THE WORST KIND OF NOTHING 11 「 CHAPTER DIRECTORY 」
ERWIN SMITH & FEM!READER & ZEKE YEAGER
⌖ BLURB: You were the only one they managed to seize out of Zeke's underlings, and oh; how impressed the Commander was at your unwavering resolve. How great it'd be for him to have you—a potentially unbreakable tool—at his very disposal.
⌖ TAGS: Manga S4 spoilers, Canon AU – The Attack on Liberio Failed, Violence, Psychological Warfare, Manipulation, Character Study
⌖ READ ON: AO3 | QUOTEV
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851, Liberio Internment Zone
The wind at the Marleyan port whipped violently off the ocean, drowning out the mechanized groans of the shipyard and the bark of commanding officers. It was a strangely comforting chill, even as your nerves vibrated just the same. This day marked a year since the Warrior Unit suffered a crushing defeat: not only failing to secure the Founding Titan for Marley, but also losing the Female and Colossal Titans all at once (one of which was stolen by the worst person possible—the notorious Commander of Paradis Island).
Yet, against all odds, a Marleyan reconnaissance ship was currently being finalized with the higher-ups, charting a direct course for the shores of Paradis Island.
This expedition was Zeke Yeager’s brainchild, and you had no idea how he managed to wring authorization from Marleyan high command. His reputation as Warchief was currently in tatters due to the disastrous outcome of the Paradis operation and the subsequent grueling war that erupted between Marley and the Mid-East Allied Forces. Despite all of this, he somehow pulled the necessary strings. Even more baffling was how Zeke deliberately engineered the deployment so that the soldiers aboard were almost entirely comprised of Anti-Marleyan Volunteers.
With about three days remaining before the ship was scheduled to make landfall on the island, there was a fierce, unyielding anticipation that thrums in your veins.
Operating in the shadows as a Volunteer had been building toward this exact operation. Years ago, since the Warrior Unit (Annie, Reiner, Bertholdt, and Marcel) went completely silent inside the walls, the window of opportunity to reach Paradis Island without facing a gruesome death was impossibly rare. Every standard soldier the Warchief has brought along then was nothing more than fodder—Eldian prisoners and condemned traitors, veins already laced with titan serum, walking time bombs ready to transform the moment Zeke unleashes his scream.
And thus, for you, this marked the Volunteers’ inaugural major operation. It was the absolute culmination of years spent suffocating under a dual existence: playing the role of an obedient, subservient Eldian soldier in the harsh light of day, only to plot as a Volunteer in the dead of night. Even more exciting, once your boots left this concrete, you’d effectively cease to exist in Marley’s meticulous ledgers.
Zeke stepped up beside you, leaning his forearms heavily against the iron railing. He didn’t look at you at first, just out at the churning, grey water of the docks.
"You see, the ocean off the coast of Paradis is entirely different from ours," Zeke mused, his his voice a low rumble that vibrated pleasantly over the howling wind. It’s rare to talk to him this way. "Colder, but the breeze is otherworldly. You'd think, ‘Ah, this is how an untouched land feels. Glory be to God.’”
“You don't come off as someone who believes in God, Warchief,” you replied, trying to hide the breathless anticipation at the thought of finally reaching those shores.
“It’s a fascinating thought, isn't it? That you are finally about to know what I'm talking about.”
"It's been a long time coming.” But deep inside you knew that your Warchief was an astute man. He knew the breathless anticipation you were trying to hide by keeping careful, calm replies.
He gave you a side-eye, eyes lingering on your profile. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he had to physically stop himself from teasing you about your barely contained excitement.
“How many years has it been again since I took you in my wing?”
“Huh,” you pondered. “I… honestly can’t remember.”
“You don’t keep track of the major events in your life, huh?” Zeke let out a quiet huff, the sound carrying a strange, almost wounded weight—jokingly, of course. “You’re gonna make me sad.”
Only that you let out a genuine laugh that his face didn’t stay sully.
“As a founding member, you must feel a profound sense of pride…” he continued, his gaze dropping to your hands resting on the rail. “The culmination of years in the dark. Wearing the Eldian armband by day, building our little rebellion by night."
"I feel relief," you answered. You turned your head, looking him in the eye with a smile so genuine it almost caught him off guard. "We've survived long enough to see our first outside operation. That's what matters."
"Survival, hm." Zeke tested the word on his tongue. He finally turned to face you fully, adjusting his round glasses.
To be fair, you could still see the warmth in his eyes, but as he looked down at you, the atmosphere shifted. It suddenly felt suffocating. Just as if he weren't looking at a soldier anymore, but rather at something threatening to slip through his fingers.
Something threatening to slip through his fingers…?
"You have sacrificed a great deal for this dream. It makes me wonder about the limits of that survival. About what happens when our deepest convictions are truly put to the test."
You frowned slightly, the first prickle of unease settling at the base of your neck. "I'm not sure I follow."
"It's simple, really." He tilted his head, his voice dropping to a soft, intimate register that forced you to lean in just to hear him over the waves. "Given everything you’ve endured... would you be willing to offer your ultimate devotion?”
“What?”
“Hmm, say, for instance… would you willingly let me inject you with the titan serum before you board?”
All the praises and nostalgia, only to reveal he was actually doubting you?
The blood drained completely from your extremities, leaving your fingers numb against the icy metal rail. "You're... you're joking."
"I rarely joke about salvation," he replied smoothly, his tone so uncannily casual compared to your horror. "I’ve read your intentions quite clearly. I know that if I give you what you want most—safe passage to Paradis Island—you will abandon your responsibilities to the Volunteers the second you're out of my sight."
“Where did that even come from?!”
“Not that I don't understand,” Zeke continued, his voice dropping into a smooth, placating rhythm. “You see, we all have our reasons. We're all bound by the shackles of our pasts, all of which led us to be here. Yelena, for instance, became an Anti-Marleyan Volunteer because her hometown was conquered by the bastards.” He stepped closer, crowding your space until the freezing air between you felt stiflingly warm, and looked you dead in the eye. “You bear the same hatred. Do you know what sets you two apart?”
You had always doubted Yelena's background, though. She claimed to be from another country occupied by Marleyan imperialists—she was a stark amalgamation of everything your mother had talked about in her writings. Yet whenever you had tried to probe Yelena on the specifics, wanting to know exactly how the Marleyan government pulled it off, she had always diverted the subject.
But that wasn't the point right then! The point was—
"I have given you no reason to doubt me!"
Still, as if he hadn't even heard you, he answered his own question with gaze heavier than usual, lingering on your face with thoughts beyond your comprehension. “Yelena will never leave her post as a Volunteer. Even after avenging her hometown, her devotion keeps her tethered to me.”
"Not once did I betray you! I’ve done every single, grueling thing you’ve asked. Do you see me as someone who'd leave?” Your chest started heaving in panic. “Really? Right on the verge of everything we've worked for?"
"Because I am risking my own life on this vessel," Zeke stated, though his voice lacked its usual commanding boom; you couldn’t figure out what exactly it was either. "I cannot afford to carry someone whose role is vital to the ships that follow, only to have them defect. I need proof of your loyalty. I need to know you are bound to me."
You stare at him, waiting for the moment to pass, waiting for him to wave his hand and call it a psychological exercise. Only that his expression didn't shift. Not a single muscle twitched in his bearded face.
And that utter stillness is answer enough.
Well, it wasn't as though Zeke was wrong, either. You weren't as loyal to the Anti-Marleyan Volunteers as Yelena was; her blind reverence for Zeke had always deeply unsettled you, too. You had always believed your mother was right—that defeating Marleyan imperialists once and for all relied on the collective struggle of the oppressed, not on placing a single figure on a pedestal, regardless of how tempting it could be to just surrender all your will to a certain force. Indeed, you would abandon them the absolute second they became an obstacle to your mission to prove her right.
But are you truly the only one in this position? The only Anti-Marleyan Volunteer burdened with such awful limitations? It's not fair.
In a sickening flash, your entire life violently condenses behind your eyes—the sharp, distinct smell of detergent in your childhood home, your mother's handwriting on her hidden journals, the sheer, agonizing force of will that dragged you out of bed every single morning. All of it. Everything you have suffered and bled to build.
A suffocating ache crushed your chest. It didn't matter how hard you had worked, or how perfectly you had played his dangerous game. This one man held your entire existence in his massive hands, and because he couldn't bear the thought of you walking away from him, he was perfectly willing to unmake it all on an arbitrary whim.
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"Then? What happened?"
Erwin’s voice cuts through the memory, violently dragging you back to the present.
There’s no freezing, comforting ocean breeze here to make the world feel vast; only the suffocating, unfamiliar heat of a Paradis summer pressing into Erwin's office. The air is stagnant, heavy with sweat and the scent of old paper, feeling as though there is absolutely no room to breathe in such a crowded space, even with just him, you, and Armin Arlert in it. Outside the window, Trost is still violently alive with festival noise—the muffled roars of a crowd and voices loud with cheap alcohol bleeding through the glass.
You sit perfectly still in the chair positioned directly in the center of the room. Erwin sits behind his desk, watching you with the unblinking intensity of a predator, while Armin sits at a smaller table to your flank, the soft scratching of his pen the only other sound in the room.
"He removed me from the list of soldiers boarding the first Reconnaissance ship altogether," you say, keeping your eyes locked on the Commander. "And my comrades never knew why. They assumed I had just gotten on the Warchief’s nerves. Still, I told everyone my life belonged to the cause nonetheless and that I didn't mind it one bit." You let out a slow, deliberate breath. "But from that second on, I stopped trusting him. I realized that if I wanted to survive, I was on my own.”
It doesn't sit entirely right, lying by omission to someone as terrifyingly sharp as Erwin Smith; it makes your nerves fray. But you’re weaponizing your genuine, visceral disgust for Zeke to buy your way into the Commander's confidence.
As you speak, you realize in the back of your mind that you're no longer the empty shell they pulled from the wreckage at the coast that fateful day. You’re beginning to form your own resolve—a terrifying, overwhelming autonomy that you’ve quietly wished for all along, now finally taking root.
At the side table, the scratching of the quill stops.
Armin dips his pen into the inkwell, tapping the rim once before tilting his head slightly. Where Erwin’s silence feels like a boulder crushing your ribs, Armin’s presence is entirely different. His tone is quiet, inquisitive, unsettlingly empathetic.
"When the Warchief made that proposition..." Armin begins, his blue eyes studying your posture. "You said you lost trust in him. Was it the threat of dying that broke your loyalty, or was it the realization that he viewed your life as something easily discarded for a broader objective?"
It’s a gentle question, but any answer to that might subject your character to a surgical deconstruction. Perhaps that’s precisely why he’s the one the Commander summoned to document this meeting. Maybe he has certain prowess dissecting people.
You turn your head to meet Armin's gaze, seizing his soft opening to cement your narrative.
"Dying is an occupational hazard for any Eldian under Marley's thumb," you answer, letting the bitterness seep naturally into your voice. "We’re born expecting to be discarded. We make peace with it. But to realize that the man who promised us salvation... the man who demanded our absolute faith... saw my life as nothing more than a cheap test to soothe his paranoia? I doubt he's even paranoid of me.”
“Then what do you think was his motive for removing you from that ship?”
He learned about my mother's writings; he knew that my desire to reach Paradis Island stemmed from finding a certain tree, and so I will abandon my duties the second I deem them inconvenient to my mission.
There's no way you'd tell them that, though. Not when you’re not entirely sure about it either. And so you answer, “That… I'm yet to know.”
You look back at Erwin, your voice hardening.
"But, to be clear, I wasn't afraid of dying. I was utterly disgusted that my existence was just a prop in his game. That’s when the Warchief died to me and I—"
“Hold on, retrace your steps,” Erwin cuts you off. “You shared a direct post with Zeke before departure of the recon ships. Is it not fair to assume that—at one point—you stood by his side as Yelena did? How is it, then, that you claim absolute ignorance of his motives?”
You take your time to respond. You observe the commander; if he's convinced by your story, he gives absolutely nothing away. His face remains a mask of polite, infuriating stone.
Looking at him now, a chilling realization snaps into place.
After all, back to the night you found your dossier sitting out in the open, it was clear he had left his office unlocked on purpose; he knew you’d come snooping. He orchestrated this entire moment, too. He let you sit here and spin this narrative just to finally get you to open your mouth.
"There’s no point in you asking me any further about this," you state flatly, dropping the emotional facade.
“No point?” Erwin leans back slightly in his chair, eyebrows raised. “The fact that you have the right to be heard says a lot. I am doing you a favor by allowing you to speak your piece."
"Bullshit," you counter. The word leaves your mouth before you can second-guess the risk (you felt Armin flinching, even), but you decide to get straight to the heart of the matter. "This is not the information you actually want out of me."
Erwin almost looks amused now. "Oh? What is it, then?"
“You’re probing about my personal relations with Zeke because you want to know if there’s a possibility he’d keep in touch with me despite being in the base of the enemy,” you explain, voice steady despite the hammering of your pulse. “And if he is, you intend to leverage that connection for your own gain, even at the expense of my safety. You want my full cooperation, but more than anything, you want to know exactly where he is.”
“Then let us be entirely honest with one another,” Erwin states flatly. “You are still, first and foremost, an Anti-Marleyan Volunteer. You’re allowed to breathe the air on this island because of your potential use. If you cease to be useful—or if you hide Zeke’s whereabouts to protect yourself—you become a liability.” He tilts his head, gaze piercing. “I am not asking for your trust, and I don’t expect you to care about my soldiers. But you will cooperate. Because if we fail here, Marley will erase whatever keeps your resolve as we speak, and your suffering will have been for nothing.”
That much you know… but what makes you frustrated in this conversation is the gut-twisting feeling the more they probe about Zeke.
“All I know is that Zeke might not be doing well with the higher-ups right now. He managed to dispatch all thirty-two recon ships. It’s only a matter of time before he falls under suspicion since none of them made it back. But—” You let out an exasperated sigh. “He is no fool. Do you really think he'll tell me where he is, given our history with each other—before I lost my memory, no less?”
“You seem important to him, though,” the Commander probes even further.
Your gut twists even further. A wave of nausea threatens to wreck your stomach completely.
Why?
Because you are, in fact, holding a massive, terrifying secret. The story you told them just now? That’s the absolute limit of your memory so far. Beyond it lies nothing but a blank void (you still don't know what brought the massacre, and by extension, the extent of your powers). The sentimentality, the deep sense of betrayal—it’s all a calculated performance to throw them off your trail. If Erwin discovers your memory is a dead end, you lose every ounce of your leverage. You have to change the subject right now before the Commander's surgical mind cuts straight through the facade.
But before you can steer the conversation into safer waters, Armin steps in again.
"You speak about Zeke’s political standing in Marley with total precision," Armin notes, his pen hovering over the paper. "But when it comes to why he singled you out, you treat it as an unanswered question. Is it that you genuinely don't know what he wants from you... or are you hesitant to admit what you might mean to him?"
You refuse to answer it.
Instead, you bulldoze right past Armin’s inquiry, laying your cards directly on Erwin's desk.
"Here’s my deal," you say, your voice ringing with a desperate authority. "I will reveal everything else. I will help you with everything I know and everything I can do. But in exchange, I have conditions." You hold up a trembling finger. "One: Paradis Island must ensure my absolute protection against Zeke for as long as I am under your custody. And two…” you raised another finger, “...you must help me uncover exactly what it is about me that Zeke is trying to bring back to his side."
“So it’s not that you’re hesitant to admit what you might mean to him…” Armin's eyes narrow slightly, reading the subtle shift in your conditions.
The Commander finishes it with a sardonic chuckle, “…you don’t know the answer yourself, huh.”
For a long moment, the room is dead silent.
Erwin Smith looks deeply, grimly amused; so amused that you’re almost tempted to storm your fist right at his face.
"Is that all?" he asks.
“Lastly… I want…” The hardest one. Because it gives a hint of what you really want to gain at the end of this. “I want to have the right to freely express my opinion while I'm here.”
“Commander, if I may…” Armin interrupts again. To be fair, he doesn't press you with the same hostility as his Commander. Instead, he seems genuinely fascinated by the negative space in your story. His bright blue eyes study your body language with intense, unnerving focus. "The right to express your opinion… You're not just asking for survival or physical safety anymore. You want a privilege to voice out your take on how we handle this war. Where is it coming from? What's the goal?"
The question catches in your throat. Instantly, your mother's writings flood your mind—her brilliant insights, her controversial stance on the overall war, and her dissection of their geopolitical rivalries. If there were ever a place where your mother’s voice could truly prosper, it would be nowhere else but here, on this island. A desperate, aching part of you wants Paradis to recognize her. Even if her words are treated as mere theories that only slightly influence their opinions, as long as they know those ideas came from her, you would be okay with that.
But no. You swallow the urge. You choose to take it slowly for now. You are in no position to be this greedy yet.
Erwin leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "A bold demand. But how do you intend to prove you deserve that?" His voice is laced with a dismissive edge. "From where I’m sitting, you don't seem to be worth nearly as much as you're demanding."
The provocation hits an intensely personal nerve that tightens your jaw. You don't want to lay all your cards bare on his desk. You know exactly what he’s trying to do: he wants you to give Zeke up entirely, to hand over the Warchief on a silver platter. But you can't do that. You refuse to sacrifice everything you have left to a man you perceive as being absolutely no different from Zeke himself. They are two sides of the same ruthless coin, both demanding you strip yourself bare for their respective causes.
You really didn't want to open this up today. But cornered in this suffocating heat, you have no other leverage to pull.
Well, it's okay as long as you don't reveal everything. Or so you think.
"Have you been to Marley, Commander?" you ask, your voice dropping from trepidation to sudden calm.
Erwin’s eyes narrow slightly at the sudden shift in subject. "What does that have to do with this?"
"Have you tried the best-selling wine near Port Slava?"
The Commander stares at you for a long, heavy beat, refusing to let the confusion show on his face. "Yes," he answers evenly. "It was delectable, if I may say so myself."
You reach into your pocket, your fingers closing around cold glass. Slowly, you pull out a small vial containing a dark liquid and walk to his desk.
Erwin picks it up. He unstoppers the cork and gently wafts the scent toward him. Instantly, his blue eyes widen just a fraction; it’s exactly the vintage you are talking about.
"Would you believe I managed to acquire one on this island, of all places?" you ask, keeping your voice dangerously even. "Who do you think got it here? And what does it imply that some delicacy from enemy territory is being freely distributed on our island?"
Erwin freezes. The grim realization hits him all at once, and the blood physically drains from his face.
Beside him goes a sharp clatter. Armin has dropped his pen. The young Scout’s eyes are locked onto the vial in absolute horror as his brilliant mind rapidly connects the dots—the wine, the Warchief, and the tactical nightmare of his spinal fluid.
"If worse comes to worst," you whisper then, pressing your advantage, "he might show up wielding that very threat. One scream while he's here, and mindless titans will run amok inside these walls. I'll help you stop it. Just give me the right to exist here."
Erwin recovers quickly, though his jaw tightens. “Show me your worth then. Prove to me that you have what it takes to have a right to exist.”
“Sure. I will.”
However, your chest starts aching yet again—the absolute dread of being crushed beneath someone else's heel. If you have to endure much more of this endless subjugation, you feel like you might as well suffer a cardiac arrest and die right here in this office.
As if Erwin Smith can physically sense the visceral reaction tearing through you, his eyes narrow.
“With your attitude right now? I doubt you’ll even pass among our newly recruited soldiers. They’ll think you’re acquiescent to me just because of the gun their Commander is holding to your head. You’re a trapped wolf. Should I dare release the leash, you’ll eat them whole.”
Then so be it.
The docile 'Krista' character from the book he gave you is dead. Playing that submissive part every single day makes you absolutely sick to your guts anyway.
You let out a long, heavy sigh—one you’ve been holding off for entirely too long. And then, you chuckle. It’s genuine, in your defense, but its lack of place makes it sound unhinged. For the first time since you were dragged into this hellish office, you are laughing right in their faces.
“What a weird bastard,” you whisper in between the laughs, making absolutely sure Erwin hears the insult. “You’re the one who gave me this mask. If you’re sick of it, you should’ve just told me to remove it. You know I'm here so I can do anything you want of me.”
Erwin stares at you. Then, for the first time since your arrival, the Commander drops his calculated grace. He returns the equally amused exhale.
It’d almost feel like a victory. Only, he follows it with a horrifying remark.
"I intend to investigate this Marleyan wine personally and you will assist me with the interrogations," Erwin says, settling back into his chair. "It’ll be quite the learning experience for you—to be able to see exactly how I handle accomplices, no?"
A terrifyingly polite smile touches his lips. His voice drops to a murmur when he confirms, "That won't be a problem for you... will it?”
Fuck.
The wine review. The one Zeke asked for. The one you haven't even finished writing yet because the Commander summoned you abruptly.
It's sitting right now in your unlocked bedroom drawer.
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