I do not own Shingeki no Kyojin
Drink the Water
Ymir lives as a landlord who houses felons and runaways, so long as she gets paid she could care less about what you've done to fuck up your life. When one of her tenants gets a bullet to the head, she's left with another unwanted tenant she has to evict; the only issue is that the tenant ways a ton.
WARNING: DRUG ABUSE
I was listening to Justin Cross's "Drink the Water" so...here you go.
A plume of hot air produced a mist when she exhaled it into the frost.
Desert nights were always the coldest part of the clock, one that Ymir reveled in as she snuffed out a cigarette. Sitting underneath a juniper tree was the last thing she wanted to do, especially at this time. When the coyotes were yipping on the mountain sides broke the sounds of the highway half a mile away, she pulled her jacket tighter over her shoulders.
Her leather clad boots scuffed against the barren dirt, kicking up small dust to be picked up by the light breeze. She was growing bored, she fought the urge to light another cigarette- she started heading back to the main road to where she parked her Harley.
She absently shoved her key into the ignition and brought it to life, the roar comforting her leather clad hands.
It was quiet that night, very quiet, save for her engine as she rolled down the dirt road and sent plumes of dirt flying from under her wheel. The peace in the blackness made her fidget, even in her seat as her headlight revealed the road ahead of her.
Ymir drove on, it felt like the road led to nowhere, but then it broke off into the main road where black asphalt lined with yellow broken lines gave her a new sight.
Being here, it was endless, the monotony, she wished something would happen, something big.
The last shoot-out was three months ago, and she wasn't even there to get involved, much to her disappointment.
The last brush fire was three years ago and despite the town being covered in dried brush, no one was willing to light it like a matchbox.
The last earthquake was ten years ago, the only damage came in the form of the Trost's only McDonald's sign collapsing and killing Berwik in his truck.
Overall, as of late, nothing eventful was happening, even when she tapped into the drug ring, it was a dead circuit. Just now she tried it, just now she was duped on a deal, just now she was already done with it.
Just like Trost.
The town of Trost was a place that was nestled at the last footsteps of the Rose Mountains, just an hour's drive away from Mitras, the main city south of the state. It was a place deader than death- endless spans of wide plains and tall hills, golden seas of dried brush of uncleared plots went as far as the eye can see, fenced properties of the rich blocked off the hicks from the rich (there this was the upper-class part of Trost, often called Hermiha- there was an invisible boundary), and trailers and beat down cars spotted the land.
Horses and quads were the only sources of the sane local's entertainment- this was an old mining town that kept its Western theme.
The insane stuck to their guns and drugs.
Old buildings from a century ago composed of the town's business area where the 104 freeway ramped in and out of, bringing in tourists and travelers to rest or refuel. The buildings were restored and given the modern blessings of plumbing and electricity, the industries could only touch this town for so much- the only thing that operated as a bank was a lonesome ATM in the Shell station, it hadn't worked for as long as Ymir knew.
As she arrived into town, she went on, going by the usual drinkers that roamed the streets happily, even the goddamn sheriff was piss drunk with his officer.
Ymir parked under an overhanging roof that shaded cars with its wooden planks, her key went back to its place at her belt as she dismounted and strode into the Three Walls Bar- it was a rundown establishment where smoke and laughter filled the air; it too was themed as one of those bars in those Clint Eastwood movies as the doors swung- this town was too lax to care about locks.
She undid the zipper to her leather coat and then hung it on a rack to reveal her black tank top.
Just as the next person in the room, she was dressed just as rugged- she sported torn jeans over these riding boots that had holes in them. Tank tops were her usual thing, only to display the pair of near realistic wings stretched over her breast collar; on her back was another one but she never felt like displaying that one. Always, always, always, the bottoms of her jeans were stained brown from the dirt- she truly lived in dirt.
She ruffled her loose locks and made her way to a table to where Sasha was sitting at.
Unlike her, she wore this faded white blouse shirt as she had a long skirt on. She had just gotten out of the night service and was too lazy to change out.
Sasha was one of those Baptists, she was a kind person, good, but poor. She and her father owned a failing cattle ranch a few miles away, as part-time her father was the town's only pastor, she worked under him as his assistant and coordinator. Ymir used to attend his services as a child, used to, but she fell out of it- regardless, she and Sasha were on good terms.
Sasha, however, had a single flaw- she binged. This time, she binged on drinks. Usually Connie would be here to help her out but he wasn't there, oddly enough.
"Hey, where's Connie?" Ymir asked her, boot nudging her ankle.
"I-unno," Sasha slurred as she looked up from her chips.
"You're funny," Ymir huffed,"is he off baptizing himself in Vaseline?"
Sasha shrugged and struggled to stay in her seat.
"Tch." Ymir was usually amused by Sasha drunk, but tonight, she didn't feel like being in the mood to watch her.
She wanted to come here for a drink yet that appetite faded away at the sight of her old friend. All she wanted to do was go home now and just be done with tonight. Just as she was about to get up, Sasha's hand caught her bare wrist.
"Can ya...take me home?" Sasha begged her.
Ymir simply shrugged, she may as well make the trip to the bar worth it as Sasha would owe her for the next favor; she went off to fetch her coat, then returned. Ymir leaned down, helped Sasha up, and guided her out the door, past the biker gang that stood outside (she didn't recognize them as their insignia wasn't local) and then to her own ride. As she aided Sasha onto her bike, she heard a few of the obnoxious men call out to her.
"Damn, that's one sweet ride, honey!"
Ymir only flipped him off and sped down the road, ignoring their disappointed groaning.
Sasha clung to her waist and was humming sharply, much to Ymir's annoyance.
"If you don't shut up, I'm dropping you back at the bar and letting those guys have fun with you," Ymir threatened.
"That ain't nice, `mir," Sasha whined,"ya wouldn't do that!"
"Maybe I would," Ymir huffed.
The rest of the ride was quiet save for Sasha nearly throwing them off balance but Ymir managed to drive by the empty feed lots and up a gravel path to the two-story house that Sasha called home. Once she dropped her off, and after having to deal with Sasha consistently hugging her, Ymir was back on the road to home.
About three miles away from Sasha's place was Ymir own shit hole. It was an unclosed property that was about ten acres, on it, most noticeable a mile away, was a red barn- there used to be horses in that filled the twelve stalls but now only one remained, an old gray horse that was gelded in his younger years.
She popped by the barn to feed him, he knickered at her as usual before going to his hay. He was something that she had that she kept from her childhood, while he was old he still kicked happily, something she loved about him, though his use had dwindled over time.
Getting back onto her bike, she rode the rest of it back to her run-down ranch house. It was only a single story, four bedrooms, a large living room, a small kitchen, and a three car garage that had been converted into a workshop. There, when bored, she was off fixing cars brought in by the townspeople...if they ever came by.
All of her customers were dead.
A few of their bikes were still in the garage but she scrapped them for parts.
She got off of her bike and lifted up the garage door, she wheeled it in, engine off, and slid the door close, hitting the lock to prevent any stragglers from getting in. It had happened before, it ended with her digging ten feet down, the body's head facing up.
She clapped her hands together, then removed her gloves to shove them into the back of her jeans.
Ymir entered the kitchen from the garage, the door was an announcement for Jean to turn his head around to look at her from her spot on the couch.
"Sup?" Jean greeted her while facing the tv. "Did it go well?"
"Got stood up, fucker never even sent a call," Ymir cursed as she went over to the moth eaten sofa and hopped over the headrest to sit next to him. Jean gave her his bottle of beer. "How do you even work like this? I'm surprised you even pay your rent this way."
"He may have thought you were from the FBI-"
"FBI don't wear leather jackets and drive Harleys," Ymir pointed out as they absently watched the football game.
Jean Kirstein was someone she knew back in school, he too dropped out at a later year as he found business in drug dealing. Ever since he discovered the beauty of cash flow, he fucked off out of education and made a stake in life. He still had that stupid two-toned hair and his long face brought her horse Titan to shame, she often refrained from calling him "horseface" as it was a nick-name reserved for some other bastard.
He spent his years living with Ymir, their relationship was mutual. He paid rent either too short or too late, but he made sure to pay.
Other than that, she kept her distance from him for most times.
Another hapless person living with her was a secretive woman, her cousin Ilse Langnar. She stayed in her room, holed up for days at a time. More or less, she was the only family she had and, by obligation, allowed her to stay with her; she was independent and cared for herself. She spent her time writing endlessly in books, obsessing over words like some sort of freak.
The only person who ever dropped by in her room was Hanji Zoe, a failed doctor who had her license revoked after drugging her patients during surgeries; she had a few accounts of murder under her belt, though she claimed they were accidents, and managed to wing prison, escaping as a fugitive and finding herself living under Ymir's roof.
She was batshit insane to a point where Ymir sniffed her drinks and slept with one eye open, she steered clear of her unless rent had to be paid. So long as Ilse was alive and unhurt, Ymir was less than bothered to have them interact.
In truth, all this living with her wasn't so much as a big deal, Ymir simply couldn't give enough fucks.
"One day they'll come barging into your house for one of us," Jean said, picking at his ear.
"Damn, I wonder why. We got a small time drug dealer, a fugitive fuck, and someone who's housing them without reporting them," Ymir listed them off as she counted with her fingers.
"Surprised you hadn't kicked us out."
"Gotta make money somewhere."
"Too lazy to break your back?"
Ymir snorted. "I've already done that."
It went quiet between the two.
The Legionaries scored a touchdown against the Apaches, another predictable game. Ymir sighed and got up, utterly spent for the day.
"Later," she said as she dragged herself to her room.
Jean didn't reply as she slammed the door behind her.
Without thinking or taking off her clothes, she threw herself down to her worn, uncovered mattress and passed out.
The following morning, her alarm clock came in the form of shouts and gunshots- it was just another shitty day.
