Chapter Text
For the first time since you can remember, you wake to quiet: none of the earth-shaking artillery, groans of injured soldiers, or ear-piercing whistles you have grown accustomed to. At your four o’clock, cloth swishes. You faintly register a breeze tickling your face. At your six o’clock, birds trill, their sounds dissimilar to the harsh screeches you recall accompanying rapid gunfire.
You open your mouth, what should be a simple action for some reason straining your muscles, to take a breath. The freshness of the air startles you, but you cannot consider it unpleasant. Above you lies an unfamiliar plane of white, the expanse so wide that you cannot see the end of it without craning your neck.
After several attempts at forcing your eyelids to open, close, open, close, your mind vaguely registers the aches all over your body: the building intensity behind your temples, how your ribcage does not quite expand like before, and most of all, the heaviness of your shoulders pulling you back into the softness of the surface below your body.
With great effort, you manage to lift your right arm, the motion so agonizingly slow that if this were on the battlefield, you would have been shot dead in the time it took for your fingers to come into view. Speaking of your fingers, after several forceful blinks, you notice that they are completely wrapped in pristine white bandages that loop all the way down your forearms and dip into your sleeves. When you wiggle your fingers, the movements come out delayed and stilted. Your hand drops onto your face, and the coolness of your limb leeches warmth from your cheek. For just a moment, you feel the twitch of your fingers and the smoothness of the bandages before the feeling fades away and you are left with a loss that gapes in your stomach. You wonder if you have died and now lack a body, as it would be the most plausible explanation for what you experience now.
Over the coming weeks, you learn the following facts from the nurse that tends to you: both of your arms were amputated and replaced with adamantine prosthetics, the War ended over a year ago and you have been in a comatose state for roughly that amount of time, and that a man by the name of Mr. Ackerman will arrive at the end of the summer for your discharge. The nurse seems to be patient with the pace of your recovery, and so you muster up the courage to ask after your commander, whether there has been any post from him, whether he has visited, where he may be now. Much to your dismay, she has no answers for your questions, merely informing you with a solemn face that nobody by the name of “Commander Erwin” has written to her, and nobody resembling a tall blonde man in military uniform has visited the hospital. However, she does encourage you to write to your commander, citing that putting pen to paper will help you with both your physical and mental recovery. Wishing to return to a useful state as quickly as possible, you take her advice and begin drafting reports to your commander.
The season progresses, and it seems that the nurse’s hope was partly rooted in idealism: it takes you weeks to hold the pen firmly enough to even put the nib to paper, and as weeks pass and the leaves on the trees outside your window dull their hues and flutter to the ground one by one, you manage to write barely enough to constitute a paragraph, the strokes on the page unsteady and ink blots smeared all over the thick paper. Whenever you glance at the mess, something twists unpleasantly in your stomach, your penmanship now a stark contrast to how your commander used to instruct you in moments between missions—each stroke drawn with intention, each letter, word, and sentence considered carefully before setting it to the page. Potentially, your nurse insists, part of the issue may be in the wordiness of your sentiments, but all you wished to write to your commander was that you have regained all your bodily functions, you are in adequate condition to complete a mission, and you request to return to duty immediately. Even then, you can hardly complete a word without dropping the pen and streaking ink all over the bedsheets. Pathetic, a voice whispers into your ear. Have you learned nothing from your commander after all the time he has spent on you? Perhaps it is a good thing that you do not know your commander’s address and thus do not send the letter—you wilt to imagine how his face would look upon viewing the page’s contents.
During one such instance when you attempt to scrawl out the word “adequate” (for the tenth time this week), you once again drop your pen on the corkboard flooring beside your bed. In what has now become a practiced motion, even with your limited mobility, you reach down for it, your torso folding in half towards the floor, when suddenly, the door to your room bursts open, the nurse and an accompanying male voice shouting your name in alarm.
A solid hand presses against your back and steadies your body. You peer up to see Captain Levi kneeling on the floor in front of you. For a moment, your heart leaps to your throat—as Captain Levi is often seen with Commander Erwin, you cannot help but wonder if your commander is here as well. You crane your neck to the left, to the right, but Captain Levi and your nurse are the only people in the room besides you.
“The commander?” you ask softly. “Where is Commander Erwin?”
The captain’s face contorts into something brittle before quickly settling back into the usual neutrality you have come to expect from him. Still, now that you have the chance to get a better look, something about his face is different from what you remember. You do not have the precise words to describe what you notice, except that despite the new streaks that line his face, he seems to afford his facial muscles more freedom than you remember, just barely loosening his tight control over their movements that he maintained when training you on your combat skills.
“He is not here,” the captain says eventually with all the care of detonating grenades into enemy troops.
Sentences rush out of your mouth in bullets, sentences you gave up long ago on putting to paper. “Might I ask where he is? Is he on leave? I recall that his injuries were life-threatening—has he recovered?”
The captain looks down at where your bandaged hands lay on your lap. His bangs, longer now than before, fall over his eyes. “I…” he begins.
“If he is not on leave, where is his current assignment? When should I regroup with his squad?”
“Erwin, he is…” The captain gulps, a slow motion in the bob of his throat. “I cannot say right now. That information is classified.”
You almost open your mouth again before you remember your rank—you have no right to demand classified information, and especially not from the captain.
Your nurse, sensing an opportunity to finally join the conversation, says in an attempt provide some good news, “You can be discharged now, dear. Mr. Ackerman here came all the way here to retrieve you.”
Captain Levi, your brain automatically corrects before you register that if he is indeed this “Mr. Ackerman”, this would mean that Captain Levi is assisting you with your discharge.
You quickly rise to your feet with a clumsiness that would have earned you a minimum of ten laps had you still been in the army, let alone the usual reprimand for failing to address the captain properly. “Captain Levi,” you say, sharply raising your right hand to your forehead in a salute. “Apologies for insubordination.”
Captain Levi hurriedly stands up, his face less stern than you expected, given your impropriety. “At ease.” He brings his arms up, his hands hovering around your body like he expects you to keel over at any moment. “Sit down.”
You follow orders and sit on the edge of the bed. From where you look up at him, you watch his eyes move over your body, taking in your current state—long hair in undisciplined tangles, the abject muscle loss in your limbs evident by how the hospital clothes hang off your body, the bandages that still cover your prosthetic hands.
“I am here on the commander’s behalf,” he begins.
You feel a surge longing for the kindness, the safety of your commander and strain your ears to catch the captain’s every word. Your shoulders relax, the tension in your body draining out onto the mattress. “So he is alive and well. That is good.”
The captain opens his mouth before shakily closing it again. “Get dressed. I have arranged for a car.” He says no more and turns to leave the room.
You dress yourself in clothes provided by the nurse: dark fabric cut into narrow strips that the nurse loops around your hair, a white blouse that covers all the way to your wrists, a forest green skirt nicer than any clothing you have worn in your life, and brown boots that despite their appearance, feel light on your feet with each step. With gentle hands, she guides you out of your room down to the walkway outside of the hospital, and you thank her routinely.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” she says, rushing back into the entryway before emerging with a brown suitcase. “Your belongings! They were initially shipped to another base, and they only arrived here just two days ago.”
You undo the latch on the suitcase and look over the meager contents inside: a couple strips of fabric you recall using to tie your hair out of your face during missions, and an unopened pack of field rations.
“The brooch,” you mutter to yourself. You look up at her. “Where is the aquamarine brooch?”
The nurse startles at your sudden urgency. “I apologize, this was all they found on your person and at your quarters, as far as I was told.”
Something hot and painful tears your body in two, leaving a gaping hole where you feel the bandages around your ribs. “I, I must search for it,” you stammer, redoing the latch with trembling fingers before racing off in the general direction of the exit.
A stern command from Captain Levi interrupts your steps. “Wait.” His fingers close around the metal where your forearm used to be. “What are you doing?”
“I must search for the brooch,” you choke, “It was a gift from Commander Erwin.”
The captain’s eyes roam over your hand and your forearm again. He loosens his grip, but you do not feel it. Gently, he lowers your arm and releases his hold. “I understand,” he says quietly. “I will search for it for you. I promise.”
“You have my gratitude, Captain,” you say in between breaths, “but I…”
His voice lacks the harshness you recall him using with his squad but still contains a firm undertone. “Enough. You are to accompany me back to Mitras anyway. That was what the commander said.”
Your face sets with the knowledge, and with an “Understood, Captain”, you follow him into the car.
Trees standing tall, unmarred by fire and smoke, pass by outside the car window. Small brown birds perch on their branches, and squirrels make their homes in the holes left behind by woodpeckers. You ignore all of this in favor of staring in front, your spine taut, and your hands, which, now, you are slowly leaning to call yours, even if they are not made of the same flesh as the rest of your body, rest lightly on the suitcase. “When shall I expect my next assignment from the commander?” you ask the captain. “Some missions may be beyond my current capabilities.”
“You have no further assignments,” he says. You open your mouth to protest this absurdity, but he holds his hand up to stop you. The space in between the two of you seems to drag each word out through the captain’s teeth. “Erwin, he worried about you, your life after the war. He made some arrangements to help ease the way.”
Per such arrangements, Captain Levi informs you, Commander Erwin formally gifted you his surname, Smith, and instructed his subordinates fill out any paperwork as such, hoping for his familial backing to assist you in rebuilding your life after the war. When Captain Levi tells you this, you think of the children in your neighborhood long ago, before the war, and think of how they shared surnames with others, returning home each evening to households of people united by the same surname. In this moment, a sense of envy that has festered in you since you were young finally settles—even if your commander is elsewhere, he has acknowledged you as one of his own. Oh, how you wish to see your commander now, even if only to thank him for this gift, which you internally vow to carry as close to your heart as the brooch you kept on your collar, and ideally avoid losing this one too.
Captain Levi also informs you that Commander Erwin requested that you live with Hange for the time being. When you ask if he refers to Squad Leader Hange, Captain Levi tells you that yes, Hange currently works as a maintenance technician for the typewriters and other equipment at a postal company in Mitras. You decide that this is quite in character for what you recall about Squad Leader Hange—over combat, they much preferred to tinker with any equipment that could use some upkeep, sometimes even improving the performance of the army’s gear and weapons in the process. Although you spent more time with Commander Erwin than with Squad Leader Hange during the war, the captain’s news about Squad Leader Hange’s wellbeing still pleases you to hear.
You are about to ask Captain Levi why Commander Erwin arranged for you to live with Squad Leader Hange when he opens his suitcase and holds out three stuffed animals: a dog, a cat, and a rabbit.
You look at him uncomprehending, and he averts your gaze, a move which would utterly astound you had you not experienced stranger things in the past months. “To celebrate your discharge,” he mutters, almost to the back of the seat instead of to you. “Hange did not know which you would prefer, so we bought all three. Pick one to keep.”
You stare at the plush figures, idly wondering if Captain Levi and Squad Leader Hange went insane after the war ended. You do not say as much, as that would certainly be considered insubordination. “I do not need one.”
The captain’s face grows sharp, which you consider strange, because you merely stated a fact. “Just pick one. Five, four, three, two, one—”
Countdowns are something you have learned how to respond to. “The dog,” you decide.
A breath whooshes out of his body. “Here, take it.”
You hold the plush dog with your hands, turning it this way and that way to examine its composition. You bring it closer, letting the fabric brush the side of your cheek. You note that the fabric feels soft, like the sheets in the hospital and the clothes you wear now. You wonder if this sort of softness is something you will eventually become accustomed to.
“Why the dog?” he asks, his eyes locked onto where it appears like the dog is nosing at your cheek.
You turn your face towards him. “The other commanders sometimes called me ‘Erwin’s dog’.”
Captain Levi makes the same face as when his squad fails to clean their lodgings to his standards. He brings a hand to his forehead and drags it down the length of his face, letting out a long exhale.
He ends up not responding to your reasoning, instead telling you about the upcoming journey to Mitras: as the railroads in this region were destroyed by enemy bombings during the last leg of the war, you will travel by steamship instead, extending the duration of your journey to almost one week. He asks if you have ever been to Mitras, and when you tell him that you have not, he describes the current condition of the state’s capital: due to the army draft resulting in a shortage in men available to work, women began to make up a significant portion of the labor force, with document work in particular undergoing a boom. This change, he says, was a way to meet the high volume of paperwork the government needed processed to enact their operations. As such, document processing companies, such as the one that currently employs Squad Leader Hange, have become more commonplace in the city, with a large proportion of their staff being female. However, other industries are slowly but surely recovering from the damage during the war, and there are plenty of ways for one to earn a livelihood in the city. Captain Levi himself runs a tea shop just a few streets down from where Squad Leader Hange works, his stipend from the war more than sufficient to purchase a small property and invest into his business.
The two of you eventually dock at Port Mitras, the seagulls cawing in the sky above as the anchor drops and you disembark the ship in an orderly line full of travelers, businessmen, and postal workers. While you accompany Captain Levi on the autobus towards Squad Leader Hange’s residence, you observe the happenings of the bustling city you are now to call your home: war veterans hobbling along the dusty streets, families bargaining for groceries at the local market, children squealing and running around their parents’ legs in joy. This environment is unfamiliar to you, but you suppose it hardly matters—you will make do with your circumstances, as you always have.
Alongside Captain Levi, you exit the bus at the eastern portion of the city and walk the short distance to Hange’s residence, climbing the two flights of stairs and arriving at their apartment door, the brass of the doorknob dull from use.
He raps on the door with sharp knocks. “Four-eyes. Open the door.”
You hear metal clattering from inside the apartment followed by muffled swears. The captain simply stares ahead, his face set in what his squad used to refer to as an expression indicating that someone will soon be assigned latrine duty.
The door opens to reveal Squad Leader Hange, grinning widely at the sight of you two on their doorstep. “Oh, my darlings!” they squeal, bouncing on their feet. “You finally arrived!”
Captain Levi brings his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “No need to be so damn loud, four-eyes,” he mutters. “We can hear you.”
You straighten your posture and bring your hand up to your forehead. “Squad Leader Hange,” you salute, “here to report.”
Squad Leader Hange’s grin falters the slightest bit. “Oh, no need for that!” they chirp after a moment. “We are not in the army anymore—just call me Hange! Now come, come in! I was just making something for dinner—”
“Do I even want to know?” Captain Levi groans as your head spins from everything happening all at once. You have witnessed these two interact in the past, but today marks the first day you are directly involved in the conversation. “Whatever is bubbling on that damn stove better be edible…”
Squad Lea—Hange, just Hange now, apparently, takes your suitcase and the plush dog, setting them down to the side of the room while still talking to Captain Levi, all the while barely stopping for breath. They usher the two of you towards the small dining table in the middle of the room, laughing at the captain’s insistence that all of you wash your hands before touching any food.
“Ah, it took you two a whole week to get here?” they say as the captain pours tea for all three of you, outright hissing at Hange when they offered to pour the tea themselves and attempted to grab the pot.
“If the damn train system was still working,” he grumbles under his breath, “it would have taken less than four days.”
“The War ended not even two years ago, shorty!” Hange replies. The captain bristles at the nickname. “It will take time for the infrastructure to recover, but things are already better than a year ago!”
Hange glances down at where your teacup remains untouched on the saucer. “Drink up, kiddo! Who knows how dehydrated you must be from the trip!”
“Not a kid anymore,” he mutters as you delicately pick up the cup, “she is twenty-one now, idiot.”
“Ah, both of you are still kids to me!”
“Twenty-five is also not a child. And you are hardly two years older than me, four-eyes—”
As you bring the teacup to your lips, your hands, not yet trained to handle objects with delicate force, suddenly shake, causing some tea to slosh over the rim. At the sound, Hange and Captain Levi pause their bickering to look at you, their eyes locking onto your bandaged hands.
“Be careful, kiddo—”
“Damn it, wait—”
The teacup slips from your grasp, spilling the hot liquid all over your hands and the saucer in front of you.
Hange stands up from the table, rushing towards the sink. “I have a cloth, let me just put some cold water—"
“There is no need,” you say matter-of-factly.
“Kiddo, did you remember nothing I told you about first aid? You have to treat burns with cold water—”
“I do not feel heat,” you say, unwrapping the bandages from your hand. The captain’s posture slumps, and Hange’s eyes widen at the sight of the newly revealed prosthetic.
“These arms are made of adamantine,” you explain to the pair, who have gone utterly silent. The metallic surface winks in the dim light of Hange’s apartment. If you look closely at it, you can even see your own reflection. You flex your fingers, the gears turning with smooth, uninterrupted noises as your fingers mechanically curl in towards your palm, a motion you practiced numerous times over the past months. “They function properly, and are impervious to heat, cold, and other sensations a biological hand would feel. I am still training myself to work them, but eventually, I will learn to use them along with the rest of my body.”
Hange, throughout this entire explanation, has not stopped gaping at your prosthetic. Slowly, a crooked grin spreads over their face.
Captain Levi warns, that firmness once again present in his voice, “Hange, you better not—”
“Oh, my, goodness!” they crow, ignoring him and instead rushing over to you to examine your prosthetic up close. “Adamantine, you said? And you can control the finger movements? Is there any delay in between your thoughts and their responses? And what of the mechanics inside? Oh, how I would love to do some experimenting—”
“Hange.” At the captain’s voice, Hange’s fingers still from where they were already reaching out to touch your hand. “She is a person, not a machine,” he says shortly, more than done with this discussion, as it appears.
Hange’s grin turns sheepish at his admonishment. “I know that. Sorry, kiddo,” they say, rubbing the back of their neck. “The arm just looks so fascinating! Would you happen to be interested in any…mechanical improvements?”
“Hange,” Captain Levi says lowly.
“If I need anything,” you begin, very much wanting your new limbs to remain functional for at least the near future, “I will remember to consult you, Hange.”
Hange cheers. Captain Levi puts his face in his hands.
After tea and dinner, which consists of a vegetable stew courtesy of Hange (“This looks suspicious, four-eyes. You sure you know what you put in here?” “Come on, shorty, live a little! I promise I did not add anything dangerous. Here, let me prove it. Kiddo, have some—!” “You eat it first, four-eyes. Then maybe I will believe you.”), Hange and Captain Levi begin cleaning the dishes. Just as you remember witnessing from the war, the dynamic between the two, especially when cleaning is involved, is less of them working together as a team, and more akin to Hange washing while talking at anyone in their vicinity, and the captain being unsatisfied with Hange’s results and rewashing everything himself, grunting out minimalist responses to their chatter. You offer to assist, and for the first time tonight, they come to an automatic agreement and insist you refrain (“Kiddo, you do not want to get water on those things unnecessarily, trust me.” “But—” “Sit your ass down on that chair, now.”).
By the time the captain has packed up his belongings and is preparing to leave for his own residence, you finally find the courage to ask, “Squad—Hange, Captain Levi, I understand if this is classified information, but…why is Commander Erwin having me live here instead of with him?”
Hange’s grin freezes on their face. Captain Levi stills, everything about his demeanor going carefully neutral. The two of them glance at each other, and you decide you must provide additional clarification, as they evidently do not understand your meaning.
“Is it because I cannot fight as well as before?” you ask, the words coming out more desperate than you intend. “I understand I may no longer qualify for all missions due to my physical limitations, and my body is still undergoing recovery, but I know that once I return to my training, I will be able to fight again!”
Hange and Captain Levi do not answer for a long while. Hange’s mouth no longer resembles a grin, the corners of their lips instead turned in the opposite direction down towards their jaw. They make a soft, incoherent noise from the back of their throat. Captain Levi stares at you, his gaze searching for something you are unsure if you can provide.
“Kiddo,” Hange begins, their voice unsteady, “the War is over. The fighting is over.”
“But I am to fight under Commander Erwin!” you protest. A new possibility occurs to you, shooting a clean hole between your ribs. “Does he…no longer need me? I suppose I should be…disposed of, if that is the case.”
Hange’s face does something that causes the aching in your abdomen to increase in intensity. The captain swears under his breath. Based on their reactions, this possibility must be the correct one…no wonder the captain told you that information on your commander’s whereabouts was classified.
“A year and five months ago,” the captain begins slowly, breaking you out of your rapidly spiraling thoughts, “I was relieved from the military. Honorable discharge.”
Hange gapes at him. “Levi, what the hell does this have to do with—”
He ignores Hange. “As I told you, I now own a tea shop. I am no longer a military captain, nor am I ‘humanity’s strongest’,” he continues, his voice going tight at the mention of his former nickname.
Still unsure of why the captain is telling you this, you tentatively ask, “How should I address you then?”
He sighs, “Levi is fine. Anyways, my point is that…” He pauses, his jaw working like he is turning over words in his mouth. “I am no longer a weapon. The same applies to you.”
Your stomach turns inside out. “But…if I am no longer a weapon,” you whisper, hardly daring to speak the possibility aloud, “how am I to be of use to Commander Erwin?”
“Erwin wanted you to live your life in peace,” the capt—Levi says, not at all answering the question. Tears threaten to come to your eyes. “But if you wish to be…useful,” he forces out that last word like it weighs down his tongue with many different meanings, “there is work to be found. I was going to suggest for you to assist me at my tea shop, but in all honesty, business can be slow, and there is not much to be done there even for me, the sole employee.”
“My place is hiring,” Hange breathes out, their words hanging fragile in the air. “The postal company. They need people to sort and deliver mail. I can bring you in tomorrow.”
And with that, it is decided: tomorrow morning at precisely oh seven hundred hours, you will accompany Hange to the postal company and apply for work. You will likely be hired on the spot, they assure you, and begin your work as early as afternoon. You tell yourself that even if your commander is not here with you right now, you can continue to be useful in the meantime, and whenever he returns, he will remember your use, and all will be well.
Your lungs gasped for air and your eyes roved over your commander’s face, blood streaming from where it matted his blonde hair all the way over his right eye and down his cheek. His breaths emerged from his mouth, which opened and closed slowly, releasing puffs of mist into the air. He weakly moved his boot against the surface he crouched on, the movement producing a squelch that echoed off the stone structures surrounding you.
He whispered your name, his voice hardly more than a croak. “You must live,” he exhales, “and be free.” Tears spilled from the corners of his eyes, the usually clear blue of them glassing over. You whimpered in fear, having not seen your commander in such a state before, where he no longer even appeared to be fighting, his body and his mind all but given up.
You urgently wondered if anyone happened to be nearby—Captain Levi, perhaps? He surely would know what to do. If anyone besides your commander could make a situation better, it would be him. But then you remembered that Captain Levi was stationed elsewhere, and you know in that moment that you are your commander’s best hope at survival.
“Commander Erwin,” you urged, shaking your head in earnest. “Why are you telling me this? I will stay with you. Someone will find us.”
He coughed once, a wet sound that caused blood to trickle out of his mouth and down to his chin. Although more tears ran down his cheeks, his mouth turned into a smile when he told you, “More than anything, you must remember that…we are family, and I love you.”
Your commander closed his eyes, the smile remaining on his face like he was simply falling asleep, and you screamed.