Hello, friends. After recently discovering the insane and cruel (but beautiful) world of Attack on Titan, I decided to revive the old fanfic account despite exams and classes and responsibilities to actively contribute to society and blahhh.
Disclaimer: I do not own SnK. Duh.
Year 850, the Forest of Giant Trees
Captain Levi
It's raining.
Levi squints up, deciding if it's worth the effort to pull on his hood. Rain patters against the leaves of the enormous trees above his head, falling fifty meters before splattering against the ground. Rainwater mingles with dilute blood and drains downhill across the dirt path back towards the vast plains they rode from only hours before. He surveys the edge of their temporary Recon Corps camp, the neat horizon of Wall Rose far ahead and the Forest of Giant Trees at their backs. The female titan, collapsed somewhere deep inside.
"We need to move soon," Mikasa comments, walking silently up to him.
The soldier finishes examining her last blade and slides it cleanly into its slot. One hand rests, tense on her weapon, as her sharp eyes move over the terrain. "Eren is safe. Staying this close to the forest is suicide." Her hands squeeze the grips of her maneuver gear, jaw setting like hard and mean concrete. "She could come out at any moment."
"Any old titan can come out whenever, wherever they want," Levi replies dismissively. "Camping for an hour won't hurt us this time."
The camping doesn't concern him, even though with this number of casualties, the Corps may have to rest for longer than usual. Levi's learned that it's of a strategic advantage to wait after a battle, to tend the wounds and plan the course so your recklessness doesn't suddenly kill you later at an even more inconvenient time. So instead of getting worked up about how long the Corps will camp this time, he narrows his eyes at the rain.
In the last five years, Levi's learned to watch the weather. If the rain intensifies, the Recon Corps' return to Karanes could be delayed indefinitely. He regards the storm clouds darkly as chill drops pepper his face and bounce off his green cape. Ever since his first expedition outside the walls, Levi's hated riding in the rain.
"She took extensive damage to her major muscle groups earlier," Levi finally says, turning to face his subordinate with worn, hard eyes. "She was tired enough already. We were lucky to catch her at her weakest."
He pauses, looking dispassionately back at the med tent. Eren, Levi knows, lies somewhere dumped inside, passed out and smelling like titan saliva.
"A smart bitch like her won't make chase," he concludes flatly. "Not after two close calls. For now, Erwin's reorganizing our formation. Tell your friends to refill gas and stand by. Try to get some rest while you can."
The girl doesn't relax, but reluctantly lets go of her grips.
"Yes, Captain."
Mikasa pauses a beat, hesitating, then plants her feet in the soil and salutes. "And thank you for saving Eren. I apologize for my insubordination. My mistake almost cost us our lives, and you're injured because of me."
"Thank me after that brat wakes up," is all Levi grumbles, tiredness finally catching up to him. It makes his shoulders ache and replaces the numbness in his broken foot with pain.
His eyes fall on his hands. Levi presses a wet palm to the cuff of his sleeve, rewetting the dried blood splattered across the blank fabric. If he keeps the blood damp, he's learned, the stain will come out easier later.
Mikasa has the tact to leave without saying another word.
Levi absentmindedly listens to her boots sink and suck into the wet ground behind him, mingling soon with the distant sounds of camp: of horses whinnying and yelled directions and calling for medics and crinkling of tarps to wrap around dead bodies and crying, the crying—god, after all this time, you think Levi would be used to the crying, the way Petra and Uluo bawled after missions when the final body counts were announced—
It strikes him bluntly that his squad members will be included in that number today. Levi's Special Ops Squad is dead. Shredded apart by stinking molars, officially and violently disbanded. The pain hits him like a hard hilt, like a fresh sore, makes his throat close and tongue salivate metallic and salty, like blood.
He still sees their faces—
Petra, the powerful woman, shattered in a sick and graceful arc against a tree. Oluo, the confident man, organs erupting out of his mouth. Guenther, the brave comrade, hanging crooked with a slit throat, dangling in space like a broken marionette. Eld, the calm friend, ripped in half, splattering the grass in his proximity with chunks of dead tissue and slick organs.
Levi wonders briefly about his duty to his Squad and the vow he made five years ago to protect them, to look out for them. They were a million things in this world: humanity's strongest fighters, reluctant and awful cleaners, his loyal friends and sometimes his worst enemies. They were aggravating at times, impossible all the time. They were dead, dead. What did he owe them now, after it was all over? How much is it supposed to hurt? Numb, numb. Is he supposed to cry for them?
The sounds of camp return with a rush of blood to the head. Levi suddenly feels the need to eat or vomit—he can't quite tell which. The stirring in his stomach mixes nauseatingly well with the pulsing pain in his left foot and head, and it's all he can do in the moment to keep himself upright, gritting his teeth until they shatter to chase away the black spots popping up in his vision.
If he falls now, it'll be hell to drag himself up again.
The smell and chill rain down his back eventually wakes him up.
Levi suddenly understands where Mikasa's impatience comes from. It's been over an hour since leaving the forest, and that mass of titans eventually will follow, like they always do. The Corps doesn't have enough time, they've never had enough time—from its conception, the Corps was caught in a paradoxical relationship with time, perpetually trying to both run from and chase it in the same stride. Levi needs to bind his foot and find his horse, but the Corps doesn't leave without new orders from Erwin. They need to move, he realizes with urgency. The stack of bodies is high enough. They've already been out here for far too long.
Letting the cold air dissolve the pain in his head and leg, Levi abruptly turns to find Erwin.
Year 850, the Forest of Giant Trees
Medic Joli
Out roll the bodies.
"That female titan really knew how to fight," Joshua observes, face serious for once. "How many words for carnage can you think of?"
He crouches next to Joli on the tree branch, peering down from their perch at the carts passing below.
Frenzied horses emerge from the Forest of Giant Trees like they're running out of hell, dragging carts on wooden wagon wheels behind them. The wheels dip and stumble across the footprints of titans in the dirt, knocking around the bodies or the remains of bodies stacked inside. The alarmingly short line of carts stops and spread out on the dirt road, right at the edge of the forest.
"They're back!" a captain shouts. In the trees around them, newbies crouch, eager to be of use after what's felt like years of playing bait and waiting. "All teams assist with camp preparations immediately!"
"YES, SIR!"
A flurry of bodies falls swiftly around Joli before firing 3DMG into the bark of nearby trees. The few dozen soldiers waiting on standby land safely and rush to unload crates of supplies and rations. From the forest, the remaining Recon Corps soldiers blaze out on horseback. They dismount in a hurry, running their horses to haphazardly unloaded bales of hay before rushing to refill their gas and unload medical supplies.
"Twelve carts left, meaning we've lost five since this morning," Joshua counts as the last cart passes underneath. "Four hold the supplies and eight are transporting bodies. We're looking at four or five patients on each cart, statistically with at least one in two in critical condition. That's about forty injured with up to twenty needing immediate medical attention."
Joshua pauses, seeming startled by his own calculations. "In other words, that's a lot of bodies."
"We'll use the marking system then," Joli says calmly, removing a pair of unused gloves from her smock pocket. She fishes into the other and emerges with two ink pens. "Don't worry. I've got an extra."
"Usual code then, right across the forehead," Joshua nods easily, picking a pen and holding it in his mouth. Reaching into the pocket of his white medic's coat, Joshua retrieves a pair of crumpled but clean gloves. He pauses briefly to crinkle warm coffee eyes in her direction.
"This is familiar, isn't it?" he says around the pen. "Even when you were just a rookie, I forgot to bring a marker into the field and you saved me then too. My lovely lieutenant, Joli Lieber. How did I even function before you entered my life?"
"Take that out of your mouth before you choke," she responds, not entirely displeased. Joli tugs the breathing cloth back over her nose and mouth, tucking flyaway auburn hairs back into her bun. "We can manage twenty if we move fast. Tell the other medics what's happening, and split into groups for each cart. I'll mark as many as I can. Meet you down there in a few minutes."
"It's a date then," Joshua says, grabbing the grips of his 3DMG.
He glances up. It's started raining.
"We've got lots of work to do."
Joli uncaps the pen with her teeth and swipes a quick line across the boy's forehead.
"Oh god," he moans, holding the open stub of his right arm. Blood seeps through his cape, soaking the veins and cracks of the wooden cart he lies on. "You've marked me for death, haven't you? Are you Death? Are you an angel?" His delirious eyes roll to white for a moment before they focus on Joli's face again, widening. "Are you...god?"
"If I were, I'd tell you," she assures him, wondering if this boy suffers from blood-loss-induced hysteria or simply naivety. Tucking the pen into her hair, Joli unclasps the steel box at her left hip. It's fastened to her 3DMG by tight belts and usually holds blades, but hers breaks open across the middle, revealing the six neat med kits packed within. Joli tilts out a bag and clips the steel container closed again.
"You're not going to die," she says, undoing the buckles around the med kit. It opens, and Joli reaches for a fresh roll of bandages. "As long as you don't stop talking to me, you'll be fine. Talk to a pretty girl like me, soldier. What's your name?"
"...Nathaniel," he manages, before his eyes roll backwards again.
Joli frowns slightly, wrapping the stump of his arm with practiced hands.
"He's the last in this cart, Lieutenant," another soldier announces when Joli's finished.
Joli slides off the cart, landing softly next to her. The girl salutes, as do the two other soldiers on standby with a cloth stretcher. "We'll transfer this patient to the medical tent for further treatment."
"What're the numbers?" Joli asks, cleanly stripping off the bloodied gloves and dropping them back into the cart.
"Current status: of thirty-seven persons requiring medical attention, twenty have not yet been treated. In the med tent, ten soldiers are marked as critical." A pause. "There's been one death in camp so far."
"At ease, soldier," Joli replies easily, replacing her gloves with a fresh pair. "I'm just a medic, not your captain. Talk to me like a friend. We could use friends in a time like this."
The girl shifts, uncomfortable. "If you'll excuse us, we have a body to move, Lieutenant."
Joli looks up, unblinking. In a bloody mess like this, those who refuse to be friends are automatically subordinates.
"So move it, soldier," she orders. "And hurry up. We've got more patients to see."
The girl purses her lips before saluting again. The soldiers load Nathaniel onto the stretcher and hurry back to the med tent.
Joli pauses briefly, examining the blood all over the front of her white smock. Beads of rain bounce off her coat, and Joli squints up at the light rain. She places a wrist on her forehead to absorb the sweat, wishing Joshua were with her to levy the depressing atmosphere with a joke or stupid fact about blood loss.
"No one wants to have even a bit of fun," Joli murmurs.
The next patient she sees struggles under the weight of another soldier.
"Sh-she can't stop shaking," the soldier babbles, tears pouring down her face. She pins the patient's flailing arms down onto the hard wooden surface of the cart. "I thought I hadn't seen her in a while and Amy's a friend from training and it's our first expedition and we said we'd look out for each other and oh god..."
Joli casts a quick eye over the patient. She notes the yellow and red foaming out of Amy's mouth, the way her thin body spasms and quakes against the hard wood. Using a gloved hand, Joli flips Amy's green cape aside.
The soldier gasps next to her.
Amy's maneuver gear hangs crushed and broken, the steel boxes folded inward like origami. Bent, blunt steel corners pierce deep into Amy's middle, bright metal staining bright red. The results of one hard, precise kick in the abdomen.
"Wh-what the h-hell could do this—"
"Our female titan friend," Joli murmurs, quickly unbuckling the equipment from Amy's waist. She gives a quick tug on each side, and the two containers clatter onto either side of Amy's body, dull steel corners slick with blood and sticky with tissue.
"Oh my god, oh my god...I-I-I didn't see Amy coming back on horseback, but I didn't think—"
Amy stiffens and gags suddenly, a cup of blood spurting over her clothes and splattering her friend in the face.
"Turn her on her side," Joli orders, kneeling over Amy's middle. She presses a hand against the patient's abdomen, sending another eruption of blood out of Amy's mouth and nose. The girl shudders, eyes white and milky.
"Massive upper gastrointestinal bleeding," Joli diagnoses quickly, sitting back. She takes a measured pause worth a thousand minutes before deciding. "...There's nothing we can do."
Joli uncaps her pen and draws an X over Amy's pale forehead.
"Wh-what's that?" the soldier stutters, still holding down Amy's limp wrists. Her wet chestnut eyes dart from Amy to Joli's hard face. "What do you mean there's nothing you can do? Is that some kind of code not to treat her? You're giving up on her? She's still alive, isn't she?!"
"This is how we prioritize," Joli responds, regarding the soldier with clear gray eyes. Amy's friend gapes back in disbelief.
Joli Lieber glances back down at the patient, half-heartedly looking for a reason to stay, for any sign of recovery. Amy's stopped shaking and looks up at the trees with glassy eyes. Saliva mixes with blood, flowing down her jaw and across her cheeks into inky black hair. The medic observes the body dispassionately before looking back up at Amy's friend.
Her watery eyes are so hopeful and hopeless, so naïve and pathetic, Joli sets her jaw before saying the words this girl won't truly hear or register until moments or minutes later—
"She's gone."
Two dead on camp.
The soldier fights it, eyes overflowing as she silently pleads Joli to take it back, to make it an unfunny and cruel joke. She doesn't let go of Amy's wrists.
"I-I can't, I can't..."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"I-I-I can't, I don't know how..."
"When you're ready, take her to the funeral cart for wrapping and preparation for travel. If there are any important personal items on her person you know of, you can retrieve them for her family."
And Joli Lieber moves on.
Even before joining the Corps eight months ago, Joli's known there's something inherently cruel about the job of a medic. A field medic works exclusively in a field of bodies and objective flesh. No room for attachment, barely any for numbness. If a patient dies, Joli isn't allowed the luxury of grief or sentimentality. After all, she treats the living, not the dead.
Joli knows the importance of coldness better than anyone. Numb, numb. Emotional attachment leads to very unprofessional, very distracting feelings if someone dies, and those kinds of regrets could kill a person. She finds it much easier, much more practical to just to keep moving.
And so Joli Lieber moves on. After all, there's nothing else to do.
"Run this soup to the captain," Sophie says when Joli reports back to the med tent. Sophie spoons a ladle of thick, steaming broth into a wooden bowl and hands it to her friend. "Captain Levi hasn't moved from lookout for the last hour."
Joli blinks.
"You've gotta be shitting me."
She's just finished marking another eight patients stable and delivering emergency surgery to a man whose lungs were crushed in the fist of a titan. Joli stands in front of the med tent, blankly registering her fingers burning from the heat of vegetable soup. Right in front of her lie a good two dozen soldiers in need of treatment. And Sophie wants her to deliver soup to an uninjured captain standing angstily out in the rain?
"No, Joli," Sophie answers flatly, green eyes regarding Joli without their usual warmth. Today, they look tired. "Why would I ever shit you? Sound disgusting."
"You need help in there treating patients," Joli retorts. "Make a newbie run the soup. Better yet, make humanity's-strongest-soldier-who-is-very-capable-of-walking-by-himself come to us when he's hungry."
"Why do you think I'm out here?" her friend responds miserably. Sophie pushes short brown hair behind her ears in irritation. "Joshua kicked me out because he says everything's under control and that I shouldn't strain myself. Please just do me this favor and deliver the stew, Joli. Unless you'd rather be on soup duty..."
"I'm going, I'm going," her friend consents quickly, holding the bowl out like a benediction. "Joshua means well, Sophie. And I'll deliver the damn stew. Since when have you been so good at negotiating?"
Sophie panics and points the dripping ladle in Joli's direction.
"Stop cussing," she yelps, putting a protective hand over the buttons of her medic smock. Sophie rubs her abdomen fondly, and a few strands of dark hair fall back into her face. "It'll hear you."
"It is still a bundle of cells," Joli responds, but her mouth still presses into a wry smile despite herself. She slips a metal spoon off the table into her coat pocket and leans over the table to bring her face close to Sophie's midriff. The Lieutenant Medic imagines the tiny, two-month-old fetus curled up inside.
"Fuck," Joli tells it softly.
She runs off to deliver the soup, laughing, the back of her coat splashed with angry drops from Sophie's ladle.
The captain stands a distance from camp, at the edge of the tree line. Rain softens the ground under Joli's boots, muffling her footsteps and making her legs relax slightly. She's seen Captain Levi before, riding with his Special Ops Squad or bickering with Captain Hange.
Since joining the Corps eight months ago, Joli's learned that Captain Levi strikes an imposing figure among the soldiers. Considered second only to Commander Erwin, when Sophie first pointed him out as humanity's strongest soldier, Joli had responded with: "You mean that short guy?"
Joli had never treated him before, and to the extent of her knowledge, neither had any of the other medics.
The man knows how to take care of himself.
She's about to reach out and touch his cloak, reluctant to break the silence, when Levi suddenly whirls around. He collides into her with the force of a running horse, almost sending Joli sprawling.
"You idiot!" Joli shouts when she regains her balance, suddenly protective of Sophie's stew. "I almost spilled!"
She feels a pinch of annoyance at his lack of response and decides that she does not like this Levi character.
Too lazy to get his own food, rude, and—Joli rolls her sore shoulder—unnaturally strong for someone so small.
Those who refuse to be friends are automatically subordinates.
She briefly hopes Levi won't have a problem with that.
Preview for next chapter:
"About five years ago, in Mitras," he tries again. "You've worked in the Underground before, haven't you?"
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