#gunsmoke

Just as you promised, you had met with Hange shortly after your conversation with the Captain at the Garrison’s base. But they weren’t alone when you entered their room, nor was it Moblit who was with them, but a pastor from the Order of the Walls, just as grave-faced as he was tight-lipped.

And so, Hange explained it to you themselves— how the truth had quite literally come to light following the Female Titan’s attempts to climb the Wall, a hole breaching its surface from where her hands found purchase. Your imagination filled what Hange’s words didn’t: a face stripped of skin and staring out with hollow eyes as if the secrets of its own existence hadn’t just been exposed.

A Colossal Titan. Thousands of them, buried in the same Walls that have surrounded you your entire life.

The pastor had frantically ordered the hole be covered, lest the sunlight reach the titan. The canvas had been put up at his request, but you didn’t like what his words implied, nor how the man stubbornly refused to divulge any further.

But his silence wasn’t enough to stop you Hange and Moblit from doing your own prying, confirming your suspicions only to develop a hundred new ones. Though Annie Leonheart and her crystal was ultimately entrusted to the hands of the Military Police, the Section Commander had successfully gathered several samples of the crystal beforehand, alongside the debris of the Wall itself from where it broke.

An analysis of the two revealed that the composition of the crystal and the Wall were identical, not only to each other and the hardening from the expedition, but more importantly, your sample from the bullets.

Your theory was right. The bullets were made of titan hardening. The answer you were searching for in the two months since Erwin came to your door that night was finally here as every piece slotted together. The expedition, Stohess— all of it had been building up to the moment where the image through Hange’s microscope matched the view you saw through your own back on your first day.

The Female Titan could harden her skin and the Walls were living proof that others could too, raising the question of whether Eren was capable of pulling it off himself. The boy was still clearly adjusting to his power, his successes likened more to close calls than a complete victory.

But if he could do it— if he learnt how to produce his own version of the hardening, then not only could you replicate the bullets without the worry of finite materials, but Shiganshina, the breach, the devastation of Wall Maria. It could be sealed. The hardening could quite literally be the solution to all your problems.

Do you really think Eren is the answer to all of this?

That was the question you had asked Erwin that night. Back then, your brother had expressed his complete faith in the boy, and now, in retrospect, you can begrudgingly see why he takes the gambles he does, why he never hesitates to charge towards what others would typically shrink from.

And with that, you wasted no time in drafting your own prototypes of the rounds, sending an order and the samples Hange collected to the factories to manufacture different versions of the bullets, each composition varying in the amount of hardening used.

You had never intended to make a perfect replica from the beginning, recognising the level of craftsmanship that went into the original bullets Erwin dropped onto your kitchen table. It was far beyond anything the factories could recreate, let alone your bare hands, and was made for a gun of a higher calibre and quality than yours.

So you made adjustments, recalculated, adapting your prototype’s designs to fit your own rifle. And when Erwin summons you into his office a few days after you placed the order, naturally you expect questions on the bullets, their details and the expected date they would be ready to be asked.

Except, instead of anything of the sort—

“A ball? We just found out there’s titans in the Walls and we’re prioritising a ball?”

“For reasons more important than you think,” Erwin responds to you cooly. Hange lounges on the sofa opposite you, the Captain perched on the armrest, “After what happened in Stohess, general opinion of the Survey Corps is the lowest it’s been for a while. The ball not only serves as a chance for us to improve our rapport, but for you - our engineer - to establish yourself as an official member of the Corps to the public.”

“Erwin, I’m the only engineer you have,” you point out. Hange snorts.

“All the more of a reason as to why you should attend,” you brother contends, “By now, most in the Walls would’ve heard the news that a gun and bullets were used to help take down a titan. No doubt they’d have questions, and who better to answer them than the person who made and used them themself?”

“You want me to get cosy and rub shoulders with nobles,” you state more than ask, your lack of enthusiasm more than evident, “Who else is invited?”

“Originally, it was the four of us here and Mike, but he insisted he’s better off joining his squad in Wall Rose. I believe he was planning on leaving with the supply cart later today.”

“Choosing to babysit the 104th over attending a ball is definitely a choice,” Hange remarks, “Not that I blame him, exactly. These things are boring, though the food is pretty decent— better than our rations, at least."

“You’re not exactly filling me with confidence,” you mutter quietly. Erwin hears you regardless.

“Take this as an opportunity to network and build your connections. We need both the support and funding if we want to produce our own bullets, so I should tell you this now just so you’re aware: Dot Pyxis will be in attendance.”

“The Commander of the Garrison?”

Your brother nods, “If there’s one thing I’d like you to achieve by the end of that evening, it’s to gain his approval for the bullets. Having him on our side would be invaluable.”

“I’ll try,” you concede, though not without a sigh, “How formal is this thing?”

“Super formal,” Hange answers.

“Stupidly formal,” the Captain rectifies.

“Like way-out-of-our-tax-bracket formal,” the Section Commander adds on.

“I don’t have anything suitable enough to wear,” you realise, before wondering how you would even afford anything remotely appropriate for a formal ball. Although you were from a more comfortable area of Trost, the dresses and skirts you owned could barely hold a candle to a ballgown, worn more for comfort and convenience than appearances or grandeur.

“You’ll have a sufficient amount allocated to you to help cover the cost,” Erwin reassures you, “As far as anyone’s concerned, your dresswear falls under the Corps’ budget given how your attendance is more or less expected.”

“I know a shop!” Hange says, straightening up enthusiastically, “Me and Levi need to get our suits tailored there, but they have some dresses you can rent out too. We were going to head out tomorrow— you should join us!”

“There you have it,” Erwin says, “Make sure you have something before the end of the week.”

After a quick briefing on the details of the ball - where it was being held, your expected departure time and your accommodation for the night - you’re dismissed from Erwin’s office and head to the stables.

It’s there that you find Mike, halfway through the process of loading the carts with the supplies to send to your squad and the 104th. You ask him about Nanaba and whether either her or Lynne had any heeled shoes you could borrow, to which Mike promises he’ll ask the pair once he sees them.

He wishes you good luck for the ball and you wish him the same for his babysitting duties, prompting him to swat a hand at your arm light-heartedly before you both say your goodbyes. The next day arrives faster than you anticipate and you’re not exactly sure what to expect when you, Hange and the Captain venture into Wall Rose, your destination a tailor’s shop and boutique where ivy winds around the storefront windows.

Upon entering, you’re greeted warmly by an elderly woman who seems already familiar with the pair accompanying you, and encourages you to browse the dresses as she guides the Captain into the room over to take his measurements.

Hange proves more than happy to go second as they pluck several dresses from the racks based off the size and preferences you relay to them - something breathable, has sleeves and isn’t too ornate in design - before shoving you and their selection into a dressing room.

The first dress is a red gown, intricate patterns sewed in threaded gold around the neckline, waist and down the silhouette. Not exactly the most subtle option you’d usually go for and whilst the fabric fit you comfortably, a quick look at the tag attached has you doing a double-take and reminding Hange that you were working with a budget.

You try on the next dress: sage green with delicate pearl-coloured beading and puffed sleeves. The fabric brushes the floor and sits lightly over your form, but a look in the mirror reveals that the neckline was too wide, failing to cover your shoulder— the same shoulder that was still mottled with the bruises you were trying to hide.

Despite regularly icing the joint, stretching it gently and keeping it wrapped under your uniform, the effects of overworking it during Stohess have yet to fade, hence why you wanted the sleeves. You had forgone the usual bandage winding around your shoulder today, incase Hange caught sight of it each time they helped you with tying the corset, but as you assess the splotches of purple, green and yellow peeking out from under the fabric, you’re not sure if that was a better sight.

Either way, the green dress wasn’t the one, much to Hange’s dismay. You throw out a quick white lie about the shade not suiting you and move onto the next.

Switching between different styles, colours and designs, you’re partway through wriggling yourself out of a purple dress when a hand suddenly shoves itself past the edge of the curtain to the dressing room, a wad of tulle and fabric dropping into your arms.

“Hange, what— I’m not wearing this,” you say with a half-laugh as you take the dress and hold it out in front of you.

“Just give it a try!” Comes their reply from the other side of the curtain. Your face scrunches up.

“It’s an eyesore.”

“It’s different, that’s all!”

“Yeah, different in all the wrong ways.”

That isn’t enough to deter Hange as they insist you at least give it a chance. It feels more like you’re fighting the dress than wearing it as you struggle to put it on, the layers of ruffled fabric weighing you down. The orange shade does nothing to help its unflattering shape, but hey— at least it covered your shoulders.

“What do we think?” you ask, sarcasm thick in your tone as you emerge from behind the curtain. Amusement widens the grin on Hange’s face as you approach the armchair they were waiting in, but before they can voice their opinion, they’re beaten to it.

“What the hell is that?” the Captain asks, entering the room. Seems like he was done with getting his measurements taken.

“I didn’t choose this one, just to clarify,” you defend, glaring at the Section Commander who looked far too pleased with themselves.

“If you think that’s bad, I can tell you now that you’ll have a heart attack at the ball,” Hange snickers, “It’s astounding how being out of touch really skews your sense of style.”

Shaking your head, you turn back to the changing room to hide the ghost of your smile. You pick out another green dress from the pile Hange gave you — this time, the shade a deeper emerald with a panel of lace appliquéd to the front.

“What do we think?” you ask again as you step out from the curtain.

“It’s better,” the Captain shrugs.

“Length is good, neckline suits you,” Hange lists, following you out the changing room where they fixed the corset for you, “Colour-wise, you’re like a walking Survey Corps advertisement.”

You shoot them a sidelong glance, “On second thoughts, I think I prefer that orange one.”

Disappearing back into the changing room, you sift through the remaining options left hanging on the railing when you stop on one: a slate blue gown, fitted through the bodice with bell sleeves and flowing layers cascading from the waist.

You vaguely register the elderly woman calling for Hange to be measured as you slip into the dress, the material soft and light against your skin. You had initially thought the fabric to be of a plain design when you first saw it, but as you look at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you catch the damask pattern threaded into the dress in a similar shade of blue, visible only as the light shifted across it.

This might be the one. You just needed to fasten the corset to verify it fit comfortably, but with Hange occupied, that leaves you with—

“Captain?” You start, “Are you still there?”

A pause.

“I am.”

“Could you help me with the corset? I can’t reach the back.”

Another pause. Then, the scrape of a chair, like he was rising to his feet.

“Yeah. Can I come in?”

Pulling back the curtain slightly, you let the Captain step inside, feeling acutely aware of just how small the changing room was. Standing in front of the mirror, you direct your stare downwards as he shifts behind you, swallowing hard when his hand brushes your hair out the way over your shoulder.

The coolness of his touch lingers from where his fingers skimm your back, and you can’t tell if you’re burning or freezing when he gives the lace a small tug and you’re snapped out of it.

“Any thoughts?” you ask, breaking the silence.

“It works,” the Captain replies simply. You glance at the mirror; his gaze draws downwards, focused on the fingers winding the lace. As the pressure from the bodice increases, you can feel your heartbeat against your chest and the slight jump in its pace.

“High praise,” you retort, lips twitching with a roll of your eyes, “Not that we had a strong lineup of options to begin with.”

“Anything would be better than that abomination earlier,” he responds and you release an amused exhale at thought of that orange dress, “How is it?”

Remembering to breathe, you let yourself settle in the corset before deciding, “Could be tighter.”

He gives another pull, “Better?”

“Perfect, thank you.”

He ties the bodice off with a quiet, “There” before leaving you to appraise the fit of the dress as he ducks past the curtain. You follow after him not long afterwards, a small smile on your face.

“I think this might be the one,” you announce, heading to the larger mirror just outside the changing room for a better look. From what you can see, the length was perfect, the fabric hugging you just right and covering what you needed it to. It was definitely one of the more comfortable options Hange picked out for you, the material swishing fluidly as you move.

“Would you be able to dance in it?” The Captain asks, his eyes meeting yours in the reflection of the mirror. He leans against the wall behind you, arms crossed. You blink.

“No one mentioned I had to dance.”

“We’re going to a ball, Smith,” he reminds you.

“That doesn’t mean I have to,” you push, apprehension swiftly dawning on you, “Do I?”

“Consider it a rite of passage,” the Captain answers, “No one enjoys interacting with those pretentious shits, but those bullets aren’t funding themselves. If you want the support, you better pray you don’t have two left feet and start socialising.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” you mutter, before mentally debating whether the twitch of the Captain’s lips in the mirror’s reflection was real or a trick of the light, “Didn’t think this was where my time in the Survey Corps would take me.”

“It’s one evening. You’ll live.”

“I know,” you sigh, turning around to face him, “Are you any good at it? Dancing, I mean.”

He shrugs, “It’s the same as fighting. It’s all just footwork.”

You raise a brow, mirroring his stance as you cross your own arms, “So you’re decent.”

“I’d say my skills are passable.”

“That’s an understatement,” Hange interjects, abruptly appearing from the other room, “Levi’s been proposed to before whilst dancing.”

His reaction comes instantly, “Hange—”

“Seriously?” you say, a disbelieving laugh bubbling out of you, “Is this true?”

The Captain heaves a heavy sigh, pinching his brow, “I wish it wasn’t.”

“What happened?”

“I said no, obviously.”

“You’re missing out all the details!” Hange protests, “You didn’t mention how she started crying in the middle of the dance—”

“What did you want me to do, say yes?”

“—Or how she ran to her father afterwards, who, bear in mind owns the land that grows the grain for our rations—”

“How was I supposed to have known that?”

“—Or, how her father confronted Erwin and threatened to cut our ration supplies because Levi upset his daughter. Genuinely, that was the highlight of the evening!”

“It was humiliating,” the Captain deadpans.

“It was entertaining,” Hange corrects him, “You should’ve been there, Smith— I don’t think I’ve ever seen Levi so stressed in my life! What was her name again? Aida? Adison?”

“Adela,” he supplies, rolling his eyes, “She wasn’t even supposed to be there.”

“Adela?” you ask, curious.

“She’s from the Korff family,” Hange explains, “Like I said, her father, Aldric Korff, owns a lot of land. Super rich—”

“—and a royal pain in my ass,” the Captain mutters, “She and her friends have made a habit of worming themselves into these events exclusive to the military.”

“What for?”

“Finding themselves suitors.”

“Everything aside, you kinda have to respect the girl’s persistence,” Hange muses, throwing their hands held up when the Captain shoots them a withering glare, “I don’t know why you’re surprised, Levi. It was bound to happen— you have plenty of fans!”

“Don’t call them that,” he warns.

“You should’ve heard what people were saying about him when he first joined the Corps,” Hange pushes on, thriving at his reactions, “I think I heard the words dark, mysterious and handsome thrown around at least once a day.”

“Isn’t it usually tall, dark and handsome?” You say.

“It is, but we all know why that was omitted,” Hange teases, grinning as they nudge your side. The Captain scowls at you.

“Aren’t you supposed to be finding a dress?”

“I told you, I found it right here,” you say innocently, holding up the sides of the blue fabric.

“Forget Korff. The two of you are a bigger pain in the ass than her.”

You change back into your uniform shortly afterwards, the dress paid for (thankfully well within budget) and draped over your arm in a protective bag. And as you leave the store, Hange and the Captain bickering away at your side, you have to admit— you had fun.

The experience was definitely new: browsing through dresses you could never afford alone, trying them on and seeing yourself dressed in a way that your younger self would be envious of. It was like you were in a different world, where titans were a distant threat and your worries didn’t revolve around the traitors in the ranks, the bullets and the mysteries that have been plaguing you for weeks now.

The thought only resurfaces when you’re crammed into a carriage with your brother, Hange and the Captain several days later, glimpses of Mitras flashing past you. You see it in the greatness in the architecture, hear it when you catch the refined lilt in the voices of its people.

It’s not like you were unaware of the disparities across the three Walls— you experienced it yourself when you went to university, eighteen years old from a quiet town in Trost, hardened by loss and backed by your scholarship. Stohess was your first experience of a larger and busier district, but for many of your peers, it was their norm, many of them bearing the names of families whose livelihoods ensured stability, consistency.

Some part of you deep down recognised that was why you struggled so much back then, why you never held anyone closer than arm’s length and why that loneliness you felt as a student followed you through the years in which you looked after your father. Your grief upturned your life, leaving little room for anything other than honouring your mother. The fact that Stohess felt too different, too unfamiliar only drove that wedge further between you and having any real sense of belonging. 

And as you stand before the mirror in the private bathroom of your lodgings rented for the evening, it’s only then that you fully register that you’ll soon have to navigate through this unfamiliarity again.

You look at your reflection. Your reflection stares back. Kohl lines your eyes as rose lightly dusts your cheeks and a similar hint of colour stains your lips. Nothing too drastic, just something that enhances your features.

You’ve done your hair in a way that keeps it out your face, exposing the delicate drop earrings that Erwin gifted you for your birthday a few years back dangling from your lobes. Resting on your sternum is a necklace that once belonged to your mother, a small comfort as your stomach churns. You attest the feeling to the early lunch you had hours ago, ignoring the pit of apprehension gnawing away at you inside.

Slipping on the dress, you watch as the last of the bruised blotches disappear under the fabric. You slide into a pair of heeled shoes, courtesy of Nanaba who had sent you a letter granting you permission to borrow them (alongside a lengthy update on your squad), when you hear a knock at the door to your room— muffled, but still audible through the bathroom wall.

“It’s open,” you call out. You hear the door close, followed by footsteps.

“Smith?”

“I’m in here— give me a second,” you reply. Eyes flickering at your reflection, you open the bathroom door partway and peer out.

Captain Levi stands in your room, his face adopting his typical neutral frown. Except, in place of the usual Survey Corps uniform around his shoulders is a black tuxedo, the edges crisp and perfectly pressed. Layered underneath is a matching black waistcoat and white button up, a tie knotted in the centre of his collar.

“Is everything okay, Captain?” you ask, eyes sweeping past him in a once-over.

“Erwin says you have some shoe polish. Could I borrow some?”

“Yeah, of course,” you clear your throat, posture straightening as your voice takes on a sheepish tone, “Just— before that, I was actually just about to go and find someone, but could you help me with the corset again?”

The Captain nods, “Come here.”

Emerging from the bathroom, you follow him to the vanity where you stand facing the mirror. The Captain takes his place behind you, hands picking at the lace. You vaguely register how he untwists the material, smoothing it out as you stare at a point on the wooden surface, focused more on taming the trepidation flooding your head in the silence that settles.

“Nervous?”

The sound of the Captain’s voice jolts you out of your thoughts, your eyes flicking up to meet his in the mirror. Its only then do you realise your hand at your chest, fingers fidgeting with the necklace around your neck.

“A bit,” you admit, reflexively lowering your hand from its habit, “Now that I’m finally here, I feel completely out of my depth.”

“As long as you aren’t cornered by any pretentious assholes, you’ll survive.”

“Unfortunately, I think pretentious assholes make up most of those in attendance tonight,” you muse, feel the first pull of the lace as the Captain slowly works the corset tighter.

“You forget that Pyxis is attending tonight,” he reminds you. You give a half-laugh, the sound more tense than reassured.

“That doesn’t help. He’s the Commander of the Garrison.”

“He’s a reasonable man, knows how to keep a conversation. You’ll be fine,” the Captain reasons, catching you by surprise because aside from Erwin, you’ve never seen him regard any of the military’s superiors with anything other than disdain.

“What about Nile?” You try.

“What about Dok?”

“Will he be here tonight?”

“Knowing our luck, his presence is practically guaranteed,” the Captain replies, eyes glancing up to yours in your reflection, “Don’t tell me you’re actually planning on talking to that mousy bastard.”

“The opposite actually,” you clarify, “I don’t think he’d be very happy to see either of us given the state we left the basement of his headquarters in.”

“We weren’t the ones who attacked first. And if Kenny’s squad is an independent body that’s separate from the rest of the MPs, then Dok has nothing to prove that we were ever there.”

“That’s true,” you agree, “But whilst Nile isn’t an asshole, he can be an idiot. Even if he can’t confirm that it was us, I’d rather leave Erwin to deal with him than me.”

“Well he sure as hell isn’t being sent anywhere near my direction,” the Captain asserts, giving a final pull at the corset, “Is this alright?”

“Yes, thank you,” you tell him, exhaling softly as he ties the lace off, “I don’t know, I just— I don’t know what to expect for tonight.”

“Shit food, shit company and a shit ton of talking.”

“My three favourite things,” you remark, irony thick in your voice. The Captain steps away, thanks you as you hand him the shoe polish from one of the vanity drawers.

“I won’t lie and say you’ll enjoy it,” he starts, twisting off the lid and scooping a small amount of polish onto the cloth, “These things drag longer than they have to and more times than not, you’ll wish you never attended in the first place. But you have what those pigs who haven’t even left Wall Sina have, and that’s a spine— use it your advantage. Don’t let them look down on you. Let them know you were the one who took the Female Titan down with the bullets you made.”

“Technically, Eren was the one who got the final hit in,” you say, deflecting what felt like a compliment threaded somewhere in his words. The Captain scoffs, swiping at his shoes.

“The kid’s head is already big as it is. Don’t give him that credit.”

“I guess,” you reply, a weak smile playing at your lips.

“If it helps, you look the part. Now it’s just a matter of acting like it.”

“Fake it until I make it,” you mutter, chest rising as you inhale deeply.

“If that’s what you have to do,” the Captain says, straightening up as he returns the polish to the vanity. His eyes sweep from the clock to you, “We should start heading down. Erwin’s likely already there at the carriage with Hange and you of all people should know how freakish he gets over punctuality.”

“All too well,” you sigh, and as you follow the Captain out the door, you hold your head up high, hoping to leave every worry and doubt back in your room.

-+-

[A/N]: Sorry with how short the chapter is this week (as well as the emotional whiplash between this chapter and the last) but the ball will be covered in the next one!! Is chapter 11 ready? no. have I been working on it for more than a month? yes LMAO but as of right now, it's at 10.2k words and I've still got a fair bit left to write so hopefully that makes up for it

Whether I get it out on time next Thursday is a different story, but I'll do my best to try to 🫡 As always, feel free to let me know what you thought of the chapter below and thank you for reading <3

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TAGLIST: @catkittycatsstuff @vxleriie @jdkook

You break the surface with a choking gasp, chest burning as your eyes blink rapidly to clear your vision. 

“Don’t fight the current,” the Captain's voice cuts through sharply. Hair plastered to his face, he flicks it away with a jerk of his head, grip keeping you upright as you let the flow of the river guide you along, “You alive?”

“Yeah, I— I’m okay,” you manage to get out, “What—”

“Captain Levi!”

A familiar voice has you turning clumsily in the water, eyes flitting to the edge of the raised embankment when the Captain spots him first.

“Rashad!”

“There’s a ramp up ahead!” Rashad relays, gesturing to a point further down the canal, “Hurry, I’ll help you out!”

A bullet punctuates the last of his words, striking the water behind you. Twisting around, your mouth dries: several figures backlit by the sun stare down at you from the roofline of the MP’s headquarters, shotguns in hand.

And at the front of it all, his tall frame and wide-brimmed hat immediately recognisable as he took aim, was Kenny.

“Get down!” the Captain orders and you inhale half a second’s worth of air before you’re yanked underwater. The world collapses into muffled gunshots and fractured light once more as a volley of bullets follow your trail, the current aiding your kicking feet in gaining distance.

You don’t know how far you swim before you surface to gasp down a breath, only that you’re still within range when a shot whistles overhead and skims you by a hair.

“Keep going!” the Captain shouts behind you and as you round a bend in the canal, you spot the ramp. And at its landing: Rashad.

It’s all the motivation you need to push yourself faster. Despite your clothes weighing you down and the protest in your shoulder as your arms drag through the water, you kick as hard as you can, hands slapping against stone when you reach the ramp.

“Shit, are you both okay?” Rashad asks as he hauls you both out. Your exhaustion and the cold hit you simultaneously, your arms bracing your crumpled form up as your lungs heave for air.

You were well out of range now, and with the ramp carved into the embankment itself, you were sheltered from the line of fire. Kenny and his men wouldn’t pursue you beyond that boundary— that you were certain of. With his squad’s desire for secrecy, you knew they couldn’t afford to draw any unnecessary attention to themselves in hunting you down beyond the confines of their headquarters.

Which meant that, for now, you were safe.

“We’re fine,” the Captain clips, eyes flashing with irritation as he shakes the water from his hair, “More importantly, where the hell were you?”

“The MPs told me to leave when we heard the gunshots coming from inside,” Rashad hurriedly explains, “I knew something was wrong and tried stalling, but then we heard commotion coming from Stohess’ direction and they forced me out.”

Silver eyes narrow, tone sharp, “What sort of commotion?”

“Two lightning strikes a few minutes apart followed by what sounded like distant explosions.”

“She escaped then,” the Captain concludes.

“And Eren’s fighting her,” you add grimly as Rashad swiftly leads you up the ramp and through an alleyway sandwiched between two houses. You throw a final glance over your shoulder: the figures on the rooftop remain in position before turning away, Kenny and his men retreating back into their base.

But you know very well that as one fight ends, another one begins, the tension stretching tight across your back. Turning the corner, you find Rashad’s horse and its wagon, the fabric covering now removed.

“So much for discretion,” the Captain mutters as you seat yourself opposite him. Rashad takes the reins, wastes no time in prompting his horse into a run.

“The brass won’t be happy,” he says uneasily, fingers tightening their grip as Zackley’s frigid expression flashes in your mind. With your adrenaline waning, you feel the cold bury itself under your skin as you shiver, your frustration swelling at yet another failure, “At the very least, tell me you two found whatever it was you were looking for back in that base.”

“It was a false lead,” comes the Captain’s blunt reply and you feel your heart sink impossibly further. He grabs the canvas that originally covered over the wagon, ripping a long strip from it, “We got nothing.”

He gestures for you to lean forward, taking your arm to wind the fabric around the graze as a makeshift bandage. Your eyes follow the red slowly seeping through the material, mind returning to that basement, the blueprints, Kenny, your mother. You don’t realise you’re gritting your teeth until a hiss seeps through at the pressure when the Captain ties the canvas off.

Rashad turns at the sound, does a double-take at your arm.

“You were hit?”

“Surface wound,” you tell him, nodding your thanks to the Captain, “It’s nothing.”

“What…” Rashad starts, but the words die on his tongue as you approach the gate to Stohess. Where soldiers would usually stand on post, you now find empty spaces, the gate seemingly deserted of its men as the metal barrier hangs wide open to reveal the damage.

The district you were so familiar with had been torn apart; buildings that once stood proud and spotless now crumbled in on themselves, cowering at the fires licking at the cobbled streets.

And under the ruin and broken pieces, you spot the bodies: mangled, twisted forms crushed in pools of red, the sight framed by the smoke billowing upwards in the distance. A loaded silence weighs over the three of you, your chest tight at the sight.

“Don’t slow down,” the Captain instructs as you feel the horse’s pace waver under you, “We need to find Erwin. Somehow, he’s managed to get the Corps neck-deep in shit whilst we were gone.”

Rashad clears his throat, mumbles out a quiet “Right,” as he adjusts the reins to push his horse forward. But just as the speed picks up, someone rushes out from an alleyway, their trajectory colliding right with your path.

Rashad swears loudly, swerving and jerking the wagon out the way into a complete stop. The sudden change nearly pitches you forward, the Captain shooting out a hand to stabilise you.

“Help!” a voice gasps. You look up: it’s a girl, roughly no older than you were, her face stricken with terror, “Help me, please!”

The Captain swings out from the cart, grabbing her shoulders.

“Hey! Hey! Calm down. What’s happening?”

“Titans!” She chokes out, “Titans are fighting in the city!”

“We’ll deal with it,” the Captain promises, jaw setting at the confirmation that the capture had indeed failed, “Are you hurt?”

Black dishevelled hair sways as she shakes her head, her trembling subsiding at the reassurance.

“Follow this road — it’ll lead you to the gate. Now go,” he instructs, giving her a small push as she fumbles to her feet. She pauses, hesitates to glance back before she takes off, her form shrinking with the distance.

There’s a heightened sense of urgency when the Captain rejoins you in the wagon, the horse regaining its pace as you pass through the empty streets. Your heart hangs heavy as each road leads you only to more blood and bodies and destruction and it feels like it’s going to explode entirely when you turn the corner and see your brother, several guns brandished directly at him.

“Erwin!”

You call for him without thinking, jumping from the cart before it can fully stop. You barely flinch when the guns are pointed your way, the weapons only lowered when Nile Dok - the Commander of the Military Police himself - orders them to.

His eyes flick to you twice as you approach, seeming to recognise you the same time as you do. You had met him a handful of times when he and Erwin were both still in the Training Corps and knew him to be a close friend of your brother, but now, as you survey the two men before you, their differences couldn’t be anymore obvious.

Erwin does his own double-take when you near, brows raising at your dripping clothes and half-dried hair. Behind you, Rashad and the Captain catch up to you, the latter’s appearance of equal concern.

“What happened?” Erwin asks, eyes landing on the canvas tied around your arm.

“It was a set-up,” you spit bitterly, “He was there— he knew we were coming.”

Throwing a quick look at the MP’s Commander, you’re conscious to keep your report as cryptic as possible. From what Erwin told you, despite Kenny’s squad forming part of the Military Police’s numbers, they allegedly operated separate from the main body, falling just shy outside of even Dok’s authority.

You didn’t know how much the Commander knew about this squad, their background or their activity, but from the way he blinked at your words, facing morphing into boiling incredulity, it was clear that he was completely unaware of what just happened at his own headquarters.

“Erwin, what the hell have you been up to?!”

“As I’ve mentioned,” your brother responds calmly, “Every choice I’ve made today was done in humanity’s best interest. If you allow me, I’ll explain it all during—“

“Damn that suicidal maniac!”

Wires emerge from the settling cloud of smoke, pulling into the scene the 104th’s Number Six— Jean. Landing before your brother, he hurriedly salutes him, sleeves burned and expression pissed.

“What’s the situation?” Erwin asks, stubbornly turning a blind eye to Nile seething beside him.

“She’s moved to open ground after trying to climb the Wall,” Jean pants, swiping at his face, “We can’t get near her without the risk of casualties and Eren’s reaching his limit. I don’t know how much longer he’ll last.”

“Where are they?” You ask suddenly, catching the younger Scout by surprise.

“The courtyard,” he supplies, “The one near the chapel.”

The chapel? That wasn’t too far from your university if you remembered correctly. You turn to Erwin.

“I have an idea.”

The Captain starts beside you.

“What do you need?” your brother presses before he can speak.

“My rifle - Mike should have it - and some ODM.”

“Mike’s with Hange,” Erwin recalls before addressing the soldier on your other side, “Rashad— go with her and reconvene with your squad. Jean— show them where the spare gear is.”

Fists slam over their hearts, “Sir!”

Jean leads you and Rashad away before Nile can stop you, but not before you spare a glance behind. Your stomach drops at the sight of metal shackling your brother’s wrists together, MPs flanking his either side, but when you catch his composed expression, you force yourself to turn away.

You had orders to follow, a plan to see through. Erwin was more than capable in handling himself and despite your concern as to how on earth your brother was going to justify destruction of this scale and slip clean-handed from his restraints, you knew full well this wasn’t his first time being backed in such a corner.

You shove the matter aside as Jean retrieves two sets of ODM that you and Rashad hasten to pull on, limbs looping through straps and belts fastened and secured. There’s no time to waste when he fires his hooks and launches into the air; you simply follow his lead, repressing the surprised noise you make from the gear’s initial pull as the wind rushes past your ears.

It doesn’t take you long to find Hange and Mike. Rashad points out the small huddle of soldiers gathered on a building and you follow his descent, stumbling over your landing as you drop onto the slanted roof.

“Mike! My rifle!”

In spite of his visible confusion, the Section Commander doesn’t hesitate to toss down your gun and bandolier from where they lay across his back. You catch them both with ease, hands rushing to load your weapon.

“You smell like a pond,” he observes, nose wrinkling as you near the top of the roof where he was perched, “What the hell happened to you?”

“Long story,” you dismiss, fingers deftly sliding round after round into the chamber, “I need your help.”

At that, Mike straightens, resolve set in his stance as you join him on his level.

“What’s the plan?”

-+-

Annie’s tired.

Tired of this mission. Tired of this island. Tired of her shitty comrades who can’t seem to do a single damn thing right.

From what she’s observed, Reiner and Bertolt aren’t here. Neither are a couple other members of the 104th. She has to admit, the Survey Corps are sharp— or rather, their Commander is. No doubt he was the one who concluded that she had accomplices hiding within his freshest set of recruits and sent them away.

His mind reminded her of Zeke’s: brilliant, calculating and ruthless. It caught her off guard in that forest; she didn’t expect to be pushed to her limit as much as she had done back then and today, even when she anticipated an ambush, she had still been dealt a fair deal of damage. Steam seethes from the tears in her hamstrings and bashed-in face, her jaw clicking as she tries to work it back in place.

Fortunately for her though, Eren is faring much worse. The 15-metre writhes pathetically under the foot she presses into its back, muscle and sinew fraying out the joint where a left arm should be.

The remaining hand swipes behind him to claw at her leg, but it’s no more of a nuisance to her as a fly is that she swats away with ease. It almost infuriates her that she had almost let herself been bested by such an arrogant novice, knows that she would never hear the end of it from her father if he were to ever find out.

No matter though. She’s finally got him - the vessel, their mission, her ticket off this godforsaken island - completely immobilised under her.

But just as she reaches down to rip the target clean from the nape, she hears it: a whistle, calling for her attention.

Slowly, she raises her head, keeps her weight pressed firmly against the titan as she scans the courtyard. For a second, she thinks she’s imagined the noise when the sound of a sliding bolt draws her attention and her eyes hone in to the rooftop in front of her.

A soldier. Alone. Armed with nothing but a rifle wedged under their arm.

It takes everything in you to stay completely still when she finally spots you. Tucked behind the apex of the roof, you stare her down through the scope with an intensity to rival her own. Your fingers flex around your weapon, trying to steady your shaking hands because you know you can’t waste this— this pause, her confusion, even the slight curious look she regards you with as she wonders what the hell were you doing, because guns here were useless against titans as far as she was awa—

BANG!

She registers the pain before the noise. A bullet— you struck her eye with a bullet. Raising a hand, she moves to touch the wound when her eardrums burst without warning and a searing heat envelops her face, ripping an anguished scream from her throat.

Whatever visibility she had in that eye goes instantly dark and she’s both shaken and furious, because what the fuck was that? A new weapon of sorts?

She hears you swear loudly, catches the way the recoil slams into you and your feet slip from the force, breaking your form. You hadn’t used the exploding rounds since you had first tested and declared them unsuitable as an alternative for the original anti-titan bullets. And whilst you were grateful you had the foresight to bring them here just in case, you had forgotten just how strong the kickback was behind each shot.

Your rifle falls from your grasp as your hands instinctively reach out to stop yourself from sliding down the roof. The Female Titan turns to you seething, a hand cradling her steaming eye. Her other arm swings back, and as you register her fist heading straight towards you, you launch yourself up, reload your gun and fire.

Your shot buries itself in her other eye, detonates after a beat just like the other. The air fills with the same pained cry as you brace yourself against the recoil, your stance steadier than the last.

Thirty seconds. That’s how long Eren reported her to recover her sight back in that forest. It’s an unfairly small window, and so, as she staggers back, palms pressed into her face, you’re relieved to see the small figure readying himself in the alley across the courtyard from you.

“Mike!”

Hooks fire perpendicular to her legs as the Section Commander swoops in, blades carving deep into her achilles. He zip up along back in a blink of an eye, slashing two cuts into her shoulder joints to stop her from catching herself as she topples over.

Mike shouts something - something you don’t hear - when a large shadow looms over you and the Female’s outstretched hand comes blindly crashing down.

Arms lift in front of your face as a last-minute cover, eyes slamming shut and you would’ve been crushed had it not been for a familiar hand grabbing you and pulling you away. Disoriented, you hear the whirring of wires, briefly register the sensation of being mid-air when you collide against the solid roof, your fall partially cushioned by the arms wrapped around you.

Pain swells across your shoulder as the hold releases and you roll, but you ignore the sensation in favour of dragging yourself up, blinking the black spots in your vision away.

“Smith!”

There’s a hand on your back helping you up as you catch the Captain in your peripheral, but your stare remains focused on the grisly sight before you: the Female Titan laying across the ground, wounded, motionless and blind with her arms sprawled uselessly in front of her.

“Did it work?” you hear yourself ask.

“Are you crazy?” the Captain shoots back, but before you can retort, a vicious roar echoes in the courtyard as Eren lunges towards her. Clawed hands shred at her shoulders, using the gashes Mike made to rip away her arms, the limbs tossed carelessly away.

Repulsed, you can only watch when he reaches for her head and it’s in a spray of blood and snapping fibres that he tears it off with a similar ease. Steam billows from the open wound where, nestled amongst the flesh and muscle, is the traitor.

Annie Leonheart. Sixteen years old. Responsible for the slaughter of dozens of soldiers and civilians. The Captain shifts beside you, fingers wrapping around his hilts.

“What’s he doing?” he mutters, eyes narrowed and it’s then you realise that his blades weren’t intended for the Female Titan, but Eren. Your head whips back to the scene; Eren holds the Female’s beaten frame, jaws wide and teeth sharp as he leans towards the shifter inside and it’s with a rush of panic that you realise— he’s going to eat her.

Mike moves to react from the opposite rooftop when a flush of light and steam flood the courtyard. You shield your eyes as flesh, tissue and sinew bind to fuse the two titans together, a familiar solid materialising around Annie’s form. There’s shouting— from Mikasa, Armin and Jean as they join you at your side, their faces displaying a fascinated alarm when the material creeps up Eren’s titan.

At that, the Captain dives and strikes, the last of the diminishing glow catching his form as his blades slice cleanly through the nape. His hand reaches inside, dragging out of it Eren’s partially conscious body which he hands over to Armin and Mikasa.

Murmurs break out as soldiers gradually emerge from where they observed the scene to survey the damage. Swinging your rifle over your shoulder, you feel that familiar ache settle back in your body as you drop from the roof, your gear catching your fall. There's a slight stagger to your landing as you approach the two decaying titan carcasses, weaving through the small throng of soldiers already gathered around them.

The sight before you should paint itself as a victory: the Female Titan, Annie Leonheart, subdued and captured in the glass-like barrier she constructed around herself. But Eren was unconscious and seemed close to losing control, the city in pieces from a fight that you’re not fully sure was worth it. The air lacks any celebratory note, filled only the quiet talk from the soldiers picking at the rubble for survivors and evidence, smoke clinging to your skin and half-dried clothes.

You look back at Annie in her confines, eyes scanning the translucent rock around her. Now that you were closer, you could confirm your suspicions: the material of her self-imposed prison was the same as the hardening she created in that forest. And now that you think about it, the way the material refracted the light, pockets of colour dispersed across the fragmented surface, it reminded you all too closely of a crystal.

Your mind returns to when you were in Hange’s office, the day they returned the sample to you and told you the bullets were made of titan cells— dead titan cells at that. Back then, you had faced the daunting possibility that you would never be able to replicate the rounds, even if you knew what they were made of, because how and where would you ever find such a thing?

It was why you looked at alternatives— at alloyed metals and the explosive rounds that lay across the bandolier you wore right now. But as you study the hardening before you, you realise that perhaps the answer lay much closer than you initially thought. You can’t say for certain without running your own tests on a piece of the crystal in front of you, but from observation alone, you’re already more or less convinced it would match the sample you have back in your workshop.

Thoughts racing, you release a breath. Perhaps there was a silver lining to everything here after all, regardless of how small it may be.

You don’t have much longer to decipher the implications of your findings however, when a voice calls your name from behind. Moblit lands breathless in the courtyard, his wires snapping back to the gear at his sides as he heads towards you.

“What happened?” you ask, turning away from the crystal and detaching from the crowd.

“Hange needs you on top of the Wall! They—!“

“Can wait.”

The Captain strides towards you, blades cleaned with the smooth swipe of a cloth before he slides them back into their holsters. He cuts through your protest before you can open your mouth, stance uncompromising.

“You’ve just been shot at and were nearly crushed by a titan,” he reminds you, “Hange can wait.”

Sighing, you recognise the truth in his words. You’re exhausted, covered in dirt and whatever else was in that goddamn canal, your shoulder and the graze on your arm pulsing with varying degrees of pain. Admittedly, you would love nothing more than a shower and a fresh set of clothes right now. You turn to Moblit.

“Tell Hange I’ll find them as soon as I can,” you offer as compromise and Moblit nods, taking his leave.

“The Garrison offered a few of their rooms in their base here,” the Captain says, bringing your focus back, “Go and get cleaned up.”

“Nothing from our friends in the Military Police? Big surprise there.”

The Captain huffs, the sound not entirely unamused, “Go, Smith.”

“Right.”

“Need a ride? I just dropped Eren and his friends off there,” Mike offers, catching the end of your conversation as he approaches with his horse in tow.

You smile, grateful, “If you don’t mind.”

The base is a ten-minute horse ride away, your arms wrapped around the Section Commander as you sit behind him. You spend most of the trip in silence, Mike seeming to recognise your fatigue as you catch flickers of the aftermath passing you by— fires, debris, bodies and blood.

It only makes you all the more eager to retreat into the Garrison’s base when you arrive, your thanks and goodbyes given to Mike before he returns to aid in the clean-up. A soldier directs you to one of the spare rooms, pointing out the showers as he hands you a clean uniform.

You can’t help the sigh that leaves you at the first spray of warm water, the tension melting right off your body as you begin scrubbing yourself down. The graze from earlier stings as you clean at the blood around it, but it doesn’t compare to the state of your shoulder: fresh blotches of purple overlay the fading yellows and browns, a tight strain accompanying the persisting ache when you reach over to clean your back.

You know you’ve pushed it today— swimming in that canal, absorbing the recoil, landing on it the way you did on the roof. But the pain was manageable, the joint still capable in moving. You’ll ice it again once you return back to the Corps’ headquarters, but for now, you savour the warmth of the shower as your fingers gently massage the swelling.

On the way back from the showers, you retrieve a first-aid kit, the Captain’s makeshift canvas dressing replaced by sterile gauze. The remaining bandage is wrapped around your shoulder to support it, your shirt shrugged on to hide it from sight.

With all injuries accounted for, your next priority is your gun— the revolver. You sit on one of the sofas in the room and pick up the smaller weapon from where it lay on the table, your rifle and bandolier left on top.

Thumb pressed against the release latch, the cylinder swings open at the side, water tricking out after the empty casings you catch as they fall out. You give the gun another shake for good measure before wiping down the exterior and crevices with a cloth you found, the action so mindless, you feel your thoughts drift.

You were near the back of the basement when you were searching for the blueprints. After sifting through the files in the lift system, you turned to the shelf labelled ‘O’ in hopes of finding them sorted under ODM. And when that proved fruitless, you moved to shelf ‘S’.

S for squad. Even if you couldn’t find the blueprints, you thought at the very least that you could learn more about the elite squad, their intentions, their purpose, their need for modified gear. You tried S for sketches, for schematics and security in hopes the broader category would encompass the gear and its blueprints. But the one you were there for, the main reason as to why you even accepted this mission in the first place, was S for Smith.

Erwin didn’t have to verbalise it yesterday in his office for you to know what he wanted you to get from this: the answers, the truth, the file about her and her death that you prayed existed for the sake of getting the closure you knew the both of you so desperately wanted.

You test the hammer, watch as the cylinder rotates and locks at each chamber and recall how the same motion felt in your hands back in that basement when you heard the first sounds of commotion. You remember the imprint your gun left in your palm when you left your search to investigate, the way your breath trembled as you slid past the shelves, how the horror seeped into your veins when you heard Kenny’s voice, turning your blood cold.

Glancing back at the cylinder, you release the remaining cartridges from their chambers to wipe them down.

Four. Four out of the six loaded bullets left. Your last shot - the one that broke the lamp as you rose in the lift - was intentional; you wanted the darkness, wanted the MPs to feel the disorientation of having the light robbed from them to buy yourselves time to escape. But that first shot…

You replay the moment in your mind, can see each moment with undeniable clarity. Kenny taunting you, grabbing your wrist, your anger and fear flaring as he pulled you against him. It was with instinct you pulled the trigger before he forced it from your hold, but you knew where you had been aiming and exactly where that bullet would’ve landed had Kenny not countered your movements.

Could you have killed him? In that moment, you sure as hell wanted to. Even now, as you reload each chamber again, you don’t think he deserves anything less than his own suffering and justified end for everything that he’s done. But for it to happen by your hand? A small part of you is equal parts terrified and surprised at how easily you pulled the trigger, how quickly your own anger took over.

Your thoughts turn to your mother— even though it was her who taught you how to shoot, it was always done with the principle of learning how to defend. To always protect and never to kill unwarranted.

“Use your work to help people,” she had firmly told you, long before you understood the weight of a weapon. She was crouched in front of the bench on which you sat, her hands clasping yours as she regarded you intensely, “And use this,” she tapped her rifle laid on the bench beside you, the one you’d first learn to shoot with, “To protect them, and that’s only if you’re left with no other options. Violence should never be your first choice. If you get in a fight, your father will kill us both.”

Back then, the both of you had laughed at that. But now, as your fingers absentmindedly spin the cylinder, an odd shame rises as the two empty chambers stare back at you. Kenny was going to kill you, had mocked your mother and family before he tried to cut your throat open. You have every reason to hate him, every reason to justify your actions were all in self-defence and yet, as you shift uncomfortably atop the sofa, a small part of yourself still seeks that approval to honour her word.

But then you think about the months that followed her death, the grief that consumed you, your father. That selfish part of you returns when you consider how much had been stolen from you that day: your own mother, your father as he abandoned his theories and advocacy for the truth, the life you could’ve had if you didn’t have to quit.

You don’t like how you let this one encounter rattle you so much, the conflict in emotions it’s forced you to confront. But right now, all that fills you is frustration.

Frustration at yourself, frustration at the fact that the answers were right there - in a file hidden in those shelves and in Kenny - and you had left with nothing but a graze on your arm that will scar over and serve as a permanent reminder of yet another failure.

“How is it?”

You’re dragged out your thoughts at the sight of the Captain at the door, a towel draped over his shoulder where damp clothes have been exchanged for a clean set. From the way his hand rests against the door whilst the other gripped the handle, you realise that you were too lost in your head to hear him knock.

You spin the cylinder a final time before snapping it back into place, the gun returned to the table.

“Water got in but I’ve had a look and nothing seems damaged. It should shoot just fine.”

“You arm?” He asks, the door closing behind him.

“The bullet barely grazed me. There wasn’t much to clean up,” you half-shrug, realising you need to deflect when an ache shoots up your shoulder, “How’s your leg?”

You nod to his ankle as he sits on the other sofa, legs stretching out slowly to rest on top of the table beside your weapons.

“Gave me some trouble earlier, but nothing that won’t heal. Eren’s fine, by the way,” he adds, “Him and his friends are resting in the room down the hall.”

“And the Female Titan?”

“Hard to say,” the Captain sighs, “Our gear’s useless against that hardening she trapped herself with, which Kirstein and Springer demonstrated wonderfully by wasting half of our blades hacking at it. Erwin’s probably trying to gain custody over the shitty rock as we speak. God knows how the higher ups’ll respond to that.”

“Well whatever the outcome is, you’re going to be pulled out for the rest of it.”

The both of you turn at the sound of Hange’s voice, the Section Commander leaning against the doorframe. With their glasses resting atop finger-combed hair, you can read the weariness in their form, their usual enthusiasm mellowed out for something more serious as you realise they were addressing the Captain.

“On whose order?” He demands, straightening with apprehension.

“Erwin’s, so you can’t fight this one. You’re off duty as of now until it’s fully healed. Better bring out that dumb suit of yours,” Hange teases, a touch of their usual edge returning. They’re halfway out the door before they suddenly jerk back, “Oh, and Smith, I got your word from Moblit. I’ll be in one of the rooms here when you’re ready.”

Thanking them, you watch as they disappear into the hallway. The door swings closed once more.

“No action for you for a while then,” you mutter, breaking the silence.

“Seems like it,” the Captain agrees, a grimace flashing past his irritation as he adjusts himself on the sofa.

“I can have a look at it if you want,” you offer, noting his discomfort. You glance at the first aid kit you left on the bed, “There’s some bandages left to wrap it with.”

“That isn’t necessary. I’ll be fine.”

“Respectfully Captain, you were limping when you walked in here,” you point out, fighting a smile.

“I have time to recover,” he responds evenly, “Like you said, I can’t exactly run off on another mission and make it worse with Erwin sidelining me.”

Your lips part in response, but you think better of it and instead swallow your words to release a small sigh. The hesitation doesn’t go unnoticed, a thin brow raised.

“What?”

You shake your head, rising to your feet as you avert your eyes, “No, I— it’s nothing.”

“You were going to say something,” he pushes, legs dropping from the table as he sits up, “What is it?”

You head towards the dresser where your clothes from before lay on top in a mostly dry, but crumpled mess. Grabbing your shirt, you start to fold it.

“It doesn’t matter,” you insist, “It’s nothing.”

You hear the shift of fabric as he stands, feel his stare searing into your back as you grab your trousers and start folding them too.

“If this whole thing about my ankle is to do with the expedition, then forget about it,” he firmly states, “I told you already— this injury was my fault, and my fault only. I’m not accepting your guilt, nor your pity.”

“It’s not that,” you respond, placing the folded clothing down with more force than you intended, “And neither am I pitying you.”

“Then why?”

“Because I messed up in that basement,” you admit, voice honest quiet. Slowly, you turn around, leaning against the dresser with crossed arms as you meet the Captain’s eye, “I escalated the situation because I got emotional. I let my personal matters narrow my view.”

“Kenny knew we would be there,” he replies evenly, “The bastard said it himself. He and the rest of the MPs were going to come after us regardless of what you did.”

“Still. I was careless, stupid. The fact that we escaped with just a bruised ankle and a scraped arm between us is a miracle,” you say, feeling the phantom weight of Kenny’s blade pressed against your throat, “At the very least, let me apologise for that.”

Several seconds pass in a tight silence in which you stare at each other, your stance unrelenting when the Captain sighs, dropping back onto the sofa.

“You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”

“Nothing you’re not used to from Erwin,” you quip back easily, taking his words as a pass as you bring the first aid kit over to the table.

The Captain hums, “I suppose not.”

Rolling up the edge of his trouser leg, your brows pull together when you see the swelling around his ankle. You’re mindful to keep your touch light as you start winding the roll of gauze around it when the Captain speaks up.

“You know him. Kenny the Ripper.”

Not a question, but a statement. Spoken carefully with a loaded beat. Your hands falters for a second.

“Not on a personal level. But I know him well enough,” you say coolly, continuing your usual motion.

The Captain studies you carefully, pauses before asking, “How?”

You knew this would inevitably happen, knew that it was just as unavoidable as it was necessary like your conversation about his past with Erwin. Even if you knew there was something he wasn’t telling you, having sensed the familiarity between him and Kenny back then, you figured an explanation was the least you owed him for having him go on a mission completely in the dark. The conversation in Erwin’s office yesterday was more or less between you and your brother, neither of you elaborating to the Captain the finer details shared only amongst you both.

“My mother was an engineer,” you begin. One hand holds the gauze in place as you cut the excess off, “She worked for the Garrison where she made and designed weaponry for them, but occasionally, she would take on orders from external clients. At some point, her and Kenny made a deal of some sorts and they ended up working together. For what reason or for what cause, I don’t know.”

Tying your handiwork off in a neat knot, you return the gauze back to the tin.

“He would come to our house to talk with her privately, sometimes slip her an envelope, but as far as I knew, that was the extent of their interactions. My father knew of the visits and disliked the idea of having a known killer inside the house, but for whatever reason, he never did anything about it. Sometimes he would even talk to Kenny himself. And then one day, out of nowhere, my mother was killed,” you spit, tin closing with a firm click. It remains in your hands as you lean back into the sofa and with the way your eyes are narrowed, you miss the way the Captain stills completely.

“The MPs were at our door where they told me and Erwin she had fallen from the Walls— a freak accident that happened whilst she was maintaining the cannons. I didn’t buy it for a second, and neither did Erwin, but nobody was willing to listen or tell us anything more. All I know is that somewhere along the way in their deal, Kenny commissioned my mother to make him something, she refused and my parents and Kenny argued about it.”

“And you think he killed her because of that?” the Captain asks and for the first time since you started speaking, you look up at him.

“Doesn’t seem unlikely, given his track record," you scoff, fingers squeezing around the tin, "She couldn’t give him what he wanted, so he saw no more use in her and in continuing their deal. The trust between them was already flimsy as it was.”

“You want answers from him," he concludes, "That’s why Erwin assigned you to this.”

“Neither me or Erwin thought he would show up today,” you clarify, “But yes, I thought that somewhere in that basement, one of those files would hold the truth of what happened.”

“Did you find anything?”

“No. Kenny arrived before I could,” you say quietly, “When our mother died, Erwin grieved just as hard as I did, was just as angry as me. The only difference between us was that he channeled all of that into his ambitions, the Survey Corps and becoming Commander whilst I stayed at home. I tried to look into Kenny and track him down, but the only thing I could confirm was that he joined the Military Police just before my mother died. So when Erwin told us yesterday he had a solid lead on him, I knew instantly that I had to go— I would’ve been stupid not to. His reason for transferring, his intentions, that dream he talked about, his betrayal: I want the truth behind it all.”

“And,” you add, eyes landing on your two guns on the table: your revolver and rifle— a gift, made by her hands, “I want revenge.”

-+-

[A/N]: Full transparency, chapter 10 is the last chapter I have fully written and ready to post. With me trying to balance Gunsmoke, the oneshots for Levi Month and the fact that life is getting busy again as I prepare to return to uni, I’ll admit that chapter 11 has been on the backburner for a while, but I promise that I'll do my best to get these chapters out even if updates start slowing down!! 🫡

(As I'm sure you guys already know, I post excerpts of my WIPs and other updates on here— If there's any delays/news about the fic, you'll be sure to find it on my blog :))

As always, thank you so much for reading! Feel free to tell me what you thought about the chapter and Smith's lore drop below, I'll see you guys again next week <3

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