𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔐𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔉𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔬𝔪: Freedom Isn’t Free
@augenbrauefreiheit in response to 🦅
☕—“And what are your wings for…?
¿˙˙˙ɹoɟ sƃuᴉʍ ɹnoʎ ǝɹɐ ʇɐɥʍ pu∀
“Levi. I have another proposition for you. I left my glasses back within Paradise, and I believe I’ll need them for the upcoming events, my vision is failing me, ever since my bloodhound passed away. I’ve lost my map, so it is up to you to find another way, retrieve them for me, if you can.“
For the ‘White Eagle’ to mention the both of them - he was practically being blackmailed right now.
Mike Zacharias. He had been one of the few who could boast having bested Levi in a confrontation. In his memories, existed the wretched hour when that behemoth with an uncanny sense of smell had gripped the back of his head, and soaked his gaze with the filth of the Underground. In his memories, existed the countless hours afterwards, when his blades had flashed beside Zacharias’, as their speed and power had flexed in vicious tandem against the enemy. And, in Levi’s memories, existed the names upon a certain report. In that hour, he’d realized that Mike was never coming back. The space beside Erwin’s shoulder would remain achingly empty - and Levi knew, for all his dedication, that Erwin had lost something more pivotal than his right arm that day.
‘Bloodhound.’
It was Levi’s old, familiar taunt between them, at Mike’s tendency to navigate through scents as easily as another person might peruse a map. Life had made the word a grave. Erwin had made it into code. Levi interpreted it as impetus.
❝I get it, I get it. I’ll drag back your Shitty Glasses for you, Erwin.
You’re being a real pain right now, I hope you know. ...sending me off to run your damn errands like I don’t have my own affairs to deal with. These brats are nearly as troublesome as you. Are you listening?
No more acting like a careless child here on out.
You’d better keep up with your shit, this time.❞
Hange Zoe. What a nostalgic mission. How many times had he grasped reins and set out, under the directive of collecting the excitable veteran? Ah, but this time was different. He wasn’t out to chase Hange down - but rather, to bring her forward. The edges of his mouth played upwards faintly, in amusement.
Levi just knew that she was going to flip her shit over the novel technology placed at her fingertips.
There would be no living with her, then, but he would gratefully endure it, regardless.
❝While you’ve entrapped me on this stupid snail, I’ll give my report.
The effort to rescue the mutt was a success, as you might’ve assumed. He’s fine. But the pound failed to reach my standards in any respect, and so Braun gave them a stern once-over until they were kissing their own asses goodbye.
The proceeds illegally obtained from mistreating the occupants have already been forwarded to you. It’s rotten blood-money, but I trust you to do something decent with it. I, of course, reimbursed myself from that amount, the cost it would have taken to re-claim the dumb dog.
For the trouble of having to walk through such a filthy structure.❞
Ought he mention ‘Bloody Moon Maveric?’ A vague pause, almost awkward, transpired over a moment’s course, as the divergence between a bond more solid and well-designed than his own skeleton, and the haphazard friendship he had forged with some rough-spoken, weary-eyed ruffian, came into focus.
Erwin was sunlight; clean and scalding - abolishing that which was unclear, illuminating truths, facts, and structures. He was warmth from the cold, respite from the unknown. Bright. Youthful. Harsh. Sharp appearance, passion wrought into progress, single-minded and silver-tongued. Erwin was always gazing far ahead, his mind’s eye affixed in a high, distant goal.
Maveric was nightfall. Music, mystery, a cool indifference for the rigidity of the world, beyond. He was irreverent, self-indulgent, and candid. He soothed at tragedy, obscured the abrasive effects of the day with meaningless, mystical faith. Maveric was enthralled by the moment at hand. Did he even entertain a ‘bigger picture’? What the hell was his goal, anyway?
And Myrundiel Mourningale - should he bother naming the individuals who called the Freiheit their home? ...it was such a sullen feeling, to exist in a hesitation when Erwin was still poised to hear his words.
“My world is getting fuller by the day, Erwin.
Are you, too, filling empty spaces with faces I don’t know, either?”
❝We're doing well, here. Don’t worry about the map.
I’ll get a course charted some-fucking-how.
...oi, Erwin.
You know what a real good use of that money that doesn’t yet exist in the books would be?
...you should let me take you to this island we found a little while ago. It’s made of hundreds of tiny islands, like the arils in a pomegranate. They float on top of permanent geysers.
‘A natural wonder’ that eggheads like you really enjoy.
There’s a shitty festival, and scenic restaurants. Classy shit.
Don’t give me tired excuses, either. I know you’re busy waving the geriatric stink of the the Gorosei’s collective farts from over your shoulder, but doesn’t that just mean you need a leave, all the more?
I can...make the arrangements. So just make some fucking time.❞
He then immediately hung up.
Rather, his cold sweat had.
His report had become some sort of a flippant proposition for a weekend reverie.
Was this why he didn’t often venture often into verbal, long-distance communication?
Was it some sort of mind-altering effect that the Den Den Mushi produced at proximity?
No, the mystery that held the highest priority in solving here, was the challenge of how to reach Paradis, again. ...an island that did not exist according to maps, Log Poses, or sight... It would perhaps take an eager, incomprehensible mind to map out the island where an eager, incomprehensible mind - waited.
—Isn’t the sky within your cage, ‘ǝƃɐɔ ɹnoʎ uᴉɥʇᴉʍ ʎʞs ǝɥʇ ʇ,usI
too narrow for you?.” “¿noʎ ɹoɟ ʍoɹɹɐu ooʇ