Attack on Titan: A Wolf Among Sheep

by abcd12344321

Fen is not what most people would call normal. He does not age, he does not stay in one place for too long, and he does not bow to anyone. But within this shell of a man is a secret, what is the answer behind his immortal existence? And more importantly why is he so dethatched from the humans around him?

17. Chapter 17

Attack on Titan: A Wolf Among Sheep

Chapter 17: Trauma of War

…

The war room in Liberio was a far cry from the usual tense but controlled atmosphere Marley's military leaders maintained. Today, the air was thick with uncertainty, fear, and a creeping sense of dread. The lights flickered overhead as the dull hum of machinery from outside reverberated through the walls. Normally, the commanders of Marley sat with an air of superiority, secure in their military dominance. But today, there was no confidence, only anxiety.

At the head of the long table, General Magath stood, his face pale but hardened with the strain of delivering catastrophic news. In front of him, a crumpled letter sat on the table, and the eyes of every officer in the room were drawn to it, as if it were a ticking bomb.

"Bertolt Hoover has been neutralized," Magath said, his voice low and filled with controlled fury. The words hit the room like a bombshell, the silence thick enough to suffocate. Several of the generals exchanged wide-eyed glances, while others just stared at Magath, mouths slightly agape. "He's alive, but Fenrir left a Binding Rune on him."

No one spoke for a long moment. Commander Calvi was the first to react, his usually composed demeanor slipping as his hands trembled slightly on the polished wood of the table. "A… Binding Rune? You mean to say our Colossal Titan was… incapacitated?"

Magath nodded stiffly, his jaw clenched. "He wasn't killed, but it was like he wasn't even there. His mind was locked away. Fenrir's playing with us, and Bertolt... Bertolt was caught in the middle." He gestured to the letter, still lying crumpled in the center of the table. "Read it. Fenrir was kind enough to leave us a note."

Calvi's hand hovered over the letter for a moment, as if touching it might make the situation real. When he finally picked it up, his eyes scanned the rough, scrawled handwriting. His face grew paler with every word, and by the time he finished reading, he looked as if he might be sick.

"This is insane…" Calvi muttered under his breath. "Magic? Ghosts? What the hell are we dealing with?"

"Magic that neutralized our strongest Titan," Magath growled, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the table. "And not just magic. Fenrir's forces are using tactics we've never seen, portals, spectral warriors, runes that can turn our weapons against us. They used our own Titans against us, Calvi. Titans, turned into weapons to wipe out our own troops."

One of the other generals, a grizzled veteran named Krauss, slammed his fist on the table, his face red with frustration. "That's impossible! How could anyone, anything, do that to a turned devil?!"

We've fought the Eldian devils for years, and nothing like this has ever happened!"

"It's possible now," Magath replied grimly. "This isn't the Paradis we faced in Shiganshina. This is something else, something worse. Fenrir's magic, his runes, turned the battle upside down in an instant. He didn't just kill our soldiers, he used them."

The generals murmured in disbelief, but no one challenged Magath's words. They couldn't. The reports from the field had been crystal clear, and they all knew that Marley's most powerful asset, its Titans, had been rendered useless in the face of Fenrir's supernatural power.

Calvi let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "We can't win a war against ghosts and magic. Not like this. We don't have the tools."

Magath's eyes flashed with anger. "We have no choice! We can't just retreat and let them have everything!" His voice echoed in the quiet room, sharp and commanding, but there was an edge of frustration that hadn't been there before. "We're fighting an enemy we don't understand, but that doesn't mean we can't adapt. We're Marley. We'll find a way."

"But at what cost?" Krauss countered, his voice trembling with rage. "This war isn't just about Titans anymore. If they have powers like these portals, runes, weapons that can freeze or burn our men alive what do we have that can match that?"

Magath remained silent for a moment, his fingers drumming the table as he considered the question. He didn't have an answer. Not yet.

Finally, Magath sighed, the weight of the world clearly settling on his shoulders. "We did have one victory," he said, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant. "On the eastern front, we managed to hold our ground. Magni, Modi, and Baldur intervened."

The generals exchanged cautious glances. The Aesir, Marley's gods of war, had always been a powerful ally, brutal, unstoppable, and terrifying in their own right. But even they were not without limits.

"They won?" Calvi asked, his brow furrowed.

Magath nodded. "Barely. They turned the tide, but even they were... affected."

"Affected?" Krauss's voice was thick with disbelief. "How could they be affected? Baldur is—"

"Invulnerable to all harm, yes," Magath interrupted, his voice heavy with weariness. He had been asked this same question several times since the battle, and each time the answer felt more impossible. "But this war isn't about brute strength anymore. It's about innovation. Even Baldur had to admit that what the enemy threw at him was... unexpected."

The room fell into a deep, stunned silence. The idea that something could affect Baldur—the god who could not be harmed, the immortal warrior, was unthinkable.

"When I spoke to him after the battle," Magath continued, "Baldur was... different. He said he felt something during that fight, something he hadn't felt in a very long time."

"What did he say?" Calvi's voice was barely more than a whisper.

Magath paused, his fingers tapping the table as he recounted the words. "He said it gave him a thrill." He let the words sink in before adding, "Fenrir's arsenal, the mortals' weapons, impressed him. They gave him a challenge. He never thought humans could make him feel that way."

A cold chill ran through the room, the silence almost unbearable. Baldur, the god who could not be killed, thrilled by the weapons of mortals? It was unthinkable. And yet, the battle reports were clear. Something had changed.

One of the younger generals, his face pale and trembling, dared to ask the question in everyone's mind. "What... what kind of weapons are we talking about?"

Magath's face tightened. He had been reluctant to share the full scope of what they were up against, but now, there was no avoiding it. He took a deep breath and leaned forward, his voice dropping as he described the horrors that had unfolded on the eastern front.

"They threw everything at him," Magath began, his voice steady but tinged with disbelief. "Tens of tons worth of munitions, all directed at Baldur. Not just any munitions, either, rune-infused explosives, shells designed to tear apart even the most advanced armor. They were firing at him with heavy artillery, mounted machine guns, and armored trains, and they used everything they had, shells, bullets, incendiaries, and freezing munitions. It didn't matter."

Magath paused, letting the gravity of the situation settle. "They fired so much that they scorched the earth around him. The ground was melting, and the air was thick with smoke and fire. The soldiers reported that they were throwing explosives that ignited the air itself, creating storms of fire, and bullets that froze the blood in their veins if they hit exposed skin."

Krauss's face paled, his voice a near whisper. "And Baldur just... stood there?"

Magath nodded, his expression grim. "He didn't just stand there. He was laughing. Laughing, as though he were playing a game. According to the reports, they hit him directly, again and again, and every time, he just kept laughing. His armor was shredded, his skin torn open, but it didn't matter. His body just regenerated, faster than they could damage him."

The generals exchanged looks of disbelief, their faces etched with horror. Baldur, laughing amidst the carnage, regenerating like that, was a nightmare that couldn't be stopped.

"And then there's the armored train," Magath continued, his voice tight. "One of the enemies' most heavily armed vehicles. It was mounted with cannons, firing off rune-infused shells that could level entire buildings. They aimed it directly at Baldur and hit him with everything they had. The shells were so powerful that they tore up the ground beneath his feet, sending shockwaves that knocked soldiers back a hundred meters. And yet, he just walked through it."

Magath took a breath, his eyes narrowing as he remembered the moment described in the reports. "When the train fired its final salvo, Baldur charged. The soldiers said he moved faster than they had ever seen. He crossed the battlefield in an instant, grabbed the armored train by the side, and with a single punch—"

Magath slammed his fist into the table for emphasis, the sound startling everyone present.

"—he dislodged the train from the tracks and sent it flying. The thing weighed hundreds of tons, and he punched it off the rails like it was nothing. The engineers inside? Gone."

The room was dead silent, every general staring at Magath, their faces drained of color. Baldur's power had always been immense, but the sheer brutality he had displayed on the eastern front, combined with his gleeful, unhinged reaction, was something beyond comprehension.

"And that wasn't the end of it," Magath continued. "They kept coming. The enemy threw everything they had at him. Freezing bullets, acid bombs, explosives infused with runes that caused the very air to warp around him. And each time he was hit, Baldur just... laughed. He let them tear him apart, just to feel it. According to the reports, they hit him so hard that his head was nearly blown off, along with his left arm and half his ribcage."

Krauss leaned forward, his voice trembling with disbelief. "And he... survived that?"

Magath nodded grimly. "Not just survived. He grew it all back. His head, his arm, his ribs, within seconds, it all regenerated. The soldiers said it was like watching a nightmare unfold before their eyes. Baldur just kept going, no matter what they hit him with. And he was... enjoying it. He felt alive."

A chill ran through the room as Magath's words sank in. The idea that Baldur, the invincible, immortal god, had not only survived such a brutal onslaught but had thrilled at the challenge was horrifying.

"And it wasn't just Baldur," Magath added, his voice low. "Magni and Modi were there too. They didn't have Baldur's invulnerability, but their sheer brute strength turned the tide. Together, they summoned a lightning storm, their combined power ripping through the sky and striking the enemy's positions. They called down lightning bolts that obliterated more armored vehicles, soldiers, everything. But even they had to admit... they were impressed by the enemy's innovation."

Calvi's voice was barely more than a whisper. "What did they say?"

Magath looked at him, his eyes dark and filled with unease. "They said the enemy's weapons were unlike anything they had ever seen. Mortar shells that could change direction mid-air as they home in on their target, runes that made bullets glowed with binding light that pinned some of our troops down, or made them fall asleep on the spot, and like I've already said, explode with freezing temperatures or unholy fire. The enemy is using magic and technology together in ways we've never encountered before."

"Still though, for Baldur to enjoy it the way he did, that's what makes him more dangerous now. He's unhinged, more so than before. He wants to fight these weapons again. He wants the thrill. Even Magni and Modi are starting to worry. They said Baldur isn't the same, he's becoming reckless, craving the next challenge."

The room fell into a stunned silence. The commanders were no longer just facing an enemy that could decimate their forces, they were dealing with a god who was thrilled by the carnage. The realization settled over them like a death sentence: they weren't just fighting Fenrir. They were fighting the madness that was spreading within their own ranks.

Finally, Magath spoke again, his voice grim but determined. "This war isn't just about Titans or gods anymore. We're facing something new. Fenrir's creations are pushing even our most powerful weapons to their limits. And if we don't adapt… we're finished."

The tension in the room was suffocating. They knew the truth. Marley was no longer the dominant force it had once been. Fenrir was changing the game, and Baldur… Baldur had lost control.

And if Marley didn't find a way to stop them, the war would be lost before they even realized it.

The room was silent as General Magath continued, the weight of the past battle pressing down on the commanders like an oppressive force. He had outlined the devastating display of Baldur's power, the tens of tons of munitions, the lightning storms, the glee Baldur felt as he tore through everything in his path. But there was one last piece of the report that Magath had yet to touch upon, and he could feel the growing tension as he prepared to share it.

Magath shifted in his chair, his expression hardening as he opened the final page of the report. His hand hovered over the file for a moment before he finally spoke, his voice lower now, darker.

"There's more to what happened on the eastern front," he said quietly, his eyes scanning the faces around the table. "Something that wasn't… included in the main battle summary. It's about what happened after the fight."

A few of the generals exchanged uneasy glances, the tension in the room thickening. Magath's tone alone was enough to unsettle them, and none of them could imagine what else could have possibly happened beyond the chaos he had already described.

Magath leaned forward, resting his hands on the table as he spoke. "After the battle was won, after the enemy forces were obliterated or scattered, Baldur took his time with the survivors in the fort."

Calvi, his eyes narrowed, asked cautiously, "What do you mean, took his time?"

Magath didn't answer right away. He took a deep breath, his eyes lowering to the report in front of him. The details were gruesome, even for someone like him, who had seen the horrors of war for decades. He had read accounts of Baldur's behavior after battle before, but this… this was something else entirely.

"Baldur… entertained himself," Magath finally said, his voice low and cold. "The survivors—those who hadn't been killed by the storm or the explosives, were trapped inside the fort. He… picked them apart. Literally. Some he simply pulled apart with his bare hands, ripped their heads from their bodies, but it wasn't just about killing them."

The generals shifted uncomfortably in their seats. They were soldiers, accustomed to violence, but something about the way Magath was speaking made it clear that this was different. Darker. More personal.

Magath continued, his face set in stone. "According to the witnesses, Baldur was… humiliating them. Toying with them. Some he crushed beneath his heel, others he held in place while he took his time. He tore them apart slowly, making sure they felt every moment of it. Some he forced to watch as he killed their comrades—one by one—until there was nothing left but screams and blood."

Calvi's expression darkened, his voice tense. "This sounds like madness, General."

Magath's eyes met his, and for a moment, the room felt impossibly cold.

"It was madness. That's exactly what it was. Baldur's madness."

Magath paused, letting the weight of his words settle. He hated having to be the one to deliver this news, but there was no other way. They needed to understand what was happening, what Baldur had become. And what had been sacrificed in the process.

"There was one survivor who… spat on him," Magath said after a long moment. His voice had a hard edge now, as though the words were bitter in his mouth. "A soldier from the fort. In his final moments, with nothing left to lose, the man spat in Baldur's face."

Magath clenched his fists as he recalled the scene described in the report. "Baldur didn't kill him right away. No, that would've been too merciful. Instead… he performed the Blood Eagle."

The room fell deathly silent, confusion flickering across the faces of several generals. It was clear that some of them didn't understand the term, and those who did looked visibly unsettled. Magath, sensing their confusion, looked up and continued with a grim expression.

"From Baldur's own mouth, he said he was eager for a sacrifice—that the battle hadn't been enough to quench his thirst. He wanted more. And the Blood Eagle is what he chose."

Calvi's voice, barely above a whisper, asked, "The Blood Eagle?"

Magath nodded slowly, his face hardened by years of witnessing brutality, though even this had shaken him. "The Blood Eagle… It's an ancient form of execution, dating back to the Norsemen. A ritualistic torture, used for sacrifices to the gods. It involves… flaying the skin of the victim's back, opening it up, and then pulling the ribs out to form the shape of wings. The victim's lungs are then pulled out through the open cavity, left hanging like wings as they slowly suffocate to death."

The room went cold. no one spoke. The mere description was enough to make even the most hardened commanders visibly pale. The gruesome nature of the act wasn't just violence, it was ritualistic, sadistic. It wasn't just about killing; it was about pain, about humiliation, about something far darker than mere warfare.

"And Baldur did this," Krauss muttered, his voice barely audible. "To a man who spat on him?"

Magath nodded. "He was… eager for it. According to the reports, Baldur said he hadn't performed the Blood Eagle in centuries. But he was… gleeful about it. The way he described it, his sacrifice, it was as though he was reconnecting with some ancient part of himself. And after it was done… he laughed."

The generals exchanged uneasy glances, the room filled with a palpable sense of dread. Baldur's madness wasn't just a byproduct of the battle; it was something deeper. Primal.

Magath's voice lowered, barely concealing his disgust. "This isn't just about the battlefield anymore. Baldur is seeking something… more. He's no longer just a weapon at our disposal. He's becoming a force we can't control. And if he's looking for sacrifices… we have to ask ourselves what's next."

Calvi swallowed hard, his voice shaking as he spoke. "What if he turns on us? On Marley? If he's… craving this kind of madness?"

Magath stared down at the report in front of him, his jaw clenched as he forced himself to speak the truth they all knew but were too terrified to admit. "Then we're all in danger."

The room fell into a grim silence, the weight of the situation finally sinking in. Marley wasn't just losing the war to Fenrir, they were losing control of their own gods. And Baldur, in his madness, was becoming something far worse than any weapon they could have imagined.

A storm was brewing on the horizon, and as General Magath looked around the table, he realized that Marley might not survive it.

…

The train rattled along the tracks, the steady clatter of wheels against metal doing little to soothe the tension that hung between Colt and Falco. The journey back to the Liberio Internment Zone felt like an eternity, the weight of their recent defeat pressing down on them like a lead blanket. The failed campaign had been brutal, more brutal than anything they could have imagined. Bertolt's neutralization, the spectral warriors, and the sheer madness they had heard about from those who accompanied Baldur had shaken them to their core. Now, they were returning home, but everything felt different. Everything felt... wrong.

Colt sat in silence, his hands gripping his knees as the train swayed. He had barely spoken since the retreat, his mind replaying the horrors they had narrowly escaped. Beside him, Falco stared out the window, his reflection in the glass a stark contrast to the boy who had left Liberio just weeks ago. His face was gaunt, eyes hollow, as if the weight of what he had seen was slowly eating away at him.

The Liberio Internment Zone came into view, a sprawling maze of modest buildings surrounded by high walls that kept the Eldians confined. It was their home, but to Falco, it felt like a cage more than ever now. The sight of it did nothing to ease the knot in his stomach. As the train pulled into the station, the brothers could see groups of returning soldiers being assisted by medics, some missing limbs, others with vacant stares, shell-shocked and broken.

"We're home," Colt said, his voice flat. But neither of them moved right away. For a moment, they just sat there, staring at the place that used to offer comfort, and now only seemed to remind them of what they had lost.

As they finally stepped off the train, the familiar streets of the internment zone greeted them. Soldiers and civilians moved through the area, but the atmosphere was grim. Many of the soldiers were injured, some were missing arms or legs, others had their heads bandaged, and a few were just staring blankly, their bodies there but their minds elsewhere. The once hopeful energy of returning warriors was gone, replaced by the harsh reality of the war's toll.

Falco's gaze wandered over the wounded men, his chest tightening as he saw the lifeless eyes of the soldiers who had survived only to come back broken. They were nothing like the confident warriors who had marched off to the front lines with promises of glory. These men had seen things, experienced things, that left them irreparably scarred.

As they made their way through the streets, Falco's friends appeared in the distance. Zofia and Udo stood chatting with a few others, their faces brighter than Falco had expected. They had seen action on other fronts, but none of them had experienced what Falco had. To them, the war was still a distant, abstract thing, just another chance to prove themselves as warriors of Marley.

Falco felt his stomach twist as he approached. He didn't want to see them. He didn't want to hear about their "victories" or "glory". Not after what he'd seen. But there was no avoiding it.

"Falco! Colt!" Zofia called out, waving with a smile. "We were wondering when you'd get back! How was the fight? We heard things went... intense on your side."

"Yeah," Udo added, stepping forward with an eager grin. "Bet you got to see some real action! So, how many did you take down? We barely saw anything compared to you guys."

Falco stiffened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The way they were talking, so casually, so naively, it made his skin crawl. He exchanged a brief glance with Colt, whose expression was unreadable, but Falco could feel the same frustration simmering beneath the surface.

"They don't know," Colt muttered quietly. "They don't understand."

And they didn't. Falco could see it in their eyes, the lack of understanding, the lack of comprehension. They hadn't been there. They hadn't seen the ghosts, the rune-infused uniforms that made bullets bounce off, how the titans fell on their own retreating forces through those portals, or the blood-soaked nightmare that had unfolded on the battlefield. To them, it was just another battle, another victory for Marley.

One of the boys, a cocky soldier named Lars, scoffed and elbowed Udo, smirking as he eyed Falco. "What's the matter, Falco? You look like you've seen a ghost. What, couldn't handle the heat out there? Maybe you should stick to helping your brother clean up the real soldiers."

Falco froze, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. For a moment, everything around him blurred. The laughter, the smirking faces, the casual dismissal of the horrors they had just lived through. It all became too much.

Without thinking, Falco lunged.

His fist connected with Lars's face before he could stop himself, the sound of bone and flesh colliding echoing in the air. Lars stumbled back, clutching his nose as blood streamed down his face. The look of shock on everyone's faces did nothing to slow Falco's rage.

"You idiot!" Falco shouted, his voice trembling with fury. "Do you have any idea what we went through?! Look around you!" He gestured wildly to the wounded soldiers, the amputees, the men with dead eyes who shuffled through the streets like ghosts. "Does it look like any of these people give a shit about your glory?!"

Lars, still holding his nose, glared back. "What the hell, Falco?!"

Falco's breathing was ragged, his fists still clenched. "They lost everything! We watched people get torn apart—" His voice broke for a moment, his mind flashing back to the battlefield. The chaos, the blood, the screams. "They're dead, Lars. They're all dead. And those of us who survived... we're not the same."

There was a long, stunned silence as everyone stared at him. Zofia and Udo exchanged worried glances, their expressions shifting from confusion to something darker, realization. They hadn't seen it. They hadn't been there. But in Falco's eyes, they could see the truth.

He tackled Lars to the ground with a force that surprised even him, the impact sending both of them sprawling into the dirt. Falco's fists flew before he even realized what he was doing, his knuckles colliding with Lars's face again and again, the dull, sickening thud of bone against flesh reverberating in the air. Blood splattered, and Lars let out a strangled yelp, but Falco didn't hear it. He didn't hear anything.

He wasn't in Liberio anymore.

He was back on the battlefield.

The sounds of laughter and conversation were gone, replaced by the roar of artillery, the ear-splitting howls of Titans, and the screams of dying men. His hands were covered in blood, his fists pounding against something, someone, but all he could see was the carnage, all he could hear were the sounds of war.

Falco was lost, trapped in the violent loop of his own trauma. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart racing as if he were in the middle of a fight for his life. He could see the ghosts circling above, their green eyes burning into him. He could hear the roar of the Titans as they fell from the sky, their massive forms crushing everything in their path.

Lars wasn't Lars anymore. He was just another enemy, another figure in the chaos. Falco's vision blurred, his body moving on instinct as he kept swinging, the world narrowing to the sharp, brutal motion of his fists. Each punch was an attempt to break free, to fight back against the overwhelming helplessness that had consumed him on that battlefield.

Lars's cries of pain didn't register. The blood splattering from his nose and mouth didn't slow Falco down. He wasn't thinking, he couldn't think. He was back there. He could hear the gunfire, the explosions, the sound of men dying all around him. His hands were slick with blood, just like they had been when he tried to save a soldier, only to watch the man's body be torn apart moments later.

"Falco!" Colt's voice broke through the haze, distant but desperate. "Falco, stop!"

But Falco couldn't stop. His vision was tunneling, his fists pounding into Lars's now limp body as if every punch would save him from being dragged back into that nightmare. He was fighting for his life, fighting to escape the memories that threatened to swallow him whole.

Suddenly, strong hands grabbed his arms, pulling him back. Falco struggled against them, still trapped in the violent rhythm of the fight. His muscles strained as he fought against the invisible enemies that had tormented him, but the hands held firm.

"Falco!" Colt's voice was clearer now, sharper. "It's over! Let him go!"

Falco blinked, his vision slowly returning to the present. He felt his arms being pulled away, the pressure on his fists easing as the faces of several soldiers came into focus. Blood dripped from his knuckles, and for a moment, he couldn't understand why. He blinked again, trying to process what had happened, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

"Falco, stop!" one of the wounded soldiers shouted, his grip firm on Falco's arm. "You're gonna kill him!"

Falco's chest heaved as he looked down at Lars, who was lying beneath him, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. Lars's face was swollen and bruised, his eyes glassy with shock and pain. Udo and Zofia were staring at him in horror, and the rest of the group had fallen into a stunned silence, their faces pale.

Falco's mind reeled. He wasn't on the battlefield anymore, but for a terrifying moment, it had felt like he was. His breathing was shallow, his heart still racing as he realized what he had done. His hands, shaking, were covered in Lars's blood, and as the fog of battle slowly cleared from his mind, the weight of it hit him like a hammer.

He had lost control.

He had almost… killed Lars.

Colt knelt beside him, his expression a mix of concern and understanding. "Falco," he said softly, his voice trying to pull him back to reality. "It's over. You're okay."

But Falco didn't feel okay. He didn't feel anything. The memories of the battlefield still haunted him, still clung to his mind like a shadow that refused to leave. He slowly stood, his legs unsteady, as the soldiers who had pulled him off Lars released him.

The group around them was still frozen in shock, Udo's face pale with fear. "What the hell was that, Falco?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Falco didn't respond. He couldn't. His mind was still trapped in that dark place, still reliving the nightmare he thought he had escaped. He didn't look at Lars, didn't meet anyone's eyes. He just stood there, staring at the blood on his hands, the tremor in his fingers refusing to stop.

"Falco," Colt said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder, "let's go."

Falco nodded, his throat tight as he turned and walked away, Colt by his side. His friends remained behind, stunned into silence, their gazes following him as he disappeared into the streets of the internment zone.

As they walked, Colt spoke softly, more to himself than to Falco. "They don't understand, Falco. They don't know what we've seen. They don't know… what it does to you."

Falco didn't respond. He kept walking, his heart heavy, his mind still clouded with the images of war. He had thought coming home would be a relief, but now he wasn't so sure.

The battlefield had followed him.

And it wasn't going to let go.

…

Some-Time later, at Falco and Colt's residence…

The dining room was quiet, the only sound the clinking of cutlery against plates as Falco and Colt sat down for their first meal back home since returning from the battlefield. The food was there, neatly arranged on the table, but it felt like a formality. Falco's parents were trying their best, Colt could see that in the way they spoke to each other, in the way they asked their sons how they were doing, but everything felt... off.

Falco sat across from Colt, his gaze fixed blankly on the plate in front of him, moving the food around with his fork but not really eating. His face was pale, his eyes distant, like he was somewhere else entirely. Their parents exchanged worried glances, but no one said anything. The tension was almost unbearable. , like a thick fog hanging in the room, unspoken but ever-present.

"How was it?" Falco's mother asked softly, her voice filled with forced cheer. "The front lines, I mean. You boys did Marley proud, didn't you?"

Colt glanced at Falco, hoping he would say something—anything—but Falco just stared at his food, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. Colt shifted uncomfortably in his seat, forcing a smile as he tried to fill the silence. "Yeah, we... did what we had to do. It's... over for now."

Their father nodded, his brow furrowed with concern. "That's good. That's what matters—getting the job done and coming home safe." He looked at Falco, who still hadn't touched his food. "Falco, son, you're not eating. You alright?"

Falco blinked slowly, like he was coming out of a daze, and looked down at his plate. "Yeah... I'm fine," he muttered, but the way his voice trembled slightly made it clear that he wasn't.

The silence returned, heavier this time. Colt could feel it in the way his parents glanced at each other, could feel it in the way Falco kept his eyes glued to his plate. He wanted to say something, to change the subject, but he couldn't think of anything. All he could do was watch as Falco picked up his glass of water and lifted it to his lips.

And then Colt saw it.

The tremor.

It was faint, almost imperceptible, but Colt noticed it right away, the way Falco's hand shook as he held the glass. The water inside rippled slightly, and for a moment, Colt felt his stomach twist in knots. Falco paused mid-drink, his hand hovering in the air, and that's when Colt saw it, the look in his eyes. The blank, haunted stare of someone who wasn't sitting at a dinner table anymore.

"Falco?" Colt said softly, his voice tight with concern.

But Falco didn't respond. His hand lowered slowly, setting the glass back on the table with a soft clink, his eyes still locked on some invisible point in the distance. Colt swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest as he realized how far gone his brother really was.

"What happened?" their mother asked, her voice barely a whisper. "Falco, what...?"

Falco's breath hitched, his gaze shifting slightly but still distant, still elsewhere. "He died... gloriously," he said, his voice cold, detached. "My buddy. We called him Lucky Jim."

Colt's blood ran cold at the tone in Falco's voice, the way he said it like it was nothing. Like he was talking about something mundane, something that didn't matter. But the words that followed were anything but.

"He was... torn in half," Falco continued, his hand still trembling as it rested on the table. "But not like you'd think. Not quick. Not clean. It was from the hips... just below the waist. He was still alive... still conscious."

Colt felt the air grow heavy as Falco went on, the words coming out slowly, each one laced with a strange, eerie calmness that sent a chill down his spine. Their parents exchanged horrified glances, but neither of them said anything.

"His arms..." Falco's voice wavered slightly, his eyes glazing over with the memory. "They were blown off. By incendiary rounds. We were supposed to... use explosives... to take down a machine-gun nest, but... he couldn't. Not with his arms gone. He couldn't even reach for the detonator."

The tremor in his hand grew worse, the glass shaking slightly on the table, but Falco didn't seem to notice. He just kept talking, his voice growing quieter, more distant.

"He just... lay there. Couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Just... watched as the gunfire and explosions went off all around him. And me... I was right there, next to him. None of the bullets hit us. Not one. The whole time... everyone else was getting torn apart, blown to pieces. Twenty people, at least. Mowed down... and their blood, their pieces... just rained down on us, guess he really was lucky… that didn't save his ass though… quite literally."

Falco's parents stared at him, wide-eyed, horrified by the cold, detached way their youngest son was speaking. Colt felt his heart racing, the blood pounding in his ears as he watched Falco, sitting there so still, so composed, but his voice, his voice was terrifyingly calm.

"Falco..." their mother whispered, her face pale. "What... what happened to him?"

Falco didn't look up. He didn't meet anyone's gaze. His eyes were locked on the table, still far away from the room, from the safety of home. He continued, as if the words were just spilling out, detached from any real emotion.

"He was still breathing," Falco murmured, his tone even, unnervingly steady. "His body was torn apart, and his arms... they were just gone. But somehow, he was still breathing. Still alive. I don't know how... but he could feel everything. I could see it in his eyes. The pain. The fear. He could hear the gunfire. He could see the explosions. And he could see me... sitting right next to him, untouched."

Colt's stomach twisted, the sick feeling building in his chest as he listened. He had been there, on that battlefield, but the details... the specifics of what had happened to Lucky Jim... Falco had kept them to himself until now.

"I thought we'd both die," Falco continued, his hand trembling so badly now that it shook the table. "We were covered in... in everyone else. Their blood, their... pieces. They were all getting ripped apart, and we just... sat there. Covered in it. But none of it hit us. Not one bullet. Not one piece of shrapnel. It just... didn't."

His voice dropped to a whisper, almost like he was afraid to say the next part out loud. "And Jim... he kept begging. He wasn't screaming, not anymore. He didn't have the strength. But he kept begging me. Just a few words... over and over again."

"Falco," their father said, his voice trembling, but Falco kept speaking, his words flowing in a steady, hollow rhythm.

"Kill me. That's what he said. Over and over. He couldn't move. He couldn't do anything. But he wanted it to end. He was in so much pain... and he just kept begging."

Colt's breath hitched as Falco went on, his heart pounding in his chest as his brother's voice grew quieter.

"So, I did it," Falco whispered. "I took my sidearm... and I put it against his head. He didn't even flinch. He just... closed his eyes. And then... I pulled the trigger."

The room fell into a heavy silence. The kind of silence that smothered everything, where even the smallest sound felt deafening. Colt stared at his brother, unable to find any words. His parents were frozen in their seats, their faces pale and their eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

Falco's hand was still shaking, his eyes still fixed on the table. "That's why we called him Lucky Jim," he murmured. "Because no bullets hit him. No explosions got him. He made it through... until he didn't and the devil in the details finally got that piece of ass that was so lucky."

A dark, eerie chuckle escaped Falco's lips, but it was devoid of any humor. "Guess his luck ran out."

Colt swallowed hard, his throat tight. He had known it was bad. They had all seen death out there, had faced the horrors of war. But to hear Falco speak like that, to hear him recount the death of his friend with such chilling detachment... it was like watching a part of his brother fade away in real time.

"Falco," Colt said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "You... you didn't have a choice."

But Falco didn't respond. He just sat there, his hand still trembling, the haunted look in his eyes refusing to leave. He wasn't at the dinner table anymore. He was still back on that battlefield, with Lucky Jim lying beside him, torn in half and begging for death.

And no matter what Colt said, he couldn't bring Falco back from that place.

Falco's trembling hand reached for the glass again, but it stopped halfway, hovering in the air as if he couldn't bring himself to complete the motion. His voice, which had started to quiet, took on a darker, more twisted edge, as if the next part of the memory had somehow burrowed deeper into him.

"And the worst part was..." Falco continued, his voice a low murmur, devoid of anything human. "On the way back, after I'd... after I'd done it, I found the rest of him. His... ass."

Colt's heart sank, a cold dread creeping up his spine as Falco spoke.

"His body was torn in half, but I found the bottom half, his hips and legs, just lying there, severed, but... perfectly intact. Just a few feet away from where we'd been."

His voice wavered, the horror of the memory twisting in his expression, though he still wore that haunted, faraway look. "It was like someone had just... placed it there. Like it didn't belong to him anymore, like it was some kind of... joke."

Their parents sat frozen, too shocked to speak, their faces pale and their eyes wide with disbelief. Colt could hardly breathe, his stomach turning as Falco's words grew more chilling with each passing second.

"I remember staring at it," Falco whispered, "just... staring. Wondering how something so whole could be so... wrong. He was gone, but that piece of him... it was still there. Still in one piece."

Falco's voice cracked, his lips twitching into a twisted, eerie smile, though his eyes remained distant. "Lucky Jim... that's what we called him. He survived everything. Even when he didn't."

The silence that followed was unbearable. Colt couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't find the words to stop Falco's descent into the nightmare he had lived through. Their parents sat in stunned horror, their faces drained of color.

And Falco, he was still there. Still in that battlefield, still staring at the broken remains of his friend. The room around him, the safety of home, the presence of his family... none of it mattered anymore.

Because part of Falco had never come back from that war.

As the heavy silence settled over the room like a suffocating weight, a sharp knock on the door startled everyone. Colt's eyes darted to the door, his breath catching in his throat. Falco didn't react at all, his gaze still fixed on the table, lost in the horrors of his mind.

Their father stood first, clearing his throat as he pushed his chair back and made his way toward the door. The tension in the room was , every second of silence amplifying the sense of dread hanging over them.

When he opened the door, two figures stood in the entrance, internment police officers, clad in their black uniforms. They looked slightly uncomfortable, their hats pulled low, eyes flickering with unease as they glanced between each other and then at Falco's father.

"Can I help you?" his father asked, his voice tight with a mix of apprehension and forced calm.

The taller officer stepped forward, his posture stiff. "Sorry to bother you this evening, sir," he said, shifting slightly. "But we've been given some... orders from up top."

Falco's father frowned, his grip tightening on the edge of the door. "Orders?"

The officer nodded, glancing over his shoulder before continuing, as if making sure no one was around to listen. "It's about your son, Falco Grice. We've been told to bring him in... for evaluation."

Colt felt his stomach drop, the words hanging in the air like a death sentence. He exchanged a quick glance with his mother, who had gone pale. The room suddenly felt colder.

"Evaluation?" their father echoed, his voice rising slightly. "For what? What's going on?"

The officer looked even more uncomfortable now, his gaze dropping momentarily to the floor. "It's about... the incident earlier today. With... Lars."

Colt's heart sank. He knew what they were talking about. The fight. The blood. He had seen the look on Falco's face when he was pulled off Lars, his hands covered in blood, his body trembling from more than just anger. And now, he understood why the police were here.

The other officer, who had remained silent until now, cleared his throat awkwardly before speaking. "We... we received word from the hospital. Lars... he's in a coma."

The room seemed to freeze.

Colt's mother let out a soft gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. His father's face hardened, his grip on the door tightening further. And Colt—his breath hitched as he looked at Falco, who was still staring blankly at the table, completely unaware of what was happening.

"A coma?" their father repeated, his voice barely concealing the shock. "He—"

The first officer cut in, his tone softer now, as if trying to ease the blow. "We've been ordered to bring Falco in for evaluation. It's not... punishment. It's to get him treatment."

"Treatment?" their mother's voice was barely a whisper now, as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "What kind of treatment?"

The officer hesitated. "He... he needs help, ma'am. There's no easy way to say this, but it's clear from what happened that... your son's not well. We need to evaluate his state of mind and get him the help he needs before... well, before anything else happens."

Colt's blood turned to ice as the weight of the situation sank in. They were taking Falco. He wasn't just going to be questioned; they were going to put him under evaluation. They thought he was... dangerous.

Falco still hadn't moved, hadn't reacted to the knock, the voices, the news. He was sitting there, staring into nothing, his hand trembling ever so slightly as it rested on the table.

"Falco..." Colt whispered, his voice shaking. He stood, walking over to his brother and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Falco, it's... they're here for you."

Falco blinked slowly, turning his head just a fraction, his eyes still distant, like he didn't fully understand what was happening.

The officers exchanged glances before one of them stepped forward, speaking more gently this time. "We don't want to cause any trouble. But we need to bring him in. It's for his own good. We'll make sure he gets the treatment he needs."

Colt's father, still standing in the doorway, looked torn between anger and helplessness. "How long will he be gone?" he asked, his voice strained.

"We're not sure, sir," the officer replied. "It depends on the evaluation. We just want to make sure he gets the help he needs. If he's stable, he can come home. But right now... it's best if he comes with us."

Colt's mother finally found her voice, stepping forward. "Please... please don't hurt him," she begged, her eyes brimming with tears. "He's... he's not himself. He just needs help."

The officer nodded, his expression softening. "We're not here to hurt him, ma'am. We're just here to take him to get treatment. We promise."

Falco's father turned to Colt, his face tight with worry. "Colt... go with him. Don't let them take him alone."

Colt nodded, his heart heavy as he placed a hand on Falco's shoulder. "I'm coming with you, Falco," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Falco blinked again, his eyes flickering with brief recognition as he turned to look at Colt. For a moment, it seemed like Falco might say something, but instead, he simply nodded, standing up from the table, his movements slow and mechanical.

The officers stepped aside, watching as Colt led his brother to the door. The tension in the air was suffocating, and Colt could feel the weight of his parents' gaze on his back as he and Falco left the house, the officers following closely behind.

As they stepped out into the night, Colt's heart pounded in his chest. He didn't know what would happen next, but one thing was clear.

Falco needed help.

And Colt wasn't going to let him face it alone.