Thoughts of her cousin, out there and alone, plague Mikasa for weeks. She can't imagine what living in the underground city is like, nor the life of a thug, but she can grasp perfectly the manner of which her parents had sat down after her uncle had left. Their heads in their hands, particularly her father, they had conversed privately while she did the afternoon chores that she had neglected. Clearly, the thought of her cousin being a thug in the underground was a treacherous thing, possibly the worst thing to happen in their family.
To even think she had met another family member was hard to believe.
The news of her cousin led to the eventual questions about her father's life, of course.
It had only started with a simple confirmation. Mikasa was finishing drying the meager dishes they owned, Usaka by her side, when the young girl glanced over shyly. Her mother had smiled, thin lips turning up into a twitch of amusement at her daughter's coyness. Then, "Mommy, is Daddy older than Uncle Kenny?"
Usaka stopped, put down the bowl she was cleaning out with soap, and looked down at Mikasa.
"No, sweetie. Daddy is the youngest of his siblings."
She went back to scrubbing a stray particle of stale bread from the bowl. Mikasa pondered her mother's answer for a moment, blinking up through the sunlight pouring into their home from the window. If she turned her head, she could see her father gutting the geese he caught earlier that day, but that wasn't necessarily a pleasant thing to witness.
So she went back to drying the dishes she was handed.
Three days later, Mikasa is checking the bear traps with her father. Her finger had been caught by one of the sharp metal points, something uncommon to happen to her, and Colin is treating the small wound. His deft fingers, though not as delicate as Usaka's, do a job well done, efficient and quick. Mikasa watches him, plainly staring as to catch his attention.
With a chuckle, he finally looks up at her, eyebrows raised.
"Yes, Mikasa?" He asks, already having anticipated one of her childish questions.
"Why don't you and Uncle Kenny get along?"
Colin tenses, sudden, eyes widening and blinking in surprise. His lips part to say nothing, only moving on their own. He looks like one of the fish from the river flowing down the mountain, Mikasa thinks. Her father is certainly doing a spot on impression of a freshly caught trout she helped catch the previous year.
Her father gulps, mouth finally shutting, eyebrows furrowing into something of a grimace.
"Why would you want to know that, sweetheart?" His voice is hoarse, as if he has gone through a coughing fit. Mikasa's lips push out into a little pout.
"Shouldn't brothers be nice to each other?" She asks, eyes wide and confused.
She is only a child. Indulge her, Colin reminds himself.
He sighs, taking his daughter's injured hand in his own. He stares down at it, thinking of how to word his response.
"Sometimes," The man starts, after a moment. "Sometimes, brothers and sisters don't get along like they're supposed to, Mikasa. And that's just the way it is. It's like that for me and your uncle."
"Well, I think that all siblings should get along. No matter if they love each other or not." Mikasa states, yanking her hand from Colin and crossing her arms across her chest. She's always been stubborn, though it barely shows. But she is an Ackerman, after all.
It runs in the family.
Sort of.
(Mikasa often wonders if her cousin is as stubborn as she can be sometimes. At this point, she will distract herself enough afterwards that she forgets the thought entirely.)
Back to the present, though.
Colin runs a hand through his hair, looks away, and glances back to his daughter again.
"Sweetheart, I do love Kenny. You're very right. But sometimes we're hard on each other to show we care, too, I guess." The reality, which Colin aims to hide from his daughter for as long as possible, is that he and his brother have drifted. Drifted apart after so many years of Kenny continuing the family business, of Colin finding a new life and family. The news of their sister's death has only widened the hole between them, contrary to the thought that it might have brought them back together.
And he doesn't plan on sewing that hole back together anytime in the future, either.
He will not let Mikasa be sucked into the cruel world of 'kill or be killed'.
He would rather die.
The day Mikasa meets Eren Yeager is the day her life takes a sharp turn in the other direction.
It starts out as any other day, as her nine year old self sits at their handcrafted table and practices sewing. Usaka sits beside her, humming an old tune left behind by her tribe. A lullaby, if Mikasa recognizes the melody correctly. The soft undertones of her mother's voice are soothing to listen to, relaxing on a calmer day of summer.
It's too hot outside to do any yard work, and it gets so cold at night that there's really no time to do anything besides house chores. For this reason, the family takes the day as a breath of fresh air. Metaphorically, of course.
Mikasa is barely adequate in sewing, far behind the likes of her mother. Her stubbornness makes her unable to give up on the activity, though, despite her utter dislike of it. The skill is useful, if she ever wants her own family in the future. All those beautiful dresses and handsome waistcoats linger in her mind, giving her a goal, igniting a small flame within her that simmers quietly within their small cabin. She wonders if her mother ever imagined making beautiful clothes for her daughters when she was child herself, like Mikasa does.
There's a knock at the door, but it doesn't come as a surprise to any of them. Doctor Yeager was meant to arrive soon, anyway, for their yearly check ups. Mikasa thinks he seems like a nice enough man, gentle when it comes to children, but also very blunt. He has never wavered in his honesty whenever she asked him questions about his job, or if he's been hunting before.
There are some images that don't need to linger in her mind as vividly as Doctor Yeager describes them.
She'll stick to handmade dresses and suits, thank you very much.
Sometimes, the man will talk about his family. He doesn't do it often. Not often enough that Mikasa really knows their names, or what they're like, that's for sure. But she gets curious as to what kind of father this man would make. Would he be like her own father? Does he spoil his son, since that's what Mikasa has gathered his child is, with knowledge and sweets when he can? Does he love his wife unconditionally? These questions have no way of being answered, and all that she can tell so far, in the years since her infant hood when they first met, is that her parents are fond of him. And that's answer enough.
Mikasa's father goes to answer the door, casual, smiling as he grips the handle. Mikasa looks down before he opens it though, only hears him say, "Doctor Yeager, we've been wait-" He cuts off abruptly, but neither Mikasa or Usaka look up yet.
They hear a shaky gasp from the other side of the room, and a large THUD as something heavy falls to the ground. This catches their attentions, and when the mother and daughter duo raise their heads in unison, the sight in front of them burns into their eyelids.
Mikasa's father, on the ground, head sagging against his chest. A small pool of blood is forming around him.
"Nice to see you, Colly," A man, now coming into the house, says, hand casually holding a small object. Mikasa hears her mother take a deep breath.
He's holding a knife.
Covered in blood.
Your father's blood, Mikasa's thoughts supply.
The man turns to them, two others snickering behind him. "Hello. Pardon the intrusion." He says it with such a calm demeanor, such relaxed body language, so sure of how he thinks this is going to turn out.
Briefly, the thought of her uncle flashes through her mind, until one of the other men says, "Stay calm, unless you want me to split your skull with this."
Then, before she knows it, her mother is out of her chair, screaming.
Screaming.
The woman attacks the larger man, the one with the axe, small pair of sewing scissors in her hand. Somehow, she'd managed to grab them without being noticed.
"Crazy bitch!"
He grabs her wrists, preventing her from moving any further, from achieving her goal of revenge. She keeps screaming, eyes manic, alight with a burning protective nature.
"Mikasa! Run!"
Mikasa can't run. She can't move. Her feet are stuck to the wooden paneling beneath her, sheer shock taking over her body. She's managed to stand with her mother's bold actions, but that's as far as she can go.
She won't abandon her family.
"Mom…?" A croak of a question.
Are you coming with me?
"Hurry, Mikasa!" Usaka is still screeching, screaming at the man with the axe, screaming at her daughter.
A tiny shake of the head. Her eyes are wider than they've ever been.
Where would she even go?
She turns her body, looks back at Colin. Maybe…?
"But…Dad?"
No, he wouldn't be able to protect them now. The thought makes her eyes water, her throat close up.
She looks back at the struggle happening before her.
Just in time.
With a snarl, the offending attacker loses his patience. "Dammit! Enough already!"
The axe comes down.
Down onto her mother.
It sinks into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, the sound of the sharp tool cutting bone echoing throughout the room. There's blood. So much blood. Her mother's hand flies up to the wound, hand dropping the meager weapon that she was wielding.
As Usaka falls, first to her knees, and then to her side, she reaches a hand out towards her daughter. Her eyes, those shining mercury colored jewels, alight with joy only a few moments ago, are pleading as she catches one last look of Mikasa.
Then, she's gone.
Her eyes are open as she lays there, unmoving, blood pooling quickly around her. Those orbs are dull, void of life. Her clothes soak the blood up, turning her beautiful, handmade skirt a dark crimson.
Distantly, Mikasa hears the men arguing. She tunes them out.
"What are you doing?! I told you, only kill the man!"
"But that bitch-"
"Screw your excuses!"
Mikasa's mouth hangs open, eyes unblinking, even as the man with the axe comes towards her. She doesn't move, as she is petrified.
"Take the brat and run!"
The man sighs, footsteps heavy on the wooden floor.
"You'd better behave yourself."
Mikasa has no choice. It's not like she can even respond properly, the effects of trauma taking over her body. All thoughts of her uncle are gone, her cousin not even a glint on the horizon, as she stares down at her parents' dead bodies.
"Otherwise you'll get more of this!"
She doesn't react when he grabs the front of her dress, pulling hard on the fabric as to lift her off her heels.
Mikasa barely even reacts when the hit comes, not a sound escaping her.
She blacks out, the devoid mirrors of her mother's eyes the last thing she sees.
Eren doesn't say anything when his father opens the Ackerman's front door, after receiving no response. The joints creak sullenly, as if expressing his full mood today.
Somehow, his father had gotten the idea into his thick head that Eren needed more friends. Yes, surely I need more people around to judge me for my odd abilities. This was the solution. The Ackermans have a daughter, Mikasa, his father had said before they left, right around his age. The unneeded image of her birth, one month before his own, is engrained into his mind, after incidentally touching his father on the way up the mountain.
His hands curl into fists when he witnesses the aftermath of what must have surely been a gruesome attack. He can feel his eyebrow twitching, stomach curling with anger, while Grisha checks the bodies. The woman's shoulder is practically split in half, her back to the door, so he can't see her face, but blood is still oozing from her wound sluggishly. The man, Mikasa's father, has obviously been stabbed, as apparent by the deep blotch that permeates the middle of his brown vest.
"Eren," Grisha turns, after confirming that the bodies are really all they turn out to be. Dead. "Have you seen the girl?"
Eren shakes his head. No, he hasn't, and it bothers him more than the fact that her parents are lying butchered before them. A seed of resolve plants itself in the pit of his stomach, and he moves towards the bodies. His father doesn't stop him.
Bending down, he reaches towards the man's neck, trying not to think about the puddle of blood currently soaking the undersides of his shoes. His hesitation almost makes him pull back, looking at the pale, bloodless skin before him. He doesn't know what he'd do if he accidentally witnessed another memory besides the one of his death. Something irrational, he supposes.
Biting his lip, he touches a finger tip to the point where the man's pulse had once been, and inhales sharply.
The scene plays out before him.
Washing dishes, watching his wife and daughter practice their sewing skills, eyes focused on their work. A knock on the door, not too hard, light enough that it doesn't startle the family. Footsteps, as his point of view shifts to it opening, and darkness, as if he already knows who it is, does not even have to look. "Doctor Yeager, we've been wait-" The voice, so joyful and calming before, cuts off in a strangled gasp, barely audible. Three men before the door, one driving a knife into him. Pain bursts throughout his body, from his abdomen, and he falls back, hits the ground hard. His family's faces are shocked, and he hears something, garbling, it mostly is now, but it's probably one of the mens' voices. His wife, her scream, and his daughter's shaky gasp, is the last thing he hears before darkness drowns him in its pool.
Eren pulls back, hands shaking, eyes wide. He didn't get a clear view of who did this, but the fact remains that it wasn't expected in the least. As he looks at the man, Mikasa's father, the one who died and listened to his family's torture, he thinks that there was nothing he could've done. There was nothing left of him if Eren couldn't gain his revenge, find his missing daughter.
The thing is, even when viewing one memory at a time, others tend to bleed through. Another drawback of his "gift", as his parents like to call it. This man, he had a dark past, one that Eren couldn't understand with only the undertones of other memories.
Curious, he raises a hand to run through the father's hair, ginger and soft beneath his fingers. His mind supplies him with the excuse of wanting to sooth the dead, but there's more to it than that. Each brush of his skin against the scalp grace him with other, smaller, less important memories. Even with the feeling of intruding someone else's life, he can't help but not stop.
An absent father, never there for his child.
A promiscuous mother, sleeping around as she pleases, only stopping when she becomes burdened with child. Memories of a pill being taken, waiting a few days, and then resuming her business.
Three scared children, unattended by their only parent, always being yelled at for mistakes that were never made.
Escape. Escape from a living hell. Only to delve deeper into another.
An older brother, fighting to survive, fingers dipped with human blood.
An older sister, fighting to support them, giving up her body for the money that they need for just one more day.
A grandfather, taking them in, training them.
The family business. Murder. Betrayal. More running. The mountains, rough and jagged beneath bare feet.
Then, peace. A woman, beautiful, as the night sky would be, and in the same situation.
Starting a family, the joy of a firstborn child, watching her grow into a carbon copy of her mother.
His brother, back for a hopeful reuniting, only to be received harshly.
The news of the elder sister, dead, child grown and raised by her brother, alone now in the cruel world. Continuing his life as a thug underground.
Then, the awful recollection of death, and the sinking darkness behind it.
"Eren?" Grisha, now done examining both bodies, stands beside his son.
Eren looks up at him.
His lips are pursed with what is surely a near reprimand at Eren observing Colin Ackerman's memories without permission. His eyes are cold, staring down at the boy crouching before him, then at his deceased patient and friend.
It never fails to irk Eren how his father doesn't seem to give a damn.
Legs wobbly, he stands from beside Colin, weak with the newly gained memories. Even though he had only sat down less than two minutes ago.
"What did you find?" The words are sharp, with a little bit of exasperation behind them.
"There were…three men. I couldn't get a good look at them."
Grisha sighs, startling Eren, and moves towards the door, fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose tiredly. He pauses on the threshold, looks back at his son. His expression is pinched with worry lines and a little bit of grief.
"Check Usaka. And Eren," At this he pauses, eyes narrowing. "Don't linger this time." The unspoken You don't need to dig up old wounds stays between them, and then Grisha is leaving, waving behind him with a call of, "I'm going to alert the military police!"
Eren frowns, eyebrows pulled together, and looks towards the much bloodier of the two victims. The woman's dress has soaked up quite a bit of blood, and a couple small flies have already started to gather around the wound, making Eren wrinkle his nose slightly.
He's seen things like this before, but he never seems to get used to the reality of what rotting corpses are actually like.
This time, as he gathers his courage for another scourge, ignoring his father's orders, of course, he walks around to the front of the body. The eyes are wide open still, glossy and unblinking in the face of death. He ignores the urge to walk away, right now, leave this woman alone. She was clearly terrified, surprised when she died, but she also fought. There are marks around her wrists, hand prints. The bruises are there against her pale skin, even in death, yellowish and ugly on such a beautiful woman.
Bending down, Eren does the same as he did with Colin, reaching a hand out, this time with two fingers. His thumb and forefinger touch her eyelids, and he expects a twitch, anything, like he always does when he has to do this type of thing, but she doesn't move. Slowly, and with a grieving heart, he shuts those eyes, dull gray disappearing behind flesh. It's always immensely hard to close a corpse's eyes once open, but this woman's close easily, molding around the eyeball like she's only sleeping.
He sighs, taking in her memories, closing his own eyes. The life of peace that this woman led the last years of her life was surely enviable to some, and even more heart breaking once the cause of her death is pondered upon. It truly is a tragic end. The absorption started when he made contact, and like always, there is no pull of the soul as there would be when Eren touches a living person. It's gone, passed on, yet Eren has no clue if her soul really is at rest. She could be watching him this very moment, and although he never met the woman, Eren finds that she most likely wouldn't mind him doing this.
When he's done, memories of this woman's whole life sucked into his own soul, he wrenches his hand back. Clenches it tightly.
These people didn't deserve to die.
Standing, emerald eyes alight with the raging flames of a forest fire, Eren takes long strides across the room, to where the kitchen utensils most likely would be. Somewhere. They must have one somewhere. He thinks, rummaging beneath the sink hastily, angrily. He cuts his pinky across something sharp, but he barely notices, the sting only driving him forward.
Aha!
Large, gleaming, and freshly sharpened, the cutting board knife rests in his palm. Its weight is easy, light, and comfortable enough in his hand that he wraps his fingers around it tightly, lips curled into an expression of revenge, of hate. His hate fire is burning brightly, his nerves alight with the anticipation, the goal of finding this girl.
And using whatever methods necessary to save her from a living hell.
Screw the Military Police, Eren thinks, making his way towards the door in short, determined strides. Its time somebody was actually saved in time around here.