libertas perfundet omnia luce

Ashland, Virginia

a.d. Non. Nov., 2766 A.U.C.

It was always so strange. The unbridled hatred that rolled from the very shells of those around him, the withering thoughts of flight and fight and ignite, to blow away the horror and the pain somehow, as though he had not already tried that, over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. In truth, he was sick of trying. In truth, he was sick. Plainly. Sick, and dull, and wanting more than anyone could ever give.

Ymir had been the first.

It had been a good few centuries, he believed, and he'd been a bit on the sicker side in those days. Depression had whittled him away. He'd killed a lot of people in various wars, and it was stuck with him. He recalled the revolution. That had been something else entirely. He'd never understood guerilla warfare, but it had felt very dirty at the time, to not face his enemies, to hide in trees and strike them down one by one as they marched in their stoic, stuffy straight lines, unable to fight against a rain of bullets.

Marco had felt every struggling thought pass through him as the bullets hit home. Every single one.

It had been so hard, at first, to deal with the guilt. Marco knew he'd never been the nicest person. When he'd been young, he'd been isolated by his father from other children, forced to live like an outcast without realizing what he truly was. So he'd become a little detached from what was right and what was wrong. He saw only the cruelty of those around him, and he reacted appropriately. Was that so wrong? It had taken him years to realize he was hardly justified in anything he did.

Ilse had been the only one who had understood how terrible it was to live with something so uncontrollable, so volatile and strange, but she was long dead, and Marco had to eat the thoughts of the dying and the suffering, breaking his fast on tears and screams. The fault was his. It was always his. He shouldered that responsibility.

See, the wonder of being around to help form a country was that you were suddenly outliving its founders, and counseling their successors, and suddenly you were the best kept secret and the world's greatest leader. It was a lot to take in. Marco wasn't really a leader, in truth, he just couldn't die, so that's why military officials would send him into the brunt of battles with a suicide squad. Because he'd win. No matter what. Because they couldn't kill him. There were a lot of legends about him nowadays.

Anyways, yeah, he'd killed some really good people, and he'd ruined a lot of lives, but at least he was kinda cute, right? Right? Eh?

Just kidding, Marco wasn't really all that fond of himself.

So, then there was Ymir. Ilse. Ymir. Ilse. See, loneliness made people do some not so nice things. Marco had been so lonely… and the research had already been there… what was a guy to do, anyway?

Digging up Ilse Langner's bones had been hard. But he'd done it. He'd done it gladly, too enrapt in his own whims to stop him from defiling the makeshift grave he'd given his real sister two centuries before.

"Is this for me?" he recalled asking her once when she'd stuck a painting in his face. She'd been eight or nine, a horrible child, really, but such a delight in every way. Marco had been utterly smitten, because it was so nice to have someone for once. Just to talk to. To love. To understand. It was such a struggle, but Ilse… Ymir… had made it easier.

"Of course," Ilse had huffed. That had been after Marco had chased her "mother" away. She went by Ilse, but her name was still Ymir to her. "Who else would it be for? It's not like I've got anyone to talk to. Thank you very much."

"Oh," Marco had sighed. "Ilse…"

"I didn't hafta paint you nothin'!" Ilse exclaimed, prodding his cheek. "So you better appreciate it, Mr. Marco!"

"Ha ha!" He dropped the painting beside him and scooped her into his arms, listening to her shriek in alarm as he nuzzled her cheek. "I adore it, love, I simply adore it!"

She scoffed, and she smacked him over the head, far bolder and quicker and more fiery than his Ilse had ever been. She wriggled from his grasp, her bobbed hair curling across her cheeks, and Marco saw himself in her face, in her dark eyes and sandy freckles, in her coy smile and hunched shoulders. She stuck her finger out, pointing plainly at his nose, and she laughed at him.

"You better!" she cried, whirling away, her skirts swirling around her calves as she flung her head back and cackled. "You should adore everythin' about me!"

"You know I do," Marco cooed. "Darling girl."

She glanced at him, looking at him for once with a dark sort of resignation.

"Oh?" she said coolly. "Oh? Truly? Even my name?"

Marco had been shocked into silence. She stared at him levelly, her dark eyes and dark skin and dark hair causing her to blend with the darkened room. She'd been wearing a black dress as well. White pearls hung from her neck like beads of starlight in the inky darkness of her very being.

"Ilse," he said calmly, "what are you talking about?"

And then she snapped. She'd flinched and blinked and stomped her foot, just like the child she was.

"No!" she howled. "No, no, no! That isn't my name, and you know it, you know it!"

"I…" Marco had been at a loss. Her name? Not Ilse? Well, what could it be, then? Yes, he'd been an ignorant fool, but his selfishness had gotten the better of him. He'd just wanted his sister back, and in a way he'd gotten his wish, but Ymir had been so much more than just a replacement for the dead girl hanging perpetually beside him decade after decade after decade, the creaky rope still haunting his dreams and his awakenings. "I'm not sure what that means, I—"

"Idiot!" Ilse had shrieked, snatching the painting from Marco's fingers and tearing it in half. Marco watched, deeply saddened as the two halves fluttered to the floor. "Look at me. I am not your dead sister. I am me. I am the only me. And I deserve my own name. My own life. Why can't I be me, and still love you? Why can't you love me as me, and not some girl who died way back when, 'fore there was even a country, just a bunch load of colonies, and— and I… chingado, pero yo soy yo!"

He felt as though she'd blown him apart with a hand grenade. He felt as though he'd been thrown into a trench, forced to inhale the reeking, creeping, bleeding gases that attacked his nervous system immediately, pulling him apart bit by bit, and he stared at her with wide eyes, feeling those words like noxious chemicals eating away at the fibers of his skin and muscles and veins and bones.

"Oh," he'd said simply.

She'd stared at him. Her mind was an open book to him. How had he not seen this earlier?

He'd been ignoring it. That's how.

"I adore you," she whispered, tears glistening in her large brown eyes. "But you're a terrible person."

And with that, she left him, her dark dress trailing in her wake and her starlit pearls clinking like explosives bursting upon the earth with every clipped step of her polished heels against the tile floor. Marco would never forget the emptiness there, the stark reminder that he was alone in this world no matter the price he paid, no matter the crimes he committed against nature to make a girl like her exist in the here and the now.

She never appreciated what lengths he went through to keep her.

The process of making a perfect human being was difficult. Eugenics was a really complex subject of interest, but simply put it had taken many, many, many tries to get it right. Ymir had been a miracle birth. And, truthfully, a lucky shot in the dark. Recreating the circumstances surrounding her existence had taken decades. Levi had been a marginally more successful subject, but unfortunately for Marco the child had been left in his mother's care after birth.

"Hello, Kenny," Marco had said. It was difficult to recall now what decade this had been. Had disco still been around? Ah, shit, he couldn't remember, those crazes were too much of a blur to him. "So you knocked a girl up, huh?"

"Excuse me?"

See, Marco wasn't so worried about Kenny Ackerman's wrath, because Marco had been killed by Kenny Ackerman like, five times by that point already, so it was a friendly relationship.

"Sorry, I know you hate it when I read your mind," Marco had said sheepishly. "But I couldn't help it, your thoughts are just screaming—"

A shattering sort of pain, blankness, bliss, bloating blackness, blotting blinking blossoming light, and suddenly Marco was wiping the blood from his eyes as his brain reassembled itself from the shotgun blast. Everyone in the bar was screaming, and Kenny was sitting beside Marco looking bored as he sipped at his whiskey, his gun settled before him, laid out like it was a harmless article of clothing.

Six times. Six fucking times.

"Well that was rude," Marco informed the man, flicking blood into his glass and grimacing. Kenny had looked a little disgusted as he slid his glass away, glowering at Marco with his sunken eyes and his long face. What an asshole. "Look, you know me, Ken. You know how powerful I am."

"Only vaguely," Kenny had huffed. "Like, I know you're a fuckin' monster, for sure."

"Fair enough," Marco had sighed. "But here's the thing. I need a baby."

"Excuse me?"

"Not like, my baby," he continued, wiping his blood on his shirt. "That's kinda gross, heh. I mean, like, I need a baby to test some stuff on."

Marco remembered the silence that trailed after that. The bar had been emptied. Even the bartender had run off, fleeing at the sight of Marco's reanimated corpse.

"You want my bastard kid," Kenny clarified, turning fully to face him. "You're fuckin' joking. Why would you want whore spawn, anyway?"

"Oh, don't call it that," Marco groaned. "That's terrible. I just… I need a child for this to work. I know she's not very far along, but if I'm going to do this, I need to do it quickly. I'll compensate you both, of course, for your trouble."

"I'm in," Kenny said. He downed his drink, blood and all. "But you're responsible for the brat."

"Of course," Marco said coolly, watched Kenny shrug on his leather jacket and brush behind him. The bar was emptied. There were sirens in the distance.

Needless to say, someone backed out of the deal, and Levi got an even shittier childhood than he would've had with Marco. Which, Marco was still pretty pissed about.

"Hey," Marco had said about nine years later to the very same fucking man. "Fuck-o. Your son's a prostitute."

Kenny Ackerman had blown smoke into Levi's face. "Yo," said the man, older now but still a sleazy bounty hunter. "Cool it, kid. He was your responsibility."

"You said you changed your mind!" Marco had been furious because he'd been genuinely horrified to find a child in this kind of position. Especially when he could have helped in some way. "I wasn't going to steal your child if you wanted him! But you just left him to rot, and now he's scarred for life!"

"Well boo fuckin' hoo," Kenny sneered. "You want him? Take him."

Marco hadn't wanted to bring up the fact that Levi was disappointingly average. "That's not the point," Marco said. "I'll take him. Fine. Gladly. But the point is you left a child in the care of someone who did not give a fuck about his wellbeing. Why would you do that?"

"Well," Kenny said, waving his cigarette, "maybe it's because I don't give a fuck about his wellbeing?"

"You'll regret that," Marco warned, smiling at the man knowingly. Thoughts flew like fists in through the man's calculated mind, and before he could move for his gun, Marco erased himself from the man's perception and watched him curse and sneer and fling his cigarette into the dirt. What a despicable human being.

Marco was gifted, at the very least, with his ability to connect with children. When he wasn't giving them terrible hallucinations, of course. Luckily he hadn't the need for that since Salem, and he honestly found it to be an awful practice. He'd wised up some in his centuries alone. What he'd done to those little girls, that had been a folly and he understood it well. No matter how much they had deserved it.

"Hi," Marco said one day to the boy who'd been sitting rather vacantly on a stoop in Manhattan. It hadn't been hard to locate him. He'd found him before he'd even approached Kenny. The boy looked up with hollow eyes, so deep and blue and furious that Marco had been very alarmed. It had been a mistake, leaving this boy unattended. His thoughts were swarms of bees snarling around Marco's brain and puncturing his thoughts a thousand thousand times, causing his mind to grow swollen and foggy.

"The hell d'you want?" Levi asked, his pallid face stark in the midday sun. He should be in school, but of course, he didn't go to school.

"My name's Lang," he said carefully, keeping his distance. He had the appearance of a boy of about twelve. He'd washed away his freckles with a thought, burned his eyes black, and shaved his head with a swoop of his fingers. "I just wanted to see if you were okay."

"Fuck off."

Marco had been astonished. This boy was nine, wasn't he? Nine year olds shouldn't talk like that. But then, nine years olds didn't often go through the things Levi did. It was a shame. He had a nice mind beneath the furious buzzing and the crippling distrust and disgust.

"Wow," Marco had said, leaning back. "Aren't you friendly. Look, do you know where I could get a smoke around here?"

That had done it. Levi had glanced at him, a tiny bit hopeful, and he pointed to the stoop next door. "Good luck," the boy said. "That guy's a real hardass."

The inevitability of Marco convincing the man next door to give him a pack of cigarettes came too quickly. All Marco did was ask. Rather… persuasively. And the pack was his. Marco glanced at it, and then he tossed it into the little boy's lap.

"You can keep those," Marco said, staring down at Levi with a stern sort of gaze. "But only if you do me a solid and start going to school."

Look, it hadn't been the greatest plan, but at the time everyone smoked, and anyway, it had worked. Levi had scoffed at him, taken the cigarettes, and marched inside his apartment building.

But within a week he was attending the local middle school.

And within a month, he'd accidentally broken a boy's legs at recess.

By tripping and stepping on them.

Well. That was something.

Marco had told Levi's teacher to go take a nap in the bathroom while he pretended to be her. He found the boy hunched over on the steps in the front of the school, his knees pulled up to his chest, and his tiny shoulders trembling. The boy was abnormally tiny, and his thoughts were like firecrackers going off in a grand succession, never halting, never faltering, and it was legitimately off-putting.

He had been terrified.

"Hello, Levi," Marco said, his voice carefully mimicking that of the woman he was impersonating. "I heard what happened."

He sniffled rather pitifully, wiping his snot on his sleeve, and his small shoulders rose and fell in the most meager of shrugs. Marco sat down beside him, and the boy scooted away rather quickly, as though being within a foot of Marco put him at risk of being burned alive. Marco understood. He cared.

"It's not your fault," Marco told him gently. "It was an accident."

"I broke his legs," Levi whispered. "I did that."

"You didn't mean it," Marco offered.

He was crying, Marco saw, his pale lips trembling and streams of pale tears streaking his tiny face. He turned away from Marco, his body tense and his breaths uneven as he spat, "Leave me alone."

"I understand," Marco said gently. Levi had just shook his head, shook his head, his thoughts reeling. I'm a monster, the child had thought, I'm a freak. I'm nothing, I'm disgusting, I'm stupid, I'm wrong, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—

I'm strong, Marco whispered into Levi's mind. The boy jumped, a sharp breath flying through his lips. Perhaps he'd never heard that before. That he was strong. That he could be anything other than the terrible things he'd been told he was since birth.

Marco had made a mistake in this boy. He should have given him the attention he'd given Ymir since the day he was born.

"Sometimes," Marco had told Levi, smoothing out what the boy perceived was a long skirt, "people make mistakes. And sometimes, people don't understand it when another person is different. You're different, Levi. You're special."

"I'm not," he croaked, unable to look his teacher in the eye. "I'm… I'm just…"

I'm special, Marco fed into his mind. I'm strong.

No, Levi had thought back, stunned and confused and terrified beyond belief. I'm disgusting. I'm wrong.

"You are so important, Levi," Marco said, placing a hand on the boy's head. "Don't let anyone let you believe you're not. What happened today was nothing but an accident. It doesn't define you. Take it as a lesson. You're very powerful, and you might make this mistake again, but it's not your fault. You just need to learn to control and accept it."

"I…?" Levi stared up at him, his shock so evident that it made his face stark and childish. He looked younger than he truly was.

But I'm nothing, Levi had thought. I'm nothing, I'm nothing, I'm nothing.

I'm important, Marco forced him to hear inside his darkened mind. I'm special. I'm strong. And I'm better than this. I'm better than the things they tell me I am. I am powerful. I am right. And I am not going to let anyone tell me I am anything less than what I am, not today, not tomorrow. Not ever again.

He looked a little dizzy as he hiccuped, and leaned into Marco's touch, his eyes dazed and his mind a blur of negative and positive thoughts.

"I'm…" Levi struggled to his feet, swaying a bit as he wiped away his tears. "I'm okay, I think…"

I'm okay, he thought. And this time, Marco didn't need to push him. He genuinely had that thought.

At the very least Marco could save him from the confusion he'd gone through at this age.

Levi accepted who he was in a stride. Unfortunately, his father was a fucking douchebag.

For real.

See, Marco was not strictly comfortable with stealing children from their parents. He'd do it, of course, if it was necessary, but when the kid was nine years old and distrustful by nature, it was a bit too difficult. Levi would never actually trust him, because what Levi wanted was independence. Not a new family. So when Kenny Ackerman got to the kid, Marco found that he was a little powerless to stop him.

Also, he was a bit curious.

What could Kenny teach the boy that Marco couldn't?

Marco saw the result first hand.

Brutality. Sadism. Ruthlessness. Fearlessness. Precision.

Kenny Ackerman had taken Marco's experiment, and turned him into a human weapon.

That had never been what Marco had wanted.

Marco more or less left Levi alone after that, though. He had to give the boy a few more pushes here and there, particularly in his late teen years when he'd succumbed to a lot of demons. His depression worsened considerably. Marco kept a keen watch on him, sometimes going so far as to sit with him during his worst lows and consistently feed him good thoughts so he didn't bite a bullet.

This happened to be around the time Mikasa Ackerman was conceived.

"You want me to experiment on your brother's baby," Marco clarified when Kenny Ackerman came to him in a slump. His son hated him. His life was a mess. At least he was good at killing people. "Bro. Bro…"

"Look, my brother is a cunt," Kenny said. Marco stared at him blankly, resisting the urge to chastise him. Why did he deal with this man, again? "But he's my cunt. So like, you're gonna make that kid strong. Like mine is. Got it?"

"Firstly," Marco said, smiling dimly, "I cannot believe you just referred to your younger brother as your vagina, that is by far the best thing to ever come out of your mouth— ah ah!" Marco pressed his palm to the barrel of the gun that Kenny stuck in his face, and he tore the thing from the man's grasp. "I'm talking, asshole. Jesus, it has been like twenty years since we started dealing together, you think you could stop killing me?"

Marco received a goddamn fucking machete to the brain as a reply.

"Ow." He scrubbed the blood from his face, and he scowled at Kenny as Go cleaned his machete off with a rag that had been the bartender's a few minutes ago, but hey, it was fucking Kenny, so who the fuck knew. The bar was empty again. How did this man never get caught? "Seriously, stop doing that! It still hurts!"

"That's why I do it," Kenny had said. "Anyway, look, the slut he married—"

"The very nice lady, I imagine," Marco corrected gently.

"The fucking girl he ended up getting fucking preggo has her doctorate in biology, or somethin' like that," Kenny said. "You could probably convince her to do anything for the science shit, yeah?"

"I don't understand how you benefit from this."

"I fucked up with Levi," Kenny said, staring into Marco's eyes. "Don't wanna make that mistake again."

Marco didn't really know what to say or do at that point, but that was basically how Mikasa had come into the picture.

"Kenny wants what?" Mikasa's father was a very tall man, and much friendlier in demeanor than his assassin of a brother. His wife was very pretty, and now that Marco recalled it, she'd looked a whole lot like Mikasa.

"Your baby," Marco said sheepishly. "Yeah. I know. It's weird."

"Not really," Mikasa's mother had said, leaning her cheek against her fist. She'd been sitting at her kitchen table, looking rather bored. "Kenny's always been a bit unhinged."

"We don't talk much anymore," the man admitted, glancing at his wife. "But I did tell him about the baby."

"Have you ever met Kenny's son?" Marco asked them curiously. They glanced at each other, bewildered.

"Kenny has a son?" Mrs. Ackerman blurted, leaning back in her chair. "Holy shit."

"He— he never said anything about that, not… not ever…" Mikasa's father looked like he needed to sit down.

"Yeah, his name is Levi," Marco said, shrugging. "He's about nineteen. Wouldn't recommend meeting him, though, he's in a really bad place right now."

"With Kenny as a father," Mrs. Ackerman stated dryly, "I can't imagine why."

"Well, the point is," he said, waving it off, "that Levi is kinda a superhuman."

"Excuse me?" Mr. Ackerman said flatly. "My nephew. Kenny's son. A superhuman?"

"Yes," Marco said. "I made him that way. And I can make your child the same way." He turned to address Mrs. Ackerman, smiling at her gently. "There's no risk. I'll use the same serum I used to create Levi, and there were no health defects that I could note. However, I was unable to actually observe Levi as he grew up, because Kenny decided to back out of our deal before Levi was born. Most unfortunate for the poor boy, who grew up in a terribly abusive home, and now he's an absolute wreck." Marco rubbed his beck sheepishly. "I don't want that to happen to your child. I'd like to monitor their growth so I can improve upon the serum."

"What the fuck?" Mrs. Ackerman asked blankly. She squinted at him. Marco smiled at her wanly. "Holy shit, you're serious?"

"Look," Mr. Ackerman quickly, stepping between Marco and his wife. He was clearly a lot more well adjusted than his brother, thank god, but Marco was just honestly surprised by how calm he was. "We don't want any trouble but what you're offering is a little insane."

"You have no idea," Marco had sighed loftily. "Okay, let me explain. My name is Mark Langner. I go by Marco. I'm a mind reader. Hello."

They'd simply stared at him.

Why was this always so hard to believe?

I'm a legitimate mind reader, he pushed into their thoughts. They both jerked forward, looking utterly bewildered. And I also happen to be immortal. Kenny knows that. He's killed me eighteen times in the past twenty years. It's really annoying.

"What…?" Mr. Ackerman gasped, holding his head.

"I just want someone like me," Marco admitted. "Someone who can't die. Wouldn't it be nice if your son or daughter was the same way?"

Needless to say, after some meticulous convincing, they'd agreed.

It wasn't hard to manipulate people when you had a power like Marco's.

He tried really hard to leave it up to free will, but hey, come on. How could he pass up this chance?

By that point in time, Grisha Jaeger had begun working for Marco in attempt to create a serum that would actually create an immortal being. Ymir had been the result of creating a human with the power of a god. Levi and Mikasa had been the result of superhuman strength, making them very hard to kill, but not immortal by any means. Now Marco was on the hunt for a way to keep those he'd created in this world with him. He wanted nothing more than to have the comfort of knowing he would not be alone for eternity. That was all.

He got volunteers from people who had connections with him dating back to his war days. He'd fought with a Leonhardt in the first Great War. He'd been a total dick, but man if he didn't put up a fight. Marco had kept in touch with him after the war because he was the only man in his squadron who survived the suicide missions they were sent on consistently. The Hoovers and Brauns had been his buddies from the original facility, helped him with Ymir's creation and all that. They'd also run a nice speakeasy. The family was still close in the twenty first century, and both happened to have some sick kids they were willing to do anything for. Marco took them gladly. Reiss was an old name. Marco was certain that he'd known a Reiss during the Revolution, a turncloak or something like that, who'd been close to royalty. He'd kept in very loose touch with that family, but somehow he was pulling the strings with Rod Reiss's political career.

Which gave Marco a steady stream of willing participants.

By that point it was a little complicated. He wanted them to like him, but he understood that they were all pretty miserable with their situations, and no matter how hard he tried to cheer them up, they all thought they were going to die. It was infuriating.

In the end, even with all his experimentation, even with all his good intentions, they still felt as though they were trapped. Which wasn't all their fault, Marco did make them sign a contract, which was pretty excessive, but hey, it was Marco, he did things in excess. The problem was that he didn't end their suffering. He worsened it.

He heard Levi thinking about his escape plan before it really registered to him that he could truly do it. So Marco did what he thought was necessary.

He allowed it to happen.

He suppressed the memories of the children who managed to escape in particular because he felt that they would be happier if they did not have to remember the misery he'd unintentionally put them through. The adults were simpler. They'd already been through so many hardships, he decided just to erase his existence from their minds. Even Rico, who'd come by recommendation of Mikasa's father, one of her college professors. Before he'd been murdered by some mooks who were after Kenny and got mixed up. Luckily enough, when Kenny came looking for the girl, he assumed her dead with the rest. Go figure.

Unfortunately Ymir had gotten out somehow as well, which had not been Marco's intention. An even greater folly was the manifestation of Historia Reiss's power, which had not happened until the night of the escape. Hers was exactly what Marco needed. She was the one surefire way to keep everyone Marco held dear around him. Forever.

With their consent, of course.

Annie, Bertholdt, and Reiner were the only ones who stayed. And Marco told them time and time again that they were free to come and go. And they did.

What else was left to explain, then?

Ah.

Yes.

Marco Bodt.

Marco had never intended to get mixed up in Mikasa's life. And Jean's life had meant very little at the time. Jean was the same sort of pawn as Levi's teacher or, by extension, Kenny Ackerman. Only he'd been nice. And Marco had been lonely.

"So when do you go back to school?" Jean had asked, a mouthful of ice cream muffling his words. Marco had done what he always did, and read his mind to find out when he went back to school. He said that date.

"Oh, cool!" Jean swallowed thickly, and grinned at him. "Hey, crap, do we go to the same school? That'd be really cool!"

Marco had a weakness when it came to being loved.

Boy, did he love it.

"Maybe we do," Marco had said, smiling back shyly.

That had been the beginning.

Marco wasn't sure where his humanity was anymore. If Marco Bodt had been real, or if Ilse Langner had been real, or if this face or this name or this voice was real.

Marco didn't know who he was or what he was or why he was.

He just was.

And he just couldn't take the empty years and empty spaces and empty chest and empty mind and empty, empty, empty being any longer.

His life was empty, and so he'd created a new one.

All he wanted was to be happy.

All he wanted was for those he was responsible for to be happy.

All he wanted was a little bit of solace.

But all he had was an empty chest and empty words.

Do you see now, Jean?

Do you see what a monster I am?

Do you see why I tricked you? Why I made you into something you weren't? Why I lied again and again, and made you hate yourself and me and the entire world?

Do you see why I wanted you so badly to just be the normal boy who cared about me regardless of who I was or where I came from?

Do you see?

When Jean opened his eyes, he looked lost. Marco decided to pull back, careful of the space between them. Jean looked a little shocked. Likely because Marco had sprung the kiss on him a bit suddenly, and also the details surrounding the kiss, the information relayed and the feelings shared, were probably a lot to take in.

Jean stood, his mouth parted and his brow knitted and his body taut. Marco felt a little sheepish as he settled back down on Armin's bed, pulling his long legs up and letting one bare foot hang idly off the side. He was tired and sad and lonely, and now Jean understood all that.

Regardless, it was unlikely they'd be alone for much longer. Marco had mentally nudged Annie toward Historia, hiding her from Jean and Reiner's view if only just to have this chance to explain to Jean.

Maybe he'd understand.

Maybe it was useless.

What did it matter, anyway?

"Um…" Jean raised a shaky hand to his lips, still looking dazed. "What the fuck…?"

"Sorry," Marco sighed, closing his eyes. "I know I should've asked first, but it's a really good way to relay info… and also, I kinda just wanted to try it once on you. So there."

"Not the fucking kiss, man," Jean hissed, his eyes narrowing. "The… this entire thing. This institute. Facility. You really are responsible for all of it!"

"Yes…?" Marco cracked an eye open. "I'm not hiding that anymore, Jean. I just showed you everything. I mean, I could go into more detail, of course, but that'd take, like, years of kissing, which I imagine—"

"I got it, I got it," Jean groaned, throwing up his hands and waving them furiously. "I just… Fuck, man, I thought you were dead!"

"Yeah, man," Marco said, smiling weakly. "I know. That's what I wanted."

"Okay, fine, but do you have any idea how fucking traumatizing that was?" Jean snapped. "I saw your fucking head cracked open and your brain shattered into a bunch of itty bitty goddamn pieces. I wasn't allowed to go your friggin' funeral which, yeah, by the way, I fuckin' get it now, asshole, but it was super stressful and I was really, really, really depressed for weeks and weeks, but you were alive the whole time, and you're a mind reader, so you know all of this already, and I'm just like— fuck, man! You fucked me over!"

Marco sat and listened, nodding slowly. Yes, those were all valid points. Jean's mind told it to him true, that he felt like he'd been cheated out of something because Marco was alive and kinda an awful person, which, yes, he got it.

"I kinda did, didn't I?" Marco winced. "Sorry, dude."

"Sorry my ass."

"So do you hate me?" he asked curiously. After all, it'd be completely understandable if he did. Marco had truly been a terrible friend. He'd had his reasons, of course, wanting Jean to be his own person, to not have to live with the fear of dying and leaving Marco alone for eternity, to have to defend Marco's poor choices, to have to be the fall guy because Marco fucked up. Again. Marco just wanted to sever the ties before he got found out for the monster he was.

"That's a loaded question," Jean said, running his fingers through his hair. He glanced around the room, his eyes flashing, and Marco tasted his thoughts like honeycomb oozing inside his mouth. It was too sweet and the consistency trickled through Marco's mind in slow dribbles, snagging on his thoughts and cementing wax to the roof of his mouth.

"It's actually kinda simple," he said, tilting his head. "Do you hate me or not?"

"I'm mad at you!" Jean jerked his finger at Marco's face. "I'm fucking pissed!"

He stared at Jean's face levelly, ignoring the accusatory finger stuck between his eyes. "That doesn't answer my question," he said slowly.

"Fuck you, man."

Marco dropped his head, unable to contain his laughter. Jean was the same. After all of it, all the bullshit Marco had put him through, Jean was essentially the same frank bastard he'd always been. There was something comforting about that fact, in spite of the dull irritation in knowing that Jean had learned nothing from his experience. Perhaps that was for the best. What had Marco been trying to change, anyway? Jean was an asshole, but he'd always been a good person. Marco was just the opposite.

"Are…" Jean's voice was strained. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No, no!" Marco gasped, waving his hands hurriedly. "Not at you!"

You're totally laughing at him, Armin thought to Marco, his inky thoughts blotting out Marco's vision like a blooming Rorschach test. Asshole.

That's enough from you, Marco told him curtly. Go back to sleep.

I was awake the whole time, though.

Well keep pretending, then.

Maybe if you let me talk to Historia—

"I'm sorry," Marco blurted. "I know this is weird."

"Oh man," Jean whistled, holding up his hands, his eyes widening in faux shock. "Oh man! You're fucking sorry! Dude, yeah, that just makes it all better, just patched up everything right there. Because, you know, I'm that gullible. God, do you have any idea just how hard it is to even look at you?"

"Yes," Marco admitted. "I know from your thoughts."

"Stop reading them, then, holy fuck!" Jean's hands clapped over his head, and this time he really was shocked, and he really was horrified, and Marco felt ashamed. "Did you do that all the time? Read my thoughts and react to them?"

Marco stared at him, feeling a little lost at the question. How could he not read Jean's thoughts? They were always there, and they stuck inside Marco's head and made him dizzy. How could he not hear the fluttering wisps of self doubt and self assurance and self righteousness? How could Marco not listen in to the bustling whirl of emotions that were strung together inside Jean's strong mind? How? How? How?

His stare must have been vacant, because Jean scoffed, and he shook his head furiously.

"You're invasive," Jean accused, "and cruel. You have no idea what you do to people."

"I do," Marco objected. "Jean, I know, and that's what makes me horrible. Right? Tell me that. Tell me I'm a monster."

"I'm not going to do that."

"Why not?" Marco was itching to lose his cool and show Jean just how much of a monster he truly was. "It's not like it isn't true!"

"Shut up!" Jean snarled. "You're not a monster!"

Marco sat back. A smile was buried deep within him, a sense of contentment, a wild fire of fear doused in a single splash of beating words. No. Jean did not hate him. Jean would never hate him. That was the truth here.

Marco was glad.

"Tell me," Marco said distantly, his voice flat and dull, "how am I not a monster?"

"God damn…" Jean ran his fingers through his hair. It was bias, likely, that kept Jean from hating him. A connection that could not be severed. Armin would understand.

Stop it, Marco, Armin chastised. You're just confusing him.

"Do you think I'm a monster, Armin?" Marco asked quietly. Jean jumped. Perhaps he forgot that Armin was there. He'd been so inconspicuous, after all. The boy sat up, his rings of bruised blue eyes settling upon Marco's face. He was a corpse, or something like one, a hollow eyed, hollow cheeked, waxy skinned shell of a boy with no future and no past and nothing but his vicious thoughts and his infinite rage to sustain him.

"I think you've made yourself into a monster," Armin said in his hoarse little voice. He'd had another seizure after Marco had spoken with Historia, so he was a little worse for wear, and he had to use the nasal cannula consistently again. "And you've manipulated us to mimic you. So what does that make us, Marco?"

"Oh, don't start that," Marco groaned. "Anyway, thank you for proving my point. Jean, you're wrong. I'm the monster here. I've accepted that. You should too."

"Oh god, this is so fucked up," Jean groaned. "This is so, so… I want to believe in you, but holy shit, you are just… you're so fucking problematic!"

"Problematic?" Marco repeated in earnest shock. Beside him, Armin actually burst into a fit of giggles, the first genuine laugh Marco had heard from him in a very long time. Was Marco problematic? Was that a suitable word for what he was doing and what he had done?

He confused himself sometimes. This didn't matter.

"Yes, you're problematic!" Jean gritted his teeth, and his thoughts were all muddled and unsure. A fault of Marco's. I've done this, Marco thought sadly to himself. I've broken one of my dearest friends. "You might have good intentions, but you're— you are actually, probably insane. You are the worst. You put everyone through so much bullshit, hid it under lie after lie, and then you just spout this cryptic bullshit like I'm supposed to understand a word you say!"

Marco must've been staring strangely, because Armin mentally shoved him, a great inkwell pouring into Marco's mouth and turning his teeth black. "Are you listening to him?" Armin asked coldly. "Because he's right."

"Yes, I'm listening," Marco said, resisting the urge to rub his temples. "I've been listening. And I agree, he's right."

"Fuck yeah, I'm right!" Jean cried. Then, he looked puzzled, and he slumped a little. "Why are you agreeing with me?"

"Because I understand what you're saying, and I think you're right?" Marco blinked rapidly. "I mean, yes, I have my own agenda, fine, but c'mon, Jean. I told you. I'm a monster. I know I'm wrong. I know that this entire situation is my fault. And I'm okay with all of you hating me."

The last part was a bit of a lie. It wasn't so much that he was okay with it as he was willing to accept it. It made sense. He was a reasonable guy, it wasn't totally out of his grasp to see that he'd royally fucked things up. And he did feel guilty for all the grief he'd caused.

"Can I slap him?" Jean asked Armin, jerking his thumb at Marco. "Is that something that I can do right now?"

"Please do," Armin murmured.

Marco waited, but no slap came.

He sighed inwardly, resting his chin in his palm as he observed Jean's furious face.

Typical.

"I'm trying really hard here," Marco said cautiously. "I made my peace three hundred and twenty one years ago, and I'd gladly lay down my life permanently for any of you. The trouble is, I can't. I'm stuck. Time's supposed to be this endlessly flowing river, right? But I'm just riding the current, and I don't know how to get out. Armin, I don't want you to die, but the truth is, I don't know if I can stop you from dying. Jean, I've been waiting for you to die since the moment I met you. This world… is endless… and it's so cruel…" He let out a shaky laugh, his eyes snapping shut as he shook his head vigorously. "Ah, what am I saying? You don't understand. I'm just a crazy asshole who fucked up your lives."

"Marco," Armin said softly. When Marco turned to face him, the boy was leaning forward, his eyes surprisingly vivid and bright, and he lowered his head slightly to meet Marco's gaze. "I do understand you. I think I understand you better than anyone in the entire world, as I expect you understand me with equal strength. But the point is, we're on differing sides of a debate, and you refuse to back down. You won't give me and Historia and Ymir the freedom we deserve. You want to smother us, because you want to keep us, like we're your property. But you don't get to decide whether I live or die or rot in here or in hospice. You don't get to make decisions for anyone but yourself. So just do yourself a favor and let us be free to do as we see fit."

Marco understood a bit about freedom.

He'd grown up stifled by a theocracy that branded him an abomination. He saw himself in the slaves that worked day and night with nothing to show for it. He'd bled and let bleed to establish the foundation of this country. He'd pushed his mind to its limits in power, struggling to steal and twist and hoard thoughts that would allow the people to grow and prosper and live on with a legacy they could be proud of. Marco had done this, he'd done it without complaint, because selflessness and selfishness had not been an occurrence until he'd gone half-mad with loss and loneliness.

Three hundred years he'd been trapped, but not once had anyone cared to put the effort into freeing him.

Why the hell should he waver now?

What was he even doing?

Was he right?

Was he wrong?

Was he simply losing his mind?

Perhaps he'd been free from the very start, but the price had been too steep, and he'd lost his wits about him somewhere in his ceaseless vigil.

Marco didn't want to stand by and watch people die anymore.

He just wanted some solace.

He was sick to death of death, see, and he would rather bask in the glory of life for once.

That was why Historia was so important.

Vita, vitae, life, of life. Wasn't it grand?

He pushed himself to his feet.

"You really are amazing, Armin," Marco whispered, his voice catching inside his throat. His mind was abuzz, and he tried and tried and tried, but he was so tired of trying, and he couldn't find himself anymore amongst the words and the tastes and the bitter feelings winding up, up, up, winding him up like a toy soldier off to war again and again and again.

How many battles did he have to fight before he got what he wanted?

How many lives did he have to waste?

How many people had to die until he finally expired?

When did it end?

The world was his to enslave and free, and yet here he was, asking merely for the cooperation of one child who had no other options.

He'd been questioning his existence for three centuries, and it still was not enough to give him the answers he sought.

Science? Miracles? Where did it end, where did it begin?

What was his life? What was his purpose? Why had he been born to steal thoughts and feelings, why had his sister been able to pour all of her life and ability to give life into him?

Mysteries plagued him, and he was ill with the unknown. He had no name or face any longer, just scraps of what could be, what should be, what had been, what will be.

He loathed himself more and more and more and more, and he loathed that he had no control to speak of.

"I've been so terrible to all of you," he said, his voice pitched to break, leading on hysterical, and he felt that his emotions would not keep if he continued this nonsensical attempt to appeal to them. "I wanted so badly to… to just have something… that could last forever. I just can't stand it, I can't stand watching every single person I ever meet die, it just… it happens so quickly… one minute we've just met, and the next I'm meeting your grandkids to express my condolences. I don't want that anymore, I don't want that pain, I just want to be able to have something concrete and real and alive for the duration of my existence."

"You can't have anything forever," Armin said softly. "And you certainly can't have me."

Marco was struggling to find different ways to convince this boy, but it seemed a waste. He was consuming the fierce determination of this silly child, this boy who could hardly breathe on his own he was so lost to the world, and yet he seemed to will himself away from a fate chosen by Marco's hand.

"What is so horrible about the prospect of living?" Marco asked in strangled disbelief.

"Living forever with you?" Armin smiled dimly. "Sounds like an endless nightmare."

"Welcome to my world," Marco said coolly.

He understood, and that was the worst part, because he knew and he didn't want to know, and it hurt so badly to understand how terrible he was. He was breaking apart at the very seams and feeling his mind leak from his ears, and if anyone understood, it was Armin. Because had Marco not inflicted this same kind of strange surreal mental torture upon him? Had Marco not been responsible?

Or had that just been another bit of his illness that neither of them understood?

Mysteries, mysteries!

He hated them all.

There was a sudden inexplicable taste of dark chocolate that folded over his tongue and melted so fast that it barely lingered. And then it was pouring down his throat in a scorching rage, and he was choking on it, his entire mind closing up in shock to the foreign presence and the familiar touch.

Turn around, motherfucker.

Marco didn't understand. When had this happened?

He should have heard him coming. How had this happened?

He didn't understand.

He turned to face Eren Jaeger anyway.

The boy was like a firecracker, and the sound was bursting apart inside Marco's fragile brain.

His fist collided with Marco's face, and he felt himself stagger under the sheer force, the sheer power of it, His nose broke apart and blood streamed freely into his parted lips, the taste of warm blood boiling amongst the frothy black chocolate mind. He was drowning in the bitter tastes and the cracking of sounds, and he was having trouble catching his breath. In his head, Armin was laughing at him.

So. The tables had turned.

Your ignorance, Armin thought at him fiercely, is your weakness, Marco.

He stood with one hand to his nose, staunching the blood and staring in wonder at Eren's dark face. His green eyes were alight with his fury, and his teeth were bear for Marco to see them glisten, an animalistic instinct parting through the tethers of his mind, beckoning him to leap for the kill.

Eren held back.

Just long enough for Marco to see Rico Brzenska leaning against a wall. She tasted like cold coffee and the crisp bite of late autumn air, and she glowered at him from the round rims of her glasses, her hatred escalating with every second she spent with her eyes upon him. As though her memories of him from her facility days had somehow surfaced.

"Hi, Eren," Marco said, his words muffled by a mouthful of blood.

Unsurprisingly, he was kicked to the floor with a sold jerk of the boy's leg. Damn, the kid was strong!

"You think," Eren rasped, his voice a pitchy tune that sang with a faltering edge across the expanse of the room, "that you can just fuckin' talk to me? Like I fuckin' care what you've got to say?"

Marco coughed, spitting blood onto the linoleum floor, and he smiled vacantly at nothing. How familiar it was to be hated. The hatred was toiling up inside Eren, a rush and a buzz and a kick of power that struck Marco in the stomach and turned him onto his side.

How did I miss this? he thought wildly. How could I possibly not hear this in Jean's mind? In Annie's?

You're a fool, Marco, Armin thought to him, his voice a chilly slap inside Marco's throbbing head. You're ignorant, and you're foolish, and you forget. I am… far more powerful than you.

"Come here, you bastard." Eren caught Marco by his collar and dragged him half upright, shoving him at the door.

"Eren," Armin gasped, "Eren, what're you—?"

The door opened, and Marco found himself being snatched by the front of his shirt and flung through the open door. For a moment he was flying through the air, and then, with a great amount of pain, he was bent awkwardly between the sheetrock of a wall, his bones protruding outward, caught outside his skin and splintered so terribly that Marco could not make out which bone was which. He blinked profusely, stars in his eyes, blood on his lips, voices ringing in his ears.

He was hopelessly hopeless and hopelessly hopeful and the world was spinning and so was he.

"Fuck," said a cigarette smoke flutter, a black tea burst. "Did I kill him?"

"He can't exactly die." Erwin Smith's face flickered in Marco's line of vision, and the man had the audacity to smile. "Hello, there. We have a few questions."

"Or a thousand," scoffed an incredulous voice that Marco recognized to be Connie Springer's. Root beer barrels clanged against his teeth.

"So Annie was right," a peppermint sigh blew over Marco's mind. He winced, and attempted to heft himself out of the wall.

"Oh, please. Hold your surprise." Annie was easy to recognize. Her icy mind was a familiar blessing, but even so, it hurt. She loathed him. He'd raised her, and she despised him, and he could not even blame her because he'd been so awful. He could hear her thoughts in his head, swirling and lacing his mind with bitter poison, and he thought he might scream for her forgiveness, scream for someone, anyone, to understand his plight, but he could not, he could not, he was not worth of such a thing.

"Aha," Marco rasped, crawling from the jagged layers of sheetrock and collapsing onto the floor, his blood pooling around his busted legs. "Ow."

"I'll show you 'ow'!" Eren snarled, half marching toward Marco with his rage alight like a sparkler running loose, streams of fire searing into his brain.

"Eren, that's enough." Erwin halted the boy with an arm flung out, and Marco sighed. He pulled his legs out straight, hissing a bit in mild pain. He'd had far worse injuries than this, but it still hurt like a bitch. "We want to talk to him, remember?"

"You want to talk to him," Eren sneered. "I want to rip his head off!"

Marco licked his lips, tasting the smooth familiar tang of blood as it clung to the grooves of his skin. He rolled up the cuffs of his pants closing his eyes to bear the sheer throbbing pain of maneuvering the fabric over the jutting bone, and then, easily, he took the splintered section and slid if back into his skin, minding the oozing of his blood and the spasms of his muscle and the blinding white hot pain that splashed over him like fiery waves. The sound was squelching like leather gloves rubbing together, the friction sending vast sound waves, quiet but disturbing.

He felt their horror and disgust as they watched.

"Okay," Marco said, holding his blood smeared hands up in the air, noting the uneven pattern of crimson and pink across the smooth freckled flesh. "So, here we are. You caught me. Congratulations. This was so unexpected. Would you like an award?"

"Oh my god," Levi said in a short, clipped voice. Disgust toiled inside him, and it was not unlike it had been twenty years ago, only now his disgust was pointed at Marco not himself, and that was an oddly comforting thing, because at least Marco knew that one of them had benefitted from his ceaseless meddling. "I'm gonna actually fucking shove my fist down your throat and rip your spine out."

Marco sat on the floor, considering this threat.

He smiled wanly.

"I'll survive that," he admitted, "but it's never been done before, so you're actually really welcome to try!"

Levi turned to Eren, his eyes flashing with unadulterated rage. "Kill him," he spat.

"Ooh, boy, you ain't gonna be disappointed," Eren hissed, his eyes shadowed by his bloodlust.

"Oi," Hange said, waving their hand in front of Eren's face. "None of that, you dummy. Go make sure Armin is okay."

Eren faltered. Marco watched in amazement as his rage faded away so rapidly it stung his mind, and startling panic washed over the boy as he turned away and disappeared through the door to Armin's room.

Oh, Mikasa thought, whirling away just the same, a flutter of blue and gray swirling as she rushed to join Eren's side.

Their love for Armin outweighed their hatred for him.

Humanity made him so sad.

They were all going to die.

He didn't want that.

He didn't want them to see the horror, to feel the pain, to be lost for the remainder of their short, squandering lives.

He wanted them to be happy together, but how could they be anything but empty and miserable as he was when the truth was they'd been dying since conception?

"I'm sorry, I actually didn't catch all of you coming in," he said dryly as he stood up. His legs were vaguely achy, but he'd survive. Inevitably. "So, how did you do it?"

"You really want an explanation. From us." Connie looked absolutely a thousand percent done, and his thoughts were all angry bulks of Spanish swears that made no sense even in his head. "De verdad necesitas el poder de Jesús Cristo creo que también el de María y José, por que estás loco. Ese."

"I was actually kinda literally hanged for that reason," Marco said, touching his neck and taking their minds in his hands, the malleable mush that they were, and twisting them abruptly, letting his appearance shift with a great shudder like the earth had just cracked beneath them, and he smiled as he tilted his head, acknowledging his face as that of Ilse Langner as it had been the dawn he'd pulled her down from a tree. "Ese."

"Mierda!" Connie squeaked, skidding back in a fluid blur, suddenly hiding behind the horrified Sasha. She was clinging to him, her mind a flash of terror and confusion and perhaps even rage. "Holy fuck, holy fuck! Cut that out!"

"I understand you are all very confused," Marco said, using Ilse's sweet voice to bleed his words into their minds. Whenever he did this, he always felt safe and content, as though Ilse were somehow right beside him. He was a fool, just as Armin had said. A terrible fool. "The truth is, I never meant for any of you to find out about this."

"Well, no shit," Sasha squeaked, holding Connie's head to her shoulder to shield him from the gruesome sight of the flickering image of Ilse's walking, talking corpse. The angry red welt around her throat was burned into his memory forever. It was only right they understood how awful that was.

"Hey, hermano." Ymir's pretty face came hovering into his line of vision, and she smirked at him. Her hair was down, and for once they looked really, truly alike, like the siblings he wished they were. "That's a nice look on you."

"You're a peach, love," Marco said, rolling his eyes. "As always."

She threw her head back and laughed.

Oh, Marco loved Ymir so dearly.

But he felt her fury and he knew her scorn, and he understood that he'd done her wrong.

"Wow, you're a fucking train wreck," Levi said. Coming from him that truly meant something.

"Yes, I am, thank you for noticing." Marco clapped very slowly. "Such astute. Really wow."

"I don't know guys, I think they're kinda funny," Hange chirped. He smiled them brightly. He really appreciated that, even though he could feel their aggravation.

"Marco," Erwin said cautiously. "Ah, is that your real name?"

"It's his real name," Annie said, her eyes narrowed on Marco's face. "Seriously, cut the shit. You've been caught. It's over. You can't hide this from them anymore."

Marco stared at her, her chilly gaze and her iced over thoughts, and he let himself fold. Their vision was released, and they saw him for what he truly was.

A boy. Just a boy. With dark dead eyes, and a tight-lipped smile.

He wished he could've been the hero they had all wanted him to be.

The truth was, he didn't believe in heroes. He'd seen too much, done too much, been praised and shamed far too much to believe that there could be heroes in this world.

He appreciated the effort, though.

"My name was Mark Langner," he said cautiously. "I was born in 1677. I went by Marco for the duration of my life, as an affectionate nickname given to me by my elder sister, Elizabeth." He looked at them all pointedly. "Ilse. As you can guess, we weren't normal children. I had telepathy. She could heal people. I've… made a lot of mistakes."

"Yeah," Armin said from the doorway, leaning against both Mikasa and Eren for support. "Like single handedly starting the Salem Witch Trials."

"Wait, for real?" Connie piped up.

"That's kinda sick," Sasha said.

"Wait, sick as in gross, or sick as in cool?" Connie asked her.

"Uh… both?" She cocked her head. "Yeah, both."

"Yeah," Connie agreed.

"You two are odd," Ymir declared, throwing an arm around Connie's shoulder and smirking. "It's almost endearing!"

"Imagine if you were in my position," Marco pleaded, ignoring his little sister. "Imagine if you were alone for centuries, treated like a monster for being born different, what would you do? I had the chance to stave off my loneliness, and I took it. I'm sorry it turned out the way it did, but I could never regret it!"

"You manipulated us," Armin said dully. "You stole away our basic rights as human beings for your sick pet project."

"I saved your lives," Marco reminded. "And then I let you go. Everything I have done, I have done with your best interest in mind."

"You're a liar," Armin snapped. "You're a liar, and a fake, and you can't understand what it's like to be trapped under your thumb, because you don't have to live with the consequences of your actions! You can just make it so it wasn't so! You could erase this very moment from our minds, and act like none of this even happened, and we'd be none the wiser! You are a nothing but a tyrant playing pax in terra, and I've had enough. You cannot say you have our best interest when you take away our free will. You can't be benevolent when you're selfishly using our lives to make your own worth something!"

Marco listened.

His mind was shaking.

Armin was pouring these words into Marco's head.

He was setting them on fire and hurling them into Marco's brain.

He was using every ounce of his mental strength to pierce Marco to the bone.

And it was working.

He felt like something in him had shattered.

Something was oozing, and it was not his blood.

He wavered.

He stared.

And then he began to laugh.

He covered his face, his laughter a strangled mismatch of sounds and voices and he felt words oozing from his mouth, words that made no sense as he dropped to his knees and screamed. Armin was inside his head, Armin was outside his head, Armin knew and Armin understood, and all he could do was stand and watch as his mind shattered Marco's.

No. That wasn't true.

Marco's mind had never been whole to begin with.

He sobbed into his hands, screaming and screeching and begging for it to stop, because he couldn't do it, he couldn't do it, he just couldn't do this dumb act anymore where he pretended that it was okay to lose everything over and over with every life gained and lost in a matter of minutes and hours and days and weeks and years and decades and centuries, and suddenly he was watching generations flicker away into dust.

He screamed for them, his lost friends, his lost family, for those he knew and loved and lost and for those he would lose inevitably in the oncoming sandstorm of time.

He begged for it to end.

He begged.

The sun could not rise again tomorrow, not with these suffering minds swirling inside of him.

He was them, and they were him.

They could not know what they did to him.

They were truly an integral part of who he was.

All he had wanted was to save them…

All he had wanted was to end it all…

The loneliness…

The pain…

End it all…

End…

He felt a pair of tiny hands on his face. He sobbed in relief at the muted mind of a burning sun, and he grasped her hands and laughed at her.

"You!" he cried, perhaps straight into her head. "You and I are just the same!"

She stared at him.

Historia. History.

She was the only one who could share in his suffering.

"You see," he gasped, "you see? This is what it's like to lose everyone, to lose everything, to be nothing! Do you want that? Do you want to be alone for eternity?"

Her eyes were silver.

His breath was gone.

"I'd rather be alone for the whole of eternity," she whispered, "than spend it with you."

The silver light was a blessing.

End.

End.

End.

He felt a noose around his neck.

He'd never imagined this scenario.

He'd never thought her brave enough to choose eternal solitude.

But Marco was no god, and he was truly wrong about so many things.

He would welcome this death.

After all, had he not asked the world to free him time and again?

If he squinted through the daze of silver light, through the dazzling pain of his soul jostling against his bones, he thought he could see the alcove where he and his sister had been hanged from a tree, hanging, hanging, hanging for hours and hours and hours with no end in sight.

The sunrise had been so silvery that day, and the light had hurt to see.

Going back was a gift.

This girl was a gift.

Death was a gift.

But it ended.

"Historia," Armin said. "That's enough."

And he so gasped.

And he lived.

Why?

Why?

Why, why, why, why?

He dropped to his knees and screamed so loudly he felt their minds shake inside him, and they clapped their hands over their ears in pain and terror.

All of them except Historia and Armin, who stood before him with twin pairs of pitying eyes, as though one was not dying and one would not suffer forever. All except them flinched from him in horror.

And Jean.

Jean stepped forward from behind the hoard, standing with his head bowed and his emotions bare.

Jean Kirschstein was disappointed in him.

How strange.

"You are," Jean said unsteadily, his breath shaky as he spoke, "the best friend that I ever had. But you… you feel a sense of entitlement to this world, Marco, because you were wronged by it so many times. But you've… you've done it wrong too. You can't just shed your humanity and expect everyone to just declare you god. You're wrong. You're wrong, and I don't want anything to do with you."

Marco lifted his sweaty forehead from the cool tile floor. He raised his tearful face to Jean, who had been the first person in forever to treat Marco like he was human.

Human.

Humans…

Marco's lips trembled.

"Go," he whispered.

He placed his hands over his eyes.

One last trick, and he was gone from their sight.

For good.

I think i did a pretty good job making Marco disgusting and pitiable.

This is, more or less, the last chapter. Next chapter is the epilogue. It's really long, though, don't worry. Thank you all so much. ='] This fic meant the world.