The smell of bacon wafted through the tenement. Rico was bent over the gas stove, nudging the pieces on the copper tray. The crackle and hiss, the sizzle of cooking oil, the heat of the stove, the music of a panhandling band, playing outside. Mike was content.

The scrape of metal spatula on tray, and then Rico was walking over. She lay a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Mike, with a clink, then sat down at the table.

"You really didn't have to," Mike said. "I don't mind cooking."

"You cooked last time," Rico insisted. "I had to return the favor."

Their relationship had progressed in the past week. Mike had stayed over at her place last night. He wasn't sure how it had happened, what had finally pushed them from being good friends to something more. Maybe recent events had given him perspective… made him realize how lucky he was to have her in his life.

"How's the hunt going?" she asked, scooping up eggs with her fork, not looking quite at him.

"We're getting closer to the truth," he said.

"And is the truth what you thought it would be?"

He shook his head, picked at his food. "These men," he said. "The interior MP's. It's nasty, Rico, what they get up to. And they're men of our own military."

"What makes them so different from us?" Rico asked. He could sense the curiosity in her voice.

"In terms of what they're willing to do, they go to lengths I've never seen," Mike said. "They'll torture, kill, hurt innocents… I shouldn't talk too much about it actually." He paused. "But as for what they believe in… it's the same as us… king, queen, country. I don't know what makes them willing to do what they do. And that scares me."

They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence. Mike knew Rico well enough, by that point, to know when she was worrying about him. He wished he had deflected her question. There were other, more pleasant things to talk about.

Eventually, he glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. "I need to go," he said. "I'm meeting agent Leonhardt soon."

"Okay," Rico said. "Let me get your coat."

As she went to the coatracks, he grabbed the plates and went to the wash basin. He cranked the handle for water and rinsed off the silverware. He placed the plates gently on the counter.

At the front door, Rico had his coat for him. He slid it on, reached a hand to the inside pocket, and felt for the smooth metal of his gun. There was a sense of comfort as he reaffirmed it was still there. He bent down, kissed Rico on the cheek. "I'm going to be busy for the next few nights," he said. "But I'll see you at the ring on Thursday?"

"Stay safe," she whispered.

He winked. "Of course." The wind whistled as he opened the door.

"Mike, wait."

She reached up and put her hands on either side of his face. She turned his head. There was a little grey smudge on the frame of her glasses.

She kissed him, shyly.

He reacted on instinct—drawing an arm around her waist, his hand on the slight curve of her back. Pulling her to him. They stayed close for a long while.

She nestled her head against his chest. Her soft hair brushed against his chin.

He hadn't expected physical displays of affection from her, hadn't thought Rico that kind of person. In their exchanges, she'd always preferred to articulate things.

But… if she couldn't find the words to say, then that was no fault of hers—never her—no. If there existed words to capture a feeling, an emotion, a meaning, then she'd have found them. If anything, her kiss proved the spoken language incomplete.


The leaves of the oak trees were a sickly brown, the sky an overcast white. They were heading back to the church to meet their informant. Erwin had agreed to grant clemency.

"Are you okay with this, Annie?" Mike asked. "We're offering a pardon to someone who murdered civilians."

"And if we don't find out everything he has, then Zeke will murder a whole lot more," Annie said.

"We don't know that."

Annie looked right at him. She looked different than Mike had ever seen her. He couldn't describe her expression. "I know it," Annie said. "I'm sure."

Mike felt goosebumps creep up his arm. He laughed, nervous. "Okay," he said. "I won't argue. He in the same place as last time?" They were walking up the steps to the church.

"Should be. I'm going to wait in one of the back pews. If he agrees to extraction, then we should be ready to go. Don't make him nervous," Annie said. "If this guy thinks you're lying about a pardon, if he so much as thinks there's a possibility of that, he'll bug out. These interior MP's have made it this far by being incredibly paranoid. Don't scare him off."

"Hey, relax," Mike said. "I'm smooth."

Annie grunted. "No, you're insufferable. I don't know how Rico puts up with you."

"Honestly? Me neither. She's the better half."

Annie grabbed the door to the church, held it open, gestured for him to go in first. "That's one thing we agree on. Go get it done."


Mike knelt, his knees scraping against the cold wood. He slid the door shut.

"I'm here," he said. "I have good news. Erwin's prepared to cut a deal."

There was no answer.

"Don't tell me you're backing out," Mike said. When the silence remained, he shook his head and sighed. "Are you even in there?" he demanded.

He started to stand up… then sniffed. Something smelled weird. A metal taste in the air, coppery, like the copper tray from this morning. He looked, and then saw it. A drop of blood dripping from the speaking hole of the confessional.

There was blood coming from the other side.

There was someone bleeding on the other side.

There was— their informant—someone had—almost certainly dead—and now the killer—there was good reason to believe the killer—was still here—in this building—

Mike opened the door to the confessional and scrambled out. Annie was nowhere to be seen. A tall figure stood near the doors of the church, framed in the light. He stepped forward and Mike got a good look.

Mike thought he knew who the man was.

He had a typical Marleyan profile—slicked back dirty-blonde hair, a prominent nose, dark black brows, and his eyes. He had cruel eyes. There was rage there, festering, Mike could see it. This man had watched other men die.

He had to be the Jaw.

And the Marleyan moved like an assassin. There was no other way to describe it. Nothing exactly about his gait gave it away, just some natural grace to his motions that suggested at any given moment in time, he was perfectly balanced. There was a certain laziness to it, as if moving through the air was impossibly easy.

Mike had only seen one other person who moved the same way. That had been Levi Ackerman, a short, dark-haired, grimace of a man, who'd stained fields red during the war.

The Jaw walked towards him down the aisle, passing by each set of pews. His footsteps left no sound. As he drew close, Mike saw how large the man truly was. His shoulders were nearly bursting out of his coat. His fists were like corrugated iron cannonball. Strangely, he had a navy-blue pocket square jutting out of his collared shirt. This guy dresses up for murder, Mike thought. There was something quite intimidating about that. But also, a little motivational. It was a pretty bold fashion choice.

"Is that coat from Reeves Brothers?" Mike called out. "Looks pretty expensive." He was aching to reach into his own coat, produce the gun he had pressed up between the fabric and his chest.

The Jaw stepped onto the dais. When he spoke, it was with a stilted accent. "The shop that made this piece no longer exists," he said. "It was firebombed by your countrymen."

"Oh, well, lucky you!" Mike said. "I bet it's worth a fortune now."

Across the man's face there was a sort of terrifying quiver, a momentary glimpse of restrained something, and Mike felt his heartrate triple. "What are you here for?" Mike asked. "I'm guessing you're not here to kill me, because you'd have had plenty of chances to do that already."

"I'm here to obtain you for Zeke Yeager," said the Jaw.

Quick as a snake, Mike drew his pistol and fired. He saw the man simply step aside, impossibly fast, but Mike wasn't waiting around—he was sprinting and he dived behind the back of the confessional booth, landing with a crash. He hugged the pistol close and caught his breath. Then he started to feel a sliver of pain, and he looked down to see that he was bleeding.

Only then did his mind reconstruct what had just happened. The man had dodged the shot, with almost superhuman agility, stepping back, and to the side. In the same motion, he had brought his own pistol up, gracefully, until the barrel lay at a perfect, twin angle with the floor, directed just below Mike's shoulder. Then the Jaw had shot Mike, maybe twice.

"Ah," Mike said. The pain was starting to blossom now.

"Rico Brzenka," the Jaw's voice said, seemingly close and far away at the same time. "Grey-hair. Glasses. Lives in Trost. Member of the Garrison. We know everything there is to know about her. Where she lives, how she commutes, where she eats lunch, how long it would take the landlord to discover her body rotting beneath the floorboards. If you cooperate, she goes on with her life, maybe occasionally wondering after you, but nothing else the different. If you fight, though…"

The strength went out of Mike's legs. He slid down against the wood of the confessional. His head lulled. He thought of Rico and how they'd matched breaths as they'd kissed, and he thought of the curls of her hair, and how she'd leaned against him, and the way she'd always, always cared.

He realized what he should have done that morning.

He should have left the Survey Corps behind; he and Rico could've taken an airship to some far corner of the world, someplace, anyplace, left it all to wither.

War, duty, honor, peace. Words that prey on men.

With a callous, defeated motion he threw his pistol out onto the dais. It clattered along the waxed wood floor, sliding until it came to a stop.

"I give up," he said.

"Wonderful," came the voice of the Jaw.