VI:

Eighteen blades. That would be enough for Morgan, Agnes, Holly, and Shane. The blades were kept inside a lightweight steel scabbard strapped on each side of every soldier, within it six slits for six replaceable blades. Filling their scabbards was a luxury that could no longer be afforded, but eighteen would do. Morgan and Holly always shattered their blades; having replacements certainly wouldn't hurt. Luckily, Shane was a generally smarter fighter, and could preserve his blades much longer. Agnes still refused to fight. Seven for Morgan, seven for Agnes, four for Shane. A fair, reasonable request split amongst the three of them. That would be it: eighteen blades amongst the four of them—of course, sharing would be essential if it came down to it.

"Why eighteen?" Garcia asked. He rested on his arm and grabbed onto the edges of the cup with his fingertips as he took a sip. The hot water ran its way down and filled his body with a warm glow.

Morgan flashed her chip toothed smile. She slouched into her seat.

"They are only a couple of us who fight for your cause. A couple, but enough. I'm sure you understand when I say diplomacy isn't the issue."

Garcia looked at her questionably, but considered the circumstances. How Trost had degenerated. You could be stubborn and die, or accept and adapt. How many times had he told Gant to be careful when going outside? The windows weren't barred for no reason.

"Sure," Garcia paused. "But I didn't think it was like that within the regiments."

Morgan shrugged nonchalantly.

"Trost is Trost."

The candid dismissal of regiment discipline caught him by surprise. He said nothing.

"It isn't a big deal." Morgan replied, catching Garcia's shock. "Orders come and go from one small man to an even smaller one."

Garcia squinted. "What do you mean?"

Morgan leaned back in her seat and rubbed her chin.

"Well," she contemplated how to best answer that question. "It's not like Trost is a place people want to go to anymore. It's a wasteland now, but more than anything, a forgotten wasteland. People have heard about the attack on Trost, sure—but it's no longer a concern. Trost is now a byproduct of a freak accident, y'know? That's how they see it. Everyone's left it for dead, and that's only made it worse for the soldiers."

She paused and took a sip of her tea.

"A lot of the soldiers who're here are recruits who've barely passed their admittance exams, led by those who are here because they've been relocated for God knows what reason," she shrugged. Morgan caught Garcia's wide-eyed stare, and couldn't help but smirk.

"So now you see what I've got to work with," she said wryly.

Garcia had failed to conjure a response. The silence sunk into the conversation.

"So…yes, Mr. Kampfer," Morgan chuckled. "Eighteen blades are enough."

Garcia's fingers slowly ran over his lips before he ended up stroking his stubby chin. It was a habit of his, something he always did that helped him think.

"And what then?" he asked.

Morgan closed her eyes halfheartedly and shrugged. "Life goes on, Mr. Kampfer. Eighteen blades, and we'll take care of your worries. Hell, you'll never have to see me again."

Garcia went silent once more as he kept to himself. To call this a bizarre turn of events was an understatement, but it wasn't nearly as strange to hear from a soldier than it was to hear from a candid soldier. It almost seemed like he was speaking to a friend, or another survivor in Trost. The honesty! He wondered if he was being let in on information or if soldiers truly were this transparent amongst the people.

But now wasn't the time to think about that. What was it going to be? Would he take her word for it? Did the Military Police truly want him arrested? Could this soldier do something about it? Would this soldier do something about it? She had been straightforward—reasonable too, but more importantly, she knew of Trost, the reality of it all, what the district had now turned into.

Eighteen blades…but what was eighteen blades for a problem solved? Besides, this wasn't even the problem he had anticipated.

"When do you need them by?" Garcia asked.

Morgan felt the sharp edges of her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she chewed hesitantly. This was a big call. She had been thinking of how she'd word her request.

"By next week."

Garcia scoffed and leaned back in his seat. His pleasantly surprised impression vanished. Morgan's curt demand was ignorant at best, insulting at worst.

"Impossible," he said.

Morgan had heard of Kampfer's Steel's work, and its ability of forging one hundred and fifty blades in a little over a month and a half. Orders were always completed in a punctual time, and the longevity of each blade spoke for itself. Hardened carbon steel blessed both the smithy and the regiments—it was quick to make and built to last. But according to Garcia, eighteen in seven days was too short of a time.

"Impossible is a strong word, Mr. Kampfer."

Garcia leaned back with crossed arms and eyed her testily. He considered breaking down the entire process for Morgan—from hammering out the tang to sharpening the edges, edges that could only exist after the lengthening of the blade, the lengthening of the blade only possible after the forming of the tip—all steps that required a persist forging and waiting, forging and waiting. Perhaps he had been too quick to give credit.

"Impossible," he repeated. He made sure to sound out every syllable.

The way the words hung in the air was something that even Morgan hadn't been daft enough to test. She sunk back into her seat. It hadn't been worth compromising the progress she had made so far.

"Two weeks."

"Seventeen days," Garcia sniffed.

Morgan smiled. She had heard from others that Kampfer's Steel made promises by the days. It was more specific that way.

"Done."

Morgan dug into her back pocket and took out a small purse of coins, roses of the Garrison Regiment etched into the face of the light brown leather. She placed it on the small round table before Garcia.

His eyes lifted upon catching the pouch out of Morgan's pocket, but he quickly caught himself and regained his composure. The tightened knot of a starved stomach loosened just briefly in reprieve. Once Morgan had released the bag from her grasp, Garcia reached towards the middle of the table and clawed for the purse before weighing it in his palm, a deep jingle of coins the sole response. He undid the bright red knot and peered inside. The gold shimmered in his gaze, and he gave the purse another quick shake. He searched for a more familiar silver or bronze, but only the rich yellow peered back at him from within the pouch.

Garcia looked back at Morgan.

"You've given me too much." It was difficult for Garcia to say those five words with such an even tone.

Morgan brushed the comment away with a small simile and a turn of her cheek. "My gift to you. Think nothing of it. Perhaps this could be the start of something, Mr. Kampfer."

The unfamiliar warmth of a pleasant gesture rushed through Garcia from head to toe. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this way about a stranger, let alone a Garrison officer. This one was different. This one seemed to truly understand what it meant to maintain a connection—a connection of mutual benefit.

"Perhaps," Garcia remained unmoved in his seat.

Morgan flashed a small smile and rose from her seat. "I'll see you in seventeen days, Mr. Kampfer."

His eyes caught Morgan's before she had turned, and he nodded to himself. Seventeen days. It could be done if he melted down the failed blades sprawled in his smithy.

But hearing the clacking of her boots on the stone floor was more relieving than anything. Not only did he manage to make some money, but also manage to remain unsuspecting. His plan hadn't failed him yet.

He heard a pause between the clicking of boots, and then the creaking of the wooden door as Morgan shut it behind her. A silence fell through the smithy once more, and Garcia rested his forehead on his interlocked fingers as he soaked in the rare solitude he hardly ever received nowadays. The smell of charcoal filled the air as the forge in front of him brimmed with smoke.

Morgan felt the brittle dirt crumble underneath her feet as she caught her breath. She stood facing away from the smithy and looked up at the heavy sky. The looming dark grey cotton candy clouds began to nibble at the sun, casting shade and a nice breeze that promised rainfall. Her heart was still pounding, but taking in deep breaths did somewhat calm her down. She had never been a good liar, but she grew more and more into it the longer she survived in Trost. Lies made more sense to her now. They didn't need to be convincing more so than they needed to be reasonable. Fortunately for her, the attack on HQ was something that she could reference to her advantage.

She made sure to watch her step and avoid the thin wire suspending those empty cans cast between the decorate ferns at the front of the entrance. She kept a mental note to herself for the next time she'd come back. Also, the wrapping on the door. Three knocks, a pause, then two more, was it?

Her quivering fingers had finally settled, and with that, she began her walk back to The Bar.

It was funny how Trost worked now; "The Bar," they had called it. Not because that was the name originally given to the place, but because that was the only place left in Trost that served alcohol. Agnes had been the one to tell the rest of them. Morgan felt her lips curl as she replayed the scene in her head. Agnes always lowered her tone when she did everyone the favor of sharing anything about Trost. Morgan had to lean over at times to hear her speak. She could still remember Shane's question, and how he would squint dramatically as he'd ask: how the hell could any place in Trost serve alcohol without being looted?

It was the sincerity in Agnes' response that stuck with Morgan. The Bar was the only place in Trost that functioned as a social setting. Everyone and everywhere else had been wiped out, and those who had the gall to try again got looted that same day. It would be Holly this time around who'd scoff and roll her eyes. Skepticism was her most noticeable trait. How was The Bar any different from other barkeeps in Trost?

To this, Agnes shrugged. That had stuck with Morgan, although she couldn't understand why. It wasn't until much later when she realized that Agnes' response welled a sense of admiration for the barkeep, a sensation she experienced for the first time since she had been in Trost,

Morgan couldn't really say she had admiration for her party. Friendship was one thing, but friendship stemmed from respect, not admiration. Even respect was a loosely used term. If anything, Trost was what brought them together. The first time she'd been assigned to "maintain order" within some godforsaken region in Trost, she had been chucked to a suffering burst of violence in the southeast side of Trost, along with other low level regiment officers like herself. Halfway down the main road towards the southern part of Trost, and Morgan had realized that they hadn't even been assigned a squadron leader. Of course, by that point, it had been too late. The soldiers arrived at a large intersection where daily rations would be provided to citizens, right where the neighborhood's large supermarket had once stood. Except now, rations were no longer provided to those living in that region of Trost. Those who had to strength to riot raised hell in response. Some busied themselves running in and out of homes with bags of rice or loaves of bread tucked underneath their arms. Others pounced on the soldiers with a blinding rage, caving in foreheads with stones in their hands. Others tried to rationalize, pleading with their dirty fingernails clinging onto the leather sleeves, begging and sobbing. A sickly old woman had pleaded to Morgan, the tears leaving streak marks on her dirtied face. She told Morgan that she couldn't bear chewing on tree bark any longer, and revealed her hands, the ends of her fingers severed and crudely stitched together.

Morgan also met Holly and Shane during the riots. It wasn't so much the experience more so the outcome that brought them together. None of them had considered brandishing their blades, yet all of them did so for the first time that day.

They all ended up banding together from moments like that. Moments of desperation. Moments of hopelessness. The taste of desperation stood in stark comparison to the cushy life back home within the Ehrmich District, deep within the innermost wall.

The midday tremor broke her train of thought. Morgan froze for a moment, her body acting on its own, before she reminded herself of the Titan tremble, she had called it. Sometimes, she could hear the collision of bodies on concrete, miles away, and as she walked south back to The Bar, she could see the heavy shuddering of Wall Rose, the concrete enclosing quivering with each agitated slam.

She continued to trot south. The tremors had taken months to get used to, even if her body couldn't naturally adjust to what seemed like a surefire sign of danger. With the grey overcast, the scenario before her seemed like the beginning of the end. Morgan wondered how long Wall Rose would last. The boulder that enclosed the opening bounced upon impact each time, but mercifully kept its place. The great protector of the human race…taking the shape of a stone boulder. How pathetic we are, Morgan scoffed at the thought.

It was a predictably desolate walk. One that could be made on a main street, something Morgan still remained grateful for. But something caught her eye at the end of the intersection. Two figures seemed to be walking her direction. She squinted for a moment, a dull glimmer shimmering off an ax head catching her eye. She could see the sculpted shoulders of this figure, and it immediately caught her on the defensive. Before she realized, her right hand rested upon the hilt of her blade.

But it was the figure in front of the man that made her think twice about the necessity of brandishing her weapon. A short, willowy figure waltzed in front of the towering threat, a carefree panache in his step. His long red hair streamed over the top of his head, the tips of his fingers the only part of his upper body uncloaked by the dirt-ridden poncho resting on his thin shoulders. The figure's hollow cheeks made Morgan wonder just how long it had been since the man—or was it a boy?—had a full meal. Juxtaposing his figure to the burly one beside him, it almost seemed as if malnutrition had stunted his growth…but upon considering that thought, it became clear to her that her question was something that ought to be considered, even she hadn't been comparing figures.

They were just a couple paces away from crossing paths when he had spoken up.

"Oh-ho! Another one! Can you believe it?" the boy remarked, almost like a thought expressed out loud.

Morgan caught the boy's eye. His blood red eyes lifted with a bemused curiosity as he observed Morgan's attire. Morgan had learned that as a soldier in Trost, her status as burdened her at any given chance.

She responded back with a courteous nod, fingering the steely handle of her blade as she did so.

The tall man next to him stared down at Morgan. Morgan had only reached his shoulder. She raised her eyes to greet the man, but his steely gaze remained still. The way his eyes had been shaped caught her by surprise. She hadn't seen eyes like those before, thinning out at the end, sharp slate pupils filling the narrow form. His slicked black grey hair almost gave him a professional look, even with his ragged off-white shirt, smeared with dirt, ripped at the sleeves. He didn't say a word.

It was the axe, choked to its neck that deterred Morgan from speaking. She had no interest in taking chances.

They crossed without another word. Morgan hadn't bothered looking back.

But it seemed like the boy did.

"Not as friendly as the others, this one," the boy had said, his voice trailing over to her direction. She kept her pace, her fingers tight around the butt of her handle.

But nothing else occurred. She continued to march along, the dirt crumbling underneath her feet, and the footsteps subsiding from earshot. She jerked her head slightly, conceding that she had never seen a more odd pair within Trost. She quickly turned to look over her shoulder, and spotted the two trotting along, maintaining their pace, continuing on the main road.

It would be a desolate walk from this point on. She was heading south, north of the bar. Despite being closer to the inner wall, north of the bar remained a wasteland littered with rubble amongst what few homes, separated by the main road. The road cut down the middle, a wide space that once held hosted parades and fresh marketplaces. Now, it was the only viable option to travel from northernmost part of Trost to southernmost edge of Wall Rose.

Morgan marked the plaza in her head as the southernmost part of Trost before reaching utter waste. Beyond that, complete destruction. It was a miracle to even find half standing homes or shelters at that point. But what was to be expected? Trost horseshoed around the southern edge of Wall Rose, and upon the Titans' infiltration, the residences, stores, markets, schools, parks, bars, and brothels that hugged the 50 meter tall wall had been reduced to nothing. Morgan could still remember spotting running rampant on Trost, even a hundred and fifty miles away on watch within the Ehrmich District. She could remember how her fingers trembled, how her throat went dry, how she could hear the collective of an entire district from the southernmost part of Wall Rose, all the way to the easternmost region of Wall Sina…

She crossed her arms, clutching each end as if suffering through an inconsolable cold. She thought of what it would be like, to one day come out of her house, and watch man's only salvation against the Titans fail before her. To see neighbors, friends, family, pinched between two oversized fingers, like an uncommon bug, only to be swallowed, rather than inspected. She had heard stories of Titans, how they wore a permanently awkward face, each one unique, and each one dead beyond the eyes. To to be plucked off the ground and tossed into a mouth, teeth grinding, blood squeezing out the corners of a pair of fat, wet lips…

Morgan quickly shook her head, upset with herself. She looked up ahead and dropped her arms to her side, her hands receding into her back pockets. It was a long walk, and the last thing she needed were thoughts like those to complement the desolate, lonely route ahead.

Civilization always had a way of alerting one if one was nearby. Morgan spotted the squatters could be spotted on corners of the street. Thickened blood curdled and cracked with dirt came in larger frequencies splotching the roads, and the smell of rotting flesh and sour filth grew greater and greater as the plaza came into vision. Morgan brought the sleeve or her leather jacket to her nose more and more often, but she held her breath instead whenever she caught someone's eye. She usually rested a hand on the end of her blade. She hated the loathing scowls smeared the faces of those that caught the glimpse of her uniform—her buttoned up shirt, her black boots, the two roses etched on the back of her leather jacket: "to protect and maintain orders within the walls." A sick joke, at best.

The back of The Bar appeared in her vision, but she squinted, as a familiar light brown caught her eye. She slowed her pace, and her thinned, squinted eyes slowly grew into icy blue beads of shock. Her jaw tightened as she rushed into the exposed side of The Bar. A couple feet away, two light brown sleeves belonging to two different arms just out from a pile of stones, bloodstained and seeping the color red.

She felt the pellets of rainfall from the sky. The greying clouds masked the sun, pulling a think sheen of grey over Trost. The plot plot plot of the drops dripped onto her leather jacket.

Her white knuckled grip pulled the blade from it's slit as she rushed into the pub. No one but the bartender was inside.

"DOUGLAS!" she screamed, a rush of anger gushing through her voice.

The bartender's thin figure whipped around, his shaggy grey hair smacking his face. He ran a quick hand through his hair to keep strands out of his eyes. It was a shock to hear his name come out of an officer's voice.

He threw his hands up in a quick surrender.

"No, no, no, no!" his head shook quickly, pre-emptively answering the only question he knew would escape from Morgan's lips. He saw the thin blade stop right at his neck. He looked quickly at Morgan's sharp glare, and pointed both of his index fingers to his right, where the mopped and dried blood, chunks of entrails, and a splintered table remained from a slapdash clean up job.

Morgan turned to face the scene. Amongst the smeared red and disarray, chunks of dry, fleshy pink said it all. Her arm quivered in anger, but she had to repeat it to herself—not because she wanted to, but because it was right: Douglas didn't do this. Douglas didn't do this. Douglas didn't do this. She lowered her arm and took in deep breaths. Her voice always quivered in anger. Right now, she needed to ask questions, but she needed to be in control.

She closed her eyes, and took in one last deep breath before sheathing her blade and approaching the bar.

"What happened?"

The bartender released a sigh of relief. "You missed a good fight."

Morgan immediately reached to her side and brandished a sliver of her blade. "Don't fuck with me, Douglas," she hissed through her jagged, gritted teeth.

Douglas was an expressively nonchalant figure. If anything, the end of Trost suited him. Soldiers, civilians, it no longer mattered to him who came through his bar. With currency a virtual nonfactor in Trost, everyone was equal in his eyes. Perhaps that was what allowed him to survive for this long. Humor was his go-to, and even during the most dismal of times, people seemed to appreciate it.

But, of course, soldiers thought otherwise. They seemed to always consider themselves a little above it all, which he found amusing. The inept now became the official, if his word as a survivor in Trost had any weight to it.

He ran both his hands through his shoulder-length grey hair and pulled it back from his face before his thick, oily locks fell to the sides of his face. His face expressed amusement as the cheeks pinched together with a sly smile.

"Apologies," he started, his deep voice always providing a general sense of calmness. "But maybe you can understand my frustration. Unless you're here to help me clean up, that is. Have you ever cleaned up after a severed body?" he pressed his palms together and drew them apart. "So messy. It makes you wonder just how much shit we've got squished into ourselves."

Morgan wanted to brandish her blade again. She wanted to swing across the bar, and cut clean through Douglas' thin, brittle neck. She wanted to see his decapitated, lifeless body slump to the floor, and talk his carcass: yes, she knew damn well what the innards of a human body looked like when exposed. But she had come here for answers, and she had no reason to suspect she wouldn't get them.

"What happened here?" Her level tone masked the agitation and fury that continued to weld inside of her.

Douglas sighed and scratched the back of his head, his hair once again obscuring his face as he lowered his head. He grabbed a warm mug still full of beer and placed it on the bar before Morgan. She took it in silence.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Came back here to get one of your friends a couple refills," he raised his head at the mug that Morgan had sipped from. "And before I could even get back, two of your friends stood over another two of my beloved customers, arguing over who knows what."

Upon hearing that, Morgan brought the mug away from her lips and placed it arms distance away.

"Go on," she said, still with an uneasy look on her face.

Douglas looked back at her and raised a quick eyebrow before finishing.

"That was all, really. Those boys killed two of your friends. Pretty quick too. Reckon I missed half of it with a blink. I stood here, waiting for them to sort it out, and before I knew it, it was over. Although to be fair, I got a couple nice pieces out of it," he smirked. "I figure the next time one of you kindergarten officers come around, I'll be getting more than just one keg with how nicely I got tipped off."

"You said this came from two customers," she repeated. The rest of the details were moot

"Aye, two. The little one without all that clunky shit," he pointed at the Maneuvering Device strapped to Morgan's legs.

"Manuevering gear,"

"Yeah, whatever," Douglas yawned as he picked his ear. "She just left. Thanked me for the meal, and didn't look back. Quite the professional, that one, but it's ironic—two boys show out of nowhere, and they pay me better than a soldier! You lot need more work than I thought!"

Morgan turned to face the bloodied end of the bar. She had heard enough. The pain of her nails digging into her palm suddenly registered in her head. She felt the sweat form between her dirt-coated fingers.

"Two boys?" she asked, her voice hardly a whisper.

Douglas raised an eyebrow towards Morgan's direction. He caught a glimpse of her tightened lips; her brows furrowed together, her sharp blue eyes steely locked, staring deep into the far end of the bar. Her shoulders remained stiffly locked, hands behind her side, as the short ends of her leather jacket quivering just slightly in response to her shaking.

It was pouring now. Douglas remained sheltered underneath the aluminum rig that covered the bar. Morgan remained exposed to the rain on the other side of the bar.

"Two boys," he repeated. He raised his voice just slightly to fight the pelting of rain on aluminum. "One with red hair, quite the mouth on him," Douglas recalled, thinking of how noncompliant the boy had been with the soldiers' requests. "And another large figure with big shoulders, carrying an axe. Asian, too—if you even know what that means. Didn't even know there was some lingering around. I thought they'd all got wiped out a while ago."

The images registered in Morgan's head just as quickly as the words escaped Douglas' lips. Two boys, a red haired figure with a big mouth, and an Asian with big shoulders. Asian—that's what they called them, those people with the oddly shaped eyes. She felt herself grinding her uneven teeth, pressure points pushing down at all uneven ends within her jaw. It annoyed her even more that the skinny little bastard had a mouth on him. 'Not as friendly as the others,' he had said. Remorseless and nonchalant. She slammed a fist down on the bar, seething with anger.

But they were going north, those bastards.

She would find them. It wouldn't be hard. She'd have to leave now, though. The more time she wasted, the farther north they'd go, and the longer they went unperturbed, the greater the chance of finding some ragtag rubble to hide within. The rain would incentives their search for shelter.

Morgan crossed her arms by her hips and grasped at the hilts of her blades. A satisfying sching echoed within the enclosed end of the barstand as she unsheathed both her blades. She found a half standing pillar jutting in the distance on the north edge of the plaza, and took aim before a thought hit her like a truck.

No one would bat an eye if either of those two died died, but neither would they if Agnes had died as well.

She dropped her arms as her eyes raced back and forth, her thoughts doing the same. Concern rushed through her body quickly replacing the blinding rage that had enveloped inside of her. Agnes…she didn't even have her goddamn maneuvering gear! A soldier, in Trost, completely unarmed, and miles away from HQ. She had only a couple hours before sundown, and an unarmed soldier stuck in Trost for one night…she shuddered at the thought.

"Where did you see the soldier go?" Morgan asked.

The question piqued Douglas' interest. He raised his eyebrow once again, but it was a different type of a surprise. An impressed type of surprise.

"North," he said with a smile. "Where else but to take the main road?"

Perfect.

She bent her arms once again, and pulled the trigger attached to the top end of the hilt. From the gear strapped to her waist, two spearheads attached to an iron cable shot out from each side of her and stuck into the underside of the bar rooftop. Hearing the chink of a secure hold, Morgan leapt into the air and let the cable tug at her waist, catapulting herself onto the roof. The cylindrical maneuvering device attached to the back of her waist spit a puff of gas as she landed. Spotting the north side pillar once again, the hooks shot out onto the pillar before she jumped off the roof and bulleted towards the upright, like a pebble released from stretched slingshot. She grappled onto a different piece of ceiling in midair, and began to swing her way up north, grimacing as the rain pellets now struck her face hard, with nothing but the hissing of her gear behind her.