How about some lil’ baby sulky preteen SoMa feels?
Like Soul insisting on taking the train to Nevada BY HIMSELF because he’s 11, he can do it, it’s fine. No, Wes, I don’t need you to come with me. I’m FINE. I’m a WEAPON. Weapons have to BE COOL. I mean I don’t actually know what weapons have to be because I have literally no idea what this weapon-meister business is actually about and I’m actually completely terrified that my life is irrevocably shifting forever, but you know what? It’s better than living in the shadow of the Evans name like a loser. I’m going by myself.
Or Maka, who’s just discovered her father behind the curtains in a DWMA banquet hall with another woman AGAIN and this time she’s telling Mama, that’s it. I’m sorry, Mama, I know you’re sad. I didn’t mean to make you cry! What are you doing, Mama? Don’t go! I don’t want you to go! If you’re going, I’m going with you!
Soul stuffing his dress shirts and slacks deep down into the bottom drawer of his battered dorm dresser and looking through the envelope of money his mom slipped him before he left. He’s got a whole new wardrobe to buy before orientation.
Maka arguing with Sid that if Black Star gets to start in EAT, she should definitely get to start in EAT. You ALWAYS show him preferential treatment because you trained him! I’m a Death Child too, you know! I can do anything stupid BUTT STAR can do!
Soul schooling his face into a perfect mask by practicing in front of the mirror over and over. You’re not scared. You’re not nervous. Other kids here have weird hair and weird complexions and weird quirks too. Look bored. Look cool. Don’t crack. Wes says people look for weakness. Let’s practice smartass replies.
Maka stomping through the hall early in the semester, fuming about her father embarrassing her in front of the EAT upperclassmen, and bumping into some scowling slouching weapon with overgelled hair and a headband. “Excuse you, Pigtails,” he yells after her. She whirls back on him, ready to vent her spleen on this snarky know-nothing newbie with his sharp-toothed sneer. She’s going to do it, but then she catches his nametag.
"Soul Eater?" she snorts. "Really? Could you have picked a more obvious stage name?"
He bristles. “The f-fuck do you know, nerd?”
She glances at his tag again and this time her interest catches. “You’re a Demon Scythe?”
Just like that, she’s all smiles. “Can you transform yet?”
He blinks, taken aback. “Uh. I’ve only done full form once so far, but yeah.”
Maka holds out her hand. “Hi, Soul Eater. Sorry I ran into you. I’m Maka.”
He takes her hand, still wary.
"You want to come to an advanced class with me? All the cool kids are in it, so you should be there," she says.
"You think I’m cool?" he scoffs.
"Demon scythes are very cool," she says, still smiling. "And very rare. There’s only one other in the whole school, and we could totally take him down. If you wanted. Do you have a partner yet?"
Soul shoves his hands in his pockets. “No.”
Maka bounces on her heels and toes. “Do you want one?”
He’s quiet for a long minute, working overtime to make sure his elation at being wanted doesn’t show on his face.
"Sure," he says. "I guess."