Chapter Text
If there was anything he remembered clearly, it was the sick, wet thump of something against the concrete floor, something muffled but loud enough that he could hear it from in his room. It wasn't so much how it woke him in the dead of the night as it was the familiarity, sounding like the slab of pork his mother had once dropped onto the cutting board the night before Thanksgiving to clean it up, scrubbing at the red streaks running up and down the wood with a dishrag. It was something heavy and solid (like a hunk of meat, he supposed) and the splat (like the fatty, red chunks against the wood and the -- no, he wouldn't think about that) sent a chill up and down his spine that even the cold of the night did not.
He sat up in bed slowly, pulling himself up and wrapping the thin blanket tightly around his shoulders. It was an old, ratty thing, but he couldn't bring himself to replace it even though the winter nights managed to nip at him through the worn green fabric. There was a creaking of floorboards, and he should have felt relieved. He should have told himself that it was just Mikasa, coming up the stairs to her room later than normal--or, rather, he should have believed that.
But the slow shuffling, a dragging, almost sticky sound against the concrete told him that no, that certainly wasn't Mikasa. His eyes flew open in the darkness. The curtain fluttered lazily against his window, and the moon sent grinning shadows up and down his walls. The floor seemed to glow with pearly, soft moonlight that extended further out, peeking through the opening of his door and --
Thump. It was considerably louder (considerably closer). The shuffling was steady--drag, drag, drag. He wondered how close it was only to realize that was something he didn't quite want to wonder.
The only thing he saw were the red, full drops on the cutting board as his mother shooed him farther away from the table, scolding him and claiming that he'd only dirty his clothes. And there was something else on the board, too, something coiled and shriveled, a little too squishy and pink to be blood. It stuck to the board with a consistency that both fascinated and horrified him.
He crawled over and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. The floor felt stony and cold beneath his bare feet.
Thump. He remembered seeing the ugly little dishrag soak up the blood and wipe the remains off the board. He remembered watching them fall into the garbage and hearing the muffled whump.
And then there was something, just like that day before Thanksgiving, watching his mother brandish the silver cleaver that both scared him and stirred an excitement in his gut.
It was something strong that made bile rise in his throat, tears springing to his eyes and he wanted to crawl back into bad, only to find he was scrambling forward and he hit the floor with a dull thud and there was a sharp pain in his shoulder but he didn't care about that and he covered his mouth with his hand so he wouldn't --
He was a doctor's son. He knew what blood was, and he feared losing it more than seeing it. The more than occasional nosebleed took away the squeamishness. Hunting trips and visits to the local butcher desensitized him.
But there was nothing like that, the scent overwhelming and metallic and unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcome. It was different. It was an old, sickly sweet scent, that kind of smelled like those old water-rotted logs that sat in the back of his garden and mixed with the flowers his mother and Mikasa were so intent on watering each day --
He struggled to stand and found that he could not and he could hear it he could hear the scraping of it against the floor and it was like meat someone was dragging meat on the floor that was all it was --
Thump.
He tried to stay focused on the light streaming from the windows. It spilled onto the floor, and suddenly it seemed sharper and more dangerous than the darkness. He almost feared it. He was afraid of what would reveal itself and he was disgusted to find that he wished that whatever it was, it would stay concealed in the darkness. The shadows beckoned to him like hungry flames.
He remembered, in bits and pieces, one of the hunting trips with his father. It had been in the summer, and he could almost feel the mosquito bites and the sticky sweat that came along with it. It was in the early evening, and the sun had already hidden behind the hills. The moon looked blurry in the sky. He thought it looked like a chalk drawing.
His father had taken him out of Shiganshina and into one of the neighboring forests. He wasn't fond of them. But he was giddy and excited nonetheless, sweaty hands tightening around the rifle.
There was little he remembered about the trip itself. It was the first time they had gone out in the night, nearly driving Carla mad, but it certainly wasn't the last. The memories were fuzzy. But he remembered his father's voice, almost piercing in the empty quiet and clear summer skies.
"Eren." Grisha turned. Eren thought there was something funny in his voice, something odd and tight that made it raise at the end. "Is the dark beautiful?"
The question had caught him off guard. He considered it to be a stupid and equally irrelevant one. He'd never thought of it before, honestly. He didn't know how to describe the dark--and in that moment, a hundred words flashed across his mind and beautiful was not one of them. Terrible. Unpredictable. Limitless. To him then, and even now, the dark had become synonymous with the unknown.
The dark was something foreign to Eren, and foreign things made him uneasy. He wasn't sure what lurked in it when he slept, and he honestly didn't want to know. There was something about the dark, how it could take you by the hand and never let go. He thought he felt fingers, then, ice-cold and scraping on his arm as they pulled at the skin and they weren't letting go and there was a tearing sound kind of like thin saran wrap was that him and --
He swallowed thickly. "Yes."'
"Then learn to fear it."
He feared it now. Oh, Christ, he definitely feared it now. It had been different, then, the dark as quiet as it was black. It wasn't like this, almost primal and hungry, restraining something that wanted to be free. It snapped at him with unseen teeth. Back then, he could have assumed that there was nothing there. Ignorance was bliss. But he knew, he knew there was something there, by the smell of blood that was thick and hazy, by the sounds that were loud and patient--waiting, almost.
It was as if time crawled to a standstill. He didn't feel the cold sweat running down his forehead as he shivered in his thin pajamas, nor did he think about the erratic beating of his heart. He didn't think about the scream that lodged itself in his throat, the tightening that made it hard to breathe. He didn't think about the lightheaded feeling that made the rest of him feel heavy as lead, frozen and shaking.
There wasn't any of that, only the sound of someone dragging themselves on the concrete as a foot -- or what remained of it -- came into view.
It took his mind a moment to register it as a foot. It looked to him like a piece of roast beef. The texture was meaty and thick and he almost wanted to squeeze it just to see what it would feel like in his hand, raw and vulnerable. His mind still hadn't clicked yet. The foot stopped, bare in the pale moonlight.
The skin was a disgusting, grey color, waxy and thick. The thing wore pants, and the tattered remains clung stubbornly to the leg. They were dotted with a brownish red and something that clumped together too thickly to be just dried blood. From beneath the hem of the pants, he could see a gash that swept violently to the ankle, revealing dark pieces of muscle and God knew what else. A white flash of bone almost made him faint.
Where there was supposed to be ankle cut off abruptly, and he stared at the gleam of bone and muscle and tissue. It pressed into the floor of his room and dragged along -- thump -- painting a rust red trail across the floor.
He saw red, just red, dark and old on the floor with thick spatters. He heard it dragging on the floor, leaving pieces of who knew what behind, and he could only watch as it came closer. It washed over the room with its metallic, sour scent, and he wanted to vomit, suddenly the bile was rising in his throat and suddenly --
(--roastbeefroastbeefroastbeefroastbeefroastbeefroastbeef--)
-- there was a hand, there was a hand extending towards him in a slow movement that he could have and couldn't have avoided, and he thought he saw something white and plump squirming beneath the lead grey skin and he thought that was the skin being peeled back like old paper it most certainly was are you afraid of the dark are you Eren are you grab your hand and never let go are you are you can you feel it pulling Eren white and squirming and --
He woke up screaming.
He was still screaming when Mikasa hurried into the room and yanked him up, pressing her warm hands to his neck and his cheeks. His skin was hot, burningly so despite the cold sweat that ran down his face. He struggled to breathe, and she shook his shoulders, disregarding how thin they seemed beneath her hands.
"Eren!" -- he thought he heard something and it was probably his father calling him for dinner in the outdoors, and dinner was roast beef roast beef -- "Eren, wake up!"
His eyes flew open and he jerked away from Mikasa's touch, sweaty, thin pajamas sticking to his tanned arms. I'm okay, he tried to say, except he couldn't and he wasn't. His heart threatened to burst right through his chest and he thought if it tightened any further, his chest would cave in on itself. He leaned back into Mikasa's arms, and was relieved to find that she smelled of soap and honey.
(It seemed to wash away the smell of old blood.)
Her arms wrapped around his waist and she held him like that for a moment, rocking him gently. It hadn't been the first time and it certainly wasn't the last. She rubbed his back in slow, deliberate circles, pausing when he tensed against her hand.
He shifted and the bed creaked beneath their weight. "You were dreaming again," she said quietly, brushing black bangs behind her ears.
He turned to face her. "Yeah," he said, as if it needed confirmation. His voice was much quieter than he would have liked. His throat was still dry and burning.
She reached out and took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently. It was hot and cold at the same time, and she decided that was the way to describe her adopted brother. "What were you dreaming about?"
He looked away from her, biting his lip. He stared at the hole in the comforter. It needed to be mended. The curtains swayed and a golden light spilled over the room. He wondered how late it was.
He looked back at Mikasa, anywhere but her eyes, and her hands were grey and ripping and peeling skin and shriveled flesh and cracked bone and there was a thing that was squeezing its way out of the gash of her hands and --
"I don't know."
Her eyes narrowed into accusatory slits. That was somehow worse than her quiet rage. "You were dreaming about Mom, weren't you?" She let out a breath he hadn't even known she was holding, and his heart clenched painfully at how tired it was. Mikasa deserved so much better. "And... Dad."
The words stirred an unfamiliar feeling in his gut (roast beef roast beef). "Yeah."
She furrowed her brow and rose from the bed, tucking a few more strands of dark hair behind her ears. The sunlight made her look like a girl of fire, eyes brighter.
"You shouldn't think about them anymore." Her words stung much more than she intended them to.
"What I think about doesn't have anything to do with what I dream about." He stood up, too, and was only slightly surprised at how his legs shook. Immediately, he looked down to the floor where Mikasa stood and there was a red trail beneath her, remains bunched together in thick clumps, and pieces of hair and gristle made it look like "modern art" or whatever his mother was fond of and --
"You and I both know that's a lie." She let out a sigh and strode out the door, long skirt swishing around her ankles. He followed. She knew he would.
"They're coming more rapidly, yeah?" Mikasa turned back to look at him, and he wasn't sure how to describe the almost misty look that settled on her features. He wasn't sure he wanted to. "Just last week, you dreamt too."
The dreams had started the night after his mother left for the Sina experiments, and a tight soreness in his chest and bile rising in his throat reminded him that it was not a pleasant memory. It was a year after the first Outbreak, when the government had still tried to control the panicking people without the use of the military .
He remembered her, walking out into the darkness, bathed in the dim, yellow glow of the streetlamps. The air smelled like rainwater and salt, and he remembered it being distinctly fresh in the heaviness of the night. She was wearing the long, white skirt that he and Mikasa had stitched something onto, and it was that stupid hem he stared at as it blew around her legs. They were flowers. Snapdragons. His mother's favourite. Snapdragons refused to grow in the sad excuse they called soil. And in a way, he was grateful for that. Even if they did live, they wouldn't live long, and he found that he thought it would be better if they never lived at all.
But it was that image that haunted him, as the telltale growl of a streetcar filled his mind and took away the low, quiet hum of night, as Mikasa squeezed his hand so tight he could hardly tell that she was shaking, too.
His mother. Long white skirt, yellow and pink flowers stitched childishly on the hem. Hands clasped around the black, leather handle of her luggage. The car slowed to a stop. The growl dropped to a deliberate purr.
That was what he remembered, his mother taking one step, and then two, and then another and another until the dark pulled her in and never let go.
And in retrospect, he should have realized that it was one of the last times he would ever see her again.
He unclenched a fist he wasn't aware he had even been clenching. Angry crescents remained indented on the calloused skin of his palm. He sighed, the sound loud and drawn in the quiet, empty house.
"I know." Idly, his free hand moved to his chest, fingering the rough cord that hung around his neck. The key was cold to the touch. Mikasa never said anything about it. He wondered if she saw it. The key was a promise between he and his father. Before Grisha left, he put the key around Eren's neck, as a promise to return. He had left so many times that Eren began to think the key had practically melded with his skin.
He followed as Mikasa turned down the stairs, and he tried not to look at her skirt and think of his mother. His voice suddenly felt very small in his throat.
"Did the mail come in yet?" He didn't even bother to hide the eagerness in his voice.
His mother sent letters monthly, ever since the day she'd left for Sina. Carla told them of Sina as a city and how large and luxurious it was, how they grew snapdragons there and how she'd show them when they finally came by to get her. She told them of the people she'd met ever since volunteering for Sina and assured them that yes, she was well fed and yes, she was being well treated and yes, she most certainly did miss them. Eren doubted she missed them more than they missed her.
He kept the letters and filed them away, straightened out the creases of the paper and more than once, he had brought them all out and hugged them to his chest as he curled into bed, trying to remember the sound of her voice, imagining the expressions on her face as she wrote the letters, imagining the thoughts that flashed through her mind as she dotted ever i and crossed every t, trying desperately to inhale what remained of her perfume. Her scent didn't linger in the house anymore. It wasn't in his parents' bedroom nor on her clothes, and he'd taken to keeping it in the letters for himself. Neither Mikasa nor his father knew. He thought of them now, wrapped in a single pile, tiled with a red silk ribbon he found in his mother's drawers.
She turned to look at him and opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something before snapping it shut. She gestured to the bread on the table expectantly and there was that odd feeling in his chest again. She deserved so much better.
"Not yet." Her voice was that clipped tone again. Two years of living with her had let him read her little giveaways, the way she always looked straight into his eyes without actually seeing into them if she was lying, the way she bit back the lilt at the end if she was about to cry, and the clipped tone that always told him something was amiss. He felt sick to his stomach.
"You're lying." He reached for the bread. It looked pink under the light (roast beef) and suddenly he wasn't very hungry anymore. He'd had his fair share of nightmares, but there was something about tonight's and how it stirred his memories. It put him further on edge, if that was even possible.
Weakly, he pushed it away, purposely avoiding her worried gaze. He wondered if she'd eaten already.
She pursed her lips and nudged the bread closer to him, eyes pleading. "The mailman hasn't come by yet."
"That's also a lie." He pushed it back. "Mika, I'm not hungry. Have you even eaten yet?"
She pulled a bottle of water off the shelf and tossed it to him. Belligerently, he uncapped it and took a sip, to make her happy more than anything else.
"You say you're not hungry, but your stomach tells me otherwise." She danced around both his question and his accusation. It was something she had a habit of doing. He would have been angry if the feeling of dread didn't suddenly feel as heavy as the world in his stomach.
"Mikasa." He hated the feeling. He wished it would go away instead of making his heart beat quicker in his chest and making his hands sweat. His fingers struggled to recap the half-empty bottle. "Did the mailman come by yet?"
She gave him a look of pure defeat and stood up, putting the bread back in the basket. "Yes," she admitted, "no letters from Sina."
He felt sick to his stomach and this time, it had nothing to do with his dream. "No letters from Mom or no letters from Sina?" He regretted asking the question, realizing it was something he didn't want to know the answer to.
"Both."
Pulling two more bottles from the top of the cabinet (that they would definitely need if they were going out), he followed her again to the front of the house. It had become a daily routine. Mikasa opened the closet, yanking back the heavy, oak door. Although Shiganshina was walled, it was more remote and far less developed than Sina or even Trost. The daring ones often went beyond the city's walls for lumber. Curfew went from six in the morning to six in the evening. Anyone who stayed out beyond six in the evening never made it back alive.
They had guns, too, but nearly everyone decided against guns unless they were absolutely necessary. They were loud and attracted unwanted attention--and they needed reloading. Bullets had become a luxury only the filthy rich or the Scouting Legion (or sometimes, both) could afford. The only reason why they were able to even own two guns, much less loaded ones, was because Grisha was a private practice doctor. He'd gone to Sina once or twice or three times, and even cared for the soldiers in the Scouting Legion.
They had both settled for gunblades. Eren's was his pride and joy, a present from his father for his fifteenth birthday. He'd named it Rogue. It was silver and reflected the light as Mikasa handed it to him, and the handle was jet-black, cool and familiar in his hands. The edge curved dangerously to the side in what looked like a cruel smirk, and though he'd never even dreamed of using it to attack walkers (unless--or rather, when--he joined the Scouting Legion), he didn't doubt that it was good for cutting not only trees or grass, but flesh.
"We're going for lumber," she told him, pulling her red scarf off a hanger in the closet. He nodded dumbly and ran his finger fondly over Rogue's surface.
She pulled out the roll of duct tape and he obeyed silently, wrapping a few layers around his arms. He had never gotten quite comfortable with the feeling. It almost made him feel like his arms were suffocating and he flexed. Leaning over Mikasa, who took the roll of tape from him, he grabbed his coat and pulled it on over the duct tape. There was that momentary feeling of stiffness. He supposed it was a fair trade for protection against teeth that could, no doubt, tear out a chunk of his arm in seconds. He shivered.
Opening her coat, she slid her blade in the large pocket in the front and promptly snapped it shut with a quick efficiency that almost scared him. If he'd never seen it before he never would have even guessed that she was concealing such a deadly weapon on her black coat. He did the same, fingers fumbling.
There was no point in changing into the leather pants and thicker, red shirt that offered more protection against the walkers, especially if you were going out at a time that wasn't even close to curfew's closing. He felt naked and vulnerable in his thin pajamas, but not cold. The feeling had subsided to a tingling that kept him on his toes.
He opened the door and let her step out into the sunlight before he locked and closed it, shaking the copper knob a few times before following her out into the dusty streets. There were people shuffling through the streets, packs on their backs, and he watched them flock to the center of the town. It was hot and sticky and they still had to wear the layers of duct tape and coats. He shielded his eyes from the sun, squinting.
"Is today one of those days?" Shiganshina attracted a few temporarily visitors who stopped by on their way to other towns. It was either that or stay in the unprotected wilderness beyond curfew. There were days when they all seemed to leave at once.
She shrugged and pulled the scarf tighter around her. "Dunno." He had to jog slightly to keep up with her quick pace, and before he knew it, they had approached the town square.
His eyes widened as the crowds of people shoved past each other. The smell of sweat was heavy and he bit his lip, staring numbly at the squirming masses.
"Were there always this many people?" He followed Mikasa, sidestepping a large man as they tried to make their way to where the food rations were.
Shiganshina was, by far, the most overcrowded of the three walled cities. And yet, they probably received the least food. By agreeing to go to Sina, their family had gotten extra rations. Eren didn't think it was worth it at all. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he'd much rather have his mother at home than any food at all.
She shrugged again and his face lit up as he saw the distinctive blond head amidst the people. "Maybe you just never noticed them," she said, slightly amused, and hid her face in the protection of her scarf as she followed him into the middle.
"Armin!" he yelled, and a few of the travelers stared at him in distaste. He jogged to catch up. The air blowing around his baggy pants as he ran felt wonderful. "Hey, Armin!'
Armin turned and Eren practically tackled him, laughing as Mr. Arlert scolded him gently. "Try to let my grandkid at least breathe, Eren." He could tell it was taking all of his self control not to burst into laughter.
Eren gave a lopsided grin, pulling back from Armin. "No promises."
Mr. Arlert turned to Mikasa and rolled his eyes fondly. Mr. Arlert was the among the head committee of Shiganshina, along with Hannes and Grisha. They were the ones who controlled who came in and out. They had utterly no control over the rations--that was all up to Sina and the Scouting Legion--but they did their best.
Mr. Arlert was a well-built man, standing a good four inches above both Eren and Mikasa. He had been in the Trost military before the death of Armin's parents brought him to Shiganshina and the first outbreak (and Armin) had him stay there. Eren could see the battle scars on his arms when he stretched, sleeves pulling back to reveal crudely stitched together lines. He was battle-hardened but not battle-broken.
"How do you manage to put up with him?" He turned back to Eren. "Is Grisha back yet?" As a doctor, Grisha had gone on his fair share of trips. Eren wondered if he was in Sina. Eren wondered if he was visiting his mom.
"Not yet," Mikasa interrupted, pulling the scarf closer around her face. "It might have something to do with the Sina cut-off."
Eren's heart dropped in his chest again and he turned to her, feeling all blood drain from his face. "The Sina cut-off?" Mikasa's stoic expression faltered. "What cut-off?"
Mr. Arlert gave a heavy sigh and it was even stiffer in the stagnant air. "We've lost all contact with Sina. The Scouting Legion soldiers who came by told us that the city is closed off."
He suddenly felt smaller, small and tiny and waiting to be crushed. "You knew?" He struggled to keep his voice level and Mikasa looked away.
"I told you." He marveled at how she managed to keep her voice level cool and expressionless. She usually did that when she was closing herself off. "I said no letters from Sina."
"You said nothing about a cut-off!" He snapped, feeling that irrational sense of dread. "If you didn't tell me about the cut-off, what else haven't you told me about?" He was aware that he was treading on thin ice and if anything, he wanted it to break beneath him. "You think she's your mother now?"
He didn't need the predatory silence and slide widening of Mikasa's eyes (that was far worse than any fit of tears she could have broken into) to tell him that he had gone too far and made another mistake. His head was beginning to hurt again.
Of course Carla was Mikasa's mother too. He was being stupid again, and he knew the topic of family was a touchy subject for Mikasa, and he knew he had gone too far, and he knew that it had, of course, hurt Mikasa more than she would (and probably would ever) let on.
"That was unnecessary and wrong. I never should have said that, Mika, I'm sorry--"
She set her face back into that impeccable one of stone. He had long since stopped wondering where the mask ended and her expressions began.
"No, it's my fault." She hid behind the scarf again. He wondered if she was doing the same as he was, trying to inhale his mother's scent, trying to make sure she wouldn't ever forget it. "I should have told you." One of her hands fiddled with the straps on her coat. "I just didn't want you to worry."
He gave a sigh, a signal that they would talk about it later. Mikasa took the hint. "What is the Sina cut-off, anyway?" He hoped he didn't sound as afraid as he felt.
"Nothing much," Mr. Arlert said, taking his straw hat off to scratch his balding head. "Just what it sounds like--a Sina cut-off. The city closed its walls without someone on duty to report and the Scouting Legion hasn't been able get inside."
Nothing much? "Oh." He exhaled slowly. "For how long?"
"We only got the news yesterday." It usually took a week for information from any of the other cities to travel, courtesy of the Scouting Legion. Mr. Arlert looked around at the groups of people shifting their packs and getting ready to leave the city and he looked pensive for a moment, muscles tensed, eyes narrowed. "Fairly recent, I'm assuming."
He turned to Mikasa, who raised her hand in a silent goodbye to both Mr. Arlert and Armin. She took a step towards the crowd, eyes beckoning for Eren to follow her. "Yeah, I'd love to talk about this, but we're going out for lumber." He turned away.
"How long are you staying out?" That was Armin.
Eren stopped mid-step. "Maybe an hour or two. Not very long. Just enough to get lumber."
"Be careful." He had to bite back a smile. Armin could be just as protective as Mikasa. "And..." Armin hesitated, as if a thousand words came to the tip of his tongue and he had bitten them all back at once. "Don't wait till curfew cut to come back. The curfew is becoming more unreliable."
In all honesty, the words should have been enough to set him at unease. He should have heeded them more. "Yeah, yeah." He shot Armin a grin. "You're becoming more like Mikasa, you know that?"
"The world could use a few more Mikasas."
"Oh God, no." They both laughed good-naturedly and Eren felt his heart swell. He didn't know what he would do without the two of them, and that was the truth. His family (he considered them to be family too, anyway) kept him anchored down.
He sprinted to keep up with Mikasa, weaving through the crowd (a skill that had taken little over a year to acquire). They had nearly been at the gate when a high-pitched scream made him freeze.
It wasn't so much the high-pitched scream, as he had heard plenty of them. There was something about this one, something that made it sound more desperate than the others. It held a quality in it that seemed to pierce the still atmosphere. It seemed to go quiet.
He turned back, feeling more than hearing Mikasa's warning. In the middle of the crowd was a young couple, a man and a women. He guessed they were only about ten years older than he and Mikasa themselves.
The man, clad in dirty brown pants and a thin, olive-green shirt, shook. His eyes, wide and distant, frightened Eren. The girl struggled to hold him, but she looked like she was straining, stretching, and he didn't want to see what would happen when she snapped.
"Imbeciles!" The sound again. He could smell old blood. "You all are imbeciles for thinking the Scouting Legion will protect us!"
The words struck a nerve. He froze.
The girl rubbed his back in frantic circles. "Shh, shhh--"
"The Scouting Legion can't play god!" He screamed again, the sound raw and terrible. Eren flinched. The Scouting Legion can't protect us! The only true safe place is within the walls!"
He felt irrational hatred bubbling up at the mention of the Scouting Legion and failing to protect. It was the deliberate use if can't instead of won't that made him shake.
The Scouting Legion, if anything, was the reason they were all alive. The fool had it all mixed up. Though they had managed to organize using Sina's funds, that was all they had to do with the lazy, national government. He'd heard stories of the Scouting Legion rescuing unfortunate villagers who had gotten stuck outside of curfew. He'd heard stories of the Scouting Legion rebuilding towns and lives after the first Outbreak. His father talked constantly about them, about the soldiers and the wounds he tended. Eren was fascinated with both. He'd seen them riding into town, most on foot, a few on horses. He could practically see the green of their capes in his mind's eye, the fluidity of their movements and the confidence they had in their blades and themselves. He'd heard of their exceptional skill and instincts, how they could take down a Walker without a blink of an eye and they were one of the few who had ties with Sina.
There were two ways to get in to Sina: one, with an escort from the Sina guard. His mother had gone that way as a volunteer. Two, by request--his father, multiple times. And three, if you had ties, which the Scouting Legion did.
"They have so far, haven't they?" He wasn't even aware he had yelled the words out until he felt the weight of stares on his back. He was only a few feet away from the man and he hadn't realized he had clenched his fists until Mikasa was gently trying to pry them apart, fingers soft and warm. "They're the reason we have food! They're the reason these walls even exist! They're the reason we're still alive now!" He took a deep, ragged breath.
He wasn't expecting the man to pull out of the woman's arms. She gave a quiet whimper in protest, but did nothing to stop him. Eren thought that was what most of them were like. They whined and pleaded and "tried" their best, but when the chance to take action presented itself, they never took it. Distaste was sour in his mouth. That was what separated those who were in the Scouting Legion from those who were not.
The guy sneered. Eren felt repulsed by the yellowness of his teeth and the sick redness of his gums.
He took another step forward. His eyes reminded Eren of a rabid dog his father had once put down. He wondered if the man was just like that, another rabid dog to put down. "You think throwing yourself out to be eaten like a slab of meat is safe? You think that counts as protecting?"
There was a voice in his head, strong and steady, and he wasn't sure whose voice it was, but it certainly wasn't his own. The dead don't sleep.
"Do you think that being in here, being caged and fattened up like we're practically being begged to be eaten--is it really any better than running up to them with a death wish?" Eren's gaze challenged them as it swept over the crowd. Mikasa yanked on his arm in warning. He wrenched it away A year's worth of emotions bubbled within him and he didn't even to suppress it. His fists shook. The Scouting Legion was doing whatever it could, while those in Sina whisked people off to labs and were content with letting the people fatten themselves up within the walls.
"The dead don't sleep. You're think they're going to knock before breaking in here?"
The crowd murmured. Whether it was in unrest or agreement, he didn't know.
"The walls aren't going to protect us forever." He swallowed, trying to calm the shaking that overtook his shoulders. "The Scouting Legion is doing something." He took a daring step forward and jabbed at the man's chest, watching him stumble back in surprise. "What about you? What did you do?"
The man opened his mouth, as if to say something, only to close it promptly. He turned away from Eren, pushing past the gathering people and further into Shiganshina. "We'll see what happens when you see a walker for real. We'll see what your precious Scouting Legion will do for you then."
Eren watched his back as he retreated further and further, until a sharp turn took him completely from sight.
People stared at him. The low murmuring threatened to swallow him and he shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking to Mikasa. She bit her lip and he could tell she was against what he had done. Before he could say anything else, she sighed and pulled gently on his hand again. Blinking slowly, he turned back to her.
"Let's go, Eren." Absent-mindedly, she felt for her scarf. "We've wasted enough time here." That was what it was to her, always--wasting time.
"Yeah." Agreeing, he trailed after her and made his way to the gates. As he gazed up at the black, twisting designs on the iron handles, he felt a part of him wondering if this would be the last time he would ever be able to do so again.