Some people are fated to shape the world.
The wrong man at the right time, can make the difference between ascending to that of a legend or becoming another footnote in a merciless history. Humanity harbors its own brand of cruelty, yet time's unfeeling nature can rival even the cruelest hearts. In the wake of animosity, it sows the seeds of ignorance; where truth burns down to smoldering ruin, buried in cinders from which nothing but a twisted semblance of that truth rises out of the ashes, contoured by those adept at stoking the flames in their favor.
It is surreal to think an ordinary man's burdened with such responsbility, taking part in creating this new history, no different from when he sauntered into Shiganshina with glee. So here he finds himself, the fate of his homeland in his hands and in front of the barrel of his gun. He can set their truth in stone, that they were victims forced into the roles of devils, and that this day would be written about for the next generations by Eldians, instead of the rest of the world.
The wrong man at the right time – that's how Floch would categorize Eren.
Perhaps he, too, falls into that same category.
With utmost care, he lifts off the fedora Jean had passed him, settling it atop Eren's head, a covert attempt to cloak him better. He nudges it down swiftly, covering the trembling in his fingers and the sweat that's claimed his palms and dribbled onto his pistol grip. Floch takes charge of his breath, his heart drumming a wild rhythm inside his ribcage, as he guides them toward the station's main entrance. He's got his mind locked on not stumbling over his own feet. The bystanders around stay none the wiser, his jacket conceals what he tightly clutches, those around would probably think he's just guiding Eren with a light touch on his lower back.
A flicker of relief washes over him when he spots Armin striding their way. He manages to stifle the audible exhale that's queued up, reigning in his jangled nerves for the moment. He can't help but notice how Armin's got that serene, unflappable air about him. Maybe he spotted them from a distance, had extra time to brace himself, or maybe he's just a master at projecting composure. Armin halts in front of Eren, a silent exchange stretching into infinity between them. Their expressions are like locked vaults, not a trace of emotion, as if the gravity of their current circumstances is nothing but a distant rumor.
Armin's gaze shifts beyond Eren's shoulder, locking onto Floch's. "Mikasa, where is she?"
"Left her behind. She's off hunting for him. We've got to beat her to the punch and vanish before she starts checking the right places."
Armin nods once, crisp. "Come on, Eren. We've got a lot of catching up to do, let's go."
The trio slip into a labyrinthine passage within one of Rosetta's many alleys. Their journey culminates in a tucked-away spot. A tension tighter than a hangman's noose gnaws at Floch, aware that at any heartbeat, Eren could flip the script and shift into his titan form if he isn't lightning-quick on the trigger. He inhales heavily through his nostrils, allowing the bead of sweat to course down his cheek unchecked, wary of what havoc a mere second of laxness might wreak.
Armin signals a halt. With a pair of cuffs in hand, he takes the front again, cinching them around Eren's wrists with a seasoned tightness before stepping back a couple of paces. Floch circles Eren like the hands of a clock as he joins Armin's side. Armin's poker face doesn't flinch as he starts issuing orders to the titan-shifter, his finger pointing at a stairwell ascending to another alley.
"Easy does it, Eren. Take a seat over there on the steps. No sudden surprises."
Eren complies without a word, lowering himself onto the steps, his gaze fixed on them, a blank canvas that prompts an ugly snarl to twist Floch's lips. How is he so casual, as if this is a routine Saturday stroll? Gazing down at him now, it's like looking at a stranger. Not the man he once strategized with, who claimed to be the devil he sought after, but a hollow husk, spineless, a pitiful worm to crush underfoot.
"Why?"
Armin's voice hangs in the air, suspended like a fragile thread waiting for the weight of truth to tug it into motion. Floch, ever watchful, casts a swift sidelong glance at Armin, the arch of his brow an unspoken query before his gaze returns to the enigma that is Eren. Frustration creases Floch's brow, watching him sit there in silence still.
Eren's gaze wavers, his head tilting downward as his eyes trace the contours of the steps beneath his feet, as if seeking solace in the mundane geometry of stone.
Armin persists, his voice unwavering, treading the tightrope between anger and the gnawing need for comprehension. "Eren, I'll ask once more. Why did you run? Why have you and Mikasa both abandonned us out of nowhere? Do you not realize what that would have meant for us? For the entire island and it's future? Your home."
A beat of silence ensues, pregnant with anticipation, and then it unfurls—the answer, a single utterance tinged with cryptic resignation. "...You wouldn't understand."
Caught off guard, Armin and Floch are taken aback, twin portraits of astonishment. "...What?"
Eren meets their perplexed gazes, a calm tempest lurking within his irises. "I said you wouldn't get it, neither of you would. Maybe if the roles were reversed, if you occupied my skin, then perhaps, you'd fathom the magnitude of this. Whatever happens from this point forward, none of it is in my control, it never has been, not since that day."
Floch's finger trembles, hovering millimeters above the trigger.
Armin's brow knits further, the furrows etched with determination as he seeks to understand. "That day? The day you fled, is that what you're alluding to? What happened... On that day?"
"I thought I had to Armin, I thought there could be no one else to see it through. And yet... yet, even when I believed it was set in stone I couldn't bring myself to take another step forward, not after what I saw. That day, I saw that it could be avoided, I witnessed it firsthand. I know that no matter what choice I make, the outcome remains the same, running away or staying... it doesn't make much of a difference, at least then, I wouldn't have to be there to see the end result."
Eren's demeanor morphs into something unrecognizable to both Floch and Armin. His verdant eyes expand, bloodshot and haunted, tears tracing trails down cheeks aflame with emotion. His teeth clench with an almost audible force, while his chest heaves in a rhythm that mirrors the turbulence within.
"What does that fucking mean?!" Floch grits his teeth in frustration.
Armin, with a poignant melancholy, casts his gaze downward and disregards Floch for a moment. "So, was it all a lie then? Our dreams, our shared vows – they held no significance in your eyes? Was it really that easy to just leave it all behind? Tell me, did I hold any place in your heart, Eren? Why did you fight so hard to save me that day if you would end up leaving in the end? What kind of cruel joke is that?"
Eren's reply remains elusive. He surveys the hurt etched into Armin's features, his own countenance twisted with sorrow. With a reluctant resignation, he lowers his head once more, his stifled sobs reverberating through the narrow confines of the alley. "...You wouldn't understand, It's not me anymore." He murmurs again like a broken record, before he looks up at him. "But you'll be the one, Armin." He adds cryptically.
He'll be the one? To what? Floch looks on with disgust and contempt, yet he withholds his commentary, permitting the two ex-friends to have their moment. With a measured poise, he extracts a pocket watch, and verifies the passage of time. "It's already One O'clock, Armin." He informs with a subtle cadence of urgency.
"Jean and the rest..."
"What's our move? Do we take this asshole back like this to the mansion or get the others first? If we run into Mikasa on our own it could complicate things."
"You're right, Jean isn't that far away from where we are, stay here with him while I go fetch the others. I can't bear looking at him anymore, I might get sick."
Floch nods, Armin takes measured steps away, his words lingering like an echo.
"If this pathetic dog makes any sudden moves you shoot him dead without hesitation."
A fleeting flicker of surprise dances across Floch's eyes, momentarily caught off guard by the stark directive. Yet, a second glance reveals a layer of sorrow woven into Armin's command. Soon enough, It's just them left in the empty alley, the city's hushed whispers are distant, a mere murmur beyond their bubble of confrontation.
"So, Eren. what changed?"
"That night in my room, you vowed to erase every last soul beyond this island's shores, you looked so convincing back then, like you spoke absolute truth, and now?" A bitter chuckle, mirthless and laced with betrayal. "It's like I'm staring at an empty husk, have you conveniently forgotten the atrocities they inflicted upon us? We were devoured, left to rot!" He glares at him scornfully before he composes himself. "I was naive to place my trust in you. Your grip on Armin was driven by your own selfish desires, a truth I failed to see. Why did I ever think you could lead us out of this mess?"
Floch narrows his eyes, seeing that the pathetic worm in front of him remains unresponsive.
"I disbanded the very unit I had forged for your goals, months of planning and work gone down the drain." Floch's voice resonates with desolation. "I told them you were the answer, that you could save us from this cruel world. And then, I watched all hope bleed from their eyes, every single one of them took a risk and poured their heart and soul into your cause because they believed in you. Only to discover how pointless their efforts were." His voice trembles, the ache of unfulfilled promise evident in every word.
"And Historia..." A pause, a name whispered like a fragile secret. The air shifts, the name seemingly bringing Eren out of his stupor. "She fucking shattered."
"I was the only one there to comfort her at her lowest, me of all people. Because she had to suffer from what you've done in silence, and in the end she cried herself to sleep on my shoulder." A venomous undertone infuses Floch's words, his voice taking on an almost feral quality.
"Because you ran away."
The gun's cold barrel nestles against Eren's forehead, his finger dances on the trigger.
"You ever think about the life stirring within her? The life she chose to bring to this world because of you? Have you not once considered the reckoning that awaits them and every other person on the island when Marley inevitably descends upon us?"
"Every single day,"
Floch scoffs.
"Words are words, actions speak louder. I suppose it doesn't matter now. You're still a pawn, a pawn we'll use until someone more capable wrenches that titan away from you, so for now you sit here and reconsider every choice you made, being eaten for Eldia's sake is the least a good for nothing scumbag like you can do."
"You really do value Eldia over anything don't you." Eren states in a matter of fact.
Floch narrows his eyes. "Of course, It's home, It's all I have."
"It's why I chose you over the rest, because you could do what what's necessary for the sake of the island." There's a wistful quality to his voice, as if he is speaking from a place of regret.
The redhead scoffs. "You should try practicing what you preach, a little too late for that though."
"I apologize, Floch."
"Apologizing won't absolve you, you worthless piece of shit."
"No, never in a million years. Things could have been different, but the reins have never been in my hands, destiny has charted its course, You may not grasp it now, or tomorrow, but the day will come when you'll find clarity. My apologies are genuine, but it is for something else entirely."
"What are you say-?"
Floch's suspicion morphs into confusion, his retort preempted by a cacophony of swift footfalls, growing louder by the heartbeat. His eyes widen with alarm, gaze shifting to the source of the approaching steps, where Mikasa emerges into view, he pivots on his heel to squeeze the trigger, unleashing a cascade of bullets aimed at her.
His gut twists in apprehension, witnessing her evade the leaden rain he sent her way. The world contracts to mere heartbeats as her form weaves through the onslaught. A mere breath away, her momentum hinges upon the steps leading to a nearby home. She propels herself upward, bullets perforate the air, one pierces her shoulder, another tracing an audacious path between her legs and through her skirt.
Floch's pupils expand in horror as she draws near, his arms dart up to his face. The resounding crack of impact resonates, her foot slamming into the side of his defences. A tumble ensues, the ground claiming him as its reluctant plaything. Rising to his knees, he shakes off the disorientation, his senses fogged yet sharpened by adrenaline. Floch's fingers work with practiced precision, the bolt of his broomhandle drawn back and a stripper clip finding its home in the chamber. The gun's mechanisms snap with a click, nearly gnashing at his skin as he pushes the bullets down.
Mikasa's assault continues, not allowing him to take aim. His firearm slips from his grasp, a stumble, a backward retreat, and a tenuous recovery—Floch reclaims his stance. Muscles coiled, every nerve primed. The redhead's upper body arcs backward, as Mikasa's leg slices through the air where his head had been mere moments ago. A swift riposte follows—a low kick aimed at her shins—but she is quick to anchor herself. Contact is inevitable, the impact jolting up his leg with discomfort.
Floch's lips curl into a snarl, his jabs are a percussive rhythm, a staccato beat that she weaves through with almost preternatural grace. Yet, amidst the flurry of strikes, an uppercut materializes and finds its target, shattering her defense. Mikasa's retreat is brief, and her visage shifts, a storm cloud gathering across her features, contempt fans the flames in her eyes. She resumes the offensive, chipping at his defenses blow by blow until she forces his back against the wall in the tight alley. The world tilts for Floch as pain blossoms, his body bending in involuntary submission as air is exhaled forcibly out of his lungs after she lands a solid hook on his side.
The air shifts, her movement a blur as the back of her heel crashes against his face. The ground greets him, cobblestones unforgiving beneath his cheek. His consciousness teeters on the edge, perilously close to the abyss, but not quite surrendered. Floch's gaze fixes ahead, determination warring with the haze of pain. The pistol—a lifeline—beckons within arm's reach. An eruption of energy propels him forward, muscles protesting as he stretches for the weapon. The pistol's cold steel meets his fingertips, victory a heartbeat away.
Swift as a hawk, Mikasa descends upon him and straddles his hips. The pistol—his fleeting hope—is now the object of contention. Her gaze meets his. A desperate twist of his body and fingers desperately clutching at the gun's grip, but her strength is unrivaled. Struggle paints the scene as they wrestle for control, the pistol's barrel wavering between them, the safety lever clicks under his thumb's deft manipulation before the gun is taken away from him.
Pulling her to the side, their roles reverse—a seamless transition that ends with him straddling her, a grunt escapes her lips. The pistol's barrel pivots, and a visage of horror paints itself onto Floch's features as he watches her struggle to disable the safety. He surges forward and slams his chest against hers, her grip falters, just enough for him to seize the bolt and pull it back with a resounding click, the chamber gapes, exposing the bullet within.
She pushes back against him once more and he groans as she headbutts him, his hands stubbornly gripping her respective wrists, he grits his teeth as he watches her aim the gun at his face. The broomhandle makes no audible noise, but he can visibly see her frantically pulling the trigger to riddle his face with bullets, only thing keeping him alive being the bolt that's locked in place. A cruel smile flashes across his lips, he releases his grip on her left wrist, his hand descending onto the wound on her shoulder, and the alley fills with her shrieks as he abuses the wound.
Her grip falters, and his knuckles sing as they connect with her features, a flurry of punches that renders her immobile. Pain blazes through her senses, and in a fleeting instant, he reclaims the weapon. Pushing himself away from her, the distance is both a respite and an opportunity. He stands, his posture a blend of fatigue and resolve, eyes locked onto her writhing form. He resets the bolt back into place, aim steady, finger poised, the world narrows to the distance between his pistol's barrel and Mikasa Ackermann.
Cold steel cinches around his throat, gunfire reverberates through the air, ricochetting off the cobblestone, perilously close to the woman caught in the crossfire. The frigid embrace of the metallic noose turns his face a haunting shade of blue as he struggles. With no other option, Floch thrusts the barrel into the shifter's abdomen behind him, and three shots later Eren's dominance falters. A gasp, a moment of shock, then Floch's nimble arms seize their opportunity, propelling Eren over his own shoulders.
Eren's form meets the terrain with a jarring impact, a splatter of blood anointing the ground. His once-pristine white shirt, concealed beneath his suit jacket, gradually becomes a canvas for pooling crimson.
With cautious steps backward, Floch's confidence blooms; He descends to his knees, breaths ragged and labored, the gravity of his encounter with both of them etched onto his visage. A maelstrom of emotions swirls within him—disbelief, pride, and perhaps a modicum of shock that he stood his ground against the duo.
Inevitably, his gaze gravitates to Eren, and a swell of dread engulfs him anew as a chilling realization takes root—Eren's wounds fester, his regenerative prowess dormant. Their eyes lock, emerald and amber collide and time halts. The atmosphere crackles with electricity, then, a luminous aureate radiance envelops Eren's frame.
Floch watches, helpless and petrified; soon enough, darkness engulfs him.
Floch's agonized groans reverberate, the aftermath of the explosive upheaval leaves his ears ringing. The alleyway, is shrouded in ethereal steam, tendrils of vapor dancing toward the heavens. Floch's eyes flutter, struggling to open against the weight of his body's protests. His gaze sweeps downward, only to collide with a fleshy arm stretching across the alley, its sinewy tendrils dissolving into the air.
A muffled cadence of limping steps echoes toward him, he turns his gaze, heavy as a stone, capturing a silhouette that both shocks and confounds him—Eren, his form is incomplete, a stark absence where a hand should reside. Yet, his remaining grip clings to a broomhandle, the clinking cuffs dangling from his wrist.
Eren halts, his gaze locking onto Floch, the redhead's lips curl into a sneer as Eren's visage contorts, a wrinkle etching his brow as discomfort wrestles with resolution upon his features. "I'm sorry it had to be this way, Floch."
"Go fuck yourself." He spits at him.
His grip on the weapon tightens, fingers finding cold familiarity in the trigger's contours. Floch's heartbeat quickens, a desperate rhythm, yet he remains resolute, he will not cower in his last moments, not in front of this bastard.
One shot.
Two.
Three.
In stunned disbelief, Floch's eyes widen as a barrage of bullets tears through Eren's chest and abdomen. The titan shifter slowly lowers his hand, his gaze trembling as he pivots to confront the source of the gunfire. His pupils dilate in a moment of realization before he collapses, a lifeless heap on the ground.
Floch cranes his neck as he strains to glimpse at his savior. There, standing in the distance, Armin's breath comes in ragged gasps, his grip firm on his weapon.
"A-Armin," Floch stammers, his voice a fragile whisper.
An abrupt halt seizes Floch's breath as approaching footsteps echo within the misty air. A knife hurtles towards the blond before he can react. Dread clenches Floch's heart as the blade embeds itself in the shifter's throat. Armin's grip falters, the pistol slipping from his fingers as he clutches his throat, his body folding into agony. Swiftly, he whirls around, only to meet a forceful impact that plunges him into darkness once more.
"Floch get down from there! You're gonna get us in trouble with Müller's boys again!"
"Oh, relax Sandra! We'll be quick! They won't notice a few missing apples!"
"Yeah, what he said!"
"Not you too, Gordon!"
"There we go, two for me, two for you, and only one for Gordon!"
"Hey! Why only one?!"
"If you want another you'll have to climb up yourself fatty!"
"I'm not fat! I'm big boned!"
"Yeah, Yeah! Whatever you say- woah WOAH! Ahhh! Ooof!"
"Floch!"
"Hnnghhh."
"Floch, Are you okay?!"
"Floch!"
"FLOCH!"
Consciousness trickles back to the man, his eyelids fluttering open to reveal Jean's concerned gaze. Slowly, Floch rises, piecing together his surroundings as his bearings return. The titan arm, has dissipated into mere heat, leaving only traces of its former existence.
"J-Jean? W-where's Mikasa, and Eren?!"
"We don't know, we rushed in after seeing the flashing light and hearing all the gunshots, we've got to leave, before the crowd becomes a problem," Jean insists, extending a helping hand. True to Jean's words, Floch scans the alley, noting the curious faces peeking from windows and lining the alley's distant end.
His attention shifts to where Armin lay, alongside Hugo. Rushing over, they crouch at Armin's side, the blond's gaze pleads with Floch, a silent exchange that furrows Floch's brow in response. The man facing them takes charge, grasping the knife with purpose. "We need to remove this and get the fuck out of here, this won't kill him, right?" Hugo says before asking and Jean confirms with a nod.
Jean secures Armin, his voice soothing, "Hold tight, Armin. It'll hurt like hell, but we'll be quick."
Before they proceed, Armin's grip tightens on Floch's forearm, their unspoken understanding bridging the gap between them. "I will retrieve them both, no matter what it takes.", Floch comprehends, the resolve etched in his features. Swiftly, he retrieves his pocket watch, turning to Jean. "How long since the last gunshots?" he questions, Jean's confusion giving way to contemplation. "Around three minutes, give or take."
He turns to look at the redhead. "Why?"
Floch hums in acknowledgement and disregards his last question, his gaze returning to Armin with a nod, he discerns a blood trail leading down the alley. Seizing Armin's discarded broomhandle, Floch sprints after the telltale path, his ears tuned to distant calls from Jean and Hugo, but his focus throng at the alley's end recoils in trepidation as he barrels through. Veering right, he chases the trail, his gaze trained on the stone pavement.
Navigating twists and turns, he stumbles upon a sizable pool of blood, unfortunately, the trail vanishes at this crossroads, leaving him to decide between two confining paths.
"Damn it, Which way?" He mutters to himself. His attention shifts to a cluster of young boys, a captive audience to his plight. Fixated on his bloodied attire, they regard him with curiosity. "You there!" he beckons, their frames tensing at his call. "Did a pair pass through, a boy and a girl?" He inquires, met with unbroken silence. Frustration clenches his jaw, prompting a coin pouch's emergence, its contents shaken before them. "Your efforts shall be handsomely rewarded, just point me in the right direction. This will get you lots of candy and ice cream."
A brave boy advances, seizing the pouch, eyes widening at the sum. His finger gestures toward the leftward path. Without a moment's pause, Floch barrels down that route, inadvertently treading upon the puddle. A flight of stairs greets his hurried descent, propelling him onto a bustling street. He surveys both directions, heart somersaulting upon the sight that finally materializes: Mikasa, dragging Eren's weight back towards the trainstation. Bystanders cast furtive glances, oscillating between apprehension and compassion.
"Stop right there! No further!" The words erupt from Floch's throat, the pistol an accusing extension of his arm. She freezes, the crowd around them mirroring her shock as the fiery-haired figure seizes the spotlight, holding the two captive on the sidewalk.
"Good heavens!"
"Dear Lord, what on Earth is going on here?"
"Mommy, why are they all red and dirty?"
"Let's get away from this, sweetheart."
Collective gasps resound as the bystanders absorb the scene, their eyes tracing the blood-soaked trio before them. A chorus of murmurs swiftly engulfs the gathering, a small cluster evolving into a sprawling congregation of curious onlookers. Frustration gnaws at Floch; any semblance of subtlety now shatters against the pavement. The ID within his suit pocket is extracted with haste, thrust forth for all to witness.
"I am Special Agent Dietrich Faust, of the Marleyan Federal Bureau of Investigation! These two stand as government-marked criminals. Evacuate this vicinity at once!" His commands pierce the atmosphere, Mikasa's expression twists in dread as their gazes collide.
A tense standstill holds its grip, then a fervent cry cuts through the air, her voice threading desperation, "Lies!" The proclamation stuns Floch momentarily.
Her index finger extends accusatorily, a decisive gesture that punctures his declaration. The crowd eavesdrops on her fervent plea, truth and deceit intertwined in her words. "He's an Eldian spy dispatched to slaughter us! Witness his handiwork on us, he's slain our friends! We fought to escape from him and my husband lost his hand because of it!" Her plea resonates with conviction. Yet, despite her compelling plea, sympathy sways against her.
Or so he thinks.
Puzzled beads of sweat trace a path down Floch's forehead, his bafflement mirrored by the crowd's sudden pivot. The collective's eyes darken with mistrust, morphing into daggers of contempt that sever his grip on control. Disbelief swells within him as the tide of opinion swivels, he retreats a step. Before he finally realizes what had just occured.
She uttered the magic word.
Eldian.
"What sort of agent of the state resorts to such brutality?"
"Did you see that man's maimed hand?"
"She looks Azarian, from Hizuru maybe?"
"Perhaps there's truth to the Eldian claim..."
Floch's brow furrows, their ominous advance enveloping him in a tightening ring. The pistol, a pitiful defense against the numerous encircling him, pulses with feeble authority, ten rounds against dozens of angry bystanders, hardly good odds here.
"Y-you can't be serious?! Do you honestly believe such a ridiculous claim!" His voice trembles as his words crack through the air. Several men advance, forming a living barrier around Mikasa and Eren. "You obstruct justice! Step aside, or confront the repercussions. These two are lawbreakers!" His command reverberates with growing dread, yet their ranks remain unyielding, mocking his authority.
"You're looking nervous there, friend."
"You're no agent."
"Filthy Devil!"
"Take that gun away from him!"
A surprise assault pounces from behind, a body crashing into his, toppling him to the ground. In the blink of an eye, everybody and their mother descends, fists and feet becoming a chorus of wrath against his form. Floch, battered and bruised, forms a fragile shield with his arm, resolute in his grip on the pistol. Teeth clenched, he glimpses the sight of Mikasa and Eren traversing the street amid the sea of legs and voices.
Summoning every ounce of strength, he twists his wrist, sending a single shot slicing through the melee. The recoil tremors through him, thwarting the man attempting to yank his gun from him, his body jolting and collapsing. Panic ripples through the mob, a tapestry of shrieks and scattering. Floch senses their tension, capitalizing on the chaos to retaliate, each squeeze of the trigger met with a groan or a shriek of panic.
Eight Bullets expend, bodies fall, blood seeps into the cracks, until it's just him.
Between those deceased and those that fled, one man remains standing. His blows descend, wood against flesh, targeting Floch's skull. A hail of gunfire strikes him, crumpling his form as gasps choke the air, silence reigning in the wake of his demise.
Floch shoves the lifeless husk from his body, vision locking onto Hugo. Upright once more, he pivots to face Mikasa and Eren, a determination etched in his visage. The pistol reassumes its aim, each heartbeat a declaration of his intent. Breath held, he aligns his shot, his last bullet sent in their direction. A curse escapes his lips, uncertain if he hit his mark or not.
His steps to pursuit are halted, Hugo's tightly gripping his arm. Puzzlement mingles with frustration as the man shakes his head and cautions against his reckless behavior. "It's too late to chase after them, we've blown our cover! We have to regroup with Jean and the rest!" He orders him but Floch pays him no mind, yanking his arm away.
"Get the fuck off of me! They're right there! We can't afford to lose them!"
"Going after them is suicide, there's nothing we can do! Don't be stupid!"
Before Floch can resume his argument, a barrage of bullets erupts, slicing the air with deadly intent. Instinct propels them behind a sheltering motor car, a symphony of impacts creating a discordant rhythm against its metal surface. His hands fly to his ears, the vehicle's sanctuary proves fleeting as an errant bullet pierces beneath, ricochetting onto the pavement.
He frantically reaches underneath into the pouches of his holster and pulls out another stripper clip before feeding it into the chamber. Eyes locked with the man next to him, both nod, then following a brief count once the gunfire ceases they emerge from cover to return fire.
Within the fray, a man attempts a flanking maneuver, revolver in hand but is caught crossing the street. Floch shoots him twice in the chest, his body contorting before gravity claims him as he folds over himself and falls face first. Across the divide, Hugo's gunfire suppresses the enemies nestled behind cover. Urgency impels Hugo to turn to Floch, "Go, back to the alley! I'll cover you!"
Floch races back, lungs burning as he seeks cover, maneuvering around the corner. He peeks again to hurl a relentless barrage upon the men left behind to provide cover as Hugo joins him. Bullets impact the brick wall in front of him, debris showering his form. A stumble threatens his balance as he pivots, his retreat ascending the staircase in urgent bounds.
"Hurry, we'll lose them inside the alleys!" Hugo's cry pierces the chaos, urging them upward, nearly at the top. Yet, a foreboding shout shatters the air, a gunshot's crack cascading in its wake.
Hugo abruptly crumbles meeting the steps with a hushed thud, A bloom of crimson seeps from the back of his head. Floch's world narrows, horror coiling around his heart as the deceased man's muscles tense, and he slowly starts falling back to the bottom. The redhead continues upward, dust billowing as his footfalls resound.
The relentless voices of his pursuers echo in his ears as he weaves through a crowd of oblivious civilians, after a few rapid turns, Floch's pace suddenly halts, his feet skidding slightly. Ahead, he spots armed figures at the end of the path. A tense stillness hangs in the air as both parties lock eyes. Swiftly, he squeezes off a few shots striking a man in the chest before he dives into a narrow corridor leading into a stranger's home as bullets whiz past behind him.
He launches a barrage of kicks, and the sturdy wooden door splinters open. He rushes into the residence and up the stairs, brushing past a mother who is sheltering her frightened children. His gaze briefly acknowledges them before he emerges onto a balcony. The pursuers flood into the house below him, Rising above the chaos, Floch clambers over the balcony railing and ascends to the red tiled rooftops. He leaps over the gaps between buildings that form the labyrinthine alleys below, until he halts at an edge revealing the daunting expanse between two structures.
"HE'S GOT NOWHERE TO RUN!"
His face tenses into a grimace as he pivots to face the encroaching threat. Time seems to stretch as he draws a fortifying breath, summoning his inner resolve. He steps back and readies himself. Bullets punctuate the walls around him, which propels him into motion. With a forceful shout that escapes his throat, Floch launches himself into the air, descending in a graceful arc.
The solid ground accepts his return, though the victory is short-lived. The tiles beneath him offer minimal friction, and he finds himself in an uncontrolled slide, sending him into the awaiting alley below. Startled noises escape his throat as he desperately reaches for the clotheslines that barely help break his fall, he hangs onto one of the lines as it snaps from his weight and he swings down, slamming into the side of a building before landing on the ground below with a thud.
Floch rises to his feet with a limp to his step, his knees unsteady. In the distance, a partially open door beckons to him. He pushes himself inside, not caring about the force he exerts to shut the door behind him. Leaning against it, he lets out a long exhale, his chest heaving. It's in this moment that he directs his gaze upwards, and ice shoots through his veins as he takes in the scene before him.
Dozens of Marleyan police officers and sharp-eyed detectives fill the room. Their gazes lift from their work, fixing on Floch with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. He can practically feel their collective intelligence assessing him.
Summoning all the composure he can muster, he retrieves his now smudged Identification card from his pocket. His voice trembles, yet he manages to project an air of authority, "A-Agent Dietrich Faust with the—"
"Where's that Eldian scum?!"
Floch's head swivels slightly, capturing the muffled voice that seeps from behind the door he's propped against. The urgency in the tone sets his heart racing again, but he quickly returns his focus to the officers who demand his attention, their features darken.
Without a moment's hesitation, he propels himself away from the door, his eyes locking onto a staircase situated across the room. The officers surge toward him hurling orders and insults. He leaps out of a window, running across the flat rooftop of the police station. Shots shatter the air, and a bullet grazes his side, drawing forth an involuntary gasp of pain. Gritting his teeth, he hurls himself into the shelter of an adjacent building's first floor, shadows ascending the stairwell prompts him to change his course abruptly.
A door becomes an unfortunate casualty of his desperation, splintering into shards as Floch crashes through it. A startled elderly couple is rudely interrupted in their kitchen, their expressions a mix of fear and shock as they catch sight of the intruder whooshing past. In the blink of an eye, a window is thrust open, and he ascends the fire escape of the four-story building. The elderly man's curiosity gets the best of him, but a storm of bullets from the street below forces him back into the safety of his kitchen.
Finally atop the rooftop, he continues to run across the roofs of the connected buildings, a door up ahead is thrust open. Floch slams roughly into the man that steps out of there, sending him tumbling to the ground. Floch's firearm trains on three more men who remain ensnared within the doorway's threshold. Gunfire erupts as two immediately collpase like discarded sacks, groans escaping their lips. The third lurches forward with futility as Floch peppers him with bullets, crashing lifelessly to the floor and Floch adjusts his aim.
"Wait, wait, WAIT-" the last man's pleas are cut short as a bullet pierces his skull, his muscles tense from the impact, his fists ball up tightly against his chest as he goes completely rigid.
Descending the stairwell, he takes cover on the first floor, listening as the clamor of footsteps crescendos on the staircase. He descends after allowing them to pass, only to be greeted by the sight of two policemen, busily loading their bolt-action rifles. Floch's trigger finger acts before conscious thought, silencing the officers with a series of rapid, merciless shots. He crouches by their side to retrieve their weapons, listening to their agonized snoring as air rushes out of their lungs like a slashed tire.
Gripping his rifle and pistol, he bursts out of the building's front entrance, a rush of adrenaline surging through his veins. He sprints across the street, the salty tang of the sea filling his senses. Behind him, the mob hesitates to open fire amidst the bustling crowd. With a sharp left turn, a familiar street comes into view, his heart pounding like a war drum. The cacophony of barking dogs erupts behind him, their menacing growls closing in. Suddenly, a canine projectile slams into him, sending them sprawling onto the road, a stone's throw away from the looming Azumabito mansion.
His leg lashes out, connecting with the dog's body, and his lithe frame twists, desperately fending off the snapping jaws. Gunshots ring out, harmonizing with the dogs' anguished whimpers. Exploiting the opening, he shoves one the wounded canines aside. Jean materializes at the edge of his vision.
"On your feet, damn it! Move, move!" Jean's command slices through the chaos as he hauls him up.
"Freeze right there!" A distant voice commands, instantly silenced by a single gunshot that cleaves the air from the mansion's direction and finds the center of his forehead with frightening accuracy.
The street swells with advancing figures, a tide of law enforcement and armed civilians converging on their position. Jean takes point and presses his back against the mansion's walls, bullets zipping past and onto the wall. Gathering his strength, Floch springs off his interlocked hands and up Jean's shoulders to scale the wall. His outstretched hand becomes Jean's lifeline as they vault over the edge, dropping into the garden below with a resounding thud. Their breaths ragged, bodies humming with tension.
"T-Thanks... ahhh.. For the.. save... ahh..." Floch heaves.
"Where's... Hugo?" Jean gasps.
"Gone." Floch's voice is laden with weariness, a nod from Jean acknowledging the loss.
"Hurry, Jean, Floch! Inside, now!" Hange's urgent cry pierces the din, a side door of the mansion beckoning. They surge to their feet, hurtling towards her as a tempestuous clash of arms erupts in their wake.
As they step through the threshold, their senses are immediately bombarded by the frenzied activity within the mansion's confines. The remnants of their team are in a whirlwind of action, hastily fortifying their positions. Connie coordinates with a pair of scouts, their eyes vigilant at the windows on the ground floor. Their guns bark back at the onslaught from beyond the gates.
Turning on his heel, Floch's gaze lands on the living room. There, sprawled across a sofa lies Armin—his body smeared with blood, consciousness held captive. A female scout guarding his side. Amid the chaos, Azumabito guards dart about with a manic fervor. The acrid scent of gasoline pervades the air as they meticulously erase all traces of their presence, leaving behind nothing for the authorities.
"Jean, I need you with me in the back! Floch, get up to the attic and lend Sasha your support with that rifle!" The command slices through the cacophony, snapping the urgency into sharper focus.
Ascending the stairs in swift strides, Floch emerges into the attic's dim expanse. A ladder leads up to Sasha, her silhouette etched against the gloom, window slightly cracked open. Their eyes briefly connect as he ascends the rungs, positioning himself opposite her. Taking his stance, he peers down the barrel, acknowledging Sasha's precision with a nod.
"That was a good shot back there, Sasha," he remarks, settling into position and aligning his sights.
"What's with them? What in the world happened that got them this riled up?!" Sasha inquires as a shot rings out, her gaze darting towards him while she reloads.
"Eren and Mikasa happened," his words are curt, his tone tinged with bitterness. His finger squeezes the trigger, eliminating an adversary attempting to exploit cover.
Sasha's eyes widen in disbelief, her features contorting in shock as she pivots to lock her gaze onto his. "Eren? Mikasa? Have you really found them?!"
"They were trying to take the train out of here, we had Eren captured but... Mikasa somehow found us. She blew my cover in front of a large crowd, I had to fight my way through half the fucking city to get here." the words seethe through clenched teeth as he fires again.
Sasha's brow knits in a deep furrow, her attention once more riveted on the mob amassed outside. With a steadying breath, she dispatches her targets methodically. Floch's warning shatters the moment, alerting her to foes scaling neighboring rooftops. United in purpose, their coordinated resistance thwarts the ill-fated ascent, bodies tumbling in lifeless surrender.
Floch bides his time, awaiting the next opportunity to engage. But their advantage is fleeting, as a fresh assailant takes them off-guard from a blind spot, dust and wood splinters kicking up around them. Peering out to locate him, his attention is seized by a disconcerting sight. In the distance, a foreboding machine gun, wielded by a coalition of men, is painstakingly wheeled forward. Dread clutches his stomach, as he turns to the woman next to him, who's unaware of the impending doom.
"Sasha! Look out!"
She's briefly startled as he pins her to floor, pressing against her with his bodyweight. A rapid onslaught of gunfire fills the enclosed space, the air vibrates with the staccato rhythm of countless rounds as the hail of bullets decimates the room around them. Floch tenses for a moment as he feels something prick his side before he continues to shield the woman below him. A minute later, the fire finally comes to an end and the two are able to hear the people below shouting for them.
"T-thank you." Sasha mutters in his ears.
"Sasha! Floch! Can you both hear me?! Are you okay?!" Hange calls out from below.
"W-we're fine!" Floch growls back at her, flinching as more bullets riddle the wall behind them.
"Get down from there, now! They breached the walls! We're leaving!" She informs them.
Floch locks eyes with the brunette and both nod. She takes the lead, and he watches her cautiously descend the stairs before following suit. With calculated grace, he lowers himself headfirst, twisting lithely to land soundlessly on his feet. A stumble, a moment of unsteadiness, and her firm grip steadies him. Together, they move, following Connie's urgent gestures through the opulent living room and into the kitchen.
Abruptly, a door crashes open, a violent intrusion that unleashes a tide of menacing figures into the corridor. Caught off-guard, a surge of fear grips their hearts as they confront this sudden onslaught.
"There they ar—Aghhh!" The shout is choked by a gruesome gurgle, a man's life cut short as he collapses, crimson rivers slipping through his fingers. Levi Ackerman emerges from their flank wielding kitchen knives. One blade sinks into a police officer's skull, with a sickening squelch. Another is hurled through the air, finding its mark in the chest of an intruder bursting through the front entrance.
"Move your asses! To the basement, go!" Levi's command pierces the turmoil. The trio sprints through the kitchen, the ravenous tongues of fire licking at the edges of their escape route. More men and frenzied shouting fill the rooms behind them as Hange slams the door of the basement shut upon their arrival and locks it.
The group forges ahead, descending a hidden passage that winds into the forest canopy, leading them down by the cliffs overlooking the shore. A furtive glance back reveals billowing plumes of smoke, the burning mansion now a stark beacon against the sky. They put ample distance between themselves and the inferno, Sasha and Floch discarding their rifles.
"Commander Hange, what's our next move?" one of the Azumabito men inquiries.
"We're pulling out of the city immediately," Hange declares with an air of resignation, met with a somber nod.
Within Floch, a storm of emotions rages—anger, shame, and a gnawing disappointment. The bitterness of failure taints his every thought, worsened by the knowledge that his actions led to a comrade's death. A muttered curse escapes his lips, his features contorted in a mix of fury and anguish. But then, a frigid sensation sweeps over him, a cold grip that makes his head swim. He stumbles, almost keeling over, a sudden dizziness overtaking him. Jean's urgent shout pierces the haze.
"Floch!" The group halts, their attention riveted on him.
Gasping for air, Floch braces against a tree, his body trembling. A renewed determination propels him forward, but after just a couple of steps, his strength gives way. Collapsing onto the forest floor, he finds himself surrounded by worried faces—Jean and Hange foremost among them. Their voices reach him as if from a great distance, their words lost in the growing tumult of his thoughts.
Hange's lone eye widens, her gaze drawn to his blood-soaked dress shirt. Her fingers fumble with buttons, revealing a grim sight—crimson pooling from a bullet wound etched across his abdomen. The pain blurs his senses, consciousness slipping through his fingers like sand.
Their pleading expressions implore him to stay awake, yet his strength wanes. As darkness edges in, his mind swirls with self-reproach. He feels deserving of this fate, the weight of failure heavy upon him. In his fractured thoughts, he grapples with the reckoning that awaits—an unforgiving return to Paradis, how was he to look those people in the eyes, knowing he failed them? Their blood, a damning stain upon his hands and the clocks now ticking louder than ever.
History won't be kind to him.
Floch Forster wasn't a savior.
Just the wrong man at the right time.
Hello, you made it to the end of the chapter!
Woooowie was this an action packed chapter or what? I'm hoping it wasn't too drawn out or repetitive or something like that because this chapter's pretty much the longest action sequence I've ever written. I think one of the things I struggled with was the confrontation with Eren but I believe I pulled off what I wanted to do for the later chapters.
Thank you all for the support on this story, and for those who also read "Seeking the Devil" An update is right around the corner!
Take care and until next time!