"Burnt to the ground? Just...gone?"
"Just gone," said Connie. "A friend of my Mom's came over to our house last night sobbing. Apparently her daughter worked there and she got pretty badly burned." He shrugged off his black jacket and threw it on Sasha Braus, who threw it back at him, pouting.
"Ich bin froh, dass wir hier arbeiten," said Bertholdt.
"Ja, aber hier ist nicht viel besser," said Reiner.
"What'd he say?" asked Sasha.
"He said he's glad we work here."
"Bertl, are you getting any better at English?" said Eren through the chain link fence.
"Ja," Bertholdt said quietly. "Better."
Bertholdt ducked his head and pressed his lips together. The poor guy couldn't say yes, for god's sake. Roswell and Jean had forced out their French accents by sheer diligence, but Bertholdt had only moved to America a few years back, and hadn't needed to learn English right away.
Eren, Mikasa, and Armin were standing on the outside of the fence, with the latter soliciting his newspapers while attempting to listen to the conversation. The rest of them - Bertholdt, Connie, Jean, Reiner, Sasha, and Ymir were on the other side of the fence, either preparing to load crates onto rail cars or head into the factory.
"Bertholdt, are you going to be able to pass the language test?" said Thomas Wagner.
Reiner translated and Bertholdt flushed. "Warten Sie!"
"What?"
"Wait," said Reiner.
Bertholdt took a deep breath. "Ollo, mine name es Bertholdt Fubar. I am seventeen yers old an I live on Valsh stveet."
"Walsh street," said Sasha. "It's a 'W' not a 'V.'"
"Well, I'm sorry the letter 'W' is inherently hard to say in German," said Reiner.
"You are unforgiven!"
Jean rolled his eyes and walked up to the fence. He opened his mouth to talk to her, but the dark shadows under her eyes and her even darker glare convinced him otherwise. He turned to Eren. "Did you hear Reiss Inc. burnt down?"
"Yeah, Armin was talking about it. Don't you dare bring it up with Mikasa. She's pretty far on edge already."
"Why? Neither of you work."
"You know what I mean, Horseface."
"I know," said Jean.
They stared at each other, not feeling angry enough to glare as they usually would.
"Armin dropped a paper in a puddle today," said Eren. "If you can read it, you can have it."
"Really?"
"If you can read, that is," said Eren.
"God, you're such an ass," said Jean. "Armin! Come over here!"
Armin scampered over to the fence, trying to shove a handful of nickels into his pocket. "Good morning, Jean," he said politely. "How are you?"
"Do you still have that newspaper?"
"No, I'm sorry," said Armin.
"Where is it?"
"I dropped it in a puddle somewhere. You couldn't have read it anyway. Like I said, I'm sorry."
"It's alright," said Jean. "I'm sure I'll steal a paper from Shardis -"
"Hey, fuckheads!"
"Damn it, Jean, way to jinx it," muttered Connie. Sasha waved as she went into the factory, her too-big jacket sleeve flapping noisily.
"Report inside the factory's large group instruction at 10 o'clock sharp for a debriefing on employee affairs," he said. "That is all."
He looked back down at his newspaper.
"Wonder what that's about?" asked Eren.
"Maybe you're getting a labor union!" said Armin excitedly. "Wall and Co. got one, maybe it's -"
"Hey, you fucking newsie!"
"Oh, no," said Armin quietly.
"You can damn well get your ass away from my employees, and that goes to your shithead student friends, too!"
"Bye, Armin," said Jean. "Get to class, Jaegar."
"Don't burn to death," Eren replied.
"Oh, you wish."
Dear Historia.
No.
My dearest Historia.
Too romantic.
Hey, blondie.
Jesus Christ.
Marco crumpled another paper, cursing his inability to write. He was usually good at these letters, at making them sound doting while also remaining platonic. He hoped he wasn't falling in love with her or something; he remembered the stories his father told him about how he lost his nerve around his future wife.
Dear Historia, Marco wrote furiously. I am doing well. How are you?
Marco tapped his pen on his lips.
I assume the fire has severely decreased your standard of living and presumably your spirits, and I would like you to know that if you ever need my assistance, whether it be monetary or psychological, I will always be here for you.
Marco cringed. He hoped that wasn't pushing it too far. Historia was a lot more adamant about their platonic relationship than he was.
I would greatly enjoy hearing your voice again, and perhaps we can continue our conversation from last month's foxhunt. If you have the time, please write me back or call me. With love, Marco Bodt.
He folded the paper into thirds and sat it on the divider. Father glanced down at it. "Satisfied?"
"Yes," said Marco.
"I'll have Claude mail it with the bills tomorrow evening," said Father cheerfully. "I'm sure Historia will love it."
"Or I could put it in the mailbox at the factory and have her love it sooner," said Marco, putting a touch of desperation in his voice. He really was desperate. He needed someone to talk to about this.
"I know where you're coming from, boy, but it's best to wait. Play it cool for now. Make her chase you."
That won't be hard, said Marco. Seeing as I don't want her either.
Marco stared out the window at the factory. Behind a chain link fence, a few boys were stacking boxes in rail cars. He felt a slight twinge of sympathy seeing them there. It was cold out today. Couldn't they stay inside for just one day?
"Father, couldn't they work inside?" he asked.
"Who? They are."
"The - no, the boys stacking boxes," said Marco, waving at the factory dismissively. It was hard to point something out while you were moving. "Aren't they cold?"
"Sometimes you have to work through the cold," said Father. "Besides, they worked this entire winter. Sure it's like a paradise to them now."
"What?!"
"When the river froze, we sent them out to move the water wheel and break ice chunks," said Father. "Damn happiest boys I ever saw, skidding all around."
"Were they alright?"
"They were fine. One was a little wet, but that's alright." He leaned over the divider, a devious smile on his face. "No offense to Reiss Inc., but it's better we have wet employees than burnt ones."
"Father!" Marco shouted, disgusted.
"Come now, it was funny!" said Father, leaning back over the divider.
Marco stared out the window, trying not to look at the man.
"That doesn't leave the carriage, by the way," said Father in a quieter tone.
"Thank god," said Marco, snapping up a newspaper, making sure to flash the headline "12 DEAD, HUNDREDS WOUNDED."
"Are...you going to bring that in to read?"
"Yes, why?"
"Hide the front page," Father said.