t find a partner either, huh?” A perky voice that reminded me of apple cider asked from over on my left. I looked over, on the bed next to me was another girl flopped in much the same manner as I. She had thick curly brown hair and watery blue eyes. “Don’t get too depressed. You still have two days to find someone. If you start stressing now, you’re gonna psych yourself out. By the way, I’m Jillia Kozum. I’m a crossbow.”
“Ripper Albarn. I’m a scythe.”
“No shit! Really? That’s awesome.” She was obviously impressed. Being a scythe had its perks. Probably because of the title ‘Death Scythe,’ the stereotype was that all scythes were badasses. I smiled a little.
“Thanks, but it’s no good if I can’t find a partner.” I sighed and stared at the ceiling.
She laughed. “Well I’m not any better off than you. When was the last time you saw a crossbow shoot itself? But it’s like I said, don’t stress. It took my Dad like a week before he found a partner, but he did.”
“Your dad’s a Weapon too then?” I asked curious. Jillia seemed nice.
“Yeah, he’s a longbow. He’s retired now though. When he met my Mom the prospect of being a Death Scythe didn’t seem so nice. So now he’s hoping I’ll do what he never did.” Now she was the one sighing.
“Wow. Pressure much?” I asked and we laughed. I thought I might have made my first friend. If only she was a Meister, I thought, and then we’d both have partners. The next day we attended classes with the current students and did our best to socialize with all the other new students, especially the Meisters. But although I did feel a faint connection with some of them there was nothing strong enough to be called resonance. Even Jillia didn’t seem to be having much luck with finding someone. The second day went by without either of us finding a partner. By the third we were a little frantic. We did our best to expose ourselves to all the Meisters who didn’t already have partners, but nothing seemed to click. At least I wasn’t alone. I still had Jillia. However, even that changed at dinner that night.
We were in line for food in the cafeteria with the older students. It was kind of intimidating, but most of them seemed nice. The guy in front of Jillia reached back to get an orange off the shelf and bumped into her. He was a straight up jock, but the size of the dictionary he was juggling in one hand let us know that this guy wasn’t all muscle. He was very apologetic and before we knew it we were all chatting like good friends. His name was Karnino and it turned out that he was a second year Meister without a Weapon. No one had fit him the year before. He and Jillia resonated like crazy.
By the end of the night Jillia took a good long look at Karnino and said, “I think I’m your girl.” In any other situation this would have sounded weird, but Karnino got it.
“I think you’re right.” He answered and they went to go see Professor Stein that night about getting a dorm.
“Don’t worry, Ripper.” Jillia said to me before bed that night, “I’m sure that there’s someone out there for you. I mean look at Karnino, he had to wait a whole year, but here I am.” I nodded and forced a smile, but I was far from content. The truth was though, that even with the older students, and others my age, I just wasn’t feeling any resonance. I was really starting to worry. Was there something wrong with me? Was I un-partnerable?
That night I went to sleep agitated, I tossed and turned and woke up in a sweat, it was way too hot in there. Jillia was peacefully asleep in the next bed over, which kind of ticked me off. I tossed off the covers and got out of bed. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I needed to walk, I thought that might help me quiet my mind. I didn’t even bother to put on shoes I just grabbed a thin sweater.
I wandered the halls until I came to a small courtyard. Somewhere someone was playing jazz music too loudly in another part of the castle. I sat down on a bench, but couldn’t stay still. I paced around for a bit. I stopped at looked up at the sky. There were no clouds, but the lights from all over Death City were too bright for me to see stars. Instead the sky was cast in a dull burgundy, it was depressing. The jazz music continued to play from across the building. I swayed from side to side, closing my eyes. When I was little I used to take dance classes. Mom had wanted me to be a ballerina. Now I merely danced for fun. My swaying turned to stepping, picking out the pieces of a swing number. I danced with an imaginary partner. But then suddenly I felt a hand light on my waist and another politely taking my leading hand. My eyes peeked open slowly, half expecting no one to be there and deeply embarassed. It was a boy, probably about my age. Tall, thin, and blond. He spun me into a dip.
“Sorry to butt in on your imaginary partner and all, but you just looked so silly dancing her all by yourself.” He had a sarcastic voice. His eyes were dark green and his face held a slightly teasing expression. I didn’t respond at first, I just danced some more. I tried to come up with a sharp retort.
“That’s alright,” I finally answered, slightly suspicious, but too tired and shocked to be rude or witty, “I didn’t have a partner in mind, so you shouldn’t feel guilty.”
“Oh,” His response betrayed the fact that my lack of a rise had thrown him off. We danced for a moment more, “By no partner, do you mean you don’t have a dance partner? Or do you mean you don’t have a Weapon partner?” He looked at me with a politely questioning expression, but without looking like the answer really mattered. I wondered if he was an older student or if I just hadn’t met him yet.
This entire experience was pretty surreal but I answered him anyway, adopting his half-teasing tone, “Well I’m a Weapon myself, but I don’t have a Meister partner, or a dance partner.” He nodded and spun me again.
“You’re a pretty strange girl to dance here all by yourself.” he looked straight at me, the frankness of his stare was slightly unnerving, but he didn’t scare me, I got the feeling that he was testing me out.
“Well I guess I am pretty strange, and silly, but I’m not going to apologize to you for it.” I stopped dancing and stepped a polite distance away from him. Something was different about this boy. “You’re a strange kind of guy to start dancing with a girl just out of the blue when her eyes were closed.”
“I guess that’s just the kind of person I am,” He explained. We stood there for a few minutes without talking.
“Are you a student here?” I broke the silence, thinking that I should say something.
“I am now. I’m a freshman. But I got here too late for orientation. I might even be too late to find a partner.” He smiled wryly, silently suggesting.
“Weapon or Meister?” I asked.
“I’m a Meister.” He answered me, “My name’s Bad Luck.”
I looked at him blankly, “Are you serious?”
“Sure am. What? Is it that bad?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
“Well my real name’s Caleb Smith. But that’s got to be the most boring name on the planet, and my brother calls me Bad Luck, so I thought I’d adopt that name as a Meister. I’m registered as Bad Luck Smith. You can just call me Luck if you want.”
I bit my lip to hold back laughter, “Ok, Luck. My name’s Ripper, Ripper Albarn.”
“Nice to meet you, Ripper. Should I even ask about the name?” He jabbed. I smiled sarcastically. I could feel it now; our soul’s wavelengths were meshing. It was like two gears that fit each other. Every once in a while the gears slipped, but for the most part they worked perfectly. I wondered if he felt that too. We stared at each other for about a minute before he spoke again, “I think you should be my partner. I think that the kind of person that you are, and the kind of person that I am might work well together.” He let those words hang in the air for a while and then held his hand out. I bit my lip and took it, we shook.
“I think you might be right, we will work well together.” He smiled. I grinned. We stood there for a bit and then arranged to meet up at the final orientation meeting the next morning; there we would talk to Professor Stein about getting a dorm. I made my way back to bed, wondering if when I woke up the next morning the events of the night would turn out to be my subconscious teasing me. But somehow I thought that it must have been real. I mean, “Bad Luck?” I definitely wouldn’t have dreamed that one up.