word dump

The ODM is no stranger to you. You spent three years studying its mechanics and another year repairing models and offering maintenance before you left. But it’s only now that you realise that you’ve barely seen the extent of its capabilities beyond what’s described in a textbook.

The Garrison and Military Police have no use for such elaborate moves; the Survey Corps entrusts their entire survival on them.

“You’ll catch flies with the way you’re gaping,” Captain Levi says beside you, eyes fixed on the young soldiers. Your mouth snaps shut, cheeks warm as you force your focus back to the task at hand. The Captain barks at a passing recruit, chastising their poor form and whilst his cold glare scans the soldiers for any further faults, your eyes are looking for something else.

A traitor.

It unsettles you to think that the mole could be disguised as one of the fresh transfers before you, most of whom appear to be no older than sixteen. But you can’t deny the logic in both Erwin and Hange’s suspicions— if there was any time someone would infiltrate the Survey Corps, it would be now. Slipping in amongst the sea of new faces would be all too convenient, the perfect cover.

You’re aware that your current efforts are likely a fruitless endeavour. After all, if Erwin is right and the enemy did leverage the fall of Wall Maria to sneak inside the Walls, then trying to single them out now would be a near-impossible task. You don’t doubt that after years of remaining undercover that whoever it is has learnt to cover their trail, to erase any trace of anything incriminating that would draw suspicion to them.

But the search has to begin somewhere, and so, with Erwin’s permission, you had sifted through the files of the 104th transfers, startled to find eight of the soldiers from the Top Ten were willing to join the least favourable of all three regiments. Erwin himself had expressed his own surprise at the numbers, but was ultimately grateful that he now had several promising cadets within his ranks.

A flash of red streaks boldly across the greenery, blades dipping in and out of foam napes with ease, elegance and agility. Mikasa Ackerman, you recall instantly — Number One in her class.

Number Two trails closely behind her, followed by Number Three: Reiner Braun and Bertholdt Hoover. Their skill was evident in the clean, fluid motion they moved with and although their talent was just as admirable, your stare gravitates towards a particular cadet of interest further back. Whilst he hadn’t managed a position within the Top Ten, his name is remembered just as quick: Number Twelve, Armin Arlert.

Lagging behind the main formation, his movements are strained, awkward— a stark contrast against the talent of his peers. It’s something the Captain catches onto immediately and shouts at him for, doing nothing to ease the shakiness in his manoeuvre. But whilst it’s easy to blame his clumsiness for a lack of skill, your eyes lock onto his wires and you realise: something’s wrong.

There’s a delay. Between pulling the trigger and the wires snapping taut, there’s too long of a gap. It’s subtle, but it’s an anomaly nonetheless — one that’s the obvious cause behind Armin’s struggle.

But before you can share your observations, the Captain shoots out another reproving comment and that’s all the poor cadet needs for his focus to crumble before he’s sharply flung off course. He tears straight towards the ground, narrowly missing one of his comrades as he tucks his body into a hasty, protective ball.

He rolls across the grass in a crumpled mess, a hand pressed to his head as he sits up, disoriented. Swearing under his breath, the Captain pushes past you, ready to tear into the recruit when you find your feet and move in front of him, a new obstruction in his path.

“Captain, wait— pull him aside.”

“What?” he snaps, impatience flaring. You block him again as he tries to move around you.

“It’s his gear,” you quickly explain, “There’s something wrong with his wires.”

Thankfully, the Captain pauses, temper temporarily capped as he glances between you and the young Scout. He opens his mouth to say something when suddenly, swinging into view, another soldier appears.

Number Five, the titan shifter himself: Eren Jaeger.

“Armin! Are you alright?”

Stumbling into his landing, Eren guides Armin to rest against a tree, words of concern and reassurance exchanged between the two. The worry on Eren’s face doesn’t last long, however— someone approaches them and he abruptly stiffens, a furious glint now in his eyes as he sizes himself up.

“Oi Jean! What the hell is your problem?”

“Don’t blame me for this, I was following the course!” Number Six - Jean Kirstein - shoots back, “Armin’s the one who nearly slammed into me!”

“Oh yeah?” Eren taunts, “Afraid if he crashed into you, you’d lose more braincells than you already have? Would you rather he hit you like this?”

Two hands shove at Jean’s shoulders, sending him backwards as he loses his balance. Armin scrambles to his feet, tries to pull Eren away as Jean, riled by his goading, storms towards him and pushes back. This time, there’s no stopping the Captain from moving past you.

“Arlert! Front and centre!”

All three Scouts flinch as the Captain stalks towards them, expressions terrified at the obvious anger twisting his expression. Armin nearly trips as he rushes to stand before his superior, clearly expecting some sort of discipline.

Except, the Captain gives him nothing of the sort as he walks past, eyes sweeping over him briefly before focusing on the two squabbling recruits now frozen in position. Instead, it’s you that approaches him, mildly amused as you watch his dread morph into confusion.

“Come with me,” you tell him, “Your gear’s damaged. I’ll fix it for you.”

Tension melts from Armin’s shoulders as he sheds his ODM, following you with the relief that he’s been spared of punishment. Sparing a quick glance behind him, you see the same can’t be said for either Eren or Jean, their heads hung low as the Captain lectures the two off to the side.

Seating yourself on a crate, you take the gear with a thanks, retrieving the small knife you always kept with you from inside your pocket.

“Armin, right?” You ask, picking at the screws in the gear’s body with your blade, “You took quite a fall just then. Are you okay?”

Looking down at his hands, he gives a modest smile.

“I should be. Nothing feels broken from what I can tell,” He pauses, seems to realise something as he frowns, “How do you know my name?”

The first screw comes loose. You place it safely by your side.

“I read the reports about your plan in Trost— the one in the supply depot.”

“Reports? Are you a senior officer?”

“I’m not,” placing the gear down on your lap, you offer out your hand out and give your name, “I’m an engineer. It’s not as impressive of a title a senior officer would have, but it does give me access to things like reports and other documents.”

“Huh, makes sense,” Armin muses, shaking your hand, “Have you been in the Survey Corps for long?”

“I arrived here at HQ two days ago,” grabbing your blade, you resume your work. With all the screws removed, you detach the panel to the wire reel case, granting you a look inside where you find your suspicions confirmed.

The spool which the wire was wound around had somehow come loose, leaving the inside a tangled mess of wires. It would explain the delay you noticed earlier, but fortunately this was something you could easily fix.

“I’m curious,” you say, tightening the spool back in place without much trouble, “The reports were vague in the details, but I hear your plan involved taking out a group of titans using rifles. How’d you manage that?”

“We didn’t use the rifles to directly target the nape,” Armin clarifies, “Their main purpose was to blind them.”

“You must’ve been very close to them for you to achieve that.”

“Incredibly close,” he nods, “One group was tasked with blinding them, whilst the others had the job of finishing them off with the blades. Honestly, I’m still surprised we got out of that building without any casualties.”

“You have your plan to thank for that. I’m impressed you managed to think of that in the situation you were in.”

Armin looks away, bashful as he mumbles his thanks.

“You’re welcome,” you smile, unravelling the length of wire to wind it around the spool. Though it was clear Armin lacked the confidence that the likes of his comrades had, you recognised the potential he had in him and the encouragement he’d need to fully wield his pool of untapped strength. From what you gathered, he was bright, observant — a quick thinker whose insight you could currently use.

“There’s something else I’d like to ask you about,” you start, voice dropping in volume as Armin leans in, “It’s about the bullets. How many of you were there when Eren was shot?”

“About six of us, I think.”

That’s a decent number of witnesses, “And no one knows who shot him? Or where the shot was taken from?”

Armin shakes his head, “Truthfully, none of us had even realised what had happened until Eren collapsed on the floor and we only noticed the bullet holes in his titan after we retrieved him. The gunshot was silent. Whatever firearm they used made no noticeable noise.”

“That’s not possible with any model I know,” you frown, hands busy with the wire, “You’re positive none of you heard anything?”

“Nothing,” Armin confirms, “I found it strange too— with the damage they caused to Eren, you’d think you would’ve heard something at least.”

No noise made, no cartridge left behind. Whoever shot those bullets have made themselves hard to track down. Despite being only a few days into the job, you can’t help but feel like you’re already falling behind as your list of things you’ve yet to work out continues to grow — the bullets, what they’re made of, who shot them; the traitor, their motives and whether they were a shifter like Eren. All these unknowns and yet you’re somehow supposed to design the traps intended specifically for their capture.

One thing at a time, you remind yourself as the last few inches of wire are wrapped neatly inside. Replacing the panel in its original spot, you twist each of the screws back in place, do a quick glance-over for any other faults before returning the ODM to Armin. He gives you his thanks, then tests it on a nearby tree: the wire hooks into the bark smoothly, pulling tight when it should.

The remainder of the 104th’s training passes without any further disruption. Eren and Jean manage at most a shared sneer at most under the Captain’s watchful eye and Armin experiences no further issues with his gear, revealing the true extent of his physical ability. At the end of the session, the Captain gives him a nod, satisfied with his performance.

It’s mid-afternoon when the recruits are dismissed. As the 104th are herded out of the forest, the rest of the Corps begin to trail out slowly behind them as each of their squads are released from their own training.

But rather than follow them out, you remain where you stand on the grass, a set of ODM now in your hands. After spending the afternoon observing the gear in action, it was now your turn to use it as you took part in a training of your own.

You already knew coming into the Survey Corps that you were at a disadvantage. After all, you had missed the training that all engineers, medics and equine vets aspiring for the Corps’ Service Squad had gone through in favour of caring for your father. For all you knew about the gear and each of its parts and purposes, you had never used it before.

The expedition was steadily approaching. You needed to learn quick.

The first of the straps are pulled across your legs and torso in the same way you remember them being presented in your textbook, the pressure from the leather a foreign sensation. Anxiety begins to simmer in your stomach once you secure the main body of the ODM across your hips, the gear feeling much more heavier now that you were wearing it compared to simply taking it apart across a table.

It’s because of your nerves that you busy yourself with stretching, your mind so preoccupied with warming yourself up that you don’t hear the voice calling at you. A hand clamps down on your shoulder and spins you around, wrenching you out of your thoughts.

“Are you deaf or something?”

“Excuse me?” You startle. You recognise this soldier— despite his name escaping you, his position as a member of the Special Operations Squad makes his face a distinguishable one, though you’re fairly certain it’s not just him you’ve seen that white cravat and neat undercut on.

“I just asked you if you were deaf,” he replies haughtily, “Do you know how long I was yelling at you from over there? Seriously, the lack of respect you cadets have these days!”

Stunned, all you can do is stare him, your confusion contradicting his clear displeasure. A flash of auburn hair appears behind him and before you can even react, a hand yanks him off you, sending him to the grass.

“Jeez, Oluo, lighten your grip, will you?”

Crossing her arms, the new arrival shakes her head then turns to face you. Her name you do remember, “I’m so sorry about him, he doesn’t realise how he comes across to other people sometimes.”

“What are you apologising for, Petra? If anything, she should be apologising to us.”

“What for? I haven’t done anything,” you interject, frowning.

“Exactly,” Oluo sniffs, brushing off imaginary dust as he picks himself up from the floor and marches towards you, “Apart from standing around and gossiping with that kid, you haven’t done a single thing since I first saw you walk onto this field. Do you seriously think you’re above the rest of us that you can skip out on the drills?”

Confusion twists into irritation, ”What the hell are you on about?”

“Ha! You can play dumb all you want, but you won’t fool me. I—”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Petra interrupts, shoving herself between you both to act as a physical barrier. She whirls round to Oluo, hands planted on her hips, “Seriously, what is actually wrong with you?”

“I’m calling out a rebellious recruit!” he protests dramatically, “She didn’t do the training and she’s completely defiant to authority. Look! She hasn’t even followed the order to leave with the rest of those 104th brats.”

“That’s because I’m not part of the 104th,” you say dryly. Oluo pauses, looks at you dubiously.

“You’re not?”

“Obviously not,” Petra sighs, exasperated, “Do you even read the files? All the transfers we got from the 104th are a bunch of hormonal teenagers.”

Turning to you, she sheds her annoyance for a kind smile, “Sorry about all this. I’m Petra. Those two over there are Eld and Gunther and that idiot here’s Oluo.”

You follow the direction her thumb points in towards the first two of her aforementioned comrades. Eyes meeting, both Eld and Gunther acknowledge you with a short nod of their heads, one which you return. Already, their serious expressions and proud posture leaves you with the impression of greater maturity and experience compared to their younger pair beside you.

“You just love acting as the hero, don’t you Petra?” Oluo grumbles, crossing his arms.

“And you just love acting as the Captain, don’t you Oluo?” Petra counters without missing a beat, “Trust me, you’re fooling no one with that impression. You sound nothing like him.”

So he was imitating his superior. Silently, you agree with Petra; other than the addition of the cravat and the poor rendition of the hairstyle, you can’t say there’s much resemblance between the two.

“Then your hearing’s just as poor as hers,” Oluo replies snippily, jutting a finger towards you, “If you’re not with the 104th, whose division are you in?”

“The Service Squad.”

“You’re a doctor?” he asks, seemingly unconvinced as he looks you over. You don’t know if you should be offended.

“Engineer,” you correct.

“Oh! I heard we were getting a new engineer but I didn’t realise you already arrived!” Petra says, her face lighting up, “So you were fixing Eren’s friend’s gear back then, right?”

“I was.”

“And here you were, accusing her of gossiping,” she tuts, nudging her fellow soldier in the side.

“Whatever,” Oluo grumbles.

“You better be nice,” she continues, her words a warning but her tone sweet, “She’s the one we have to go to if we have problems with our ODM. If she was feeling vengeful, she could sabotage your gear so you’d make a fool out of yourself in training. But she wouldn’t do that, would you?”

“Never,” you say truthfully, but for the sake of playing along, you mirror Petra’s overly innocent smile. Oluo scowls, clearly annoyed at this team-up. He opens his mouth, ready to fire off another smart response when the Captain’s voice cuts through the air, calling for the two soldiers beside you. All sense of banter evaporates instantly; heels clack together as Oluo and Petra stand to attention, their posture that of a perfect soldier.

“I didn’t choose you both so you could slack on your duties,” Captain Levi scolds, frowning as he nears them. Despite the fact his attention was directed to his squad members, you can’t help but be conscious of the way you carried yourself, as if it were you he was reprimanding.

“Finish cleaning up and head back to the others and Eren,” he commands before his eyes flick to you, “Smith, with me.”

“Yes Captain!”

With a final salute, the two leave immediately to act on their orders, but not without a final glance at you from Petra. From the look in her eyes, you know she’s already made the connection between you and Erwin, having noticed the detail of your surname— not that you were actively trying to keep your relation a secret, but it wasn’t something you were necessarily trying to flaunt around either. You didn’t mind Petra knowing anyways. Alongside Moblit, she seemed like someone you could easily get along with.

Your jog slows to a walk as you catch up to the Captain, hanging just behind his shoulder as he leads you deeper into the forest. Sunlight dapples through the canopy, the sound of the grass rustling under your feet and filling the otherwise empty silence.

You don’t know why the Captain called for you. Whatever it is, you hope it won’t take too long— Mike’s supposed to meet with you soon for your first training session. It’s only after a few seconds later do you find the courage in yourself to speak up and ask.

“Is everything alright, Captain? Did something happen?”

“It’s your turn using the ODM,” he replies without looking at you, eyes fixed ahead, “And today it’s my job to ensure you don’t fail miserably at it.”

“Oh,” you say, surprised at the change of plans, “I thought Mike was the one supervising me.”

Whilst you were technically registered under the Service Squad, Erwin had assigned you to Mike’s own team for the expedition. The classified motive of capturing the traitor meant your role for this excursion focused more on executing the plan than standing-by to run any repairs in the field. It made sense for the Section Commander himself to be the one overseeing your practice if you were now a part of his detail.

“His training with his squad ran over. I’ll be the one taking over your session today.”

“What about your squad?” you ask, careful in keeping your tone neutral. It’s not like you’re disappointed with the swap. With the expectation to learn the ODM before the expedition, having the Captain - the strongest, most capable soldier in the legion - conduct your session would be a sure-fire way to accelerate your progress.

“They need to learn to trust Eren when I’m not around,” he responds simply, “I can leave them for a while, they’ll manage.”

You come to a stop in a long strip of clearing, a section of the forest further away from the other soldiers still zipping around. As the Captain replenishes his canisters, you feel the dread mounting inside you, and whilst it’s partly the upcoming training driving your nerves, you know that the other reason lies in none other but the Captain himself standing a few metres away from you.

It’s only been a few days since you first arrived, and whilst you haven’t had any other disagreements with the Captain since the first one when you met, you can still feel the quiet hum of tension from that initial encounter.

You’re not sure how to feel about him, whether you should take his crassness in stride and accept it as simply part of his character or settle with your apprehension towards him. There’s a difference between keeping up the hardened exterior as a high-ranking officer and being blatantly rude, and back then, he had leant into the latter.

But, you reason, you’ve managed to get along decently since standing beside him during the 104th’s training this morning— if exchanging a few words without arguing like you had before counts as getting along. If the Captain continues the way he is now - keeping cool, polite and putting that first instance aside for the sake of getting through this training - then you can do the same. You can tolerate him.

“I see you managed to put the gear on without any issue,” the Captain’s voice pulls your focus back to the present, “Is this from the training you engineers do for the Service Squad?”

You shake your head, “Just something I remembered from university.”

The Captain hums, an impartial sound, “Recruits in the Training Corps usually have three years to learn how to use the ODM. We don’t have such a luxury given the expedition’s under two months away, but we’ll make it work. You should remember the basics from your training before anyways.”

That would be the case if you did any of the training in the first place. You haven’t felt this out of your depth in a while now that you and your inexperience were standing beside one of the few within the Walls who have mastered the ODM’s use.

“Is there a problem, Smith?” the Captain asks, quirking a brow. Shit. Your hesitance must’ve made it to your face.

“I, uh… didn’t do the training,” you confess.

“Why not?”

“Something came up after I graduated,” you explain, keeping the details scarce, “I ended up leaving before I could choose what regiment I wanted to go to and missed the training.”

“So you have zero experience with using the gear?”

“None,” you confirm.

“Not even the basics?”

Again, you shake your head.

“What about the theory?” the Captain pushes, “Do you know what each trigger does?”

“Of course,” you say, “I spent three years studying how this thing works, inside out.”

And, in your case, you had the privilege of having your mother - the one behind the current model of ODM you were using - explain how her own design worked to you herself. You’ve seen her drafts, the blueprints, the prototypes. Knowing the gear was like second nature to you.

The Captain crosses his arms, “Then explain it to me: how it works, what to press to release your gas and wires, everything.”

That you can do. Confidence restored slightly, you hold up the grips of the gear, rotating them as you recite what you know about each part with ease.

“Default hand position consists of your index and middle finger on the triggers and your thumb on the side,” you start, feeling the Captain’s eyes on you as he circles you slowly, “The grip has switches here and on the back. The top trigger fires the wires and anchor and the bottom releases the gas.”

“And the trigger on the front?” he asks, urging you on.

“That reels your wires back in whilst the one on the back releases the blades,” you explain, “The switches on the side control the angle the wires fire out: the top one governs your vertical motion whilst the bottom one governs the horizontal.”

You receive a nod, “Good. Where does the gas come out?”

“From the exhaust in the back.”

“How would you control the amount you release?”

“By the amount of pressure you apply to the trigger.”

“So you do know how to use it.”

“In theory,” you reiterate, “In practice is a different case.”

“Which is why I’m expecting double the effort from you,” the Captain says, “As I said, we’re working on an accelerated timeline, so we don’t have long to make sure you can use the gear without flailing like an idiot and landing right into a titan’s mouth. We’ll first start with your balance.”

He stops his pacing in front of you then gives his first instruction, “Hook your wires in that branch directly above and reel your wires in so you’re off the ground.”

Operating the gear whilst stationary is easy enough; your body stiffens as the wires slowly pull you upwards, tension developing instantaneously in your thighs as your core strains to hold you up. Once your feet hover a few inches above the grass, you pause.

“Relax,” the Captain instructs from behind, resuming his pacing around you, “The last thing you want is to spiral like a goddamn yo-yo whilst you’re mid-air, so it’s important you distribute your weight correctly.”

“Okay,” you murmur, swallowing hard as you focus on absorbing his advice. Your legs shift, your balance wavers. You manage to recover, a slight tremble to the motion, but otherwise, you seem to have caught onto it quick. The Captain seems to come to the same conclusion as he moves on.

“Next is gas,” he says, “Use too little and you’ll build no momentum. Use too much and you’ll lose control, just like this.”

Something presses against the small of your back, and once you realise it’s the Captain’s hand, it’s too late. He shoves forward, the force lurching you face-first towards the grass as you slam your eyes shut, anticipating the pain.

But the feeling never comes, and instead a new firmness presses against your middle as your face rests a breath away from the grass, the Captain’s other hand keeping you from falling.

“If that happens, unhook your wires and readjust their position. Most of the force from the gear exerts itself around your hips, so use your legs and tense this - your core—” he pushes you back upright, then peels his hand off, “—to regain your balance. But ideally, you won’t put yourself in that situation in the first place. Gas isn’t cheap. Don’t use more than you have to. Got it?”

You nod, your breath thinner, quicker. Adrenaline bubbles under your skin, heart rate elevated.

“When you land, bend your knees. Don’t resist the motion, otherwise you’ll snap a bone or dislocate something and I’m not hauling your ass to the infirmary. I want all of this to be second-nature for you in time for the expedition. Understood?”

You nod again, trying to retain this all. Core, legs, knees.

“Good. Now, with all that in mind, I want you to aim for that tree,” he points to one a fair distance away, tall and fairly wide, “Don’t overshoot it, don’t slam your face into it, just land and plant your feet into the trunk so you hang off its side. Use some gas to get you moving, then let the wires pull you in for the rest of the way. Got it?”

“I think so,” you say, releasing your hooks so your feet dropped back to the grass. Heart still pounding, you realise it won’t relent as you assess the jump between your first task to the second— from stationary to moving.

“Don’t overthink it,” the Captain warns over his shoulder, as if sensing you falter, “The second you do, that’s when accidents happen. Trust that you can do it.”

And with that, he leaves, firing his wires and landing on the training platform built into your target tree in what felt like a blink. Knowing the futility in stalling, you sigh, eyes zeroing in on your intended destination on the trunk.

You were anxious— there was no denying it, not when your skin prickled with trepidation and the nausea hit you in waves. But you needed to learn this because of the expedition, because you were now in the Survey Corps. It was either this or falling behind. You have no choice but to do it scared.

Wires.

You grab the hand grips, firing your hooks into the bark.

Tension.

You brace your body, flexing your legs, hips and core.

Gas.

As soon as you pull the triggers, your body surges forwards and up, pulling a sharp gasp from your throat. The forest zips past in a blur of green as every word of the Captain’s advice rushes through your head in a panic over the hiss of releasing gas.

Wirestensiongascorelegsknees— trust.

Pain shoots up your legs as you stop reeling yourself in just moments before landing, your hands scrambling for purchase on the surface you landed against despite the wires holding you in place. It takes you a second to orient yourself, but once you process it all — the wires hooked above you, the bark digging into your palm and your feet firm against the trunk as you hang off the side — you realise: you’ve done it.

A small, but meaningful victory.

You glance down; you’re not that much higher from where the Captain stands on the platform, his sharp eyes having studied your every movement. Whilst his expression doesn’t seem to have changed from when he was with you on the grass just now, he doesn’t look unhappy with your attempt either and that’s all the encouragement you need as his eyes meet yours, he uncrosses his arms and he commands—

“Again.”

The next thirty minutes is spent drilling the same action, thighs burning as the motion carves itself into your muscle memory. Every couple of tries, the Captain changes where you land, adjusting the height of the spot he wants you to aim for before switching tree completely and having you target that, keeping you ready, alert.

Progress is slow, but measurable. By no means is your manoeuvre perfect, but with each attempt, you feel your confidence gradually growing, the switch between being weightless and the feeling of the solidness of the tree beneath your feet no longer as disorienting as it initially was.

Eventually, you move on. The Captain assigns you the task of swinging on top of branches to simulate a situation you could potentially expect on the expedition. This, admittedly, takes you longer to get a grasp on.

Your first attempt sees your timing completely off as you release your wires too early and miss the branch entirely. By your sixth try, you make contact with the branch, feet landing on its surface but your momentum carries you too far forward. You would’ve ran straight off the branch had the Captain not caught you, his arm shooting out to stop you abruptly.

“Fuck, that was scary,” you mutter to yourself, glancing down at the grass you nearly fell into below. Vertigo rises in your throat, an unpleasant sensation you try to quash down.

“Too much gas, Smith,” the Captain admonishes, “You’re giving yourself an extra push you don’t need. Do it again but this time, be mindful of the pressure you’re applying on the triggers.”

Heeding his word, you run through several more attempts until, on your ninth go, you manage to land, your only fault being the stumble in your step as you come down. Still, it’s an improvement, and to ensure the movement sticks, the Captain demands from you three more solid landings, each of which you eventually achieve.

Your final drill of the day consists of covering distances with the ODM, learning how to control your speed and change direction. Of all the things you’ve practiced, this is the hardest, every muscle aching as each swooping movement has you gasping for air, your fingers stiff around the triggers. But despite your weariness, despite your body screaming at you for some rest, the sensation of actually using the gear and moving through the forest with it is exhilarating.

Life at home had made you idle; the rush that fills you is incomparable, makes you realise how quickly the routine of your life before turned stale.

Heart hammering against your chest, you can barely hear the Captain as he shouts at you (straighten your back, pick up the pace, release your wires quicker), your body reluctantly complying as the fatigue sinks deep into your bones. You’re so focused on your breathing, your movements and every other little detail in between that you miss the addition of another set of wires following you, someone else besides the Captain now trailing behind.

“Go easy on her, Captain,” an amused voice says, “This one hasn’t been off her ass in years.”

Rolling your eyes, your neck turns to look at Mike, wires retracting. Your mouth opens, ready to retaliate with a comment of your own as you trigger your wires again, distracted. The Captain sees it before it happens.

“Smith!” he warns, but it’s too late. One wire embeds itself into the branch as planned. The other one misses, stretching to it’s full length in the air before uselessly falling down. With only one cable holding your weight, you’re suddenly jerked to the side.

But instead of colliding with the tree in your path, you slam into a solid chest with full force, a winded “oof!” knocked out of you entirely as Mike pushes you out the way, tumbling down with you. An arm secures itself around you as he aims for one of the training platforms below, but a stable landing isn’t possible with the angle you’re at.

So Mike tucks and rolls, protecting you as you both crash into the firm surface of the wood. Pain erupts across your body at the contact and you would’ve rolled right off the platform had Mike not caught your arm, pulling you back up effortlessly.

“Thanks,” you manage to say, breathless. A heavy feeling settles in your limbs as you shift yourself to sit on the edge of the platform, adrenaline replaced by exhaustion. How Armin managed to recover so quickly from a tumble like his, you’d never know.

“Sorry about that,” Mike apologises as he sits beside you, long legs dangling off the side, “I didn’t mean to distract you.”

You wave him off, the motion sluggish. With your weight now back on a solid surface, you can barely feel your limbs.

“No, that was my fault. I got overconfident with my manoeuvring there,” you insist.

“Rule number one, Smith. Look where you’re aiming.”

The Captain lands behind you on the platform with a solid thud, wires snapping back into their main compartments as he strides towards you.

“I thought I told you to conserve your gas,” he criticises, the tip of his boot nudging at your gear, “Your canisters are almost empty.”

“I know, I know,” you mutter, exhaustion speaking on your behalf. The Captain raises a thin brow and you check yourself, lacking the energy to challenge him further, “Apologies, Captain. I won’t waste it again.”

He looks at you sternly then sighs, shoulders dropping, “You pick things up quickly, but you can’t afford to be so easily distracted. Using too much gas, getting lax with your aiming — mistakes like that cost you outside the Walls. You almost slammed into a tree just now and it wasn’t even that big of a target. Where we’re going, there’s trees taller than this bastard here.”

His glare cuts to Mike who releases an exhale, the sound amused. Despite the intended seriousness in the Captain’s feedback, you yourself can’t help the weary smile that twitches at your lips, your head ducking down in an attempt to hide it. The Captain sees it regardless.

“I’m serious, Smith,” he starts disapprovingly, “If you slam into one of those, you won’t be the only one dead. Erwin will have my ass.”

“I know, Captain,” you say, the ghost of the smile you failed to conceal softening your tone, “I’ll remember that for next time.”

“Then prove it to me now,” he challenges and you straighten up, “Your final task for today is to get out of this forest using solely the ODM. If me or Mike catch you walking, you’ll start again from here. Whether you make it to dinner in time is up to you. Now get moving.”

You resist the urge to groan as the Captain steps off the platform, wires catching him in a graceful arc through the air. Mike spares you a look that reads more mirth than pity before he takes off as well, leaving you on the platform alone.

Begrudgingly, you rise to your feet. It took you roughly ten minutes to walk from the edge of the forest to where you currently are. Using the gear would cut that time down to half if you went without a break. That’s doable for a final push.

Standing at the edge, you spot the small figures of Mike and the Captain on a distant branch, waiting for you to start. You ready your hands, making a mental note of the route you’d take and with a heavy sigh, you jump.

-+-

A/N (25/06/26): posting this whilst this heatwave is actually cooking me alive omd

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Smith and Levi seem to be getting along(?) and we've got some interesting scenes between them coming up in the next few chapters which I can't wait to share so look forward to that ;)

I've decided to do weekly updates every Thursday — I should be fine with keeping to this schedule for now as I'm several chapters ahead, but I'll let you guys know if this changes

Thank you for reading! I'll see you guys next week <3

You favourite project of hers (and most notably, her biggest success) was her design for the latest model of ODM, her refinements to the works of previous engineers earning her the title as one of the leading engineers in the military and a reputation that preceded her.

You were eight and curious when she first showed you the gear, talking you through each of her drawings and the blueprints she made. You were nine when she taught you how to sketch and to solve, grounding you with the basics of maths and physics and formulae. And you were ten when she taught you how to shoot, guiding your hands into the proper form and sharing your excitement when your bullet struck the centre for the first time.

The rifle propped against the wall in your room upstairs was a gift she made for your fifteenth birthday, and although you’ve had to replace a few parts over the years, it’s shape and craftsmanship was still ultimately hers.

It was your last birthday she’d ever celebrate with you and the last gift she’d ever give.

Nothing that day was out of the ordinary, not a single thing out of line that could’ve warned you of the tragedy that would soon befall you. The knock came in the late afternoon, the sound startling you out of your focus from where you sat downstairs, finishing some homework. Your father had some business to attend to in the South, having left immediately once lessons were over, and your mother was at work, leaving an empty house to greet you both.

You’ll never forget how your gut twisted when a quick glance through the window revealed two soldiers waiting outside: both Military Police and, as you and Erwin would later learn, part of the First Interior Squad. Whilst Trost had seen the odd crime here and there, most were petty acts of delinquency; nothing ever serious enough to warrant the summoning of the Military Police’s most skilled, highly-ranked members. Their stony faces and unicorn-clad uniform had no place in your quiet neighbourhood, your apprehension only growing when you opened the door.

“Good afternoon,” the soldier closest to you had greeted, mouth jerking in a poor attempt at a smile, “Is this the residence of Morga Smith?”

“It is,” you reply, tone cautious, careful, “Can I help you, officer?”

“I assume you’re a relative?”

“Her daughter,” you clarify, your heart rate spiking, “Why? Is something wrong?”

Something fills the soldier’s eyes at your question and you think it might be pity, but the emotion feels fake, stiff, a practiced look that clashes against the rest of his indifference. It does nothing to soothe your anxiety as he gestures the other soldier forward and retrieves a lump of fabric from his hands, presenting it to you.

“Miss Smith, we’re sorry to inform you that your mother passed away this morning.”

Your breath hitches. The blood drains from your face.

What?

The floor creaks behind you and you know it’s Erwin: he must’ve heard the knock from his room and came down to check. You’re desperate to see his face, to see his reaction to confirm that you weren’t mishearing this, that this wasn’t a mix-up or misunderstanding or some horrible, twisted dream, but you can’t move your body, can’t tear your eyes away from the MP and the fabric he’s holding because what the hell, you know exactly what that is, that’s hers, that’s fucking hers—

“Our investigation is still underway,” the MP presses, “But we believe that she fell from the Wall whilst working on the cannons where unfortunately, titans were located below at the time. This was all we were able to retrieve.”

The fabric in his hands falls into yours and all you can do is stare in horror at the mess that was once her uniform jacket, the Garrison emblem now bloody and shredded. Your hands tremble as they close around the canvas, patches of blood — her blood — cold and half-dried to the touch.

Bile rises in your throat. The MP’s words barely register.

“We understand this may be difficult news for your family, but please know that on behalf of the Military Police, we’re sorry for your loss. Should there be any updates in our investigation, our men will be in contact. Again, you have our deepest condolences.”

Booted feet hang in the edge of your peripheral for a second before moving away, the soldiers taking your silence as a prompt to leave. Something knocks past you from behind as Erwin enters your view, shoulders tense, posture taut and emotion barely contained as he approaches the men readying their horses.

“What do you mean she fell from the Wall?” he demands the retreating backs, “You don’t think this was intentional?”

The officer from before faces your brother, hands clasped behind his back as he calmly replies, “As I’ve previously stated, our men are still looking into the details. However, with what we’ve already gathered, we’ve concluded that it’s likely she lost her balance whilst she was working.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Erwin retorts, brows drawn, “Our mother’s worked on those Walls for years. She isn’t so careless to fall from its edge like that.”

“You underestimate the winds at those heights,” the officer tries to argue.

“And our mother is nothing short of cautious,” Erwin insists, unrelenting. Just a year shy off adulthood, your brother was at a more than sufficient height to challenge the MP eye-to-eye, stare fixed and burning. It’s not lost on Erwin that the eye contact unnerves the officer, this realisation urging him on, “She would never let herself be killed so easily. Even if she did fall, she’s more than capable in catching herself with the gear.”

“Experience doesn’t spare you from death.”

“It’s a fifty metre wall. There would’ve been time to react.”

“Not with damaged gear,” the officer retorts, “I know this is difficult news to accept, but unfortunately these things can happen to anyone, regardless of their skill.”

Erwin freezes, feels himself still completely as his eyes lock onto the soldier.

“I thought all you could recover was her jacket,” he says slowly, suspicion laced in his tone, “Her gear was damaged? How would you even know that?”

“Our men reported seeing it on the ground,” the MP clarifies coolly, “But with the titans so close to it, there was too great of a risk in trying to retrieve it.”

“That doesn’t explain how it was damaged,” Erwin counters, determined. The excuse is weak, flimsy, its delivery even worse. The hesitation barely lasted for a second, but Erwin caught it instantly, latching onto that slip-up in hopes of wringing out as much as he can.

“Again, without the gear in front of us, it’s hard to confirm whether the damages were made before or after the fall.”

“You don’t need to confirm anything to know that someone pushed her,” Erwin asserts, volume rising, “Either your men missed something or there’s something else going on here because this wasn’t an accident.”

The MP frowns, “I understand you’re upset, but those are serious accusations to be making. I assure you our men are doing the best they can—”

“Doing what?” Erwin cuts in, “Gathering second-rate evidence? Neglecting the investigation?”

“Mr Smith, we—”

“You want us to believe there wasn’t a single eye-witness? Where was the rest of the Garrison on duty? You want us to believe she was up there alone with no one else around? All the engineers wear the same jacket, how do you even know that was hers?” Logic slips from his fingers, emotions fresh and seething, “This has to be a mistake, surely there’s something—”

“It’s hers, Erwin.”

It comes out barely a whisper, your voice shaky and wearing at the edges, but Erwin hears you regardless and turns, hardly breathing. His eyes meet yours and he finds that his are just as wide and burning with tears he refuses to shed because crying means grieving, and grieving means his mother’s dead but she’s not — she can’t be. If there’s any moment in his life where he’s never wanted to be right so badly it would be now.

But when you show him the jacket, the line of stitching he recognises as the work of her hands from when she once repaired a tear in the fabric, he realises that he couldn’t be any further from the truth.

A small, futile part of you also persisted with the hope that this was somehow a mistake, a case of misidentification like Erwin suggested. You didn’t want to believe the physical proof that lay in the jacket, the stitching which was so clearly hers, but as the day melted into evening and the hands of the clock passed the time of her usual return, the more that the possibility that your mother was truly gone grew closer to becoming your awful reality.

It was only after your father arrived back the next day and found you and Erwin with anguished faces and tear-tracked cheeks did it finally sink in for you— that whatever deities there were had turned their backs on you all as you both showed him her jacket and broke the news to him.

The days that followed were swallowed in a dark murk. You don’t remember much from that time, only that her funeral was a week later and you could only make it halfway through your eulogy before the tears broke your speech and your father had to take over. Whilst he managed to finish his own on top of that without too much of a struggle, both you and Erwin knew how hard her death had hit him, the wound deep and painful.

There was once a time where your father, under the cover of the night, would share concepts he wouldn’t dare mention in the classroom. His theories of the King, the Walls and the society inside it taught you and Erwin how to question things critically, to not take things as they appeared to be so easily. And whilst your father frequently warned you both of the risks of discussing such ideas beyond your home, the two of you would always respond the same — in awe, because you were both young, eager and impressionable and his suspicions had opened up a whole new world for you.

But when your mother died, your father’s enthusiasm died with her too. It was the evening after her funeral when he sat you and Erwin at the table, his expression grave as he forbade you of ever mentioning his theories again. You remember the confusion you and your brother shared, the reluctance to comply that it quickly turned into.

Your father was afraid — you could read it in the way he carried himself, the sudden switch in his demeanour. Neither you or Erwin understood this change, the tension only growing when matters relating to her death were met with excuses and deflection. Your father urged you both to accept the force-fed narrative that it was all an accident, but after everything he taught you, the two of you couldn’t see how laying low and keeping silent could ever bring any of you closure.

But when an argument between Erwin and your father ended with your father suddenly collapsing, your defiance slowed to a halt. Dr Jaeger was the one who saw to him and revealed to you and Erwin how her death, combined with the lingering pain from a knee injury your father sustained in his youth, had led to the rapid decline in his health. The fear of losing more of your family was enough to subdue you and your brother, and out of respect for your father as he recovered, neither of you ever discussed those matters again.

But you both knew better. You didn’t have to open your mouths to know that neither of your minds had changed, that her death wasn’t an accident and there was more to this case you had yet to uncover.

For Erwin, his beliefs were made more than clear when he revealed he was enlisting in the Training Corps — a decision even you were unaware of until its casual announcement around the dinner table. His previous plans of studying at university were discarded without a second thought, shocking both you and your father as your brother’s priorities changed, his goals now grander, more ambitious.

In his heart, the theories you had heard around the flame of a single candle had now become the truth, and with his youthful conviction, he aimed for the Survey Corps to discover what was fact and what were lies, giving voice to your father’s words which had lost its own.

And somewhere amidst your own grief, you made the decision to continue with your own studies. To carry on your mother's work, or to simply serve as a distraction, you didn't know, only that your efforts led you to a full scholarship for the university in Stohess from which you graduated with your own engineering degree. An entire legacy sat on your shoulders, and with that, you joined the military as a starting engineer.

It was standard practice for graduates to work across all three regiments for at least a year before choosing a division to commit to, taking on smaller projects more befitting of their skillset. Some days you worked on guns for the Military Police and on others, cannons for the Garrison or gear for the Survey Corps. And whilst the busy atmosphere of your shared workspace would never compare to cosiness of your mother’s workshop, you found that you enjoyed what you were doing. Your projects were engaging, your peers respected you and as the year neared its completion, you felt like you were growing into someone you could be happy with, your application to work for the Garrison written and ready to be sent. For the first time in a while, it felt like things were getting better.

Then, eight months into your position, you had to resign.

Your father had fallen ill; the recent winter brought with it a strain of flu that, for the most part, was nothing too serious and could be easily treated. Visits back home were made as often as you and Erwin’s schedules would allow them and letters between you three were frequently sent. But even then, neither of you realised how severely this illness had hit him, its effects worsened from the permanent weight of his grief. The doctor who saw to him wrote to you both, informing you of his condition and admitting how healing wasn’t going to be as easy as it was before.

You and Erwin had to make a choice. Though the both you were fully employed, funding for the military (particularly the Survey Corps) was scarce, and even with your combined efforts, you simply couldn’t afford someone to look after your father. And so, after talking with Erwin and weighing your options, you made the decision to quit your job and look after him yourself.

Erwin initially protested the idea, insisted that there were other options besides resigning from a job you clearly enjoyed, but your choice was made, mind unwavering. If someone was to care for your father, you’d rather it yourself than a stranger. But your brother remained unconvinced, claimed that you were so close to joining the Garrison, so close to working where she worked, so close to finding the truth. Quitting now would mean letting go of that.

Then find the truth for the both of us, you said. It was the only thing you asked of Erwin as the two of you sat around your dining table at home, debating your decision. You could do it, you told him. Out of the both of us, you’re the more capable one.

It was more than just hollow praise: Erwin was almost two years into the Survey Corps and had already built himself a name as a reliable Squad Leader, a man whose team rarely fell victim to the consequences brought by Commander Shadis’ questionable judgement. It was only a matter of time before the mantle would fall to your brother, his contribution to the Corps in devising its main strategies and completing paperwork on behalf of Shadis practically making him a proxy to the man himself.

Sure, you were close to the truth, but Erwin was closer. Securing the title of Commander would grant him access to important files and even moreimportant people. Learning the truth of your mother’s death seemed more of an achievable task for him. That’s why he couldn’t quit; that’s why you did.

And as you plate up some eggs onto slices of bread, you can’t help the nervous sparks igniting your stomach. Because in two minutes, your father will come downstairs just as he always does, and in two minutes, you’ll have to tell him about the favour Erwin’s asked of you.

Join the Survey Corps. I’m offering you a position as an engineer in our ranks.

Silently, you curse your brother in your head. Leave it to him to drop classified intel and a life-changing job offer in the span of a couple of minutes.

Your worry doesn’t lie in making your choice; you knew what your answer was by the time Erwin had left — a strong and motivated yes — but once the excitement of the evening had waned in your system, the more the load of Erwin’s offer had dawned on you.

The role of engineers in the Survey Corps differ slightly from both the Military Police and what was once your firm choice of the Garrison, their positions demanding a more active duty. Alongside the usual job of designing, building and maintaining equipment, engineers of the Corps were expected to accompany the infantry beyond the Walls, forming part of the small, but valued, Service Squad beside the medics and equine vets.

Of course, such a responsibility carries significant danger, and whilst those who do choose the path of the Corps undergo physical training, it still isn’t enough to prevent the deaths, injuries and mass transfers of engineers out of the Corps after the trauma of their first expeditions. As far as you’re aware, the Service Squad was currently made up of volunteers —soldiers who have a basic background in one of the three fields, hardly on a professional level. If you joined, you’d be the first qualified engineer the Corps would’ve seen in a while.

But taking the job would mean leaving your father here alone, and that’s something you don’t know if you could do, not after all that had happened.

Your father emerges from upstairs as you slide the two plates onto the table, a bowl placed on the ground for the dog at his heels. Greeting both Bolt and your father, you take your usual seat, appetite scarce. You’re nervous. Why are you nervous?

“Erwin visited last night.”

The words come suddenly, mouth moving without thinking. Your father’s fork hangs in his hold as he looks at you, surprised.

“He did? He never mentioned that he was planning to.”

“That’s what I told him,” you say, pushing out a half-scoff, “He didn’t stay for long but he wants to apologise that he wasn’t able to see you.”

Your father shakes his head, fork back in motion as he takes a bite.

“I must’ve been fast asleep when he came. As long as he visits at a more reasonable hour next time, then no harm done,” he muses lightly, his foot nudging a bit of food Bolt dropped closer to his bowl, “Why the sudden visit though? Is Erwin okay?”

“Erwin’s fine,” you assure him quickly, “But he uh, said he came over because he wanted to talk to me about something and he…”

This is it— you’re going to tell him, just say it.

“He’s offering me a job. In the Survey Corps. He wants me to join as their engineer.”

Eyes fixed on your untouched plate, you continue:

“I told him I’d think about it, that I’d consult you first before I make a decision so I’ve got a few days to get back to him. I realise that if I agreed, I wouldn’t be able to stay with you here. Too much in our lives would change and I don’t want to leave you here when you could still need my help.”

A hum, “Do you want the job?”

“…Yeah,” you admit quietly, almost shameful.

“Then you should take the offer,” your father states simply. Your head snaps up, stunned as he tells you, “You’ve done more than enough for me these past few years. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of anything further.”

You frown, “Father, you haven’t deprived me of anything.”

Your father huffs, half-amused as he says your name in a knowing tone, “I know you miss your old job — the fact you were willing to give that up is something I can never repay you for. But as grateful as I am for the care you’ve shown me, I don’t want you to spend the rest of your years in this house fretting over me. I fear our roles have been reversed for far too long. You need to build yourself a life outside of this, meet new people, do things which are important to you and you enjoy. Nothing else would make me happier than that.”

“I don’t know…” you start. Guilt pools on the surface and makes itself known, “I feel bad. I don’t want to leave you here alone by yourself.”

“I have Bolt with me,” your father says, a hand stroking your dog’s head, “And our neighbours have always been lovely. Going outside and moving around more could always do me some good.”

“What about your knee?”

“I can move it just fine — it hasn’t given me grief for a while now. I’ll be okay,” he says, smiling at you reassuringly, “Take the job. Please.”

And so, it’s with your father’s insistence that you find yourself in front of a mirror one week later, leather straps pulling taut across your chest as you twist around to check the fit of the uniform. The day after your father expressed his support, you wrote to Erwin, attaching the forms he had asked you to complete alongside the letter confirming your return, and a few days later, the uniform arrived.

A new wave of anxiety surges through you as the Wings of Freedom flash in the reflective glass, the weight of the blue and white feathers on your back reminding you of the scale of the task Erwin entrusted you with. Quickly, you quash it down, shoving the feeling temporarily to the side lest the nervousness changes your mind.

Final checks are made - clothes, tools, notebook - and by the time the clock marks the new hour, you’ve hauled both your bags downstairs, your rifle slung across your back. There, you find both your father and Bolt and goodbyes and reassurances are exchanged between the three of you.

“Be careful out there,” your father tells you as you pull away from the hug. The pride in his eyes is not lost on you, renewing your confidence and convincing you that you’ve made the right choice. A fist knocks on the door. Time to go.

“I will. You look after yourself too,” you remind him, crouching down to your dog and cupping his face, “And goodbye to you, Bolt. You better behave whilst I’m gone, alright?”

Bolt stares, then licks your nose, the action replacing the firm look on your face with something fonder as you stand back up and grab your bags.

“I’ll see you soon,” you open the door, glancing behind at your father. Eyes kind, he wears a placid smile, and your heart sinks as the realisation hits that you don’t know what soon means. Soon could mean weeks, soon could mean months. It could mean never again if you don’t make it through the expedition. Every outcome rushes through your mind, and as if sensing the escalation in your thoughts, your father says your name, pulling you out of that spiral.

“Go,” he urges you softly, “It’s going to be okay.”

Throat unnaturally tight, you nod, lingering for a second longer before closing the door behind you. Dammit, you shouldn’t feel so emotional over this. Your father’s right— you need to build a life outside the house, outside of Trost. There’ll be opportunities to visit at some point anyways.

Forcing your emotions down to a milder level, you approach the Scout waiting outside. He greets you alongside two horses, one of them pulling a cart with several crates of provisions already inside.

“I’m Moblit,” the soldier introduces himself, offering out his hand with a friendly smile, “I’ll be the one taking you to HQ.”

Giving your name, you shake his hand and as brief pleasantries are exchanged, you feel the tension in you gradually easing. Moblit shows you your horse — a toned, tough-looking gelding called Pages — before directing you to his own steed pulling the cart.

“You can put your bags back there,” he instructs you, swinging onto the saddle, “I just did a supply run to prepare for when our new recruits arrive, but there should be some space in there somewhere.”

Placing your bags between two boxes of vegetables, you mount your horse, sparing a final look back at your house as Moblit urges his own forward and you follow. The first few minutes pass in silence, and whilst it’s not unbearable, you know that you still have half an hour until you reach HQ. The opportunity to revive your wilting social life is right before you — might as well take it.

“So,” you start slowly, trying not to think too hard about this, “How long have you been in the Survey Corps for?”

“A few years now,” Moblit replies, seemingly unbothered by your sudden attempt at conversation. He smiles to himself, the gesture confusing you before he adds, “Though becoming a soldier wasn’t my original plan, funnily enough.”

“It wasn’t?”

He shakes his head, “Initially, I wanted to become a medic for the military. Help people who fought in battles, rather than be on the frontlines and fight myself. So I went to university and studied medical sciences to try and reach that goal.”

“Impressive,” you remark. Whilst you had the patience and steady enough hands to work with mechanical insides, you knew you lacked the delicacy needed to handle human ones— ones that pumped blood instead of gas and oil, “Where did you study?”

“Stohess.”

You turn to him, pleasantly surprised, “Wait, seriously? I was there too, but for mechanical engineering.”

“I know,” Moblit says casually, “We shared a class.”

“What?”

Stunned, you can’t help but stare, mind frantically sifting through its archives for a recollection of his face. Despite the amusement written clear in his expression, you can’t help the pang of guilt you feel for failing to recognise him, “Which class was this?”

“Anatomy,” he reveals and oh, you realise, that makes more sense, “I always wanted to know: what was the overlap between engineering and medical sciences?”

“The ODM,” you explain, “We had to study the stresses the gear placed on different parts of the body and the limits of what they could endure, so we had to have some anatomical knowledge. I feel terrible— I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t said anything.”

“I didn’t expect you to,” Moblit smiles, “That class was definitely one of the larger ones.”

“And somehow, you still managed to recognise me.”

“I remembered seeing your name in the list of top scorers,” he explains, “That, and I realised when I joined the Corps that you and the Commander Erwin shared the same surname. I asked him back when he was a Section Commander if you two were related and he confirmed it. I wasn’t expecting it, to be honest— I didn’t even know he had a sister.”

“Not many people do,” you say, smiling weakly. Following your mother’s death and Erwin’s enlistment in the Training Corps, you and your father initially kept to yourselves out of grief. Erwin had goals and ploughed ahead, and whilst you had goals too — sharing the same overarching plan of finding the truth to your mother’s death and proving your father’s theories right — you worked towards them at the quiet peace of your desk, rather than the chaos of a battlefield.

But when Erwin joined the Corps, climbed the ranks and became the Commander, staying unassuming became almost a necessity with the growing resentment towards the regiment and the criticisms your brother found himself under.

Unwilling to drag either of you into that mess, Erwin advised you and your father to keep the attention on yourselves to a minimum, let him deal with the brunt of unrest. As far as you’re aware, the only ones who know of your relation to Erwin besides your neighbours are a few veteran soldiers in the Corps — Moblit now included.

“Anyways,” you start, more than happy for a change in subject, “I assume you’re a medic in the Corps?”

“Sort of. It’s not an official title, but I’m proficient enough to treat most injuries and tend to the wounded on expeditions when I can.”

“It’s not a full-time thing for you?”

Moblit shakes his head, “I have other responsibilities to tend to. Supply runs are one of them, as you can see. Then there’s conducting experiments, analysing our results and everything else between that, including training.”

“Sounds intense. Is your superior a tyrant or something?” you half-joke. For someone who doesn’t hold the title of a commanding officer, Moblit does seem to be excessively busy.

“I wouldn’t say a tyrant,” he muses, “More overzealous than anything else. You might’ve met them before, actually— have you ever worked with someone called Hange Zoë?”

“I have,” you confirm and for the second time today, you think, makes sense, “They’re your Section Commander?”

“They are.”

Conversation comes easy for the rest of the trip and by the time you reach headquarters, you think you’ve found yourself a friend in Moblit. With your horses resting happily in their stables, he shows you your room — a standard one-bed, one-desk and one-wardrobe space — and gives you directions for the workshop before leaving to unload the goods he brought.

Unpacking is a menial task and your bags are hardly any lighter even with all your clothing now stowed neatly away in the wardrobe. Most of the weight comes from the tools and equipment you brought from home, so following Moblit’s instructions, you head down the stairs, take a right and push through the third door on the left.

The workshop itself is spacious: a large island workbench sits in the centre of the room as worktops frame the perimeter in an L-shape. Shelving units span across the back wall and with a sink at the side, it seems like you have everything you need for your work, whether that be repairs, maintenance or design.

An archway in the left wall leads into a smaller adjacent room where a drafting table, shelving unit and small loveseat is tucked into. From what Moblit’s told you, him and Hange have used the room in the past to carry out the occasional experiment (which would explain the mysterious stain that seems to permanently blot the wood of the workbench) but with your arrival, the whole space is now all yours.

After a thorough sweep and wipe-down of all surfaces, you unpack the rest of your things. Your tools find themselves organised in the drawers, your rifle propped against the wall in the side room and in a poor attempt at decorating, you pin up a diagram of the ODM’s mechanics that you drew when were a student on the corkboard on the wall.

Curious, you run a quick inventory check on the supplies already here, satisfied to find several trays filled with screws, bearings and washers of varying sizes. Cans of oil and grease are found in the cupboards of the countertops, several boxes of ODM parts shoved next to them. That saves you from buying the basics yourself; those should last you a while at least.

Further probing reveals a microscope tucked in the back, a little dusty, clearly unused, but otherwise still functioning. The discovery reminds you of the vial in your bag, its content consisting of a sample obtained after you took apart one of the bullets Erwin left you with.

Your brother’s sudden visit that night had left you with a rare excitement you hadn’t felt in a while, your time leading up to today spent studying the bullets to try and get a head start on solving them. It had been so long since you were assigned something like this, that dormant vat of curiosity and knowledge finally being used.

It’s this same curiosity that has you emptying the vial’s contents on a glass mount, sliding it into place under the lens as you squint through the top. Fingers turn the knobs at the side, sharpening fuzzy shapes into clearer forms. Once you realise what you’re looking at, you pause.

What the hell?

Blinking, you pull away from the lens before peering through the glass again, verifying what you’re seeing. The image staring back is the same as before, just as disarming and loaded with implications you don’t even know where to begin to unravel.

Grabbing your bag, you take out your notebook and find the next clean page. Your eyes flick between the microscope and paper, hand hardly pausing as several annotated sketches of your observations fill the double-page spread. It’s only once you stop to sharpen your pencil, eyes glancing at the clock on the wall, do you realise how much time has passed.

Shit — you’re supposed to meet Erwin in his office in a couple of minutes. He asked you in one of his letters to see him once you had settled in, likely to debrief you on the structure of the Corps and what you’d expect your schedule to look like. Though, with what you’ve just discovered, your brother’s not the only one who has things to share.

The sample’s poured back into the vial which you slip into your pocket, your notebook in hand as you lock the workshop door behind you. You retrace your steps as you head for Erwin’s office, remembering its general location after Moblit pointed it out to you when you passed it earlier.

But the person that greets you on the other side of the large oak after you knock isn’t your brother, or anyone else you personally know for that matter.

Captain Levi stands on the other side, a man who had been all but hushed whispers and rumours when he joined the Corps just after you left. Suspicion hardens his face when his stare lands on you, sharp features deepening into a frown.

“You’re not Erwin,” you blink, a little confused.

“And you’re not a Scout,” Humanity’s Strongest observes, grey eyes narrowed and wary, “Who the hell are you?”

“Sorry?”

“Your name,” the Captain demands, arms crossed, “What is it? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I didn’t realise that Shadis allowed idiots who can’t even answer a damn question to enlist.”

“And I didn’t realise they lowered the height requirements to be able to join,” you shoot back, “Lucky you, looks like you just about made it.”

You don’t have time to decide whether you regret your words; surprise flashes briefly across his face before it darkens into something harsh, tone threatening, “I don’t know who you are or what division you’re in, but the only people who should be here are members of the Corps.”

“Then as the new engineer, I don’t see the issue with me being here,” you reply, conscious in keeping your voice even. The Captain pauses at your words, glares at you with an intensity that picks you apart. You glare back.

“You’re Erwin’s sister.”

“I am.”

“He didn’t mention you were arriving today,” the Captain states, almost accusing.

“He does that sometimes.”

Another pause, another terse silence. The Captain looks you over, seems to come to a conclusion as he scoffs, “You’re nothing like him.”

You bristle at his words, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re not welcome here.”

“With all due respect Captain, I was ordered to be here.”

“And now I’m ordering you to leave. We don’t need any outside help, let alone yours.”

You hold back a scoff of your own, “Your entire engineering department consists entirely of a few volunteers who were assigned the position for the sake of filling in numbers. Many of them only know the basics taught in the Training Corps, and yet you still want to deny help?”

It’s not like you to credit yourself like that, but it’s no secret the Survey Corps is lacking in manpower, both in its soldiers and engineers. Either the Captain already knows this or simply doesn’t care, because his reply comes just as quick and just as unbothered.

“And you think you’ll make much of a difference?”

“Why don’t you make the bullets then?”

”I can kill a titan faster with a blade than a gun.”

“Look,” you start, exasperated with this useless back-and-forth, “I just want to know where Erwin is. I need to talk to him.”

“Tough shit. He isn’t here.”

“Do you at least know where I could find him?”

“No.”

“Are you even going to try and help me here?”

“No.”

“Then apologies for bothering you, Captain,” you give up, a tinge of sarcasm in your tone, “I’ll find him myself.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

A new voice cuts through the air as Erwin himself emerges around the corner, documents tucked neatly under his arm. Despite the mild curiosity he wears as he looks between you and the Captain, nothing in his expression betrays how much of this conversation he’s heard.

“I see you’ve already introduced yourselves,” he remarks lightly. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, choosing to ignore his comment.

“You took your time,” you answer instead, your steps falling into place with your brother’s as you both enter his office, passing the Captain. Your eyes deliberately sweep over his direction, opting instead to inspect the interior of the space.

A large desk commands the room from the back, its surface decorated minimally with trays for paperwork. The shelves either side of the room are significantly busier but are just as organised, books arranged with a precision so characteristically fitting of Erwin. Woven threads form a rug in the centre of the room where two sofas sit facing each other, a small, low table between them. Afternoon light streams through the large window, casting rectangular patterns across the room and spotlighting the ceramic planter in the corner where a plant happily grows, full, healthy and clearly well looked after as its leaves perk towards the light.

“The meeting I had ran over,” Erwin’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts, directing your focus to the desk beside which he stands, “Moblit told me you arrived a while ago. Did you manage to find your room?”

You nod, seating yourself on one of the sofas, “And the workshop. I finished unpacking everything before I came here.”

Erwin hums his approval, slides his papers onto the tray.

“How’d it go with the budget proposal?” The Captain asks, standing behind the sofa on the side opposite you, arms resting against the back. You suppress a scowl.

“Approved,” Erwin confirms, “I managed to secure us extra on top of our usual amount now that we have the bullets to deal with,” his gaze falls back to you and the notebook in your hands, “I suspect you have an update about that?”

You straighten up, “Yeah, I—“

Your hand doesn’t even make it halfway to vial in your pocket when the doors burst open. A figure rushes in and before you can even process it, an arm’s wrestled around your neck, hiking you up into a hug that borders more towards a chokehold.

“Smith!” a voice exclaims in your ear and immediately, you know who this is, “I can’t believe Erwin’s finally dragged you back! I’m so excited to work with you again!”

“Me too, Hange,” you struggle to get out, sentiments echoed as you pat their arm. With their unofficial title as the Survey Corps’ scientist, Hange Zoë was someone you had crossed paths with before, their absurd requests in projects and seemingly boundless passion making them a well-known figure amongst the military’s engineers. They were one out of two of the veteran Corps soldiers who you knew fairly well, and sure enough—

“Hange, you’re strangling her,” a calmer voice points out, and in the same second that Hange slides their arm off you, something brushes against the shell of your ear. A glance upwards reveals Humanity’s Second - Mike Zacharias - his tall form leaning over to sniff at your neck — an odd but otherwise harmless habit of his. You had met him a few years ago when Erwin’s duties led him to Trost and he took his chance to visit you and your father at home, Mike accompanying him. In some aspects, he reminded you of your brother with his towering height and serious guise that would crack every so often with a smile, one which pulls across his lips now as he retracts back and places a hand on your head, seemingly satisfied.

“Smith."

“Zacharias.”

“Welcome back,” the Section Commander says warmly, rising back to full height to turn to your brother, “What did the Premier say about the budget?”

“Essentially, we have his support. He agreed to expand our cut and keep it that level in the future as long as we produce results.”

“Are we certain we’ll achieve that?”

“Depends on what we’re about to be told,” Erwin replies, then addressing you once more, “As you were saying?”

Four sets of eyes focus on where you’re sat on the sofa. You try not to shift under the sudden attention.

“I’ve had a look at the bullets,” you start, glancing at Erwin, “At first, I tried to see if there was something that could give us any clues on who made them or where they came from.”

“And?”

You shake your head, ”Nothing. If I had a cartridge, I could work out the date it was made, its manufacturer, even the calibre of gun it was intended for, all from the headstamp. But whoever shot them likely knew this and cleaned up after themselves to cover their tracks.”

“It is weird that no one found a single shell,” Hange remarks.

“Not the weirdest part,” you continue, “Because for bullets which were used, they’re surprisingly intact. From what I could see, they sustained at most only a couple of scratches. The grooves left hardly any marks.”

Mike sniffs, “Grooves?”

“Guns have something called rifling in the barrel,” you explain, “They’re grooves which spin the bullet when it’s fired to stabilise it mid-air, leaving impressions on the bullet itself. Groove markings in firearms are what fingerprints are to us: no two guns produce the same markings on a bullet, so you can deduce what model of gun was used to fire them and trace back other details from there. The fact that the bullets lack the markings to begin with mean one of two things: either the gun that shot these was of a very high quality, or the material the bullets are made of is strong as hell.”

“And you think it might be the latter?” Erwin concludes and you nod.

“The core itself is made of your standard lead, but the gilding metal of the jacket’s been alloyed with a material I can’t identify. It’s not a metal - that’s for certain - but whatever it is, I’d say it’s reasonable to assume its the reason why the bullets are so powerful.”

“Do you have any ideas as to what the material may be?”

Hesitation surfaces, creeping into your voice, “…I do.”

“But?”

“It—” You pause, shoulders sinking as you exhale slowly, “It’s going to sound stupid.”

“People can turn into titans,” the Captain says bluntly behind you, “Nothing at this point is stupid. Just say it.”

He has a point, despite your reluctance to admit it, and from the way Erwin, Mike and Hange look at you expectantly, they all seem to agree. You sigh.

”The bullets are made of cells. At least, I think they are.”

“Cells?” Hange perks up, “What do you mean?”

Fishing the vial out from your pocket, you place it on the table where fine fragments of material sit inside the glass. Sunlight disperses through its translucent surface, each crystal-like flake casting soft shapes of iridescent light across the wood.

“These are shavings of the material I managed to get from the outer casing,” you clarify, opening your notebook to your recent spread of pages, “I had a look at them under a microscope just before I came here, and from what I could see, I think they’re cells.”

You hand Hange your notebook, their eyes darting across your notes and sketches of your observations.

“Bullets made of cells…” they muse with a barely-contained excitement, sharing your notebook with Erwin, “Is that even possible?”

“With the things we’ve recently uncovered, it very well may be,” your brother says, “This might be more within your field than we thought, Hange.”

“Let me see,” Mike requests, gesturing for the vial. You hand it to him and watch as he holds it to the light, scrutinising it deeply before unscrewing the cap to bring it to his nose. He frowns.

“Doesn’t smell of anything in particular— maybe the faint scent of a titan, but then again, these were found in Eren’s titan form.”

“Don’t sniff that,” the Captain reproves, disgust contorting his features, “You could be inhaling the cells from a pig’s ass for all we know.”

Hange takes the vial, looks at it closely themselves, “Are pig cells even strong enough to break through titan skin?”

The Captain rolls his eyes, “That wasn’t a serious suggestion.”

“Do you know where the cells may have come from?” Erwin suddenly asks, glancing up briefly from your notes.

“No,” you admit, “Which is why I thought it would be good if I got Hange to take a look themself.”

“Oh, yes please.”

Erwin hums, follows his question with another, “Do you think the bullets could be ready in time for the expedition?”

“Unfortunately, no. Even if we manage to find out what the substance is, obtaining a reliable source of it becomes our next problem. And even if we succeed with that, then making the bullets and testing, reviewing and redesigning them is a whole process in itself.”

“We’ll need to consider alternatives should replicating these fall through.”

“I know. Look at the next page,” you instruct, pressing on once he turns to the other side of the paper, “The ultrahard steel your blades are made of is too brittle alone to be used for bullets, so I’m considering alloying it with other metals to try and mimic the properties of the material. I’ll get in contact with one of the factories and see if I can get some samples to test with. If any of them compare to whatever that substance is, I can try to make bullets out of those instead.”

“Sounds complicated,” Mike comments, studying your notebook over Erwin’s shoulder, “But bringing you back in seems to have proved its worth.”

“I’ve hardly done a thing,” you deflect.

“No, you’ve managed to get us a lead,” Erwin counters, handing your notebook back to you, “Even if they aren’t ready in time for the expedition, there’s still plenty you can help with. We’re expecting a new shipment of ODM in a couple of weeks so we’ll need you to run checks on those once they arrive.”

You nod, “Of course.”

“I’ll help!” Hange exclaims, “I’ll get Moblit to join us too!”

“That would be appreciated,” you say, giving a small smile.

“Speaking of the expedition,” the Captain starts slowly, “What’s going on with that? Because I’m not buying the bullshit that we’re going out there just to plot a route and come back home.”

Erwin raises a brow, “Is that plan really so hard to believe?”

“Under normal circumstances, no. But you’ve been fretting over budgets and formations so much recently it’s almost creepy. You obviously have something greater planned.”

“I’m glad you caught on,” your brother remarks, lips twitching with a half-smile, “The expedition was the reason I called you four here in the first place. But, before I disclose anything further, I want to emphasise that what I’m about to share in this room is entirely confidential. Nothing we talk about today can be discussed with anyone beyond this current audience. Is that understood?”

Four variations of confirmation are made and Erwin pushes forward.

“Good. I’ll get it out the way then. Enemies of humanity have made their way into the military and quite possibly into our ranks.”

Mike hums, “The same ones who shot Eren?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“If their target is Eren, then infiltrating the Corps does make sense,” Hange thinks out loud, “You think they’ll try and sneak in with the new recruits we’re getting?”

“It’s highly likely they will,” Erwin says, “When Wall Maria fell, the Armoured and Colossal destroyed both the gate and the inner wall to let the titans through. But when the Colossal made an appearance in Trost, the Armoured never followed and the inner wall to Wall Rose was never breached. Something happened back then that caused them to change their plans.”

“Eren’s transformation,” Hange realises and your brother nods.

“Whoever the Armoured and Colossal were must’ve been present when Eren appeared as a titan. Already, we can narrow our suspects down to some of the Garrison and a handful of the 104th trainees.”

“Which is why you mentioned Jaeger’s basement and the expedition during the recruitment ceremony,” Mike deduces, “You used it to bait whoever the traitors are into joining.”

“Exactly. The expedition is the next time the Armoured or Colossal are likely to make their move to capture Eren. Of course, it’s also possible that they have other allies on their side who could help them, so we shouldn’t strictly limit our suspects to the 104th alone. Mike, I trust your intuition. Have you noticed anything amiss?”

“Nothing from what I can remember,” the Section Commander recalls, thoughtful, “I’ll keep a closer eye from now on though.”

Erwin nods, “See to it that you do. Hange, Levi, I want you to do the same once they all arrive, and not just for your own squads. Whilst establishing a route for Shiganshina is important, the main purpose of this expedition is to lure out our moles and capture them.”

“How do you plan on subduing them?” you interject, mind reeling at the fact that the enemy could soon be in the Corps, eating, training and sleeping in the same building beside you. Erwin was offering his own regiment up on a silver platter— whether you or the enemy ended up on that plate in the end depended on this expedition’s outcome.

“Ideally, we capture them as a human. We remove any means possible for them to transform before taking them in for questioning.”

“And if they do transform?” you push, uneasy. The survival rate for the Corps was already high enough when it comes to dealing with pure titans. You don’t even want to consider the scale of the damage if soldiers were to directly engage with an intelligent one.

You doubt Erwin would want Eren to confront them himself either, not when the chances of his capture runs too high of a risk with his inexperience in his abilities. But it seems that Erwin’s thought this through, had already taken all this into account as he says:

“Then we’ll use traps,” he replies simply, “Traps I’d like yours and Hange’s help in creating.”

Hange’s grin stretches wide at the prospect of such a challenge as you share a glance, your gaze falling to the vial, your notebook, the notes on the bullets and every other bit of information you’ve managed to extract. So much you didn’t know, so much you had yet to find out, and yet, to your surprise, you’re filled with a similar conviction you had seen in Hange — a determination to prove yourself and succeed.

The discoveries in Trost had ushered in a new era of mystery and uncertainty, the future they were pointing you towards still a vague, shapeless outline. You don’t know if you could replicate the bullets, if the designs you’ll make for the traps will be enough to contain the strength and violent capacity of a titan shifter, but what you do know for certain is that you have to try.

Because if you don’t, then you know the gun that once pointed at Eren would soon find itself pointing at you all.

-+-

A/N (20/06/26): Lots of exposition, I know but I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Aside from this premature update, I think I'll try and stick to a weekly schedule for chapter releases (emphasis on try, but we'll soon see how well that goes LMAO)

Thank you for reading! <3

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Why?” He breathes, voice hurt and cracking with betrayal. Pain bursts against his knees as he’s hauled over the threshold of his home, “Why, Alistair? Why would you do this?

“You did this to yourself, Ernest,” the reply he gains is cold, blunt, empty. He’s talking to a stranger, “No renegade is a brother of mine.”

And with that, the young man turns, leaving the other to fight his restraints with a new wave of urgency, desperate and frantic as he calls for his brother who takes each willing step away from him.

He’s lost him.

It’s the final thought that haunts his mind when he’s knocked out cold.

-+-

He jolts up with a shuddering gasp, hands trembling for his face as the pressure builds in his chest. The sheets cling to his skin, damp with sweat, air sparse in his lungs as each breath seems to only wring his throat tighter— he can’t breathe.

Five things, he thinks. Five things he can see. He needs to ground himself, remind his thoughts that he’s here and not there, not in that house that haunts his dreams, not in that room where the sun never shines. But night has settled well over the district and the room is dark, so amidst the pounding in his ears and the tightness in his chest, finding five things becomes an increasingly difficult task.

His hands, he tries. His blanket, the bed. He can’t see beyond the shadows cast in his room, feels his pulse spike as his mind threatens to pull him back into that memory-merged dream. He moves on instead— four things to touch.

His hair, his skin, something encircling both his wrists and trying to pry them away from his face. It takes him a moment to snap out of his half-conscious state to realise that wrapping around his skin isn’t the cold bite of a pair of handcuffs, but the warm, firm hands of his daughter.

“Father?” Though your voice was gentle your concern was clear, cutting clean through the ringing in his head. His eyes flick up to you, glazed over with something hazy and distant; you repeat yourself, “It’s just me. You’re okay, you’re safe.”

Your father utters your name, a hesitant, doubtful sound.

“I’m here,” you assure him, “Focus on your breathing. You were having a panic attack.”

Feeling the shaking of his hands in your own, you bring the both of them on top of the bedsheets and encase them with yours, hoping the warmth in your palms would seep into his. Patient, you sit there as the minutes pass and the fog slowly clears from his eyes, your father’s form visibly relaxing as he sighs.

“Did I wake you?” He asks after a tentative pause, voice hoarse and words abrasive. He cringes at the sound, drinks the glass of water you automatically hand him.

“No, I was still downstairs. You were talking in your sleep.”

Alistair. That was the name you had caught your father murmuring earlier for what wasn’t the first time before. You had gathered long ago that the dreams were recurrent, haunted by a man you know nothing about, save for a name that your father may not even realise that he unknowingly let slip himself.

Despite your curiosity however, not once have you ever asked your father about this mysterious identity. Whoever this man is must be tied to some unpleasant memories, and the last thing you wanted to do was bring them up again when your father’s mind did that plenty for him already. So when your father frowns and the question that falls from his mouth is as you’ve predicted, the lie comes easy.

“What was I saying?”

You shrug, ”A lot of mumbling— most of it was too quiet for me to catch."

Pulling your hands away from his, you sit back in your chair, surveying him carefully, “How are you feeling?”

“Better. It was just another nightmare, nothing new.”

His attempt at dismissing the matter is glaringly obvious, your brow creasing with doubt.

“Are you sure? I can stay with you here for longer if you want.”

”I’ll be fine,” your father promises, pressing his lips to your forehead and smoothing your hair, “It’s my turn to worry about you though. You need to rest yourself — it's getting late.”

You’re not entirely convinced by the time you concede and make your way to the door, but your face is far from unkind when you close the wood behind you with a faint, “Goodnight”. Darkness envelops the room once more and with a heavy sigh does he slip back into his sheets, closing his eyes as the words creep back from his mind.

You did this to yourself, Ernest.

Though he had long accepted the truth in the accusation, it’s hard to suppress the tired groan that comes with the reminder that everything that happened was as a consequence of his own doing. The state of his health, having you care for him, the fact that he’s here and not there — his life is a culmination of the foolish choices he made in his youth and it’s not just him that pays for it.

The fact that his bed once held two is one of the more striking reminders. Nothing can ever stave off the cold that fills the space beside him, the emptiness that torments him from the grave itself. Guilt festers in his chest — that horrible, all-too-familiar feeling that all he does is bring misfortune, dragging all those around him down with him. It eats him alive, buries itself through his marrow and settles in the shells of his bones.

He wishes for another chance, an opportunity to atone for what he’s done.

But more importantly, he regrets that day more than anything.

-+-

“Another nightmare, Bolt. That’s the third one this week.”

The sound of paws against wood shadow you from behind as you seat yourself at the small dining table, a steaming cup in hand. The dog rests his chin on your lap as he finds his spot by your side, eyes closed in content when your fingers scratch gently behind his ears.

“It must’ve been the stress from the breach,” you take a sip of the tea, feel it warm your throat as you think out loud, “He hasn’t reacted that strongly to the dreams in a while.”

Wide, brown eyes peel open at your voice, blinking at you curiously. There’s a bitter taste on your tongue, and you don’t think it’s because of the tea.

“He’s hiding something,” you mutter softly after a brief pause, “I don’t know what, but I just know he is. It feels like he can never be fully honest with me. What do you think?”

Sighing, you look down at the face cradled in your hands, watching as the Alsatian tilts his head in what you interpret as confusion. The sight pushes a laugh out of you, a short puff of air released with self-depreciating humour. Asking a dog for its opinion? You must be going insane.

Two and a half years have passed since you began caring for your father full-time at your home in Trost, and whilst you didn’t mind the role you had offered to take in the first place, that small, selfish side of you can’t help but entertain the thought of the life you could’ve had if your circumstances were different.

Bouts of loneliness weren’t uncommon in between your routine of cooking, cleaning and walking Bolt with your father, and though you took on the odd job to fill the rest of your time — whether that be fixing a passing merchant’s cart or helping next-door with their faulty shower — it often felt like nothing more than a poor attempt to try and reclaim some semblance of your old life from before.

You think of your university and graduating class: most of the people you knew from then should be well into their respective careers by now, some already with families of their own and a close network of friends. Sure, your neighbours were kind and you got along with them, but they were far from your age and you’d rather clean the whole house twice than admit that your only other consistent source of company was the dog currently basking by your side.

Still, you think with a slight frown, you had your reasons for laying low, and the more you thought about it, it had been a while since he last visited.

A sharp procession of knocks sound at the door, strong and solid as they echo through the house. Bolt shoots up, ears perked and alert as your brows draw together.

Visitors? No— you discard that thought immediately. It was far too late for any guests and you knew you weren’t expecting any in the first place, haven’t had any in what feels like months. A part of you thinks to grab your rifle from your room as a precaution but you think better of it when Bolt sniffs at the door more curious than hostile, and if the frantic wagging of his tail that followed was any indication, he almost seemed excited.

Ushering Bolt back, you peer through the window beside the door and find yourself completely stunned at the sight of the man standing patiently outside. It had been a few months since you last saw him, and ever since then, his existence to you had been nothing more than his neat writing on parchment in a series of letters you both exchanged.

“Erwin! You never said you were coming.”

“My apologies,” the Commander speaks, voice hushed, low, conscious of the hour, “I know it’s late, but I need to speak to you and it’s far too risky through our letters. Things have been busy.”

Blinking away your surprise, you invite him in and head straight for the kitchen, grabbing a spare mug and emptying your kettle of the brew you made earlier. Judging by the familiar green of the trench coat the Commander was wearing, you suspect he had just finished a meeting of some sorts somewhere in the district. No doubt he would appreciate something warm to go down— you knew all too well yourself how long those meetings could stretch for, the headaches they could induce.

“Down, Bolt,” you scold lightly as you emerge into the main living space, “You’ll trip him over.”

Bounding towards the blond with a furious energy, your dog pays no heed to you as he paws at the Commander’s coat, circling his legs in a clear demand for attention.

“It’s alright,” the Commander smiles, seating himself opposite you. One hand accepts the tea you give him, the other lightly scratching the Alsatian’s chin, “He seems rather excited.”

“Tell me about it,” you huff, sliding into your own chair, “He never greets me this enthusiastically when I come home.”

”I suppose it has been a while since I last visited. How have things been?”

You give a half-shrug, taking a sip from your own cup.

”Fine, all things considered.”

“The breach didn’t cause too many problems for you?” he asks, straightening in his seat. You hold back a sigh.

“We managed to evacuate before the titans reached the neighbourhood, so physically the three of us are okay. House is intact, nothing got damaged. We were all shaken by what happened of course, but aside from the few repairs that still need to be done in the district, everyone’s managing to settle back into their lives without much issue.”

“That’s good to hear,” the Commander nods, the relieved drop in his shoulders barely perceptible, “I’ve been meaning to visit sooner, but you can imagine with all that’s happened I haven’t gotten the chance to.”

You shake your head, waving him off, “It’s fine, Erwin, don’t worry about it. But speaking of the breach…” your words trail off, coloured with a sudden hesitance.

“What is it?”

“I’ve been hearing things,” you start, sighing gently, “And I know I’m no longer privy to your military secrets, but with everything that just happened, I hope you know there’s rumours going around that people want answers to.”

“That’s actually the reason why I’m here to talk to you.”

Reaching into one of his inner pockets, the Commander drops something on the table. Bullets, you recognise immediately.

“What are these?” You take the closest one that rolled towards you between your fingers and from the feel alone, you can tell: “These aren’t your usual rifle bullets.”

The Commander smiles, “How could you tell?”

“They’re surprisingly light— definitely not made of lead. Shape is slightly different too: they’re longer, thinner. Do these not have cartridges?”

“None were recovered as far as I’m aware.”

You hum, thoughtful, “These don’t look like they were made for any military issued guns. Or any typical gun now that I look at it.”

“Do you still have that rifle of yours?”

“I do. Still practice with it sometimes.”

Sitting up a little more straighter, he plucks a bullet off the table, pinches it between his thumb and index.

“These were retrieved here in Trost alongside a recently discovered titan shifter. It was only a few days ago that we managed to get him into our custody.”

“Titan shifter? You mean the rumours are true?”

The Commander nods, “They are. This individual can turn into a titan at will. You’ve seen firsthand what happened in the district and it was actually here that the boy - Eren Jaeger - awakened his ability and transformed for the first time. Using this power, he was able to help clear the area and seal the hole with a boulder.“

“Wait— Jaeger?” You ask, mind fixing on this particular detail, “As in, the son of Grisha Jaeger? The doctor from the South?”

“The very same,” the Commander confirms, and you pause, staring at the blond in disbelief because you know Grisha Jaeger, had even talked to the man when he had treated your father when his health initially began its decline. You had never met his son, but to think that you were only a person away from a boy with such an incredible power…

The Commander gives you a knowing look and sighs, “I know. There’s still a lot for us to uncover but this gives us a lead on a few things, including the breach in Shiganshina. If people can turn into titans, then—”

“—The Colossal and Armoured are likely to be humans too,” you realise, catching on quickly. Taking a sip of his tea, the Commander nods, “You say ‘awakened’ as if Eren had no idea he had this ability prior to any of this. You’re telling me he just accidentally transformed?”

“From what we’ve gathered from his trial and from talking to him ourselves, that seems to be the case. His memory of the incident is still rather fuzzy, so we’re still in the fog about the exact prerequisites for a transformation to happen.”

“Sounds awfully convenient,” you point out, raising an eyebrow, “How do you know he’s not aligned with those bastards from five years ago?”

“Because of these,” the blond explains, directing your focus to the bullet he holds up again, “During the clean-up, we extracted these bullets from Jaeger’s titan remains but we soon realised they’re not the standard rounds that the military produce.”

Your brows knit together, “I know I said their shape was odd, but it’s not uncommon for people to make their own bullets.”

“It isn't,” the Commander agrees, “Except, as you already know, ordinary rifle bullets are useless against titans. Witness reports from the trainees in Trost state that when Jaeger’s titan was shot with these, it was enough to stun - even incapacitate - him. Obviously, he’s alive, but his titan form took some significant damage.”

“You mean these can take down a titan?” You ask, intrigue growing in your tone. Despite the weariness the Commander had noticed across your face earlier, your eyes had sharpened with a perceptive gleam— a look he was all too familiar with.

“Yes. However, we’re unable to identify what they’re made of and nobody knows who shot them. Regardless of that fact, whoever it was must’ve known about Eren’s power before he knew himself, hence the preparation of specialised firearms in advance. Given how he wasn’t killed, I suspect their aim was to capture him, perhaps to use him as a weapon for their side.”

“So there’s an enemy within the Walls?”

“There’s a high chance, yes,” he admits, holding up a bullet again, “And if so, then it's likely that there's more than one mole for the creation of these to be possible. Currently though, as you’ve stated, this is all classified information.”

“So someone’s secretly manufactured anti-titan weaponry and you want to find out what they’re made of so you can replicate them,” you summarise out loud, mainly for your own understanding as your fingers rubbed at your temples, “Not only that, you’ve also managed to get a titan shifter on your side who could benefit you greatly in not only understanding the titans, but eliminating them completely. And from the evidence you’ve gathered, you believe that the poor kid’s got a target on his back by the same people who tried shooting him down. Have I missed anything?”

“I believe that covers it all.”

You hum, crossing your arms as you stared at the bullets on your table, digesting it all. You were curious; this discussion did align with your specific line of work. Except: “Why tell me all this if it’s confidential? I’m not military anymore, Erwin. I know you can pull a few strings, but what you just told me far exceeds what you can share with civilians, even for you.”

“I know,” the Commander says, and with his fingers locked together and elbows on the table, he surveys you carefully, “Which is why whilst I’m aware that this is a lot to ask of you, I’ve come here looking for a favour.”

“Which is?”

“Join the Survey Corps. I’m offering you a position as an engineer in our ranks.”

“What?” You manage to choke out through a sip of your tea, coughing into your elbow. Erwin merely quirks a brow, the only display of his amusement, “Why me? You know I have hardly any time looking after—“

“I know, but please, just consider it,” the Commander interjects, expecting your response, “You’re the only one I can fully trust with this. You have the knowledge, the experience. If you manage to replicate these bullets, it gives humanity the upper hand by improving the feasibility of long-range attacks. Complete eradication of the titans is a reality we could potentially see through. Naturally, because of this, I don’t want this information falling into the wrong hands.”

“ ‘Offering’ my ass,” you mutter, caring very little whether or not whether the Commander had heard you, “You’re not going to give me much choice on this are you?"

His lips twitch, “Not exactly.”

You push out a huff, the sound half-exasperated as you lean back in your chair.

“Do you really think Eren is the answer to all of this?” you ask, a bullet rolling between your fingers. If you’re going to commit to this, you need to hear it yourself— that there’s substance to what you’re getting yourself into and would be worth leaving Trost and everything here behind.

“I know he is,” the Commander says, steadfast, assured, “Whether he survives long enough to realise his potential all depends on our weapons and our ability to defend him. Whoever our enemy is currently outranks us with that.”

He watches as his words settle into silence, your expression conflicted as your stare falls from him to the bullets.

“I’m not expecting an answer straight away,” he starts again slowly, “But should you accept, then you’ll need to complete and send me these forms within the next three days. Once you do, you’ll start a week from now.”

He slides the papers across the table and you spare them a quick glance: just some paperwork listing your duties and confirming your return— should you return. With the printed emblem of the Survey Corps staring back at you, you sigh.

“Fine,” asshole, you finish silently in your head, though you trusted him plenty, “I’ll think about it. But it’s not just me who gets a say in whether I return,” you add, thinking of your father upstairs. Deep down, however, you’ve made your decision, you know what you want and from the satisfied nod the Commander gives, he seems to know it as well.

Rising from his seat, he continues, “I’ll leave the bullets with you so you can analyse them yourself. However, keep the details on the bullets and any findings you make entirely classified. If you return, I’ll have a new uniform ready for you when you arrive and I’ll assign you your own office. We’ll also have you started on training as soon as we can; there’s an expedition coming up in just under two months that I know you’ll be able to prove yourself in.”

“Slow down, Erwin, that wasn’t a definite yes yet,” you remind him, a half-laugh in your words as you follow him to the stables. Sensing movement, Bolt jumps to his feet and trails behind you, “But I have to admit, you’ve thought this out well. You haven’t changed.”

“Neither have you,” the Commander returns. He watches as you greet his horse, Nova— a strong, beautiful mare with snow for her coat. She was given to him after he took up commandership and her ears perk in recognition as you near, happily accepting the hand stroking her neck. She doesn’t steal his attention for too long though; the horse in the stall beside hers draws his interest instead.

Erwin hadn’t noticed him earlier, realises that he was likely sleeping when he left Nova here. An older steed, Erwin remembers naming this horse himself, has even fonder memories of being taught how to ride him by the same man whose house he was just in and who Erwin was always said to bear a striking resemblance to.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he begins slowly, “How has he been? Our father?”

Your hands lower from Nova’s mane, arms crossing over your chest as you lean against the stable.

“He’s okay. He’s asleep now but he had another one of those nightmares of his just before you arrived.”

“Did he say what it was about?”

“No, but you know what he’s like,” you say, sighing, “Even if I asked, he wouldn’t tell me to try and spare me from worrying. If anything, that just makes me worry more.”

“What about his knee?” Erwin asks.

“He seems to walk by himself just fine, but I’ve been telling him to take it easy. When the breach happened, we left in a rush and I know he was pushing himself as we were evacuating. He’s still recovering from what happened then and… you know. Everything from before.”

“I see,” the words come out with a hum, a pensive look falling over his features, “Give him my regards and apologies that I couldn’t see him myself when he wakes up.”

“I will,” you say, moving out the way so he could unlock the gate, “But maybe visit at a more reasonable time in the future. Father misses you terribly, and so does Bolt.”

And as if on cue, your dog gives a small noise, seeming to have sensed the incoming departure. With Nova’s reigns in one hand, Erwin gives Bolt a final pet on the head.

“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try to,” he assures you.

“Try harder,” you quip dryly. Erwin doesn’t roll his eyes, but his face holds the sentiments as if he had done so, amused.

“I’ll see you in a week," he quips, mounting his horse. Shaking your head, you smile.

"Goodnight, Erwin."

Your brother smiles back.

"Goodnight."

And with the turn of his coat, he was gone.

-+-

A/N (18/06/26): To all the new readers— welcome! This is a rewrite of a fic I published under a different title and ended up reaching up to around 20-ish chapters before I took it down and privated it.

To those who have read the original version— I can only imagine how much of a jumpscare this might be after 3 years of literal silence on my end, so firstly, I’d like to apologise for seemingly abandoning the fic and leaving you guys in the original on what must’ve been a very painful cliffhanger.

I explained the main reasons for a rewrite via an update on the original fic, but long story short, there was a lot that I was unhappy with regarding the dialogue, pacing, characterisation and general writing and in the years since I first started drafting this story (I was 14 when I started and I've now just finished my second year at uni LMAO), I felt like a lot has changed, my writing style included.

I know the idea of a rewrite might be frustrating, especially with where the original fic left off, but there are going to be some significant changes to the story besides me simply rewriting sentences + editing dialogue. This includes adding extra scenes in between the pre-existing ones to help flesh out the characters and their relationships more, alongside a few minor ones. Already you’ve seen one of these changes: giving our beloved mc a dog!

I currently have 10 chapters already written so I can still update even if I do fall a bit behind. That being said, I haven't fully decided on a posting schedule yet and with the deadlines and exams I’ll inevitably have coming up once I start third year, I can’t 100% promise consistency.

Either way, thank you all for reading! As always, feel free to give your thoughts/feedback on the chapter below— I hope you all enjoyed it and look forward to the rest <3

Next Chapter

You and Levi as detectives partnered together on cases, a loose parallel to Stabler and Benson's dynamic

Levi coming across as more serious, confrontational (especially during interrogations) whilst you're generally more approachable, better suited when talking to victims (though you definitely know how to handle yourself when facing difficult perps)

The rest of the squad would include: Pyxis as precinct captain, Erwin as his sergeant, often working with Mike (an ex-narcotics detective) on investigations, Hange as the medical examiner, Moblit and Jean working computers in TARU, Eren as a crime scene analyst in CSU (where he's kept in check by Mikasa and Nanaba), Onyankapon as a forensic psychiatrist from the FBI and Armin and Historia as the ADAs

And as for the actual cases, given the nature of the crimes and the dangerous situations you often find yourself in, it means several occasions where you and levi risk your lives for each other, countless heated arguments sparked from these moments where you're forced to confront just how much you mean to each other

But no matter what happens, regardless of how much your interests may clash, you know Levi will always be there to have your back, his arms a comforting sanctuary when a particular case hits too close to home or spirals out of control.

And don't get me started on Levi when you first go undercover (think of Benson in s9 where she goes to the prison) — he can hardly focus on the other cases he has when his mind is plagued with thoughts about you (and only you), praying that no one catches onto you and blows your cover, that you're able to extract the information you need and get the hell out of there without any issues.

(Even if he'll never admit it, you can always see his relief whenever you reunite: in the drop of his shoulders and softening of his eyes and if the case was especially rough, the hug you share knowing it's finally over)

The other side of that coin are the cases where you're undercover together, posing as a married couple to trick some sleazy conman into revealing his illegal adoption scheme or as a couple of thugs to infiltrate a neighbourhood gang

In cases like that, you can't tell if you both play the roles too well or if there's something genuine underlying it all — as a workaholic who dedicates most (if not all) your time working for the squad, you're just glad the charades result in arrests, imprisonment and justice for the victims at the end of the day

(Although that doesn't stop you from dissecting your feelings about Levi when you can't sleep, watching the lights of passing traffic flash under your curtains in your one-bed apartment)

And between the cases, the trials, the convoluted legal systems and trips to the ER, you learn to appreciate the quiet moments you get with Levi

All the times you take your lunch breaks together, Levi memorising your order from that one bagel spot near the office, all the late nights where you keep each other company as you glare back at the blue lights of your computers, wondering what the hell you could've possibly missed, all the trips to the hospital where you reassure victims, only for Levi to pull you aside once the chaos has settled to remind you to take care of yourself