With the volunteers' generous aid offered to Paradis come some very specific imports that may not necessarily contribute to their survival, but that they consider to be pivotal to Paradis' development.
Onyankopon delivers this one to him personally. A small machine contained within a box that chemically imprints the light onto a strip they can then use to develop pictures that look just like real life, but that are far more detailed than any painting could ever be. Like the picture at the beginning of Grisha's journal. Armin's eyes sparkle at the prospect, and even Eren, in his distant state, seems happy with the development.
As the months pile on and they progress through the winter and the spring, when he isn't working on one of the elaborate Marleyan puzzle toys that he collected from an imported box, Armin uses every bit of free time snapping pictures and capturing the world around him. Simple shots at first, but as he learns to read the negatives, he becomes better at picking interesting angles, estimating which lighting will be most pleasing, and he picks his shots by the time of the day.
Shots of Eren. Shots of the scouts. Shots of the headquarters. Shots of Shiganshina. Shots of the harbour. Shots of the ocean. Shots of the Commander and the Captain. Shots of Onyankopon posing and smiling for him, to which Armin pouts and complains that he's taking away the spontaneity of the moment.
He says that Paradis will soon have its own darkroom to develop his shots in and Armin saves his negatives in a folder for when the day comes.
The other Bertholdt has been more docile. He favours Armin's memories where he travels out to document the world and help others see it the way he does, following behind and asking him why he wants to photograph specifically the element that captivates him at that moment.
One day, after being stuck on the same part of his puzzle for hours and having moved on to something else for a while multiple times without anything to show for it, the other Bertholdt makes a hand gesture at him.
Left, then up and turn around.
Armin decides to try to turn his clockwork of parts the way he described, and when he does, he suddenly sees the wooden parts' shapes in an entirely different way that opens up new possibilities for how to slide them together. Within ten minutes, he composes them into a cube.
The other Bertholdt offered a solution Armin hadn't thought about at all, and it's the first time that Armin maybe doesn't see him as a detriment to his life. Armin solved a problem he could not with his waking memory, all because his subconscious could talk to him and show him the patterns his consciousness wasn't picking up on.
Armin isn't keen on the fact that the other Bertholdt's been appearing in the real world more often, but he can't complain when he offers Armin tips and tricks on how to better solve the puzzles that grow in complexity and develop his problem-solving mind.
He makes use of it. When Armin doesn't try, neither does the other Bertholdt. He needs to give him some basic input to trick him, but he'll never notice if he lets him solve things for him when he tries just a little less than he usually would.
It stays with the puzzles. He doesn't assist Armin during the Survey Corps' meetings and he won't save Armin from his existential questions, only offering vague answers that leave Armin on his own to figure it out. He's reminded that they are still political opponents.
If he learns how to optimise this, he could have just unlocked one of the most powerful parts of his brain at will. It might be the edge he needs.
Armin has been learning more about his predecessor, too. Initially with the purpose to discover information that they could use to save Paradis, but eventually, also to understand why he would want to chase Armin through his memories like this, how he manifests himself in the present. How Armin could put him to rest, on the off chance that the real Bertholdt should be the one to have any say in the other Bertholdt's incarnation.
Maybe it's a trade-off. If Armin gets to see Bertholdt's memories, Bertholdt gets to inhabit and transform Armin's.
It's inevitable that he'll run into something unwanted, maybe even private, and all he'll be able to do is stand by and watch like an unwilling voyeur. Yet when such a thing finally comes, Armin is left frozen to the core, unable to face even the cheap imitation whose real-world counterpart's eyes he just peered through for the next weeks.
Can he forget? Can he pretend that he didn't have to learn something that was obviously never meant for his eyes? Or is that what the other Bertholdt, too, has been waiting for? For Armin to find out?
He wants to know. When they're alone, he leans on the tips of his toes and places a quick peck against the other Bertholdt's lips, more out of an academic curiosity for what will happen than anything else.
It doesn't feel like rejection. The other Bertholdt just freezes, holding Armin steady by the shoulders as he stares at him with shocked eyes, but Armin knows that that is what it is nonetheless. And yet, his lips don't wither. They tingle a little, but it's not out of malice. The other Bertholdt doesn't feel cold and decomposed as he expected, but warm and soft. He doesn't embrace nor attack. He just looks, frozen as Armin was when he found out.
It comes naturally. Armin pushes on his toes again, but the other Bertholdt's grip on his arms does its job and keeps him down as he takes a step back.
"Okay, that's– What are you doing?"
The tone of his voice is careful but shocked. Armin's smile fades.
"Don't you want this?"
"Why do you think that I do?"
It's more inquisitive than judgemental. Still, Armin's palms sweat in anticipation.
"I got the memory," Armin admits. "Four years ago, in the library. I was asleep and you thought it was your only shot to find out. Now I want to find out."
The other Bertholdt blinks a few times at that. Astonishment aside, he is harder to read than usual, and a sudden sense of regret washes over Armin.
"Four years ago…? Armin, such a thing never happened," the other Bertholdt discreetly tries.
"I don't judge, Bertholdt. There's no need to be ashamed. Was it everything you hoped it would be?"
Armin is let go of and he instantly misses the touch. From the looks of it, the other Bertholdt has caught on to what Armin is referencing, and he sighs.
"I can't help you like this," he avoids the question. "I need to know this won't happen again. You're free to say what you want, but when it comes to the physical, I need to know you won't do something like this again."
There's that delayed sting of rejection.
He simply nods, and they don't talk about it again.
Given the time to let it simmer, Armin doesn't regret what he did.
If he'd gotten the go-ahead, he would've repeated it a hundred times. There's something there, something that the real Bertholdt once felt too before he doused it with his cold sense of duty and swallowed down what remained. Armin is so far past leaning into the phantom horror that haunts his senses that he wouldn't even mind giving it a try.
But the other Bertholdt does not agree with him on that. Nothing has changed between them, except that he now keeps a slightly greater amount of physical distance between them to avoid being caught off-guard by another pounce.
Armin regrets it so little that even Eren takes note of his melancholy and uses it as an excuse to further distance himself from him. Armin wants to chase after him, but he feels his grip on his best friend is starting to slip.
They've grown so far apart. Eren's hair is now long, and Armin's short. Eren towers even higher above Armin than he did when they were younger. Eren has meat on his bones while Armin went down in weight despite having grown significantly taller. Eren sulks, and Armin sees hope on his horizon.
Less and less does Armin feel the desire to document the world around him. He sits on his own, aided by the other Bertholdt while he solves his puzzles. Onyankopon handed him an unmarked box containing three mixed tiling puzzles a few days ago, no doubt out of curiosity to see how fast he can figure it out. Armin doesn't feel guilty at all that it gets more of his focus than the talk of diplomatic contact with Marley that does the rounds among the higher ranks.
In reality, he can't quite focus on anything.
What happened stays on his mind. Not just what happened, but what he felt when it happened, and what it implies.
He can say with absolute certainty that the real Bertholdt would have taken this chance for closure. That means that whatever monster resides within his mind is a fabrication of his own design.
But he can't live with that as an answer.
It doesn't make sense.
It's not satisfying.
He looks up. The other Bertholdt smiles back at him, then wordlessly points his index finger and his middle finger at two different pieces.
Armin will have to make do with this.
Onyankopon sends him into a room lit entirely by red light. It's been a while since Armin last held his camera, but he has plenty of negatives that they can develop together. If his shots are any good, maybe his interest will return.
The first photograph comes into focus. With excitement in his heart, Armin takes it in hand and looks at the fruits of his labour. His smile fades and he looks closer, then holds it up in the red light, and finally runs out of the room to see his shot in proper daylight.
He soon enters again, and returns again and again with each photograph he develops.
A shot of Eren. A shot of a group of people he has never seen before in his life. A shot of a large familiar dilapidated brick building. A shot of a wall. Various shots of ponds. A shot of more people he does not recognise. A shot of Onyankopon together with Bertholdt, both striking a pose.
Shots of the other world.
Even parts of it that he has never seen in his life. People who should not inhabit it.
He seeks out Eren as soon as he can.
"It's the cage they keep us in," he deadpans as he goes through them. "Why would you want to photograph these?"
"I didn't," Armin placates when he gets his confirmation that Eren sees the same images as he does. "See, this? This was a shot of Shiganshina, right from atop the wall. I don't know what happened to it."
He taps his finger on the photograph of a barren brick wall.
"You don't see Shiganshina?" Eren asks.
Armin swallows hard. He looks again, but no matter how hard he stares, the outlines don't suddenly shift into the district he has known his whole life.
"I… Oh," Armin breathes out. His lips quiver into a sheepish smile. "I… I was looking at it wrong. I see it the way I shot it now. False alarm."
Eren's eyes linger on him. He doesn't buy it, Armin determines, and he worries more and more for his future. Maybe the Eren he grew up with would go to the ends of the earth for him, but this cold new Eren would not hesitate to tell the others that Armin has finally started seeing things.
"Hey," Eren says. "Bertholdt hasn't been messing with you, has he?"
Armin looks back at him wide-eyed.
"Bertholdt?" he gasps in a feigned surprised tone. "He's been dead for years. What does he have to do with this?"
Eren just stares ahead. Armin knows he's not getting his answer.
He sits in the sand, crumpled over as he shivers and fights his hardest against his tears. He has grown far too old to cry.
Footsteps approach behind him. The other Bertholdt is holding something. In all honesty, Armin just wants to stare at the waves and let them soothe his mind after the other Bertholdt told him saw the same things Armin saw in his photographs, including himself. He needs to be left alone to figure this mess out.
Sniffing, he looks up at the encounter he knows he cannot avoid.
"I have saved this for a moment of intense turmoil. The others tend to find this centres their mind and calms their soul. Since the moment I introduced you to this garden, you have taken a liking to it. But did you know that it's not just there to wade your feet through the sand and as a decorative element?"
Armin hums his question.
The other Bertholdt holds up a wooden tool. A five-toothed rake.
"How about you tend this garden? Flatten the sand with the back, then pull lines in it with the front. You can choose the shape and the patterns of the lines yourself, they just need to be all the same and as neat as you can get them. If you want, you can even fill the garden up with circles or waves."
It sounds better than sulking, but there's just one issue.
"Even if I tried, I don't think I could comb this entire beach within my lifetime."
"Then why don't you see how far an afternoon's work takes you?"
Armin stands, wipes the sand off the seat of his pants, and accepts the rake. Under the other Bertholdt's observant eye, he carves out his plan. The wind will mess with it eventually and the terrain is naturally hilly, so a perfectly-flat beach isn't expected from him. Still, he will give it his best shot.
He decides that he will start at the grassy border and work his way toward the ocean, so he places the blunt side of his rake on the sand, pulls it back evenly, and–
Thud.
Huh.
Blinking a few times, Armin stares at the streaked sand in front of him.
Again, where he already went–
Thud.
This isn't working.
He moves a little to the right and starts to pull his strip.
Thud.
And again.
Thud.
And again, and again, and again.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Again and again.
He stands looking over a completely flattened field of sand, not a grain out of place. Swallowing hard, he looks for other places he has not reached yet, but finds that he only disturbs already-flattened patches. He has nowhere else to go. His grip on the tool tightens.
Maybe he will have better luck with the other side of the rake. Sweating in the hot temperatures, he turns it around and decides that straight lines will give him the fastest results. Again, he is met with a thud at the end of each line, and before long, he stands panting and teary-eyed staring at his work, desperately combing over the sand to find his next undisturbed mound to flatten and scrape his lines into, but he only redoes work he has previously done.
He's done. He has tended the entirety of Paradis' southern beach.
That's impossible. All logic dictates that it is not possible for one man to comb out the entire beach in just an hour. And yet he cannot find any other patches of sand that he has not pulled any lines into.
His chest constricts and he stops breathing. He looks at the border of grass before the sand where the other Bertholdt stands, then down at the beach, and finally at his feet.
Grass.
He drops his rake with a gasp and steps away from it in several brusque backward paces. He can only get by with short breaths; non-existent exhales and ever-deepening shaky inhales that make his eyes black out.
But not before they recognise this sight in front of him.
Grey sand, rectangular and surrounded by black borders with an overgrown red brick backdrop.
It's one of the photographs of the other world he hasn't seen before.
His legs finally give up, but he doesn't hit the ground. He is caught and pulled back to his feet before he can, supported with one arm draped over the shoulder.
"What have you done…?" Armin whispers, and the other Bertholdt continues wherever he may be going.
"Let's sit down before you faint."
"What have you done?" Armin repeats, this time hissing it while his hands frantically crawl over his skin searching for a puncture wound. "What have you done? What have you done!? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?"
Armin only gets gently shushed. He feels wood under his seat, then behind his back, and the weight of the world has shifted as he now sits, held still by the other Bertholdt to keep him from thrashing and panicking.
Eventually, he gives up the fight, and all he can do is sob, first loudly, then softy, until his voice gives out and he can only sit and stare out in front of him at the linear patterns drawn in the sand.
It doesn't make sense.
It just doesn't make sense.
Never before has he stood in a memory of the real world only to realise he had been in the other world all along. Never before has he been unable to even tell the difference until it was forced upon him by a simple inconsistency.
Nothing about this makes sense.
Knelt in front of him, the other Bertholdt hasn't broken eye contact even once in the eternity where they sit there together. Armin hears the waves of the ocean on the horizon, hears the cries of seagulls and tastes salt in the air, but whenever his eyes fall back upon that garden and its lines, upon the four black stone ledges that make up its border, all familiarity with his environment fades and he's back in the other world.
He's at a loss for words. He wants to speak, now more than ever, but he's too overloaded to just condense his thoughts into a single question.
"Are…" he tries, breathes, and he needs to choke back tears as he does. "Are you real!?"
He shouts his question from sheer deteriorated self-control before he feels a mass in his throat that he's just quick enough to swallow down again as he buckles over and wraps his arms tightly over his stomach. For the first time in a year, the other Bertholdt does not move farther away from him to avoid being in close vicinity, but it's the last thing Armin cares about as he awaits his answer with a tensed-up neck.
"Please…" he whines when he doesn't get one. "Just tell me…"
He feels a hand on his knee, unobtrusive.
"What makes you doubt if I am?"
Everything, Armin wants to yell despite the kind tone he is offered amidst his panic. You don't make a lick of sense. You're always there when things go wrong. You're always there.
But he doesn't.
He remains quiet while he wraps his arms tighter around his body and he folds over until his forehead touches his knees. He gets by with short breaths and he lacks the strength to get up again and face his question.
"I can tell you what is real and what is not, but I cannot convince you that what I say is the truth," the other Bertholdt offers. "You will have to trust me for that. And I don't think you quite do yet."
How can Armin?
Up until minutes ago, he was the only thing that was out of place.
"But I am real. And I'd like for you to trust me."
Armin bites his bottom lip.
"And… And what about me?"
"You don't feel real?"
Armin shakes his head against his knees.
"I did. But then… Now… What if I am the anomaly?"
He searches his memories for anything that could indicate such a thing — that would confirm that it is not Bertholdt, but himself who is the timeless entity jumping between memories in a desperate last resort to stay alive. The other Bertholdt isn't always there, but he is when things stop making sense. Does that make Armin the one who is haunting Bertholdt?
How does that even make sense?
"Stop thinking for a moment."
Armin freezes.
"Don't think," the other Bertholdt repeats. "Even if just briefly, try to feel for a change. What do your senses pick up? What can you feel, taste, smell, see, hear?"
Blinking the tears out of his eyes, Armin loosens the pressure on his forehead.
"I can feel… Wood. I'm sitting on something hard and cold and my hand rests on wood."
"What else?"
He wriggles his toes.
"I can feel grass under my feet."
"What else?"
"There's… There's your hand on my leg. And I can feel my arms press into my stomach. And my head on my knees. And… And I'm wearing clothes. A shirt with long sleeves and a pair of long pants but no shoes."
"What else?"
Armin needs a moment to think before he finds something else.
"I can feel the sun. It's shining in my neck and is warming up my back. And I feel hot, but my hands and feet are cold. My… My head hurts and my eyes and cheeks feel swollen."
"What else?"
Armin pulls the skin of his lips loose in strips thinking. What will happen if he fails to answer?
"It doesn't need to be touch. What about sound? Do you hear anything?"
"Your voice," Armin goes for the obvious. "You're talking to me. And I hear myself talking to you."
"What else?"
Armin focuses everything on his ears. The rhythmic back and forth of the ocean isn't there this time, and neither are the seagulls.
"Nothing. Nothing beyond a low rumbling noise. I don't know what that is, but it's constant."
"Do you taste anything?"
"Blood. From my lip. And salt."
"Smell?"
It takes Armin a moment to identify it.
"Fallen leaves."
"What do you see?"
"My pants. Dark where my head body out the light, but they're grey."
"What else?"
This time, it's an invitation. And with his fists balled hard into the textile of his shirt, Armin more than anything wants to stay folded, but his curiosity to see what it is he'll see when he gets up again wins him over.
Tensing his muscles, he takes in a deep breath before he slightly lifts himself up to look ahead.
"I see… you. You're sitting in front of me."
"What do I look like?"
Studying his features, Armin realises that he never quite paid attention to the other Bertholdt's exact appearance. He always recognised him without needing to register all details, but now that he does, he looks out of place.
"You have short dark hair. Green eyes. You have a long build. A shirt. White. And black slacks. Black shoes. Like… Like you did that day in Shiganshina. But you look old. You didn't shave. You slicked back your hair."
"Am I the only thing you see in front of you?"
Armin breathes in deep. He continues to stare at the other Bertholdt before he moves a little more upright and looks beyond him.
This time, he fails to swallow the mass back down and he has to clamp his hand over his mouth to avoid retching as he hunches over again. The bitter bile makes him tear up and it takes him everything to swallow it back and not throw up on his feet.
He is left breathing out groans as his migraine intensifies and not even the summer sun can warm him up from the cold sweat that coats his entire body.
The other Bertholdt stands up and sits down next to him at some point. He's patient, waits for Armin's breathing to get back to normal without the slightest indication that he wants Armin to go elsewhere. Armin doesn't quite know how to escape from this moment, where he will even go when he snaps out of his daze.
"You don't have to open your eyes again."
Armin hums questioningly, more of a whine than anything else.
"If you don't want to look and see," the other Bertholdt reiterates, "then you don't have to. I can guide you back inside by the arm."
For the hundredth time that afternoon, Armin swallows deep. White bolts dance across his eyelids from squeezing them shut for such a long time.
"What if I want to see?"
"That is up to you to decide. I'll stay right by your side throughout."
Delayed, the offer makes him relax them as he lets his neck muscles loosen up. If this is what takes him out, then so be it. He'd rather know the truth and suffer from it than to flee like a coward.
So he tilts his head upwards, gradually, until detail by detail becomes visible. The shiny brown wood of a bench near his thighs. The brown streaks of dead grass framed by green after a dry summer. The black stone border of the garden. The barely-straight lines he has pulled into grey sand. The field that lies beyond it. The large pond framed by reed, ducks bobbing on its near-black waters. The faded red wall of the buildings that surround them, overgrown with ivy and bushes. All framed in shadows as the sun has now long set.
It's all there. The images he photographed.
There's a hand on his shoulder. It's been there all along, he just now notices.
Is that what his problem has been? Has everything been there all along, but he simply failed to pay it any mind?
His breathing steadies. The image does not revert, no matter how hard he tries to imagine the ocean in front of him again. The details are too sharp within his mind.
The other Bertholdt gently squeezes his shoulder to catch his attention.
"You don't need to think about every other moment you can remember. It'd be hard to compare. But doesn't this particular one feel real?"
It does.
That's the insane part. It does.
Even though none of it makes sense, he cannot find any inconsistencies, any dead giveaways, any fallacies that would prove this moment a lie.
It probably means that Armin has finally gone off the deep end and let himself be submerged by the vast unknown that whichever Bertholdt's with him has been luring him into all along.
He whines. He has his hand clamped over his mouth but his throat remains dry. He's tired of the sight; he's seen it all and there's nothing else to find.
"Are you ready to go?" the other Bertholdt asks.
"Where?"
"Inside. Cool you down, get you something to wash the taste away with, and let you get some rest."
Armin cannot object. Anywhere is better than here.
There's one thing Armin learns about himself in the hours that follow: when he doesn't want to hear something, he simply doesn't.
He shuts out anything the other Bertholdt tells him and he doesn't engage in conversation. Eventually, he ends up dressed in a shirt that crosses his arms over his chest and ties their long sleeves behind his back.
"Just for the night," he chooses to hear the other Bertholdt promise. "Just to keep you safe. We'll see each other in the morning."
Then, he is left alone in the dark, and he can no longer use his trick to distinguish his reality.
He wants to wake up, now more than ever, but his mind refuses him sleep. He needs Eren more than he has at any other point in his life, to discuss everything he has learned today and hope that he will understand what Armin's talking about and offer him a clear-cut solution like he always does instead of declaring him insane, but he's not there. He's never there anymore. He's always gone.
His longing shifts when he formulates a question he was too overwhelmed earlier to even think about.
If his reality is not real and Eren can also interact with his fake reality, then is Eren real?
The other Bertholdt. Himself. But not Eren. He forgot to ask about Eren.
He screams until long after his voice has given out.
"Armin."
He jolts. The other Bertholdt is nothing more than a voice.
"Tell me what you feel."
A soft textile surface under his feet and seat. His knees against his chest. Clothes. A long-sleeved shirt and long pants. Light entering the room from his left. Silence. Blood. The other Bertholdt. An unquenchable itch running through his wrists. When he goes to scratch it, he notices something prevents him. His fingers are already holding onto something. A brown ball of sorts.
He gives it a squeeze. Instantly, he feels a wave of calm scoop him up out of his misery, and he squeezes it several times more as he curiously eyes it.
"Armin… Do you know what you are holding?"
The other Bertholdt's voice is much too careful for the question he poses.
It's obviously a leather ball. If squeezing it makes him feel better, then that's probably its purpose. Maybe the other Bertholdt wants him to play a game of sorts with it, but Armin isn't letting go of it again. His now, no take-backsies.
Still, the other Bertholdt leans closer, studying everything about Armin. Armin only collapses in on himself more as the distraction of the ball and its purpose is replaced by uncertainty again.
"This is good. This is really good. It may not look like it, but this is excellent."
Burying his face into his knees, Armin tries to deafen the other Bertholdt's voice.
"Are you ready to try something new?" comes through anyway. "It's uncharted territory, but so was everything of the past few days. I think you're ready."
Maybe he hums. He can't tell, but his vocal cords shift internally in a way that is consistent with a hum.
"I imagine you are juggling a lot of confusing elements right now. It sounds taxing. For today, why don't you try, like when we were outside yesterday, to put everything down and let me show you what I consider to be real?"
His pulse spikes. Beyond everything they told him not to do, beyond everything he could not do no matter what.
"You are a smart man," the other Bertholdt continues. "Brilliant, even. All I ask of you is to entertain the idea. Not to accept it. Someone with your brain power is certainly capable of considering an idea without adopting it as his new truth. Plus, you get to see for yourself if there are any inconsistencies and decide what to make of them. Isn't that better than guessing?"
An appeal to Armin's strengths. His eyesight blacks out from how rapidly his heart is beating.
"Armin. How do you feel?"
Nothing.
Textile. Clothes. A long-sleeved shirt and pants. Hot textile on his left side. He's lying down. He cracks open an eye and several strips on the wall aside, it is dark. He's calm. A creak behind him.
Wait. Is that what he was asked?
His other eye opens too. Light filters into his room and the other Bertholdt stands by his window, looking down at Armin.
"Have you thought about what we discussed yesterday?"
"Headache…" Armin mumbles.
"I have water with me. Take a drink," the other Bertholdt answers. From the sound of it, he's filling a cup.
Armin turns to his back. His hand reaches to the side and he grabs something from next to his headrest. The ball the other Bertholdt gave him yesterday. In this barren room, they let him have this ball. He's glad he does. Like this, he can mitigate some stress from the get-go.
The other Bertholdt looks attentively as Armin lies squeezing the ball with both hands over his chest.
"Why do you care so much about this ball?" Armin asks in a hoarse voice.
"Ah, I'm sorry, Armin. It's just… I've never seen you reflect upon its existence before yesterday."
"I didn't have it before yesterday."
"Ah. Do you remember when I gave this to you, then?"
Armin thinks. He already had it in his hand when he noticed. The other Bertholdt was just as astonished as he is now.
He doesn't grace the other Bertholdt with an answer, but he figures it out anyway.
"You dropped it while we were by the garden. I forgot to retrieve it until after you were asleep. I returned it to you the next day, and only then did you take notice of it instead of just squeezing it."
"That's not true…" Armin hisses.
"If you want, I can show you some photos."
Apparently, he doesn't have a choice as he already sits at a desk looking down at numerous photos. Two group photos with a wide array of people he has never seen before. A third where he sits next to Eren. A posed photo of just him where he looks straight into the camera and several where he's working on a puzzle.
In all except the posed photo, he is holding that ball. He sports deep bags under his eyes and aside from the posed photo and the photo with Eren, he looks off someplace aimlessly. Even in the puzzle photos. Though everyone's clothes look similar, he's one of the only people who wear long sleeves in all of the photos.
He looks how he feels. Worn and disconnected.
"Do you recognise yourself in these?"
He notices his finger is pointing at one of the photos and retracts it, swallowing at the odd situation.
This time, the other Bertholdt awaits his answer instead of carrying on. Armin points himself out in the group shots.
"Can you see what you're holding?"
"How long have I had this?" Armin asks in a monotonous voice.
"Three years. Since your second week. You're rarely seen without it and you strongly resist when someone tries to take it from you. It's why it was so surprising you didn't miss it in the garden."
He squeezes the ball he's apparently already holding a few times, hard. It does redirect the tension from his jaws and shoulders. Now that he has it, now that dread is settling on his shoulders again, he wants to keep it.
"Armin. Do your senses make sense right now?"
Bare feet on the floorboards. Textile. Clothes. Long-sleeved shirt. Long pants. Leather ball. Wet lips. Swollen eyes. Blood. Pain.
He nods.
"Do you remember what I asked you yesterday? What I wanted to do?"
"Show me what you consider to be real…"
"Are you ready today?"
Armin looks down at the photo where he's working on a sliding puzzle, leather ball in the same hand he's turning one of the pieces with while his eyes just stare ahead. Like a dead man propped up and posed to make him seem alive.
His jaw trembles.
"Yes."
Three cups stand in front of him. He points at the middle and it's lifted, revealing a pebble before it's hidden again and the cups get shuffled around. Point, reveal the pebble, hide, shuffle, rinse, repeat. For hours on end. He never misses. Not when the cups stay in place, not when they get shuffled around.
Armin doesn't want to disturb the silence. The other Bertholdt apparently has nothing to say as he puts Armin through this same exercise again and again until they are hours in.
"Has something that doesn't make sense happened?" he asks while he slides around the cups. "The pebble not being where it should be, or similar things?"
"No."
He points at the left cup and the pebble is revealed to be underneath it. This time, the other Bertholdt doesn't put it back.
"Can you take this and hide it somewhere?"
"Where?"
"Anywhere. Somewhere you will remember and where others won't find it. I won't look."
He doesn't. Armin finds a drawer he soundlessly pulls open before he stashes the pebble at the bottom, behind a stack of magazines. No one will look for it there.
He sits on a couch, hands folded over his lap. The others are frantic, scurrying around the room as if it will solve anything.
Now is the worst possible time for something like this to have happened. They are at their most vulnerable, beaten down by the world's refusal to consider the Eldian rights movement's appeal for humanity, and now is when this happens.
How dare Eren run at a moment when they all need him?
What can Armin truly say? He spends an increasing amount of time in the other world, listening to the arguments of a Bertholdt who is sounding more and more legitimate with each passing day and each continued task that fails to expose holes in the fabric of its construction, instead of busying himself with what truly matters. Every day, it matters just a little less.
The plans Armin drafts are violent and destructive. Eren will be violent and destructive, why can't he? There is no way around the blood they need to spill to ensure their own survival anymore. Bertholdt was right.
Not long from now, Eren will unchain a world war. Armin will watch and let him. Like he has his whole life.
The other Bertholdt asks him if he wants to go outside. Armin puts down his charcoal and gets up.
"Can you tell me something?"
They're in the other Bertholdt's office, as Armin has determined the place with the desk is. He recognises the feeling of his fingertips dragging over this particular wood and can link it back to the other times he sat there. In front of him is paper. He has written things on it but he fails to read what.
"What do you want to know?" the other Bertholdt responds.
"What do you think happened?"
"To you?"
Armin nods.
"Just to entertain it. Nothing else."
The other Bertholdt straightens his back, folding his hands over the wooden desk surface.
"There is a lot we don't know," he admits. "For a long time, we didn't even know your name. Those details came later, when you started talking to us. Unless you remember, there are many things I can't tell you."
"Then tell me what you think is real and what's not. The titans… You think they're not real, right?"
"That's right." the other Bertholdt affirms.
"What about the walls?"
"There are walls, but not in the way you talk about. If I can get a permit, we can go look at them."
"And Paradis and Marley? Are those real?"
"They are, but once again, not in the way you perceive them to be."
"Are they not countries?"
"Marley is. The building where we are right now is called Paradis."
The other world is also called Paradis.
He squeezes his stress ball.
"And I'm… I'm an Eldian?"
"Yes."
"Are you a Marleyan?"
"I'm an Eldian too."
Armin frowns.
"How do I know what the ocean looks like if no Eldian has ever seen it the way I did?"
"That's something we don't know. Maybe you have a strong enough imagination for it. Maybe you saw photos. Maybe you've been there when you weren't supposed to."
Maybe his parents took him when they travelled beyond the walls in this version of reality and got caught. Maybe that's why they're out of his life.
"So… the rough details are real, but nothing I have gone through is. That makes my friends also not real."
He needs to swallow after that last conclusion.
"Not per se," the other Bertholdt retorts. "Some of the people you have mentioned do exist. Some have been apprehended, others are wanted. The people are probably real, but the experiences you shared with them are for the greater part a different interpretation than what has really transpired."
Armin bites down on his jaws hard. Those bonds shaped in blood and brotherhood now lie under scrutiny. He never felt the overwhelming relief that Eren was still alive. He never saved Jean's life. He never installed a better government. He never took down the Colossal Titan. He never saw Eren drift farther and farther away from him.
His cheeks are wet. He doesn't remember when he started crying. Now, he can't stop.
The other Bertholdt lets him. With his hands bunched together in front of his forehead and the stress ball under such high tension that it might snap, Armin sits there, silently crying.
Then, he freezes.
Mouth ajar at first, the corners of his lips then curl up into a wobbly smile as he realises the double-edged nature of his blade.
"So… So that means…" he looks up over the ridge of his hands and swallows the slime in his throat down. "That means I never had to kill? I'm innocent in this reality?"
His smile shatters when the other Bertholdt's answer doesn't come immediately.
"No. I'm sorry. You shot a woman when you were younger and your background suggests this isn't the only person whose death you are complicit in. Violence is why you're here."
Too good to be true. Armin looks down and swallows the knot in his throat back down. The other world is imperfect too. It's not just an escapist fantasy, or his guilt refuses to allow him such a thing.
"But there is a bright side," the other Bertholdt says. "At least some of the deaths you feel guilty about aren't your fault or didn't happen. Regardless of how complicit you feel in the apprehension of Erwin, ultimately, his own actions bought him his fate. He recruited you knowing full well what he was doing using teenagers to do his dirty work, and only he carries responsibility for that. And you didn't kill me either, nor will you ever have to."
None of his good exists in this world, but neither does some of his evil.
There is light in the dark.
He didn't spend three years getting to know Bertholdt as trainees. He didn't kill Bertholdt. He didn't see the memories of his childhood laid bare to him to peruse at his convenience and use to get closer to the real Bertholdt and sway the other Bertholdt.
He never even knew who Bertholdt was.
Maybe it's time to see what truly lies beyond that veil.
"Can you tell me what you know?"
This time, he isn't put into that long-sleeved restrictive shirt while he's left alone in his room to think. He appreciates it. It means he gets to abuse that leather ball to his heart's content and let the physical strain of his hand muscles distract him from having to think.
A group of young Eldians that illegally goes beyond the Liberio walls to steal goods, gather intel, and assassinate political targets. Various police raids. Life on the streets. Three years spent in a legal grey zone under the condition that he remains under supervision at all times.
The other Bertholdt thinks that the largest police raid during which their leader was caught and later executed may be the root of Armin's trauma. He escaped the raid with his life. Hundreds of others cannot say the same.
It all sounds like a watered-down version of everything he has gone through.
Like he was used.
He can't poke any holes in this. The people match up. Even the ones that Armin hasn't told the other Bertholdt about. People like Mike, who was killed during a small-scale raid on one of the group's smaller safehouses. Eld, Gunther, Oluo, and Petra, who lost their lives to their own explosives. Sasha, who was shot the day they apprehended Armin.
He still reels from that last one. He failed to ask why he was spared lethal force. Circumstances must have allowed arrest of one, but not the other.
"How do you feel?"
Just his leather ball.
"It's a lot."
"It is. I don't expect you to accept it immediately. But if you want to one day walk out of here, you will need to accept it eventually so that you can begin to heal."
"Why would I want to walk out of here?" Armin deadpans. He digs his nails into his leather ball. "What kind of life would I walk into? The other life I have… Even if it's possibly not real, even if it's horrible, it's so much better than this one. Why would I want to heal if I'm doing perfectly fine?"
"Wouldn't you want to pursue the truth?"
He sees the other Bertholdt. Pity on his face. It angers him, but he does not express it.
"Armin… Listen, I don't know what kind of horrific, unforgivable things you have gone through, what monsters would hurt a helpless child for you to feel the need to construct a world that is far more exciting than this one. You want to prove yourself a hero, and when you do, all will be forgiven, but sadly enough, there is no such shortcut."
Armin just looks down. None of this helps him.
"There is good news, too. All evidence points towards the idea that your judgement was severely compromised and you didn't understand what you were doing when you committed that murder. Your reason to do it truly was to protect Jean from being shot. That means that you cannot be held accountable for what you did. A few more years in here in combination with proof that you have recovered, and you can walk out of here an exonerated man."
"I'll still be a murderer," Armin retorts. "People will still know what I've done. I'll be unwanted. I'll be unemployable. I'll be reviled wherever I go, and I can't go anywhere within these walls where I won't be."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that."
Armin sighs out a groan while the other Bertholdt stands. He sits back down with a collection of folders, the top one of which he places in front of Armin.
Drawings. A whole stack. The charcoal has rubbed off on the cover, but the illustrations still look fairly intact. He remembers making some of these.
A second folder. The photographs that still send terror through his heart for what they represent together with never-developed negatives.
A third. More drawings with here and there a scribbled page of illegible text.
A fourth. A fifth. A sixth. A seventh.
Has he been drawing that much? He has no recollection of most of these.
"What does this change?"
"These are good. If this is what you draw with charcoal, then imagine what you could get done with paint. Where did you learn to draw like this?"
"My friend Jean…"
"And those photographs," the other Bertholdt continues when he senses Armin's disinterest. "You have an eye for detail. You could snap ten shots of the same place and make them all visually distinctive. That's talent."
"What am I with talent?" Armin cuts through his reasoning. "What does that change about anything?"
"What it changes is that you have a skill that you could put to use. Maybe you won't be a hero who carries the fate of his world on his shoulders, true. But you could inspire people. Maybe even thousands. You could become someone's new favourite artist and lift their spirits. You can be meaningful in their lives. You can save people by showing them the beauty of this world. Maybe, if it fits you better, you can make someone feel less alone by portraying its ugliness."
They make eye contact. Armin stares deep, but the other Bertholdt doesn't look any bit less honest under Armin's scrutinising gaze.
"How do I get started? I don't know anything about the world outside of Paradis."
"A memoir may be a good start," the other Bertholdt raises. "Write about the world you grew up in. It sounds captivating. People will want to read what you believed you lived through, and they will feel more sympathy if they understand what hell you've freed yourself from. What you're doing takes courage and strength, and they will see that. There will be support. You can learn how to write so that you can get started."
"I can write."
The other Bertholdt searches through the stack of paper, pulling out a page with writing.
"Can you tell me what you've written here?"
Armin squints and stares. He doesn't answer.
An open book is pushed next to it.
"What about this? What did the author write here?"
These printed letters do form coherent sentences. Armin scrunches his face and looks away with a frown.
"This is nothing to be ashamed of, Armin," the other Bertholdt says while he closes the book again. "You're nothing short of brilliant. When you first arrived here, you wouldn't talk to us for months, and yet you would effortlessly solve every puzzle we gave you, granted you didn't have to note down the answer in letters or numbers. You've shown exceptional understanding of the stories you read, even complex high-brow literature, and you've been able to recall the details picture-perfect months afterwards."
The other Bertholdt's hand rests on Armin's. He looks down on it.
"Don't let one missing skill detract from how much you have already proven yourself a capable man. You can learn."
"It just… doesn't make sense," Armin whispers. "How could I know how to read but not how to write? They're two sides of the same coin…"
"Maybe you thought you had so you didn't notice that you hadn't," the other Bertholdt answers. "With a brain like yours, it's only natural that you would think to get through tough situations. Sometimes, you get so hopelessly lost in thought that nothing you feel registers. What you think has happened ends up overriding what you felt happened. It's no uncommon way of dealing with trauma."
If there was trauma, why can't he remember? What could've happened to him when he was five that would drag him down so deep?
"There is a reason why when you pay full attention to your senses, you end up in this world and not the one that you perceive to be real. Why else would it be like that?"
Armin thinks.
In all the times when he was prompted to check his senses, he went to the other Bertholdt. Even those times when he didn't tell anyone that's what he was doing and he still landed with his feet in the other world.
He can entertain without accepting. But at this point, to just entertain feels wrong. The points the other Bertholdt brings up are not only consistent; they make more sense than the alternative.
Is it time to give in to the darkness?
He looks up. Bertholdt looks back at him. Smiles back at him.
Armin bows his head.
