Final Deathtination.

When Soul found out that the only chop shop in Death City was named after another morbid pun, he wanted to curse at somebody. After he visited said chop shop for the first time, he wanted to sing its praises to the heavens. It had everything from junk ball bearings and tires to brand spankin' new bikes ready to tear up the pavement. If his beloved orange beauty needed a quick check up or a much-delayed upgrade, Final Deathtination wasn't the final destination. It was the only destination.

What usually would be the highlight of his week was going to be a tedious and excruciating pain because this time, Maka was coming with him.

Soul wasn't normally embarrassed to be seen with Maka in public, but Final Deathtination was staffed and patronized by some of the toughest characters the Deathscythe had ever seen. She was bad ass with a scythe in her hand and a kishin in her sights, but in a bike shop surrounded by bikes and enormous, grease-stained gearheads? Maka was going to stick out, and Soul's cool-guy persona would be majorly compromised.

The things I do for love, he thought as he caressed the handlebars of his motorcycle. Soul saved for months to get his bike a new upgrade, something to spruce the old girl up, but then he shredded her front tire after returning from a mission. As he rolled it down the sidewalk, the bike's body jerked unsteadily. He really needed to replace that goddamn tire, but he couldn't do that AND give his baby the TLC she deserved. So he called in a favor.

Maka rode on his motorcycle almost as often as he did. She never drove it exactly, but if she wanted to ride around in it all the time, Soul reasoned, she had to contribute to its upkeep. He expected it to be a tough sell, but his meister was surprisingly cool with the idea. But on one condition: Maka was going to come with Soul and help him pick out the upgrade.

The bike shop's storefront looked like bomb exploded inside. Scorch marks crawled out of the door frame and beyond the window panes, and the iron letters spelling "Final Deathtination" were rusted red and mired with soot. The smell of diesel and gasoline-noxious to most, intoxicating to Soul-emanated from the dilapidated building's open garage.

"What a dump," Maka said. Soul sharply smacked the sleeve of his meister's leather jacket.

"Don't say that," he said in a hushed tone. "Actually, don't say anything. These guys don't really like to talk shop with people who don't know their stuff."

"I can talk shop," Maka protested. "I read everything I could about motorcycles before coming here." Resolute, she added "I'm going to talk shop."

"You've never driven a motorcycle in your life. You can't talk shop." Maka huffed and stuck her hands in her jacket pockets.

Soul ignored the store's front door and rolled his bike straight to the garage, where he would undoubtedly find the only guy he trusted to take a look at his baby.

The chief of the chop shop of Buccaneer, a demon wrench who left his weapon career behind in order to follow his passion for mechanics and motorcycles. He had the silhouette of a grizzly and an attitude to match. His hair was cut into a short mohawk, and a long braid trailed down his back like a horses tail. Since becoming a Deathtination customer, Soul learned that not only was this man was eternally grumpy, but he hated all of his customers on principle.

" 'sup Buck," Soul said. He positioned himself in front of Maka-motorcycle stuff was more his area of expertise than hers, after all.

The large man stopped shining his own bike and scowled. "Don't be familiar," he said gruffly. Buccaneer's eyes briefly darted towards Maka before landing on Soul's orange motorcycle. "Why did you bring that piece of shit in here?" Buccaneer's nostrils flared like an irritated bull.

Soul remained blank and aloof. "Front tire's out. I was hoping you could fix her up with a new one. I'm also looking into adding a new upgrade. She just needs something new."

Buccaneer's gravely voice boomed as he laughed. "What that thing needs is to go through a trash compactor. Now this," Buccaneer made a sweeping motion with his arm, "This is a real bike."

Soul didn't like having his baby insulted, but he had to admit that Buccaneer's bike was a work of art. It gleamed in the dusty garage, a like diamond nestled in a pile of rubble.

Maka poked her ahead over Soul's shoulder. "Is that the Vyrus 987? With a Ducati engine?"

A light blush pinked the mechanic's cheeks. "Uh yeah, just got it last week. It's custom."

"I can tell. No way are those factory specs," Maka said. Soul's mouth of hung open as Maka strode forward and began to actually touch Buccaneer's bike. Never in the million visits Soul made to this place had he ever been allowed to come within five feet of Buccaneer's prized bikes. Maka was kneeling now, sliding her pale hand over the bike's seat and poking at the wheels.

"Are those hubcaps...diamond tipped?" Maka asked.

Buccaneer scratched his cheek shyly and beamed. "Uh, yeah they are."

"Really?" Maka leapt up, spun around towards her partner. "Soul! Do you want me to get your bike some of these?"

Soul wrinkled his nose. "It ain't my style." Maka pouted and continued to examine the bike.

Buccaneer casually strode away from Maka. He loomed over the demon scythe. "Who's that?" Buccaneer murmured. "She's way too cute to be hanging around you."

"She's my meister," Soul answered.

Buccaneer took one long look at Soul before turning back to Maka. She laughed lightly, closing her large green eyes and slightly tilting her head as she smiled. Her pigtails brushed her shoulders as they swayed to the right.

The intimidating mechanic looked stricken, and a growl brewed in his chestt. An enraged howl burst from his throat, and Buccaneer's enormous paw-like fist transformed into the head of a wrench. He delivered a swift uppercut to Soul's jaw, knocking the weapon off his feet and propelling him against the room. Soul collided with the wall with a harsh smack and sunk to the ground. The mechanic changed his fist back to normal and stalked towards the door.

Reeling from Buccaneer's sucker punch, Soul couldn't help but sound a little winded and wimpy. "What the hell you do that for?"

Buccaneer didn't stop or turn around to answer. "Because life isn't fair!" He pushed the door to the shop open and slammed it behind him.

Soul struggled to his feet and head his head. He was the Last Deathscythe, but man was he going to feel that punch for days. He looked sheepishly around the room, and spotted Maka mounting the Vyrus 987. Her creamy legs were stark against the bike's cool black exterior, and her ass was pert and snug on the bike's seat. She gripped the handlebars experimentally before finally noticing Soul.

"I told you I could talk shop," she said triumphantly.

A small trail of blood dribbled out of Soul's nose, so he plugged his nostrils with his hand. "No kidding."