Chapter Text
“Captain! Leave it! It’s too late!”
“Captain, we have to move! You have to get up!”
“Behind you!!”
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The whole of humanity has endured behind the safety of the walls for generations, though much has changed in the centuries since humankind was forced to seek refuge within them. The advancement of technology could not be impeded forever, and over the years, society has modernized. Great leaps in progress were made in every field; medicine, military technology, industry, history, even religion. Through all of these new discoveries, humankind has found the means to thrive. Humans have been able to expand their territory far beyond the reach of the three original walls.
While human society has advanced, strengthened, and reclaimed more of the land they once inhabited, they are still caged, for outside those great walls remains the horror that has always trapped them there.
Titans.
More than that horror was the discovery made by the Survey Corps when they still existed: The humans living behind the walls really were the last ones left. Many fear, as they always have, that humanity may never triumph over the titans. It’s a fear that grows stronger with each generation. Many are complacent despite their fear, but there are those who still fight that seemingly inevitable fate.
Even with every new weapon, each more powerful than the last, and every new defense constructed, the titan threat is no closer to being eliminated. Whenever the military fights a great battle, killing hundreds if not thousands of titans in their endless war, the titans only come back stronger, smarter, and in greater numbers. It seems as though each soldier fallen in action is replaced with one more titan they have to fight.
Those great battles have been numerous. Countless lives have been lost in humanity’s fruitless struggle against the titans. It’s only natural, then, that very few individuals would voluntarily enlist, knowing they will die in vain. That attitude is so prevalent amongst those of fighting age that the military eventually instated a draft to maintain the necessary number of boots on the ground. Every parent dreads their child’s fifteenth birthday.
Regardless, humanity is much safer than it once was, even with all the new dangers that they face. There are early warning systems now; sirens sounding whenever the risk of a breach might occur, or whenever a titan is detected within the cities so that people can seek shelter in underground bunkers before disaster strikes.
Safety from rogue titans is a reassuring thought, but everybody knows the threat is not entirely gone. There are now groups that sympathize with the titans and whose intent is to suppress humanity, their ultimate goal to establish a fully titan society. They target the bunkers, hiding in plain sight among the refugees until they transform. They eat some of the humans who sought shelter from them, while certain ones they inject with a type of black-market titan serum. The presence of armed Military Police in the bunkers keeps them no safer. Many distrust the government’s insistence that the soldiers are posted there for their protection.
Direct attacks on the walls are less common but still a concern for those residing in the outer cities.
But life goes on, as it must. People carry out their day-to-day routines despite the fear lurking in the back of their minds. They shop, they cook, they run their businesses, they play games and entertain themselves, they fight, they create, they sing and dance, they marry and have children, and they send their children to school to learn of all the things they didn’t learn in school when they were younger.
Life even goes on in the peaceful community that exists upon the ruins of an ancient city, a famous one, one the history books say was once called Shiganshina.
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A boy emerges from a crowd of people exiting the front doors of a sizeable brick building. It’s a school—a high school, to be exact. The students around him chat freely with their friends, laughing and shoving each other, bumping into others near them who are less amused at their antics.
That one boy, however, does not bear that same youthful look of joy. He walks silently, alone, green eyes dull and downcast. The others have dispersed, marching like lines of ants down the streets and sidewalks towards their homes, or their friends' homes, or to places to entertain themselves in the company of others, leaving behind the somber boy with the green eyes to sit in solitude as he occupies his usual spot.
He is always alone.
In front of the school is a statue. It’s a large statue, the figure of a man standing triumphant atop a prone body, sword raised skyward, cape fluttering behind him. Around him, flowers are planted, blooming petals of pure white nestled in deep green leaves. A beautiful sight, a monument to a hero lost to the ages. That is where the boy sits, crossing his legs on the bench that bears a memorial plaque praising that brave and noble hero. The boy turns to face the statue, a worn, leather-bound book and pen resting on his lap.
Every day this young man sits before the hero’s likeness, writing or drawing in that little book he carries. He doesn’t always open the book. There are days when he simply sits and rests in its company, and others when he talks to the statue as if it were alive and listening, as if it could respond. His classmates ridicule him when they see him doing this, but he’s long learned to tune them out. It is not something they can ever understand. It’s something he’s wasted too much time explaining.
Besides, it isn’t all that unusual to do such a thing. Some people do the same to images of their god, saying prayers and asking for blessings. He believes in no gods, yet sometimes there is still a prayer on his lips. A wish. With the wishes come tears, and when he says goodbye, he always strokes the statue's foot, a smooth spot worn there as evidence of years and years of this same action.
And so the boy sits, his mouth moving as he murmurs to the replica of the soldier. He pays no attention to his surroundings, actively willing away the cruel world around him. His back is turned to the street, and he sees naught but the figure of the long-dead man in front of him.
That’s why he doesn’t notice the footsteps behind him, or the gasp, or the thump of something soft but heavy dropping to the ground.
It’s only when he hears the thing that shocks him, stops his heart, causes his hand to lose its grip on his pen, which clatters on the concrete beside him–only then does he return to reality. What he’s heard is a voice.
A deep voice. A familiar voice, though the waver in the words it says, a familiar phrase spoken in a long-dead tongue, is unfamiliar. It’s hesitant, a question carried on barely a breath, but he understands it nonetheless.
“…Mein Schätzchen.”
His body acts on its own, swiftly turning toward the source of those words he’d heard solely in his dreams.
And this must be a dream, he thinks, as he struggles to comprehend the beautiful apparition, surely an illusion constructed by his disturbed mind. Yet he speaks, some dormant instinct surfacing in him, a reply on his tongue before he even realizes he’s whispering the response he’s always given.
“…Meine Füchschen.”
Illusions and apparitions aren’t solid. The lips against his are.
They are too warm, too firm, too alive to be a figment of his imagination. The weathered hands that firmly grip his face, the hot, salty liquid streaming from both green and grey to mingle with the familiar taste of the mouth pressed to his own, the comforting scent he knew he loved but dwelt only in the deepest recesses of his subconscious mind until this very moment. All of them are far too real. They were only dreams before, but now they are flesh and bone, blood and breath and life.
No. He understands now. They were never dreams at all.
They were memories.