Soul strolled down the center of the long, almost barn-like army barracks, eyes flickering side to side in search of an unclaimed bed. After having been processed and issued his gear, the sergeant on duty had given him curt instructions to report to the barracks until 1400 hours. At that time, Captain Albarn would address them – although judging by Sgt. Barrett's tone of voice while delivering the name of his commanding officer, Soul was almost certain that the captain wasn't exactly someone he WANTED to meet. Spotting an open space near the end of the row, he tossed his kit down by the foot of the bed and sat down next to it, quietly observing the flurry of activity around him as the other soldiers unpacked their personal effects. Soul snorted cynically and lay back on the hard mattress. Personal effects were for people with a girl waiting for them back home, or a family who gave a damn. He had neither, and as far as he knew his piano didn't care that he'd been drafted. Tilting his head to the side, he watched two of the new recruits – one slender, pale, and dark-haired, the other a riot of blue hair, rumpled clothing, and a complete lack of volume control – gesticulate wildly as they argued over something. More than likely, that something was the fact that the blue-haired one was currently jumping around on and generally ruining the slender one's previously impeccably-made bed. Soul only caught snatches of their argument through the general clamor of the barracks (something about symmetry from the irate owner of the bed and godhood from the noisy one jumping on it) as he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off his burgeoning headache. Even after spending weeks in much the same conditions during boot camp, he still wasn't used to the extreme discrepancy between the solitude of his apartment and the noise and bustle resulting from living with upwards of fifty people at once.

Maka Albarn paced the floor of the administration building, a heavy leather-bound ledger in hand, as she cursed her father's utter lack of both sense and punctuality with as much vitriol as she could muster. It was an impressive amount. Spirit was supposed to have reported back to the base almost twenty minutes ago to address the new recruits, a task he'd conveniently forgotten about in favor of skirt-chasing at the local bar. Again. And Maka, reluctant though she was to admit any kind of need for her wayward and philandering relation, knew that trying to do so would be significantly harder without him present. Although everyone on the base knew that Spirit was the commanding officer in name only, Maka had exactly zero confidence in the latest pack of recruits to respect any kind of female authority beyond their mothers. Pulling rank was out, since she technically didn't have any rank to pull, and she very seriously doubted that they would obey her without it. Casting one last glance at the clock on the wall and resigning herself to a completely unproductive address, Maka turned on her heel and strode towards the barracks. She was already in a foul mood; God help the unfortunate private who drew her ire.

"Troops, attention!"

Soul obeyed the sharp order with alacrity, as did the rest of the recruits. They were facing each other in two rows of thirty, about six feet apart, as a petite woman with ash-blond hair and a heavy ledger paced briskly down the aisle they had created. She wore a dress uniform much like the one he'd been issued at the start of his training, with only a few exceptions - the knee-length skirt being the most noticeable. Soul also saw that she also wore sturdy combat boots in place of dress shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a neat braid, and she wore a brassy pin in the shape of the division's insignia.

"At ease," she said, slightly less sharply than before. They relaxed into parade rest as she continued pacing.

"My name is Maka Albarn. For the duration of this campaign, you will consider me your commanding officer."

So this is Captain Albarn? Soul thought to himself. I didn't expect her to be… well… a her.

"You may address me as Ms. Albarn, or as ma'am. Nothing else."

No rank?

"My father," she continued, venom dripping from the word, "is technically your commanding officer."

Then why isn't he the one addressing us?

"He is, however, completely incompetent, and leaves it to me to fulfill his duties."

Ah. Not one to mince words, is she.

"I expect that you afford me the same respect as you would a captain, and -"

"Aw, like HELL am I taking orders from some dame playing soldier," cut in one of the men down the row. After a quick glance towards the interrupting voice, Soul inwardly winced as he recognized the man by the metal band across his nose. Giriko had gotten a bad reputation during the weeks of basic training for being lecherous, rough, and sometimes even violent towards anything in a skirt – and even though Albarn carried an air of unquestionable and absolute command about her, Soul knew Giriko would have no qualms about treating her the same way.

The blond had abandoned parade rest for an indolent slouch, leering at their new commanding officer. "Pretty thing like you should find a man, do as you're told and get f-"

In a single fluid motion - almost faster than Soul could track - Albarn had whirled around and sent the man sprawling in the dirt, a resounding thwack punctuating her action as the ledger's spine connected with the crown of his head. Kicking his prostrate limbs to the side, she continued pacing down their ranks as if nothing had happened.

"As I was SAYING," she continued, "I expect that you afford me the same respect as you would a captain, and no less. Yes, I am a woman. No, that does not decrease or otherwise affect my ability to command. Do I make myself abundantly clear?" Her words rang out in the absolute silence of the ranks, any brief surges of dissent having been instantly quashed with her impressive and swift display of force.

"MA'AM, YES MA'AM!" they chorused hoarsely, in fear for the integrity of their skulls.

"Excellent." A smile flashed briefly across her face as she turned to stride away, tossing a final command over her shoulder. "Dismissed."

Soul remained in place for a moment, frozen in awe, before turning to file back into the barracks after his new roommates, tossing a glance at Giriko as he went. The man was still lying on the ground with a sizeable dent in his head from Albarn's ledger, and Soul had absolutely no sympathy for him. If Giriko was going to go around acting like a rat bastard, especially to a lady, he deserved to get his head bashed in for his troubles. Still, Soul made an adamant mental note to never get on his captain's bad side. Ever. Getting the spine of a hardback lodged in his skull was probably not beneficial to his health. Drawn from his musings by the ambient conversation, Soul wasn't surprised to hear that the sole topic of discussion was on Albarn's address – and more specifically, her ledger of doom.

"—did you SEE how fast she hit him? DAMN, she's scary."

"To be fair, Giriko had it coming. You just don't say shit like that to ladies."

"Do you think she carries that book around with her all the time, though?"

"Tch. I'd like to see her try and take him on without it."

Soul didn't have much frame of reference for their commanding officer's combat abilities, but judging by her deadly efficient wielding of that book he had a suspicion that she'd be just as dangerous without it. She didn't seem like the kind of person who'd allow themselves to be defenseless.

"Nah, you don't know Maka like I do. She could kick all of your asses in ten seconds flat, and that's a fact."

Soul halted his progress towards the back of the room, mildly surprised to have his thoughts voiced. Even more surprising, however, was the fact that the speaker had used her first name so casually. Turning around, he found that the speaker was none other than the blue-haired kid, currently sitting crosslegged on one of the beds.

"How would you know that?" The words were out of his mouth before he had the chance to regret his curiosity.

The blue-haired kid shrugged. "I basically grew up with her - she's kinda like my sister. Army brats gotta stick together, right?"

He jumped off the bed and walked over to Soul, the rest of the recruits discussing this latest bit of information behind him. He extended his hand. "Blake Barrett, but you can call me Black*Star. You?"

"Soul Evans," he replied, and shook the proffered hand. He thought about asking his new friend (he supposed) about his somewhat unorthodox appearance, but stopped that train of thought as quickly as it appeared. He was really in no condition to criticize, given his own… well, outward peculiarities was putting it nicely. Instead he asked the second question that had occurred to him after making Black*Star's acquaintance and the one less likely to result in a scene should the other man take offense. "You say you grew up with Albarn, right"

"Yeah, what of it?"

"Not to pry, but what's the deal with her dad? She seemed to hate his guts."

Black*Star snorted. "That's an understatement. Old Man Albarn really got around, his wife took off, and Maka hates him for it, basically. Doesn't help that he's a fucking moron, god only knows how he made captain."

"Ah," Soul replied blankly.

"It's pretty much in name only, though. Everyone around here knows that Maka's the one who gets shit done. She'd be a general in no time if people around here took ladies seriously, and that's a fact."

Soul thought about arguing the point, years of indoctrinated opinions about women rebelling against Black*Star's statement. Then he stopped, thought about it, and concluded that any enemy with sense would retreat in a second if they heard that she was on the battlefield. She could probably take out the entire S.S. with just that damned ledger, he thought to himself, remembering the ease with which she'd taken out Giriko on the parade grounds.

Soul broke from his thoughts as Black*Star leaned in suddenly, looking like he was going to impart some great secret of the universe. "A word to the wise, bro? Don't try to flirt with her. Don't even try, or you will end up with a book embedded so deep in your skull that you'll spit paper for a week. And that's if you live."

"I take it you know this from experience?"

Black*Star's nose wrinkled in distaste, hands waving vaguely as if to shoo away the words. "Secondhand only, minion. Did you miss the part where she's basically my sister?"

"Okay, okay, sorry." Soul held up his hands in surrender. "Do not anger Albarn. Do not flirt with Albarn. Doing so will make your skull her new bookshelf. Got it."

"You'll do just fine, then!" Black*Star crowed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come on, minion, let's get to the mess hall while the food's still edible."

Soul rose to follow him, thinking all the while of his hellion of a commanding officer. He compared her briefly to the fluttery society girls he'd been expected to woo back home, and almost laughed at how mind-bogglingly different she was from any girl he'd ever known. She would probably give his mother a heart attack if they ever met, he thought. Even after just a few minutes in her presence, the steel in her spine had impressed him deeply. She had strength and resolve, and a pride in her own strength that Soul could see in her eyes. Growing up in a high-society family like he did, he'd developed and honed to perfection his ability to read people - and he knew that Albarn was someone he'd follow to hell and back without a single regret, official rank or not. Lucky for him, then, that the widely accepted definition of hell had become Axis-occupied Europe. And lucky for him that he was contractually obligated to follow her there anyway.