Wednesday 05:00, January 24th… Wings of Freedom Bar & Tavern, The Bronx
"Ah! Looks like he's coming to!"
Armin flinched away from the bright light shining in his eye, blinking away tears and letting a deep, wheezy groan escape from his lips.
The bright invasive light disappeared, allowing him to slowly open his still bleary eyes. At first all he could make out were two blurry shapes, but as he oriented himself back to reality, the shapes became concerned faces staring at him.
"Hey there, buddy." A dark haired man with freckles decorating his face spoke up, his voice gentle and his smile shining with optimism, "How are you feeling?"
Painful. That's how he felt. His entire body throbbed with a dull but ever-present agony. Every movement, no matter how subtle, brought a sensation of rubbing his bones against coarse sandpaper inside his chest. He tried to reply to the man's query, but succeeded only in provoking a few harsh coughs. He glanced down, flinching at the sight of his torso wrapped in a shiny brace.
"I don't think he should be trying to talk right now." A soft, angelic voice came from the left of Armin. He nodded, grateful that someone understood his current predicament.
"I concur. I was just trying to put him at ease." The man replied, before addressing his patient again. "My name is Marco and I'll be your doctor for today. Don't worry, I am an actual doctor."
Armin wanted to comment on how the freckled man-"Marco"-looked rather young for a fully fledged doctor, but his throat ached too badly to speak.
"From what I hear from my colleague over here," He gestured to someone to Armin's left, a short blonde lady who waved happily at him. "One of our associates hit you with his car. That pain you feel is coming from some damage in your upper chest and abdominal region, so I suggest that you try to stay still for a little while. At least until I give you a shot."
"You also shouldn't move your arm right now." The blonde woman chipped in, pointing to his heavily bandaged left arm, "You're going to have a few manly looking scars once you heal."
Marco reached for the bedstand, retrieving a small hypodermic needle and carefully filling it from a small plastic bottle. He gave Armin a sympathetic smile, "Fortunately you don't seem to have any intracranial hemorrhaging- I mean, you don't seem to be bleeding inside your skull. So you got lucky in that respect. And now that you're awake and seem relatively coherent, I feel safe in giving you a painkiller."
The promise of relief spurred Armin into jerkily nodding his head, his face contorted in pain and pleading. He flinched again when the needle broke his skin and then gradually relaxed as soothing numbness spread throughout his chest, reaching all the way to his tingling hands and feet. Marco quickly checked his pulse and again shined a light into his eyes. Armin wanted to tell him that he felt fine now but the numbness had settled around his lower jaw, making speech impossible even without the soreness of his throat.
The woman to his left giggled, the soft and lilting cadence enrapturing to him, "I think he's going to be alright now, Marco."
"Krista, If he's anything like our boss then he'll be on his feet by the end of the week. The important thing is to make sure he stays awake for the next twenty-four hours due to his concussion." Marco agreed, packing up his medical supplies as he spoke. "I'm gonna go check on the boss, before he starts… medicating."
"He's down in the saferoom, mellowing out." Krista told him, and stood up from her seat. "I'm going to go serve dinner. Sasha volunteered to watch him for the night."
"She volunteered to skip dinner?"
"Oh no, she already ate."
Marco shook his with amusement and with one final smile toward Armin, he and Krista left the room. Before the door could fully close, another woman pushed it open and shuffled over to the bedside. Her dark clothing was soaking wet and she wore a look of deep embarrassment that painted her face red.
"H-h-hello." She stuttered out, her left hand clasped over her right elbow, she tried to meet his eyes but instead rested her gaze on his collarbone. "I-I want to apologize for scaring you so badly before and for abducting you from the street. If it makes you feel better, none of us wanted to hurt you. I am sorry."
Slightly stunned by her show of remorse, Armin could only nod hesitantly, before giving her a small and strained smile.
The woman seemed to perk up at the sight, matching Armin's smile tenfold. "I am so glad that you are not dying!" She told him. He noticed that her words and enunciations were practiced, and she lacked the crisp New Yorker accent that he had grown accustomed to.
She leaned forward and gently took hold of his unbandaged hand, then softly and rather playfully shook it, "Happy to meet you, Armin. I'm Sasha!"
Looks like he made a friend. A friend that appeared to be involved in rather shady business but a friend nevertheless.
Wednesday 05:05, January 24th… On the road to the Wings of Freedom
Fingers tapping on the dashboard in time to a morose beat, Jean sped through the gloomy deserted streets of the Bronx. The powerful eight-cylinder engine of his sports car drowning out all other sounds, even the rain.
He grumbled to himself inwardly, for he had dressed hastily and his normally handsome features were drawn with fatigue. And that annoyed the hell out him.
Glancing at his cellphone for the fifth time in an hour, his annoyance grew at the lack messages. He didn't know why Mikasa had called him down to the Freedom at this time of night, but the silence put him on edge. More than likely it was connected to why he had been spending his nights with investigative reporters, gangsters, and officials; stealing away stories of massacres and murders hidden away from the public eye with his soft touch and bright smile. Then delivering them to Mikasa, so she could pick through the data and help plan the 104th's next move. Or maybe this meeting was about the recant favor Mikasa asked of him.
She probably just wants an update. Don't know why she thought it was important enough to pull me away from titan hunting though.
Picking up his phone again he grunted "Fuck it." and dialed Mikasa's number.
A few moments passed while he listened to it ring, steering lazily with his free hand on the leather-bound steering wheel. Blocks of cheap tenements, decorated with drug stores and laundromats, dominated either side of the road. He was almost to the Freedom.
"Hello." Mikasa's calm voice answered, slightly overcast by the digitized sound of rain.
"Hey, there. What's going on, isn't it a little sudden to call a meeting in the middle of the night. And are you outside? I can hear rain." He asked, decelerating so the noise of the engine did not overshadow his lieutenant's serene voice.
"There is no meeting." She answered, "Well... not an official one. Also you just drove past me."
Jean slammed on the brakes so suddenly that his car slid a few meters down the road, throwing his CD collections out of the door pocket and onto the floor. With a curse and a quick jerk of the wheel he pulled over to the sidewalk, taking care to not damage any of the CD cases lying at his feet.
Loud tapping sounded against his window, he leaned over and popped open the passenger seat door. Mikasa hastily hopped inside and slammed the door shut, letting a tired breath as she reclined against the leather chair. Jean felt his pulse race when she brushed her fingers through her long, jet black hair; mesmerized by her pale skin and sculpted facial features. Sensing that he was staring at her, Mikasa turned to face Jean and said, "Thanks for the lift."
He snapped out of his slight daze remarkably smoothly, smiling at her nonchalantly. Noticing that she was still dressed in dark, baggy clothing; besides the deep red scarf tucked under her jacket collar, he stated quietly, "You're still in your work clothes, Mikasa."
She glanced down briefly, "Oh. I forgot to change earlier." She seemed to be surprised that she had forgotten something so important, "Shit, I must have been tracking trace evidence everywhere."
"The storm should wash any away." He said, resuming his drive to the Freedom, "Why were you out here anyway?"
Mikasa became silent, seeming to debate whether or not to tell him what's on her mind. Apparently she decided against it, and just stared out of the window. The air in the car filled with an uncomfortable silence as they drove.
"How did the job go?" He asked, trying to change the topic to something she might be more comfortable discussing.
"It went fine. There was more resistance than we thought." She sighed, "Eren wasn't exaggerating about the titans."
A small ripple of surprise reached Jean's brain, "So we really are fighting monsters? They aren't just roided out gangbangers?"
Mikasa nodded solemnly, turning back to face him, "The first wave were street trash, probably flunkies or just freshly jumped in. The second team… they survived a few dozen gunshot wounds before we finished them." She shifted, glancing away from him, "One managed to attack Eren, even with it's lower half missing."
She looked down at her sleeves, "Odd, I was covered in blood after we killed it. Looks like it got washed away in the rain."
"I'm sorry that you had to do that." He told her softly.
They pulled into the Freedom's parking lot a moment later. He turned off the engine and started picking through the fallen CDs, carefully placing them in their proper spots.
"Jean, before we go inside." Mikasa's voice took on an almost nervous cadence, a far cry from her usual commanding monotone.
Jean felt his pulse quicken, it wasn't often that Mikasa seemed nervous. "Yes?"
"Any news about my, um, request?" She quietly asked him.
"Oh, that." Jean let out a disappointed sigh and sunk back into his seat.
Of course that's the only reason she's nervous. She doesn't want Eren to find out we've been plotting behind his back.
"I found something pretty interesting about our client, Harry Grestan. Wanna guess what it is?" He deadpanned to her.
"Not particularly."
"He is a native to Manhattan, worked as a car salesman, and he died in 1981."
"So what you're saying is that you hit a dead end." She stated.
He threw his hands up in frustration, "What do you want me to do? You gave me a name, asked me to discreetly find out everything about that name and I did! I even visited his grave to make sure. Our client used a fake name, he probably just looked up old obituaries in newspaper archives."
"He knew Eren and I by name. He basically gave us the time and location of those titans. And he knew how to kill the larger ones." Mikasa snapped at him, annoyed at his lack of results. "Jean, the entire 104th has been hunting titans for months and all we got was a few drug deals between junkies; then suddenly this guy comes out of the blue, tips us off to an upcoming raid which happened to be reinforced by four deformed monsters, and you want me to believe that all he wants in return is an empty briefcase. That doesn't seem strange to you?"
"Sounds like deus ex machina to me." Jean replied, "Wait… What empty briefcase?"
"Our objective was to retrieve a briefcase that was locked away in a safe." She said, "And said briefcase happened to be both unlocked and empty. I checked it on the way back."
"So he played us? Maybe he wanted those titans killed but didn't want to fork over the cash for a gang hit?"
"We're going to ask him ourselves… as soon as we find him." Mikasa told him, popping open the door and stepping outside.
Jean joined her, shivering in the freezing storm, "You got a plan on how to find him, Mikasa?"
"No, but I'd bet that he'll show himself eventually." She said. "After all. We did a pretty good job, so it would be natural for him to hire us again. Or maybe even introduce us to his boss."
Jean nodded, "For whom did he say he worked for?"
"He didn't."
Together they walked silently into the Freedom, soft lighting and the smell of booze settling onto them, bringing Jean an immediate sense of belonging.
Jean's love for the bar was second only to Krista's, he truly loved everything about the place. He loved the dozens of posters immortalizing the past performances of strung out punk and rock bands that decorated the walls. He loved the delicious food that was just the right amount of grease to it. He loved the constant parade of societal rejects, criminals, and delinquent teenagers that frequented here when the sun went down.
Connie and Ymir looked up from their game of cards, the two gangsters smiling in greeting.
This was home.
"Hey hey, Jean!" Connie yells across the room, "We haven't seen you here for a while, where you been, man?"
"Nowhere important, just cruising and carousing with famous celebrities. Partying with rockstars and sleeping with a new model every night." Jean replied, donning a overly smug tone and flamboyant hand gestures, "You know, bourgeois shit."
Connie's face crinkled in confusion, "I don't speak french, Jean."
Jean loved messing with Connie.
"It means upper-class, Connie." Mikasa informed him, accepting the beer that Ymir handed her with nod.
The bald gangster made a soft "Oh!" with his mouth and idly dropped a deck of cards in front of Jean, who quickly begun flashily shuffling them, eager to show off his skills.
Mikasa watched as he dealt out hands for the next game, refusing Jean's offer to play but still added a few crumpled dollar bills into the pot. "Is Marco still here?" She asked.
"Yup, he's down checking on Eren right now." Ymir replied, eyes focused on her cards.
The sound of the hallway door quietly closing preceded Marco's soft voice. "Actually, I've just finished treating Eren." He said, "No lasting damage. Well, not from today's physical violence at least."
Jean looked up, a deep frown on his lips, "Is that dumbass tweaking again?"
Mikasa subtly kicked him from under the table. "How is Armin?" She coolly demanded.
"He took quite a beating. Four of his ribs are broken and due to the concussive force he is also dealing with some pulmonary hemorrhaging. His left forearm has multiple lacerations and his wrist is dislocated, probably from being thrown onto the road so suddenly."
"How's his head?" Connie asked, "Looked like he bumped it real good form what I saw."
"A minor concussion, nothing to be worried about." Marco replied, after he sat down next to Jean, "I patched him up and administered an opiate, so he's gonna be comfortable for at least eight hours before I need to give him another one."
"Christ Marco, where do you keep getting so many drugs?" Ymir snorted, "Do you moonlight as a drug dealer on weekends?"
Jean opened his mouth to defend the freckled doctor but Mikasa cut him off, "Confidential information, Ymir."
Ymir rolled her eyes, "The normal person word is 'secret', G.I. Jane."
"It was agreed that it would be safer to keep our source a secret." Mikasa countered, "Just in case one of us gets arrested."
"It's just a safety precaution." Marco said, offering Ymir an apologetic smile, "I trust you. All of you."
Jean's smile grew, both from Marco's words and from the sight of the full house in his hand. He subtly rotated the cards toward Mikasa, his smile turning cocky as he showed off the potential win. "I raise." He declared, tossing in a crisp bank note onto the table.
"Well, I'm folding…" Ymir drawled, "I ain't giving you a week's worth of tips."
"Me too." Connie agreed, dropping his hand dismissively.
"Mmm, too easy." Jean scooped the money into his pocket, snickering all the while.
"Clear the table, Dinner's served!" Krista called out. She brought a large pot to the table, resting it on a wide coaster and grinning at the surrounding gangsters. "I made gulaschsuppe for you all."
A chorus of approval was offered and as the soup was distributed among them the bar was filled with sounds of easy laughter and camaraderie. The constant overbearing sense of danger and anticipation melted away from their minds, here they were safe. They would protect each other from the harshness of the world outside the doors, from the cruel hands that seek to cut their lives out of their bodies.
Wednesday 05:20, January 24th… Trauma Center, Washington Memorial Hospital
Hitch paced back and forth in the waiting room, soaked to the bone and sore as hell. She could feel her back muscles strain and groan with every step, her normally stylishly done hair hung limply in thick, muddy strands. The blue of her uniform splattered with dirt and asphalt-black muck.
She had gotten her appearance filthy before, chasing suspects across the city and scrounging for evidence in often disgusting crime scenes tended to dirty one's uniform, and usually the feeling of mud dripping down her collar would inspire a passionate monologue of bitching. A sublime soliloquy of complaining. The other officers affectionately referred to her as "HitchyBitchens" and her tirades as "Hitchfits". Both soon became deeply cherished inside jokes in their precinct.
But not a word has left her lips since she had been ushered into the pristine waiting room, now sullied by her muddy bootprints. Her shoulders shook, shivering in the too air-conditioned room and shaking with nervous apprehension.
"Officer Dreyse?" An old woman stepped into the waiting room, a clipboard in her hand and wearing nurses scrubs.
Hitch nearly pounced on the heavyset nurse, her eyes wide and shiny with worry. "Yes, that's me! Is my partner OK?! The paramedics took him to the trauma center thirty minutes ago and I haven't heard anything since and Idon'tknowifhe'salightornotI'mabouttofreakout!"
Instead of answering, the nurse gently laid her hand on Hitch's back and calmly said, "Breath officer, you're no help to anybody if you start to panic."
"I AM NOT PANICKING!" Realizing she had raised her voice, the young officer stopped and sucked in a lungful of air, forcing herself to speak normally. "Sorry, I just need to know if my partner is going to be Ok or not."
"I know, we got our top surgeon working on him right now." She replied, a calming smile on her face as she scribbled something onto her clipboard.
"Is he any good?"
"Of course dear, Dr. Bhatia is one of the best trauma surgeons in the tri-state area. He's been fixing up men in uniform since he earned his crow* back in fifte-four. Now, I need you to sign a few papers." The nurse reassured her, then held out a pen for Hitch to use.
Hitch mechanically took hold of the pen and was about to start signing when she noticed a droplet of red slowly gliding down the paper. She froze, staring at the line of bright crimson creeping towards her. A second, heavier drop fall onto the paper. Light green eyes instinctively followed it before noticing the source of the drops.
The underside of her hand was stained dark with thick, half-dried blood. The steel pen collected the excess, funneling it down it's length and pooling at it's tip, flowing like ink.
How did? When did I? Oh god… Is that Marlo's blood?!
She gagged and dropped the pen, her other hand automatically cupping over mouth, causing an audible squelch and flooding her nose with the scent of wet copper. "Oh god no!" She cried out, about to be sick.
The nurse acted with a speed that belied her age as she grabbed Hitch's arm and lead her to a nearby restroom. Pushing open the door, she planted the shaking woman in front of the toilet then held her mud-encrusted hair back while Hitch threw up into the bowl.
"That was a close one." She chided her softly, her hand moving in calm circles against Hitch's back. "Get it all out, don't try to fight it now. The body's got a way of winning these things, hun."
Hitch felt her throat burn as dry heaves took over her, making her already shaky body shiver with disgust. Tears leaked from the corner of her eyes and collected the mud and grime that had stuck to her face. A small sob broke out, followed by another string of vomit. Suddenly she was glad that she had skipped dinner.
A minute passed, with only a few coughs to fill the silence. Hitch desperately wanted to wipe away the strands of slime from her lips but refused to bring her bloody hands any closer to her face.
"Did you get it all up?" The nurse asked quietly.
Hitch nodded and whispered hoarsely, "Can you get this puke off my face, please?"
The nurse nodded and carefully wiped away the hanging strands with a wad of toilet paper. Hitch thanked her, honestly too shaken to be embarrassed about having to have her face cleaned like a child. She stood, slightly unstable as her body recovered from her purge.
"There's a sink right back there." Hitch heard the nurse say, nodded dumbly, and shuffled to the sink.
Cranking the water open, she stuck her hands under the stream and violently scrubbed away at the half-dried blood. Using her nails to pry away the hardened filth, she rubbed her hands pink and raw.
Get it off, get it off, get it off. Just get it the fuck off!
"You should wash some of the mud of your face, dear." The nurse advised.
"Thanks." Hitch mumbled, glancing at her disheveled appearance in the mirror. Her eyes fell back onto her hands, shuddering at the dark lines of blood caked under her fingernails. "I think this is Marlo's."
"What was that, hun?"
She inhaled deeply, her normally chipper voice stressed and dull with fatigue. "I think this blood came from my partner."
Before the nurse could reply, she continued, once again scrubbing at her hands viciously. "I was holding his head in my hands... I mean I saw him lying on the ground and I ran to him, and he wasn't moving. Then I felt the blood."
Hitch's voice raised an octave, distress bleeding out every of hectic movement. The nurse listened intently as she recounted the events of the night from receiving the call to them being ferried back to the hospital. Her brows furrowed in confusion when Hitch babbled on about a 'long-haired, humming freak', an expression that went unnoticed by the shaken officer.
A tense silence came over after Hitch paused to take another deep breath, "I saw his skull." She told the nurse suddenly, turning her head to focus on the nurse, "It had a crack in it, I think. But people recover from things like that, right?"
"He has a compound depressed skull fracture*. He's chances are up in the air at this point. I've seen a boy half his size pull through after being shot in six times, with two of those bullets going through his head." The nurse paused, then added, "I've also seen grown man die from brain hemorrhaging after tripping over his own two feet."
"That doesn't make me feel better." Hitch replied, a flicker of her old sarcasm surfacing.
"If you want to feel better then order a cab, go home, take a long shower, and get some shuteye."
She frowned, "I want to be here. In case he wakes up tonight."
A kind but rueful smile grew on the old nurse's face, "I knew you would, and since you're also employed by the city, I suppose you could wait in the staff room. It has couches, books, and even a few showers for the night shift. It's down the hall to the left. You should have it to yourself, we only have the night shift on right now."
Twenty minutes later Hitch stepped out of the shower room, refreshed and clean. She dressed back into her uniform, foregoing the stained button-down overshirt and poncho, preferring to stay in her NYPD t-shirt.
She dumped her extra clothes and duty gear onto the couch before collapsing into the seat next to it.
"It's almost morning…" She whispered to herself, glancing at the clock. "I still have two hours before my tour ends."
Sergeant Aiblinger is going to rip me a new one. Fuck it, they can drive here to get my statement. I need sleep…
She sprawled out on the couch, completely drained and promptly went out like a light, her head resting on her stab vest.
Wednesday 07:00, January 24th… Minuteman Motel, Manhattan
Annie stared unflinchingly at the wall, her brain replaying images and memories of times past. The good and bad times twisting together into a jumbled mess. Sleep had refused to come to her troubled head, and all she could do was drift in a half-conscious state of mind. She hated when that happened.
Outside the storm grew, the wind gaining strength and violently shaking the window panes. Annie ignored them.
She barely noticed the sounds of rushing traffic just outside her window, she took no notice of the shouting that reverberated from next door. Her small body lay unmoving on the bed, the blinking of her pale blue eyes the only outside indication of life.
Her thoughts coalesced into one distinct memory. The day she left for the FBI academy. Her father had driven her to the airport that day. She had been nervous, almost scared at the thought of leaving the city she had grown up in. But excitement and a sense of pride had outweighed the fear, she had worked hard to earn her degree and now she was about to take her place among the most elite police force in the world. She could finally get away from the tiny, monotonous life she had led.
Her father had remained quiet throughout the drive. That wasn't unusual. Often the only words that would come out of his mouth were instructions. Annie couldn't recall the last time she had a normal conversation with her dad. He had always been a taciturn man, even before mom died.
When they arrived at her terminal, he had turned to her and suddenly hugged her. Annie remembered the sense of awkwardness that had enveloped her at that moment. Her father hardly touched her, except when correcting her form during training.
"Remember this, Annie. The world is violent place. Everyone you will ever meet is hiding behind a mask. They mask their weakness. Their doubts. Their corruption. It doesn't matter who they are or whether they work with you or against you. You will be surrounded by people who want nothing but to advance in life, and they will climb over you to get there." His voice whispered in her ear, echoing from the memory, "Your dad is the only one on your side. So, promise me that you will come home."
"You were right." Annie whispered, her words disappearing into the empty room. "Everybody has a mask."
Another memory, sharp with hurt, came forth.
"Recruit Leonhardt! Report to the head instructor's office, double time!"
"Yes, sir!" Annie saluted and bolted past the instructor, running through the hallways at the FBI training academy. The past weeks had been grueling for her but she had risen to the challenge. From classroom lectures to hand-to-hand combat she excelled past the other recruits, earning her no small amount of grudging and admiring looks. Top of her class, a natural agent.
She stopped in front of the office, fixing her uniform and practicing the words needed to gain entrance to the office. The door opened revealing her head instructor, a serious and very loud man in his late 40's.
"Sir, Recruit Leonhardt requesting permission to enter. Sir!" The words were delivered perfectly, her salute was flawless. She was the best that her class had to offer and she made sure to act like it.
"Permission granted, recruit." He said, stepping aside for to enter.
She took exactly three steps, slightly longer than her average strides to get any distance with them, and stood at attention in front of the steel desk.
"At rest, recruit. There is someone I want you to meet." The instructor closed the door and then sat down behind his desk, his tone of voice as dry as ever.
Annie relaxed slightly, and looked at her surroundings more thoroughly. A brunette woman wearing FBI issued clothing stood to the right of her.
"Hello, Annie. I'm Agent Van Wake from communications. You can talk with me normally, I'm here on special circumstances." Van Wake introduced herself cordially, smiling slightly at Annie.
"Hello." Annie replied.
"Ok Annie, when was the last time you had contact with your father?" The agent asked, pulling out a small notepad to write on.
"The day I left for the academy, he drove me to the airport."
"That was nice of him. Do you remember if he acted strangely in anyway?"
Annie glared at the woman, feeling suddenly defensive, "What are you talking about?"
"Answer the question, recruit." The instructor ordered from the behind the desk.
"No. I guess. He might've been sad to see me go." Annie replied uncomfortably.
"I'll bet he was. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, Annie?" Van Wake gave her a polite smile.
The small recruit shrugged, "Go ahead."
"Do you remember you father's whereabouts on the night your mother died?"
"I don't, my mom died when I was five." She said, unease radiating from her posture, "What is this about?"
"Was your father ever violent with your mother? Did they argue often or avoid each other?" The agent asked, her eyes glued to the paper pad in her hands.
"What are implying?!" Annie snarled, anger quickly rising inside of her. She looked at her instructor, and asked, "Why are asking me about my father?"
The instructor made eye contact with Van Wake, then nodded sadly at her.
Van Wake signed, then turned to Annie "Your father was involved in a shootout with sheriff's deputies during an altercation, yesterday. An APB was placed on him the day before and when law enforcement tried to arrest him at his house, he opened fire…" The agent paused, trying to find the correct words, "One deputy was killed. Your father set fire to his house before fleeing into the woods surrounding his property, and before the sheriff's could apprehend him, the fire spread to the woods."
She broke off after that for a moment, putting one hand sympathetically on Annie's shoulder, "I'm sorry to tell you that he didn't make it out."
Annie gaped at the agent, not able to believe the words that she was hearing. Her knees felt weak as she slumped down heavily unto the floor.
"That's not true…" She told them, a tremor sounding through her voice, "You're lying."
The agent kneeled down to her eye level, "The APB was issued by the detective that was investigating your mother's murder. He believes that your father was in some way responsible."
Annie shook her head despondently, tears building in her crystal eyes.
Van Wake gave the young girl some time to adjust before continuing, "Do you have any recollection of him-"
"For god's sake, Agent." The instructor stepped in, "Does she look like she's in any state to answer questions?"
The agent flinched slightly, embarrassed by her misstep, "I apologize, I just wanted to see if she had any new information to tell us. It's my first time inter-"
"You just told her the father who raised her burned to death, and that he may have brutally murdered her mother!" He barked out.
A small sound of distress came from Annie's throat at those words.
"Shit." The instructor swore quietly, "Sorry."
He stood from his desk and escorted Agent Van Wake out of the office, "Come back in a few days. Ask your questions then."
Annie felt tears fall from her face, her eyes bright and shiny as she sobbed quietly on the office floor.
Her body quaked suddenly, making her feel as helpless as she did back then. Everybody had their masks.
Revised on 11/30/2017
Earned their crow*- U.S. Navy slang for achieving the rank of Petty Officer Third Class.
Compound Depressed Skull Fracture*- A fractured skull where the broken bones are displaced inward and the skin around the injury is split open.
Disclaimer: I do not own Attack on Titan or it's characters. Nor do I own anything in New York City.
Hello again, dear readers. Yes, I know it's been a while since I last updated, but in my defense, this chapter was a mess to write. Anyway I hope all of you enjoyed this new chapter and hopefully my writing is improving since the first chapter. Please leave a review if you feel inclined, I greatly enjoy interacting with you all. Thank you for reading.
rollingwords: Thanks! If you want to read some other great AU fics, I'd recommend Wir Werden Uns Wiedersehen, Echo Answers, and Save the Last Dance. I enjoyed all of those thoroughly.