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He's four. Bertholdt Hoover is four when he first shoots a rifle, flinching at the sharp noise, arms trembling, too weak to hold the weapon almost as big as him, cold metal burning his skin.
He hates it.
He's four. The overseer nods. Again. He wants to go home. To his family. They need the money. Bertholdt pulls the trigger. His stomach churns. They use these things to shoot people. The overseer takes a long glance at him, before nodding again, asking for his papers.
He shouldn't be here. He's four. Too young. His family needs that money. He's tall for his age. His hands shake as he reaches for the documents in his pocket.
The overseer looks at his papers. Stops for a second at one of the rows and gives the boy a glance. Bertholdt is shaking, both from the sounds of shots being fired around him and his gaze. The rifle clatters between his hands.
He shouldn't be here. He's cold. He doesn't want to be here. He's so cold. He wants to go home. It's cold at home too. His family needs this.
The overseer grabs a pen and writes something on the paper, before passing it back. Bertholdt can't read yet, but he recognizes the golden armband that the instructor hands him, along with the paper. He made the cut.
You're not bad. It'd be a waste not to let you join, he says and then gestures for him to continue.
Bertholdt, armband now gold, aims again, his fingers too cold, nausea in his throat and pulls the trigger, bracing himself for the shot. He made the cut. He wants to go home. He made it. He wants to cry.
—
They tell him, that he has talent. That he should practice more. He wants to cry, wants to throw the rifle away, too big, too heavy, too loud, but he can't, he wears the golden band.
He also wears shoes, shoes that actually fit him, and he's not cold, and neither are the others, because they could finally buy some coal for the furnace. All thanks to Bertholdt. All thanks to Bertholdt, who made the cut.
Made the cut, because he shot that target, eyes burning, arms trembling, heart beating in his throat.
When the instructor asks him if he'd like to take on extra shooting classes, he nods.
He just wants to go home.
—
Training is awful, rifles are awful, the noise is awful, watching the others leave early is awful, and then one day it's not anymore. The instructor is nodding, nodding at him, well done, and Bertholdt, too young, tall for his age, beams, beams at the man fom his nightmares, because he did great, and that's the first time someone said that to him.
He beams and he lifts up the rifle again, willing his nausea away, his hands to stop shaking as he shoots again. Something flashes in the instructor's eyes, and Bertholdt feels light, proud, and for the first time he doesn't want to go home early.
From then on, he tries harder. He practices as much as he can. He's forcing himself not to flinch at the sound of shots being fired, forces himself not to shiver at shock of the recoil. He's pushing himself constantly, shooting until his arms shake, muscles ache, until his finger on the trigger is sore, and it hurts, and yet it's all worth it when he looks behind his back, and the instructor nods, nods at him, nods at Bertholdt Hoover for doing great.
Not a kid, not a devil, just him, Bertholdt Hoover. And he swells with happiness and pride.
(How could he understand that no one sees him. No one is proud of him. That he's not looked at as a kid, nor a devil, just a weapon, a weapon to be perfected. How could he.)
—
By the age of nine, he's a marksman, hitting target after target, reloading with the calm of a master, long having surpassed his instructors, as he assembles his rifle without looking, and aims in a moment of precision, arms steady, trigger finger already calloused from years and years of practice.
He pulls the trigger and feels the moment the bullet connects, another bullseye, and he feels that little spark of pride again, because he knows he can do this, because he never feels as alive as he does here, rifle in hand, on the range, instructors giving him their nods of approval.
(A weapon.)
—
They choose him. The Colossal. He's to inherit the Colossal, the strongest of the Nine, and he feels his throat tighten, the long forgotten feeling of cold sweat running down his spine.
He really did make it.
He wants to go home. Wants to go home to the shooting range.
He's in an unfamiliar room, and a man tells him to remove his shirt, his armband, so that he can reach his arm. It's cold, and unfamiliar, and scary, and his fingers curl up around thin air, looking for an invisible trigger, looking for some comfort.
It will only be a moment, they say. He won't even remember a thing. There's someone in chains. Bertholdt doesn't dare ask. It's cold, and dark, and he wants to cry, he wants to run, run away and not turn back.
He looks around in fear, and sees some familiar faces on a distant balcony. Instructors, generals, important man. They look at him, waiting. Bertholdt turns back forward, the instructors' gaze burning his nape.
And then you hold it like this, the man says, and inject it. You got it?
He wants to cry. The syringe is cold, burning him. He wants to go home.
The burning on his neck doesn't leave. He nods. The man gives him another look-over before he leaves through a door and reappears on the balcony.
Bertholdt is alone, alone with the chained man, alone with the gazes on his back, the syringe too heavy, his hands shaking, unfamiliar with the glass, the silence, no shots filling the air.
He feels the burning of eyes on his back, just as he does every time before a difficult shot. It's the same. He knows that a nod will follow.
It's the same.
He takes a deep breath, shaking, and he does as the man said.
—
He doesn't remember. He shivers, as they tell him, armband now red, and he desperately tries not to think about the gaping hole in his memory, filled with the taste of nightmares.
His breaths become frantic, this isn't what he wanted, he didn't—
His eyes lock onto a pair of familiar ones, looking at him in a silent nod, you did great, grounding, and his fingers loosen on an invisible rifle as he breathes again.
He did great. That's all that matters.
(Weapon.)
—
All he has to do is prick his finger. He thinks of them, proud, well done, as he does it, the explosion instantaneous. He's tall, he's tiny, he's terrified, it's all a blur. When he's back on his own two feet, there's smoke and ruins everywhere. The ground burns in the color of embers. He shivers.
You did great.
Someone finds him and Bertholdt turns away, turns away from the wasteland, wasteland that used to be a city until twenty minutes ago, and follows him back to the airship, where familiar, proud nods are waiting for him.
(Weapon.)
He smiles at the thought.
—
He wants to go home. He wants to go home, but he's on a mission, a mission on the other side of the sea, and he has to finish it before he can return.
He wants to cry.
They're counting on him. They'll be proud of him. He thinks of all their gazes on his back as he kicks down the gate. He thinks of all their nods, as he turns away from the destruction.
You did great.
(Weapon.)
He wants to go home, to them, to feeling special, to the shooting range, all the noise fading out, where it's just him, the sound of the bullets meeting the target, that heartbeat of eternity between the trigger and the hit.
He feels empty.
His fingers curl up around an invisible trigger as he falls asleep in the refugee camp.
—
He's hungry. Working on the fields is exhausting, and while he doesn't get strained muscles anymore, he's hit another growth spurt, and they barely had enough food between the three of them already.
It's crowded on the streets of the city as he tries to get back to Reiner and Annie, to the old house they got refuge in with a bunch of other people, tries to get back before the rain, clouds dark overhead. He clutches his arms close to his chest as he tries move through the crowd, trying to appear as small as he can.
It's cold. He wants to go home.
He bumps into a woman, carrying a basket, and she drops it, the contents spill all over on the ground. Apples, tiny and still mostly green, about a dozen of them, they roll in all directions. Bertholdt immediately crouches down and starts picking them up, not daring to look up, chest so tight it hurts, waiting any moment for a damn those Eldian devils, a curse, a yell, a kick.
His hands shake as he hands back the basket. I'm sorry.
He clutches his upper arm, feeling naked without his armband, wishing to be anywhere else, wishing to be home, on the range. Any moment now.
Oh, thank you. No curses come, the woman's voice is gentle, as she looks at him. Bertholdt can't form a single thought. Don't worry. It was just an accident.
No curses, no… nothing?
Right. She's just an islander. He— he helped her. His heart starts to calm down, as he imagines her nodding, the familiar look of appreciation in her eyes.
Right.
It doesn't come. Instead the woman gives her a sad smile, her eyes haunted, as she takes in his dirty shoes and outgrown clothes. You're one of the refugees, aren't you? What's your name, dear?
No nods. Bertholdt doesn't know what to do. She… asked his name. His breaths quicken again. I'm— I'm Bertholdt… Hoover?
It comes out as a question. The woman doesn't comment on that, as she gives him another smile. I'm Angela. Nice to meet you. She has something in her eyes that makes Bertholdt feel warm, even here, in the cold, so far from home. She reaches into her basket.
You're quite the gentleman, Bertholdt, she says, as she hands him one of the apples. Thank you for your help.
Bertholdt can barely feel the apple, now in his hands, as he keeps staring at her. She just gives him a sad smile. I'm sorry you had to go through all that… the attack… I wish I could do more…
Her voice turns into a whisper as she looks down at the apples in her hands, and finally, a look Bertholdt knows. The apples. She needs them.
And yet, she gave one to him.
Why.
He can't form a single thought.
He doesn't remember how he got back to the house, if she said anything else, his fingers gripping the apple.
I'm sorry you had to go through all that… the attack…
The attack. He was the attack. He— he kicked down the gate.
He— he's the reason she was so sad.
You did great.
Right. It doesn't matter. They're just islanders. He's here to finish the mission, so he can get back home. So he can get back home, and they'll be proud and they'll nod with lights in their eyes.
He tries to think of them, but only Angela's sad smile shows up before him.
I wish I could do more…
His hands sweat. His trigger finger slips on the shiny peel of the apple. It makes an awful sound.
He did great. He wants to go home. He just wants to go home and make everyone proud. That's all he wants.
(Right?)
—
He feels cold.
It's too confusing here. He's thinking about things he shouldn't think about. He's thinking about things he doesn't want to be thinking about. He knows that the generals would be disappointed.
All he wants to do is go home, get home, be safe, on the range, surrounded by the people that care for him, for the real him, the real Bertholdt Hoover.
He imagines them, nodding, proud, you did well, and yet, he still feels cold.
Angela's smile. He can't shake it out of his head.
He wants to go home. It's too confusing here.
It's cold at home too.
He curls up in his bed, pulling the blanket on his head, and he wishes for the thousandth time again, that he was on the range, only him, the rifle, the targets and nothing else.
It doesn't get warmer.
Bertholdt cries.
—
He's getting better at working on the fields. Now all of his fingers have callouses, from holding the tools all day. He's not sure his fingers would feel natural on the trigger anymore.
Hoover, the field manager yells his name, at which he straightens out. The man gives him a nod. Well done.
And then he's off to the next group without a second glance.
Bertholdt stares after him. He recognizes that look. Recognizes those words. You did great.
He waits for that little spark of pride he's so used to. It doesn't come.
Only Angela's sad smile throbs in his chest.
This is wrong. He knows that look. He knows the words. There's no mistaking it. So… why is he still cold? So empty?
I'm sorry you had to go through all that…
He wants to be on the range, he wants to aim, to shoot, feeling the click of the rifle in his hands, an extension of him, seeing the bullet hit the bullseye, almost seeming effortless, and yet, all of his muscled focused, and it's only him, him, and that little spark of warmth in his chest.
Well done.
Did… did the instructors… walk away the same too… after he… managed a shot?
No, they were proud, they—
You're quite the gentleman, Bertholdt. Thank you for your help.
If— if they weren't proud— why— they—
He just wants to go back to the range. Please. He just wants to go home. He just wants to feel warm.
—
Weapon.
The answer comes to him on a sleepless night, still laying awake, curled up to Reiner and Annie for warmth, his hands repeating the small motion of reloading thin air, again and again.
He's frozen, trying to shake the word out of his head. They were proud. He did great.
(Proud of the weapon they made.)
Well done.
The words burn his face, and he messes up the motion. Were he holding a rifle, he'd have loaded it wrong, would've made it explode into his face, he knows that.
His face would just heal, he knows that too.
Weapon.
He wants his thoughts to shut up. They're proud. He imagines them standing here, you did great, tries to recall that tiny spark of warmth in his chest.
Weapon.
He aims his imaginary rifle at the word and pulls the trigger, again, and again, until there's nothing left of it, until the sound of firing bullets drowns the thought in his mind. He lets his hands fall onto his chest, as he listens for his friends' breathing.
Weapon.
Stop it. Please. He can't utter a whisper, his eyes are burning.
They told him he had talent. They told him he did great. They cared for him—
His breaths turn irregular. Reiner shifts on his left, as he mumbles something in his sleep. The noise doesn't reach him.
Bertholdt is four again, tall for his age, cold, as he holds a rifle for the first time.
Arms shaking, the metal too cold in his fingers, nauseous.
Just wanting to go home.
You're not bad. It'd be a waste not to let you join.
Shaking. So terrified of the noise. So terrified by the rifle in his hands.
Him nodding too. The instructor's eyes flashing with something.
He always assumed it was pride.
Shut up.
He has his rifle in his hand. He's on the range. There's no instructors, no armbands, just him the target and him, Bertholdt Hoover—
Weapon.
He throws his imaginary rifle away, eyes burning, something hot and angry running down his face. No, he's him, he's Bertholdt Hoover, he's talented, and they're all proud of him—
Weapon.
He's not— He's a person. He's not some— some— some—
His hands clutch for an imaginary trigger for comfort, so desperate for that warmth, for the simplicity of the range, aching to shoot.
A weapon.
He's empty. He imagines himself clattering to the ground, like a purposeless rifle. Cold, broken, forgotten.
A weapon and nothing more.
—
It's training. He puts on his uniform, motions already practiced after a few months. He notes that he needs to extend the belts a bit as he hit a growth spurt yet again.
The spring air is warm, and Bertholdt doesn't think about the emptiness inside his chest as he tinkers with the clasps.
The cadets passing him give him their smiles, and he awkwardly waves back, tense muscles loosening a bit. He feels Reiner gazing at him out of the corner of his eye, and he quickly finishes up before joining him.
He's on a mission. Right.
The daily training starts differently than what they're used to. Bertholdt tries to slouch a bit, not to stand out too much from the crowd. Not that any of the cadets give him a second glance. He spots Annie somewhere to the side, a familiar, calming sight, and lets his thoughts wander.
He completely misses the instructions and only comes back to reality at Reiner's elbow in his side, just before he's face-to-face with the Commandant, who hands him a rifle and some rounds.
Then the Commandant moves on to the next cadet. Bertholdt doesn't notice. He's too entranced by the weapon in his hands.
A rifle. He hasn't held a rifle in over two years.
It's beautiful. An older model, he immediately identifies the flintlock mechanism, and yet, it has a grace that a weapon of this technology shouldn't have. He tests the trigger, and it moves smoothly, his finger immediately finding the right position despite all the callouses, the cold of the metal almost feels as if it's welcoming him.
He follows the crowd in a trance, not looking up, afraid that if he did, it would disappear, his fingers only clutching thin air, waking up to reality. And then, suddenly, he's home.
He's home, on the range, and with a rifle in his hands, steady, and he feels like he's in a dream, as he loads, as he lifts the rifle to his shoulder, balancing it a moment just longer than necessary, and then he narrows his eye, holds his breath and pulls the trigger.
In two years, two long, silent years, the first shot rings out, and he wants to laugh, wants to cry, because it's real, it's real, and the bullet in the bullseye is real, and he feels warm, warm, as if it was finally summer, and yet he's not sweating, as he reloads and aims and pulls the trigger again and again, bullseye after bullseye.
He's finally whole, finally him, after two long suffocating years and he doesn't have to think, because he just knows, he just feels, and he's one with the weapon as he smiles, feeling alive.
And then he notices the clapping, the cheers, as the cadets surround him, their own rifles discarded, as they cheer for him, you were amazing, where did you learn that, and that warmth suddenly grows into a sun, so bright, so overflowing, and Bertholdt practically glows as he laughs, feeling light, flying, like never before, because they are cheering for him, for him, for Bertholdt Hoover.
And then someone touches his arm, his left arm, right where the red used to be, the crimson of blood, like the blood of the countless people he spilled and he crashes down, looking at Reiner's worried face, feeling Annie's stare on his back.
He crashes down, muscles light turning heavy like the lead of the bullets, the rifle lifelessly clattering from his hands. His hands, covered in blood, that no one can see, and yet always there, blood he can never wash away, his hands, calloused from years of target practice, his hands, a prick of his finger enough to blow all of these people away into ashes.
Hands, molded to shoot. Hands, only good for killing.
He chokes on unsaid words. His eyes burning, laughter turning into acid in his chest.
A weapon.
Right.
He silently murmurs an I'm fine to Reiner's wordless question, before he picks up his rifle again, chest tight with tears and holds it close, for one last time, still surrounded by cheers of his comrades.
Cheers of his friends. Cheers of his victims-to-be.
He then walks away, rifle held in one hand, rigid, unnatural, the metal burning accusatory, cold, and the cheers quiet, as Bertholdt Hoover, always quiet, awkward Bertholdt Hoover, quietly and awkwardly leaves the range, assignment done, target full of bullseyes, a confused crowd of cadets staring after him in bewilderment.
(They never see him shoot like that again, so precise, so effortless, so alive. They write it down as an anecdote. A once-in-a-lifetime lucky streak. A prank.)
(By the time the training years are over, they don't remember a thing.)
—
Bertholdt Hoover is lying awake at night, beside his victims, soundless tears falling from his eyes, just aching to shoot, to be alive, to matter, to be someone.
To be surrounded by friends. To be home.
Lying awake, closing his trembling fingers into fists, taking shaky lungfuls of air, trying to forget that feeling of flying, of feeling whole, of being alive.
Fists, covered in innocents' blood. Fists, only good for killing.
He just wants to be free. Happy. Loved.
He chokes on his tears.
He's just a weapon. Weapons don't have feelings. Weapons don't deserve to have feelings.
So what does it matter if his heart breaks inside. Weapons don't have those anyway.