Short Notice

Prologue

Waking up in a strange place is never a good sign. Birds singing and crickets chirping might be a good thing to see first thing in the morning if you're a Disney Princess, but if you're a burned spy sleeping on a bare mattress in a room over a Miami nightclub, it's probably a sign you need to invest in better locks.

Michael Westen opened his eyes to a shaded pond, long green grass, and a blue morning sky. The texture of tree bark pressing into his back told him he'd been propped against a tree.

His first instinct was to reach for his Beretta, which he found tucked into his waistband by his belt right away. He snatched it up and inspected his chamber, finding it loaded and the magazine full of hollow points. Just in case somebody had thought to sabotage it, he removed the chambered round and replaced it with the second-no-the third one down. He couldn't see any marks on the bullet he'd removed in the process, but that wasn't a sure sign they hadn't been tampered with.

With that done, it was time to find out who'd taken him and why. Michael pushed himself away from the tree and onto his feet. He still had shoes-in fact he still had his suit on. Whoever had taken him must have drugged him, that was the only way they could have dressed him.

Who did he know who would drug him, kidnap him, dump him in the middle of the woods, but still leave him a gun?

"Fi! This isn't funny Fi! I'm trying to get my job back, and that job is big into drug testing!"

His words carried out into the woods, but no response carried back. Michael sucked in another breath to scream, noticing as he did that the air was cool, and nowhere near as humid as he'd expect from Florida. A slight echo bounced back at him, and he gazed out a pair of moss-covered Greek columns, each sunken almost entirely into the Earth to find only a vast fores.

"I've got a burn notice out on me Fi! Remember! The Feds find out I left Florida they'll hunt me down like I'm a box of water-gel in Belfast!"

Silence, and with it Michael Westen, resigning himself already to the life of a fugitive, sighed and began to walk. Hopefully towards civilization.

For normal people, getting lost in the woods is about the most dangerous thing that can happen to you. In addition to all of the lions, tigers, and bears that you can expect depending on where in the world you end up, there's also the far more likely causes of death. Little things like "hypothermia" and "dehydration". In the context of Escape and Evasion though, the woods are great. Thick foliage and uneven terrain make pursuit hell for even the best thermal-equipped aircraft, and you won't go hungry so long as you're not too picky. That being said, hypothermia and dehydration are still problems, so the first course of action should always be-

Michael stumbled across a cobblestone road. It probably meant he was somewhere ritzy, or that catered to tourists. The wagon-ruts that cut into the stones made him guess "tourist trap," since rich people nowadays tended to skip the middleman and ride the horse directly when they felt particularly equestrian.

Going off the left-hand rule, he took a left turn and began walking along the road. Hopefully he'd find a gas station somewhere so he could snag a car. Otherwise he'd have to settle for a stable.

I don't like horses. I can ride them, nobody who's spent as long as I have in Afghanistan as I have can't, but I don't like them.

A horse isn't just a fleshy motorcycle. Horses sweat, horses stink, horses-

Michael caught a whiff of stringy, green manure and adjusted his gait to step over it.

-you get the idea. In any case, a horse isn't exactly my dream ride. All of that being said-

He came around a bend in the road, a large stone cottage complete with a windmill materializing from the morning dew. The hitching post out front was empty, and the wooden sign over the door proclaimed it the "Royal Rose Tavern & Inn." A mug of beer and a bed were painted beneath for the benefit of the less literate. Sam would like this place.

There was also a stable, but it would probably be smarter to figure out where the hell he was before he started his life as a wanted fugitive. Well, a wanted fugitive that law enforcement knew the location of. Speaking of which, where the hell were the cameras? Did this place only have security around the perimeter?

Michael took a second to check his reflection in a half-full water trough behind the hitching post. Light shadows under his eyes, some light sweat seeping into the collar of his shirt, but otherwise he was fine. He nodded and put together a plan.

Coming up with a cover identity on the fly is mostly about being conservative with the truth. You need to have a plausible-sounding reason to be somewhere and add bits and pieces of your own story where it fits. The less you have to remember, the less you can forget. The less you have to lie, the less likely you'll be caught in one.

'Sam Southerly' walked into a bar. Stumbled, really-but he kept that slight. He was going for "groggy," not drunk. Bars could be surprisingly hostile to people who walked in drunk this early in the morning. Guys who just woke up from a night of partying hard however, were potential customers.

Michael took in the patrons, and winced. What? Had he walked into one of those historical reenactment things? Then he caught a whiff of them, which told him that whoever these people were, they either didn't have access to deodorant or they didn't use it. Dedicated reenactors maybe?

His hope that he'd be able to limp over to the bartender without fanfare faded as almost every pair of eyes in the room panned towards him. It was probably the white suit, not a whole lot of people wore them outside of hot and humid climates.

"Wow, you guys would not believe the night I just had. I mean, there was this girl- and-" Michael smiled and waved the thought away. "Anyway, make a long story short, would you guys mind telling me where we are?"

The barkeep, a plump man with a bushy blond beard that merged with his eyebrows, chortled "No idea where you are, ay? I think you might need to cut back friend, blackout drinking is a bad habit for a man of means."
Michael shook his head "That's not… that's really not the problem. The problem is somebody slipped something in my drink."

The barkeep's eyebrows shot up "Well, that's a rather serious statement. Are you sure?"

Michael nodded "Positive. Anyway, where are we?" A patron, rosy cheeked and slurring rose up from a puddle of drool.

"Phff- we're in the Cooper's Forest 'bout a kilometer o'side Singash… Shingasha…" The barkeep shook his head "Shiganshina?"

"Yeah, that." the patron then sunk his head into his arms and slipped into unconsciousness on the counter top.

Michael searched his mind for "Shiganshina," and came up blank. Some kind of cowboy themepark in Japan maybe? Korea?

Just give it a nice, vacant grin Michael. You're rich, easygoing, and kind of stupid "Where is that, exactly? I'm not big on geography?"

In the back of the room, somebody spat out their beer. Michael saw a man pick himself up from the far side of the bar and start pacing towards him. The barkeep turned to the man and smiled "Oh, I forgot we've got a doctor in the house. Mind giving him a once-over Yeager? He seems a little out of it."

Michael gave this 'Doctor' a glance. Pencil-thin was a descriptor that got a lot of use around Doctor Yeager, pencil-thin frame, pencil-thin mustache, pencil-thin fingers that pushed a pair of wire rimmed glasses up a nose that was-you guessed it, pencil-thin. This probably wouldn't have been so bad if he didn't walk like somebody had rammed a metal rail up his colon.

So stiff, huh? Michael could work with stiff. In fact smart and stiff was better, they tended not to give stupid people a second glance, and that was already his angle. Contempt was a powerful force.

He stuck out his hand "Name's Samuel Southerly, Dad runs a mill way up north."

"I've never met him."

"That wasn't what I was getting at."

Doctor Yeager unclasped a leather satchel he'd dropped by his feet "I wasn't accusing you of anything. Open your mouth, please."

Micheal did so, and what felt oddly like a steel tongue depressor found its way into his mouth. Not stainless either. Just his luck, really. He would feel real bad about suing a man for pro bono malpractice, even if the courts let him file instead of arresting him.

"You know Doc, I feel fine. I been in some pretty bad scrapes, I just wanted to get my bearings then step off."

The barkeep scoffed "Nonsense lad, I'm not going to let a drugged man stumble into my bar not even knowing where he is, only to send him off to Gods know where without at least having him checked out. The MPs find too many corpses on the road as it is."

Michael turned away as the Doctor pulled out a stethoscope "It's not that I don't appreciate it, it's just that I don't wanna make more of a fuss."

The Barkeep chuckled from under his mustache "And where would you be going, my young friend, without your purse?"

Michael raised an eyebrow "My what." then he remembered that purse could also refer to a coin purse. He had no idea what people in the modern era would be doing with a coin purse, but in its own way it was a godsend. No need to whip out his own wallet and blow his cover.

Michael made a show of patting his own waist, dialing up the look of panic on his face as he went beltloop to beltloop. "Ah fuck. That bitch!" He threw in a stomp as he said it, just for effect.

"If you could not move so much whilst I am trying to examine you, that would be appreciated."

Michael held up his hands "Sorry Doc, might have to call it quits. Not like I can pay you."

"Don't worry about payment… perhaps you could keep your hands in your pockets until I am finished?"

Well, you don't get setups like that every day.

The key to convincing lying is tricking yourself into believing it, your body gives off signals that are hard to fake, so you don't, not really. Panic and despair are good go-tos here, especially when dealing with good-natured people. Just be ready to feel bad about it in the morning.

Michael patted his pockets, letting a creeping feeling of dread work its way up his spine and crawl down his face. He had some good childhood memories on-tap for that one, some of them didn't even involve his father.

"Oh… shit."

The barkeep hmphed as he swirled his rag through a glass "What else she take?"

"My papers, passport. Everything."

Doctor Yeager froze, and even the barkeep's expression got a little surly. The barkeep set down the mug he'd been polishing and sighed "I figured as much. Not much use in knocking over a rich man if you aren't going to grab his pass to the Interior."

Doctor Yeager stood back up, his eyes focused on his tools as he plucked them each up and placed them each in turn into his bag.

"I can't seem to find anything wrong with him. Seeing that he's not getting back into the Interior without papers-and I'm heading back into town anyway, I'd like to to take him back to Shiganshina for observation."
The barkeep slumped, chuckling "Just like you, Yeager. You just can't help yourself, can't ya Doc?"

Micheal ran his hand through his hair "Wow… uh, thanks? I don't really have much to pay you back with."

"Nonsense, I insist. My Carla would be glad to have you whilst we get things hammered out with the Military Police."

Michael sighed and smiled, even as a small boil of panic began to simmer at the back of his brain "I dunno Doc, I don't know if I want to cause you that much trouble."

Its always hard for a spy to deal with decent people. Criminals and other spies are one thing, but as a rule they don't mess with you unless they can make a buck-or you harm their interests. Criminals don't pull over to the side of the road to ask you if you need help with a flat, criminals don't dive off a pier to save a man who they think is drowning but actually performing a covert extraction, and criminals certainly don't call the cops if they think you need help.

Cops are bad news for any number of reasons, but their biggest problem is that they're a large, organized body of guys with guns that talk to each other and sniff out lies for a living. They train together, they work together, and a lot of them know each others' names. It's a network, and you don't need to be a coral reef to know how dangerous a net is.

Yeager's hand clamped down on Michael's shoulder "I am not letting a man in your current circumstances walk his way into trouble. You may not be familiar with this place, but I can tell you with certainty these woods are filled with… unsavory elements."

Michael shrugged "I guess when you put it like that, I don't have much choice."

The barkeep, and the drunk from earlier, laughed "That's Grisha for you. You won't find a harder headed man south of Trost."

'Grisha,' was a little busy starring off into the distance to take offense, if he was even capable of it.

Michael was immediately ill at ease "Hey, are you okay Doc?"

Grisha blinked, and then his glassy eyed expression vanished "Sorry, I was thinking about… something I hadn't thought of in a long time." He bent down to pick up his hat, then placed it on his head. "Pour our new friend some beer please. Something light- we'll be on the road soon."

"Sure 'nough, Doctor's orders and all that." he pulled the mug he'd been cleaning under a tap, where where something that bore a remarkable resemblance to water poured out in a stream into a mug Micheal was fairly certain had never seen a dishwasher. The barkeep handed to him "Here you are Lad, drink up. You've got a half day's ride out of here by carriage.

Michael put on his most grateful smile, "Thanks, I'll have to come back here sometime."

Then he drank it.

Before the advent of Germ Theory, telling somebody to drink some water was pretty bad health advice. Sure there were places here and there it was clean, but by and large it was a good way to stress-test your immune system. In the modern era most industrialized countries have worked things out, but poorer and more remote countries haven't. When traveling in these areas, even in places where there aren't enough people that separating the drinking water and the… wastewater is a concern, your best bet is either bottled water, or booze.

Even stuff you'd get punched for buying somebody else.

Michael chugged the liquid down, even if it tasted like it was Sam's sweat. He'd drunk worse in training, both for the Army and at The Farm- which was where the CIA trained its agents.

Michael reached the bottom of his mug and wiped his chin. "Again, thanks. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

The barkeep shook his head "No no, just remember to put a good word in for me next time one of your fancy friends comes down here on business."

Michael smiled.

"I'll be sure to."

o.o.o

Travel by horse and carriage was not great, but Michael had to admit it beat horseback. Certainly faster than walking.

For the first few minutes Doctor Yeager had been silent. The Tavern vanished past a bend in the road, then that bend itself vanished, followed by another. Only then did Doctor Yeager begin to speak.

"Do you have a family, Samuel?"

Michael shook his head "Naw, not of my own. Not yet at least. Haven't found the right person."

Michael saw Grisha roll his eyes "I suppose considering your current predicament, your skills with women could use some work."

"Yeah, we've been on and off for awhile. I think after this stunt we're going to be off."

Michael didn't think Fi had sent him here anymore, in fact he didn't know where "here" was. Fi had some… quirks for sure, but this was too much, even for her.

That left the people who burned him, and that was all he needed to know in order to watch his ass even more than he normally did. Part of that was keeping a closer eye on people close to him.

He was not liking the bearing of this 'Yeager.' Michael's gut said something was off, and if he'd learned on thing over the years, it was to trust his gut.

Micheal let the silence settle for awhile. The road vanishing behind them like a stone-covered treadmill, replaced by mile after mile of identical wooded path. Not so much as a streetlight or a roadside cabin broke the tedium. No cameras, no streetlights, no power lines. This place needed a little work, and it made Michael wonder what was in store for him at his destination.

"So, Doc. What's Shiganshina like?"

Yeager gave his reins a flick "It's a quiet place. A small town growing into a city, clean streets, and a working sewer system. I can't complain, I have lived in far worse."

"Like where?"

"Oh, here and there. Whoever would take me in, terrible poverty, terrible crime, and terrible police who seemed to revel in making things worse."

Well that wasn't vague at all.

Michael gave a nod "There are places like that all over. We're just lucky I guess."

Yeager looked at his hands "I suppose so."

They came across a small roadside outhouse, all faded wood and cobblestone. He could already feel the splinters. Yeager slowed down.

"I'd recommend you take this opportunity to relieve yourself. It is the last stop until we reach the gate near suppertime."

"Thanks." There was no way he was staying all the way to the city. Michael would wait until Dr Yeager took his turn in the outhouse, then vanish into the woodline. Stealing the cart was out, Yeager was by all appearances a good man, and he wasn't about to strand somebody in the woods over a gut feeling.

Michael leaned over the edge of the carriage and hopped off-or at least he tried.

Halfway through the motion, while both legs were dangling over the edge, Grisha Yeager grabbed his collar and yanked him backwards. The lower half of Michael's body dangled out over the edge of the cart, but his head and chest were pulled towards the body of the cart.

Michael was pinned, hanging from the end of the armrest, fighting to regain his balance and protect his neck.

That's when he felt the scalpel press down against his throat.

"WHO SENT YOU? WHY DID YOU COME HERE?"

Michael's hand wrapped itself around Yeager's wrist, but he knew he couldn't force it away before the scalpel opened his jugular.

"Grisha, man. I have no idea what you're-"

"Do you think I'm some kind of simpleton? The people here don't know what a passport is! They think they're all that's left of humanity!" Grisha laughed "Not like I can blame you, I was confused at first too, but it makes a kind of sense, doesn't it?"

Getting your cover blown is always a problem, a person doesn't have to know you're a spy to know you're a fraud, and once they know that your life span can be measured in minutes. Getting out alive can depend as much on finding out what they know about you as how they know it.

"You're not from here either, are you Grisha?"

Grisha slammed Michael's head into the wagon, all traces of the composed, stern doctor had vanished "I'm asking the questions here! WHERE ARE YOU FROM?"

Michael blinked the stars out of his eyes "Miami! Christ, what the hell's wrong with you?"

A partial, or even a fake confession might even help you buy back some credibility, one of history's most famous con-men was able to sell the Eiffel Tower twice by "confessing" to being a corrupt government official. People will be more willing to give you their trust if they think you're giving them yours.

Grisha stalled, his hands slackening for just a moment. Michael was tempted to break the hold and drop him with his 9mm, but he needed information, and Doctor Yeager seemed the only possible source.

"My…ami?"

"Yeah, Miami. Long Beach, Salsa music, women walking around in swimsuits you'd have trouble turning into a blanket for a hamster? You know?"

"Your wallet."

"What?"

"Your wallet. People here use coins, not paper. I saw the outline before you put your hands into your pockets."

Michael could feel Yeager's hand begin to shake "Why?"

"I want to see your identification, I want to know your real name."

"Michael Westen."

Another pause, another moment of hesitation from Yeager. Another chance Michael chose not to take, in the name of yet another gut feeling. In fairness, his gut was one-for-one today.

"Your wallet!"

Micheal reached down into his pocket, and removed it. "Fine." he held it up, folded, over his head.

"Open it."

Michael thumbed it open. "It's not a flattering picture."

Michael felt Grisha's fingers loosen.

"What in the name..."

Yeager dropped the scalpel and grabbed the wallet, Michael took his chance to step away and draw his gun. Pointing it at Yeager, he thumbed his safety to 'Off.'

Yeager might as well have been on a different planet. He stared at Michael's wallet like it was live footage of fire spilling out of his house. The horror and denial seemed to possess him.

"Hey!"

Yeager pulled his eyes away from the wallet and noticed the gun pointed at his head. One of the horses relieved itself, neither man paid it any mind.

"I'm terribly sorry Michael. I don't know… I don't understand… this is not a happy place. I wish I could tell you more, I wish I knew more. You're in danger just being here, the government controls mere knowledge of the outside world, but the things they'd do to you…"

"Grisha, I need you to start making sense or else-"

"What do they use to make color photographs? I had always assumed it was possible, but I can't help but wonder…"

"DOCTOR YEAGER!" that got his attention "I woke up in the middle of a random forest inside of what is apparently not even my own country. I do not know why I'm here, I do not know where here is! I am not playing word games right now!"

Doctor Yeager pulled himself upright, fingers popping open his bag and slipping the scalpel into its home. "I'm sorry for that display Michael, but my situation here is tenuous-as is yours."

"That's great, would you mind explaining why? You know what this is?" Michael shook his handgun slightly, though not enough that a shot now wouldn't poke a hole in Yeager's chest.

Grisha smoothed out a fold in his coat "That pistol of yours is one of the reasons your position is so precarious. Technological advances are forbidden within the Walls, they are yet to even invent smokeless power, nonetheless what I presume is some manner of repeating pistol. Are those common where you came from?"

Michael tried to measure his words, but was a little stunned by the question "It's a little on the pricey side, but just about everybody's been using semiautos for awhile now." He finally lowered his weapon "Doc, what the hell's going on here?"

Doctor Yeager took off his glasses to clean them "In your case? I have no idea."

"Helpful."

"I do not believe you are here to harm us any longer, but I have no idea what you are here for. I just hope it's not a sign of things to come. Our world has already suffered enough at the hands of powers beyond human understanding."

Michael thanked his near two decades dealing with his mother and Nate, otherwise he'd have lost what little remained of his patience. Then, the implications of what the Doctor had been trying to say for the past few minutes hit him like a snowglobe to the back of the head "This world?"

Doctor Yeager shook his head "Indeed. Now you understand the extent of your predicament? You are lucky to have found me, many others would have turned you over as a heretic or a madman. Even I almost did, I still feel I may have been tricked-but that is wishful thinking."

Michael felt himself sink into ice water- it wasn't real of course, but it was a well-honed mental trick designed to force himself to be calm. He hadn't need to use it in a long, long time. He needed it now.

"Another world? Grisha, where the hell are we?"

Grisha smiled "We, Michael Westen, are within the Walls. The last refuge of mankind against the menace of the Titans."

Michael studied Grisha's face for any sign, no matter how slight, of dishonesty. He found nothing.

Michael hit the de-cocker on his pistol, safeing it and dropping the hammer with a click "You are going to need to do a lot of talking."

Grisha nodded "Certainly, but its a long way to Shiganshina. We'll have plenty of time."

"No scalpels this time?"

A smile, small and pained settled across Grisha's face. Michael could tell it didn't see a lot of use.

"No scalpels this time, I promise."

The sun was sinking into a blood-red sky by the time they reached Shiganshina.

o.o.o

"And nobody's seen a Titan in over a hundred years?"

"Nobody outside of the Survey Corps, yes. Titans are fantastically dangerous, few are brave enough to even try."

"You mentioned them before, why does the government let them go out at all?"

Grisha gave his head a look from side to side, but at this point in the day the cobblestone streets of Shiganshina were empty. Most people had returned home for dinner and to settle in with their loved ones. There were no streetlights for decent people to conduct business after dark.

"I am not certain why, but my suspicions are that they are not meant to succeed."

Michael nodded "Figured as much, good to know the kind of people I'm dealing with."

Grisha perked an ear "Dealing with? Surely you don't intend-"

Michael held up a hand "I intend to find a nice hole to hide in until I can head back home, wherever that is. That being said, the opposition's clever and doesn't think much of human life. That means I've got to be careful, very careful. I won't be going off on some crusade Doc."

Grisha sighed "Thank goodness, you had me worried for a second. Ah- we're here." He pulled the carriage besides a two story wood house. Yeager's home seemed very German in style, but almost colonial too. Michael was reminded of a trip his school had taken up to Boston, where they'd toured Paul Revere's historic home.

He waited for Grisha to finish taking care of the horses, guiding them each to a small stable located around the back and giving them each a pat on the head.

"There you go Alphonse, I'll have Eren and Mikasa out with oats soon."

Michael laid a hand on the other one's snout, "What's this one's name?"
"Edward. I was warned against getting two males, but I didn't want them rutting in the stable. Neutering isn't particularly advanced here."

Michael leaned against a post "Are you going to mention where you came from anytime soon?"

Grisha reached for a… something behind his shirt, probably some kind of necklace. "All in due time, all in due time. You need to understand that telling you- the danger it would put you in doesn't end at you. My whole family could be left destitute, if not vanish alongside me."

A door slammed open behind them, Michael turn to find a young woman in a dress and apron that would have been called drab in Saudi Arabia. Either Mrs. Yeager was a woman of simple tastes, or the people of the Walls lived simple lives.

Judging by her crossed arms and tapping foot, she was also not happy.

"Grisha! Where have you been? I've had dinner over the coals for over an hour waiting for you, did something happen?"

Grisha held up his hand "In a manner of speaking- Carla, I'd like you to meet Michael. He's a friend from the Interior who was drugged and left for dead in a forest up North. I was hoping he could stay with us for a couple of days."

The anger and aggression vanished like fumes touching flame. Carla's eyes shot open as she ran up to them-way faster than the length of her dress should have let her. She grabbed Michael's arm "Oh, you poor man-"she turned to her husband "-of course he can stay. So long as he doesn't mind keeping to a chair in the kitchen." she turned back to Michael, who gave her a smile that for once felt genuine "It's fine, honestly I'd settle for the stable-"

"Oh don't even start with that- EREN, MIKASA, WE HAVE A GUEST! GRAB AN EXTRA BOWL FROM THE CABINET!"

"Oh I wouldn't want to be a bother-"

Carla Yeager's grip became hard enough to bruise "I insist."

Michael nodded "Thank you, you're very kind."

Here he was thinking he'd seen the last of awkward family dinners.

o.o.o

Sheltering with a local contact is one of those "only if you need to" things, not quite as extreme as killing somebody, but nearly as dangerous. Depending on the operation you could be crashing the couch in a one-bedroom apartment or getting temporarily inducted into your contact's family. It all comes down to the contact, and the part of the world you're in.

Just remember, no matter how open the arms that greet you, the moment you walk over that threshold, anybody on the other side becomes a target.

"Eren, Mikasa, say hello to Mr. Westen. He's a friend of your father's who's staying over for a couple of days."

Michael kept up his smile, but didn't make the first move. No telling what the customary greeting was here and he didn't want to make an ass of himself. Especially with somebody else's children.

The boy, Eren probably, stepped forward first. The girl behind him watched Michael like a bodyguard, half her face hidden by a maroon scarf.

The boy stuck out a hand, and a small part of Michael's mind let out a sigh of relief. Michael reached out his hand towards Eren's, gave it the same polite grasp he used for warlords, and other people who could get him killed in an instant, then shook it.

"Nice to meet you, Eren, right?"

Eren nodded "Yeah, you said you were Michael-" Carla shot him a glance that could crack cast iron "-sorry, Mr. Westen?"

Michael let go "You can call me Michael if you want, everybody else does." Eren's posture relaxed as the girl stepped forward and curtsied, but she said nothing. Carla strode over, but her expression was far softer "Mikasa, don't be shy now. Come over and introduce yourself."

Michael held up his hands "It's fine-it's fine."

Carla wasn't having it, though and with a smile on her face tried to beckon Mikasa forward "Come on now, Mikasa, just like we practiced. Come on up and introduce yourself."

The girl gave a glance to Eren, who smiled and nodded. Then she walked up to Michael and extended a hand. Michael took it and gave it a gentle shake "Pleasure to meet you Mikasa. I understand, meeting new people can be hard."

He heard a pair of muffled words behind the scarf, but couldn't make them out. He bent down to her eye level "What was that?"

Mikasa pulled down her scarf to reveal a set of what Michael would loosely call Asian features, if a little muted. A product of infidelity maybe? Yeager didn't seem the sort, but you never really knew. He certainly liked to keep secrets, although Michael couldn't exactly throw stones in that department.

It would be hard for any secret of Grisha's to be worse than the cold, dead look in Mikasa's eyes.

"And dangerous. Meeting new people…" then she pulled up her scarf and ran to join her brother by the door. Dr Yeager hung up his coat "Eren, Mikasa, take care of the horses, you'll have soup waiting for you when you get back."

Eren and Mikasa scuttled outside, the door clapping shut behind them.

Michael decided to pry a little, keeping it subtle if he could. "Cute kids, seem like twins. How far apart were they?"

Carla sighed and grabbed a stack of carved wooden bowls, ladling soup into one and handing it to Michael, who took it and set it by a seat near the table. Carla handed him another bowl "I don't know exactly how old Mikasa is, she's adopted. Grisha brought her home one day after her parents- well- you already know the sorts of people who lurk in those woods."

Michael's molded his face into a sad expression, smothering the embers of rage in his gut. He placed another bowl down onto the table. "That's terrible, how old was she when it happened?"

Carla kept ladling and passing like she was working an assembly line "Oh, it was roughly… four years ago? She must have been nine or ten. Not long enough, for a girl her age."

Michael set the last bowl on the table "It never is. Did they catch the people responsible?"

Carla nodded, and wiped her hands off on her apron "Yes, the Military Police found Mikasa and killed them all. I hear it was terrible, Mikasa still refuses to talk to me about it."

As if summoned, Mikasa and Eren chose that moment to storm through the door, which again slammed shut behind them. They each found their way to a seat beside a bowl, while Grisha started clomping his way down the stairs. He emerged from around the corner with a face freshly shaven and hair wet, though probably not from anything like a shower, some kind of washbasin likely. He took a seat, and gestured for Michael to join them.

Dinner was pleasant, if a little cramped, and Michael used his conversation with Grisha on the way into town to fill in the gaps of his cover as a "Man from the Interior." Grisha himself helped fill in details or deflect whenever the conversation veered into anything they hadn't covered on the road, all while the sun dropped out of the sky so fast it could have been an olive plopped into a martini.

Soon, their bowls were empty, and the only light that remained was the warm orange glow of a pair of tallow candles on the table.

Dinner was cleaned, faces were washed, and the children were put to bed.

Michael found a comfy chair in the kitchen, accepted a thick, scratchy wool blanket from Mrs. Yeager, and slipped off into a dreamless sleep.

In the days and years to come, he would look back and remember this night fondly. There would be none to follow.