Chapter 39

Battle.

A common derivative of a longer word, one I've long lost contact with, one alluding to the exercise of soldiers in combat. There's a chunk of myself currently curious about whether or not that etymological understanding of ours is actually a mistranslation: exercise, to be reverted and corrected into examination. Is that how language works? Is that how we make meaning of the meaningless? How we determine criteria, define sign and signified?

The final trainee exam is a battle simulation.

I worked hard. I was up earlier than anyone else, every day. My eyes ran over the pages and pages of endless theory, instruction, lingo, schematics, and fundamentals of soldiering. I worked on my penmanship until I felt confident I could redraft the textbook from start to scratch, or jot quick sequences of communications and codes without a hand cramp. I walked more. Ran more. Stretched more. I sparred until the adrenaline wore off, and all that fueled my punches was the pure, animalistic instinct hidden deep inside me, until even that left me and my muscles shaking with exertion. Until my food tasted like cardboard. Until Johan's eyebrows creased together from worry. I greased my gear regularly, reverentially, because I'd be damned if it broke on me in a crucial moment. Every cable thoroughly inspected for wear and for sabotage. Every screw tightened. Every gear oiled. I wore the weight so long I started to only feel steady with it. So that when I writhed mid-air to strike a dummy's nape my motions felt as natural as rolling over in my sleep.

So that, when I woke up on the penultimate day of my existence as a trainee, I could pass the final exam with confidence.

And I will never know whether or not I actually earned the grade I got.

Spring morning. There's birds in the trees, chirping languid, trilling notes far brighter than they have any ought to be considering how tight my gut feels. I've got a sobriquet tantamount to fear and doom–The goddamn Reaper, of all things–yet today I can't help but feel so impossibly mortal, so inextricably on the receiving side of the figure I'm masquerading as. Is this how Floch's sister felt, watching me get right up in her face whilst steaming from a shower and naked as a newborn? Was she tempted to submit herself to mendicancy, to plead for mercy against a force she knew she had no business trifling with?

Mina pokes my cheek. "Did you hear me?"

I jolt at the contact. I could've sworn I was in my bunk just a split second ago–I'm in a wagon now, wheeling off to our collective impending doom. Mina doesn't even look a fifth of how nervous I feel. I can't help but envy her. "No, sorry. What'd you say?"

She shrugs. "Hell if I know. I was just talking out of my ass. Everyone's so nervous it's like they forgot how to speak."

I take a moment to look around our wagon. Mina's right. No one seems particularly inclined to speak up. It's as if we exist in separate realities; I might as well be nonexistent, despite feeling so close to them all, so close and so impossibly far. Since Shadis told us that our scores would be vying against each other like two serpents wrestling in a pit, the distance has only grown wider, more poignant. Now it is insurmountable. I cannot breathe without feeling that I am suffocated simply for being so near to the people whose scores could bring down mine just enough to utterly destroy my hopes of becoming a cadet.

I shift in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable.

With even me failing to receive Mina's efforts with any warmth, eventually she gives up and slouches against her seat. The wagon totters from side to side along the grubby path, ferreting us out and away from camp. We'll get our results tomorrow; all our stuff save for our gear is back in the cabins. I carry with me all that my future will depend upon. My body, my mind, my spirit.

It dawns on me that I recognize, if only vaguely, where we seem to be going. And lo and behold: the carts take us straight back to one of the first places I struggled my way through. The cliff face we (with the exception of the southern trainees) struggled our way through climbing leers down at us menacingly. For reasons I can't place it feels more sinister today, less likely to sit around and wait for me to conquer it than before. If I cannot succeed the first time, I feel it will swallow me whole.

We lumber to a stop and unload in droves. I'm itching to move, but we form up in our rows and stand at attention, silently waiting for Shadis and Becker. I let my eyes rove the ranks, soaking up the last good view I'll have of all of us as trainees at attention. The next time we rank up I may very well be flunked out for good. Or maybe I'll last long enough to see it–maybe I'll be a candidate and I'll get to see the next lineup myself.

Eren. He's a lodestone, a point of reference. It's as if the world can pivot around him; as if I can orient myself so long as he's in view. His brows are so thoroughly creased with determination it's almost laughable. It's like he's decided that he will pass this exam: not a matter of if, but one of when. That kind of innocence, that kind of simple-minded determination is amusing to see. Perhaps it would even elicit a smile if we'd seen it on a day with less stakes.

Mikasa. She's so composed. Course, I would be too if it was an open secret that I was the best trainee of the decade. I wonder what it'd be like to be her. To be in her mind. To understand, even just for a moment, the kind of mind that works to run a body like that. The kind of body that could be shaped to suit a mind as driven, as honed as her own.

Armin. He's the first face I've observed that looks genuinely concerned. I can sympathize, truly. Armin and I have worked hard, but we're still leagues behind everyone else in terms of physical stamina. But his intellect…he'll be just fine.

Jean.

Connie.

Sasha.

The three of them, so tightly knit, so similar in their expressions yet so distinct. Jean is fidgeting. Eyeing Eren. I watch his Connie, who used to rock on the balls of his feet when he was bored of standing at attention, now stands perfectly rigid. Sasha's got a gleam in her eyes that I envy in earnest.

And there's Marco. He looks nervous, too, but his face is still kind. Mina tilts her head in his direction. They share a friendly, strained smile. Ymir is scanning the cliff, like a rat, watching peddlers roll their wares down the street, deciding when it's best to cross. Christa looks…lost. It's hard to explain. Like perhaps she doesn't really even understand why she's here.

The warriors. Bertholdt. Annie.

Reiner.

My warrior is swept up in the throes of the moment, chest puffed in his stance, broad thighs spread in the proper berth. He looks every bit the loyalist that his comrades do not. But knowing what I know–after hearing Reiner's low register, the sounds that assuage my ears, the tessitura's shade of the night–I cannot help but think that Annie and Bertholdt look different. It's something in their eyes. A lack of light. A place in the sclera where the sun fails to reflect. Resolve. Regret. What else can we do, but push forward? What else can we do, but dig deeper holes?

The southern trainees aren't looking at me, but I pause to glance their way. At Hitch and Marlo especially. Hitch, I notice, casts a sidelong glance at Annie that lingers and then vanishes altogether. Floch–well, hell, he's looking right at me. When he catches my eye, his head jerks stubbornly away.

Years of work and fields of faces have brought all of us here. We are crops, planted and sowed, reaped and culled. Whoever survives, whoever thrives, will germinate, will flower, will persevere. They will stand to shield those incapable of fighting. Incapable or unwilling. Even now I fail to understand the grandiose concept of servitude, of enlistment towards a formless entity. And yet, if I cast my eyes to Eren, I swear I can understand it all. There is rage in every corner of these trainee's hearts. We have lost. We have suffered. The titans have taken, and taken, and taken. I rub the soft side of my finger against my mother's ring. Efa Moreau would be alive today if the titans hadn't–

Chills sweep down my neck and thicken up in my throat. My mother would be alive if the warriors hadn't bulldozed their way through the wall. She would be alive if her husband hadn't used the fall of Shiganshina as an excuse to start life anew on his own. She would be alive if her own daughter hadn't tried to get Armin's grandfather out of the draft.

Is it truly titans, then, that are to blame? Can the mindless be held accountable for the machinations of the thinking? What do I soldier for, then? For whom am I even here?

"Aliva," she whispers, a quiet, mewling melody. Her hand cups my face. She coughs quietly into the moth-ridden fabric of her shirt. "Promise me you will cherish Eren in my stead."

I don't understand. "Why can't Mikasa?"

"She already does. How can I ask her for more than that?"

"What do you mean, more?" Carla's head lolls back. For a while, she just stares at the ceiling, growing so still I'm suddenly too terrified to breathe.

"H-hey. Carla. Carla." I reach out, warily gripping her shoulders, nudging her weakening figure with my palms. "Carla? Carla?" She's so thin, just skin stretched over a bony canvas. No meat. No true life in her–

Carla snaps to attention, gripping my wrist. I flinch. And when she looks at me it is as if she knows. She has always known.

What else am I to do but confess?

"This is all my fault," I gush, and suddenly the tears are forming. "I knew that you would get stuck if I didn't do anything, so I tried–but then your foot–and-and then Hannes wouldn't have killed the titan, so but I never thought he would…I thought…so I thought then maybe I could still save you, but now–"

Carla's grip goes slack. Whatever loathing she held, whatever anger, vanishes. "Oh, Aliva. Shh. Shh." She pets my hair. Wipes my tears.

But she does not accept my apology.

"What do you want from me, Aliva?"

"I'm…sorry?"

"No, darling, be honest with me. What am I to you? Do you want me to tell you that you did nothing wrong? Or do you want to take responsibility for your actions?"

I sniffle, confused, dulled by the turn of events, the sturdiness of her tone. "I…I don't know. I don't know."

"Then let me tell you what I want." A low cough forces her to pause. I watch her face morph, suddenly crumpling in on itself, head tilted slightly away from me even as she continues to try and speak through the hoarseness in her throat. "I am ashamed to ask this of you, Aliva. If Eren were to know…"

"He won't," I say quickly. I swallow. "He won't."

It takes a long time before she seems reassured enough by what I've said to continue. Carla tries to sit up, even just a little bit, before locking eyes with me. "I need you to watch over Eren. Mikasa…she cares too much. She cannot see clearly. And, my child…he's too busy looking at the skies to notice what's on the ground. So it must be you. You, who claims to understand the future. So I ask this, Aliva. You say that you've claimed my life. In return–watch over my son for me. Make sure he keeps his."

"But–"

Carla caresses my face. "Can you do that for me, Aliva?"

"It's…I just don't understand. Why me?"

Her smile dims as sleep begins to pull her under yet again. These days, she's unconscious for far longer than she's conscious. Her cheeks have started to hollow. The smell of puss is beginning to seep through fresh bandages, pungent and omnipresent. "Please."

The final trainee exam is a battle simulation. Becker and Shadis guide us through the motions. We are undersupplied, undersupported, cut off from allies and backed against a cliff. Armin establishes clear prominence as our strategic genius. Marco leads with the wind at his back. Eren rallies. Jean parrots. Mikasa guts our mock-enemies as if crushing fall leaves underfoot. Each warrior holds their own, tanks the titans, bolsters our cumulative odds of success with their ferocious offense. Christa, Ymir, and Mina coordinate supplies, ferry intel, working under Marlo. Floch abandons a cart of grape shots and pomegrenades in favor of jumping in to help Connie and Sasha's flank. Hitch manages to salvage some of the discarded supplies, but the instructor's clipboards all tilt in the redhead's direction. He's got enough points outside of this to salvage his score; of that I'm certain. But he can kiss being in the top ten goodbye after that screw up.

I play it safe. I stay in my lane, in my role, working where I'm best, ferrying information.

When the head instructors call the exam's end, I am proud.

"Oh, her? She's done for. Hell of a lot her crawling back here did." Chuckles waft up from the group.

"Did you know the kids call her the Reaper?"

Someone snorts. "You'd think the cooks were putting something in their food."

"Now, now. Let's just get the scores in," a third voice reasons, but it's all too late. I've already overheard everything I needed to know. Standing in the alley, just about to break into the abandoned officer building currently sporting one half-empty bottle of wine up on its roof, I've become just lucky enough to catch wind of the filth spewing from a handful of instructor's tongues.

My hand falters where it once stretched for the doorknob. Instead, my fingers itch for the holster at my side. I indulge. The metal is cool against my fingers. By now I've grown familiar enough with my blades, with their triggers, to know them even in darkness. Did these instructors forget that I earned my blades through curtains of laced smoke and flesh? I earned them at the cost of my memory. What did any of the other trainees lose, just to get theirs? A few hours of sleep?

My boots churn up the dirt, softly stirring the earth as I change my course and creep my way out of the alley. Foot by silent foot.

"...She'd have to have Arlert's brains to salvage her cumulative performance in a single exam," they continue. "Did I ever tell you–I was there when she got her wires cut by the Ackerman?"

"About a thousand times, yes."

I feel my jaw twitch. Of course no one mentions the way that Eren got stuck, too.

Someone sighs. "I'm going ahead. When the two of you decide to stop being dicks to the trainees and start grading them fairly, feel free to catch up."

Boots scuffle sharply. One of them swears under their breath. I'm close enough now that I'm able to watch as the instructor who defended me storms off and a second person chases after them, apologizing with the kind of tone that defeats the whole purpose of saying sorry. And the third and final instructor…

I lash out, quickly pressing my blade against the soft flesh of his stomach. "Would a useless trainee," I mutter swiftly, "be capable of doing this?"

He goes rigid. Fear whitens his eyes. In the pale dusk, I can tell exactly how long it takes until perspiration beads on his temples. So much for all that haughty bravado.

"Consider your scores carefully," I continue. It's not a threat. It isn't, but my tone gets ahead of me, dripping poison where I only meant to spill deluge. "Reapers like me should face off against titans, right? I wonder how long I'll stand against beasts like them."

I withdraw my blade before the officer can shout, and trudge back into the alley, ignoring the building I almost broke into. But I soon find that I can't walk back to the cabins. Not after drawing a weapon and brandishing it against an officer. So I pace around the woods. I try and fail to clear my head.

Swearing, I dig my palms into the bark and shove off the trunk. Before I can regret what I'm doing I gun for the office I only saw once before. The building is fairly hard to get into, with its thick current of foot traffic. Today I decide to continue doing the stupid, reckless thing: I find the window that best matches my mental map of the place, and launch myself straight up towards it. The lights are on, the curtains parted, the chair pushed back from the desk like it has recently been abandoned. Only difference from when I was in that room last is that now, there's a second desk sharing space with the first. This one faces the window–chair also empty, but its back is neatly tucked in against the grained edge of the desk. I see papers on it, upside down, hard to read but not impossible to do if I crane my neck just so.

Mikasa Ackerman: Grade A+, 1st. An exceptional talent. Bound to lead the Corps. Pass.

Reiner Braun: Grade A+, 2nd. Trustworthy, resilient. Strong addition to any unit. Pass.

Annie Leonhart: Grade A, 3rd. Solo operator. Stout, selective. Pass.

Bertholdt Hoover: Grade A-, 4th. Inactionable without orders. Limber strength. Pass.

Eren Yeager: Grade A-, 5th. Impressive skills. Impulsive personality problems. Pass.

Hitch Dreyse: Grade A-, 6th. Decisive physical prowess. Lacks sincerity for soldiering. Pass.

Jean Kirstein: Grade A-, 7th. Commendable combat. Self-oriented with current signs of improvement. Pass.

Floch Forester: Grade B+, 8th. Loud and prominent. Overconfident in abilities. Pass.

Marlo Freudenberg: Grade B+, 9th. Reserved, overly directionable. Reasonable. Pass.

Marco Bott: Grade B, 10th. Amiable, cooperative. Fails to keep others within check. Pass.

Armin Arlert: Grade B-, unranked. Superior intelligence. Lacks endurance and physicality. Pass.

Sasha Blouse: Grade B-, unranked. Swift. Unpredictable. Pass.

Christa Lenz: Grade B-, unranked. Average. Pass.

Connie Springer: Grade B-, unranked. Promising combat and agility. Lacks comprehension. Pass.

Mina Carolina: Grade C+, unranked. Below average. Positive. Pass.

Ymir: Grade C, unranked. Lacks drive. Pass.

The space on the list grows thinner, more hurried. I scan lines faster and faster.

And, finally, scrawled in miniscule script at the very bottom:

Aliva Moreau: Grade D-, unranked. Fodder. Pass.

A/N: And so Letting Fliers Fall's Ch.39 is released on the day the last episode, aka the animated Ch.139, airs. Happy end of AOT, and happy end of the first part of Letting Fliers Fall! Thank you to everyone who has been following its journey thus far. Starting next chapter the story is going to be picking right back up with the fast-paced flow you guys probably remember from the story itself.

I'd like to apologize for the few and far-between updates. Busy busy. Love you all; bye for now!