I was told that I am in fact not too late for the Soul Eater fandom, so another one-shot headcanon.


There is a magic in the ability of special individuals to change their forms - the fluidity of their bodies has never been explained or formulated. There is a grace in the weapon wielders who dedicate their lives to combating evil - their bravery has been unparalleled since the age of great warriors. There is a beauty in the partnership of two people who can reach outside of themselves to welcome the other into the rhythm of their souls - it is a perfect union of the vital spirit force.

This bond - this magnificent joining - is a unique phenomenon. That level of closeness has been likened to many things, but the reality is that there is no comparison. Each places absolute trust and faith in the other while melding body and soul; only this can lend the pair the tremendous power they seek.

Being a weapon is like nothing else in the world.

I can use the energy emitted from my soul to shift my molecules and take on the shape and properties of a scythe. If I concentrate, I can transform an arm or two into scythe blades and leave the rest of my body in its natural form.

There's nothing cooler than that.

I also get to eat the souls of all the demons and witches I kill. It's not that souls taste good - it's more like the feel and texture of them that keeps me trekking around in search of enemies; absorbing that kind of energy is miles above eating a power bar.

It's a weird feeling, transforming. It's hard to explain. My body doesn't go away, but it's also not intact. Not in the way that a normal person feels all the time. I have no brain, but I am awake. I have no mouth, but I can speak. I can feel every inch of the scythe like I can feel every inch of my hand, but there's the lack of control - when completely transformed, I can't move myself. Which is why weapons have meisters.

I met mine at the first team mixer at the DWMA that I went to. The place was crawling with kids, puffing their chests out and primping and trying to look cooler than they were. I would have turned around and left if there hadn't been the longest buffet table I'd ever seen stretching the length of the main hall.

The event had been billed as "formal," so everybody was in suits and dresses, myself included. I remember that my jacket was too tight across the chest and too short in the arm. I'd only bought it the week before, but I was growing a lot those days.

It got even tighter after eating, so I walked around, looking for a place to stash it. I knew there was a coatroom somewhere, but the Academy was so damn huge that I was lost after wandering for only a few minutes. I guess I could've asked someone, but I was too busy trying to avoid catching anyone's eye. A few people had already tried striking up conversation, but I wasn't interested in their small talk. The nervous, needy looks in their eyes were not cool at all.

I stumbled upon her in an empty room. She was alone, sitting in an armchair with a book, and somehow looked more sure of herself with that musty old tome than all of the overdressed dweebs I'd been dodging all night.

I was going to duck back out and keep looking for the coatroom, but she glanced up and saw me before I could leave.

"Are all those people still out there?" she asked, and sounded just as bored as I was by this stupid party.

I nodded, and she closed her book with a big sigh. I looked around, not knowing if I should move on or stay to see if she would have anything else to say. Two of the walls were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and there were a few more armchairs grouped in the corner where the girl was sitting. In the opposite corner stood a large black concert piano that looked like it didn't normally belong there. I instinctively moved towards it, but remembered where I was and that I wasn't alone, and jerked back.

The girl noticed me twitch. "Do you play?" she asked, nodding at the piano, and something about her wide eyes and attentive face made me believe that she was genuinely interested.

I shrugged and tucked my hands into my pockets, trying to hide the too-short sleeves. "Sometimes."

She watched me for a moment, and, not wanting to seem uncool by looking away, I watched her back. Her eyes were a startling shade of green, and I had the unshakable feeling that she was sizing me up.

"You're a weapon," she finally said. It wasn't a question. She'd seen the gold W pinned to my lapel.

I nodded again, even though it was unnecessary. "And you're a meister." She glanced down at the gold M on the shoulder of her dress, as if she had forgotten it was there.

"Had any luck so far?"

It was obvious what she meant. We were all here for only one reason, right?

I flashed her my toothiest grin. "With those jokers? None of them are anywhere near cool enough for me."

The girl sighed again and leaned back against her cushions, tipping her sandy-colored head back to gaze at the high ceiling. "What I don't understand is how we're supposed to find the one person we're meant to be with in one night. How are you supposed to know if you can match wavelengths with a soul just by talking to them for a little bit?"

I remember thinking how frustrated she looked, sitting there - so small - in the armchair that almost seemed to swallow her up, holding the gigantic book on her lap like a comforting blanket. I could see her insecurity and impatience, but also her stubbornness and boldness. There was something else, too. She seemed... sad, somehow.

I don't know what made me do it. Years later, I still don't know. But at that moment, I knew that she was my meister, and I her weapon.

"I'm going to play for you," I told her, the strange girl who had been sitting alone with a book at a party. She met my gaze with her wide green eyes, and I had the sense that she was seeing more than just me standing before her. I felt rather than heard her follow me as I strode across the room to the piano, as if the seed of our bond had already been sown.

I sat on the red velvet bench and looked into my reflection on the glossy black lid for a second before flipping it open. My fingers brushed lightly over the surface of the keys. They were smooth and shiny, and the touch of cool ivory on my fingertips calmed any previous discontent.

"This is the kind of person I am," I said to the presence behind me, and began to play.

My music isn't gentle. It isn't pretty. It isn't soothing or melodic or graceful. Most people would deny that it's even music. But I play what I feel, which meant that every last note that came out of that black grand that night was one hundred percent me. I couldn't have shown this girl who I am any better than that.

When it was over and I had nothing left, I carefully closed the lid again and turned around slowly on the bench. She was standing close, looking down at me, calculating. I looked right back up at her, waiting for her to arrive at the conclusion that I'd already reached. I'd given her my music, my rhythm - it was up to her to accept it.

After a moment, she smiled and stuck her hand out, offering it to me. "I'm Maka."

"Soul," I grinned, and took her hand.

The power of meister and weapon is not in the agility of the meister or the deadliness of the weapon. It is not in the hours they train or the tests they take, nor in the souls they collect or even in the frequency of their wavelengths. The power of meister and weapon lies in the strength of the bond that they share; the instinctual matching of rhythms can only occur between those whose hearts and souls can beat at exactly the same tempo.

The offer and acceptance of a soul - this is how partnerships are born.

Oh, wow. That turned out... entirely not what I meant it to be. Ah, well. C'est la vie.