The Real Author's Note #1

I need to do something long overdue. I need to give some praise.

Thank you CallMeCayde, irosokuyammamoto, ikanisfish, and especially mykasa for commenting on my story. And for Grimlock987, Shin XIX, bobbitoast, iloveass0411, superkoola, Rocket Rover, and b4630074 for following. (I'm not sure if every single one of these people are still reading but there's not much I can do to find out.) There are tons of fics out there with Eren and the other main characters to satisfy your hunger. Yet, you guys keep coming back to this story.

For all you lurkers out there that are still reading, thank you for lurking.

I appreciate that you all are open to something unique, and different.

I don't read fanfics that often. Because of that, I don't typically have the urge to use characters that aren't of my own creation. (Despite Reiner's existence being pivotal to my story, he is more of a 'theme' than an actual character. He will make physical cameos though.) I am aware that it is very difficult to find consistent viewership because of this.

I won't lie, when I skim through to see what other AOT fanfics are out there, I feel upset when I see the sheer number of followers and favorites they have. Although, this makes sense because they use characters that people are already familiar with and they're probably well written, nonetheless. And if writing my story was about numbers I would have stopped a long time ago.

That just makes me appreciate the followers/commenters for this story even more.

Thank you.

An Eldian's Journal

Wartime Shenanigans

Chapter 16: A Predicament and Wordplay

You see, I'm in a predicament now. Not in a predicament during the storyline but rather my life at this moment.

My life writing this journal.

Yesterday, August 17th 854, I visited Viktor's grave. Now, if you're surprised by this comment, it means you aren't reading this journal properly.

It actually reminds me of something. About 12 days into writing this thing (I'm on my 14th day now), I accidentally poured orange juice on some of these pages. Thanks to the wonderful luck I have, the pages it spilled on are the ones where I reveal Viktor's death which will also be the end of this story.

Because of the stickiness, I'm sure a few of you flipped past these pages without noticing that they LITERALLY TASTE GOOD. Anyway, I'm sure the rest of you actually tried to read those pages and I'm thankful for that.

I guess I can consider that chapter a "secret chapter" because of the predicament they went through. It's titled "another damn prologue" and happens before "Chapter 13: Three Flavor of Blood." I'm telling you exactly where it is since it isn't a secret. But I know for some of you fools that found this journal on the ground, it will stay a secret since you all are probably too lazy to go back and look.

I apologize if I sound rude. I just woke up and a rat stole my pen so I'm using a shitty pencil that I stole from a 5-year old that was drawing near the park. (I still steal from 5-year olds.)

What was I saying again? Oh yes, I was sitting by Viktor's "grave". His real body isn't there and it's not an actual grave; I just put a carved stone in a special place after I returned from prison…

(More on that later.)

The predicament I'm having now is whether I should skip directly to the war or stay where we left off with the mid-east allies declaring war.

Hmm.

You know what, I'm just going to drop you all back into where I left you all off. There are many shenanigans I must tell you about. Poetry, fist fighting, portraits, and even another Reiner cameo.

There is more to explore with Viktor before he dies in the pages of this journal. He's more than an early death.

And the street-dweller.
Oh the street-dweller…

Let's hop back in, shall we?

Oct 20th, 850

The declaration of war that occurred the day before did not come as a surprise to anyone. Yet, as you'd expect it still stung a little. The only thing that didn't sting was that school was out for the time being. (I've never really talked about school that much. It's irrelevant.)

Me and Viktor were on Hell Street feeling the sting of catching a baseball without mitts. Why were we playing baseball instead of punching each other? I gave Viktor this reason.

"If I hit your face again, I think I'll get puss on my hands."

Viktor's face was still bruised, and his eyes were still somewhat covered by the rubber mask that were his eyelids. Fortunately, the bruises took mercy on him and retreated ever so slowly.

His response: "You're a pussy."

The real reason why I didn't want to punch was pretty obvious. I didn't want to do anything that reminded me of the smackdown I unintentionally gave him, but he intentionally wanted. He apparently thought that punching was therapy for me.

Alas, I took the dust-hugging baseball I bought before the chase scene in chapter 10 and threw that back and forth with Viktor.

***OUR BASEBALL MITTS***
Cotton Winter Gloves

Unfortunately, the sting Viktor must have felt in his hands probably wasn't enough to satisfy his pseudo-masochistic need to get punched.

While the ball took turns bouncing and arching between devil hands, Viktor had an idea to share. We threw a conversation in the air back and forth along with the ball.

"Heinrich! I have an idea for how we can prevent getting drafted!"

"What is it?"

"Let's beat ourselves up so much that we would be too wounded to fight!"

"That won't work."

"Why not?"

I caught the ball and held it without throwing it back. The sting was sour. "We will just be used as meat shields."

As a reaction, Viktor's lips formed a flat table. No smile; no frown. He then lifted his hand as if he was motioning me to throw him the ball again. We resumed our game of tossing words.

"Heinrich, you know why I didn't show up at the bar during the broadcast?"

"Lina said you didn't want to come because you thought you already knew what was going to happen."

"I lied."

He caught the ball but didn't grimace from the sting he must have felt. "I was outside with the gang. Fred said something about an abandoned building, so we went to check it out…"

"What did you find?" I asked.

He threw the ball back to me. "We managed to find an abandoned boxing ring. I will take you there in the evening. I got chores to do now." He ran back to his home.

Yes.
A boxing ring.

This is where Viktor would shadow-box his demons and imaginary enemies. An imaginary Reiner as well.

Those coins reminded me of my newspaper selling gig because of all the similar flavored coins I would receive from the internment zones' benevolent citizens. It also reminded me of the fact that I hadn't returned to section E ever since you know what happened. It would only be a matter of time until my boss came to my home and harassed me for not selling propaganda like a good Eldian boy.

On my way to the grocery store, I was met with section F's inhabitants. Not the characters I've told you about, but rather fodder citizens that simply exist. If rust could exist on a human face, it would be like what was on their faces: soldered eyes gazing at the ground. Faces are typically malleable, but those faces chose to stay frozen.

As I approached the market store, a weed crossed the corner of my eye. I'm sure you can guess who it is.

***A CROSSWORD PUZZLE***
16 across: a man dressed in poverty

answer: a_s_t_r_e_e_t_d_w_e_l_l_e_r

My response to the street dweller's weediness was simple. I avoided acknowledging him and simply walked into the market. However, as I strolled through it with huddled vegetables and fruit relaxing around me, I couldn't get a thought out of my head.

It was glued there.
Even the threat of a bomb couldn't remove it.

*** A FLASHBACK CONVERSATION***
Your narrator: "Have you ever wondered why people treat you like crap?..."
A few lines and siren sounds later...
A street-dweller: "It's like I told you. I'm already broken. I'm already dead."

His lines laid raw in my brain as I picked items through the market. The droplets of water sleeping on the produce reflected these thoughts back at me.

I know what you're thinking. 'Why does Heinrich keep talking about this grumpy homeless guy? What about the war?'
The man said he was dead.
People don't typically say that about themselves when they're alive.

As I walked out of the market, the wind carried over a labored 'hey' to me. 'Hey, wind?' I thought. I looked around to see who owned that word. Past the rusty devils was an even rustier man on the ground.

It was a 'hey' from the street dweller. He chose to initiate a conversation for once.

"What do you want?" I asked. I hid my groceries behind me.

"Do you have a newspaper?"

"No."

"Well that's too bad, I was thinking that if you helped me solve a crossword puzzle, I would let you play my guitar for 10 minutes."

The street dweller's behavior puzzled me. Why was he acting so approachable suddenly? Did he want my food? I scratched that second question off the list since he never really seemed to care for food, ironically.

But I wanted to play that guitar.

As a refined newspaper salesman, I used to know all the places that people would throw their newspapers away at. The number 1 place: a trash can. I walked to the nearest trash and closed my nose. My hand went diving through the sea of rejected scraps until I reached a bag. Underneath it, I could feel the flattened wood and the day-old propaganda tingling at my fingers. I pulled it out and it was surprisingly dry.

The front page was headlined with "The Mid-east Allied Forces Have Declared War on The Nation of Marley." In a paragraph below, there was a more ominous line: "Conscription and drafting process is being determined". When I saw that line, I instantly flipped to a few pages in. The page with a crossword.

It was almost full except for three lines.

I gave the slightly dirty paper to the even dirtier man. I sat a few feet to the left of him against the wall to evade the chunks of stench.

***THREE MUSKETEERS***
The Street-dweller
Your narrator
The stench filled air that sat between us

He pulled a sharp piece of glass from the inside pocket of his jacket. 'What's he going to use that for?' I thought. He then cut a letter into a square in the crossword. He was using it as a pencil.

I asked him the question that rested in mind, unbaked during my whole grocery adventure. "Why did you say you're dead?"

He completed one line of the crossword. "That's not one of the questions."

"Huh?"

"All of this crossword is done now except for 18 down and 5 across. 'Why did you say you're dead?' isn't a clue."

The approachability of the street-dweller was still jarring to me. But hey, I guess staying outside on the street by yourself with a bomb siren AND zero protection over your head really screws with your mind. It probably also makes you appreciate people, right?

"The clue for 5 across is 'ending for hero…or serpent.' " He slowed down on the word 'hero'.

"Death?" I replied.

"This one is only three letters."

"Age?"

The street-dweller looked up from the paper and across the street. It was almost as if his answer was being stepped on by the people walking across and along the street. He looked back down and spoke. "Maybe it's a word ending."

"A word ending?"

I went through all the endings that I could think of: 'ate', 'ier', 'ion' etc. But apparently, there was one that I was missing…

"-ine." The street-dweller spelled out.

"So heroine? And serpentine?"

(I didn't even know 'serpentine' is a word)

Without taking a break, the street-dweller continued with the last line of the crossword. "Let's do the last one now."

You try to answer this one.
There's more to this world than just titans, afterall.
Take a break and join in on some wordplay.

"The clue for 18 down is 'a musician's asset'."

This is something I am well versed in. My parents used to be musicians and I used to be one as well, but you know that already. I thought the answer would be easy to find, so I said, "Sheet music".

"There's only three spaces." He replied. I was surprised by the lack of bite in his voice. The only thing he 'bit' into was the paper with the glass shard he used as a pencil.

"How about, key?" Key is the group of notes that are used in musical compositions.

"No. There's already an 'a' written in the center space of the line. Blank 'a' Blank."

"Bar." I replied.

"No, I don't think so."

"Fah?"

"No."

"Lah?"

I was listing out random sounds that made the 'doh ray me fah soh lah tee doe' scale. I was the one doing the heavy lifting trying to find the answer, so I asked the street-dweller what he thought.

"What do you think it is?" The stenchy air carried my question over to the street-dweller. It was the middleman of our conversation.

"Ear."

"Ear?"

"The ear is the most important tool with music. Sheet music can tell you only so much."

The answers were written upside down on the newspaper, so the street-dweller flipped the paper to check his answer.

"I'm correct." He said. His skeleton face remained unfractured from emotion. There was no sign of celebration on the drained wrinkles of his face. He then set the newspaper aside. After doing so, he turned his head ever so slowly that one could think his neck joints needed oiling.

"What's your name?" That sentence pried out of his lips.

I just remembered then that we never introduced ourselves through our mutual berating. "Uhh…Heinrich."

"Call me K." He replied.

"K?"

"I want to call your name properly whenever I tell you to get the hell away from me."

He then picked up some gravel that slept in the cracks of the sidewalk. "Now get the hell away from me, H."

"I thought you said I could play your guitar!"

His replied consisted of gravel. His arms struggled with aiming but his intention was clear. I fought the gravel with my words as I got up from the sidewalk with my groceries.

"You're crazy you know that?!"

Before I bolted away, my eyes reached out to his guitar. They latched onto it as velcro, but like all velcro, it can only hold on for so long without being ripped off. When I got home, I laid on my bed piecing together the clues that the street-dweller ('K') had given me. I asked the imaginary Ymir what she thought. She gave the typical useless answer.

Each clue was a crossword line that would intersect and provide some clarity on who he was and how he thought. There were so many lines to fill.

(Sometimes I wish I was a third-person narrator. Those guys know how everyone thinks. They have it so easy.)

Luckily for me, I did find out why he acted so odd that day. It would just take me a few weeks and a scrapbook.

***AN ELDIAN'S CROSSWORD PUZZLE**
The Cabbage Man was 2 down.
The Alpha Perv intersects him with 14 across.
The Iron Maiden intersects The Alpha Perv with 4 down.
Your narrator intersects The Iron Maiden with 20 across
The Two-faced warrior intersects Your narrator with 21 down.
ETC.

Solve the mysteries of one of these lines and maybe you'll find the clue for another.

XXX

That evening, the sun was preparing to arc back into the ground as usual and the autumn chills were beginning their duties for the year. They were on schedule. I was on schedule as well, for I knocked on Viktor's door at the designated time.

After one knock, I was attacked by not just one greeting but two.

"Hi Heinrich."

"Heya Ricky."

The not-Viktor sibling walked out of the door.

"I need to make sure you don't bust my brother's brains out since someone's gotta wash the dishes while I'm making the money." It was hard to read the nuances of her face. It was hard to tell what she thought of the predicament I put myself in a few days before. There was no doubt that Viktor told her the story of me shooting Reiner. She must have hid it all underneath a nicotine buzz.

Viktor walked out of his home with hand wraps in his hands and less serious injuries on his face. The intent to punch something must have been hidden in the wounded dimples of his pasted smile.

As we headed over to the abandoned boxing ring, we caught a glimpse of K. He was laid out on the sidewalk with the guitar sleeping against the wall.

"That guy needs a bath."

In his sleepy state, K snored a few words that slowly morphed into names. I thought of three possibilities for the names.

Three Possibilities:
*Aaron?
*Baron?
*Eren?

Who do you think it was?
I don't want to tell you. Not yet.
There's so much I want to tell you now.
But not yet.

I have to pace myself.

The Real Author's Note #2

References: The song from chapter 14 is called "Hurt". It was popularized by Johnny Cash and is in the movie Logan. The two crossword lines from the conversation in this chapter are from the Washington Post free crosswords.

The next chapters may seem slow for you guys. If you ever feel like the story is losing aim or focus, just keep in mind something. Everything has its purpose whether it be for humor/characterization/misdirection and I have the general plot-points/end-goal in my mind.

I'm technically playing the character of Heinrich, afterall.

He writes the journal from the perspective that he always knows what comes next. That's because I always know what comes next.

This story will get finished.