Shiganshina District, Year 838
Rick sat on the edge of the rampart, looking out across the plains towards a pink-splattered sunset. He swung his feet, willing himself to feel the exhilaration of being fifty meters up with a straight drop below him; no rush came, and he sighed. He would never tell Jon, of course, but between expeditions outside the Wall, Rick got restless. Not that I don’t love seeing Armin, he thought, conjuring the smiling face of their young son.
There hadn’t been a new scouting mission in going on three years. The last had seen devastating loss, and while new troops were training for induction into the survey corps, Rick and Jon had had a child, a cherubic, flaxen-haired little slip of a thing. Walking the worn dirt paths of Shiganshina with Armin on his shoulders, Rick had prayed for delays in the next mission. Jon, a baker by trade, had sat Armin on the flour-dusted counter in their home and taught him to knead bread and shape pastries and in the hushed firelight after they’d put Armin to bed had asked, cautiously, about teaching positions in the cadet corps.
And Rick had thought it, at the time, the right thing to do for his family.
So why then, Rick asked himself, was he watching the sunset off the rampart instead of home helping Jon with dinner. The answer, unfortunately, was simple: he had been offered a choice.
“Captain Wakeman, we’re very pleased with the work you’ve done since you joined the survey corps,” Colonel Fripp began brusquely.
“Thank you, sir,” Rick replied.
“I must be frank,” Fripp continued, adjusting the glasses perched on his pointed nose. “We need more squad leaders.”
Rick inclined his head slightly. It was no secret, with the new cadet class incoming, there were hardly enough senior officers to manage. Rumors had been spreading for weeks about who might be called to step up.
Fripp fiddled with his pocketwatch. “I understand you have a son,” he said finally.
“Yes sir,” Rick replied, blinking. “He’s almost three now.”
The Colonel cracked a rare smile. “Squad leader doesn’t have quite the same appeal when you’ve got somebody back home, I suppose.”
Rick pursed his lips. “With all due respect, sir, I hoped I might take on a practicum at the academy.” Fripp gave no indication of having heard him. “After that I would be proud to lead a squad in the survey corps.”
Fripp frowned deeply. “I needn’t remind you,” he said, “of the pledge you took when you joined were recruited?”
“No, sir,” Rick murmured.
“Think on it,” Fripp said quietly. “Give me an answer tomorrow. I can find you a position at the academy but it’s not a favor I will easily forget.”
Rick nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
And so Rick had come up to the wall, looked out to where the river flowed out from under the wall and towards the purpling ligature bruise of the tree line pressed to the sky. Thought about the rest of the world and whether or not his place was in it.
He descended to the dusty street, the shadows of the buildings thrown long in the weak light coming over the lip of the wall. The soldiers of the vanguard lingered around the foot of the wall, smoking, talking quietly in small groups. Rick waved to Lieutenant Bruford, leaning against the wall and blowing smoke rings for a younger officer whose name, Rick recalled, was Howe. Bruford grinned and waved back before passing his pipe to Howe, who smiled shyly. Rick brushed his hair out of his face and set out on the road for home.
Smoke rose from his house’s chimney, and as he stepped over the threshold the scent of fresh bread filled his nose. Jon turned from a stove full of saucepans.
“Ricky,” he called over his shoulder, “We’ve got to find Armin a - “ he paused to stir furiously at the contents of one pot “ - a tutor or something, he’s asking more questions than I know the answers to.”
“That’s my boy,” Rick replied, stooping to scoop up the boy as he came running to the door. “You give your father hell for me, isn’t that right?”
Armin giggled as Rick planted a kiss on the top of his golden head.
“Any word on the next expedition?” Jon asked quietly, spooning rice onto plates and setting them on the kitchen table.
Rick paused. He set Armin down in one chair and folded his lanky frame into another. “Not as such,” he sighed. Jon raised his eyebrows but didn’t press further, and Rick offered nothing more.
That night, as Rick was tucking Armin in under his quilt, his son spoke in a soft voice. “Tell me a story, papa,” he lisped.
“A story, huh? What about?”
“I wanna…” Armin paused for a long moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “I wanna know what’s outside.”
The next morning Rick barged into Colonel Fripp’s small office without knocking.
“Captain Wakeman,” Fripp said, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Give me a squad,” Rick said, slamming his fist down on Fripp’s desk. “I’m ready to lead.”
