(Author's Note: This is more of a filler chapter, just to set a base as to where all our favorite Team Maka ducklings are. Some of the poor dears... being the author of this story makes me feel prematurely bad for them... Anyways! On with the show...)

Chapter Two: Team Maka: Facing the Fanatics

Maka Alburn: half weapon, mostly meister, all badass. Before this moment, however, it had never occurred to her just how many people knew about her. Obviously all her friends: Soul, Tsubaki, Black*Star, Kid and the Thompson sisters. Her papa, the good-for-nothing, and Lord Death. Everyone at the Death City DWMA knew about her, knew that she'd defeated the kishin Asura 'all by herself' – though she knew in her heart that she never could have done it without her friends. She had never considered that perhaps more people, outside of who she knew, might actually know what she'd done.

When she got off the plane, she got her first taste of fame.

Her trademark coat seemed cumbersome as it was tugged at. She was shouting, attempting to get through to at least begin assessing the situation, but getting through the crowd almost felt more difficult than fighting Crona, though the poor guy was a lot less grabby with his hands – and a hell of a lot more careful where his hands made contact. People she didn't even know, most of them her age, were attempting to get as close to her as possible in a large, mad flash-mob scenario that Maka found herself instantly suffocating in. This was when she decided that she did not like fame, not one bit.

"Hey, back off!"

The crowd suddenly parted, Maka found her feet being set back on the ground as she breathed a sigh of relief. Foolishly, she expected to see Soul standing there when she looked back up from adjusting her clothing, but experienced a brief pang of disappointment when she realized that she wouldn't be seeing Soul for a whole year. A whole year. Maka was a fan of getting stronger, but it didn't seem fair that she had to do it without Soul or vice versa.

A boy approached, loping towards her with long legs in a lazy swagger that instantly made her irritation rise. His face was one that demanded worship, and by the look of the females in the crowd it usually received what it wanted. He was attractive, she supposed, but one glimpse at his soul found him more than lacking.

But he was a weapon. Her weapon?

"Rosario," he stuck out his hand, a slight Spanish accent hanging on the tip of his tongue, "I'll be your weapon for the next year. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Alburn."

Taking her hand, he kissed in while keeping eye contact with her in what she supposed was supposed to be a sultry look. A frown plastered onto her face, she took her hand back and attempted to put her best foot forward. It wasn't this guy's fault he was a schmuck, right? Being a schmuck could be a hereditary trait.

"It's nice to meet you." Not. You remind me of my papa.

"If you'll follow me, we'll go get your bag. There's a car waiting outside to take us to the DWMAE."

Maka nodded curtly and followed him to baggage claim. She quickly spotted her bag, a pink and flowery thing that Papa had bought for her – the only luggage she owned, and fondly remembered how much teasing Soul had given her for that bag. Soul would be on his way to his own temporary home: Russia, if she remembered correctly. Smirking, she pulled her bag off the conveyor belt and thought wryly to herself: Things are going to get a lot cooler, Soul.

"Is that it?" Rosario asked politely. Another glanced behind her showed he was standing in a very polite manner, but she didn't like the way he held himself. Like a predator playing with its prey.

If there was one thing Maka Alburn would not be, it was someone else's prey.

"This is it."

Thousands of miles away from the rainy weather of Europe, Maka Alburn's very own weapon, best friend, and – let's face it – possible crush was waking up on his own plane. Soul Evans wasn't really a quiet guy by nature, but he wasn't a nice guy either, and without his meister to keep him in check he was decidedly grumpy. Already he was missing the blond girl a lot more than he'd originally thought he would.

"This is not cool, Soul." He growled to himself while he unbuckled his seat belt and swung his carry-on bag onto his back, "It's only been a few hours, not even a day! It's not like I'll never see her again."

A second later, when he stepped off of the plane and into the tunnel that connected the flying vessel to the airport, he found that despite what he'd just been doing, he was actually very cool. Or, perhaps, cold was a better word. He sped up, chanting "fuck" under his breath like a mantra. It didn't warm him up but it did make him feel considerably better. He was regretting ignoring Maka's last advice to him – though he didn't often listen anyways – to wear something warmer than his usual outfit.

When the warm air from the airport hit him he sighed in relief, closing his eyes and leaning his head back to take a moment to himself before glancing around through slitted eyes. The waiting area was empty – completely devoid of any person that may or may not have been his new meister. He awkwardly stood there, wondering what exactly a scythe was supposed to do all alone in Russia. People were giving him odd looks due to his albino coloring, though most of them were as pale as he was. He just wanted to go home.

A glance back proved that getting back onto the plane and begging them to take him to Maka was not an option – the doors had already closed. Now he was losing his cool, something that he didn't do often, and he could feel a singular drop of sweat dripped down his neck. He began walking towards baggage claim, the only thing he had thought of that would be productive in getting him where he needed to be. After he got his baggage – if he still hadn't by some act of mercy found his meister in this freezing hellhole – he would hail a cab and see if he could find his own way to the DWMAR.

If this had been Maka coming to pick him up, she would be here. If it had been Maka, she'd be taking him home. If it was Maka… he shook his head violently, taking his bag and trudging towards the door to the cab stand.

"God, this is going to be the longest year of my life…" he groaned.

Tsubaki fanned herself with her hand, her mind already off of the horrendous plane ride and onto Black*Star. Was he eating enough? Did he like his new weapon? Had he packed enough clean underwear? She knew that she could take care of herself, but her meister was surprisingly forgetful when it came to anything other than working out or getting stronger. It was the only reason she had agreed to do this exchange program and now all it was causing her was worry – and not only for Black*Star. The meister that was going to be wielding her hadn't even bothered to come pick her up at the airport. Glancing at the driver sitting next to her, emotionless navigating their way through the African desert, she wondered what kind of person he – or she – would be.

Would he be as loud and confident as Black*Star? Or would he be determined and assertive like Maka?

They finally pulled up to a series of African mud huts. A lot of dark-skinned people stood, staring at the car as it drove up. None of them looked like they were very pleased with her arrival; except for one boy who walked forwards as she opened the door. Unlike the others, this boy's hair was pure white and made his skin seem even darker than the rest's. Silently he reached into the trunk and pulled out her bag, throwing an arm around her shoulder and guiding her through the maze of huts and stern glares.

Already Tsubaki was sweating, and the quick movement made her huff with exertion. She was confused and tempted to just run to the car and ask the man to take her back to the airport so she could fly to Black*Star. What if he was facing the same sort of outsider treatment she was? He never acted appropriately to confrontation, so it was likely he had already been in numerous fights without her.

Tsubaki was so busy worrying about her blue-haired friend she barely noticed that she'd been pulled inside one of the huts until the cool air hit her skin.

"I am very sorry about your reception," A voice said in the darkness. She could only assume it was the boy who had led her here. "We are often wary of outsiders, but soon you shall see that we are quite loyal when we accept you as our own."

A sound like the clicking of a lamp reached her ears and suddenly the small room was bathed in light. It revealed that the hut was surprisingly well furnished: two cots, a desk set up with a chair on either side so two people could comfortably share a workspace. There was a slab of wood inserted in the floor towards the rear that looked suspiciously like a trapdoor, but Tsubaki stayed silent. The boy let her survey her surroundings, turning slightly to look around. She was shocked that, in comparing it with her old home, it was almost better than where she had lived. There were less holes in the roof. The beds looked comfier and less used – and not stained at all! Not to mention it was much cooler than the outside temperature (though that wasn't different but Black*Star and her apartment was cold to a fault).

"I apologize. I could not get you your own abode because homes at the academy are very sparse," He apologized, bowing slightly as he did so. Tsubaki blushed, a tad flustered at his polite manners. "I promise I shall not make unwanted advances."

She nodded, slightly shocked. "Thank you, for your hospitality." Bowing herself, she gave her name. "I'm Tsubaki, it's nice to meet you."

"Snow," he smiled, revealing teeth as white as his hair, "I am pleased to have met you, Tsubaki. I apologize that I was not able to meet you at the airport. I had a previous engagement that I was unable to detach myself from."

Tsubaki smiled and shook her head, "It was fine. Though I wasn't expecting it to be so hot, I'm sure I'll adjust."

Snow smiled back, nodding. "We, as a species, are marvelous at adapting to different situations.

Very true, Tsubaki thought, already knowing she was going to like being Snow's weapon. Very true…

Death the Kid paced around his bedroom. He took precisely eight steps one way, then precisely eight steps back the way he'd come. The toilet paper had been folded to an exact triangle. His bed had been made so that the blanket hung exactly eight inches about the ground. The kitchen was perfectly immaculate, each speck of dust on every surface obliterated, and it was silent. Silence was not something Kid often experienced, yet somehow the silence just made him even more anxious. His symmetry-centered OCD was buzzing in his ear like an annoying insect, but there was nothing to do.

Liz and Patty.

Liz and Patty were the center of his anxiety. He had tried over and over to explain to his father that there was no need for his twin pistols to go on exchange like the rest of his friends, but Lord Death hadn't listened. "A good shinigami gets used to many different weapons, Kid!" his father had giggled, "Liz and Patty deserve a little break."

"A little break?" he muttered to himself, simmering quietly. "A little break from what, exactly? I've given them a perfectly good home." He stomped his foot to punctuate his point. One of his pictures tilted imperceptibly out of the corner of his eye.

Kid froze, clenching and unclenching his fist in fury as he stared at that corner. The room wasn't symmetrical anymore and his new weapons would be here any moment! The room was unpresentable! He couldn't allow someone to come in at a time like this, it would make the wrong first impression! He made a small groaning noise in the back of his throat and lept towards the painting, carefully measuring it. It wasn't perfect! It wasn't perfect!

Hands shaking! Lungs constricting! Nose gushing! Lights… growing dim!

"Kid! I've brought your- oh!"

"Father!" Kid moaned, his face pressed into the floor. "The painting… it's not symmetrical!"

There was silence from the room, but Kid couldn't stop obsessing about that stupid painting. Suddenly, two pairs of hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him to his feet. Kid saw the painting again and more blood dripped through his nose. No, no, no, no!

"Are you our new meister?" a voice rumbled.

Death the Kid had never been scared of death, considering he was a shinigami-in-training he'd never had to; it was a particularly difficult endeavor to simply subdue him. However, in that moment as he stared upwards, he prayed to his father for a merciful parting from this world.

"Nikolai," one of the giants pointed to himself and spoke in a deep baritone, "This is my brother Bastian. Ve are to be your veapons v'or the next year."

Kid blinked up at the in shock. He had never been short, exactly. Black*Star and Soul had been around the same height as he. These two, however, had probably been fed baby bottles full of steroids or something, because even his father had to tilt his head back to look at them – and that was saying something. Gulping, Kid forgot all about the painting for a moment while he went through a list of nearby funeral parlors and mentally planned his funeral.

"How tall are you?"

"Eight feet, eight inches," the boy called Bastian answered, "Our mother v'as Russain, our father v'as German. Both very large families."

"In many vays!" Nikolai nudged Kid, nearly sending him through the wall, and made vulgar motion suggesting female anatomy.

Kid wasn't sure whether to be appalled… or eager to see what the year would bring.

But that didn't mean he forgot the painting.

"Noooo!"