BEEP BEEP! MY SON HAS ARRIVED!


"Mr. Faber!" Cynthia rushed into the room. "Sir, are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Alastair smiled as he adjusted his cufflinks. "I must say, you're looking more nervous than I am."

Cynthia huffed. "You're about to go up on a podium and make a speech to the entire country. If anything gets wrong, you get shamed, and I get in trouble."

"All right, point taken," Alastair fixed his tie, glancing in the mirror, feeling the dark green silk under his fingers. "Thank you, Cynthia."

She rushed out the door. "Twenty minutes!" she called.

Alastair nodded as the door shut, then let out a sigh, pressing both his hands to his forehead. Just another speech, he thought. This is nothing. Like, literally nothing. It's not even a major one, just a tiny little debate. It doesn't even have any impact on anything else. It's the national dart tournament, two percent of the population watched it.

He knew that. So what was this twisting, sickening feeling in his gut? He felt like he was about to do something horrible. It's just a speech.

Maybe it's just stage fright, he thought. He recalled his friend Don telling him how it felt once. Yeah, that's gotta be it. I mean, I've never had it before, but there's a first time for everything, right?

He winced, rubbing his temple as he began muttering his speech under his breath, head throbbing. If only this damned headache would go away. . .

"Sir," Cynthia poked her head back in, and Alastair dropped his hands. "Not to rush you, but, get on the goddamn stage."

Alastair chuckled as he followed her out. "Okay, okay."

"Thirteen minutes!" she said before rushing off again.

Thirteenth. . .

Alastair sighed, adjusting the collar of his blazer as he moved to stand near the stage, watching as the players hurled their darts. "I'd like to thank everybody for coming out today. . ." he muttered under his breath, glancing at his watch.

I would like you all the consider this seriously. . .

He winced as another throb tore through his skull. "Please join me in a round of applause for everybody who did so wonderfully today. . ."

And join us in our pursuits for freedom beyond the Walls. . .

"Our –"

"Mr. Faber," Cynthia whispered. "Stop whispering like a creep and get up there."

Alastair glanced at his watch in surprise, seeing that ten minutes had passed in the time since he'd began practicing his speech. What in the world? He frowned. Did I pass out or something?

"Mr. Faber!"

"Of course," Alastair said, composing himself. He buttoned the top button of his blazer as he stepped out onto the stage. There was a round of clapping, and he smiled. "Hello," he said into the microphone. "Thank you all for coming out today. My name is Alastair Faber. First off, I'd like you all to join me in a round of applause for all the players who did so wonderfully today."

There was another round of less enthusiastic, but nevertheless polite, claps, Alastair joining in. He blinked, and, for a moment, the audience of bored-looking middle-aged people in polo shirts and excited grandpas blurred, shimmering like a mirage.

His stage was outside, lit by torches in the dark of night, the embers drifting through the air, orange light mingling with the silver of the starlight. Faces stared up at him, young, too young, full of fear and determination.

"Now, before I announce the champions, I would first like to thank the sponsors for this tournament," Alastair looked to the side, where a group of sleepy-looking businessmen in suits stood, trying their hardest to look happy (Alastair resisted the urge to rush over to them and give them empathetic pats on the back). "Please put your hands together again for them."

Offer up your hearts!

Alastair blinked as the sound of tired clapping changed, going from a light, slapping, pattering noise to a series of loud thuds of fists knocking against solid muscle.

This is a true salute!

Yes, sir!

"Now, for the winners."

We will win this war.

"First, honourable mentions. . ."

They died brave, honourable deaths.

"And in third place, we have. . ."

We can't afford to lose a third time!

"Second. . ."

A second Titan Shifter?

"And, in first place, we have. . ."

This is Humanity's first victory!

"Once again, I'd like to thank everybody for coming out today," Alastair finished into the microphone, smiling demurely, the picture of pleasant calm, despite the fact that sweat was beading on his forehead, his head was spinning, the room twisting and warping around him, faces changing features, blood from phantom wounds staining the crisp Sunday clothes, expressions of boredom turning into abject terror even as he watched. "And, please remember that voting will be from the seventh to the twelfth at select public areas. You can make a difference." He stepped back, somehow managing to stay upright even though he felt like falling to his knees and screaming, head reeling, heart racing faster than. . . something.

Commander Erwin! Titan spotted!

Commander!

Yeah, that.

Another polite round of applause followed the end of Alastair's speech, and he turned to walk off the stage, smiling at Cynthia as she shot him a thumbs-up. He glanced at the banner for the tournament as he walked past, noting that it was lopsided.

Why are the shortest and tallest people in the group holding the map?

Come on! It'll be hilarious!

This is a military recruitment presentation.

Yeah! It'll be hilarious!

The moment Alastair was alone in the hallway, he broke into a run, polished dress shoes pitter-pattering against the tile floor, stumbling and crashing into the walls as he all but fell into the bathroom, crashing through a stall door. He fell to his knees, not even thinking to lock the door behind him as he grabbed the sides of the toilet, hoisting his face over the bowl, ignoring how horrible the room smelled, hacking and gagging as he lost his lunch in the filthy water.

Humanity will never stop fighting itself.

Is this another gamble of yours?

I would like to tell you a story from my childhood. . .

Shinganshina district. . .

My soldiers!

. . . Titan powers?

If you begin to regret, you'll dull your future decisions and let other people make choices for you.

Beyond the Wall. . .

All squads assemble!

I'm making the choice.

Commander Erwin!

Sir!

Commander!

Scream!

Erwin?

Hey, Erwin!

Rage!

My name is Erwin Smith.

Commander Erwin Smith, of the Survey Corps.

. . . upon which I now stand.

He stood up weakly, resisting the urge to wipe his mouth on his blazer sleeve as he reached forwards with a shaky hand, flushing the toilet. He stumbled out of the stall, stopping by the sink and grabbing the edges, holding himself over it, breathing slow and hard, acidic taste heavy in his mouth, back of his throat burning.

He flipped the tap on, reaching forwards with shaky hands and cupping them beneath the stream of clear water – thank god for the country's clean taps. He took a huge gulp of it, gargling and swishing it around in his mouth before spitting it out into the sink, wincing at the discoloration. He did it a few more times until the taste was gone from his mouth, then took a paper towel, wetting it and dabbing at his mouth, wiping off the stains. He finished off by splashing his entire face and drying it off with a paper towel, then tucking a few stray hair back into place. He smiled into the mirror, pleased to find himself looking just as he did on the Senate website and every other political campaign poster.

He sighed, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, head spinning.

You must promise me, Erwin. Whatever you do, you must never tell anybody about this.

He opened his eyes. "Father."

Alastair brushed imaginary lint from his blazer as he left the bathroom and walked up the steps. He took a deep breath before exiting the building, shooting cameras polite smiles even as he rushed through the crowd towards his car. He leaned in, slamming the door as the driver shot off.

"Home, sir?" Greg glanced into the mirror.

Alastair nodded. Greg frowned. "Are you okay, sir? You're looking a bit pasty."
"Just a bit tired," Alastair lied smoothly, checking his phone. "Not enough to eat, I'd guess."

"There's a nice little café and teashop on south of Main Street," Greg offered. "Pretty close to your place."

"That would be nice, Greg," Alastair said. "You can just drop me off here. I'll walk."

"You sure, sir?" Greg asked, slowing down and pulling to the side of the curb.

"Yes, please. Send me the address," Alastair said as he got out of the car. "Have a nice day."

"You too, sir."

His phone pinged a few seconds later, and he glanced down at the name of the teashop. In Stark Contrast. Interesting. He opened his contacts, scrolling down until he found the name he was looking for. He hesitated before pressing the number and holding the phone up by his ear. He held his breath as it rung a few times, and exhaled when someone picked up.

"Hello?"

"Father?"

"Ali!" he heard the smile in Tenzin's voice. "How are you, son? I just saw your speech on TV – you did great."

"Thanks, Dad," Alastair smiled as he walked down the street.

"So, what's up?"

"Nothing," Alastair lied. "Just wanted to check in, see how you're doing."

Tenzin chuckled. "Well, don't make it sound like I'm some decrepit old man. If anything, I should be checking up on you, son."

Alastair laughed. "I guess that's true."

"Say, son," Tenzin said, and Alastair heard that the tone was muffled – he'd probably put the phone on his shoulder while he shuffled some papers. "If you really want to check up on me, why don't you come over for dinner this weekend? Been a while since you've gotten a chance to pop back home."

"I'll see what I can do," Alastair said, stopping by the door of the café. "But that sounds great. Hey, Dad, I need to go now."

"No rest for the wicked, huh?" Tenzin sighed. "All right, son. Don't work yourself to hard, okay?"

"Got it. See you, Dad."

"By, Ali."

Alastair sighed as he pocketed the phone and opened the door. "I need a drink," he muttered.