A Maka for All Seasons

By DarkAngel

Disclaimer: Soul Eater isn't mine. It's Ohkubo Atsushi-sensei's. Keep up the great work, sensei!

Warning: There are spoilers for Episode 51. Don't read it if you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled.

[17. Blood]

Ever since that incident with Asura, things have been increasingly difficult for Maka.

She had always been glad she was born as a Meister and not a Weapon. She'd thought this even as a young girl before she knew about where her Papa went on those nights, or why he appeared panicked and flushed sometimes when it was his turn to pick her up from school. Though she knew her father's blood lay sleeping in her veins, more than anything, she wanted to be just like her mother. That feeling had intensified into resolve once she'd been old enough to understand just what it was her Papa had done, and its result.

Her mother had told her that she had the soul of a Meister, and Shibusen's pre-entrance tests had confirmed what she'd said.

So why now?

Even now she can't remember it all that clearly. It probably would have gone undetected by everyone if her blood hadn't screamed out for her survival. And that unfortunate incident in front of the others yesterday. She wonders if this was how Soul felt when he first discovered he could transform.

Now she isn't sure how to proceed. Whatever had happened in that fight with Asura, it had awakened the weapon sleeping inside her. They had run tests. From what Stein could hypothesize, her transformations were unstable – he had likened it to the loosening of a pushpin from a corkboard: now she'd transformed, it was hard to say what would become of her. It was, Stein had said in the end, up to her.

All she knows now is that she's transformed twice, and only time will tell whether her father's blood will settle once more, or whether, like the pushpin, she'll be unable to settle into her old niche the way she used to. (She tries not to think about it. She's read about how young weapons transform against their will, especially if physical or mental strain gets the better of them.)

Now she sits at home, staring blankly at the TV. She isn't sure that there's anything good on; she doesn't care. She just wants the noise there.

Her Papa's initial shock had given way to excitement: fate had presented him with another chance to bond with his daughter. He could teach her about transformation, about how to defend herself as a weapon (as though she hadn't been defending herself for years. As though he thought her newfound abilities were permanent). She didn't have the heart to tell him that she didn't want any of it. More than anything, she wanted to go back to being Maka, just Maka.

And then there was her partner. He would never say or even suggest it, but over the years she's learned to read him as well as any of her books. She knows that her transformation upset him. Just as with that time he had witnessed the fight with Justin, she knows that he's feeling useless: she can transform now, so is there any need for him to be around? She wants to reassure him, but she can't. Not when she doesn't even know how to deal with this whole… issue herself.

She clutches the afghan she's brought from her room tighter, fingers clenching into the thick fabric. Help. She needs help. She doesn't know how to deal with this.

Her eyes fall to the pen and notebook she's brought with her. She thought that writing poetry would help, but she isn't all that sure anymore. But there is someone she can still turn to.

Reaching out a hand, she uncaps the pen, burrowing deeper into her blanket cocoon as she looks at the lines of the blank page on her lap. And she begins to write.

Dear Mama…