An Eldian's Journal

The Soul of War

Chapter 39: Callous

I had never written anything creative before Falco had asked me to write his story for him. The only things I had ever written before were short-answer assignments for stupid math problems I had to complete during primary school. I shouldn't forget to mention the excellent vocabulary sentences I had to write to show my proficiency in memorizing words, scribbling them down on paper, then forgetting them to learn another batch of words. It's a beautiful cycle of mediocrity.

(Excuse my cynicism in the school system. Trudging through my memories and thinking about that silly story does not offer much positivity.)

Thankfully, a vague outline approached in the distance and unintentionally saved me from hearing more of Falco's idea.

"I think that's my brother." Falco moved a few steps away. "I think I should leave now." He limped away slowly but carefully, and the outline of his brother filled in my vision, and a hand went underneath Falco, supporting him. I watched them float away as the silly story idea spun in my head; why did I promise him to help? I had enough annoyances already.

I got off the planks and walked to the barracks entrance to find a familiar character. No, it was not a rat, but maybe a rat in the figurative sense of a spy: it was the wall-keeper. Like a spider continuously, monotonously spinning its webs to lure a bug in, he fiddled with the bullets in his gun magazine. He loaded it again and again in a circular order with the same ammunition.

The bug he lured in was me, your friendly training-camp writer.

As he got up from the step, he raised a glass container with an ominous golden-brown liquid. "You want some whiskey?" He put his arm back down after I neglected to answer, and he wandered away. His intimidation was potent enough that it manifested in the air, or maybe that was just the less-than-joyous scent of alcohol.

He left a pack of cigarettes on the steps, and I picked it up, thinking I could hand it to him, but he was long gone by the time I noticed.

Oh well, more cigarettes for me.

I wanted stress relief.

But not the addiction.

I opened the door to find the candle flickering for me in the corner of the room as if it was a proud parent ready to give a warm hug. Half of the cadets were conversing among themselves, and Kurt and Viktor had not returned, to my surprise. I went over to my mattress-less bed and sat on one of the metal bars, shifting around to find the most comfortable position.

I pulled out the napkin. I had scribbled some ideas on what to write to my parents in response to their letters. The blue ink formed Viktor and Kaslow's humorous interaction, and I read it a few times, massaging the folds of the paper before unfolding to write some more. I then pulled out the pen Falco forgot to take back from me.

I placed it on the paper, and I must have pushed too hard since I poked a hole through the napkin. What a pity.

The door moaned after the paper ripped. Viktor and Kurt finally had arrived.

Viktor's eyes landed on me, and he threw on his mask of antagonizing again. After my time with the cabbage man, I had noticed that one can only hold a grudge for so long. How did Viktor do it?

He pulled the napkin from my hands and used it to wipe the pasta sauce from his face. He must have read the words on the napkin past the peppering of edible red, for his face cooled partially. He said, "This sounds like something-"

"Something you would say?" I interrupted.

"Yea..." An antagonizing face dripped away into a slight acknowledgment.

"That's because you did say it."

He lowered his arm to his side, and Kurt took over the conversation. "What is that for?"

"I'm writing a letter back to my parents. I want them to know...that I'm ok."

"Hmm…" Viktor mumbled. "None of us are ok. You want to lie to them like you've been hiding stuff from us?"

I disregarded his comment. "That boy told me to write something funny in the letter...so I wrote about your hungover comments."

"Hmph, I'm flattered." He said mockingly. He tossed the napkin back at me, and the pasta sauce got onto my clothing.

I swallowed my anger; I had enough experience to know showing it solves nothing except for dramatics. "I have to ask, Viktor. If you felt the way you did for the past month, why can't you go back to acting all funny again? Why are you acting so rude now?"

He laid on his bed, which actually had a mattress, and responded. "Because it's easier. It's easier to be angry at people."

In that one non-sensical statement, I began seeing a noticeable transformation in my friends. Their personalities were adulterated increment by increment over the month, and I never noticed it until a month in, for I had been so focused on the mysteries of the training camp. I justified my self-centeredness with that excuse.

Yet, thanks to the wonders of self-centeredness, I turned introspective with the crumpled napkin lying in my lap, bleeding. I wondered if I, too, was assaulted by the unkempt hands of the training camp and for how long it would continue with its unsavory ways.

The bully, Milo, interrupted my thoughts. "Huh, you fools better save that anger when you get on the battlefield for real."

I closed my eyes, and the bones of the bed frame failed to comfort me. I was cradled by a skeleton's palm, so much so it reminded me of a skeleton-like man from the internment zone…

When I woke up the following morning, the thoughts that clogged me rested, and I didn't feel their pain for a while. To be exact, probably twenty minutes. After that, with eyes and limbs waking up, the thoughts did too, and I walked out of the barracks already feeling defeated. But of course, the soldier in the sky was waking up victoriously and purposefully, a stark contrast to me.

During the marching session, my mind kept wandering to Falco's idea of the Eldian getting titan-like powers from eating bread. It was bizarre at first, but my mind kept pounding the idea out like a piece of metal until it was uniform and made more sense.

The idea transitioned from a random guy becoming powerful from eating bread to a soldier getting powerful from eating bread. It would cater better to soldiers that way. It changed even further when the idea of eating bread became too comical, so it became a soldier and a unique steroid.

After an infinite number of iterations, the concept ended up being a skinny soldier whose comrades lost faith in him, and he got captured by the mid-east allies. They gave him the titan-serum as a punishment so that he could eat all the Marleyan prisoners they captured. Instead, the man's body went through rapid protein synthesis, and he adopted the strength of numerous men.

When I landed on the final iteration of the idea, a cadet walking next to me while marching asked, "Heinrich, why are you smiling? What's wrong with you?"

"Huh?" I snapped back to reality. "It's nothing."

"Heinrich, why are you happy? Have you finally given up hope and accepted your fate?" asked Kaslow.

"It's nothing."

"Hmm...I know what it is. You were probably fantasizing about some Eldian girl."

***THE SOLUTION TO DESPERATE TIMES***

Fantasizing

Not about females,

But fake people

I kept the idea baking at the back of my mind to tell Falco about it the next time I saw him.

I hoped to tell Falco of the idea during lunchtime, but he wasn't there, and neither were the other warrior candidates. After consuming some rock-like bread, I slipped out of the cafeteria to go to the field he led me to a few days before. I ran until I saw children running with wooden, model guns in a large plain lower than the rest of the ground.

I watched from the top of the slope until someone pecked on my shoulder.

I turned and saw Colt. His blond hair and jaw were extended versions of the miniature ones I grew pretty familiar seeing on Falco. He said, "You are young like me, but you don't have the warrior armband. How is that possible?" He squinted at my face. "Wait, you're the guy my brother was talking to."

"Yes…" That marked an explanation of how I met Falco.

"So wait, you are not a warrior?" He asked at the end of the reasoning.

"I'm a regular soldier."

"How can that be? The minimum age is 17...unless," He got closer and hushed his voice. "Did you forge your documents?"

I backed away. "No. I'm here legally, but I was forced into it." That marked the beginning of another explanation that I grew tired of reiterating.

Colt stood in silence to my explanation. His demeanor was quite different to Falco's. The childishness in his face was being usurped by the nature of time, so there was not that signature smile but instead simple respectfulness. His parents raised him well.

The interaction was interrupted by a flight of half-humans running out of the training field. A panting Falco approached and put his hands on his knees. With a labored breath, he managed to ask, "Heinrich, why are you smiling?"

"What's wrong with smiling?"

"You never do it."

I paused a bit before saying. "I have a better idea for your story."

"Story?" Colt questioned.

"I'll tell you about it later," Falco returned.

We set up a time to meet that night before Falco had to return to some more training, and I went back to mine.

When dinner time came around, and I was eating dinner in the dining room, Falco and Colt came to my table asking if we could leave for a nighttime walk. And of course, there was some drama with the boys before I could do that. "Are you replacing us?" Viktor asked before looking back down at his potatoes. The petty interactions between us three were still unresolved, and I kept stretching it out for too long.

I turned away and walked out with the Grice brothers. The moonlight gladly greeted us.

"What story are you thinking about, Falco?" Colt asked the little soldier boy.

"Umm.." Falco looked away as if a tad embarrassed. "Heinrich and I are going to write a story about a guy that gets the power of a titan from eating bread."

"Oh," Colt replied. "That's nice. You probably shouldn't tell Gabi about it, though."

"Why not?"

"Umm… never mind."

It wasn't pleasant.

It was pretty lame.

"I have an addition to the idea," I told Falco. I then gave him a quick pitch of what I came up with during my monotonous marching. Colt was awkwardly butting in, asking for clarifying why we were doing what we were doing. "Why are you writing this story?"

"To put it in the newspaper."

Falco put his head down a little at the end of the pitch. "Yeah, Heinrich. Your idea sounds better than mine. I guess no one would want to read mine. It's too childish."

"..." I am unashamed to say that I was glad he said it himself, and I didn't have to.

"How would you write it?" Falco asked.

"I'm not sure yet. I guess I will have to find some paper first then use a typewriter. I never used a typewriter before."

Colt pitched something helpful in our conversation for once. "I have access to a typewriter."

I stood still and said. "What?"

"Yea, If I inherit a titan, I would have to write military reports and things like that. So, I need to start practicing now."

"Where is your typewriter? Can I see it?"

"Well, I don't have my own, but I am allowed to use the one in the mailing tent."

"Can we go see it?" I had never been more eager to see a writing tool before then.

"Sure."

We turned around to head towards the mailing tent. The lights yawned and woke up for their night shifts. The military officials' office illuminated slightly, and I even caught a glimpse of the wall-keeper's office. We walked past it all to get to the mail tent.

When we peeked through the tent cover, the man with the southern Marleyan accent sat with his legs propped up on a chair. He must have recognized us, for he asked with an average amount of coldness, "you here to give away more newspapers?"

"No, sir. We are here for the typewriter."

"Why do you need a typewriter?... It's too late for me to care. Do whatever you want." He lifted his newspaper back to his face.

The Grice brothers and I squeezed ourselves in the back portion of the tent, past the boxes where a lonely typewriter sat on a table. The keys were like the bleachers of a stadium; some rows were taller than others, and each button had a letter.

I pressed a key, and a little arm moved and slapped some ink onto the paper. "Whoa."

I sat down on the bench and typed by using my fingers like sticks and choosing one key at a time. I tried writing, "Heinrich likes ice cream," but ice-crem came out instead, and I was surprised to hear I couldn't erase my mistake.

I said somewhat jokingly, "Do you think you can help me with rifle training as well, Colt? You are very helpful."

"Sure."

"Wait, seriously?"

"Yes. I am good with rifles, not handguns, but I am decent enough." He sounded modest; he was definitely Falco's brother.

We toyed around for a while and headed back towards the dining room. After seeing the military officers' offices and having a moment of contemplation, I asked the Grice brothers, "Is it ok if I go in to see the general? Maybe he has paper I could use to write on. Napkins aren't enough."

I walked to the wall-keeper's office and was surprised to see the door cracked slightly open. I gave a knock, but there was no response, so I opened it anyway and found the bottle of cinnamon whiskey sitting on the table like a bad omen.

The wall-keeper was sitting on the ground without his hat on, revealing his slicked-back hair sprouting from a W-like hairline. He was wearing his sunglasses for some reason. A glass was shattered next to him, lying deceased with sprinkles of whiskey. His body was limp like a diseased creature.

He deliberately lifted his hand from his lap and kept it in front of him towards me. "Have you ever noticed my hand shaking like this before, Heinrich?" His voice wobbled awkwardly, lacking stability. "This is what usually happens every time after I beat your people with a baton."

"S-Sir?" I wondered if he was finally telling me the truth.

"Remember when you asked me if I liked my job?"

"Y-Yes, sir."

"Does...this answer your question?"

"..." I didn't know how to answer. "Y-Yes, sir. Yes, it does."

"I can barely get up, you know?" I noticed Mr. Kruger's journal sitting on his table. "Are you going to take advantage of me and take your journal back from me? It's not like I will be able to stop you."

"No, sir." I stood in front of his desk. "I just need some paper and a pen."

"Paper and a pen?"

I took the materials and approached the door with the pathetic comments of the drunk man getting louder. "If you want to kill me, Heinrich, this is your chance! I beat that homeless man, you know! You're leaving? Come on now!"

I closed the door behind me and saw the jaws hanging loosely on the Grice brothers' faces. They lifted their jaws back up in unison and cleared their throats before we continued walking. They stayed silent until we got back to the dining room.

We set up a time to do rifle training for the next day.

The following day arrived, and after I had gotten myself ready for Kaslow's training, he burst through the door and inspected our beds. He approached mine and gave it a thorough look through. And thanks to my luck, he took my belongings, walked outside, and emptied everything out one by one.

He pushed the bag to my chest and said in my ear. "Clean this all up in 15 seconds or no food for the entire day."

"Yes, sarge."

Kaslow had done this to me before that day, but the only difference in the latter times was I understood what the man was trying to accomplish. He was teaching me how to adapt to chaos, and when I was out there embarrassing myself, cleaning up the cigarette materials Lina gave me, my mind was callusing.

Much like how one's fingertips get hardened from pressing the metal strings of a guitar, one's mind gets hardened while strumming against the metal strings of life. That's what the training camp is about. It's an intricate apparatus-like machine that churns out soldiers with a conveyer belt operating on tiredness and angst.

I appreciate one thing among all the things I hate about you, Kaslow. You weren't afraid to teach me chaos through any means necessary, from throwing around my belongings to shooting Milo in the leg. You must be a wonderful puppet to this training camp, as is the wall-keeper to his job.

A Once in a Story Author's Note

Happy first Anniversary, Everyone!

It's kind of bittersweet to know that this will be the only yearly anniversary that this story will be having. I hope you guys will humor me with this author's note and read it till the end. I will give you some much-needed background.

My motivation to start writing anything AOT-related hit me when I was lying on my bed in Dec 2020. My creative writing course at my University was coming to a close, and AOT season 4 was about to begin, so my mind ended up merging the two. My first idea was to write an audience perspective of the declaration of war in Marley. Still, then it became an idea of a one-shot describing a Marleyan child that played as Helos with friends in the streets of Liberio.

I was reading The Book Thief around that time, so the concepts of Nazism and people simply trying to live a regular life despite the catastrophes of WWII shaped my thinking on what I wanted the story concept to be. I then ended up with a 20-chapter story idea with four 10 yr old Eldian OCs that follow closely to well-known tropes (A blank character, an aggressive one, a nerdy one, and a female one that ends up as the aggressive one's love interest).

The setting for this was Liberio, but these kids would be going to school, and it was intended to be a dark humor story. But then, ten chapters in, they would start a revolution thanks to some teacher at school. An imaginary and satirical Hitler from the movie Jojo Rabbit inspired the character of imaginary Ymir.

Everything flew off the rails from that, haha

To be honest, looking back at these months, what I find the most interesting was how fun and light the concept began as and how dark I colored it naturally. I wanted Heinrich to be 14 when writing his journal, but he ended up around 19 instead, much like how old I was when embarking on this adventure.

As a dude in his early 20s now, I am burdened with the habit of trying to find meaning in everything I do, and unfortunately, I couldn't stop from infecting this story with it. I don't regret it since it led to the philosophical-orientated character of Mr. Kruger, and I am genuinely intrigued by what my mind has produced.

After a few chapters, this story stopped being about AOT/SNK for me. I think it has grown to be a workspace where I try to understand the darker concepts of life. What's better than to do that with a young teenager in a world with morals that are as hard to grasp as in AOT?

Thank you for reading this essay, haha. I am holding back some details to avoid spoilers and making this too long, but I will share more after the last chapter.

To you four readers out there, I have grown to accept the extremely low numbers I've been getting since you are guys are honestly enough at this point. It feels very nice and personal here because of it :) (mykasa, if you're still out there. Thanks for being the first one here!)