A big thanks to everyone who welcomed me into the Soul Eater fandom! Specifically earth-shines from tumblr. I'm a little late in my posting due to family issues and traveling, but the Reverb mods were kind enough to give me a few more days. Shout out to internetfeet from tumblr who created the art for this awesome camp au. I'll have links to earth-shines fic and internetfeet's art in my profile page and on my tumblr the-brightest-fell.

This is my contribution to Reverse Resbang 2015.


Part 1


This is so uncool.

That is the first thought Soul Evans has when he lays eyes on his "home" for the next three weeks.

Initially, he believed the idea of twisting his parent's words into something they would disapprove of was a genius maneuver. Oh, how he had applauded himself. How he had patted himself on the back.

He had to go to summer camp, they said. He had the oppurtunity to pick whichever camp he wanted, they said. Yes, yes, they promised, they would send him to any camp he chose.

Course, they never imagined their stubborn, willful child would look up a camp with absolutely no music program whatsoever. But a deal was a deal and they had to deal with the fact that they paid for perhaps the one summer camp they'd never want him to attend.

And, oh, how Soul had congratulated himself. He was so smart. He was extra rebellious. If this didn't make them re-think pushing the family lineage on him, then he honestly didn't know what else to do. Maybe break all his fingers? Chop off a hand?

Eh, he'd see what the summer brought him.

Of course, now that he and his elder brother, Wes, are pulling up to the DWMA campgrounds he is "slightly" wondering if he made a huge colossal mistake in summer camp choices. When he was younger Soul Evans had dreamed of being a normal child: playing in the mud, eating worms, going to school where there was a field day, trying out for sports, going to summer camp and "having fun," etc. But, instead, his childhood was filled with oppressive music teachers, attending privileged events since the ripe-old age of two (with a strict dress code; who the hell makes fine suits for toddlers?), and the ever-constant pressure of his two well-known muscian-esque parents and his extremely talented violinist of an older brother hanging over him. His summers usually consisted of several Charity Galas, many family concerts at stinky art museums, two or three piano teachers stopping by the house every other day, and Chopin.

Seriously, why was it always Chopin?

When he saw the oppurtunity for a somewhat "normal" summer experience he jumped at it. He literally googled "summer camps without music" and voila! DWMA was the first one on the list. A couple of clicks later and he was registered. Because who wouldn't want to play sand volleyball and water sports and, uh, theme nights?

Not that he has any idea what most of the things DWMA offered are, but, he figures, it'll be better than an entire month dedicated to the strict standards of an overpriced music camp, right?

Well, he might been wrong…

His gut starts sinking the second Wes exits the highway and turns onto a lonesome road that disappears into the woods. A scene of green and brown, but really mostly green, almost physcially assaults his city eyes and he is left wondering if civilization can melt away that quickly. The deeper they drive, the stranger he feels. Wes is cheery as ever, his shit-eating grin telling Soul that some type of humiliation or awkwardness is written in his summer destiny.

Now that he thinks about it, he never was super good at researching things. Maybe he was too desperate to escape music purgatory for the summer and jumped into a pit far worse.

What did he know about attending a regular summer camp?

Absolutely nothing, that's what. He hadn't even known what to pack!

When Wes veers off the already poorly constructed concrete road onto a sand/gravel hybrid, Soul thinks he's going to hyperventilate. How far do the woods go? What if they get stuck out here? Or, God forbid, what about Jason or big foot? Isn't this their preferred hunting grounds?

Eventually signs begin appearing, popping out of the greenery like colorful flowers with cheery neon colors proclaiming "HEAD THIS WAY FOR AN AWESOME TIME!" and "IF YOU'RE LOOKIN' FOR DWMA, YOU'RE GOIN' THE RIGHT WAY!" Wes' smile widens and he makes some kind of sarcastic comment, but Soul's ears are ringing too loud for him to hear it in all it's "comedic" glory.

Their mother's once clean but now dusty black Benz joins a line of cars slowly being processed into the camp. At first it looks really weird because all of these cars vaporize out of thin air. Soul was almost positive that once they came this deep in the woods it'd turn into a Silent Hill-type thing and they'd never make it back to society. With the reappearing of proof of the outside world, Soul's thoughts then switch to a more logical avenue.

Holy hell, why are there so many people here?

It occurs to him the DWMA must be a very popular camp (it was at the top of the Google list) and cabin slots had disappeared at a somewhat alarming rate.

"Business is booming!" Wes cackles. "Good thing you signed up when you did, hmm, Soulie?"

Soul gives him a non-committal grunt and waits. The churning of his stomach escalates. He thinks he's going to be sick.

They finally pull up to a wooden gate with a bright, waving banner strung across proclaiming boldly "DWMA WELCOMES YOU!" and two counselors with bright colored shirts on either side of the entrance to match. Wes rolls down the window and converses with one that instructs them where to park, who to talk to, and the name of the cabin "the camper" will be staying in. Soul doesn't hear much of the conversation because he's too busy staring in mute horror at the counselor on his side who is jumping up and down while screaming and waving at him. He can't tell if they are going for "I'm going to eat your brains" zombie-like enthusiasm or "Help! Call 911 I'm about to have a seizure." Once Wes proceeds forward, Soul grips his armrest and twists to face him.

"Turn the car around."

"Now, now, brother. Calm down. This place looks fun!" Wes grins at him, practically vibrating with concealed laughter, as if he's watching the most hilarious thing he's ever seen. And, honestly, what's funnier than your loner, soft-spoken younger brother figuring out he accidentally signed himself up for his own personal hell?

"Wes. I'm serious. I will murder you and leave your body for campers to find on a hike if you don't. Turn. The. Car. Around. Pleaseeeeee. This was a mistake. I'm not cut out for this." They are directed by even more smiling and waving colorful camp counselors squawking and dancing about like parrots into one of several fields that have become make-shift parking lots. Soul begins to see a horrifying reality and lunges forward with a hand pointed, voice high and hysterical. "Everyone's wearing khaki! Wes, mom doesn't even let us own khaki!"

Wes waves a hand off and takes a look himself, watching smiling campers exiting their cars and some greeting counselors with huge hugs like old friends. "Nuh uh. Those two girls are wearing those Nike work out shorts. So, not everyone is wearing khaki."

"Wes," Soul whines. "You know what I mean. I'm wearing jeans. My only pair of jeans. I'm 16, never been to summer camp, and I've never known anyone who doesn't have absolute pitch! These people are going to think I'm a rich freak with my white hair and prestigious clothes!" The teenager sighs and hides his face in his hands.

"Please just turn the car around. I'll return with my tail between my legs and let mom and dad ship me off to Penn State or Julliard or whatever."

Wes shakes his head and opens his mouth, presumably to mention comfort or encouragement, but is interrupted by the rapping and tapping of a hand on Soul's window. The Evans brothers jump at the unknown sound until they lay eyes on a young blonde lady with a thousand-watt smile and an eyepatch covering her left eye. Soul and Wes wordlessly wave and sit there dumbfounded. There's an odd staring contest between the two before the woman bites her lip and makes a dipping motion with her finger. Eventually, Wes connects the dots and rolls down Soul's window.

"Hiya! Soul Evans, right?"

The Evans exchange glances before Wes nods hesitantly.

"Wonderful!" The woman squeals and both brothers startle at her high, happy pitch. "I'm Marie! I'm one of the senior counselors here and I'm going to show you around and help label your luggage!"

There's another awkward eye contact-filled silence while Marie waits patiently. He takes his time, but Wes slips into his suave, smooth attitude and laughingly replies. He rolls up the window, exits the car, and chats amiably with Marie while Soul broods inside.

The keys are still in the ignition. If he locks the doors he could make a run for it…

Too late. Wes opens his door like the world's worst chauffeur and pulls his little brother out by the ear. Marie's smile cracks for a second as the younger snaps at the older and Wes laughs and easily murmurs, "Ah, teenagers! So feisty, aren't they?"

Soul straightens himself, mostly, and finally takes Marie's outstretched hand.

"Well, Soul, your brother tells me you're a bit apprehensive." Cue glare here. Marie watches with a single honey-brown eye, gold and glistening, as Wes winks and shrugs. "Well, let me be the first to assure you we here at the DWMA are all about camper support. We want you to have the absolute best time possible this summer! And everyone that comes is really super friendly. We have some first-time campers such as yourself, though many are 'repeat offenders,' shall we say, who have been coming since they were thirteen." At the cringe Soul makes, Marie shakes her hands hastily. "Not that that means they won't open up to you! Everyone here remembers what their first year was like and, I promise, you're going to have one of the best summers ever here and you're going to make great friends!"

Soul nods noncommittally, partially because he feels a little patronized (doesn't this chick know he's 16?) and partially because his stomach is still a ball of twisted nerves. Wes unloads his name brand leather suitcase his father bought him for Christmas and Marie happily posts a piece of duct tape on it. With a permanent marker she scrawls "Evans, Soul Eater no. 1."

She turns to Soul and does her brighter-than-the-sun smile once more. "Now. Are you ready to go meet your bunkmates?"

He opens his mouth to say yes but instead pukes all over the woman's sneakers.


Soul is shuffled to the infirmary with Wes' cackling ringing in his ears. What makes matters worse is, as if to balance Wes' uncaring blasé attitude, Marie is overly sweet and maternal. She apologizes after he upchucks his stomach contents and says it's not the first time it's happened to her. For some odd reason, this does not make him feel better. She also keeps one hand on his shoulder and one under his elbow as if her tiny self could carry his weight should he collapse or something as they hike to a semi-faraway building.

He is blushing redder than his eye color, he's sure of it, or redder than a tomato or whatever. He continually tries to wave off the entire incident but Marie insists on making an example of the camp's "services" and "hospitalities." He's sure some of it is for Wes' benefit (look, see here, your brother is sick and we will take care of him) but mostly he's pretty sure it's just how the lady with the golden smile is.

It's kind of nice knowing a stranger who isn't privy to his background information is caring for him because, well, she's a counselor and it's her job and that's who she is.

If the rest of the camp is full of counselors like Marie, he thinks he might actually make it through the summer, despite the fact he feels like a fish, not merely out of water, but in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

They're approaching the infirmary when a small girl exits, blonde pigtails swinging like pendulums over her shoulder. She notices them and her eyes widen. She scrambles forward and tries to negotiate herself into the situation but Soul is humiliated enough and won't let a ten-year old carry him to a doctor. He shoves off Marie and pushes the chick away, hearing her feet stutter along the gravel walkway as she trips and an indignant, "Hey! Watch it!"

He murmurs, "Not my fault, chicken bone," lowly, but not so low she can't hear. And it isn't. S'not his fault she weighs, like, twenty pounds.

She scoffs and turns her attention to Marie, fanatically rambling something about Dr. Stein never doing his work or being present. She's placed the new medications and forms on his desk, she says, and if Marie needs anything she knows where to find her.

The one-eyed counselor joyfully sings her thanks and follows Soul as he stumbles into the one room shack with several empty, pristinely made cots and a small collection of desks in the corner. Behind them a doorless closet-pantry hybrid is filled to the brim with filing cabinets and shelves.

He settles onto the nearest cot, head swimming from the adrenaline rush rushing away, the after-vomit emptiness of his stomach, and the nauseating perfume of the place: Eau de too much hand sanitizer. His brother and the yellow-haired lady rush in where she explains where what is and who does what. The camp has one medical doctor, nurse practitioner, and two other med students staffed throughout the summer. Usually they are present at all times. Because today is the first day of a new camper set they are probably at the nearest town replenishing supplies.

She assures Wes she has some training, though his brother's constant guffawing and pursed lips tells Soul and Marie he's not super concerned, while she retrieves Soul some over the counter meds. He swallows them without complaint as she goes on about the sweet little pigtailed scrawny girl from before who is a "senior camper" and helps run the camp with the counselors. On the first day she assists the med students with recording allergies, medication, and retrieval of said medication as well as collect the OTC forms and emergency contact information.

Somewhere in the string of praises Soul is sure she mentions a name, but he's too aware and preoccupied with how shitty he feels, how terrible the first hour of being at camp is, and how, chances are, he probably won't run into the youngin' while he's here considering she has to be a couple of grades lower than him.

Once his color returns to a more normal, healthy tan Wes gives him a look that he knows means he's leaving.

His older brother sits down next to him on the bed and they glance at each other from the corner of their eyes, speaking without words. Ms. Marie watches on curiously but kindly turns herself to the side to give them the semblance of privacy. Wes nudges him on the shoulder playfully before hugging Soul to his side and gingerly giving him a noogie. He messes with Soul's finely gelled hair while the younger yowls and hisses in a way an alley cat would be proud of before releasing him.

"I'll see ya in a couple weeks, yeah?"

Soul wants to say something. He's not sure whether it's along the lines of "Take me home" or "Don't leave me here" like he's a baby or whether it's more akin to their normal banter such as "See ya later, dweeb" or "Get out of here, silly brother! Camp is for kids!" The sudden knot in his throat makes him think twice though and instead of opening his mouth and making a mistake (again) he simply nods.

Wes smiles, a genuine "I love you, bro" smile, and shakes Marie's hand before walking out the door.

They sit in silence for a bit before Marie calmly asks, sunshiny face slightly muted, if he's ready to meet his bunkmates.

Soul follows the chipper counselor down the gravel road and past the fields that are currently pretending to be parking lots. Many of the cars are slowly exiting to travel the lonely road out of the woods a couple of passengers lighter.

They come across crossroads. Wooden hand painted signs are posted to a large log dug into the earth, each pointing to lead down some yellow-brick road except all of the paths here are paved in broken chalky gray rocks. He supposes he'll get used to the gravel, though occasionally he twists his ankles when the ground shifts unpleasantly beneath him. Marie somehow balances in her black sandals (her replacement shoes for the sneakers) delicately. In fact, as sweat drips down his neck, he wonders how she's so comfortable considering the lady is covered in black slacks and a mid-sleeve black t-shirt when he's sweltering in his red-collared shirt and baggy jeans.

The whistling lady confidently strolls down the road labeled "BOYS SIDE." As Soul passes the sign he notices beneath the clean blue paint a scrawling of brighter neon blue words. Something that looks like "OLYMPUS, HOME OF GODS" and a five-pointed star with the word "BLACK" underlined several times written in what looks like black Sharpie.

Soul wonders what moron would do that. Unless they were just testing the marker. That makes a lot more sense.

They walk probably half a mile when Soul notices a cluster of eight cabins rising out of the woods. They're decently-sized and look akin to townhouses or a two bedroom studio.

Each cabin, he sees, upon closer inspection has a small wooden porch wraparound and they're connected through these porches. One could conceivably start at the western-most cabin and walk through all of them until he got to the eastern-most. Pretty nice, interesting architecture. They also have different colored signs hanging above, each with a bizarre name he guesses adds to the "camp spirit feel" or whatever. He remembers, somewhat, something mentioned in the brochure, how ones cabin mates make up their team or family. Cabin teams compete against one another during "theme nights," though typically the games become boys versus girls from what he read.

Marie leads him to the two middle-most cabins, the one on the left labeled white-on-blue "THE LAGOONALOO" and the one on the right red-on-black simply named "EATERS."

He feels super uncomfortable when his tour guide gingerly skips up the wooden steps and presents him to the EATER cabin. Who the hell names these?

"Here ya go! Your home for the next three weeks! These boys are the oldest at camp, along with yourself, and many of them are 'repeat offenders' as we say. But don't worry! They're all very welcoming, I promise." She waits patiently for him though he doesn't know why. Soul is accustomed to being seen and not heard…well, unless he was seated at a piano. He's not quite sure how to respond so he just kinda grunts and nods.

It works. Marie's grin grows, her constant smiling continuing toimpress him (seriously, her cheeks must have the strength of steel), and she gently knocks a dainty fist on the closed cabin door twice.

"I'M HURRYIN'! I'M HURRYIN', SID! CALM THE FUCK DOWN!" A gruff, muffled voice yells from behind the dark wood.

The golden-haired lady's smile slips for a second as a small "Oh!" escapes her pursed lips. She glances over her shoulder at Soul who is privately refusing to climb the wooden steps unless he absolutely has to. She chuckles nervously at him and, in a slightly stronger, more commanding tone than he would've thought she could produce, she replies.

"Black Star! It's Marie! You know the rules about cursing on camp grounds, young man!"

A muffled "yeah, yeah" slips out before the door is swung wide open, banging loudly against the wall and causing both the counselor and the newbie to jump in surprise.

A teenage boy roughly Soul's age appears and he is the most interesting, startling human being Soul has ever seen. His hair is spiked into an awkward and probably uncomfortable three-pronged mohawk-gelled up hybrid and it's blue. Like, "it's a boy" blue. One might even go as far as to say baby neon blue. To add to the strange hairdo, the kid, who can't be older than seventeen (Soul knows, it said so in the brochure), is covered in scars, bruises, and a few well-placed tattoos, the most notable being a five-pointed star in edgy black ink on his right shoulder—the same star written on the sign calling the boy's side of camp Olympus.

Deep green eyes, eyes that could melt into the surrounding forest like their owner was no more than a ghost, stare pointedly at Marie before flicking Soul's way and back. He leans nonchalantly against the door frame and crosses his arms and legs.

"Sid told everyone to help," He raises gloved hands to float quotation marks, "'assimilate' the younger campers or whatever. I stayed to help tidy up and make sure the plumbing in the Lagoonaloo is running fine after those so-called," Air quotes once more, "'experts' fuc-I mean, messed it up. What's up, Marie?"

"Ah. So no one is present. I see." Marie sits with her brows slightly smooshed together, a more pensive instead of friendly look settling on her face, before she snaps her fingers excitedly. She waves at Soul and he, with a sigh, slowly clomps up the rickety wooden boards.

The closer he gets the more "Black Star" (whatever kind of name that is) openly appraises him, eyes flashing from his natural white hair and maroon droopy eyes to his collared shirt and dark blue jeans. Marie looks at Soul expectantly and it's a tone of face he's, unfortunately, not new to.

He extends one hand with a barely repressed eye-roll and slurs, "Soul."

The boy watches him for a bit before cracking the randomest and kindest smile. It changes his entire persona from badass kickass to boyish dumbass with blue hair.

"DUDE!" He shakes Soul's hand emphatically, eyes practically sparking with some kind of insane excitement. Soul finds that the spark is somewhat contagious or, at the very least, not so nerve-wracking. "Black Star! Put 'er there, man!" Black Star returns to a comfortable lean though his smile never once dims. Maybe it's something in the water here what with Marie, the one-eyed gorgeous blonde counselor, and now this tatted-up, blue-haired Black Star. Maybe Soul will learn to smile at this crazy camp, too.

"Bro. Your name is sick. We've been talking about it for the entire day. Your nickname is totally gonna be Soul Eater!" He extends a fist that Soul quickly bumps. "Represent, yo."

The teen grins at Marie and says haughtily, "I got this, Marie." She nods and promises to see them both at dinner tonight before making her way back up the gravel path.

As she disappears in the distance, Black Star steps back and welcomes Soul into the cabin, showing which bunk is his and where his stuff was placed. They talk for a couple of minutes, Black Star mostly giving the other boy a rundown of how the camp works, and they soon learn they have similar taste in, well, almost everything. With this discovery Black Star mentions he's super glad now he called the "newbie" to share a bunk with him, which Soul finds is one of the best things he's ever heard. At the end of the impromptu tour, consisting of many hand motions and cuss words, Black Star shrugs.

"Anyways, welcome to the Eaters, Soul. Uh, by the way…you wanna borrow some b-ball shorts? It's hotter than Scarlett Johansson's ass outside."

Soul recalls the spark from Black Star's warm smile and a small fire settles in his gut and along his chest.

Maybe this summer camp stuff won't be so bad after all.


Dinner and every other meal, according to Black Star, is held in a large banquet hall, the biggest building in the entirety of the campgrounds, which apparently spans (insert large acreage here). It, too, has a sign and a bizarre name. White-on-red proclaims the huge structure as the DWMA "Bloody Mess" Hall.

Black Star reads it with a sinister charm and raised eyebrows. Soul hopes the owner of the camp is British.

They enter and the white-haired teenager prepares himself for the stares and the snickers. Sometimes he thinks that he should be used to it after encountering such attention his entire life, but he's not. It still makes his spine tingle to know so many people who don't know a damn thing about him get to judge or create assumptions without speaking a word to him. Hell, usually, he doesn't even get a second fucking glance.

Inside there are tables spread out from north to south. To the west is a well-constructed stage that obviously can be viewed from any area in the dining room. To the east several tables and heaters are artfully set up to act as a type of buffet-style food system. Black Star mentions they're lucky they came in a little late since there's hardly a line.

First, he tugs on Soul's black wife-beater (a gift from Black Star along with ten other clothing items to borrow for the summer) and begins to weave his way between the evenly spaced out tables with a delicacy and balance that speaks volumes to the many years he's been at this camp. Soul inspects the tables they pass and grins at the creative names for the cabins at this place.

"Eaters" doesn't sound so bad after perusing a couple of the younger cabins.

Finally, Black Star halts at a black clothed table with the quickly-becoming-familiar cherry red EATERS sign, designed to look like its written in blood. Five other boys lounge at ease in their chairs with semi-clean plates settled in front of them. They adjust their postures as Black Star approaches, all except one whose back is already straight as a rod, and watch Soul follow in his shadow.

There's a silence and the longer it's held the worse Soul feels. There's that bubbling in his stomach that tells him he might not be eating much tonight. Or, at least, that his stomach would be safer without ammunition to projectile vomit on someone later.

But suddenly, like a wave breaking against the shore, the guys simultaneously laugh and one gets up to raucously slap his back and jokingly pull him into a hug. A loud chorus of "Brother from another mother" is chanted as he and Black Star settle in. And then the introductions begin.

The boy to the right of him that broke his awkward feelings with an equally awkward destruction of personal boundaries is Kilik. He nods, his braided hair bobbing along with the motion of his head. He offers Soul a peace sign and a somehow both cheesy and mischievious full-teethed smile.

Then it just becomes a procession line where each teen introduces the kid to this right.

Kilik names Harvar who calls the next Ox (who has an even weirder look about him than Black Star which is something Soul thought he'd never see) who then introduces the straight-backed boy as Kid. At first Soul considers it a type of joke, but when Kid bows his head in greeting, white lines sashaying in his raven black hair, Soul decides the best thing to do at this campground for weirdos (which he, admittedly, fits in at) is to just go with the flow.

They banter for a while and Soul learns Kilik is a "musician" like him, though he doesn't mention that information. Harvar is calm, cool, and collected and dressed in all black with dark, impenetrable sunglasses even though they're inside. Soul peers at him out of the corner of his eyes occasionally because he can't help imagining him as a young Van Helsing or something.

Kid is an OCD freak, according to Black Star, though Soul isn't sure the word "freak" is necessary (plus how can he point the finger? The kid nicknamed himself, first of all, and second, chose Black Star). Kid waves it off as if he's heard it all before and goes back to arranging the silverware into symmetrical patterns. Black Star whisper-warns that Soul hasn't seen anything yet and something about Kid's stiff posture and semi-formal attire does persuade him there's probable cause for alarm.

He sits and observes the interactions instead of participating since he's a stick-your-tippy-toes-into-cold-water-rather-than-plunge-in-headfirst kind of guy. He laughs, sometimes too hard, choking and wheezing because despite the fact these characters are sorta odd, they match his type of sarcastic humor perfectly.

Well, except for Ox, who seems to enjoy those clever, smart jokes that go over practically everyone else's heads. He is pleasantly surprised to find out that Harvar is a "pun" type of comedian…and his bored straight face only makes the ridiculous phrases that much funnier. Kilik and Black Star tend to tune into this weird half gibberish/half rap battle frequency where all of the sudden they will diss each other back to back, neither one pausing for breath. It's a dance of word play that is sometimes so complex Soul can hardly follow along. He is slightly shocked Black Star can accurately match or, hell, even understand some of the syllables that pour out of his and Kilik's mouths.

They don't last long, though, because one (or usually both) mess up or trip over their tongues, giving victory to whichever one fucked up the least. It lined up with proper British war tactics: stand still and be shot at; pray your enemy dies from bullet wounds before you do.

Soul forgets his awkwardness. It drips down his back carelessly like melted candle wax and disappears into the ether as he is accepted into the fold. Black Star is somehow the proverbial shepherd (as bizarre a teenager as he is) and Soul is the lost sheep welcomed to a place he never thought existed. Sure, he's had friends, other pretentious, prodigious rich kids like him who were both pinatas filled to the brim with social etiquette and pariahs who couldn't actually communicate with one another except through meaningless small talk. But this felt…different. New.

And real.

After effortless chatter, Black Star rises with a stretch and a wide, open-mouthed yawn. "Come on, broski. Let's see what's left to eat. Or are you, like, not hungry after today?"

Soul pushes his falling hair out of his eyes for the upteenth time and awkwardly shuffles out of his seat, not accustomed to tables and chairs so close together. So much for twenty-four hour "look great doing anything" and "this is what the movie stars use!" hair gel. He's not completely sure how he'll survive his stay at the DWMA if his long, thick locks of albino love won't stay put.

He glances at Black Star's outrageously blue and stiff as a board hairstyle and wonders what secrets the thing holds…

But then, what he's quickly finding out about Black Star is you might not want to know the answers to his secrets.

Black Star is waving and high-fiving people as they squeeze through the multitude of tables all colorful labeled with some bizarre, but often humorous name. Soul's beginning to realize why the dude calls himself a god. He knows everyone and everyone knows him. Plus, from a newcomer like Soul's point of view, it's easy to confuse popularity with adoration as greetings are yelled across the room and threats interspersed with laughter are given by everyone that demands Black Star's attention.

And, adoration and "worship" apparently mean the same thing to the star.

By the time they reach the buffet tables it is obvious the place is wiped clean. With the exception of a couple of cold hot dogs and some vegetables, the food is near non-existent. Black Star snorts and stacks whatever he can on his plate, not really caring what he eats it seems. Soul is a bit more on the pickier side, though, honestly he's been known to devour whatever is near him. He is a teenage boy after all, still growing and what not.

Black Star promises they'll get better choices later on, that the first day is always kind of hectic and, due to some supernatural reason dealing with a possible camp curse, the food stores always run empty.

"But only on day one." Black Star assures him. "Every other day older cabins typically get seniority. Mostly because we don't have to follow those rigid schedules they enforce on the kiddies, so we can come eat when we want. We were late tonight and, therefore, must suffer the consequences of being too awesome to eat the same food as the plebs."

Soul settles for a bowl of broccoli cheddar soup and one of the hot dogs that Black Star graciously passes to him. There aren't any buns left, however, so the naked weenie rolls around anxiously on his disposable paper plate. Somehow it reminds him of looking in a mirror.

He is fixing to follow his "leader" back into the throng when he smells the most delicious thing ever. The teenager snaps his head to the right and sees it. A single, luscious blueberry muffin sitting alone in the bread basket like manna sent from Heaven. Soul thinks he hears angels singing dimly in the background as he drifts to the muffin. Blueberry is his favorite, a treat his mom creates for him to help alleviate the anxiety of his worst days.

It's a sign from God that there happens to be one left for him when everything else is gone from the plague of hungry adolescents.

He's had a rough day. This is the universe's gift. Karma and stuff. He did his best to be good and now he's got a great cabin and a blueberry muffin. All is right with the world.

Until his hand closes around skin instead of fluffy muffin-y goodness.

Like suddenly waking up from a fairly good dream, Soul notices his body is awfully close to another. He glances downward and finds eyes the color of the green chrysanthemums his mom plants in the window-box outside his room. Only they don't appear as soft and sweet as the flowers do. The eyes are hard as marbles and are framed by silvery, thin eyebrows hunched angrily together. The ferocity of such a gaze has him reeling for a second before the testosterone kicks in. Why is she mad? She's the muffin stealer!

"Uh, do you mind? Your hand is kind of in the way of my muffin."

Blondie jerks her head back an inch and pouts. "Excuse me? You're the one who's breathing down my neck while I was grabbing my muffin."

Soul suddenly recognizes pigtails from earlier and is startled to see that, upon closer inspection, the tiny girl he had shoved near the infirmary is not ten years old.

Or, at the very least, an extremely early-blooming ten year old. Her boobs are small and perky but they are definitely, very there pressed against his forearm.

Plus, in his experience, ten year old girls don't boldly snatch muffins under the noses of white-haired, red-eyed brooding giants such as himself. He snorts and his grip over her hand, and, most importantly, on the muffin tightens.

"Look here. I've had a rough day, shortstack, and this muffin is gonna make me feel better. So, if you wouldn't mind…please. Let. Go."

Her face puckers at the nickname and he kind of freaks out momentarily because he's pretty sure she just growled at him.

"Oh, gee, how original. I'm short and you noticed! Wow. Good for you. A plus on your ability to use depth perception." Her lips twitch into something that could be called a smile, except it doesn't look happy or non-threatening. In fact, it kind of reminds Soul of the Other Mother from Coraline and he's beginning to wonder what sort of battle he's gotten himself into.

He's about to step back slowly and run for his life when he gets another whiff of the muffin and his resolve hardens.

They stand there, awkwardly near each other, too near in fact for teenagers (where are the counselors and why are they not intervening here?), and coldly stare at the other.

"I'm not letting go of this muffin."

"Yeah, well, neither am I!" She huffs, her furious, heated exhales causing his neck to sweat.

He is about to retort when her face contorts into pure shock and she wordlessly points a finger behind him. Soul whips around, quick as an arrow, and yelps when he feels her clammy hand slip from his grasp. He tries to reach for his little piece of baked goods Heaven but it is too late.

When he turns back around, Pigtails happily takes a huge bite out of her blueberry muffin, not even caring that she shoved half the damn thing in her mouth.

She mumbles something that sounds both like gloating and muffin-y deliciousness and Soul's shoulders slump as he practically snarls at the she-devil.

"That was so not cool! How childish can you be?"

She swallows noisily and chomps a smaller, more size-appropriate nibble, rolling her eyes. "Um, I don't know what you think you were doing, but I'm pretty sure we were both standing here playing Don't Blink over a muffin. I saw a chance and I took it. Not my fault you fell for it." She pauses her chewing momentarily. "Eh, well, actually I guess it was."

Soul isn't sure whether he's about to shout something clever or slap the muffin out of her dainty hand and stomp it into the ground when he hears Black Star holler behind him.

"Duuuuuuuude! Maka! That was so cold!"

'Maka' startles and guiltily brushes crumbs away from her mouth. "Black Star! I never would've expected you'd be late for dinner."

Black Star balances his plate expertly on one hand and throws his other arm around Soul's shoulder. "Yeah, never mind that! Why are you messing with my newest follower, huh? Guy's first day at camp isn't bad enough so you gotta steal a bro's muffin?"

Maka is joined by a couple of girls, two blonde and one dark-haired, from a table nearby that Soul notices is black and gold. "REAPERS" is written in a creative part-steampunk, part-scythe blade calligraphy. The taller of the blondes asks what's going on, a no-nonsense tone and daring blue ice chips directed his and Black Star's way.

"Maka's being kind of bitchy to the new guy, that's all." Black Star answers.

Ice Chips raises her eyebrows unconvinced as Maka squeals her indignation. "Did not! I grabbed the muffin first! He was the one all slumped up against me. Kind of pervy-sounding, isn't it?"

"It was not and you know it! I'm no perv!" Soul throws in, though he doesn't really think he needs to defend himself on that one. If anyone had witnessed him and Pigtails (he refuses to call her by name) staring each other down, they would've seen there was nothing sexual or perverse about it!

Black Star clucks his tongue in disapproval. "For shame, Maks. I wouldn't have suspected you to stoop to something so low."

Maka rolls her eyes and dismissively waves a hand. "Whatever. I won the muffin fair and square and that's all that matters. It's gone and done now."

With that the girls disperse back to their table. Maka and Soul give each other one last sneer before she is pulled into conversation by the dark-haired beauty beside her and Black Star steers his upset partner back to the EATERS table.

When they settle into their seats, Soul viciously tears into his cold hot dog and chews morosely as he dreams of sugary, sweet baked blueberry yumminess. The other boys glance at him and before he can get a word in Black Star tells the story (with a few embellishments, of course). The blue-haired teen leans forward and most of the cabin leans in with him, Soul watching on nervously and Kid seeming disinterested.

"Maka and the Reapers think it's over just because she got to eat the muffin, but it's not. Come on, bros! We gotta back a fellow brother! We can't let the girls already start pushing us around on the first day of camp. So we all know what this means, right?"

The other boys nod and shit-eating grins Soul's brother would admire split their lips.

"Oh god, not again." Kid groans and Soul wonders what in the world is happening.

Whispered in unison in one of the creepiest ways imaginable, like summoning some summer camp demon of reckoning, are the words "Prank War."


Soul is somewhat proud, but not as much as he thought he would be when he sees the three blondes the next morning standing frozen in front of the flagpole, slack-jawed. Maka, with the same expression she used to trick Soul, points in shock and awe at the colorful bras flying in the wind, brighter and more profound than any standard his teenage mind has seen.

Black Star cackles as the girls whirl around to view the EATERS boys shrugging their innocence along with the rest as the counselors question the crowd of campers. Maka and Soul lock eyes with one another and he isn't surprised to see the teeny ash blonde mouth the words "This isn't over," her red face more like natural war paint than an embarrassed blush.

He gives her a charming smile and turns around, letting her have a good look at the blood red lettering Black Star helped him put on the back of most of his t-shirts.

Soul Eater.