Easton (which looks wrong now that I write it out),

Edison (nope still not right),

Ezra (what the fuck),

Blondie (should've just stuck with that one to begin with),

Good morning. I almost killed you yesterday.

I mean, I thought about it. I stood outside your office for at least a minute, hand on the doorknob, mulling it over. It would've been super easy. In through the door, vault over the desk, hand over your mouth, knife through the ribs, and out through the window. Thirty seconds tops.

See, here's the thing. Nobody ever calls me "little" and lives to tell the story. And you didn't just call me little—you called me a little bird. I've been called weasel, dog, snake, rat, bitch, dick, scum, turd, ass, bastard, fuckface, cocksucker, and bimbo (don't ask about that last one). But literally no one in the history of anything ever has looked at me and thought, "Hey, you know what that lying, thieving, murdering thug reminds me of? A little bird."

So anyway, I have an image to preserve, and if you had said that kind of thing in the Underground, it would've earned you a knife in the back—no mulling required. But…

I don't know. I didn't kill you. I'm not sure why.

Whatever. Don't take me seriously. Actually, all of that was just a joke. Ha! I wouldn't actually kill you—and definitely not because the timing wasn't right. No foolhardy plans here. I'm a law-abiding citizen now. I've mended my ways. Turned over a new leaf. Hung up the thug hat forever. (Not that thugs wear hats. We wear masks and head scarfs to keep the icky blood spatter germs out of our mouths.) Anyway, you get the point. Nothing to see here.

Also, little side note—you were "chagrined?" Stop hiding behind big expensive words. What you mean is that you were too fat and slow to catch me when I ran, and then you were too fat and lazy to climb the tree after me. Some soldier you are. I pity the horse that has to carry your beefy ass around.

Okay, about everything with Flagon. Yeah, it all happened like you said—but I'll be honest, I don't get why you think it's such a big deal. I'm pretty sure he mostly wanted to wear me out—thought I'd be less of a nuisance if I could barely stay awake. Getting me sick was just a bonus, probably.

Besides, you're right about one thing—I didn't have to take any of that from a jackass like him. I would've just stabbed him and been halfway to Sina by the time anyone realized I was gone, except that he threatened to make Furlan and Isabel take the punishment if I bailed. So I stayed.

(They don't know about that, by the way. Furlan and Isabel, I mean—they don't know why I took the punishment without fighting back, and if you ever tell them, I'll cut your tongue out. They're already furious enough about the whole thing.)

Which brings me back to what I was saying—you and Furlan and Isabel all seem upset about what Flagon did, but I'm not really sure why. I've seen a lot worse. Like one time when I was eight or nine, I got caught stealing a pack of cigarettes from this trashy corner market. I got away with a black eye and a broken elbow. When my uncle got home, he found me smoking on the roof and he was pissed—not because I stole the cigarettes, obviously, but because the market owners had caught me. He strung me upside down in the cesspit out back—didn't pull me out until the next morning. But I almost never got caught stealing after that, so lesson learned, I guess.

Point is, Flagon might be an asshole, but he did what he thought he had to do to enforce his rules, and honestly, that's one of the first things to happen since you dragged me into your weird cult that's made me feel at home. Sure, Flagon's cruel and a manipulative bitch, but isn't everybody? At least he makes sense.

It's you I don't understand. That's why I'd take him over you any day.

But I'm done talking about myself. Let's talk about tea. No—let me rephrase. Let's talk about whatever you call those stale leaf bags that you idiots keep in the kitchens. I spent twenty-four years living in a literal shithole, Ernest, and I still managed to get my hands on tea that didn't actively dissolve my intestines from the inside out. I don't know what kind of burnt plant refuse those suppliers back in Sina have been scooping out and stuffing into gross little paper bags, but it is not black tea. If you expect us to go riding outside the walls to face giant, flesh-consuming monsters, the very least you can do for us is buy tea that doesn't taste like boiled mud water.

Whew. I feel better with that off my chest.

Now that we've covered the most important subject of all, we can discuss your long-range formation thing. First of all, you say that you won't have any problem finding a place for me if I'm as good as I say I am. And you know what? I have a confession. You're absolutely right…I'm not as good as I keep saying.

I'm better.

I've been playing myself down, Blondie, because I'm a modest motherfucker—but when you see me in action, you'll figure out real fast that I'm

You know what, never mind. You're right about at least one thing: I don't need to tell you. You'll see for yourself soon enough.

But also, what do you mean, the council won't approve the formation even if it's successful? Haven't the Scouts been taking casualties of like seventy-five or eighty percent? For years? Your formation might be dumb and all, but I'm not a strategist and even I can tell that it would reduce casualties. What is this council anyway? Who do these people think they are?

If I were back in Sina, I could just go take care of them. I haven't dealt with a fancy-ass council before, but I'll bet they follow the same principles as any old gang, and I've handled plenty of those. Stick your knife down a throat or two and suddenly the rest of the gang gets a lot more cooperative, no matter how tough they act.

Anyway, I'd sneak back into Mitras, wave a knife around, and get your formation approved if you wanted. I'd even do it for free. Not as a favor to you, obviously, I hate your guts. I just don't like seeing stupid idiots get away with doing stupid idiot things.

By the way, your little speech about why you joined the Scouts was really pretty. Nice and shiny. Touching, really—I'm all choked up. Now why don't you tell me why you're really here? Nobody's that noble. No sane person would actually devote his whole life to the cause of humanity or whatever you want to call this bullshit. So what are you after? Money? Power? Do you just get off on killing Titans? Come on, spill. I'm actually kind of curious now.

As for why I joined the Scouts, well—that's for me to know and for you to find out.

(Oops, I think Furlan heard me cackling just now. I have to stop writing or I'll get caught under these blankets.)

Disrespectfully yours,
Levi

P.S. For your information, I've wanted to name my future cat Erwin since I was ten. That has nothing to do with you because I hadn't even met you yet, and also because your name is Ethan.