Chapter 28

Floch Forster isn't the only name I recognize here.

Since losing my journal and all the notes contained within, I've been forced to rely on my treacherously haphazard memory. Possession made me foolishly negligent: why bother with memorization, when I had the full reference with me at all times? With no memories from my personhood prior to the day of Shiganshina's fall and no notes to go off of, all I can recall is the fact that the name rings a bell, albeit vague. There's a girl in this division, one who sleeps three beds down from me. She's got short hair with a light wave to it, a cute button nose, and the kind of mischievous sociability that makes me think of her as a fusion between Christa's outgoing nature and Ymir's penchant for misbehavior. Her name, she tells me, is–

"Hitch Dreyse," the nearby officer says, calling out as he reads down the list in his hands. "Pass."

At the sound of his verdict, my new ally in this place lets her shoulders drop with subtle relief. It's amusing, almost: she's performed outrageously well for someone that got so nervous for today's result reading. "You did well," I murmur.

To that, she grins. "I did, didn't I?"

The man to Hitch's other side stiffens, almost like he's adjusting to compensate for the girl's newfound relief and ease. "Shh. Unless you want to disrupt the reading?"

She rolls her eyes. "Can it, Marlo."

It's easy for me to mishear her when I'm not focused. Marlo's name rolls off the tongue rather similarly to Marco's, after all. Hearing Hitch fling it around so flippantly makes me realize how deeply I miss the rapscallions of the southern 107th division. Marlo Freudenberg doesn't necessarily strike me as someone mistakable for Marco, though. He's taller, with stiffer arms and a loftier disposition. He's always looking down the length of his aquiline nose at me. With that atrocious bowl cut of his, I ought to feel more affronted, save for the fact that he's leagues away from being someone I can demand treat me as an equal. I'm the nobody transfer with the tightly sealed lips and atrocious lack of strength. He's the guy consistently performing up at the top of this division's section, right next to trainees like Hitch.

Sure enough, when the officer announcing the scores makes it down the page to where Marlo's surname is, he announces that he's passed too.

Unlike Hitch, though, he doesn't let his posture relax even in the slightest. He keeps his gangly arms at the ready, poised like a perfect soldier with a rod up his back instead of a spine.

That description forces my thoughts to wander further away from reality, by making me contemplate the worth of a body reinforced by metal. Something like that would make it easier for me to perform as a soldier, would it not?

"Aliva Moreau."

A few feet shift at the mention of my name, for which I'm hardly surprised. It's been a week and a half since I got here: Hitch aside, most of the people in this division have kept their distance. Just like in the south, the east section already entered into the stage where routine scores begin to count towards the final trainee exam. Unlike the way things were run under Shadis, though…

"...Pass."

I earned my ODM blades, sure, but I doubt I'll earn any special merits while I'm here. The head instructor, Greta Becker, has decided to alternate mental tests with physical ones, with two of each being held each month. There is no grand yearly test like with Shadis; no culling system during which the bottom quarter is removed from the camp. Instead, Becker looks only for one grave error: a score on a weekly exam lower than three out of ten marks. Anyone who fails to hit three marks is dismissed.

For a solid five out of ten on a good day, that ought to be enough for me–except I don't intend to stop there.

Hitch whispers a compliment on passing my first physical test since coming here, but her tone of voice makes it blatant she wasn't holding onto high hopes for me. To be fair, I wouldn't have been either, except for the fact that I know what it tastes like to get kicked out of the 107th already. I'll be damned if I let it happen twice.

Crawling back into some semblance of respectability feels nearly impossible. I sneak out at odd hours in the night to train my endurance. I tell no one, not even Hitch, of my ailment. Until my performance two days ago in the physical exam, no one questioned why I'd been transferred or if I truly did earn the blades in my sheathes. Everything changed after that. I am an alien, a creature of impure origin and undetermined intent. Rumors circulate. I'm a member of the gentry, using monetary bribes to stay in the 107th. A harlot, spreading her legs in wet alleyways for officers to plunge their members into in lieu of prostitution in the military trainee encampments. The truth feels laughably benign in comparison to my newfound reputation.

The day after the physical exam, I find my belongings strewn out on the bare mattress. Whoever did it has taken nothing of worth, has found nothing with which to criticize me. The rumors do not fetter out. If anything, new theories grow wider, more creatively absurd.

I start wearing my mother's ring even in the shower.

The Aliva Moreau who could afford to rely on things like wealth, comfort, and medicine is gone. Only I remain, a lone wolf, a hyena prepared to gnaw on the rotten marrow off a dead animal's bloated corpse just to stay alive.

And I have every intention of eating my fill here.

The officer reaches the end of the list. Here, he announces one final name: a girl who most in the camp seem to think is an easy shoe in for a top ten placement. Someone pretty, but not obtusely so. Lean and limber, with dark bushy eyebrows. At the sound of her name, I ground myself again, staring a hole into the back of her head.

The officer hesitates just a fraction of a second too long.

"Fail."

The energy shift hits immediately, striking like lightning. I hear astonished mutterings rise up all around me. Even Hitch gets swept up in it. "Huh? I mean, I knew she wasn't on her best game that day, but I never would have imagined this."
"That can't be right." Marlo's brows furrow, but other than that, he retains his composure. "How could she have failed, and yet…"

"And yet I survived?" My voice is honey-sweet, ichor and nectarines all bundled up in a bow. Marlo flinches back, fully prepared to cover his near-slip, but I won't give him the chance to do so. The trainees nearest to us have tilted their ears, eavesdropping selflessly. They, too, want to know why the weak transfer passed when their shining star could not.

My stomach growls. My mouth waters. A feast has been laid before me; I intend to take a bite. "Ignore him, Aliva. He probably fancied her and is just butthurt that she'll be leaving now."

Marlo's complexion cherries. "That's not–!"

"No?" Hitch teases, drawing the word out in time with her widening smirk. I sigh and let my hackles drop. I've lost the moment, forfeited my chance to get people to leave me alone in this trashy little division. But another opportunity will rise. Even now, I watch the failed trainee's shoulders hunch and shake with anger. I sense the storm brewing before the officer does; by the time he's noticed her reaction to his announcement, she's already exploding.

"How is that fair? You're letting that–whore–stay, and not me?" Ah. I was wondering which rumor she'd been swayed by. Then again, maybe not. As the instructors standing off to the side quickly rush in to subdue her, the trainee starts digging into her pockets. "It's money, isn't it? My aunt is a high figure in Stohess! She can pay any amount, so please–"

Hitch turns her head away, not even granting the girl a witness to her final moments in the 107th. Marlo watches the scene unfold, expression neutral. For now, no one glances my way. I am the target of her anger, yet no pity is sent in my direction; no sympathy or empathy to be spared by this lot save for that which they've given to their fallen companion. The heels of her boots scrape against the dirt as she's dragged gracelessly away.

How far she's fallen, how desperate and shameless in the face of defeat. She's different from the trainee who got dismissed last week after the written exam. He had collapsed onto the ground and weeped until his friend escorted him to the wagon headed for the nearest walled city. Different from even me, who tucked my consciousness in a box and chose to dirty my hands just to keep myself in camps like these.

I glance down at my hands, miming my hold on invisible ODM triggers. "Hitch. Can you teach me to use my gear properly?"

The trainee's eyes flutter open so she can study me. "Sure. I don't mind, but you'll owe me."

"That's fine. I think I'd prefer it that way."

Just before the failed trainee vanishes from sight, still shouting, she locks eyes with me and falls silent.

Wrath fills her face as she scowls. I like to think it's because she knows me for more than my rumors; that she knows the role I played in the scene currently unfolding.

I smile.

A peculiar tune comes to me as the instructors dismiss us and set us free for the evening. It feels like something that ought to have lyrics, yet regardless of how hard I try to remember, I can't come up with a single line. Instead it feels like a song buried into the very meat of my body, stitched into my sinew and threaded through my tissue. I hum it lightly, teasing the tones out and savoring the light rumble they produce in my throat. I find comfort in it, in a way that feels almost hymnal. Like it was constructed for me. Like I was made flesh because of it.

"Pretty tune," Hitch remarks, absently inspecting one of her nail beds. I can tell she has no heart for the lightness I feel right now in my chest, but the fact that she still humors me enough to stay in my presence and force a smile makes me grateful nonetheless. Marlo, on the other hand, has decided to make himself scarce.

"Thanks."

"Where'd you learn it?"

I pause, steps faltering. "Huh. That's weird. I don't remember learning it at all."

Hitch's lips twist with confusion and curiosity, some of her earlier liveliness making it back into her face. "Making it up as you go?"
I shake my head no. "...No. It's hard to explain. Like it's been inside me all along."

She blinks, processing my words, and then laughs. "What are you, a cheesy musical genius?"

"Hardly." I let the song fade, my pursuit for lyrics forgotten for now. Instead I follow her as we roam, heading down away from the immediate camp and towards the training fields, flecked with large trees that make the ones in the south look paltry in comparison. Hitch yawns and stretches out, leaning this way and that. I roll my neck, feeling it pop, before I join her in warming up. It's hardly anything like the old village Shadis built that obstacle course in, but the forest here is no less imposing. I feel like I remember something about an even bigger forest out in titan infested land, something that's supposed to cause a few issues later, but I know for a fact that this can't be the place my notes referred to. Why would it be, when these trees are so close to human populations?

Hitch gives me a sympathetic pat on the back. "Seeing someone who held a lot of promise fail like that probably shook you up, but don't worry. I promised to help you out, didn't I?" She pats her arm, flexing the muscle there and grinning like crazy. "I'll get you soaring in no time!"

"Please do."

I stay still while she paces a circle around me, inspecting my stance and rubbing her finger over her jawline. "Hm. Not exactly much to critique here. Contrary to what a lot of the trainees believe, your starting stance doesn't actually play all that grand of a role in getting you up in the air. It's not the initial uptake that sets the tone; it's your followthrough."

"Right." I study the trees, envisioning a route through their trunks like the one through the abandoned village buildings. A lump forms in the back of my throat as I remember all too well what happened the last time I tried to take to the air.

"And relax. Your body will resist the acceleration and force of movement naturally; no need to make the toll it takes worse by being so tense. Remember," she carries on, coming around behind me and massaging my shoulders until they drop to a more natural position. "Keep your flight path perpendicular to your spine, for now. That'll be easier on you than steeper moves like trying to zip straight up and down."

I raise an eyebrow. "How do you know all this?"

"My father works for the garrison," she shrugs. "When I first told him I wanted to enlist and follow in his footsteps, he started telling me all about the tips and tricks he picked up after learning how to use his gear firsthand. It's actually why I made up my mind to approach you, actually. I heard that you only enlisted successfully because your parents were some high-up officials. Of course I know it's a rumor now, but at the time, I thought you and I weren't all that different."

"Oh." She orbits around me again, coming to stand in front of me. "Your father sounds very supportive."

She laughs. "Isn't he? Well, it's thanks to him that I managed to pick up on the whole ODM thing as quickly as I did. Now I can just focus on getting better instead of getting my bearings."

I envy her, in more ways than one. But I keep it to myself, afraid that she'll pull back the second she notices my fledgling sentiments. In a way it's like I'm back in the south already, tiptoeing around a girl who's willing to train me, trying not to piss her off enough to leave me to fend for myself.

Hitch distracts me by reaching a light hand forward, tapping her fingertips just above my eyes. "This is the secret ingredient."

"What?"

"Your eyes. They're a phenomenal indicator of what your threshold for gravitational force exertion is. Most people think to squint when they start out–don't. Keep your eyes open as wide as you naturally would. That way you can notice the first warning signs sooner."

I lean back slightly, cueing her nonverbally to pull her hand away from my eyeballs. She does so a belated second later. "I think my issue is with being unable to breathe. Not see."

She smirks. "Think so? Walk me through what happened the last time you flew."

"I don't see why that's necessary."

Hitch shrugs. "Humor me."

Patience already thin and pride long since wavering, I sigh and surrender to the absolute briefest of explanations. I explain how the second I was up in the air, the sheer force of the wind felt like it was sucking the air out of my throat. How everything got all blurry and impossible to process as my lungs failed. How I had to jerk up at the last second to avoid–

I promptly shut my mouth the second I notice Hitch's overly smug expression. "Just listen to yourself, Aliva. You ignored the warning signs trying to explain that you'd surpassed your threshold. Not to mention, you broke the beginner's taboo of trying parallel flight. It's no wonder you had such a hard time with the gear last time you flew."

I don't bother to clarify that it was the first and only time I've ever tried taking to the air. Instead, I deflate, letting go of whatever stubborn kernel of independent pride was holding me back from properly listening to Hitch. "Okay, okay. So I'll keep my eyes open this time. What then?"

"Watch for colors to go gray, like you're moving too fast for the hues to keep up. That should usually come first, but not everyone gets it, so the next indicator is if your vision starts to tunnel. You'll lose the sharpness of your periphery, the focus, all of it. If you think you've even got the slightest hint of either of those things, stop immediately."

I cross my arms and frown. "How? If I can't use parallel movement, then I won't be able to get down onto the ground."

"I didn't say drop. I said stop." To illustrate her point, Hitch fires and latches onto the nearest trunk. Instead of fire again, though, I watch her boots strike the wood and her body lean out from there. The cable connecting her to the tree keeps her aloft, with her careful positioning ensuring her boots don't slip out from under her. "See?" she calls, waving her other hand at me. "Try it."

I'm hesitant to, but I have no choice. I fire carefully and everything lurches just like I remember it doing, my breath whispering its way out my mouth and into the air rushing past my ears. Everything's over before I can even think of being aware of how open my eyes are right now. My positioning is a lot sloppier than Hitch's, but at least I'm not falling straight to the ground.

"There we go. How's the world? Still vibrant?"

I take a moment to glance around. The branches above our heads whisper, colluding in that lovely way that windswept leaves do. The foliage hushes the sounds of the camp, rendering everything quiet now that our gear has stopped whirring. The sunset flares up red and orange. Late winter, early spring. Half a year until the southern division has their second dismissal, culling a quarter of their ranks. At this rate there will be, what, just over twenty weekly tests until then?

Even one person a week failing to hit three out of ten marks wouldn't be enough. No, I would need two trainees–even three–to get kicked out if I intend for everything to line up just right.

I got lucky with the last two tests, and the dismissals after each. Things will only get harder from here, and until I can stick up for myself, I might as well cast aside my plans.

Hitch closes her eyes, soaking up the setting sun. She looks at ease here. I wonder how her expression will change, once I lay waste to this place? "Well? Don't leave me hanging," she goads, smiling without opening her eyes.

"It's vibrant," I admit, but I leave it at that. Instead, my jaw twitches, clenching at the thought of going forward down this new path.

No, this is nothing new. It's been a long time since I was the kind of person who could afford to feel guilty over things like these.

"You were right. I didn't get here because of nepotism." My father isn't good, like yours. "We have nothing in common."

Hitch cracks an eye. "I guess so. But we have this now, don't we?"

Scavengers do not often work together well with others. The predators who make their kills snarl and scare the vulgar, lesser creatures away. When all that is good and edible is stripped from the carcass–when everything salvageable has torn off from the bone and been washed down a dozen different gullets–the lowest living creatures finally get their turn. They do not get to jump in line. Such is nature.

Hitch is a predator, just like Marlo. Just like Mikasa, and Annie, and every other trainee who earned their blades through their own strength. Not like me, who scavenged and fought for scraps even the crows won't eat, who followed circling vultures.

"I just needed some pointers. I can do the rest on my own." Hitch frowns. I can feel the protests about to spill out. I already know I lack enough mental fortitude to shut her down if I hear them. "You should head back."

Hitch hesitates. The moment lasts forever.

"...Alright." The quick whir of her cable firing fills the space as she breaks away from the tree, landing effortlessly on the ground.

I watch her retreating back, and only when I'm finally sure that I'm alone, I start to train.

A/N: SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE! I've been kinda busy (horny) lately so I've been a wee bit distracted from writing. Anyways, I've been putting Aliva through the ringer lately so here's a nicer chapter xoxox. Stay tuned for more shenanigans, smut, and angst.

ALSO MY TATTOO ARTIST STARTED READING MY FIC LMFAOOOOOOO