Chapter 1

Morning in Shiganshina was busy, as soon as the sun rose crowds of people flooded the streets and markets in a bustle that would have shamed the most lively Middle-Eastern bazaar.

Around the world, no matter where you go, people want to get their business done before the sun goes down. There are a few reasons for this- crime, traffic, and in places without AC or showers nobody wants to be working with the afternoon sun beating down on them, if only to cut down on the smell. In places like Spain or Italy this means things rarely get done at all, everywhere else it means getting things done either very early or very late.

Michael Westen stared down at the address scrawled out on a loose scrap of paper, Grisha had handed it to him after breakfast alongside a small pile of coins.

The reasoning was simple, Michael wasn't going to be able to stay in Shiganshina long. His cover as the son of a wealthy Interior resident was already pretty thin, and the longer he stayed here the more likely it was that somebody was going to do some digging. Granted, not a whole lot of people even knew about him yet, but a man can only pretend to be from a place he's just learned about for so long.

The second reason was that Michael didn't want to keep relying on Grisha and the Yeagers. Grisha's probable status as some kind of spy or anti-monarchy dissident aside, Michael knew every moment he spent at the Yeager house was a moment closer to the whole family getting disappeared, and he had a good feeling nobody who disappeared here ever reappeared anywhere else.

Michael caught a glimpse at a trio of soldiers-Garrison- from what Yeager had told him, drinking and joking at a table by the intersection off to his left. The military was a constant presence here, but the Garrison didn't exactly seem keen to go looking for trouble. Michael certainly wasn't going to give them one.

There was also a third reason for Michael's urgency to pack up and leave town. It was one he was trying hard, very hard, not to think of.

Michael Westen was now certain he was no longer on Earth, or at least his Earth. Sure Grisha had told him this on the way up, but it was one thing being told something, it was something entirely different to contravene every little data point that led in that direction.

Michael pushed open a wooden door to find a small, blonde old man in a straw hat and glasses working what looked like a fly-tying stand behind a countertop. He let the door glide shut, which rang a small iron bell as it closed.

The old man licked a feather and set in down on his hook, spinning his spool of thread around it in a hypnotic loop.

Michael cleared his throat and smiled "Hello?"

The old man set down his thread and pliers and smiled back, his eyes changed their focus from the fly in its vice to Michael, who could tell right away he was being studied just as keenly.

The old man smiled and laughed "Hah! Sorry, the mind tends to wander when you get to my age. Is there something I can help you with?"

Michael nodded "Yeah, I lost my fishing license- I heard you could print one out here?"

The Old Man's focused expression returned, and he motioned his head back to towards a doorway behind him. Michael followed him behind the curtain, then was surprised to find himself staring down the barrel of a slightly rusted blunderbuss.

He held up his hands "Easy now… I'm just here to get some

Identification documents and a pass into wall Maria. I don't want trouble."

Arlert, for his part sat himself down on a stool in the corner of the room, the blunderbuss stayed pointed at Michael's groin "And well you may have, but I don't do that anymore. Not since the Military Police took my Son and his wife away. I have too much at stake."

Michael's eyes scanned the room, noting a small nook in the corner surrounded in papers and a small candle in a jar. It was unmistakably the den of a child who sat in the back while a guardian worked.

Michael nodded "I respect that, I can go. Is there anybody else-"

A whole range of emotions fought for control of the old man's wrinkled face. Michael lowered his hands to chest level and forced eye contact. A better position if he had to wrestle for the weapon, but if it came to that odds were good he'd get turned into a colander before he touched metal.

"Who told you to come here?"

The voice was quiet, but Michael could hear the stock cracking under the pressure of Arlert's fingers. He shook his head "You know I can't tell you that. These people stuck their necks out for me, I'm not going to put them in danger."

"I don't want to hurt them, I just need you to tell them I'm not in that business anymore. Not since the MPs…" he shook his head. "That's not important. Tell me who sent you."

Michael shook his head, but the slight movement caused the paper in his hand to flutter. Arlert's eyes narrowed "Yeager? Well…" he lowered the blunderbuss "I suppose I can break out the old press for him. Do you have a name you'll be using?"

Michael cocked an eyebrow "From the handwriting?" It wasn't a very him move, but it was something a less experienced man would say. Besides, he wanted to see who he was working with.

Arlert smiled under a mustache that could have pulled double duty as a push broom and shook his head "From the paper. I sold him his first ream back when he first started practicing, very distinct, very fine grain. Anyway, shall we?"

Michael nodded, then set his stack of coins on the desk. "Yeah, lets get to work."

o.o.o

"Impressive gear, how'd you get it? I thought the government kept tabs on this sort of thing?"

The printing machine was about the size of a small television-circa nineteen nintey, but that was where the similarities ended. It consisted of a metal disk, a set of rollers, and a pair of plates, all connected by sets of lever-arms that gave Michael headaches just looking them. It was a machine of its time alright.

Arlert grabbed a can of thick black pigment and a spatula, then started spackling the thick mixture onto the plate. "My Daughter-In-Law was a machinist, doted on her tools almost as much as Armin-" he froze "Armin being my grandson. You might meet him if you are staying around the Yeager's- he and that Eren boy are friends." He flicked another layer of ink onto the disk and triggered the rollers. The rollers spread the ink evenly onto the disk, which rotated to show an angle that hadn't been covered yet. Arlert hit the rollers again, then again, until the entire disk was coated an even black. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a thin strip of ink-coated paper. He compared the stick to the ink on the disk, then nodded.

"First time, still got it."

Michael cleared his throat "Need any help?"

Arlert gave it a moment's thought "Ah, of course. Could you grab that typeset case for me? It's packed full of lead-so mind the weight."

Michael grabbed the case and wrestled it onto a cleared space on the desk next to the machine. Arlert opened it and started searching for letters.

"Ahhh… now the set at the Travel Office has a chipped 'h' that took a bit of cutting to emula- there." he reached down and plucked out a letter from it's box. One by one he removed letters and placed them onto one of the plates, while from the bottom drawer he removed a paper card roughly half the size of a postcard.

"How sturdy is this?"

Arlert shrugged and waved "It's government standard-so not great. I used to recommend folks go for a good run with it in their pockets anyway-new cards always attract more attention than one that's gotten a little love, if you understand."

Michael nodded like this was a novel idea, even though he'd already been planning on stressing the paper before he'd even come here.

It's always a good idea to feign ignorance when dealing with an expert, especially when dealing with an old one. It doesn't matter if you could teach a whole class on demolitions, it doesn't mean your arms dealer has to know that. Never let them know what you know. Besides-

Arlert cleared his throat "Now this ink is water-resistant, not waterproof, so don't go for a swim unless you give it a bit of wax first.

-you never know what you might learn.

"Do you do that here?"

Arlert nodded, then got back to setting type.

o.o.o

By the time Michael got out of the print shop, the sun was hanging almost directly overhead. The populace had mostly fled, either indoors or into the narrow alleyways, which were about the best shade you could get at this time of day. The Garrison soldiers from earlier had slumped unconscious down onto the table, letting the sun burn their exposed necks without much resistance. The sight made him think of Sam, who was probably answering some very pointed questions from the FBI right about now.

Assuming that the people who burned him hadn't already waved them off, which would mean Sam was probably drinking beers on the beach. If Michael was lucky he would be chasing down leads and making phone calls, if he was even luckier Sam would actually get somewhere before he got distracted.

That second one was pretty unlikely. For better or worse, and judging by the amount of animal excrement on the street he'd say 'worse,' Michael was stuck here for the foreseeable future, or at least until whoever dumped him here made contact and told him what the hell they wanted. Michael passed by a butcher's stall, which was surrounded by meats and smaller animals draped on hooks.

Despite himself, Michael felt his stomach rumbling.

If he was going to stay here, he was going to need to find a job quick. Travel documents weren't going to get him anywhere if he starved to death.

"STUPID HERETIC!"

Michael stopped in his tracks. The sound of a child's screaming normally did that, but this was different. The fact this sound was followed by several meaty thumps and scuffling didn't exactly ease him either.

"You really think just because you're bigger than me that means you're right? If you really thought your worldview had any merit you'd stick up an argument, not a fist."

Well this wasn't getting any better. Michael turned down the alleyway the noise was coming from.

"You really think you're clever, huh?"

Michael paced past rows of empty trash cans and rain barrels, he reached the mouth of the alley and onto a street that was somehow even quieter and narrower than the ones Michael had been walking down so far.

He found a group of at least three kids pinning a smaller blond one to a stone wall. They looked like a rough crowd, at least by Junior High standards. Michael thought he could see stubble peeking out the lip of one of them. The blond kid looked kind of familiar.

"Maybe not, but I know I'm smarter than you, blockhead."

The kid that had blondie pinned pulled back his fist for a kinetic rebuttal. Considering that blondie's head was pressed against a stone wall, Michael decided now was a good time to get involved.

"Hey, kids!"

The whole group froze, blondie included.

"Maybe go and play somewhere else? Run around in the grass, tip some cows, tie some cans to a dogs tail, you know?" Michael kept pacing forward, making the height disparity more apparent.

The kid who'd had blondie pinned grabbed his shoulder and showed a smile as convincing as a three dollar bill. "Sorry mister, guess we got a little excited. We'll go play somewhere quieter." His friends followed his lead. Blondie winced at the word play.

Michael nodded "Thanks. Now scram." He waved his hands towards the end of the street.

Blondie's eyes went as wide as his mother's tea saucers as the gang started pulling him away. Michael cleared his throat "Blonde kid stays."

The bigger shitstain, the one with a mustache, stepped forward and opened his mouth "Hey Mister, we can't just leave a friend with a strange-"

"I'm running out of charity here, kid. Beat it."

The thugs-in-training booked it so quick they could have started a mail-order library. One of them knocked the blond kid over 'on accident,' but by and large they let him go. The blond kid picked himself up. "Thank you, but they're going to be insufferable about that later."

Michael nodded "Probably. Next time, don't press your head against a hard surface when you're about to get punched. That's how you get a fracture-or worse."

The kid sighed "You saw that, huh?"

"Yeah, you've got a real way with words. Got any friends around here? Family?"

The kid nodded "I was supposed to meet a couple of friends around here, but I think they might have gotten hung up somewhere. My Grandfather runs a fishing store around here too."

Michael made the connection "You're Arlert's kid? Armin, right?"

Armin smiled and nodded "You know my Grandpa?"

"We've talked. You're important to him you know. You should be more careful."

Armin pouted "What, and let them win?"

"I don't know what you thought that was, but it sure didn't look like you winning."

Armin cringed "But if I shut up every time somebody threatens me, I'll never be able to say anything important."

Michael nodded. It was a classic dissident's dilemma "And if you get yourself killed, you won't be able to say anything at all. There's such a thing as picking your battles."

"And how do I convince anybody if I can't speak my mind?"

Michael shook his head "I said pick your battles, not run away from them. Well, running's not a bad idea in your case. Five-on-one is always a bad idea, no shame in running from that."

Armin gave Michael the same appraising look his Grandfather had, it was honestly kind of eerie "How do you know? Are you in the Military?"

Michael decided on the truth, if only a version of it "Yeah-"Armin's eyes lit up and he opened his mouth "But I don't like talking about it." That would cut down on the questions, hopefully.

"I guess that's fair… its just that its hard to get information about the outside, what its really like."

Michael finally noticed a black hardcover book lying on the ground a ways behind Armin, he leaned down and grasped his shoulder, choosing his words carefully. "If you're as smart as you think you are, you'll keep it that way. At least in public."

Armin deflated, and Michael felt that familiar pull in his gut at the look. "Listen, kid-" Michael took a seat, a way to speak at eye-level without seeming as condescending as taking a knee. "-The Truth is a precious, dangerous thing. Don't give it to anybody, anybody, that you don't think deserves it. Not unless you have to."

Armin followed Michael in sitting down, the kid had 'mirroring' down pat. He'd probably be quite the little salesman in a few years. Maybe politics, if he kept his mouth shut for a minute.

Well, that or he'd get thrown into a secret police basement somewhere.

"ARMIN!"

The pounding of little shoes on cobblestone announced the arrival of the Yeager children, Michael stood up. "Well, that's my cue. Keep your nose clean- or at least don't get it broken, won't you? For your Grandpa?"

Armin's response was cut off by Eren grabbing and shaking him. "I SAW THOSE ASSHOLES RUNNING AWAY! WHAT DID THEY DO! DID THEY BREAK SOMETHING THIS TIME?"

"What? No… I'm fine Eren."

Eren snapped his head to Michael "And what were you doing, huh!"

Michael cocked an eyebrow "And with whatever that's implying, I'm done here." then he turned on his heel, put on his sunglasses, and walked away.

When you're a spy, nothing's more important than keeping your distance. That's only made harder by the fact that about half your job is making connections and building networks. It's a delicate balance, and a lot of people have a hard time keeping it.

Michael came to a stop in a bend by the river that ran through town. It was a small thing, barely a creek by some standards, but it seemed to serve the local fishermen just fine. The trees that lined its banks covered its banks in deep curtains of shade.

It also had a decent view of the gates, which was nice. The bone-white monolith of Wall Maria dominated the rest of the skyline, the gate added a splash of color to things.

I can't tell you to cut yourself off from everybody, to stop yourself from feeling for every doomed rebel or starving orphan. I will tell you that the key is, just like everything else, balance.

Do whatever you have to in order to let yourself go to sleep at night, but don't let yourself get dragged down with them.

Michael leaned against what he figured was an oak tree, and stared into what was by now the very late afternoon sun. He sure wasn't going to see a proper sunset inside here.

A bolt of lighting struck behind the monolithic slab of stone that was the gate. It's shock flooded Michael's ears with the sound of rustling leaves. Talk about a bolt from the blue.

That was pretty quickly overshadowed in importance though, when the face of a vast, skinless giant poked its head over the wall.

In a way, the giant reminded Michael of a picture of the muscular system out of a medical textbook. The only difference was that this one was tall enough to Salsa dance with the Statue of Liberty. It also was part of a species of monsters that supposedly ate humans, but Michael was a little busy digesting its existence at all to contemplate how the hell something like that met its caloric needs by eating a species it hadn't even seen for a century.

Then a blast so large and loud it put an eighteen-wheeler VBIED to shame tore through the gates of Shiganshina, blowing the gate, chunks of wall the size of mini vans, and several rows of buildings into debris that rained down on the city like an artillery barrage. Homes, carts, people were thrown about or crushed into powder by the falling stone. A hunk of debris smashed through the branches over Michael's head and sailed into the center of town. Another piece dropped into the river and flooded the opposite bank, a collapsing house came down on a fishmonger's stand, burying the shopkeep under a pile of rubble.

Then, silence.

The people of Shiganshina all collectively looked up into a pair of eyes that had already killed them, even if a lot of them hadn't realized yet.

Not long after that the screaming started. The stampede followed, and it was the stuff of legends. Men, women, and children trampled. The dead, dying, and merely injured abandoned in a mad dash for safety. Michael found an alcove to shelter in, watching the tide of humanity swarm towards gates he'd come in from not even a day ago. Most carried nothing but the clothes on their backs, some didn't even carry that. In all cases they were terrified, and in almost all cases they didn't give a damn about anybody who got in their way. When Michael took a peak out of his little nook back where they'd come from, he understood why.

It was like War of the Worlds, only instead of metal tripods and death rays it was naked dolls, Not Barbie dolls either, but mottled, warped parodies. All of them naked and sexless, almost all of them smiling.

Michael got a good impression as to why they were smiling when one lifted a wriggling silhouette to its mouth and bit into it like a giant hamburger. The wriggling stopped, the chewing didn't. This wasn't a zombie movie where they tore into a person for dramatic effect. These monsters were hungry, and the people of Shiganshina were what was for dinner.

As soon as he found a hole in the tide of bodies, he ran to find where he'd left the kids. Michael cursed himself with every step, both his recklessness at leaving three children to fend for themselves in a city where one of them had a target on his back, and his utter blinding stupidity at getting attached to a group of children he'd known for maybe an hour on average.

Not even out of the game for a week, and he was already going soft. Stupid. He should turn around now, stop running against the tide and follow it out of the blast zone. His 9mm would be about as
useful as a laser pointer against one of those things and he had no time-or chemicals-to improvise anything bigger.

He found Armin on all fours not far from where he'd left him, hyperventilating. Michael grabbed him by the shoulder and looked him in the eye.

"Armin? Armin! Are you hurt?"

There's a correct way to respond to a panic attack, keep calm, ask if they need help, make sure they keep breathing, in general don't be an ass to them, if you want a real list talk to a professional. The problem is, there's a difference between having a regular panic attack and having one in the middle of an emergency. In that case, your best option is to get them out of the line of fire.

This is easier said than done.

A trio of men stormed past them, Michael saw one of Armin's earlier bullies following a man that looked like his father. None of them stopped to check on them, and the streets were only getting thicker with the sounds of fear and panic. Soon enough they'd be mosh pit, and not long after that it would be a feeding trough for titans. He leaned down.

"Armin, we're going to find your Grandpa, okay?"

Armin looked up at him with eyes wide, then he nodded.

"Can you move?"

Armin stumbled to his feet, then nodded. Words were still a no-go apparently. Michael considered just carrying him, but discarded it just as quickly. He needed to keep his hands free, and Armin knew the area better.

"Do you and your grandpa have a place you talked about going? For emergencies?"

Armin nodded.

"Can you show me?"

Armin nodded again, then tugged at Michael's coat. Then he lead him into an alley.

Michael's decision to let Armin take the lead was vindicated more and more with each turn.

Blind alleyways turned to shortcuts, streets packed with crowds were bypassed entirely, and with every turn a little more color returned to Armin's face. Whether it was just the shock of the situation wearing off, or it was his ability to assert control of his response, Armin was regaining his composure bit by bit.

Soon he let go of Michael's coat, leaving a small sweatstain that, under the circumstances, was the least of their worries. Armin brushed away a layer of hair that had gotten stuck to his forehead.

"I'm sorry about earlier, I must seem absolutely pathetic."

"You're doing fine Armin, just focus on finding your grandpa. Take things one step at a time."

Armin didn't look totally satisfied with that, but he nodded and kept guiding him anyway. They emerged from an alleyway next to a stone bridge over a creek. Armin beckoned Michael to a gap in the barrier, then lowered himself the three or so feet down to the bank. Michael dropped down into the moist soil next to him.

Grandpa Arlert was waiting under the bridge wearing a poncho and knapsack, he'd also remembered the blunderbuss.

"Grandpa!" Armin ran towards him, hitting his abdomen and nearly doubling the old man over.

"Oof. Armin! Out of the way."

"What?"

Michael held out his hands "I ran into him earlier, and just wanted to make sure he got off the street. I'll go now."

Armin looked at Michael, then his Grandfather, then back again. Then he stared at the rusty cone of the blunderbuss, which his Grandfather lowered as the awkwardness of the situation sunk in.

Mr. Arlert sighed, finally setting the weapon down on the stones behind him "I'm sorry, Michael. It seems good people aren't as hard to find as I thought." His grandson smiled and hugged him again.

Michael cleared his throat "That's nice, really feeling the love here, but we need to get out of here yesterday. I think I'll be fine on my own, but you two are going to need to get moving right away. Neither of you are in any condition to fight through a crowd, not once it turns into a riot."

That sobered things up alright. Grandpa Arlert bustled a backpack onto Armin's back, then got Michael's help in lifting him over the embankment. Then they started walking.

If Armin had been a natural in navigating the streets and alleys of Shiganshina, then his Grandfather was cartographer. He guided them through shortcuts that bordered on secret passages, under bridges, down at least two drainage ditches, and finally a plaza dominated by a massive brick and stone gate set into the fifty meter wall.

Architecturally, it was downright ornate. The gate reminded Michael of a renaissance Italian building he'd had a gunfight with the Mafia in. It was not, however, a gate designed for heavy traffic. Something the widening arc of refugees beneath it could all attest to.

Grandpa Arlert- Michael really should have gotten a proper name from him- grasped him by the shoulder.

"Before we head in, there is something I need to give you."

Michael was still focused on the crowd, which while still mostly be kept civil by the presence of armed soldiers, was packed almost solid by now and only growing more restless. The Garrison soldiers were doing their best to maintain order and run crowd-control, but they were outnumbered and overwhelmed. The task of managing the refugees while battling the invading force of giants was straining these men to their breaking points, and no amount of shouting or shoving was going to keep a crowd like this in line forever.

"What is it? I don't think it's smart to hold much longer."

The old man handed over a leather pouch, and Michael could guess what their contents were even before the dense bag was pressing into his hand with a muffled clink.

Arlert smiled at him "I'm afraid I over-charged you for that job earlier. I must have lost focus, old age and all that."

"No."

Arlert's smile transitioned into a full on laugh "Ah, I figured you'd say that. I don't know what's coming next though, and I don't want to add 'cheating a desperate man' to my conscience.

Armin knotted his hands into his grandfather's poncho, which let Michael know exactly what he thought of Arlert Senior's potential passing. Michael shook his head.

"I don't need it."

"You don't know that. For the first time in over a hundred years, the Titans are on the offensive. We'll need to take care of one-another now more than ever, and I don't know if you can count on the Yeagers to support you going forward."

Armin gasped, then pulled at his hair "Oh God! Eren and Mikasa! Eren ran off to find his mom and their house was near the gate and-" his grandfather laid a hand on his shoulder. "They'll be fine Armin."

Michael felt something nasty in the pit of his stomach, a mixture of experience and intuition that led him to believe they might in fact not be okay. A part of him fought the urge to break off from the crowd right there, to rush back into the maze-like streets and…

What, exactly?

The fact of the matter was that despite every skill, every piece of technical knowledge, every language learned or martial art honed, Michael Westen was as helpless in the face of the titans as anybody else. More helpless, even. If he wandered away right now, he was almost certainly going to die out there.

Time to let it go, Michael.

A part of him wouldn't mind dying out there for thinking that.

"NO BAGS ALLOWED! WE'RE PACKING AS MANY PEOPLE AS WE CAN! IF WE FIND A BAG, WE CHUCK IT IN THE CANAL!"

Grandpa Arlert sighed "I was afraid of that. Would you mind helping us consolidate Michael? I get a feeling you're no stranger to smug… well that sort of thing, if you catch my meaning."

A few minutes of panicked re-packing followed. Those few of the Arlert's worldly possessions that were worth keeping were stuffed into pants, pockets, or under coats. Michael gave Armin an odd look at his insistence on keeping the old, worn out book, but his Grandfather offered to hide it under his poncho and that was the end of it. For Michael's part, he ended up with a lot of spools of fishing line. It
was an odd thing to smuggle.

Michael heard a blasting sound, followed by several more. It wasn't quite as sharp as high-explosives sounded, and it was way too loud to be a musket. That left cannons, and sure enough Michael saw a quartet of guns fanned out in front of the gates to Wall Maria. The crowd behind them crushing to get inside.

"Are we finally ready?"

Grandpa Arlert offered his hand to Armin, who took it. Then gave Michael a nod.

Michael turned around, stuck his hands into his pockets, then waded into the crowd.

There's a few small tricks that can help you get through a large crowd of people without getting yourself stabbed. Keep your eyes focused on your destination, walk in a zigzag pattern between gaps-

Michael saw a burly man with biceps large enough to curl a cannon shoving his way though, and slipped into his wake.

-if you see somebody else bullying a way through -follow them-

The butcher stuck out an arm to shove a man out of the way, only to have a small knife shoved into his armpit for the trouble.

-and for the love of God don't touch anybody if you can avoid it.

The gate itself was, if narrow, easy to pass through. The checkpoint that had obstructed the area yesterday had been shoved to the side, either by a competent team of Garrison soldiers, or by the increasingly panicked mob. Michael placed his bets on the latter.

From here the process of being checked for bags, shoved onto a contraption that was somewhere between a boat and a gondola, and carried deeper into wall Maria was relatively simple. The news that came less than four hours later, of an Armored Titan that could bounce cannons like spitballs and sprinted through the gates Michael and his fellow refugees were relying on in order to not be eaten alive, complicated things immensely. This was not an impulsive attack, this was not a raid. These creatures were intelligent, at least those two were.

Mankind was at war, and Micheal had no idea with who.

o.o.o

Michael watched as Ezekiel Arlert- Michael had finally bitten the bullet and asked on the ride over guided Armin and the Yeager children towards the mess hall. Micheal had been more relieved than he'd like to admit to see them get off the gondola, but it had turned very sour when he realized that they were alone.

The haunted look in Eren's eyes told Michael all he needed to know about the fate of Carla Yeager.

Nobody said anything in the morning as they packed up and began the long walk though wall Maria, and into the dubious safety of Wall Rose.

o.o.o

No two refugee camps are perfectly alike, but they tend to share things in common. Number one is fear. Take any person who's lived in one place their entire life, then drop them somewhere else. Then multiply that uncertainty and confusion by a few ten thousand. Then add in the fact that these people aren't here by choice... and it's enough to make anybody look over their shoulder.

Michael stopped to sniff the air in the quiet corner of the stuffy warehouse the local government had seen fit to cram the survivors of Wall Maria into. These warehouses had once been the living quarters of a decent-sized population of livestock, the fate of which was probably soon to be sealed. He'd heard the whispers and murmurs of the local residents on the way up here. They had already suffered a bad harvest, and were looking forward to high grain prices already before God only knew how many refugees had arrived. More seemed to pour in by the hour. Frantic people herded by frantic soldiers riding on frantic horses.

All with frantic odors, which Michael was probably going to be smelling for weeks unless he could jury-rig a shower somewhere.

He caught a glimpse of Ezekiel leaning over the traumatic trio they'd managed to pull from Shiganshina. No thanks to him, of course.

His mother's voice played in the back of his head.

"Couldn't have stuck your neck out just that little further of course-that would have been too much work."

Michael stubbed out that line of thought like a cigarette, then wandered over to the huddle. Armin's nose was buried in his book, reading what sounded like a passage from a Sierra Club journal. Neither Eren or Mikasa seemed to be paying him any mind. Eren was too busy staring off into the distance, and Mikasa was too busy staring at Eren. The boy turned to Michael.

"Where's my Dad?"

Michael grabbed the first plausible-sounding excuse he could find and crammed it into place "He went off to the Interior for work, remember? I'm sure he'll meet up with you and Mikasa soon enough."

This was, much to Michael's surprise, not complete bullshit. Though the panic and fear that flooded the air here gave everything a feel of disorder, in actual fact the evacuation itself was being very well organized. Even their accommodations had ended up with a sort of order to them. Those refugees who had started running first had gotten here first, and had ended up with the nicest housing. That meant if Doctor Yeager was still alive, he'd be able to find his way to the refugees from Shiganshina pretty quick. Between that and his medical skills, Grisha would be able to find work somewhere far away
from here. Before the the situation inside the camps deteriorated even further.

As if to emphasize this point, a large pool of what he desperately hoped was water chose this moment to piddle out of a leak in the ceiling. Thatch. Of course it was thatch.

Number two tends to be poverty. When you're living out of somebody else's pockets, they obviously aren't going to spend as much on you as they are on themselves. Even in camps funded by rich countries, the economics of aid mean that-in an ideal world-they want to help as many people as possible on a given budget. In reality the confusion and lack of effective oversight cause corruption and incompetence to rain down then mix together like fuel and oxidizer. Anybody who remembers High-School chemistry can tell you what that gets you.

Michael saw a merchant in the caravan turn up his nose at the offered accommodations. At first the MPs were insistent he go inside or get off his ox cart. After he handed them a small leather pouch however, they became a lot more accommodating. On the road behind them, local men in colored bandannas or tattoos harassed the prettier refugee women, offering money, beer, or bread. Some women accepted and were led off into the shadows. Micheal stepped to the side, and tried to obstruct the view.

What you get in this case is an explosion of your third problem-crime. When nobody's certain where their next meal is going to come from, where young men have nothing to do all day but sit around in the dirt, when the authorities treat a population as a liability instead of an asset, that's when the predators move in.

Gangs, drugs, human trafficking. It starts slow at first, then goes up like the Challenger, except with more flaming debris and human misery.

Michael caught sight of a familiar beard out of a hole in the crowd, he stood up and started zigzagging towards him.

"Grisha!"

Michael caught up with him a minute later, and was glad he'd done it before Eren did. Whatever bit of crazy Eren had developed in Shiganshina apparently ran in the family, because Grisha Yeager was a man possessed. Wild-eyes, slasher smile, the man was breathing so hard and so fast you'd think he'd run there on foot.

"Grisha!"

Doctor Yeager snapped his head about to face him. A balding man in a military uniform who'd been leading him around like a hyperactive child turned with him.

The madness ebbed "Oh, thank God. We must be close."

Remembering the scalpel incident, Michael held out a hand in front of him and adjusted his stance.

Fool him once.

"Yeah….we're close. Are we okay Grisha?"

Grisha laughed "No, no…. Things are going far from okay Michael. Do you know where Eren and Carla are?"

Michael held his ground "Grisha, I'm not going to take you to Eren if you don't calm down first. He's been through a lot today. Carla's gone." Michael let the silence sit for a moment, taste of the air had changed as his words passed through it "I'm sorry."

The news sunk into Grisha like water soaking into soil. Darkening his features and calming him all at once. The soldier who'd been guiding him went pale as a ghost, muttering "Carla…" under his breath. Grisha ignored him, pushing up his glasses and regaining his composure.

"I understand. A lot of things are beginning to make a lot more sense now. My apologies-" he froze, then snapped his head to an empty space off to Michael's right.

"Different? Him?" The madness returned for a flash. Madness and fear. Then it was gone.

Michael got ready for a fight, eyes waiting to catch a gleam of metal before it peeked out of Grisha's coat. He'd been threatened enough today, and the next person to point a weapon at him was going face-first into the dirt.

Instead of drawing a weapon though, Grisha fell into a slump. A faint smile passed over his face "Perhaps things can change after all. Maybe we have a chance-" The smile fell away from his face as he shrugged "-or maybe I'm just a fool. I suppose I can make up for things now by playing my part, I've been such a terrible father. I guess I have to be here now, if nothing else."

Michael shifted his weight from foot to foot "You going to actually talk to me anytime soon? I'm getting pretty tired of the 'Mad Prophet' act."

Grisha nodded "Perhaps soon. I have to go and discuss my son's future, explain his inheritance. I was hoping to hold off on it, but recent events have shown me that things in life rarely go as expected. Shadis- please, guide Michael out of here. I'll meet you at the edge of the Fell woods when I'm done."

And with that, Grisha took a step around him and towards his son. The man in the Military jacket gestured for Michael to follow him, and as he did Michael saw that sweat had pooled down the soldier's back, soaking the double-wings insignia and darkening the brown canvas nearly black.

Shadis spoke over his shoulder "Do you know how it happened?"

Michael nodded "The big one with no skin showed up and kicked down the front gate. Simple, but I guess something that big's not built for subtly."

Shadis stopped, hand reaching for a lantern hung by his belt. "I meant Carla."

Michael shook his head "No. I think, given the circumstances, we can guess."

Shadis sighed. "Of course. I just hope it was quick, no matter how…" he shook his head "I suppose that must sounds pretty stupid, huh?"

Michael shrugged "There's worse things to hope about a person. Especially nowadays."

They came to a loading dock near the end of the stables. It was roughly the form-factor of a truck loading bay. Some ideas were too good to skip out on even without industrialization.

Shadis turned to face him. "The Military Police haven't properly locked down this area yet. That will change in a few hours, but for now there's an opening. I'd suggest you take it."

Michael shook his head "These people-"

Shadis reached up and grabbed his collar so so quickly it left an afterimage. He pressed his forehead up to Michael's, bringing them nose to nose.

Michael picked him up and threw him over his shoulder. Shadis was planted head-first onto the floorboards. His lantern flew out of his hand and shattered, though luckily he hadn't lit it yet.

To his credit, Shadis rolled himself to his feet quick enough. "My apologies. I'll admit my temper's been a little frayed today." He checked his nose for blood, then nodded to himself after finding it clean. "Let me explain."

"That's a first for today."

Shadis's eyes narrowed, but he kept his bearing "Judging from that little monologue Yeager spat out earlier, he thinks you can help. Obviously, he's a man on his last marble, but I trust him-" Shadis checked the room from side to side.

He leaned in and whispered "You take this to your grave, you hear me?"

Michael nodded.

"I'm almost certain he's from outside the Walls."

"Gee, thanks."

"You knew?"

"I suspected, now I know. All of that is a very good reason I have to stay and ask him."

Shadis shook his head "You don't get it. Hell, I don't get it. My point is, that Grisha knows things, and if Grisha thinks you can help us, then I'm not letting you stay here."

Michael cocked his head "Why? What's happening here?"

Shadis paced over to the ruins of his lantern and started picking it up. "Nothing good, I can promise that. We don't have the food to take care of you people, and if we don't find a way to grow it, then we're looking at famine. Perhaps even civil war."

"Those two do go hand in hand…"

Shadis growled "My point is, these people here are a threat to stability, and you know how the Monarchy handles those."

Michael's jaw didn't drop, he'd seen a few too many mass graves for that, but his fists did clench.

Shadis tipped the remnants of his lantern over the edge of the bay "I don't think they'll approve of wholesale slaughter, nothing that honest of course. They'll think of some excuse, some way to handle things indirectly, make it easier for the public to swallow, but I know them. I know the terrain inside Rose too. The people here are doomed, Michael, and I can't even bring myself to say its wrong."

Michael relaxed his stance, then started walking towards him. Shadis held up a hand, he looked like he'd aged five years over the course of five minutes.

"Don't. Just get moving. I don't know why Yeager thinks you can help, but I know that you'll be no good to anybody here. Who knows-" Shadis looked out into the darkening sky "-Maybe there's a way out of this after all."

Michael closed his eyes "Which way to the Interior?"

"What?"

"I need to know what's really going on. Too many people are doing too many stupid things for me to think they're actually being stupid. There's a reason for all of this, there has to be. The world isn't actually random. There are players, there are pieces, there are rules-"

Michael shook his head "-sometimes, at least. You know the government, you know Grisha. I'll follow your call on this, but I need you to promise me something Shadis."

Shadis turned on his heel "What?"

"From here on out, you stay out of my way."

And with that, Michael stepped forward and jumped off the loading dock. He landed with a thump and started walking away.

"Wait!"

Michael turned and saw Shadis pointing off to the left.

"The Interior's that way."

"Thanks."

Then Michael slipped into the shadows, and vanished from sight.

o.o.o

=Meeting Start=

L: What in the Sam Hell's going on in there? Giants eating people! Mobs of refugees? Do we still have a signal from contact?

D: Westen's tracker is still live, but the signal is faint. We haven't had the time to set up a proper relay network, and the hasty nature of the implant procedure meant we couldn't install a more powerful device.

L: I told you that he'd have known if you went surgical. We were lucky enough Q came through with one that fit in a syringe.

D: Likely, yes. I suppose you could look at this as another opportunity. This is, after all, a moment of political crisis. You do love those.

L: When they're controllable, sure. This isn't controllable unless you get units from The Main Body involved. That can't happen yet.

D: But the solution seems so simple, The Main Body has two things it produces in abundance, Defense and grain. If the current catastrophe is any indication, these people are in need of both.

L: MB isn't going to go for it though. Too many wars already, too high a deficit.

D: You could probably sell it, we had drones in the air watching the rear of the refugee columns. The Titans were eating their way up like a horror version of Tom and Jerry, you know, the scene with the cheese in a line.

L: They still won't go for it. Any kid with an internet connection and Google can see worse if the get the urge. It's got to be a threat to them.

D: That's going to be a problem then. The gate still has problems with scalability. What little we've managed to decipher from the ruins says there should be a port nearby with a larger model, but something's obstructed it.

L: Not surprising. A hundred years worth of wandering man-eating giants will do a number on any landscape. It's probably buried in rubble.

D: I certainly hope not, that would 'do a number' on future research efforts too. As it stands, I don't expect another major breakthrough for three years, minimum.

L: I'm looking at the footage now, it looks like most of them slow down at night. Most of them. What was the biggest thing we've been able to send over so far?

D: We managed a pickup truck last month. A small one.

L: That's not bad, I think we can work with that for now.

D: What did you have in mind?

L: Nothing at the moment, but with the outlying regions depopulated, I think we have room for a little light reconnaissance.

D: Nothing that would be detected by the locals, I hope.

L: No, no talking until the locals are too desperate to refuse us, or until we can find a way to involve the Main Body and force the issue. That's going to have to wait on your breakthrough.

D: Thinking devious thoughts?

L: Just get me that research. If you can manage that, I'll manage an incident.

D: Why do I get the impression this is going to be a little large for the word 'incident' to do it justice?

L: Because we've been working together too long.

=Meeting Ended=