Don't Feed the Plants Ch. 1

Don't Feed the Plants!

A Soul Eater/Little Shop of Horrors Crossover

*****

Chapter 1


On the 23rd day
Of the month of September,

In an early year of a decade
Not too long before our own,

The human race suddenly encountered
A deadly threat to its very existence.

And this terrifying enemy surfaced,
As such enemies often do,

In the seemingly most innocent
And unlikely of places . . .  
**********

The magenta-haired teenager woke with a startled yelp as his clock radio blared, catapulting to an upright position on his cot. The wheeled bed shook in his wake and creaked to a slow stop as the feminine boy gripped the sides of the aged mattress cushioning him. The thin, white sheets once wrapped around him slumped off his frail frame and onto the cold concrete floor. The song, lightly infiltrated by static, echoed throughout the small basement and bounced off its cracked walls, up the staircase and sneaked under its exit door into the flower shop above his head. Weariness was quick to overtake him, a wave of fatigue hitting his previously alert mind like a speeding truck on an empty highway. His baggy, half-lidded eyes turned to stare disbelievingly at the clock radio next to him, carelessly humming on the desk next to him as it played a rock and roll song.

Little shop,
Little shoppa horrors!
Little shop,
Little shoppa terror!
Call a cop!
Little shoppa horrors!
No, oh, oh, no-oh!

Crona Makenshi gave the clock pathetic pleading eyes, begging that somehow the time would be wrong or that today was a Saturday. "Please be joking." The clock only blinked back at him: 7:00, 7:00, 7:00. Class started in less than an hour. A miserable sigh rushed past his lips and he stood up from his rickety bed, far too used to the shock of his bare feet touching the cold floor to react. He made a quick sleepy survey of what he was forced to call his bedroom – a plain gray cellar, the basement of a down-on-its-luck flower shop, decorations consisting of a small wooden clothes drawer resting underneath three shelves of plants yet to be displayed for invisible customers and a rather out of place bathtub with a showerhead protruding from the wall – and set out to begin his day.

Little shop,
Little shoppa horrors!
Bop-sh'bop,
Little shoppa terror!
Watch 'em drop!
Little shoppa horrors!
No, oh, oh, no-oh!

He stripped himself of his loose button-up pajamas and hopped into the small bathtub, twisting the knobs to turn on the shower, only to be met by ice cold water on his bare body. A loud high-pitched squeak exploded out of him, but he had to resist waiting for the water to warm lest Mosquito scold him for wasting plant water for the umpteenth time. He lathered himself with whatever soap and shampoo he could muster in his ridiculously short time limit of two minutes and simultaneously combing his hair, praying his boss wouldn't suddenly shut off the water again while his body was still sudsy.

Shing-a-ling,
What a creepy thing to be happening!
Look out! Look out! Look out! Look out!
Shang-a-lang,
Feel the strum and drang in the air!
Sha-la-la,
Stop right where you are,
Don't you move a thing!

You better, tellin' you, you'd better
Tell your mama, somethin's gonna get her,
She better, ev'rybody better
Beware!

"Crona! That's enough!"

Crona hastily shut the water off, indeed still quite sudsy. "Sorry!"

Ooh, here it comes, baby!
Tell the world, baby!
Oh, oh, no!
Ooh, hit the dirt, baby!
Oh, oh, no, baby!
Oh, oh, no!

All you who hardly off the stoop,
I'm warning you.
Look out, look out, look out, look out!
Run away, I'll show you what you pay if you stay!
Look around, something's coming down the street for you!

Ya betcha, betcha,
Betcha best believe it,
Something gonna getcha,
You betcha, you better watch your back
And your tail!

For the most part, his hair was well rinsed of shampoo, but unwashed soap still clung to him. He grabbed the ragged towel hung over the showerhead and patted away the leftover foam, leaving his choppy mop of hair dripping wet on his shoulders. Oh well; he hated to leave the shop unclean, but at least he'd have a better chance in the locker room showers. He hopped out of the shower and put on his select clothes for the day: a brown pair of pants, a white button-up shirt, and a brown vest. Yes, not very appealing, but Crona didn't like to stand out very much. Without a mirror to check how he looked, he took a glance in the slowly draining bathtub, holding himself over the white ledge. A wavy, deformed reflection returned a confused stare, asking the painfully insecure boy what he could be looking for if he already knew what was there. Crona let out a dismal groan, unsure of himself.

Come-a, come-a, come-a,
Little shop,
Little shoppa horrors!
Bop sh-bop,
You'll never stop the terror!
Little shop,
Little shoppa horrors!
No, oh, oh,
No, oh, oh,
No, oh, oh, no!

The radio crackled, and a disk jockey's nasally cartoonish voice sounded through the static. "Aaaaand that was Daddy Death and the Reapettes with their new hit single, 'Little Shop of Horrors'! Stay tuned, you crazy cats, we'll be right back with 'Wally in the A.M.' on—"  

Crona turned the radio off and grabbed the last few things he needed before heading out: his black newsboy cap, his school books – English, History, Math and Science – and a spare key to open Mosquito's Death Row Florists when he came back from school. He nearly fell over from the weight of the books as he hopped up the awkwardly narrow short flight of stairs, unable to regain his balance by leaning on a stair rail (as there was none). He leaned himself against the basement door before he could topple down the stairs and twisted the badly chipped knob to leave the room. Then he twisted it again. And again. "Damn it, not today…" He shook and twisted the knob left and right, trying to budge the stubborn, twice his age door open, but to no avail.

On the other side of the door, the shop had just opened. An aged "WELCOME" sign hung over the glass door, greeting the public to the dying, unnoticeable shop and its dying, unnoticeable plants. As usual, nobody took in its welcome, and simply brushed past. At this hour, no plant-loving customer would poke a head in or give the wilting flowers at the window a second glance. Then again, there was no real hour of the day when the shop was busy. It had been dying for the past four years, and the most the shop could attract a month was fifteen customers. The only reason it was still open was because Mosquito was as stubborn as the door to the basement.

Meanwhile, the dapperly-dressed man of short stature sat on a high stool, his stubby legs crossed as a newspaper practically swallowed him. He heard Crona's struggles at the door, but he didn't respond.

The familiar jingling of bells as the door opened didn't distract him from his paper, already knowing who it was as he turned the page. A cheery pigtailed girl pushed through the door, her tiny feet tapping against the tiled floor. A plaid yellow skirt tickled her knees, and a matching cable-stitch cardigan hugged her shoulders, revealing a clean-pressed white blouse. She held a stack of school books to her chest as well, but the weight didn't seem to bother her. "Good morning, Mr. Mosquito!"

"Good morning, Miss Albarn," Mosquito droned, briefly lowering the paper to nod in salutation.

"Good morning, Maka!" rang Crona's muffled voice, still trapped behind the accursed door.

The girl's teenage heart jumped happily, and an excited smile tickled her features. She turned to greet her friend, only to frown in confusion, finding the effeminate boy nowhere to be seen. "Crona?"

"He's stuck behind the door again," Mosquito muttered.

Maka's eyes locked on the door in question, watching in concern as the knob frantically jiggled. "Shouldn't we help him?"

"Bah." Mosquito loudly flapped the wilting paper, causing Maka to jump a bit. "This happens all the time, you know that. He's just being a drama queen. He'll get out eventually."

Just as Mosquito said this, the knob broke off the door. Crona's jaw fell to the ground in disbelief as the knob itself fell to pieces in his hand, bolts and all.

"Mr. Mosquito, I have a test first period!" he cried desperately over his frantic pounds at the door. "I can't be late to class or Mr. Stein will drop a grade!"

Worried for the poor boy, Maka set her books on the cashier counter and started for the basement door, only to be stopped by Mosquito loudly clearing his throat. He lowered his paper completely and gave her a cautionary glare, made harsher under the rim of his black bowler hat. Maka sighed and returned to her books, a twinge of guilt turning her stomach as Crona's pleas for help went ignored.

"Hmph." Mosquito broke his glare to turn back to his paper, but made a double-take as he got a better look at the girl. "What happened to your eye?"

"Huh?" Maka gingerly touched a faintly visible purple welt under her eye. "O-Oh, it's nothing. I was babysitting Angela last night and —"

"Is it that boyfriend of yours again?"

Maka's voice caught in her throat, unable to finish her white lie. She pursed her lips and timidly pulled in her arms, hugging herself as she averted her eyes in shame. She was jolted out of her self-pity when Crona started slamming himself against the door.

"Crona's been telling me about him." Maka's attention was on Mosquito again, whose attention was back on the paper. "He's really worried. Why don't you leave him?"

She bit her lip and shyly dropped her eyes to the floor, scuffing her toe. "Well, he has money, and he comes from a good family. If we get married in the future, I'll be able to help Papa with his bills, and we might even leave Death Row for somewhere —"

"That's quite shallow of you, Maka," Mosquito said, turning the page again when he reached an unappealing article. "Do you even like him?"

"No…I mean, I guess I do, but…" Maka shook her head and leaned against the counter, pulling what seemed like a bookmark from the middle of her history text book. Flipping it over, an old, mildly scratched photo of herself and a handsome albino in a leather jacket stared back. "We've been poor since my mother left home, and if I can somehow get Papa back on his feet, it would mean the world to me."

"I understand that," Mosquito said. "What I don't understand is why you can't just find a nice boy instead of staying with Soul."

Maka frowned, the sickeningly sweet photo in her hands mocking her. "It's not as easy as it sounds, Mr. Mosquito. Not with him. Not in here."

With a loud crash, the door to the basement finally flung open, smashing into a large display of potted flowers against the wall. Crona let out a short scream as he plummeted to the floor, his cap sent soaring and his books flying out of his hands to knock over yet another display, the shattering of the pots making the boy cringe and shield his head for dear life. The previously clean floor was now covered in plant soil, small clouds of dust circling Crona's head.

"Crona!" he heard Maka gasp, her delicate feet clapping on the store ground as she rushed over to him. "My god, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" He barely had time to open his squinted eyes before warm concerned arms embraced him. His eyes popped open as he felt his temple press against small humble breasts, blood rushing to his cheeks. The touch was brief, but enough to leave Crona speechless, watching helplessly as Maka brushed dust and broken pottery off his hair and brown vest. "You poor thing. Did you hurt yourself?"

Crona said not a word as the beautiful young woman cradled his head, his mouth slightly agape, a dangerously noticeable shade of crimson glowing off his formerly pale cheeks. He clambered through his mind for words, but was unable to utter anything but timid mumbles, far too lost in her limpid lime-green eyes to find an appropriate response.  

"Crona!" Mosquito had hopped off his stool and was now stomping toward the teenagers. "Do you see what you've done?! You just cost me $200 with that little stunt of yours!"

Crona nervously sat up, pulling away from the safety of Maka's arms. "S-Sorry, Mr. Mosquito—"

"Don't yell at Crona!" Maka rebutted, defending her feeble friend as their short boss stormed forward. "You should have just let him out if you didn't want to lose your plants!"

Mosquito didn't listen to her, walking around her and into Crona's face, getting a squeak of fear out of the boy. "Those flowers cost me fifty dollars each, Crona, and you broke four of them! Are you going to pay for that?!"

"I'm sorry!"

Maka scowled, sticking herself between her boss and his terrified victim. "Excuse me, Mr. Mosquito, I'd prefer it if you didn't ignore me!"

Mosquito tried to look over her shoulder, lightly pushing her aside. "Maka, this doesn't concern you."

Maka slapped his hand away, pulling Crona to his feet. "It concerns me that you're yelling at my friend. And I apologize if I sound offensive, but you should know better if you've allowed Crona to live in your store for the past seven years."

Crona's blood ran cold as these words left Maka's mouth, his face blanching as his breath hitched nervously in his throat. He looked down nervously at Mosquito, waiting with uncomfortable anticipation for his boss to react. However, rather than explode and turn his frustration on Maka, he simply nodded, respectfully putting his arms behind his back.

"You're right, Miss Albarn. I was negligent." He took a quick glance at the mess beside him. "If you will sweep up the mess, I would gladly appreciate it. Crona, I wish to speak with you in private."

"Yes, sir," the two nodded, Maka fetching a broom and Crona gathering his books to follow Mosquito to the other side of the store. The man hopped back onto the stool, sitting on his paper like a paper-trained puppy, a matter Crona fought himself to not imagine or snicker at.

"Crona," he began, dusting off his jacket. "Now that you've been going back to school for two weeks, we'll have to rearrange your work schedule."

"Yes, sir."

He pulled a schedule book from a drawer under the counter, grabbing a pen and scanning for a blank page. "Let's see…you'll need time for your homework…an hour and a half sounds fine…you'll also need time to eat, I'll give you half an hour for dinner…What time do you get home from school again?"

"Two forty-five?"

"How long does it take for you to walk here?"

"Ten minutes."

"Can you multitask eating and studying?"

"I-I guess so."

"Then that settles it." He jotted something down. "You'll work from three to eight thirty Monday through Friday."

"So the same as before?"

"Is that a problem?"

"N-no, sir." That wasn't very much of a discussion, but Crona wasn't about to argue.

"Good." He jotted other numbers down. "So, because you broke four of our good plants, I'll have to take that money off of your paycheck, which means…"

"Mr. Mosquito?"

"Yes?"

"You don't pay me, remember?"

Mosquito looked up from his small book, a slightly confused look on his face. Crona offered an awkward shrug, to which Mosquito responded with a nod. "Right, yes. Sorry about that." He turned to the corner of the store, where Maka was still sweeping up the pieces of pottery and leftover soil. "Maka! Looks like you're not getting your paycheck this month!"

Crona let out an audible squeak of shock, blanching at his boss's unhesitant decision to cut off his best worker's pay. Maka shared a similar reaction, cringing for a split-second before offering a reluctant nod and a polite, though plastic, smile to Mosquito, eyes not even raised to see it. She glanced up at her co-worker, eyes frantic with guilt as he mouthed a million "I'm sorry"s under his breath. A sweet, genuine smile crossed her lips, rolling her eyes at the silly little worrywart as she swept up the last of the mess and dumped it in a nearby trashcan.

Mosquito's paper crinkled loudly as he closed it, folding it horizontally and tucking it under his arm. "Now then, I assume you two know what day's coming up."

"Bills," Crona muttered, picking up his books from the counter, having heard this lament from his boss many a time before.

"Precisely. And we've been in debt for three months now." He hopped off his stool and began pushing it behind the counter, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the floor, leaving deep marks that would be, for the moment, faint. "We needed that two hundred dollars to finally pay it off, and now I'll need to order four fifty dollar plants before noon." He settled the stool at its precise spot before the cashier and stored his newspaper in a lower drawer. "Considering the amount of customers we get per day, it'll take a miracle to raise two hundred by Wednesday."

A sound like a hiccup blurted out of Crona, his frail, skinny body jolting. The trio of books slipped from their owner's awkward grip and fell to the floor, two of the lighter narrowly avoiding Crona's shoes, the corner of the heavier landing square on his smallest toe. Mosquito barely reacted as his employee let out a squeal of pain, hopping about as he massaged his foot.

Taking this as a moment to leave before her friend had a nervous breakdown, Maka rushed to fetch her own books from the counter while picking up Crona's with her free arm. "Mr. Mosquito, I think we better go." She shoved the books one by one against Crona's stomach, mindlessly knocking the wind out of him. "We really don't want to miss out on Mr. Stein's test."

"Very well." Mosquito climbed back onto the stool, slamming his hands on the counter surface for balance as it started wobbling. "But no dilly-dallying after school. I need you two for this afternoon."

Not that the afternoon would be busy, but neither teen brought it up.

"Wish us luck!" Maka waved, pulling the poor limping sap towards the door.

Crona clumsily stumbled behind the petite but strong honor student, quietly wondering how someone so small could manage such strength. Then again, they shared the same build, so it shouldn't have been as surprising. Watching the two teenagers leave the tired, cramped shop, Mosquito sighed, drumming his stubby fingers on the mildly dusty counter. "Wish me some too."

The sun hadn't completely risen over the clumped forest of buildings they called Death Row, the gray, overcast sky looming over the duo's heads with threats of rain. Their walk to Krelborn High School was relatively quiet, Maka proudly walking forward with her head high and pigtails bouncing as Crona hobbled a few steps behind. His littlest toe throbbed, surprisingly painful for such a small digit. He prayed he wouldn't find it purple or his toenail missing the next time he took his shoes off.

Halfway to the school, they came across a stoplight, wherein Maka decided to break the silence with a frustrated sigh. After seven minutes of silence, it startled Crona to hear this, but his mild surprise quickly turned to concern upon seeing Maka's troubled green eyes glued to the cracked pavement. "Wh-what's wrong, Maka?"

Maka leaned against the stoplight, supporting her books under her chest. "You know what's coming now, don't you?"

Crona couldn't say he did, and it made him feel a bit foolish to tilt his head to the side and ask, "What do you mean?"

Maka looked up at him, an annoyed pout firm on her lips, though it wasn't her friend she was annoyed at. "We're going to be working overtime for that two hundred dollars. Even if we do get a few customers today and tomorrow, we won't even make half of the money." Her facial muscles relaxed, her tense shoulders slumping and voice softening once she saw guilt coloring Crona's face pallid. "Crona, I know what happened back there wasn't your fault, but we still have to make up the money for him somehow. I really do think you should show him that plant of yours."

Crona tore away from Maka's eyes, his guilt deeply set in despite her efforts to take some off. "I-I don't know if I can. It doesn't look very well. I've tried everything to keep it from wilting, but I don't think it'll live past tomorrow. Besides, what good will one plant do for business?"

"Well we have to try something." She pushed herself off the stoplight as its opposite partner turned green. "We won't be able to pull off something like this on our own..." The blonde's voice trailed off in despair, shaking her head in an attempt to shake away the worry. She made a halfhearted kick at a stray pebble and made her way across the empty road, leaving Crona to watch her with anxious eyes. "Come on, Crona. The last thing we need is to be late."

But Crona didn't move from his place, staring at Maka's back as she sadly strolled down their everyday path to school. He wanted to help her, but what could he do? This wasn't just about her paycheck; this was about her father's financial situation. But what could he do to help? He didn't have a penny to his name. Even if the plant could attract some customers, how could a slight bump in business aid their condition?

He glanced down as the sidewalk, the pebble still sitting lifelessly on the sidewalk instead of in the gutter as Maka intended. He completed the task for his friend, kicking the pebble across the street before hustling to join her. He hoped he had studied enough for the test. He couldn't afford another B.