A/N: Hello once again! It's nice to finally post again haha. I hope you enjoy but I do need to put a warning—I've disclosed before how this story can be as gruesome as the manga. This warning also applies to this chapter.

Proceed with caution.

Her and Armin were born with some imprint promising bad luck - Annie is sure of it.

A brain-splitting ache pulses in her head, there's a high ringing in her ears, and Armin coughs with her as Annie gathers her bearings. She clenches Armin's hand and he tugs back — a guarantee he is ok. That's relieving; she needs to make sure Armin remains close because everything else…

The staccato of gunfire and chorus of boots clomping against pavement grows louder, echoes from left to right, and behind until there's nothing but the noise of mayhem, a noise whose volume rises, sounds to be closing in on them. Annie yanks on Armin and dives into the closest cover they can find — an abandoned newspaper stand the size of a closet. The smoke from the explosion slithers and lingers in the streets like smoky-grey tentacles and while Annie can see a little, the air is a grainy mist. Armin coughs and covers his mouth in succession and Annie does the same; neither of them can afford to get caught. Annie holds her breath and carefully peaks over the edge of the newspaper stand's counter.

Garrison members leap over boxes before the crack and ricochet of bullets sink into their cover. More doors of homes swing open and civilians rush out...except black bandanas cover their mouths, and there isn't one which isn't holding a knife or some form of weapon. A soldier running on the rooftop across the way grabs Annie's attention and in time with him running towards his comrades, an attic door is thrown open. A civilian with the same black bandanna covering their mouth leaps out, holds up what looks like the outline of a gun and after an ear-drum shaking shot, a red cavity opens the soldier's back. A soldier from the street shouts, fires back and the head of the civilian swings back, the other half of his face flying off in bits. A hoard of civilian's rush what's left of the soldiers and after loud yells of "Fall back!" and laying down a covering fire into the streets, the soldiers who haven't run yet disappear into the smoke.

Annie's palms are damp and her heart slams against her ribcage. She falls from the edge and upon examining herself, panic grips her chest.

"Get this off," Annie stresses, taking off her military jacket, "If they see us with any sign that we're part of the military, we'll end up like the Garrison."

She glances at Armin and finds he has already freed himself of his green cloak and works on getting his jacket off next. The popping sound of guns firing bangs on Annie's hearing again, only now, there are outcries of pain and fury in sync with blazing fire. Panic is invading Armin's expression as he stares into his clothes, his mouth twisting as if out of pain to leave these symbols behind.

"We need to hurry and get off the streets," she's trying to keep calm but the culminating chaos is too much to take in, each variable she can screen for growing every passing second, "Armin, we're in the middle of a riot. We need to move."

Her eye peaks around the corner and the crowd of young and old rush away from their street and head toward the northern part of the city. Armin stuffs his clothes in one of the shelves while his opposite hand grips his gun; his hands are shaking so bad, she can hear the wood and metal rattle from where she sits.

Annie takes his wrist again albeit more softly than last time, "Armin, we need to run. Save that kind of fear for when we need it."

She's probably appears too calm, which is why Armin gapes at her. Annie breathes shakily, makes sure her hoodie is covering all angles of her face. Instantly, she wishes Armin had one too, "Just follow me and don't look back."

Both keep their heads down and sprint down the street as a racket of bullets and yelling and blazing fire invades every space in the air. They make it through two streets until there's a quick, bee-sounding zip and Annie stops;three holes explode open the wooden wall in front of them and has the duo lurch back and dive into an alley.

"Shit, shit," Annie looks around the corner. At the far end of the smoke-waning street, there are murky balls of fire which are hovering, all of them moving together, all forming a group and are advancing. She looks at the opposite side of the street and finds the same sight approaching them — the silhouettes seen before men and torches.

"Annie," Annie's sight follows Armin's pointing to a side door of a home which is ajar; she doesn't wait another second. They run at the same speed and rush into the house, shut the door carefully behind them. The living room is far too small as is the kitchen and the closets in the hallway are too risky; they rush down the hallway instead. The noises outside are growing louder, sound to be nearing the front entryway and Annie's nerves has her heart pounding. They speed into a bedroom and Annie throws open a long closet, shoves Armin in first before she jumps in. They're bunched in the farthest corner of the closet behind racks of clothes which—she hopes— shields them from sight.

"Annie," he whispers, "Do you think maybe a basement-?"

"We'd be fucked either way. Tell me a better place to hide when there's a mob everywhere." Armin doesn't answer and the breath she's holding back is let loose in a whoosh, "Just...be quiet for now. They'll pass by soon enough."

She can't see Armin well through the darkness and hanged clothes but the high noise he makes sounds to be between understanding and misery. They scuttle around the closet for items until a reasonable box-fort prevents their feet from showing while the background noise is the clomping march through the streets, a symphony which is all too similar to the military parades in Liberio streets, to when she and the others traveled with Marleyan soldiers and entered the battlefield…

Annie grips the clothing over her knees; she hopes the clothing hanging around them blocks Armin from seeing her, how she fights against shaking from unseen winter chilling her blood. The roars and hard march through the streets resumes for minutes until the noise disappears. Soon, Annie's and Armin's haggard breathing is all she hears.

A sharp crash jars both of them; that sounded like glass shattering. More glass breaks, then one more, then a domino effect of exploding glass and hard hits against wood is all they hear. Annie sits on her knees, confused; the once quieting streets are noisy again, but now there are cries for help, screams and movements she can't tell are from revolters, soldiers, or civilians.

Glass keeps breaking, there are crackling snaps from wood giving in, and it creeps closer, closer. There's another burst of glass shattering and Annie's become so sensitive to her surroundings, she swears she felt the floorboards tremor after a loud crash and thunk. The wood of the floor shakes, and again, there's the rustling noise of boots.

"Hurry up!" a gruff voice commands, "The other blocks are getting raided and there's only going to be so many spoils left until reinforcements come. You three, check out the other houses. I want our pockets stuffed after leaving here!"

The sound of floorboards creaking splits into opposite directions as does the whistling of doors swinging open. All of the noise is disorienting, has panic increasing Annie's breathing to the point where her lungs aren't full enough; she can't risk transforming, she has no weapons on her, and they have one gun, one literal shot amongst a mob.

She doesn't know what to do.

The combat-boot-sounding walk travels down the hall, closes in. Annie brainstorms again, grits her teeth at not finding an answer quicker. A rustling interrupts her thinking and Annie blinks rapidly; the open space before her is filled with Armin's silhouette and the back of his light-yellow head. He backs both of them up until she hits a wall and his lower back is against her knees.

She tries to whisper, "Ar-"

Armin turns quick, puts his index finger to his lips—she's never seen a fiercer stare from him to be quiet. She's tempted to tease his chivalry and boldness, but dread dips her gut; Armin can't heal and he's positioned in front of her like a human shield. Annie's finally made out the outline of what he holds out in front of him too - the gun is aimed at the door.

She wants to yell at him to stop but the movement in the house rises, walks toward their room. A rusty creak grates against her ears and the light from the hallway fills the crease below the door. Sounds of quick rubber feet and the light under the door shows the shadows of the man moving back and forth in the room.

"Gah," the voice behind the door grunts, "Of course, nothing would be here. There aren't even nice shoes. Fuck. Maybe…"

Footsteps stomp toward them and Annie is certain she's nearing cardiac arrest. The door swings open and the air in Annie's lungs evaporates.

Annie's eyes and throat are dry from not blinking or swallowing. Her breathing is nonexistent. She can only see combat-booted feet and black, long jeans through the gaps between clothes and boxes. He stands on his tip-toes on the opposite side of the closet, searches through the upper shelf of the closet and throws down what Annie sees are wooden toys, jack-in-the-boxes; he keeps going until he growls.

"Damn it. Alright, what about this side?"

His legs turn around until his knees face them and he searches the upper shelf above where they hide. More things topple down - boxes he opens but grunts at finding nothing and stacks of towels. He must have gone through everything as the man shouts, throws down a wooden box which splits against the floor. The man crouches and Annie can see the bandanna over half his face but nothing else. He grabs the outermost box from where they hide. He grabs another then makes a pensive noise

"Say...what's this?" The man leans forward and Annie sees the invader hand creep below the clothes, toward them; Annie's hand flinches toward her jacket pocket for her ring and Armin drops his chin in focus to aim but stops midway, and cold freezes Annie's veins.

"Hey!" a man yells from across the house. "Boss, come over this way! The woman in the other house has gold and silver! But she and her husband have a knife! We need your help getting them out of the way!"

The man in front of them scoffs, "Finally. You sure there's only two of them?!"

"Positive! The others had stashed silver but they're already taken care of!"

"Good! We haven't found fuck-all in this house. We're heading out! Now!"

His forearm retracts from beneath the hanging clothes and the man sprints off, leaving Armin and Annie alone. There's a cackling from the men before silence comes over the house again. Gradually, the trap doors of panic recede from Annie's lungs and she breathes again. But Armin still aims the gun at the door. His arm is shaking so bad, she can see it through the dark.

"Armin…" Annie says, cautious, "Armin, he's gone. You can put the gun down now."

Adrenaline and fear probably aren't letting Armin hear her. The blade of despair digs deeper in Annie - something's wrong. She shifts her chin over his shoulder enough for her to look at him, "Armin, listen to me. You did good just now, okay? Had you fired, you would have angered their group outside and brought in more looters. We would have been done for. You were right to not shoot, okay? You weren't being a coward."

The tension knotting his neck eases somewhat but Armin's body and arm are still locked in place. Slowly, so carefully and slowly, Annie reaches for his hand holding the gun, descends down gently on it. He jerks and she says as gently as she can muster, "Armin, we're okay now. Put it down, alright? Put it down."

It's one of the longest seconds Annie has had to wait, but an assuring squeeze to his hand and some seconds later, Armin's arm muscles loosen. Annie carefully presses down against the gun, leads the muzzle to aim at the floor until it lands and falls out of Armin's hands.

Annie exhales sharply. The words "You can't help trying to save a damsel in distress, can you?" itch her tongue but her vocal cords are too paralyzed to move. Armin's shaking eyes bears all the anguish tearing himself up inside and his fingertips dig into the top of his skull.

"Why is this happening…?" Armin's voice is breaking, every word shaking breathlessly out of him, "What happened? How could this have happened? And when did things get this bad? I couldn't...I didn't see this coming. Maybe we were all gone from the city for too long to see...where…?" Armin's eyes grow large. His chin tilts up slowly and he stares into the clothes hanging above them, "These...there are children's clothes here - maternity dresses too. This family was stuck in the middle of this madness and the door was already open...so, where are they? Are they hiding too? Did they make it out when all this started? And Hugo...Hannes…they were near the blast; they were near the mob...they can't be..."

His chest is rising and falling too quickly, his breathing evolving into erratic huffs and Annie already knows where this is headed. She scoops Armin into her arms, keeps him tightly to her, "You couldn't have known," she tells him, "It was an ambush and a good one too."

"But those people…all of those soldiers...gone. And what about everyone else? The family outside, all of these civilians, all this carnage..." his head falls deeper into her chest, his shaking intensifying, "Hugo, Hannes…I couldn't see where they went, if they got caught in the blast. They're out there, Annie, and I don't know if they're okay..."

Annie can't think of any words—she doesn't know what to say. She's as clueless as Armin in knowing if anyone by the blast survived except the difference is she isn't tormented by the unknown for loved ones—Annie has felt such a terror only once. She does the only thing she can do for him: her arms wrap around him tighter, holds Armin so close and tightly, her body curls over his.

"One thing at a time," Annie says, quiet and mournful, "We're also stuck in between all of this. Your safety is just as important as everyone else's," You already know you can't help everyone, Armin. Annie's lips brush over his temple, "For once stop thinking of everyone else and remember yourself."

Armin shakes, seemingly unphased by her words, and Annie can tell by the choked, hiccupping noises beneath her chin that he's starting to cry. As if he should be ashamed, he tries to pull away from her—hides his face all the while—but Annie won't have it. Her arms add ten-times more strength in keeping this suffering boy against her.

But like always, it gets worse.

A scream outside evokes a shudder from the soldiers— a scream so blood chilling and goose bump-inducing, the very moral of human decency could fall to its knees and weep upon hearing it. The noises of lead penetrating skin and wood rise in volume as do the screams and Annie clenches the fabric over Armin's shoulder. Her memories of Marley's war and her near-lynching speed run so quickly through her head, she has to hold Armin tighter, has to keep him at her center to remain grounded. Her head is spinning, her breathing is ragged but Armin is breaking and for him, Annie can't afford to. She rubs the side of her face against his when more glass breaks outside and she struggles, finally finds the confidence to press a kiss to his temple; anything she can do to comfort him and feel safe, she'll do it.

Emotion thickens Annie's voice of the one thing she'll make sure will be true, "I can get us out of this. I'll make sure we'll get out of this."

A pep talk still doesn't get Armin's trembling or hiccups to stop. She tries again: Annie's lips brush over the top of his head—she hesitates first then she presses. Annie does the same to Armin's forehead, his temple, pressing harder each time on anywhere she can reach to help him calm down. She has no ideals - has nothing to protect on this island, and while she is grieved, Annie accepts that what they sit through is the horror which comes with revolt. But Armin is the opposite—his morals and empathy leave him in this shaking, weeping state where he worries for people he doesn't know, for childhood friends and Annie wishes she could protect him from all of it.

The bell from a church rings and the originators of the horror outside curse and yelp in alarm—the distress call, Annie remembers. There are hollers to run and the sound of feet sprinting, then once again, the noise around them transforms into still emptiness.

Annie keeps holding Armin until his shoulders relax and his breathing levels out. He backs up; the darkness is thick but she can still see the obscure shine from tears.

"We need to get you out of here," Armin stands up and parts the clothes in front of them, "If that's the distress call, we may have an opening to escape."

Annie squints at him, wondering if he's truly recovered quickly or is avoiding her scrutiny, "I told you to worry about you not me. You're the one with a military belt still on." Armin makes a surprised noise and works quick to get his belt off. Annie's second-long chuckle is faint but enough for his flush to be seen even in the faint light. She steps out of their hiding spot and steps out into the bedroom, "Come on, let's get you to the gates."

They exit through the same way they came in and make a break for the connected alleyways. The air is thick and ashy—hard to breathe in—and it's hot. The worst of the flames are blocks away but even while far away, Annie's skin sizzles from the spreading heat infecting the rooftops. Almost everywhere they run, wood crackles as orange-yellow whips clash on wooden roofs, swing back and forth, side to side like some fine dance of swordplay and the flames stretch farther, reach higher until the fiery neighborhood they run from leaves nearly half of the industrious sector in blazes.

They get past a couple of blocks and enter the neighborhood of the Garrison's military housing. A firm press of Armin's hand against Annie's shoulder has her pulling back and slowing down. They move to hide behind garbage piles. In front of them, a heavy-set, bandana-wearing man lugs a large suitcase out of a damaged home with a young man — his son or companion maybe? The younger man flinches in alarm, reaches for the rifle on his back but the middle of his face is drilled through by a bullet first. The body collapses and the large man shouts, spins around; loud bangs follow and the man spasms from each bullet drilled into his knees then neck. The large man falls back and Annie and Armin watch as three other men with the same bandana run up and take the suitcase, gauge their surroundings with their gun's muzzle and knife's razor edge.

"They're turning on each other…" Armin murmurs next to her.

"The opportunists are," Annie corrects him, "But where did the rest go?" Her head swivels around, takes in the atmosphere. She grows more nervous, "This is bad, Armin. Our superiors are going to ask us about this—where we were, how this happened," her breathing catches in her throat. "Will you…?"

Armin's face is pained and his smile is weak, but somehow, his sunny reassurance remains, "Even if I wanted to tell them about us, Annie, the fact remains the same: I lied to everyone, twice. That's not a very good look for me, especially starting out in the Corp. There's a lot of confusion and chaos to use and if that's what I have to do..." he pauses then sighs, "Then that's what I have to do."

Annie looks at him solemnly before nodding. For the millionth time, she wishes Armin found someone else to have this fling with—he'd be happier…she thinks. When the men leave with their spoils, she glances around the corner. The street is clear of anyone alive but there is enough left over for her breathing to shudder.

On the steps of a home with a broken door lies a woman, her throat opened and the curled body of a lifeless toddler within her arms. She isn't the only one. Alongside bodies of mask-wearing rioters, men, women, and teenagers lie gored and gutted next to them. The words Liars and Thieves are painted on the street floor and walls and Annie is nervous if the paint is truly red…or if it's from someone else. There's a smell too, of cooking flesh and spilled blood—she would vomit if she allowed herself too.

Annie twists around, steels herself. She faces Armin, "Run at the same time I do."

Armin gives her a puzzled look, "Why?"

"Just do it," Annie motions him to her side so her body blocks the worst of the slaughter leftover in the streets, "We'll dodge a chance of us being separated..."

His glance up to her implies he doesn't believe her—Annie knows it—but he follows what she says. With Annie using her body as a barrier against the violence, the two crouch-run across the street and into the next alleyway. Enough of the rioters have dispersed, allowing them to run three more blocks through blood-spilled streets. Then they hear gasping. They skid on the street from stopping and dart behind a wide crate. Annie peaks around the corner and Armin does the same on his side.

Teetering like a drunk down the street is the goateed man Armin recognized earlier. His side is cut up badly and blood dribbles down his chin. He collapses and groans, rolls onto his belly to drag himself forward. The neigh of horses is heard down the street and Annie realizes that if they're near the stables, they've almost made it to Trost's main gates. The stable gates open and horses are brought out...but Annie's brows furrow: these aren't men of the military.

"Lookie what we got here," a man with an obnoxious cackle points out.

More men exit with horses until a man in a trench coat and fedora exits last. A bandanna mask which is similar to the rioters covers his mouth and nose but the focused blue in his exposed eye is piercing. He walks over, stops in front of the soldier who drags himself and as the others gather around this man, it's made clear to Annie: this man is the leader.

An explosion in the distance jars the injured soldier and Annie and Armin. With great pain, he looks back to where they can't see. His eyes enlarge and the leader follows the soldier's sight. The well-dressed man snorts, "It's a pitiful display, isn't it?" his voice is low but smooth, "To be so desperate for justice, you'd accept any story so long as you're given food, a job, and a body to pin the blame." The man's lone blue eye rolls over to the soldier, "Thankfully for us, you military folk are too easy a scapegoat."

"Mercy...please," the goateed soldier coughs up red dots and strains to lift his head. "We were just following orders. My family..."

"I know. But your orders had you interfering with my distribution - again - and if the business in Trost is lost for me, I'll make it so it is lost for you too." Dark snickers lift the henchmen's chests. The foot of one goon nudges the goateed man's injured side and he shouts in pain. The leader's steely gaze doesn't waver, "It's not dignifying to whine over a wound you could have prevented. All of you lived through one crisis and you still didn't bother to learn or act on your surroundings." the leader crouches down to the whimpering official's eye level, letting lose a deep sigh, "But I'm not you - I won't bore you with any more tedious monologue before I kill you. Admittedly, one of your brats has earned my respect - they had the decency to put my mule to rest rather than leave him out in the woods to rot. I suppose it's only fair I do the same to you even though the citizens are itching to tear you apart. That's mercy…isn't it?"

The soldier's breathing comes in quick and fast, panicking. The leader rises, snaps his fingers, and Annie quickly slips back behind the crate. A shriek, an ear-ringing explosion of gunfire, and a splash on pavement all follow after each other. Cautiously, Annie peaks around the edge again.

Red polka dots decorate the henchman's clothes but their leader has backed up, ensuring the cleanliness of his trench coat. He adjusts his face-mask, the skin around his eyes scrunching out of apparent disgust, "Get the horses ready. There's more than enough distortion for the police to lose the scent on us now and it's only a matter of time before more troops are sent in," The leader turns toward an ear-pierced man with messy brown hair and a black bandanna over his mouth, "Now that we've settled things here, let's resume our tour of Stohess, Lou. Our mole in the MP has corroborated your claim that selling our product there is more lucrative than it ever was here. I'd also like to observe how tight of a grip that gentleman has on his territory."

"Gentleman," The man named Lou repeats with a cackle, "Ya sure got a weird way of talking about the competition, Wald. Not like any other drug lord I ever saw."

"Don't make the mistake of breaking character again," Wald snaps, "We're simple hired thugs now. And it's seen, not saw," The sides of Lou's eyes wrinkle from a blocked frown. Wald presents Lou with his back, "Let's go and hurry up on cleaning up that mess. I gave the man my word."

One group drags the body away as the remaining gang members and Lou follow their leader down the street and around a corner.

Annie sighs out of relief and frustration. Her life has been a cursed mess ever since they came across that farm house and Armin has been dragged in with her. Armin must feel the same way: shock widens his eyes at being mentioned by the drug lord and Annie grows worried.

"Are you alright?"

Armin nods despite being deathly pale, "I-I'll...I'll manage." His shaking hand holding hers grows tighter and Annie winces like she's been stabbed: she hates seeing him like this.

She gently tugs on their clasped hands, "Let's get a horse. It'll make the journey quicker."

They rush into the stables, only to find all the horses have been taken by the departing gang. She and Armin check every inch of the premises just in case; still, they find nothing. Annie's jaw aches from how tight her teeth clench. Every time there's a chance to run, it's taken away. Now there are no horses, it still hurts to breathe, and there's a clopping from what sounds like a horse in the background. She bows her head and, in her mind, Annie screams, "What now?!"

"Armin!" Their heads perk up. Annie and Armin sneak a peek between the wooden bars of the stable windows. Bertolt is outside. His sword is unsheathed but his military gear is also discarded like they had done earlier. He haphazardly inspects his surroundings, "Armin! Are you here?!" He trots in circles, back and forth down the streets and with every passing second, Annie watches as the fire highlights the gloss of Bertolt's eyes. His head falls and his voice becomes choked, "Armin…"

Annie stares at her fellow Warrior, her eyes wide.

This is it. This is Armin's chance.

"What are you waiting for?" she presses him, "Go already."

Armin's nose and mouth twist about his face, "I can't just leave you here. I have to make sure you get to safety too. The gates are—"

"Go." she insists again, though this time, far more sinister-like, "We can't be seen together, remember? I would have to leave you anyway so don't make me kick you out of this stable."

"Annie...no."

"We're arguingabout getting you to safety here. Why are you being so stubborn?"

"Criticize me all you want. I'm not going."

The frustration turning down Annie's lips has Annie kicking herself; her irritation doesn't work on him and Armin has proven that time over time. She takes in a deep breath, calms herself down.

Armin tenses from her hands moving to his shoulders but she pulls him in until his forehead bumps with hers, "You're too smart to dodge this chance," Annie tells him in a softer, hushed tone, "Especially if it's for me. I always know what to do, remember? When else will you be this stupidly lucky on getting out of here?"

Armin struggles visibly; Annie bets he doesn't like his own words being used against him either. Annie could grin and tease him if they weren't so short on time. Armin sighs. He grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her in for one of the tightest hugs he's ever given her. He kisses her hard and she clutches his shoulders, her fingers sinking into them. After they part, Armin reaches into his holster.

"Take this," Armin guides the gun to her and Annie's hand pulls backward, "Annie, please. If I'm going to take this chance, at least take something which I know will keep you safe."

She makes a face, warring with herself. Annie supposes this is a form of exchange for her having convinced him to go.

Armin gives her shoulders one more squeeze before they fall away, "I'll send you another letter to make sure you're safe."

Annie's chuckle is swift, hardly noticeable to most except him, "I'll try not to be so slow this time."

Armin gifts her with his bright smile one more time. Then he runs out, shouts Bertolt's name down the street. Almost immediately, the horseshoe clatter returns to the outside of the stables. Annie observes through the wooden-barred windows; she catches the relief in Bertolt as he yells almost too happily, "Armin!" and stops in front of him. Both of them are so alike in compassion, a prick of warmth touches her chest from Bertolt dismounting, lifting Armin up as he pulls himself into the saddle before Bertolt mounts again and rides off.

It's comforting to know she isn't the only one of her group who is compromised; Reiner is just as guilty as her and now she sees Bertolt too. How they were going to do the rest of what they are tasked to do and keep pushing the guilt and regret into the deepest parts of themselves…

Annie contemplates the gun in her hand for a long moment. She closes her eyes and sighs, walks out into the street.

She hopes she never becomes that desperate.

Armin is relieved to not be running through ash-thick air anymore but it doesn't ease him. As Bertolt's horse escorts them through the city, they pass by an unsettling decorative display of butchery—a torso wearing a jacket of the Garrison hangs over a butcher shop and freshly torn limbs are set on pitchforks along the road in an almost medieval fashion. Mixed in with all these horrors is that smell again, of flesh burned down to marrow and dirty, stray animals who eat what's left of soldiers or civilians—possibly even the rioters themselves.

It takes all of Armin's will to not throw up or pass out.

"I realize now I shouldn't have been so worried," Bertolt yells over the background noise of the church bell and fire. If Armin was correct, he almost sounded cheerful, "I should have guessed earlier that your smarts would make you go to the stables, Armin."

"Ah, that's…" Armin drifts to the black soot staining Bertolt's clothes and the sweat damping the entirety of his hair, "I also could have trapped myself if something went wrong. I was just running since it's all I could do...I just hope you weren't looking too long for me, Bertolt."

Armin is so close, he can hear the faint whipping of Bertolt's hair from his headshake, "Even if I did, it would be worth it to find you. We all came here together. We're leaving together too," Armin's arms around the taller boy's torso notice how he tenses before relaxing, "All of us have been through a lot together. We're not just comrades, Armin…we're friends."

The smaller Scout stares into his fellow soldier's strong shoulder blade. He feels light and just like how Annie being near him does, Bertolt's words soothe him, cancel out the images of murder and fire eating at his brain.

It's nice to remember he's managed to do this—make friends outside his own friendship circle, something he doubted he could ever do on his own.

Armin smiles, "And I'm glad to have a friend like you, Bert."

The main gates of Trost soon come into view. Relief lets Armin sigh as they ride up to the gates until his brows bunch again. The soldiers behind piles of sandbags and large canons rush and draw their guns on them.

"Identify yourselves!" One of them yells. Both he and Bertolt become nervous— neither have their uniforms on. "No identification, eh? You two have balls to approach us after the shit you pulled. Seize them!"

"Knock it off you idiots!" a voice yells. Soldiers nudge to the right and left as someone pushes their way through the crowd. Jean pops into the open. "They're who we were looking for! Put down your guns!"

The Garrison members frown, examine them once more, but reluctantly listen. Jean runs up to them with Reiner, Connie and Sasha not far behind as Bertolt guides the horse past the barricades. Armin smiles, relieved. He dismounts to Reiner approaching him.

"Reiner!" Armin chirps, "Thank goodness. I'm glad you're-"

A large hand grabs Armin's front and yanks him forward until Reiner has him held close. His neck bends down to stare him dead in the eye, "What the hell happened, Armin? You tell me you'll be in one spot the next and then in the other you're gone. You had me and everyone else worried for hours. Where did you run off to?"

Armin's gut dips. He ducks his head out of regret for what he did and what he does now, "Reiner, I'm sorry...the Garrison were stumped on a case and they pulled me in because I was there. There was no time to wait for you since they needed me as soon as possible. I went with them a-and the next thing I knew…" he pauses for both genuine dismay and for enough effect to convince Reiner and the others.

"Well, we found you and that's why we stayed behind," Jean says, "But Reiner, you're one to bitch to Armin. Both of you scared the hell outta us! It took a while to find you too. Where the fuck did you go?!"

"...kind of the same thing really," Reiner grouses, "Hoodlums tried to rob a store when curfew hit. I tried to help too and-" The strongest of their group shakes his head. He releases Armin and massages his forehead with one hand, "Doesn't matter. I'm sorry for grabbing you, Armin. I've been standing here worried for too long and it got to me. I... I thought I failed you when you needed me most."

Misery squirms Armin's lips, "Sorry guys…I really am. I never expected..."

"Stop that already," Jean snaps albeit a tad kinder than his usual orders are, "You're fine."

"Hey…" Sasha says, her voice edged with tension, "That in the distance...is that what I think it is?"

They turn to where Sasha and Connie's attention is and Armin remembers this was the same direction the soldier who was shot had his sights fixed on. The ends of Armin's eyes expand.

The tallest building in town is in blazes –the Garrison headquarters Armin was at hours before. Fire shines through the pristine windows, the well-kept roof crumbles and is scarred black. On the flagpole brandishing the Garrison roses on the tallest column of the building, fire slithers up like a crafty snake, bites its flames into the flag. Armin squints when he spots movement far up on the walls across from the Garrison HQ; he sees soldiers rushing to line cannons and aim it toward the building.

"Haha...guess Armin being dragged into a new task wasn't so unlucky after all, huh?" Connie laughs, nervous and sweat visible on his temples, "If he didn't…the mob would have…" Their friend halts himself, focuses on the floor.

In the darkest of ways, Connie is right—he might not be here if the riot happened earlier—but knowing that doesn't help the ravenous swirl of horror and guilt stirring Armin's gut.

Connie glances at him then to Reiner; his smile is shaky but sincere, "I'm glad we found you two. And I'm glad I followed yours and Jean's lead, Armin. I'm...I'm starting not to regret my decision more. I'd rather fight brainless monsters than have to face...who did that."

Jean murmurs in agreement and Armin nods. Reiner says nothing. A dark shadow eclipses his features and Armin can practically hear the chords in Reiner's neck straining and flexing, "Let's just get out of here already."

As they mount their horses and say farewell to Trost with their backs, they hear cannon fire. If anyone else is as horribly entuned with their surroundings like Armin is, they hear the screams too.

But for the sake his and Annie's secrecy and safety…neither side can know they were used. Armin fights back against the anvil of misery dragging his gut down. He and his horse rush forward.

For those who read the latest chapter...:") :") :") Until next time!