Chapter 3

The girl I once was would not become a casualty of war–but I am not her. Not anymore. I am Aliva Moreau, and she is weak and frail. There is no world in which I will make it back outside the walls in time. I would have to wade through the crowd that'd collected to watch the scouts return. I would have to find a way to slip past the garrison troops and get back outside. I would have to find the Marleyan warriors before they shifted. Somehow convince them to stop, to wait, to delay their already delayed attack. That or kill them. Is this body capable of murder? Am I?

There's too much to do, and so little time.

But I have to try.

I start running. I hardly remember the steps I took to get here, but I keep the wall within my sight, always running towards it even if I have to backtrack through a side alley and dart through a split street to get back on track. I cannot get there as the crow flies. But I will get there. I'll have enough time. It'll all be okay. I'll get there in time. I can do something. I can make the future more peaceful. I can change it!

I trip, stumble, crash to the ground. The world flickers in blithering strokes of grey and black. Stars alight against my eyes. My head throbs, pulses dully. I groan and try to sit up, but for a moment, I'm utterly dazed. I can't focus, can't move.

And reality begins to sink in. Were I Mikasa, I could possibly drive away the oncoming attack. Were I Eren, I could possibly deter it. Hell, if I were Armin, at least I'd be able to talk my way into diffusing it. But I am not them. I am no main character. This is the story of a boy with the world in his eyes and wings at his back; this is not the story of the sickly girl who lurks in his shadow, drinking serums to ease her illness.

It is agony to acknowledge that I am not enough to stop this attack. But if I survive, perhaps I can become someone strong enough to change the future for the better. I'll get healthier. Hardier. Hungrier for survival. And then I'll do it.

Until then, though, I must survive. Think, Aliva. If I cannot stop the attack itself, what then? What can I do to push the future towards a brighter, better end? I think of Eren's words at the end of the story. The explanation, the knowledge of all he chose to do to save Armin. I am not so obtuse as to think that my presence alone would be enough to change that fate; but perhaps my presence can change something. Maybe I am enough to right these wrongs.

Think.

I stagger to my feet, attempting to wrangle the plot stretching out beyond me into a cohesive line. Right now, the scouts are probably done crusading through the crowds. Eren and Mikasa will be heading home for dinner soon. It doesn't leave me with a lot of time to work with.

A wild idea strikes me then. Maybe I can catch the scouts before they vanish entirely. I shake off my lightheadedness and hobble on as quickly as I can manage, ears alert for the sounds of hooves striking stone. If I can steal one of the horses, maybe I can make it out of the walls in time. Maybe then I can stop the attack.

But after wandering around listlessly; after stumbling in circles without hearing a single unified scuffle, I realize that I am lost. I've absolutely no idea where I am. Suddenly I am worried, terrified even, that I will spend the rest of my days wandering around Shiganshina until I am crushed by a rock or eaten by a titan. It's a horrible thought.

My empty stomach churns and suddenly I am uneasy and unsure. What good am I to this story if I cannot change it?

Or maybe there is no changing fate. Maybe I am here to enjoy a life free of plot twists and unexpected betrayals. Maybe I am here to look out for myself, and myself alone. Would that truly be so bad? So much of my old life was spent placing others before myself. My mother, the farmers, my father, my friends. Everyone came before myself. And all that earned me was a quick ticket to the afterlife.

Something in me has quieted. At least for now. My head is throbbing, my knees aching, my chest tight and my stomach angry. I couldn't help the cast even if I wanted to right now. So I take a deep breath, shake off my weariness, and trudge on until something snags my attention out of the corner or my eye.

A sign plastered by a door. I do not know the words–fuck; I don't know how to read here–but there is something about it that calls to me. Something about it that makes my body turn, like my feet were made to stand in front of it. I see a figure stir in the window before vanishing. I consider turning away, but it is too late, the door swings wide open like it's been kicked down. "Aliva!" Out spills a plump woman, dark haired and dashing down the front steps. Suddenly she's enfolding me in her embrace, peppering me with kisses. "What were you doing? Dr. Yaeger had you on bedrest. I can't believe you. Your father and I have been looking all over Shiganshina since this morning."

It occurs to me, just then, that my mother never hugged me. I feel my eyes begin to water. "Sorry," I mumble, throat suddenly tight. There is something comforting in knowing that this family cares. But more than that: this family is mine.

Aliva's mother frowns deeply. "You didn't answer my question, baby bird."

I decide to avoid the circumstances of my awakening entirely. I'll find out why Aliva was out in the forest if it's pertinent to my survival; otherwise, it need not be addressed. "I visited the doctor. For a refill."

Here her frown deepens tenfold. "We just got you more," she says, softly. It is less of a distrust so much as it is an expression of concern. At least, that's what it looks like. Suddenly she seems afraid of the fact that I am standing outside in the street. "Let's get you inside."

I follow her easily, her guiding, fretting hands always in contact with a part of me. I step inside and let my eyes adjust. It's a modest interior, erring on the cozy side. The furniture and decor is an amalgamation of clearly tasteful objects and blatantly cheap ones. I take notice of my mother's clothes: her apron is shorter than Carla's. Dirtier. Her hair does not shine like mine does. She has a confident woman's disposition, but none of her clothes. She takes me around the corner into a small bedroom. There is an uneven crack in between the door and the floorboards; the door was not installed correctly. It groans dully as she opens it, rubbing the wood against the frame.

My bedroom is equally small. The bed is adorned in modest bedding. There's a half-empty glass of something clear, likely water, next to it. Vials with various concentrations of liquid. Swatches of color, wherever there's space for it.

A locket.

The locket is what alarms me. It seems so out of place in this cramped space that I cannot help but stare as I allow myself to be coaxed over to the bed, slipped under the covers, attended to. She smoothes the hair from my forehead and asks if I am hungry. When I say that I am, she promises to return with food.

She exits the room and her departure is accompanied by the front door opening once more, footsteps rumbling into the house like thunder. I hear voices immediately, first loud then soft, as my mother greets the newcomer.

"Aliva is back."

"Good. I have half a mind to–"

"She doesn't look well."

Here the voices drop too low for me to hear from the bed. I slip out from under the covers and creep down the hall, straining to hear. Any information I can glean here will be infinitely precious. I don't quite catch the other person's response, but I'm in position just in time for my mother's reply.

"Says she went to the Yaeger's. Needs a refill."

"But we just–"

"I know. I know."

"We don't have the money, Efa."

"I know."

"If those bastards hadn't–we never would've been stuck out here–she wouldn't have to talk to some hick doctor–"

"I know, Betham, I do. But we're not in Stohess anymore. We don't have the kind of money we used to."

Something thumps hard. I flinch. For a moment I think I've been found, but then the silence falls again. I hear the soft peck of a kiss. The tender, vulnerable sighs mingling together. "I'll find a buyer for the dishes. The nice ones."

A murmur of assent. "Business will pick up soon. Then the three of us can buy back all our stuff. Maybe move up to a bigger house, if you want it. Or maybe out to Trost. Whatever you and Aliva want."

A second kiss, longer. "You should go talk to her. Break it to her slowly."

I back up silently, hurrying to slip back into my room and under the covers. Sure enough, those footsteps head my way and round the corner a second later. The man that stands in the hall is tall, lanky, and stoic. He's got the aura of a shrewd businessman and the expression of a losing gambler. My father, if I have to spare a guess. Betham Moreau.

"Dearest," he greets me. It's the kind of tone that speaks to a multifaceted relationship. The kind that makes me wonder what subtext I'm missing without Aliva's memories. The garrison troops griped about the ruckus he was making–now I know they were worried for the sickly daughter who disappeared–and Carla mentioned trouble at home. I don't know what she meant by that. Not yet, at least.

Betham Moreau comes and squats next to the bed. There is no chair for him to sit on. He scrutinizes me, examines the girl his wife said didn't look too well. I'm sure he must agree, but when he deigns to speak again, there's nothing but resigned hardness in his voice.

"We can't afford that doctor's medicine, Aliva. Not right now. But if you'll just hang on, stop running about and getting in those fights with the doctor's ilk and start saving your strength, we'll get it to you in no time." He tries for a smile; it goes onto his face awkwardly. "You'll have to make that new supply count, alright?"

I think I'm starting to understand what Aliva has done. What Dr. Yaeger may very well suspect, too. That sick feeling pools in my gut. Heat flushes up to my ears. "It's gone."

I watch the blood drain from his face. It reminds me of my mother's. The way she always seemed too cold for this world, too calculated, too cruel. I want nothing more than to be warm. "Gone."

I can feel my hands beginning to shake. The last time I upset a parent, I died.

"Yes."

"All of it?" I cannot form the words. Cannot speak. So I nod, like somehow that is enough. I am not Aliva and yet I am her, and the least I should do it take accountability for her, our, actions. I can tell that Betham is trying to wrangle in his anger. I admire it, I do, but there is something that frightens me deeply. It is the half-hearted restraint my mother always exhibited. Like she was riding the line between I'm trying to be civil and I've had enough. One day, he will find himself tipping the scales. Picking a side. Just as my mother once did.

Nothing scares me more than being nearby when he makes that choice.

For now, though, he errs on the side of safety. But there is still a bite in his voice as he picks up the locket and dangles it between us. "If the doctor is making you more, give him this as payment. And make the next batch last, Aliva."

I cast my eyes down in submission. I've never even touched that necklace before, but I would bet good money that it's mine. I think it's a reasonable punishment, from a frustrated father who is scraping to get by.

There is nothing more expensive to poor parents than a sickly child.

I can tell it truly wounds him to hand the locket over, letting the chain drip into my outstretched hand. I hold it carefully, feeling the weight send my hand sinking slightly. I fumble with the side latch to open the locket while my father clears his throat. He and I both watch as the locket opens.

There is…nothing inside.

He is silent. So am I. What, I wonder, does he imagine fills that gap? "When will it be ready?"

I think back to Grisha's last words. "Today."

"Ah." My father sets his hands against his thighs, brushes the pants off. "Go eat a little something. Then you can head over there and get the medicine."

I narrowly restrain the wince that rises up involuntarily. I'm not exactly eager to get lost in the streets of Shiganshina again; I won't be so lucky the second time. "Will you go with me?"

My father, however, does not hide his grimace. His nose tilts up fractionally. "Your mother can go." Almost as if he's aware of how that sounds, he turns around and walks briskly out the doorway. "I've got important business to attend to. I can't afford to spend any more of today supervising you."

The part of me still at war with my mother aches to roll her eyes. But I don't. Instead I look down, unclasp the necklace and refasten it around my neck. Food really does sound great right about now.

When I head out into the kitchen (which is really less of a kitchen, and more of a kitchen-dining-living room), there's already a modest cut of bread on the table with some kind of soup. It smells nice. My mother smiles as I take a seat; I've no doubt she heard what was said between me and her husband. She doesn't comment on it. "Eat," she commands, and I am more than happy to acquiesce. The soup, I find out, is a little watered down but certainly no less tasty. It's warm and filling. I start breaking off bits of the bread, dipping the chunks into the soup before bringing them to my lips. My stomach releases its angry tension, bite by nourishing bite.

It is only when I've finished that I realize neither of my parents ate.

But my father has vanished into his work, looking over some sort of ledger. And my mother picks up the bowl I just drained, cleans it lightly. The sounds of paper rustling and water trickling mask the groans of their stomachs. But it is not enough to drown out my guilt.

Oh, Aliva.

My mother gives her husband a kiss goodbye. He savors it, and when she smiles, he attempts to return it. It still doesn't look quite right on his face. But when he looks at my mother, somehow that smile doesn't seem so strained. "We'll be back soon," she promises. "Earlier, if Aliva doesn't feel quite up to going."

Here she turns to me, as if to ask if I really want to accompany her. I think of that small bed in this small house and I decide I would rather exhaust myself completely out in the open then spend another second in the house that suffers because it watches over three people instead of two. SO before she can even pose the question, I sit up and head to the door.

It really is such a nice day outside.

We walk together, my smaller hand captured in her larger one. She is so careful with how she steps, making sure that she is never walking a path that makes my steps difficult. We take a careful, sloping path, the kind that is partially roundabout but so gradual in its elevation. I hardly notice the shifting heights of the buildings around us this time, unlike when I was walking with Hannes and the other man.

I try to calculate how much time I have left. The looming attack is like a ticking time bomb, except I have only glimpsed the counter once before and now I am simply left to wonder how many seconds stand between me and detonation. I could be incredibly wrong, in either assuming I have too much time or too little. Or I could be spot-on. What happens after Eren leaves the house, anyways? He meets up with Armin, plays village vigilante, and then–the attack right? Or, no, he gets separated from Armin at some point. Do they part ways in the chaos, or just before it? I can't remember.

"He doesn't truly mean to punish you," my mother says, softly. Her voice caresses the warm air. Makes people's heads turn. She's stuck in the clothing of someone below her original station in life, but somehow, she looks just as regal as a queen. The people we pass are moths to her flame. Her smile is an antidote, given freely, passed out every few steps. But her true attention is on me and me alone. She reminds me of Carla, I realize. "Your father cares too deeply. That is why he cannot help but get worked up when things don't go the way he wants them to."

"I know," I say, even though I don't. Who am I to claim I know this man better than his own wife?

She chuckles airily, squeezing my hand. "Come. We're almost there."

Perhaps it is only a trick of the light, but when we round the corner, a dash of red slips in between two houses. A dash of red and a spot of brown. And across from those fleeting colors is the house I now recognize more easily, the place I've seen in images and memories. Together we flock to the steps, with my mother carefully ascending them at my pace. It surprises me that I'm not as exhausted after this walk as I was the last time I made my way up here. It is almost like my mother knows the ways that I walk best; knows them better than even I do. My throat feels weirdly tight at the thought that somehow something as small as this matters to her.

Aliva, you wonderfully treasured, sickly girl, it would kill your parents to know that you are no longer a part of this world.

This time, I am not the one to knock. It is my mother who has the honors, but no sooner than her knuckles rap against the wood does the door swing open to reveal Carla Yaeger. "Efa!" she exclaims, genuine pleasure elevating her tone. The two women hug, and when they part, her eyes trickle down to my mother's side. "And hello again, Aliva."

I try a child's smile. "Hello. Dr. Yaeger said to come back for more medicine."

"Ah," Carla nods, opening up the doorway and inviting them in, "I'm afraid he already left on his business trip. But he left it here for me to give to you."

I nod, keeping my head down so I can reach back and take off the necklace. Fair is fair. But my mother's hand touches mine, barely the lightest touch, stilling my motions. I turn my head and watch as she reaches to her finger. Wiggles the gold band there off, carefully, tenderly.

Carla had her back turned as she went to the table, where a little vial of something whitish-purple sits, but the second she grabs it and turns around, she catches sight of what my mother is attempting to do. "Oh, no, Efa, don't you dare." Quickly she reaches out, putting both hands over my mother's and swiftly transferring the vial into her possession. She curls their fingers over it together, so that the ring sits in between the vial and her palm, safely trapped and unable to be used as payment.

"I couldn't."

The look on Carla's face is a blow to my gut. "We are friends, Efa." Carla laughs a little. "Even if our husbands and children are not."

That pulls a laugh out of my mother, but her shoulders shake long after the mirth fades from the air. "We'll pay you back." Her voice is thick with debt and gratitude, the indebted assuring the collector. The friend assuring the friend.

Both of them are in this predicament because of me.

This time, though, the vial does not fall into my possession. My mother's face is turned away as she carefully slips it into the pocket of her skirt, returning her ring to her finger through barely repressed sniffles. My heart aches for those sounds and everything they convey. Carla, ever the mother, is quick to offer damage control. I've no idea how long they've been friends, but I doubt this is the first time they've leaned on each other's shoulders given how quickly and confidently she reacts. "Go sit down," she says. "I'll make you something to drink."

As my mother goes to sit, I follow suit, because I really don't know what else to do. I start fidgeting with the locket. "How is Eren?" she asks.

Carla huffs. "He's talking about joining the scouts again," she grumbles, animating her displeasure with sweeping motions. My mother shakes her head in disapproval.

"Still?"

"Mhm." She picks up a cup, then, almost like the task at hand fades into the background as the conversation turns towards her son, Carla starts talking with the cup occasionally pointed this way and that. "His father won't try and talk him out of it. Mikasa, bless her, is the only one that sees reason. My boy's certainly too headstrong to understand the toll enlisting would take on his poor mother."

Here my mother looks in my direction, bumping her shoulder into mine faintly. "Thank goodness our Aliva isn't likely to enlist."

She does not need to say why.

But I play along, because I do not want this space to turn sour, because I'm starting to realize that if Grisha isn't here anymore, and neither is Eren, then–

"We should go find Eren," I say suddenly, shocking both women. They look at me as if I've spoken another language. I rush to explain. "He'll only be more determined to enlist as time goes on. It'll be easier to dissuade him now, when he's young, when you're–"

I practically choke on my own tongue. I am not speaking like Aliva. Like a child. No, I'm speaking like a girl who got shot by her own mother and is now desperate to live a better life, a longer one, a fuller one, a life for her and her alone.

Carla and Efa exchange a look.

For a second I am terrified that I've ruined everything, that they both do not trust me to be Aliva Moreau, that soon I will be cast out and discarded. My body is tense and coiled, ready to spring and flee if I must. I will not get far. But I will try. My mother begins to stand and I turn, twisting, ready to dart–

And then the ground shakes.

The noise that follows chills me to the core. It is the metallic shriek of a hundred dying geese, the explosions of a dozen bombs, the hellfire of incendiary flashes, the guttural cry of the earth as volcanoes unleash their lava upon the world. Combined, those two forces rip me out of my seat and accost my eardrums. They ring dully, scattering my senses. Aches and pains flourish all over. I can't even groan, can't even cry out. I feel my mother's frantic hands reaching for me, trying to steady us both.

"What the–"

"Efa? Aliva?"

"Here. We're okay. Just shaken."

Panic grabs me by the throat. I slip out of my mother's grasp, scrambling to my feet, hardly hearing as she calls for me and gathers herself to run in my wake. I burst through the door, my sights set on the horizon, searching for that place where the lights will lance the sky. But I've already missed it. Bertholdt has transformed. Which means Annie will gather the titans, has already gathered them. They're all here. They're all beginning to attack.

Fingers curl up out of nothingness, settling on the wall. They are red, steaming, skinned like the muscled anatomical dolls from the biology class I nearly failed. Thick like redwood trees just an hour long drive away from the orchard. Deadly, like bloodied knives. Symbolic, like red roses.

I am terrified.

I hear my mother's footsteps stop short just behind me as she takes in the sight of those fingers. "Fuck. Aliva. Get behind me."

I should be scared that my mother is so jarred, she didn't get a chance to filter her language. But for a moment, we both just stand there, transfixed by the incredulity of our new reality. I have died once. I should not be so scared of facing down death again. But somehow it is worse now, knowing that I am in a body that cannot outrun the creatures that will slip into Shiganshina and I am small and I am so painfully mortal.

I hear Carla's gasp as she finally gets to the doorway and sees what we are seeing.

The sun rises scarlet.

It rises, and does not become circular, but rather morphs and dimples, its hue fluctuating and spreading out like solar flares across the titan's head. Bertholdt's Colossal Titan peeks his head above the wall, surveys the residents down below, teeth bared and huffing steam.

I do not think.

I simply turn, slip past my mother, and reach. My hand closes around Carla's wrist just as the second boom hits. The one that breaks the gate. The one that sends debris flying into houses, into people.

I yank–

We stumble–

The steps rob me of my footing–

I tumble backwards, losing my tether to Eren's mother, and the first stone strikes the house like a missile.