Folks say that you found someone new
To do the things I used to do for you
Just call my name, I'm not ashamed
I'll come running back to you
Another day in Smith's Landing. Another hour setting himself down in the grand ground his family's been trenching themselves in for decades. Another minute here, where he belongs. Another second carving out a place where kindness and stillness are things that matter, whatever this world that keeps getting bigger and louder might have to say about that. It's what gives Erwin Smith life, and a reason to wake up at 6:30 in the morning, brave the very last of the nightly snowfall, switch on the green-beige open sign in the window of Smith's Lodging, and just be a decent goddamned human being. For what it's worth.
Eld Jinn and Gunter Schultz start thundering away three blocks down; waking up this early, Erwin's used to hearing the periodic whine of their car jacks and the smash of their hammers. For whatever reason, the town's mechanics begin their work at the worst possible time for that kind of work to begin. Sleepless citizens half a mile away had been complaining for months, and one of these days, swears MP Chief Oluo, those banging brigands would be brought to something approaching justice. Usually, Erwin wakes up with half a mind to bring them in himself, but today, there's something in that chilly strike of air, and life feels fine. Ian Dietrich, who runs the schoolhouse, salutes Erwin as he plods through the sidewalk slush, eyes distant in the way a lot of former soldiers' are. Dimo Reeves, supermarket demagogue, does not wave. Instead, he fumes about something, his anger almost seeming to melt the ice beneath his feet as he powerwalks over it. Erwin's never liked him, and ignores him as he scarfs down his breakfast, moves behind the concierge desk, and settles in.
There's a cup waiting for him on his desk, a torn scrap of one of the tourism manuals he'd had Ian print up underneath it. It smells sweet, full of brown liquid. The center of it is clotted, choked with a tincture that suggests it'd recently been a lot hotter than it is now, and the contraction it'd gone through had sucked all of the added substance into its middle. That's odd. He's usually through with his coffee by 8:30 at the latest, he couldn't have left it out yesterday.
A tentative sip.
Much too sweet to be coffee. Tastes like the hot chocolate Nifa serves down at the diner, in fact. Why is she . . . ?
He flips the torn paper over. It's from his section on recreational activities that utilized what natural beauty the Landing had to offer, which Erwin still the proudest of. Bold print advises Try Fishing in Smith's Longing (our state-renowned lake) in the toasty months of April through July. Scrawled over that in a hand so straight and precise it must've taken a half-hour to write it is–
We find the best to drink here. Have some. Be happy. All thanks.
A titan to you,
Miyumi and Albrecht Ackerman
I can take you away from here. He kicks the side of her dresser until the wood caves and snaps, fiber by fiber.
These people don't know their asses from holes in the ground. The house stinks. Stinks of blood. Stinks of bloated corpses, jungle rot, tepid water choked with parasites.
Where I'm from . . . it's the greatest country on the planet. Glass goosebumps in the hallway, little glowing cancers. Clotting through the floorboards, see-through, like the hands of ghosts at the edges of Eren's vision. It's what's left of her lantern, right?
Center of the free world, baby. It's from her country, that slanty-eyed, goat-herding pile of shit that Zachary should've nuked a fourth time back in his war. A hammer turns the shards to dust, sharp dust, a wind of knives making his fingers bleed.
That's why we called it Paradis. The cuts from the flue haven't healed, but he tears at them anyway. Alarm systems blares in Eren's veins as the blood starts to flow again and people crowd in on him, yelling and screaming, rotten eyes and torn faces flecked with asphalt and bullets. Mikasa's gone. There's no reason to keep it together anymore. One glance at the real him and she'd disappeared in the night without even giving him the dignity of letting him know. The fucking whore. Ymir, her absence tears at him. Ungrateful, greedy, stupid bitch. Eren never knew he could miss something this terribly.
He can fucking end it right now. End the visions. Cut down the jungle. The kitchen knife in his hands was her favorite, whether Mikasa was cutting up a steak for him or putting it between her and him when she was backed into a corner. Wouldn't she like it if he put it through his throat right now and finished what she began . . . how could she do this to him?
Smiling things, evil visages with steaming flesh exposed and teeth coming to crush him press Eren into that same corner. He weeps as they approach, their chants overpowering and hollow and shrill yes, do it, do it, do it, do it
"Hello, Military Police present, everything alright in here?" He recognizes the voice, and abruptly the titans are gone, leaving only the shattered, loathsome mess of his own kitchen. The money it would take to replace all of this . . . He stands back up, the pain in his arm searing. Glass crunches under his dress shoes as he makes for the entryway. It's the new guy, Jean's younger partner . . . Marco, that's right. His freckles shine under the porchlight, eyes too gentle for the work he's involved in. People used to tell Eren he looked that way; a face open and welcoming enough for all the world's wonder. Once, he'd believed it.
Once.
"Solid walls, Eren," Marco exclaims, aghast when he see's Eren's dripping arm. "What happened in here? Let me call you an ambulance–" the other man makes to move inside, eyes clearly disturbed when he sees the state of the house over Eren's shoulder, but he wedges himself against the door enough to render it immovable. This is not something he'll leave exposed. Not for them. Not something so . . . unmanly as this. That's what other peoples do. Eldians are made of better stuff, so says the Founder.
"Mikasa left, Marco. We . . . we got in a big fight. Something about her allowance, I don't really remember. I got cut. But she's gone. I woke up this morning and I couldn't find her anywhere." The other man's face goes soft, his eyes still guarded but more . . . understanding. Eren abruptly wants to rip them out.
"Never a good thing when two people are at odds like that," says the master of understatement. "Look, Eren, might be best if we get you some medical attention first. Those lacerations on your arm ain't nothing to scoff at." He shakes his head, doing his best not to grind his teeth into dust.
"No. I know how to fucking dress these. You listen to me, Marco. Go talk to your partner, tell him I need a word with him and I need to file a missing persons' report."
"It's the weekend, Eren–"
"And here I am telling you to, anyway." He draws himself up to his full height, then, close enough to Marco that the younger man can probably smell the tang of blood coming off of him. Gentle features harden again, but Eren can see the fear starting to mount. He's unnerved Marco, let a little bit of that thing inside of him out to play. He might be taller, longer reach and all, but Eren's stockier, more solid. And Marco's as green as the grass outside, as those Scout cloaks, bloody to the touch. It's dark out now. He could make this kid disappear withouth breaking a sweat. "It's my wife."
Marco breaks. Looks away. Nods and vanishes from Eren's porch as though he'd never been there at all. Come to think of it, Eren might've just imagined him. Might've imagined all of it. Even her.
The lawn's blue when he walks out onto it, the chill of the sprinkler-damped grass soothing on his feet. They ache. Thuds of pain arch through his veins from a source he can't pin down. By his own reckoning, he'd spent the afternoon on the kitchen floor amid the wreckage he'd created. It's not like he'd been hiking anywhere. No, that could make your ankles scream like nothing else, and he would know. Treks through emerald underbrush always take something from you by the end.
It's ruined. The grass is all uneven and great clumps of dirt are torn up and out of it from the impact of some of the heavier items. He'd never get it repaired by the morning. Everybody would see, that crusty fuck of a pastor and Mina Wagner and her subhuman husband, Annie and Bert and Kenny and Armin–
Armin's car.
Eren cranes his head over the fence, wheels around its edge and into Armin's front yard. The house is silent; wouldn't he be watching his game shows around this time? Wouldn't his car be here? Eren swears he saw him leave for work this morning, he's certain of–
The pieces fit together.
He screams.