Chapter 27

Pyxis pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers, rubbing them around as if he can coax the frown lines out through a massage. "I won't lie," he finally says. "It's not looking very good."

I bow my head to hide my wince from view. Fortunately, though, it appears as if I'm all but forgotten in the back of the room. The garrison members currently sitting in on his debrief are all honed in on the commander's motions, emphasized when he slaps a package onto his desk and thumps it with his knuckles.

"Fortunately, we have this, but it's not enough." Pyxis grips the package by its edge and tilts it, letting the journal inside spill out. He flips through the pages, showing everyone here my atrociously handwritten copies of all the papers I found in the office. "The fire claimed all the original documents: contracts, deeds, ledgers…everything that we could've used to wrap this mess up. That means we have limited time and resources to gather enough to force the military police to incriminate."

I tune in and out as he goes on to delegate tasks to each of the captains under his command, siphoning troops off to go seize the papafer farms under the name of Betham or Adelheid Moreau. The ones that are tasked to stay here in Trost get the lustrous job of transcribing and processing the journal's contents. Lastly, he sends a single squad to go try and track down the missing Moreaus, or even the Stratmanns–to infiltrate their company and find more evidence before they can sneak under the military's radar.

Positions and tasks assigned, the garrison captains filter out of Commander Pyxis's office one by one, until only he and I remain. To me, he offers a calm smile. "Your assistance in this matter was greatly appreciated."

"I could've done better," I admit.

"Yes," he agrees, and yet, his tone doesn't seem to be condescending in the slightest. "But so could I. I hear it was my fault your stepmother uncovered our plans." We could go back and forth placing blame until we're satisfied. Ultimately, each of us has fault to be found. There's no point in pretending to deny that. The commander heaves a big sigh, sitting back in his chair. "Well, in any case, I promised to put you back in the hundred and seventh division, didn't I?"

I try not to balk, but in truth, I hadn't expected him to do it. Not after I failed so grandly. "Are you sure?"

He raises an eyebrow, chuckling. "You seem less sure of yourself than you were half a year ago."

Excitement begins to swell inside me, bright and eager. It shocks me just a little bit. I hadn't anticipated being this happy over returning to military servitude. "When can I go? And to which division?"

"You'll head to the east as soon as you get fitted for uniform and gear again. Can't have you show up without it, now can I?"

I find myself returning his smile, despite all that's happened. "No, sir."

He nods sagely. "As long as you understand, trainee."

Fire consumed almost all I claim to my name. The entire third floor of the apartment complex was engulfed in the fuel-induced bonfire well before the blaze could be subdued. Every garment I'd been given; every pair of shoes; every necklace. The regret I feel for the loss of those items is trivial, a passing regret born of the fact that I could have sold it all to make some pocket change I could stow away just in case.

The losses that bother me deeply are the irreplaceable ones. My mother's wedding band still rests firmly on my ring finger; everything else is gone forever. Most important of those items are the journal into which I copied down the former Aliva's past and her future visions, and the vial of medicine that I have been slowly making a dent in.

Now I am without medicine, without guidance, without friends and family. I've jeopardized my one true chance to revert the papafer land back into oleuropein farms. Now, nothing is certain. Whatever's left of the medicine now that it's been discontinued for some time will be impossibly expensive. I doubt even selling my mother's ring at this point would be enough to earn me a bottle.

Not that I would sell it.

The end of the winter makes me nostalgic for spring's return, and I blame Reiner. Being sickly made me disinclined to enjoy the colder months, but since that day I nearly lost control of my restraint, all I can think about is how irritating this time of year is. How irritating that man is. I've been eating well, exercising regularly, but I'd like to think I have enough of a figure to attract anyone who sees me as a woman. Am I not voluptuous enough, not pretty enough? Or is my character the problem? That wouldn't surprise me all that much. Christa's easygoing nature, her lovely smile and her fluttery blond hair turned heads constantly. No doubt even Reiner's.

But seriously. Surely Jean isn't the only person alive who isn't repulsed by the thought of kissing me?

Well, there was Eren. But that doesn't count. And I don't know how to feel about that. Is it because I wasn't feeling what happened? Despite witnessing it myself, I can't really even fathom him actually doing that…

…or so I thought.

That night, as I lay in the temporary quarters Pyxis had prepared for me, I dream that I am lying on a large tree. It twinkles, bright and beautiful, its illuminated branches splicing through the heady darkness enshrouding me. I lay on my back, eyes closed, like I am not breathing.

"Get it together, Aliva." I know that voice well. I open my eyes, and above me, is Eren Yeager. It strikes me then how much older he is now. He's grown so much since I first met him, that day when Shiganshina fell.

I scowl–how easy it is to fall back into old dynamics–and go to sit up. "I don't need you to tell me that."

Eren pushes me back down, putting some of his weight behind his arms to keep me in place. "Get it together, Aliva," he grinds out, glaring at me. I glare right back.

"I heard you the first time, asshole. Now get off."

He smirks. "No."

"I hate you."

"Good. I hate you too."

I scan him over, considering. "Why are you here, then, telling me what I should and shouldn't do?"

Eren shrugs, keeping his hold on me. "Because no one else will tell you if I don't."

I scoff. "Bullshit. I have friends, you know. Like Christa and Mina. Even Ymir would tell me to get my shit together if I went off the deep end."

"Then why aren't they here?" I glance around. Sure enough, no one else is on this tree. Just me. Just Eren.

"Weird. Has it always been just you and me here?"

"You tell me. It's your dream, after all."

"Why would I dream of you, of all people?"

He crinkles his nose with disgust and dissatisfaction. "You tell me."

I sigh, already tiring of his antics. His palms are starting to dig into my shoulders. "I was thinking about the way you saved me earlier. I must've fallen asleep with that as my last thought."

Eren's gorgeous green eyes sparkle as he laughs, his stomach rippling with unfiltered amusement. "That's pathetic, even for you."

"Why did you do it," I say instead, ignoring his insult. Eren tilts his head, the gesture coy and catlike.

"I told you, didn't I? Your life is in my hands. That gives me permission to save it and end it if I so choose. That's why I get to tell you to clean your act up, not anyone else. That's why I can let you crash and burn, not anyone else."

"That's possessive."

Eren's grin gets even wider. "Yes, Aliva, it is."

The tree beneath us sways, and for a moment, we simply watch it shimmer and dance beneath us. Eren relocates his hands to either side of my head. No longer pinning me with force, but close enough to watch me closely, close enough to trap me with the threat of relocating his hands if I attempt to escape. "I don't understand you," I whisper. "Even if you tell me you saved me just because you felt like it, I can't believe you. You're not that kind of person. Not when it comes to me."

"Can't I be?"

"No."

"Okay, so let's say I have an ulterior motive. Happy now?"

I frown, turning my head away. "Somehow, not really. It still bothers me."

He lets out an exasperated sigh. "I've changed my mind. Having you think about me is awful. Just forget about what I did and move on already." I roll my eyes, but for a moment I try to erase the memory from my mind. While I do, Eren leans in closer, eyes roving over my face. "Wait. Don't tell me the reason you can't stop being bothered by what I did is because you–"

"Eren," I warn, tone laced with poison, but it's too late. His ego has already started to inflate.

"You liked it, didn't you?"

"Now you're just being stupid. How could I like something I wasn't even conscious for?" Eren pauses, considering my logic.

"So it's fine as long as you're awake for it?"

"Huh? What kind of conclusion is that–"

Eren dips his head down to close the gap between us, pressing his too-soft lips against my own. His kiss is needy, harsh and insistent, tongue scraping its way into my mouth. I can hardly breathe, let alone get a word in edgewise. "Hah–ah–" Eren relocates his hands, burying one in my hair and moving the other to wrap around my throat. It's like he's telling me not to make a sound, not to break our kiss. He bites my lip with a wild viciousness that forces a low moan out of my mouth and into his, and before I know it, I'm yanking him closer, kissing him back harder.

We break only when it's impossible to keep going, gasping for air, panting our shared air back and forth between our flushed lips and wet tongues. "See? You liked it."

"Asshole."

Eren clucks his tongue playfully, scolding me with a wagging finger. "Now, now. Do I need to remind you whose dream this is?"

I jolt awake, cold sweat plastered to my brow. I shudder and immediately head in for a cold shower. I must be insane. I'm genuinely baffled by the dream my brain conjured up for me last night. All I can think is that I need to satiate my sex drive more often, so that scenes like those don't pester me outside of my waking hours.

I wish it'd been Reiner.

Betrayed by my own thoughts, I slip on the wet floor and nearly come crashing down in a painful, naked heap. Good fucking lord. I grip the nearest sink lip for support, catching my breath and waiting for my racing heart to calm down. My cheeks burn. I can't bring myself to look into the mirror. I thought I was done with these pesky feelings.

Oh, god. Feelings.

How long have I felt like this? I could write it off as a baser, carnal attraction, but–feelings? For the man who couldn't even bring himself to resuscitate me?

…Ah. That's why I can't stop thinking about what Eren did. If the man who detests me, who holds me responsible for his mother's murder, can set aside his hatred long enough to spare my life, then why couldn't Reiner Braun–the man to whom I started to lend my affection–do it? What must I be, in his eyes, to be worth such a miserable end?

You three have your mission; I have mine. They do not align.

Are you saying you'll get in our way, then?

Do I have any right to be upset with him? I did it to myself, by presenting myself like an obstacle in between him and his mission. Of course he would let me die. He's a good warrior. If anyone is a fool, it's me, for assuming he was anything else. For wishing he was more soldier than spy.

I shake my head, sending water droplets in every odd direction. This won't do. I can't let myself grow dull with thoughts like these. I made a decision to harden my heart, to wield my selfish cruelty like a fine blade. That is how I will live. That is how I will survive. How everyone will survive.

Resigned once more, I don my towel and rush to get changed. I dress in dark pants and a long sleeved brown shirt, braiding my hair and touching my thumb to my finger to check for the ring's familiar weight. Satisfied, I make my way out of the compound to where Pyxis and the woman who escorted me into the meadery the day I arrived in Trost are. Next to them are two horses, saddled up and watching us with their equine eyes.

"And here arrives the guest of honor," Pyxis decrees, looking as good-humored as ever. "And what a fine guest she is."

The commander's companion gives him a look that he pretends not to see.

"I appreciate you preparing all of this."

He nods, already turning away. "Yes, yes. Enjoy the fruits of my labor."

Confusion knits my brows together, but before I can ask, the garrison woman steps forward. She's holding out the ODM belts I once wore; I take them and quickly strap in. I'm really becoming a trainee again. I missed this. I turn to her when I'm done, ready to be handed a gear set, and that's when Pyxis's comment finally makes sense.

He's bestowed upon me my blades.

"I'd say you earned them," he says, when I've been speechless for too long. "Good luck out there. Graduate and come work for me, will you?"

I smile and salute him. "I make no promises, sir."

"Whatever happened to calling me Pyxis?"

My smile grows into a full-fledged grin. "I'm a trainee again, sir. It wouldn't be proper."

Commander Pyxis laughs and waves me off. "Get going before I change my mind. That's an order."

The journey from Trost to the east division's camp isn't all that long, but I'm glad to have the company if for nothing more than navigation. When we arrive the garrison member handles all the explaining on my behalf, lending to an easy transition from horseback riding to trainee life. The officer in charge here–Greta Becker–is a woman, who looks every bit as menacing as Shadis. When she speaks, though, her tone is kind.

"Welcome, Moreau. We've been eagerly awaiting your transfer. The camps are arranged similarly, so I trust you'll have no issue getting your bearings. You're free to wander until the dinner bell rings. I'll have your bunk prepared by then."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You're dismissed."

I salute and leave, setting out to walk the perimeter and get a decent understanding of the place I'll be resuming my life as a trainee in. Sure enough, the camp is almost exactly the same as the one I'm used to, with minor variations in layout and construction here and there. I spot a few clusters of trainees here and there, but do my best to avoid them for the moment. I'll have plenty of time to pick and choose who I introduce myself to later, after I've had some time to study the dynamics of this division of the 107th.

Despite my best efforts, a group of trainees does eventually approach me. It's a small cluster, five in total, each with varying levels of openness in their expressions. One man in particular draws my attention. He's propped one hand on his ODM gear–bladeless, I note–and the other one at his side.

"You must be the transfer," he says, every syllable ejected like he's sizing me up. He's taken notice of the blades in my sheathes. I'm in no particular hurry to explain that I didn't earn them for performing well on that godforsaken obstacle course.

"I am."

"Name?"

"Aliva Moreau. Yours?"

He huffs, though not with pronounced arrogance. It seems like this is what he was actually after: introducing himself. He must be a kind person at heart.

"I'm Floch Forster."

I know that name. Even without my journal, that name is rooted far enough into my memory to send sharp tingles down my arms. Floch Forster, a future Yeagerist, haunted by grief, desperate for purpose, for an idol to fill a vacant hole.

And the boy who carries Commander Erwin Smith's desiccated, half-dead corpse across a field of mutilated bodies and friends is still exactly that–just a boy.

A/N: So apparently you can (sorta) reply to comments? I apologize to everyone who commented on this fic and got disappointed when I didn't say anything back-I promise that the comments are literally my favorite part of this whole shenanigan. I love them I swear (sobs)

Anyways, here's a little transition chapter to feed you whores while we get ready to launch into the final act of the trainee arc. Still some way to go, bear with me, but it won't feel as long as the first year and a half did. Pinky promise.

Buh bye!