This is my entry for Resbang 2015! The theme for this year was 'the road less traveled.' This story grew to be a lot bigger than I anticipated, but I finished it, and I'm so excited to present to you what I've been working on since August!

I do not own Soul Eater, nor do I own the book These Broken Stars, although I highly recommend it.

I have a few people I'd like to thank:

First off, I'd like to thank the mods for organizing all this – honestly, it's the best put-together event I've seen in any fandom, and that's fantastic.

Second, I'd like to thank FullMetalGrigori for editing the first few chapters for me. It was greatly appreciated.

Third, my absolutely amazing artist partner Cojode! She did some fantastic art that you all should go see. The link is in my profile! I'd also like to thank her for giving me the feedback I so desperately needed at times.

And finally, a shoutout to Spotify's The Piano Bar playlist, which I listened to the entire time I was writing this, and everyone who read/liked/etc my dumb ranting/progress posts on Tumblr. It's nice to know I'm not always just shouting into the void.

And now, without further ado …

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These Broken Souls
KarmaHope

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MAKA

Nothing about this room is real.

Maka sighs, closing her eyes against the false reality around her. Had this been a real party, like those she had been to back home, she would have been comfortable. She would have been there among friends and family alike, listening to music playing from the old record player. There would have been home-cooked food and laughter beneath dim yellow lamplight.

But with every breath, the sharp tang of filtered air reminds her that she is not back home. In fact, she's farther from home than she can ever remember being. When she opens her eyes again, it is to the harsh white fluorescence of artificial lighting that highlights the strangers around her all too well.

And it isn't just the strangers, dressed up in their faux-Victorian finery, that are false. Hover-trays dart among the elite, delivering neon-colored drinks to waiting hands. Perfect. Infallible. Fake. Across the grandiose ballroom, the hologram of a string quartet begins its set for the third time, and Maka knows that it will be exactly the same as the other two times they've 'played.'

Perfect. Infallible. Fake.

What she wouldn't give to be on the ground with her platoon at this moment, laughing with her squad in boots covered with mud. Instead, she's stuck at this party that appears to be something straight from a historical novel. Her only saving grace is that she's allowed to wear her dress uniform instead of being forced into one of the ridiculous dresses the other ladies wear, even if the uniform cap is stiff and uncomfortable.

But for all the illusion of Victorian grandeur, there is no hiding the viewports in the side of the Shibusen. Beyond the transparent space-age material, the stars stretch into lines of white, etched into the blackness of dimensional hyperspace. For a moment, Maka wonders idly if the Shibusen would appear just as stretched-out to an outside observer, and then laughs quietly.

It's when she leans back against the bookshelves behind her that she realizes there is one thing here that's as real as she is – the books. Her hand falls back to caress the spines, and she revels in the feel of the leather bindings against her fingers as she pulls one from its place. She loves books. Books are what allowed her to work her way up from the bottom.

And had landed her here, the part of her brain she doesn't like to listen to reminds her. She barely keeps herself from rolling her eyes. One would think that the paparazzi would have had their fill of her by now – would have taken her picture several billion times and been satisfied. But she knows that's hardly the case, and plasters a smile onto her face that's as fake as the rest of her surroundings.

The other fakes are never able to tell the difference.

She's not the most interesting person that any of them will ever meet, and yet there's something fascinating about a rags-to-riches story that absolutely ensnares audiences. She nearly snorts at the thought. Her 'riches' amount to a couple medals pinned to her chest. She wears them with pride, sure, but they aren't all that the media cracks them up to be.

She may have saved a few civilians and some members of her platoon, but a whole lot more people had ended up dead. What others call heroics, she calls a tragic debacle – but no one ever asks her for her opinion.

Scanning the crowd with a causal eye, she seriously considers packing it in and going back to her quarters. She's done her time; she's smiled for the cameras and interacted with creepy men and tittering women who would never glance at her twice otherwise. But when her gaze falls upon a man in a worn waistcoat and a tattered top hat, her pulse kicks up a beat. This man doesn't belong here – not among the rest of the elite who have hardly a stitch out of place.

Clenching her hands tighter around the book she still carries, she longs for the feel of her weapon – her scythe – in her hands instead. She usually never goes anywhere without it, but she had not been permitted to carry it with her to the party. She understands why, of course, but it's a silly rule, especially in instances like these.

She takes a step forward, hoping to catch the man and ask him why he's here, but is instead swept up in a whirlwind of handsy men and fangirls. She barely manages to make it through the encounter with her dignity intact. She turns towards where she last saw the man, but she's lost him.

"Major Albarn!" a photographer calls, "A picture, please!" She tries to excuse herself only to be ambushed by yet another flashbulb from yet another photographer. By the time she manages to escape, she feels the telltale signs of an oncoming headache.

Biting her bottom lip, she scans the room once again, this time less casually than before. She's at a bit of a disadvantage – she's not very tall, and her vision swims with afterimages left by the flashbulbs. She frantically tries to remember if the man could have been holding a weapon underneath his ill-fitting suit.

In her sweep of the room, her eyes catch upon a man, but not the one she is looking for. He sits by himself at one of the booths, dressed in a pinstripe suit over a mahogany shirt. His hair, which is shockingly as white as snow, is gelled back sleekly.

There's something about the way he carries himself that tells her he is unmistakably one of them – one of the fakes – and yet at the same time he is somehow above them, completely and utterly untouchable in his perfection. She doesn't recognize him, and yet she feels that she should. He plays idly with the condensation left on the tabletop with a single finger, and Maka forces herself to look away.

Almost immediately, her eyes fall upon the man she's looking for – the one with the strange eye and the shaggy hair and the ratty suit.

And he's unmistakably making his way toward the man sitting at the booth.

Maka pushes through the crowd, but for once her diminutive size is a hindrance rather than an asset, and even the muscles she developed over years at the Academy and out in the field do nothing to part the masses of people any faster. By the time she pushes free of the crowd, the strange man has his hand around the white-haired man's wrist. He's saying something, and the white-haired man shakes his head. Sadly? Maka can't tell.

Her hand drifts toward where the handle of scythe would be, and finds nothing. But even as she does so, she sees one of the properly-suited guests grab the intruder's shoulder and yank him backwards. He is caught by a pair of guards who begin shoving him toward the door. Maka winces at the display of unnecessary force.

The man rips himself from the guards' arms and turns back to the white-haired man, who Maka decides to call Pinstripes for lack of a better option. "Please!" he shouts, and it's audible over the sudden silence. "The prison conditions in the colonies are deplorable! The inmates – they keep –"

He's cut off by a vicious blow to the stomach from one of the guards. Maka runs forward, intent on doing something – anything – but before she can, Pinstripes stands swiftly. His presence is commanding, and it draws the attention of the crowd.

"Enough," he snaps, his tone that of a man who is used to being listened to. "Captain, Lieutenant. What are you doing?"

Maka thinks this is what impresses her more than anything else.

She straightens her cap – knocked askew by the crowd – and steps forward, her figure strikingly frail-looking when compared to the four men currently locked in a silent combat of wills. It takes a moment for the soldiers notice her. When they do, they see first her dress blues, then her stars and bars, and then finally her face. She clenches her jaw against the irritation she feels when surprise and doubt flash across their expressions.

They can doubt her all they like, but the fact is her medals were earned in combat, not behind a desk. They have never seen bloodshed in their lives, and she has seen too much of it. And yet, she finds it oh-so-satisfying when they reluctantly come to attention. They're both older than she is, and male, and she knows they hate the fact that they have to salute her, an eighteen-year-old female.

One of the men still holds the intruder, who is petrified.

Maka clears her throat, making sure her voice is even when she says, "If there's a problem, I can show this man out." Without more violence goes unspoken.

She barely controls a cringe, because everyone can hear how her voice sounds – high and feminine. She hears laughter behind her.

"I doubt he wants the book, Miss Albarn," one of the guards says. Maka looks down at the book she still holds in her hands, ignoring the slight against her rank. Again, she bites back a retort.

"Actually," the commanding voice breaks in once more, "I think he was about to go. And you were too, I believe."

The men are shocked by Pinstripes's dismissal, and Maka takes the opportunity to lead the intruder away from them and out the door. As soon as they're out of sight, she turns to him and meets his mismatched eyes. "Are you okay?" she asks. "Why did you do that? You looked like you were going to kill someone!"

He opens his mouth as if to respond, but instead shakes his head and shuffles away. Maka watches until he rounds a corner and is gone. Whoever he was, he must have had a lot riding on his failed encounter with Pinstripes.

Maka pushes him out of her thoughts as she returns to the ballroom. In the mere seconds she has been gone, the altercation has already been forgotten and the party guests are back to their schmoozing and dancing. Typical. She sighs.

When she looks up, she catches Pinstripes's eyes on her. She meets his gaze, and the corner of his mouth twitches into a wry smile. He gestures minutely to the seat across the table from him, and Maka's heart leaps into her throat.

No, she tells herself as she steps forward, it's not because he's attractive – although he certainly is. It's not because of his crooked smile or the way he handled the situation minutes earlier. It's simply because she is unused to such attention from such men. He is obviously an important figure, to boss the guards around like that. She doesn't want to look bad in front of him.

But is she supposed to be Maka, the eighteen-year-old girl right now? Or is she supposed to be Major Albarn?

"Major Albarn." Pinstripes answers the question for her. "Thank you for your assistance with the issue."

His voice now carries a lazy drawl with it, and Maka finds herself fighting a blush. "I believe you were the one who had it well under control, sir," she says as she takes a tentative seat across the booth from him, removing her cap and setting it beside her.

"But having the Major Albarn to back me up didn't hurt at all," the man says, leaning back in his seat. A sudden look of uncertainty crosses his face. "Can I – uhm – buy you a drink?"

Maka hides a smile as he stumbles. She had assumed he was the same as the others – namely, fake – but his nervousness brings some reality back into the white hair and the pinstripe suit. She does smile, but it's the controlled one she's gotten good at. The one she shows to the press. "I'll allow it," she says, "if you tell me your name."

His eyes widen in either surprise or shock, Maka can't tell which. Her heart misses a beat when she realizes his eyes are as red as the shirt he wears; a deep sanguine that both scares her and pulls her in. It's almost like she can see straight through to his – "Soul."

"Excuse me?"

"Soul," he says for what must have been the second time. "It's my name."

"Oh, right," Maka says. "I'm sorry." There's something about the name that triggers her memory, although what exactly it triggers, she cannot figure out. She doesn't miss the fact that he neglects to give her a last name, but she disregards it. Instead, she looks up at him evenly. "Now, how about that drink?"