Hi, everyone! I don't probably have any business starting this-for any who have encountered me before, you know I have two other stories that I should probably devote attention to. But I've elected to try this instead of my existing SnK fic, "Beyond the Cage." That story was becoming unwieldy-I overcomplicated the plot, I think. So I've elected something a little more simple (but with plenty of twists, I hope).
Anyway-the title is a working one, and the length of this first chapter (toward the longer one) is experimental, largely. Let me know if you'd like longer or shorter chapters. And as things move alone, I'd be happy to have title suggestions!
Without further ado: I do not own the Shingeki no Kyojin franchise, only my rather extensive host of OCs, and at times, the plot.
Enjoy!
"I didn't know where I came from; I didn't care. I didn't know where I was going—I never bothered to look. I only knew where I was…and would have done anything to escape."
845—Mitras Public Courthouse
"The jury will deliberate."
For the first time since Judge Crawford Itzkof slammed his gavel to open the trial of Zara Mel Quincy, the courtroom was silent. The incessant chaos of the crowd—the largest at a trial in the past decade, well over the courtroom's capacity—had finally stilled after hours of shouts, slammed hands, stomped feet, anxious whispers and groans. The abrupt lack of noise, of motion, was disorienting.
Chained to the floor, on her knees in the middle of everything, Mel missed the cacophony. It had been distracting, let her mind wander beyond herself, beyond the bland square of aged, warped wood flooring she stared at through curled tendrils of hair, head bowed.
Now her attention was brought sharply to bear on herself. Her knees burned from their prolonged abuse, shoulders protesting the severe angle at which they were pulled behind her. Her wrists stung, chafed raw from thick, rope bindings. She was afraid to move too much, knowing the pain would intensify if she did. Her head swam, her system depleted. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten…certainly not for her two nights in the cells. (She didn't trust food from Inner City swine.)
Worst of all, every hammering heartbeat wracked her frame. In the silence, she could feel her fear as a tremor over her body, hear the rush of blood in her head with her accelerated pulse, smell her own scent: sour from nerves, the lingering blood on her clothes and stagnant nights in a dank dungeon.
Self-loathing...Fear is for the weak of heart.
The burn of every pair of eyes in the room raked her flesh—intense, condemning, pitying, disgusted. Mel gritted her teeth—proximity to so many people suffocated her, and she could almost taste their stagnant curiosity settling on her dark skin, her wild black halo of hair, the signet ring that hung on a chain round her neck, almost brushing the floor. Her breath came fast, trembling. She hated the stares—had hated them since she could remember. Everywhere she went, eyes following her…she wanted to gouge them all out.
At least she'd forever closed the pair that smoldered most—as bright amber as her own, always watching, always hungry…Mel shuddered. She would never regret the circumstances that lead to her imprisonment, and, she suspected, her demise. It was worth it.
It was worth it…but she bit her lip hard in frustration, felt the skin break and leak warm, salty fluid. Her own incompetence had inhibited her escape. emI was so close! /emTen feet from the underground staircase, when they'd caught her. Never quite fast enough…
"A verdict has been reached." The words sliced through the silence,hollow in the dank air, and effectively shattered Mel's steady spiral into regret. The statement was met by a dull rustle as the multitude looked up, woke from their daze, and then fell back to silence. Mel dared, at last, to move her eyes: up, off to the right, without lifting her head, to stare toward the jury.
An ominous mass of deep purple cloaks, one woman standing at the helm to deliver her fate. Purple…she recalls a text from a book she read as a child, on the theory of color language. Purple is the color of humanity… Her lip curled in a sneer. Everyone here touted humanity like a badge of honor, a prized and fragile symbol of righteousness. As though the label of "humanity" alone gave them license, value…as though it meant they deserved a place in the world. As far as Mel was concerned, they could hold on to that tarnished badge and follow it like sheep to its rotten conclusion.
Humanity deserves everything it gets.
"Lieutenant Caden Briggs, to the stand," Judge Crawford announced, and the standing woman made her way to the podium at the base of his raised dais. Mel's amber gaze tracked her, watched her pull back her hood to reveal cropped, white-blond hair pulled back from her face, the eyes behind her spectacles warmer than Mel would have supposed. She stood straight, chin up, and regarded the crowd of nobles sternly before, ultimately, meeting Mel's narrowed eyes. At least she actually looks me in the eye, Mel thought wryly.
Lieutenant…Mel wondered idly which division she was in. Not Military Police, or Mel would have encountered her before now. But not Garrison either, most likely, or she would be on alert after the fall of Wall Maria, two weeks ago. Recon? Even less likely—they were never called for something as mundane and civic as Jury duty.
"The jury finds Lady Zara Mel Quincy guilty of Voluntary Manslaughter," she announced. Mel winced at the ring of her full title, but had little time to consider the rest of the announcement as the courtroom erupted into loud cries of outrage.
"But that's third-degree!"
"She's a first-degree killer!"
"Hang her!"
"You're just going easy because she's a kid!"
"This was patricide!"
"We need to decrease the population, not coddle its criminals!"
Ironic, that a nobleman from Mitras would spout such a thing…
Crawford slammed his gavel repeatedly, a long-suffering scowl marring his weathered face, and pushed strands of white hair from his forehead. The crowd, grumbling, reluctantly settled down. Mel returned her wide, stunned gaze to the ground under the heat of a thousand hateful glares.
Voluntary Manslaughter…Mel didn't know all that much about the law, but she recalled a newspaper article from years ago: a criminal report. In her mind, she conjured the image, zeroed in on that phrase: "Intent to kill, without premeditation or malice aforethought."
In other words, Lieutenant Briggs had made the call that Mel acted in the heat of passion…and her sentence would, therefore, be lighter than the standby for First Degree Murder.
I'm not going to be executed?
Mel wasn't entirely sure how to feel about that. She had resigned herself to the gallows from the moment she was caught—depended on it, even, as a final release. Now she was to live? Her heart pounded ever harder, her ears seemed filled with cotton, and the slightly-numbed palms of her hands felt clammy.
No…she clenched her fists, relishing the resulting stabs of pain that lanced up her arms. Whatever comes after this isn't life, pulse or no…
"Lady Quincy is a minor!" Briggs said firmly, addressing the still-rowdy spectators. Mel looked up, once more, through her hair. Briggs' eyes were hard, jaw set. There would be no swaying the jury, on this. "The evidence clearly suggests she was under duress at the time of the murder, most likely unstable." Unstable? Mel glowered. She found it entirely insulting that a soldier, of all people, would consider her unstable for killing a man too slippery and foul for the law to catch up with. Unstable my ass, I just did a public service.
"The verdict will hold." Crawford's voice, though not particularly loud, settled the room. There was no arguing with his authority, and Briggs calmly straightened the hem of her military-grade jacket. Crawford stared at her from the corners of his misty blue eyes. "And the sentence?"
For a moment, Briggs said nothing, merely appraised the crowd. She had to tread carefully. Anger a crowd this large—packed with powerful, noble families—and she wouldn't be the only one facing consequences. Her gaze settled on the hunched, dark figure, seeming too small for the heavy chains that bound her, and her resolve hardened.
The girl's eyes were huge, glowing from her dark visage with emotions Briggs didn't dare to ponder. What horrors has this 13-year-old witnessed, to make an expression like that? Face gaunt, shadows evident even on her already dark skin, curls draped over her form like a murky cloak to her hips, so wild they nearly swallowed her diminutive frame. Briggs sighed.
"Wall Maria has fallen," she began, voice tired. "We have sent 20% of our 4 million-strong population into its titan-infested lands for the slaughter. The Military has just suffered more casualties than in any single event of the past century." The hall was silent, faces previously twisted in righteous protest slackened, eyes turned away in guilt. This was a population that didn't like to hear the horrors of reality, the statistics of death, or think about the poor and middle-class who died so that they might live their pompous, overfed, oblivious lives.
"This girl," she pointed to Mel, who remained stock still, "has unique abilities that we must put to use. Why cause more death? We need numbers, and we need skill: why not use hers?" The crowd stirred. Nobles and merchants turned to whisper to one another, curiosity about the strange teenage noble renewed.
Mel, herself, had a horrible, sinking feeling in her gut. If this was headed where she feared…Her mouth went suddenly very dry, and she swallowed convulsively.
I don't like this…
"The jury sentences Lady Zara Quincy to a lifetime of service," Briggs announced in a clear voice, with a ring of finality. Mel closed her eyes, felt the tension leave her body in defeat. "She will enlist in the military, effective immediately."
The military…Mel couldn't imagine anything worse. Judge Crawford's sharp gavel hit thrice—the final nail in Mel's coffin.
Why couldn't they just have killed me and gotten it over with…you call this lenience?! Mel tracked Briggs through the crowd, her eyes lit with dismay and fury. She would far and away have preferred the noose. This?
This would be a lifetime in Hell.
§§
For the next three days, Mel scanned her surroundings tirelessly. A crevice, a large crowd—a moment of closed eyes or a gap in attention, and she would be gone. She just needed an opening…
She'd thought that moment had come when she saw her escort for the carriage ride to the Southern Division Military Academy: a noblewoman by the name of Florence Hardt, clad head to toe in impracticality (a blue dress to match her striking eyes, complete with flounces and ruffles; delicate shoes with the steady click of a raised heel; a twirling, frivolous parasol of pastel yellow, a perfectly superfluous hat perched atop her intricate pile of coppery hair). Why they picked such a woman to escort a known, convicted murderer to a Military base, Mel couldn't begin to comprehend.
Nevertheless, their pain, her gain…
Or so she had thought. And yet, when she'd made a dash for a nearby alleyway (the moment her prison guards left her alone with Madame Hardt), Mel had found the sharp end of a parasol jabbed, hard, into her shoulder, the pang of a dainty heel against her achilles tendon, and the following, blunt impact of cobbled street against her burlap-clad bottom.
She had stared up at Florence in awe. Who is this woman?! Fast enough that Mel's sharp gaze had barely caught the blur, she had left the teen no time whatsoever to react.
And then the woman stood over her child prisoner, parasol hoisted comfortably over one shoulder, and said with a stunning grin, "That's quite enough dilly-dally. Shall we press on?" in that infuriating, coquettish way the noble had of speaking.
Needless to say, Mel had far from given up (she took her chances on the road, from various inns, even on a latrine break). But by midway through their third day of travel, Mel had resigned herself to her fate. Whatever witch or demon this Lady Hardt was, Mel was no match for her.
To make matters worse, the girl had developed a pounding, nearly debilitating headache from the second hour on: Florence never stopped talking! The woman chattered endlessly, unfazed by Mel's obvious disinterest in the weather, or fashion, or the latest mystery pamphlet by writer Cecily Bradstene (never mind her being "the brightest imagination of our time!") Imagine the poor girl's horror when, their first night at an upscale inn called "Rowan Hill," Mel was awoken by the continuing murmur of Lady Florence Hardt-in her sleep!
Mel pressed her forehead hard against the window of the carriage. Amber eyes muted by exhaustion, pressing anxiety and the dull throb in her head, she watched the landscape pass by. Hills…hills…trees…town…hills…
How much farther?
Mel never thought she'd see the day she wanted to reach a Military training facility, and grimaced at how low she had fallen. But the steady clop of the horse's had begun to echo in her mind, morphing into a haunting refrain against the heavy quiet of the cabin…
Wait. Quiet?
Slowly, so as not to jar her head, Mel pulled away from the window and stared at Florence. She put her mind on replay, locating the last thing Florence had said. A full thirty seconds ago, the woman had spoken:
"Half an hour away…I suppose it's time, then."
Mel's stare was met by cool, crystalline blue, and the most somber expression she had yet to see on her escort's face.
"…what?" she asked dumbly, though she knew the words exactly. Florence quirked an eyebrow, clearly aware that Mel needed no repetition.
"Before we reach our destination, I must relay some things to you, Lady Quincy." The obnoxious lilt was gone from Florence's voice. Mel narrowed her eyes, eyes glinting. Florence's face softened at the expression, a rueful smile across her features. "You don't like when I call you that, do you?" Mel lifted her chin airily. She was not a Quincy.
Florence sighed. "Will Zara do?" Mel nodded once, crisp. "Good. Then, Zara, I'm sure you've guessed, by now, that your assignment to the military was no accident. It took a great deal of influence to ensure this outcome." Mel's face remained pointedly impassive. Influence? She thought back to the blond Lieutenant who had so self-assuredly commanded Mel's sentence. Was she a plant? Bribed?
Where is this going?
"And so?" she pressed. Her voice was raspy, thick from disuse. Mel hadn't spoken once since her capture five days ago, silenced by circumstance and stubbornness. Her throat hurt, and she resisted the urge to cough. Her eyes watered.
"I represent a very mobile organization," Florence continued. Mel noted her omission of said organization's name. "We have reason to suspect the Military may be compromised very soon—something, I assure you, would be disastrous for humanity. If what we think proves true, it may spell the end, for us." She paused for a pregnant moment, letting the gravity of her statement settle.
Florence didn't know what she was expecting—alarm? Fear? Curiosity? At the very least a mild concern…what she got was the same apathy her charge had worn for the past five days. A quirked eyebrow, a glint within ember eyes that said "and so? Why should I care?"
Zephyr said she would be tough…Florence huffed, remembering her comrade's warning. Florence never imagined a 13-year-old noble would be quite this jaded.
"Why me?" Two syllables, so quiet Florence could barely hear them. The girl's voice was lower than she would have guessed, given her age and size, clearly cracked from days of silence. Florence hadn't pressed for conversation, but she had certainly taken note of her charge's complete refusal to speak. She'd initially assumed it was fear...now she knew it was resentment, stubbornness, distrust.
"We'd like to utilize your unique attributes, when the time comes," she told Mel, who shook her head minutely in confusion. Again, about "uniqueness." What attributes? "Your memory will serve extremely well, placed within the Military," Florence answered the unspoken question. "Beyond that, our limited knowledge of your lineage suggests other strengths that may prove useful against the titans and other enemies."
Mel's eyes widened as she stared straight ahead of her—the only sign of her inner turbulence at Florence's words. Her lineage? How did Florence know about it when Mel herself barely remembered her mother's face? And her memory…Mel's mind darkened at the implications. She knew her memory was special—amazing enough that it had put her through a million sausage-fingered hands as a child. She'd be damned if anyone but her got to use it ever again.
I don't care about the titans…or these "other enemies." As though human's weren't their own biggest enemy, half the time.
Amber eyes flickered back to energetic blue ones, to find that Florence's blinding smile was plastered to her face once more.
"Work hard and give it your best—we'll just have to wait and see how this goes," she said, false cheer in her voice and a pitch Mel's head protested. She leaned against the window once more, the cool glass soothing against her skin, and her brow furrowed in a scowl. She hadn't missed the veiled threat in Florence's words: work with us, or we can send you back to the gallows.
Five days ago, Mel was more than ready to face the hangman. Today, watching the lush, green world go by…was she still? If she was honest, having tasted fresh air once again, she couldn't answer. Perhaps she was still ready to die...but not by the noose. Not hung like a petty criminal, when she felt strongly that she had done nothing wrong. I'm in the right, she thought bitterly. I refuse to go down like a feral dog.
With an angry click of her tongue, Mel resigned to do exactly as Florence had said: Wait and see. She closed her eyes with a gusty exhale through the nose—a fruitless attempt to calm the churning anxiety in her stomach.
"We're here." Mel opened her eyes slowly to find that the drowsy, rolling hills had, at last, been replaced with a scene entirely different.
The coach stopped. Florence did not get out of the cab as Mel hopped down, borrowed boots kicking up a cloud of dust. The woman merely leaned out the open door, a pristine kerchief held over her mouth and nose, one hand waving gently.
"Oh, I forgot." Quick as a snake, she grabbed Mel's wrist, flipped her hand palm-up, and pressed something there. Mel hissed-her hands were still red and sore-and instinctively pulled back, to no avail.
Once more, blue eyes locked with wary amber, the grip around Me's wrist not quite hard enough to bruise, but vice-like. "Hold on to your distrust, Lady Zara," she said, wry, dark humor coloring her tone. "It will serve you well in the military."
With that the carriage disappeared behind a plume of reddish dust that caught at Mel's eyes and clogged her nose. When the haze cleared, the girl was alone, staring out at a Military compound: flat, barren training fields, scattered cabins, walled in by a sheer cliff (probably at least 65 feet), atop which squatted the ominous Headquarter building, with an unsettling view of the entire compound…and everyone in it.
Mel swallowed and clenched her fists. Something in her right hand crumpled—the departing gift from Florence. A piece of paper, folded, with neat, inky script across the middle.
"Nice try, Q. Bad luck on that verdict. I'll be in touch. Stay alive. -Z"
Z…Mel's eyes widened before narrowing to a scowl. She crumpled the paper mercilessly and then, unsatisfied with that, shredded it. So he's involved, huh…I should have guessed...
She couldn't help but remember the last time she had seen him-somewhere between a father and brother figure, her haven in the Underground. She'd been blind with rage, marching toward the imposing stairs to the upper world. He'd grabbed her arm, forced her to look at him. Blue eyes wide, pleading, strands of inky hair across his pale face. He'd begged her not to go back above ground, but she'd brushed him off without so much as a goodbye. He's not worth it, Q—don't throw away your life!
As though servitude as a soldier and a spy didn't count as a life thrown away.
Alrighty...so there's that. I know-entirely OCs for this first chapter. Let me know if that kills the interest, and maybe I'll attempt to start the story elsewhere in the plot, move up the time until canon-impact. Especially because, fair warning: the next bit will continue to be chock-full of OCs...
Speaking of feedback: please do leave comments of any kind! I'd greatly appreciate thoughts, opinions...both criticisms and suggestions are highly valued!
Next Up: Mel arrives at the Military Academy, meets the rest of the Cadets...and of course, clashes with General Keith Shadis, sadist that he is. How will Mel fair in the brutal regiment of training? Will she make friends? And...will anyone interesting come to observe-this will be the first class after Shiganshina, after all!
Have a lovely day, all!