"With the latest attack on the royal family, we should rake in the profits," Jean proclaims as he shields his eyes from the sun shining through the window. Sweat beads his forehead. "We might have our best voyage yet."
"Isn't this your first voyage?" asks Thomas Wagner, one of the new sailors assigned to him.
"My first captaining my own ship," Jean admits, annoyance flaring. "But it's certainly not my first."
"I'm sure you'll do a great job," says one of the other new sailors, a boy with dark hair and freckles. Marco.
"Thanks," Jean says. "We depart at seven in the morning. Be there, or miss sending money home for the next month."
His men nod and disperse out of the tavern. Unlike most other drinking spots scattered around Trost, this one is suitable for Jean because of the dark cherry wood bar and stools, the gleaming swords mounted on the wall, swords that killed Marlayans in battle, at least according to the bar's owner. Jean takes a swig of ale and forces it down. No matter how many times he tries it, he can't stand the bitter stuff, but he's expected to drink it. By whom, though, Jean's not sure. Maybe by his own expectations.
"Are you the youngest captain ever?" questions Marco.
Jean blinks. You're still here? "I don't know. Maybe." He frowns. "What do you mean by it?" Marco doesn't look like he can be much older than he is. Maybe a year, at the very most.
Marco blinks. "Well, I think it says good things about your leadership skills, if you're appointed this young."
"Oh." Jean relaxes. "Thanks. You going to go see the city before we leave?"
Marco frowns. "I don't know. You're from Trost, aren't you? Where should I see?"
"There's not much," Jean says with a snort. "I can't wait to get out of here." His eyes latch onto a strangely dressed boy entering the bar. He's shorter than Jean and wears a grin that identifies him as a fool. If Jean didn't know that no refugees had he funds to make it to Trost, he'd assume this fellow was among that unfortunate crowd.
"To the sea?"
"No—yes, the sea, but the sea's the means to an end." Jean closes his eyes, picturing that end—the safety and security of a life in Sina. "Other captains have retired early from the merchant business. If I can make enough runs and make enough profit, I could join them. Most of them are able to retire in Sina."
"Sina?" Marco's eyes widen.
Jean grins. "Yeah."
"Do you think it'll be more dangerous? After the attack?" Something about the way Marco asks tells Jean he isn't afraid.
"That'll be the perception, but probably not," Jean says as he leans across the small table separating them. "So we'll be able to charge the people who live in the archipelago extra, which they'll pay because they don't know if or when others are coming—and from what I've heard, they won't be coming for awhile. And they'll want more supplies because of that, too, so it's a—"
"Are you serious?" interrupts a voice.
Jean turns from Marco's paler face to see the brown-haired boy, wrapped in a ragged cloak. He glares at Jean as if he's a louse. "Do you want something? A copper coin?"
The boy's eyes flash. "You admitted to swindling—"
"I'm not swindling," Jean cuts in, getting to his feet. Other patrons stop to stare, one with his mug of ale halfway to his bearded chin. "If they couldn't pay it, I wouldn't make them. But I know they can. It's business, which I'm guessing that you—" His eyes run up and down from the boy's scuffed shoes to his stained britches and ill-fitting shirt. "—know absolutely nothing about." The accusation simmers inside of him. How dare this ignorant asshole suggest Jean is—
"With Eldians like you, who needs the Marlay?" the boy snaps.
"Excuse me?" Jean's fist curls. He takes a step forward.
"Hey, hey," Marco interjects as he leaps to his feet, one hand outstretched towards Jean and one to the boy. "Calm down. There's no need to fight here." He offers the boy a smile. "Are you a merchant too?"
"He's dressed like a refugee," Jean says with a roll of his eyes.
"Which means I've seen people die," the boy shoots back. "My mother—my—"
Jean's jaw drops. "You're actually—you—how did you get here?"
"Money may be harder to come by, but it does exist," the boy grumbles.
"My point exactly," Jean sneers, thinking of the buyers on the archipelago.
The boy's face blooms red with rage. Marco gulps.
"I'm so sorry," blurts out a shorter blonde boy as he scrambles over to them. He grabs the first boy's shoulder. "Eren, we should—"
"Fine," Eren grouses, still glaring at Jean.
"I apologize," the blonde says. "I hope you have a safe voyage."
Jean gives a short nod.
"What's your name?" Marco asks. "I'm Marco Bott, and this is Jean Kirchstein."
"Armin Arlert. We're originally from Fort Shiganshina, but, well…" Armin's voice trails off.
Jean swallows. The other patrons turn back to their business, evidently disappointed that there isn't going to be a fight. Maybe this tavern's not as different as I thought. "I'm sorry."
Armin nods. "So you're heading to the archipelago?"
"Dodging Erwin Smith's pirates and Marlayans stupid enough to come this far north," Jean confirms with a snicker. "I'm kidding. Marlayans don't come this far south."
"We're looking to go there," Armin says.
Jean's jaw drops. "Why?"
"Personal reasons," Armin says with a nervous glance at Eren. "We don't have a future here on the mainland. Don't you agree?"
Jean thinks back to the one time he rode by a refugee settlement. The stench and the sights—the people with huge, dull eyes—his stomach turns.
"There are three of us total," Armin continues. "Eren, me, and another friend of ours. We can pay."
Eren's gaze remains fixed on Jean.
"Do you really think like in the archipelago will be any better?" Marco questions. "I've only been there once as a sailor, but it was hard—a lot of—"
"No," Jean interrupts.
Armin blinks.
"I'm not taking on passengers. Especially not ones who insult me and assume the worst of my character." Jean slams some silver coins down for his drink.
"So you'll just confirm his presumption, then?" Armin calls out, grabbing Eren's arm as if to tell the boy to shut up.
"Nice try at manipulating," Jean tells him.
Armin's face falls. "Please—we need to leave as soon as possible, and—"
"Jean, we do have room," Marco interrupts. "And we can charge them extra to make up for the insult if you're so inclined—"
So now you believe them? That I'm only about money? Shame pricks at Jean's stomach, but dammit, if he gives in now, it'll just confirm it. He's trapped. "I said, no."
"We can find another merchant," interjects a cold voice. Jean whirls around and his heart freezes.
A girl with long, glossy hair the color of onyx stands there, wearing a threadbare dress, a red scarf despite the heat, and a sword strapped to her side. She moves past Jean to stand next to Eren and Armin. "Let's go."
Think, man! Jean yells at himself. The three of them move towards the exit, the girl's hand on the hilt of her sword. "Wait!"
Marco glances at him. The three stop, but only Armin turns around.
"I'll take you," Jean states, his heart pounding. "For the normal rate, plus some help with tasks on board if my sailors need it." He marches over to them. "We depart at seven in the morning. I'll take your payment once you're on board. My ship's the Rogue Titan."
A small smile curves Marco's lips. Relief floods Jean.
"Shake on it?" He holds out his hand.
Armin takes his hand first, a grin on his face. "Thank you so much!"
"Thanks," mumbles Eren, shaking it reluctantly. Jean squeezes hard, until he sees the look in the girl's eyes. Never mind.
"Mikasa," says the girl as she shakes his hand. "See you in the morning."
"If you impugn my character on board," Jean warns Eren as the three of them turn to leave again. "I'll make you walk the plank."
Mikasa's eyes narrow. Jean's mouth dries. Or not.
"Your long hair will be hard to manage on board a ship," Eren says to Mikasa.
"Then I'll cut it," she answers.
No! Jean wants to protest.
"This just proves it to me," Marco says.
"Huh?" Jean turns around to stare.
"That you'll be a good captain," Marco says with a simple smile. "Even when you make mistakes, you rectify them."
They'll kill you.
Like they killed your mother, the siblings you didn't even know were your siblings.
Historia Reiss no longer exists. It's not safe for her.
Christa huddles on a street corner, the buildings behind her all made of ash-coated bricks. The sun is obscenely warm, and her dress, once fine like any princess's, sticks to her skin, glued by sweat. She winds her long golden hair around her hand. How long has it been since I bathed? Three days again?
At this rate, I won't be any good to my people. Christa peers into a steamy muddy puddle. She can barely make out her features.
Historia Reiss is gone.
Being Christa Lenz wouldn't be so bad, if Christa could do something other than be a pathetic street urchin in Trost. She's an inconvenience, something Historia was as well, but at least Historia could help people. Christa's just a nuisance.
I don't want to be a nuisance. She wants Christa, at least, to be liked. To help people. To be good.
A blond soldier, dressed in blue and carrying a musket, passes by Christa with a stoic expression. Her fingers flick, however, and a gold coin drops onto the ground.
Christa's face burns. I'm that pitiable?
"Excuse me?" she calls, scrambling to her feet. "You dropped your coin!"
The girl turns around, her eyes wide. Long bangs hang around her face. "Keep it, if you want. Or give it away."
Christa flinches. The girl strides off, heading to two very tall boys who hardly look like the type of company a soldier would keep.
The sky darkens, and Christa winces. The soldier girl should get out of here. This is a part of Trost most residents prefer to think doesn't exist, a part that caters to pirates and smugglers rather than the elite. Christa hadn't seen it for herself before a week ago.
"Here," she tells a small boy as he scampers by. His eyes widen as she presses the gold coin into his palm.
"Thank you, miss!"
Christa smiles, watching him hoot as he races off.
"Now what are you going to eat?" interrupts a dull voice.
Christa whirls around to see a tall girl with dark hair and freckles emerging from an alleyway. She chews on what looks like it might have been a carrot.
"He looked hungry too," Christa protests.
The girl drops the carrot stem onto the ground. "I've seen you here the past week."
Christa shrugs.
"You don't really seem the street type," the girl observes. "What happened? You get knocked up and kicked out by your family? You run away from a refugee settlement with a lover who then ditched you? Or—"
"No!" Christa protests, covering her face. "Nothing like—"
"Everyone has a sob story here," the girl observes. "It's okay if you don't want to tell me yours."
"How long have you been here?" Christa asks.
The girl cocks her head, as if surprised Christa's actually asking her about herself. "I'm Ymir," she says after a pause. "And I've been here—years."
"Christa Lenz," she says, not sure if the sound of her new name liberates or nauseates her. The girl soldier's vanished from the other side of the street, as have the two she was talking with.
"If you want to survive, you're going to have to prioritize yourself a bit more," Ymir tells her. "No giving away charity to little kids, no matter how cute they are."
"But he—"
"Or maybe you don't want to survive," Ymir says, watching her. "That means you surely have an interesting story, but I won't be around to hear it." She heads back into the alleyway, the sky bleeding orange and crimson over the cobblestones. Shadows swallow her up.
"Wait!" Christa calls, dashing after her. "You can't just leave—"
Ymir leans against the brick wall, arms crossed. "I can do whatever I like."
"But then who doesn't want to survive?" Christa demands. "If you won't be around to hear it—"
Ymir frowns, peeling herself off the wall. "I'm getting out of Trost, is all I meant."
"Oh."
"You were concerned for me?"
"Why not?" Christa asks, voice trembling as Ymir comes closer. Ymir's might be unmistakably a girl, but she's dressed more like a boy, in trousers and a soiled shirt.
"Don't worry," Ymir says. "I have no desire to die. I want to live." She bites her lip. "I signed up to sail with Erwin Smith's gang of pirates."
"Huh?" Christa's jaw drops. She vaguely remembers overhearing her father discussing that man during his infrequent visits—a former general in the army gone rogue, working for neither Marlay nor Eldian. "It's as good as being a traitor!" Father cried. "He was such a promising general—we all trusted him."
"Are you shocked?" Ymir's lips curve.
"No," Christa says, her heart pounding. "He's—here? Erwin Smith? In this town?"
Ymir nods. "We're leaving tonight. Under cover of darkness. Maybe it'll be a new life." Her voice sounds almost wistful.
"Where does he sail?" Christa questions.
"Wherever he wants," Ymir answers.
"Can I join too?" Christa blurts out. Did I just say that? Her hands tremble.
Christa Lenz can be whoever she wants to be.
But I want to be good. And she also wants company. If Ymir leaves—she can't imagine spending tonight curled up again, alone and crying.
If the worst were to happen on board that ship, it'd be no different than what's already happened.
"People will blame you," the executioner told her, his knife still dripping with her mother's blood as she cried and cried. "They'll want to rally around the one remaining heir, even if she's illegitimate. But it'll give the Marlay fodder against your father."
And Christa knew, even then, what he meant. The right thing to do is to let her father remarry, sire more legitimate heirs. She didn't want the fate of an entire nation on her shoulders.
"Are you serious?" Ymir sounds amused.
"Yes," Christa insists, dusk tugging its blankets across the alleyway. "I want—I want—to get out of here."
A pause. Someone lets out a yell from the main street. Above them, Christa can hear the telltale grunts and moans of a brothel.
"Well," says Ymir. "That's one thing I can relate to."
"When do you leave?"
"A few hours." Ymir clears her throat. "We're meeting at the First King's tavern. We can go early and get something to eat, if you want." She digs through her pockets. "Unlike you, I haven't given my coins away."
Christa's stomach growls. Ymir laughs and slings an arm around her. "Come on, then."
A man with an earring leers at Christa as they enter the tavern. Scantily clad women drape themselves over grizzled men—pirates, Christa realizes.
Am I really fit for this?
"Back off," Ymir orders.
"Me too?" asks a jovial voice from behind Christa.
Ymir rolls her eyes, ordering two ales and some meat and bread. "Not you, Reiner."
A huge blond boy grins at her. An even taller, skinner boy with dark hair slips up behind the blond, keeping his eyes downcast.
"I don't think we've met," the blond says. "I'm Reiner Braun. This is—"
"Bertolt Hoover," says the brown-haired one.
"Oh, you do talk?" asks Ymir as she yanks out two free stools and pats one. "I wasn't sure. Sit, Christa."
He flushes. Christa hesitates. "Don't you want to?" she asks him.
"They are fine strapping gentlemen who will be joining us in our new venture," Ymir says as she accepts two mugs of ale and hands one to Christa. "To our new lives."
"To new lives," Christa echoes as she taps the ceramic against Ymir's. She sips as Reiner gestures to the stool.
"We're fine standing."
"Thanks." She drops onto it.
Reiner scowls. "She's too pretty to be here, Ymir. I know that on the No Regrets it'll be a different story, but—"
"How will it be a different story?" Christa asks as she sips. She should be careful not to drink too much. Ymir has almost a foot on her. It tastes terrible, but the charms of the alcohol grab her, pulling her into a dance. I'm starting a new life.
"Erwin Smith has his crew's complete loyalty. They do not hurt people unnecessarily," Reiner says.
Bertolt mumbles something that sounds like "honorable pirates."
"Christa can protect herself. And when she can't, I can back her up," Ymir states. "And so can you both."
You were the ones I saw talking to the soldier earlier, Christa realizes as she watches Reiner and Bertolt. Did they buy her off? Frankly, from what she's heard about the soldiers who patrol the streets of Trost, it wouldn't shock her.
"Connie's here," Reiner says happily. "Our fifth new recruit."
A bald boy, far shorter than Ymir but, of course, still taller than Christa, prances into the tavern with a huge grin on his face. "So tonight's the night, huh?" He claps Reiner and Bertolt on the shoulder.
"Did you tell Mother and Father and make them proud?" Ymir mocks.
Connie scowls. "I'm doing what I have to do."
Aren't we all, Christa thinks as Connie introduces himself to her and she to him. Then she watches Ymir take the fried, crispy meat and flatbread from the bar girl as Christa's own stomach growls, and she wonders.
The sun folds back the night with lavender and salmon fingers. "We're ready," Jean says as he surveys his crew. Marco stands at the front, smiling at Jean as if to encourage him. Mikasa stands towards the back, with Eren and Armin—the last of whom was effusive with his thanks this morning, and the middle of which sullenly offered Jean his bag of assorted gold, silver, and copper coins. Mikasa didn't look at him then, but she's looking at him now. Her hair's cropped short thanks to that idiot, but her face still beautiful.
The three soldiers he hired to safeguard the cargo, sitting heavy in the ships hull, watch Jean too. No pirates will get to his cargo. The blonde, Annie Leonhart, and her flirty companion Hitch Dreyse and dour one, Marlowe Freudenberg, who seems as though he has the potential to be as annoying as Eren. "Life the anchor!"
Sails snap and billow as the ship starts to move. Salt air hits Jean in the face, whips through his fine linen shirt.
Yes, he thinks. This is what it means to be alive. Even with a war raging on.
And with the help of this voyage, he'll earn enough money to ensure he stays that way.