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Chapter Text

Levi stared at the small boy, whose hands were wrapped around the hubcap of the third of the tires of the Batmobile. The boy seemed impossibly small, with light brown, freckled skin, a messy mop of dark brown hair and bright, intelligent blue eyes. The boy couldn’t be older than eight, wearing a faded green t-shirt that was several sizes too large for him and shorts that would soon be completely useless because of wear and tear. He looked thin, but there was a stubborn quality to him that somehow made him seem larger than he was.

“Who are you?” He growled, glaring at the boy, wondering how on earth someone as small as that had managed to carry away two tires already in the half-hour he’d been gone.

“Aren’t you supposed to be taller?” The boy demanded, curious instead of frightened. Levi felt his eyebrow twitch slightly, beneath the material of the cowl, which protected him.

“You’ve mistaken me for Superman,” he said. “Now why don’t you put my tires back, and I don’t tell the police.”

The boy stared at him, incredulous. “Yeah, ‘cause they’ll believe it when ya tell ‘em that an eight year old tirejacked the goddamn Batman.” His grin was impish, revealing two missing baby teeth.

Levi gritted his teeth and stalked forward. He wasn’t sure what he intended to do—intimidate the kid?—but before he’d taken even three steps closer, the boy slammed a crowbar into his stomach and ran, his peeling and holey sneakers slamming hard and fast against the pavement as he dived into the backstreets of Shingashina.

Levi gave chase, and, in his ear, he could hear Hange and Petra laughing. He scowled deeper, embarrassed, despite himself.

“I like him!” Hange declared through the intercom. Hange Zoe often came to the Batcave, bearing more trinkets and weapons for Levi to utilize in his war on crime. Tonight Hange had been summoned to help repair some of Levi’s equipment, which was in need of an upgrade anyhow. “You should keep him, Levi, he’d keep you on your toes.”

“His name is Eren Jaeger,” Petra said, calm now that her mirth was under control. Petra was Levi’s oldest friend and companion—officially his housekeeper, in reality she was a jack-of-all-trades, helping Levi operate as Batman with steady hands and a kind heart. She usually ran operations while he patrolled, whispering advice into his ear and utilizing the databases to gather information. “He… oh my.”

“What?” Levi gritted out, turning a corner rapidly in pursuit of the small tire-thief.

“His father is Grisha—do you remember him, Levi?”

“The missing doctor?” Levi said, blinking in surprise. Doctor Grisha Jaeger had ran a free clinic in the southern part of Shingashina—which had been utterly destroyed only six months ago, with the doctor completely disappearing in the aftermath. Levi had been investigating it, but he could turn up no evidence. The doctor hadn’t been injured at the scene, as far as Levi or the police could tell, but he hadn’t been seen by anyone, either. Levi didn’t remember seeing anything about Grisha having a son—and that worried him.

“The boy hasn’t been seen since,” Petra said, sounding concerned. Levi could hear her typing on the big Bat-Computer in the background, searching for more information. “He’s on the missing persons list.”

Levi spun around another corner, and grinned to himself. He’d managed to corner Eren Jaeger—and now it was time for some answers.

“Eren Jaeger,” he started, but then he saw the boy swaying in place as he stared up at the expanse of brick wall in front of him. The boy sagged, fainting, and Levi only barely managed to rush forward to catch him before his head collided with the ground.

“Shit,” Levi muttered, looking at the kid in his arms. Well, now what? He thought.

“So let me get this straight,” Hange said, three days later. “The kid fainted. So what you did was… bring him to your house, tell him your secret identity, and decide to become a foster parent.”

They were sitting in Hange’s very large office. The wall behind Hange was made out of the most expensive, top-of-the-line, bulletproof, safe-shattering, tinted glass that could be bought, and looked out over a gorgeous view of the Shingashina River. The other three walls were covered in rich mahogany paneling, beneath which lurked layers of steel and concrete. Framed magazine photos and articles about Hange and Survey Corps hung on the walls, reminding whoever entered the room about exactly who ran Survey Corps Technical Industries, no matter who was the public face. The carpet was dark green, and brand new after the assassination attempt last month had covered the previous (pale red) carpet with scorch marks. A bronze plaque rested on the mahogany desk, reading Doctor Hange Zoe in large, imposing letters.

Important things to know about Hange Zoe

Hange Zoe is potentially the most valuable assassin target in the world, with a 500 Million dollar reward on their head. No one has ever collected it, and most know better than to even try.

Despite this, Hange averages about an assassination attempt per week.

Batman has only had to intervene in an assassination attempt twice, Superman once.

“When you say it like that it sounds so impulsive,” Levi sulked, crossing his arms and leaning back in the swivel chair that he was sitting in.

“Get Mike on the phone,” Hange said, pointing at him with a pen. “Handle the press. This is your disaster, Levi, understand? This isn’t just something you can do one day and change your mind about. This is a kid. You have so many freaking issues, and you decide to become a foster parent to a kid—you know the odds of the courts letting you keep him?”

“Higher than they should be?” Levi guessed.

“Ridiculously higher than they should be given your history of substance abuse,” Hange said irritably, shuffling the papers on the expansive mahogany desk. “But whatever, rich white man powers activate. But if you hurt that kid Levi, I’m locking you out of your Batcave.”

“I’m just keeping an eye on him until we can find his dad,” Levi swore, completely earnest. “Whoever went after Doctor Jaeger might come after the kid, and I can keep him safe.”

“You totally just panicked and went running home to Petra when the kid fainted,” Hange sighed. “Now scram, short-stuff. I’ve got three meetings to go to, a board of directors to handle, and a lot of investors that need to be reassured that you aren’t about to ruin the company.”

“Ah, the life of a CEO,” Levi drawled, tilting his head back and staring at the ceiling. “So glad I gave it to you.”

“Oh, shut up and get out of my office, you ass.”

Eren walked home from school, his backpack thrown over his shoulders. Class had been boring again. The school had taken one look at his transcript and decided that he couldn’t “handle” the “pressure” of being in “more advanced classes”, so they were making him repeat a grade. Which was bullshit, but the teachers didn’t actually give a damn. So Eren was basically just repeating material, but the teachers didn’t seem to notice that he knew all the stuff, and just kept making him do more of the same.

He kicked a pile of leaves, enjoying how the autumn colors looked against the drab grey concrete. Levi had a nice, big yard. He wondered if Petra would let him help her rake up all the leaves, and make a gigantic pile out of them, like kids did in books. Jumping in the leaves always sounded like fun.

Petra had offered to pick him up from school, but Eren had asked her to pick him up a few blocks away instead. He wanted to walk, just a bit.

Something caught Eren’s eye—a flicker of movement that was a bit too fast, a bit too out of place even for Shingashina.

“Hello?” Eren called, looking around, trying to find the source of the movement, but he could see nothing. “Is someone there?” His hand went towards his cellphone, which Levi had bought for him and pre-programmed with a whole bunch of numbers for people that Eren had met maybe once. But it still seemed like it might be a good idea.

“Hello?” A small voice whispered from the shadows, barely audible. Eren turned to where he thought it was coming from, but he didn’t see someone there. But Eren knew what he’d heard, so he plunged into the alley.

“Hello? Is someone there?” Eren’s Japanese wasn’t very good—he’d learned it from a few sailors at the ports, and an old lady across the hall from his mom’s apartment, but he knew enough to recognize the language that the voice had been speaking.

“You speak normal?” Eren turned again, but he still couldn’t see anyone.

“I speak Japanese,” Eren offered, confused. “Are you okay? Can I help you?”

There was a pause, and then a small girl appeared. She was Eren’s own height, with long dark hair. She was very pretty, with two missing front teeth and a black eye. She looked thin and scared. “Do you have food?” She asked quietly, reluctantly, as if not wanting to show weakness. Eren knew the feeling.  

“Sure!” Eren grabbed for his bag and pulled out the apple and granola bars that Petra had packed in his bag that morning.

He offered them out to her, and she snatched them from his hand, clearly not trusting him not to take them away again. She vanished into the shadows before Eren could blink, but before long the shiny silver wrappers of the granola bars floated down to rest in front of him. The seeds and stem of the apple were thrown out as well, but no core.

“I’ve got more, if you’re still hungry,” Eren offered, pulling out a tangerine.

The girl reappeared, squinting at him suspiciously. “What is this?” She asked, snatching up the tangerine and squinting at it, suspicious.

“It’s a tangerine,” Eren stumbles, not knowing the word for the fruit in Japanese. “You peel it.”

“How?”

Eren extended his hand, and she reluctantly returned the tangerine to his hand. He dug his thumbnail into the thick skin, and showed her how to peel it away in long, thin strands. He wanted to show her how to remove it in one piece, but she looked so hungry that Eren didn’t want to take the time it would take to remember how to do it properly. He divided the orange into the sections, and handed them back to her. She tentatively bit into a thin slice he’d given her, and her eyes lit up, and before long, the rest of the fruit disappeared, just like the apple and the granola bars.

Eren’s phone rang, and Eren realized, with a shock, that Petra was probably looking for him. He pulled out his phone to answer, seeing her picture beaming up at him as he glanced at the screen.

The next thing he knew, he’d been knocked to the ground, and the girl was on top of him, his phone clenched in her hands and her face twisted into a terrifying snarl.

“You work for him?” She demanded, staring at the phone with an awful glare before switching to him again.

Three things about Mikasa

1.      She was raised by a man
2.      He taught her to fight
3.      She doesn’t know his name

“Who?” Eren asked, frozen in place. He could fight, could fight well, but something in him didn’t want to fight this girl.

“Him!” She cried out, her fist clenched in his jacket and her teeth bared. “You work for him!”

“I don’t work for anyone,” Eren protested, “That’s just Petra!”

“You have one of these, you work for him!” She insisted, throwing the phone against the ground, where it clattered but didn’t break. Eren winced—he’d seen the price tag on the phone before Petra had bought it for him.

“I don’t know what you’re saying!” Eren tried to tell her, “Can you get off me?”

It took Eren another orange and fifteen minutes to talk the girl down. By the time Petra finally found them, pale faced and furious, Eren had found out that the girl’s name was Mikasa, she was on the run from a man whose name she didn’t know, and that she didn’t have a home.

“Can we keep her?” Eren asked Levi, after a long, tense drive home. Mikasa was wearing Eren’s coat and had her mouth full of cookies. Petra, after she had ascertained that Eren’s black eye had been obtained in a misunderstanding, not an act of malice, had immediately descended on Mikasa with all of her might, and there were more cookies in front of Mikasa than she could ever possibly hope to eat, with more in the oven, filling the whole room with a chocolaty smell and the entire kitchen with a thin dusting of flour. Mikasa was munching away cheerfully, while Petra argued with Mike Zacharias—a friend of Levi’s who Eren had only met once—about getting Mikasa some clothes over the phone.

Levi looked at Mikasa, and then looked at Eren, who just grinned unrepentantly at Levi.

“You brat,” Levi sighed. “You’re going to cause me a whole lot of trouble, aren’t you?”

Eren just kept grinning, and squeezed Mikasa’s hand under the table.

Levi had met Hange Zoe when they were both attending Princeton. Levi had been a rich white boy from the richest part of Shingashina—albeit with a major case of PTSD and some anti-social tendencies.

Things Levi Ackerman, Heir to Survey Corps Technical Industries, did during college

1.      Drank
2.      Smoked
3.      Got into fights
4.      Did not attend classes
5.      Met Hange Zoe

Hange Zoe was his next door neighbor, a scholarship student who had been born in Turkey, who ignored anyone who called them “she” “he” or “it” with an air so casual and deliberate that one might actually believe that the speakers didn’t even exist. Hange wore glasses that were incredibly thick and highly reflective, because Hange’s vision was so amazingly bad that they couldn’t even wear contacts. They were a Business-Engineering-Physics triple major, here on a scholarship that demanded they maintain at least a 3.5 GPA, and they absolutely couldn’t stand cigarettes.

They also had an annoying habit of breaking and entering into Levi’s room whenever their roommate had sex. Which was almost alarmingly frequent.

“She’s at it again,” growled Hange, hair pulled up into a messy bun that positively crackled with static electricity, two pencils poking out of it, holding the whole thing tenuoualy in place. Textbooks thicker than Levi’s arm were clutched against their chest as they juggled their lock-picks in the other hand. “I have a test tomorrow, and they decide to have the boyfriend over again.”

“Go away, shitty glasses,” Levi groaned, arm draped over his eyes as he kept smoking. He was most definitely not supposed to smoke in his room, but the wing of the building he lived in was named after his grandfather, and he’d already lost his deposit after he dented the wall on the second week of school, so he didn’t really give a fuck.

Hange, either not knowing or not caring about the state of Levi’s room deposit, snatched the cigarette out of his hand, stubbed it out on the metal bed post of Levi’s bed, and threw it in the trash. “Not a chance, cancer breath.”

“Why can’t you go somewhere else?”

“I live to make you miserable,” Hange informed him cheerfully, grinning widely. “Now either shut up or help me with my flashcards.”

As freshman year crawled by, Hange somehow ended up on Levi’s speed dial, his IM contacts list, his Facebook friend list, and on his bulletin board. They ended up rescuing him from campus security on more than one occasion, forced him to actually attend some of his classes, and tried to goad him into actually picking a major.

Over the summer, Levi actually found he missed them. It was a peculiar feeling.

Things Levi Ackerman did that summer:

•        Slept
•        Drank
•        Smoked

Things Hange Zoe did that summer:

•        Worked at McDonalds
•        Worked an internship
•        Invented and patented a new type of refrigerator
•        Laughed at the concept of sleep in a slightly despairing manner

“You’re a sophomore, Levi,” Hange pointed out, feet on his couch as they lay on his floor, reading their textbook, face turned towards the ceiling. Levi had, reluctantly, attempted to get Hange as his roommate, but administration were assholes about Hange’s gender, so it had fallen through. So Levi languished with Mike Zacharias, a journalism major who seemed to be unusually strong even for his bulk, as his roommate, (Levi’s abysmal GPA had prevented him from getting a single room that year, and Petra had refused to allow Levi to bribe his way into a single) and Hange as his once again frequently reoccurring guest.

“You two dating?” Mike asked, one day, out of the blue. Mike wore thick rimmed glasses, but unlike Hange, didn’t seem to need them. He also had a remarkable sense of smell which he mostly used to tell when Levi had been smoking, much to Levi’s displeasure. Mike was not letting Levi trash their deposit. Clearly, having a roommate was a mistake, even if Mike had a much better fake ID than Levi did.

“Who?’ Levi looked up from his reading, confused.

“You and Hange,” Mike said, shrugging. He muted the television, which was playing a news program of sorts. “Are you two dating?”

“What, me and shitty glasses?” Levi blinked at Mike. “Are you fucking serious?”

“They’re always here, that’s all.” Mike shrugged, his eyes going back to the television. “I was just curious.”

Levi looked at Hange when they next came in and Mike was gone. “We’re not dating, right?” He asked flatly, half afraid of their answer.

“Hell no. You’re too white boy for my taste,” Hange said, not even looking up from their textbook, which they were reading at a dizzying speed. This year, they didn’t need to pick the locks—Mike had managed to get them a key, much to Levi’s displeasure. He’d been meaning to get Hange to teach him, this year. Lock picking seemed like a useful skill—one that might help him fulfil the promise he’d made, half-forgotten, all those years ago.

“Good,” Levi said, relieved. He turned his attention away from Hange, and that was the end of that.

Until the anniversary pulled around.

A few things about the anniversary:

It was the eleventh one. Levi had spent the tenth with Petra, drinking tea and sleeping away the hours, nightmares flickering beneath his eyes. But Petra was sick for the eleventh anniversary, and so Levi was alone, the nightmares tormenting him while he was awake instead.

“Levi!” Hange’s grip was like iron around his bicep, trying to keep him upright even though Levi weighed a ton for someone so short.

“Go away,” he slurred. His tongue felt heavy and useless in his mouth. Actually, his whole head felt heavy. All he wanted to do was go to sleep. But if he slept, he’d dream, and he didn’t want that either.

“No!” Hange slapped him, returning a little feeling to his face, but not enough. “Stay away, you asshole! You fucking stay awake, you hear me? Mike, you calling the ambulance?”

“Doing it!”

“How much did you fucking take?” Hange demanded, shaking Levi slightly. His head lolled, limp, against his shoulder. His vision was blurred, the colors swirling together like one of those shitty impressionist artists that Mike so loved. Blurrily, as if he was hearing through water, he could hear someone scream. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Mike, help me get him to throw up! We gotta get this out of his system!”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Levi felt himself being helped to the sink, the cold porcelain pressing against his arms as he was draped over it by his friends. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and wished he hadn’t—he hadn’t known he was crying until then. His head was bent over, pressed down by someone’s firm hand against his head, and all he saw was the white expanse of the sink.

“Fuck you so much for this Levi,” Hange hissed in his ear—he knew it was them, it couldn’t be anyone else. That was the last thing Levi remembered before the world dissolved into colors and the smell of vomit.

He woke up in the hospital thirteen hours later, to find Hange and Mike sprawled across three uncomfortable hospital chairs, soundly asleep, and one furious Petra, wide awake. He smelled disinfectant and felt bruised from head to toe. He answered the Doctor’s questions with as little emotion or inflection as he could, and avoided Petra’s sharp gaze. He heard whispers of medication and therapy and depression, and balled his hands up in fists where no one could see them, beneath the stark white hospital sheets. Petra left to speak with the press, who were having a field day, even if they didn’t realize that it wasn’t an accidental overdose. Levi didn’t know what she was going to tell them, and he didn’t really care.

“Why’d you do it, Levi?” Hange asked quietly, eyes heavily lidded with sleep, from their position, sprawled across multiple plastic chairs, Mike’s jacket tucked around them like a blanket. Their voice was low and rough, as if they’d been screaming for hours on end, and they looked like they’d been crying. “You wanted to die, didn’t you?”

“No,” Levi said honestly, his own throat feeling like it had been filled with broken glass. “I just wanted to forget.”

“Forget what?” Hange said helplessly, sitting up slightly, trying to catch his eye.

He stared at them, bewildered. “You don’t know?”

Hange looked at him, frowning. “Why would I know?”

“Everyone does!” Everyone had. The professors, soft spoken and far too kind, until he’d taken their patience and stretched it beyond anything reasonable, knew. The other students, tittering and giggling and whispering, knew. The reporters, shouting questions and throwing pictures in his face, all knew. But Hange?

“Levi, I’ve been in this country for three years, and it’s not like I did a background check on you!”

He stared at them again, jaw hanging open. They actually didn’t know. Something twisted in his stomach. No wonder Hange didn’t treat him like a meal ticket, or like he was spun from glass. They hadn’t known. Hange, who hated tabloids, who never was in a single class with him, who avoided most students because of people’s allergy to using the right pronouns, Hange hadn’t known because no one had ever thought to tell them. He got to tell his own story for once, and it was terrifying, confusing, because he’d never had to.

“My parents,” he struggled, trying to find the words. How could he describe the end of everything? “Were wealthy. Really fucking rich. But they pissed off the wrong people. So someone had them killed. In front of me. I was eight.”

A Memory:

Blood, blood in his eye, something grey on his shirt, it’s everywhere, it’s everywhere, he’s filthy, he’ll never be clean again, Mother’s eyes are wide open, staring at him, oh God oh God he’s covered in blood, a bullet wound through Father’s head, a tiny little mark on his forehead, but the back of the head oh God, so much blood, blood everywhere, someone’s crying, someone’s holding him, oh God is that him so much blood, he’ll never be clean, everything’s filthy, why isn’t Mother getting up, window glass crunching beneath the police woman’s feet, Petra’s arms around him, covering her good white blouse in blood, is that him who’s making that noise?

Levi escaped the hospital, snuck on board a ship heading away, and disappeared. No one saw or heard from him for six whole years.

Mike finished his journalism major, and then went to work in Trost, where he found a good job working for a major newspaper. Eighteen months later, rumors began to emerge about a “Superman”. Hange suspected, but they kept their head down and said nothing, not even in their weekly phone calls with Mike.

“I miss him,” Hange told Mike softly, late at night in their apartment, after a long week of classes. Hange’s Master’s degree was coming along slowly, held back by both their job as a secretary for a real estate agent and their regular inventing and patenting process.

“So do I,” Mike said.

What Levi was Doing:

“I won’t kill another human being,” he snapped at Rod Reiss, his knuckles bleeding and bruises, his ribs broken and his ankle fractured. His eyes were narrow with pain and he breathed heavily, but his stance was firm and his mouth was a thin line. “Fuck you,” he spat. He left the Shadows, and the building burned behind him.

He was going home.

Levi returned home to a hug from Petra, an outcry from the paparazzi, and a punch in the nose from Hange Zoe.

“You asshole,” Hange hissed, and it was a testament to just how much Levi knew he’d fucked up that he hadn’t even tried to avoid the punch. “You fucking asshole.”

“Sorry?” Levi asked, examining the blood on his hands.

Hange punched him again. Levi let them, even if it knocked him to the ground. After all, it had been six years.

“I thought you were dead,” Hange hissed, crossing their arms to stop themselves from hitting him again. “I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere, you bastard!”

“Sorry, shitty glasses,” Levi muttered.

Hange pulled him up and hugged him. “Fuck you, cancer breath,” they muttered into his shoulder. “Don’t you ever do that again or I will kill you and they’ll never find the body.”

“Noted,” Levi said, and he believed them.

Levi had been Batman for less than two weeks when Hange broke into the Batcave.

“Shit, crap, awful,” Hange tore through his supplies with a critical eye, tool box in hand. “You better set me up a workbench, short stuff. Clearly, there’s a lot for me to do if you’re going to save this city properly.”

Levi stared at them, still dressed in his Batman outfit, his mask still on. The alarms hadn’t even gone off.

A Few Things About Hange Zoe:

Levi Can’t Keep Them Out of the Batcave. Ever.

Hange figured out that Levi was Batman after one day. It took them nine days to figure out where the Batcave was, which they think is a great compliment. Levi is never quite as sure.

Without Hange Zoe, Levi would have died three weeks into his crusade. Hange absolutely never let him forget this.

“I don’t need your help.”

Hange pointed at the sad, sad Batmobile. It was an armored car that Levi had painted black. Depending on who was telling the story in later dates, there may or may not have been cardboard wings attached to the trunk of the car.

Petra, the only neutral party, would always refuse to comment.

“Yes,” Hange said pointedly. “Yes, you really do.”

After a few weeks of Hange working in the Batcave, Levi had high-tech weapons, body-armor, and a car that actually looked intimidating. After a few months, Hange had designed a super-computer that was installed in the cave.

It took Levi two whole years to get bored of being CEO of his own company. He passed the title onto Hange, who took to it with a surprising and terrifying ferocity, and watched as the paparazzi drove itself off the deep end trying to speculate about Levi’s motives for doing so.

It took Levi twenty-five whole months to figure out that his college roommate was Superman, and Hange laughed themselves silly once they realized that Levi hadn’t known.

“Shut up, shitty glasses,” Levi growled, which only made Hange and Mike laugh harder.

Mikasa stayed. She was quickly enrolled in the best English classes that Hange could find for her, and privately, Eren enrolled in Japanese classes. Hange knew Japanese, unlike Petra and Levi, and they talked with Mikasa for hours on end, after Eren’s throat and vocabulary dried up. Hange wrote down some of what Mikasa said, locations and names and dates that they think might be relevant for Levi’s search for him.

Levi’s inability to learn anything other than English hindered his relationship with Mikasa, but Mikasa learned quickly, with English soon pouring out of her mouth in a waterfall of questions and requests. She wanted Levi to spar with her. She wanted to go to school with Eren. She wanted to go to mosque with Hange.

Levi did his best. He sparred with her, and got his ass kicked, much to his bewilderment and Petra’s quite amusement. Whoever had trained Mikasa had done it well—she moved with lightning fast lethal grace, despite her age and size. She couldn’t be much older than Eren, but she was as well trained as Levi.

Petra produced fantastically forged paperwork that “proved” that Mikasa was a distant cousin of Levi’s. There were birth certificates, artfully faked family photographs, a homeschool transcript, and even a social security number. Levi looked at Petra’s smiling, sweet face, and, as always, didn’t ask where or how she had gotten her hands on the documents. He enrolled Mikasa in the same school as Eren, much to the delight of both of his wards.

Soon, the sight of the two of them, homework spread all over the large kitchen table, eating cookies and drinking hot chocolate, became a regular sight in the Ackerman Estate. Levi growled and grumbled, but it was an oddly soothing sight. And it made Petra happy, which Levi knew was a rare enough thing, despite her smiles.

Petra Ral:

Petra had been working for the Ackermans since she was eighteen. She had never held another job, she never would even think of leaving. But she would see Levi go out, and every time, she wondered if he would come back, and what she would do if he didn’t. She bandaged his cuts and set his bones and stitched up his gashes and wondered what she would do when the hurts were once against too much for her. She wished, sometimes, that she had been able to stop him from running away.

If she had, she might have been able to prevent all this from happening.

The mosque was a curiosity, an oddity. Hange had taken both Eren and Mikasa with them, claiming that they would both like it. Eren was interested because his mother had been Turkish, and most of Hange’s mosque was as well. Eren’s mother had been Orthodox, not Muslim, but Eren wasn’t particularly religious. Mikasa was curious, and so she went, her small hand slipped into Hange’s.

Mikasa came back, excited and energized.

“I want to convert,” she told Levi that night at dinner.

Levi squinted at her. “You’re like, eleven,” he pointed out to her, frowning into his oatmeal.

“I want to convert,” Mikasa repeated, frowning.

Levi sighed. “I’ll talk to shitty—to Hange about it.”

A Reaction:

“Will she need to wear the scarf thing?” Eren demanded of Hange, running up to them as soon as they entered the Estate.

Hange blinked down at Eren. “The hijab?”

“Yeah, that! Is Mikasa gonna have to wear it, like she did when you took us?”

“Outside of the mosque? It’s her choice. But in, yes, probably.”

Eren nodded, his face confident. “I’m going to get her one. Will you help me?”

The hijab he bought Mikasa was deep, dark red, with a black, white, and gold paisley pattern around the edges. It was silk, and soft to the touch, a solid square of fabric that he carefully examined for five minutes before choosing. He bought it with his own money, and wrapped it in crinkly white tissue paper before he gave it to Mikasa, who struggled for a while to put it on before Hange gave in and helped her wrap it snuggly around her head, hiding her hair completely.

Mikasa will own many other hijabs, but that hijab will be the one she will always wear on special occasions.

This is the hijab she will wear to Eren Jaeger’s funeral.

Mikasa and Eren, not long after Mikasa’s conversion, decide that they want to be superheroes like Levi.

“No, no fucking way, no way in hell,” Levi said, his cowl in one hand and a boot in the other.

“Levi!” Petra said.

“No, no freaking way, no way in heck,” Levi corrected himself, with the air of a man still unused to self-censorship and the flattest, dullest tone imaginable.

Eren and Mikasa crossed their arms in unison and looked unimpressed.

“Why can’t we?” Mikasa demanded. “I can already beat you in a fight.”

“You’re, like, eleven,” Levi said, bewildered as to why this was even a question. “And Eren’s, like, ten. You can’t go out and fight, the commissioner would throw me into prison for child endangerment before you could even do anything.”

“So?” Eren demanded. “We want to help!”

“Wait until you’re fourteen,” Levi said, struggling to remove his other boot, hopping on one foot to do so. “You can be a superhero when you’re fourteen.”

Three Years Later

“Fuck.”

Hange laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

“Well, they’re fourteen,” Hange said, trying, and failing, to hold back another wave of laughter.

“I hate you so much, shitty glasses,” Levi said, staring at the costume designs that he was holding in his hands. They were carefully drawn and labelled in Petra’s neat handwriting, with annotations from Eren and Mikasa in the margins.

Eren had designed a colorful, caped monstrosity that he had dubbed Robin. The color scheme was red, green, yellow, and black, and it gave Levi a headache just looking at it.

Mikasa’s was more sensible, a grey and black creation with a tattered cape and a full-face cowl. She didn’t have a name for it, but Eren’s scrawl read Batgirl in the top right corner.

“C’mon, Levi, you brought this on yourself!” Hange laughed, leaning against their desk, propping themselves up with their elbows. “Fourteen, really? You couldn’t have said sixteen, or eighteen, or twenty-seven?”

“I didn’t think I’d be allowed to keep them!” Levi defended himself. “I’m a walking disaster, I didn’t think any court would actually let me keep them that long!”

Hange raised a single eyebrow as they examined Levi. “Levi, we talked about your rich white man powers, right?”

“But… children!” Levi protested, holding out the costume designs.

Hange laughed. “Give me those,” they snatched them out of his hands. “Doable,” they declared, examining them, the light reflecting off their glasses in a scary manner.

“What?” He yelped, shooting up onto his feet. “You’re not actually suggesting that I—”

“Levi, at this point, they’re going out there, with or without our help and permission,” Hange said firmly. “I might not think this is a good idea, but I think it’s better that we do this in a safe and supervised manner, where we can keep an eye on them at all times and install trackers in their costumes than let them figure it out on their own like you did.”

“I knew what I was doing!” Levi said, stung by the accusation.

“Levi, since I’m your friend, I won’t correct you, but you are so, so wrong.”

He glowered at Hange, crossing his arms.

“Levi, Mikasa’s been able to beat you in hand-to-hand combat since she was nine,” Mikasa said. “Eren’s a black-belt in two types of martial arts now, and has been learning throwing knives from Mikasa, so he’ll be able to use batarangs. Mikasa’s training was expansive and thorough—whatever the villains throw at her won’t be anything she hasn’t seen before.”

“She’s been shot,” Levi said quietly. “That bastard shot her.”

“And we can do our best to make sure that doesn’t happen again,” Hange agreed. “But Levi, this is going to happen. They’re going out there, and they’re going to help people. This way, we can make sure they’re safe.”

“You just want me to spend more time with them, don’t you,” Levi said.

“You are desperately in danger of becoming an absent father-figure,” Hange said, nodding seriously, even as they got to their feet, smirking. “This is really the best form of father-child bonding you’ll ever be able to figure out.”

“Fuck you, shitty glasses.”

“Right back at you, short stuff.”

Armin Arlelt was very smart.

He knew it, his teachers knew it, and his grandpa had known it. Even his parents, according to his grandfather’s stories, had known it, even though they had died under unusual circumstances when Armin was only four. He remembered them mostly as warm, pleasant blurs who read to him and carried him around. Grandfather, having only died four years ago, was much more concrete and real—solid hands, an earthy smell, a large hat, a rumbling laugh.

But his new foster parents didn’t seem to realize that Armin was smart. They weren’t good people, and they thought he couldn’t see. Armin knew they had multiple guns in the apartment. He knew there was money hidden under the floorboards. He knew they answered the phone in codes he couldn’t crack, and wrote letters in ciphers he didn’t understand. He knew they only had taken him in for the money, and as a potential hostage, should things go bad.

They were criminals—more than that, they were masked criminals. He’d found their costumes, hidden in their closet, guarded only by a security passcode that had been easy to crack.

Armin didn’t really think of himself as a snoop, or a detective—he’d just put the pieces together, and tried to find more evidence, that was all.

He had the evidence now, Armin thought, crouching in his room, right over the vent that led into the kitchen, where his foster parents were fighting about money again. So what should he do with it?

He could go to the police, but he knew that his foster parents knew people in the police department—if he went to the police, what were the odds that people would listen to him?

That left Batman—or maybe Batgirl or Robin—but it was hard to get in contact with them. Armin couldn’t think of a way to get onto the top of the police station to access the signal—not without having to explain the situation to the police, which he really didn’t want to do.

Armin gnawed on the hangnail that he’d developed on his left thumb, and thought hard.

Maybe there’s another way to get their attention.

The only fabric available at the craft-store was purple. Armin sighed, bought it anyway, and began to craft a cape. He wasn’t very good at sewing, but he did his best, and in the end he had a serviceable, if not fashionable, superhero outfit.

He called himself the Spoiler, and he filled his pockets with marbles and thumb-tacs and carried a sock full of pennies. He found a sturdy length of pipe, and he carried a mini tape recorder, full of the conversations he’d overheard. He wrote a journal full of coded shorthand, to serve as his case notes. He bought himself a pair of dime-store binoculars, a map of the city, a polaroid camera, and a length of clothesline (to tie up bad-guys with). A moped was recovered and repaired from the junkyard, painted black, and strategically concealed in a nearby alleyway.

Soon he was actually ready.

If he wanted to get Batman’s attention, it was probably best to start making a name for himself. So Armin liberated a police scanner, found petty crimes, and did his best to intervene in a safe, yet timely manner. He ran out of clothesline within a week, and, after some investigation, found that fishing line was almost as effective and a lot cheaper. He stopped muggings regularly, and left car thieves tied to nearby light posts, with pictures of their crimes attached to their chests with safety-pins. He carefully reminded victims and criminals alike that they were saved/foiled by the Spoiler, and listened in on the scanner to see if he was mentioned.

Armin was practical, although the hero thing was fun. But, since he needed sleep, he only went out three nights a week, on the nights before he had study hall to recover in.

It took him six whole weeks to make contact with Batman, and it didn’t exactly happen in a way that Armin had planned.

He had just finished taking down a mugger, and was pinning the developing picture onto the man’s shirt, when he heard someone land behind him, and say, “Nice right hook!”

Armin, panicking and surprised, grabbed the first thing that he could reach, which happened to be a brick, and lobbed it in the general direction of the speaker.

It wasn’t until he’d thrown it that he realized that he’d just thrown a brick at Robin, and that Robin was currently unconscious on the ground.

Shit, Armin thought, running forward to check on the unconscious boy. Shit, shit, shit, shit.

He was breathing, at least, Armin noted. There was a small bump on the side of his head, where the brick had hit him, but his eyelids flickered when Armin tried to shift him, so he figured he hadn’t hit him that hard.

Armin wasn’t exactly sure what to do. Call an ambulance? Hello, 9-1-1? Yes I just hit Robin the Boy Wonder with a brick, please come check him for a concussion. In the end, he dragged Robin up onto a rooftop, and sat with him until he regained consciousness.

He spent a lot of time slightly freaking out, hoping he wasn’t about to be labelled a supervillain and thrown in jail, and the rest of the time slightly freaking out because this was Robin, and he was going to talk to him, presuming he woke up that is, but Armin was pretty sure he hadn’t hit him that hard.

“Oww,” Robin finally said when he woke up, only fifteen minutes later. Armin was relieved.

“Sorry,” he said apologetically. “You startled me.”

“Nah, it’s cool,” Robin said, shaking his head, wincing slightly. “Batgirl says I need to be more careful about sneaking up on people—guess she’s right. She usually is,” he added thoughtfully. “But hi, I’m Robin!”

“Spoiler,” Armin said, doing his best not to stare.

Robin was a little taller than Armin, and about the same age. His skin was brown, with freckles covering his cheeks and nose. His hair was dark brown and long, flopping all over. His eyes were covered with a domino mask—black, with white lenses. His costume was a red tunic, a yellow belt, green tights, and a black cape lined with soft yellow fabric. There was a badge with R embossed on it right above Robin’s heart, and he wore sleek black gloves that bristled with technology. Armin, in his homemade purple outfit, felt inadequate.

“Oh cool! I’ve been wanting to meet you, but Batman says we’re not supposed to encourage you, but you’re really good at this, the pictures are a really good idea!”

“Thanks?” Armin replied, tilting his head slightly. He wondered if the other boy was naturally predisposed towards babbling, or if that was just the head injury talking.

“Anyway, I should probably get going, Batgirl’s going to be worried.”

“Will I see you again?” The words were blurted out before Armin could stop them, and he blushed, because wow that was embarrassing, Robin probably thought he was a complete and total loser now.

“Sure!” Robin said, grinning widely. Robin’s grin was nice. It was big and sweet and kind and real, in a way that most smiles just weren’t in Armin’s experience. “Do you have a pen?”

Armin did, of course, have a pen. He had three, as a matter of fact. Robin carefully selected the blue-ink pen, and scribbled a phone number across the palm of Armin’s hand with wide, easy to read numbers. Armin stared at the number, and Robin grinned at him, wide and trusting and good. “Give me a ring, and we can meet up!”

He then swung away into the night, and Armin was left staring at his palm, memorizing the numbers as fast as possible.

Batgirl was nice, too, despite the fact that everyone described her as really scary. Maybe it was her mask—the mask was kind of intimidating, and you couldn’t see her smile, unlike Robin.

Batman was actually scary, but he was willing to help Armin with his foster-parents, which was all that Armin had really wanted.

“You’re pretty good at this,” Batman admitted when Armin showed him the pictures and recordings of his foster-parents criminal activities. “I’ll get this evidence to Commissioner Smith—he’s one of the good cops.”

“Are you going to stop now?” Robin wanted to know. “I mean, you’re really good at this, you shouldn’t if you don’t want to!”

“I don’t think I’m good enough to keep doing this,” Armin said regretfully. “I’m not really that good at fighting.”

“We can help you!” Robin said eagerly, grinning from ear to ear. “Batgirl’s really good at fighting!”

And she was. She was fantastic, even Armin could tell that. And she was a good teacher—but Armin quickly learned that her fighting style wasn’t something he could keep up with. He did his best, but he struggled.

Robin and Batgirl quickly became his friends. He saw their faces surprisingly soon—he learned their names not long after. He clutched these small signs of friendship close to his heart, still partially in awe.

A Truth:

If it wasn’t for Annie, Armin wasn’t entirely sure what he would have done in the long run.

Armin’s foster-parents were quickly arrested, thanks to Batman’s help, and the ever-helpful Commissioner Erwin Smith.

Erwin Smith had been a good cop his whole life—Internal Affairs continually investigated him, because they refused to believe anyone could actually have as good of a record as he did.

He was a tall, broad shouldered blond man with thick, heavyset eyebrows and a charming, smug smile. He was clever and well-spoken, polite and charming, and he snapped Armin right out of the foster-homes before Armin had time to blink, or Eren time to convince Levi to apply for custody. Eren sulked, but Armin found that Erwin’s home was more suited for his tastes than the sprawling Ackerman Estate. Besides, he got to see Mikasa and Eren at school.

And Erwin could teach him to be a better detective.

Annie barely could remember her parents, which was the awful truth of the whole matter. She remembered a hug, she remembered her father apologizing—she didn’t know for what. She had grown up looking at photographs, and picking out her features on her parent’s faces—that was her nose on her father’s face, her mother’s eyes were the same that stared back at her from the mirror.

Annie mostly remembered being covered in their blood—it had gotten in her eyes, which had been why she had cried, until she realized that her parents weren’t waking up, and then she had cried even harder, confused and angry and lost.

Blood cried for blood, Annie knew that. A crossbow was her weapon of choice—it fitted into her hand like it had been made for her, and she blasted her bolts through the targets, remembering the masked face of the murdered, imagining the sound her bolts would make as they ripped through his hands.

She returned to Gotham City with a fortune in blood money, ripped from her family’s vaults, and a customized crossbow hidden in her suitcase.

She crafted herself an outfit, since Shingashina was the realm of masked vigilantes, it seemed. She could blend in—there were so many of them, no one would make the link between her, the returned Leonhardt daughter, and the Huntress, viciously cutting through the Mafia.

She searched for evidence—she ripped apart their worlds, searching for answers, for a why. Why had she been spared, why had they decided that her parents must die.

And then… there was Batman.

A Meeting:

“You need to get out of my city.”

“You don’t own it,” Annie snarled, glaring up at him. “It’s not yours.”

“You’re killing people.”

“I’m destroying the Mafia,” she gritted out. And she didn’t kill parents—unlike them, she left no orphans in her wake, no children to ask unanswerable questions.

“Here,” Spoiler offered her a cup full of coffee. His mask was off, revealing a very pretty face. His features were delicate, his eyes were wide and blue, and his hair was wispy and straw-colored, gathered into a ponytail that hung over his shoulder. His skin was pale. He had to be younger than she was, but there was something about him that told her he was not to be trusted, despite his wide eyes and kind smile.

“Thanks,” she said, accepting the coffee anyway, wrapping her cold fingers around the warm take-out cup, savoring the warmth. The stakeout she was currently on was long and cold, the wind seemed to ignore the layers of clothing she was wearing. She had wrapped her cloak as close to herself as possible, so it functioned as a blanket, but the winter wind still nipped.

“Why do you do it, Annie?” The boy asked, perching next to her.

She nearly fell off the roof. She did drop the coffee, the hot brown liquid spilling all over the rooftop, steaming in the frosty air. “What?”

“Sorry, was I not supposed to know that?” He tilted his head to one side, and Annie felt a shiver go up her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

“What do you want?” She spat out, gritting her teeth.

“Nothing,” Spoiler said, and she hated how wide-eyed and sweet he looked, when he clearly wasn’t. “I just want to help you.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” She snapped.

“That’s your problem, Annie. But I think you can be better,” he told her, reaching out, revealing a crystal necklace.

Annie’s head snapped up. She knew that necklace. It was a cross, made of shimmering crystal quartz, cut into a hundred thousand facets, so it gleamed like a rainbow prism with every slight shift of his gloved hand. It was her mother’s—she hadn’t seen it in years, not since she’d left that house for the final time.

“Where did you get that?” She demanded, her throat tight.

“You can be a good person, Annie,” he coaxed her, his voice sweet and wheedling, and, looking at him, Annie almost believed it. “You can be better than this.”

“You… you didn’t answer my question,” Annie said, resisting the urge to snatch the necklace out of his hand—she didn’t know if she wanted it, or if she wanted to shatter it into a thousand pieces. It was hers, this boy had no right to it.

“I found it,” he said, evasive, but staring right at her, unabashed. He let it slide into her hand, heavy and solid and beautiful.

Annie stared at it, almost mesmerized. “Thank you Spoiler,” she said, begrudgingly, fingering the facets of the crystal through the thick material of her gloves. It shimmered in her palm, twinkling and sparkling as she brought it closer to her eyes.

He smiled at her, wide and sweet. “Call me Armin,” he offered, another gift, a precious thing, far more precious than the necklace.

Annie looked at the boy, and tasted the strange name, whispering it softly, so softly that the wind almost hid it completely, but the boy’s grin told her that it wasn’t.

“Armin.”

He was very good, but at the same time, he really sucked. He was clever and persistent, he was efficient and fought smart, but he fought like he was three inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than he actually was. He’d been trained, but by someone who didn’t know how to adjust for height or weight.

“You’re doing that wrong,” she told him, looking at him out of the corner of her eye as he slammed a man into the ground.

He looked at her, curious. A familiar feeling washed over her—that he’d played her. Again. But she found she mostly didn’t mind—she liked him well enough to put up with a little manipulation, every now and then.

“Will you show me how to do it better, then?”

“Sure,” she said, and she did.

A Kiss:

She kissed Armin only once—his breathing was soft and even, but Annie could not ignore the steady beeping of the machines, nor the fact that he was pale and ghostlike. His eyes flickered beneath his long-lashed lids—what was he dreaming about?

“Annie?” He whispered, and Annie felt her throat close up.

“You idiot,” she muttered, smoothing back his hair—it had been cut, now it was almost painfully short. “If I hadn’t been a good person this wouldn’t have happened.”

He turned his head and smiled at her wanly, looking exhausted. “Guess I won my bet, then,” he said hoarsely, and Annie fought back tears.

She bent down, and pressed a gentle kiss against his lips, before getting up to leave.

“I won’t walk again,” Armin said, staring up at the ceiling.

“I know.”

“I can’t be Spoiler anymore.”

“I know.”

“What will I do, Annie?”

“Not let that stop you, Armin.”

Going to the best school in Shingashina on a scholarship was not the easiest thing at the best of times.

It was even harder when you were Armin Arlelt, and apparently had a gigantic bully-magnet attached to you.

Luckily, Mikasa and Eren usually drove them all off, but it did make studying at school difficult. So, four nights a week, Armin was loaded into the car with Eren and Mikasa, and was driven by Petra Ral to the Ackerman Estate.

After the homework was done and the cookies were all eaten, Mikasa and Eren took him to the Batcave, where they practiced combat and worked on detective skills.

Mikasa and Eren turned sixteen—they celebrated their birthdays on the same day, even though Mikasa didn’t know her birthday—and Hange taught them all to drive. In the Batmobile.

“This is incredibly awesome,” Eren declared, eyes alight.

“This is probably a bad idea,” Armin said, eying Mikasa nervously as she sat in the driver’s seat, her arms ramrod straight.

“This thing is armored beyond belief, and has state of the art systems,” Hange reassured him. “Trust me, I designed it.”

The thing was? Armin did trust Hange. It didn’t mean he wanted to be in the backseat for Mikasa’s first drive. 

All things taken into account, it probably could have ended a lot worse, but that didn’t stop Petra from yelling at all of them for all the skid marks.

Erwin Smith was a very good detective. It had taken him less than a year to figure out that Levi Ackerman was Batman by following the money trail. He had burned the evidence, deciding that, although unorthodox, it was probably the best cure for the rampant corruption and violence. He’d buried everything he could get his hands on, to protect both Levi and Hange Zoe.

It took him less than a week to figure out that his new foster-son was Spoiler.

That was a little… more complicated. Erwin sat at his desk, looking at the dossier he had gathered on Spoiler.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit. Armin was only fifteen. But then again, he knew that Eren Jaeger and Mikasa Ackerman had been only fourteen when they had begun their own careers. (And really, he wanted to strangle Levi sometimes. What had he been thinking?)

Spoiler Alert:

Levi hadn’t been thinking.

He could try to stop Armin, he supposed. Bar the windows, throw away the costume, tell him to stop. But he doubted that Armin would listen—and it wasn’t as if the boy couldn’t just slip away into the foster system again. The boy was a survivor, Erwin had to admit that.

He sighed, slumping against his desk. Clearly, there wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t stop Armin, and he could hardly have him arrested for vigilantism when he wasn’t willing to do the same for Levi.

He’d just have to be sure that Armin understood what he was doing.

Erwin walked up to Armin’s room. Armin had already left for the night—he’d left a facsimile in his place. Erwin sighed, disassembled it, put it away, and sat on Armin’s bed, waiting for him to return. He had brought a pile of paperwork with him, and he set to working on it.

At four in the morning, Armin emerged from the window, freezing when he saw Erwin. “Um…”

“If you insist in continuing this,” Erwin said, closing the file he was working on with a definitive slap, “We must understand a few things. You are not to abuse my position as police commissioner to gain information. You are to seek appropriate medical treatment when necessary—I believe Levi Ackerman has access to what will be necessary, or at least he ought to. I intend to sign you up for martial arts lessons—you can select which type at a later date. And I cannot know anything about this. As far as I am concerned, this never happened. Understand?”

Armin, half-in, half-out of the window, with a split lip and a limp, nodded. “Yes sir.”

Erwin sighed—he’d thought they’d left the “sir” thing behind ages ago. “Also, I’m formalizing the adoption. Unless you have an objection?”

Armin startled, even though Erwin would have thought he’d have been beyond surprise at this point. “You mean it?”

“Yes,” Erwin confirmed.

It was his turn to be surprised, when suddenly, Armin was embracing him. The boy usually didn’t like physical contact, but Erwin recovered quickly enough to hug him back.

Something was wrong, Mikasa could tell. Petra didn’t come to the door when Mikasa and Eren pushed open the heavy oaken door—and the door hadn’t been locked.

Mikasa looked at Eren, who looked just as concerned as she was.

He reached into his backpack, produced two flat, narrow daggers, and handed her one. Mikasa curled her fingers around the wire-wrapped pommel, even though she knew her own hands were deadlier than the weapon.

“Petra?” She called, raising her voice so it carried through the halls.

There was no response.

“Let’s check the kitchen,” Eren whispered in her ear, and she nodded, her body tense.

One foot in front of the other, moving silently, they pushed through the Estate, their backpacks abandoned in the hallway. Mikasa took point, ready to throw herself between Eren and the threat at a moment’s notice. Eren was breakable. He healed slowly and gunshots meant he could not fight. He had taught Mikasa to fight with bullets buried in her shoulders, her knees, her hands, and her feet. She had fought with knives in her ribs and broken fingers and a concussion. Things that could stop Levi couldn’t stop her. She could fight, no matter what.

There was a man in the kitchen. He was tall and skinny, with dark, long greasy hair and a thin beard. His smile was wide and cruel, his hands scarred as they held a slender silver gun.

Mikasa would have known him anywhere.

“You!” Mikasa screamed, charging forward without a second thought. The knife went up, and she slashed downward in a sharp, abrupt motion.

He grabbed her arm and slammed her to the ground, twisting her wrist to force her to drop the knife. “Heyya, kid,” he said. There was a click as he pointed the gun at Eren, and Mikasa froze mid-struggle. “Hey, now stay back. This is family business.”

“You aren’t my family,” Mikasa hissed, squirming slightly even as he held her down.

“Where’s Petra?” Eren demanded. Mikasa couldn’t see him, but he sounded fairly far away—he probably hadn’t moved since she charged. “And who the hell are you?”

“The servant lady? She’s locked in the closet, nice and safe and unharmed. An’ you can call me Kenny.”

“Why should I believe you?” Mikasa hissed, consciously avoiding slipping back into Japanese as she mentally reeled at the name, even though she knew it was probably fake. He’d never let her call him anything—not even a title.

“She ain’t got nothing to do with this, Kasa,” Kenny said, letting her up. She scrambled to her feet, carefully keeping her distance. “This is between you and me.”

“What do you want?” She demanded, glaring at him. He looked older—there were lines around his eyes that weren’t there before, and his hair now was touched with silver around the temples. There was a scar on his lip—Mikasa knew where it was from. She had a matching one on her knuckles.

A Memory:

Blood on her hands, his hand on her shoulder, a smile—he’s proud—but the other is dead, and she doesn’t understand. People always fight back when she fights them, they always know what she’s going to do, but he hadn’t, he’d just sat there, and now there was nothing.

“Good job,” he tells her, and something inside snaps.

“Look,” Kenny sighed, throwing himself onto the chair. He snapped open his gun and began to disassemble it right there on the table, as if this was a casual conversation back in the cabin where he’d raised her. “I screwed up, okay? I get it. You weren’t ready—I shouldnta taken you on that mission, but you were doin’ so well with the fightin’ an’ all that I figured you could handle it. So you ran off. My bad, I figure, ya’ve earned it. Give you a few years on your own, see what happens. I’ve got shit to do in the meantime—coupla jobs I’d been puttin’ off to take care of you. Then the contract got cancelled, you were doin’ well, so I figured—why not?” He finished taking the gun apart, and began cleaning it, nodding slightly to himself as he spoke. It was strange to hear him speaking English—he sounded different, speaking with a strange twang that she couldn’t quite place.

“Contract?” She couldn’t help but ask, confused.

“What, you thought I was raisin’ a kid out of the goodness of my heart?” He snorted. “Nah, some big-shot wanted a super-assassin bodyguard. Changed their mind after you ran off, though.” He shrugged. “None-a my business. But anyways, but then something came up. I got a new contract.” He began to reassemble the gun, deliberately slowly. “And it’s gonna be a doozy.”

“What does it have to do with me?” She demanded.

“Simple. It’s dangerous—and it’s not the usual stuff.” Kenny grinned at her. “It’s saving the world.”

“What?” Eren said.

Mikasa narrowed her eyes. “Explain.”

He grinned. “Some poor shmuck is the key to the end of the world—and someone’s plannin’ on using ‘em. Problem is, there’s a lot of guards, technology, and the like. I’ll need help. That’s the job. Kill one person. Save the world.”

“I don’t kill,” Mikasa snapped.

He blinked, looking up at her. “What?”

“I said,” she hissed, clenching her fists. “I don’t kill.”

“Ah, c’mon,” he said, looking at her incredulously. “I mean, I get it, you were too young the first time, but—”

“I. Don’t. Kill,” she yelled, resisting the urge to charge him and slam him against the table.

“He can’t be stopped,” Kenny yelled back, getting to his feet. “He’ll destroy the whole fucking world if no one puts a bullet in his brain—”

“I don’t believe you,” Mikasa snarled.

“Why the fuck not? I never lied to you, Kasa!”

Mikasa ignored the old, familiar nickname and focused on her rage, her hatred. “Doesn’t mean you’re a good person, Kenny.”

“I’m shit,” he agreed, squinting at her. “Doesn’t mean I’m a liar.”

“You stole me,” she screamed.

He blinked. “Stole you? What the fuck makes you think I did that?”

She stared at him. “But… you said…”

“Just ‘cause you’re not my brat doesn’t mean I stole you,” he said, sounding vaguely offended. “Your dad was my cousin. He got himself offed—him and your ma. So I took you in.”

“You sucked at it!” Eren yelled from the doorway.

“Seriously,” Kenny said, jerking his finger. “Who the hell is this guy?”

Suddenly, Mikasa saw movement behind Kenny, and then Levi was there, slamming Kenny into the table. Mikasa lashed out, shattering Kenny’s knee with a well-placed kick. Kenny howled, and Eren lunged, grabbing the gun out of his hands.

“What the—Levi?”

“You know him?” Eren asked Levi, eyes wide.

“You didn’t know I lived here?” Levi demanded, confused.

“I didn’t exactly look at the mailbox!” Kenny said, squirming slightly, apparently having not even noticed that Mikasa had smashed his kneecap. “I knew she was fine, I wasn’t about to inquire more!”

“How do you know him?” Mikasa demanded.

“I fuckin’ trained him!” Kenny said. “I figured I owed my nephew that much when he showed up on my doorstep!”

“Wait, I’m related to Levi?”

“You’re related to me?”

“What the fuck is happening?” Eren demanded.

A Truth Universally Acknowledged:

The Ackerman family tree is very hard to keep track of.

Ymir would be the first to tell you—being in the closet was exhausting. It was lying, day in and day out, faking, hiding, lying, pretending.

So once she entered the police academy, she stopped lying. Well, mostly. She didn’t so much come out of the closet as set the closet on fire, and screw the consequences. She wasn’t dependent on her parents or their money anymore—she had her degrees in criminology and Spanish literature, she could risk their ire and their disownment—she had her own apartment, her accounts and her credit cards were separate from her parents—the only thing they could do was change their locks and numbers, and take her off their Christmas list. Which they did.

It hurt, of course it hurt, these were her parents, but she’d known it was coming since she was five, when the priest had spoken of hell and perversion and sodomy, and her parents had nodded along, good little Catholics to the core.

She threw all her crucifixes away, buried her family photos in nests of spare sheets and blankets, hidden away in drawers that she would never open, and dated whoever she wanted. Pretty girls, smart girls, nice girls, rich girls, white girls, black girls, and then…

Christa.

Christa was sweet, a fake, cloying, nausea inducing sweet and nice. The sort of nice that came from practice and effort, not anything real. Her hair was thick and golden, her eyes a sparkling blue. Her features were like an angel’s, sweet and open and beautiful. She fascinated Ymir—Ymir wanted to rip aside the lies, figure out who Christa was beneath all the layers, beneath all the lies.

They went on one date. Then two. Then three. Then Ymir had a drawer at Christa’s place, and Christa kept a spare toothbrush at Ymir’s and they did all their laundry at Christa’s. They took turns going to each other’s places, of buying food.

Christa was a pastry chef at a five star restaurant—she came back from her restaurant covered in powdered sugar and carrying paper bags full of rejects. But she had too much money, and she never mentioned her past—it was as fake as the rest of her.

Ymir lived for the moments when she saw a glimpse of something real, a flicker of anger or selfishness, a hint of something substantial.

Everything about Christa was fake, but it only made Ymir more interested in her and maybe even more in love with her—she was a detective at heart.  

But she didn’t expect to find the beginning of her answers in a police file.

Marco, her partner, smiled at her as he explained the case to her. Marco had been her friend in the Police Academy. He was nice enough, Ymir supposed. Decent, hardworking, didn’t make rude comments or stare inappropriately.  

A Question, From the Future:

“What is your greatest regret? What would you change if you could?”

Ymir laughed, her hair greasy and unwashed. A fourth bottle dangled from her loose fingers—the other three were broken around her.

“Marco,” she whispered, her eyes heavily lidded, her speech slurred. “I wouldn’t have killed him.”

“Historia Reiss,” he said, smiling at her as he brandished the thick manila file. “She’s been missing for ten years.”

Her mother had been a debutante—her father’s identity had been a mystery, one the tabloids had loved to make guesses about. Historia Reiss had been ten years old when she disappeared, making her twenty now—Christa’s age. Mother murdered, child missing, DNA found at a crime scene from just last week—a single, blond hair.

If Ymir hadn’t been with her at the time of the murder, Ymir might have worried.  As it was, she just resolved to do some investigation on her own.

A Lost Hair:

Plucked off a hairbrush, dropped at the crime scene. A birthday present, from the girl’s father.

Historia, Historia, Historia. Ymir wanted to sing it, wanted to whisper it into her girlfriend’s ear until the mask cracked and crumbled and revealed whoever was underneath.  

But instead, she went home, and had a drink with her girlfriend.

It would be too easy, letting the name slip from her lips and into the air—to corner Historia, to demand the truth. Ymir didn’t want that. She didn’t want to blackmail or extort or force her—Ymir wanted honesty. She wanted to see Historia trusting her, laying her secrets bare of her own free will. She wanted for the mask to be taken off, not removed.

She drank and smoked a cigarette in the apartment, even though Historia wrinkled her nose and pretended to mind—but that was fake, Ymir was learning the tells, learning to find the hidden, buried realities of Historia Reiss. Christa Lenz was a lie, a beautiful, well-crafted lie, and Ymir couldn’t wait to see it fall apart.

She tugged at Historia’s shirt, pulling her up for a kiss, slow and lazy. They both tasted of scotch, and Ymir wanted to laugh—Historia had been drinking as well, even though she’d been hiding it.

“Let’s go to bed,” she murmured, low and soft.

“You’re drunk,” Historia said, pulling away slightly.

“I’m tired,” she corrected. “I just wanna sleep.”

The two of them fell into Historia’s silk-sheeted bed—and how did a pastry chef afford silk sheets?—and Ymir pressed a final kiss against Historia’s porcelain cheek. And right before she went to sleep, she leaned in and asked the question.

“Why do you keep lying?” She slurred, her eyes drifting shut.

It was a very good question.

It was just an ordinary patrol. Just an ordinary, routine patrol.

Just an ordinary gunman, with a gun.

Just a shot in the back.

Just three bullets clustered in the base of his spine.

Just, just, just.

Erwin was waiting at the hospital, grey in the face, demanding answers.

Levi and Hange were there as well, shouting and arguing with Erwin.

Heard Through a Drugged Haze:

“He’s eighteen! He knew the risks!”

“He’s my son!”

“Shut up, both of you! We’re going to need to do some cover work here!”

“What are you talking about?”

“No one can know Armin is Spoiler. This can’t be linked back to him.”

They faked it. Mikasa wore the cape for a few days, and Eren a few others. Annie wore it for a solid week. Even Hange took a turn.

They start a rumor of Spoiler’s retirement.

Armin stared at the ceiling as they told him all about it, trying not to be angry, or resentful. He wouldn’t walk again. He could never wear the purple cape again—to think he had once resented the color, hated the impracticality of it. Now he would do anything to be able to wear it again.

Someone flopped down beside him, and he blinked, confused. Everyone was supposed to be out that night. He turned his head, and stared.

Ymir, one of his dad’s officers, was sitting there, eating an apple.

“Your dad asked me to keep an eye on you,” Ymir said. She smelled of cigarette smoke and gunpowder—she had just been at the range.

“Why, does he think someone’s coming back to finish the job?” He asked, dull and uncaring.

“You look pretty alive to me,” Ymir said, shrugging. “Yeah, it sucks. But you knew the risks when you put on that freaking eggplant cloak, didn’t you?”

Armin stared at her. She looked at him, pitying. “Please. I can do some math.” She took another bite of her apple. “The way I see it, you can sit there, and feel sorry for yourself—which is a perfectly legitimate reaction, I mean, no judging—or you don’t let this stop you. Everyone knew the Spoiler—you were good at the detective stuff. You don’t have to stop doing that just ‘cause you can’t walk anymore, hermano.” She shrugged. “But then again, I don’t know how your superhero shit works. I’m just a cop.”

Eren had a freaking broken ankle, which meant that he couldn’t go on the mission.

“It shouldn’t take that long,” Mikasa reassured him. He glared at her, crossing his arms.

“You get to meet Wonder Woman,” he groused.

“Don’t tell Isabel you’re excited about that, she’ll never let me live it down,” Levi groused. “I’ll throw a gigantic fucking party once it’s done okay? You’ll get to meet everyone then.”

“Don’t invite Aquaman, he’s an ass.”

“I thought you said he looked like a horse, not a donkey.”

“You’re freaking hilarious, Levi.”

Mikasa sighed. “Jean’s not that bad, Eren.”

“You just say that ‘cause he has a gigantic crush on you.”

Mikasa rolled her eyes fondly, and then kissed him on the forehead. “We’ll be home soon. Don’t do anything stupid while we’re gone."

Four Messages:

Click. “Hi, you’ve reached the super-secret cell phone voice mail of Levi Ackerman, leave him a message at the beep, he might actually listen to it!”

“Shitty glasses what are you—”

BEEP

“Hi. Levi. Uh, it’s me. Eren. So I found my dad. He’s in Turkey—near my mom’s old town, right? I know you wanted me to stay put, but it’s my dad, y’know? So, like, I’m about to get onto the plane. I’ll be fine—I’ll probably be back before you and Mikasa get back from that trip. Well, talk to you later.”

1. “This is Armin Arlelt, leave a message at the tone and I’ll get back to you.”

BEEP

“Hey, Armin. I know, you’re probably asleep. Time zones are awful, aren’t they? Anyways, don’t worry about me, I found my dad, and he’s, like, actually giving me answers. I can’t wait to tell you when I get home—but anyways, I better get going, Dad’s going to take me out to eat.”

Click. “You’ve reached the desk of Doctor Hange Zoe at Survey Corp Technical Industries. I’m either away from my desk or with a client, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

BEEP

“Fuck. Hange, look, you gotta call Levi, okay? Something’s wrong—I found my dad, but he’s involved with something—something really bad, I don’t know what, I can’t figure it out, but it’s bad, he’s in too deep, and he can’t get out. He doesn’t want my help—no, I didn’t tell him I’m Robin, don’t worry, the secret’s safe—but I have to help, y’know? He’s my dad. Please, call Levi and get him to get out here as soon as possible—I’m going to need help. Look, I’m sorry, I’ll be careful, I know I promised I wouldn’t do anything stupid, but he needs my help. I’ll see you soon.”

Click . “This is Mikasa. Uh, leave a message?”

BEEP

There was a sound of heavy breathing, of a vague shuffling that sounds like someone trying to crawl. The phone was dropped. There was a small, pained cry.

“I’m sorry,” Eren whispered.

An explosion cut out anything else he had to say.

Chapter Text

Hange could hear the wind blasting in their ears as they clung tightly to Mike. The g-force pushed against them, but Mike was protecting them to the best of his ability, and that was pretty darn good, if Hange had to say so.

Eren’s message echoed in their ears, and they hoped they weren’t too late. Their fingers gripped tightly at the spandex of Mike’s costume as the world blurred by. Mike was going as fast as he could, and the world was shaking in his wake.  

“I know I promised I wouldn’t do anything stupid, but he needs my help. I’ll see you soon.”

Hange had not returned to Turkey since they were seventeen—they had left the country with a backpack crammed full of their favorite books, translations into English scrawled into the margins. Among them had been a dictionary, which Hange had poured over on the plane, perfecting their pronunciation, smoothing out the edges of their accent by listening to English radio. At school, they had been mocked for their accent, among other things—it had been too exact, too precise, too good. Their syntax and grammar were impeccable, and people laughed whenever they opened their mouth to answer a question in class. Just another thing to make them stand out.

Eren had spoken Turkish with Hange sometimes—his words slowly spoken, carefully chosen, his sentences perfectly conjugated and grammatically correct in a way that no native speaker would ever speak. But Hange had spoken back, helping him, reading to him from their favorite books, pausing to explain to Eren what the words meant, and correcting his cadence.

It had taken Hange longer than it should have to realize that Eren was trying to connect to his mother in this way—to try and learn what Carla had never taught him, that had belonged to her alone.

Carla’s village was far from Hange’s home in Ankara, from what Hange could make out as it blurred past. Hange knew Carla’s village—she’d seen it on a map once, beneath Eren’s twelve-year old fingers, circling it as he told them the stories his mother had told him.

Hange smelled smoke, and they knew they were too late.

The building was utterly destroyed—the steel had been ripped clean through, everything was seared and burned; the smell of smoke and burning flesh was overwhelming. A bomb had gone off, Hange could tell, leaving destruction in its wake.

They fell out of Mike’s arms, nearly collapsing on the cement. “No, no, no,” they whispered. “Allah, hayır. Hayır, lütfen. O sadece bir çocuk.”

A Translation, an Explanation

“Allah, no. Please, no. He’s just a boy.”

Hange Zoe officially is not sure if they believe in anything, really. But at moments like this, they have their answer.

Hange found him lying in the middle of the ruin. They fell to their knees. “Hayır,” they gasped, and the tears began to fall, hot and wet and stinging as they gathered Eren Jaeger’s body into their arms, pressing his burned and battered face against the fabric of their knitted sweater. “Hayır,” Hange repeated, numb and crying. Their glasses were fogged with tears, the liquid gathering around the rims.

Then Mike was there, and Hange was being pried away from Eren with gentle Kryptonian strength. “No!” Hange cried out in English. “No!”

“Hange, you can’t help him!” Mike said, pulling them against his chest. The material of his costume was cool to the touch and silky—Hange had designed it to be soft and durable, to withstand anything. They should have covered Eren in the material—he should have been cocooned in it at all times, to protect him from things like this.  

Hange threw their arms tightly around Mike Zacharias and sobbed desperately. “Küçük yalancı.” Hange cried into Mike’s chest. “Küçük yalancı.”

Mike held them close, hugging them tightly as he could without bruising. “He didn’t mean to lie, Hange,” he whispered. “He was a good boy.”

Mikasa was numb, and it was raining.

There were many days when it would be thematically appropriate to rain but the weather was not obliging, obstinately remaining sunny even when the world was dark. Today though, it had apparently been in the mood, covering the skies with thick waves of grey clouds, and filling them with heavy rain. Mikasa wondered if she should be thankful, that the world did not insist on being bright and beautiful when Eren was dead.

The smell of overturned earth filled her nose, overpowering the scent of all the flowers amongst the mourners, including the one clutched tightly in her gloved fist. The thorns of the rose bit through the white cloth, just enough to hurt, but not enough to break skin. Levi held her other hand, his own scarred hands encased in harsh black leather gloves. Petra held an umbrella over their heads, trying to protect them, but her hands—encased in soft brown, knitted woolen gloves—were shaking ever-so-slightly, so that the rain hit them intermittently.

Hange stood off to one side, dressed in a black business suit and a large black overcoat that was left unbuttoned, exposing their expensive black silk shirt to the elements. Their face was contorted with grief, but their face was dry—Mike’s hands were steady as he held the umbrella over the CEO, his other hand resting on the small of their back, keeping them close to him. Mike had rarely left Hange’s side since Hange had found Eren, except for to bring Mikasa and Levi the news.

The Telling:

“Superman? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in Trost?” Mikasa stood up in the space shuttle, wearing her Batgirl costume. The cape was tattered and black, fireproof and waterproof. Her cowl was off, resting on the seat beside her.

“Mikasa—” His face was an open book, and Mikasa could tell instantly that something was wrong. Suddenly it was as if someone was gripping her heart and squeezing it tightly—she struggled to breath, her chest ached so.

“What happened?”

“Mikasa… Mikasa I’m so sorry.”

Mikasa shook from head to toe, her rich red hijab spotted with rain and sticking to her skin. All around her pressed strangers and friends alike—superheroes and classmates and socialites were rubbing elbows, not knowing or recognizing each other in the thick crowd. All here to watch as Eren was lowered into the Earth. The coffin had been made of beautiful honey-brown oak, made from trees that grew around the Estate. An Ackerman tradition, Levi had muttered yesterday, halfway through a bottle of Scotch, his words blurring with his tears. It was lined with a soft green satin. Eren lay there, nestled in his best suit—the one he’d hated wearing. Mikasa had made sure he was at least wearing his favorite green woolen socks, and had carefully tucked his mother’s cross into his hands. It was the only thing of his she could bear to part with—his books, his notebooks, were too precious, too him, to leave buried under the earth with his body. The cross was Carla’s, although it had been precious to him.

Mikasa bit down a sob, but Levi squeezed her hand anyway, sensing it, despite the fact that she hadn’t made a sound. His own face was wet—either with rain or with tears, Mikasa couldn’t tell and didn’t care. It didn’t matter.

Eren was dead.

Levi led her forward, towards the hole in the ground. Mikasa stood in the mud, staring down at the shiny surface of the coffin. It gleamed like a mirror, and Mikasa could see herself, red-faced and puffy-eyed, staring back up at her. Eren would hate to see me like this, she thought, numb.

Mikasa let the rose fall into the grave, forcing herself to release it, peeling back her fingers one by one. It fell onto the smooth surface of the coffin, quickly followed by the other people’s flowers as the other mourners threw them to join hers. There weren’t just roses; there were carnations and lilies and daisies, bright and aromatic, Eren’s favorite flowers, covering the hateful wood of the coffin in a shower of color. It was strangely beautiful, Mikasa thought distantly, staring down where Eren lay, beneath the lid and the flowers. His eyes had been closed—there had been so many burns that they had been lucky to even manage to make him presentable enough for an open casket.

Then the dirt came—covering the flowers, burying Eren, locking away his bright, bright eyes and his wonderful smile and his laugh and—

Mikasa let out a wail and threw her arms around Levi despite herself, despite all her pride and her dignity and her courage, and he held her, clinging to her like she was his lifeline, and she clung to him like he was the same, because they were all that was left, there was no Eren to try to break their fights or to shatter their silences, there was just the two of them left. How could they fill that gaping hole that he had left?

Mikasa wasn’t sure if they ever could. The gaping hole in her chest could never be filled—she wasn’t sure if she would ever even want to try.

Mikasa cried, resting her head against Levi’s shoulder. Through her blurred vision she could see Armin, not taking his eyes away as the grave was filled, his face dry and blank, Erwin protecting him with a black umbrella from the storm.

No one could hide the fact that Robin was dead from the people of Gotham. Unlike Spoiler, there were no rumors of retirement, no one to play pretend in the costume. The Robin costume’s domino mask did not provide the obscurity of the Spoiler full-face mask.

Eight separate Gotham groups claimed “responsibility” for the disappearance of Robin, two of them even trying to ransom him back to Batman. Most media outlets assumed that Robin had been with the rest of the Justice League in outer space when he died.

The Justice League issued no statement on the issue.

Armin stared at the screen of his laptop, unblinking. Pages of articles, of brightly colored headlines and stark fonts, of blurry, out of focused photographs and clear insignias, all there for him to see.

The Headlines:

ROBIN DEAD!

THE BOY WONDER NO MORE?

JUSTICE LEAGUE SILENCE

BATMAN AND BATGIRL… AND ROBIN?

THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

He had only been home from the hospital for three months now, and it still left a bitter taste in his mouth as he pushed his laptop to the side so he could get to the wheelchair.

Erwin was working hard to make the apartment more accessible for Armin’s new disability, but it was difficult and expensive. Bars in the bathroom and shower, petitioning to get the apartment’s elevator fixed so that Armin wouldn’t get stuck in it again, a ramp by the entrance… it was draining Erwin’s salary and savings, even if he wasn’t saying anything to Armin. Armin had done the numbers, and it was staggering.  

Hange had quietly offered Armin use of an old apartment of theirs, which they promised was completely accessible and would be rent-free or, if Armin’s pride prevented him from agreeing to that, at least an affordable rent. It was getting tempting—Armin’s room, although it had never felt spacious, felt even smaller now that he spent most of his time in the chair.

Armin heard the doorbell ring, and he knew Hange had probably arrived. He grabbed the wheels of his chair to propel himself towards the entrance.

“Armin!” Erwin called. “It’s Doctor Zoe!”

“Nice to see you again, Commissioner,” Hange said, grinning widely, the light reflecting off their thick glasses to obscure their eyes. “Hey Armin!”

Today, Hange was wearing a knee-length black skirt, a blazer over a collared shirt, and a bow tie. Their hair was arranged in their usual bun, and they wore a pair of Levi’s dress shoes as well as sheer nylons. The look was so perfectly Hange that Armin had to grin, despite his mood.

“Hi Doctor Zoe,” He said, more for Erwin’s sake than anything else. Hange made a slight face at the formality, and then bounced right back, resuming their typical maniacal grin.

“Ready to go?” They asked him.

“Yes,” Armin said, although he felt rather disheveled next to Hange’s attire. His hair was a greasy, tangled mess, he was sporting a Superman t-shirt over a pair of jeans, and his eyes were surrounded by large, dark circles.

Hange gave no indication that they noticed any of this, grinning. “Alright then!” They cheerfully lead the way to the elevator.

“Have you thought about what I asked last time?” Armin asked, leaning forward, once the elevator doors slid shut.

Hange’s cheerful demeanor disappeared in an instant. They removed their glasses, revealing their dark brown eyes for once. From the inside of their blazer they removed a cleaning rag and began to rub at the lenses of their glasses, not looking at him. “I have, Armin.” Their voice was soft and serious. “And I can’t.”

“But!—”

“Let me finish,” Hange said firmly. “Armin, there’s a reason I never go out in the field. I have health issues. I run a multi-billion dollar company. I support Team Batman by designing all the tech they use. I upgrade the damn software on that computer monthly. If I were to undergo the physical training necessary to keep up with Levi and Mikasa, those things would suffer. I am doing everything I can to keep them alive as it is. Going out in the field would not help them.”

“They’re drowning out there!” Armin punched the arm of his wheelchair angrily. “They can’t keep up, not even with Annie helping!”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Hange demanded, shoving their glasses back on to their face. “I have to look at their vital signs every night, Armin! I’m not saying that they don’t need help, I’m just saying I can’t be that help!”

“So what are you suggesting?” Armin didn’t know when he had started shouting, but there it was, his voice echoing off the walls of the elevator.

Hange leaned in close to him as the doors slid open with a soft ping to announce their arrival in the lobby.

“I’m suggesting,” Hange said softly, “That we look elsewhere for that help.”

Sasha Braus was an heiress in more ways than one.

First there was the multi-million dollar company that hung over her head. It meant that her name when printed in newspapers was attached to dollar signs, it meant that her picture was in the papers in whatever designer dress she had managed to scrounge up.

It also meant that she was the second Green Arrow.

Her father (well meaning, fairly clueless, kind of an asshole, dedicated to the common good) had been stranded on a deserted island and picked up the bow and arrow to survive. He’d become pretty damn good at it too. And once he returned home, he quickly became notorious as the Emerald Crusader, the Green Arrow.

Sasha had one told Connie that her father had a white-man’s guilt complex, and it was a fairly suitable diagnosis. Her dad was the definition of WASP, and he could with all honestly be called a hippie.

Sasha was both too much like her father and not enough like him. Like him, she was a partier, had a killer sense of humor, was a great shot, and possessed an inclination towards helping people. Unlike him, she was a girl, had Korean and African ancestry, and was more inclined to settle down with the man she loved rather than continue to party her way through her fifties.

Sasha Braus’s Childhood:

“But mom, my hands hurt!”

“Grip the bow, Sasha! Keep in stance! You’re such a disappointment. You’re a legacy, and this is the best you can do?”

Also, Sasha was firmly of the opinion that the boxing glove arrows were stupid.

Another trait she shared with her father was enormous stubbornness, which led to her father’s “retirement” emerging in the form of Sasha locking him out of the Arrow Cave and stealing all his bows and arrows for his own safety. He still hadn’t quite forgiven her for this, but given that he was now fifty and had carpal tunnel syndrome, Sasha felt pretty justified in her choices.

Connie, her boyfriend of three years, was sprawled across the couch with a bowl of cereal, still dressed in his Black Canary outfit. Like her, Connie was a legacy. His mom had been the first Black Canary, which she had cheerfully trained her son for once he developed the same super power as she had. Unlike Sasha, who had modified the hell out of her father’s costume once she had come into the name, Connie had decided that he rather liked the outfit that his mother had worn, and not really changed anything. As a result, Connie fought crime in a corset, fishnet stockings, and heels. Sasha had nothing but admiration for his ability to pull that outfit off. She’d never fight crime in high heels, that’s for certain.

Her father’s selective obliviousness meant that he hadn’t actually made the connection between Connie and the Canary, which was probably for the best. Sasha was very glad that she no longer lived in the mansion with her father, enjoying her life in her penthouse apartment instead.

Sasha Braus slipped next to Connie, grinning from ear to ear as she pushed back her hood, pulling out the elastic from her hair right afterwards. “What a night,” she laughed.

Connie grinned at her, mouth full of Fruit Loops. “You got that right!” He said.

“Mmm,” Sasha pressed a kiss against the corner of his mouth. “I’m making dinner. You want anything?”

“Mashed potatoes?”

“Fuck you, asshole.”

The Story behind the Mashed Potatoes:

It never shall be told.

“I’m hurt!” Connie said, pressing his hand over his heart. “I’m wounded that you think I was making a reference to—”

“Watch me not believe you!” Sasha yelled, getting to her feet. “I’m making chili.”

“You make chili like a white girl!” Connie, Latino to the bone, was fundamentally offended by The Braus Secret Family Chili recipe. 

“You can’t eat the stuff without a gallon of yogurt!”

“That doesn’t mean it’s good chili!”

The phone rang.

Connie picked it up. “Hello?”

“Hello Black Canary.”

Connie froze, and put the phone on speaker, lifting his finger to his lips to indicate that Sasha shouldn’t speak. “Who the hell is this?”

“I am the Oracle, Mr. Springer. And I have a proposition for you, and Ms. Braus.”

Annie crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently as she stood at the train station. The crowd seemed to press against her from all sides, even though in reality she had plenty of space. She kept her headphones in, leaning against the wall, even though her iPod wasn’t playing anything.

The train from Dauper was running late, and the irritation was clear on her face. She checked her phone again—no messages from Armin.

Armin had put her in charge of recruiting for the new team—the Birds of Prey, he was already calling them, much to Doctor Zoe’s amusement.

Annie didn’t know much about Doctor Zoe, except that they had provided her with a new, improved crossbow and body armor that was sturdy and strong. They had a knack for inventing, according to Armin, and greatly delighted in helping out the vigilantes of Gotham.

Annie wondered how much Doctor Zoe knew about Robin’s death. She didn’t know much—his identity had never been told to her, and she had never spent much time with him—but she knew Armin missed him terribly, whoever he had been.

The loss of Robin had shaken Batgirl and Batman, Annie could tell that much. Annie hadn’t tried to ask them about it—it was a private grief, a grief she had no part in. They didn’t like her or even trust her; it would be wrong to expect them to confide in her.

The train finally arrived, and Annie’s eyes went right to the people she was supposed to escort.

Sasha Braus was famous—Annie recognized her in an instant. Dark skin, long brown hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail, light brown eyes, dressed in casual jeans and a t-shirt, as if it could conceal her famous figure from prying eyes. Next to her was Connie Springer, who Annie only knew from Armin’s dossier. His head was shaved closely, a trace of black stubble the only indication of his hair, his eyes were dark brown, and his nose looked like it had been broken several times. He wore a leather jacket over an olive green shirt, and wore a silly grin on his face that seemed oddly jovial for one of the foremost martial artists on the planet.

Annie adjusted her sun glasses and approached. “Ms. Braus, Mr. Springer?”

They turned towards her in unison—they were perfectly in sync with each other, in a way that was almost creepy. Sasha had a duffle bag thrown over her shoulder, a guitar case dangling from her right hand that Annie would be willing to bet contained a bow and quiver. Connie had a roller bag, and he was looking at her closely. “You the Oracle, then?” He asked, his voice carrying the slightest trace of an accent.

“The Oracle can’t make it,” Annie said vaguely. “I’m supposed to escort you to your hotel for now, then pick you up tomorrow for the meeting.”

“What are you, an employee?” Sasha asked, squinting at her.

“Of sorts,” Annie said flatly, not sure if she liked the woman. There was a… lightness to her that felt out of place, especially given their line of work. That kind of lightness in Shingashina couldn’t end well.

It had already gotten Robin killed.

She led them to the bland rental car that Armin had provided for her, and drove them to the fancy hotel that Dr. Zoe had booked for them. The resources that the two were throwing into the Birds was startling, and it made Annie wonder what exactly Armin was planning on doing.

Mikasa trudged home alone, numb as usual.

Six months since Eren had died, and things had settled into a draining, dull routine.

A Day in the Life of Mikasa Ackerman

7:00 – Wake Up

7:15 – Eat Breakfast

7:30 – Drive to School

8:00-3:00 – School

3:15 – Head Home

3:30-5:00 – Training

5:00-5:30 – Shower

5:30-6:00 – Skype with Armin

6:00-7:00 – Dinner

7:00-8:00 – Homework

8:00-1:00 – Patrol

1:00-7:00 – Sleep

Her grades were slipping and her free periods were now spent listening to a school counselor speaking to her about grief and survivor’s guilt, which made her want to throw things and scream, because they didn’t understand, it was her fault—if she had stayed with him, she could have saved him. She could have stopped him from going. She could have. It wasn’t survivor’s guilt or a stage of grief, it was the truth.

She threw herself into a chair in the kitchen, mentally weighing the benefits of a nap instead of training.

“Heya, kiddo!”

Mikasa was a blur of action, flipping out of the chair, across the room, and in front of Kenny Ackerman in an instant.

She shoved her hand against his nose, shattering it with a simple movement that was more instinct than malice. With a howl, he doubled over, his blood dripping onto Petra’s pristine stone floor.

“What are you doing here?” She demanded, towering over him as he was bent over.

“Heard about the kid,” he said. Then he began to laugh as he straightened up, cradling his nose. “Good job,” he said, poking it tentatively, flinching as he did so. “Any harder, the shards woulda gone into my brain. Good control. Precise.”

Mikasa saw red. She punched him again, this time in the jaw. He took it, still laughing. “This how it’s gonna be, ‘Kasa? Beat me up until you feel better? Guess you’re more like me than you thought.”

Mikasa threw him, grabbing his shirt and propelling him over her head so that he landed on the kitchen table with a resounding crash. “You came here to use Eren against me,” she hissed, stabbing him in the chest with her finger. “You want me to help you with your… your “mission”.”

He laughed again, not getting up. “Oh, Kasa, Kasa, Kasa…” He sat upright after a few more chuckles. “You think so little of me, don’t you?

Mikasa punched him again, giving him a black eye and splitting his lip.

“Ha! Guess I deserved that. But nah, kiddo.” Suddenly, he went serious. “Too late for that. He’s gone and done it. The world’s ending.”

“Seems fine to me,” Mikasa hissed.

“Ah, it’s subtle. Slow, too. You won’t notice anything for…” He glanced at his wrist, as if consulting a watch he wasn’t wearing. “Two years. Yep, two years, three days. Then you’ll see it.” He grinned widely, spreading his hands out. “Armageddon.”

“Go to hell,” Mikasa said.

Two Years, Three Days Later:

Mikasa ran across the rooftops. “Levi!” She screamed, her voice hoarse. Dust filled the air, smoke burned her eyes.

Another Titan loomed at her, grinning that horrifying smile as it reached out for her. Mikasa leapt deftly to the side, still calling out for Levi.

Her city was burning.

Levi was nowhere to be found.

Kenny left, laughing slightly, shaking his head.

Historia Reiss stared into the mirror.

She didn’t look very much like her mother. The coloring was the same—soft, gentle blondes and blues, pale, almost translucent skin and pink lips—but the features were all wrong. Angular where her mother had been soft, soft where her mother had been angular, the resemblance was there, but it was passing, just enough to let her hide.

She glanced at the letter lying on the bathroom vanity—scribbled on notebook paper with a pencil, using words that probably would seem like a code to an ordinary person who picked it up.

But it was no code. It was her life.

The Message:

The Demon knows where you are, Historia.

Come see me where it all began.

-A Friend

Historia wanted to laugh at the signature. He was no friend of hers and he knew it—he had probably laughed as he signed it, knowing how it would make her angry.

She crumpled up the note and threw it in the toilet, feeling a strange satisfaction as she flushed away the evidence.

But even with the note gone, the bitter taste in her mouth remained.

Sometimes Historia could forget that she wasn’t actually Christa the pastry chef, who was a good, sweet girl who was kind and generous and soft spoken, who had lived in Shingashina her whole life and had lost her parents when she was young.

She threw open the door and stomped into the room she shared with Ymir, throwing open Ymir’s underwear drawer and pushing past the practical cotton garments until she found what she was looking for.

As a rule, Historia didn’t smoke, but Ymir noticed when she drank more than when she smoked, paying closer attention the levels in the bottles more than the number of cigarettes. She stormed out to the balcony and lit it with Ymir’s lighter, taking a heavy drag.

She clenched her fist. It was bad enough that her father had churned Shingashina into a frenzied storm last year—throwing aged-up photos of her on every screen, leaving the Reiss name on the tongues of her friends and colleagues. That was bad enough—a reminder of just how fragile the life she had created for herself was. But now this?

He knew where she was. The thought was like ice being dropped down her shirt. She stared down at her hands contemplatively. They were rough and chapped from washing dishes, marked with slight burns and a few stains from dyes, smelling of flour and sugar.

The one time she had seen her father’s hands, they had been wrinkled with age and covered in liver spots, marked with battle scars and weapon callouses.

She knew they were probably younger now, if what she knew about the Lazarus Pits were true. She wrapped her arms around herself as she exhaled, watching the smoke trail away slowly. She tapped the ashes onto the balcony railing, closing her eyes as she thought.

Furious, she threw the rest of the cigarette off the balcony, her blood boiling. How dare he? She thought, gritting her teeth. How dare they come back into her life, ready to fill her ears about destiny and power and immortality, ready to slaughter—

Ymir.

They’d hurt Ymir.

Just like her mother.

If Ymir was thought to be an obstacle…

“No,” she whispered to herself, feeling Christa slip away, taking the softness, the kindness with her. She was Historia Reiss, the daughter of a distant socialite and an immortal terrorist, who had lived in hiding to avoid her own destiny. She had lost her mother, she would not lose Ymir.

Her Destiny:

She was ten years old and dressed in lace that itched and smelled of mothballs. It was too tall for her, meant for someone bigger, so it trailed behind her like a wedding train. Her small hands pulled up at the skirt so she wouldn’t trip on the ancient cloth. Her feet were bare on the cold stone as she obediently moved forward, her father’s hand on her right shoulder; her mother’s hand on her left.

The dais was separated from the rest of the Church by thirteen tall stone steps. She glanced up at her mother, who seemed oddly happy as she helped guide Historia to the altar.

Her destiny was set, they had told her. It was carved in stone and written in ink, sealed in bloodlines ancient and pure. Historia wasn’t sure what they meant, but she knew it was important.

On the altar was a book bound in gold and set with bright jewels. Her father let go of her shoulder to push aside the cover. It opened to a centuries-old page with her own face drawn on it.

She left the pack of cigarettes on the balcony, threw her cell phone onto the couch, and stormed out of the apartment she shared with Ymir, slamming the door behind her.

The mysterious lady—who Connie had realized after she had left them at the fancy five-star hotel had not actually told them her name, picked them up in a different car that morning.

“So… what’s your name?” Sasha asked, still carrying the guitar case with her bow in it because she refused to leave it behind. Connie himself only had his satchel, seeing as his voice was typically the only weapon he needed.

“Annie,” the blonde woman said, mild as anything.

Sasha blinked, clearly surprised by the straightforward answer. “Huh,” she said, tilting her head to the side.

They arrived at a strange tower-building that looked like it belonged as a set in a horror film. Annie escorted them inside, which was… different from the outside.

Inside, the building was less “abandoned clock tower” aesthetic, and a little more “steampunk”. They entered an elevator that was made of glass and covered with crossing metal bars, and climbed up to the top slowly. Connie stared down at the floor, which was also made of glass in order to expose the ridiculously antiquated interior of the elevator shaft. Now that, he thought, staring down at the pulleys and cross-beams, would be an awesome place to have a fight scene.

“Welcome to the Tower,” Annie said blandly, gesturing for them to exit first.

The room they were standing in was amazing.

The wall to their left wasn’t a wall—it was the face of the clock. Gears were slowly turning, exposed and brassy, filling the whole room with an eternal noise as they moved the hands of the clock around. The wall right in front of them and to their right was covered with computer monitors from the height of waist-up. Below about waist-height was one long desk, with all the hardware components stored beneath them. The monitors were all showing the same image—of a strange, green mask with black eyes. The floor was made of glass, revealing heavy metal support bars crisscrossing beneath them, as well as a handy view of the elevator and a spiral staircase that looked ridiculously cool, if slightly impractical.

A Conversation:

“Why a staircase? You can’t use it?” Annie asked, staring down, unimpressed.

“It’s a spiral staircase,” Hange said, smirking.

“Easy pickings if I shut off the elevator,” Armin said, a screwdriver in his mouth as he attacked his hardware.

“Greetings, Green Arrow. Black Canary. I’m glad to see you.” The lips of the masks moved when the words began, which was kind of freaking Connie out, if he was going to be completely honest.

“Uh, hi?” Sasha was looking around, whistling softly.

“What, you an AI? Please don’t start singing “Daisy”. Skynet, JARVIS, Hal, what level we talking here?” Connie stepped forward, examining the monitors up close. All he saw were pixels.

“This is a pretty cool setup,” Sasha observed. “Nice view. Why’d you call us?”

“I called you, because Shingashina needs your help. With Robin’s death, the city is beginning a downward spiral, and Batman and Batgirl cannot keep up. You two were selected because your abilities are singular.”

“What, you’re putting a team together?” Connie stared at the monitors, slack-jawed. “What’s wrong with the Justice League?”

“The Justice League has international and global responsibilities. The team I intend to form would focus just on Shingashina, in addition to the home cities of the members.”

“Who else you got so far?” Connie asked.

“Huntress has agreed, so far. I am still assembling profiles of other potential members.”

Sasha snapped her fingers. “Wizard of Oz!”

Connie slowly turned to face his girlfriend, bewildered. “What?”

“Wizard of Oz! We’re not dealing with an AI here, Connie. We’re dealing with a geek behind the curtain!” She turned to face the monitors, grinning. “Is there a secret door? Tell me there’s a secret door.”

There was a pause, and then the image on the monitors change.

It was someone about Connie’s age, with shaggy blond hair and bright blue eyes. “I’m downstairs,” he told them with a sigh. “No secret door.”

“Darn,” Sasha said, her shoulders slumping slightly.

“What gave it away?” The Oracle asked.

“The window. An AI doesn’t need a window.”

“I’ll cover it next time,” he muttered to himself. “I’m Armin. Nice to meet you.”

“So,” Connie said, setting his duffle bag on the floor, unzipping it to reveal his costume. “Where do we start?”

“Hey!” Sasha said, raising her hand. “Do we have a team name?”

“The Birds of Prey,” Armin said, pressing his fingers together. It would have looked a lot more badass if he hadn’t been wearing pajamas.

Historia met him in the dark alley, wearing a black hoodie, pulled up. In these clothes, she looked androgynous enough to be left alone. In case anyone had ideas otherwise, she carried five knives.

“Hey princess,” a mocking voice said behind her, and she threw one of them at the voice without even pausing.

Kenny caught it, spinning it around with a laugh. “Nice one. Might actually hit me if you keep practicing.”

“Go to hell,” Historia said, lips curled to reveal her teeth. “You said he found me. How?”

Kenny flipped the knife between his fingers. Historia stood there, marveling that she tolerated his presence. After all, he had killed her mother, and kidnapped her.

Maybe it was because she understood why he had done it, that she could stand here next to him with only a passive amount of hatred. Or maybe it was because she was just a bad person, uncaring that her mother’s blood had soaked through the white lace gown as she ran alongside him, an ancient book clutched in her fingers.

A Memory

A scream, cut off by the knife embedded deeply within her mother’s throat.

“Run,” He whispers beside her, and Historia does so, because she has read what comes next, and she does not want it to come to pass.

“You moved, didn’t ya? That girl o’ yours. Something Norse.”

“What of it?” Historia asked coldly, knowing that he knew perfectly what Ymir’s name was.

“Ya took the book out.” He tossed the knife back at her, and she caught it between her hands, an inch in front of her face. “Ya had it in that safe, the one I gave ya, yeah? But when ya took it out for the move, it was out in the air long enough for him to figure out yer in Shingashina. Nothin’ more, but he knows yer here. And he’ll be lookin’ for ya.”

Historia swore, hands curled tightly into fists, her nails digging into the flesh of her palm. “He can track the book?”

“Sure can,” Kenny smiled at her, amused. “I didn’t know that ‘til recently. Otherwise I wouldn’t have let ya keep the damn thing.”

“Keep your filthy hands off it,” Historia hissed, not liking the idea of Kenny having all of the secrets that it kept. She didn’t want him paging through it, seeing how much of the world had been written before it had even occurred. She trusted Kenny more than she trusted her father, but that wasn’t saying much.

He raised his hands up. “Wouldn’t dream’a touchin’ it, yer majesty.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

“I’ll call ya whatever I like, majesty,” he smirked at her, and she tried to punch him, but it didn’t work, as usual. Kenny was too good. He laughed as he ducked, then threw her against the wall. Her back hit the rough bricks and she exhaled sharply through her nose as the pain flared. She slumped down on the ground, breathing heavily

“What do I do?” Historia demanded, looking up at him. He was silhouetted in the moonlight, his face obscured by his ridiculously large hat “I thought you said you were trying to make sure they couldn’t even use me!”

“I tried,” Kenny sniffed, offended. “But I couldn’t get to him. They kept him too well guarded, and I couldn’t get the help I needed.”

“So it’s all in place?” Historia felt cold. She’d always known that it was a long-shot, that the life she’d carved out for herself was precious and fleeting, that the dream of normalcy would soon be swallowed up by her father, but she had hoped. There was nothing that could be done now.

“They’re just getting the first subject ready. I’m tryin’ ta delay ‘em as best I can, but I don’t know all the blood lines. Hard ta predict who they’ll be tryin’ ta use.”

Historia clenched her fists, getting up to her feet. “How long do we have?”

“Dunno. There’s not exactly a time table.”

“You’re useless.”

“Not as much as you are, majesty.”

“Any suggestions to stop them from finding me?”

“Throw the damn book into the river, skip town, and use this,” he tossed her a fine, net-like mask. She caught it and held it in her hands, staring at the shimmering fabric. “Program it with a new face, get papers, and don’t tell anyone where yer goin’, not even the girl.”

Historia held the mask up, staring through it. It was so fine she couldn’t even see the mesh. “How—”

“Look, the tracker’s in the big fancy ruby on the cover. That’s all I know. Do whatever ya want. It’s only the fate of the world.”

“Fuck,” Historia whispered, staring down at the mask. Her mind swirled with possibilities and plans, all of them running over each other in a race to try to become her course of action.  

When she looked up, Kenny was gone.

Mikasa took flowers to the grave again, walking the long path up from the estate. Petra had been there recently, taking away the dead ones and arranging the ones that were currently there. The wreaths were in full bloom, giving a hatefully cheerful look to the grave.

The sun shone brightly, the rays warm against the back of her neck as she stood there, trying to come up with something to say. She wore long sleeves despite the summer heat, hiding the scars that peppered her arms. Some were from her days with Kenny, but others were newer, fresher. Some even Eren wouldn’t have been able to identify, and that made her sick. How could things change, without Eren there? She hated those new scars, even more than the others.

Other things were changing. There was a memorial case in the cave, with Eren’s old uniform placed there. The Batmobile was new—Hange had replaced it entirely, making it more secure, stronger, more armored. Levi had updated his costume. Mikasa had refused to do the same, even though she had grown since the last one. Petra said nothing, but her lips were always thin when she gathered up the costumes were mending. Hange left catalogues of new armor types on Mikasa’s training bench, with suggestions written in the margins. Mikasa didn’t touch them, and they piled up.

 “Go away, Levi,” she said dully as she heard him come up the path behind her. Most people wouldn’t have heard him, but Mikasa was not most people. His expensive shoes made noise against the cobblestone, and Mikasa spared a glance for the graves of his parents, further down the path from Eren’s grave.

“You go away,” Levi said, with all the wit of a five-year-old. He set his flowers down on top of the grave, and he stood beside her, deep in thought.

He looked older than he had when Eren had been alive. There were dark circles under his eyes that never seemed to go away, like there had been in the photos of when he had been in college with Hange and Mike. Mikasa thought she saw grey clipping his temples, and there were lines on his forehead and around his mouth where there hadn’t been before. Grief was aging him, dragging him down.

“Armin’s starting up that bird-group,” he said quietly, finally breaking the silence that had hung over them.

“I heard. He took me to the tower. It looks… good.” Strange and mechanical, full of glowing screens and a strange logo, with too many gears and pulleys for her taste, but it was good. She’d looked at training footage of the three members, and had been surprised by their coordination. She should train with the Black Canary sometime—it had been awhile since she’d had a good fight, a proper spar.

“Might be nice, having more help.”

“Yes.”

“Apparently he asked Shitty Glasses to join.” There was humor in the way that Levi said it, but he was watching her, gauging her reaction.

“That would have been a disaster,” Mikasa said flatly.

“Tell me about it. They can hold their own when they need to, but I wouldn’t want to have to deal with them in the field anyways.”

“They’d just get themselves killed,” Mikasa said tensely, staring at the grave, fists clenched at her sides.

She was wearing a blue hijab today—a gift from Armin, thick and woolen with a border of black flowers. Her coat was black, her gloves blue. She carried blue tulips in her hands for Eren, and she tried not to shake as Levi turned towards her.

“It’s not Hange’s fault, Mikasa,” Levi said softly.

“I know that.”

“Then stop blaming them.”

“I don’t.”

“Hange says you haven’t answered their phone calls, or their text messages. You haven’t gone to mosque, and you never missed mosque with Hange. When Hange goes on the comms, you mute them. Mikasa—”

“They should have stopped him!” Mikasa yelled, tears breaking loose. “I—they should have picked up the phone! He called them, they could have stopped him, he would still be alive if only they—”

“He’d still be alive if Armin had picked up the phone, or if we’d just taken him along, or if he hadn’t sprained his ankle, or if his dad wasn’t an asshole, or if his mom was still alive, or if he’d never been Robin, too,” Levi said flatly, his expression dead. “You can’t blame someone for an “if”, Mikasa, not when it can’t be helped. He’s… he’s gone, Mikasa. Hange misses him too, and you’re hurting yourself and them by cutting them out. We’re family, Mikasa. We… we can’t let this break everything. Eren wouldn’t want that.”

“Eren can’t want anything anymore!” Mikasa threw the flowers at him, tears streaming down her face. “He’s dead, Levi! And we don’t even know who killed him!”

“And if you don’t think Hange and I are still looking, you’re wrong,” Levi caught her shoulders, and she saw, suddenly, that the skin around his eyes was puffy and red, and that his eyes were shining with more tears.

“He’s gone,” Mikasa whimpered, throwing her arms around him, hugging him tight as they stood on Eren’s grave.

“I know,” Levi muttered into her hair, holding her close, warm and real and alive. “I know.”

Missing Details

Petra had not been up to the grave in a week. Someone else had cleared away the flowers. That same person had carefully parted the not-yet healed turf, and dug up the earth beneath it.

That person had ripped open the coffin, and cried, cradling the body in their arms, whispering apologies.

They had then stolen the body, and arranged the flowers behind them after they mended the hole in the ground.

“I am sorry, my son.”

Ymir came home from work, feeling like shit. Her shift had been long and people had been awful. Fucking Shingashina. Marco had tried to keep her late, tempting her with offers of bar hopping, but she’d turned him down, wanting nothing more than to throw herself into the too-soft bed that Historia so loved and sleep for twelve hours straight.

Historia was waiting for her at the door, practically vibrating with nervous energy. Her eyes were too bright and her hair was frizzy, her clothes rumbled and dirty. Ymir paused by the door, coat half-on-half-off as she examined her girlfriend with a detective’s eye.  

“Hey babe, what’s—”

“My name is Historia Reyes,” she blurted out.  

Ymir stared at her, wide-eyed, disbelieving. “What?”

“My name is Historia Reyes. My mother was a socialite who was murdered when I was ten, my father is an immortal terrorist who wants to kidnap me, so I hide and I lie. I lied to you, and I’m sorry, I—”

“You hate the girly drinks you always order when we go out to eat,” Ymir said, staring at her as she spoke. “You steal my cigarettes and drink my whiskey, and you think I don’t notice, but I do. You like obscure bands and you hate the pop music that you have on your iPod. You don’t feel like smiling, but you do it anyway because you think people expect you to. You’re richer than you pretend to be. You like weird old shit and spooky stuff, and you always leave the cobwebs in the corners when you dust because you like them, but you pretend you just don’t see them. You hate the fact that our bed is too soft just as much as I do, but you keep it because you think it’s in character.”

Historia stared at her, blue eyes practically the size of fists.

“I knew you were lying. Knew it pretty early.” Admitting it was easy, simple, and it’s exciting too. It’s been a long time coming.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Historia was angry now, over her shock, and Ymir wanted to laugh.

“Figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.”

“But I—but you—”

Ymir went to the cupboard and pulled out two tumblers and the good whiskey. “I like mysteries,” Ymir said. She grabbed Historia around the waist and pulled her close, kissing her. She smelled of back alleys and cigarette smoke, and it felt so wonderfully real. “You’re a whole buncha questions. I like finding the answers.”

“You’re a conspiracy nut!” Historia yelled, slamming her fist against Ymir’s chest. She laughed, released Historia, and poured the drinks. Historia grabbed one and threw it back, and Ymir laughed and kissed her again.

“You love me anyway,” Ymir murmured against Historia’s ear, feeling her shiver. “So. What prompted the confession? I’ll admit the immortal part threw me a bit.”

“Oh good, I can keep some secrets,” Historia growled, pushing her away before she stole Ymir’s glass and downed it in one gulp. “I’m not immortal. He’s not either, not really. But he—we—can use this pit thing. Bathe in the waters, heals all wounds, reverses aging, that sort of thing.”

“That’s some high-fantasy shit right there,” Ymir said, squinting.

“You’re telling me. The one time I saw it, he put me in a lace dress.”

“No shit. Huh.”

“He found me.”

“Well fuck.”

“He doesn’t know about Christa, but he knows I’m in Shingashina for sure.”

“You leaving then?” Ymir’s stomach sank. She poured herself another glass, just to give herself something to do with her hands.

“No.”

Ymir blinked, trying to hide her relief. “Good.”

“But I’m going to have to throw him off.” Historia had her hands clasped in front of her.

“What’re you thinking?” Ymir sipped her brandy slowly.

“I’m going to become a superhero.”

Ymir blinked at her. “Come again?”

“So I can surprise you,” Historia griped.

“Sorry if this isn’t being as dramatic as you hoped, ‘Toria.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Right, sorry. Not big on nicknames?”

“No!”

“Right, anyways. A superhero?”

“He found me with this… magic stone, I guess? Anyways, it’s the way he knows where I am. I’d get rid of it, but it’s… kind of important? And it leaves a trace. And it’s attached to something pretty important, that my father can’t get. Ever. So I’m going to take the stone, put it in a costume, and use it to fight crime.”

“How the fuck did you make that leap of decision making?”

“He’s going to be sending people to fight me. And with a mask, he won’t be able to know what I look like. This lets me distance myself from Christa Lenz without actually leaving.”

“Can’t you just… y’know, let someone else do that?”

“No. I need to do this.”

Ymir looked at her girlfriend. All five-feet, one-inch of her. But she saw the muscles that bulged along her arms, saw the skill at darts that Historia had always possessed, and she thought about Armin, who had seemed just as fragile, but had been so strong. If he had been able to do it, she thought, Historia would have no problems.

She kissed Historia gently, tasting the brandy. “Alright. Do what you need to do. Have you thought of a name?”

“I’m thinking… Batwoman.”

Mikasa pushed open the door, and a widely beaming woman was waiting for her on the other side. Armin had shown her pictures of Sasha Braus, but the reality of her was so much… more .

Dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail at the nape of her neck, while a wide smile was plastered upon a face that had once been delicately featured and beautiful, but had successfully been beaten into submission by years of hard training. The result was something that was far from pretty, but was still distinctive and striking. Bright brown eyes were barely visible beneath bangs, and callouses and scars marked her hands.

“You must be Mikasa!” Sasha said, grin somehow getting larger as she took her in. “Armin said you might be coming!”

“Nice to meet you,” Mikasa said quietly, trying to look past Sasha for any sign of Hange or Armin.

“Armin’s upstairs,” Sasha said, stepping aside to let Mikasa in. “He’ll be glad to see you. I think he’s missed you.”

Mikasa pushed aside any guilty feelings. She’d seen Armin plenty through Skype. Visiting in person was just too hard. He understood that. He had to.

Upstairs, Armin was talking to a man that had to be Sasha’s boyfriend, Connie. He was wearing normal clothes that day, instead of the eclectic outfit that Mikasa had seen the Black Canary wear in photographs. Mikasa felt her eyes freeze as she watched him move as he talked, as he turned to look at them. There was a fluidity to his motion that Mikasa hadn’t seen in a long time, a purpose and confidence that was inherently familiar to herself. Even Levi didn’t carry himself like that—his training had started too late for it to be second nature for him like it was for Mikasa or Kenny.

Mikasa felt her eyes light up as she watched Connie Springer leap to his feet with a practiced grace. This was an equal, a challenge, a fight in the making. Mikasa was good; she was the best without a doubt; she could beat Levi and Kenny and anyone else that the universe had ever seen fit to throw at her, but, looking at Connie, she felt that she might have found a real challenge for the first time since she had run away from home.

He looked at her, and she saw her own excitement reflected back at her, and knew he had recognized her for what she was, who she was. She wondered if he had ever trained with Kenny, if he could see her old mentor in her own movements. Eren had said—

Grief

It hits her in the chest, drowning her, the way it always does when forgotten. Guilt gnaws at her, demanding to know how dare she forget him, how dare she find joy when he is not there to share it with her. Terrifying, horrible, all-consuming grief that never seems to fade, for it is her entire existence.

How can she heal when he was the world?

The light went out of her eyes as suddenly as it had arrived. She could see that Connie and Sasha were confused, but they were too polite to say anything, stepping around her and the change in her behavior as if she had dropped something, and the floor was now covered in shards of glass. Perhaps she had. Perhaps the pieces were her, fragile and broken and beyond repair.

Armin took her hand, and she shook herself out of her grief, forcing herself to smile at him. He looked… better. His hair was clean, now, and he’d cut it, now barely touching the lobes of his ears in a smooth golden bowl instead of scraping his shoulders in a filthy curtain like before. The dark circles around his eyes have faded, and he was wearing real clothes instead of the pajamas he usually Skyped her while wearing.

Mikasa looked down at herself. She looked presentable, but only because of Petra’s efforts. Mikasa always found herself unceremoniously shoved in showers, clothes set out on the foot of her bed, and, should the situation call for it, find herself locked out of the Batcave until she slept for eight hours. Armin didn’t have any of that. Mikasa was sure if it weren’t for Petra, she and Levi would have both crashed and burned by now. Armin had no one. She felt sick once she realized that; she had left him alone in the cold, forcing him to make himself a support system from scratch—Annie and Hange and these two strangers, who were all looking at her now with curious eyes, doubtlessly wondering why she had been silent for so long.

“You said you had something to show me?” Mikasa said quietly, unwilling to bare her soul to Armin in front of Sasha and Connie. She looked into his eyes, begging him to understand.

His smile was cool, and his eyes—the color of forget-me-nots, Eren had always teased, as they sat sprawled on the couch, talking about whatever—his eyes were duller than Mikasa remembered them. When he had been Spoiler they had been sparkling and beautiful, always alight as he had rambled about whatever new ideas he had for crime-fighting or mystery solving, the words tripping over themselves as he tried to explain it as quickly as possible. Now, there was none of that, and Armin was cool and collected, planned and controlled. The youthful energy was gone, and the brilliance had faded. Or maybe he just wasn’t willing to show it to Mikasa anymore. Maybe she had lost that right.

There was a void between them, Mikasa realized, an impossible gap, and she had no idea how to bridge it, to fix it, to fix them.

She hadn’t quiet realized, before now, just how much her falling apart must have affected others. She had never thought of herself as dependable, or stable, but looking at Armin, she wondered how much of the change was because of losing Eren, and how much was because she had retreated within herself? She had tried to keep up with Armin, but it was clear she had failed, that somewhere there had been a failure to communicate, to explain something.

She wondered if it was too late to fix it.

“There’s a new vigilante in Shingashina,” Armin told her, turning his wheelchair so that he could face his impressive bank of computers.

Mikasa turned towards the monitors, and examined the image that appeared on the screen.

It was a woman with impossibly red hair—it was the color of red that children used to draw fires when they have an eight-color box of crayons, the color of red that movies use for blood. Bright, brilliant scarlet, tumbling past the woman’s shoulders with waves and curls that seemed amazingly impractical for combat situations. A freakishly pale face, with a cowl that covered her nose and eyes, with pointed, stylized ears poking out of the mess of curls that was her hair.

The cape was black and lined with crimson, fluttering out as the woman stood on top of a building. The body armor was black—Mikasa could see gauntlets with spiked protrusions, similar to those that Levi favored. A red utility belt was slung across her waist, with another wrapped around her leg. And in the center of her chest, shining brilliantly in the light of the photograph, was a bright red bat.

Mikasa stared.

“Who is she?” She demanded, half of her furious, half of her amazed.

“She calls herself Batwoman. I don’t know her real name.” Armin sounded irritated by that, as if it was a personal affront that someone could conceal something like that from him. Hange had said that Armin had taken his job as information broker and spy for the vigilantes seriously, but Mikasa hadn’t realized just how much so.

“Is she any good?”

“Not as good as Levi. I’d say she’s at about Sasha’s level when it comes to hand-to-hand,” Armin said.

“Hey!” Sasha protested, but it was mostly for show. Mikasa nodded to show she understood.

“The rest?”

“Under-equipped, no comms, no group training. Avoids other vigilantes, as far as I can tell. Doesn’t seem to have a contact with the police, either. She listens to the scanners though, I can tell that much. I was hoping you’d be willing to establish first contact with her.

Mikasa touched the screen, trying to get a read on her just from that, trying to see behind the mask.

There was nothing.

“Alright,” she said softly, not taking her eyes off the pixilated figure. “I’m in.”

Ymir stared down at the numbers on her desk, trying to make them add up correctly.

Thirty pounds of crack cocaine had been found at the scene of the crime that morning. Ymir would know—she’d been there. She’d counted it.

The official report filed to evidence listed only three pounds.

Someone had taken the drugs.

She flipped through the report, trying to figure out her list of suspects, trying to figure out who could have been responsible.

The List:

Marco Bott

Bertolt Hoover

Reiner Braun

Ymir stared at the three names, skin crawling.

She thought back to last week, when important evidence had gone missing from a case against the last of the Leonharts. She thought about how the Leonhart family was supposedly moving into the drug trade, trying to compensate for the severe losses that they had undertaken since the Huntress had started targeting them—the Huntress being, of course, Annie Leonhart, disowned former scion of the family, not that anyone knew that Ymir was aware of that fact.

The Leonharts were moving into the drug trade, but Huntress would be watching most major suppliers, hoping to cut them off before they could really begin. It would make perfect sense for them to try to obtain the product through other means—such as an evidence locker.

Ymir’s mouth went dry. In order for them to get that product, they would have had to buy one of the members of the Major Crimes Unit—they would have had to buy one of her friends.

She looked at Marco, drinking his coffee at the desk across from hers. She looked at Bert, awkwardly looming over the copy machine as he struggled with it. She looked at Reiner, who was frowning as he typed another report into his computer.

At least one of them was dirty. At least one of them was in the pocket of the Leonharts.

Ymir grabbed her journal—it was a present from Historia, bound in soft brown leather, kept closed by a cord that wrapped around it, the pages artificially uneven in a way that was meant to give it an artistic look—and began to write.

Hange sat in their office, filling out paperwork that was ridiculously complicated, as usual.

The door slid open and one of their employees entered, wearing a grey suit that was wrinkled and stained, carelessly thrown on, as if in an extreme hurry.

Hange looked at him carefully. He seemed very excited, in a sort of cruel way that reminded Hange greatly of a bully who had thought of a whole new trick to pull on a favorite victim. Hange set their face in stone, and watched him approach.

“Mr. Yeltz,” Hange said, gesturing to the chair across from their desk. “Please. Take a seat.”

“Ms. Zoe,” Yeltz said, smiling in a way that rankled nearly as much as the misgendering. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.

“Doctor,” Hange corrected icily. They liked this man even less now. “And what can I do for you? Your meeting request was remarkably vague.”

“Ah yes,” His smile was smarmy, and he reached into his briefcase, and pulled out a large sheaf of paperwork. “Well, you see, Ms. Zoe.” Hange didn’t correct him this time, instead drumming their fingers on the desk as they waited for him to get to the point. “I was doing some… research, into the budget of Survey Corps. And I came across some anomalies.”

Hange didn’t even blink. Of course there were anomalies. Levi sucked a large portion of the R&D budget dry just keeping the Batmobile up to date, let alone armor and the rest of it. Yeltz was far from the first person to bring up the holes, and Hange sincerely doubted that he would be the last. It was what happened next that was important.

“And, well, I filed a report with R&D, enquiring about the nature of the holes—I mean, surely the money must be going somewhere.”

“Of course,” Hange said, slightly impressed. He was smart, smarter than they had expected. If he handled this right, he might end up with a raise and a promotion. Hange doubted he was that smart, however.

“And then—and this is interesting, Ms. Zoe—I found out that the money all seemed to be going to your projects. And I found that none of those projects ever seemed to produce a project that went to market.”

Hange’s eyebrow went up. “I send a great deal of products to the market every year, Mr. Yeltz.” Hange was remarkably productive, even when having to keep Levi’s head above water. That had always been a point of pride. Hange’s productivity was to the point that most people figured that they had absolutely no free time as it was, let alone enough time to secretly be designing superhero equipment and outfitting a space station.

“Yes, well,” That had thrown him off—he was flushing, stuttering. Hange’s esteem of him went down even further. “None of those particular projects, Ms. Zoe.”

Hange raised the other eyebrow this time. “Even I have failures, Mr. Yeltz. I’m flattered you seem to think otherwise, though.”

Yeltz glared at her, managing to regain his equilibrium. “That may be so, Ms. Zoe, but the fact remains that you take a great deal of the R&D budget to do so! Projects that never seem to produce anything valuable to Survey Corps are kept highly funded, and routinely seem to avoid inspection or board oversight! You keep a small team on each of them—the same one on each project, and when I try to talk to any of them, they refuse to give me a straight answer!” Hange couldn’t help but smile at the loyalty of their team. “They claim that I don’t have the authority to have access!”

“You don’t,” Hange said seriously. “Mr. Yeltz, you are far from the only person overseeing the budget, and I can assure you that there is someone who overlooks high-access projects such as the ones you are fussing over. Survey Corps works in cooperation with the military, particularly in meta-human matters, and we are renowned for our tight security and lack of confidentiality leaks.”

“I suppose that is why Batman is one of your clients?” And there it was, the flinty, keen look in his eye, the boastful turn to his smile. He thought he had them cornered, he thought that he held all the cards, and he intended to squeeze Hange. But he hadn’t revealed everything yet, and Hange needed to be sure of what he knew before they could start their play.

“Batman, Mr. Yeltz?” Hange said, not reacting. “What makes you say that?”

He slammed a piece of paper on the table—a blueprint for an early model of Mikasa’s body armor, which must have been taken from one of Hange’s assistant’s desks. Hange frowned. “Where did you get that?”

“Never mind that, Ms. Zoe,” Yeltz sniffed, and Hange’s frown deepened. Usually, those who put together that Hange’s secret projects were for Batman usually had realized that Levi must be Batman—but it seemed that Yeltz had been helped along to the conclusion through the blueprint. That changed Hange’s strategy for containment slightly, but not by much. “You have been conspiring with the Batman, a wanted criminal—” Hange had to roll her eyes slightly at that. Erwin hadn’t put any serious resources towards “finding” Levi for years now, and now visited both the Manor and the Batcave on occasion in order to work on cases. “—and committing fraud to the stockholders and investors of this company.”

Fraud and criminal conspiracy. Not bad, as far as blackmail went. Hange steepled their fingers, keeping their glasses angled just right to obscure their eyes with the flare. “And?”

“I demand an immediate payout of one million U.S. dollars; with an additional quarter million a year from now until the end of my life, in exchange for which I will keep my mouth shut about your role in Batman’s vigilantism.” He smirked, confident that he had them right in his sights. “I believe this is perfectly reasonable, Ms. Zoe.”

“Doctor,” Hange corrected coldly. “So let me get this straight. You walk into my office, and you come in and attempt to blackmail me for petty cash, threaten to expose me, which might endanger Batman and the Justice League’s activities, and you honestly expect to walk out of here alive?” Hange watched with great enjoyment as the man blanched.

“Batman—”

“Isn’t here,” Hange said calmly, smiling with just a few too many teeth. “It’s funny,” Hange said conversationally. “How often people assume that because I work with Batman means that I share his code. I don’t, in case you were wondering, Mr. Yeltz. Especially not for pathetic blackmailing men who are unable to even earn an honest place in my company without the use of extortion and nepotism to gain any sort of remote system.”

“How dare—”

“Do you think I didn’t know exactly who you were and what you intended to do the moment you sent me an email, requesting an appointment? You wish to talk blackmail, Mr. Yeltz? Take your pick. Extortion would be a great place to start. Your illegal overseas accounts. Skimming off the accounts at the various companies you’ve worked for over the years—never here though, did we make it too difficult? I’m just warming up, Mr. Yeltz.”

He was pale and sweaty, and Hange had the great enjoyment of watching him realize just how over his head he was. “You… you have no proof,” he squeaked.

Hange laughed. “Mr. Yeltz, the mutual blackmail is only if I’m feeling generous. Assassins try to kill me weekly. All it takes it putting this,” Hange opened a drawer, and lifted up a gun with a pencil, “In your briefcase, and suddenly, you’re the latest entry in that list. Scream all you like, claim I’m working for Batman all you like, but the fact remains that you just tried to assassinate a CEO of a company with the best lawyers in the business, and everyone knows that the bounty is high enough to tempt a money-grubbing scumbag like you.” Hange folded their hands on the desk and leaned forward. “If I push with my lawyers, I could probably get you thrown in solitary confinement for life, Mr. Yeltz. And that’s just the legal side. One word to the right people and your accounts disappear. You could lose your house, your car, whatever I feel like. Ever been audited by the IRS? I know plenty of people who owe me enough favors to make sure you’re audited for the next three decades. Forget a job after I’m done with you. And after I throw your private emails out to the world, there won’t be a person you know who would be willing to look you in the eye, let alone help you out.” Hange leaned forward. “I’m a professional, Mr. Yeltz. I deal with master villains and professional assassins. I have Superman on speed-dial and I have thrown criminals off skyscrapers. You’re a petty, pathetic man who threatens the people I care about.” Hange stood up, and had the satisfaction of watching him flinch. “You have thirty seconds to leave my office. Thirty minutes to clean out your desk. If I hear of you breathing a word of this to anyone, remember this conversation, and remember that I’m watching.”

He did the smart thing, and fled. Hange flagged him for monitoring by Armin, and ripped up his résumé with a great deal of personal satisfaction.

Historia was very good at being Batwoman.

Using the symbol of the Bat—and the fear associated with it—had given her a good start. People knew that the symbol wasn’t claimed lightly, and it brought with it the fear of organization, the hint of alliances that Historia didn’t particularly care to foster. It would also throw her father off track, hopefully.

She used the mask that Kenny had given her in addition to a cowl, changing the shape of her nose and mouth in order to further obscure her identity. She wore a red wig over her own hair, which she wore in a careful hairnet to prevent her DNA from being found at crime scenes.

Her outfit and weapons were made out of things she’d stolen from one of Kenny’s stashes throughout the city that she knew about—he’d taken her there once, right after he’d kidnapped her, and she still remembered where it was, even after all these years had passed.

She climbed onto the rooftop, panting heavily after finishing up her latest fight, nursing her bruised ribs as she went. She probably should turn in, get back to the apartment before Ymir.

In the Shadows

She watches, hidden from view—the newest vigilante is so fresh that she doesn’t fear the darkness, doesn’t realize what it hides, doesn’t realize that it belongs to the Bat, despite the fact that she has wrapped herself in a mantle that she does not understand.

Mikasa watches, and learns.

The first step was to return to the cache of weaponry. Historia had repurposed it to function as a base of operations, carefully removing any way for Kenny to get in without notifying her. It’s underground, beneath a major business building, so from there she crawls through service tunnels, into the basement of the building. Changing her mesh mask to have a different face, she exits the building, striding openly out into the streets.

She then dodged into an alley and changes her face again, removing her wig and putting on a jacket from the messenger bag that she had swung over her shoulder. She then placed the messenger bag inside the coat, concealing it from sight, and exchanged the high heels she had been wearing for pink ballet flats.

As Christa Lenz, she continued down the alley, heading towards her home.

She liked being Batwoman. The thought of her father chasing ghosts and rumors was amusing; the hope that she was delaying his plans made her feel warm inside.

She entered her apartment, kicking off her shoes as she locked the door behind her. She began to remove her coat before she froze, realizing that something was wrong.

Someone was in the apartment.

Reacting without thought, Historia had her knives out in an instant, throwing them at the intruder—it had to be an intruder, Ymir was pulling a double-shift that night—and throwing herself at them.

It was like fighting smoke—the other was too fast, faster than anyone that Historia had ever seen, dodging everything that Historia threw at them. They darted around her, making quick jabs that were easily avoidable, never staying still long enough for Historia to get a good look at them in the darkness. Historia lunged for them, falling flat on the ground as she went. Her knives were now imbedded in the wall, useless, and Historia was flailing like a drowning toddler.

She realized as she slapped the ground with her hands to break her fall that the intruder was toying with her.

Historia hated being played with.

She launched herself into a handspring, trying to get enough height in order to kick them, but the intruder was nowhere to be seen. Historia landed in a crouch, searching the room desperately for any indication of where they were.

The apartment was in near complete darkness—the curtains were tightly drawn, only a touch of faint grey in a thin square outline indicating where the windows were. Historia knew the layout of her apartment, even in the dark, and she mentally tried to calculate the most likely hiding spot.

“You’re good,” a voice whispered right behind her. Historia swung around, trying to hit them.

Batgirl held her fist in one hand, and Historia got the feeling that the girl was laughing at her underneath her full-face mask.

“I’m better.” Historia was flat on her back, Batgirl’s foot placed firmly on her chest.

Historia glowered up at the girl. “What do you want? How did you find me?”

“I followed you.”

“I was in disguise!”

“Body language. You don’t disguise that.”

Damn.

“That doesn’t answer my first question though.”

“I was curious. Oracle says you’re good. Wanted to see for myself.”

“And?”

“Kenny trained you.”

Historia froze. “You know Kenny?”

“Yes. He trained me too.” Batgirl released her, and helped her to her feet. “Is he here?”

“No. He left ages ago.”

“How do you know him?”

“None of your business.”

Batgirl tilted her head to one side, as if considering what Historia was saying. Historia would never give out that truth—she could construct a convincing lie, if given time, but she’d prefer not to. Lies, as Ymir had shown her, could unravel slowly over time. Something unsaid was very difficult to parse, however. Especially when the evidence was gone, thanks to Ymir and Kenny’s efforts.

“Alright.” She held out a card, made of white card paper. A strange silver bird was embossed on it—clearly a logo of some sort, but she couldn’t identify it. Beneath it was a number. “Oracle wants to speak with you. Call the number.”

“Who’s Oracle?”

“Your chance at getting better.”

“And what if I don’t want to get better?”

Batgirl laughed, and leaned in close.

“You should try to get better at lying.”

Armin liked Christa Lenz, even though he knew that wasn’t her real name.

He knew it wasn’t her real name, but he couldn’t figure out what her real name was.

“Sucks to be you then,” Christa said, smirking at him as she sat on his counter, kicking her legs. She wasn’t wearing her Batwoman costume, but she was wearing the mask that allowed her to change her face with ease. Right now it wasn’t on, but Armin could see the fine netting that indicated she was wearing it.

“You really are paranoid, aren’t you?”

“I’m not hiding from you, o mighty Oracle, don’t flatter yourself.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?” Armin said, although he didn’t really expect her to, and wasn’t sure if he wanted her to. That would take the fun out of it.

“I guess I just don’t trust you,” Christa said simply, leaning back to rest her head against the wall.

“You do,” Armin said idly, flipping through Ymir’s Facebook to irritate her.

“Only in a fight.”

Armin hid a smile. Christa’s trust was very layered and complicated, and everything seemed to tie back to secrets with her. He knew that she had something to do with Kenny Ackerman, but given that Mikasa’s dubious relative had ties to just about every unsavory organization (and legitimate government, for that matter) that ever existed and quite a few that supposedly didn’t, that narrowed nothing down.

She was an interesting mystery, and Armin was quite determined to puzzle out everything about her. He didn’t like being in the dark.

“I thought you had something for me, not just trying to figure out my secrets again,” Christa said dryly.

“I do,” Armin tapped a button on his keyboard. “I have an assignment for you.”

Christa’s dull eyes lit up, and she leaned forward. She had a heavy enthusiasm for the cape-and-cowl business, a fondness for violence that Armin had never seen before in a hero. Mikasa and Connie were good at it, sure, but Christa seemed to have an enjoyment of it that made Armin worry. Not that he would ever say anything, of course.

Armin was almost as good as Christa when it came to keeping secrets.

Ymir hated digging into the pasts of her friends.

She wasn’t finding much—Reiner and Bert had been childhood friends of Annie Leonhart, but Bert had a sick mother in the hospital with expensive bills and Reiner drank too much. Marco had disappeared for six months when he was twelve, and there were photographs of him with the former head of the Leonhart Family from when he was six—further digging revealed that his godmother had been a Leonhart before marriage had changed her last name.

She wanted to take this to Erwin, but she didn’t have proof. She just had an itch in her stomach telling her that something was wrong—the same itch that told her when Historia was lying or when a suspect was about to give her something important, the itch that told her when a hunch was worth pursuing.

She buried her face in her hands. She didn’t want this to be true. She didn’t want her friends to be traitors and liars.

She put on her coat and went to visit Armin.

Ymir didn’t have anything to do with the Cybercrimes unit of the Shingashina PD, but she knew enough people in that department who were pliable with donuts and coffee, and so she’d kept an ear out.

The Oracle was some sort of Good Samaritan hacker—CC drove themselves up the wall trying to crack his identity on a daily basis. But it hadn’t taken too much for Ymir to confirm her hunch. The Oracle was noted for being a coordinator for the newest superhero team, the Birds of Prey, whose membership included Annie Leonhart. Who just so happened to have been spending an inordinate amount of time with Armin Arlelt recently.

Ymir was very good at taking the numbers that no one else even realized were in an equation and coming up with the right answer.

She rang the doorbell.

“Ymir?” Armin’s voice came over the intercom, sounding surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“He venido a consultar el oráculo, chico.”

There was a long pause. “You better come in.” There was a buzzing noise as the door unlocked, and swung open.

Ymir rolled her eyes as she entered the foyer—Armin had clearly had far too much fun when he was designing the place. Exposed gears and pulleys, glass floors and metal girders were everywhere.

“Do I want to know how you know?” Armin demanded when she arrived at his floor.  

“I know everything,” Ymir drawled.

“Did Christa tell you?”

Ymir laughed. “She didn’t have to.”

Armin frowned. “Why did you come, Ymir?”

“I have a project and I need your help. Someone’s dirty in the MCU, Armin.”

Armin sat upright, clearly alarmed. “What? But Erwin—”

“Can’t foresee everything. We’ve had evidence go missing. Files have slipped through the cracks. Mistakes were made in taking statements that threw entire cases down the fucking toilet. I just. I need you to follow the money. So I can take this to Erwin.”

“Who are the suspects?” Armin was direct, as always. Ymir appreciated that.

She told him.

Armin turned to his computer and started to work his magic. Ymir leaned back, watching him work.

Annie crouched on the rooftop, eying the two people beside her.

Sasha was brash and loud and cheerful, but her aim was steady and her kindness was genuine. Connie was charming and softer spoken, but he fought like a man twice his size, and he did it in heels and fishnets.

Connie’s concept of fashion, Annie had learned, fell somewhere in the range of “whatever he thought looked good”, and gender had nothing to do with it. He wore his wedding ring on a necklace around his neck, while Sasha only had a tattoo around her ring-finger, hidden by the gloves that she normally wore. Their marriage had come as a surprise to Annie; it had happened since she had met them, and the two had given no indication of the change in their relationship. She had learned from the tabloids, and had thought it was a joke until she had bought one to laugh about it and Sasha had corrected her with the flash of green ink.

Examining Sasha out of the corner of her eye, she tried to figure out what kind of a father the first Green Arrow must have been like, in order to result in a child like Sasha.

Sasha’s Father

“You’re my what-now?”

A backpack held in hands that are too-small, a guitar case by her feet that hold a bow that men three times her size can’t string, ten years old and looking up and up and up into his eyes.

“I’m your daughter.”

“Well shit.”

He looks at her, and she looks at him, and she realizes that he’s just as clueless about what to do now as she is.

Annie shoved aside thoughts of her own father, and felt her fingers brush against the crystal cross she still wore as a part of her costume.

“So what do you think of the new Bat-chick?” Sasha asked conversationally, carefully sorting through her arrows. Thin bands of color could be found near the fletching, identifying what kind of device was held by each one.

“She doesn’t work well with others,” Annie said, relaxing slightly as Connie pulled out a pair of night-vision goggles in order to keep a better eye on their target.

“Neither did you when we first started out,” Sasha pointed out reasonably.

“I was willing to learn, though.”

Sasha grinned, the edges of her domino mask crinkling as she did so. “True enough.”

“She’s a good fighter,” Connie offered. “She was definitely trained by Kenny Ackerman—it’s in the way she punches.”

“You can just tell that?” Annie asked, skeptically.

“Hey, I’m no Batgirl, but I am pretty good at this sort of thing,” Connie said. He frowned as he lowered his goggles. “There’s no movement in there at all.”

“That’s odd,” Annie said, moving to pull her own night vision goggles out of her utility belt. “Oracle said that they should be moving out soon—”

“Maybe something happened? I’ll call O.” Sasha lowered her hood, tilting her head to one side. “Hey, did you guys hear—?”

That was last thing Sasha said before the sniper shot rang out, and she collapsed onto the rooftop, a bullet imbedded between her eyes.

Chapter Text

“Arrow!” Annie lunged, even though she knew it would be too late. Sasha’s chest wasn’t moving, and her eyes were glazed and unseeing. Annie wanted to scream; this was her family all over again, the blood getting everywhere as she cradled Sasha in her arms.

She was so heavy; pounds of muscle and Kevlar and dead weight, and Annie felt herself crying, sobs forcing their way out of her mouth as she held the body. “Sasha!”

Annie heard the terrible screeching noise that was Connie’s sonic scream, and she turned her head to see him vaulting over the nearby rooftop, giving chase to the sniper instead of staying with Sasha. She stared after him, disbelieving that he would just… just leave. How could he? Sasha was dead. Carefully, Annie lowered Sasha to the ground, letting her head rest on the concrete. She struggled to her feet, fingers trembling as she activated her communicator. Her hands were covered in Sasha’s blood, and she fought herself as she realized that, focusing instead on the situation on hand. “Oracle—”

There was a gasp, and Annie looked down without thinking, only to see Sasha trying to sit up, struggling to breathe, her chest rising and falling at an alarming rate. There was still blood on her forehead, but the space where the bullet had passed through was rapidly shrinking, the skin and bone knitting together. There was still blood everywhere, but as Sasha raised her head off the roof, Annie saw that the back of her head was whole again. 

“Huntress? What is it, what’s wrong?” Armin’s voice was high with worry, and she didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do.

“I’ll call you back,” she muttered before falling to her knees to assist Sasha.

“You were dead!” She said, helping Sasha into a sitting position.

“Probably for like, five secs tops,” Sasha muttered. Annie was bizarrely reminded of what Sasha was like first thing in the mornings, before Connie made coffee.

“I thought you were dead,” Annie said fiercely, ignoring the trails of tears still damp on her cheeks. She hoped neither of them noticed, and, if they noticed, wouldn’t say anything. 

“Wait,” Connie had returned, clearly having failed to apprehend the shooter. “You didn’t know?”

“Know what?” Annie demanded.

“I have a healing factor,” Sasha muttered, clinging onto Annie’s cloak as if her life depended on it. “I’m fine. Nothing’s killed me so far.”

“You have—” Annie choked off whatever she was going to say. Sasha didn’t deserve that. Not after all that, not after everything was still so fresh and raw. “I think our cover’s blown. We should go back to the Tower.”

“Please,” Sasha muttered, eyes fluttering closed. “Headshots always,” she paused to yawn, showing off all of her teeth, “Take a lot out of me.”

“You’ve been shot in the head before?” Annie demanded, incredulous.

“Couple of times,” Connie said, crouching down next to her. “We have a whole bunch of sharpshooter and archery based enemies. It happens.”

“Can you stop talking about it like it—like it’s nothing?” The blood was all over Annie’s outfit, staining the purple and white parts of it. The black was safe, she could still look at the black. But that didn’t change that she had seen human brain on the pavement—that it was still there. That didn’t change that the back of Sasha’s head had been blown open.

It didn’t change the blood spatter over Annie’s face.

A Memory:

“Pass the salt, Mama,” Annie says, fidgeting in her fancy dinner clothes.

Her mother’s mouth is a thin, forbidding line. “Say please,” she says firmly.

Annie gives the long suffering sigh of a child. “Please pass the salt, Mama.”

“We are raising a barbarian,” her mother says to her father, glaring at him. He laughs, and places a warm hand on Annie’s shoulder.  Annie grins at him; her father is her favorite person in the world, and nothing can be wrong when he’s happy with her.

“She’s a strong girl, amore mio. She will be fine,” he smiles at her, wide and kind and gentle. Annie loves his smile. She wishes hers was like his; hers is like her mother’s instead, and she doesn’t know what to think about that, given how rarely she sees her mother smile. 

The first shot goes off with a deafening crack, splattering Annie in her mother’s blood. Annie screams. “Mommy!”

Her father is on his feet in a second, not even crying out for his wife, who is dead, her face fallen into her fancy dinner. “Under the table!” He yells to Annie, reaching into his jacket for a gun that Annie hasn’t known before that day that he even owned, let alone carried. 

Annie doesn’t even have time to move before the second shot fires and her father joins her mother.

“But I’m fine,” Sasha insisted. “Really. Give me a few hours rest and a granola bar and I’ll be fit as a fiddle.” She yawned again.

Annie wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. But she didn’t do any of those things, because she had to get Sasha to safety. The sniper could return, and Connie and Annie herself didn’t have any such healing factor to keep them safe. 

“I’ll carry her. You get the bikes back,” she told Connie, trying to keep herself under control.

“I could carry her—” Connie offered, but he trailed off as Annie glared at him. “Or you can. That’s totally fine!”

He hurried off, and Annie carefully lifted Sasha into a bridal carry, letting Sasha’s head rest against her shoulder as she began the long and careful trek back to Armin and the safety of the Clocktower.

Words Spoken in the Shadows

“Sir, we have confirmation. The Braus girl is a dead-end. We have confirmed that her mutation is active, rendering her bloodline useless.”

“And the mother?”

“As far as we can tell, after dropping off her daughter, she died in a DUI accident.”

“Unfortunate. Any word on the Huntress?”

“She’s pure. She will be an excellent agent when the time comes.”

“Wonderful.” Rod Reiss’s voice is silky with satisfaction. “Any word on my daughter?”

“She calls herself Batwoman. We haven’t managed to figure out her civilian identity yet, and it’s too risky to approach her in the vigilante persona.”

“No matter. I’ll deal with her soon enough. Continue searching for the bloodlines. The day is coming.”

“May it be so.”

Armin knew something was wrong the minute Annie appeared, covered in blood and carrying Sasha.

“What happened?” He said, rolling up towards her.

“She got shot,” Annie snarled. There was drying blood flecked all across her pale face. She hadn’t even tried to wipe it away.

“Is everything okay?” Armin asked, folding his hands on his lap.

“She’s fine,” Annie deposited Sasha on the nearby couch. Sasha was already fast asleep, snoring faintly with her mouth open. She looked none worse for wear, despite her ordeal. There wasn’t even any visible markings indicating where she’d been shot.

Armin sighed with relief. “That’s good. Any word on the shooter?”

“Connie lost them,” Annie seemed paralyzed by something, hovering over Sasha liked a concerned mother instead of being brusque and to business. “I was hoping you could pull something off the security cameras.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Armin agreed. He moved over to his computers, beginning to search through the feeds. He set up his algorithms and the screens all flickered to life, flashing throughout Shingashina as he poured through them all, seeking the would-be killer.

Annie was quiet for a long time.

“You should go clean up,” Armin told her, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She had sat down next to Sasha, still staring at her, mouth a thin, forbidding line. “This will take a while.”

“Did you know that Sasha had a healing factor?” Annie demanded, not looking at him.

So that’s what this is about.

“Yes.” He saw no point of denying it; Annie probably wouldn’t have believed him anyway.

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“No.”

Annie was trembling, her hands balled into fists. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were wet. “Was this some sort of test? See how the murderer reacts to seeing her teammate die?”

He winced delicately. “Not… exactly.”

“Then what?”

“I had… concerns about your willingness to work in a team.”

“So you put Sasha on a team with me, to… what? Make sure that if I went off the reservation and attacked my own teammates I couldn’t kill them?”

“No.” Well, that had been one consideration. But only one of many. “And Sasha would be willing to put herself between you and any target.”

Annie stared at him. Mentally, he braced himself. This would undo a lot of progress, he knew that. But the progress had been undone the minute Sasha had been shot. And hopefully, by revealing it like this, the wounds would scab over faster.

“Fuck you,” Annie said, clearly only just restraining herself from punching him. “After all these years—” She cut herself off. “Oh, what am I saying? You don’t fucking trust anyone. I’m gone.”

“Annie?”

“Call me when you find whoever shot Sasha. I’m done listening to you. I’m off your team. I’m not going to take orders from someone who doesn’t trust me.”

“You’re going to work alone again?”

“Who says I’m going to be alone? There’s plenty of other heroes in this city. I don’t need you, Oracle.” She slammed the door after her, and Armin frowned after her.

“She’ll be back, won’t she?” Connie had heard the tail end of the conversation.

“I think so,” Armin said. He should have realized that something like this would happen; Annie had precious few friends, and she was fiercely protective of those she had. And she was sensitive about trust. He’d make it up to her. And he was confident that she’d want to work with Sasha and Connie again, even if it meant working with Armin’s voice in her ear.

He’d fix things. He had to.

Mikasa was asleep on the couch.

Levi looked at her from the doorway, and frowned. Her hair was peeking out of her hijab, and the dark circles under her eyes were incredibly noticeable. The book she’d been reading had fallen to the floor, and Levi bent to pick it up. Invasion of the Body Snatchers. He set it down on the coffee table, and reached over her for the blanket.

It was early still, but Levi doubted she would wake up. She’d miss patrol. She’d be mad at him.

But she needed rest.

Levi tucked the blanket around her, making sure she would be warm. He thought, vaguely, that he should probably carry her up to bed, but he didn’t want to risk waking her up. Maybe he would when he got back from patrol, if she was still asleep by then.

He looked down at her, feeling very strange. “G’night, brat,” he muttered, turning away.

Hange was waiting for him in the kitchen, drinking their tea with a serene expression. “Is she coming?” Hange was dressed for dirty work, wearing denim overalls over a black turtleneck, the sleeves rolled up past the elbows. Their hair was pulled into a sloppy bun on top of their head, loose hairs falling down to frame their face. The whole arrangement was held precariously in place by a pencil that looked on the verge of escaping their thick brown tresses. Levi pushed it further in as he passed them, heading for his seat. 

“She’s asleep,” he said. Hange nodded in understanding, fiddling thoughtfully with the strap of their overalls.

“Should we wait for her then? We can do this tomorrow.” They glanced down at the diagrams of armor. Both Levi and Mikasa were due for an upgrade, and Hange had a lot of ideas.

“Yes. But, uh.” Levi paused, unsure of what he was going to say. “I need your help.”

Hange set down their cup, eyes gleaming. “Why Levi. I never!”

Levi scowled at her. “Shut up, shitty glasses.”

Hange grinned. “Never. What do you need, short stuff?”

Levi shifted slightly in his seat. “I, uh. I was thinking that. I should. Adopt Mikasa? Maybe?”

Hange stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “Levi,” their eyes were wet, and they pulled him into a tight hug. “You found your parental instincts! I never thought I’d see the day!”

Levi spluttered, trying to shove them away from him. “Fuck you! I have not!”

“You want to adopt! Oh, I’m so proud of you!”

“Let go of me, shitty glasses!”

“Petra!” Hange released him, but, to his horror, Hange had merely turned to another source of torment. “Petra! Levi’s found his parental instincts!”

“It’s about time, Doctor Zoe,” Petra said dryly, raising an eyebrow at Levi. “And it only took him the better part of a decade.”

“I don’t have to take this,” he informed them both. “I am a grown man.”

“A grown man, huh?” Hange raised an eyebrow. “Sure, cancer-breath.”

“I haven’t smoked in three years,” he grumbled, crossing his arms petulantly. “You all ganged up on me.”

“It was a worthy goal, and one I am still proud of,” Hange smirked. “Now, of course, the problem of adopting Mikasa comes in when you consider that she doesn’t, legally speaking, exist. I’ll call Armin, get him on that. Of course, you probably should ask her before making any actual plans. I doubt she’ll say no of course, but I think it’d be polite. And you do need to work on your manners.”

Hange grinned at him, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “I’m proud of you, Levi,” they said, and their voice was serious for a moment.

Levi stared at them. “Thanks Hange.” He squeezed back. Then he pulled back. “Your hands are fucking filthy, did you come up here straight from your lab?”

Hange threw their head back and laughed. “Never change, Levi,” they said. “Never change.”

Historia came back to the apartment, and Ymir was waiting for her, sitting in a chair across from the door.

“You’re late,” Ymir said simply, and Historia could feel the weight of all of Ymir’s missed calls and worried text messages in her pocket, where her cell-phone sat untouched.

“I was mugged,” she said truthfully, and Ymir groaned, pressing her hand over her face.

“Of course you were. How badly did you beat the guy?” There was no are you okay? Ymir knew better by now, knew that it would be only a waste of words.

“Not too bad.”

“Liar.” Ymir was getting too good at this. “Come on, let me see your hands.”

Historia extended them towards her, palms facing towards the ground. “I don’t think it’s too bad,” she offered worthlessly. It hadn’t hurt her, hitting him, sending him to the pavement. And she’d mostly used her feet, anyway. The high heels she had taken to wearing to work were very satisfying to press into stomachs and arms. She’d have to thank Connie for them. After she’d cleaned them, of course.

“You’ve got blood under your fingernails,” Ymir said, running her fingers along Historia’s knuckles. There was something dark in Ymir’s face, and Historia didn’t like it, didn’t understand what she was seeing in her girlfriend’s face. “C’mon.” Ymir led Historia into the bathroom, where she picked up the nail brush. She gestured Historia to sit on the counter, and then set to work on Historia’s hands.

“I can handle this, you know,” Historia felt the need to remind her, even as Ymir bent over her hands to begin.

“I know.” Ymir kept scrubbing, the soap foaming now. She wouldn’t look at Historia’s face, only her hands. Historia stared at her, trying to work out what Ymir was thinking.

“Will I get called in tomorrow to hear about how a tiny blond woman assaulted someone?” Ymir asked softly.

“Probably not.” Assault charges. She hadn’t thought of those. Armin would probably just make them disappear, anyways. Was that why Ymir wouldn’t look at her? “It was self-defense, anyways,” she defended herself. Armin would protect her, Armin would understand. Why couldn’t Ymir?

“I know.” Ymir still didn’t look up, focusing intently on Historia’s hand. “Did you pull your stitches?”

The hand Ymir wasn’t cleaning went to her chest, checking. She inhaled sharply as she pressed her fingers against her ribs, where the injury was. “No.” The knife gash from two days ago had been as long as Ymir’s hand, and worryingly wide. Not as shallow as Historia would have liked, either. Ymir had stitched it up with a sterilized needle and fishing line, lips thin and skin pale as Historia had sipped whiskey to numb the pain, sprawled on the kitchen table. Ymir’s hands were remarkably steady, and afterwards she had helped Historia finish the bottle, sprawled out on their bed, Historia’s blood staining the silk sheets.

“You didn’t even check, did you?” Ymir’s voice was worryingly low now, even as she pulled Historia’s hand under the water to rinse it. “You just beat someone unconscious and then just… walked home. You didn’t even call me.”

“I… I…” Historia floundered, unsure of what to say, uncertain of what Ymir wanted to hear. She didn’t know how to remove that expression from Ymir’s face, and that was unsettling.

“Did you even think to use your taser?” Ymir’s head snapped up, finally meeting Historia’s eyes. Historia wished she hadn’t. In the darkness of the living room, she hadn’t seen that Ymir’s eyes were red, the skin around them irritated and puffy. “Or did you just lash out instinctively?” She’d been crying. Historia recoiled, trying to press down the wave of guilt that was building up inside of her.

“He mugged me!” Historia defended herself.

“Did he? Or did you deliberately take the cut through Crime Alley again?” Ymir wasn’t holding Historia’s hand any longer, taking a step away. Her face was blank, an expression that suddenly irritated Historia, even though she hid behind a similar one on a day-to-day basis.

“No!”  Lie.

Ymir’s eyes flashed dangerously, and Historia knew she had been caught again. “Fucking tell the truth, Historia! You throw yourself into these situations—”

“I do that every day, and you never complain!”

“As Batwoman, with body armor, and backup, and weapons!” Ymir punched the bathroom door, and Historia stared. Ymir was never like this. “I thought you were helping people, Historia!”

“I am helping people!”

“No, you’re not. That’s not why you go out there. You like it, don’t you? You like the fighting. You like coming home to me covered in blood and bruises; high on fucking pain killers and adrenaline. Don’t you?”

Historia flinched as Ymir’s questions hit home. As usual, Ymir cut through all the bullshit, straight to the heart of the matter. Historia had thought she had hid that well enough; that Ymir would just… believe it, like Armin, like Annie, like Connie and Sasha.

“Do you even care about coming home intact? Would you even care if you got killed out there?”

Historia paused at that.

She hadn’t really thought about it before; dying, that is. A part of her liked the idea. Dying, getting buried in some normal grave under a fake name, hidden forever from her father, a destiny left unfulfilled until it was too late—until the planets shifted out of position, leaving her father high and dry. Maybe she should get cremated—make sure she was beyond repair by her father and his twisted gifts that lurked within her DNA.

She didn’t want to die. She certainly didn’t want to kill herself. She just… wasn’t opposed to the idea of dying. Screwing over her father in that way might just be worth hurting Ymir like that. And it wasn’t like anyone but Ymir would be affected; no one else would mourn her.

“Of course I care,” she said, the lie like ash on her tongue, curdling and painful and hot.

But it was Christa who said that, not Historia, and Ymir could tell the difference. Ymir had always been able to tell, and maybe that was why Historia loved her.

Ymir left Historia in the bathroom with the nail brush, and when Historia emerged from the bathroom she saw that the couch had been made up into a bed for her, the cotton sheets tucked in and the quilt that Ymir’s grandmother had sewn for her neatly placed at the foot of the bed.

She slept there without complaint, after she cleaned her shoes of the blood.

A Dream:

“You were born of ancient blood,” her father tells her, tilting her face towards him. “As was foretold when the pact was made, you are a union of lines that never should have crossed. You carry power in your veins.”

“Your birth,” her mother continues, as if reciting poetry, “Means the beginning of the end of days. You are the herald of the glorious times that are to come.”

Her mother looks alive, for once, invigorated by her father’s presence. There is color in her cheeks and light in her eyes, and she smiles at Historia as if she can finally see her. Historia is giddy with attention, and she listens intently to what they say.

“Read, Historia,” Her father commands, his voice brusque but clear. “Read of the Book of Sin, and learn your destiny.”

Historia takes a tentative step towards the book. The words they have spoken swim through her mind, vivid and colorful and loud. They are important words.

She places her hands on the brightly jeweled cover, and opens the book.

Her own face stares out at her.

Annie crossed her arms, glaring at the married couple in her living room.

“Go away.”

“Ah, c’mon Annie! Just one patrol!” Sasha grinned unrepentantly.

“We miss you! It’s not the same without our comically serious third!” Connie added. He was dressed for combat, and Annie wanted to groan as she saw that his stiletto heels were on her coffee table.

“I can’t deal with Armin and his secrets right now,” Annie snapped.

“No Armin then. Just us! We can pick up Batgirl and Batwoman on the way, make it a party!”

“Nothing’s a party with Batwoman.”

“Okay,” Sasha conceded. “True. Just Batgirl then!”

“Batgirl hates me.”

“You two should really work on that.”

“It’s the whole killing thing,” Annie shrugged, pretending to be blasé about it, but there was the familiar clawing feeling of shame in the pit of her stomach.

“You two should probably address that problem at some point,” Connie said, frowning. “I mean, you and Armin managed to make your peace, right?”

“Because he was manipulating me.”

“Armin manipulates everyone, you can’t take it personally,” Sasha advised.

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Okay… point. But he really does mean well. And it’s not just his fault.” Sasha winced, rubbing the back of her neck. “I mean, I didn’t tell you either. I guess I’m just… not used to it? Armin just knew. Connie was there when I found out I had it. And I haven’t told my dad so…”

“Only they know?” Annie asked, surprised.

“Just you three,” Sasha confirmed with a nod. “It’s not something I like to spread around. Well, I guess some of my villains know. Since they’ve put arrows through my neck and seen me bounce back up.”

Annie felt nauseated. “They did what?”

“Okay, Merlin’s a real bastard. It happened once. Don’t worry about it, I got better.” Sasha waved her hand, as if trying to wave away Annie’s concerns. Annie couldn’t help but notice that it didn’t make her feel better.

Annie sat down. “I don’t blame you for not telling me,” she said quietly. She stared at her hands instead of looking at Sasha.

“Okay… do you mind me asking? Then what is it that has you so freaked out? You’ve barely looked at me since that night.”

Annie glanced up at her.

Sasha looked hurt. Annie felt a stab of guilt. Sasha was right, as usual. Annie was taking this out on her and Armin, when really it was no one’s fault but Annie’s own. It wasn’t Sasha’s fault that she had taken her father’s place in Annie’s nightmares, it wasn’t Armin’s fault that she had, once again, been covered in the blood of someone she had cared about, and had re-learned what a headshot was like up close.

“How much do you know about me?” Annie asked quietly, finally meeting Sasha’s eyes. They were dark, dark brown, and they were focused on Annie with an intensity that was almost frightening.

“Uh, you were a mafia killer, right? You hunted the mob,” Connie was the one to speak.

“Yeah. But I was a mafia kid first. My father was the head of the Leonhardt Crime Family. He angered another family, so they had him and my mother killed.” Annie’s throat closed up, threatening to choke her, but she forced herself to keep talking. “The hit was carried out during dinner. They died right in front of me. It was a sniper. Headshots.” Annie lowered her head again, examining the pattern that the carpet made. “They didn’t kill me, for some reason. I still don’t know why. So I just. Sat there. Frozen. Covered in their blood. I didn’t move until the police came. I couldn’t.”

“Annie,” Sasha whispered.

“That’s why. I just… it was like that night again. I don’t—I can’t—”

“I get it,” Sasha said. “Fuck. I didn’t… I didn’t know. I guess I forget how fucked up it is. Seeing that. I’m just so used to it now…”

“We both are,” Connie said quietly. “I don’t even react anymore, because… because she always comes back.” He reached over and squeezed Sasha’s hand.

“Most people don’t,” Annie said tiredly. “They die, and I remember.”

“Well, I guess Connie will just have to be extra-careful,” Sasha said with forced levity. “And I’ll do my best not to get blood on your lovely costume. And now, instead of going on patrol, you and I are going to go get rip-roaring drunk while my charming husband makes sure we don’t go off and make bad decisions.”

“How come I always have to babysit?” Connie complained, but there was a smile on his face that reassured Annie that he didn’t really mean it.

“Because you went off with Aquaman without me last month,” Sasha smirked. “And now, to the bar!”

Annie was pulled to her feet, and she couldn’t help but smile at her friends as they propelled her towards the door.

It was good to have friends.

Ymir tried to be relieved that the traitor wasn’t Marco, but she wasn’t doing a very good job at it.

Both of them. Ymir didn’t know what to do. She held the proof in her hands, but she didn’t know what to do with it.

Bertl and Reiner both were dirty. Two dirty cops in the MCU.

She should take this to Internal Affairs. But she knew what this meant.

In her hands, she held the key to Erwin Smith’s career.

This could destroy him in a minute. IA was always demanding more inspections of his officers, seeking proof and verification, demanding more control. Erwin had held them at bay for years with calm assurances of integrity and his trust in his people. And now Ymir had proof that his faith in them was misplaced. IA would seize upon this with an unholy glee and use it to bury Erwin Smith.

Ymir had been a beat cop. She had wandered the city, busting small time dealers and breaking up domestic disturbances before Erwin had found her. He had mentored her. He had taught her to trust her gut, to follow her instincts and to keep asking the hard questions. He had pulled her off the streets and partnered her with Marco, giving her a job in Major Crimes, a job that cops with twice her experience were denied positions in.

He had supported her when she came out of the closet; when he learned that Ymir had spent holidays alone with a bottle, he had invited her to Christmas with him and Armin. He never judged her when she came into work with dark circles under her eyes and her breath stinking of gin. He had congratulated her when she had moved in with Historia.

Ymir had repaid him every chance she got; she looked after his son and kept her knowledge of superheroes on the down low. She kept her hands clean for him, stayed sober on the job for him, no matter how terrible things got, she did it for him.

She owed him everything.

She couldn’t destroy him like this.

She walked past the door to Internal Affairs, and instead went into Erwin’s office.

Mikasa walked into the mosque besides Hange, and breathed easier once she was inside.

Hange smiled at her, squeezing her hand, encouraging.

“I missed this,” Hange’s Japanese is impeccable, and Mikasa smiled.

“So did I,” Mikasa admitted, following Hange to their usual spot.

Mikasa had been to mosque since Eren’s death. She had gone multiple times; losing him hadn’t meant losing her faith.

But she hadn’t gone with Hange, and she hadn’t realized how much of a difference the doctor’s comforting presence had made.

Afterwards, they went to get coffee.

“How is school going?”

“Good,” Mikasa said, taking a sip of her coffee. It was good and strong, and she was grateful. When she was at the Manor, she usually drank tea. But coffee was something she had always drank with Hange, and it was nice to be able to have this little routine again.

“Senior year is coming up quickly,” Hange was too perceptive, their eyes sparkling slightly behind their glasses. “Have you thought about college?”

“Not… not really.”

Plans:

“And we’ll live together, all three of us!” Eren’s arm is warm against Mikasa’s skin. “And I’ll take lit classes and Armin will probably be a freaking triple major, and—”

“They don’t usually let girls dorm with boys,” Mikasa points out, but she can’t help but smile. Eren’s enthusiasm is contagious as always.

“We’ll figure it out! Armin can hack the system!”

Armin, his nose buried in his book for class, glances up, frowning. “Eren, I think that would be very noticeable. Besides, Shingashina University doesn’t offer triples to freshmen.”

“We’ll figure it out!” He grins, and Mikasa laughs, giddy in the future.

Mikasa quickly set down her cup before she spilled hot coffee on her hands. She was trembling.

Hange reached out and placed their hands over Mikasa’s own.

“Did I ever tell you about how I met Levi?”

“No,” Mikasa said quietly. The thought of Levi not knowing Hange was bizarre. They were two halves of something that seemed to be eternal and steady, like the rising of the sun.

“It was three days into the first semester,” Hange began to say, smiling widely as they saw that they had successfully distracted Mikasa from her grief.

Mikasa took another drink of her coffee, and settled down to listen to the story that Hange was prepared to spin for her.

Ymir couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew,” Erwin folded his hands on his desk. “I told them to do this.”

Ymir recoiled. “You what?”

“It was important, Ymir.”

And he sounded so reasonable when he said it; he sounded so sure of herself, and she wanted to believe him.

But her gut was itching, the way it did whenever Historia came home covered in blood.

“Why?” She demanded. “You’re putting everything we’ve worked for in danger! If Internal gets a wind of this, they’ll ruin all three of you!”

“Things are… complicated, Ymir.” His eyes were icy blue, and Ymir bristled.

“I took these to you instead of IA, Commissioner,” she snapped. “I think I deserve the truth here. What the hell is so important that you’re risking three careers, and possibly the entire department over? What’s so important, and why can’t you have Levi Ackerman investigate it?”

She’d never acknowledged Batman’s identity out loud before, and she saw from the widening of his eyes and the hitch in his breath that he hadn’t realized she’d known.

The moment of surprise passed quickly, and his expression hardened. His eyebrows furrowed, and he glared at her.

“Because there are some things that the Batman can’t handle, Ymir. We have a cult infiltrating Shingashina, and I haven’t yet figured out why.”

“A cult?” Fear flooded Ymir as she thought back to Historia, talking about her father and his followers.

“Some sort of religion of crime. They’re fanatics, and very dangerous. And they’re very interested in Shingashina for some reason.”

They’re looking for Historia. Fear knotted in her stomach, but her mouth remained a hard line. “And so why have Bertl and Reiner work for the Leonhardt Crime Family?”

“The cult has been working with them, and they’re always looking for new police contacts.”

“What, and you don’t have enough blackmail to flip some of the ones they already have, instead of compromising the entire MCU?”

His eyes hardened, and Ymir wanted to laugh at him. He’d thought that she hadn’t known. He’d thought that her respect had been blind, and she wanted to laugh at him.

She’d known he wasn’t as clean and polished as he pretended, but she’d still believed in him. She thought he cared for his men, and was fighting the good fight.

But no. He was making these risks, and risking her friends, because he needed control. This was a political ploy. He wanted to bring down this ring on his own, without Batman, because when he did, that would be leverage over IA, the mayor, over his critics. He didn’t care of the damage this might do to Bertl and Reiner—it was fine, as long as it worked.

Ymir sat down, had. “I see.” Her voice was quiet.

Erwin examined her with his ice colored eyes. “I think it would be best if you go on leave for a few days,” he said firmly. “Don’t you?”

Ymir got to her feet, and didn’t look back as she slammed the door behind her.

Historia slipped into the Cave, sweat soaked and exhausted. She peeled off her cowl, then removed the wig, letting them both fall to the floor.

“You know, you hid very well.”

Preparations Made:

He sat in the dark, waiting. Her guard is down, she is safe, she is home free. He takes that from her; a punishment for running from him.

She froze, then spun to face him.

Rod stood behind her, a gun held in his hand, aimed at her head. His smile was cold and cruel.

“The facial mask—that was a nice touch. A good red herring. Took me a while to see through it. I didn’t think you’d be so arrogant as to actually live openly. But you really are my girl, aren’t you?”

Historia stared at him. He was young, like she thought he’d be. His hair was brown instead of streaked with white and grey like when she had been ten, and there were fewer wrinkles on his face; the liver spots were absent, too. His hands were steady and clear as they aimed the gun at her.

“Did you ever read the Book?” He asked her, when she had nothing to say to his comment. “Did you ever try to understand, Historia? All those answers, there for the taking. But you never looked once, did you?”

“You could trace the Book,” she hissed, glaring at him.

He chuckled. “True, but I thought you would have found a way around that if you really wanted to know.” He sat down, still pointing the gun at her. “Do you know why it had to be you, Historia? Why, of all my children, you have the destiny?”

She clenched her fists and didn’t answer him.

“It’s because of your mother. All the others had my blood, the immortal blood. But the line was wrong. She was the first, you see. She came from the first. And that made you perfect.”

Historia wanted to laugh, because if she was perfect, why had she run? Why had she spent the first years of her life in a derelict manor with an absent mother and not even the faintest clue as to the identity of her father? If she was perfect why was she fighting against everything they stood for? She swallowed the hysterical bubble of laughter that threatened to break free, and tried to figure out what to do next.

He shot her then, the tranquilizer dart lodging itself firmly in her neck. As she slumped to the floor, she saw his feet approaching her, before the world went fuzzy, and then black.

The small room was made of mirrors, and Historia was forced to stand in the middle of it. This time there was no lace gown, no hands on her shoulders. This time she was bound with ropes, still wearing her Batwoman costume. Her mask had been removed, her cape torn away, baring her throat and collarbones. Her arms were spread apart, anchored to the walls tight enough that it pulled at her shoulders and hurt. Her legs were fastened to the floor, effectively preventing her from kicking. She regretted wasting her kicks on the guards who fastened her here—she should have saved them for Rod.

She was forced to look at herself no matter where she looked, and she hated what she saw. There was not the strength of Batwoman, nor the kindness of Christa staring back at her. Instead it was just Historia—unprotected, unhidden, Historia. Infinite Historias, staring back at her, beaten and defiant and angry and frozen in place, trapped in a spider’s hemp web. Just what her father needed. The rubies in her insignia seemed to be brighter than normal, reflected as it was by the Historias in the floor, ceiling and walls.

Her father entered the room alone, the knife resting easily in one hand and a jeweled goblet in the other. Historia tensed up, even though she knew it was pointless. He wore the same outfit he had worn to the reading of the Book—the same heavy robe, decorated with the strange symbols that meant nothing, and yet meant everything. He looked even younger than he had—he must have stopped to use the Lazarus Pit, to be at his pinnacle for this. He barely looked old enough to be a father at all, let alone her father. He tucked the knife into his sash, freeing his hand.

“You shouldn’t have run, Historia,” he murmured, holding her chin like he had when she had been a child. She tried to jerk away, but his grip was firm and she could not move. “I would have made you immortal—a queen amongst the Titans.”

“Go to hell,” she snapped.

He shook his head, as if she was a petulant child who was insisting on throwing a tantrum. He then pushed her head back, so that she was staring at the ceiling. He forced her mouth open, and placed the goblet against her lips. “I really do regret this. But things have delayed too long as it is. I have no time to persuade you, my child.” He poured the liquid down her throat, and Historia seized up, thrashing and screaming as liquid fire was poured down her throat—Lazarus Pit, she thought dimly, amongst the sound of her own screams. She spluttered and choked, unable to breathe as the water raced down her throat, going into her lungs, drowning her. Her veins felt as if they were filled with lava—every inch of her was burning up, and she seized, her muscles contracting painfully as she thrashed in the grip of the ropes. 

Finally it receded, and she leaned forward, head bent, gasping for air. “Go fuck yourself,” she seethed, her voice hoarse even as she inhaled the precious oxygen. “You’re not my father.”

“Your blood disagrees,” he said calmly, and Historia could see herself reflected back in his eyes as well as in the mirrors. She looked scared, and she hated that, even though she knew what was going to happen next, and that she ought to be scared, given what was about to happen. He raised the knife—the goblet had been thrown to the side while she screamed. Historia spat at him, the glob of saliva hitting his cheek. A last defiant act.

He didn’t even pause. The blade created a silver arc as it slashed through the air, reaching its apex at her throat. Her blood went flying, splattering all over the mirrors, all over Historia and Rod, staining them both.

The air shimmered, and then a horrible, awful sound filled the air, vibrating and shaking. Rod seemed to glow, and then Historia was too—the blood on the floor was glowing a bright and brilliant gold wherever it had hit the mirrors, and then it flashed, so bright that Historia was blinded for a moment. She cried out and slammed her eyes shut.

What She Saw:

Ugly and sexless, bare and gigantic. Mashing teeth and eternal hunger—a desire for flesh that will never be sated but it is not yet a need, never a need.

Cities screaming, monsters looming over the horizon, the world running to escape the starving maw, the teeth that cut through bone like it is nothing.

They are coming.

Then there was silence. Her blood continued to pour out of her throat, strangling any noise she might make. She tried to calculate how long it would take her to bleed out, but the numbers wouldn’t come, her mind stumbling and slow. Already she felt weak, her knees giving way. She tried to scream again as she fell, the ropes binding her arms forcing her to stay at least somewhat upright, threatening to dislocate her shoulders if she couldn’t take weight away from them.

Her father still stood before her, infinitely reflected just like her. He knelt down, and kissed her forehead. “Farewell, my daughter,” He whispered softly. She tried to curse him, but all that came out was a whimper. He left, his footsteps lost in the sound of her soft cries.

Historia didn’t know how long she was there for. Her mind couldn’t keep grasp of time. Her lungs weren’t filling properly, and her vision was tunneling.

She closed her eyes and waited.

“Fuck!” Hands were pressed to her throat.

“Is she dead?”

She didn’t know either of these voices. She struggled, trying to open her eyes.

“Yes, but not for much longer! Give me the jar!”

“Seriously?”

“Why do you think we lugged that thing around for the past three weeks, jackass? Just give it to me!”

Historia managed to peel open her eyelids, and stared.

She was looking into the most brilliant pair of eyes she’d ever seen.

Bright and wide and green with flecks of gold and blue, framed with long, fine lashes and dark circles. The boy they belonged to look young, barely eighteen. His hair was shaggy and dark, unkempt and tangled. It was unevenly cut, and his bangs were long, almost falling into his eyes. His skin was dark, and his face was covered in freckles.

Historia knew his face.

Eren Jaeger held a jar of strange glowing liquid, and he looked at her with a serious expression.

“This is going to hurt a lot.”

And then he poured it onto her throat.

Historia screamed.

Flesh was not meant to knit together in seconds; blood was not meant to replenish itself so rapidly. But the Lazarus Pit does not care for things like that. Months and years of healing happening in seconds, fire flowing through her body.

Historia screamed and begged for death, but her screams turned to laughter as she realized that this was her birth right. Her father bathed in this.

Behind Eren she saw a white boy with a bad haircut. He wore armor that was made of golden scales, and a trident was clutched tightly in his hands.

She recognized him too; this was Aquaman. Batgirl liked him, she remembered vaguely. Huntress didn’t.

She screamed again as another wave of pain hit her. Her back arched, as the life giving waters coursed through her system, renewing every cell in her body. Her shoulders popped back into place, and she screeched, her voice echoing.

Finally she collapsed against the floor—they had cut her out of the ropes at one point.

“You alright?”

“You’re dead,” Historia gasped out. She’d read about it. Eren Jaeger, adopted son of Levi Ackerman, killed in an accident in Turkey years ago.

“I just fixed your throat with magic water, strain your credulity,” snapped the boy.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Your dad monologues like a freaking supervillain cliché,” Jaeger helped her to her feet. “Now, c’mon. We need to get back to Shingashina.”

Historia laughed, hysterically. “Why bother? The Titans are coming, the world is doomed.”

“What, and you’re just going to take that?” Aquaman asked, looking incredulous.

“Shut up, Jean.” Jaeger returned his attention back to her.” The world is going to end, and we’re not taking it lying down. And besides, we’ve got two secret weapons.”

“And what’s that?”

“You and me,” he grinned at her.

“Why Shingashina?”

“They’re focusing things there for some reason. Usually there’s only one bloodline activated in a city, but they’ve got four in our city.”

“Four?”

“Yeah, I only know of one for sure—an old friend of mine. Ymir Diosa.”

Historia froze. “Ymir?”

“Yeah.”

She thought about her vision, and she thought about Ymir. “Let’s go.”

Eren Jaeger died in fire and light, and was reborn in darkness and damp.

He did not wake up with a start; it was soft and gentle, like waking up from a deep slumber. It was almost pleasant.

Something soft and squishy was pressed against his skin, cocooning him. Red light filtered into his vision.

Whatever was unfolding him was breathable but immobile. He was completely incased. He couldn’t see anything through it.

“Did you get it right this time?” Eren strained, unable to hear.                                                                                         

“I believe so,” this voice, Eren knew. It was his father. He opened his mouth to scream, but found that his jaw was rendered immobile by the substance that enveloped him. “You see, we have vital signs.”

“And the transformation is complete?”

“Yes.”

“When will the specimen emerge?”

“In half an hour.”

“Excellent. Be prepared.” There were footsteps.

Eren struggled, trying to push his way out, trying to escape. He couldn’t remember how he had ended up here; the last thing he remembered was—

The End of Eren Jaeger

He lays on his back, staring at the ceiling, his father gone, dragged away by the man with white hair. His death will be punishment for his father’s weakness.

He hears the hiss of gas, and can taste it. He doesn’t know how long he has, but he doubts it is long.

His ribs are broken from the man’s kick, but his phone is intact. His hands tremble as he dials, praying that, by some miracle she will be able to answer.

He forces himself onto all fours, and starts to crawl to the door. He owes it to Armin and Mikasa to at least try to live, to not give up, even though he doubts the door will be unlocked.

Click . “This is Mikasa. Uh, leave a message?”

His hands fumble as he tries the doorknob, which refuses to budge. He drops the phone, and his movement jostles his ribs.

“I’m sorry,” Eren whispers, and then he sees the spark, and everything is fire.

He screamed.

There was a tearing sound, and Eren stumbled out of his container, screaming the whole time.

His father caught him.

Eren twisted, turning to stare at what he had been reborn within.

It was a strange pod that—Eren’s stomach churned. It looked as if it were made of muscle.

“Eren, Eren,” his father was repeating over and over again, a mantra, as Grisha rocked Eren back and forth. Eren forced himself to push his father away, landing awkwardly on the cold hard floor.

“What did you do?”

“I brought you back. I am sorry, my son. But at least you’re alive.”

“You’re sorry?” Eren didn’t like the sound of that.

“Yes. I’m sorry, I don’t have time to explain, Lord Reiss will be expecting us soon—” He reached down and grabbed Eren by the arm.

“The white haired man?”

“He is blond now,” Grisha said darkly. Eren was wobbly on his feet, leaning against his father for support; his mind was foggy, as if he’d been asleep for far too long, and he doubted he could so much as hold a phone.

“Where’s Mikasa?” He stumbled. His legs weren’t working the way they were supposed to. He looked down and frowned. They seemed longer somehow.

“Later,” Grisha steered him into a strange room.

One entire wall was made of crystals. They were rough and crude, their points spiking out at every angle, but they were clear as glass, and rainbows shimmered everywhere throughout the room, caused by the bright light that was shining through the other side.

“Ah, here he is at last.”

Lord Reiss was younger than he’d been the last time Eren had seen him. Now he looked like he could fit in at any of Hange’s meetings; wearing a crisp suit that stank of money, his hair neatly combed and parted.

“Your son was the subject who survived, Grisha?” Icy hands reached out and squeezed Eren’s face. “What a… coincidence.”

Grisha said nothing.

“Bring him.”

There were other people in the room, Eren realized, as Grisha helped Eren limp forward. Tall, strange looking people wearing white cloaks; a sharp contrast to their leader in his modern suit.

In the center of the room there was a chair, and Eren was lowered onto it.

The chair was old and made of stone, worn smooth by years of wear and tear. It was made of the same material as the ground beneath it; polished white marble. Patterns of swirls covered it, and Eren stared at them as he tried to make sense of his thoughts, as he tried to readjust himself to what was happening.

Something was wrong. But his mind still wasn’t clear.

Rod Reiss stood in front of him, facing the crystal wall.

“Come forward, Grisha Jaeger.” His voice was strong, as if used to being obeyed. Eren struggled to move his head so that he could see his father slowly moving forward.

Grisha’s eyes met Eren’s. His lips moved silently.

It wouldn’t be until later that Eren realized his father had been saying, “I’m sorry.”

Reiss smiled at Grisha. “Thank you for your service. The Titans will honor your memory.”

Eren screamed as the knife was buried in his father’s chest.

The blood poured onto the floor, which was covered in the same carved channels as the chair. Although the floor was flat, the blood began to move through the channels towards the crystals, as if being pulled.

The crystals began to glow.

Eren fell backwards against the chair as an image appeared.

It looked… human wasn’t the right word. It was huge, with blank looking eyes and a mouth that was twisted into a deformed smile with far too many teeth.

It opened its mouth, and screamed.

It was wordless and loud enough to shatter glass, loud and piercing and eternal. It was a promise of death; of coming armies and endless slaughter.

Around him, the hooded figures flinched and cried out; they had never heard the voice of a Titan—how Eren knew that was the creature’s name he couldn’t say—before.

But Rod Reiss laughed.

“The time has come to pass, my friend!” He stretched his arms out wide, and Eren realized, with a jolt, that the language he was speaking was not English, nor any other language that Eren spoke, but something much, much older.

But he was understanding it anyways.

“It has been many ages since the old agreement was reached, but the day has come! I offer you the first of the shifters,” he waved his arm widely to encompass Eren, and Eren’s blood ran cold. “And then the blood of the Goddess will be spilled, to call you back to our world!”

The Titan opened its mouth again and Eren inhaled sharply as it screeched again.

But this time there were words beneath it, and Eren knew them.

We see a human boy. Show us the Titan form.

“With pleasure, old friend!” Reiss laughed, and then he turned to face Eren.

With a terrifying speed, Reiss grabbed Eren’s hand, and then he raised the knife that had killed Grisha Jaeger.

Eren screamed as the blade went through the palm of his hand. Pain flared, and Eren felt his rage bubble to the surface, clearing out all traces of the fog that had filled his mind. He leaped to his feet—he was going to kill Reiss, he was going to avenge his father—

The Transformation

Exansion, too fast, too much, too big, the ceiling is too low, he hunches on his hands and knees, screaming in the language of the Titans.

Everything is hunger and pain and rage.

Knowledge floods his mind; places and facts and plans, and all the while Reiss continues to talk, and Eren realizes he still can think, underneath all the hurt and anger.

He looks down at the corpse of his father and realizes that his father has given him one final gift.

Freedom.

He can stop this.

“Where are we going?”

“Jean’s arranged transportation,” Eren Jaeger’s grip on her arm was firm as he steered her through the maze of hallways that was this transport. “We’ve got to get back to Shingashina. Hange Zoe might be able to reverse-engineer a cure from me.”

“Hange Zoe? The CEO of Survey Corps? Aren’t they an engineer?”

“Hange’s an omnidisciplinary scientist. If it exists, they can do it.”

“That’s not how things work!” Historia felt a bubble of hysteria building in her stomach. “And what do you mean, reverse engineer?”

“I’m supposed to be the proto-Titan. When the ship gets close enough to orbit, they’re going to send some sort of signal, and then I get activated. Then all the other Titans get activated.”

Historia jerked her hand away from him. “You’re one of them?”

“Not anymore, and not for a while still, hopefully. I think we’ve got thirty-six hours until first contact, so we need to hurry.”

“How do you know these things?”

“There was an info-dump into my head when your dad forced me to turn.”

“Could he do it again?” Historia demanded, skin crawling as she looked at the boy and tried to see a Titan.

“Maybe. But it wouldn’t do him much good. My dad put in a twist. He can’t command me like he can command the others. I’m a rogue Titan.” His grin was wide and reckless, and he continued to lead her and Aquaman through the maze.

“How did you get mixed up in this?”

“Saved his ass,” the king of the oceans said, motioning to Eren with his thumb. “He made it to the ocean, and fell in. I happened to be in the area, and he filled me in.”

“Transportation and CPR are the only things he’s good for!” Eren called.

“Shut up, Jaeger!” He turned back to Historia, making a face. “I still don’t get why your dad’s doing all this shit, but I’ve long since figured out that surfacers are fucking weird.”

“He made a deal. He gives the Titans the world in exchange for immortality and protection. Each bloodline turned over to the Titans is safe as long as one family member is converted,” Eren called over his shoulder.

“The Lazarus Pit?” Historia asked.

“Titan technology of some sort. I don’t know. The Titans are good with death. Very good. It’s how I got brought back.”

Historia took a deep breath. “And how do we stop them?”

“We’ll figure that out as we go.”

 “Welcome back, Ymir!” Marco grinned at her.

“Good to be back,” Ymir said, and it was the truth. Anything was better than sitting at home, stewing in her own anxiety and praying that Armin would tell her that, yes, they found Historia, and she was fine, stop worrying.

After their latest fight, Ymir had woken up to find Historia gone.

And then she had never come home.

Maybe it was a fight, but Ymir’s gut told her otherwise.

But she couldn’t get the police involved, Historia had always ensured that Ymir knew that.

It had been a long few days.

“How was your time off?”

“It was good,” Ymir lied automatically.

“You and Christa have fun?”

“Yes.” Ymir sat down at her desk, trying to ignore the ridiculous hangover that she had.

She’d drunk the majority of her liquor cabinet over the course of her unofficial suspension.

In hindsight, that had probably been a terrible idea, but her mentor and friend had just betrayed everything she’d fought for and her girlfriend had gone missing after Ymir had yelled about her for overzealous fighting again.

If Ymir’s last words to Historia were “You’re a selfish, cold-hearted adrenaline-junky!” She wasn’t sure she could ever forgive herself.

Ymir didn’t like who she was becoming.

Maybe Erwin was right. Maybe she needed space.

But she couldn’t see a way out of the world as it was right now.

The ring she had bought for Historia sat heavily in her pocket. She’d bought it before the fight, before the confrontation with Erwin. It was small; she was on a police officer’s salary, after all. But she thought Historia would like it. It was simple, not gaudy, silver instead of gold.

Ymir hadn’t prayed since she’d graduated from the police academy and came out of the closet, but she was seriously considering it right now.

Because the idea of never getting to see Historia wearing that ring was something that Ymir couldn’t stand.

Maybe, when all this was over, she would take Historia and leave Shingashina for a while. Stop drinking. Enroll in Alcoholics Anonymous, even though she had her severe doubts about the program. She and Historia could get married in a haunted house or something. Or a spooky woods somewhere. That seemed like something Historia would like. Maybe things would get better.

Or maybe Historia would just laugh at her and throw the ring away.

Or maybe Historia was dead already.

Ymir didn’t know.

All she did know was that there was to be a long shift in front of her.

Marco touched her shoulder, grinning. “You know I’m always here for you, right?”

Ymir leaned into him, despite herself. “Yeah. I know.”

A Fact:

Marco will be dead before noon that day.

Levi sat in the car, fiddling with his tie.

“You’ll just mess it up again,” Mikasa said, looking out the window.

“It was crooked.”

“No it wasn’t.”

“Brat,” Levi said fondly, because he wasn’t about to be lured into another yes-no argument. They had those often enough, they weren’t special anymore.

Tonight was supposed to be special. He refused to let something as ordinary as one of their typical petty arguments spoil that.

Petra looked at him in the rearview mirror, amused. She probably knew exactly what he was doing. He checked his phone; nothing from Hange, which was surprising. He shrugged, guessing they were caught up in whatever project they were working on now, and turned his attention back to Mikasa.

She was seventeen now. The thought was confusing. Once they had figured out who she was, Armin had dug up her real birth certificate, and altered all existing records to reflect it. Mikasa Ackerman was a real person, one who could easily have a life outside of Levi’s disaster of one.

She didn’t need him at all, and the adoption certificate was hot in his pocket. It wasn’t real. It was just an offer. He wouldn’t adopt her unless it was what she wanted. He’d thought this out. He’d written speeches, until Hange and Mike had heckled him into ripping them up. He couldn’t have this pre-packaged. It needed to be natural.

He wanted her to be his daughter legally. He knew better than to ever expect her to call him that, but she still deserved it. She deserved far better than him, honestly. He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t want it.

But Hange was insistent that he at last ask her.

“Why are you nervous?” Mikasa had turned to face him.

“I’m not.”

Mikasa frowned. She was wearing her favorite hijab; the one that Eren had bought her, all those years ago. It was slightly worn around the edges now, and faded in places, but Levi knew she would never stop thinking about it as her best hijab, no matter how many expensive ones he bought her.

There was one in the box beneath his seat; bright green chiffon with black beads lining the edge. The Ackerman family colors.

He sighed. “I have something for you.”

She frowned at him. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion.” He pulled out the box.

She pulled at the ribbon slowly, and pushed aside the tissue paper. She paused, looking down at it.

“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly, holding it up. He knew better than to expect her to try it on. Not while she was wearing Eren’s hijab.

“I’m glad.” He reached into his pocket and fingered the paper. “But I wanted to talk to you about something. Something important. I understand if you don’t want to; if you’re not comfortable with it, but I was wondering—”

They passed by the police station at that moment.

Screams filled the air. There was an explosion. Brick and mortar and cement flew, smashing into the street as one—no, two, no three—giants exploded out of the police station.

Levi stared.

The smallest was only seven meters tall, but the tallest one was so tall that Levi couldn’t even guess. The middle one was about double the height of the smaller one.

They were naked and vaguely humanoid, standing in the remains of the police station with slightly bemused expressions.

The three of them turned their faces towards the sky and howled in unison.

Mikasa dropped the box with the hijab on it. “Petra, black out the windows!”

Levi scrambled to grab his costume, his mind racing.

He didn’t know what was happening, but he was Batman.

He had a responsibility.

Ymir heard a high pitched noise, and clasped her hands over her ears.

“What’s wrong?” Marco asked her.

“Don’t you hear that?” She shouted over the noise.

It was high pitched and horrible, like nails on a blackboard and babies screaming and bad opera singers all at once, blasted louder than anything could possibly be. It drowned out everything else, and Ymir couldn’t hear at all, wincing in pain as she tried to press her hands even harder against her ears.

“What? Hear what? Ymir?” She could read his lips, but she couldn’t hear him.

Suddenly, the noise changed into a brown note of pure pain.

She screamed so loudly that she could hear it even over the noise, dropping the paperwork that she was carrying.

Her muscles convulsed and she fell to the ground, spasming. Across the room, Bertl and Reiner also collapsed.

Chaos reigned in the station.

“They’re seizing!”

“Give them room!”

“All three at once?”

“Ymir!”

Marco was there, his face filling her vision. She screamed again, and she felt foam in her mouth. Maybe this was a seizure, she thought as she felt every single muscle contract at once. Maybe she was dying. Ymir’s tongue brushed against her teeth, and she thought that they felt different. They felt pointed.

Maybe she was hallucinating as well as seizing. That could be fun.

She convulsed again, her back arching as she screamed, and her mind went blank.

The Mind of a Titan

Feed. Hunt. Kill. Consume. Destroy. Eat.

Her arm lashed out, backhanding Marco across the room with inhuman strength. He slammed into a nearby desk, destroying it, his neck snapping. His eyes stared out, blank and confused, his final moments trapped in his expression.

“Step away from them!” Erwin’s voice rang out, commanding and sure, despite the terror that was spreading rapidly through the station. Bertl screamed, even louder than Ymir.

Ymir closed her eyes.

And then there was nothing but teeth and blood and death.

“Annie!” Sasha flipped backwards, drawing her bow. “Annie, listen to me!”

The creature that still looked painfully like her friend screamed, lunging towards Connie.

“Please!” But despite her pleading, her hands were steady as she lined up her next shot.

She was the fucking Green Arrow. She never missed a shot.

Three sharp tipped arrows buried themselves into Annie’s gigantic eye. Annie opened her mouth—Sasha felt her stomach churn as she saw how many sets of teeth Annie had now—and screamed, loud and terrible.

Connie responded with a sonic cry that ripped up the ground around him, but barely seemed to phase Annie, who lumbered towards him.

It was like nothing Sasha had experienced before. Grappling hook arrows helped her flutter around Annie, jabbing her with every arrow she could think of in between long shots. None of them seemed to have any effect. Connie darted around her feet, trying to trip her up, screaming frequently.

At least they were keeping her occupied. Sasha tried not to remember the three people Annie had eaten already.

They weren’t prepared for this. They’d been at home with Annie, getting ready to go out on patrol. Connie was wearing a pair of sneakers that had been by the door instead of his typical heels, and Sasha didn’t have her gloves. Neither of them were wearing their comms, so they were cut off from Armin.

They were on their own for this.

A fire had started three blocks down, filling the air with choking smoke. Sasha pulled her cowl up over her nose to serve as a filter, but her eyes were still watering.

She selected an explosive arrow, and fired it. The tip sunk into the exposed muscle around her shoulder, and fired, causing Annie to let out another cry of pain, but continue forward.

“Annie, it’s us!” Connie was trying to reason with her now, trying to talk her down. But it was like she couldn’t hear them. Maybe she couldn’t.

Or maybe she couldn’t care.

Annie kept marching forward.

It had been three hours since the giants had appeared, and Mikasa was falling.

The rooftop had collapsed beneath her feet, damaged by a casual swing of the Titan’s ridiculously strong arms. The brick had crumbled as she had ran forward, and before she had time to get to safety, she had been plunging towards the asphalt and cars below.

Her grappling hook only barely caught the edge, and her arms screamed as she swung to safety. She gritted her teeth and started climbing back up the wall.

The three Titans had separated almost immediately. The middle sized one had ran away, ridiculously fast despite its size, while the tallest had lumbered off. The short one had started ripping apart the nearby buildings, fluid and graceful in its motions.

Mikasa and Levi had been chasing the medium Titan, since Armin had said it was doing the most damage.

It had eaten twelve people.

She pulled herself up to the roof, wincing as she felt the rough edges of the brick scrape against her stomach. She glanced around, searching for any sign of Levi.

Her stomach dropped.

She couldn’t see him.

Mikasa ran across the rooftops. “Levi!” She screamed, her voice hoarse. Dust filled the air, smoke burned her eyes.

The Titan loomed at her, grinning that horrifying smile as it reached out for her. Mikasa leapt deftly to the side, still calling out for Levi.

Her city was burning. On every side, she could see the flames. Smoke and ash filled the air, along with dust from all the buildings that were being destroyed. The streets below her were abandoned; everyone had run.

The world was ending. Armin had told her there were Titans in Trost, meaning that Mike couldn’t come to help. There were sightings everywhere, draining any and all potential Justice League support that they might need.

Several heroes had been reported missing in action, including Huntress, Batwoman, and Aquaman. Mikasa gritted her teeth, and charged at the Titan.

It caught her with a casual backhand, snapping the line of her grappling hook. Mikasa fell again, screaming.

The air rushed around her, and she scrambled for her grappling gun, but it wasn’t working, she was going to die, she was going to see Eren again…

Something hard collided with her, and she looked up, and nearly sobbed in relief when she realized it was Levi.

They landed on the street, skidding and sliding. Mikasa felt the fabric of her costume tear, and hissed as she felt her knee scrape.

“Where were you?” She demanded, scrambling to her feet.

“Hange hasn’t checked in,” Levi said, and Mikasa froze.

“Not at all?” Her voice was tiny. She hated herself for her weakness, especially now, with the Titan looming over them.

“No. I checked their apartment. They’re not there.”

Mikasa swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to keep her panic down. “We… we can’t worry about that now.” She turned back towards the Titan. “We need to destroy these things.”

For Hange. For Annie. For Christa. For Jean.

She’d kill every last Titan.

Armin watched the city burn from his computers and tried to do everything at once. Evacuation was on him; Erwin couldn’t coordinate, police frequencies were all fucked up after three Titans had attacked the police station at once.

He had to run interference with the media, try to make sure that no one was going to dangerous areas.

He had to keep an eye on his family.

He couldn’t find Annie anywhere on the cameras, and he was terrified. Sasha and Connie were fighting the Titan that the media had dubbed the Female Titan, while Levi and Mikasa tried to stop the Colossal Titan. Erwin was leading a police force to take down the Dancing Titan. Another squad was trying to take down the Armored Titan, with little luck.

As he watched on screen, the Female Titan backhanded Sasha off a building. Armin couldn’t help but cry out as he saw the angle that Green Arrow landed.

There was a painful pause before Sasha got to her feet. Armin could only hope that she hadn’t died. He knew that disoriented her, and she would need every advantage that she had.

They all would.

He couldn’t find Historia either, and there hadn’t been any word from Hange.

There were rumors about a fifth Titan, but Armin had been unable to confirm them.

Armin had never felt so useless. His friends were missing, maybe dead, and all he could do was stare at his screens and try to evacuate.

He was the Oracle. How had he not seen this coming? What had he missed? Had there been clues, hints that he had ignored, so smug and secure in his own knowledge?

Armin listened to the constant pleas for help that were pouring in from all sides. There were Titans in every major city. Already militaries were talking about nuclear strikes and fire bombs.

Armin closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

He would not fail. Not again.

He set out to work, his fingers flying over the keyboard.

Connie wanted to scream, and not in the normal way.

Everything was terrible. When he’d been thrown onto the rooftop, he’d seen a second giant, this one much taller than Annie.

His fingers scrambled at his phone. He had a bit of a respite, and he needed to talk to Armin.

Annie was a Titan. The city was falling to pieces. He needed to know if there was a plan.

He needed to know what was going to happen.

“Connie!” Armin sounded relieved to hear from him. “You haven’t been answering your comms, none of you have!”

“We were in a bit of a rush, sorry! We left them behind.”

“Connie! Why would you do that?”

“Annie turned into a Titan, Armin! The Titans are people!”

Annie screamed again as Sasha managed to blow off her arm.

“Yes!” Connie cheered, grinning despite himself. It was okay, he told himself. They’d make it up to Annie later, but if they could bring this thing down, they could fix this.

The Titan stared at its arm on the ground.

There was a hissing and sizzling, the sound of meat thrown on a hot griddle, and then the arm evaporated. Connie smelled burning meat, and he suddenly felt the urge to join Sasha and become a vegetarian.

Annie turned towards Connie, malice in her familiar eyes. Connie froze, staring at the stump of an arm that was already growing out of Annie’s shoulder.

“They regenerate, Armin! They can regenerate!” He lunged to the side, rolling to avoid the grasping fingers of Annie.

He dropped the phone, and screamed.

Levi couldn’t remember ever being this exhausted. Every bone in his body ached and his head pounded. He was drenched in sweat and covered in scrapes and bruises. His belt was worryingly empty, and he couldn’t help but keep checking on Mikasa.

He’d never regretted the full-face cowl before now, but now, trying to see if she’s alright but unable to tell because of her mask, he did. He’d tell Hange to scrap the entire design when he…

Hange.

Levi couldn’t remember a time when he had worried about Hange. That wasn’t how things were done. Hange worried about him. They showed up with coffee when he couldn’t sleep or laughed at him through his doubts. They designed things to keep him safe and helped Petra patch up his wounds. Years of assassination attempts had never caused a single reason for worry.

His son was dead. His daughter was fighting at his side against impossible odds. And his best friend was missing.

Levi didn’t believe in killing people.

But he looked into the empty eyes of the creature that loomed over everything short of skyscrapers, and he wondered if he could make an exception for these things.

The advantage of being a mad scientist, Hange always liked to say, was the ability to have a secret lab.

Granted, they didn’t really need it; they had entire wings of R&D labs in Survey Corps HQ they had access too, as well as a portion of the Batcave cordoned off to serve as a private lab, but it was a fantastic thing to have anyways.

It was beneath a library, because Hange was a traditionalist and they couldn’t find an abandoned observatory. They were still a bit sad about that, and had a google alert set up just in case that ever changed.

Hange was currently working on a motorcycle for Mikasa. She had smashed the last one, and Hange was pretending to not fix it as punishment, but they had a couple of ideas for upgrades, and would really rather not put off implementing them.

Hange’s brain was a rapid-fire mess of electrons and ideas. Many people didn’t get that; they saw incredible organization and productivity and assumed that, because of this, that Hange was an organized person. They didn’t get that Hange only showered every day because their computer was programed to shut off unless they pressed a button physically located inside their shower, and even then Hange had been forced to jury-rig it with a pressure pad and water sensitivity in order to stop themselves from cheating the system. They didn’t understand that Hange was incredibly productive because procrastination was a kill for their productivity. If they didn’t do something the minute they thought of it, the idea might be lost forever, and given the things that Hange could produce, Hange couldn’t stand forgetting any of their ideas.

Hange was organized and competent because they refused to allow otherwise.

Hange finished the upgrade they had been thinking about, and then got to their feet, cleaning their hands on their shirt. Absently, Hange reached up and pulled their hair out of its ponytail, starting to braid it as they stared into space, trying to remember what they were supposed to do next.

They’d finished weapons design for Levi already, and the costume upgrade for Wonder Woman—or Isabel, as the Amazon had insisted that Hange call her—was waiting for magical components that Isabel was arranging to arrive soon. They’d completed the cell phone design for the next generation of SurveyPhones, and they were waiting on parts for Mike’s birthday present.

They walked over to their worktable, trying to see if they’d left notes for themselves. They’d gotten into the habit in high school, covering nearly every surface with brightly colored post-it notes in order to remind themselves to do things like eat or change their shirt. They couldn’t do this at work, of course; they had an image to maintain, but a secret lab was a private space. Hange could wear Superman sweatpants and a Batman t-shirt and no one was allowed to judge them. Rules of the secret lab. Hange was pretty sure they’d put that on one of the post-its.

Hange started digging through the piles of blueprints and schematics, realizing they were actually out of things to do. Hange hated that feeling. They usually went to bother Levi when it happened, but Levi was getting dressed in order to take Mikasa out to dinner. He was going to ask her if she wanted to be adopted. Hange was so proud. They’d ordered Armin to send them the surveillance.

They moved aside a schematic for Annie’s crossbow, and froze when they saw what was underneath it.

Hange had their arm thrown over Levi’s shoulder. Levi was smiling for once, laughing at some joke or another. Hange couldn’t remember. Eren and Mikasa and Armin were in front of them, hugging and laughing and smiling.

Hange had forgotten about this photo.

Hange couldn’t remember the last time they had seen Armin or Mikasa or Levi smile like that.

“Ben oğlum, seni çok özledim,” they murmured softly, pressing their thumb against Eren’s face. He must have been fifteen when it had been taken. “Hepimiz yapıyoruz.”

“Yani söylemek için bir tür şeydir!” A voice behind them said, and Hange dropped the photo, grabbing the taser that was on the bench along with the plans and photos.

A Translation:

Ben oğlum, seni çok özledim. Hepimiz yapıyoruz.

I miss you, boy. We all do.

Yani söylemek için bir tür şeydir .

That’s kind of you to say.

Hange pointed their taser towards Eren Jaeger, and felt the world fall apart around them.

Hange stared at Eren. Then they dropped the taser and charged forward, wrapping him into a tight hug.

“Yaşıyorsun. Yaşıyorsun. Yaşıyorsun.” They whispered, holding him close.

You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive. Eren grabbed them and hugged them with all his might.

It didn’t feel like it had been that long for him, but he knew the truth. It had been over two years since he had hugged Hange. Even though it felt like they had helped him with his science project only last month, it had been so much longer.

Hange had buried him. Hange had mourned him. Eren had stayed the same, but Hange had grieved.

But they still were here, hugging him as if everything was going to be alright.

Eren hugged them back tightly and tried to believe it. Tried to believe with everything he had.

His father had died so that things could be fixed. He had to make sure that it happened, that his father hadn’t died in vain.

“Özür dilerim.” I’m sorry. His accent was thick and his voice was heavy with tears, but he managed to force the words out.

Hange forced themselves to back off. “You’re so tall! And you look older!” Their eyes focused on Historia and Jean, who awkwardly stood behind him. “You’re missing,” she told Historia, frowning. “Ymir has been very worried.”

Historia blanched. “How long has it been?’

Hange frowned, eyes flickering between the three of them. “I think I’ll need an explanation here.”

“We’ll have to give you the summary,” Eren rolled up his sleeve. “We need your help. Things are about to get bad, and we’ll need a cure.”

“A cure for what?” Hange’s eyes seemed to gleam beneath the highly reflective surface of their glasses. Hange was in true mad scientist mode, and Eren was glad to see it.

“The fucking apocalypse,” Jean said, crossing his arms.

“I just got word from Mike,” Levi told Mikasa. He was panting heavily, and Mikasa was pretty sure that one of the earlier blows from the Titan had broken his ribs. “Apparently.” He inhaled sharply. “Apparently someone in Tokyo managed to kill a Titan. Back of the neck, that’s the key. Sharp blow.”

Mikasa nodded slowly. Her muscles screamed, but she could do it. She was the best. She was stronger than Levi, stronger than Kenny.

She could kill this Titan.

“I think I can make it if we slingshot,” she said.

Levi didn’t protest, didn’t complain, didn’t say that he should be the one to do it. He knew better.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Across Town:

“Got it!”

Glass clinks. Machines whir. Hange Zoe grins.

Eren Jaeger, the Rogue Titan, screams.

A needle, gleaming in the light.

“Hold still.”

“Are you sure about this?”

Jean looks pale. He’s worried for Eren.

Hange smiles.

“I wouldn’t risk losing this kid again.”

The needle sinks into an arm.

Mikasa flew through the air, her cape whirling around her as she raised her blade high into the air. She could see exactly where she needed to strike.

“Mikasa stop!”

The voice of a ghost was enough to freeze her in her path, causing her to overshoot slightly. She landed on the shoulder of the Titan instead, her eyes wide beneath her cowl as she stared down at the scene below her.

Aquman was the most visible one. His armor shone brightly, reflecting the flames all around them. Next to him was Batwoman, not wearing that mesh mask for once, her real face exposed underneath the cowl.

And behind both of them, a red helmet tucked under one arm, wearing a leather jacket, was Eren.

Aquaman moved his arms, and suddenly, water was everywhere. The fires went out, as he pulled water from every source he could. The sewers, the waterways, the sky, the river, all of them flowed over the buildings, towards the Titan.

Sometimes, Mikasa forgot just how skilled Jean actually was. She leapt off the Titan, her grappling hook catching a nearby building, and she let it slowly lower her to the ground.

“Eren?”

He looked older. There was a streak of white in his hair now, marring the dark. His skin was paler than she remembered, but the freckles were still there, scattered across his face in a multitude of unfamiliar constellations that she had always tried to memorize, but always changed before she had the chance. His eyes were kaleidoscopes of blues and greens, flecked with hazel and gold.

His smile was wide and welcoming, and for the first time in two years, Mikasa felt like she was coming home.

She didn’t pause to question what was happening. How could she? The world was ending, but the world had also given her a miracle. A wonderful, beautiful miracle.

She had thought the world had ended the day that Eren had died. It made sense it really did end when he came back to her.

Her arms were around him in an instant, her cowl on the street before she even had time to think about what she was doing.

“You’re alive,” she whispered reverently, tears rushing down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” his last words were repeated, but it was okay, because he was alive this time to say them. He was saying them as she held him, and that’s what mattered.

Behind her, Batwoman sunk a needle into the creature’s leg, and the Titan fell to the ground.

“We need to find Ymir!” Batwoman said, turning to face them.

“What does she have to do with any of this?”

“She’s one of the Titans! The Titans were people!”

Mikasa flinched. She’d nearly killed… She looked behind her. She could see a tall, familiar police officer crawl out of the remains of the Titan.

She had nearly killed him.

“I just got word from Armin,” Historia said grimly. “Apparently Annie is one of them.”

“We have enough doses,” Eren said. “You go find Ymir. Levi and Jean can go after that giant one. Mikasa and I will go after Annie. And then we’ll find Reiss.”

Mikasa was glad that he had been the one to suggest this plan, because she was never going to let Eren out of her sight again. She wasn’t sure she would be able to.

“Where did you get that costume?” She asked, watching as Eren pulled three syringes out of his pocket and handed them out.

“I put it together from the parts Hange had lying around. You like it?”

“You look ridiculous,” Levi said gruffly, but he hugged Eren. Then he pulled back. “You’re grounded,” he added.

“What!” Eren squawked, indignant. “You can’t be serious!”

“You snuck out.”

“I died!”

“You clearly got better, brat. Now go save the world. We’ll discuss terms and conditions afterwards.”

“This is so not fair.”

Mikasa laughed for the first time in ages. She felt lighter. Happier. Better.

Everything would be okay.

Ymir woke up in Historia’s arms.

“Historia,” she whispered, her lips barely parting.

“Ymir!” Historia was cradling her, uncaring that they had just exposed themselves in front of what seemed to be the entirety of the police force. “You’re alright!”

“What—what happened?”

“Easy there,” Erwin appeared, helping Historia set Ymir on her feet. “You transformed into some sort of creature.”

“A Titan,” Historia said tensely. “You had no control over what—”

“Marco,” Ymir’s head snapped up. “Sir, is Marco okay? I remember hitting him—”

Erwin’s face told her everything she needed to know.

Her knees went weak, and she nearly fell down. “Oh.”

“It’s going to be alright. I’m going to fix this.”

Ymir didn’t need her gut to tell her that Historia wasn’t telling the truth. Oh, it wasn’t that she was lying; Historia believed what she was saying. But Ymir knew that nothing would be okay ever again.

She’d killed her best friend. She’d eaten people.

There was no coming back from that.

She felt the ring, still in its box in her pocket, and she stared blankly as Historia ran away to be a hero, and tried to figure out what she was going to do.

Sasha nearly sobbed when she saw Annie’s pale form emerging from the Titan. “Annie!” She and Connie were there in an instant, wrapping their arms around her.

She was shaking and white as snow, tears pouring down her eyes as she whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault!” Sasha whispered, tears running down her face.

“I killed you,” Annie’s voice was almost too quiet to hear.

“That wasn’t you, that was… whoever turned you into that.” Her reassurance fell flat, and she turned towards Batgirl and the Red Hood Guy for further information.

Annie stared at him. “You… Eren?”

“Hey Annie!” The guy grinned at her. “Good to see you again.”

“You’re… you’re…”

“Alive, yeah. Long story. Got resurrected, figured out the world was ending, now we’ve got to go stop Batwoman’s evil overlord dad from selling out the planet to an alien race. C’mon, we’ll get you to a hospital.”

“No. I’m coming with you.” Annie stood up.

“Annie, you literally were just—”

“I’m coming with you.” Annie’s face was pale and drawn, but she was wearing her costume, minus her mask, the glittering crystal cross visible at the nape of her neck. Out of her belt, she produced her crossbow.

Eren looked at her, and then nodded.

“Let’s go.”

Rage was the only emotion that Historia knew. It bubbled beneath her skin like a pot boiling over, threatening to spill out and destroy anything.

She’d left Ymir behind. She hoped that Ymir would be able to forgive her for that later. She’d make it up to her. No more lies, after all. There couldn’t be lies, not after everything that Rod had done.

The city was in ruins. Historia tried not to gape as she rushed her way through the streets on the motorcycle that Hange had lent her.

Her father had done all this in exchange for immortality. So many people were dead, because he was a coward, afraid of death.

Historia had never thought she was a good person. But at least she wasn’t a coward like him. He could kill her. She’d welcome it, as long as it meant she took him with her.

She’d never killed before. But she was perfectly willing to let him be the first.

As she drove on, the others caught up with her. Eren and Mikasa were riding a motorcycle, Mikasa driving, Eren’s arms wrapped around her waist. Green Arrow had located a car and was driving, Huntress and Black Canary sitting in the back seat. Batman and Aquaman were also in a car, Batman driving, with Aquaman relegated to the back seat.

But Historia didn’t care. None of them could stop her.

Hange had managed to activate the tracking device on the book. Historia knew exactly where he was going to be.

“He should be somewhere in this building.” The lie came easily to her as they pulled up outside. “I can’t pinpoint where, exactly.”

“Let’s fan out and search then.” None of them knew her well enough to call her out. Mikasa might normally be able to, but she was distracted by Eren, drawn towards him like a flower turning towards the sun. She looked more alive than Historia had ever seen her, but it meant she was blinded to Historia’s lies.

She was grateful Armin and Ymir weren’t here. They’d be able to see right through her.

They grouped off, and Historia was left alone again. She was glad. She wouldn’t want to have to attack an ally just to take down her father.

She left the building and went across the street.

He was waiting for her.

He looked older already. There were wrinkles spread across his face that hadn’t been there in the mirror room, and his hair was greying. He looked furious.

“You’re alive.”

“Yes.”

He gripped the knife he was holding tightly. “Your death was to be the final command to summon them! They will not come until your heart stops beating!”

Historia felt her lips curl into a smile. “Come on and try.”

He charged.

He was good. He was very good. His movements were perfectly controlled and graceful, despite his rapid aging. His skill was undeniable.

But Historia was better.

She slammed her foot against his wrist and smirked as she felt the bones shatter beneath her steel toes. He howled and let go of the dagger. She punched his chest, forcing him backwards. He tried to punch her, but she caught it and returned it with one of her own, sending him sprawling towards the ground.

“You’re dead,” she said.

Suddenly, he smiled, and pulled a string that Historia hadn’t seen until that moment.

The ceiling collapsed above her. Rubble and cement and dust fell, and Historia screamed out in pain as something heavy fell onto her leg.

When the dust cleared, her father was standing over her with a knife.

“And so ends the world!” The knife began its path downward.

“Not likely!” Mikasa appeared, and roundhouse kicked him into the wall.

“Shit, are you okay?” Black Canary screamed, and the rubble blew away, freeing her. Green Arrow helped her to her feet. Her leg was broken, but she moved forward anyways.

“Where are you going?” Batman demanded, his voice a rough growl.

“This doesn’t stop as long as he’s alive,” she whispered.

Rod laughed. “You figured that part out, did you?”

“You showed me eternity,” Historia said, picking up the knife he had used to slit her throat. She could see the fear in his eyes.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Historia!” Eren caught her arm, wide-eyed. “You can’t do this!”

“I have to.”

“If you do this, there’s no turning back!” Batman’s voice was booming and commanding, but Historia was no coward, and would not be turned.

“I don’t care.” She turned towards her father.

There was a blur through the air, and Historia jumped back as a crossbow bolt imbedded itself in her father’s throat.

“Well I do.” Annie Leonhardt held her crossbow. She was still pale, but she looked steady.

Historia screamed, rushing towards her father, but he was already dead.

The Huntress had taken the kill from her.

“Why would you do that?” She heard Green Arrow yell, horrified.

“Because she hadn’t killed yet. She could still be saved.”

“I didn’t ask to be saved!” Historia screamed, turning on the other blonde.

Annie’s eyes were ice. “I don’t take requests.”

Historia lunged, but her leg collapsed beneath her. She cried out in pain, and began to sob on the floor of the broken building.

It was over.

They had won.

Chapter Text

An Epilogue

Time passes, even when you don’t want it to.

The fires go out, and people rebuild.

Some wounds heal.

Others don’t.

Levi was drunk.

Correction: Levi was very drunk.

“You haven’t been like this since college,” Hange complained, staring down at him.

He was on the floor. He couldn’t remember how he got there.

He was somewhere in the Manor, he knew. The carpet was too soft to be anywhere else, but he couldn’t make the world be clear enough to see what room he was in.

“Shut up, Shitty Glasses,” he slurred, throwing the bottle at them, halfheartedly. It thudded to the floor, the liquid spilling onto the carpet. He frowned. He thought he’d drank all of it. Or had that been the previous bottle?

It had been twenty-four hours since the Invasion. Twenty-four hours since one of his fucking kids had come back from the dead and his city had fallen to pieces. Twenty-four hours, and everything was terrible.

Except Eren being back. But even that joy was swallowed by the depth of his failure, of the death that he had seen.

So many people had died.

Hange’s brow furrowed. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.” They crouched to help him up.

“Fuck you, I’m still cleaner than you are.” Hange still smelled of ash and oil—ash from the city, oil from their workshop. Levi gagged, remembering the scent of burning flesh that had filled the air as he raced towards the Titan that had actually been a police officer he had known for years.

“And as you love to remind me, that’s not an achievement.”

Levi tried to shove them away, but his hands were shaking. “Fuck off. I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”

“Shut up, cancer breath, you’re a mess.” Hange looked exhausted, but Levi could see himself in the reflection of their glasses. He looked worse still.

“You’re better off without me.” He didn’t mean to say it, but there was no taking the words back.

Hange froze. “Fuck. You’re in the self-loathing spiral again.” Again? He didn’t remember having done this before. But then again, nothing had been this bad before.

He thought about the list of the dead in the morning’s paper, and he tried to pick up the bottle on the floor. “Maybe.”

“You couldn’t have known about Reiss, Levi.” Hange tugged him upright and kept steering him out of the room.

“If I had killed him back when I’d first met him—” He leaned against them, knowing it was no use. He was too drunk to even fight Hange. Pathetic.

“Don’t—”

“All those people would still be alive, Hange. Shingashina—”

“Will rebuild. We’ll all rebuild. We’ll fix this.”

“Can’t fix me.”

Hange drew themselves up, throwing Levi into bed.

“I’ll be damned if I don’t fucking try, short stuff.”

“Good to see you’re alive, kiddo.”

“Go away,” Mikasa said. She was sitting on the rooftop, looking over the city. Hange had come over, and was cooking menemen and pilaf with Eren downstairs. The smell filtered up to her, and made her stomach growl.

“No kind words for your old man? I tried to warn you about all this.”

“You’re not my old man.” She paused, still refusing to look up at him. “Who was it? That you wanted my help to kill?”

“Does it matter?”

“Was it Eren’s father?” She asked. She felt oddly serene, even though she knew what his answer would be, and it should make her angry.

“Yeah.”

“If you’d killed him, Eren would still be dead.”

“But a lot of other people would be alive. Is that an acceptable trade-off for you?”

Mikasa felt her hands clench into fists at her side. “Go away, Kenny. Don’t come back.”

“You can deny it all you want, ‘Kasa. But you’re my kid, through and through. Just like Levi is. You can both pretend to be all high and mighty, but at the end of the day, you’re just like me.”

Mikasa looked up, ready to follow through on her threat, but he was gone.

Eren poked his head out of the window. “Mikasa! Come inside! You need to set the table!”

The white streak in his hair made him look so much older, but his eyes were alight as ever. His smile was wide and welcoming, and Mikasa felt her heart leap in joy.

The world was terrible, but it also gave her beautiful things like this.

She went inside.

Ymir didn’t go to the funeral.  

Ymir didn’t go home, either.

The entire city felt hostile, like it was going to jump at her. She saw how people flinched from her. Her nightmares were filled with blood and fire and death, of pointy teeth and bullets that didn’t affect her and the terrible screech that came from her own throat.

It wasn’t her fault, Erwin said, as she sat in the ambulance, a thousand needles pricking her skin as they tried to figure out what had turned her into a monster.

Ymir wasn’t sure she believed him.  

She needed answers, but she didn’t know what to ask, where to go, or how to look.

So instead she ran; away from her memories, away from the accusing looks of her fellow officers, away from the piles of rubble that she had created with her own two hands, away from everything.

“One ticket for Hub City,” she said to the bus station attendant. “One way.”

Across town, she knew, Marco was being buried. Historia Reiss was in the apartment, waiting for her to come home.

Instead she was here, her bag full of vodka bottles, a change of clothes, and a few hundred dollars in cash.  

She’d left her badge on Erwin’s desk, along with her gun.

She’d left the ring in the apartment she’d shared with Historia, with a note.

It Said:

I’m sorry.

I love you.

Do what you want with the ring.

Change the locks if you don’t want me back.

I don’t know when I’ll be home.

Goodbye

“Why you headed there?” A man behind her asked. His face was obscured with the smoke of his cigarette, so it looked like his face was actually blank.

“I need answers.” Ymir found herself saying. She didn’t know why. It wasn’t like it was any of this man’s business.

“To what questions?”

Ymir laughed hollowly. “I’ll let you know when I find out.”

“Are you two sure about this?” Armin asked.

Sasha nodded. She looked tired. Her hair was greasy, strands falling loose from her messy ponytail, and the circles under her eyes were like bruises “We need a break. And I want to go home. I want to see my dad.” She nodded at Eren and Mikasa, who were laughing about something, Mikasa’s arm around Eren’s shoulders. She hadn’t been able to stop touching Eren since they’d gotten him back. “Besides. I think you’ve got a fine team right here.”

“Feel free to call us up if things get busy,” Connie added, wrapping his arm around Sasha’s waist. “I know how indispensable we are.” He grinned.

Sasha paused, tentative. “Have you… heard from Annie?”

“She hasn’t spoken to anyone. She blames herself still.”

“It wasn’t her fault.”

Armin sighed. “The Female Titan was responsible for the most property damage of any of the Titans. She’s feeling it pretty hard. I’m sure she’ll come around soon enough.”

He didn’t mention the look on Annie’s face when she killed Rod Reiss.

“We tried to call her. She’s… not been taking them. So can you give this to her, when you see her?” Connie handed him a key. “It’s to our place. Let her know our door is always open to her.”

Armin nodded, smiling at them. “Thank you. For everything.” Bringing them in had been the right call, he knew that now. The Birds of Prey had been the right call. And even if it was temporarily disbanded, he knew they’d come back.

They’d rebuild.

“You’re sweet. But we’re not staying.” Sasha kissed him on the cheek. “To the Arrow-Car, my beautiful husband!”

“We are not calling it that!” The sound of their bickering carried them out of the Tower.

Armin turned towards Mikasa and Eren, grinning.

“So, you two are staying for sure?”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Mikasa said, smiling.

“Hange’s working on my paperwork, so we can all enroll in college come fall,” Eren said, throwing himself onto the bed. Hange had helped them pick it out; it was large enough for all three of them.

“Levi won’t mind?”

Mikasa’s smile froze, and Armin knew he had said the wrong thing. “He needs some space, he said. Hange’s working on it.”

Armin frowned, but accepted it. Levi was an adult. He could handle himself. At least, he could if he had Hange and Petra looking after him. Armin made a mental note to increase surveillance in the Manor.

Just in case.

“So, how’s the case work going? Got anything for us yet?” Eren was practically bouncing in place.

“I’ve got a few places to start… Red Hood.”

“Sounds fantastic, Oracle.”

“You two are ridiculous,” but Mikasa was already reaching for her cowl.

The three of them laughed.

Armin smiled as he rolled himself towards his computers.

They could make this work.