The sea is as blue as the sky above. Not a trace of a cloud, not a trace of a wave. The skies merge with the sea – no matter where one looks, only blue vastness appears. The drought and the silence of the grave. It's noon.
A boat, neither too big nor too small slides through the sea. The blue vastness absorbs small clouds coming from it's chimneys, the silence suffocates the sound of it's engines, the still sea takes in small waves the boat makes untill they are merged with the rest of the sea, still as the rest. It would all look the same as if the boat didn't even exist.
But it does. Just yesterday that very same boat carried hope that could've saved the world. But now it slowly slides back home, carrying with it defeated men and women. Sad people – people dumb enough they thought they could've done anything against the monster. And while they were hoping for victory, while they were making plans to plead monster for mercy, reality struck them, not in a form of a titan, but as a tired youth who gave all he had for his homeland. The fuel tank had nine bullet holes, too many to patch up in time. Even if titans were slower, they'd still need at least two hours. All was lost and the only thing to do was to retreat.
In that sultry melancholy two young men are sitting on the deck. Both of the same age and neither in his twenties. Whole lifetime ahead, yet for them only death awaits. Both in silence and both afraid to break it. But why would they? To say something the other already knows? To give hope while knowing the situation is hopeless? It doesn't matter – words aren't needed. The moments are long and hours feel like decades. Neither of them really knows how long they've been sitting like this. But it has to be long – or so it just feels.
Finally the shorter man takes his head up, his blue eyes looking at the vastness around him. To think once he used to dream about the same sea he now despises.
"Jean?" he asked silently.
The other man says nothing but shifts his gaze towards his companion. His eyes are filled with sadness yet he wants to appear strong.
"Do you think there is any chance of us surviving this? At least one of us?"
Jean looked at him taken aback. Dumbfounded, almost. If Armin's question wasn't so sincere, so vulnerable, Jean would've thought Armin is taking him for a fool. Making fun of him in some sick, twisted way. Yet neither Armin's voice nor the look in his eyes suggested anything but dying hope, one he desperately wanted to keep alive.
"I... I don't think there is. Not unless Eren returns or at least unless he wakes up," Jean said. The sadness mixed with anger in his tone audible.
Armin wanted to say something, perhaps he wanted to oppose Jean but whatever he wanted to say, the words didn't leave his mouth as they were interrupted by the sound of door opening. A woman, not older than 35 walked out. Her steps slow and her eyes tired. To think not even few years prior her eyes were bright and full of hope, her face fresh and soul full of life. How can one grow so old in such a short time? Small wrinkles are now visible and the only eye she has left is dim in color. The weight of unbearable responsibility and souls of dead comrades broke her back and her soul alike. Her walk and composure haven't been neither upright nor brisk for a long time. And her face, even when she smiles, doesn't radiate happiness – there's a sadness, now a part of her, deeply carved in every wrinkle on her face, in her eyes, carved deeply in her soul. The sadness became inseparable part of her, that was the price of staying alive when the others were dying. That was the price of bearing such heavy burden.
Both men looked at her, hopeful, yet she simply shook her head.
"Still nothing," she said, her voice quiet.
She sat between them – and not one of them moved a muscle – they just sat there in the silence while yesterday's events played in their heads.
It seemed like it has been a lifetime and not mere hours since red-headed youth damaged the plane.
It happened so quickly, noone had seen him, noone had heard him. Yet before they could've even understood what happened, the bullets already pierced the tin of an airplane. And soon after that, he was on the floor, suffocating in his own blood, with bullet hole in one shoulder and hook wound in the other. Looking back at it, Jean didn't understand why he ran so quickly, why he got so worried, even less why Commander Hange did the same. But they did. He remembered so clearly how he ripped the sleeves off his shirt and wrapped them around Floch's wounds, he remembered the worry on Commander's face and words of assurance she gave to the dying boy, he remembered Floch's words, uttered so quietly and painfuly, how he begged them not to go - so desperate to save his homeland. In such moments how could've one acted differently? Seeing fear in eyes of a young man – youth who wasn't even in his twenties, young man just out of boyhood – seeing fear and desperation in eyes of one he considered a brother in arms untill just a few days ago made all of the hatred he had for him disappear. He remembered how he and Commander took Floch, carried him through the port and laid him on a simple bed. He remembered how Commander washed her hands and poured alcohol over primitive instruments as he sat there next to Floch trying to make sense of his quiet mumblings. Bloodloss and days spent without food in a cold ocean took a heavy toll on young man's health and it was visible to anyone death was inevitable. He was unaware of his surroundings, muttering quietly, his burning skin only cooled by his still-wet hair. He didn't move when they undressed him. He didn't scream when Commander cut through his skin with cold instrument. All he did was left a quiet sob. Jean still held him tight fearing he would move and ruin the operation. But very soon he understood holding him is of no use. Red haired man didn't move, he hardly even spoke. Tears were running down his face but even his sobs grew quieter with time. At the time Hange was finished with operation his mumbling stopped. It was replaced with slow and shallow breathing. Jean remembered how Hange dressed him in new shirt and dried his hair with an old sheet only to stay there, in disbelief, when she couldn't feel his pulse at first. He remembered how they carried Floch to next room, this time gently and carefully, how they laid him on the couch and covered him with a blanket. He remembered how Hange sent him to get some water. He remembered how the moment he wasn't in earshot she told Mikasa to find a crate big enough for a human being. "Just in case," she said. "Just in case"... words stung his heart as he felt slight nausea. He wasn't a fool to think Floch was going to survive but to discuss his to-be casket while he was still breathing... Jean remembered how he brought back water and how Commander poured it gently into Floch's mouth, how she made him go away and how she stayed with Floch the entire night. How happily she announced his breathing stabilised but how she was still worried he won't make it.
And yet here are they now, nothing has changed though the day had passed. Floch's condition is still critical and his chances of survival slim. If he doesn't wake up by the end of the day, he won't at all.
"Does he even deserve to live?" Armin asked, his voice now deep. Noone expected such dark words to come out of him. "I know none of us are saints," he continued, as if he is trying to justify himself, "and that we all deserve the worst punishments... But I can't help but wish... we left him there..."
Jean looked at him as if he didn't believe what his friend said. Once again Armin wanted to say something and once again he was interrupted by his Commander.
"I understand your feelings, Armin," the woman said, "It's human to feel that way... and I used to feel like that, too. Far too often. But now, when there is no way for us to save the world, perhaps the best we can do is to save one life – even if it isn't deserved."
The silence once again filled the void and they kept on sitting there – each with their own thoughts. "To save one life" – these words echoed in Jean's brain. He didn't know how much they are going to give to save one life, how much they would compromise and sacrifice just in the days to come. Later on in the future, Jean often asked himself if the choices they made were the right ones, if the life they desparately tried to protect was worth it.