Who We Are Today

by LivianLynx

The battle for Shiganshina was won and the Survey Corps secured custody of the Colossal Titan. No one believed that they'd achieve peace with Marley's war machine by talking to the one enemy who could answer them but refused. No one but a single scout who'd believed in negotiation since the very beginning. (Canon divergent rewrite of AoT, Bertholdt survives Shiganshina)

13. Waves IV: Tower

12

Armin's heart remained twisted into a shape he couldn't recognise as he reached the policemen's cavern.

As he walked past, disregarding all questions before Romi chased him into the dark.

As he made his way towards the lift to port him back to the surface much earlier than usual, overhearing those echoes weaken the longer he walked until they came to an abrupt stop.

As he gathered his hair and got onto his horse to start his journey to Trost.

As he entered mostly abandoned headquarters and collapsed in bed in the middle of the day.

As he woke up late at night and holed up in his room without seeking anything to eat—until he collapsed again in the morning and slept through the day before he finally had to sneak into the mess hall's adjacent kitchen to lie on the floor and eat through their stock of cheese.

As he had to pretend to be his usual self when the rest of the Survey Corps finally returned home from the first part of their expedition, cheerfully celebrating their successes.

As he stood in front of the door to Hange's office after escaping the festivities downstairs, too nervous to raise his hand and knock.

He'd fucked it up. He'd blown everything he had, and now, he stood in front of a long and arduous process of cleaning up his own mess. He'd have to be fierce. He'd have to fight like his life depended on it, because it did, and he'd have many sleepless nights and anxiety-ridden days if he wanted to do this right.

But he would not run.

First, he'd tell Hange that he had actually convinced Bertholdt to cooperate. They would then travel to Mitras together and bring up their terms for Bertholdt's transport to the surface, where they would argue against a panel of politicians who hadn't faced a day of danger in their lives but who were certainly terrified of the idea of the Colossal Titan being out there hundreds of kilometres away from where he could ever harm them. Whether Historia would be an asset or an obstacle was yet unknown.

On the off chance that his appeal was approved, he'd need to bring the news back to Bertholdt and convince him to actually come along. If he refused, then there was another process where he'd have to convince everyone that Bertholdt was backpedalling on their arrangement and that he would be ready for it once on the surface. If by then, Bertholdt hadn't wrung Armin's neck for what he'd done to him.

Then, there was the issue that Bertholdt evidently believed that he would be harmed if he came to the surface. Fear had been a great motivator to let him make peace with the idea of staying underground. Armin would have to convince him that he was not Hange; that he wouldn't lay a finger on him, no matter how desperate he got. But was Bertholdt the type of person to act in spite of his fears?

A long fight lay ahead of him. Long days where he'd have to prove his merit, long weeks where he'd have to argue with a wall, long years where one step in the wrong direction would expose him as a fraud and permanently shut down his mission.

If he didn't spend every waking second alert, he would lose this.

He ran his hands over his face to wipe off the excess sweat and massaged his cheek muscles into being capable of bearing enthusiasm for at least the next hour. He just had to work up the courage to knock and break the news.

Grounding himself, he dropped his hands to his side again, taking in a final deep breath to steady his mind. Before he could knock, the door opened and Hange emerged, hands landing on his shoulders to avoid crashing into each other.

"Whoa, hey, Armin! You might not wanna stand in front of doors like that," they laughed, far too cheerful for the fatigue that lined their eyes. They took a step back and straightened his sleeves before letting go again. "Need me for something?"

"Yes, actually," Armin said. "I've been looking for you but they kept me busy. Could we talk? Preferably inside," he awkwardly requested.

Hange opened the door farther. "Come in!"

Armin walked inside, eyes needing a few moments to adjust to the office darkened by partially-drawn curtains. The place was littered with messy stacks of folders and paperwork all over the floor and furniture, cups and dishes on the desk and table, an overflowing trashcan, a few piles of clothing, and on the floor in a corner, a recently-used sleeping bag despite the office being less than two minutes away from any sleeping quarters.

"Wew! Need to clean out this pigsty sometime," Hange chanted, closing the door behind Armin again. "With all the expeditions and audits lately, I haven't had much time to get things in order here. I could use another winter to take care of business."

They scampered over to the chair in front of their desk and grabbed the stack of folders on it, depositing it on a dresser. As they walked over to a window, they gestured at the cleared chair.

"Please, sit down," they offered, pulling apart the half-drawn curtains and opening one of the windows to let in some much-needed sunlight and fresh air.

Armin looked down at the backrest of the chair, fingers wringing against the textile of his pants. This was where his struggle started. He'd be a worthy scout and an even worthier diplomat, or he'd be thoroughly humiliated after lying and cheating his way through Paradis' entire political system for what would probably be weeks, for all to see.

Would it truly be that difficult? All he had to do was to make it convincing. Fake it till you make it. Maybe Bertholdt had called his bluff the first time around, but Armin had proven that he meant business by leaving. And when he showed up there again with people to take him up…

Then he could talk about real terms. Then he could show that he had leverage. Then he could break that vicious cycle that was pinning Bertholdt down. And then–

Then what? What if it didn't work? What if he was ruining himself for nothing? What if he couldn't make it convincing, or the officials didn't listen to him, or he was forced to face his losses?

What if he was finally banned from the mines, his cause deemed lost?

What if he didn't loathe, but crave those brief moments where he could dream of this reality where it was finally over?

"Armin?"

He blinked a few times, pulled out of his daze, to see Hange had taken a seat on their own chair, a movement he hadn't noticed. He made quick work of the thoughts that must've curled his face into something unsightly, hurrying over to that chair to sit down.

"Sorry about that," he replied, rapidly rubbing his elbow before he'd gotten the chance to think of how suspicious that would make him look.

Hange had both hands on their desk, slightly hunched. They straightened their back, crossing their arms.

"You look tired."

"I haven't been sleeping so well for a while, but it's nothing to worry about," Armin admitted.

From the look on their face, Hange wasn't buying it, eyeing him in silence as they thought his answer over.

"You're pale. Did anything happen to you?"

Armin kept up that forced smile that he realised he'd been holding.

No. No, of course not.

Nothing had happened to him. Nothing that concerned them had happened to him.

Why would anything have happened to him? He knew what he was there for: success.

He was staring and the concern on Hange's face only grew. The window of sounding convincing was closing.

Bertholdt was helping them. They were entering a new era. Smile, laugh, cry in relief.

No.

He swallowed.

"Yes."

---

With their back turned on Armin as they looked out the window, hands perched wide on the windowsill, it was hard to judge what Hange made of it all.

They hadn't said a word since Armin started, standing and turning around to face the window when he was finally finished with his long-winded confession about how tired he was.

They'd told him. They'd explicitly told him to be careful about the promises he made to Bertholdt and made a strong implication that if he got himself in trouble, they wouldn't help him out of it again. If they weren't thinking over which sanctions would be most fitting for his thoughtless decisions, then they were definitely lining up a long lecture for him.

And yet, despite it all, none of it compared to the immense weight that had slid off Armin's shoulders when he came clean about everything. The failed gambit, Bertholdt's refusal to help them, his friends' dismissal, his itch, his anxiety, his worries, even Erwin. Maybe the tears were about feeling defeated, but they were also born from relief after so long of holding his venomous secrets so close to his chest that they threatened to burn straight through his heart.

All he could do was wait out his verdict, hunched over on his chair with tears trickling down his chin onto the hands that lay clutched deep into the textile of his pants, each breath sending lightning through his spine and paralysing his diaphragm.

"It is true," Hange finally said, hands leaving the windowsill to connect behind their back, "that you've created a predicament that I can't see easily be fixed."

Armin simply nodded, too beaten down to respond with words.

Hange turned around, looking at him with a serious face, yet one that attested to a certain level of pity. Maybe even compassion.

"This all happened because you felt inadequate after learning what happened in Shiganshina? You wanted to show that you deserved to survive?"

"Well, I– I didn't say that, no…" Armin hoarsely managed.

"But that's what you have shown me, and I believe I am fairly correct in that assessment."

Armin blinked away a few tears, bowing his head in favour of looking at the edge of the desk instead.

"I just… I need to carry my own weight. There has to be some positive, I have to make up for it somehow…"

"Armin…" Hange said in a tone that made his stomach twist. Please, not so much pity.

They turned around in full, approaching their chair and laying their hands on its backrest.

"If you're confused, I can clear some things up for you. Your actions indeed led to the circumstances that caused us to lose both the serum and Erwin. If you'd waited, our odds would've been much better now. Erwin would've known what to do."

He knew that.

He deserved to hear that. Levi had been too sparing of his feelings when they'd had this conversation. For some twisted reason, hearing Hange state it so openly dried his tears.

"That said, you also operated to the best of your ability after Erwin gave you his trust. You had no way to know that Bertholdt would leave his titan shortly after your plan. What happened afterwards is between Eren and me, not between us, and it has never been about who deserved what. I wanted Erwin to survive too, but he's no longer with us. You, on the other hand, are alive and healthy. You're intelligent enough to know that you will never replace Erwin, but you're not the Commander. You're a scout. It's not your duty to prove that you deserved to survive."

That was a different matter. Armin squeezed his eyes shut to draw out the hot tears that had welled up again before he could resume his staring match with the desk.

"But I feel so useless. Nothing I've done since Shiganshina has amounted to anything."

Hange tilted their head to the side.

"Is that so? You still have a duty to your regiment, no matter how you feel about it. You've drafted some stellar plans for our current expedition and I hear the recruits like you in the classroom. What's the difference between your successes and your failures?"

"I… Um…"

The grip of Armin's fingers tightened, wringing all the blood out of them.

"Your best plans came from a moment without pressure. Carrying the fate of the mission on your shoulders while the Colossal Titan was approaching to kill our horses, learning about the life that's been sacrificed because yours wasn't chosen, talking to an enemy who could change the fate of the whole island, having to trick the upper brass. They all have in common that they are immensely stressful burdens to carry. You're too young but especially too inexperienced to carry them alone."

Armin angled his head up, looking Hange in the eye.

"But I've done it before! I've acted under pressure and come up with things that worked. Better than anything I came up with without pressure. But lately, I just…"

He let one hand go and slid it over the right side of his face.

"I keep failing. I keep making things worse for us, and I know that I can do better, but I just…"

His left hand joined his right in clutching his face, heels digging into the hardwood floor as hard as he could to mitigate the pressure in his joints.

He heard a chair slide as Hange took a seat and let him cry himself out. Eventually, he dropped a hand to hang off the side of the chair, feeling boneless. His head could burst. Still, he looked up at Hange, who had both hands resting atop each other on the desk.

"Are you surprised that you've become vulnerable? Look at you."

They gestured a hand over at him.

"You almost died. You have scars all over your hands and face, yet you're still hard at work getting fit enough to join us on our expeditions. I've been burnt by the same steam before and it was hellish to weather through. Your body may be healing, but have you made sure to nurture your mind as well?"

"Making things better was my way of doing that."

Hange shook their head. "A lot has changed over the past year. You've seen your friends die in Trost, three of your friends were exposed as mass murderers, you helped take down the government, you killed people, and you nearly died. You will have to face the fact that you are a different person now than you were this time last year. Accept the man you are today. You function differently under the same circumstances and some things will never be the same again."

They closed their eye, head bowed forward against their hands.

"One success won't heal you. I wish it could, but it won't. You need to find your current strengths and fully apply them once you do."

Their eye opened again, peering into Armin's.

"Can you do that?"

"Maybe. But still… I am still responsible for Bertholdt. I cannot reorient my skills without him.".

"You can't depend on something likely to fail. Bertholdt isn't your responsibility, he's mine."

"Then can I ask–" Armin interrupted what Hange was going to add to that, but then stopped to bite his lip hard enough to bleed and sink his nails deep into the textile of his pants.

Hange only looked at him with a tilted head. He hoped they'd go on, but they were suddenly very interested in what he was going to say, so he exhaled the breath trapped within his lungs and tightened the grip on his nails.

"I just don't get why… why you let me go. Why you let me come to Tourze when I asked."

He looked up, making eye contact.

"You knew the chance of failure was so high from the start, didn't you? You spent a lot of time with him, you knew that he was aggressive and dismissive and that he would do anything to break me down, didn't you? Because he tried to do the same to you. You sounded like you trusted me. You listened to every decision I made like I had the right to make them."

He had to swallow hard to continue without resuming crying.

"Why did you allow me to make my first mission something that was bound to fail? Why did you let me set foot in there if you knew it wouldn't work? Wasn't it your duty to tell me that it wouldn't no matter how hard I tried? That you knew that this would be the outcome?"

He knew so well that he was directly accusing Hange after they had shown him compassion and understanding, but maybe that was what he needed. Maybe he needed them to change their mind and throw him into a prison cell after all. Maybe that's where he belonged.

Hange didn't retaliate. They just laid their folded hands over their desk and looked solemn more than they looked angry. Armin refused to let his guard down for an eventual outburst for undermining their authority.

Instead of shouting, Hange sighed.

"Indeed. It was a mistake on my part," they admitted.

Armin stared wide-eyed. Not the admission he had expected, and that was what caught him off guard instead.

"You would've been better off not going. I should've indeed never let you set foot in that mine. But you were insistent. You needed to face him if you were to overcome your personal demons and become an effective scout again. Nothing would have kept you back."

They closed their eye briefly to think before opening it again and looking straight at him.

"It would've been cruel to deprive you of the closure you sought. But as Commander, I should have stepped in and been cruel to protect you from making things worse. I thought that it would inspire you to get back into action, even if that first attempt had led nowhere. Nothing could have prepared me for how long you would continue trying. It cost you. I was inadequate as a Commander and made a decision that I should have known was not beneficial to you or to the Survey Corps. I still have a lot to learn before I can be the Commander that Erwin was, but yes. I misunderstood you and underestimated the situation. For that, I apologise."

Armin was speechless. Another one of those apologies that came out of nowhere. One he didn't deserve after being rude and fumbling his mission, wasting everyone's time.

Hange felt just as inadequate as he did, didn't they? Except that his burden was merely that of a single scout, one of hundreds that could easily be replaced, while they had to take on the unique role of a leader that had to look out for all of these scouts and get them to function as one unit. Even after losing an eye and getting burnt, they spent weeks in the mine in search of answers.

They were similar. He nodded in compassion for the duty he had not properly considered all this time this question went through his mind.

"You need to ground yourself in something secure. Armin, you need a break."

"No!" Armin yelled. "You… Commander, I can't– I shouldn't stop now that I'm finally doing things again! Staying put made me feel even worse, I need to get back into action if I want to get better!"

To that, Hange smiled. "I didn't say I'd have you lie down in bed and do nothing. Armin, why don't we go out to the field tomorrow and see how much progress you made on vertical maneuvering?"

Armin looked at them bewildered.

"Do you think–"

"You look ready to join us outside Wall Rose. We'll be off to our second part of the expedition soon and I see no reason not to take you with us if you're mobile and fit."

Armin perked up at the news. Finally, he'd reached the point where he could keep up with his peers. Finally, he'd be allowed to mean something for the Survey Corps once again.

But there was just one thing that kept him back.

"I don't get why I get to receive special treatment like this. Why I'm given privileges and excuses the way I am… Would you do the same for every scout?"

"No," Hange honestly answered.

Armin must have shown that he didn't believe it because the look Hange gave him as they lifted their glasses spoke of scepticism.

They pointed at their eyepatch. "Would it be fair to ask me, of all scouts, to keep watch over a wide area?"

"I think it would be insensitive," Armin carefully chose his words.

"Then why would it be fair to ask you to act as if you didn't survive being boiled alive? You're getting special treatment because you suffered special wounds that the others haven't. We're both crippled soldiers, but we move on. We don't dedicate our hearts to freedom any less by accommodating injury."

That made sense. Armin had never properly looked at it that way.

So he was really returning to his position, then. He was really at a point where he was ready to come back to the Survey Corps. A modest smile appeared on his face, the first in many weeks, and he heard Hange huff out a laugh.

"Look at that! You already have a lot more colour in your face. You'll do just fine."

---

Hange had left him alone in their office a little longer to let his puffy face clear up before rejoining the rest. They didn't have to know about what had transpired.

Armin would join the expedition to keep his mind occupied. He wouldn't think about Bertholdt, he wouldn't send anyone after him, he would focus solely on scout business. If he proved himself capable of completing the expedition like any other scout would, then he would be reinstated in the Survey Corps alongside the other elite 104th.

No one was ever going to be able to help Bertholdt. Armin had to accept that he was responsible for his own recovery.

Clearly, Hange wanted to keep him away from the mines. He wasn't given a choice; he was told this was how they'd do things and the unspoken was clear: he and Bertholdt were done.

Armin had protested the verdict. To let one expedition decide his fate like that, was that not waiting for a disaster? So Hange gave him a new perspective: to take it easy and let the expedition help him make peace with the idea that he stopped going altogether. They intended to intercept ships there and meet with the outside world, so it would make a good cutoff point beyond which Bertholdt would outlive his use. Either they made amicable contact and no longer needed him, or they would be killed and there'd be no one left to make use of Bertholdt's information or use him as leverage.

Those trainees that had zipped past him at the training grounds came to mind. He'd been so resolved when he decided that he wanted to help make things better for them. Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe abandoning Bertholdt wouldn't lead to their doom.

A bitter taste accompanied having to accept that he wasn't capable of helping him any further. That perhaps, there was a completely moral path for him to walk where he left Bertholdt to rot in the dark while he went back to scout business. It was hard to deem himself a good person if he was going to do this, but the Survey Corps didn't need him to be a good person—it only needed him to be an effective one.

Since when did he care what was good and bad, anyway? He'd let himself slip into a toxic mindset that divided the world into two wholly useless and artificial categories.

But it was hard to deny the positive effect that finally allowing himself to consider giving up had on his psyche. Already, he felt the most at peace with himself he had in the past eight months. Hange fully believed that he was of great value on the field and in the office making plans, they'd assured him of that, and he was ready to believe it. He just had to see it for himself before he was able to let go.

He had to hold out until he went to see the ocean, where he would make his final decision.

---

Graciously, if he said so himself, he capped off his flight with a flexible bend through the knees as he touched solid ground again. He'd gotten better since last time, well in control of his breathing despite having had to end his demonstration because his back and belly felt like they could snap.

As soon as he was down, Connie and Sasha swarmed him, Eren close behind, to cheer him on for his performance. Jean and Mikasa followed, and finally, Hange approached, their indeterminate silence keeping everyone on their toes.

With a nod of their head, the thunderous triumph around him drove out all other sound.

---

As the wind whipped through his hair and sweat beaded on his forehead, a shaky hand grasped for his holster, fingers digging into the round while he fixed his gun under his chin and loaded it before firing a trail of red off into the sky, southeastward.

The others had spotted them as well as they came over a hill and got a good view of the plains below, halting their horses before the signal flare had been fired. He'd have to remind them that they were to await his signal before undertaking any action.

More red smoke trails followed from the west and the east, all pointing towards where Armin had aimed his own. They still had several kilometres on them, but it was better to be safe than to be sorry.

"Seven… No, six metre class… alongside three four metre classes," he muttered to himself, scanning the area for the rest of his squad.

About 300 metres to his left, Georg was nervously pacing his horse around, eyes on the target; an equal distance to his right, Emmi stood in place, looking back at Armin for guidance. The others were harder to spot, but it looked like everyone had gotten the signal and the entire expedition was slowly coming to a halt to deal with this situation as flares rippled across its span.

Far to the east, lightning struck. The signal had gotten through. Now, it was a matter of waiting and making the right decisions.

Eren was little over five kilometres to the left of Armin. The titans beyond the hill had roughly three kilometres on them, dashing wildly towards their next meal, and he realised he didn't know how fast Eren's titan could sprint uninhibited.

Second in a lineup of eight squads, the expedition was southbound and spanned a little over twenty kilometres. They'd travel back and forth between Wall Maria and Wall Rose to comb a wide area and eliminate any leftover titans. But as a result of their broad sweep, their strongest weapon against the titans had a wide area to cross should they come across any threats. With such an inexperienced membership, Hange and Levi had agreed that only they were to engage in combat if a titan were spotted in their area.

Armin hadn't been so sure if it was a good idea to foster a Survey Corps with members who'd never engaged a titan up close, but Hange was clear that safety was more important than holding onto old values that would soon become obsolete.

Eight soldiers were at his disposal. Georg, whom he'd heard gush to his friends about being on this squad. Elise, Franzi, Niko, and Malte, all former Garrison soldiers who'd been inspired to join the Survey Corps by the prospect of heralding in the dawn of a new age. Emmi, Helge, and Andrea, three policemen, the last of whom Armin had personally helped out with the paperwork during his recruitment efforts in Stohess.

With him at their command, they made up squad Armin. These people's safety was his responsibility.

Following another's lead during his first expedition had been wildly different from leading this group of people, signalling their direction with the use of flares, and coordinating their movements—all while on the lookout for any titans, redirections due to problems with the terrain, or distress flares. The others had gotten the chance to practise this on their test runs, but Armin had gone into this blind. He'd been too afraid to lose this opportunity to question Hange's decision to let him lead a squad of his own from the get-go.

The deep thuds of the dashing titans were becoming audible. Two kilometres between them, in two minutes. They ran at roughly thirty kilometres per hour. At this rate, they would reach his squad before Eren would reach them.

Taking a quavering breath, he swallowed down the anxiety that gripped his chest. There were no structures in sight that could get them out of the reach of that six metre class, but this mission had been all about conserving their strength. Walk and trot a good part of the distance so that their horses had the stamina left to gallop away when they ran into danger. Armin had suggested they carry out the mission at night, but Hange needed the titans to be awake and mobile so as to avoid missing them.

He reached for another round and shot it into the air, behind him this time. A blue trail led them away from the titans, and with a kick of his legs, his horse started in its direction as the rest of his squad followed suit. To the east, Sasha fired a blue round of her own, leading her squad away from the danger as well. The titans were closest to Armin's soldiers, but it was better to take these precautions in case they changed direction.

Their formation was based on the long-distance formation Erwin had drafted, except this one maximised its width rather than creating a circular structure. The nearest squad leader was several kilometres away from him, so if they ran into a titan, it was his responsibility to signal its presence and to protect the soldiers placed under his care by keeping them spaced out long enough until Eren arrived.

So far, the strategy had been effective. No casualties, one injury, five titans encountered and eliminated per day on average during the previous expedition that had gone westward. Since the titans would travel from Maria to Rose attracted by the densely-populated enclave city of Trost, their migrations were far more likely to be alongside their radius. South to north. The farther they got from that route, the fewer titans they would encounter. He'd just been unlucky that a group of four stood in his path on the first day.

Looking over his shoulder, the titans had come up over the rise of the hill where he stood minutes ago. There was some distance left between them, but he couldn't help but question whether he'd waited too long to retreat. If they came too close to his squad, it would be up to him to engage them. With zero titan kills under his belt, that would end badly.

Where in the world was Eren?

As if on cue, a roar sounded and the group of titans stopped before taking off towards its eastward source. Armin stopped his horse and grabbed a green round to shoot straight above him, eyes on that group as Eren's titan finally dashed over the top of the hill, no longer hidden by the uneven terrain, and body slammed the six metre class before getting to work disposing of them. Four to one was no problem for him after how much experience he'd gotten fighting pure titans outside Wall Rose.

It was no secret that Eren's combat capabilities had increased at an impressive rate, but this was the first time Armin got to see those improvements in person. If their Marleyan opponents hadn't had their technological advancements and their titans, they wouldn't stand a chance against Eren. It was a shame that they couldn't counter Marley through force. They would be far more receptive to peace talks if they were the ones driven into a corner.

A roar pulled Armin out of his thoughts. Eren had won and was shouting to draw any hidden titans in the area towards him. They'd soon be able to resume their expedition.

He sighed a breath of relief that all had gone well as he dug through his holster for a green round.

---

The others were cheerful, seated around their campfires as they shared jokes and tales over steaming bowls of stew and left Armin stewing quietly with a headache.

They had set up camp atop Wall Rose, having made the trip back and forth between north and south twice now. Fourth day, and although they had to extend their expedition beyond the sunset in order to reach Wall Rose, they were well on schedule. Four more to go before they needed to go back to switch out their horses and get some rest for the next expedition days later.

At their current rate, they should be done with the southern district by the fourth expedition, earning them the clearance to finally push south beyond Shiganshina and seek out the harbour. The thought alone made Armin more nauseous than he cared for.

He excused himself to the sleeping site, but he didn't know what for. Peace and quiet, maybe, but not sleep.

It would be no different from the other nights: lie awake for hours tossing around in his sleeping bag as his brain throbbed madly against his skull. Today was worse. It had been his first Sunday where no one had visited Bertholdt—no company, no supplies, no notice that he wouldn't be there. Hange had to know by now that he was spending too much time worrying, against their command, and must've seen it as yet another way in which he disappointed.

But he couldn't help it. He still felt responsible. The expedition itself had been a great distraction for him during the day, but when he wasn't busy, he was possessed by the duty he was neglecting, no matter how tired he was, no matter how badly he wanted to doze off.

When sleep found him, shadowy entities would stalk him in his dreams.

"What about me?" they would ask in a deep, hoarse voice, crouched next to him, bodies notably whole as they stared at Armin from over the arms that crossed across chest-height knees. "Do I still exist when you can't see me?"

The reality that he would go see the ocean after a long battle helped drown out these thoughts, but only momentarily before steel-tipped shame kicked him in the gut again. He didn't allow Armin more than a couple of hours of sleep at a time.

Something told Armin that he wasn't the only one who'd been robbed of rest.

---

13

The best thing that could be said about the final days of the expedition was that he'd made it back. He hadn't suffered disabling injury the way he had a few weeks back, but he was no more than a day removed from a relapse.

He had no leg to stand on when Hange excused him from the third expedition that would be launched a few days after they returned. And for some godforsaken reason and against his better judgement—maybe because no one had expected he'd ever have the desire to do so—he found himself gearing up with a special set of maneuvering gear that had anchors designed to pierce rock as the sun rose over the town of Tourze. Hange hadn't told him not to go, simply that he had to distract himself with Survey Corps business, of which there was currently none Armin could carry out. It only made sense.

Going was as little of an option as not going was, but Armin would rather hurl himself into a titan's mouth again than to lie in bed doing nothing for even a single day.

And that bothersome sense of responsibility left him with the monumental task of figuring out how he would go about pulling that knife he'd left behind there last time out of Bertholdt's back and repairing what fickle bond he'd pieced together with a mortal enemy over the course of months.

"That's from a lack of greenery and meat," Levi had volunteered when Armin brought up Bertholdt's blindness to Hange one evening during the expedition. "Half of the Underground people I knew had spots in their eyes."

Hange's annoyance over Armin's failure to disengage had been overridden by Levi's rare display of voluntary connection with a subject. And yet, when Armin had packed his belongings in the morning, he didn't even consider putting in anything beyond the usual bread, apples, and nuts of his food knapsack. There would be no point to curing this mystery ailment if Bertholdt refused to be helped.

This attitude could prove to be an issue as he visited, but he couldn't get himself to feel any particularly strong emotions about it. That initial spark that had him put his everything into this task had been condemned to flicker out the moment he'd faced the reality of what taking care of Bertholdt really entailed.

He'd need a solid strategy, and yet he was pressing through those dark passages as fast as he could with a blank mind and no plan in sight. Like his presence alone would make things alright again.

Maybe it would. Forcing himself until Bertholdt relented had worked before, why not now? They'd been on far worse terms in January than they were now. And if it didn't, what was Bertholdt going to do about it?

Attack him?

Argue?

Yell?

Like he'd had the energy to do any of those by his own volition over the course of Armin's visits. No matter what he did, he lacked the means to repel Armin.

"Hey, wait, wait," Svea said as he rushed past the police's cavern, pulling him out of his dazed thoughts. She was alone this morning and Armin wasn't so sure if it was that great of an idea to follow, but he stopped to listen.

"You look particularly constipated today," she explained, to Armin's chagrin, then added, "Oh, get over yourself," when Armin resumed down into the mineshaft. "Don't go storming off, come drink some tea with me."

That made him stop. It was a bad idea, but his curiosity was piqued by her insistence.

Usually, the policemen were dismissive of his existence at best and made a mockery of him at worst when he stayed to drink something with them. Kindness was in short supply underground, and so close to his destination without a plan of action, giving in to the distraction looked attractive.

He turned back and sat down at the spot across from Svea, as far away from her as possible, to which she raised a curious eyebrow. She filled him a cup of still steaming tea, then pushed it his way.

Armin accepted it, looking down into the brew. Brownish transparent, no dust or specks inside. It smelled sweet and fresh. The same it had always been.

"So, you're back from holiday," Svea said as she refilled her own cup.

"Why do you want me to drink this? What's in it?" Armin dodged the implication of her words.

"It's not about the drink. Every time you go in there in a bad mood, you put the Colossal Titan in a bad mood as well and the kid takes it out on us. Get a grip before you spoil things, I don't wanna have to deal with its snark."

Svea's tone was already getting on his nerves. He didn't pay his usual effort trying to subdue it.

"Every time? Not just the past two weeks?"

"Mhm, every time," she said, blowing on her tea before taking a careful sip. "Even before you had your little fight. Big thanks for that, by the way, things were beyond unbearable after you left."

"You're welcome," Armin impassively answered.

Evidently, Armin's words had an impact on Bertholdt's demeanour, but not a good one. Svea could just be exaggerating here or noticing patterns where there were none, but it wasn't something he should dismiss. Armin was putting Bertholdt in a worse mood than usual, or he was giving him the means to be active enough to express disdain. He wasn't sure whether that was beneficial. He cared surprisingly little about the answer to that.

Armin took a sip from his cup, examining the taste. A little bland, as always, but nothing raised suspicion.

"I don't let my mood influence how I treat him. In fact, I have been kind to him regardless of how I felt about seeing him. I've given him company and items to make his stay here a little easier. Are you sure it's not because of your own actions that he lashes out?"

"You're both spoiled brats," Svea flatly responded. If Armin had hit a nerve with his accusation, she didn't show it. "If it's gonna be vile after you helped, maybe you shouldn't give it things."

"Why do you do that?" Armin deflected.

"Do what?" Svea asked as she took another sip, hooded eyes not leaving the open newspaper on the table.

"Do you really have to refer to him as 'it'? It sounds forced. I don't see the point."

"What's wrong with that? It's the Colossal Titan."

"But that's not what you're referring to when speaking about him. He has a name. Bertholdt. I've never heard you use it. He's a person, don't you think that he would be in a better mood if you referred to him as such?"

Svea looked up at him, still looking positively bored as she kept her cheek propped against her fist. "C'mon now, you can't be that naive."

"What?"

"We're not here to guard the kid. If that were the case, a regular cell without all this hassle would do. Do you know how expensive this prison is? It's the weapon we're guarding that requires so much caution. We're not referring to the kid when we call it what it is."

The corner of Svea's lip quirked up into a lopsided smile.

"Or do you think the Colossal Titan is a person of its own?"

Armin finished his cup, swallowing down liquid that was just a tad too hot to be downed so fast. Nice slip of tongue calling the boy behind the titan it too.

Could he really judge? As if he wouldn't search for these tricks to make it a little easier on his conscience, too.

"I don't know," he said with a shrug. He slid his cup forward for a refill. "If we don't ask, we can't know for sure, right?"

Svea exhaled a humourless laugh through her nose but obliged, lifting the steaming teapot and tipping it over into Armin's cup.

"How old are you to have such fantasies about titans having a mind of their own, twelve?"

"Sixteen," Armin corrected, setting the cup back down in front of him. "But is it that strange of a thought? If pure titans are humans who are semi-aware while they're a titan, who's to say that the intelligent titans aren't more advanced with a will of their own?"

"Sure, go and ask about its parasite, if you really wanna. Won't make me lie awake at night," Svea said before taking another sip from her own cup.

Armin decided he'd had enough. He stood up, grabbing his cup and turning his back on Svea.

"Please think about what I said. A little kindness can go a long way."

It was hard to walk away with confidence when this was the first time he'd ever truly and heartily heard Svea laugh.

---

Rooted to the ground in front of that heavy gate, eyes trained on its planks, he felt more than gutted.

Beyond that gate lay the source of his problems, so far removed from the hope that lay up on the surface, constrained behind walls that would soon finally open for him. So far away from where he wanted to be right now.

He should've been more stressed so close to this confrontation, yet he felt so painfully neutral that he couldn't stress himself out if he tried. Even being shot down at the harbour sounded more eventful than this. The worry over this lack of strong emotions gripped him tighter than anything else he felt in this moment.

Without thinking, he grated open that gate and walked inside in silence. Bertholdt lay on his side in his sleeping bag, his back turned on Armin and his blanket discarded behind his mat. Armin didn't check if he was awake, instead focusing on hanging up his lantern and placing his backpack down, eyes unfocused as he fidgeted with the cup in his hand.

He stepped to the middle of the mineshaft and knelt. Carefully, he placed the cup down onto the uneven floor, then stood again.

"I brought you something," Armin announced with a low voice, peering down at an unmoving Bertholdt. He was awake but holding back his reaction.

Back to where they started off: Bertholdt ignoring him while Armin tried to whittle away his walls with an array of gifts and soft-spoken words—exactly as Hitch had predicted would happen if Armin made him think he was done playing nice, even if only temporarily.

Except this time, Armin already knew that it was an entirely pointless endeavour.

He turned to retreat to his side.

"If you want it, you will have to come get it."

No response as he knelt in front of the crate. Only one lightly-used towel. Bertholdt was already preparing for Armin to leave him and had used his sparse resources well. Maybe he even thought Armin was never coming back.

Wasn't that permission for Armin to stop visiting altogether?

He finished up his work without trying to make conversation. Sitting down on the crate, Bertholdt still hadn't moved a muscle. He was either stewing in his anger or expecting an apology of some sort. Maybe an update on the plan that Armin had abandoned.

Armin could struggle and thrash to tell him some story about what had come up and why he wasn't there with a party to drag him out of the mines as he had threatened.

He could also, simply, not.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. He'd been bursting at the seams to go underground for weeks, and now that he finally had, it was with apathy. He'd rather be elsewhere, not because what lay ahead would be difficult or emotionally taxing, but because nothing chained him down. Leaving only had benefits, staying yielded nothing.

Yet he stayed. For some godforsaken reason, he stayed.

Because at that moment, he understood that between this bleak hell and what opportunities lay on the surface, there was no force in the world that could make him bounce back and come visit Bertholdt again. He'd instructed Romi on how to be good to him, he'd taught Bertholdt the basics he'd need to survive, and if needed, he could convince Jean to come again.

Even if he weren't killed by the outsiders they sought to meet at the harbour, this could be the last time Armin would see Bertholdt.

If he was going to give up on Bertholdt altogether for selfish reasons, then he owed it to him to stay around now that he was there, regardless of how little there was in the mines to inspire him.

"Hey, Bertholdt…"

Haven't I told you that you're not getting rid of me that easily? he habitually almost rehashed his usual reassurance.

It would feel more comfortable to lie directly and avoid the confrontation, but it would only make things worse. Just because he was done, didn't mean he was going to be cruel. He could so easily lie his way through the morning to make it easier on himself, but even those small lies were too much effort.

"… If you want to play a game, I wouldn't mind. And if you don't… You know."

The expected lack of a response came, so Armin stood and opened the crate again, taking out Maria. Rose. Sina. before sitting down and navigating to where he'd left off a month ago. Without announcement, he resumed reading.

For hours, he narrated only what was written, and for hours, Bertholdt didn't return a word, not even a glance, as his body steadily lost the tension that kept him unmoving and he relaxed to rest his full weight onto the sleeping mat, breathing evenly. He was definitely listening, but keeping up the hostile stiffness of his muscles had become too exhausting.

Armin stayed much longer than he usually would, despite how strenuous this particular visit felt. Anxiety was brewing between his ribs and he knew well enough why. Not that there was anyone back at the headquarters to notice that he'd stayed for so long.

Only when Romi came into the cell to do her afternoon checkup, surprised to see Armin was still there, did he feel like it had been enough. He'd offered Bertholdt utter garbage in terms of social interaction, but at least he'd had a few final hours of listening to someone talk to him. It had to be better than nothing.

After silently packing his stuff, Armin stood in the opening of the gate, one hand on the support beam. From here on out, Bertholdt would be on his own. There was only so much Armin could do, and he'd exhausted all his options.

He almost left without a word. The last thing Armin had read was a line about a cosy city northwest of Trost. After that, he'd decided he was done, simply closing the book and returning it to its spot before standing up and collecting his belongings. It had been something nice to end on. No lies, no struggle, just a factual bit of information that left Bertholdt something to the imagination. He would ruin this by giving his own input.

He bowed his head forward, inhaling sharply through his parted lips.

"Bertholdt, I'm…" he started regardless, fingers tightening against the support beam's splintery wooden surface.

The corners of his lips tightened as he swallowed down the gravel in his throat.

"I care about you, so you should know this. We have prepared everything to travel to the ocean. The date isn't set yet, but it will be soon. Very soon. I may not be able to send out a message in time when we depart."

As if it would change anything, he waited several minutes by that support beam to a silent opponent. Then, finally, he let go, stepped forward, and pushed the gate closed behind him.

---

14

He soared wild, directionless, for what felt like hours but only amounted to minutes at a time. The mere fact that he could stay up in the air for so long was an achievement of its own but was ultimately meaningless. Were it up to him, he'd glide weightlessly through the treetops for the rest of his days, but he lacked the strength and the oncoming summer's heat was drenching him in sweat and stealing away his breath.

Instead, he took frequent refuge atop sturdy branches and surfaced an old book, weather-beaten and drowned, to tread its water and wade through its poems about a mystical world beyond the one he knew, one he still wore like a translucent second skin that sheltered him from the brutal exterior.

Nothing that languished his flesh and withered his bones could dissuade him once it was over. There was a method to this madness. There would be a dawn beyond this darkness.

---

The others left him on his own for far longer than had been the plan. Something to do with an injury caused by the sudden appearance of an abnormal that had slowed them down for a day. Instead of on Sunday, they would be leaving on Monday.

That meant that Armin once again would have to make a choice instead of being unavailable by default.

Arms crossed over the coarse wooden surface of the table he sat at, cheek leaning on his left as he stared at the mystery stew just beyond him, he didn't quite find himself so invigorated by the fact that he was eating a proper warm meal again now that the others were back. Long stirring followed by a bite or two had led him to conclude he wasn't hungry. Maybe it was linked to yet another one of his increasingly frequent raids of the Survey Corps' food pantry earlier in the day.

"Grumpy," Connie said to his left, lingering by his shoulder like a pestering imp.

"Gloomy," Sasha agreed to his right with a nod and a poke against Armin's cheek that caused him to sink deeper against his arms so that his forehead lay against them instead and he was protected.

"C'mon, grump-butt, you can't stay like that forever," Connie added. He nudged Armin in the side with his elbow, causing him to jolt upright with an agitated squeak before he rubbed the assaulted spot, blushing under Sasha and Connie's giggling.

Seated at the table across from them, Eren wore slight aggravation on his face. "Can you two cut that out? He's clearly tired."

Armin simply hummed a quiet agreement. He couldn't hide the fatigue that stained his lower eyelids dark so he bowed his head instead, fingers drumming on the table.

Jean paused shovelling stew between his jaws to speak, pointing his spoon Armin's way.

"Just a little grouchy over missing the last expedition, right, Armin? Nothing to worry about, you'll be right back to normal next week. You'll even get to go visit Bertholdt again before you leave. That oughta cheer you up a little, right?"

Weakly, Armin nodded. For once, it didn't bother him that that bomb seemed to have caused the rest of the table to back off from the subject as per usual, but Sasha had to carry through.

"Oh, yeah. You'll still be here because of our delay. You're always a little more cheerful after Sunday," she pointed out with an awkward smile when Armin simply looked back at her but lacked the energy to shoot her anything that wasn't a deadpan expression.

"Um, well…" he finally spoke, hooded eyes falling back onto his cooling bowl of stew as he slouched over. "Do you think, maybe I should… You know…"

They didn't, evident by the way they all looked at him in anticipation. He swallowed down the bitter bile that had infiltrated his oesophagus when he wasn't paying attention, adjusting his voice to barely go above a whisper.

"… Maybe I should stop going to see it altogether."

Silence.

Stupid, right? All this time he'd been begging for some understanding and respect for his plans, and here he was, practically asking for permission for a decision he thought he'd already made back when it looked like he didn't have a say in the matter. The corners of his lips curled up slightly at the irony.

"Hah?" Jean was the first to speak up. "The hell you mean by that?"

And the smile faded again.

"The Colossal."

Jean crossed his arms over the table. "Really? 'It'? Since when is he an 'it' to you, or even 'the Colossal'?"

It had only been an attempt to remove himself, nothing more. No need to take it so personally.

"It's… I didn't mean to," he lied. "The police call him that, I suppose it rubbed off on me against my will. It was a slip of tongue."

"Yeah, but still… 'It'?"

Yes, Jean, 'it'. It actually made it easier. Put distance between him and Bertholdt, made the decision he was making a little easier to swallow, put the reason for his vile treatment before the reason why it shouldn't happen.

Armin didn't intend to respond, not that Jean was giving him much time to.

"And what's that about stopping visiting him? You know how bad it is down there, don't you? He needs that stuff you bring him and you need to go every week to keep up the pattern you keep talking about. Hange even said so. You were very adamant about someone going to visit him when you couldn't. Even if you missed one week, it's still better to go than not to. Right? Armin?"

Now he was saying all those things. Now that Armin was in the process of giving up, he had to become judgemental about Armin's decisions.

"I thought you wanted me to stop going."

Armin glanced at everyone surrounding him at the table. At Connie grimacing under Armin's directness. At Mikasa's pity and Eren's blank expression. At Jean's confusion, growing more disbelievingly agitated as the conversation went on. At Sasha's averted eyes.

"You should," Eren was the first to speak up again.

"Hey, asshole, shut up. You haven't seen him. You don't know how bad it is."

What had they talked about that had changed Jean's opinion of Bertholdt so starkly?

"He has."

At that, both Eren and Jean's eyes shot Armin's way, wide.

"What's that?" Jean asked, expression tightening.

"Eren has gone to see Bertholdt. A few days after Hange gave up on him. I thought it was only me he hadn't told, but evidently, that's not the case."

Jean turned Eren's way. "And you didn't tell?" He looked at the others. "Anyone else who went without saying anything? Speak right up!"

Connie twitched to Armin's left, but he was wise enough to sense the severity of the topic and subdue raising his hand as an ill-timed joke. Maybe he felt Armin tense up the moment he considered it and for once sensed danger.

Grabbing the collar of Eren's shirt, Jean leaned closer to him. "Why the hell did you go there? Did you finish up some business?"

"I wanted to see him."

Calm and controlled, without even turning his head Jean's way or looking away from his stew. Armin had expected anger. Over thinking back on Bertholdt, over the fact that they'd reduced his sentence to something as tame as mere imprisonment, over Armin's confrontational tone, anything—but not cold neutrality. Not full-blown apathy.

"See him? Go visit an old pal?"

"See him in chains."

Jean's grip tightened. "Really? That's all that happened? You watched?"

"That's all."

"Didn't even speak?"

"Didn't even speak," Eren replied, laying a hand on Jean's to free himself from his collar.

Jean let go with a push, looking off to the side. Glaring. "As if you have it in you to shut up when you're mad."

"We can't all say everything that's on our mind all the time, Jeanbo," Eren mocked, tone and expression deadpan despite the childish nickname. The two devolved into one of their scuffles after that, left undisturbed by the rest to dish it out. Usually, the pettiness of their conflicts would've amused Armin, but he only felt empty.

He should've never brought it up. He should've just not gone and let that be it. They'd have gotten the message eventually. Instead, he'd dragged down the amicable post-expedition mood with his melodrama.

Standing up, no one tried to stop him from walking out on dinner.

---

A triplet of knocks rapped against his door, gentle but sturdy.

"Hey, Armin? You alright?" Jean asked from the other side.

No, why Jean?

It should've been Eren. After the revelation that Armin knew he'd been keeping secrets, it should've been Eren who came to talk. Yet as had been a trend lately, he wasn't there. He wasn't involved. He wasn't trying to justify himself to Armin the way he always would've in the past, and it was frustrating him more as it kept happening.

Jean invited himself inside when Armin didn't feel like answering. Armin's eyes didn't leave the journal he was updating at his desk upon the intrusion, but he did stop and close it. Jean didn't have to know about the half-assed poems he was penning down to distract himself from what'd gone down.

Jean lingered by the door, then stepped farther inside and pushed it closed.

"Not speaking to me, huh? Still angry?" he said, no traces of sarcasm or passive aggressiveness in the tone of his voice. At the lack of a response, he walked over to Armin's bed and took a seat, making clear he wasn't leaving until they'd had their talk.

Armin bowed his head forward. He'd self-soothed pretty well by retreating, but if Jean wanted a confrontation, then he could have one.

"Why now?"

"Hah?" Jean hummed.

Crossing his arms over his desk, Armin took a deep breath to anchor himself before he even considered answering.

"All this time, you've been telling me that whatever happened to him was just and that I need to stop wasting my time helping him. But now that I'm considering taking care of myself first, I'm made to feel like I am the one who put him there."

He turned his head, far enough to look over his shoulder and lay eyes on Jean's soft features.

"What happened when you were with him that caused you to change your mind?"

Jean crossed his arms over his chest as well, an eyelid quirking in mild annoyance.

"I could ask you the same thing. Just weeks ago you were begging me to take your place to visit him. Giving me all these instructions to be as kind as I can and give him stuff. Persuading me the way you did. Now you sound like you barely care anymore. What happened?"

What a thing to say after Jean had spent the majority of the past year making bold claims about who deserved what. Even if he were to leave, Armin cared ten times as much—a hundred times as much—as any of them ever had.

None of them cared even a fraction as much about Bertholdt as he did, and he had the audacity to tell Armin he didn't?

Armin lost sight of Jean, mouth pressed into a thin line.

"That's not what I asked, Jean."

"Fine, you want an answer?" Jean rose to the challenge. "We didn't talk about much, but what we talked about was enough."

A pause during which Armin presumed Jean repositioned himself.

"Look, the fucker's a mass murdering piece of shit and I'll never change my mind that he deserves what's coming for him, but that's not… you know, people sticking blades through his guts and putting him in a hole in the ground with no food or light. I can't stand behind that crap. We should treat him like he was human once and not… not like a piece of trash. Not like an 'it'."

There was that 'it' again. So the police and Hange got to say it as much as they wanted, but when Armin tried it once, everyone would make sure that no one would forget about it, even if they didn't give half a damn about Bertholdt. He saw perfectly clearly how it was.

"And you know what?" Jean added, a rise in his tone. "He could've been way worse. He could've insulted me, or yelled at me, or attacked me for agreeing to feed him to someone, or for blowing up Reiner, or for cutting off his limbs, or even for delivering him right into the hands of the people who tortured him, but guess what? He wasn't a jerk about it. I'm even willing to believe he's sorry about everything he's done."

A pause, the creak of his bed.

"That must've cost him a great deal of effort, right? Yet despite good behaviour, he's treated like shit. Nothing about that feels right. We shouldn't make things worse if we can avoid it."

"Why only stop it now? Couldn't you have gone at any moment to make sure he wasn't being further abused? Did you not know what the word 'torture' meant when they said that's what was happening?" Armin replied, refusing to avoid the confrontation in his voice.

Jean didn't answer. Armin's eyes found Jean again over his shoulder, hunched over and leaning his elbows on his wide knees as he stared at the floor to think. When he noticed Armin, he lifted his head, a rare semblance of guilt contorting his features.

"They never said it out loud."

Chagrin pulled at the corners of Armin's lips.

"That's an excuse. You knew where he'd gone, what measures they'd taken to secure him. You knew we needed the information he possessed and you knew that Hange had gone with him and would do the same thing to him for Moblit, the Survey Corps, and the rest of his murders as they did to Sannes."

Of course he did. Armin had been the only one who'd learned about it after the fact due to his coma. Jean had no excuses and his expression hid nothing.

"It sounded much less severe than it was," Jean tried to weasel his way out of the accusation. "I didn't know it was that bad down there. I didn't know it still is. It was shocking and now I just feel like an asshole for thinking that was alright. Okay? I was wrong. You got me. I wanna be able to live with myself again, can we move on?"

Jean and Bertholdt had definitely talked about what had happened. About those things that Bertholdt simply refused to take up with Armin. Just seeing him in his current state wouldn't have given Jean any new insights about the torture that had taken place, yet it sounded like a defining factor in Jean's change of heart.

In just one morning that Jean had experienced as rocky, he had achieved more than Armin had in six months.

Armin exhaled a stressed breath.

"But I've told you about it. I've been telling you all since the beginning just how bad it was and what we needed to do to treat him like a person. Weren't you listening when I said that? Did you not believe me when I said that was what happened?"

"What changed for you, then, Armin?" Jean retorted. "You said that if you stop going, you're just letting them treat him like that? And why, because we'll need him a little less after we've made some allies from the outside world? What happened to using him to convince Reiner? What's just about leaving him now?"

"Nothing," Armin flatly admitted.

He turned the rest of his body sideways, arms leaning over the back of his chair to better maintain eye contact with Jean.

"This isn't about justice. I want him in a regular prison cell just as much as you do, Jean."

More. So much more.

"I was the first one who ever did. Believe me, I was the only one who wanted to see what happened to him when everyone else was long done with him. I'm the last person in the world who wants things to go back the way they were, but then I…"

His words trailed off there, eyes pinned on the frame of his bed rather as he rested his chin on his arms. Jean waited patiently for Armin to continue, but that didn't happen.

"Then you… what?" Jean asked, once more compassionate out of pity.

Armin's face sank deeper against his arm until his nose bumped against it. He shook his head, steeling his eyes when he felt his tear ducts sting.

Jean leaned down on his knees deeper to meet Armin's eyes, head tilted, so Armin buried the rest of his face against his arms to avoid the intrusion of his privacy.

He heard Jean get up from his bed, but instead of getting the message and leaving him on his own, he approached, cooing a drawn-out "Hey…" that made it hard for Armin to keep his composure. A hand landed on each shoulder, and when Jean spoke up, he was far nearer to Armin's face than he cared for.

"Speak to me, Armin. You have to talk about these things. Please tell me what you're thinking?" he begged, none of the earlier sass and self-righteousness present in the tone of his voice.

Armin bit the inside of his lip, and when that didn't suffice, he sank his teeth into his flesh through his sleeve. Neither worked. Pushing his eyes deeper into the fabric to soak up any tears, he held his torso as still as he could to hide the signs.

Jean wasn't going to leave. He was cornered.

Armin wanted to tell someone, more than anything, no matter how much it would wound his pride, and here, Jean was dangling the perfect opportunity in front of him.

So he did the only thing he could do anymore: swallow the lump in his throat and, with a tiny, pathetic voice, speak up.

"… I'm not sure if I can do this anymore."

Jean's grip on his shoulders stayed supportive. The rigidness of Armin's body betrayed him and he couldn't subdue the tremors that ran through him anymore. Then, when they got worse and it was undeniable that he was crying, Jean slid his hands farther over Armin's back and captured him in a hug, one hand running up and down over his back in a comforting motion as he felt Jean's nose bump against his arm.

The dread, the failure, the irresponsibility; in that moment, they all became too much for his heart to contain, so he let himself be miserable—not fully accepting Jean's comfort by returning the hug, but also not pulling away from him. He'd never forgive himself if he denied this kindness after he'd been craving some form of compassion, some form of emotional closeness, for so long now without having to feel so patronised all the damn time. It wasn't who he wanted to be close to right now, but if the one he did desire refused to sense how badly he needed this, then the one who did would have to do.

Jean waited patiently, silently. Present to do what he had visited to do. Armin owed him at least an explanation, even if it was through his sobbing and snottering.

"It's just– it's so taxing, and I want to keep going if it helps him, but I don't know if I can, and I don't know how much more it's going to hurt to see him like that while knowing I'm helpless to do anything about it, and… and…"

He stopped to gasp for a few shaky breaths through his rambling, tilting his head to wipe the tears out of his eyes as he did.

"I feel so evil for it, and I know you think that of me too, and–"

"Armin, no," Jean interrupted, stilling his hand. "That's not evil. You're not evil. How could you possibly be evil after what you've done?"

"What I've done? He needs me!" Armin yelled. "And I abandoned him! And I don't know what he thinks about it at all, but I know he hates me. Why wouldn't he? I betrayed his trust and fucked up our chances he'll ever help us again!"

"Hey," Jean cooed again. "Isn't that a good thing?"

What?

A good thing?

To breach his trust and completely shut him down again?

The comment was so absurd that Armin spontaneously stopped crying and lifted his head to see if Jean was being serious, the way he sat kneeling right behind the back of Armin's chair to hold onto him. He looked sincere. Not like he was suggesting something devious at all.

"Now he knows what it feels like," Jean explained with a confident smile. "Don't you think it's good that he knows how devastating it is to be betrayed by someone he wanted to trust? Don't you think he'll get what you feel like now that it has happened to him and that you'll make that connection you need?"

Armin's breathing had steadied into a shuddering quick pace rather than sobbing, looking straight into Jean's eyes as the other shot him a compassionate smile, face almost straight against Armin's.

Whether Bertholdt had suffered a betrayal before, Armin didn't know. But it was true that if he hadn't, then maybe, he could finally understand Armin. Why he'd felt so lost, so furious, so used when the truth had come to light. Why he failed to trust again. Maybe, when Armin finally left him behind in the dark for good, Bertholdt would find comfort in that they had gone through the same thing. Maybe he'd find peace in the fact that his penance had come full circle.

Maybe that was what absolved Armin from his duties. But that resignation didn't do him any good in his current predicament.

"Jean… You've got it all wrong," Armin weakly hummed. "I… I don't want to go anymore. He's never going to help us. Never. There are no arguments to make him change his mind because his reasons not to do it are good. He's sticking to his principles. Connection or not, he will never help us!"

"What?" Jean asked. "Armin, that's… Is that what he told you last time?"

"He told me in April."

"April…"

Quite a long time ago, wasn't it? Jean deserved his rightful anger over it, no matter how well he hid it and instead pressed his mouth into a thin line, avoiding Armin's eyes despite their close vicinity.

"I tried so many other things, but it's impossible. I'm asking him to compromise his morals."

Jean's eyes returned to Armin's, stern.

"Unbelievable. Is mass murder that honourable of a moral that he'll let himself be treated like that?"

"That's not what he's after," Armin placated. "He grew up like that. Bertholdt can't change. He never wants to kill again, but he has weighed his options. He's blinded by guilt, and he's… afraid, I suppose. He's terrified of Eren. He doesn't believe that Eren will be able to block the rumbling."

"Oh bullshit. Eren's weird, but he's not a murderer."

Armin didn't correct Jean. Instead, he sighed, lowering his eyes.

"I tried everything, but he won't budge. If there's even a tiny fraction of a chance it'll happen, Bertholdt's not moving. He thinks it's his responsibility. He's been running on the hope that what he's doing alone is preventing something horrible for the past year. Even if I dragged him to the surface and put him in front of a court, he wouldn't help us. We're done."

"Wow, that's… Uh…" Jean searched for the appropriate thing to say.

Armin slouched against his chair further, defeated. Whatever had happened to his resolve to keep going no matter what, it had melted away, now replaced by a weaker version of himself who wanted nothing more than to quit.

"I've talked to Hange, and–"

And he didn't want to talk about the deal they'd cut. Maybe in years, when his guilt had subsided and he didn't feel like a weasel for what he had done, but not today.

"… The expedition was meant as a way to see how I'd do without going to the mines after I'd made a huge mistake," he instead tried. "That mistake made me feel free from having to go. But then, every moment I spent alone, I wanted to be there, yet when I finally visited again, I felt empty. I didn't even want to leave—I couldn't care less where I was. Even… Even being shot sounded more exciting than being there."

His voice was building, louder and more certain of itself.

"And now that I'm here again, I want to go back, and I'm afraid that it'll keep being that way whenever I visit, and I can't take the thought of living the next few years in this hell! What's he even going to do for us anymore at this point? In a few weeks, we'll make contact and it won't matter anymore, because we'll either be dead or we'll have succeeded without his knowledge! It's all been for nothing…"

There was his confession. Jean looked up at him, brows knitted in pity. He let his hands slide back to Armin's shoulders as he repositioned his feet, looking down at the floorboards.

Armin closed his eyes. What sort of coward confessed to something so selfish only to feel the lightest he had in months?

Wasn't it obvious? A coward like him.

"Let me go."

Jean's words broke their silence, and again, Armin opened his eyes.

"No."

"Why not? It went well last time, and he gets to keep being cared for without burdening you. You both win."

"No," Armin repeated, "it has to be me. If I can go, I will."

"You obviously can't, Armin. Not if it'll make you feel like shit. Mental unwellness is just as much a reason not to go as physical unwellness."

"Do you not understand what 'no' means?"

"Oh, no, it's perfectly clear to me. You have a dumb reason to say no, though. Why don't you want me to go? Why don't you want me to help solve all problems you could possibly face?"

Because if you manage to bond with him when I couldn't, I'll end myself.

When Bertholdt reached his breaking points during his initial nine days in the mines, it hadn't been Armin he'd called out for. He'd begged to speak to Jean.

When he'd first read it, Armin had only been mildly disappointed. Since then, it had gotten the chance to fester in his mind, and after his recent rejections, it was finally corroding his image of Jean.

Childish. Asinine. Counterproductive. Self-serving. Lacking in solidarity. Cruel. That's all he was and all he'd ever be.

Armin glared, leaving the answer submerged in the spiteful mire that muddied his mind. It wasn't Jean's fault either that things had developed this way, there was no point in being angry with him. It made sense. Armin had been closest to Bertholdt, and yet out of everyone, he had struggled the most with defining how he felt about Bertholdt.

Why wouldn't Bertholdt return the sentiment? The police, the other 104th, even his torturer—he thought them all more approachable than someone he'd been close to.

If nothing else, it was bitter, but it was rational.

"Okay, so you're not gonna tell me and you're not gonna let me help you. Alright," Jean said when his patience wore thin, standing up using Armin's chair as a grip. He headed for the door and Armin rested his face against his arms again. He deserved to be abandoned.

When Jean didn't leave, it came as a greater shock than when it looked like he was going to end their conversation on an unfriendly note.

"It can't go on like this," Jean quietly declared, and he continued before Armin got the chance to retort. "What if I come with you?"

"Come with me?" Armin spoke into the fabric of his shirt.

"If you're too stubborn to stay here and take care of yourself, fine. But let me come with you. Moral support and all. It'll be much, much less of a shot in the dark if you have someone to put him in his place when he's being a jerk."

Footsteps sounded on the floorboards as Jean presumably turned Armin's way again.

"That's what concerns you, right? That he'll tell you things meant to make you feel like scum and you don't want it to look like you're attacking him when you defend yourself? If I'm there, you don't have to, but he'll still need to behave. I'll make him."

Good idea. Like this, he could see how Bertholdt acted when Jean was there.

That should have been Armin's idea, not Jean's.

Even when Armin was trying to make peace with his departure, he was still proving exactly how much of a mistake he had made by thinking he would get anywhere if he tried to reason with Bertholdt. It had made him worse; less sharp, less intuitive, more anxious and docile.

So docile that when he didn't find a way to reason his way out of this, he was fine with feeling worse about his failure.

"I would like that."

His face didn't leave the shelter of his sleeves, opting to keep himself hidden until he was left alone again.

"Then we'll go tomorrow. Together. Up at 7?"

"Gone by half past 6."

Jean huffed amusedly. "Taking my Sunday morning away from me. You're a cruel one, Armin."

It was hard to constrain his smile at Jean's endearing jest.

The door opened, but before he could leave, Jean made one last comment.

"We're relaxing in the vet's lounge. Think about joining us later. Alright?"

"Yeah, Jean. Sure."

---

It felt out of place for Armin to walk through these passages with another friendly face next to him, one he didn't have to be wary of. It was oddly welcoming and oppressive at the same time.

"You know your way around those dark tunnels? It all looks the same to me," Jean asked, looking over his shoulder to peer at the last remnants of daylight they were leaving behind.

"It's not so difficult," Armin said. "You adapt to the turns and twists rather swiftly. When you have light, it becomes easier to distinguish the main passage from the side tunnels. It wouldn't be so easy for Bertholdt to take a lantern along with him should he get out, and with his blindness, I don't know if he can tell the difference."

"Blindness?"

Armin shrugged.

"Must be something they gave him. He has trouble seeing. I saw spots in his eyes."

"Jeez," Jean croaked. "Doesn't he have healing or something? How did he go blind?"

"Beats me," Armin answered. "I offered to ask Hange to give him surgery, but he didn't want any blades near him ever again. They'd use his blindness as an extra safety mechanism anyway."

"Yeah… They would."

They didn't speak for the rest of the walk. Armin sensed that Jean was tensing up the closer they got and he once again wondered if he had been nervous the first time he visited or if he had been able to hide his anticipation. Maybe Jean was just as curious about what Armin would do as Armin was about Jean.

At the police's cavern, Armin stopped for his usual cup of tea. Jean declined his cup when offered one, and soon, they were on their way towards Bertholdt's cell again.

A short, silent walk brought them to that familiar gate and they stopped. By now, Bertholdt must've heard that another person was with Armin. Did he already recognise Jean by his footsteps or was he clueless about who was with Armin?

A hand landed on Armin's shoulder. Jean looked at him with determined eyes and nodded. I have got you, Armin could almost hear him say.

So he pulled open that gate and pushed through, into the unknown yet again, to find that today, Bertholdt was not hiding but had instead seated himself upright against the wall, blanket still discarded off his sleeping mat while his sleeping bag lay folded up at the foot. It was the first time Armin laid eyes on his severed legs again since he'd given him the sleeping bag, and it felt odd.

Not bad, just… odd.

What was his plan? Was he going to talk or was this just another display meant to dissuade Armin from visiting?

Armin walked inside, Jean behind him, and Bertholdt's eyes shiftily remained pinned on Jean as if he were the greatest danger in this cell right now.

"Hey, big guy," Jean said. He remained the only one to say a greeting.

Kneeling at the centre of the mineshaft and placing down the cup of tea didn't catch Bertholdt's attention and once more, that emptiness overtook Armin. Like it didn't matter at all that this was likely his last visit.

"Aren't you going to take it?"

Finally, Bertholdt's eyes shot Armin's way, but only briefly before they unfocused.

Armin stood again and turned, laying his eyes on Jean, who had already made himself at home leaning against the cavern wall with crossed arms, attention moving from Armin to Bertholdt.

"How are you doing, Bertholdt?" Armin asked while he opened the crate and began his usual provisioning. No answer came, and Armin decided that he didn't want to try again.

"Hey. Aren't you going to answer?" Jean said to his left, voice rife with judgement.

When no response came once more, Armin looked behind to see that Bertholdt was locked into a staring match with Jean, who groaned.

"You were livelier last time I was here. What happened, bud? Still sick?"

Bertholdt's eyes shot Armin's way, boring deep into his soul. Armin got back to work to avoid having to see them, but he could feel two people burning holes into the back of his head and his dull apathy was broken by the sudden feeling that he was the biggest jerk in this entire cell.

If Bertholdt managed to turn Jean against Armin, he'd never live it down.

"Yeah, yeah, he said some things you didn't like. Tough luck. You don't need to be a child about it."

A faint blush crept into Armin's cheeks. Gods, words couldn't express how refreshing it felt to finally be backed up instead of having to take things into his own hands. And by Jean of all people, who wasn't afraid to say what he meant when it was true.

Armin only glanced back. While the corners of Bertholdt's mouth tightened slightly, the taunt didn't help him overcome his quiet spell. Nothing would. It still wasn't entirely clear why he wasn't on his side showing them his back.

"It's okay, Jean," Armin instead responded, turning back to the crate. "If he doesn't feel like talking, he doesn't need to. He's upset, that's all."

A soft sound of something sliding against rock. The wording made Bertholdt uneasy enough to shift around in position. Armin could only smile at the minor victory as he stuffed the only laundry that week, the cloth used to contain the food, into his backpack and got to his feet again, turning to sit down and eye Bertholdt with curiosity.

Bertholdt sat still, evidently not sure what to do. Armin decided that staring wouldn't do anything and tried again.

"You don't need to talk, of course. But as usual, if there's anything any of us can do for you, that would be good to know."

No reaction. No shaking or nodding of his head, no words, no sudden eye contact. Facing Armin and Jean seemed to have been a mistake because it was making it far harder for him to ignore either of them. Armin expected to be asked what had happened to the Survey Corps' plans to go to the ocean.

"So, what usually happens after greetings? What do you two do?" Jean asked.

"That depends. We often talk and play games. If Bertholdt's too tired for either, I read to him."

"That why I brought him those books last time?"

"Yes. And to give him something to do when I'm not here."

"Really." Jean turned his head Bertholdt's way. "Can you still read despite your eyes?"

"Not that easily," Armin responded in Bertholdt's place. "But it doesn't hurt to have material available just in case."

Jean only laughed airily at that, looking down at Armin with a grin. "All that talk of diplomacy and you get down here just for tea and a talk. Ain't I good enough?"

"Are you murderers?"

Jean and Armin's stares simultaneously locked with Bertholdt's. Apparently Jean knew just as little what to say as Armin did, the way his mouth was slightly agape while Bertholdt's eyes darted between the two every few seconds looking for his answer.

"Huh?" Armin was the first to speak up.

Bertholdt closed his eyes, tilting his head forward.

"I had one free question left. From before we cut the arrangement. Right?"

He looked back up, gaze pinned on Armin.

"So tell me, have you killed?"

There was a reason he'd propped himself up against that wall. He wanted to observe the full reaction of his guests as he glared past those outgrown bangs of his, eyes cold and framed by dark rings.

Armin looked off to the side, where Jean noticed and returned it, non-verbally asking Armin about what this was all about. For such a serious topic, Armin was lost on what to say—whether it was safe to tell him the truth or whether he should lie, but his words were faster than his worries.

"Yes."

Bertholdt hummed in what Armin read as relief.

"Who was it?"

Armin swallowed. The burn of vomit still lay fresh on the tip of his tongue, the memory strong as the day it happened.

"A woman. While we overthrew the government."

"What did she do to deserve it?" Bertholdt continued without missing a beat. This conversation had been planned out long ahead of time.

Looking back up at Jean, Armin only got compassionate sorrow in return. He wasn't sure what to do either, whether he should go ahead with it or not. It was in Armin's hands.

"Nothing," Armin confessed. "She jumped into one of our carts, guns drawn. I didn't think about it when I shot her before she could shoot Jean."

To those words, Jean bowed his head forward, tightening his crossed arms against his chest as he glanced off to the gate. Whether Bertholdt knew he was digging into something deeply personal between him and Jean, he didn't know.

"I am certain that I killed a good person. Someone who had ambitions and a family who loved her. Someone who would've otherwise grown old."

Bertholdt seemed pleased with the answer, nodding in response as his eyes lost their dead glare and softened.

"How did it feel?"

The muscles in Armin's face tightened as he broke eye contact and drifted down into his lap, the phantom taste of acid back in his mouth.

"I didn't sleep for weeks. I sometimes still dream about that woman. I keep wondering where she'd be now if I hadn't done it, if she had a family that I took her away from. I felt less human for a long time after it happened. But if I hadn't pulled that trigger, then Jean would no longer be with us. I don't regret saving his life."

Bertholdt said nothing. The silence stayed between them for a while until he faced Jean, who was still more interested in the gate.

"How do you feel about knowing a life was taken to save your own?"

"Oi, oi, what is this, twenty questions?" Jean grumbled, sending a foul glare Bertholdt's way. "It's none of your business. You of all people absolutely can't judge any of us here."

"What about you, then?" Bertholdt deflected.

"Hah?"

"Are you a murderer?"

Jean was aghast. "Are you fucking kidding me…" he grumbled under his breath.

"No," Bertholdt answered, ignoring the rhetorical nature Armin suspected behind Jean's question.

Jean pushed himself loose from the wall.

"You have audacity asking such judgmental questions when you're responsible for the death of a fifth of humanity," he spat.

"I just want to know what kind of people you have become," Bertholdt deadpanned.

Not once had he faltered or lost eye contact. He was determined to see this topic through even if it meant angering Jean into beating him to a pulp, and Armin wasn't so sure if he had the gusto to stop him should it come to that.

He had to admit, though, that this was the most engaged he had been since his bluff.

"Yeah, I'm a murderer," Jean admitted, self-righteousness in his voice. "We all are. Everyone you've known here is. We had to do terrible things to survive. Tough shit, deal with it. Now you know our shock."

Despite Jean's anger, Bertholdt looked satisfied with that answer. He breathed out a long, steady breath, losing focus in favour of the dusty minefloor beyond his legs for a moment before aiming his attention at Armin again.

"That woman. Was she the first or the only one?"

He wanted to know every detail, as it would seem, and Armin wanted to give him it. Maybe it would help absolve him.

"First."

"Who else?"

Armin made the tally in his head, but then stopped himself.

Why did he not know the exact number? Why did he have to count? After his first, he never really thought back about the trail of corpses he'd go on to leave behind. It was the only way forward.

It really shouldn't have left him this cold. If only Bertholdt knew that it did.

"There were more people on that squad that we had to cut through. We killed the last surviving Reiss family member. We considered using various murders to our advantage, but we never went through with that one. And finally…"

Armin locked eyes with Bertholdt, for once the one with the dead-eyed stare.

"… I attacked you with the full intention to kill you."

Despite the blatant admittance, Bertholdt's expression didn't fall. If anything, a subtle solemnity underlined his face before he composed himself again and suppressed it.

"Were you complicit in the death of the pure titans? You said the Survey Corps killed them all."

"I wouldn't…" Armin started, but he understood where Bertholdt was going.

"They don't count? They're not people?"

"Lotta dead bodies, we get it," Jean said. He wouldn't have it.

Bertholdt bowed his head to swallow, then continued.

"All that to save a million people on this island."

"Get to the point already," Jean interrupted Bertholdt. "This is a desperate attempt at garnering compassion even for you, Bertholdt. Do you think we don't know why you did the things you did by now? You do know that hating the people who did this to you doesn't mean anything if you refuse to fight back against them, right? How are we supposed to believe that you know better and you deserve better than to rot?"

Not good that Jean was losing his cool. Bertholdt sighed, mildly annoyed at Jean's straightforwardness.

"I don't."

"Oh, yeah, of course. Why wouldn't you play those games instead of answering me?"

Bertholdt paid Jean no mind. He instead repositioned himself, looking up between both of them before settling on Armin with a hypnotic stare that demanded to be perceived with Armin's full attention.

"How were you punished for these deeds?"

Somehow, the question didn't come across as judgmental, albeit the rhetorical nature was not at all well-hidden. Neither answered at first, finding it difficult to answer in a way that didn't come across as 'we didn't suffer the way you did, how about that?' Armin would've guessed Jean thought about saying something that hit deep after Bertholdt's refusal to play along with his rhetoric, but Jean kept it to himself, instead licking his lips.

"We weren't. We have to live with our actions and carry the burden of knowing there were no repercussions," Armin was the one to answer.

"Why not?"

"You already know the answer to that, don't you? Because we installed a new government that directly benefited from those killings. There are no benefits to locking us up or executing us."

"So you were lucky that you were on the side that won."

"Yes," Armin sighed out.

Bertholdt didn't say anything, keeping his eyes pinned on Armin alone. Armin waited, silently hoping that Jean would stay quiet as well to let Bertholdt continue with where he was going with this.

No one said anything for long. Bertholdt finally got the message and continued.

"Would you voluntarily accept the punishment for your actions if given the opportunity? Would you rot in prison for the rest of your life or accept torture or an execution if it meant that the families of those whose lives you stole will get justice?"

"Oh, come on…" Jean grumbled at the difficult nature of the question, but Armin found it to be a valid one.

One he didn't know the answer to, either.

He folded his hands over his lap, lightly rocking them back and forth. On the one hand, it was indeed owed to those families that there be justice for the Survey Corps' actions. Without a doubt, there were insurgents who were shocked to see that the new leadership would just let these violent usurpers walk free. They may not even have had bad intentions like their perished loved ones did—most were nothing more than citizens mourning someone they loved.

But what good would it do? The Survey Corps was doing so much more good for the island than those victims ever did. The insurgents knew what they were fighting for: oppression, subjugation, falsehood, genocide. The Survey Corps honoured opposite values. They killed to free their people. They killed for the greater good.

Bertholdt's point was obvious. A dozen lives in exchange for a million. A million lives in exchange for a billion. What difference did it make? Were they really so different?

Except that those few certainly had bad intentions while those million did not. The comparison was unequal. Bertholdt's point had sunk and drowned on the spot, yet Armin couldn't find it within himself to debunk it on the fly.

The matter of the serum came to mind. The fact that Armin had fully expected and would've even accepted punishment for playing a role in its loss, yet none ever came. Not even Erwin's death would lead to due repercussions.

"I really don't know how to answer that question, Bertholdt," Armin admitted. "There are too many factors at play."

Bertholdt hummed. Where Armin expected to see anger, instead he displayed nothing but the same apathy Armin had sensed within himself this past month. Like he was already bored of his own rhetoric.

What an odd conversation. One that had twisted Armin's insides into this weird shape once more, he noticed the more he thought about it. One meant to get under his skin–

"So that's a no."

–and one that succeeded.

"That's an I don't know. I haven't had the time to think it through. And as it stands, it is only a hypothetical. I don't see what I would gain if I thought it through, this will never come to fruition."

There was his venom, passionate only in spirit as he kept his tone light and factual. The subtle twitch of the muscles under Bertholdt's eyes showed that Armin had been successful with his counterstrike.

Jean glanced to the side with an expression Armin couldn't see in the corner of his eyes. If nothing else, Armin managed to show his comrade that he wasn't down and beaten by a few simple words. Bertholdt really would have to do better if he wanted to humiliate Armin in front of Jean.

"You may not think it has, but it changed you," Bertholdt spoke up, accusatory passion in his voice. "You're never going back to being a normal, well-adjusted person. You're murderers now. Even if no one cares, you will never wash the blood off your hands. Don't try to come down here pretending to be innocent people when you've also done horrific things."

There was a motive. To dissuade them from feeling comfortable about visiting lest they be called cowardly murderers and reminded of all the things they'd collectively agreed they should get away with unspoken. Losing his supply line was evidently worth this for Bertholdt.

"So what about you, huh?" Jean replied. "You killed plenty of people before you came here. How many?"

"That's not something I can count. I rarely saw the people I killed."

"Great, that explains a thing or two about you," Jean grumbled. "Who was first? Did you even bother to remember?"

Bertholdt sat uneasy, waiting as if the question would simply pass if he did. Under Armin and Jean's scrutinising presence, there was no escaping it.

"I don't remember, no."

"Bullshit. You must've been young, right? You definitely remember the first time. How could you possibly forget?"

Bertholdt sighed exasperatedly. "I don't remember because I don't remember the order. We were on the battlefield facing enemies who operated machine guns."

"What are those?" Armin asked.

"They're, um… They're large guns that shoot automatically many times per second. You only reload once per few hundred bullets or so, and it's usually bolted to the floor or a vehicle. It can kill hundreds in a minute."

A brutal weapon, if it truly worked that way. This was one valuable example of technology their opponents would use in combat that they had to be prepared to encounter and he'd have to relay it to Hange.

Clearing his throat, Bertholdt continued.

"They didn't get me because the gun was aiming for the others' heads and it shot above mine. I fell to the ground when the others fell on me. I didn't know we were being shot at until I saw blood, so I rolled to my stomach and took aim. I think that gunman was my first kill, but I don't remember if I shot anyone before him. Maybe the first was another soldier. It's been so long."

The fact that Bertholdt deadpanned his explanation spoke for itself. Armin waited to hear if he had anything else to say, but nothing more came as Bertholdt reminisced about a dark time in his life.

"How old were you, Bertholdt, that you were short enough to avoid being hit by gunfire that hit your comrades?"

"Five, maybe six," Bertholdt answered, unaffected.

"And that's the government you're proud to serve?" Jean asked, now pissed off as he uncrossed his arms and took on an aggressive stance. "One that sends toddlers to take bullets for them and that doesn't even see you as humans? What the hell could you possibly gain from that? How could that possibly be the moral option?"

Questions of such a nature were enticing to ask out of the emotional need to hear that the premise simply wasn't true. Valid as it was, Armin knew very well that Bertholdt was conflicted about the whole matter but ultimately had made his decision grounded in the reality he saw. Reacting so dejectedly would get them nowhere.

"And what does it tell you that I prefer them over you?" Bertholdt challenged Jean, head bowed to leer under a steeper angle.

Jean gritted his teeth. Armin got to his feet just in time to grab Jean's sleeve and keep him from storming off to the other side of the mineshaft, only earning him a shove before Jean reconsidered getting physical and turned towards the wall, a hand on the surface as he peered into the dusty floor, grinding his jaws together.

So Bertholdt saw Paradis as worse than imperialistic, bloodthirsty Marley with aims to exterminate his own people. Both nations tortured and treated select people like lowly beasts, but Paradis had no history of killing or hatred of other peoples and it didn't carry out such horrific acts against a large population like Marley did. It was an odd comparison. Looking at crimes alone, Paradis came out way on top.

And yet despite that, Bertholdt was fine with declaring his loyalty to Marley.

Unless he was once more lying to get out of a difficult situation.

"That Eren is right," Jean answered. "You're nothing but a slave who can't think for himself. You really are perfect for the Colossal Titan, aren't you? Marley knows for a fact that you're much too measly of a coward to ever raise a finger against them."

Again, an exasperated sigh. One that, if Armin had to extrapolate from previous sighs, contained little annoyance over Jean's insults and that was more concerned with his refusal to understand his position.

If this was how they'd argued last time, Armin could see why Jean would lie about how it had gone, but then what had caused him to connect with Bertholdt on an empathetic level? This wasn't the sort of conversation that would spur one into action to jump to Bertholdt's defence.

Jean didn't want to tend to him because of something they talked about, but in spite of it.

He had more in him than Armin did. Maybe he really was the one who was suited to come visit Bertholdt and take care of him. At least he was eager to do it and wasn't blinded by his grievances.

Good for him, honestly. Maybe they could arrange something after they came back from the ocean and they could both be put to work where their talents shone.

"Got nothing else to say, you tall asshole?" Jean rasped, turning halfway towards Bertholdt to peer down at him.

Bertholdt only glanced up at him briefly before his sight returned to a defined point on the floor, eyes hooded in disinterest.

"Does it mean nothing that we're here to give you stuff you'd starve without?"

One corner of Bertholdt's mouth tightened as he collected his thoughts.

"You're trying to buy me. How nice."

"Buy you?" Jean asked. "Nooo. No, of course not. I'd drag you to a prison where they give you a bed and normal food if I could, but yanno. Police. Not the easiest folks to sneak human cargo past and procedures are a drag."

"Of course," Bertholdt answered. Armin sensed he wasn't fully on-board.

Neither continued after that. Jean took his spot against the wall again, playing with the fabric of his sleeve amidst the silence while Bertholdt stared out into the nothingness visible through the gaps between the gate's planks.

Armin tapped his fingers across his lap. He once again felt too languid to defuse the vitriol Bertholdt and Jean had spewed at each other, but it seemed the conflict had solved itself without Bertholdt having to resort to a vow of silence or Jean turning violent.

What exactly had happened to end it so swiftly?

Didn't matter. Jean could repeat it whenever he should come visit. Beyond this day lay a final expedition into Wall Maria territory before they finally went to the ocean and it wasn't likely that Armin would have any time to see Bertholdt again. After that, they were done. With his head between the waves, this pale, dark cavern could hardly keep Armin's attention.

That was until Jean's waving hand entered his blurred field of vision and he realised he'd gotten caught in a daze and Jean had to extend his arm all the way in front of him to catch his attention. Armin looked up at him and Jean shrugged, shaking his head.

What's next?

Right. He was supposed to lead these talks.

"Did you feel like doing anything?"

Bertholdt, who had also just been staring into the abyss for the period of silence, didn't react particularly notably to the question.

"No."

"Should I read something?"

"No."

"Then do you want to talk?"

"Didn't we just?"

So they were done. Either Bertholdt wanted a staring match which neither of them reciprocated, or he wanted them gone. He'd achieved what he wanted to, which was apparently to call Armin a murderer who wouldn't see Heaven. Bertholdt was done.

"Hey, if we're going to keep on talking, then I have a question," Jean said, missing the dismissive nature of Bertholdt's short answers. "We're off south soon. Might encounter some people from other places. Anything we should say or avoid? Rude gestures, body language, words we gotta know and such. Gifts they may like. Anything."

Bertholdt's sight very slowly drifted towards his hand, still bandaged. Eyeing Armin, he searched for permission.

Somehow, despite it all, he still respected Armin enough not to point out the ways in which he had made Bertholdt's imprisonment less secure right where Jean could hear it. Despite what he'd said earlier, he wasn't trying to get Armin punished for not following protocol. There was an odd dissonance between his words and his actions that only reinforced that Bertholdt was all bark but no bite.

"Bite it loose."

And so Bertholdt did. With far more difficulty than usual, he slowly unwrapped his hand as Jean shrugged with turned-up palms and a shake of his head at Armin and Armin waved his concern away for later, be it for the fact that Bertholdt knew how to undo his bandages or the odd sight of that crudely missing index finger.

Bertholdt stared at his hand wide-eyed, slightly slack-jawed, then, very slowly, raised it in the air, back turned towards them, and drew in every finger except his middle.

"This is the universal gesture for peace."

Jean mimicked the gesture, examining his hand as he did. Armin hadn't seen it used by too many people, but in Shiganshina, it would occasionally be used in his parents' shop. He wasn't quite sure what it meant back home, but it seemed to be one tied to goodbyes judging by the context he used to see it in.

"That's handy. Anything else?" Jean responded.

"There's also a universal gesture for war."

"What is it?" Armin asked, now perked up again. They wouldn't need to use it themselves, but it would be great to recognise from afar.

"It's, um… You know, when you ball your hand into a fist…"

Bertholdt did as he said, and so did Jean.

"… and when you then do this…"

He moved his hand up to his cheek and carefully placed his knuckles against the fleshy part, pushing hard. Jean repeated it.

"… to the opponent. Really fast."

Armin sank back against the crate as Jean stared ahead to process the words and his eyes widened, dropping his hand again.

"That's a punch."

"Very universal at showing you're no ally."

Jean only groaned, looking away miffed.

"Come on, man. They could shoot us if we don't go prepared and we do something stupid. Do you want them to shoot us?"

Bertholdt didn't answer. The hint of a smug smile didn't escape Armin, though it vanished under the reality that Jean was outlining.

"We just wish to survive our potential encounters, Bertholdt," Armin tried. "Can't you at least sympathise with us on that matter?"

At first, it looked like Bertholdt wasn't going to respond, but then, he spoke up again.

"You're island devils to them. That's even worse than an Eldian. No gesture will keep them from shooting you."

Something about that sat wrong with Armin. It was an incomplete statement and they were veering into territory where he lost control over the conversation.

"What do you think?" he asked. "You were sent here believing you were cleansing the world of the island devils. You called us the children of the devil, though you later rescinded that. But now, you seem to think of Hange and I as devils again. What's the truth?"

Bertholdt looked up at Armin under a low angle of his head, breathing shallow breaths as the conversation went a way he didn't anticipate. He broke eye contact as he licked his cracked lips again before it returned.

"With what you have done, how do you expect me to think anything different?"

"With what you've done," Jean echoed much too soon in a neutral tone, "how do you expect us to think anything different of you? We should loathe you and let you rot, yet here we are talking to you like a person. Understanding you, thinking you deserve better. We're helping you despite everything you've done. You can't even do the same to us?"

"Why do you never talk about what you've done to me?"

A change of topic. One that caught Armin off guard.

Noticing that neither caught on, Bertholdt turned his head and softly groaned.

"It's cruel. You say you're good to me and then you make me explain every single mistake I've ever made in great detail, but you never have to do the same. You say you regret it? Then why do you never talk about it?"

"Did you want me to?" Armin asked. "I thought you wouldn't want me to talk about it and force you to relive painful memories. Did you really want me to?"

"We did it because we needed information to survive," Jean broke through again. Armin was starting to regret bringing him along. "You said it yourself: someone needs to get blood on their hands."

Bertholdt shook his head.

"So then let's just keep slaughtering and maiming each other until everyone's hands are stained red."

Again, silence. Bertholdt didn't bother for his focus to return to his two guests. Armin expected he'd look away the rest of the morning.

"No… No, that's not…" he added with less frustration in his voice. "You were all just dancing in the palm of someone's hand, too. All that blood adds up. We represent the collective of our ancestors' sins. We obtain the memories of the past so that we can never be allowed to forget the things we have done, and…"

He fell silent, sucking his breath between his teeth with a sharp hiss before one corner of his mouth pulled to the side and he stared into the void where Armin's knees rested.

"You deserved it."

Soft and impassive.

"You deserved having to flee your hometown when it was overrun."

A bob of his throat.

"You deserved to feel caged. You deserved to see everyone around you die. You deserved to lose hope when you were stalked within the Walls."

His eyes, threatening, shot up to lock with Armin's much less secure ones.

"You deserved to burn. And now, you deserve to be shot at the beach and trampled by Marley's forces."

Armin had to lay his hand against Jean to restrain him yet was too shocked to do anything.

"Just like I deserved everything that happened to me while I was in this cave. And if we all get what we deserve and turn our turf into a bloodbath, then maybe our cursed existence will end and the world can finally…"

There was the first display of emotion since Bertholdt started this branch of the conversation. A quirk of his eyelids, one he quickly corrected by relaxing his facial muscles and staring on ahead.

Jean had enough and stepped forward before Armin could make anything out of Bertholdt's confession. Armin shot up and once again held Jean back with his body while urging him to wait, but this time, Jean was forceful in pushing him to the side and had already made it to the other side of the mineshaft by the time Armin regained his footing. Armin dared not approach as Jean stood towering over Bertholdt just a pace away and Bertholdt's eyes stared emptily at Jean's knees.

"Do you think that makes it okay?" Jean growled. "Hey, look up at me when I talk to you. If we deserve everything that you do to us, then you're not the piece of shit everyone says you are? Do you think it's so simple as deeming us all cursed and in need of killing?"

No answer. Bertholdt did not recoil the way he did when Armin tried to approach, and although he sat with his arm pressed close to his body and his form had collapsed against the wall in unease, Armin felt something prickle in his stomach over that observation.

"Jean."

Jean didn't react, head bent so far forward that he could peer down at Bertholdt and make being ignored even harder.

"Jean, that is not the right question," Armin extended his appeal.

Jean flexed his fingers into fists a few times but didn't back off.

Armin walked up behind him but stopped at the centre of the mineshaft, feeling that that was where his legs physically blocked up and refused to carry him farther.

"Is that how you've been getting through this, Bertholdt?" Armin appealed, voice devoid of the judgement Jean wanted to rain down on him. "If you deserved it, then no one did anything wrong to you? If you're just another devil, then what happened to you isn't sad?"

He knelt to get down to Bertholdt's eye level but was ignored with increasing difficulty.

"You're no devil. Remember when we would read together? Those free Sunday afternoons which everyone else wanted to spend outside, yet we chose to hole up in some dusty library and clean it up, and then comb through every single book that the training grounds had at their disposal? We had fun and we harmed no one by doing it. Doesn't that prove our intrinsic humanity?"

He had to swallow as the joy of the memory was far more painful than it relieved.

"Or the times when I collapsed during an exercise and you came back to save me, a weak island boy who was signing his death warrant in the military? You could get seriously ill, yet you still ran into the rain to come get me. You didn't have to. You chose to anyway."

When Armin patted his heart, Bertholdt's eyes briefly glanced the way of Armin's shoes.

"You were made to do such gruesome things, but you have a soft heart. I have seen it many times, over the span of years. In the library, at the training grounds, in the cities, even when you faced us on the battlefield. You're a good person, I know you are. You all are. You are not a devil and you did not deserve to be treated as one."

The worst part was that Bertholdt had made Armin care. He'd made him break his apathy over being down in the mine and all of this came from a place in his heart he wished wasn't still there.

He could stand to return home and go lie in bed to cry into his pillow for hours, but now was when he saw that long-bygone duty within reach again and more than anything wanted to come back on giving up and deeming it all a lost cause.

There had to be something left inside Bertholdt. He was good.

No, he desired to be good.

"But… no devil would bring food to his enemy and extend him a hand, either," Armin juxtaposed. "No devil would choose to do what we—what Jean and I are trying to do. Maybe, sometimes there reign hard feelings between us, with what happened, but we really want what's best for you and walk out of here together as friends."

Both of Armin's hands crossed atop his heart.

"But for that to happen, we have to be open to learning from each other. If we can all learn to live with each other and forgive each other for everything that has happened, we can be the ones who put a stop to all that bloodshed. You need to give us that chance. You need to trust that we will convince the world of our humanity, just as we did to each other."

Only one pair of eyes looked back at him, but it wasn't the one whose attention he desired. Bertholdt used Jean's legs to hide behind, even if they only covered him from the side. Once more, Armin had won on a purely theoretical and entirely useless level and Bertholdt would choose to wait it out until he could pretend it never happened.

Desperately, Armin hoped that something would change. That Bertholdt would feel uneasy enough by Jean's presence or Armin's stare to force at least something out of him. Anything Armin could latch onto.

But he remained quietly stubborn.

Jean evidently got tired of standing so close to him for so long, so he turned around and walked back to his side of the cavern. He stopped by Armin's side.

"Big thanks for ganging up on me together with him, by the way," he murmured, then walked back to the crate.

What?

Gang up? With Bertholdt?

Armin looked over his shoulder but Jean kept his back turned on him, facing the crate with a bent neck and a hand extended against the rocky wall. Only when he got Jean's disapproval did he realise how much it stung when it was a trusted friend who accused him of such a betrayal.

Now was no time to discuss this. Bertholdt would just get validated that he could effectively divide the two and be vindicated to refuse help.

"So. Make up your mind yet?" Jean asked. "Not too late for that. You'll be like a bit of a hero if you help us now."

It looked like Bertholdt would ignore him, but against all odds, he answered.

"Gestures won't save you. I've already told you that."

"Yeah, no, obviously. But the way we address them might. If we know what a devil looks like, we can avoid being one. It'll help us."

Shaking his head weakly, Bertholdt laid it back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

"No, it won't. It really won't. You'll get the entire Survey Corps killed. You're much better off staying here and waiting for them to send people over to you. If you're lucky, it'll be diplomats and not gunmen. The only way to avoid dying on those shores is by not going."

"Who says the entire Survey Corps is going?" Jean challenged.

Bertholdt wearily looked at Armin, then up at Jean. "It was in the newspaper."

Jean turned towards Armin, once more dejected. "You read him the news?"

"What? No, I didn't. I… It's someone else. I only bring books," Armin said, looking back over his shoulder with his fingertips perched against the minefloor.

"Do those policemen need scolding?" Jean groaned.

"Jean, it really doesn't matter. They probably select what they say."

"Is that what you told her to do?" Bertholdt interspersed.

Armin squeezed his mouth shut. Bertholdt wouldn't spare him, either, then.

Jean whipped his head Armin's way.

"Your idea?"

Armin stood, turning halfway in Jean's direction.

"I… asked one of them to come offer company more often and to read the newspaper for interesting things. What can he honestly do down here?"

Jean walked towards Armin, grabbing him by the sleeve and pulling him closer until his mouth was against Armin's ear.

"He can track our movements like this," he whispered. "He'll know exactly when we're gone and when he can strike."

"You sound like Hange," Armin said at a regular volume.

"And they're right. I fully agree with them in this situation," Jean continued to whisper. "We're the only ones who know how to defeat him, and that's only in theory. Do you think the police know how to face a titan, let alone an intelligent one that's 60 metres tall?"

"What can he do that he can't do when we're around?" Armin answered, turning his head and lowering his volume to whisper back, fully aware that Bertholdt's adapted ears would likely catch his words, but it didn't matter. "Six days out of seven, he's left on his own. Hours for us to travel here. Not to mention that he can't even transform, and you know he can't. He's not waiting for an opportunity because he doesn't have one, Jean. If he did, he would've long used it to try to escape from this hell."

Jean breathed in and out steadily a few times before pulling loose from Armin, returning to his usual spot to his right.

"Fine. You do it if you're so insistent. Just don't do dangerous things," he spoke at normal volume, though softly. He looked over his shoulder, then gestured towards the gate. "If he's not helping us, then we should probably just leave. And you."

He pointed at Bertholdt.

"You can lie there until you rot into the rocks if that's what you want. I literally don't care. It's your choice and you clearly deserve it. Let's go, Armin."

Armin hesitated. It was futile to stay beyond this point if all they were going to do was fight and Bertholdt may be driven to leaking more incriminating secrets and get Armin in the trouble he so desired for him as an act of stand-in justice for the crimes he wouldn't face any for.

"Go on ahead," Armin said. "I need to fix those bandages. I'll meet you where the police are. This can… take a moment."

Jean didn't have to know why. He looked behind, then nodded and moved towards the gate. He paused, lingering, before he sighed with great exaggeration and turned again.

"You're lucky I'm such a forgiving person," he said as he stuck up a conciliatory middle finger at Bertholdt for his previous statement before turning around again and walking out, grabbing the lantern he'd hung up outside for light.

When Armin looked back at Bertholdt, he had his head bowed forward completely, a shiver running through his back and neck, intensifying each second. Had he been holding back his reaction just to avoid looking weak in front of Jean? Was it the fear that he was being abandoned, or had Jean's words cut deeper than Bertholdt let on?

At the very least, Armin would leave knowing that Bertholdt felt less of a need to contain his emotions around Armin. It had to attest to a certain level of comfort around him, no matter how little use it would be of.

This was likely the last time Armin would see Bertholdt. Maybe he sensed it, too.

So Armin sat down again and waited. Until Bertholdt stilled again and his breathing went from altering between non-existent and short, shaky bouts into a more natural rhythm. It was utterly pointless to even try anymore at all, but if he spent his final retreat with his tail between his legs and a solemn note about how powerless Bertholdt was, he'd never find his confidence again.

"You know, Bertholdt…" he started, pulling his backpack closer to the foot of the crate. "You won't see me for a while. I'll be busy the next few weeks and I don't know when I can visit again. If they don't shoot me, like you said they will. Like I deserve."

He opened his backpack.

"I've given you food to eat, water to drink, and towels and clothes to maintain your hygiene with, but there is one glaring flaw in everything I've offered you."

Sticking his hands inside, he made his way to a hidden pouch stitched into the lining of his backpack, where a small bundled-up package had laid in wait for a month now, never offering him the right opportunity to bring it up.

Placing it on his lap, he checked to see if Bertholdt had found it in him to look up again. Maybe, with Jean gone, he wouldn't.

"Do you know what this is?" he carefully asked.

Bertholdt stiffened. His head went slightly lower, then rose, revealing his watery eyes, his face that was pinker than Armin had ever seen it down in these mines, still tear-streaked. He wiped away some residual tears, looking carefully at the object in Armin's lap, which he held up for a clearer view.

No, he shook, not trusting his voice.

Armin undid the bundle, holding the object up in his right hand.

"Now?"

Again, a no.

Armin put it down against his lap again.

"This is a shaving razor," he informed, running his fingers over the cold, smooth side of the blade. "They probably won't be very happy that I took this with me, but I don't care."

Bertholdt mouthed an oh but didn't seem too impressed. He already knew how this would end. They both did.

"Let me take care of your hair and stubble."

A third no.

After almost a year without bathing, his hair had grown into his neck. Despite Armin's gifted hairbrush and comb, it was difficult to keep up with. The dust from the mine and the sweat and oils that were meant to keep his hair healthy were impossible to combat without water and soap. His facial hair had gotten the time to grow, thickening into a wispy field that made Bertholdt almost unrecognisable. Bertholdt's hair looked like it hadn't been brushed for a month and his face once again was stained with dirt despite his towels.

But if Armin could just help him shed all that filthy hair, it would be just like being clean. He could wash his scalp and cheeks again for the first time in months.

Armin considered accepting that answer. Then, he got up, kneeling in the middle, using that ignored teacup as a barrier between their worlds.

"I can make it easier for you to take care of yourself. You'll be tidier and less dust will stick to your skin. You'll look your age, too. The police may be more considerate of you."

And a fourth no, this time unconvinced but certainly there.

Armin opened and closed the razor several times, clicking each time it fully opened. On his knees in front of Bertholdt, he would perhaps look his most genuine. He dipped his head forward slightly, slouching over.

"Come on… That you don't want to help us, I can understand. But what could you possibly stand to gain from denying any comfort?"

Armin looked deep into those flecked eyes.

"You don't use my blanket anymore, you don't use your sleeping bag, you're no longer wearing the clothes I bring, and now, you don't want me to help you shave. You've already suffered so much, yet you won't even accept anything that will make things easier on you? Why are you causing yourself unnecessary pain?"

Bertholdt just stared. Through that mistrust broke something worn and tired.

"Because… you think I will hurt you?"

No.

It clicked in Armin's head, clear as day after being a mystery for so long.

"You don't want to hurt me."

Bertholdt's reaction the first time Armin had tried to come closer months ago… With a blade in hand, who knew what Bertholdt would be capable of?

Bertholdt's shoulders tensed.

"What good would it do?" he finally answered.

He looked so empty. Haunted by something far away from then. Maybe ashamed of what he'd been reduced to—of what little control he still had over his body, and the small fraction he did have was limited even more by his lack of emotional restraint.

"What good does it do to decline the help I give you?" Armin almost whispered. "What good does it do to be cold and to wear the same dirty clothes for so long? What is disloyal about accepting the basic accommodations that any prisoner would get? What could you possibly gain from this?"

"Nothing," Bertholdt admitted.

"So why, then?"

Bertholdt simply shrugged, and finally, he managed to strike a nerve with Armin. Whether it was intended to annoy Armin, he had ulterior motives, or he was simply once again doing things he himself didn't understand, he was going against everything Armin had worked for.

Armin couldn't get his cooperation, fine. But the fact that he couldn't get him to even accept basic comforts?

No. He was done. Jean could take over from there, Armin had spent more than enough energy trying to do things nicely and getting nothing in return, not even proper use of the things he offered.

So he stood.

Walked over to his backpack.

Strapped it to his back.

Grabbed the lantern off the wall.

And turned on his heel, pushing through the gate before closing it behind him again, on his way to the blistering surface.

It didn't matter.

It really didn't matter.

In a month, they would have assessed whether contact with other nations was possible at all at the harbour, whether they could keep the peace for long enough to talk without being shot down, and Bertholdt would become obsolete, good only for the monster that Paradis needed from him.

Bertholdt was poison. The longer Armin chose to entertain him, the worse he tainted his mind and corroded his virtues. It was long overdue for Armin to finally start healing and let Bertholdt be his toxic self alone in the dark, where he could harm no one but himself.

No god or man would want to find such a monster down in these mines. There was no point in sparing him discomfort and pain.

And maybe, they wouldn't be chained to years of taking care of such a poisonous man. Maybe those outsiders would provide them with a serum recipe that would finally put Bertholdt out of his misery. It may not have been the thing he was waiting to happen, but at least it would end. Armin would offer him his promised way out of that mine, morbid as it may be.

It was all about reaching that harbour, seeing the ocean for himself, and letting its detoxing waters restore his hope.

Then, it would all be over.

Then, he would know relief and start to rebuild.

He stuck his free hand into his coat's pocket, annoyed, only to find his knuckles brushed with a thick paper edge. Taking the object out, his eyes fell upon a small, worn card. On it was the drawing of a tower struck by lightning, named after its image. It must've fallen out when he'd stuck Jean's ragged tarot box into his pocket. There would be a time to return this to–

His boot caught onto a rise in the minefloor and he tripped, just in time to raise his arm and avoid breaking his face against the rough wall a few steps ahead, instead catching his full weight with his forearm. By some miracle, neither his bones nor the lantern had broken, held up high in the fall by reflex to avoid setting himself on fire—yet Armin couldn't subdue the annoyed curse that slipped out at having tripped in this exact spot a second time, once more robbing his exit of all elegance.

He was so tired of it all. Tired of these mines, tired of the darkness, tired of being afraid, tired of itching, tired of being a servant, tired of Bertholdt.

He needed to get far away from all of this.

Scrambling to get up again, he grabbed the creased card from between the dust and stuffed it back into his pocket.

---

The start of June was far too early in the year for the sun to scorch so mercilessly, but it didn't matter. Armin needed to be ready in case Hange did one last checkup to make sure he was really strong enough to join them on such a long mission. They didn't want him to be so active, but he had no choice. He had been slacking on his flights and it could end up costing him the journey to the ocean.

The wind that whipped past him did little to soothe the heat that threatened to smother him whole. Doused in so much sweat that his uniform stuck to every region of his body, it was pointless. It was weighing him down without cooling him, and his demeanour was only making him hotter, filled to the brim with the desire to scream and shout until he suffocated.

And so he did as he flew, landing on a branch to slam his fist into a thick trunk, cursing and groaning at the intense pain as he clutched his forearm, still aching from the bloody wound the fall had left behind.

The sun taunted him with a blinding flare that shone through the leaves in flashes, so he turned his back on it and jumped, swinging with a wide arc and launching himself through the treetops with as much force as he could, picking up speed fast and wasting much more gas than he should.

It didn't matter.

It all didn't matter.

There was no way for it to matter less than it already did. There would be time to reflect on these times and laugh over a glass of liquor, he knew, because that was how it always went. Why would this setback be any different?

He was done.

He and Bertholdt were done.

The responsibility was someone else's.

All that lay before him anymore now were waves.

Exhilaration shot through his arms and legs at the mix of frustration and ecstasy, and he let himself swing by his lines before shooting upwards with all of his might and a considerable burst of gas, so high that he peeked above the treetops and greeted the crisp blue sky that shone above him like an unending lake.

Every muscle tightened and relaxed at the same time as loose strands of hair prickled at his neck and he felt himself laugh—genuinely laugh, so intensely that his eyes teared up; burst out with more humour than he had the entire past year as he felt more alive than he ever had in that one weightless moment.

Before he knew it, it was all over again.

He was past his peak, now once again at the mercy of his body's mass as he fell through the foliage, gear ready in both hands to anchor himself to the nearest tree trunk and slow his descent once he got a clear view of his surroundings beneath the lush canopy.

The tree he'd set his eyes on during his ascent was closer than he had calculated. In reflex, he shot his anchor into a neighbouring tree, jerking him out of danger's way. The earlier burst had exhausted his biceps and his sweaty palms' grip slipped on his handles, instead slamming him into the other trunk before his anchors let loose, gravity took him, and he crashed into the undergrowth with a deafening crack.