Dear Levi,

I wouldn't say that I am angry, exactly—just disappointed. I thought better of you. It gives me great pain to admit that I was wrong.

Under the circumstances, you probably do not even remember much, if anything, of what happened. As such, it would be fairly easy to let it go, and I am tempted to do just that. But while I would like nothing more than to pretend that the events of yesterday evening never occurred, it is regrettably military policy that in situations like this, I am required to provide you with a detailed report of what happened. So here, to borrow the colloquialism, goes nothing.

Around half past eight in the evening, an aide came into my office and informed me that she had received a message from a bar owner in the nearby village. Apparently one of our soldiers had gotten very drunk and was "causing a scene." When I asked the aide to send one or two of our squad leaders to sort things out, she replied (a bit sheepishly) that they had already done so, but that the squad leaders had returned with black eyes, several bruises, and (in one case) a broken wrist. It was at this point that I surmised who the drunk soldier was.

Do you have any idea how busy I am, Levi? How crucial my job is? I carry hundreds of soldiers' lives in my hands. Their well-being depends on my every decision. My time is very, very valuable—and I was forced to make a two-and-a-half mile round trip into town because a certain little bird couldn't hold his liquor.

When I arrived at the bar, you were sitting in a back corner, guarding a pint of ale like a fevered hawk. That is not a figure of speech—I was quickly informed that you were literally guarding the tankard. No fewer than seventeen different individuals, Scouts and locals alike, had tried to take the alcohol away from you, but after one particularly brutal incident involving a switchblade and a barstool, no one else had dared to go anywhere near you.

I approached you slowly with open palms, so as not to startle you. You eyed me like a cornered wolf, but when I told you that I only wanted to sit and have a conversation, you appeared to let down your guard a little. I slid (very slowly) into the seat next to you.

For the next five minutes, you spoke more words than in all the sentences I have ever heard you say combined. Truly, it was a monologue worthy of the greatest playwrights of our generation. Although I fear I cannot do it justice, I will do my best to summarize. You informed me that you were not drunk, that the half-drunk pint of ale in front of you was the first alcohol you had consumed that night, that you still thought my nose was big and ugly, that you missed drinking tea that "didn't taste like shit" (you teared up a little at this point), that you found the design of the Survey Corps uniforms tasteful if a little showy, that you grew up believing the sun was a fairy tale, that you have been waking up early every morning to watch the sunrise, that you would like to have a pet dog someday as well as a cat, and that you hope the dog and the cat will get along.

After trying a few different strategies to persuade you to come back to headquarters with me, all of which were unsuccessful, I finally told you that the cleaning supplies had arrived. (This was not a lie, strictly speaking, since we had in fact received a shipment of about ten gallons of bleach earlier that day.) This seemed to do the trick, and you agreed to walk back with me.

Well, "walk" may be a strong word. I practically had to carry you—not because you were incapable of supporting yourself, but because you couldn't walk in a straight line. Furthermore, you kept getting distracted by various noises and small movements in the bushes. You insisted on numerous occasions that we needed to be more careful or we'd "get jumped" by "those fucking MPs." When I asked you what gave you the impression that we were in danger of attack by the Military Police, you merely nodded sagely and told me that "Kenny says so."

As we passed by the forest, you caught sight of something and went tearing off into the trees before I could stop you. I ran after you, of course—but I admit to being a little mortified at the fact that even stumbling and intoxicated, you are very fast and very difficult to catch. When I eventually caught up to you, I found you kneeling next to a bush. You had, for reasons mysterious to me, burst into tears.

When I asked you (a little impatiently, I confess) why in the world you had run off, and also what had induced you to break down crying in the middle of the woods, you informed me between sobs that you had spotted a "little tiny baby bunny" and that, for reasons you seemed to think should be obvious, you had tried to catch it. I assumed initially that you were weeping because the rabbit had escaped, but with a great deal of effort on your part, you eventually gave me to understand that the real reason for your tears was that the creature in question was "just too damn small."

Approximately twenty minutes later (once you had finished sobbing into my shoulder), I finally managed to convince you that it was time to go home. This, too, was quite difficult, and I believe you only acquiesced because I said, in some desperation, that Furlan and Isabel would be worried about you.

The barracks were practically empty when we arrived—I assume because the soldiers in your barrack building had kitchen duty last night. When I put you to bed, you looked up at me with a rather glazed but almost fond expression and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "thanks, Eric." I'm not certain, but as I turned out the light and closed the door, I think I may also have heard the words "too bad" and "kill you." But I probably misheard.

At any rate, you broke more than a few rules during your little misadventure, but I am once again willing to hear you out, although I admit that I am getting a little tired of defending you to your superiors, and I would much prefer it if you would just choose to behave yourself. That being said, is there anything else I should know about your latest escapade?

I have other business to attend to now; otherwise, I would respond in more detail to your last letter. Being pressed for time, I will try to hit the high points:

I'm glad you were joking about almost killing me, or else we might have had a problem. While I recognize that you do not seem to think Section Commander Flagon's method of punishment was problematic, I do, and I will be discussing it with him shortly. I will see what I can do about the tea. While I am touched by your kind offer to "wave a knife around" and get the Long-Range Scouting Formation approved, regrettably we cannot torture government officials in the heart of the Capitol. I already told you why I joined the Scouts—you may choose to believe me or not, but I did not lie to you.

Besides, the Survey Corps is the last place I would go for money or power. If I wanted money, I would be working as a palace prostitute in Mitras.

If I wanted power, I would also be working as a palace prostitute in Mitras.

Best,
Erwin Smith