"Captain! Leave it! It's too late!"
"Captain, we have to move! You have to get up!"
"Behind you!"
The whole of humanity has endured behind the safety of the walls for generations, though much has changed in the centuries since mankind was forced to seek refuge within them. The advancement of technology could not be impeded forever, and over the years society has modernized. Great leaps in progress were made in every field; medicine, military technology, industry, history, even religion. Through all of these new discoveries, mankind has found the means to thrive. Humans have been able to expand their territory far beyond the reach of the three original walls.
While human society has advanced, strengthened, and reclaimed more of the land they once inhabited, they are still caged, for outside those great walls remains the horror that has always trapped them there.
Titans.
More than that horror was the discovery made by the Survey Corps when they still existed: The humans living behind the walls really were the last ones left. Many fear, as they always have, that humanity may never triumph over the titans. It's a fear that grows stronger with each generation. Many are complacent despite their fear, but there are those who still fight that seemingly inevitable fate.
Even with every new weapon, each more powerful than the last, and every new defense constructed, the titan threat is no closer to being eliminated. Whenever the military fights a great battle, killing hundreds if not thousands of titans in their endless war, the titans only come back stronger, smarter, and in even greater numbers. It seems as though every soldier lost in action is replaced with one more titan they have to fight.
Those great battles have been numerous. Countless lives have been lost in humanity's fruitless struggle against the titans. It's only natural, then, that very few people would willingly enlist, knowing that they will die in vain. That attitude is so common amongst those of fighting age that the military eventually instated a draft in order to maintain the necessary number of boots on the ground. Every parent dreads their child's fifteenth birthday.
Regardless, humanity is much safer than it once was, even with all of the new dangers that they face. There are early warning systems now- sirens, in particular - sounding whenever the possibility of a breach might occur, or whenever a titan is sighted within the cities, and people are able to take shelter in underground bunkers impenetrable by titans before disaster strikes.
Safety from rogue titans is a reassuring thought, but everyone knows the danger is not entirely gone. There are now groups that sympathize with the titans and whose aim is to suppress humanity, their eventual goal to establish an entirely titan society. They target the shelters, transforming inside them to eat the humans sheltering within. If they survive inside long enough, (each shelter having several military guards stationed there to keep the peace) they even attempt to turn people with injections of titan serum that has become available on the black market. Attacks on the walls are less common, but still a concern for those living in the outer cities.
But, life goes on, as it must. People carry out their day-to-day routines even with the fear lurking in the back of their minds. They shop, they cook, they run their businesses, they play games and entertain themselves, they fight, they create, they sing and dance, they marry and have children, and they send their children to school to learn of all the things they themselves didn't learn in school when they were younger.
Life even goes on in the peaceful community that exists upon what was once the ruins of a notorious ancient city, a famous one, one that the history books say was once called Shiganshina.
A boy emerges from a crowd of people exiting the front doors of a large brick building. It's a school. A high school, to be exact. The students around him chat happily with their friends, laughing and shoving each other, bumping into others near them who are less amused at their antics.
That one boy, however, does not bear that same youthful look of joy. He walks silently, alone, green eyes dull and downcast. The others have dispersed, marching like lines of ants down the streets and sidewalks towards their homes, or their friends homes, or to places to entertain themselves in the company of others, leaving the somber boy with the green eyes to sit in solitude as he occupies his usual spot.
He is always alone.
In front of the school is a statue. It's a large statue, the figure of a man standing triumphantly atop a prone body, sword raised skyward, cape fluttering behind him. Around him flowers are planted, blooming petals of pure white nestled in deep green leaves. It's a beautiful sight, a monument to a hero lost to the ages. That is where the boy sits, crossing his legs on the bench that bears a memorial plaque praising that brave and noble hero. The boy turns to face the statue, a worn, leather-bound book and pen resting on his lap.
Every day this boy sits before the hero's statue, writing or drawing in that little book he carries. He doesn't always open the book. There are days when he simply sits and rests in its company, and others when he talks to the statue as if it were alive and listening, as if it could respond. His classmates always ridicule him when they see him doing this, but he's long learned to tune them out. It is not something they can ever understand. It's something that he's spent too much time explaining.
Besides, it isn't all that unusual to do such a thing. Some people do the same to images of their gods, saying prayers and asking for blessings. He believes in no gods, yet sometimes there is still a prayer on his lips. A wish. With the wishes come tears, and when he says goodbye, he always strokes the foot of the statue, a smooth spot worn there as evidence of years and years of this same action.
And so the boy sits, his mouth moving as he speaks quietly to the replica of the soldier. He pays no attention to his surroundings, purposefully willing away the cruel world around him. His back is turned to the street and he sees only the figure of the long-dead man in front of him.
That's why he doesn't notice the footsteps behind him, or the gasp, or the thump of something soft but heavy being dropped to the ground.
It's only when he hears the thing that shocks him, stops his heart, causes his hand to lose its hold on his pen that clatters to the ground beside him, only then that reality returns to him. What he's heard... is a voice.
A deep voice. A familiar voice, though the waver in the words it says, a familiar phrase spoken in a long-dead tongue, is unfamiliar. It's hesitant, a question carried on barely a breath, but he hears it nonetheless.
"… Mein Schätzchen."
His body reacts on its own, rapidly turning toward the source of those words he'd heard exclusively in his dreams.
And this must be a dream, he thinks, as he struggles to comprehend the beautiful apparition he sees, surely an illusion created by his disturbed mind. Yet he speaks, some dormant instinct surfacing in him, a response on his tongue before he even realizes he's whispering the reply he's always given.
"… Meine Füchschen."
Illusions and apparitions aren't solid. The lips against his are.
They are too warm, too firm, too alive to be a figment of his imagination. The weathered hands that firmly grip his face, the hot, salty liquid streaming from both green and grey to meld with the familiar taste of the lips pressed to his own, the comforting scent he knew he loved but existed only in the deepest recesses of his subconscious mind until this very moment. All of them are far too real. They were only dreams before but now they are flesh and bone, blood and breath and life.
No. He understands now. They were never dreams at all.
They were memories.