word dump

20s. intj. she/her writer on AO3

[dont-rainonme]

｡° RAIN⋆｡°✧/ 20s. intj. she/her writer on AO3. masterlist. blog update

mainly aot + levi w/ occasional multifandom reblogs + thoughts. i'll be sharing updates + previews of the fics i'm currently working on REQUESTS ARE CURRENTLY CLOSED but i'm always down for a chat!! feel free to reach out anytime :)

@dont-rainonme do not copy, translate or feed my work into ai

[lanvasko]

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[dont-rainonme]

hi! i discovered your gunsmoke fic today and just finished binge reading<33 just wanted to say that i love how you write levi and your attention to detail to the plot and even the side characters! :D thank you for writing!

Thank YOU anon for reading!! You're honestly too kind, I'm so glad you're picking up all the details and are enjoying the story 🫶

[dont-rainonme]

GUNSMOKE

Chapter Six: Of Blood and Rust

PAIRING: Levi Ackerman/Reader RATING: 18+ (violence, eventual nsfw) TAGS: major character death, slow burn (and I mean SLOW burn), eventual romance, eventual smut, canon-typical violence, reader is an engineer, girls with guns, balls & galas, protective Levi Ackerman denial of feelings, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, plot heavy, PTSD/trauma, mystery, canon divergence (in some parts), she falls first he falls harder CHAPTER WARNINGS: graphic descriptions of violence, death and corpses CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 10.6k

Read here on AO3 | Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Your ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton, your mind dulled by fog.

Your body doesn’t entirely feel like your own as the morning dissolves into a frantic rush: soldiers hurry past you, questions are asked and you’re aware that your mouth moves with a response, but your voice falls as a foreign sound to your ears. You hardly register the clunky weight of the gear at your hips, the condensed ball of anxiety you’ve tried to dismiss these past few weeks now bursting at the seams and ready to spill.

Grabbing Pages’ reigns, you mount your horse and take your place with Mike’s squad, feel yourself nodding numbly along as the Section Commander runs through any final reminders. Ultimately, it’s Erwin’s booming voice carrying over the green-caped crowd that disperses the haze in your head, grounding you once more as the clarity returns.

Flashes of the blue and white wings pierce through the sea of green as the troops around you raise their swords and fisted hands with a powerful cry. The gates of Karanes open with a resounding groan and as the first of the Corps begin to move, Mike throws a glance over his shoulder, eyes locking with yours. Though the nod of his head is barely perceptible, his steady gaze keeps you rooted in reality. You nod back, swallowing hard.

Your heart thunders wildly when Pages strides forward— first with a gentle walk before the pace breaks into a rhythmic canter and all of a sudden, you’re shooting through the gate, past the Walls and out into the open plains.

Sun glaring in your eyes, exhilaration floods your system as you lean into the wind, feel the ripple of muscle under each bounding motion. Every man and their horse falls into a perfect rendition of Erwin’s formation and you snap out your brief wonder to ensure you’re keeping your own position with the squad.

The last dregs of your awe tides over into apprehension when the first column of red cuts through the sky— titan spotted. Your stomach lurches, grip tightening on the reins. Several streaks of crimson smoke follow as the message passes from squad to squad when a new flare erupts from where the original first did, only this time, it shoots up black.

Abnormal.

Henning swears under his breath. Nanaba utters an incredulous, “Already?”, voicing your own thoughts. The sound of another flare firing shocks you all out your disbelief, your eyes fixing onto the fresh pillar of green in the distance— redirection from Erwin.

But as Mike veers to the left towards the new bearing, the rest of you following suit, you can’t help but look back at the fading black in the sky, a dark stain amongst the red. No other flares have been shot from that region since the announcement of the abnormal. Your anxiety returns tenfold with the dread of what that could mean.

It doesn’t take long for the answer to come: it starts with a slight tremble in the ground, hardly noticeable at first, followed by a thundering crash that sends a flock of birds fleeing. A glance behind you has your blood freezing, eyes widening at the sight of two hideous titans barrelling towards you from behind, heavy-footed and clearly starving.

“One nine metre, one six metre!” you shout, heart in your throat as you whip back around.

“Gelgar! Let’s go!” Thomas yells and together, the two men flanking the back immediately change direction, riding away from you and towards the pair of brutes. You watch as Gelgar charges at the tallest of the two, Thomas taking down the six metre with the same speed and precision you’ve seen him exhibit during training.

“The whole thing’s a mess,” Lynne mutters beside you, “Titans shouldn’t be this deep into the formation.”

“I didn’t see any new flares from the right flank,” Henning says, his words directed to Mike, “What’s the situation with them?”

“I don’t know,” the Section Commander replies from over his shoulder, “I think— Shit!”

It’s by pure instinct that Mike drives his reins upwards, barely swerving past the foot that comes crashing down. Panic flaring, you can hardly process what’s happening when the other foot follows, slamming right into the earth in front of you.

There’s no time to react— Pages trips over the foot with startled alarm and you’re thrown off your saddle onto solid ground. Pain fires straight up your shoulder, a searing type of agony that pulls an involuntary cry from your throat. Someone calls your name - Mike, you think - but chaos reigns around you and this pain is different. It’s nothing like the type you felt when you and Mike fell onto the platform together back in your first training session; it’s sharp and then it dulls, prickling your nerves and leaving you disoriented as it throbs angrily under your skin.

But then the same foot stomps down again, missing you by a breath, and you have no choice but to work through your pain and dizziness, staggering to your feet as you risk a look up.

It’s Gelgar, still engaged with the same nine-metre that’s now chased him here. You can hear the drone of his ODM as you try to run, the grinding of the mechanics whilst he swings around and you feel yourself frown because something sounds off. Something is wrong.

Without any warning, the titan twists carelessly around, hands flailing to swat him away. Why hasn’t the damn thing been killed yet? You narrowly dodge its stumbling feet, feel your fear in your throat with each near miss as the ground churns under the titan’s floundering. Your mind has yet to fully clear when your boot catches on the earth and you tumble back to the ground.

“Smith!”

Relief overwhelms your system when your head snaps up and you see Mike riding towards you, urgency written in the way he kicks his horse into a faster pace. Leaning to the side, he stretches out a hand.

“Grab on!”

Pushing yourself up, you catch his hand as he passes, feel his fingers secure around your arm when he grips and pulls.That same shooting pain instantly returns as you realise it was the same shoulder you landed on that Mike was holding. You suck in a sharp breath, the sound poorly concealed.

“Are you hurt?” Mike asks, effortlessly hauling you onto his horse.

“No, I’m okay,” you lie almost autonomously, breathless.

Your shoulder pulses with a burning ache that has your jaw clenching, but you convince yourself it’ll fade, that the sensation is disproportional to the actual severity of the injury. You’re grateful you’re sitting behind Mike, the broad expanse of his back concealing the way your face scrunches in pain as you reconvene with the squad, his horse slowing to a stop.

To your relief, a quick look over reveals no casualties as Lynne comes up to you, Pages and his reins safely with her. She explains how she quickly retrieved him once you fell, saving him from running off - or worse - getting trampled under the titan’s foot. You thank her profusely as you swing back onto your saddle, forcing your face to remain neutral despite the strain in your shoulder.

A resounding thud sounds off the side and your head turns to see the nine-metre finally crumple to the ground, a deep slash carved into its nape. It’s Nanaba who took the kill, and from the way she marches off the steaming corpse and slams her blades back into her sides, you can tell— she’s furious.

“Fucking hell Gelgar, are you trying to kill us all?” she snaps once she nears. Gelgar bristles at her hostility.

“What?”

“Don’t what me, you idiot. What took you so long? Why didn’t you kill it?”

“Look— I don’t know what happened, okay?” Gelgar splutters, “I just— I don’t know! I needed to warm up.”

“Warm up?” Nanaba repeats, her voice a whole octave higher, “We were almost crushed to death because you didn’t warm up?”

“Enough,” Mike cuts in sharply. The pair open their mouths to protest, but a scathing glare from the Section Commander effectively shuts the argument down, “We’ll lose the formation if we waste our time here fighting.”

Turning his horse away, the rest of you follow, the remainder of the ride continued in dour silence. Flares of varying colours and directions continue to fire around you, but your eyes ultimately settle on Gelgar and the ODM jostling around his middle, something uneasy squirming in your gut as you recall his performance earlier.

It was subtle, but something didn’t sound right, the smooth whir you would usually expect replaced by the gritty rasp of sliding metal. You debate asking about it, if Gelgar himself had noticed anything off, but your worries of paranoia and overthinking has you suppressing your question, because why wouldn’t it be fine? His set was from the new shipment - allof them were - and you had spent hours rigorously inspecting them before the expedition, any defects resolved immediately. You wouldn’t overlook a fault, you’re sure of it.

Your inner turmoil draws to an abrupt end with the arrival of another soldier. He pulls up beside the squad, red-faced and gasping for air and as he shouts over the rapid canter of hooves, you feel your heart sink impossibly lower.

Erwin’s formation is devastated, he tells you all, confirming the worst, an abnormal was responsible.

“A female titan summoned the horde!” the soldier continues, “They’re tearing through the formation as we speak!”

“Summoned them?” Henning repeats, causing several wary glances to be traded amongst you . Your eyes lock briefly with Mike’s and without exchanging a single word, you know you’ve both come to the same conclusion: that this female titan was the traitor, the other suspected shifter, that yet another one of Erwin’s notions had proved themselves true.

“The right flank?” Mike asks once he looks away, but he already knows the answer. The air is rife with blood: rich, coppery and sickening. His nose twitches.

“Completely annihilated. The Commander’s directing the troops around the forest— follow the flares!”

Then the soldier departs, no doubt to relay the same message to whoever was left standing, and Mike delivers his orders— keep your heads down and avoid any combat. The aim is to reach the forest. Despite the way your stomach twists, you listen; since the soldier left, the number of flares and titans spotted has drastically increased. The horde must be catching up.

Even as large hands snatch bodies off steeds and red splatters across the grass, your vision narrows only to the view directly in front of you, a heavy lump in your throat. Your eyes close when you pass those engaged in action, but it doesn’t block out the pleading, the screaming, the bloody crunching of bone.

“Fuck!”

One yell has you making the mistake of looking up, eyes honing in on a soldier in the near distance. His name escapes you, face faintly familiar, but you watch as he battles with a eight-metre, hooks sinking into pallid flesh. Wires pull him in an arc as he aims for the nape, and as you approach, you hear his ODM: the whirring, the grinding, the moving of metal parts and then—

Click.

His wires go slack and his momentum is lost.

Tumbling to the ground, the soldier rolls out the way, dodges the hand that swipes for him. He jerks to his feet, nape in view once more and his fingers quickly pull at the triggers. The anchor digs into the titan’s neck and he’s anticipating the yank of the ODM when you hear it again:

Click.

Nothing. The gear doesn’t reel him in. Gas wheezes out with a dying pressure.

He’s stuck.

The realisation strikes him the same time it hits you, and all you can do is watch in silent horror as you ride past when the eight-meter jerks around, eyes bright with morbid delight at the sight of cornered prey. The soldier pulls at the triggers again, the action frantic, panicked, when another click! taunts your ears and your stomach drops, because you know that sound— you’ve heard it before in Gelgar’s gear.

A hand rams down, killing the soldier instantly.

“Mike!” You yell, heart thundering as you twist back around, “That soldier back there, he—“

“Turn around and look forward.”

You don’t recognise Mike’s voice when he cuts you off, face dark and tone void of empathy as he glares ahead, cold, composed. Stunned, you look to the rest of your squad, but no one meets your eye. They too, have missed the detail you caught.

“But I think—”

“Turn around.”

The forest finally comes into view, trees cresting over the hill.

"The gear—"

"Now, Smith.”

“But Mike—“

“Turn around!” The older scout snaps louder, angrier and you flinch, because Mike would usually hear you out and rarely would he ever be so short with you. But then you remember that both him and his squad have seen this before - this chaos, the bloodshed, all this needless death - and have since learnt to push through. To them, that soldier back there was yet another unfortunate casualty, another number to account for. But to you, that soldier and his end only further deepened your suspicions that beyond the immediate threat of the traitor, something was terribly wrong and right now, it seemed like only you had noticed.

But as your horses breach the first line of trees, you listen to Mike, swallow your doubts and lower your head. The Section Commander orders the rest of the squad to remain on the outskirts, to keep watch with the rest of the Corps whilst the two of you ride deeper inside. There’s confusion, a few questioning looks, but nobody explicitly protests, the chain of command obeyed as they leave their horses at the base of the trees and settle on the branches above.

You follow the cobbled path to a clearing where no more than twenty soldiers are present— the select few entrusted with the traitor’s capture. Hange’s here, Moblit too and above, you spy your brother on a branch where Mike joins him, carefully observing the entire operation.

Immediately, you get to work. Soldiers approach you, ask where and how you exactly want the traps to be set up and in return, your answers are swift and direct, the details extracted verbatim from your memory of the blueprints that you poured hours over.

The trees in this woods are massive, far larger than the ones you’ve trained with at the Corps’ headquarters. Their sturdy size easily accommodate the clunkiness of the spike-filled barrels you haul up as people are directed to their positions. Multiple times do you find yourself glancing at your brother, the urge to tell him about that soldier from earlier and your suspicions with the gear gnawing away at you, but you’re working with an expended timer, the Female Titan no doubt rapidly nearing you all. Right now, this takes precedence.

And just as you find your place behind a trap, your fingers ready on the rope attached to the trigger, that’s when you hear it— footsteps.

The force of each lunging stride trembles through the ground and straight up the branch you stand on, hands gripping the bark of the trunk to stabilise yourself. You spot Eren and his squad before her: a blur of blonde hair and muscle as she charges forward in pursuit, sharp, focused and deadly.

Soldiers are slapped away with heartless ease, a trail of screams and bloody corpses left in her wake. She’s getting closer— closer to Eren, closer to you, but drawing her focus solely on the squad proves a fatal error on her part.

It’s at the last second that she notices the soldiers in the trees. Pale blue eyes widen, but it’s too late— she steps exactly where you want her to. Erwin’s voice booms through the air.

“Fire!”

With all your strength, you yank the rope, hooks bursting out the barrels with a flash and tearing through layers of sinew. Erwin’s command to empty the arsenals is barely audible over the deafening rattle of each explosion; gunpowder kicks into the air, smoke pollutes your lungs, and despite your attempt to cover your ears, a faint ringing persists inside them.

It takes what feels like minutes for the sound to fade, and it’s only then do you realise that the onslaught had ended, the chaos over. And as the dust settles on the forest floor, her silhouette fades into defined features and you finally see her in her entirety— the Female Titan, the traitor, the one who scattered the right flank across a bloody field, now caught and rendered completely immobile.

“These traps were perfect!” a giddy voice exclaims, and you don’t have to turn to know it’s Hange who’s landed behind you, “She can’t move to scratch even an itch. Good job, Smith!”

A hearty slap is delivered straight to your back, but you’re hesitant to claim a complete victory yet, your stare glued to the arrowheads hooked into tender flesh. With bated breath, you watch as the Female twitches, the movement ever so slight, and just as you observed back then with Hange and their two titans, the arrowheads sink deeper with a grisly squelch. It’s confirmed: you’ve immobilised her completely.

You allow yourself a sigh, but it’s not enough to rid yourself of the tension that hangs heavy over your shoulders. You may have restrained your intended target, but the thoughts of that soldier and his gear lingers incessantly in the back of your mind, dampening the relief of this success. You can feel it— this isn’t the end.

“Something’s wrong,” you mutter softly.

“With the traps?” Hange says, and you startle slightly, forgetting they were still beside you, “What do you mean? They worked fine!”

“No,” you quickly amend, because if there’s anyone who’s going to listen to you, it’s Hange, “It’s the gear. I think—”

Something shatters above you and you straighten up instantly, both you and Hange stunned to find fragments of ultrahard steel hailing down. Mike swears loudly as he swings back up with blade-less hilts, succeeded by the Captain who launches himself into the air. He raises his blades, body turning in a deadly arc to slice through the hands covering the nape—

—Except his blades shatter directly upon impact, the same outcome as Mike’s. Hange taps your shoulder, points to something on the titan’s hands. Your neck strains as you just about catch the crystal-like solid coating her knuckles.

“That’s what broke their blades,” they murmur to you as the Captain lands beside Mike. The pair assess the scene below with faces stiff, concerned, “I watched it form on her fingers when Levi tried to attack.”

Your lips thin, “If we can’t cut through whatever it is—”

“—Then we’ll have to blow it up,” Hange finishes for you, nodding.

This realisation seems to hit Erwin as the order to ready the traps is given once more and Hange returns to their post. Your hand grips the rope, skin prickling with anxiety as you wait for the signal, but as Erwin raises his hand, ready to drive it down, the Female Titan parts her mouth, sucks in a breath and screams.

Hands slam over your ears, cape and hair whipping your face with a rush of air. The sound is inhuman, a desperate, bestial screech that reverberates deep in your chest and pervades through your very bone. The forest carries the echo and after a loaded pause, one by one do the soldiers around you emerge from where they were crouched, a sea of uncertain glances and low whispers. It greatly contrasts the seriousness with which Mike approaches your brother, a dark certainty set in the furrows of his brow.

“Erwin— it stinks,” he announces, loud enough for you to hear. Erwin turns, eyes narrowing slightly.

“From where?”

“Every direction, multiple sources,” he pauses, sniffs again, “It’s a whole horde of them.”

No sooner had the words left Mike’s mouth does the ground begin to rumble, a light tremor that rapidly escalates into sudden, violent shaking. Blades are drawn, orders are barked out but the noise is drowned under the sound of hundreds of footsteps closing rapidly in when the first of the titans breaches the clearing and clamps its mouth around the Female’s leg.

Another follows, then three, then seven, until the entire drove pushes through and you realise it’s not the soldiers their eager fingers reach for, but the captured titan herself.

She’s swarmed in a matter of seconds; teeth rip through muscle and nails tear through layers of tissue as she’s devoured alive in her restraints. All you can do is watch with revolted horror at the squelching of flesh and the volley of blood that follows, steam rising through the air and quickly obstructing your view.

But Erwin’s reaction is just as fast— the gravitas of his voice carries over the commotion below to knock his soldiers out of their own disgust. The command rings out loud and clear.

Fell the horde. Protect the Female Titan.

Every Scout moves to follow the order, but not without some hesitation— to defend the one who slaughtered without mercy felt like a mockery, an insult to those crushed by her hand. And if the bitter look on your brother’s face was anything to go by, then it was clear that the irony of the circumstances has not been lost on him.

The sound of your name has you whirling around, your eyes finding Moblit in the tree beside you, several branches up. He gestures you over and before you can overthink your actions, you trust your training, squeeze your triggers and launch yourself in the air.

It’s definitely one of the taller distances you’ve had to cover and your landing still has a slight stumble to it, but you make it to Moblit unscathed nonetheless. He darts an arm out to stop your momentum, helps you stabilise yourself once more as you straighten up.

“I saw several twelve-metres down there,” he tells you as explanation for why he called you, “Even if we’re not their targets this time, you need to get out of range.”

You nod, recognising that the situation was far beyond your abilities. Given the little time you had to train, all you had drilled were the ways to move and cover distances with the gear. The closest you’d come to learning any offensive strategies was when Mike showed you how to attach the blades to the hand grips — in case you need to, in emergencies, he told you. Otherwise, you weren’t expected to swing a sword, let alone kill a titan. The best thing you could do right now was watch the Corps slowly hack their way through the horde below themselves.

So when you spot Moblit’s near-empty scabbards either side, you don’t have to think your decision through. Relinquishing your own entirely of their blades, you hand them over. And after reassuring Moblit that he would find more use in them than you would, he thanks you, refills his supply and drops from the branch to face the swarm again.

By now, the steam has billowed up into a cloud of suffocating heat with each titan that pile around the Female’s mangled body. Even through the muggy haze however, you manage to pick out Mike. He’s hanging dangerously low, weaving scrappily between the legs of the masses. You frown. What is he—

Click.

“Mike, get back!”

Mike twists around at your warning, eyes wide as he just about misses the foot that slams down. Immediately, you descend to a lower branch, watch as Mike struggles to manoeuvre towards you, lacking his usual coordination. He all but rams into the branch with a heavy grunt as you rush over to help him up, feel a keen pull in your shoulder as you do.

“Take off your gear,” you demand once he’s stood, your heart ready to lurch out of your chest right there and then. Mike pulls back, bewildered.

“What?”

“Take off your gear, Zacharias,” you repeat impatiently, frustration building fast because Mike wasn’t listening to you and you didn’t have time. You were so sure you had thoroughly examined the supply beforehand, why the hell—

“—would I do that?!”

“Just listen to me for once and show me your gear!”

Your sudden outburst renders Mike silent, stunning him into compliance as he detaches the main housing of the ODM from behind. He watches as you grab it from him and pull out a small knife, flicking the blade out and wrenching it into the screws. Unlatching the side of the gear, your reaction is instant: your face drops, blood draining as your expression morphs into one of utter horror.

What you face inside isn’t the polished finish of metal parts and cabling— no, what greets you instead is rusted mechanics, the metal corroded into something brittle, ruined and beyond repari. Perfectly fresh, brand-new ODM, damaged completely from the insides.

That soldier from earlier— his gear must’ve been in the same state, Gelgar’s too. Someone had sabotaged the new supply.

“Shit.”

It’s barely a whisper, but Mike hears it regardless.

“What is it?”

“The gear’s been messed with,” the words fly out your mouth, Mike’s gear temporarily discarded as you start unbuckling your own, “I don’t know who, I don’t know how, but your ODM’s rusted entirely.”

You waste no time in removing the screws, wrenching open the side and feeling your shoulders sag at the sight of untarnished metal. So some were damaged, others weren’t, the erosion all at varying stages of decay. The Scouts were currently in the deadliest game of chance and with the way things were going, you didn’t like this operation’s odds.

“Smith—”

“Get rid of the rest, it’s useless,” you tell Mike, head jerking to the remaining belt around his waist as you fix your own gear back on.

“About earlier—”

“Not now, Mike,” you dismiss half-distractedly, detaching the main body of his damaged gear as you scan the canopy for your brother.

“I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine,” you clip impatiently. Where is— there. You spot Erwin on a branch on a tree on the opposite side of the clearing, a fair distance up.

“No, it’s not,” Mike presses firmly, stepping closer, “I should’ve listened to what you were trying to say earlier. I should’ve trusted you.”

You finally look at the Section Commander, feel the frustration radiating off of him. Releasing a sigh, you cast your eyes back down below, watching the heap of steaming corpses stack steadily higher.

“I get why you didn’t,” you say, “You had every reason to think I was just rattled. I’m not holding it against you.”

“But—”

“I don’t need your apologies, Mike. Just trust me with this now.”

Swallowing his words, Mike nods, watches as you secure his gear over your back and step closer to the branch’s edge.

“Stay here. I’m going to Erwin.”

With a steady inhale, you step off, hooking your cables above you as your gas hisses out. The extra weight of Mike’s gear leaves a slight wobble in your movements as your ODM pulls you up, and although this titan mob’s target isn’t human, it doesn’t make it any less daunting as you manoeuvre over them. Reaching the branch where your brother stood, you ignore the slight strain in your legs from your haphazard landing.

“Commander!”

Blue eyes shift to your direction, the concern creasing his face mirroring the tight pull of your lips. Erwin had seen you by yourself on a branch of your own just now. What on earth were you doing here?

“You’re making a mistake. Call your men back now.”

The directness of your tone takes him briefly by surprise, but he steels his expression as you march towards him. Below, his men were steadily culling the horde. No doubt there would be casualties but you were usually trusting of his judgement.

“No.”

“Erwin—”

“No,” he reaffirms, countering your furious disbelief with a warning look, “I believe I was clear in my orders and you’re in no position to—“

“The new gear’s malfunctioning,” you interrupt, removing Mike’s gear from your back and holding it up. First Mike, now Erwin. No one was listening to you today.

“Someone’s sabotaged the supply,” you continue quickly, “This one’s Mike’s— the outside’s fine, but the insides are completely rusted and I think Gelgar’s gear is the same. I can’t tell how many are affected, but I saw a soldier dying earlier because of this. If I’m right, then—“

“The Special Operations Squad,” Erwin catches on and you nod, anxious. Both Eren’s safety alongside theirs was now compromised in light of this sabotage.

“Your gear?” Your brother asks.

“I checked, it’s fine. What about yours? I can have a look.”

Reaching behind him, Erwin removes the main body of the gear and hands it to you without another word. Dropping to a knee, you grab your knife and wedge it into the screws, feel your pulse spike when they meet you with resistance. They’re tight— too tight, as if a hand other than your own had removed and replaced them before. Your breath hitches when you look inside.

“How bad?” Erwin asks sharply.

“Not as bad as Mike’s,” you start shakily, “But it’s enough.”

You hold out the gear as you stand once more, an uneasiness spreading at your brother’s stony expression. But despite his clinical detachment, you catch the way his fingers tighten around the casing when he sees the rust crawling around the gas valves, threading through the inner frame and tarnishing the surrounding wires. Silently, he returns the gear to you to fix back the screws as he steps closer to the edge, surveying the carnage below.

Most of the mob have been killed, but this feels like no victory. Even without the sabotage, he knows this operation was a failure. The traitor was either dead in a titan’s mouth or worse— vanished, gone, and likely smart enough to slip away amidst the commotion. Knowing his luck, he’s leaning towards the latter.

“Smith!”

On instict, Erwin turns and finds both Hange and Moblit rushing towards you, breathless.

“We just saw Mike— he told us everything,” Hange says, gripping you tightly at the arms, “Is it true? The gear?”

“It is,” Erwin asserts as he approaches, watching the way their faces falls when you hand them Mike’s ODM. You also return your brother’s gear, the main body reattached to his belt. The weight does more to trouble him than soothe him.

“This was from the new supply?” Moblit asks disbelievingly, rubbing a thumb over the rust.

“I don’t understand how it happened either,” you say, shaking your head, “Everything passed the inspections and this level of decay doesn’t just happen overnight. The only time I’ve seen damage to this extent was with gear that wasn’t cleaned for weeks and that was from—”

You pause, the pieces clicking into place faster than your heart could catch up.

“Titan blood,” you say softly before your head snaps up, “Hange— the samples.”

Both Hange and Moblit’s eyes widen with yours as your minds infer the same thing: whoever was behind this had used the blood samples stored in Hange’s office to destroy the new supply. Of course, this was all speculation, but it would explain how the damage was targeted, intentional, focused mainly on wearing down the inner mechanics.

“When did you last check them?” Erwin asks them both.

“Yesterday morning,” Moblit says, “They were all there as far as I could tell.”

“Whoever tampered with the gear must’ve done it after you finished all the inspections last night,” your brother says, looking at you.

“But even if they used the samples, the decay wouldn’t have been this bad,” Hange thinks out loud, a hand over their mouth, “Titan blood is highly corrosive, sure, but even then, rust doesn’t spread this fast— something accelerated the process.”

“Heat, friction,” you realise stiffly, “From using the gear.”

Erwin’s jaw tightens, “So the gear would only start failing mid-operation.”

“They wanted us to fall,” you whisper, horrified, “Mid-air, whilst fighting so we have no time to think or react.”

Hange glances at your brother, swallows hard.

“Targeting the ODM of those on the right flank meant the Female Titan could easily breach the formation. The rest of the blood was likely used on the gears of those who posed a threat — you, Mike.”

What Hange was saying made sense. With their focus poured into their leadership rather than engaging in active combat, both Mike and Erwin barely used their ODM this expedition. A large volume of blood must’ve been used on their gears to create rust of that degree. As for the other soldiers, the damage caused by a smaller volume of blood would’ve worsened under the heat and friction from their repeated use of the gear.

Whoever orchestrated this wanted to tear the Corps apart— to wreck the chain of command and let the titans finish the rest. You think of Gelgar, Mike, Erwin, how close they all were to devastation. And then that nameless soldier from earlier pushes himself to the forefront of your mind and you’re hit with a wave of nausea— a dreadful guilt that spreads through you like a fever from a rotting plague.

It was you who ran the inspections, who saw to any repairs. The gear was your responsibility and you had signed it off with conviction, had told Erwin that it was ready to use, and in your blind confidence, you had missed the possibility of sabotage. That soldier, the right flank— how many more had fallen victim to your oversight? How many did you doom to die with rusted steel around their waists?

“Have either of you noticed anything off with your own gears?” You hear Erwin ask the pair beside you. Your head feels heavier, like the shame had settled on your tongue and left you choking on your words.

“Nothing with mine so far,” Hange replies.

Moblit nods, “Same with me.”

“If you’re not experiencing any obvious faults, then you should be fine for now,” your brother surmises, “Still, limit how much you use them, just as a precaution.”

Reaching into his inner pocket, there’s a subtle shift in his posture as he makes his decision. That same sickening feeling worsens when you spot his flare gun and the colour of the shell he loads it with. Blue smoke draws a clean streak through the sky and although you know this was the right call, it feels like you’re swallowing sand, your throat impossibly dry.

“We’re retreating back to Karanes,” Erwin announces, “There’s an abandoned village on the way where we’ll reconvene. I need you to check everyone’s gear then,” he adds, addressing you, “Give the ones that still work to those who can still fight and discard the ones that don’t.”

“And the dead?” you ask stiffly, remembering the wagons assigned to carry the corpses. You had passed them and their riders earlier when they were still empty, but dread floods your chest when you consider how full they may be by the end of this.

“Check theirs too,” your brother says, “We need to salvage as many sets as we can. For now, find Mike and give him your gear.”

Wordlessly, you manage a nod as Hange and Moblit leave to find the rest of their squad. There’s a voice in your stomach as you follow suit, regrouping with Mike and handing him your gear as instructed. Your arms wrap around his neck as he swings you both back to the ground where your horses rest, and in a matter of minutes, you’re rushing back down the path to the edge of the forest where the rest of the Corps wait.

It’s on the way there that you repeat everything to the Section Commander, your voices hushed and mind a half-tangled mess of fears and suspicions. You explain the rust, the samples and the targeting of certain people and units when pure white consumes your vision and it takes you a second to process— lightning. Two strikes, both mere minutes apart.

There’s a piercing scream, one that resonates from deep within the forest from where the lightning struck. But it’s not the Female Titan who caused such a noise. This one was deeper, pained, a sound injected with raging despair. This wasn’t a cry befitting of a heartless killer, but someone who knew the taste of anger, whose emotions burned with the ferocity of a fuel-fed fire.

“Eren?” Hange gasps, head craned towards the direction of the commotion. Even Erwin glances behind him, expression hardening.

“Keep moving!” he commands over the nervous murmurs, “We need to leave, now.”

You reach the outskirts of the forest not long after and the remaining soldiers posted in the branches above join you, Mike’s squad included. They share the same confusion from earlier, ask questions about the lightning, the scream and the rumours of the abnormal, but both you and Mike deflect, unsure on how much can be shared.

The village falls into your sights after a short ride. It’s small, the buildings aged and beyond repair, but it’s sufficient enough to use as a temporary base. Erwin wastes no time in assembling his men to disclose the situation— the gear was malfunctioning and each set had to be looked at. No hows or whys, just the issue stripped bare to its skeleton, revealing only what was necessary.

Lines form before you, Hange, Moblit and a few volunteers. Quickly, you fall into a rhythm: undo the screws, scan the insides, then depending on its condition, dispose of it or hand it back. The repetitiveness is enough to keep you afloat, to occupy your mind from anything but the mound of broken ODM growing at your side.

Those who were seen to return to their duties: tending to the wounded, the horses or checking supplies and serving as lookouts. It’s from one of these soldiers perched on a roof that you’re alerted to the arrival of some stragglers — the Special Ops Squad, you think, but once the group reaches the village and dismounts in what used to be its plaza, a quick scan reveals that none of them are anywhere to be seen.

None, except their Captain himself and Eren Jaeger, unconscious in Mikasa’s arms.

She rushes to an empty cart where she lays Eren down, Armin joining her side. Deep grooves mar the young shifter’s cheeks like tears tracks and that void from before seems to eat you alive, sucking all the warmth from your skin.

Where was the squad? Your eyes fall to the rest of the new arrivals and find only two other soldiers resting by their horses, a wagon pulled by each.

Bodies, you realise. Swathed in shroud, piled in a heap. That’s what fills each wagon, a stray hand dangling limply out from the thin cloth.

Before you even realise what you’re doing, you ask the soldiers before you to join another line, muttering a quick apology before you’re on your feet, heading for the carts. But as you rise, so does Moblit, his hand on your shoulder causing you to turn.

“You don’t have to do this to yourself,” he says quietly, glancing to the pile of white fabric, “Me and Hange can do it.”

“It’s okay, Mob, I’ll be fine,” you try to smile, but its weak, barely reaching your eyes. You appreciate his concern and the attempt to save you the burden of such a terrible task, but the gear was your duty. You need to check them yourself.

“Are you sure?”

“Someone has to do it. And Erwin ordered me to anyways.”

“I’ll join you once I’m done with my line,” Moblit proposes, eyes flicking back at the row of soldiers waiting for him, “I shouldn’t take too long.”

You nod, grateful, “Thank you.”

He shoots you a quick half-smile before leaving, one you try to return as you near the wagons. After explaining the situation to the two soldiers - both of whom you recognise to be members of Hange’s squad - the carts are relocated behind the village where the earth evens out. Abel and Nifa introduce themselves properly before the pair help you in carrying each covered body to the grass, lowering them down with a tenderness that crushes your heart.

Twenty six. That’s how many corpses you count. That’s how many were recovered alone.

You check Abel and Nifa’s gears yourself as a token of thanks and feel that void grow impossibly larger when you discover that the rust has found theirs too— just like Hange’s.

Both them and Moblit had examined their ODM first thing once the Corps settled in the village, and whilst Moblit’s turned out clean, it was just as Erwin had cautioned. Despite their initial claims that their gear were fine and without fault, the inside said otherwise, corrosion creeping stealthily through the metal and eating away at the parts like a silent killer.

It’s hard to stop the tremble in your hands when you uncover the first body, eyes fixed on the gear and only the gear as you gently remove it from their middle. You check it, salvage what you can and move onto the next, blanketing each corpse once more as you go.

You don’t look at their faces— you can’t, even if it feels wrong, even when your peripheral catches mangled features and missing limbs and a dark curiosity tempts you to. You ignore the red staining their uniforms, the joints bent out of place and bones protruding out, resist the urge to flinch when you accidentally brush against cold fingers.

But despite your attempts to focus, your breath is thin, hands still shaking. You’re not making progress as quickly as you’d like to, delayed by the images your brain supplies of what state her body must’ve been in when she was supposedly pushed from the Wall.

Her funeral was closed-casket, after all. Neither you, Erwin or your father could bear to tarnish the life she had in your memories with the sight of her rotting corpse.

Cursing your mind even making the connection, you’re thankful when Moblit joins you soon after as promised. The remaining corpses are divided between you both and though you share no more than a few scarce words with each other, the presence of another person is enough to help you push through.

You’re on the last row of bodies when you finally reach her. You don’t notice at first, too preoccupied with detaching her gear when the wind catches the edges of the shroud, rustling it with a taunting whisper to flash a familiar shade of auburn. Instinctively, your gaze follows upwards, towards her face, but by the time you realise your mistake, it’s too late.

Petra Ral stares back at you, eyes dead, hollow and bleak.

Startling back, you take in her blood-smeared face, her half-lidded expression and the crumpled contortion of her body. Bile burns your throat, your fingers clenching around her gear as your eyes drift to the three other bodies beside hers and your suspicions from earlier, the news you dreaded to hear is confirmed.

The Special Operations Squad - once hailed as the toughest, most skilful unit in the Corps - now reduced to four broken corpses, their legacies buried under bloody sheets and shattered steel.

Oluo lays twisted on the cloth like Petra, his mouth warped into a haunting distortion of his usual grin. Gunther bleeds from his neck and middle, two deep, vicious cuts slashed brutally into him. And Eld— Eld’s in pieces, ripped in half at his waist where organs and shattered bone pool on the woven cotton below.

It’s his body that finally does it, a hand pressed against your mouth as the acid surges upwards and you empty the contents of your stomach in the seclusion between two houses. Your insides churn with guilt, your skin clammy and burning and although you already know the outcome, although you know what’ll greet you when you open that compartment, you take each of their gears and look inside.

Rusted, broken, and completely useless.

Tears track a silent path down your cheeks as you pull the fabric back over their bodies, closing the eyes of those still open. Something slow, final. It’s Eld who’s last - last of the squad and last of the bodies you have left - and as you’re about to cover him once more, your eyes spot the empty space on his jacket where the Wings of Freedom should be, threads sprouting out from the tan fabric from where the patch had been ripped from.

“It’s a sort of tradition,” a voice says gently, a deep sadness in Moblit’s eyes as he crouches beside you, “That when a Survey Corps soldier dies in the field, that at the very least, you try to get their patch. Sometimes it’s all we’re able to bring back of them, but most families are grateful we get something nonetheless.”

“Who took their patches?” you ask, though you have a feeling you already know.

“Captain Levi did.”

Face impassive, the tears still run as you stare emptily at the four bodies.

“Do you know what happened?”

Moblit swallows, nodding.

“From what I heard, the Female Titan managed to track down Eren’s location. The squad went to protect him and she…” he sighs, a steady exhale through his nose, “She killed them.”

Your eyes drop to the four sets of gear at the foot of each body, the rust that coats what should’ve been otherwise spotless metal. What was it that got them? Was it their wires jamming when they tried to fire them, or was it their gas cutting out mid-manoeuvre?

“Eren transformed and tried to fight her himself,” Moblit continues quietly, “She overpowered him, bit him out the nape and was ready to run when Captain Levi and Mikasa arrived and they managed to retrieve him. He’s passed out now after transforming, but he’ll be fine.”

“And Mikasa and the Captain? How are they?”

“Mikasa’s fine as well. I think she’s just glad we got Eren back,” Moblit says, a faint smile on his face, “As for the Captain, he…” he pauses, smile fading as he searches for the right words, “He seems okay for now, but things are different once we’re back inside the Walls. On top of his ankle, a loss this big will take some time to process.”

You straighten up, “He’s injured?”

Moblit nods, “He said he landed on it funny when he went to grab Eren. I had a quick look at it, and at the very least, he’s sprained it badly.”

Mouth dry, your stomach turns again, though there’s nothing left to give.

“Did you check his gear? The Captain’s?”

Moblit says your name, regards you with concern, “You shouldn’t—”

“Did you, Moblit?” you push, because you need to know, need to see just how much your oversight cost you. Moblit hesitates, lips pressed when he eventually gives in.

“I did.”

“And?”

“Rusted,” he admits. You close your eyes, clenched fists releasing on top of your legs as you breathe a heavy sigh and stand up. Moblit shuffles behind you, says your name. You cut him off.

“I’ve checked all the bodies,” you tell him tonelessly, “There’s nothing left to save here.”

With nothing more to say, you lift the first of the wrapped bodies and return it carefully to the cart. Moblit follows suit, helps you haul each one but even with another hand, each corpse feels heavier, more difficult to move. You can’t tell if it’s your exhaustion that’s weakened you or the added load of your conscience you now have to carry, only that the same heaviness follows you when you see the number of gear you and Moblit could save from the dead.

Three. Three out of twenty-six was all you could recover, the rest damaged beyond repair. Although it’s not certain that every death was caused directly by the gear, you know that one way or another, it contributed to each life that was stolen. How could it not when the ODM was the sole advantage the Corps had out here? That same advantage a pile of broken parts and blood-splattered metal.

You feel yourself fall back into that same state from this morning— loose, detached, like your body wasn’t yours. The throb of your shoulder is the only thing that tethers you down, thrumming under your skin as a constant ache.

Fortunately, no one catches onto your discomfort: not Moblit, not Mike, not his squad and not even Erwin as you prepare to leave. Any sets of functioning gear you retrieved are distributed to those still able-bodied and ready to fight, whilst the rest are disposed of in one of the neglected houses.

You leave them there to succumb to the rot as the Corps departs. You don’t look back.

-+-

There is no relief to be found when the Walls come into view.

Where you thought you would find comfort in your survival, you find only dread as the gates creak open, its height more imposing than inviting. Grass fades into stone as your horses lumber onto the rugged path, flanks streaked with sweat and blood. You know what’s about to happen, have seen it yourself when you’d wait for the Corps’ return if only to see if your brother had make it back alive, unscathed, and feel yourself tense as you brace for the worst.

The whispers start off hushed, confused. Why was the Corps back so early? Why were the wagons, usually packed with the bodies of the fallen, now barren and empty? The silence the crowd receives only feeds their resentment and it doesn’t take long for their impatience to swell as contempt and insults hurl towards the stumbling army with Erwin at the head of it all.

You don’t say anything when the voices start to overlap and the tension rises, just hang your head and stare as your hands grip the reins, knuckles white. You understand their anger, their outrage, can feel it rise inside you yourself now that the adrenaline was starting to dissolve, making space for you to process everything: the failed traps, the sabotaged gear, the countless dead with nothing to show for it.

You weren’t even five minutes away from the village when it happened. Two soldiers, blinded by their anguish, had returned to recover a body. Their blatant act of defiance had drawn the attention of several titans to the retreating force and with the open plains stretching in every direction around you, the Corps was at a disadvantage.

The carts were too heavy, your horses too slow to outpace the vast strides of the monsters behind you. You all knew what was weighing you down, what was allowing the distance between the Corps and the titans to rapidly close. But to give it all up, to throw it away like they were nothing felt like a cruel joke, the knife in each dedicated heart twisting deeper.

But the order was given anyways: dump the bodies. Use the corpses as a distraction to get out of reach.

The words turned your blood cold, the voice who commanded them only reigniting that horrible, all-consuming shame. Despite the callous bark of his tone, grief darkened the Captain’s glare, his fingers curled around his injured leg.

You watched as the first body fell. Then the next, then the one after that, until one by one each shroud-covered body was thrown from the back, smashing carelessly onto the solid ground from where they were plucked by giant hands into gaping mouths.

There was no time to mourn the losses when you were still within their reach. You pushed your horses forward, faster, felt the rush of frustration when the body the two soldiers carried was dropped in their panic, devoured with the rest. Another casualty, another pointless loss.

In the end, you managed to get away, the titans no more than mere specks in the distance. But the carts were now empty, the bodies exchanged for your survival and the faces of those around you have never looked so sombre.

That tightness in your throat from back then keeps its choking hold on you as the Corps passes through the district and trudges towards headquarters. The streets of Wall Rose are quiet, the sun partway through its descent as cold shadows stretch over the buildings.

Though the shouting had been contained in Karanes upon your arrival, discontent spreads like a plague, clear in the sneers of passers-by and the slamming of shutters as you pass. Somehow, the silence cuts deeper.

You stop momentarily as the wrought-iron gates of headquarters are pulled open and the regiment shuffles wearily into the main courtyard. For a second, there’s a pause, as if no one knows what to do with themselves, until that bleak haze fades and soldiers slowly disperse into their respective duties.

Some escort their horses to the stables whilst others unload the wounded. A few just wander, stumbling to the sides where they sit and stare into nothingness— dejected, disoriented and broken beyond the remedies of gauze and salve.

Your squad falls into the first category. Swinging off your mounts, Pages gives a soft grunt as you relieve him of your weight and guide him to his stall in the stables. There, you find several stacks of hay and buckets of water, rewarding your animal with his fill as you gently stroke his mane.

You’re just about done with scanning him for any outstanding injuries when you sense your squad tense, slouches snapping into perfect posture. The reason for their behaviour is clear once you turn.

Erwin has entered the stables and he’s heading straight towards you all.

Fist pressed over your heart, you slowly lower it alongside your squad when Erwin raises a placating hand, greeting the others briefly before his eyes meet yours. You catch the short once-over he gives you, searching for any obvious wounds. Your shoulder tingles with warmth. Erwin doesn’t notice.

“A quick word?” he asks and you nod. You ask Nanaba if she could tidy away the bridle and saddle you had haphazardly thrown over the door to which she agrees, slipping you a reassuring smile when you give Pages a final pet and follow your brother out the building.

Despite the madness of the day, the tiredness doesn’t show in Erwin’s gait, his steps solid and shoulders square as you cut through the courtyard. Only his face reveals a glimpse of his weariness, his features creased as they’re pulled into a small frown. Neither of you utter a single word during your short walk and it’s only when you’re far enough from the main throng of soldiers do you finally speak.

“Don’t ask me how I’m feeling, Erwin,” you start, having sensed the question from the beginning, “We both saw the same things out there. Just tell me what you have to tell me.”

Erwin sighs, the air steadily expelled.

“There’s something you need to know,” he discloses, slowing his pace to a stop, “An order came from Premier Zackley. He’s summoning us to Mitras.”

Your stomach turns. You swallow, uneasy, “Us?”

Erwin nods, “Me, Mike, Levi, Hange… And you.”

“Right now?” you ask shakily, and you can hear it in your voice— your apprehension, your fear, You know what this is going to be about, can feel that dread seeping back into your system. If the head of the entire military himself is asking to see you, you know this can’t bode well.

“In an hour,” your brother clarifies, before confirming what you knew, “He’s asking that you bring the gear. You brought some back, yes?”

“A few,” you nod, swallowing. You and Hange had kept several rusted sets from your checks to later dissect, hoping to extract any scrap of information about the sabotage from them.

“Good,” Erwin says, “Zackley will ask you questions— hard ones and not all of them will be kind. Just remember that he’s looking for an explanation for what happened today. Be honest and tell him exactly what you saw.”

Again, you nod, unable to do much more as your anxiety makes its return. Erwin exhales, his voice dropping to something softer, concerned.

“I know you’ve been through a lot today,” he says gently, “I’m sorry you’re being dragged to this too. Clean up and try to get some rest before we go.”

Another nod, another wordless response. Erwin regards you for another second like he has something to add when someone calls for his attention and he has no choice but to leave. With the remaining hour your brother said you have left counting its way down, you make your way into headquarter’s main building, your feet carrying you to your room.

Absently, you undo your cape and unbuckle your straps, feel the chafing flesh under it smarting as you peel each leather band off. It falls to the floor in an orderless heap, and with your gear and equipment still in Mike’s possession, you search for a clean uniform and grab your toiletries.

With the rest of the Corps still recovering, the communal showers are more or less empty when you enter, your towel thrown over the half-wall of the stall as you strip off the remainder of your clothes. The mirror at your side reflects yourself back to you, and for the first time since this morning, you take in your appearance.

The bruises the ODM left are nothing new, a semi-permanent mark on your skin ever since you started training. Still, that doesn’t make them any less sensitive when you gingerly brush a hand over the discolouration, your stare falling to the shoulder you had landed on earlier, now dark and tender.

Shifting slightly, you test the joint and find that movement is possible, but slow, aching. There’s a slight swelling to the surrounding skin, and whilst you’re certain that nothing is torn or broken, you know you can’t afford to strain it any further.

Cold water splutters out the shower head before gradually fading to a lukewarm temperature. Suds lather between your fingers as you scrub away the layers of dirt and sweat, your skin crawling when you see your nails and the dried blood caking their undersides— most likely from the bodies, you assume, the colour resembling a brown too similar to rust.

Once they’re thoroughly cleaned, your arms wrap around your middle as the water washes away the soap, the blood and the muck, swirling down the drain as you stare vacantly at the stone wall in front of you.

You don’t know exactly how long you spend shivering under the shower, only know that it was perhaps too long when you return to your room to find that your hour had shaved down to fifteen minutes. Hair damp, you head down to Hange’s office where you find neither them or Moblit, only the damaged sets of ODM you retrieved tossed into a corner.

Taking one with you, you make your way back to the courtyard, hoping to summon some confidence with each step you take, however fake it may feel. But what little of your conviction wavers when you exit the building and find a carriage waiting outside the gates, three of the four veterans are already standing there: Erwin, Mike and Captain Levi.

Both your brother and Mike acknowledge your arrival with a subtle nod, before returning to their conversation, voices low, muted. You don’t catch the subject of their talk, don’t hear anything beyond Zackley and Mitras when your eyes meet with the Captain’s and his squad flash between your eyes, the image of their bodies scorched into your mind.

You look away hastily, struggling to swallow past the lump in your throat as you’re reminded of the blood under your nails, your hand, your conscience. Guilt drives your stare downwards, your arms tightening around the set of gear.

“Have you seen Hange?” Erwin questions, and it takes you a second to register that he was addressing you.

“They weren’t in their office,” you manage to reply, “Neither was Moblit.”

Mike sniffs, “Where are they? We’re due to leave soon.”

“I’m here,” a voice responds from behind as Hange briskly approaches, their face uncharacteristically solemn.

“What happened?” Erwin frowns, but Hange shakes their head, eyes flicking to the carriage driver and the last of the soldiers still in the courtyard.

“Inside,” is all they say, head jerking to the carriage. Whatever they had to say was evidently not meant for ordinary ears and as you pile into the cabin - you, Erwin and the Captain on one side and Hange and Mike on the other - you feel your pulse quicken, each thud loud in your ears. The door closes, curtains drawn.

“What is it?” Erwin turns to Hange once the carriage begins to move, volume dropped a tone lower. Although the wind outside should muffle out the details to the driver, he doesn’t want to take the risk.

“It’s confirmed,” Hange states, sucking in a shaky breath, “The blood samples were stolen— all of them. Someone came in, took them, and replaced all the vials with animal blood as a decoy.”

What? Your brother frowns, presses for more, “How do you know?”

“Back in the forest, we suspected that someone had stolen them to carry out the sabotage, right? So imagine my surprise when me and Moblit open the trapdoor and we find every vial accounted for and filled with blood. Just to check, I popped one open and expected it to slowly evaporate. You know, just like titan blood should.”

“But it didn’t,” Mike finishes.

“No, it didn’t,” Hange affirms, “And when I took a closer look under a microscope to check, the stuff was full of white blood cells. Titan blood shouldn’t have any at all.”

“That’s what they used on the gear then?” the Captain speaks up from where he sits on the other side of your brother, “One hundred percent?”

Hange nods solemnly, “Has to be. Having the samples stolen and gear sabotaged in the span of a single day can’t be a coincidence.”

“That’s one hell of a task for someone to pull off in a single night,” Mike points out and his remark sparks a debate regarding the logistics of carrying out such a thing. How did they get in? Who was involved? The Female’s shifter, the Armoured’s, the Colossal’s or all three?

You retreat back into your seat as the discussion picks up, guilt sealing your mouth shut. The jostle of the carriage does little to soothe you as talk of ODM, blood samples and sabotage, sabotage, sabotage bounce around the cabin’s cramped interior, the gear a crushing pressure on your lap.

In time too short for you to ever prepare, you’ll be standing before one of the most powerful men in the military and you’ll have to answer for what you saw, what you did and what you failed to do.

And you know that when that time comes, your silence won’t be enough to help you.

-+-

[A/N]: Apologies for the lack of Levi this chapter! The plot took precedence this week to set up the future chapters, but I promise he'll appear consistently from this point onwards 🙂‍↕️ I hope you all enjoyed the chapter regardless of his absence— if you can't tell, I absolutely love Moblit and Mike, so naturally, I had to give them their share of attention this time

Thank you again for reading! Every kudos, bookmark and comment honestly means a lot so for everyone who's shown their support— I see you and I love you LMAO

See you all next week again <3

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@dont-rainonme do not copy, translate or feed my work into ai

[dont-rainonme]

finally back from holiday and reunited with my laptop MWAHAHA

[sire-levi]

LEVI ACKERMAN ― Attack on Titan 3.01 “Smoke Signal”

[dont-rainonme]

Thank you @bumblebeeonthistle for the tag!! I think I’m slowly getting the hang of these tag games 💀

-+-

1. Something that might surprise your moots about you

I’m a brown belt in judo! Although I haven’t trained in almost a year and I’m completely out of shape LMAO

2. Your favourite drink/soda

rubicon black cherry and raspberry is my go-to meal deal drink! Also love a good mocha when I need caffeine

3. An activity/hobby you do

I collect postcards from every place I visit :)

4. A TV show/movie you’re watching right now

Currently rewatching the Walking Dead and Law & Order SVU (I’m too sentimental for the older seasons to go beyond s12 LMAO)

5. A book you’re reading

Already mentioned Strange Houses by Uketsu but I’ve been meaning to start Piranesi by Susanna Clarke (very architecture student of me, I know 😭)

6. Your favourite dessert

Anything involving mangoes, I’m there — mango float, mango sago, mango ice cream, mango sticky rice, mango everything!!

i love mangoes

-+-

no pressure tags: @vulpeculara @newties-baby @littlerequiem @inkedwhimsee @sixpennydame @sire-levi and anyone else who wants to join!!

[dont-rainonme]

Thank you to @niki-yoshhhhh for my first tag game!

-+-

Last song: Dress - BUCK-TICK

Current obsession: Air conditioning. Europe is way too hot right now

Currently reading: Strange Houses - Uketsu

Currently working on: Gunsmoke ch11 and a few oneshots for Levi Month 26 ;)

Currently wearing: a sports jersey and the baggiest pants I own 🙂‍↕️

Last search: waltz dance videos (for Gunsmoke!)

Favourite flower: Lillies!

-+-

no pressure tags: @lordalastar @devileyeswriting @bumblebeeonthistle @alizha @levislolita @amywritesthings and anyone else who wants to join!

[dont-rainonme]

quick previews of ch6 of Gunsmoke for this week! It was kinda hard choosing the sections without giving too much away, so apologies if it’s a little vague

[ervvinz]

Miche side profile appreciation post because he doesn’t get enough love

[dont-rainonme]

sometimes i look back on things that i’ve written before and i wonder what the fuck i was thinking

[dont-rainonme]

happy almost 6 year anniversary to this post — the way this is still relevant to this day LMAOO

[lanvasko]

time for proper investigation

[vranishka]

Leon

[dont-rainonme]

GUNSMOKE

Chapter Five: (Dis)trust

PAIRING: Levi Ackerman/Reader RATING: 18+ (violence, eventual nsfw) TAGS: major character death, slow burn (and I mean SLOW burn), eventual romance, eventual smut, canon-typical violence, reader is an engineer, girls with guns, balls & galas, protective Levi Ackerman denial of feelings, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, plot heavy, PTSD/trauma, mystery, canon divergence (in some parts), she falls first he falls harder CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 7.5k

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Erwin returns to headquarters three days later.

It’s the earliest he can make it back after Mike’s letter reached his accommodation in the Capital, his Section Commander’s pointed script disclosing the news of the deaths of the two titans. To cut his trip short was not a decision the brass approved of to say the least - the action only deepening their doubt in him, the regiment and his plan for the expedition that they reluctantly endorsed - but the silent judgement was an attitude the Survey Corps were well accustomed to receiving and one Erwin had grown indifferent to over the years.

His first port of call upon arriving back on the regiment’s grounds is his office. He needs to unpack and organise himself— a necessity if he’s to tackle the aftermath of the past few days. And if the details in the correspondences he’s received are true (which Erwin has no doubt they are) then he’s in for a hell of a debrief.

Hardly ten minutes pass when a fist raps against his door and based off the voice requesting admission, Erwin knows its Mike.

“Sorry Erwin, I know you just arrived,” the Section Commander enters his office, expression serious, “Have I caught you at a bad time?”

Erwin straightens up, places his notebook and documents in a random drawer. He’ll sort that out later; this takes precedence.

“No, it’s fine. I assume you’re here to follow up your letter?”

The letter in question was vague, the ambiguity contrasting the Section Commander’s usual candidness. The main message was conveyed - the two titans were dead - but the details were sparse and lacking, intentionally done as a precaution should an unwanted party intercept the message.

“A military-wide inspection of ODM was called once the murders were first reported— Garrison and Military Police included,” Mike explains, “It’s still ongoing, so if anything comes out of it, we’ll likely hear about it soon.”

“Good,” Erwin nods, thankful. Mike and Hange are the two Erwin appoints as his stand-ins when he’s away— and for good reason. They’re both tactical, efficient and quick to act, “Do we have any ideas about the motive behind the killing?”

“All we have right now is speculation. The logical answer is that our perpetrator was someone who was against us keeping two titans within the Walls— it’s not unlikely, but it’s too obvious. The alternative is that whoever killed them did so in order to stop us from learning more and gaining the upper hand. But I’m guessing you already thought of that, right Erwin?”

“There’s a possibility,” Erwin says cooly, “If the latter were the case, then there’s a chance the culprit is one of the traitors who want Eren for themselves. Hence why I returned as soon as I could: clearly they were banking on my absence here to try and deliver us a blow.”

“A cowardly act,” Mike sniffs, “What about the expedition? Should we change our arrangements because of this?”

“No,” Erwin decides firmly. He had already considered it himself on the carriage ride back, “We’ll carry it out as we planned. Giving each squadron a different version of the formation should help narrow our suspects down.”

“Alright, sounds good to me,” Mike says, “And Hange? Did you receive their letter as well?”

Erwin did. And just like Mike’s, its details too had been vague. Their messy scrawl unintentionally served as another layer of security to the letter’s contents and after deciphering the illegibilities in their writing, Erwin managed to get the main essence of what Hange was implying— there’s been progress with the bullets. That, alongside the murders, had been more than enough to convince him to return back to Wall Rose. He relays what he knows to Mike.

“That’s the main crux of it,” Mike confirms, crossing his arms, “But Hange’s been waiting for you in the workshop with your sister. It’s best if you hear from them both yourself.”

And so, Erwin’s next stop is decided for him, a purpose in his stride as he traces the route to the workshop.

Prior to your arrival, he never had any reason coming down here and on the rare times he did, he found the space rather lacklustre from its disuse. It makes stepping into the room a pleasant surprise when he sees the changes you’ve made to the place: shelves are wiped clean of dust and filled with books, a collage of papers and pins swarm the corkboard and on the loveseat in the small room to the side, Erwin spots a blanket and pillows thrown across it. The space finally feels lived in, cosier.

“Finally!” Hange exclaims, leaping from their seat around your workbench when he enters, “Talk about timing, Erwin. You leave for less than a week and they end up being the Corps’ busiest days!”

The Commander’s straight to the point, addressing you both, “Mike’s filled me in already about the titans. What happened to the samples you collected from them?”

“Blood and cell samples are all still safe and intact,” Hange confirms, “We’re keeping them hidden under that trapdoor in my cupboard.”

“The keys?”

Hange pats their pocket, “Right here. If it’s not with me, it’ll be with Moblit.”

“And I’ve got the spare one,” Erwin hears your voice carry from the side room.

“Yup,” Hange confirms, “We’re the only ones with access to them.”

“Good, make sure it stays that way,” Erwin instructs, “In terms of that incident, that’s the extent of my concern for now. You and Mike seem to have it under control.”

“Of course we do, Erwin— don’t sound too surprised! We can handle a couple of days without you.”

“I have no doubts that you can,” he asserts, drawing a stool up to the workbench, “Now, the bullets. What happened with them?”

“They’re made of titan cells,” you supply as you emerge from the other room, two notebooks in hand— Hange’s and yours.

The brows raise on your brother’s face, “Titan cells?”

“Titan cells!” Hange echoes brightly, unable to cap their enthusiasm, “Well, technically dead titan cells, but it’s incredible, Erwin! Just look at what we found!”

Taking their notebook you hand over, they waste no time in launching into the explanation behind their deductions as they flip fervently between pages. You offer your own thoughts and details intermittently and together, you and Hange bring Erwin up to speed on the developments made.

“It’s a shame the titans we caught were killed this early on,” he muses once you’re done, looking between the two sets of notes before him, “The amount of intel we could’ve extracted from them would’ve been invaluable.”

“Ugh, I know,” Hange moans, slumping on your workbench dramatically, “At the very least, we managed to get what we needed for the expedition.”

“As I’ve heard,” your brother replies, eyes flitting to you, “What’s the progress with the traps?”

Finding the pages with your initial concept designs, you slide your notebook over to Erwin for him to see. But before you can get a single word out, the door flies open and in bursts inside a recruit you immediately recognise— Number Eight, Connie Springer. He’s a frequent face in the workshop - one you can safely say you see as often as Mikasa’s - and has swiftly gained the reputation with you as the Scout with the worst-kept gear. The first time you had a look at his ODM, you were honestly surprised the beaten device hadn’t given out and killed him yet.

His unannounced entrance has all three of your heads whipping to the doorway and you watch at the mortified look that spreads over his face once he realises you’re not alone.

“Commander! Section Commander!”

Boots slam together and a hand thumps onto his chest, posture stiff. Hange snorts, the sound poorly stifled.

“Do you need something, soldier?” Erwin asks, succeeding in keeping his expression impassive. He subtly closes your notebook, hiding its classified contents.

“I, uh, was just looking for the engineer. Sir,” Connie falters, unsure of how to carry himself. Twisting around on your stool, you turn to look at him.

“Is everything alright, Connie?”

“Um, I was just wondering— are you busy right now?”

“I’m currently going over some stuff with the Commander and Section Commander here,” you say, head nodding to Erwin and Hange. Suspicion creeps into your voice, “Why?”

“Well, it’s about the toilet in the men’s barracks,” he says, laughing nervously, “Genuinely, I have no idea how it happened, but—“

“It’s blocked again, isn’t it?”

“…Yeah.”

“It hasn’t even been two weeks,” you point out, unable to conceal the frustration seeping into your tone. Connie turns defensive immediately.

“It wasn’t me this time, I swear! Jean was with me, you can ask him if you want—“

“Connie.”

“I’m serious ! We’ve been cleaning the stables the whole day, so it couldn’t have been either of us—“

“Connie.”

“But you know what I’ve heard? Apparently, it was Klaus. You know— brown hair, blue eyes? The one with kinda big ears? Reiner said he was the last one he saw walking out of the toilets, so if you need someone to blame—”

“Connie,” you say, louder, firmer. Finally, his mouth clamps shut. You sigh, “I’ll head over and fix it once I’m done here.”

“Okay, thank you! You’re the best!”

Hands reach for the door, then, remembering who he’s in front of, he salutes again, “Commander, Section Commander.”

Erwin nods and Hange waves a hand as Connie leaves, door closing behind him. It’s only once he’s completely out of sight that you lean forward on the workbench, forehead pressed against the wood as you groan. Hange cackles above you.

“They’re wearing you thin, Smith.”

“Looks like you’ve been keeping busy,” Erwin remarks. Sitting up in your seat, you scoff.

“Yeah, doing everything but what you called me in for. This is going to be the second time I have to stick my hand down a toilet. I’m an engineer, not a plumber.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with being a polymath,” your brother says lightly, “All members of the Corps are encouraged to have a range of talents, adaptability included.”

“Does blocking toilets bi-weekly count as one of those talents?” You ask dryly. Erwin smiles.

“Consider it more of a party trick,” he answers, humouring you.

Hange snickers, “That’s one shit party trick.”

You roll your eyes, lips twitching.

“Party tricks aside,” you press on, though your smile lingers, “This is what we have so far.”

The explanation goes the same as before: Erwin nodding as you talk through the concept of the traps. As a culmination of the experiments Hange had conducted with the titans and the observations you made regarding their regenerative abilities, the traps involve jagged arrowheads that would be fired at the target using a mechanism derived from the ODM and the wires. With the capture of the shifter being the ultimate goal, you designed the arrowheads so they buried themselves deeper into the flesh as the shifter attempts to heal, rendering them completely immobile.

When you had first presented the idea to Hange, they believed in its logic and success and if the satisfied look on your brother’s face held any weight, then it seemed that he did too.

He looks up from your drawings, “You’ve revised these designs, yes?”

“I have.”

“And calculated everything you have to?”

“Also done.”

“No issues at all?”

“None,” you affirm, “I had Hange double-check the numbers too.”

Hange shoots you a wink.

“Well then, if that’s the case I don’t see why we can’t start their construction soon.”

“Don’t we have to run these through the brass first?” you ask, brows pulling together.

“Not if the brass don’t know these plans exist in the first place,” Erwin returns, “On paper, the purpose of this expedition is to plot a route to Shiganshina. Of course, our true intentions run beyond that with the addition of capturing of our mole.”

“How sneaky,” Hange muses. Erwin shrugs, a casual roll of his shoulders.

“The less people who know about this, the better. Discretion is key to ensuring the expedition is a success.”

“We can make a start on the traps this evening,” you propose, “That would give us a few days at least to test them out and make any adjustments,” you turn to Hange, “Are you doing anything after dinner?”

“Nope! I’ll drag Moblit along to help!”

You smile, “Perfect.”

Erwin and Hange dismiss themselves after a few minutes of idle chat and one hand down the pipework later, the men’s barracks have a functioning bathroom once again. You attend dinner shortly afterwards (though not before a thorough shower in which you aggressively scrub at your arms) and just as promised, Hange and Moblit join you to dismantle old sets of ODM to use for the traps, the three of you working well into the night.

-+-

Two weeks before the expedition, the new shipment of ODM is ready.

Erwin entrusts its pick-up from the Industrial City to Mike’s squad, which is how you end up one afternoon in a cart with everyone aside from Mike, the Section Commander busy with assisting Hange and Captain Levi with the final stretches of Eren’s experiments.

With the amount of work you’ve done with repairs, maintenance and the making of the traps in the past few weeks, you’ve found your supply of ODM parts and equipment dangerously low, a much-needed restock due. So whilst the squad grabbed the gear, your personal destination was a shop that sits along the way, just on the outskirts of Wall Rose.

You spend the majority of the ride perched beside Nanaba, who was currently explaining the genesis of her and Mike’s relationship to you. Though the pair were considerately discrete with their affections, you had caught on fairly early to their involvement with each other. You’re more than happy to listen as Nanaba tells you of their cadet days before joining the Corps together, her brief reassignment to an Eastern station to aid the Garrison after the fall of Wall Maria when the military’s numbers had dropped and the confession that followed in the pair’s reunion several months after.

“But enough about me,” Nanaba says at some point, turning herself in the cart so her whole body faces you, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a while, but it’s kind of personal.”

“This doesn’t sound promising,” Gelgar grumbles under his breath. He sits opposite you, Lynne beside him.

“It’s fine,” you permit, ignoring his comment, “Go ahead, Nana.”

“It’s about Commander Erwin,” she starts, a knowing glimmer in her eye, “Sorry if this is forward of me, but are you two related?”

You’ve expected this question for a while now— with Mike’s tendency to call you Smith, it was inevitable your fellow squad members would catch on. Might as well be truthful.

“We’re siblings,” you reveal, “Erwin’s my older brother.”

“Seriously?” Thomas asks, craning his neck around from where he’s seated at the reins beside Henning.

“Now that you’ve mentioned it, I can kind of see it,” Lynne contemplates.

“I don’t,” Gelgar counters, eyes narrowed as he studies you.

“I do,” Nanaba says.

“Well shit, you wouldn’t mind putting in a good word for me with the Commander, would you?” Henning jokes.

“Being in Mike’s Squad not good enough for you, Hen?” Nanaba teases.

“Hey, you gotta make the most of the connections you got. And right now, we’ve got a direct line to the Commander himself,” he says, gesturing a hand to you.

“You’re aiming for Commandership?” Gelgar asks, the joke flying right over his head.

“Why the hell not?”

“Fuck, we’re all doomed,” Thomas bemoans, earning the laughter of you all. He smirks when Henning punches him in the arm, no real hostility behind the action.

“You’re all laughing now, but just wait until Commander Erwin chooses me as his successor,” he declares. Gelgar raises a brow.

“Over the Section Commander?”

“Over Captain Levi?” Lynne snorts.

“Like I said, connections,” Henning looks over his shoulder at you, “So? How about it?”

You smile, shrugging, “Depends. If you took over doing the repairs and maintenance for me, I’ll consider it.”

“On second thoughts, I take it all back,” he says, leaning back to deliver a hearty slap on Gelgar’s shoulder, “Gelgar here would happily do it for you, though.”

“No I wouldn’t? What the hell, Hen?” Gelgar protests, swatting his arm away.

“Yeah Hen, what the hell,” Nanaba chimes in, “Gelgar’s helpless when it comes to things that use a bit of brain power like that.”

“Not as helpless as you were that one mission, Nana. Who was it again who threw up on our Squad Leader’s boots after she saved you from a titan?”

“I was sixteen!” Nanaba retorts, her face flushing red, “And it was our first expedition! Don’t act like you haven’t done anything embarassing, Gelgar!”

“Like I would ever do something so humilating,” he sniffs, but you catch the nervous waver in his tone.

“Now that I think about it,” Henning says loudly, “Wasn’t it Gelgar who split his pants trying to impress that girl during training?”

“I— No it wasn’t!” Gelgar splutters, “I wore an old pair by accident, that’s all!”

“Rookie error,” Lynne tuts. The whole squad snickers.

“It’s this building straight ahead, right?” Thomas checks with you, cutting through the conversation. You lean forward to see where he was pointing and sure enough, you recognise the storefront and the street you were on.

“Yeah, you can stop here, thanks.”

“No problem. We’ll get the gear and meet you back here. That good with you?”

“Perfect,” you smile, hopping off the cart, bag slung over your shoulder, “I’ll see you all in a bit.”

Henning gives a two-finger salute and the rest of the squad raise a hand in goodbye as you enter the shop, the familiar chime of the bell happily welcoming you in.

Not much has changed in the years you’ve been here. You would frequent here as a student and would occasionally visit during your brief retirement whenever you needed an odd part or so for domestic repairs. But even long before then, you would accompany your mother here when she would run her own errands, serving as her shadow as she browsed the floor-to-ceiling shelves and chatted animatedly to the owner.

The shop was managed by an elderly man who used to work in one of the nearby factories, his wiry hair fading to a shock of white over the years. Time had not taken his smile though, and he would always greet you cordially whenever you came in. Given his current absence at the counter however, you deduce he must be in the back.

“Mr Haverbeck?” you call tentatively, “Are you here?”

He returns your name, “Is that you, my dear?”

“It is.”

“I’ll be out there in one second! What is it you’re looking for today?” Haverbeck asks, voice growing steadily in volume as he nears, “That neighbour giving you trouble with their shower again?”

“Not this time— I’m looking for some ODM parts, actually,” you amend and a weird mix of anxiety and anticipation suddenly hits you when you realise the last time you came here was before Erwin visited, before you joined the Corps. You don’t have long to dwell on how Haverbeck will react to the recent developments in your life when the man himself emerges from the back, distracted by the box of tools he carries.

“ODM parts?” He asks, confusion clear in his voice as he approaches, “Why in the world would you need—“

Finally, he looks up, bringing an abrupt end to his questioning. Discarding the box and adjusting his glasses, his eyes squint at you before ultimately widening in baffled recognition at the green of your cape and the straps you wore in place of your usual civvies.

“Is that a uniform? You’re working again?”

Sheepish, you smile and nod. His face lights up.

“Oh, congratulations, my dear!” he exclaims, hobbling around the corner with his arms stretched wide.

“Thank you,” you say, leaning down to gratefully accept his embrace, “Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner— I’ve been swamped with work ever since Erwin offered me the job.”

Haverbeck pats your back reassuringly, “Oh, don’t worry about that, I’m just happy you’re back at it; I know how hard it was for you to leave back then. How’s your father, by the way? Is he doing alright?”

“He’s fine,” you confirm, reciting the updates your father provided in his recent letter, “Bolt’s keeping him company and he’s been making an effort to walk him twice a day. If the weather’s good, he’ll tend to the garden or read outside.”

“Good, good, I’m glad to hear he’s keeping himself busy,” Haverbeck says, seating himself on the stool behind the counter, “What about your brother?”

“Erwin’s okay,” you supply, “He’s been busy dealing with everything that’s happened in the past few months and the plans for the expedition coming up, but he’s still pretty motivated as always.”

“I still remember years ago when you both came with your mother in here,” Haverbeck reminisces fondly, hand stroking the scratched wood of the table, “Neither of you were tall enough to look over this counter. And now here you are, back as an engineer, just like her. You must be with the Survey Corps then if Erwin offered you the position.”

“I am.”

“It’s about time they finally got someone who knows what they’re doing in their ranks,” he quips, “I have to say though, you’ve joined them at a rather hectic time.”

“I know,” you say, thinking of the Corps’ fragile reputation and the general distrust surrounding them and Eren. Arms resting on the counter, you reply honestly, “But I like what I’m doing, even if it’s a lot sometimes.”

“As long as you look after yourself, my dear,” Haverbeck reminds you kindly, “If I’m being honest, I’m just glad it wasn’t the Military Police you joined.”

You frown, straightening up, “What do you mean?”

Sighing, he draws his stool closer to the counter.

“There’s been a lot of talk about them here in the city,” Haverbeck starts warily, “A lot of rumours, but we’ve managed to confirm some things.”

You lean against the counter, arms crossed atop its surface.

“Like what?”

“There’s a squad in the brigade— an elite group of soldiers totalling around fifty members that rank equal to, if not above, the First Interior Squad in skill and authority.”

Better than the First Interior Squad? You raise your brows, “I haven’t heard about this.”

“I’m not surprised, my dear. No one knows exactly how long they’ve been around, but my guess is a good while. I only know they exist because an old friend of mine in the factory told me an order was placed around a month ago to create more ODM for this division.”

Haverbeck clears his throat, and when he next speaks, his volume lowers further, “I already had my suspicions given the secrecy surrounding this squad, but they only multiplied when I saw the parts they wanted made — they’re custom pieces, not of the gear’s usual design.”

“They asked for modified gear?” You ask, something unsettling in your stomach for reasons you can’t place. Haverbeck nods, you push, “How are they changing it?”

“Again, I’m not sure,” he replies, “The factory wasn’t given the full design of the gear, just the blueprints for the individual part they want made. I’ve talked to those at a different factory up North and it’s the same with them and a few other places— they’ve all been ordered to make parts formodified ODM that none of us even know the full design of. Nobody knows how each part is used, nor how each one works with the other. All we know is that once they’ve made their respective pieces, they’ll be sent to a different factory somewhere in Sina where I’m assuming they’ll assemble the gear in its entirety.”

“And the reason they’re doing that is all for the sake of secrecy?”

Another nod, “There’s no reason for all these parts to be made at different locations unless there’s something they want to keep quiet about.”

“That is suspicious.”

“Which is why I’d like you to be careful, my dear,” Haverbeck says gravely, “Not all of those in your line of work have the best intentions in mind. Just be careful of what people may ask from you.”

“I know,” you say, smiling as though it would hold up the weight of the news you were just told, “And I promise I will.”

“You’ll do well in the Survey Corps,” Haverbeck assures you, “You’re always welcome here if you ever need anything.”

“I appreciate it, Mr Haverbeck.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Stefan? We’re long past formalities, my dear.”

“At least one more,” you return, smile almost apologetic. Haverbeck chuckles, squeezes your arm before he slides off his stool.

“Now,” he claps his hands, “It seems we’ve sidetracked a little. What was it you came here for again?”

“ODM parts,” you remind him.

“Not modified ones?” He jokes.

“Just the regular ones, please,” you affirm, lips twitching as you list the specific ones you need and their quantity, “I’ve been doing so many repairs for people recently that my supply ran out faster than I realised. Could I get some oil as well?”

“Of course.”

Heading into the back, you help him retrieve the equipment and parts you asked for, your conversation dissolving into casual talk about his business and your work in the Corps. Granted, several details have to be omitted on your part given the confidentiality of certain aspects, but your catch-up goes smoothly nonetheless and continues through as you pay and wait for the squad outside.

Even with an extra cart and horse, it’s a tight fit on the way back to headquarters as you and the squad make space for yourselves amongst the crates of ODM. The trip back is otherwise uneventful, but what you learnt about the Military Police rests like a plague on your mind, tuning out whatever debate Henning and Thomas were invested in.

Even as you’re transferring the new gear to the storage room and restocking your shelves in the workshop, it’s the only prevailing thought that occupies your mind, an unnerving feeling pushing on your conscience.

Your gut leads you to where you usually go whenever you have concerns - to Erwin - and thankfully, when you knock on his office door, you find that he’s in.

You relay everything Haverbeck told you: the MPs, an elusive, specialised squad and the covert production of modified gear. With all the tensions between the Corps and the Military Police, you knew Erwin kept his own tabs on the division, but judging by the surprise that developed across his face the more you spoke, it was clear that even these details have not yet reached him.

The two of you theorise on the purpose of this squad and gear before Erwin reminds you of the gear checks you have scheduled in ten minutes and all speculation comes to a halt. Your brother thanks you for the new information, assuring you that he’ll look into it further himself and that alone is enough to take the MPs temporarily off your mind.

Except, when you head down to the training grounds, you find that keeping your mind preoccupied will be an easier task than you thought when you realise your workload.

Running performance checks on the new gear involves distributing the ODM across each squad in the Corps and monitoring their training to look for any defects or adjustments that have to be made. Even with Hange and Moblit’s help, the assessments run well until evening when the sun begins its descent and the field slowly clears for dinner in the mess.

Your time after eating is spent appraising the sets of gear which had any issues flagged during the checks and once you’re done, you’re assembling the last of the traps. When your head hits your pillow, your body offers no resistance to the weariness that pulls you instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next two weeks pass in a smudging blur of deadlines, ODM training and mounting anxiety. As the expedition creeps closer with each passing day, an urgency grips the Corps in its last-minute preparations and your dreams take on more solid, lucid forms: formation plans and blueprints, bullets and gunfire, faceless, backstabbing soldiers and the gnarled, fleshy forms of titans, all reeking of death. By the final day, you’re exhausted.

Your morning had been occupied with one last performance check, to detect any faults that may have arisen after several weeks of intense consecutive training. Since imposing regular gear maintenance amongst the Corps after the initial inspection, the checks fortunately come up with little flaws to tend to.

The remaining afternoon and evening are allocated as a period of recreation before embarking the following day. You spend a good chunk of time playing cards with the squad (to which you learn Gelgar was terrible at and Lynne excelled in), but the game is hardly a balm to your restlessness, your hands itching to do something, to keep yourself at work as a distraction.

It’s late into the evening when you head to the workshop, a forbidding silence looming over headquarters. Any confidence that erupted at dinner has been long subdued by the cold reminder of what awaits you tomorrow, and with nothing more than a few hours worth of time seperating you from the expedition, you’re forced to confront the devestation it will inevitably bring.

Some of the faces you saw today will return tomorrow in shroud. The certainty in that thought feels like the ignition to your pyre of every worry and doubt, a single spark that could set everything alight.

Swallowing hard, you pick up your pace.

The corridor you walk down is sparser than usual, muffled voices from adjacent rooms so soft your ears have to strain to catch them. It’s what makes the appearance of someone outside the door to the workshop that much more surprising when you turn the corner, your eyes squinting to make out their shape as you near. The dying light of the wall-mounted candles do little to aid your vision, but from their lanky build and choppy, black hair, it looks an awful lot like—

“Bertholdt? Can I help you?”

The 104th recruit flinches away from the door as you near, clearly startled at your sudden appearance. His mouth hangs open as he fumbles for his words, uncertainty written in his posture.

“I— um, sorry this is so late,” he says, “I was just wondering if I could borrow a screwdriver.”

“Of course you can, but what for?” you ask, confused because there shouldn’t be a need for any last-minute ODM servicing, not when everyone was getting one of the new sets of gear that you’ve already checked twice tomorrow. Retrieving your keyring, you unlock the door and enter the workshop, inviting Bertholdt in.

“The handle to the bathroom door’s been acting up,” he explains, “I think we just need to tighten a few of the screws.”

Tossing your keys onto the workbench, it takes every exasperated bone in you to resist the urge to roll your eyes. This goddamn bathroom.

“I should have a spare one,” you say, rummaging through one of your drawers as you hear him shift behind you. Fishing out the requested tool, you turn around and hand it over, “You sure you don’t want me to have a look?”

“No, it should be okay, thank you,” Bertholdt declines stiffly. You briefly remember Shadis’ comment in his file regarding his ‘lack of aggressiveness’, though even with the expedition in the morning, it surprises you that the 104’s Number Three would be so skittish. But then you’re reminded of your own tension and the nauseating edge that you can’t seem to shake yourself and you suppose you can’t exactly fault him.

“Just make sure you return it when you’re done,” you tell him, and with a jerky nod, he leaves.

Slumping in one of the stools around the workbench, you don’t exactly have a plan for the rest of the night, only the loose aim to tire yourself enough that your sleep comes quick. You begin with running through the formations one last time, confirming positions and timings and when you can longer stand the sight of Erwin’s writing and anymore thoughts of the expedition, you switch to reading a book.

But when twenty minutes pass and you’re still on the fourth page, it’s obvious your mind is elsewhere, the printed text meshing with your thoughts. Eventually, you do what you should’ve done from the start and grab your rifle from the smaller side room, taking with you also several cleaning cloths, tools and solvents back to the workbench. A quick trip to the kitchen has you returning with a mug of steaming tea, the blend a herbal type you brought with you from Trost.

Cleaning your gun is ordered, methodical, a process so second nature to you that dismantling your rifle and organising the pieces across the surface is done without thinking, a salve to your anxiety.

You start with wiping down each of the regular bullets you have in your magazines with one of the cloths, arranging them in neat rows under the deconstructed rifle. Earlier today, you had taken the firearm and ammunition with you out to the forest on the outskirts of headquarters, where, just as you usually did when you had some free time and wanted to blow off some steam, you practiced your shooting, the action just as calming as the cleaning.

In fact, you’re so immersed with your work that when a bullet slips from your grip and clatters to the floor, you don’t notice the way the door cracks open, nor how the light levels rise from the glow of the candles pouring in from the corridor as you crouch down to retrieve it.

“Light’s out was an hour ago.”

Your head snaps up to the door, barely missing the edge of the workbench as you jerk to your feet. It takes you a second to process the disapproving figure leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and a brow raised in question, but once you recognise the casual confidence in his stature, your shoulders drop.

“Captain Levi.”

“You should be in your room,” he says, though it’s hardly a reprimand; more of a statement, a fact.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you admit honestly, sliding back onto your stool.

He quirks a brow, “So you decided to take apart an entire gun and clean it.”

His eyes sweep over the workbench, the rifle parts and the bullet in your hand. You merely shrug, “I needed something to keep my hands busy.”

And take your mind off things, but you don’t disclose that detail. Instead, you watch as the Captain pushes himself upright, his foot holding the door open.

“It’s your first expedition tomorrow. We can’t have you out there in titan-infested territory with your ass half-awake.”

“I’ll go to sleep once I’m finished with this,” you say, plucking a bullet to polish. When the Captain makes no move to leave, your eyes flick up at him, “I’m guessing it’s the same for you then?”

“What?”

“You can’t sleep either?”

“I don’t sleep,” he deadpans and it’s enough to make you pause, hands stilling as you study him carefully.

“At all?”

“I’m lucky if I manage to get a few hours in,” he offers in explanation, then upon seeing your reaction, he adds, “Don’t look so surprised, Smith. It’s always been this way.”

“Well,” you say, grabbing the last bullet, “I doubt it’s going to do much, but would you like some tea? I have a blend that helps with sleep.”

The Captain merely stares at you.

“…Unless you’d rather go,” you offer awkwardly, clearing your throat, “Either way, could you close the door? I don’t want the heat to escape.”

For a second, you think you’re going to get another blank look, another bout of silence as a response when Captain Levi sighs and nudges the door closed with his foot, walking towards you.

“You got a spare mug?”

You can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips, “I’ll have a look.”

Fortunately, you find one with little effort and as you head back down to the kitchen, you bring with you your own near-empty cup to refill. You return to the workshop a few minutes later with two freshly-brewed mugs, where inside you spot Captain Levi studying the papers on your corkboard, much like Eren and Armin had done. He turns when he hears you enter, thanks you as you hand him his drink and seats himself opposite you, seemingly content with watching you work.

Having a silent audience doesn’t put you off as muscle memory guides you through the process. Moving onto your rifle itself, you first start with a quick wipe of the exterior, including the stock, barrel and action before focusing on the barrel’s interior with a cleaning rod and solvent. Every so often, you’ll pause to take a sip of your tea, the gentle clink of ceramic occasionally gracing your ears.

“Is it yours?” the Captain asks, “The gun?”

“Mhm,” you hum, and although it had been twenty minutes since either of you had spoken, the sudden sound barely catches you off guard, your mind half-present as you finish with the barrel and move onto the chamber and bolt.

“That’s a fancy ass model,” he comments.

“It was a birthday gift,” you supply, looking at him briefly as you take another sip. You silently hope the Captain doesn’t press any further on the specifics of your rifle’s origins, and thankfully, he doesn’t.

“You know how to shoot?”

You nod, checking the chamber for any dirt you might’ve missed, “I’m a decent shot, but that doesn’t mean much in the Survey Corps. Not yet anyways.”

“I heard you and Hange made some progress with the bullets,” he says over the rim of his cup, “Dead titan cells, was it?”

“Apparently so,” you confirm, “To be honest, it’s still something I’m trying to wrap my head around.”

The Captain scoffs quietly, drawing a sip, “Trust me, Smith, we’re all just as lost as you.”

But, you think, you’re only here because you’re supposed to know all about guns and bullets and weaponry. Truthfully, the aim of making the bullets was placed on the back-burner ever since that initial discovery with the cells, not only because of the expedition, but because you had hit a wall in its progress.

Your idea of alloyed ultrahard steel bullets had fallen through when the sample rounds you requested had arrived a few weeks ago. Testing them from atop Wall Rose on the titans below, none of the samples were strong enough to penetrate deep enough into the nape, their properties falling short of the original slugs. If strength wasn’t the main issue, then it was the sample’s brittleness, with some of the rounds cracking upon impact, or it was their weight or durability or hardness. Alloyed rounds simply wouldn’t compare.

And so you shifted your focus, attempting to create explosive rounds in hopes that the force from a blast would be enough to reach and destroy the nape. Your issues with these were that they worked a little too well, the required power resulting in a recoil that simply was too intense to be consecutively used in the field.

It means your options for the bullet’s materials have been narrowed down significantly, so much so that pursuing the cells may be your only choice. Even with Hange’s help, you have no further leads to work with.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” you admit, and you’re not sure why you’re being honest, but you speak regardless, “Make them, I mean.”

“Erwin seems to believe that you can,” the Captain replies, “I thought you had faith in his judgement.”

“I do,” you say, arranging the bolt back in its original place on the workbench, “It’s more a question of whether I have faith in myself. I have no idea how I’m going to source the cells to make them.”

“Welcome to the Survey Corps,” he says wryly, “Nothing here ever comes easy.”

“I figured,” you respond, lips twitching. Grabbing the stock of your rifle, you spread a thin layer of wood oil over it.

“You’ll find a way,” the Captain says after a beat, and there’s a sincerity in his tone that surprises you, “Even if you can’t get the cells, you’ll find a way to make them somehow.”

“You think so?” you ask. He shrugs, watching as you use a different oil on the metal components.

“You’ve got the brains to do it,” he states, “So for you, I wouldn’t say it’s impossible.”

You sigh gently, taking whatever truth you can get from the Captain’s words, “I hope you’re right.”

“We’re all going into this blind,” he says, his certainty meeting your hesitance, “There’s no point in doubting your abilities when nobody knows if what they’re doing is the right thing. Especially when what we’re dealing with here is some titan magic bullshit.”

“Titan magic bullshit?” You repeat, smile widening.

“Has anything that happened in the past few months made any sense to you?”

Mysterious bullets. Titan shifters. A traitor in the regiment and a covert squad in the Military Police. No. None of it made sense at all.

“You have a point,” you say, your words catching at the end as you yawn. Covering your mouth, you stretch your arms, feeling a new wave of tiredness hit you.

“Tea worked fast,” the Captain observes.

“This is my second cup,” you point out. With your hands covered in dirt and oil, you endure the temptation to rub your eyes, grabbing a small brush to apply a lubricant on areas where the metal would slide.

“It’s not terrible,” he comments, swirling the liquid in his own mug, “Where’d you get it from?”

“There’s a woman who sells her own blends in the market back in Trost. I used to buy this all the time when I was a student, but I knew I was in for some late nights when I joined the regiment.”

“You are aware we have a curfew?”

You huff, the sound amused, “With all due respect Captain, you didn’t seem to be too bothered in enforcing it earlier.”

“Expeditions are always the exception,” he replies evenly, “Any other day, I’ll make sure Mike gives you three extra laps with the ODM.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you say, watching as he rises from his seat. Catching a glimpse at the clock, it’s only now that you realise how late it actually is, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you this long.”

Shaking his head, the Captain disregards your apology as he finishes the last of his drink, “I told you, Smith— I don’t sleep. You, on the other hand, need to finish up with that gun and go to bed.”

“I will, I’m almost done,” you reassure him, wiping your hands and rising to your feet to follow him to the door, “Well then, I guess this is goodnight, Captain.”

Captain Levi turns, facing you as you stand on the threshold.

“Yeah,” he swallows, “Goodnight. Thanks for the tea— I’ll clean this and return it to you tomorrow.”

He holds up the empty mug you lent him and you smile, “I appreciate it.”

There’s a lapse that follows where neither of you speak, a brief silence in which you look down and expect to see the the ends of the Captain’s shoes to disappear as he leaves down the corridor. But instead—

“You’re here for a reason, Smith,” the Captain says softly and you glance up, meeting his eye, “Tomorrow’s the chance for you to prove that.”

You swallow, nodding as you say, “Thank you, Captain.”

He inclines his head in acknowledgement before he leaves and you close the door behind you, staring at your workbench and the parts arranged neatly on top.

You won’t reassemble the rifle tonight, you decide. Nor will you tidy away your tools and cleaning solvents. You leave everything in it’s place and extinguish the few candles left burning before you leave the workshop, lock the door and head to your room. In doing so, you’ve watered the seed the Captain had planted when he mentioned the mug and tomorrow; a quiet belief that you’ll return from the expedition alive, unscathed with success on your backs so that you can retrieve your mug from him and finalise the cleaning of your rifle.

It’s enough to ease your worries for now, and for the first time in a while, your sleep is dreamless once more.

-+-

[A/N]: Finally caught up cross-posting the chapters onto tumblr, so expect updates on both here and AO3 every Thursday! 🙂‍↕️

I’m abroad on holiday right now (im currently typing this on my phone in my hotel room LOL), so there might be some delays with getting the next chapter out - it’ll definitely be out by the end of the week, but either way, I hope you all enjoyed reading! Thank you so much for all the support so far MWAH <3

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GUNSMOKE

Chapter Four: Reparations

PAIRING: Levi Ackerman/Reader RATING: 18+ (violence, eventual nsfw) TAGS: major character death, slow burn (and I mean SLOW burn), eventual romance, eventual smut, canon-typical violence, reader is an engineer, girls with guns, balls & galas, protective Levi Ackerman denial of feelings, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, plot heavy, PTSD/trauma, mystery, canon divergence (in some parts), she falls first he falls harder CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 7.2k

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“Looking at these gives me a headache.”

Squinting eyes scrutinise the mess of diagrams and calculations pinned onto your corkboard as Eren leans closer towards it, arms crossed and expression dubious. Beside him, Armin studies the papers more modestly, merely smiling at his words.

“Not a fan of maths, Eren?” you ask, tone laced with amusement. You spare the pair a brief glance before directing your eyes back to the gear on your desk, your hands busy with mending the faulty gas exhaust.

“He hates it,” Mikasa answers matter-of-factly. She sits on the opposite side of the workbench from you, content with watching you work, “Dr Jaeger would try and tutor him at home and it would always end in tears every single time.”

“Mikasa!” Eren admonishes, hastily spinning around. Embarrassment tints his cheeks red, “I’m not an idiot, I’m good at it now.”

“I know you’re not,” she replies, unbothered.

“Then why did you bring that up?”

“Well it happened, didn’t it?”

“That was years ago!” Eren protests, “And I’ve improved since then! Ask me anything, I’ll answer it.”

Using the pen and paper you hand them, Mikasa and Armin scribble down a series of questions for Eren to answer, a stretch of silence following as Eren takes the paper, stares at it, then scrunches it up and tosses it cleanly into the bin.

“That wasn’t even a minute,” Armin points out, though his face tells you that he’s completely unsurprised by this outcome.

“Cut me some slack,” Eren snorts, sliding into the seat beside Mikasa as Armin sits on her other side, “I just spent the past hour having formation plans shoved down my throat, my brain’s fried.”

“In all fairness, knowing those plans should be your priority,” you remark.

“Exactly. And anyways, I’d happily do the training Captain Levi puts us through than ever do maths again.”

You hum, “Speaking of, how is your training going? Last I heard, you’ve been making good progress with your transformations.”

The change in subject seems to brighten Eren’s mood almost instantly as the space fills with his animated chatter. He rambles about his time with the Special Ops Squad and boasts about his recent successes in the experiments with Hange. Armin and Mikasa contribute their own thoughts every so often and between the four of you, the conversation serves as welcome background noise as you finish up with Eren’s gear.

It’s not the first time you’ve had other people in your workshop, the stools in the space finally being used by someone other than yourself. Ever since you helped Armin out with his gear, it only took a few days for your name to spread around the Corps before soldiers presented themselves and ODM issues of their own to you.

Some you see more frequently than others— Mikasa is one of these faces. The first time she visited the workshop, she borrowed some oil to service her gear, whilst on the second, she asked you to replace her wires,having worn them down from her vigorous training. Today marks the third time you’ve seen her, though in this instance, it’s Eren’s gear you’re looking at, not hers.

From tending to minor problems like loose wires to replacing whole parts in more major damages, your routine writes itself as your time between training with Mike and his squad, studying the bullets and drafting plans for the traps Erwin wants you to make is spent in your workshop, a tool in hand and a set of ODM laid out across your workbench.

So when a knock sounds at your door one morning several days later, you’re hardly phased at the noise; you’ve come to expect someone requesting for a repair at least a few times each week, after all.

Except, the person who enters isn’t Mikasa looking to borrow equipment or a green recruit sheepishly asking for your services, but rather someone you honestly didn’t expect a visit from anytime soon.

“Captain Levi,” you greet, surprise evident in your voice, “Can I help you?”

“Gear’s fucked,” the Captain says, foot nudging the door closed behind him as he hauls a set of ODM onto the central table. You grab your screwdriver and a few other tools from the drawer in your workbench as you approach him, eyes scanning the exterior for any obvious faults.

“What happened?”

“This," is all he offers in explanation, and before you can stop him, he takes the left handle, straightens out his arm and fires the wire straight into the wall opposite you. The end lodges itself into the stone brick, certain to leave a dent.

“I’d rather you not damage my wall,” you mutter, raising a brow. The Captain gives you a sidewards look.

“Just watch,” he instructs. You watch as he retracts the cable, conscious in keeping his arm still as he flicks a switch to change the angle the wire shoots out at. With how sensitive the switch is, you’d expect the adjustment the Captain made to drastically change the trajectory the wire takes.

But when he fires it again, the wire hardly deviates from its original path, hitting the stone at a point that’s barely an inch away from the original mark. You blink. That isn’t supposed to happen.

“Hand it over,” you say as the Captain draws in the cable and drops the hand piece, leaving his gear to you, “Is it just this side that has a problem, or both?”

“Just that side,” he affirms, watching from across the central workbench, “Damn thing almost gave me whiplash when I used it.”

“I’m not surprised,” you say, sliding the hand grip off the handle and reaching for your screwdriver, “Your gear was basically trying to pull you in two completely different directions.”

Removing each of the four rivets in the handle’s side, you take off the metal plate, revealing its insides.

“So?”

“Nothing’s broken,” you confirm, poking around with your screwdriver, “But you’ve managed to jam some of the inner parts.”

The Captain narrows his eyes, “Can you fix it?”

“Should be able to,” you say, “I’ll have to take the parts out and rearrange them to their correct positions, but it shouldn’t take long.”

You start with removing the necessary screws, depositing them in a small bowl.

“It’s weird,” you continue, dropping a small spring into the bowl, “You don’t usually find many faults in the handle. What were you doing with it when it malfunctioned?”

The Captain shrugs, “Training.”

Very specific, your mind tempts you to say, but instead you ask, “Were you doing anything different from what you normally do?”

“No. I just did my usual drills.”

Usual drills in the context of the Captain corresponded to incredibly fast speeds and sudden changes in direction. It meant executing manoeuvres that would otherwise be impossible for the ordinary Scout to do— an anomaly that exceeded the expectation of typical human strength.

“How long have you had this set for?”

“Just under a year now,” he tells you, arching a brow at your reaction, “You look surprised. Something wrong, Smith?”

You shake your head, “No, it’s just that most people’s ODM aren’t usually in such a good state after that amount of time. Yours looks like it was used for only a couple of months.”

“I don’t treat my gear carelessly,” he asserts, “Recruits just don’t know how to clean and maintain theirs.”

You can’t exactly argue with that. Whilst ODM maintenance and basic repairs are taught in the Training Corps, you’re all too aware of the lazy attitude young soldiers have towards servicing their equipment. Most of the issues cadets come to you for are caused by neglect rather than an external factor: a problem that could easily be resolved if a little more thoroughness was put in the gear’s upkeep.

“So what caused the fault?” The Captain presses on, “You said that part of the gear doesn’t usually experience any problems.”

“Because it doesn’t. But since you’re pulling such complex manoeuvres, you’re pushing the limit of parts that often don’t experience that much stress, the handle included. Although, now that I’m looking at it…”

Your words trail off as you catch something, eyes narrowing.

“What?”

“You’re missing a part,” you realise, “And an important one too.”

You turn the handpiece around to show him the inner mechanics, a finger pointing to a specific mechanism. The Captain, however, looks completely unfazed.

“I know. I removed it myself.”

“You mean, it’s gone on purpose?”

He shrugs, “Getting rid of it releases the gas quicker and in shorter bursts. It helps when doing those complex manoeuvres you mentioned.”

“It also helps in regulating the pressure in the handle,” you counter, “That’s how you jammed it— the build-up of stress was strong enough to dislodge the parts inside.”

“I’ve always done it with every set I have,” the Captain dismisses, “This is the first time it’s ever caused an issue.”

“And where did you learn such a trick?” You ask, lifting a brow. A beat passes for a second too long and your frown deepens at his sudden hesitance.

“The Underground,” the Captain reveals. Pale eyes meet yours— checking, you realise, for your reaction.

“I doubt there’s many professionals down there,” you say neutrally, carefully. You drop your gaze, feeling abruptly aware of how you carry yourself as you busy your hands with the gear.

“No, there isn’t. I worked out the rest myself.”

“I see,” you reply, swallowing hard. Silence follows shortly after and the conversation closes as neither you or the Captain make any further attempts to follow it up.

Eyes fixed on the gear, you try to focus on the clink of the metal as you slot each piece from the bowl back into the handle. Usually, you wouldn’t mind the quiet but this one is tense, charged because remembering the Underground, Erwin and the Captain can only lead your mind down a specific path through your memories— one where you recall a sliced hand and an attempt on your brother’s life.

And if the way the Captain’s eyes were now avoiding your direction meant anything at all, then he was following the exact same path as well.

“I know what happened with Erwin,” you start quietly, placing down the handpiece and pausing your work. Slowly, the Captain’s eyes rises to yours, his expression closed-off, unreadable.

“Right.”

You raise a brow, “Is that all you’re going to say?”

“If you’re going to yell at me for it, then I’d rather you just get on with it already.”

“That… wasn’t what I was planning to do,” you reply stiffly.

“Then I don’t see the relevance in you bringing it up,” the Captain says curtly. You sigh.

“Look, Captain. This was bound to come up sooner or later, but I didn’t mention it to make an enemy of you— that wasn’t my intention. I just thought that given the fact we’re now working in the same regiment, we might as well address this and get it out of the way.”

Despite your uneasiness, you hold his stare, hoping your honesty would encourage a similar openess in him. But still, his face remains a blank slate, a cryptic puzzle you have no chance in deciphering. For a minute, you think it’s pointless, that the lack of response was a sign that you’ve pushed too much when he sighs, crossing his arms.

“How did you find out?”

“Erwin told me,” you confess, “He came home to visit one time and I noticed he had a bandage wrapped around his hand. When my father questioned him about it, he said he fell from his horse on the recent expedition and sliced his hand open. I only realised he was lying when I offered to clean and rewrap it for him; the cut was too neat for it to have been caused by any natural means, so when my father left the room, I confronted him for the truth.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That you lived in the Underground when you were hired to kill Erwin and retrieve a document. One day, the Survey Corps came after you, subdued you and Erwin promised your right to live on the surface and absolving your crimes in return for your service to the Corps. You tried killing him on the expedition, failed and Erwin convinced you to fully dedicate yourself to the regiment after that.”

“Just me?” the Captain asks suddenly.

“Sorry?”

“Was it just me he talked about?”

Your brows draw together, “Yes, unless there were others involved with you?”

“Two others,” he reveals, posture stiff, “My friends. They were with me.”

“Erwin never mentioned them,” you admit, cautious at the sudden bitterness in the Captain’s tone. You watch as he shifts in his seat, restless.

“They left the Corps after that expedition. It was too much for them, so they transferred to the Garrison instead.”

“They were okay with splitting apart from you?”

“The last thing we did before they left was argue,” he explains, “They didn’t understand why I wanted to stay in the Survey Corps and serve under the command of the same man we tried to kill.”

“Why did you stay?” You ask, because you had questioned the same thing before and never found an answer you were confident in.

“Because there was more I could do here than anywhere else. My friends felt the same but for the Garrison. I wasn’t going to stop them from pursuing what was best for them.”

“Have you ever tried to reconnect with them?” you venture slowly.

“No. Never got the chance to.”

“Well,” you start, clearing your throat, “I hope you get that chance one day.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “Me too.”

Another silence spreads across the room, but as the weight of the Captain’s stare rests heavy on you, you know it won’t last long. Your hands make no attempt to resume your work, anticipating him to speak. And sure enough—

“So?” he asks.

“So…?”

“What do you think about all this?”

“I don’t hate you for what happened,” you say after a pause, careful in your wording, “I used to, when Erwin first told me everything, but not anymore.”

“I tried to kill your brother,” the Captain states bluntly, doubt colouring his tone. You heave a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping.

“I know. Trust me, I won’t lie and tell you I’m not wary of you at all, but I’ve had the past few years to come to terms with everything. Erwin himself knew the risk in letting you join the Corps and after a while, I realised that you had moved past the life you had in the Underground.”

“And what makes you so certain of that?”

“Like I said, it’s been years since it happened,” you try to reason, “If you truly wanted Erwin dead, you would’ve done it by now.”

“You don’t know how I work,” the Captain argues.

“You still wouldn’t do it,” you counter, brows drawing low.

“That’s a lot of trust you’re placing in a supposed ex-criminal.”

“It’s not you that I trust, it’s Erwin,” you establish firmly, “He wouldn’t have brought you in if he thought you couldn’t change for the better.”

“And what makes you so sure that he’s right?” he snaps. Bewildered by his persistence, all you can do is just stare at him, stunned.

“Do you want me to hate you, Captain?” you ask, a genuine question.

The Captain scoffs, “Where’s this coming from?”

“You keep refuting everything I’m saying, trying to paint yourself as… as someone irredeemable. Do you want me to hate you?” you repeat.

“I don’t care about your opinion of me, Smith.”

“That’s not what I asked,” you retort firmly, “Answer the question: do you?”

You let the silence consume the room, challenging him with a glare of your own. You had expected some defensiveness from the Captain when you confronted him about his past; what you didn’t expect was for him to channel that defensiveness against himself, to guard himself from you and every opportunity to make amends.

So when the Captain opens his mouth, you ready yourself for another snarky remark, another declaration that would only justify your suspicion towards him when you were younger. Except—

“No,” the Captain quietly admits, “No, I don’t.”

“Then why do you keep arguing against every point I’m making?” you ask, on the cusp of exasperation as your tool sits idle in your hand. On your workbench rests the gear, briefly forgotten.

“Because you don’t know me,” he contends, frustration radiating off of him, “All you have are things you’ve heard from other people, other sources. I don’t understand how you can be so certain with your judgement of me when that’s all you’re basing it off of.”

“You’re right, Captain,” you admit, “I don’t know you. I’m still working out my opinion of you as we speak. That’s why I’m having this conversation with you, because I want to trust you. But right now, it just feels like you’re trying to feed me a perception of yourself that you want me to accept as the truth before I can decide that myself.”

He doesn’t respond. You know you’re right.

“Just to reiterate,” you continue, “I don’t hate you, nor do I think of you as some criminal to be condemned. But I’m not overly fond of you either. You’re honestly a little difficult to work with sometimes.”

“So I’ve been told,” the Captain says, tone finally dropping its prickly edge, “I should apologise.”

“I already told you, I got over—“

“Not for what happened with Erwin,” he cuts you off, “I meant for what happened recently. When you first arrived.”

“Oh,” you blink, unable to find a more elegant selection of words.

“Not the best first impression, I know,” the Captain says, eyes flicking between you and the table, “And I know I’m not exactly the most… approachable person, but I was an asshole to you for no reason. I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did. I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to actually apologise for that,” you disclose. It’s clumsy, it’s awkward and it’s clear the Captain isn’t used to being in such an apologetic position. But given the fact you hadn’t anticipated him to bring up the incident ever again and instead assumed he buried it under the pretence of being forgotten and discarded, you appreciate the action all the same.

“Neither did I,” he admits, “But I don’t have any excuses. I had a long morning that day, but I have plenty of those just being in the Corps. I shouldn’t have let it out on you.”

Curiosity stirs inside of you. You let it speak on your behalf, “What happened?”

“Hange was supposed to run some tests on Eren’s titan that morning, but he wasn’t able to transform at all the entire time. I was stressed, Hange too— Zackley and the brass wanted evidence we were making progress with him and we weren’t producing the results they wanted. Then out of nowhere, the kid accidentally transforms a few hours later after trying to pick up a spoon. It took me a while to convince my squad not to slaughter him whilst he sat there terrified in a half-formed titan. I headed to Erwin’s office not long after and that’s when I ran into you.”

“That is a long morning.”

The Captain hums, “But like I said, not an excuse.”

“Well, consider yourself forgiven,” you state, “Not that I held much against you in the first place, but if it means we can start off again on a clean state, then I forgive you for what you said.”

He raises a brow, “And as for trying to kill your brother?”

“I forgive you for that too, Captain,” you say softly, lips twitching as you half-joke, “You better not make me regret this.”

The Captain gives a small scoff, shifts in his seat. Despite his features adopting their typical impassivity, you catch how his shoulders sink in relief, his actions further surprising you when a slender hand extends out towards you.

“I won’t,” he tells you, and there’s a serious edge to his voice, “You have my word.”

You take his hand, his palm cool against yours. And as you squeeze and shake it, there’s an honesty in the promise, a reassurance that your trust won’t be misplaced.

-+-

Hange’s office is situated in the same wing of headquarters as the workshop and therefore makes for a quick commute between your workspace and theirs. Despite the short-timed walk, you pace briskly through the hallway, flames casting dramatic shadows across the stony walls as you pass.

It seems the busy rush of your morning extends into the afternoon as you’re needed once again. It was just after you returned the Captain’s newly-repaired gear to him when Number Ten - Christa Lenz - knocked on your door, saluted the Captain as he left and informed you that Section Commander Hange had requested you to make your way to their office as soon as you could due to very urgent matters.

Vague, you think but you have an idea on what they could mean.

Whatever it’s about, it’s clear that Hange’s excited about it judging by the way the door swings open and you’re dragged inside before you can even lift your hand to knock.

“Smith!” they greet eagerly, their arm looping around yours, “Come in, come in! What took you so long?”

“Sorry, gear repairs,” you offer in explanation, smiling as you wave at Moblit whose upper half was just about visible behind the boxes he carried. Hands occupied, he smiles back at you.

“Ha! Those recruits really are putting you to work,” Hange cackles, guiding you around the stacks of books and pile of papers in the room with ease, “Whose was it this time?”

“Captain Levi’s, actually.”

“Huh? Levi’s?”

Halting abruptly, they twist around in disbelief, the change in motion nearly sending you right into them.

“Levi gave you his gear?” Hange interrogates, hands planted into your shoulders.

“He did,” you affirm, eyes jumping between Hange and Moblit as they exchange a look, “Why, is something wrong?”

“No, it’s just that the Captain is known to be very particular with who he entrusts his gear with,” Moblit explains, placing the boxes down as Hange gapes, “From what I heard, he doesn’t allow anyone besides himself to service his gear and goes to a specific mechanic within Wall Rose for more serious problems.”

Something swells in your chest: too light to pin down as pride and too mild to call it satisfaction, but there’s an odd relief that comes with this new knowledge that the Captain trusted you enough to give you a chance with his gear.

“Let’s be honest, no one here knows the ODM better than you, Smith,” Hange remarks, “What did Levi say when you were done with his gear?”

“He said thanks and left?”

“No complains, no disagreements, nothing?”

There were several disagreements, but given they’ve all now been resolved and none of them concerned the quality of your work, you shake your head. Hange raises their brows.

“Wow, you must’ve done a really good job.”

“If you count screwing some pieces back into place as impressive, then sure.”

“Very humble, Smith,” they snort, patting your back, “But speaking of impressive, look at this!”

Hand diving into the inner pocket of their Scout jacket, something long, glass and cylindrical is pulled out and shoved into your palm. A test tube, you realise, and inside it—

“Is this blood?”

“Titan blood,” Hange replies brightly, your apprehension clashing with their enthusiasm. Their arm finds itself around yours again as they lead you towards a door at the side, “Do you know about the two titans we recently captured?”

“I think Eren mentioned them to me before,” you say, crossing the threshold into what you recognise as a small storage room, the space cramped and dark. Rows of shelves are bolted to the surface of three of the walls, each cluttered with books, documents and various models of scientific equipment, the wood straining under the weight.

“Well,” Hange starts, “These samples were supplied by the courtesy of the wonderful Sawney and Beane, but as you can imagine, it wasn’t easy. Titan blood evaporates within a couple of minutes which meant it took us several dozen attempts to even obtain one. So handle that carefully.”

“Is this the only sample you have?” you ask, suddenly conscious of the strength of your grip around the test tube.

“Oh no, we got loads of them! But like I said, they were an absolute pain to get so I’d rather we didn’t waste any,” Hange says, before calling behind you, “Moblit, keys!”

You’re mindful to duck your head as a set of keys are tossed from across the office and through the doorframe, Hange successfully catching them. Fiddling through the ring, they settle on one and kneel down on the floor where your eyes trace the faint outline of a trapdoor and a small, unassuming keyhole. The boxes Moblit was moving earlier must’ve been stored on top, covering from any prying eyes.

Lifting the trapdoor reveals under it a small cavity where crates stack on top of each other, all packed with blood-filled jars and test tubes.

“Cool, right?” Hange says smugly, evidently pleased with the stunned look on your face, “Getting these means I’ve been able to properly study titan blood under a microscope for the first time ever— did you know titans have virtually no white blood cells? I mean, it makes sense given how they don’t seem to contract any diseases, but still, it’s amazing we can confirm that now!”

“It is,” you breathe, “That’s incredible.”

“I know! I can’t wait to tell Erwin all this, but of course he has to be away again.”

The slam of the trapdoor punctuates the end of their sentence as they lock it shut and rise to their feet, “What’s he doing back in Wall Sina anyways?”

“He mentioned presenting his plans for the scouting formation to the brass,” you recall, remembering the details from a conversation you had with your brother earlier this week as you and Hange exit the room, “Something about trying to get them to approve it for the expedition.”

“Boring,” they drone, locking the door closed and throwing the keys back to Moblit, “Well, whatever, I can tell him once he’s back. Just make sure to keep the news about these samples between us senior soldiers. Apart from the brass and a couple of other soldiers, no one else even knows that Sawney and Beane exist.”

“That’s probably for the best,” you comment, picturing the public outrage that would ensue if those details were leaked.

"Trust me, I’d never hear the end of it,” Hange laughs, reaching into their desk for something, “Anyhow, this you can share.”

And without any further warning, another test tube is flung towards you, your hands hastily clasping around it. The contents of this tube are less obvious than before: instead of blood, a thin, cloudy solution sits inside, its viscosity like water.

“What is this?”

“That is a solution me and Moblit have been developing recently,” Hange boasts, slapping a proud hand against Moblit’s back, “You see, the Corps has been running through ODM faster than our budget can afford to replace them, so Erwin’s had us working on a way to save as much of the gear as we can. As I’m sure you know, even when titan blood evaporates, it leaves remnants of itself on the metal, causing it to corrode because of its chemical makeup.”

“Unless we thoroughly clean the gear, the most the ODM can last is a couple of weeks at a push,” Moblit adds.

“Exactly,” Hange nods, “But cleaning it obviously takes forever and you know what soldiers are like when it comes to gear maintenance.”

“Tell me about it,” you mutter, several guilty faces coming to mind, “So this solution stops the gear corroding?”

“I wish it did, but no. If you wipe it onto the ODM, it not only makes any remaining bloodstains visible, but it’ll break it down on a molecular level to make it easier to clean off compared to just good old soap and water. That way we can prevent any corrosion from developing any further before it’s too late and we don’t have to blow our budget on ordering in more gear!”

“So!” they continue, excitement hardly waning as their hands dip down into their desk again, “With that, my first gift of the day for you is this! A whole bottle of the cleaning solution!”

“Much appreciated, Hange,” you thank with a laugh as you accept the bottle, “Wait— what do you mean first gift?”

“Second gift!” Hange declares, ploughing on, “Make sure you don’t lose this one!”

Hand wrestling into one of the inner pockets of their jacket, they extract a single key, dropping it into your hands.

“What’s this for?” you ask, turning the piece of metal over.

“That’s a spare key for our very secret trapdoor back there,” Hange reveals, jutting a thumb back to the storage room, “I need to give it to someone who I know will keep it safe and I trust you, so it wasn’t a hard decision to make.”

“I’m honoured,” you say, grateful, “But wouldn’t you rather lend this to Moblit? I was just thinking he would be the more accessible option if you needed to access the samples quickly.”

“Oh, Moblit already has his own key. In fact, it’s the one we just used now,” Hange says and gesturing behind you, Moblit holds up the set of keys Hange had thrown back to him, “He holds onto all my keys for me, otherwise I’ll end up losing them all.”

You give an amused exhale, looping Hange’s gift onto your own keyring, “Fair enough.”

“Anyways,” they claps their hands together, “Final gift! I’m giving this back to you!”

Stretching out their hand, you find the vial you had first shown in Erwin’s office resting on the flat of their palm. You had given them the sample of the bullet’s casing following that meeting in hopes that their knowledge in biology would allow them to build on your initial suspicions, and if Hange was now returning it to you, then whatever they were going to say next had to have something to do with it.

“Does it really count as a gift if you’re returning what you borrowed from me?” you ask, taking the vial.

“Technically, the gift is the news that accompanies that,” Hange says, practically vibrating with anticipation as they point at the vial in your hand. There’s a pause, one which they extend for dramatic effect before they announce, “I know exactlywhat the bullets are made of.”

Your eyes widen,“Seriously?”

“Yep! Me and Moblit figured it out— that’s why I called you here!”

You watch as Hange searches for something, patting their pockets and looking under their desk when Moblit, having read their mind, procures a notebook and pen that they seemed to have misplaced.

“Perfect!” they say happily, taking the items as their other hand beckons you closer. Even the typically placid Moblit seems excited as the three of you huddle around Hange’s desk, their brows furrowed in concentration whilst they flick through the pages. You know they’ve found what they’re looking for when a short “Aha!” bursts out and they slap the notebook down open for you all to see.

“I had a look at your sample myself under a microscope,” Hange starts, looking at you intently, “You weren’t wrong when you said the bullet casing was made of cells.”

“Okay,” you say slowly, eyes studying the double-page spread. Drawings of Hange’s observations have been scribbled across the paper, their thoughts scrawled in a rush beside them.

“And you know how we managed to get blood samples from our titans?” Hange continues, “We also got cell samples to study so we could make a comparison — that’s what we spent this morning doing.”

“Usually, to obtain a sample of cells to study, you’d take a swab from the cheek in the mouth,” Moblit explains, “For obvious reasons, we didn’t want to take the risk in trying that with our captured titans—”

“I did offer to have a go,” Hange points out.

“—So we took our cheek samples from Eren’s titan instead and looked at that also using the microscope.”

“And?” you prompt.

“It’s a match,” Moblit reveals, unable to contain his smile, “The bullets are made of titan cells.”

“Holy shit.”

“That’s exactly what I said!” Hange exclaims, “It’s kind of poetic, right? The bullets capable of taking down titans are made up of titan matter itself.”

“That’s…” you stumble for words, mind racing as your process the news.

“Weird? Crazy? Exciting?” Hange offers.

“All of them, if I’m being honest,” you admit with a small laugh, “There’s just something I don’t get— I thought any chunk of a titan that’s cut from the body evaporates, regardless of how large it is? How can the bullets be made out of titan cells if that’s the case?”

“That is true,” Hange agrees, “But look at the sample you got from the bullet’s casing and look at the flesh of a titan. Both are made of titan cells, yet they look completely different. Titan flesh is supple and can be poked and prodded like normal skin, but the material that the bullet’s casing is made of is hard and looks kinda like a crystal.”

Sliding the notebook back to themselves, they flip to a clean page and resume their explanation.

“When I compared my observations of that powder with our flesh samples, there were two notable differences. In the flesh samples, the cells were packed tightly together, not a single gap between them — just like they would be in any living being. But in the bullet’s casing, the cells were arranged like this—”

Grabbing the pen, they draw a box, followed by several vague blobs inside all spaced apart from each other before colouring them in — these you assume represent the titan cells.

“The cells are separate from each other, with a medium between them,” they point to the space they left uncoloured between the cells, “This medium not only strengthens the bullet’s casing to make it rigid enough to penetrate titan flesh, but because it surrounds each individual cell, it seals them off from the air, hence stopping them from evaporating. This leads onto the second difference between the flesh samples and the casing: the cells in the casing are dead.”

“How?”

“Simple biology— because the medium prevents each cell’s exposure to air, they can’t get oxygen to carry out the necessary metabolic processes and just end up dying. I don’t know if that makes any difference to the properties of the material when making the bullets, but it’s still a cool detail!”

“So the bullets are made of dead titan cells,” you conclude, staring at the vial before you wipe a hand down your face. A laugh escapes you, this time out of self-pity, “Where and how the hell am I supposed to get dead titan cells to make the bullets?”

“Truthfully Smith, I have no idea,” Hange says sympathetically, patting your shoulder, “But a mystery always makes for some fun!”

“Well hopefully I solve this mystery soon so I can start producing our own bullets. Otherwise Erwin would’ve brought me in for no reason,” you say half-jokingly. Hange, however, remains undeterred.

“We can work it out together! We’ve got two titans we can experiment on — well, three actually, if we count Eren. Or does it count as two and a half? You know, because he’s half human, half titan,” they pause, deep in thought before they ask to no one in particular, “Is the split even an equal fifty-fifty?”

“You’re digressing, Section Commander,” Moblit points out gently.

“These are important questions, Moblit! The Survey Corps never got anywhere without asking questions!”

And to emphasise their point, they punch a finger to the open page of their notebook where drawings of titan cells stare back at you.

“Smith, you want to make bullets that can take out titans. And you’ve also been asked by Erwin to make a trap that can ambush our traitor. If we want to defeat the enemy, then we need a weakness to exploit. The only way we can find one is by doing our homework. Are you free this afternoon?”

“I should be,” you answer, running a mental check through your schedule. As far as you were aware, you had no meetings or close deadlines you had to desperately meet and any cadets who needed your help with their ODM could always come to you later in the evening.

“Amazing!” Hange says, clapping their hands together, “Get your horse and meet me and Moblit in the stables in ten minutes.”

“Wait, what?”

Spinning around, you watch as Hange pushes a startled Moblit out their office, his confusion written clear on his face. Seems like you’re not the only one who’s feeling just as lost.

“Hange!” you call quickly, “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise!”

“But—”

“Ten minutes, Smith!” they shout over their shoulder, “Don’t be late!”

-+-

The surprise, as Hange calls it, turns out to be titans.

You should’ve seen it coming with Hange’s more than obvious fixation on the human-like brutes, but it doesn’t make the sight of them in the flesh any less shocking to see.

With their limbs nailed down to the ground and necks collared and chained, Sawney and Beane leer with bulging eyes as Hange skips by animatedly, their teeth gnawing at the prospect of a meal. Their proximity to the titans has Moblit breaking into a sweat as he routinely warns the Section Commander of their blatant disregard of their safety, to which they cheerfully ignore with a wave of their hand, a long spear in the other.

You’ve seen titans before, but never this close. Back when you had graduated and were freshly working, you and a few others were once assigned the task of servicing the canons on Wall Rose. What was supposed to be a harmless task allocated by your supervisor to keep you busy suddenly turned bitter when you remembered it was cannons your mother also worked on the day she died and it was from the Wall that she was pushed— a painful reminder only emphasised when you spotted the small throng of titans gathering below.

Even the fifty metre difference between your position on the Wall and the horde hadn’t been enough to stop the wave of nausea that struck you right in the chest, a queasy turning in your gut when you saw their hollow eyes and drooling mouths.

And now, with not even ten metres between you and the captured pair, that same awful sensation rises inside you: sick, burning and stronger than it’s ever felt before. You think of that wretched day all those years ago, the feeling of her blood-stained jacket in your hands and the crushing grief it left you with. The past reigns its ugly head with a cruel arrogance in the form of the two titans in front of you, their mangled features twisted into a taunting grin despite their captivity.

“First time seeing a titan?” Moblit asks, catching your disgust.

“At this proximity, yeah,” you mutter. You roll your shoulders in hopes of shedding some of the tension bunched in the muscle (a pointless endeavour) as you shift your attention to the commotion developing before you.

All traces of Hange’s previous excitement is completely gone as an anguished scream rips from their throat and they charge right towards one of the titans. Their spear breaks through flesh, driving deep in the monster’s arm as the titan gives its own tortured cry - a grating, garbled noise - and it’s hard to tell who’s louder as the surrounding soldiers regard the Section Commander with a wary mix of judgement and concern.

Tears stream down their face as they repeat the process— stabbing, retreating, before attacking again. The continued attack has steam hissing from the many gashes, and it’s through the hot air that you study the way the flesh stretches and pulls in an attempt to regenerate, sealing the wounds shut around the spear.

You note the increasing difficulty Hange has in yanking the spear out after each blow and had initially attributed their struggle to their fatigue under the repeated exertion. But as Hange drives it once more through the titan’s thigh, you watch with sick fascination as layers of tissue, fat and muscle heal themselves with anatomical precision, the process drawing the spear deeper into the titan’s body and lodging it firmly in the flesh.

If we want to defeat the enemy, then we need a weakness to exploit.

With the detail you’ve just observed, you think you have an idea.

Shooting to your feet, Moblit startles at the hasty movement, eyes darting around for anything amiss.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you reply, “Just thought of something.”

And before he can question you any further, you’re already gone, heading for your horse and the saddlebag draped over his rear. Inside, you retrieve your notebook and pen, wasting no time in dashing off every thought and branching idea whirring in your head.

When Erwin entrusted you with designing the traps, the few early ideas you had were quick to fall flat — whether it be the time needed to prepare them or the complexities in hauling them out beyond the Walls, the promise of each design proved to last only a passing moment as difficulties arose and rendered them unusable. This, on the other hand, has potential.

You don’t know how long you spend dumping the contents of your brain onto the paper, but when you return, you find Hange sprawled across your seat beside Moblit, apparently done with their assault.

Calling the pair over only revitalises the energy Hange has when you show them your notebook and the three of you spend the ride back to headquarters discussing the logistics of the idea. The conversation continues well through dinner and into the evening in your workshop, and by the time the moon reaches the peak in its orbit above you, you have a solid structure of a plan and enough faith in it to move forward.

Calculations have to be done, refinements have to be made and Erwin’s approval is ultimately needed before you can start making the traps: your to-do list is an endless, ever-growing thing, but satisfaction comes with completion and it finally feels like progress is being made with your work.

And with Eren under the regiment’s guidance and Sawney and Beane readily at your and Hange’s disposal, knowledge can be found, questions can be answered. The Survey Corps is in a good position — daresay the best position it’s been in for years.

But optimism was always a fleeting virtue, flimsy and empty in promise. You should’ve known better than to entertain that hope, to neglect the thought that it wasn’t just the Corps who were plotting their next moves.

Under the cover of one early morning, the two titans are killed— a clean slice in their napes and the killer nowhere to be found. 

-+-

A/N (02/0/26): another thursday, another new chapter! Thank you again for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!

Fun fact: when I was planning the original drafts of this rewrite, the conversation between Smith and Levi about his past with Erwin was one of the first things I wrote. For some reason, I barely mentioned it in the original version of the fic, despite how pivotal Levi's attempt to kill Erwin is on shaping Smith's initial opinion on him, so I knew how important it was to include it here. Hopefully I did it justice— it's gone through a good number of changes since its initial conception, but I think it turned out pretty good! As always, let me know your thoughts below!

(Also, just to clarify: Isabel and Furlan ARE dead, Levi lied to Smith about them surviving as they're obviously not that close yet for him to be comfortable in sharing those details, sorry for getting anyone's hopes up :'))

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[dont-rainonme]

currently on a flight and working on chapter 11 on my phone nothing can stop me