Vigilantia Pretium Libertatis

by aradian nights

Five years ago, an accident freed Eren Jaeger, Mikasa Ackerman, and Armin Arlelt from an experiment that forced the most extraordinary powers onto them. After five years of being raised apart to be heroes by a set of three very different adults, they meet again. As they uncover the truth behind their captivity they realize being free and being heroes are just illusions. Hero AU.

14. tough body

corpus callosum

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

a.d. iv Idus Octobres, 2677 A.U.C.

Too many minds. They grazed him like bullets, leaving blood to pool hot and sticky across his cheeks like red tears, and he hated the metallic aftertaste, the jolt of knowing someone by the flavored thread of their mind. Ice cube shards and dandelions, root beer barrels and rain water, potatoes and pine needles, honey and sun dried figs, chocolate chip cookie dough and cyanide, pepper and baked apples, almond milk and grapefruit, sugar coated whispers and kiwi. Tastes and sensations swirling together in a rapid, overwhelming dissonance.

Firstly, there was Annie. Armin still had trouble recalling her from the blissfully hazy depths of his memory, but he knew that he knew her, and she knew that he'd forgotten. And he thought that maybe she wanted it to stay like that, for the same reason she wanted to stay away from him. Because she feared him. Because his power was something people feared, and that made Armin uncomfortable, because he'd never thought of himself as something fearsome. He wasn't scary, he was just… just… pragmatic.

Annie's connection with Armin was unlike any he'd ever had. Because there was barely a connection. He'd touched her, and cracked a little fissure into her wall of ice, just big enough for his mind to contact hers. But he didn't get the usual blast of negativity, the emotions and the disdain— he got her taste, the painfully chilly brush of a tongue against an ice cube, and the taste of spring air, crisp and heavy with pollen and fresh flowers, and he realized that Annie's taste must have changed since whenever they had last connected, because it was a completely foreign sensation.

Then there was Connie and Sasha. They were like nature had thrown up sugarplums, and they gave him cavities. Jean and Marco were faint thrums of tastes dancing around Armin's mind, mocking him, taunting him, begging him to try and take what he didn't deserve. Their thoughts, their feelings, whatever. Armin avoided them. Their thoughts made Armin's tongue feel heavy, and they were distant, and sweet, but screaming wordlessly, and Armin just didn't want anything to do with them because it was like something was just daring him to tread where he shouldn't, and that terrified him. Reiner was alarmingly natural, but his mind buzzed with anxiety, and Armin hated tuning into his frequency, because it made no sense. It was babble and broken words, broken thoughts, broken blips on a silver screen. Armin saw flashes of red, and he tasted blood, and then he blinked, and it was all gone in a trickle of inconsistent thoughts. Bertholdt just… was incomprehensible.

Armin had too many minds surrounding him. He loved living with Eren and Mikasa, but it was suddenly very overwhelming to have so many thoughts speeding past him when he had once lived alone with Erwin. Whose mind would not yield to Armin's. So now Armin had to avoid getting too close with his new housemates, practically strangers to him, and he would often put on headphones to drown out the hissing, inaudible cacophony. Nobody seemed to notice or worry, though Eren and Mikasa could feel the strain through their unyielding mindlink. They sometimes watched him, their worry palpable in their eyes and in their minds, and he had to shove it away. He didn't want anyone to worry about him. He didn't want anyone to think he couldn't handle this, because… if he couldn't, then what did that mean? What was his use then?

The Brigade had a headquarters in Chicago, which unfortunately had been destroyed by the giant robot attack that was still stealing world news for some reason. Armin felt that no one was asking the right questions. Everyone was focused on the damage done, the economic set back, but no one had once asked who or why. Or even what.

After they had gotten home that day from Chicago, a few more kids now taking up residence in the Hange Zoë Home for Peculiar Children, Armin had pulled Annie aside.

"That robot," Armin said, "had your powers."

"What?" Annie glanced him, her droopy eyes flashing in alarm. "What do you mean?"

"It tried to freeze me," Armin said. "It looked at me, and it… it looked like…"

Annie stared at him blankly. Armin could sense her sudden caution, and she tilted her head up at him. "What did it look like?" she asked softly.

You, Armin almost said. But he didn't. Because she already knew, and she knew he knew. But neither of them could say it. Even with their feeble, icy link, and the taste of her springtime frost clinging to his tongue, he could not speak to her. He was scared of her, and she was scared of him, and they were stuck because he knew, and she knew that he knew.

But he didn't know what any of it meant, so he smiled tightly, and he said, "It looked like it was alive," he said. It looked like it was going to cry, Armin thought. It looked like you, and you looked like you were going to cry. That was familiar to him. Had he once seen Annie cry? No, he couldn't imagine.

"That's weird," Annie said dully.

"Yeah," Armin said. He jumped as Eren came bursting into the room, and whistled at them.

"Yo, you two," he said, not even questioning why they were alone together. "One of the newbies wanted to watch Hercules. You in?"

"Oh, yeah!" Armin brightened up considerably at the thought. He loved musicals.

Between then and the mission debriefing, Armin had learned a few things about his new housemates. One, Ymir was a little bit of a bitch. She got a kick out of pressing her very warm fingers to Armin's cheek whenever he wasn't paying attention, and he got a blazing sensation, fire enveloping his entire body and licking up his arms and legs and consuming his heart and charring his bones, and when he coughed, blood dribbled from his lips, blood and fire and laughter because how dare you, how…? And then Ymir would pull her hand back and laugh, as if she'd only pinched him.

Reiner was a vegetarian, and once when Armin had asked if it was for any particular reason, Reiner had responded with a snort. "Well," he said, "I have to be careful with what I eat anyway, because I have a heart condition— a side effect of my power, you know— but man, I cannot even with animals, okay, it physically pains me to imagine killing and eating one."

Armin was beginning to sense a pattern. He spent some time painting with watercolors, trying to remember the pattern when his headaches got bad, but it often made no sense to him. He sat quietly in his room a little after the meeting Hange and Erwin had held to debrief them on their respective missions. Gamma Squad. The Brigade. Just reconnaissance. Information gathering too, maybe, if given the chance. Easy stuff.

He turned his music on shuffle, turning it up as he glanced toward the door. He didn't want anyone to hear him. He turned back to his computer, which sat idly at his desk, and he took a deep breath. He hit record.

"Um," he said, the steady sound of One Day More almost drowning him out. "Okay, so this is to me. Future me." He nodded curtly at his webcam. "Because this is important. For me. For you. Yeah…" Armin swung his spinning chair idly, and pulled his legs up to his chest. "So I noticed something recently about our abilities. We, as child experiments, have a five to three ratio of physical, mental, and health defects to the able bodied and minded. And Mikasa and Ymir might not even count, because their abilities are natural."

Armin threw a glance at the door. He dropped one knee, and grabbed the open notebook from beside his keyboard. "Eren Jaeger. His procedure involved a series of injections to the nape of his neck. He spent three months dropping in and out of comas, and when he recovered he was diagnosed with both narcolepsy and diabetes." Armin wrote this down as he spoke, though when he looked down at the words, they didn't look quite right to him. He ignored it.

"Annie Leonhardt. I don't know how her procedure went, because I don't have that kind of access to her mind. Maybe I did once, I don't know, but her skin forms distinctly crystalline blemishes whenever she uses her ability. Her skin also blackens and hardens, like it's frostbitten, but less… ugly. Reiner Braun. His procedure was a series of intravenous injections. He has a heart condition, but I don't know how extreme it is yet. Bertholdt Hoover. His procedure isn't clear to me because his mind is a little too jumbled. I can hear a lot of voices, but none of them are Bertholdt's. He has a mild form of auditory schizophrenia." Armin looked up at his webcam, and he chewed on the cap of his pen thoughtfully. "Armin Arlelt. I was nine when a serum was injected directly into my brain. I now have asthma, when I did not previously." He tossed his notebook back onto the desk. "I also get chronic headaches that are very dull and deep, and nothing seems to take the pain away."

His pen was dangling between his teeth, and he wiggled it pensively. So what was he missing? "Ymir and Mikasa…" Armin murmured. He pulled his pen from his mouth, and he grabbed his phone, flicking through his contacts quickly. He let it dial, and he stuck the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he pulled the notebook back into his lap.

"Yo?" Connie asked. "Armin?"

"Hi, Connie," Armin said, writing the boy's name down beneath the others. "Um, I have a really weird question to ask."

"Ooh, this should be good," Connie said. "Shoot."

"No one asked," Armin said, "how you got your speed. So I'm wondering, you know, if… if it's natural, or…?"

"Oh." Connie sounded a little surprised. "Well, uh… okay so when I was eight, I got hit by a car." Armin's eyes widened, and he quickly put the call on speaker so the recording would pick it up. "I couldn't move my legs. Like, ever again. That's what the doctors all said, and like, I believed it. But then one day when I wiped out in my wheelchair, I got taken to the hospital, and this nurse lady, Ilse, she came in and talked to me for a little while, and then she like… put some shit in my IV. And the next thing I knew, I was dead, and they had to use those nifty paddle things to bring me back, and when I woke up I was able to move my legs again. Except now I was super fast."

Armin was a little rattled by how nonchalant Connie was about his own death. "Oh wow," Armin said. "Okay. That's— wait, did you say Ilse?" Armin looked up at his webcam with wide eyes. "What… what did she look like?"

"Uh…" Connie groaned. "Shit, I don't even… that was like six years ago, dude? She had like… dark hair. It was short. And she had a lot of freckles?"

"Who?" Armin heard Sasha ask.

"Ilse," Connie told her. "That crazy nurse that saved me. Oh, and she looked really young. I remember that. And she kinda… man, she was so weird looking, it was like she wasn't even real, like I swear I thought she wasn't until I realized I could move my legs again. Her skin kinda glowed too."

"Aw," Sasha cooed. "Connie's angel."

"Fuck off, Sash'." Connie sighed. "Anyway, yeah, that's about all I can remember about her. Why?"

"Oh," Armin said, biting his lip. He glanced at himself in his recording, his eyes drooping tiredly. His face was a little fuzzy, because Armin was not wearing his glasses. "No reason, I was just taking note of how everyone got their ability. Hey, that Ilse girl, though. Sounds kinda like Ymir, don't you think?"

"I've never met Ymir," Connie said. "I mean, I saw her when we did that video meeting thing earlier, but…?"

"Right." Armin nodded quickly. "Duh. It's probably just my imagination. Anyway, Connie, thanks for telling me all that. It's got to be a touchy subject."

"No, not really," Connie said. "Yikes, what kind of name is Ymir, anyway?"

"What kind of name is Constantino?" Sasha shot at him.

"Sasha, no!" Connie shrieked. Armin smiled, and he spun his chair idly as he listened to Connie and Sasha struggle on the other line. Sasha shrieked. "Shut the fuck up, stop telling people that, okay? It's getting really— oh my god, she's got Mark's toy helicopter, okay, I gotta go, my mom's gonna kill me if she breaks that!"

"What is she doing with a toy helicopter?" Armin asked, stifling his laughter.

"SHE'S FUCKING CHASING ME!"

Armin couldn't contain his laughter, and he looked at his recording, and he shook his head. He paused it. "You're a speedster," Armin said. "You can take it."

"I know, but—!"

The door opened, and Armin whirled around in his chair to face Levi. The man glowered at him from the doorway, never passing the threshold. Connie was still shouting from the receiver. "Turn your shitty music off," Levi told him. "It's midnight."

Armin blinked. He hadn't even realized it had gotten that late. He reached back and hit the pause button on his keyboard. "Gotta go, Connie," Armin said, hanging up before the boy could respond. Levi was already closing the door. "Wait!"

Levi paused, and glanced back at Armin. His eyes were narrowed, and they were hollow, and they were piercing. "Um," Armin said, tucking his phone into his pocket. "I was… I was wondering if you could show me the pictures of Ilse Langner you guys found at the institute?"

"Ask Erwin," Levi said. "Not me."

"Right…" Armin said. He pushed his hair behind his ears, and he nodded. He leaned against the door, blinking rapidly as he was overwhelmed with a sudden loss of equilibrium, his heart thundering in his chest as the room shuddered, and the room hissed, and the room shook around him and danced and threatened to cave in on top of him. "Right."

Levi looked at him. The man stepped into the room, and Armin pushed off the door quickly, standing a little shakily as Levi paused. His eyebrows were furrowed, from what Armin could see, but Levi's face was sort of like a white smudge in a bleeding darkness. Armin's head was really, really hurting, and it was worse than usual. It must be because there're so many people, Armin thought. I don't get any peace, not even when I'm asleep. My dreams are theirs.

"You look gross," Levi said.

"I'm fine," Armin said. "I just got hit with a little bit of vertigo. It happens all the time."

Levi frowned. Armin breathed in deeply, and he felt himself sway a little. But he stayed upright. He'd take a few aspirin, or maybe some Nyquil, and he'd be fine. "Go make Erwin take your temperature," Levi said, whirling away from Armin. "If you're getting sick, you need to stay away from the other kids. I'm not letting a pandemic start under this roof, you got it, blondie?"

"Yes," Armin said weakly.

He felt better once he laid down. Vertigo, headaches, nausea, asthma— his side effects were a nuisance, but it was nothing painfully awful, like schizophrenia, or diabetes, or some obscure heart condition. No, Armin could bear this burden. He had to.

"Hello, Armin," Christa said the morning of their mission. She didn't talk much, the girl who could see and manipulate auras. When they had all explained their powers to one another, Christa had taken a very long time to coherently express what she did. She said that what she saw was a bit like a person's life force. She could take that, and she could make it stronger in order to save a person. Heal wounds, or illnesses. Stuff like that. Armin had wondered why her mind was not reachable, and he realized it was because her power was almost completely mental. Like Erwin, she had a power that counteracted his own. And that was amazing.

"Morning," Armin said. He nudged open a cabinet with his knee and withdrew a box of granola bars. "Did Eren and Levi leave yet?"

"I don't know," Christa said. She sat at the kitchen table, peeling an orange with her thumbnail. "I heard… they were getting an early start because it'll take so long to get there, so maybe."

Armin nodded vacantly. He stiffened as Ymir walked in, and he tried to hide the fact by ripping open a granola bar and sticking it in his mouth. He'd yet to see the pictures of Ilse, and it was bothering him immensely. Ilse Langner, Ymir's supposed grandmother, who had all but a shrine dedicated to her at the institute. No, it wasn't right. There was something he was missing, something he couldn't see. He needed that variable, that clarity.

"Whoa," Ymir said, blinking down at Armin as she fished a granola bar from the box in his hands. "I totally thought you were Christa for just about five seconds. Damn."

"Really?" Christa asked, twisting to face Ymir.

Ymir shrugged. "No," she said. "But almost. You shouldn't wear your hair like that so much." Ymir tussled Christa's low hanging ponytail. "It's confusing."

"Oh…" Christa tore at the skin of her orange, and as Armin chewed his granola bar, he could smell it. The citrus filling the air, burning his nose and stinging his eyes. Armin chewed slowly. He'd woken up with a headache, which was not unusual, but now he was getting the strangest sensation. Like vertigo mixed with a blow from Levi's bony knuckles to the side of Armin's head. Pain spider-webbed through him, striking at his nerves and settling inside his stomach until his gut was fried. It knotted up uncomfortably, and then churned and churned. Armin was still chewing, but the granola was getting caught in his molars, and it wouldn't go down his throat no matter what he tried. So it sat heavily, scratching his tongue.

It tasted like ash. It all tasted like ash. It all felt hot, sweltering, and he felt his clothes turn to writhing flame, and he cowered as a woman reached out, coughing and crawling. Dead woman. There was a voice singing in his head, or whispering, maybe— sugar coated whispers, sugar coated pleas, sugar and fruit and ashes sprinkled on top, an early morning delight. The voice was whispering. Sugar. Ash. Sugar. And the voice was begging, Make it stop, make the fire stop, please, Ymir, I'll leave, I promise, just make the fire stop.

I can't, he thought wildly, staring down at his naked, flame-engulfed body. He sat in a crumbling kitchen. There was a charring corpse reaching for him. And besides, you did this, not me.

Armin shoved Ymir away, her fingers leaving a warm impression on the skin of his forehead. Armin lurched toward the kitchen sink, his fingers finding purchase on the glistening steel, and there was heat crawling all throughout his body, sweat forcing his pajamas to cling to his skinny frame, which buckled as he vomited bile and granola into the shiny metal basin. His stomach spasmed, and released another bout, just enough for him to not be able to catch his breath between the spewing of digestive fluid from his lips.

When he was done, he was heaving, his ribs aching and his legs ready to give out, and as he stared dizzily into the sink, he felt the need to pretend this had never happened. Shame burned him, worse than the fire of Ymir's white-hot memory, and Armin flicked on the faucet to wash the evidence of his incompetence down the drain. It wasn't fair. The only thing he could do was read minds, and even then he couldn't do it right. He got sick because he was too weak to handle the strain.

Armin was still heaving as gathered some water in his cupped palm and attempted to wash his mouth out. He felt a hand on his back, but he couldn't breathe well enough to tell them to stop touching him. He couldn't do it. And when he looked up, water and sick clinging to his lips, he saw Christa and Ymir standing right beside him. Christa reaching up with her orange-stained hands, and she wiped at his mouth with a paper towel. He was still wheezing. There were tears on his cheeks.

"It's okay…" Christa said very softly. Armin stared at her, his shallow breaths echoing in the still kitchen. Christa smiled up at him, and she wiped at his tears with the pad of her thumb. He flinched away from her touch before remembering that she could not hurt him, and then he relaxed, his fingers twitching at his chest as he tried to regain his composure. But he didn't know if he could. He was crying and wheezing in the middle of the kitchen, his throat burning and bile still leaving an acrid residue, and ash still clinging to his tongue, and that only made him cry more. "Ymir, get his inhaler."

"Already ahead of you, cariño." Ymir held up the small white tube, and Armin wanted to reach for it, but Ymir scared him. He tasted her ashes in his mouth, and he wanted to puke again. "He's got a fever, you know."

"I can feel it," Christa sighed. "Armin, you should go to bed."

He shook his head furiously, and grabbed the inhaler. He took two puffs of it, inhaling deeply, and he rested his back against the sink. He was still breathing very heavily, but the medicine was beginning to take affect. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, and he coughed feebly. "T-thanks, Christa…" he mumbled. He threw a glance at Ymir, but she only watched Armin with a knowing gleam in her eye. "… Ymir."

"Don't sweat it," Ymir said. "You seem pretty down, though. Maybe you should skip out on the mission."

"I'll be fine," Armin informed her curtly. His inhaler was clenched in his fist. "All of this is just from my power overloading. You touching me didn't really help…"

Ymir scoffed, and threw her hands up in defense. "I was only checking you for a fever," she said stiffly. "That sorta thing can kill, you know. Especially someone your size."

"I'm fine," Armin repeated. He glanced at Christa, who watched him with large, worried eyes. "Really. I'll take some Tylenol, and the fever will go right away. You'll see."

"Okay…" Christa nodded slowly. "If you say so, Armin."

"Can you two…" Armin looked between them, feeling suddenly very panicked. "Can you not tell anyone about this? If Erwin finds out, he'll bench me for sure."

Christa looked uncertain, but Ymir nodded. "Yeah, sure," she said with a shrug. Her limp brown her curled across her cheeks as she tilted her head. "But you'll owe me one, buddy boy."

Armin wanted to ask what the ash meant. He wanted to ask her why there was something so horrible in her head. It was one of the most terrible things he had ever witnessed, and he'd only caught a bare glimpse of it, a flicker in a dark, a whisper too sweet to be kind. Armin looked at Ymir, and he realized.

"I'm going to go lay down, actually," Armin said, brushing past both girls. Bertholdt, Armin realized, has possessed Ymir. But the trouble was that Armin had no idea when or why or what that even meant to him.

They had to pick up Jean and Marco in Chicago and debrief them on how the mission was going to play out. Erwin had already informed them that they were not to engage if they met with any resistance upon entering The Brigade's headquarters in Philadelphia. They were already playing it very close by simply scheduling this mission the same night as Beta Squad's mission. If Beta Squad failed, if they got caught, it would already throw major suspicion onto them.

"Where are your glasses?" Erwin asked Armin as he sat beside him in the cockpit of Hange's plane. He was in charge of making the plane invisible upon take off.

"Contacts," Armin said. He was studying the fibers of his gloves, the brown stains from his or Eren's blood set into the grooves of white thread. Written unsteadily across the dull, faded brown smear, I can sleep in heaven. Armin wondered what that was from. It could be anything. He didn't remember the context. He didn't know why his mind was manipulating the ink inside his suit to form those words. Armin didn't know very much, really, he just knew tastes and sensations and bits of information caught in the spider web that was his fractured mind.

Christa and Annie were sitting behind them. They weren't talking. It was so strange, this plane ride, because Armin's mind was so clear. There was no noise, no taste except for the trace of frosty spring air that leaked through the crack Armin had jabbed through Annie's wall of ice. And yet, for all the vacancy in the frequencies, Armin was lost. His head was somewhere else. His heart was not in it.

"We haven't done a mission together in a while," Erwin said, glancing at Armin. Armin stayed silent. He watched the clouds, and words twitched on his white gloves, crawling across bloodstains and laughing at him. If he watched the clouds long enough, the fluffy white bits of water condensed into these blinding, taunting shapes, perhaps they would become words too. "In fact, we haven't talked much at all lately."

"There's not much to talk about," Armin said. A lie. Armin wanted to tell him about Annie. The robot that had looked like her, had her power. The robot that had looked at him intelligently, known him, and tried to freeze him. He wanted to tell Erwin about Ilse Langner and Ilse the nurse who had saved Connie Springer, and he wanted to tell Erwin of Ymir's ashes and the corpse reaching, reaching, reaching, dead woman, sad woman, too charred to save. He wanted to say something about Bertholdt's possession of Ymir, something that had echoed in Ymir's hot touch, her skin leaving red skinny burns on Armin's pale forehead. Armin wanted to talk about the defects, that they were all defective except for Christa. That Armin was having trouble reading. Remembering. That his powers were consuming his entire being, and he couldn't stop it. He wanted to tell Erwin that he didn't want to be Cicero anymore.

"How's school?" Erwin asked.

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

"I'm ahead in all of my classes, and taking three courses outside of the curriculum," Armin said quietly. "It's fine, Erwin."

"I'm not talking about your grades, Armin," Erwin said very gently. Armin was reminded of sitting in Erwin's car years before, and Erwin reassuring him that he was powerful.

"Then I have no idea what you're talking about." He pulled his hood up over his head, his hair in a ponytail as it usually was when he dressed as Cicero.

"Are you getting enough sleep?" Erwin asked him.

"I don't know, Erwin," Armin sighed, pulling up his knees and hugging them tightly. "You're the psychic one, you tell me."

Erwin looked at Armin sharply, and Armin felt suddenly ashamed. He hadn't meant it. What's wrong with me today? Armin thought miserably. Maybe his problem really was that he wasn't getting enough sleep. He hadn't thought about that, but he always stayed up very late, and woke up very early, and never thought anything of it. He'd over slept today, though. That rarely happened. I'll go to bed earlier, then.

"I can't, Armin," Erwin said softly.

He can't?

"You can't see my future?" Armin asked. He stared straight ahead. "You've never told me that before."

"I never wanted to worry you about it," Erwin said. "But it seems that now… well, the fact is, Armin, you interfere with my precognition. You never used to, but now if you are in the future I need to see, you blot it out."

Armin dropped his legs and twisted to face Erwin in horror. "Wait, what?" he asked. "How long has this been going on?"

"It was on and off for a few months," Erwin said, "but it's been steady for weeks."

"So you can't see any future with me in it?" Armin asked. "None?"

Erwin smiled a little. "It can't be helped," he said. "Your abilities are far more useful than mine. If it's between my knowing the outcome of a mission, and you participating, there is no question. You're more important."

"Because I can trick people's minds?" Armin shook his head furiously. "But, Erwin—"

"Can you see my future?"

It was Christa who had spoken, soft and curious, her long purple cloak gathering around her tiny body. Vitae, she called her hero persona. Fitting.

"I can," Erwin said. "So long as Armin isn't in it."

"How far ahead can you see?" Christa asked. "A week? A month? A year? A decade? Can you see when I die? When Annie dies? Can you—"

"My power has many limitations," Erwin said. "Like Armin, I have trouble with the multitude of possibilities my ability offers me. While Armin hears thoughts like frequencies, I see futures like build-boards passing on the street, or spines of books on a shelf. There's nothing but a glimpse into what knowledge could be attained from taking a closer look. More often than not, I choose not to."

Armin sat and listened, because this was all so interesting. He knew some things about Erwin's powers, little things, but this was something else entirely. Armin had always felt that Erwin was the more powerful one, that Erwin's power was the eerie one. But now he saw it was the other way around. Armin's telepathy was something dangerous, and it was too strong for him to keep it contained. He knew that. He could feel it slipping from his grip.

"So how come you can see my future, but Armin can't read my mind?" Christa asked. "And what about Annie?"

When Armin looked back, he saw that Annie was sitting with her droopy eyes fixed on him. Christa was watching Erwin, her pale hair framing her round face, and her pink lips parted in confusion. Armin wondered what was so special about her. The healer, the result free of imperfections. The only one.

"It's possible," Erwin said, "that Armin's ability has formed a self-defense mechanism to keep out any foreign minds from manipulating his own."

"But my power doesn't affect his mind," Christa said. "It's just his aura— his life. I don't really care if he can read my mind or not, but the fact that I can't see his life force is… it's very, very troubling for me, because I won't be able to heal him if he ever needs healing."

"You don't have to worry about me, Christa," Armin said very gently. He was surprised that he had to say it. "I'm invisible more often than not, so it'd be hard for anyone to hurt me."

"You don't know that," Christa said, her eyes flashing to him desperately. Annie sighed from her seat beside the smaller blonde, and Armin glanced at her. Christa did too. "What is it, Annie?"

"Just accept that your power is no use to him," Annie said, resting her head back in her chair.

"What?"

"Just accept it," Annie said, her icy blue eyes closing. "If you can't save him, you can't save him. Whatever. Let him take care of himself."

Armin stared at Annie, and she stared back. Thanks, Annie, Armin said to her, though he didn't know why. He wasn't really grateful, but he felt like it was the thing to say. And she winced at his voice in her head.

Why are you thanking me? she asked, her voice distant and crackling inside his head. I'm just telling her that when you die, it won't be her fault.

"Oh," Christa said. She sounded disheartened, and Armin wondered what she was thinking.

You think I can take care of myself, Armin said. He felt as though he was pressing his hands against her wall of ice, and trying to peer through it to see her face. And she was shrinking on the other side, too shy to come out and face him.

I think you have that ability, Annie said. Her eyes flickered as they moved from his face to the window. I don't think you know how to use it, though.

Armin almost rolled his eyes. He turned back to face the cockpit, his hood falling over his eyes. Right, he said. He couldn't help but sound bitter.

He wasn't sure what Annie meant, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He liked Annie fine, but he felt as though she knew something that he'd forgotten, and it was like an itch in his heart that he couldn't scratch. It nagged him, and taunted him. Armin felt very nauseous all of a sudden as he looked down at his hands. Bloodstains popped out against blinding white fabric, and ink pooled across the faded brown grooves, laughing at his ignorance. 'Tis in my memory lock'd, his mind told him. And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

Armin wanted to slap himself in the face.

I'm sorry, Annie said suddenly. Armin whirled around to look at her, and he sensed both Christa's and Erwin's eyes on him. But he was surprised. I didn't mean it like that.

Then how the hell did you mean it, Annie? Armin asked.

I don't know, Annie said. I'm sorry, okay?

Armin was feeling suddenly very anxious, because she was watching him, and he could sense the crack in her wall, and he could sense her behind it, peering through the hole at him and almost, almost, almost willing to let him see what she was so keen on hiding.

I knew you before, Armin said, turning around in his seat so Erwin would stop glancing at him. Didn't I?

I don't know what you're talking about.

Armin watched his own handwriting tremble on his fingers. There were sonnets playing like symphonies across his shaky hands, and down his sides, and he could feel the vibrations of music and taste the words, but he could not read them very suddenly. It was too hard to squint through the blotted, inky mess.

At the institute, Armin said. We knew each other better, then. I know we did. But I forgot, and you just let it go. Why is that?

I don't know what you're talking about, Annie told him. Her voice felt like snowflakes gathering on the windowsill of his mind.

I just mean, Armin said, that you've been in my head before.

I really don't know what you're talking about, Armin, Annie said. He felt her presence fading, as if she didn't want to be so close to him any more. It was sad to feel. But Armin turned around and smiled at her.

"We're almost there," he said. You're a liar, Annie.

"Good," Annie said, her eyes narrowing. At least I know when I'm lying, Annie said to him. Her voice rang in his head long after she spoke to him, and she felt their connection begin to ice over. Her wall was pressing into his head, biting at his senses, and he exhaled sharply, his teeth beginning to chatter from the sensation. He felt as though he'd been pushed into an icy pool, a tiny hand forcing his head beneath the inky, fragile surface of a frosting pond and keeping it under, coaxing him to keep under, even as his body began to fight the sensation, and he could not think or breathe. We used to be friends.

Armin pressed his gloved, inky, bloodstained hands to his ears, and he moaned aloud. "I know…" he mumbled, his lips trembling and turning blue. There was ice crawling across his eyes. Water clogged his ears, and froze around his eardrums. His heart was thudding in iamic pentameter. Hamlet, Armin realized. My hands are reading me Hamlet. "There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; when down her weedy trophies and herself fell in the weeping brook." "I know…"

"Armin." He felt a hand brush his shoulder. He shrugged Erwin off, and shook his head furiously.

"I'm f-f-fine," he said. He said it, and his voice caught in his throat. He wanted to cry. Annie, stop.

You first.

You're hurting me, Armin said, his head pounding, his thoughts slowing, his breath misting across the air as he tried to grasp what was happening. What the hell was Annie doing? What the hell was he doing? This was foolish, and he knew it, but he wanted to know what Annie was hiding, because he knew, and she knew he knew, and now they were at a stalemate, and he was freezing, and she was freezing, and he wanted to cry.

And then it stopped. The ice, and the weight, and the shivering emptiness that came with Annie's offensive. But Ophelia still drowned. That was written on his arms, and crawling down his sides.

"What is going on with you two?" Erwin asked. His eyes were forward, and Armin looked at him as he inhaled deeply, and exhaled shakily. "Tell me what you're talking about."

They were both silent for a solid ten seconds, and Armin shivered as they both turned toward the window. "The institute," they said in unison.

Do you hate me? Annie asked.

No, Armin said. He could feel his mind thawing, and it hurt to think. I don't hate you.

You're an idiot, Annie said.

And you're a liar, Armin replied.

Stop talking to me in my head, she said sharply. If you want to talk, talk. Stop using your power on me, and I won't have to use mine on you.

Armin hadn't considered that. He still felt numb, but he turned around to face her anyway, keenly aware of Christa and Erwin. "I'm sorry," he said to her.

She shifted in her seat, looking a little guilty. "So am I," she said. They watched each other, and he was so suspicious of her, and she was so aware of it, but neither of them did a thing.

Armin didn't understand what they were doing. He felt like they were both tiptoeing around the truth, a truth he knew but couldn't touch, and a truth she knew but wanted to ignore. It was terrible. They were terrible.

They landed the plane on a parking garage roof. Marco and Jean were already sitting there, waiting for them apparently, and Erwin quickly went through their objective again. Annie tried to drift away from him, but he cut in front of her, blinking down at her a little desperately, hoping to amend for his previous mistake.

"I still think of you as a friend, you know," he told her very quietly. She stared at him, and glanced at Erwin and Jean and Marco and Christa. Christa and Marco were looking at them.

"How sweet of you," Annie said dully.

"If it really bothers you that much," Armin said, "I won't talk to you in your head anymore."

"Thanks, I guess."

Armin wanted to punch himself. He wanted to scream and tear his hair out, because his head hurt, and his heart hurt, and she wasn't understanding, and he couldn't understand her, and it was terrible. They were terrible, he and Annie, and they both knew it.

"Okay," Armin said, feeling awkward and embarrassed. "Well, I thought you should know. That you're still my friend. Even if I don't remember us being friends before."

"And even though you don't trust me?" she whispered. Armin stared at her, and his eyes darted to Erwin. But he hadn't heard. Armin could tell by the way he carried himself.

"Do you trust me?" he whispered back, turning his face to her. She said nothing. It was as if she couldn't understand what he was saying. She looked vacant and bored with his words. "Maybe that's our problem. Do you think so?" He was surprised at how nice it was to ask what she was thinking instead of knowing by default. It was refreshing.

"Maybe. And what would you do if I trusted you?" she asked. They were still whispering, because this was a secret, their unspoken suspicion. "You would hate me."

"I'm sure I wouldn't," Armin said gently.

"You're supposed to be smart," Annie whispered, her eyes moving from his face to the ground. "But you're so stupid. I'll be your friend, Armin. But there are some things you're better off not knowing."

He shook his head. No, he didn't believe that. He couldn't. "I want to trust you, you know," he said, feeling desperate and cold. They'd wandered so far from the group that Armin couldn't even hear Erwin talk about the objective anymore. The objective was, of course, to get as much information as they could out of The Brigade's database about Reiss or even the institute, as confirmation of their involvement in the experimentation. "I mean, I don't think you're hiding this from me to be cruel."

They walked quietly for a few moments along the wall separating the parking garage roof from a very long drop. The sun was setting, and Annie had stopped to watch the Chicago skyline. It looked a bit like fire blooming across the clouds and the city, and catching on the chunks of twisted metal and glass from the robot attack. Annie glanced behind them at Erwin and the others, and Armin could see her go rigid.

"Armin," she said suddenly, whirling to face him. "Do you think I'm a good person?"

Armin stood for a moment, alarmed. His mind felt cold, but he could almost taste her fear, sour as it crept across her mind and breathed through the hole he'd punctured in her head. He pitied her at that moment, because she was so isolated, and she was so lonely, and she was giving that to him, these feelings, this desperation, this fear of being found, this fear of being caught like a wolf in a trap.

He realized that she needed to open up to people more. She was decaying inside her head. He could taste the decomposition, the wilting of dandelions and the oncoming blizzard that would force all growth to cease.

"I don't know if I really like the implications of saying anyone is a good or bad person," Armin said slowly. "If I said yes, I think you're a good person, I might just be saying that because I think you're good to me, or for me, while the opposite might mean you don't benefit me or conform to my ideals. And I don't think it's fair for me to say, because I can't just judge you without any support to base my opinion on."

"It sounds like you just don't want to answer my question," Annie said flatly.

Armin smiled, and it was genuine, because he realized she was teasing him. We should talk more, Armin realized. "I think you're a person, Annie," Armin said. "Good or bad, I don't know. I don't know if I'm a good person. I'm probably not, by most standards, but that doesn't really matter. Because my goal is to do the right thing, even if it's not always the good thing." He bit his lip, and he looked down at her. She was nodding.

"Okay," she said quietly. She shot a glance toward the others, and said very quickly, "Armin, there's something I need to tell you."

Had he convinced her, then? To trust him, or to begin to at the very least? Was this it, then? Had he succeeded in swaying her to his side? Or was she going to be even more cryptic about whatever it was she had to say?

"What is it?" Armin asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

"I'll tell you when we get home." She turned away from him. "It's… not something you'll want to hear right now. But I'll tell you, because I'm going to trust you."

"Thank you," Armin said weakly, a little surprised. He hadn't expected to gain much from her, but he'd hoped.

"Don't," Annie said. "Just… promise that you'll trust me too."

"Okay," Armin said, watching her back. "I promise."

"Hey guys!"

Annie jumped, and she whirled around with flashing eyes as Marco appeared at Armin's side. She stared at him, and Armin could sense her unease. Armin couldn't help but feel a little uneasy too. How long was he standing there? Armin wondered. He hadn't even felt his presence, but then again, Armin's mind was too muddled to differentiate tastes and presences and thoughts at this point.

"Hello," Armin said. "Are we leaving now?"

"Um, in a few," Marco said. He had a new suit, courtesy of Hange, which was made for his agility, but also made to be bullet proof. Armin's suit was not. "What are you two up to?"

"Talking," Armin said. "You and Jean know your job, right?"

"Of course," Marco said, smiling wanly. "Official look outs and-or body guards. Hopefully it doesn't come to that, though."

"Erwin's a pacifist," Armin said, "and I can't fight. So you have to understand how important your roles are."

"Oh, don't worry," Marco said quickly, his warm eyes growing wide. "I'm really excited about this, actually. Jean's the one who's a bit put out."

"Let me guess," Annie said dryly. "He thinks we got the soft gig."

"Well, I guess it is," Marco admitted, "next to kidnapping and interrogating the president, and travelling overseas."

"I wonder how that's going," Armin said quietly, glancing over the Chicago skyline, feeling the weight of something greater beyond it.

"Yeah, I wonder," Marco said. He looked at Annie, and he smiled. "I don't think we've really gotten a chance to talk before, Annie."

"No," Annie said, looking at the horizon and frowning. "I guess not."

"I wish I could get to know all of you better," Marco said sadly. "I really do, because then this would be so much easier."

Annie looked at him. Armin could sense her uncertainty, and he thought perhaps she didn't know what to make of Marco. Armin wasn't sure either. Marco was a stranger, really, but a kind one. And Armin knew Mikasa trusted him— she'd even compared Armin and Marco at one point, which was a little flattering, because Armin didn't think he was as kind as this boy was, not nearly.

"You can get to know all of us better," Armin reassured him. "I mean, we've only gotten to really see each other once. The more missions we go on, the better we'll be acquainted."

"True," Marco said. His warm face and his warm eyes were glowing in the reflection of the dying sun, and Armin watched his face, his freckles dancing as he smiled. He noticed dimples caving into his cheeks.

"I think I'm going to go talk to Augur about my job here," Annie said, turning away from them. "Or maybe I'll just shatter my leg so I can go home."

"What was that, Annie?" Marco asked.

"I said I'm going to go talk to Augur."

Armin stared at Annie's back as she retreated toward their squad leader, and he couldn't help but feel a little taken aback by her behavior. Armin rubbed his temples, his headache only deepening as time went on. He could still feel residual traces of Annie's mental attack, and it still stung. Annie was giving him frostbite.

"Is she okay?" Marco asked suddenly.

"Yeah, I think so," Armin said, still massaging his forehead. Marco nodded, his eyes flickering across Armin's face.

"Are you okay?" Marco asked, his eyebrows rising. His suit was red and white, a winged lion perched upon his chest surrounded by expertly curling stitches that wove around his ribs. It was a very pretty design, for a hero costume, but it was something easily noticed. Armin knew, of course, this was the flag of the Republic of Venice. Home of San Marco's Basilica. Hence, Marco's choice of a moniker. It made a lot more sense when put into this perspective.

"Yeah, I think so," Armin repeated weakly, dropping his hands to his sides. "Just a little headache."

Marco was still smiling, but Armin saw it falter a little. Something sad flickered in his warm eyes, which melted like chocolate chips in cookie dough. Armin was confused by the tastes of Marco's thoughts because he couldn't really hear his thoughts, they were just a buzz in his head, like a fly brushing his ear and zipping away. The frequency was all jittery.

"Is it because of your power?" Marco asked softly.

Armin looked at Marco in astonishment. "How did you…?" he asked faintly. Marco just laughed, and he shook his head.

"Mikasa told me," he explained. "I mean, I already knew about your power, duh, but I know it's not very kind to you."

"It's a pain," Armin admitted. "I have good days, but today I feel like I can't control it at all."

Marco's eyes sparkled with curiosity, and he shot a glance over at Erwin and Christa and Jean and Annie. He looked back at Armin, and he tilted his head. "Can I try something?" he asked.

Armin blinked confusedly. "What do you me— hey, don't!" Armin tore his wrist from the boy's grasp, and he hugged his arm to his chest, feeling horrified and alarmed. His heart was beating very hard, because he could not deal with someone else touching him today, he could not handle that kind of strain. He would pass out, undoubtedly, or worse. "Please don't touch me, okay? Just don't."

"It's okay," Marco said very gently. He was reaching very slowly for Armin's hand again. "Please relax and trust me. I just want to try something. It won't hurt you."

"You don't understand," Armin said briskly. "You don't get it. Touching me is like setting off a bomb inside my head. Except instead of shrapnel, emotions go flying. Memories that aren't mine get buried into my frontal lobe and my temporal lobe and all down my corpus callosum, and tastes crash into my mouth and kick my teeth into my throat and roll on my tongue, and thoughts that don't belong to me get stuck rattling in my head, and even though I know they're not mine, they feel like they're mine, and I lose part of myself every single time." Armin took a deep breath, his eyes squeezing closed, and he felt cookie dough melt on his tongue. Sugar was lodging in his teeth, and chocolate chips dug into the inside of his cheek. "So please. Please don't touch me."

"Armin," Marco said. Armin stared at him. His skin was prickling at the sensation of cold air meeting his pores, goosebumps rising around Marco's long fingers. Armin looked down at his own bare wrist in Marco's grasp, his glove clenched in his right fist. He hadn't even realized. He couldn't even feel Marco's fingers digging into his wrist, two fingers pressing down beside a vein. Armin was awed, his eyes darting confusedly from Marco's fingers against the pulse of his wrist, to Armin's glove in Marco's fist, to the pale hair that stood on end as goosebumps formed across his forearm.

"H-how…?" Armin whispered. No, this wasn't right. It wasn't possible. With Erwin or Christa, yes, this could happen, but there was no possible way that Marco could initiate physical contact with Armin and not cause an unintentional connection. "That's amazing… I didn't even feel that, I—" He broke off, as his heart began to thud in his chest, and Marco dropped his wrist as though it had caught aflame. "What did you do?"

"I just distracted you," Marco said, blinking down at Armin innocently. "You were so busy talking about how bad it'd be if I touched you, you didn't even notice that I already was. I wanted to try it to see if maybe your heartbeat had an effect on how your powers respond to people, and as far as I could tell your heartbeat was very steady until you realized I was touching you."

Armin didn't think that sounded right. It contradicted everything he knew about his power. "You think I psych myself out with my powers," Armin realized. "You think I make it out to be worse than it really is to the point where it becomes as bad as it seems. Right?"

Marco was still watching Armin with that innocent gleam in his eye. "I just think you should relax," Marco said, "and let people in more. That's all."

Armin bit his tongue to keep himself from saying something very bitter. "Thanks, but I think I'll just keep the gloves," Armin said, reaching out for the one Marco had stolen. Marco handed it back, his fingers brushing Armin's knuckles, and Armin could taste something on his thoughts, something vague and hidden from the stretch of Armin's reach. Marco was strange, and a stranger, and Armin could feel the boy's sadness beneath the layers of false comfort.

"Whoa there," Jean said, approaching with his lax posture and honeycomb taste. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Why don't you try touching Jean, Armin?" Marco suggested eagerly.

Armin felt his gut clench in terror. "No way," Armin squeaked, yanking his glove back onto his hand and putting a good yard of distance between him and Marco and Jean. "I've had enough people touch me for today, thanks."

"Oh, please don't be mad," Marco gasped, looking down at Armin in shock. "I didn't think you'd react badly. And, you didn't, did you? I was right, you were absolutely fine."

Armin didn't respond. Because he didn't feel fine, but he didn't want anyone worrying about him either. "Look…" Armin said, glancing between Jean and Marco hurriedly. "Just because something worked for you doesn't mean it'll work for Jean. Everyone's mind is different."

"What exactly were you doing?" Jean asked, his brow furrowing. Marco looked a little sheepish, and he opened his mouth to respond, but Jean quickly cut in with a wave of his hand. "Wait. No. I don't want to know. Anyway, Augur says we're heading out. You two game?"

"Sure," Marco said. He was watching Armin with a crumpling expression. "Armin?"

"Cicero for right now," he said, rubbing his wrist subconsciously. He realized that Marco was staring at him with concern clear in his flickering eyes, and Armin managed a feeble smile. "I'm not angry. Your theory is actually something I never considered, and I'd like to pursue that possibility, that physical contact hasn't got to be something painful for me, or that my heartbeat determines how powerful my ability is." He pulled his hood over his face, and nodded eagerly. "I think that's a very interesting take on it, and it's not outside the realm of plausibility."

"Um…" Jean said, "what?"

"His power," Marco sighed, his shoulders slumping a little. "I wanted to check his power. Because, you know, he's sensitive to physical contact because of his telepathic abilities."

"Whoa, really?" Jean quirked an eyebrow. "Weird."

Armin shrugged. Was it weird? He had to suppose so, but he was so used to avoiding skin contact, even if he somehow could control his ability, it would make no difference. Armin would probably still flinch every time someone brushed his shoulder, or bumped into him. Armin would still cover himself in layers and layers of clothing to put a distance between his flesh and the itching, bleeding, biting thoughts of others.

They all wandered back to the plane, and Christa hopped up beside him eagerly, her deep purple cloak fluttering around her skinny frame. "You should drink more tea," Christa said, pulling up her velvet hood over her flaxen hair. A yellow strand curled around her bright blue eyes, and Armin watched her in wonder. What are you thinking? he found himself musing. It was amazing to him to have to wonder, because it was rare that was so utterly out of his grasp of understanding.

"Why?" Armin asked, glancing at Annie as she passed him. She didn't look his way, nor acknowledge him at all, and she boarded the plane in her chilly silence. Jean and Marco were chatting rather loudly behind them, and Armin gripped his hood in order to keep the biting Chicago winds from flinging it from his head.

"It might make you feel better…" Christa said softly, looking suddenly nervous. "You… you aren't feeling better, are you?"

Armin stared at her. He felt Erwin's eyes glued to his back, and felt the scrutiny and the suspicion. And Christa merely wrung her tiny little hands, biting her lip as she searched Armin's face. She looked so concerned for him, it was startling. It was as though she was the mindreader, and he was left to play victim.

"I'm fine," he assured her gently. He clambered onto the plane, and offered out his hand to her. She smiled, and took it gladly, hefting herself up and through the open door.

"Okay," she said, plopping down beside Annie. Her plum colored cloak spilt across the seat around her, and Armin decided to sit beside her instead of near Erwin. The man was watching Armin, and that was not something that he could deal with. Because Erwin was worried. Armin could sense that, even without his power, because Erwin's eyes were constantly roving back to Armin's face. "If you say so…"

"Are you not feeling well?" Marco asked as he took a seat across from Armin.

Armin buckled his seatbelt. Marco's thoughts were beginning to rush, and Armin caught sense of his concern. They tasted saccharine and warm, and they melted the residual ice that clung to Armin's rattled mind. Jean sat beside Marco, playing with the Velcro straps that held his utility pouches to his hips. He didn't seem to be used to his new outfit yet.

"I have a headache," Armin said, ignoring Erwin as he closed and secured the door, and then crossed between them to get to the cockpit. The man's hard blue eyes met Armin's but Armin could not find the strength to hold the gaze, so he turned his face away. "But I almost always do, so it's not a big deal."

"I can make you tea when we get home," Christa offered, glancing up at Armin's face. "If you'd like, I mean. Green tea should help with your migraine, and vomiting—"

"Oh, wow, really?" Armin feigned his interest, if only to stop her from talking anymore. His heart was beginning to beat very hard, because Erwin was watching him. The gaze had turned from suspicious to suddenly knowing, so very knowing, as though Erwin could sense the fear in Armin's face, in his shaking voice and fingers. Why had she brought up the vomiting? Why couldn't she have left that where it was? "You must know a lot about medicine."

Christa shifted, her eyes moving to Erwin's back. He'd sat down, and was thankfully no longer looking at Armin, but he felt as though he was going to be sick again. He hated it when Erwin worried about him, because when Erwin worried, there was likely something wrong that Armin could not fix. Christa's eyes darted back to Armin's face, and she looked so apologetic that he couldn't be angry with her.

"I don't know nearly as much as I should," she said quietly, folding her hands in her lap. "I'm… very reliant on my power. I never get sick. And I can take away sickness, usually, so I've never had to go looking for medicine for Ymir, or anything like that. That's why I feel a little…" She chewed nervously on the skin of her lower lip, and Armin watched her teeth tear at the delicate epidermis. "Responsible, almost, for not being able to take away some of your pain."

He almost laughed in response to that. But he couldn't blame her. If their places had been reversed, Armin would feel the same, and he knew it. If his powers were something beneficial to life like Christa's were, he'd feel an intense amount of guilt for not being able to alleviate the pain of someone ailing. So Armin did understand where Christa was coming from, and it saddened him, because he wished she could do it. He wanted her to take the migraine away, the nausea, the dizziness of thoughts that were not his own.

"Why would you feel responsible for shit like that?" Jean asked, resting his ankle on his knee. "If you can't heal him, that's not your fault."

"No…" Christa sighed. "No, but I feel bad anyway, because… because what good is my power if I can't help people with it?"

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Christa," Marco said gently. "You have an amazing gift, but it doesn't work on everyone. And that's okay."

"Yeah," Armin said, nodding slowly. "Don't worry about me, okay, Christa? I'm so used to migraines, it's not even a big deal anymore."

Christa glanced at him, and he knew she didn't believe a word he said. "It's not a gift," she said. She stared vacantly out a window as Erwin warned them of their impending take off. "Not really."

"You can heal people," Marco said, his eyes flashing very wide. "You save lives. That in itself is something so incredible, and you don't think it's a gift?"

Christa looked a little nervous as she shook her head. "Oh," she whispered. "Well, yes, that's… that's nice, but… it's not that simple…"

They all fell quiet as the plane took off, and Armin's back pressed heavily into his seat, his head pounding viciously as his ears rung from the rattling of wind against the wings of the airplane, battering on the windows and hissing softly for Armin to open up, open up, open up a little…

They were silent for a good portion of time, sitting anxiously in wait for their mission to begin. They had such a simple task. Armin wondered if he felt so anxious because he knew he wasn't going to be at the top of his game, or because he was working in such a foreign environment. He had gotten to know Christa well enough in the short time he'd known her, and Annie was a familiar enigma, but Jean and Marco were a strange and uncertain variable in Armin's plan. He could not tell if their mission would succeed with the unfamiliarity of this squad.

Armin was beginning to tune into scraps of thoughts drifting from Marco's mind and Jean's as well. Words, mostly, blipping into existence and bubbling to the surface of Armin's mind, hissing at him and then dissipating with a great, sudden pop. And Armin was left to confusedly sort all the wonderings and how comes and what am I doings, and they weighed heavily in his mouth. They tasted hot, burning the flesh off the roof of his mouth, and the words just kept coming in an onslaught of awkward, nervous ramblings that could not be discerned. And Armin was stuck with it. He rubbed his forehead, swallowed thickly, and looked up at the ceiling, and down at his hands, and breathed in deeply, and breathed out shakily, because there was nothing that he could do to ease this pain.

They were all doing their separate things for a little while, and the sun disappeared behind the fat, swelling gray clouds, and they were drenched in a bluish darkness that floated around their faces and framed their flesh in a chilly glow. Armin had pulled off his gloves to rub the skin of his wrist, which was not hurting by any means, but rather it was prickly and itchy, gooseflesh forming beneath Armin's tiny fingers. Marco was watching him. His expression was apologetic.

"I didn't mean any harm by it," he said suddenly. Armin glanced at him.

"It's okay," Armin assured him. "Really. I understand what you were trying to do."

"What did he do?" Christa asked, looking rather curious. Annie was not looking, but Armin could tell she was listening.

"He touched my arm," Armin said, "to prove that I can be touched without accidentally forming a connection with someone."

"That's bullshit," Annie said. Armin looked over Christa's head at her, stunned, but Annie simply looked straight ahead with squared shoulders and a raised chin.

"It worked, though," Armin said quietly. "So maybe it's not all that farfetched."

Annie looked from Armin to Marco. She shook her head furiously, and she tugged the glove off her left hand. Armin sunk into his seat, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he saw her arm reach carefully over Christa's lap.

"Annie, no," he said. "Don't prove him wrong."

Annie paused, her blackened fingers resting against the inky, swirling script that wrote Armin's heart in a series of quotes that he could not fully understand, not at this moment, not when everything was so muddled. He was so confused, and his head hurt, and Annie was pulling Armin's gloves into her hands and drawing back from him. They watched each other, and Armin itched to ask her why she was acting so strangely, if it was because of what she needed to tell him, and he itched to speak aloud and ask the question that was plaguing him. What are you thinking, Annie? he wanted to say. Tell me what you're thinking.

"So, like," Jean said, cocking his head at Armin, "if you can't touch people, how the hell are you ever gonna have sex?"

Armin nearly laughed aloud. What a juvenile thing to ask. So invasive and inane, and yet Armin was smiling, feeling as though he'd been given a test he'd slaved and stressed over for so long, that sitting down and looking upon it was far less daunting than he could ever imagine. It was, in fact, relieving. Because Armin had thought about this before, and he'd had this conversation with Erwin when he had once tried to sit Armin down and explain reproduction, as if Armin did not already know. Armin had quickly changed the subject from, "How are babies made?" to "How could anyone like me ever have children?"

The answer was very simple.

"I'll never be able to have sex," Armin informed Jean calmly. The boy looked taken aback, and suddenly remorseful, as though he'd treaded on Armin's toe. "Ever. Even if I'm miraculously stripped of my power to read thoughts and connect with people, I'll never be able to recover from what that power has physically done to me. I've accepted that, and I'm comfortable with it."

Jean sat for a moment, slack-jawed and alarmed, and Armin knew that he had not been expecting something so frank. Christa was sitting quietly beside Armin, her eyes on his face. They were not pitying, and they were not judging. They were simply watching, just watching, curious and absorbing all they could. Annie's eyes were colder, but she did not seem to pity him either. In fact, Armin could almost taste her sympathy as she settled in her chair, her shoulders slumping, and her icy blue eyes drooping as she gazed at Armin's face.

Marco seemed to be the only one to take it lightly.

"But you can touch certain people without feeling uncomfortable, can't you?" he asked eagerly. "Like Mikasa. You can hold her hand, or Eren's."

"Holding my best friends' hands is nothing like what I would go through if I had sex with someone," Armin said, closing his eyes. His head was pounding viciously. "To me, holding someone's hand flesh to flesh is the most intimate thing imaginable. And for some reason, with Mikasa and Eren it's completely painless. But just because they don't seem to clash with my ability, that doesn't mean I'd fuck either of them." Armin opened his eyes, and he tilted his head to the side, smiling wanly. "I mean, really?"

"Wait a minute," Jean said, holding his hands up. "Wait a fucking minute. When someone touches you, you're in pain? Like, that's a thing?"

"Yes," Armin said, nodding. "It's painful for me, and for the person touching me, usually. Annie can attest to it."

"Yep," Annie said dully. "It sucks."

"Except Ymir," Armin said distantly. "For some reason, whenever she touches me, I get really intense waves of pain, like I've been shoved into an oven and forced to bake and turn and bake some more until I've become so charred that all that's left of me is blackened bones, but she's never worse for wear. It's like she feels nothing."

"Well, Ymir's different than us," Christa said very quickly, her voice a squeak.

Armin glanced down at the tiny girl, and he turned to face her directly. "How so?" he asked.

Christa's eyes widened, and they darted fast as her arms waved hurriedly in the air, rapidly amending for her words. "O-oh," Christa gasped, "I just mean that… that Ymir wasn't given the power she's got, she was born with it. That's what I mean. She's different."

"Like Mikasa," Armin said, recalling his own theories about the powers and defects. "And Levi."

"Yes!" Christa nodded, her hood slipping over her vivid blue eyes. "Like them!"

"But I've made a connection with Levi before," Armin said, glancing up at the ceiling. "He still doesn't like being alone in the same room as me."

"Like you said," Marco offered weakly, "your power is different on different people."

Armin felt as though there was something he was missing. It was Ymir. There was something he was missing from Ymir, and that was the variable he needed to piece it all together. Whatever Ymir was hiding, it was crucial to solving Armin's confusion. Ymir, with her fire, and her drawl, and her possession, and her grandmother Ilse. Ymir and her tightlipped smiles, and her tired black eyes, and her heated touch, and her mind that held so much information that it could not be conveyed in a single touch, it was wrapped carefully in a protected field inside her mind, and Armin could not touch it. And Christa… Christa knew so much more than she let on, and Armin could tell, but he couldn't get anything from her. And Annie! Annie, with her wall of ice, and springtime taste, and sad eyes, and desperate thoughts that could not pass unto Armin fully. There was something wrong here.

"Your power sounds like it sucks," Jean said as they neared their destination. They'd gone quiet again, all of them, and Armin was still trying to puzzle out the enigmas around him.

"It's not nice, no," Armin said, pulling his knees to his chest. He embraced them tightly, and rested his chin against the top of his boots. "But it has its uses."

Except when it doesn't, Armin thought miserably. When there are a dozen gunmen, and not one of them have thoughts that I can reach. When there are three giant robots that seem human, seem real and alive, but what were they? And where did they come from? Why can't I know this? Why can't I have the power to understand these things?

"Can you hear thoughts just… out of nowhere?" Jean looked a little uncomfortable. "Do you know what I'm thinking right now?"

"No," Armin said. "I can tune you out pretty easily. So don't worry, I can't hear you without focusing unless you're thinking really loud."

"How do you turn up the volume on your thoughts…?" Jean blinked at Marco. "Do you know?"

"Not a clue," Marco laughed.

"I mean," Armin said, glancing at Erwin as he announced their arrival over Philadelphia. Armin had kept the plane invisible, so he wasn't concerned about anything except where Erwin would land. "Well, I can hear little scraps of your thoughts, but nothing incredibly concrete. I don't want to read your minds right now, and I have a lot of other stuff in my head drowning you out."

"Oh?" Marco's warm eyes glittered with intense curiosity. "Like what?"

Like Annie. Armin bit his tongue. She glanced at him, as though she had heard the thought flutter through his head. And perhaps she had. Armin was still bitterly holding onto the icy, gleaming ribbon that connected his mind to hers. Armin sighed, and he looked down at his bare hands.

"Just… things that have been bothering me." Armin rubbed his wrist self-consciously. "Annie, can I have my gloves back?"

She tossed them at him, and he blinked as they hit his face, and crumpled into his lap, words of easy self-hatred and humorous disgust floating on the pale surface. Jean laughed, and Marco smiled, and Christa glanced up at Armin with her lips parted in concern. Armin was looking at the words floating against the white fabric, wondering why they were so hard to read.

"It's okay, Armin," Christa whispered, taking Armin's hand. He didn't look at her, but he knew she was worried because he probably had grown very pale.

"Yeah." Armin pulled his hand from hers, his flesh itching in discomfort. He pulled his gloves off, and took a deep breath. "It's fine. I just think too much."

Armin could tell that no one seemed to know how to react to this. No one was understanding, and Armin couldn't pin blame to them for this. Armin's power was all misfortune, and little benefit. He felt a little isolated from the world around him, and he recalled Marco had told him that maybe letting people in would make him feel better.

As Erwin landed the plane, Armin found himself wondering if maybe Marco was right. Maybe he really was psyching himself out with all his anxiety, and maybe if he just let people in every once and awhile the world wouldn't feel quite so overwhelming. Maybe Armin just needed to form stronger links with people, like he'd done with Eren and Mikasa. If he did that, then maybe it wouldn't hurt to touch that person. Maybe he just needed to give the links a chance.

"Now," Erwin said as they approached The Brigade's headquarters. "Expect there to be people around. This is a news network, remember, and no matter how late it is, I'm positive we'll find workers straggling."

"Won't we be invisible, though?" Jean asked.

"We will," Erwin confirmed. "But that will mean nothing if someone realizes that we're there. Stay close. All we need is information. Telepathically inform Armin if you think you need to engage someone. But please, knock your opponent out as quickly as possible, if need be."

Armin hoped it didn't come to that. But contingency plans were their salvation, and there was no denying it. If they weren't prepared to fight, then they might as well quit while ahead. That was why Marco and Jean were there. So Armin took a deep breath, and asked everyone if they were ready, even though he didn't really care if they were or not. It didn't matter.

Invisibility to Armin was like a shield. No one could hurt him or anyone else if they were invisible. It was such a simple little trick. So simple, and so strange, and it suited Armin to be able to warp minds into false perception. And so, suddenly, they were all invisible, and entering an unfamiliar building, and Armin could feel the presence of them all around him.

They started through the building slowly. Armin passed by a woman working at a desk, and he pulled what he could of the building's layout from her mind. Then he distributed that information to the minds he could reach, and took Christa and Erwin by the hands because he could not mentally touch them. Their invisible fingers slipped into his as he led them into a darkened hall, doors running across the walls in a series of identical passages, choices that Armin could not make because he feared them. And he realized Erwin and Christa much trust him very much.

"This room," Armin said aloud, pulling his invisible guardian and his invisible friend before a door. He tested the handle, but it was locked. He jostled it for a moment, and looked around. The hallway was empty.

"Scoot a little," Jean said, his invisible body all but slamming into Armin's. Armin heard something jangling, and he could sense the lock picks in Jean's invisible hands, and Armin listened to the little mechanics inside the lock give way to Jean's expert jostling, listening as they clicked into the correct place just right, and the door swung open. "Heh. Piece of cake."

"Way to go, Ricochet," Marco said, his voice light and teasing. "Your delinquency has finally paid off."

"Shut up."

They were assigned to stay outside, Marco and Jean, and Armin entered the room with Christa and Erwin's presence following him. The room was full of computers, but Armin only needed access to one to get to what he needed. He wasn't going to be doing the hacking anyway. This was a job for Petra Ral, who was the core of their squad despite her absence. Armin was here to keep them all invisible and safe. Erwin was here to direct them, and to supervise them. Marco and Jean were here to guard them. Annie was here as part of one of Armin's contingency plans, but she also served as an inner guard. Christa was here in case something went terribly wrong.

"Wait."

Armin heard Annie's voice, and he was almost surprised. He turned around to face her, though he could not see her, and he sensed her concern as it bubbled from the hole he'd poked in her wall, sensed her fear and uncertainty. He wished there was something he could say to make her feel better, but he couldn't. He knew he couldn't. And she knew he knew.

"What is it?" Armin asked.

Annie's breath could be heard as she inhaled sharply. "I want to guard outside," she said. "It makes more sense. I have a power that'll eliminate an enemy quicker than mediocre hand-to-hand combat."

"Hey," Jean said sharply.

She rolled her eyes. Armin felt it. The way her eyes darted, and he felt her breath, and he felt her thoughts rolling inside a shuddering wall of ice, and he knew. It wouldn't last. It couldn't last. She was breaking inside of it, and it was cracking around her. She wanted freedom more than anyone could know. She gave him that, that glimpse of life, that glimmer of hope. She wanted to have control over herself, and the world around her, and her choices. She wanted it more than anything, and the wall was pressing up against her, hurting her just as much as it hurt Armin. And he understood. And he trusted her.

"Okay," Armin said. "I agree. It makes more sense for you to be on offensive. Erwin?"

"I see no fault in Lionheart's judgment," he said from beside Armin. "Though freezing someone in the middle of the hallway is a little conspicuous, don't you think?"

"I'm capable of defeating an opponent without my powers," Annie said firmly. "I won't hurt anyone, and I won't freeze anyone unless it's absolutely necessary. If there is no way around it, though, I'll have to use my ability."

"Understood," Erwin said. "San, you'll switch with—"

"If it's alright with you, sir," Marco said, "I'd like to keep my post in the hall. I'm better at hand-to-hand than Ricochet."

"No you're not," Jean said, sounding vaguely offended. "I'm way better."

"You're better at gymnastics," Marco sighed, "but I'm better at fighting. Remember the first night we ever went out crimefighting?"

Jean was very quiet. Armin tasted his resignation, bitter as it hit his tongue, and a wave of irritation sprung from Jean's invisible form. "Yeah," Jean said. "Yeah, okay."

So Jean followed Armin into the room, and Christa closed the door as they peered into the darkness. Testing, Armin thought gently, testing out his range with Annie and Marco. He threaded his mind to Marco's, tasting the cookie batter and blinking at the overwhelming sensation of sugar melting on his tongue. He tied that to the frozen wastes of Annie's mind. Coming in clear?

Did you just connect our minds? Marco asked, sounding awed. That's so cool!

No, Annie thought to them bitterly. It's really not.

You two need to be connected to me in case someone comes, Armin reminded. Don't forget.

Oh, don't worry about us, Marco said. Nothing can get past Annie and I. I'm certain of it.

I'm glad you're so assured. Armin wandered over to a computer, and he wiggled the mouse. It was, of course, off, so he pressed the power button and waited as the room was filled with a blinding light. Armin waited patiently, and felt Jean settle into a chair while Erwin and Christa stood near the door. Actually, while both of you are in my head. I think I should apologize.

Huh? Marco sounded taken aback, and Armin felt the word flutter inside his head, and then blow away like dust. What for?

I acted pretty rude to both of you today, Armin said. Marco, all you were trying to do was help me, but I couldn't open my mind to the possibility of positive change. And Annie, I've invaded your privacy without even thinking. I'm not sure what's wrong with me today, but I'm so sorry for it.

Don't be sorry, Marco said gently. Don't worry at all. You didn't hurt our feelings. Right, Annie?

It was understandable, Annie said. It was all she said. All she thought. She drifted back into the enclosed structure of her wall, her thoughts vague and distant.

Armin connected his phone to the computer so Petra would have access to it via her own phone. When Armin had asked if she could do this, she had jumped at the opportunity. She had wanted to come and do it in person, but Levi had found out and called her. Armin had not pried into what exactly the man had said, but it had changed Petra's mind. She complained, though, that it would be much easier if she could be there. Hacking from such a huge distance was a hassle.

"I wonder how the other squads are doing," Christa said, her voice breaking across the heavy silence. Armin watched the desktop grow dim as control transferred to Petra.

"By now they should both be nearly done, if they succeeded," Erwin said.

"And if not?" Armin asked, unable to bring himself to look away from the screen. The cursor was moving on its on accord, zipping across the screen and clicking on files and dragging them away.

"If not," Erwin said, "then we'll have to make up for their lack of results."

Armin sighed. He felt Erwin move closer, and he continued to stare at the computer screen as Erwin's hand landed on his shoulder. It was supposed to be a comfort, but Armin felt so sick, and so exhausted, and the brightness of the screen blaring through the dimness of the room was causing his eyes to water a little. His headache was worsening, and holding all of them invisible was straining for him. His shoulders were trembling.

"Are you cold, Armin?" Erwin asked softly.

Armin winced. "No names in the field," he reminded weakly.

"Are you cold?" Erwin repeated. He bent down before him, and took Armin by his chin. He stared into Erwin's face, shadowed black and white by the glare of the computer screen, his one visible blue eye alight with a strangely tranquil alarm. Armin could see that Erwin was concerned, and it surprised him.

Armin realized with a shudder that he was, indeed, very cold. He closed his eyes, and he felt Erwin's bare fingers slip beneath Armin's bangs and press against the raised imprints of Ymir's fingers that had been burned into his flesh.

"What is this?" Erwin asked, pushing his hair away from his forehead. "Your skin's blistered, Armin. And you have a fever."

Armin opened his eyes, and he pulled Erwin's hands from his face. He stared at the man's eyes, and he shook his head. "I got sick this morning," he admitted. "I had a fever then, too. Ymir checked, and she accidentally burned me. I don't even know if it went away."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Erwin asked, sounding suddenly furious. Armin nearly fell off his chair, he was so shocked and suddenly scared, because Erwin never used that tone with Armin, never ever, and it hurt.

"You would have made me stay home," Armin gasped, gripping his chair as he tried to steady himself. He felt Jean behind him, and his concern was growing. Armin tasted it in the honeyed flavor of Jean's lazy mind.

"Yes," Erwin said, his jaw tightening. "I would have. I would have told you that you'd be a fool to risk your wellbeing for a mission that can go on without you. You're no use to me if you're sick. You can't control your power, you can't focus— you've become more of a hindrance than a help, you must realize that." Erwin did not stand up, and he kept his eyes level with Armin's, and Armin's heart was beating suddenly very hard, because Erwin's words were hitting him like hammer strokes. Erwin's expression had become hard, and Armin couldn't tell what he was feeling, because he was so far away, so steady and calm and knowing, and Armin just couldn't take it. Erwin could be playing Armin like a fiddle for all he knew, because Erwin was charismatic and clever, and Erwin made Armin feel like all his problems could disappear, but then Erwin would do something like this, and Armin just didn't understand how the man felt, he didn't understand, he didn't know, and it was destroying him. "Do you think I don't know you? Do you think I didn't notice? Did you honestly think you could fool me, Armin?"

And Armin shook his head mutely, because something hard had lodged itself into his throat, and it hurt. He felt so ashamed of himself, and he stared at Erwin in terror, his entire body shaking out of fear and pain and confusion and a sickened exhaustion. Armin saw Christa coming closer, her brow furrowed, and her blue eyes glowing like beacons in the darkness.

"You need to understand," Erwin said, "that this is a very serious issue. That you can't just neglect your health for the sake of the mission. You've endangered not only yourself, but also everyone here. What on earth were you thinking? You're usually so much smarter than this— look at me when I'm talking to you. Look at me, Armin." Erwin's cold fingers caught Armin's chin again, and his teary eyes met the man's strikingly alert ones. His expression didn't soften, and Armin felt a sob bubbling in his chest. "You need to focus. We're all visible, and there are cameras here. We don't have much time. Look at my face, and focus on my face, and don't look away. I need you to focus. Make us invisible."

"I can't," Armin choked, his voice breaking across the heated air, and frost clung to his skin, goosebumps prickling his pores. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I— I can't, I feel like—"

"I know," Erwin said. "I know, but we don't have time to waste. You have to make us invisible again."

Armin looked away, and he listened to his breath as it became shallow, speeding up rapidly as he realized how immensely he'd fucked up. He rubbed his eyes, the heels of his palms digging into the hollows of his skull, and it hurt so much, and he didn't understand why. He took a deep breath, and tried to get a feel for the presence of Jean behind him, his hands hovering over Armin's shoulders worriedly, and Christa coming closer, and Erwin kneeling, watching, furious and cold, and Annie and Marco—

"Wait," Armin said, his panic heightening, and his confusion cloaking his senses. "There's someone outside."

"Yeah," Jean said cautiously. "Marco and Annie…"

"No," Armin gasped, pushing himself shakily to his feet. He was quaking, his knees buckling under his weight, and he lurched toward Christa. Erwin caught him around the waist before he could crumple to the floor. "Christ— Vitae, get away from the door."

Christa stared at him in shock, and she drifted closer as the door burst open, and Armin felt Erwin's body curl protectively over him as Jean leapt to his feet, both his guns appearing in hand. Jean, Armin thought to him sharply. No. Don't shoot, oh god, don't—

He squeaked as Erwin dragged him to the ground, knocking Christa off her feet and yanking her with them. She looked alarmed, but Armin could see her eyes, and he knew she was not afraid, because she stared at him with a tight jaw and flashing eyes. She didn't seem to like that Erwin had to shield her, but she lay on the ground anyway, leaning into Erwin's embrace, and throwing her purple cloak over Armin's head to protect him.

"Fuck," Jean swore as something cracked— a skull. Armin moaned, feeling the security guard's pain as Jean's gun cracked against the side of his head. Then he choked, because Jean had struck the man again in order to force him unconscious. He looked at Christa, whose bright blue eyes were flashing across his face, and she tore off her cloak as Erwin released them, wrapping him up in the deep purple velvet. Armin shuddered, but he was grateful, because the cloak was so warm, and his own cloak felt flimsy and ratty in comparison to Christa's almost regal cape.

"It's okay," Christa whispered, her fingers fumbling with the clasps of the cloak. She glanced back at the open doorway, and she exhaled sharply. "Damn it— oh, Armin, I'm sorry, I can't—"

"It's fine," he said, peeling the cloak off. She looked at him sharply, and she shook her head, objecting immediately. "Vitae, you have to call me Cicero now. And right now the last thing I need is a heavy cloak— I have a fever, remember. I feel cold, but I really shouldn't try to warm myself. In fact, I could use Annie right now." Maybe she can just freeze me, Armin thought miserably. And then I won't have to deal with this awful headache.

"Oh," she said, pushing her hair behind her ears. "Oh, gosh, right. Okay. But we need to get you out of here. Can you stand up?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "That's not important. Augur's right, I've become a huge hindrance—"

"No, you—!" she objected.

"Yes," Armin said firmly, "I have. I can barely make sense of anything right now. I'm useless, I can't even move…" He laughed bitterly, and Christa held him by the shoulders, and she shook him, telling him no, no, no, but he couldn't listen to her, let alone believe her. "There's someone… there's someone else coming… Augur…"

"They're in the hall," she whispered. "Do you know where Annie and Marco went?"

"Mm…" Armin shook his head. "They must have gotten spotted and ran off. That's not important right now. They're fine— I'd know if they weren't, I'd feel it. But there's… there's someone else, Vitae… Christa…" Armin slumped in her arms, staring at the floor and feeling the room spinning. He wondered if he'd puke again. Oh, this was getting out of hand. He was getting out of hand, and his powers were taking the front seat again, like they tended to when his mind and body could not contain them. "Erwin… tell Erwin…"

"Tell him what?" she asked, gently smoothing his hair back from his face. He stared at the body of the security guard near the doorway, and he saw one of Jean's guns lying beside the man. "Can you… can you tell me what hurts?"

"My head…" He sighed into her shoulder, and he was so grateful for her presence, because he needed to rest his head somewhere, just for a moment. "I can't… I can't make sense of anything, Vitae…" Armin's head was swimming, and there was ice clinging to his heart, and his head, and he sighed as she ran his fingers through his hair, rocking him like he was a child. "Christa…" He was shaking so badly, his teeth chattering and cracking and threatening to shatter against each other, that he thought he might bite his tongue off. He didn't know how he was still speaking. He thought that maybe if he kept talking, it'd stop, but it didn't, it made him feel worse, and Christa was holding him with her untouchable mind and her glassy blue eyes, and flaxen hair, and Armin thought that was sort of familiar, but he was blinded by his icy heart and frozen head. "Historia…"

She went rigid as she held him. Armin felt the presence of someone in the hall, and he realized with a start what that meant. He tasted the thoughts of a man who had pulled Jean's own gun on him. They were in the hall, and the man, Kitts Verman, was speaking. He was talking like a man who was scared. Who knew something. And Armin tuned into that, felt that fear, and he gained some semblance of strength from it.

He pushed off from Christa and lurched to his feet. "Armin," she said, her voice soft and shaky. "Armin, stop. You can't."

He scooped up the gun from the floor, ribbons shattering in his head, and they felt frozen and bloody, and he wanted to laugh at how good it was to be free of them, despite how crippling it was to feel the shards of a broken link imbed inside his fragile mind. His hands were shaking as he flicked the safety. His fever had broken, and now he felt very warm, sweat causing his hair to stick to his brow. Something in him had melted. Like ice on a wire, or chocolate chips in an oven.

"Stop," Christa repeated. "You're sick, Armin. You shouldn't be moving around, and you're in no shape to fight."

"I don't intend on fighting," Armin said.

"What do you mean?" she asked weakly. She pushed herself to her feet, dragging her heavy velvet cloak with her. "Armin?"

"It's Cicero," Armin corrected her as he entered the hall, his feet moving subconsciously, his knees and joints aching at the tough action of bending. He spotted Erwin and Jean at the end of the hall, on their knees with a man between them. Erwin was a pacifist, and Jean hadn't any power to speak of. And Kitts Verman had his gun. And Armin had the other.

"Okay," Christa said. "Cicero, then. What are you going to do?"

Kitts Verman didn't knew as much as Armin had hoped. He knew that there was something rotting in the underbelly of their little network. He knew that the responsibility fell on Reiss's shoulders, Reiss who had met the man once or twice or thrice, and there was a glimmer of recognition of a child peeking out through the door of a library, blond and blinking and blissfully curious. Armin saw this in the man's mind, and that seemed so strange, because he didn't know the extent of Reiss's misgivings. He didn't know that there had been experimentation, and he didn't know that there were now kids who had to live every single day with the result of some sick whim.

But he did know he had to protect the secrets that The Brigade held at all costs.

That was it, then. Armin had no other choice.

Verman, Armin thought to the man, causing him to jump and whirl around. Armin raised the gun in his hands in response, and the man stared, his eyes growing wide in shock. "Drop the gun," Armin said. He saw Jean's face, and the boy looked absolutely incredulous. Erwin simply watched, his expression neutral.

"Where did you people come from?" the man asked, looking utterly terrified. Armin almost felt guilty, but he kept his fingers firmly on the trigger.

"I think the question should be," Armin said, "why are you so willing to kill us?"

"E-excuse me?" Verman asked, his voice growing weak at Armin's words. Yes, Armin could taste his fear, and it soured the air around him. His hands shook against the gun.

"You want us dead," Armin said calmly, his eyes flickering as he searched the man's face, searched the man's mind, and bled it dry of information. The man blanched, and Armin wondered if he felt it. The parasitic touch of Armin's mind leeching off his. "You don't even know us. You couldn't know us, we've never met, but still, you want us dead. Because someone warned you about us." His gloved fingers tightened around the gun. "Is it because we're dangerous? I won't lie, that's true enough. But do you know why, Verman? Don't you know the truth about who created The Brigade?"

"How do you…?" Verman's hands shook on his own gun, and he shook his head furiously. "Stop that! Stop… stop talking, or I swear…!"

"You'll shoot me?" Armin exhaled sharply. "Go ahead. Do it. Shoot me, and then see what happens." Verman stared at him. "Oh. But you can't shoot me. Why is that? Do you know me?" Verman's eyes flashed in terror. "You do!" That was strange. Armin had never met this man before, and yet he somehow knew him. "You can't kill me— you want to, but you can't. Why is that?"

He felt Christa at his back. Armin almost looked down at her. And recognition glowed inside Verman's eyes. Historia. Armin tasted the name on his tongue, and in Verman's head. It tasted familiar, like candy canes and antiseptic.

"Ah," Armin breathed. "Not me. Her. You're scared you'll hit her."

"I don't know him," Christa said.

"Neither do I," Armin said, staring blankly at Verman as sweat broke upon his brow. Yes, Armin had caught him. He was breaking apart before their eyes. "But he knows us."

"Both of us, though?" Christa whispered. "How is that possible?"

Armin couldn't answer that. Verman's thoughts had gotten too muddled in his panic, and now Armin could only catch little scraps. The name Historia blew around Armin like wind whistling through grass, and he felt the breeze tickle his skin, and it was so familiar to him, like an old memory surfacing from the depths of a lake after a long winter. Reiss was thought of, and there was some panic there, and that panic turned to terror. Verman turned the gun on Jean, who had inched ever so slightly closer with the intention of knocking the man out.

"Stop it," Verman choked. "Stop talking— both of you, stop, or I'll blow his brains out."

Armin pressed his lips together firmly. He recalled watching Eren get shot five times, and the taste of his blood in his mouth, and the overwhelming despair that had overtaken him. No, Armin couldn't go through that again. Not in the state he was in now.

"If you shoot," Armin said, "I shoot."

Verman's lips were trembling. Jean was staring at Armin with his eyes narrowed, alert and searching for the correct opening. Armin knew that Jean wasn't incompetent. He could take down Verman easily, so long as the gun was trained away from him. And Jean knew, of course, that it was all a bluff. That Armin would likely miss if he shot the gun in his hands. It was so cumbersome in his shaky hands, it was a wonder that he was still holding it.

You said not to shoot, Jean thought, his voice screaming in Armin's head. Because this was the first time Jean was truly calling out to Armin, and he winced in shock as honey spilt across his tongue and clung to his teeth, and sealed his lips shut.

I told you not to shoot, Armin said. You've never killed anyone before.

Neither have you!

Armin recalled Annie's question. Did he think she was a good person? How could he possibly judge her, when he could barely comprehend his own actions as good or evil? He was always praised for his judgment, for his mind, for his pragmatism. But now they were all in shambles. He was in shambles. He was deteriorating, and he felt his mind leaking through his ears.

That's not true, Armin said. I killed a man using just my words once. And even if I can't kill Verman using a gun, I can almost certainly make him kill himself.

Jean's face seemed to crumple at that, and he stared at Armin with a furrowed brow and slumped shoulders. You don't have to, Jean said.

No, Armin said. I don't.

Eren was so sure that they were heroes. But Armin was standing here, his trembling fingers on the trigger of a gun, his skull threatening to cave in and shatter, leaving bits of bone to collide with his brain and turn it to a gooey, squishy mass of sticky, pulpy matter. And Armin knew that he could be the one responsible for taking a life, whether it be by his own shaky hand, or by the puppet strings dangling from his pulsing brain and connecting him to any unsuspecting mind that could be reached.

It was confusing, not knowing what to do next. Armin used to be so sure of his actions, but right now he felt like any move he made would result in something cataclysmic. And the worst part was, he didn't care. He wanted it. Because at least there was closure in knowing something definitively. He knew that pulling the trigger, no matter what course the bullet took, would bring a great deal of pain to his already fragile heart. He knew that, but he didn't know what not pulling the trigger would do. And perhaps that would hurt more, because there were lives on the line. Jean, a stranger, but a kind one, who tasted like honey and bemusement, and he wanted so bad to be a good person, and to find his place, but at the same time he was absolutely terrified of his choices. And Erwin. Erwin, Armin's guardian, Armin's savior, Armin's friend— if only Armin could believe in Erwin like everyone seemed to believe in him. If only he had that kind of faith in anything, or anyone. If only he had that kind of faith in himself.

Nobody seemed to be ready to stop him. Christa stood at his side, watching Verman with her clever blue eyes, and Armin knew that she wasn't who she was pretending to be. Oh, it was written all over her sweet, pretty face, and Armin recognized her gaze to be distrustful and wary. And she, the most innocent of them all, seemed almost willing to let Armin pull the trigger.

Jean wouldn't stop Armin. He couldn't. And Erwin was unreadable, like always, with a steady gaze, straight shoulders, and a hard expression. Erwin could weather anything. And Armin was so scared of himself in that moment, he thought he might begin to sob. He didn't want to kill this man. But what was good and what was necessary… they weren't the same. And for the mission to succeed, Verman could not tell a soul about what he'd witnessed. It wasn't possible.

Armin knew a thing or two about superheroes. Killing was a big no, especially when there was a way around it. But Armin also knew that letting this man live was more trouble than it was worth. If the man knew Armin and Christa, then that was a problem. There was no way to keep him quiet, except to silence him. And here Kitts Verman was, pointing a gun at Jean's head. Was there really a way around this? Or was Armin just kidding himself?

He understood now why Erwin was so angry. Armin had made a mistake in not telling anyone about his fever. He had underestimated how truly overwhelming this kind of illness could affect him. He'd never felt like this before, so powerless, and yet too powerful even by his standards. And Armin, unstable and close to tears, was holding a gun.

"Do you really want to kill a teenager?" Armin whispered, his voice melting with his mind, and he shoved the words into Verman's head. Armin watched his heads shake against the handgun. "You'll be charged. You can't get away with it, and you know it. His fingerprints won't be on that gun, but yours will. You'll have taken away a child's promising future, Mr. Verman. Can you live with that?"

Verman's sweaty face grew even paler in the dim light of the hallway. Armin felt his own words imbed themselves deeply into the man's subconscious, and they dragged fissures across his skin, breaking his expression in half, and tears leaked from the exposed brain.

"I told you to stop talking," Verman breathed. "I told you. I told you…"

"And I told you," Armin said steadily, "to drop the gun."

"You're a monster," choked the man, his eyes darting between Armin and Christa. "Both of you! He warned me, he said you'd become rotten, he said it, but I couldn't believe it— but now I see what he meant. I know you, I know you now, you're that— vigilante! A menace to society! You talk and talk, and force people to do your bidding!" Verman's hands were shaking even worse than Armin's. "And you!" His eyes were stuck on Christa's face. "Father told me you were dangerous, but I couldn't believe it. Not you, how could you be? You were such a sweet little girl, but you've gone bad. You've both been tainted. You're evil!"

"Evil," Armin repeated. "Evil, Mr. Verman, is not simply holding a gun to a man, and saying a few words. Evil is corruption. If I'm evil, then it cannot be by my own accord. If I am evil, sir, it is because someone made me this way. If I am evil, then it is like you said— I've been tainted, and by someone far above you, and above me, and above this entire network of lies you feed the public, because you can't have them knowing that their leader orchestrated human experimentation. If I'm evil, then so is this entire organization, and everyone in it. If I'm evil, Mr. Verman, then so are you. Because you've forced my hand." Armin steadied his grip, and he felt his mind clear a little. He could not kill Verman. There was clarity in the man's accusation. Because Armin was certain he wasn't good nor evil. He was just a person. He was just a person who wanted closure. He wasn't a hero, and he wasn't a villain. He wasn't even Cicero. He was just Armin, a boy who was beginning to regain a sense of himself, one little bit at a time.

"So," he said in an even tone. He felt almost serene as he spoke, and he saw Erwin's face. There was approval in his eyes, and Armin's heart swelled with warmth, melting the ice that had clung to it. His fever had broken, and his mind had reassembled. Armin was going to be okay. "I'll tell you once more. Drop the gun. There's no need for either of us to be the evil one. We can end this by dropping our weapons, and talking like civilized human beings. I'll gladly tell you all about the corruption in your company if you can tell me who is responsible for it." Armin's gloves were going wild with the swirling, jittery script of Armin's own hand. He could read it now. Qua re secedant improbi, secernant se a bonis, unum in locum congregentur, muro denique, quid saepe iam dixi, secernantur a nobis. Armin saw the words glistening, and he was relieved to see them. Nothing made him feel more like himself than when he read Cicero. Wherefore, let the wicked depart, let them separate themselves from decent men, let them finally be separated from us by a wall as I have often said. "Drop the gun, Mr. Verman."

Verman stared. His face was shadowed, and his fear was palpable. Armin could hear his thoughts, but they were all strangled. He was not in his right mind. And Armin realized what Verman was about to do, because he tasted it. That fear consuming him. There was no reason left inside his skull, only terror.

"Don't you dare," Armin breathed. Verman's lower lip trembled. And his arm shot out, twisting away from Jean. Two shots rang through the air, and Armin was surprised, because his gun had recoiled and kicked his chin, leaving a sharp, stinging sensation as Armin dropped it. It clattered to the floor as Christa went flying, her cloak torn from her shoulders and left to flutter away in a heap of purple velvet as she caught Erwin's crumpled body. Armin's mouth had dropped open. No. No, this wasn't right. No.

Armin had never met anyone so blinded from sense. He could not believe that this had happened, that he had let it happen. And the man hadn't even been hit by Armin's bullet. There was a chunk torn out of the ceiling where Armin had shot a hole through the panel. It was unsurprising. Armin had never shot a gun before. Of course he wasn't a good shot. And of course he'd held it wrong, and now he was pretty positive he was bleeding from the chin, or bruised at the very least. And oh yeah, Erwin had been shot.

Erwin had been shot.

And Verman was turning the gun back to Jean. But this time, Jean was ready. He jumped to his feet, and twisted out of the man's way, grabbing his arm and forcing it back to the point where Armin was certain he'd heard something pop, and Verman screamed, but Jean had already wrenched the gun from his fingers and forced him to his knees. Armin exhaled sharply. His head was aching terribly, and Erwin was bleeding out, and Jean was safe and furious, and Armin was not in any mood to bargain again. This man had missed his chance. And though Armin wasn't evil, he knew that he was not good by any means.

Armin kicked the gun he had dropped out of Verman's reach, and he dropped to his knees before him. His heart was pounding very hard. Where was Erwin shot, he wondered, why isn't he making any noise, shouldn't people make noise when they're shot? Even Eren made noise, like someone drowning. In blood. That would make sense. But there's nothing from Erwin, nothing at all.

Armin stared into Verman's terrified eyes. And he raised his right hand to his lips, tugging his glove off with his teeth. "Ricochet," Armin said softly, clutching Cicero's dramatic conclusion to his oration against Catiline in one hand. "Hold him steady for me."

Jean looked at him. And he did just that.

"W-what are you doing?" Verman gasped, twitching away from Armin's bare hand. He paused. He was angry. Oh, he was so angry… and so exhausted… and he wondered what this would do to Verman. What it would do to Armin himself. Would it be worth the pain to torture this man with invading his mind? And it didn't solve the problem they were facing, that this cowardly man knew far too much.

Armin tore his other glove off, and grabbed Kitts Verman's face with both hands. The sensation caused fire to bloom across Armin's mind, raging ferociously, and he saw a little boy standing in a library, smiling wanly. He saw a little girl with a gap-toothed smile peeking through an open door, and retreating shyly. He saw the president shake hands with him, nodding gratefully. "Yes," Reiss said. "That was my daughter. Isn't she charming? I wouldn't trade her for the world." And Armin just nodded, nodded, though he was confused, because wasn't that girl adopted? It didn't look it. And what of that boy in the library? "Oh, don't mind him," Reiss said. "He's such a quiet boy, you won't even know he's here."

His fingernails, a little too long and unkempt, dug into the wrinkled flesh of Verman's cheeks. A shockwave of terror filled Armin. He relished in it.

"Forget," Armin told the man, absorbing all his fear and disgust, and letting that shake his unstable mind inside his fragmented skull. His headache was a thing of the past, a silly pain in comparison to this fire-forged agony. Verman was a thousand thorns from a thousand roses pressing into Armin's brain. Roses, Armin thought. Verman moaned.

"Stop," said Verman. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

"Forget." Armin tasted crushed roses in his mouth. This was not a memory of Verman's. This was his own memory. He was looking at Verman, and smiling wanly. He'd been playing with the dead roses in the vase by the library window. He remembered, the brown petals had crumbled in his chubby fingers. "Historia?" the man had asked, surprised. And Armin's smile had fallen. Because no one talked about Historia anymore. "No, sir," Armin had said. "She went away."

Armin could feel Verman's memories as they slipped between his fingers. And he tore them to ribbons, tore them to bits, using nothing but his nails and his teeth and his cruel, vicious mind. Kitts Verman had no time to scream, but he did convulse beneath Armin's fingers, and Armin's lungs were expanding, pressing up onto his ribs, and they would explode and force everyone around him to eat the shrapnel of his shattered bones. He breathed in fear and exhaled rage. Roses burnt his tongue.

Any semblance of tranquility that Armin had retained in these minutes of terror and fury, it melted away as Armin's fingers drew a bead of blood out of Verman's sunken cheeks. His eyes had rolled upward, and the ribbons of his mind were snapping one by one.

"Forget!" Armin snarled, tears spilling onto his cheeks.

And all the ribbons were cut in one swipe, and they fell around him sadly, drifting like crinkled rose petals. Kitts Verman crumpled as Armin released him, his body a useless, empty shell. Armin felt empty too. His breathing was heavy. His head was splitting apart.

He swayed a little, tears running freely against his warm cheeks, and they were a welcome chill. He was so sick on fear, he couldn't even feel his grief. Or his guilt. He didn't even care that he had just done something morally despicable. He didn't care at all. He was heaving, his entire body shaking, and he glanced up at Jean as he bent down beside him.

He offered out an inhaler, and Armin snatched it, taking three puffs and relishing in his ability to gasp. His entire body felt ready to give way, as if his tendons would snap, and his limbs would all crash into one awkward pile. He was on the brink of collapsing.

"What did you do?" Jean asked, nudging Verman with his toe. No one else was on this floor now. Armin would be able to feel anyone else's presence, even in the shape he was in.

Armin inhaled deeply, and exhaled. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the mouth, and out through the nose. In through the nose, and out through the nose. In through the mouth, and out through the mouth. He pushed his hair from his sweaty forehead, but it just curled right back into place.

"I made him forget…" Armin sighed, fumbling with his gloves. He still tasted roses. Why the fuck did he taste roses? Kitts Verman didn't taste like roses. He tasted like fear and vodka. Not roses.

"What did you make him forget?"

Armin looked at Erwin sharply. The man was sitting upright, Christa supporting his back, and there was a large, damp black stain in the side of his uniform. Armin looked to Christa, and she smiled gently. She held up a bullet between two fingers, and he nearly laughed. Because he'd forgotten. She was a healer.

He nearly tripped over himself trying to get to Erwin. He flung his arms around the man's shoulders, and he buried his face in his chest. And Armin felt his entire resolve break, and he was sobbing, his fingers catching on Erwin's cloak, and he tasted the blood that had seeped through the wound Verman had dealt, but it didn't even matter. None of it mattered. Why had Armin let something so silly get to him? He was sick all the time, this was nothing new. Armin was sickly, he'd accepted that. He couldn't let something so foolish blind him again.

Erwin seemed surprised. "There, there," he murmured, smoothing Armin's hair back, just as Christa had done. He pulled Armin's face gently from his chest, and he felt so like a child that it hurt to even look Erwin in the face. He hiccupped as the man wiped at his tears with his black cloak, his gloved fingers grasping his chin. "I hope you're not wasting your tears on me."

Armin wanted to laugh, but it came out like a garbled, pained sob, and he shook his head furiously. "I m-m-m-messed up…" Armin choked, squeezing his eyes shut. "I messed up s-so ba-ad…"

"I disagree," Erwin said. "I think you made the most of a very tough situation."

"But you could've died," Armin gasped, his eyes squeezing shut. "Because of m-my mistake, because I didn't tell you I was sick— if I had known, if I had even thought for just a second—"

"It might have made a difference," Erwin whispered. "But for now, tell me. Are you alright?"

Armin groaned. He groaned, and he chuckled, and he buried his face in Erwin's chest again. "Define alright," he mumbled into the bloody fabric. When he pulled his face away, he was certain it'd be bright red and wet with tears and blood, but he didn't care.

"Is this guy gonna be okay?" Jean asked. Armin sniffled, and he pulled back from Erwin. He hiccupped again, and Erwin rubbed his back slowly.

"What did you make him forget?" Erwin repeated softly.

Armin smiled tremulously. His heart was still beating very hard, and his head was pounding viciously, but he felt a lot better than he had before. He was glad for Erwin's presence. His untouchable presence that was such an immense comfort. Armin couldn't imagine life without it, and it made him realize how truly dependent he was on Erwin as a person. Because no matter what Erwin thought of him, Armin was stuck in utter adoration of this man who had taken him in, fed him and clothed him and given him a home, and he wondered if Erwin knew, or if he just pretended he didn't.

"Oh," Armin said weakly. He glanced at the vacant, drooling face of Kitts Verman, and he sighed. "Everything."

Erwin glanced at him. "Ah," he said. "How unfortunate for him."

"Wait," Jean said. "What?"

"How awful," Christa murmured.

"A necessary sacrifice," Erwin told them. "Can you stand, Armin?"

"Yes," Armin said. He struggled to his feet shakily. "Can you?"

Erwin smiled tightly, and he pushed himself very slowly up. He towered over them all, and he raised his head high. "I believe we're missing two of our members. Ricochet, will you go fetch the phone? Petra should be done hacking by now. And ask her to erase what security footage she can from this building in the last, say thirty minutes."

"Okay," Jean said. He eyed Verman's body as he scooped up his guns and holstered them, walking away toward the room with the computers.

Armin began to sway on his feet, and Erwin grasped his shoulders. "I can carry you," Erwin said. "What you did… it couldn't have been good for you."

"I'm feeling a lot better than I did before, actually," Armin admitted. "I think I might even be able to make us all invisible now."

"I really wouldn't recommend—" Christa started, biting her lip.

"I can do it," Armin said firmly. She looked at him, and he thought she might yell at him. But Christa was too reserved for something like that. So instead she watched him with her narrowing eyes and tight lips, and Armin recalled something. "Who's Historia?"

"Huh?" Christa looked taken aback.

"Historia," Armin repeated, leaning against Erwin for support. He was relieved when his guardian wrapped his arm around Armin's shoulders and pulled him closer. "I don't know. Verman just kept thinking about that name. His mind was so… so messed up, I couldn't even tell what was happening in it. But he knew Reiss, and he knew us. Somehow. But he knew more or less nothing about the institute."

"I don't know…" Christa looked uncomfortable, and she turned away from them. She plucked her cloak from off the floor. "You made his aura all funny, you know…"

"If he ever recovers," Armin said, "I'll apologize."

"Yo," Jean whistled, jogging up to them and waving Armin's phone. "Got it. Let's go find those two assholes. They're so gonna regret ditching."

"Yes," Armin agreed dryly, "because that was so fun."

"Well," Jean said with a frown, "no, but it was definitely a sight. By the way, Vitae, your power is the shit."

Christa flushed bright red, her pale cheeks growing rosy and splotchy, and she shook her head. "O-oh," she mumbled, "no, not really…"

"Augur was glowing," Jean said. "Like, I saw it. There was a gold ring all around him, and you just fuckin' pulled at it, and it got so bright— like, I didn't really get what you were telling me before, that your power wasn't just healing, but I see now. You really do see auras and stuff."

Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was parted, and she was nodding in awe. "Yes," she said. "Yes, that's right."

"Well, it's really cool," Jean told her. And Christa smiled. Armin watched her, the way her lips quirked, and her eyes crinkled, and she looked a little stunned, but pleased. He'd never realized it before, but Christa rarely smiled. Or, at least, she rarely smiled genuinely. And it was jarring to see, because it made him wonder what on earth she could be hiding.

"Thanks…" Christa said. She looked at Armin, and he kept staring at her, undeterred by the attention he'd drawn.

"Let's go," he said, clutching Erwin's arm. His skin prickled as he dragged their presence, and made them all disappear with a pull and a flick of his focus. His joints ached, but he figured he'd be okay, so he dealt with it, and focused harder as he led them out of the hall. He was thinking about Kitts Verman. And Reiss. He knew he should feel guiltier about what had happened. He'd erased a man's mind. He'd done that, and Armin felt very little remorse. Perhaps he'd wake up tomorrow with a crippling sense of regret, but for now, Armin just couldn't care. That man had set Armin off the edge, which wasn't remotely surprising. He'd already been tipping, and his mind was far from stable at that point. Armin hadn't done it to be cruel— if he'd meant to be cruel, he would have left the man with Armin's touch to haunt him for the rest of his miserable life. Yes, that would have been cruel. Instead, Armin had stripped him of his memories and his senses. It was almost a kindness. He couldn't feel pain anymore, or sadness, or fear.

If Armin kept telling himself it was a kindness to destroy that man's mind, perhaps he would convince himself, and perhaps he really would become that evil person he'd assured himself he was not.

Armin followed Annie's taste. She was too familiar, and Marco was barely a blip in Armin's radar. Between the two of them, Armin could easily track Annie if she was within a mile of him. Her taste was like a jolt of pressure in his head, and it hurt, but it was a familiar ache, and it was almost welcome now. He remembered that she had promised to tell him something important, and he almost called out to her mentally, he was so eager to hear it. Her springtime taste, the dandelions and frosted grass, it tickled his nostrils and his taste buds, and it turned sour as they made it outside.

He became worried at that. Annie's presence was getting closer, and her taste was growing… icier. Armin thought that was a silly thing to think, that a girl with ice powers had thoughts that were slightly icier than usual, but yes, that was right, her thoughts were cold and growing colder by the second. As if she'd frozen herself in shock.

Armin had to push himself forward, because he was growing fearful for her. She was hiding inside her mind, behind that stupid wall, and he couldn't reach her. He couldn't call out to her. He was stuck knowing she was scared, and shocked, and stumbling, and he didn't know why. His focus shifted, and they all flickered back into visibility.

"Cicero?" Erwin sounded very distant. Armin could not listen to him. He was gaining speed, not thinking of his aching head or aching joints or the crushed roses scratching his tongue. No, he was thinking of Annie. Because Annie was terrified.

And that was strange, wasn't it? That Armin could feel her terror, despite not knowing what she was thinking. It was empathy, not telepathy. Empathy, Armin realized with a sinking realization. Oh god, I'm an empath.

He sped past an alleyway, and he inhaled sharply. Annie was very close. She was shaking, watching him, and he could tell why she didn't just come out and face him. But then a shout from behind him caused him to turn. Christa was standing outside the alley he'd passed. She was staring into it, her lips parted, and her brow furrowed, and Armin forgot all about Annie for a second as he returned to the girl's side.

"Vitae?" he whispered. The nipping October air grazed his ears, and licked at his exposed cheeks, and he pulled up his hood to make it stop. Christa's eyes flickered up to his face. She looked horrified, and confused, and she looked back into the alley. Armin could hear someone's strangled shouts— and that voice was familiar. "What's wrong?"

Christa swallowed very hard, and she pointed into the alley. "I can't…" she whispered. "I can't… do anything, I can't… there's nothing there, Armin, if there was…"

Armin looked into the alley, which was darkened by the gray October night, and it stunk like piss and beer and something rotting. Philadelphia screamed around them, never quite asleep, and cars sped past, and there was somebody speaking, saying something shakily, and Armin realized with a wave of panic that was not his own, that it was Jean. So he moved closer. And the panic grew into a crippling despair.

"What happened…?" Jean was gasping— not sobbing, not yet, oh no, because he was still in shock. That shock was frozen over their connection, and Armin shuddered. He felt Annie close by. "What the hell…? How could this…? Why…? Did anyone see…?"

Marco, Jean was thinking. Marco… oh, God, Marco, what…?

Armin stood beside Erwin, and stared at the corpse slumped against the wall.

Half of Marco's face was gone. Shattered. Ice was crawling across the bridge of his nose, and criss-crossing through the dark, freckled skin of his forehead, and his lips were frosted, and his single eye was glassy and crystallized. His face was almost serene, his icy lips upturned ever so slightly in half an unsuspecting smile. His corpse was so fresh that there was still color in his face, warmth in his frosted cheek, and it was a strange and sickening sight. His blood and brain and bones were all frozen solid. His arms were folded across his chest. A chunk of his shoulder was gone, and black crystals of blood and bone and petrified flesh littered the damp alley floor.

Armin turned away, and walked back to the entrance of the alley. He took a deep breath of the stale autumn air, but it smelled like frosted grass and frosted blood, and he leaned against the wall of a building, and inhaled through his mouth and exhaled through his nose, and inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, and inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his nose, and inhaled through his mouth and exhaled through his mouth, and he felt a little better after that, though his stomach was still churning, and he felt a frozen thread being struck within his poor, beaten mind.

Across the street, a girl with blonde hair and gleaming eyes watched him. She was retreating into the darkness of another alley, but he knew he'd caught her, and she knew he knew.

He didn't call out. He didn't tell them that he'd found Marco's killer. He just watched her tiredly, and she watched him with the same weary expression.

Do you regret trusting me now? said the little murderess.

Armin was in a strange place of pained serenity. His apathy was melting into his empathy, and he was struck by the overwhelming emotions of everyone around him. Of Jean's grief and shock, and Annie's shock and terror.

In this state of mind, there was very, very little that Armin regretted. He was drunk on someone else's fear.

No.

---

Congratulations. You made it to the end of the monster chapter. It gave me so much grief, I cried.

Not because I killed Marco, though. That was actually a huge relief. When I told her about this chapter, Angie was like, "Yeah, I'm surprised you've kept him alive this long." Granted, she knew this was coming. And I'm sure lots of people saw it coming.

A lot of things happen in this chapter. Armin figures out some things. Armin goes a little crazy. Armin bonds with a lot of people. By all means, this should be my favorite chapter of the entire story, it's got everything I love, right down to asexual Armin! I do like this chapter a lot, but considering how much of a pain it was to write, I have a bit of a negative outlook on it.

ok i'm out tho, i hope you enjoyed it, and maybe you felt sad, idk, i don't know how emotions are to an outsider