This work contains manga/show spoilers. Read at your own risk.

Chapter 2

This body does not reflect the age I was when I died.

It is smaller, younger, less developed. Thinner. Frailer. This unnerves me; at least if this body's previous owner woke in my own, they would understand why I died. They would know I was strong and healthy. But this woman? This body? I am not so sure the same can be said of it. Even now, walking out of the forest and towards the wall feels absurdly arduous. I spent a lifetime roaming the vast acreages of my mother's orchards; why, now, is such a short walk so draining? It does not bode well for the nature of my reincarnation.

My breath comes out as noisy gasps, like reedy husks. My talon-thin legs are frail. I am well and truly bird-like; what a shame it is that I cannot fly.

To distract myself from the budding concern blossoming in my chest, I focus instead on the path ahead, figuratively and literally.

First, of course, there is the matter of place and time. I need to know where I am. Which of the three walls looms beyond me? Is it truly the outermost one, as I originally assumed? Or am I somewhere else entirely? I can work with the familiar: so long as I am somewhere that I can remember from the show, I'll be fine. The more pressing issue is that of time. At what point in the story have I made my appearance? Too early and I may very well live out a second life of uselessness. Too late, and I'll be unable to change anything. I'll be a casualty of war before I know it.

Okay, so first order of business: orient myself. Good. What then? Regardless of where I am, regardless of where in the story I've found myself, I'll need to know who I am. What is my name here? Who did this body belong to? What killed its previous owner? I'll need to find friends or family, ideally. Or, no, maybe I shouldn't. Perhaps not until I know what killed this body. I cannot trust the bonds the previous owner forged; clearly, it was not enough to keep them alive. I feel myself smiling wryly. Perhaps I learned something from my mother after all.

An alarming thought strikes me as I leave the safety of the trees: what if this body did not die? What if I have invaded this person's life–stolen their consciousness and replaced it with my own? The thought is unnerving. I don't want to consider it further. No; this woman died. She left the walls, walked into the woods, and died.

She had to.

My hands rummage around in my pockets to see if there's anything this body still possesses that could give me a hint as to who I am. My fingers curl around something cool and polished. When I pull it from the pocket, a kit emerging from a den, I hold it to the light and the clear glass catches the sunlight, refracts it, warps it and sends it piercing into my eye but for a second. A vial. Small, corked. The stopper is worn around the edges and crumbling. It does not look air-full so much as it looks recently emptied. There is a slipperiness to the shine around the vial that makes me believe it was once full and has not yet had time enough to evaporate the final dregs of its previous inhabitant. What it once was, exactly, I cannot say for sure. I pocket the vial and mull on it for a moment. It could be a number of things: poison, water, a tincture, a serum…truly, anything. No sense in mulling it over now.

My heels feel deadened and my knees ache fervently by the time I've neared the wall. It looms above me like one of the city buildings my mother and I once strolled past when I was still in her good graces. Habit has me craning my neck to see what, if anything, sits atop the wall.

For a peculiar second, I nearly feel as if there is something there after all.

I duck into the shade and pause for a moment, bending over. The world practically spins before me. Sweat plasters itself to my neck, my brows, my upper lip. The heat has undone me. I see garrison troops ahead of me, taking notice of the girl bent over. I shoot up quickly–too quickly, I realize–and sway, stumbling.

"Easy there."

A hand clamps over my shoulder, steadying me. I look up and flinch.

I know that face.

How he snuck up behind me I'm not sure. I truly am weak in this body, if I let a mere member of the garrison slip unseen through my periphery. But I know this man. In the show, come the end of it all, he is not alive. I watched him die.

But what was his name again?

I watch as his brows curl inward at my reaction. Carefully, as if worried of startling me, he removes his hand. I wonder what thoughts stir in his head. "Sorry about that. Just didn't want you to fall."

"You owe me nothing," I say, and stop. Those words come easily, practiced and prepared for the life I once lived. But those words will not suit me here. The speech I spent decades evolving into now means nothing; not anymore. I swallow dryly. "Thank you," I amend.

Those brows crease again. "Are you–"

"Hannes!" Ah. Hannes. That was his name. For a moment I feel guilty for not remembering. One of the other garrison troops trots over, giving Hannes a stern look. He seems irked enough to spout off a lecture, but when he glances my way, all that fire goes out of him. His words gush out like a defeated sigh. Unsurprised and weary. "You shouldn't be here, you know. We'll never hear the end of it."

What to do, what to say? Clearly these people know me. My mind still feels like it's caught in a storm, the jarring realization of everything that seeing Hannes here means for me–I am well and truly here, and he is alive, and the wall is still intact, so that means–

"I know," I blurt out, because they keep staring. The second man is looking at me rather closely. He's beginning to frown, too.

I do not have the ability to keep this conversation going smoothly. I need to slip through the gate and decide, quickly, what must be done. A hundred steps and possibilities are rushing through my mind. How many of them are still available to me? How soon must I act in order to be safe? What parts of the story must stay, and what parts must I change? Can I even change anything?

"Your father is looking for you, you know. Raising hell all over Shiganshina."

Do I act surprised? Annoyed? Irritated? Pleased? My head feels like it's ballooning, stretching the bounds of what I am capable of containing. I wish I could scream. I am not ready for this. I am not ready to be another person.

The ground warbles beneath my feet. I gasp, but again, Hannes reaches out to sturdy me. This time, when I look up, he seems decently worried. "Another episode?" he asks at the same time the other garrison soldier says, "Ah, shit."

What else am I to do but nod along?

"Should we take you home?"

"No," I say, perhaps too quickly. The idea is alarming. Helpful, to be sure, but only when I am ready to go home. I am not yet ready to meet the father who is causing such disruption in Shiganshina. Not when I don't even know this body's name.

"Then…" the second soldier trails off, looking to Hannes for a lifeline. And a funny thought strikes me then, a peculiar impulse: I pull out the vial I found earlier. Hannes sees it and his expression warps into something new, reassured and yet somehow also complicated.

"Let's take her to Grisha."

The name sends an explosion of electricity all throughout my being. Grisha, in Shiganshina. Grisha Yaeger. Eren's father. The man who caused a thousand gears in the story to turn. He is alive, at least for now. Alive and in Shiganshina, meaning Eren Yeager is no titan. A peculiar thought seizes me: what if I were to take it from his father? What then?

No, no; I am getting ahead of myself. I need to situate my thoughts first. Determine a course of action. Adjust to this world's expectations of my personhood–and quickly.

So I go along with Hannes and the other soldier. I study the town that I saw animated, now lifelike and real. I remember hearing something about the creator basing Shiganshina on a real town. I never went. The air is warm here, calm. You truly would not guess that titans would one day come crashing through the gate. I shiver at the thought.

Okay, so I've established my location. Good. Better than good, actually, if I can manage to get out of Shiganshina alive. If not, then. Well. I'll cross that bridge when I get there. So onto the next step. I need to know when I am. Grisha and Hannes are here, alive and unharmed. I turn my head and scrutinize the man from the garrison. He looks similar to what I feel I remember. Then again, when he died later, I felt the exact same thing. How old is this man, anyways?

It does not matter. I do not need his age. I need to know the age of this world, the year. I wish it wouldn't be so suspicious to ask after the year so frankly. Then I would know exactly what period of time I've stumbled into.

My limbs are deadened by the walk. They feel rubbery. I am baffled by their weakness; perplexed still by the way the garrison troops do not offer to carry me. I am young in this body. It would not be impossible. But they do not even bother to offer a steady hand. "I have not seen the doctor in some time." Talking distracts me from the aches and pains already settling in, even though I know talking is the last thing I should do until I have a firmer sense of who I am and how I act.

The other soldier grunts.

Hannes, however, looks down at me again. Again I wonder what thoughts are going through his head. "Then let's get you there quickly," he says, halfheartedly. I do not understand his behavior: open and earnest one second; detached the next. The girl that I am now seems to have a complicated relationship with the garrison. I wonder if it's because of her–my–father?

"I'm sorry about my father," I say, softly because I am not yet sure whether or not this is a good idea. I decide that it's a calculated risk; Hannes is a drunken soldier. Grisha is an intelligent former Eldian Restorationist. If I had to pick who to act peculiarly in front of, it is Hannes without a doubt.

The soldier in question reaches up to scratch his neck. The other soldier snorts. Hannes seems at least to be uncomfortable with sharing his thoughts on the matter. The other soldier seems not to care at all. Which reaction would the girl who used to own this body feel most appropriate? "Lots of apologies today," the other soldier says dryly.

I frown. Hannes catches the expression and chuckles. "That's more like you."

"Is that so," I murmur absently, my breath squeezing out all rushed and awkward on that last syllable. I wish we could stop for a quick breather. Why does Shiganshina have so many uphill streets?

"Lots of chatter today, too," the other soldier quips. I press my lips together. If either of them notice how quickly I've lapsed back into silence, neither acknowledge it. I look away. I'll get nowhere with these two. I do not trust them to stay silent. The one whose name I do not know seems too engrossed in his thoughts and his net of gossip. He does not seem to enjoy my father, whoever that is. Leaving me to assume that if I gave him a reason to talk about me, too, he will not waste it. As for Hannes I am not quite sure. He had an amicable relationship with Eren from all that I remember. I can't really remember whether or not he held grievances towards anyone. Whether or not he feels kindly towards me, I do not trust the way that he's been frowning and glancing my way. I cannot decide if it is worry for my health or for something else.

I decide to ignore them entirely and study the path, all while plotting my next move. Being in Shiganshina gives me hope that somehow, perhaps, I'll be lucky enough to land myself shortly before the start of the show. If so, then I have so many different options. The scouts would ride through here soon, wouldn't they? The commander would be there, the one before Erwin. I could rush to him, step in front of the procession and declare a need to speak with him.

I stop myself almost immediately. There was a reason that the commander was replaced by Erwin. He had no drive; no true wits about him when it came to the weight of facing the titans. No; if I really wanted to leak titan secrets to anyone, it would be to Erwin and Erwin alone. But even that was risky. What if he turned me in anyways? Maybe I could become Hange's understudy. Slowly feeding the titan enthusiast bits and pieces of titan theory, guiding them to the right conclusions, letting the brunt of the discoveries fall onto a figurehead…that could work. But it would be slow going. Hardly something I could do now.

And it wasn't exactly about spilling all the plot points I remembered. I had to do things that could actually impact the future, could actually stop the war that was doomed to unfold. But what?

More possibilities, more solutions darted through my head. A dozen different murders: kill the Marley shifters before they could break down the gate; kill Grisha before he could make Eren a titan; kill Eren himself. A dozen different salvations: save Grisha, save Carla, save them all.

I was stuck. If I made too big of a move now, and the entire future shifted so far away from what I remembered, then what? I'd be no better off than the cast in the final season. I'd know every secret, but I'd have no way to see the future. Then again, if I didn't make a big enough move, the future could go right on along just as it had in the show. I need to do just enough to tilt the future in my favor–just enough to see whether or not I even have the capability to–but not enough to rob me of my one advantage here.

I thought again of Eren. If I gambled wrong; if I cut him out of the equation and Marley still attacked, Eldia would no doubt be bulldozed over. Massacred where it stood. I mentally added that stipulation into my head. Keep the power in Eldia's favor; alter the present just enough so that it starts shaping itself towards a peaceful future; keep it similar enough so that I can still navigate what is yet to come with the upper hand.

"Looks like we're almost there."

I jolt at the sound of Hannes' voice. Looking up from the street, sure enough, I can see the house that defined one of the pivotal moments in the show. It's intact, perfectly sound and stable. It's weird, really, to see it like that when it's been destroyed and deteriorated in my mind for so long.

That reminds me–the basement. The big secret. What to do about that, I wonder?

One thing's for sure, though. I've had enough of these two. "I can get there myself." I don't give them a chance to say goodbye. I dart forward, regret the jerky movements immediately, and grit my teeth against the wheezing squeeze of my lungs. I head up to the house with determined motions and only stop to look back when I've reached the front steps. The garrison troops are already gone. No love lost between us, it seems.

I return my focus back to the door. It seems so much larger than myself just then. I wonder who is inside. Will I open it and see Eren? Mikasa? Carla? Or will I knock and knock and see no one? I raise my hand. It quivers. I hardly even know who I am. How well do these people know me? Seeing Hannes was enough of a shock; I can't even begin to wonder what it'll be like to see more influential characters with my own eyes. The notion that they won't even be characters so much as real people alarms and astounds me.

I knock. Softly, tentatively.

There's footsteps inside. A soft drum of time marching on, dragging me into its web, pulling me in like a lover, like a sinner.

Carla Yaeger opens the door, and she is as radiant as the sun. Tender eyes. Warm face. Amiable smile. Gentle, gentle, considerate, kind. The kind of woman who tells her only child her legs are broken so that he will feel less guilty about running away without her. The kind of woman who births the beginning of the universe and its very end.

Time in this show is linear, but for the select few. For people like Carla it is a one-way street. For people like Eren, it is not. There is an Eren that understands what is to come and his role in it. There is an Eren that does not yet understand. They are both hovering around me. They live beyond the woman I'm staring at, in the house that started everything and ended it at the same exact time. Which do I appeal to? Which do I deny? Which bends to me, which blows me off? At this point in the story, only the Eren that has not yet come to be can stop me.

"Hello, Aliva." Carla smiles as she speaks my name into the world. Aliva. I want to sound it out, to taste it, to let the vowels scrape against my tongue and teeth. I want to taste the name of the girl I have become.

I do not do that. Not yet. "Hello."

She smiles sympathetically. "Troubles at home?"

"Maybe." It seems this girl and I are not so dissimilar. Maybe I am only in her body, because she is similar to the way I once was back before I moved away. Or, tried to.

Carla pats down her apron. She looks exactly like she did when the series started. Hair fastened over her shoulder. Motherly disposition. She's had Eren–of that I have no doubt. Now it's just a matter of finding out how old he is. "Ah. Come in, then, for as long as you like."

A part of me is shocked by the easy nature of her hospitality, especially after seeing the garrison troops act so peculiarly in my presence. In Aliva's. That wary shock must have made its way onto my face, because Carla's lips jut upwards in easygoing conspiracy.

"I won't tell Eren that you were here. Our little secret."

Oh dear.

If I've met Eren–if I already have a history with him–it'll be exponentially harder to integrate myself into the story's inner circle without raising suspicions. Is it too late to feign amnesia? Is that what I should've done all along?

Carla guides me into the house before I can even decide what to do. Prisoner to her whims, I trail after her, sheep after shepard. She guides me to the table and I sit down, gingerly. I try my best not to gawk. This is the house Eren grows up in! The house with the basement, the place with the secrets of the world outside Eldia. And I'm sitting right above those books. That basement. With Carla fucking Yaeger smoothing down my hair as she passes. "I'll go get Grisha, if you'll just wait a second."

I set my hands on my legs and nod. "Thank you." I remember that this girl, Aliva, does not seem to thank people, and regret the slip immediately. But Carla only flashes a dazzling smile before she drifts away. So I am not friendly, am not appreciative, of the garrison. But I am of Carla. Interesting.

While she goes, I look around me. I strain to hear voices. I can't hear other children; wherever Eren and Mikasa are, they don't seem to be here. That, at least, is good. I'm making progress–I've got a name, at least–but it's not enough for me to go off meeting the big-time players yet. I need to figure out everything possible about myself. Everything possible about my next steps forward.

There's a metal bowl on the table. Quickly I turn, reach forward and yank it towards myself. I tilt the bowl until–ahh. There. My reflection.

I've got an aquiline nose. Dark hair drifting down to the hollow of my neck, to my clavicles. Thin and faintly wavy. Glossy, like I've got enough health in me to maintain the sheen of my hair. The health of my complexion ends there. I've got deep bags under my eyes, for a child. My eyes look puffy. Lips drawn thin and cracked, splintered like ice. A freckle at the corner of my mouth that dips in time with my budding grimace.

My worst fear confirmed: a sickly body, in a show that weeds out the weakest of the pack.

I'll have to work twice as hard if I want to stay alive.

Murmurs drift my way and I thrust the bowl back away from me. My hands fly back into my lap, back straight against the chair. Footfalls thump down the stairs over my head and suddenly he's here in the room with me, the man who orchestrated so much madness, organized so much chaos. Grisha Yaeger. He gives me a businessman's smile. "Hello, Miss Moreau. Back so soon?"

Inwardly I wince, remembering what I'd said to the soldiers earlier. I try to give less away as I speak, attempting to draw out his secrets rather than give away my own. "Hello Doctor." I pull the vial out of my pocket again. Grisha sees it and his eyes twitch–then they're back to normal, face neutral, composed and poised. The doctor before the man.

"Ah." He steps over, takes the jar gingerly. Studies my face. "How do you feel today?"

Here, at least, I can be honest. "Not well."

Carla melts into the background as her husband takes the reins. Here at least, he is a man of his profession. I try to picture him as a citizen of Marley. As a shifter. As a man with another wife-beast roaming around out in the wild, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

But right now he is nothing more than a doctor. "Tell me about it," he coaxes, and I oblige. Understanding what ails me is significantly more dire than seeing what angle I can work with the secret side of this man he has not yet shared with the world. I tell Eren's father of the way my legs feel, of the wobbling, the heat and the shaking, the breathing and the swaying. Through all of it he is thoughtful, contemplative. I see Carla's face warp into sympathy in my periphery, before she drifts off yet again. He clicks his tongue thoughtfully. It's weird; I don't remember him doing that in the show. There's something uncomfortable about knowing that these are full-fledged people now, with personalities thick enough to cover any gaps in the creator's work.

What if there is something here fundamentally different than there was in the show? A minor trait, a sliver of backstory, that will undo me entirely?

"Well, Miss Moreau, I'd like to keep you on your current plan"–Dr. Yaeger tilts the bottle as if in emphasis–"but if it's not strong enough to do the trick, there is one thing left that we can try. But it's rare; I have such a short supply. It'll cost a lot more."

There's an elephant in the room, if that's an expression that even exists in this world. Both Carla and the doctor have grinded their gears to a halt. They are waiting for what I will say. I can taste the hesitation on their tongues. My brain flashes through scenarios as fast as I'm capable of commanding it to do so: am I poor? Financially unable to sustain my treatment, for whatever the thing that ails me is?

I am silent. I cannot help it. I need the medicine–then again, I see the way that Grisha's glasses glint as he tilts his head and suddenly I do not feel so confident about that claim–but I do not know what answer Aliva Moreau would give. I do not know what family trouble Carla speaks of. What frantic father the garrison gripes over. I am clueless. Unbearably clueless.

My shoulders start to shake.

I hear Carla's sympathetic "Oh, honey," as Grisha's expression draws firm. Resolute. Final. He's made a decision. The world has moved on without me.

I open my mouth–

And the bells begin to ring.

The bells.

And suddenly I know what today is.

"The scouts are back," Carla observes, in a voice that cannot help but convey exactly how she feels about that. I rise to my feet, mostly out of panic. I can't be here when Eren and Mikasa come back. There's a conversation they need to have, a pivotal exchange, a dangling of a key–

Fuck–

The key–

What if I just…stole it? Ran down into the basement, grabbed those godforsaken books, and dragged them out of here? Then the scouts would never have to lose their ranks on a suicide mission to retrieve them. No. It's ridiculous for me to think like Reiner and Bertholdt have already knocked the gate down.

That's the answer, I realize. Talk them down. Buy me some time. Give them some reason to think today isn't the right day, that they've got to wait, even if only for a week.

I need to go.

I've been all but forgotten in the wake of that mortal tintinnabulation, that herald of doom. Suddenly I am afraid, terribly so. I've only just earned my second shot at life; I'm not ready to let it slip away from me.

I don't even realize that I've been making for the door until I hear Grisha's firm voice behind me. "Aliva." For some reason, my gut tells me that he does not use my first name, not at all. It sounds peculiar on his lips. Like he does not quite know how it ought to sound. I turn, slowly. Carla has drifted out of sight yet again. The doctor speaks in low tones. His voice does not carry far.

He lifts the vial up, slowly. There is something sharp inside of him just then. The shadows of the ceiling above us give him a jagged profile, a malicious countenance.

"I'll make the stronger medicine for you. Just one dose."

I do not like the way he says just one. If I had to align Grisha with all my present acquaintances, I would place him with the garrison. Whatever Carla is to Aliva, he does not share in that sentiment. "Okay."

"I'll have it ready in a few hours. I'll be leaving on a business trip shortly; you can pick it up before I go."

"Okay."

His eyes flicker to the door. "Good day, Miss Moreau."

"Good day."

The second I am out of that house I feel my breath leave my chest in a terse expulsion. I glance quickly to the sky, gauge the position of the sun. It's no use. I can't remember every detail of the show; why would I remember the exact position the sun was at when Bertholdt's titan appeared above the walls? My eyes flicker over to the gate. Somewhere on the other side are the shifters. Somewhere over there are the people that will set this story in motion. Countless people will die today if they are not delayed or stopped entirely. This one, singular attack will set Eldia back in time.

My hands curl into fists. The fighter in me, the girl with the calluses and the shotgun shrapnel and the hardened heart, does not want to give in. Does not want to become a casualty of war. She will set things straight. She will stop the attack.

I set my sights on the wall and march forward.

Hello to each of you, both new readers and returning ones! This fanfiction is available here (obviously) along with Wattpad and AO3. So read wherever you like! And if you all would like me to upload my other story onto those platforms as well, let me know. It needs some grammatical tweaking before then, but I'm happy to do it. In any case, please enjoy my new story!