When he was twenty-seven, she moved out of the dungeon.
It was an event that'd been a little over a year in the making. After the two-week preliminary interrogation, life had very slowly improved, which was understandable if a tad frustrating. First, they stopped mixing drugs into her food. She'd never directly asked, but considering that the food they gave her suddenly did more than simply keep her barely alive, it didn't take a genius to figure out. She'd have hated them if she didn't recognize the same suspicion and paranoia within herself.
Then, they'd taken off her chains so she could move freely around her cell and get some exercise. Once she'd regained some amount of muscle mass and steady mobility, they'd started experiments on her. They weren't severe enough to significantly set back her physical condition now that her regenerative abilities were restored, but apparently they weren't going to just wait for her to get completely better before putting her under the scalpel. While she hated being cut up like a lab rat, she always cooperated to the best of her ability. If she didn't, they wouldn't let her outside afterward.
She hated those outside excursions just as much as she loved them. Since she was often cut up when they'd take her out to the walled courtyard, she could never do more than sit in a chair and feel the breeze ruffling through her hair, or lay in the grass and bask in the warm, dappled sunshine, but it was far more freedom than she'd had in twelve years, so she took it for all it was worth. On days they'd cut her up to ribbons, she'd lay in the sun watching the endless blue sky receive the steam from her wounds and silently curse the walls of the courtyard and the researchers who'd made her so helpless she couldn't even move freely in the limited space they'd given her. They were bribing and blackmailing her with sunlight and fresh air as if they were favored toys or pieces of candy, and it humiliated and angered her. But she'd made her choice and would stick by it, so she just closed her eyes and pretended that she was lazing around in one of her favorite haunts during training. She'd doze lightly to the whisper of the wind in her ear and dream of a less complicated time.
As the experiments began to move slowly out of the repeated dissection phase, they started asking more questions again, quizzing her for information. Most of the questions were biological, but some were anthropological. They didn't trust her to advise them directly based on their reconnaissance, so they'd gather information obliquely to try and puzzle out the enemy's way of thinking. Her jaunts in the sun lengthened, and the amount she'd be injured before being admitted outside lessened as people began to believe she wouldn't try to escape or cause trouble. She walked through the grass, climbed trees, dipped her feet in the small pond, and worked around her shackles to perform limited calisthenics. Paperwork was filed; votes were cast. And now, she was standing in a small room with the man who'd been connected in one way or another to every step of her rehabilitation thus far.
Annie rubbed her wrists a bit after Armin undid the shackles and looked around the sparsely furnished room. It wasn't much. A neatly made twin bed sporting a thin pillow, crisp white sheets, and a dark comforter was situated in one corner of the room; the ends of the bedposts were rounded and sanded smooth. Beside it stood a small circular table with a tiny unlit candle for light resting on top of a smooth metal stand. On the opposite wall, there was a small, oval table with a towel, metal washbasin, and dull pitcher atop it and three narrow shelves for clothes. Every piece of furniture was bolted firmly to the floor.
She noted with a quiet huff that there wasn't a single sharp edge in the room or a way to create one judging from the lack of a mirror and porcelain tools. Not that she was planning to off herself or use a sharp edge to shift, but it was yet another reminder—like the one large window on the sole stone wall at the head of the bed—that she was first and foremost a prisoner. The window was higher than she could reach even by standing on one of the tables, and horizontal bars spanned its width. As far as she could tell at first glance, she could open and close the shutter over it by pulling on a small string and wrapping it around a knob in the wall. She hated the bars, but quite liked the window otherwise, though it would've been nice if it afforded her a view in addition to light and fresh air.
The space wasn't luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, but it was far superior to the holding cell she'd been in underground for the last two and a half years. She could actually let in fresh air and sunshine every day and the room was clean and tidy. Since she wasn't much for frills, the minimalist décor suited her just fine. The only things she could wish for were a mirror and a desk. Maybe a small bookshelf, though the nightstand had enough space to comfortably hold a small stack of books, so it wasn't necessary. After being in that dungeon for so long, the idea of being above ground every day without being shackled and sleeping in a real bed with a real pillow and sheets was almost unreal. Everything considered, she was feeling pretty fortunate.
There was only one thing she absolutely detested about the room: its doors. The room had two doors: one to Mikasa's room and one to Lance Corporal Levi's. Whenever she had to come in or out of the room, she had to go through one of theirs. She understood the precaution. In the event that she shifted or became violent, they were best suited to keep her under control. They were also theoretically supposed to be there to protect her from anyone who'd want to harm her, though quite frankly, they were at or near the top of the list of people who'd be more than happy to see her dead, so she wasn't sure how much use they'd be in that particular capacity. Then again, maybe that was the point. If she never felt safe enough to quite let down her guard, she'd be less likely to rebel. It would also make it easier for one or the other of them to accompany her wherever she went.
"Well, what do you think?" Armin's voice finally broke through her thoughts.
"It's nice." She sat on the bed to test it out. A mattress, a real honest-to-goodness mattress—she squashed the urge to throw herself on it and revel in its softness.
"There's a well out front for water and the bath house isn't far."
She nodded absently, fingering the sheets, secretly relishing how smooth they were compared to the scratchy blankets she'd had in her cell. She looked up when he stopped in front of her and mutely took the stack of clothes he'd offered.
"I think there should be enough clothing there to get you started. You'll get issued some uniforms next week."
She suppressed an eye roll when she realized that aside from the requisite undergarments and some socks, the stack was composed of three white hooded sweatshirts and some pants that would be easy to move in. While it was true she wore hoodies often, did he really think they were all she wore? He hadn't even provided an undershirt for her to slide beneath them.
"Is there anything else you need?"
"Hairbands and something to wear under the hooded sweatshirts," she responded swiftly.
"Alright. Anything else?"
She shook her head. By this time, she'd moved over to the table with the washbasin to see if she could make out her reflection by pouring in some water. She wondered idly what she looked like now—probably a fright. While she'd never considered herself ugly, her prominent nose prevented her from being considered anything but handsome, certainly not exotically or classically beautiful like Mikasa or Krista. Not that she really cared, but considering how long it had been since she'd last seen her face, she was mildly curious.
She stilled when he spoke, her fingers reaching for the pitcher as the light of day began to fade. "I'm hoping you can get a mirror in a month or two. Some of the researchers thought it would be best to observe you for suicidal tendencies before giving you access to glass."
"You've just nullified their study, you know."
He shrugged. "Only because it's meaningless. You're not going to kill yourself."
"You know this." Her tone and expression were studiously impassive.
"You chose life back in that cell. You're not going to throw it away now that the quality has improved." He glanced over at the door to Mikasa's room. "I'm not sure how long you'll have to stay in this particular room, though. It'll take awhile for you to gain everyone's trust, but I'm sure with time, you'll be able to have a normal room."
She ran her fingers thoughtfully over the smooth handle of the pitcher. She doubted people would be so forgiving. The most she expected was that people would maybe come to resent her existence less. At the very least, her two prison guards certainly wouldn't ever forgive her; of that, she was certain.
A soft thump roused her from her thoughts, and she raised an eyebrow when she saw that Armin had put a small stack of papers and oddly-shaped packages on the other end of the table. He smiled gently at her and motioned to the pile. "These are for you. I'll leave now so you can look at them."
She nodded mutely and watched him head to Mikasa's door. He paused once he opened it and turned with a smile. It was the smile he'd wear when he looked at a friend. Despite the strangeness of seeing it on his older face, her heart tightened a little; it was an expression she hadn't seen since their cadet days. "Have a good evening, Annie. See you at breakfast." Then he was gone.
She picked up one of the bulkier objects and warily undid the wrapping. A gasp escaped as the most exquisite trinket box appeared. Its surface was polished silver studded with luminous blue stones, the inside divided into a few small, pale blue silk-lined compartments.
Late into the night, she slowly went through the pile of gifts and letters from the former members of the 104th, the candle burning low. A trinket box from Krista, a smooth wooden bowl of Sasha's favorite assorted snacks, an interesting-looking rock from Eren, an amusing flip comic of Annie beating Eren and Reiner in hand-to-hand combat from Jean, a beautifully whittled flute from Connie that smelled of the forest, a pack of hairbands and a roll of training tape from Mikasa, and a book of inspirational poems and short stories from Armin. Silent tears coursed down her face as she read their words of anger, pain, betrayal, sorrow, hatred, confusion, acceptance, hope, and forgiveness. They now offered their hands to her to take up the mantle together as comrades-in-arms and friends.
As the candle sputtered out, Annie buried her face in her knees, surrounded by the tangible bonds of the friendship and love she never thought would truly be hers. Maybe redemption was possible for even someone like her.
I'm planning to do 5 chapters from Armin's point of view and 5 from Annie's. All of the chapters will start the same: "When he was [some age]," followed by a masculine or feminine pronoun. If the pronoun is masculine, the chapter will be from Armin's point of view, if feminine, Annie's.