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  The surrounding stench was biblical. Words couldn’t even describe how bloody awful it smelt.

  Hannes leaned on his shovel, wiping sweat and something far worse from his brow with the back of his arm. The refugee camp's latrine pits were located downwind, a sprawling, open trench that was the absolute bottom of the military hierarchy. Flies buzzed in a thick, lazy cloud. The air was thick and hot, heavy with the miasma of human waste.

  With a soft, plopping sound, one of the scrawny cattle penned nearby added its own contribution to the mountain of filth he was tasked with managing.

  "…Thanks," Hannes muttered to the cow, his voice devoid of any emotion. He felt hollowed out, a shell of the man he'd been, even the drunken, regret-filled man he was before. This was his life now. This was his punishment.

  His mind drifted back, a welcome, if painful, escape from the present hellscape.

  Five Weeks Ago; Military barracks: Trost district…

  The room was too clean, too orderly. It smelled of polished wood and authority, a stark contrast to the blood and chaos Hannes had just lived through. He stood at attention, still in his stained uniform, flanked by Stefan, Hank and several others of his garrison comrades. Before them, a Military Police officer with an impeccably trimmed mustache and a look of profound disdain examined a report.

  "…And so, despite clear standing orders to maintain the gate and not incite panic, you, Sergeant Hannes, not only opened the gate without authorization but also led a junior soldier on an unsanctioned patrol into a volatile sector, resulting in his injury and the spread of baseless, hysterical rumors." The officer’s voice was flat, final.

  "With all due respect, sir," Hannes interjected, his own voice rough. "What we saw wasn't-"

  "I did not give you permission to speak, Sergeant!" the officer snapped, slapping a hand on the desk. "Your record is already marred by insubordination and drunkenness. This latest fantasy about 'glowing eyes' and 'ghosts' is the final straw. It is precisely this kind of irresponsible behavior that undermines public trust in the Garrison."

  He looked at each of them in turn. "Your punishment is as follows: Soldier Don, suspended pay for one month, reassigned to gate duty at the southern edge. Soldier Stefan and Hank, demoted, reassigned to refugee camp supply distribution."

  His eyes settled on Hannes, cold and pitiless. "And you, Sergeant Hannes, are hereby stripped of your rank. You will be reassigned to permanent waste management and latrine duty within the refugee sector. Perhaps the stench of reality will finally clear your head of these… phantoms." The MP turned his attention to the remaining ones present. “As for the rest of you-”

  The door to the office opened without a knock, cutting him off. Another MP stood there, different from the others. He was leaner, his uniform somehow sharper, his eyes a pale, calculating blue that scanned the room and instantly dismissed the mustached officer.

  "That's quite enough, Lieutenant," the new arrival said, his voice smooth and devoid of heat, yet it carried an absolute authority that made the first officer snap his mouth shut. "That is not how we handle... nuanced situations."

  The blue-eyed MP's gaze drifted past the fuming lieutenant and settled on Hannes. He didn't look angry or disdainful. He looked... curious.

  "Sergeant Hannes, been hearing reports lately." he said, his tone almost conversational. "Your actions that night were, by the book, a catastrophic series of insubordinations." He paused, letting the weight of the statement hang in the air. Then, a faint, unnerving hint of a smile touched his lips. "And yet, the results are... interesting. Your reasons, I find, are even more so."

  He gestured towards the door. "My superior would like a word. A private word."

  The dismissal of the other officer was absolute. Stunned, Hannes was led not to another opulent office, but to a sparse, windowless room in a different wing. The man who awaited him was seated in shadow, but Hannes could feel his gaze. When he leaned forward, the light caught his eyes, revealing them to be golden in color.

  They weren't just predatory. They were… hungry. Like a bird of prey that had spotted something interesting twitching in the grass.

  "Your report was… fascinating, soldier," the man said, his voice a low murmur. " So please, do tell me. I did like to know about what had transpired last night."

  Hannes shuddered, the memory of that predatory gaze more chilling than the foulest stench around him. He didn't know who that man was, or what branch of the MP he represented, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty: that man, was definitely something else.

  He drove his shovel back into the muck with a grimace. Something tells him this isn’t the end of that matter.

  _________________

  The silence in Grandpa Arlet’s shack (Old one replaced) was a fragile thing, stretched thin over a chasm of unspoken truths. Five weeks of recovery had put flesh back on the old man’s bones and color back in his cheeks, but a new, profound weariness had settled in his eyes; a weariness that spoke of decades, not weeks. Armin sat across from him at the small, rough-hewn table, a cup of untouched herbal tea cooling between his hands.

  He was glad. Fiercely, desperately glad his grandfather was alive. The memory of the old man walking towards Zs’Skayr, a final, was a wound that still bled in the quiet moments. But that gratitude was now entwined with a thick, thorny vine of confusion, betrayal, and a desperate, burning need to understand.

  Armin’s ocean blue eyes took a glance at his grandfather that was busying himself with bundling set of wood. While it may seem peaceful, there was still tension brewing between the two related family members. The last time he had tried talking into his grandfather’s past was around two weeks ago…

  “Grandpa,” Armin began, his voice soft but unwavering. He’d rehearsed this a hundred times in his head. “We can’t… we can’t go on like this. Not knowing. You kept so much from us. From me.”

  Mikasa, stood by the door like a sentinel, shifted her weight almost imperceptibly. Eren; who hasn’t been saying much for nearly 3 weeks now; leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, didn’t move, but his gaze was laser fixed on the old man. The air hummed with the tension of a bowstring drawn taut.

  Grandpa Arlet sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the dust of distant worlds. He looked at his grandson, then at Eren, then at Mikasa, as if weighing their souls.

  “You’re right,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, yet carrying a strange, resonant clarity it had never held before. “The time for half-truths is past. It’s a luxury we can no longer afford.”

  He leaned forward, his gnarled hands clasped on the table. “The first thing you must understand… is that I am not from here.”

  Armin blinked. “Not… from the walls? You mean, from outside the walls?”

  A faint, sad smile touched the old man’s lips. “No, Armin. Farther than that. Much, much farther.” He paused, choosing his words with the care of a man defusing a bomb. “I am not from this world.”

  The words landed in the room like stones dropped into a still pond. Armin’s mind, so adept at mapping the logic of his known universe, scrambled for purchase. Not from this world. The concept was so vast, so utterly alien, it was like trying to imagine a new color.

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  “I don’t… understand,” Armin whispered, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.

  “There are other worlds, Armin,” his grandfather explained gently. “Spheres like this one, hanging in the blackness of the void, orbiting distant suns. They are called planets. And the beings that live on them… some, like me… are what you would call… aliens.”

  The word, ‘alien’, hung in the air, strange and unsettling. Mikasa’s hand went unconsciously to the fabric of her shirt over her heart. Eren’s scowl deepened, a flicker of something dark and understanding in his eyes. He’d worn the skins of these ‘aliens’. Hell this device came from the stars in the first place. The concept wasn’t theoretical to him.

  “Then… I…” Armin’s voice was a breath. The implications crashed over him. The blood in his veins, the memories of his parents, the very essence of who he was… it was all called into question.

  “You are my grandson,” his grandfather said firmly, his voice softening. “Your father was my son. His humanity… and mine… were compatible enough. You are of this world, Armin. But yes, a part of you… the spark that allows you to grasp concepts beyond your peers, the curiosity that burns in you… that is your heritage.”

  Armin felt the world tilt. He was part… other. The boy who dreamed of a world beyond the walls was, in a literal, biological sense, from beyond it. The revelation was at once terrifying and, in a way he couldn't yet process, validating.

  “Why?” Eren’s voice cut through the stunned silence, sharp and demanding. “Why are you here?”

  Grandpa Arlet’s expression grew grim, the soldier; the Wrecker; coming to the fore. “I was part of an organization. A… a division, you could say. Our task was to protect the peace, to travel between the stars and dismantle threats that could endanger entire civilizations. We were called Wreckers.”

  Intergalactic. Space division. The words were meaningless sounds to Mikasa and Armin, but the intent was clear: he was a soldier on a scale they could not fathom.

  “There was a situation,” the old man continued, his gaze growing distant. “A potential crisis on this world. I was sent here to monitor it, to assess the threat. But it was… is… far more complicated than we ever anticipated.”

  He took a deep breath, steeling himself. “The primary subject of our concern is an organism we designated the Xerxathi Parasite from our archive.”

  The moment the word left his lips, Eren stiffened. His crossed arms dropped to his sides, his fists clenching.

  “That word,” Eren interrupted with a low, dangerous growl. “I’ve heard it before. When this device-Omnitrix; first defected; when I was held by that Titan… a voice said ‘Xerxathi DNA detected’. And Zs’Skayr… he said we were all cages for it. What is it?”

  Armin watched his grandfather closely. At the mention of the parasite, a profound, deep-seated sorrow filled the old man’s eyes, a sorrow laced with something that looked chillingly like… guilt.

  “The Xerxathi is not a disease in the way you understand it,” Grandpa Arlet said, his voice becoming cryptic, evasive. “It does not immediately kill its host. It… integrates. It becomes a fundamental, symbiotic part of a species’ biology. Could last for generations if one can assimilate it properly from the prime host.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” Armin pressed, his strategist’s mind latching onto the puzzle. “If it’s symbiotic, if it’s been here for that long, why are you here to monitor it as a threat?”

  His grandfather looked away, towards the wall, as if he could see through it to the very structure of their world. “Because the symbiosis is a lie,” he said quietly. “A very, very effective one. This parasite’s case is surprisingly… dormant, like it’s waiting. Its end-stage lifecycle… would be a problem. A cataclysm.”

  “End-stage? Like an apocalypse?” Eren repeated, taking a step forward. The air in the room grew cold. “What does it do?!”

  “That is enough for now!” Grandpa Arlet’s voice cracked like a whip, sudden and final. He turned back to them, and the weariness was gone, replaced by the iron will of a commander. The shift was so abrupt it was jarring. “This is not a children’s story. The full truth of the Xerxathi is not a burden you are ready to carry. Knowing its nature could… accelerate things. Attract attention we cannot afford.”

  He looked directly at Eren, his gaze intense. “You have enough to worry about learning to control the power on your wrist. You do not need the weight of a planetary extinction event on your shoulders. Not yet.”

  The conversation was over just like that.

  Armin could remember clearly Eren’s furious and betrayed one then his grandfather’s pained but resolute one. He was glad his only family was alive. But he now understood that the secrets that had almost killed them were nothing compared to the secrets that still threatened to consume them all.

  ________________

  The stone corridors of the Survey Corps headquarters were perpetually cold, a damp chill that seeped into the bones and refused to leave. Captain Levi moved through them with his customary, silent efficiency, a steaming cup of black tea held in one hand, a thin folder of reports tucked under his other arm. He had just come from Erwin’s office, and the air of grim calculation that always surrounded the Commander clung to him like a second cloak.

  Nearly a year has passed by. Nearly a year since two monsters; one a mass of steam, the other a walking fortress; had kicked the door to hell off its hinges and unleashed a nightmare. Wall Maria was gone, and with it, the hard-won progress of a decade of expeditions. Every path they had carved, every supply depot they had established, was now lost, either crushed underfoot or overrun by the mindless bastards that now undoubtedly packed the territory wall-to-wall. The setback was more than a nuisance; it was a stranglehold on their very purpose. Every proposed route now was a gamble, a potential deathtrap they had to map from scratch.

  His sharp eyes flicked sideways as he passed an open doorway. Inside, Moblit Berner; a fellow survey corps member as himself; looked like a man slowly being consumed by a paper avalanche. His desk was a chaotic landscape of scrolls, maps, and half-finished reports, and the man himself had the hollow-eyed, twitchy look of someone who hadn't seen proper sunlight in a week.

  There’s only one person that comes to mind for this.

  “Still cleaning up Four-Eyes’ mess?” Levi asked, his tone flat but not unkind.

  Moblit jumped, nearly knocking over an inkwell. “C-Captain Levi! Sir. Yes, just… reorganizing Squad Leader Hange’s field notes on Titan fecal consistency and its correlation to… well, it doesn’t matter.” He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. “And now there’s the addendum on the crystalline structure analysis…”

  Levi took a slow sip of his tea. “Hell,” he stated, the single word carrying the weight of profound understanding. He gave a curt nod. “Carry on, Moblit. Your suffering is reverently noted.”

  He continued on, his quiet footsteps echoing faintly. As he passed Hange’s office, the door was ajar. A low, excited muttering drifted out. He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. He knew that tone. It was the same one she used when dissecting a Titan’s eyeball or measuring its severed fingers. It was the sound of obsessive, single-minded focus.

  Pushing the door open, he was met with a familiar sight, yet one that had grown more intense. Hange Zoe was hunched over her microscope, her glasses magnifying her wide, unblinking eyes to a disturbing degree. The object of her fixation was, as he’d suspected, that damnable shard. The one from the so-called “Crystal Titan.” Or, as some reports were now calling it, “Obsidian.” A small, flawless piece of what looked like green diamond, about the size of his thumb, caught the lamplight and threw off sharp, prismatic sparks. On the desk beside her was the larger main shard, defiantly unbroken save for the tiny piece she’d managed to chip off for this analysis.

  She was so engrossed she didn’t even register his presence.

  “Hange,” Levi said.

  “Mhm,” she mumbled, adjusting a dial on the microscope.

  “Four-Eyes.”

  “Yes, yes…”

  “Zoe.”

  “Fascinating refractive index…” she whispered, scribbling a note without looking up.

  With a sigh of utter exasperation, Levi reached out and plucked the tiny shard from the microscope’s stage.

  Hange jolted as if electrocuted, her head snapping up. “Hey! I was—!” Her protest died in her throat as she saw who it was. “Levi! Give that back!”

  “How the hell do you lack this much awareness?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm. He rolled the shard between his thumb and forefinger. It was cold and impossibly smooth. “You’re cooped up with your research, titanshit, and now… this thing. It’s nearly been a goddamn year. How are you still salivating over a rock?”

  “It’s not a rock!” Hange said, a look of mock insult on her face. She stood up, gesturing wildly. “It’s a masterpiece of unknown biology or mineralogy! It withstood a direct impact from the Armored Titan! We couldn’t break it; we couldn’t scratch it! Do you have any idea what that means?!”

  “It means it’s a hard rock,” Levi deadpanned, taking another sip of tea. He wasn’t one to believe in savior miracles. A Titan that fought its own kind? A Titan that, according to scattered, panicked reports from Shiganshina survivors, was smaller, faster, could talk, and projected shards like this? It stank. It stank of a setup.

  “Erwin might cautiously label it an ‘ally of humanity for now’,” Levi continued, his grey eyes narrowing. “But he always adds ‘with an agenda.’ That’s the part that worries me. A hidden agenda. What if this ‘Obsidian’ was working with the Colossal and Armored? A feint to make us lower our guard. A Trojan horse made of fucking crystal.”

  “You’re a paranoid baby, Levi,” Hange retorted, snatching the shard back from his hand and clutching it to her chest protectively, like it was an actual child.

  His gaze didn’t waver. “Keep calling me that and I’ll make those four eyes two.” Then his eyes lowered to the larger piece sitting beside Hange. “Or maybe I’ll just take this precious shard of yours and see how it holds up under a sledgehammer.”

  Hange gasped, hugging the shard tighter. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched Levi’s lips before vanishing. "Tch. Disgusting. You're getting your grubby fingerprints all over it." He set his tea down on a rare clean spot on her desk. “Have you heard? The government has ‘graciously’ rescheduled our next expedition. Pushed it up. On purpose.”

  Hange’s playful demeanor faded, replaced by a sharp curiosity. “I’d heard whispers. Why?”

  “Dug up for some facts. Apparently, the plan involves the Wall Maria refugees,” Levi said, his voice dropping, losing its edge and becoming flat with cold analysis. “Some grand ‘Reclamation Event’ they’re planning in a few months. Using them as a screen, or bait, or both. The question is, what the hell are those pigs in the interior thinking? And what part are we meant to play in their little drama?”

  The normally enthusiastic head scientist let out a weary sigh. “Who knows. We can’t really do much can we…” It was rhetorical, and the captain already knew the answer.

  “If you are done ogling on that rock, you can arrange this damn place. Looks like a shed for horses.” With that Levi picked up his tea again, the conversation clearly over. Without another word, he turned and left Hange to her crystalline obsession, not like she was going to drop it anytime soon. He had other pressing weights to deal with.

  The recent conversation with Erwin echoed in his mind. After the strategic briefing, the Commander had remained seated, his single hand steepled under his chin.

  "One more thing, Levi," Erwin had said, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument. "Review the proposed squad formations. As a Captain, it is past time you selected your own dedicated team. Your capabilities are wasted without a specialized unit to command. It would increase our operational efficiency significantly."

  Levi had stared at him, his expression a mask of blank displeasure. "Tch. A team? So I can play babysitter to a bunch of snot-nosed brats or cramped up adults who don't know how to wipe their own asses, let alone clean their gear?"

  "Your expertise in survival and combat is unparalleled," Erwin countered, unmoved. "That expertise should be passed on, and leveraged. A unit that moves and thinks as an extension of you would be a formidable asset."

  The idea was profoundly bothersome. It had been a long time since he'd been part of a real "team." The word brought up the ghosts of a filthy underground, of Isabel's booming laugh and Furlan's calm reasoning; a memory that was a dull, persistent ache even now. Since then, any temporary squad he'd been assigned to was a lesson in frustration, primarily due to their universally shitty taste in hygiene. And he was absolutely, unequivocally, nowhere near setting foot in Hange's squad. The woman kept Titan specimens in jars next to her lunch. God only knew what kind of bacterial horrors festered in that office.

  He finally reached his own office, a space of stark, almost aggressive cleanliness that stood in direct opposition to the chaos he'd just left. He placed the folder from Erwin on his immaculate desk and sat down. The memo about the team was on top.

  ‘...Your own dedicated team...’

  He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. The ghosts of his past and the looming, messy reality of the future pressed in on him. A hidden agenda Titan made of crystal. A government playing games with human lives. And now, the prospect of being saddled with a squad of grubby, idealistic children who would probably get themselves killed.

  With a quiet sigh, he reached for his teacup, bringing it to his lips for a final, comforting sip.

  It was lukewarm. No longer hot.

  Can’t let good tea go to waste.

  He drained the cup in one go, the temperature a small, controlled comfort in a world rapidly spiraling beyond his control. It was going to be a long, irritating few months.

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