Chapter 5: Year 835 | Mitras' Underground - Fifteen Years Ago
"For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?"
- William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing
It is the mark of human beings that they can make the best of—and indeed, even thrive—in otherwise unbearable circumstances. Humanity had done it when they found refuge within the walls, and so too had those who were condemned to life within the Underground. To those who had not spent time there, they imagined the place as a homogenous trash heap where all lived in squalor and destitution. It was what you had thought before coming here, and you'd been surprised to find that this wasn't the case.
Though every part of it stank of sewage and decay, and anyone who'd grown up in Mitras would turn their nose up at what it had to offer, the Underground was a city like any other. In the southeast region, it had a thriving market district with shops and taverns that filled the space between the barracks and the church. It was true that many of these stores were fronts for the black market, where merchants on the surface could barter for illegal goods. There was even a schoolhouse there in a building that had once belonged to the church. Yes, it was small, and it only taught the basics of reading and mathematics—but it was still a schoolhouse. It was this southeastern area where you and the other MPs spent most of your time.
You only ventured into the northern and western regions when you had staircase duty or if you wanted to reach the distant cavers that could only be reached with 3DMG. These areas were where gangs provided whatever law and order existed. Poorer brothels littered this region and on the outermost edges in the darkest corners were the slums. Here the cavern roof came low to the ground, feeding into various sewers that snaked mazelike beneath Mitras. Here the most pitiful of the Underground's residents dwelled and died.
Over the past few years, you had come to know all parts of this city, even the slums, and it was to your own surprise that you found a deep affection for it growing within you. You often wondered if it was a kind of Stockholm Syndrome that caused it; that if you had any chance of being stationed elsewhere you would hate the place as much as all the other MPs that rotated through here. But despite the crime and the filth and the dark, you were always amazed to look around and find human beings still living their lives, still finding ways to laugh and smile and survive. More and more these days you found yourself feeling protective of these people that the rest of humanity had abandoned.
"More tea, Sergeant Smith," a young woman asked you? Glancing up from the book you were reading, you nodded and smiled.
"Yes, thank you Gemma," you said as she refilled your cup. It was a rule in the Underground that one avoided drinking plain water at all costs. Tea, especially strong black tea, covered up the foul taste that most of the water down here carried. Luxuries like sugar and honey were far too precious a commodity to waste on tea. You weren't even sure Gemma could afford them for herself.
"You can call me by my first name you know, we've known each other long enough," you said, sipping the tea. You tried not to wince at how weak it was.
It wasn't her fault. Tealeaves were milked for every last bit of flavor down here before they were thrown out. Gemma always made sure your first cup was from fresh leaves, but even for an MP she couldn't justify using new ones for each pot.
"It's hard to remember when you're wearing that uniform," she replied, nodding to your clothes. "I haven't seen you wear those in here before."
"Ah, yeah, I need them today," you replied, shifting awkwardly in your 3DMG. Strictly speaking, you weren't supposed to be wearing them without authorization, but one thing you'd learned from being an MP was that you could get away with most things just by looking confident and smiling a lot. Besides, Atwood wouldn't reprimand you for something like this; he was wrapped too tightly around your finger.
"Sister Margaret asked me to give this to you," Gemma said, pushing a slip of paper across the table. You picked up the note curiously, wondering what the elderly nun had to say that she couldn't tell you in person. You saw her on a weekly basis at a minimum.
The bell on the door tinkled as it was pushed open, and your eyes quickly snapped to the large blonde figure who walked in. Tucking Sister Margaret's note into your jacket pocket, you stood up. A wide grin lit up your face and you were across the small coffee shop and in his arms within moments. He stumbled a bit at the impact, but quickly wrapped you in a bone crushing embrace. Setting his chin on your head, you could feel his breath ruffle your hair while you burrowed your face into his chest—your efforts impeded by the buckle of his harness that dug into your cheek.
"Have you gotten taller," he asked, rubbing his thumbs in circles on your back.
"It's the boots," you told him, pulling away and grinning up at your big brother. "I missed you."
"Missed you too, princess," Erwin said, setting his large hand on your head and ruffling your hair. Your cheeks warmed a bit at the childhood nickname, and you tried not to pout in response.
"Did you have any trouble getting down here," you asked, gesturing him over to your table. "You used the eastern staircase like I told you, right?"
"Yes, yes," he said, waving off your concern as the pair of you sat down. You'd wanted to meet him at the staircase and escort him in, but he'd insisted that he didn't know when his meeting with the higher ups would be over and not to wait for him.
"Welcome to the Cracked Mug, sir," Gemma asked, sidling up to the table, her eyes moving between you and Erwin curiously.
"Gemma, this is my brother Erwin, Erwin, this is Gemma," you introduced.
"A pleasure to meet you, Gemma," he said politely. Gemma giggled, and hid her smile behind her fingers.
"What can I get you Erwin?"
Erwin opened his mouth to reply, but you cut him off.
"He'll have a beer," you said, and Gemma nodded.
"Is that… appropriate," Erwin asked cautiously, looking meaningfully at your uniform when she left the table.
"You don't want to drink anything nonalcoholic down here. You'll get sick," you told him, sipping your tea. He raised his eyebrows at you.
"You don't seem to have a problem with it," he said.
"I've gotten used to it," you shrugged. It was true. When you'd first come down here, you'd gotten sick all the time. Now your gut could hardly tell the difference. Erwin nodded and then proceeded to stare at you.
"What," you asked when the silence dragged out. Erwin blinked, as if coming out of a deep reminiscence.
"You're just so grown up," he replied.
"Well, I am eighteen," you teased.
"You look just like her," he said, his blue eyes taking on the sheen of nostalgia.
Turning your teacup around in your hands, you looked down at the table. Your mother was a bit of an awkward topic for the two of you. While Erwin took after your father in appearance, you were almost the spitting image of her. She wasn't Erwin's biological mother but had married your father after his mom passed away from an illness. As such, she was the mother who had raised him and the only mother he really remembered. When she'd died giving birth to you, Erwin had been distraught.
As children, Erwin had always kept you at a distance. Whether this was because you were so much younger than him or because he'd blamed you for her death, you never knew. It was only when your father had died when he was fifteen and you were eight that Erwin had stepped into the role of big brother combined with that of a surrogate father. Some days you still wondered if Erwin resented you for her death, but you'd never been able to bring yourself to ask him.
"Thank you, ma'am." He smiled charmingly at Gemma when she set the beer down in front of him.
"Oh, you're quite welcome," she answered, hurrying off, her cheeks flushed. You resisted rolling your eyes. Your brother always had this effect on people despite being completely oblivious to their attraction.
"You're hopeless," you sighed, and he gave you a confused look.
"What do you mean?"
"It's nothing. Tell me how you're doing," you insisted eagerly. "Things must be going well if Commander Shadis brought you with him to Sina."
…
Levi sat on the rooftop, his shirt folded neatly at his side while he sat on a stool and scrubbed at his skin. Ringing the rag out into a separate bucket, he looked at the brownish-grey liquid, his lips curled back in distaste.
"Disgusting," he muttered. Plunging the rag back into a separate bucket of clean water, he returned to furiously scrubbing at his skin until it was red.
filthy, filthy, filthy.
The sensation of grime caked on his skin was beyond aggravating. He could almost feel the dirt and germs and pests crawling over him, trying to find a way to get inside, to make him filthy too. Some days Levi felt like he was drowning in it. While others claimed not to be able to smell the rotten stench of sewage and waste down here, having grown too accustomed to it, he couldn't not smell it. Every time he took a breath the odor oozed its way down his nose and throat and congealed in his lungs. His heart beat faster just thinking about it, panic welling up inside him. Levi scrubbed harder.
"Yer gonna take yer skin off doin' that."
"Mind your own business, hag," he snapped back, as the old woman shuffled her way across the roof and set a clean shirt down beside his dirty one.
"Tch. Such a rude boy," she tutted, completely unphased by his glare that could make a grown man sweat. "And ta think I let ya waste all my water."
Levi breathed forcefully through his nose but didn't respond. Ruthie had been letting him use her rooftop bath—if one could call two buckets and a hand pump a bath—since just after Kenny had left. In return, he provided her with stolen goods and kept the gangs away from her home.
"Yeh bathe more than any person I ever met," she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
"It's all the other filth in this shithole who have it backwards," he snapped. "If they cleaned more, maybe it wouldn't stink like shit all the fucking time."
"Now I know yer mother didn' teach ya to use that language."
"She was too busy dyin' to teach me much of anything," he snapped.
"Hmm," was Ruthie's disapproving response.
"I've got to get out of here," he said before plunging his head into the remaining clean water and dragging his nails through his dark hair.
"You an' er'ryone else, kiddo," she said, when he pulled his head back out of the bucket, icy droplets trailing down his spine, raising goosebumps across his chalky skin. Levi shivered, and dried his hair in a towel before slipping on the clean shirt she had brought him. His heart calmed at the feel of fresh fabric on his clean skin, and he breathed a little easier.
Picking up the buckets, he walked over to the roof's edge and emptied them, not caring whether there was anyone below. He heard the dirty water splash across the muddy ground and grit his teeth together. That was all that was down here—mud and blood and filth and death. He wondered for the millionth time why Kenny had left. Why he hadn't taken Levi with him wherever it was he had gone. Anywhere would be better than here.
He stared out at the semidarkness of the Underground, hating every shitty piece of it when he heard a strange noise—a hissing accompanied by a sudden sharp thud. His eyes were drawn up towards the roof of the cavern which was quite low here, and saw two figures flying through the air. A ringing laugh and sudden breeze ruffled his damp hair, and you were gone as quickly as you'd appeared, soaring through the darkness towards distant caverns. You'd swung within arm's reach of him, but he wasn't sure you'd really seen him. The fresh scent of peppermint and lavender lingered in your wake, cutting through the stench for a brief moment before that too disappeared.
Was this what you had meant by flying?
Levi turned his head to watch you go. Whoever your companion was seemed much more accustomed to the devices you were using, but your movements were still energetic and self-assured. There was a freeness in the way you moved that made up for your lack of grace. Your laughter echoed back to him across the cavern, and he found himself hating you for it. How could you laugh like that in a place like this?
…
Ruthie Callahan sat in her small house, sipping a cup of weak tea. The beverage was really more for the purpose of warming her arthritic hands than to enjoy drinking. She pulled her shawl around her hunched shoulders and tried not to shiver. It was always cold down here. But at least the cave kept the Underground insulated against freezing temperatures. It had been a few weeks since that foul-mouthed boy had come around which was unusual for him. His obsessive need to for cleanliness meant that she usually saw him at least once or twice a week.
It was uncharacteristic for her to worry about anyone—Ruthie was too old and had lived through too many important deaths to get worked up about anyone anymore. But she was curious. He brought a bit of life to the place when he came around. Even if most of that liveliness was in the form of rudeness and cussing.
'Keep an eye on that runt for me, will ya Ruthie?'
'I don' see why yeh can't just take the boy with ya if he means tha' much to ya.'
'Taught him enough ta get by. I ain't meant ta be a father.'
'Don' think that's fer yeh to decide. Yeh just gotta step up to the plate when it's time.'
'Aww, don' gimme that shit old woman. Just say ya will.'
"Darn fool," Ruthie muttered as she reminisced. He'd certainly taught the boy how to spew just as much profanity as he had before running off.
Slowly rising from her chair, Ruthie shuffled to her sink and set her empty mug inside it. She knew the boy would raise hell if he came back and saw the dirty dish but that was just too damn bad. She was getting too old to be bothered about these things anyway.
She was about to head to her bedroom when she was distracted by the sound of scuffling in the alleyway outside. Her joints protesting each step, she moved to her door and cracked it open, looking out at the poorly lit area. She watched the group of men impassively. One was dragging along a young boy by the scruff of his neck who couldn't have been more than ten years old. The boy was kicking and shouting, but the men just laughed. She could see why they were taking him in an instant. The boy had white hair and red eyes—there were some on the surface who'd pay a good price for him.
"Why don' cha let the boy alone," she said despite herself. He looked so scrawny and pathetic. It reminded her of Levi.
"Mind yer own business, ugly crone," one of them spat.
"No need to snap like tha' youngster," she chastised him, her eyes traveling down to the branded "X" on the back of his hand. "Didn' know Axiom had gotten into the trafficking business."
All of the men stiffened at these words.
"Why don' yeh let the kid go an no one'll ever hear 'bout it from me," she suggested.
The men exchanged glances, the one who had spoken sighing and starting towards her, fishing out a length of wire from his pocket.
…
Levi's body ached. He was littered in bruises and cuts. It was part of why he'd stayed away so long. The old bat tended to get fussy if she saw him too hurt. Most of them had healed enough by now that he didn't think she'd shriek at him. The job he'd been hired to do had gone south quickly, though at least he'd received half the payment ahead of time. For now, he just wanted to wash the filth of the accumulated weeks from his body.
"Oi, hag, it's me," he said, rapping his knuckles sharply on the doorframe. He waited impatiently for several seconds, his foot tapping in agitation. She was so fucking slow.
"Oi, old lady, you dead or something," he said louder, slamming his fist on the door.
This time it opened almost immediately, but it wasn't who he expected to see. A sandy-haired MP looked down at him, obvious disapproval on his face. Levi stepped back, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a snarl.
"The hell are you…" he trailed off when his eyes moved past the MP to the sight of a deformed figure crumpled on the floor. A large bloodstain had long since dried, and her body had bloated—dry skin cracked away where gasses had split her open. But even beneath the cloud of flies that were hovering around her ruined throat, Levi knew it was Ruthie. Another MP was facing away from him, crouched over the body.
"You bastards, what did you do to her," Levi shouted, an animalistic rage blooming in his chest. He lunged at the MP in front of him, catching the man around the middle and knocking him back into the room. The pair went down with a crash, and Levi began sinking his fists into every inch of the man he could reach. Someone was shouting at him, but he couldn't—didn't want—to hear. He stopped only at the sound of a rifle being cocked and the feel of cool metal behind his ear.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Callahan, but I can't allow you take out your grief on my subordinate."
Callahan?
As confusion crowded out the anger, he realized he recognized the voice of the person who'd spoken to him. Tilting his head, he looked up at you out of the corner of his eye. You looked at him steadily, your eyes somehow simultaneously unwavering and melancholic. Slowly, Levi released the collar of the MP he'd been pummeling and lifted his hands. You lowered your rifle, watching him carefully while he stood.
As soon as he was on his feet, your eyes snapped to the space behind him, and you stepped forward suddenly. Levi was so surprised by the unexpected movement that he didn't budge, his body only tensing as you stepped in close to him. His senses were abruptly assaulted once again by the scent of peppermint and lavender.
"Take a walk, Davis," you snapped. Levi's deepening confusion was answered when he craned his neck and saw that you had caught your subordinate's fist inches from the side of his head.
"He attacked me," the man protested, his mouth thick with blood.
"Do I look like I give a damn? I said to take a fucking walk," you reiterated, eyes flashing dangerously. The man slammed the door on the way out and you shook your head, looking back at Levi, your face softening.
"I'm sorry about him, Mr. Callahan," you said, looking at the door disapprovingly.
"The fuck are you calling me that," he snapped at you?
"Oh," you said, a slight flush crossing your cheeks. "I'm sorry. Her last name was Callahan, I assumed you—"
"Don't got a last name," Levi said, walking over to Ruthie's corpse and looking down at the old woman. Her rheumy eyes were frozen open in an expression of agonized terror. "She's just… someone I knew."
"My mistake," you said quietly. "Look… Levi… is there somewhere we can talk?"
"I need to clean this shit up," he said, flinching when you set a hand on his shoulder. You retracted your hand quickly as if he'd burned you.
"Don't worry about that right now. I can have Davis take care of—"
"Don't let that pig touch her," Levi snapped, glaring at you dangerously. You held up your hands in a gesture of peace.
"That's fine. Whatever you want. We still need to talk."
"Tch." Levi turned and headed towards the stairs. You trailed behind him, silent as a ghost.
"The fuck are you even here," he asked as the two of you emerged onto the roof. He quickly walked over to the water pump and began filling one of the buckets. "MPs don't give a damn about murders this far out."
"It was the method used that got our attention," you replied, not disputing his point. He at least grudgingly respected that you didn't try to make MPs out to give a damn. Sitting on the stool, he pulled his shirt over his head and plunged it into the bucket, the freezing water numbing his hands.
"What do you mean," he asked, looking at you darkly. You observed him coolly as if to measure how much he could take. Your eyes trailed across his thin frame, noting the dark bruising mottling his torso and the way his ribs pressed against his skin.
"A few weeks ago, Margaret Gideon was murdered, her throat slit open almost to her spine," you answered, your brow furrowing in distaste.
"Margaret Gid—you mean the nun," he asked in surprise, beginning to scrub the filth of the accumulated weeks from his body. You nodded sadly.
"As you might imagine, we're a bit concerned about the appearance of a murderer who slits throats," you said. Levi's brow furrowed in confusion before he realized what you were implying. When he did, he snorted in derision.
"If it's Kenny you're worried about, you shitheads are dumber than you look," he said, ringing his shirt out over the second bucket.
"Why do you say that," you asked?
"Kenny uses a knife," he replied. "That's not what killed the old hag."
"No," you agreed, much to his surprise. "It looked like it came from a wire garrote."
Your eyes met, and Levi nodded.
"Did Ruth have any enemies?"
"Tch. She was just a weak old woman," he answered.
"You can't think of any reason someone would want to kill her?"
"In the Underground? Take your pick," he said derisively. "She saw something she shouldn't have. She was robbed. Someone was looking for a little fun…."
You sighed and rubbed your temples in irritation.
"Can you think of any connection she might have had with Margaret Gideon?"
"Other than being a miserable old woman," he asked, and you gave him a disapproving look. "No."
You fell silent, just watching as he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed his skin.
"You're going to rub your skin raw like that," you said quietly, and his hands stilled for a moment. He could almost hear Ruthie nagging at him.
"Mind your own goddamn business," he snapped, setting his wet shirt down.
"My mistake," you said for the second time, looking away from him as if you'd been witnessing something indecent.
"Tch." Levi clicked his tongue at you, picking up the buckets of filthy water and striding to the edge of the roof. Tossing the water, he listened to a satisfying string of curses waft up to him from Davis who had been pacing the street below.