Writing prompt: Dutch coffeeshop AU, with Medusa. Pairings at your discretion.
hi yes hello i’m alive! things have been quite busy lately but i’m happy to have finally finished this. i rushed, but i hope it’s still satisfactory uwu
(for those of y’all that don’t know, you can buy weed at dutch cafes. it’s great.)
“That barista,” says Maka, narrowing her eyes. “I think she’s a witch.”
“Wow, rude,” says Blake. “What’d she ever do to you?”
The barista in question bustles obliviously behind the counter. Her hair is the color of gold in the sunlight and very long. Part of it’s done up in some kind of a weird braid, and the snake tattoo on her exposed left arm definitely gives off some witchy vibes. Despite these things, she just looks like a regular lady to Soul for the most part.
He tells Maka as much. “You say this every time we come here,” he adds. “Like, maybe your soul perception can be wrong sometimes?” He loops a mollifying arm around her and tries to pull her into his lap.
“Ew, no, your clothes smell like old weed and sweat, cuddle me when you’ve showered!”
“But I want cuddles now,” Soul whines, and puts down his joint so he can bury his face in her neck.
“Hey now, I’m not a couch,” says Blake from Maka’s other side, “so why don’t you two stop trying to use me as one?”
Maka deliberately leans even farther back against him so he’s flattened against the armrest. “One, my soul perception is never wrong, and right now it’s telling me that there’s something funny about that woman’s soul. Two, shut the hell up, Schouten, you knew the risks and accepted the consequences when you sat here.”
“Yeah, but. I’m high. I’m not responsible for my actions, or whatever.”
From across the table, Kid plucks Soul’s abandoned joint from its resting place on the ashtray and takes a deep drag. He rests his head on the back of his seat in a way that lets him watch the barista without seeming to be looking right at her. He lets his eyelids drift halfway down, the picture of someone who’s smoked just a little too much.
The souls of the other café patrons swim into focus. A faint crease appears between Kid’s brows. People’s wavelengths are so sloppy when they’re high; it’s incredibly annoying. He finally pinpoints the barista’s soul amongst the hubbub. It’s a deep gold color, and just as ordinary as the rest of her, except – there’s a faint shimmer at the edges of it, like light underwater in the dark, seeping stubbornly out of the cracks of its container. His frown deepens. There’s a discordance in that shimmer, a crackling buzz of something hidden. Something not quite right.
He sits up and takes another drag off the joint. “I think Maka is onto something. There’s something…” He waves his hand in the air, a slight frown creasing his features as he searches for the right word. “Artificial. About her wavelength.”
“Thank you,” says Maka, and she elbows Soul in the ribs. “See? The death god believes me.”
“Kid, you can’t be serious,” says Soul.
“I’m never not serious,” Kid replies, smiling faintly.
Blake swipes the joint out of Kid’s hands. “Does weed have like, an exponentially amped effect on Shinigami or something?”
“No. If anything the high doesn’t last quite as long.”
“You know what, I’m going to go talk to her,” Maka says, and wiggles out from under Soul’s arm.
“Yo, she’s like…working though,” says Blake.
“I’m not going to talk her ear off. Just order like a hot chocolate or something, make some small talk. I’m good at that.”
“Good luck,” says Kid.
“This is so stupid,” Soul grumbles.
Maka makes her way up to the counter. There’s only one other person in line, which gives Maka time to study her target. She could be anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five. It’s hard to tell; her face looks strangely ageless. Her eyes are honey-gold, darker than Kid’s, made all the more intense by carefully-applied eyeshadow in shimmery bronzes and smokey browns. The ink of her tattoo is very dark, as if it was done recently. She wears a couple of metal bracelets on her wrists. The name tag on her apron says “MEDUSA” in careful capital letters. This close, her wavelength is almost unnaturally smooth and even. It’s frankly a little unsettling.
“Hello!” says Maka brightly. “Could I get a mocha hot chocolate? Extra whipped cream. And another 2 grams for those knuckleheads,” she says, jerking her head back to her table with a roll of her eyes.
“Of course,” says the barista. Her voice is smooth and pleasant. “Will that be all?”
“Yep. Hey, I like your eyeshadow. It’s really pretty!”
“Thank you,” says Medusa, and she smiles. “May I see your ID?”
Medusa takes the card from Maka’s hands. She narrows her eyes ever so slightly.
“Are you by chance related to Spirit Albarn?” she asks.
Maka blinks, caught off-guard. “Er. Do you know him?”
“We’ve met. His roommate and I work in the same laboratory. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Oh,” says Maka, because that’s all she can think to say. “Well, uh. Cool! It’s a small world, isn’t it.”
“Absolutely,” says Medusa. “Alright, I’ll be right back with your order. It was nice to finally meet you, Maka.”
Medusa watches Maka Albarn walk back to her table with her drink and her drugs. Interesting company the girl keeps, though unsurprising considering who her father is. She’ll have to keep tabs on her – if things continue developing as they have been, then the girl could prove very useful indeed. Hmm. Perhaps a well-placed threat to her safety could hurry Stein along…although that might be too obvious. She’s so, so close – she can’t let her eagerness spoil her delicate machinations. Medusa Gorgon has been alive for over 800 years, and yet these next few months will, perhaps, be the longest in her long, long life.
She turns around, and smiles to herself, secure in her own genius. Across the room, Maka Albarn frowns into her coffee mug.
“Something on your mind?” Kid asks.
Her eyes flick up to his. A faint smirk plays about his lips. Maka returns it.
“I think,” she says, and digs an elbow into Soul and Blake’s ribs, “we’re gonna go witch hunting.”
