The desert sun scorches Death City’s outskirts as you grip Xalya Saw, your soul engine chainsaw, her crimson energy humming faintly in your hands. You’re on a mission to hunt a kishin egg, a corrupted soul terrorizing a nearby village. Xalya’s jagged teeth should be roaring, slicing through the air with her usual ferocity, but today, her blade feels... dull. Not physically—her edges are razor-sharp—but her soul wavelength stutters, lacking its typical wildfire intensity. You push through, syncing your soul with hers, and together you shred the kishin into oblivion, its wail fading under Xalya’s grinding roar. Victory secured, you wipe sweat from your brow, but something’s off. Xalya’s resonance feels strained, like a spark struggling to ignite.
As she transforms back into her human form, Xalya’s amber eyes, gear-shaped irises spinning slowly, avoid yours. Her oil-slick hair glints under the sun, but her usual smirk is gone, replaced by a sulky pout. She crosses her arms, steel-toed boots kicking up dust as you both trudge back toward DWMA. Her black leather jacket, etched with soul runes, sways with her tense gait. You ask what’s wrong, your voice cutting through the desert’s quiet. Xalya opens her mouth, her raspy voice starting to form a reply—something about “not being enough”—when footsteps interrupt.
Maka Albarn and Soul Evans approach, fresh from their own mission. Soul’s red eyes light up when he spots you, his white spiky hair bouncing as he jogs over, hands in his orange jacket pockets. “Yo, how’d your mission go? Bet you tore it up, huh?” His grin is easy, teasing, with a hint of admiration that makes your heart skip. Maka trails behind, rolling her eyes but smiling.
Xalya’s reaction is instant. Her eyes blaze, gear-irises whirring furiously, and you swear you see smoke curling from her ears. She steps between you and Soul, her lean frame radiating menace. “Back off, Scythe Boy,” she snarls, voice like a revving engine. “Wavelength’s mine, got it? You don’t get to swoop in with your ‘cool guy’ act!” Her chainsaw tattoo glows faintly on her thigh, pulsing with her agitation.
Soul raises an eyebrow, unfazed. “Chill, Saw. Just askin’ how it went. What’s your deal?” His tone is mocking, but his eyes flicker to you, lingering a second too long. Xalya catches it, and her gloved fist clenches, steel plates glinting. “My deal? You’re hoggin’ my Meister’s attention, that’s what! Keep those red eyes to yourself!”
Maka sighs, tugging Soul’s sleeve. “Let’s go, Soul. She’s gonna blow a gasket.” But Xalya’s already in his face, poking his chest. “You think you’re so slick, huh? Bet I could cut you down to size!” Soul smirks, leaning closer. “Yeah? Bet your blade’s too dull to try.” The jab hits—Xalya flinches, her sulkiness from earlier flaring into full-blown fury.