Time is the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future regarded as a whole.

Chapter 1

"Soul."

A boy stirs in his sleep. There is a voice calling for him. A voice near to his heart.

"Soul."

They hesitate. There are shapes- people perhaps? Mist envelopes him, and he feels confused, frustrated.

"Soul?" They implore, "don't- don't you remember me?"

Words are rarely spoken so tenderly to him; he feels compelled to look up.

A girl stares at him with vivid green eyes that cut him to his soul. Who is this stranger? Why is she looking at him like she knows him? No one knows him. No one gets close enough.

The doors open and she's being pushed away from him. Something twists in his heart, and he has a feeling there is something he must do. What is it? "Wait!" he hears himself shout hoarsely. "What's your name?"

He watches her face light up, eyes bright and beaming, and his soul wrenches in his chest as he sees her fumble with a ribbon in her hair. Hair that is the color of sun-warmed sand or golden wheat. A red ribbon, so vivid in the waning light of day, flies at him. He catches it.

For an instant they're connected. Eyes, ribbon, and time. "Maka. My name is Maka!" she cries; he sees tears sparkle and then they're torn apart.

He's left with the ribbon in his hands, wondering why he's clutching it like his life depends on it.

Upon closer inspection, he finds It isn't a ribbon at all. It's a braided cord.

Soul jolts awake, eyes flying open, his heart hammering in his chest, breathing hard.

Somewhere close by his phone is going off, the alarm blasting shrilly and he just can't deal. There is pain in his chest, and it takes a moment to notice that his face is wet. Something feels out of place as he becomes aware there are tears falling. Why is he crying?

Brain parsing through random information, Soul realizes that his face feels really smooth, his chest feels weird, and when he looks down- what the fuck?

Blinking, he tries to quell the rising panic. Something is definitely not right.

What in the hell is he wearing? A stretched out tank top? Did Wes fucking prank him in his sleep? And why does his chest feel so weird?

Looking down and focusing he sees an unfamiliar scene. He's dreaming, must be.

Vaguely, he recalls looking over Killik's shoulder as his oldest friend attempted to get him interested in girls. The particular model had been wearing a small tank top too, not unlike this thing with the really tiny straps that most girls wear during summer with bras. Except!

His head jerks up, and he inhales sharply. The girl in Killik's pin up had definitely not been wearing a bra, and while she was cute with tightly curled hair, a bright smile, and small, pert tits- Soul felt ambivalent to the whole experiment.

However, the dream about the cord is still fresh on his mind. The girl from the dream was all green, green eyes, stardust freckles, and golden hair. He can feel his body reacting.

But, in this whatever the fuck version of reality, the body he's in does something unexpected. Soul feels his tummy coil, contracting, and then his nipples get hard, straining against the soft cotton on the thin tank top. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Something is wrong! So, so wrong- tits! There are tits in his shirt. Not knowing what else to do, he brings up his hands to cup his chest, experimentally. "Holy shit," he wheezes.

His palms are filled- just barely- by warm, soft cotton-covered flesh. The weight, perhaps, is that of a small bag of rice. Like the kind that his mother would make for ice packs when he was a child.

Soul sits there stunned, holding the tits- boobs? No, the breasts, in his hands, feeling dazed and confused.

The sliding door to his room is violently pulled back without warning. Whatever is tied on top of his head wobbles as he snaps his head in the direction of the sound. He's met with dark inquisitive eyes framed by straight black hair and violet eyes, and a bright flaming red face.

"Maka," the girl sputter's, giving him a weird look.

Maka? Soul thinks. Does she mean me?!

The girl looks down at his hands, then back up to his already red face. "Why are you holding your boobs?"

He's lost. He doesn't know what to do- this dream is crazy.

"Get up, you pervert, or you're going to be late!" Without waiting for a retort the sliding door is returned with a forceful smack that jolts the boy sitting on the bed, breasts still firmly in hand.

"What was that about?" What's wrong with his voice? What the fuck is happening? Shouldn't he have woken up by now?

Kicking off the blankets with his legs makes him suck in a breath. These are not his legs!

Soul can feel the beginnings of a panic attack and wills down mouthfuls of air. Although, the urge to run his incredibly petite hands up and down his body is very real. He just can't bring himself to relinquish his grip on what now feels like the world's greatest pair of stress balls. And he's beyond stressed, at the moment.

Sitting, processing, he gazes around the room. It's very tidy, with books stacked neatly on shelves. A few pictures. Is that a poem tacked to the wall? Seems nerdy. Outside of the window the sky is bright, a blue unmarred by city smog, with clouds that are huge and fluffy.

Slowly observing his surroundings, he finally sees a mirror across the room. Gets up carefully on new fawn legs and totters on a gait that is completely alien to his own slouchy shuffle.

This body is lithe. Legs fill most of the mirror, ending in pink cotton panties with a tiny bow in the front. Carefully, he pulls up on the tank top, disentangling it from the odd little Chun Li style buns on his head, and he's free. A wave of goosebumps mar the smooth skin.

His waist is small, toned, smooth lines going up to the soft breasts (he's not blushing) he's been holding for the past few minutes, but it's his face that gives him pause. Soft pink lips, a dusting of freckles that remind him of something... and then he sees green- green eyes fringed by golden honey colored hair.

These are the exact color opposite of his eyes. Eyes that keep darting around the face of the mirror trying to explain what it is that he's seeing.

Just what in the hell is going on? he thinks, staring at his reflection- at the reflection of a complete stranger.

X

Fifteen minutes or a lifetime later, he walks carefully towards the sounds of conversation, but more importantly, the smell of food.

Feeling strangely exposed in his newfound combat boots (which are cool) and long socks, Soul runs sweat covered palms over his incredibly tiny skirt. How can anyone feel safe wearing so little? he wonders.

Getting dressed was fun- buttoning a shirt and tying a necktie was no big deal, not after wrangling a bra. What he thinks is a bra, anyway; he's pretty sure that the flimsy ivory swimsuit-looking fabric torture device is meant to provide more cover for his gravity defying boo- breasts- he mentally trips over the word again, embarrassment fresh on his face.

He walks into the Japanese style dining room cautiously. The girl from earlier this morning is eating and side-eyeing him suspiciously from the low table. An old woman looks up from her bowl of... miso soup?

Soul spots the rice maker and suppresses a groan. Seriously? The owners at the restaurant insist American breakfast is a travesty. Begrudgingly he grabs a small bowl, thinking that in his anxiety-riddled state it's for the best. He probably can't handle very much solid food anyway. He carefully spoons a small scoop into the bowl, muttering to himself- he would have prefered Lucky Charms.

There is a small television broadcasting the news of a celestial event that is going to occur next month. A never before seen event- once in a lifetime! The two co-hosts are giddy.

Soul isn't focused- his neck feels itchy. Looking up, he sees the old woman regards him shrewdly.

"Maka dear, you're wearing your hair different today." The old lady has a warm voice and Soul is equal parts comforted and ready to hyperventilate.

"I, uh." Fighting the buns off his head is still vivid in his mind. "Wanted to try something new," he responds, trying not to pull the statement into a question. His snark sounds different in the voice of this girl, Maka. Soul feels a thrill go through him. He likes how she sounds.

"It was just an observation, dear, is all." The woman repeats, nonplussed by his tone.

And because Soul has had music drilled into him since the age of three, he recognizes the familial tonality of the older woman's voice. "Sorry...grandmother," he surmises.

"No need to apologize dear, you look lovely." The woman smiles brightly, her own hazel green eyes sparkling in the morning light.