u n l o c k e d;

It bothers him to no end -- the blatant disregard for his own life. A world at his feet, and he chooses to tread off the path of safety and assurance. Eren bites his lip as they land, teeth worrying the thin skin there. 

“We’re cleared for landing, Special Agent Yeager.”

Yes, he thinks, slinging open the heavy helicopter door and gesturing for Armin to climb in, there is little tolerance for failure in this line of work. He can hear his superior’s deadpan in his mind, loud and clear.

“The last guy we assigned to this was an idiot,” Levi had half spit, face scrunched in disgust and intolerance. “He’s the reason this brat is out doing whatever the hell he likes.” Eren had simply nodded his head once in understanding, adjusting the band of his watch. “Your job is to find him and contain him, got it?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t have the time to do any more exit paperwork.”

Just like what he remembers: the traffic jam started with yellow taxi cabs, semi-trucks, and people. Everything is a blur. Someone asking to sit next to him and he doesn’t respond, because it feels scooped out, hollow, and heart-breaking. An ambulance in Los Angeles during rush hour blaring. He’s sure he’s heard that before, and it has to be the truth because people don’t lie about important stuff like death, glass littering the belway, and his inability to be there. Of course, this wasn’t easy and he smoothes his hair back with his cool, pale hand. He can’t be sure where he’s going or where he could go without being caught. It feels like a dream only it’s on replay and it’s always gray.

He doesn’t want to be protected, all it does is drown him in loneliness that floods over him, sinking inside the crests of gray waves. Armin stares out the window into the monochrome horizon. And the bus comes to a complete halt and he can hear it’s passengers whisper their concerns. Hysterical laughter bubbles up from his through as in a twisted, painful face. He’s impressed. There are several police cars, and at least one helicopter. It’s a scene straight out of a bad end-of-the-world movie. “Excuse me,” he says, a smile hovering at the corner of his mouth.

It does little to keep him from grinding his teeth, gripping hard at the helicopter’s metal framework as he swings his legs out, touching down before the vehicle itself does and making his way toward the halted bus. Sheesh, he grouses inwardly as the door folds sideways to allow him entry, all this for someone who doesn’t value their life anyway. He stalks his way up the stairs, rounding into the aisle and into the immediate view of several confused, if not panicked, civilians. If he wants to run away, I don’t see why we don’t just let him.

He fixes his focus upon the subject in question, a boy little older than he, with pale eyes and a delicate face. A mannequin, he resents, although Eren knows full well the value of that deceptive visage; of the sharp and calculating nature of his target, of the invaluable mind that rest inside the cavern of his porcelain skull. He keeps his look cold and void of emotion, advancing upon Armin with careful deliberation.

A gentle voice pulls him from the thick murk of his thoughts; liberates him from the crushing weight of his teenage boredom. He lifts his cheek from its throne upon his knuckles, blood rushing to the surface of his skin like the afternoon tide, leaving telltale pink streaks. “Huh?” He manages in all his sloppy ineloquence, so like a boy. Eren finds himself fixated on that small rabbit mouth, puckered sourly with the taste of tart anxiety. Something about it softens him immediately; almost soggy at the edges. 

“Sure,” he whispers, heat burning low within him. His fingers do not tremble as he rifles through his book bag, and not as he reaches across the aisle to offer his spare pencil to his classmate. “Here.” For reasons unknown, Eren cannot meet his eyes – so like the sea in both temperament and color, though he can see the power that lies beneath. This boy is calculating, and Eren finds it quite intimidating; a subject ready for dissection, all scalpels and steel tables, to be picked apart and sandwiched between glass slides.

The waves in the distance are like white creases on a vast bale of velvet and the lolling of it is both rhythmic and mesmerizing. No, no, no, it’s Eren’s voice that echoes through the alien emptiness of his mind. Plump and heavy, he would let his voice put his soul to sleep today, however. “Sorry, I don’t know what is going on either,” he smiles with faith. And he turns to Eren, revealing a galaxy of otherworldly hope. “We can pretend we know.”

He watches as the surf tumbles from Armin’s eyes, ever-eager, dripping down his sclera. Sea foam dusts his cheeks. Eren quietly chooses the latter, offering an austere smile, albeit lain with good intentions. He feels stiff and a bit achy, and he hastily scribbles between the pale lines of his college-ruled notebook.

He found himself visualizing himself inside his bedroom, it’s glorious vastness, it’s dreamy surface and straining to hear the metronomic wave music. That’s all he ever did: lay in bed and listen to the sound of the sea through his headphones. The flowing of a tide was languorous, the ebbing tide was harmonious. And here he was entering his science room late. Nobody noticed him enter, nobody ever does, he blends in so perfectly. It was a teeth-gritting experience. Only one seat is open, decaying air and stifling atmosphere provided the perfect abode for those who worshiped the darkness rather than the light. He sat next to someone, clutching his books to his chest seeking comfort.

Grains of poison seeped through the classrooms corners and it gleamed like witch dust. The musty air was difficult to breathe. Today was especially hard, biting his tongue with nervousness and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. The pungent tang oozed from every sentient being in this horrible classroom. Yes, he was smart, but he also wanted to be home. His flesh crept and the hair on the back of his neck rose like the hackles of a dog. Fear, a feeling he was unused to, felt like the melting tallow under the surface of his skin, feverish and hot. Teacher has instructed them to write something down. “Can I borrow a pencil,” he whispers to the boy next to him because he doesn’t have one.

“Sure,” he whispers, heat burning low within him. His fingers do not tremble as he rifles through his book bag, and not as he reaches across the aisle to offer his spare pencil to his classmate. “Here.” For reasons unknown, Eren cannot meet his eyes -- so like the sea in both temperament and color, though he can see the power that lies beneath. This boy is calculating, and Eren finds it quite intimidating; a subject ready for dissection, all scalpels and steel tables, to be picked apart and sandwiched between glass slides.

The room was a paradise of death. Wasn’t it almost a week from today that he had to haul his grandfather from the living room to connect him back onto his air supply –   after hearing him dry heave.. Nearly too late, and that was all to watch him dangling at the jaws of death. He could hear them now the crunching of bones and growling demons inside his head.

Drinking in the sight of his pale, cherubic boy, does he know the answer could be no less than yes.