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ppushable · 4 months

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of course we'll be okay

jean kirschtein x fem reader / longfic / chapter wc: 10 167

1 - resigned delusion

masterlist

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I can't remember my name. Civilization is wiped and the future is bleak. The zombies are here.

But it's not all that bad. It's a little selfish to think like this, I know, but I can't seem to have it any other way.

My name isn't a big deal. As for the memories, well, I've made better ones, with people I really care about, and who I really hope care about me, too. And how can you expect me to care about a society I don't even remember, or a future I've never imagined? Okay, now that was selfish.

---

No matter how terrible things may seem, I always end up reminiscing. Nostalgic for the days when I lived so freely, when my only care was if I would come home alive. When I was swarmed by people who really, really cared about me.

When the two of us were stuck to each other, inseparable, through hell and back.

If I could make one wish, it wouldn't be to change the past, but to have never experienced it at all.

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ao3 tags:

Zombie Apocalypse / Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse / Slow Burn / Slow To Update / mc is awkward as hell / at first / no y/n / POV First Person / im sorry if this is a mess / somewhat canon compliant / Sad Ending / if we ever get there / Reader-Insert / Angst / no beta author is friendless and hesitant / Fluff / Coming of Age / Blood and Gore / Zombies / Modern Era / Nonbinary Hange Zoë / Amnesia / Amnesiac Reader / Character Development / Cross-Posted on Wattpad / Enemies to Lovers / Enemies to Friends to Lovers / Jean Kirstein Being An Asshole / morally grey zeke yeager / Other Additional Tags to Be Added / side marco bott/reader / only in the beginning rlly / Forced Pregnancy

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i've been thinking about writing this for a really, really long time. so i began. and then i started thinking about posting it. there's not much more to say without full-on rambling, but i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoy writing it. at least, i hope i didn't waste your fanfiction time. there are so many amazing stories out there that i took inspiration from. (the last of us is not one of them)

some things to note;

there will be violence/gore/injuries

and angst

and fluff

and dumbass shenanigans

the story might be long and convoluted because i'm not too sure what i'm doing

warnings will be added before the gnarly chapters

things are subject to change! mostly the tags, but nothing too major.

without further ado ♥

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Above hangs an unfamiliar ceiling, corporate drop tiles, harsh light cutting hard shadows on its rigid surface.

“Hello, Ostrich!” That sharp voice cuts a line straight through my ears. “How are you?”

The words that come out of me are slurred, half-baked. “Good, how about you?”

“You’ve slept in. The school bus left twenty minutes ago.”

“What?” The heels of my palms sink into the foamy mattress as I push myself up and a nasty static builds in my head.

“That sure got you up, eh?”

Green and white checkers line the laminate floor below, blinding white sunshine bouncing off its waxed and perfect surface into my fresh eye. Even as I try to blink away the ensuing dark blue blotch, the squares persist in the corners of my vision.

That horrendous thing was there yesterday, too.

Yesterday? What was I doing yesterday? I was here, wasn’t I, in the same room with the same pockmarked ceiling and the same sun and the same green and white. In that little instance in time in this room, in this body, under these blankets, my entire life happened. Before yesterday, there was nothing.

Nothing? What am I talking about?

The person at my side raises a mushroom into a light beam. Motes of dust dance around the fungus, giving it a heavenly quality despite its globby and wrinkled appearance. “Look at this. You don’t think it’s poisonous, do you?”

“Professor Hange.”

“Maybe I should feed it to, uh.” Their grip on the spout loosens and it falls with a pitter-patter. The face behind comes into focus: squarish goggles, hawkish nose, elastic mouth. “What did you just say?”

I rest a hand against my face at the sacrifice of stability. “Professor—”

Hange shoots up with a hard clatter as the milk crates they sat on are knocked over. “Shut up! Did you just— you— I thought—” They give up on words. “No!” And out comes a deep laugh. “No way!”

They scramble to the other side of the room — it only takes a few steps — to a folding table pressed against the wall, plucking out a pen and paper with a crisp flourish.

A knock comes from the open doorway at the foot of my bed, catching both of our attentions — it’s a middle-aged woman holding a stack of blankets. We lock eyes and she smiles, a movement that squishes the corner of her eyes into pleasantly deep wrinkles. Something compels me to return the gesture — and I will, probably, when the room stops tilting. She speaks. “Everything okay here? I heard something fall.”

Hange doesn’t allow a huff of breathing room. “She remembered! Me!”

Her brows shoot up. “Really?” And the smile deepens. “See, I knew it was only a matter of time—” her gaze wanders to the paper— “what is that?”

Hange drums the notes with their fingertips, the sound strangely calming, like rain against a car window or grease simmering on a quiet night. “Paper.”

“For what?”

“Scientific observation.”

“No.”

The professor’s body deflates like a wilting flower and makes a sound like one, too, if wilting flowers could speak. “But I need to observe.”

Instead of thoughts, there lives a school of deep-sea fish in my head — too slippery to snag, pin down, and comprehend, but pretty to skim over and lose concentration. Every once in a while there’s a flash as one fleetingly separates from the herd, only to merge once more into the flickering storm, into itself. Pretty. The air swirls with nature’s sparkles.

Where am I? Who am I? Why am I sitting on a bed, watching these two bicker? Why am I even on a bed at all? Where’s my mother?

“Professor, from what I’ve heard, she just woke up. Couldn’t it wait a bit? At least make a decent first impression!”

“But it’s already—”

“Professor Hange Zoe! As a functional, responsible adult you should know—”

“Who said I was responsible? Yesterday I—”

“Um!”

The yammering terminates as both sources turn toward the origin of the disruption, me. What the hell am I thinking? “Sorry.” Sitting up is hard, especially when you’re sweating bullets in front of a crowd. I lean against the headboard. “Where am I?”

They share a glance, the new arrival’s notably pointed. “I’m trusting you with this.”

Hange beams. “Alright. Let’s get started with introductions, then.” With fierce velocity, their hand smacks their hollow chest (crumpling the paper within). “As you know, my name is Hange Zoe! I used to be a professor, but now I’m head of research. I believe we met yesterday, though I’m not sure how much of it you remember.” It whips to the side. “This lovely lady is Mirabel. She’s… she helps clean up sometimes.”

Said person carefully purses her lips.

“To answer your question, we’re in a bathroom. Not just any bathroom! A bathroom of Shiganshina mall, or what we like to call, Shiganshina branch. Well, it’s more of an outpost than anything else, but it’s perfectly safe! You’re always welcome to leave, of course, but I personally don’t recommend it.” The last few words are muttered as an aside.

“What?”

They continue. “By the way, there’s been a new virus going around.”

Covid?

Hange pulls their goggles into forehead territory. I’ve never seen their eyes before. “It’s probably not what you’re thinking — this virus I speak of is more contagious and much more deadly than anything we’re seen before. In fact, the whole world was shut down because of it, and nobody knows how! Rather, nobody’s able to think that hard anymore.” With a whirl, they sift through a pile of paper on the table. “This new virus… is so cool!” And they plop a blinding-white sheet on my lap. “So exciting!”

It’s a human diagram, complete with label lines and scribbled descriptions. If I focus, I can make out the words…

“It’s not something you wanna contract. A lot of us, firsthand, have seen the effects of it.”

When I try to flip the paper, it splits into two. There’s two pages. This one has the same person, but looks as if he was put through a meat grinder.

“The effect of zombification.”

The single eye of the diagram stare at me. “Did you draw this?”

“No, it was my associate. Quite talented, isn’t— wait, that’s not the important part. Did you hear the part when I said ‘zombification?’ Like, as in zombies?”

“Zombies?” Disappointingly, there’s no more pages. “I didn’t know they were real.” The zombie’s torn-up skin is beautifully shaded, hair clotted, teeth stained, eyes glassy, backbone knotted and humped and jutting into different directions. It’s handsome, even, in the same way an antique end table or fantastical map might.

From the background, Mirabel: “Maybe you shouldn’t have started with the virus thing.”

“You’re right… I reckon I have something that’ll jog the memory. Wait here.”

She clucks like a hen and then turns to me. “Are you all right, dear?”

The corner of the page is crimped, and the world comes back to me: heat under the blanket, tartness in my mouth, a tang of pain where my spine meets wood. “Ye– yes, ma’am.”

“You’re not cold, are you? Or hungry?”

“No.”

“Thirsty?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you hurt?”

Slow. “I feel slow. Sorry, I’m not really sure if I’m saying anything that makes sense.”

“You’re only just waking up.” Warmth lands on my arm — her hand snuck up on me while I focussed on her face. “You— you’ve been in a bit of a coma of sorts for a while. Give it time, dear.”

“What are those blankets for?”

Mirabel looks taken aback and shifts the pile of blankets in her opposite arm around her body. “These ones?” As if there’s another stack of linens laying around that I’m referring to. “They’re for the children. Well, I suppose they wouldn’t be children to you.” A small, rolling chuckle. “They’re all around your age, including my son.”

“Aren’t you a bit young to be a mother?”

“Ha!” she chortles, landing a side eye. “Charming little one, aren’t you? Ha!”

I half-shrug, awkward. I don’t know why I said that. “What’s he like? Your son.”

She puffs out her nose and shakes her head. “He can test my patience sometimes, that brat. You wouldn’t know it when you see him, but he used to be the sweetest thing.” She places the blankets on the bed, burrows into her back pocket — she’s wearing skinny jeans — and pulls out a sticky-looking wallet. She fiddles with it until a tongue of photo sleeves waterfall out like something out of a cartoon and points to the top one.

It’s Mirabel — younger Mirabel — seated with a hay-haired toddler with a jelly bean face and a beam stretching ear to ear. “His favourite food is veggie omelet.” She eases into a smile as well, as if the mere sight of the image sucks her back to that day a decade or so ago.

I wonder who took the photo. “Cute.” Because what else am I supposed to say?

Her eyes flick from the wallet to my face. “I’m glad you think so, but there’s a reason he’s never had a girlfriend.”

“What?”

Down the column of photos is another rendition of her son, evidently a more recent one, taken in his adolescence: middle-parted hair affixed with an illegal amount of gel, a petulant leer, smug lips a hair-length away from curling into a bonafide shit-eating smirk. “I meant his, uh, kid picture.”

“Of course, dear.”

For the first time, I feel awake.

Mirabel lets free a dainty laugh and makes herself at home on my bed. “Oh, I’m just teasing you. Don’t look so frightened! You’re like a fish.”

I blink away the stinging in my eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Hm.” The giggle subsides into a curve of the lips. “You’re sweet. I never really got the chance to properly speak to you in the past, but now I can see why Hange takes such a liking to you.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yes,” she responds, but her head tilts to the side a bit like she’s confused, or about to drop a bomb. “I… do believe you’ll see a great deal of things today, things you might not understand at first, but I want you to remember. Be kind to yourself, and be kind to others. Especially the children. Please be kind to them.”

Where did that come from? Against my better judgment, I want to ask.

“Hange debuts!”

Mirabel kind of falls into herself and the androgynous terror returns, fist clenched and waving like a weapon. “Catch!” And it splays open.

A small something glimmers in midair before manifesting as a sharp pain on my collarbone. “Ow!”

“I told you to catch.”

The thing is hard, and made a thunk when it hit. One hand reaches to rub the surely future bruise as the other rummages through the folds, searching. The professor plops on the other side of the bed as my finger finally catches and raises the object: a small metal plate swinging off a beaded chain. “A dog tag?”

Sinking onto their elbow, Hange beams. “You like it?” Yeah, just make yourself at home.

“It’s pretty cool.”

“I was expecting a bigger reaction.”

The plate slowly rotates on its string, revealing engraved letters.

0009

MARLEY

– – –

The bottom line’s missing.

“Do you remember this?” Hange leans forward, teetering dangerously on their arm.

“Am I supposed to?”

“Interesting.” They pull out a pad and pen from nowhere, letting their chin hit the mattress, and jots down the word “Interesting.”

“Interesting?” I echo.

“It was on your neck when we found you.” They draw an imaginary line around their neck.

I look at the silver-grey pendant again, this time through a film of scrutiny as if focussing harder can unlock some ancient hidden memory. It doesn’t.

“Can I ask questions now?” Hange whines.

Mirabel’s eyes roll, then rest on mine. “What do you think?”

“Me?” She nods. “I don’t see a problem w—”

“Great!” They heave ramrod straight and flip to a new page in the notepad. “For starters, tell us your name.”

My jaw unhinges. Hange looks on, wide-eyed, awaiting an answer that will never come. My name, my name. Just answer this simple question. Tell them your name.

“I can’t.”

The floodgates are open now. I’m scrambling for even an iota of memory that belongs to myself, that defines me, that makes me my own person, but there’s nothing there. It’s like trying to see something that’s just too far away to see, or too small to focus on, something that I can touch but never, never feel. It’s not fair, because those memories belong to me. I can feel them. They’re right there! But the more I reach, the closer I’ll get. Isn’t that right?

What’s the last thing I can remember? The sad-looking mushroom? No, before that. Hange, shoving pebbles in their mouth? No, that happened yesterday. Mirabel with worry on her mouth and shaking my shoulder? No, that’s now.

“Yo! Little amnesiac?”

“Hello? Are you okay?”

And just like that, I’m back. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t do it.”

She smiles, but the concern is still there. “It’s okay, dear, don’t force it. Nobody is angry. It will come in time.”

Hange is right beside her. “Okay, but can you force it a teeny bit? Umph.” Mirabel elbows them hard. “Okay, fine, next question.” They tap their temple, crimping strands of shaggy, brown hair. “Now, what’s the last thing you remember?”

Yesterday — again, yesterday! — I was awakened as Hange barged in with a small velvet sack and spilled its little circular contents onto the green and white. Before that, I was looking at the ceiling, and before that, my eyes were closed. Before that…

“I don’t know. Yesterday, my eyes were closed, and then I was looking at the ceiling, and then you came in, Professor, and spilled some rocks on the ground, and put them in your mouth. Before that, though, I can’t—” My hand runs up my cheek, onto my forehead, fingers weaving through strands of hair as if trying to scoop the brain encased within. “There’s nothing.” My other hand comes up too, and they squeeze. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

They fall silent. “Do you want to hear a story, Ostrich?”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Good question,” they smirk, pulling their goggles back on. Rising to their feet (and making that side of the bed spring up), they clasp their hands in the crook of their back, straightening with newfound importance.

“Long ago—” Mirabel cringes and stands up as well— “there existed a hotel named the Ostrich owned by one John Jarman and his wife, Mary. This hotel was very, very special, as it was the site of over sixty murders — notably, murders of very rich people. These killings were conducted by none other than the Jarmans themselves.

“When they got a rich visitor, Sir Jarman would call out to his lady.” Their voice reaches a comical low. “‘Honey, there’s a fat pig here if ya want one.’ To which his wife would reply—” now their voice turns up several octaves— “‘Okay, honey, just put it in the sty till morrow!’

“So they’d butter the guest up and put him in a special room right above the kitchen. And when all was quiet in the night… Bam! The floor opened up, the bed tilted backwards, and he’d be dropped in a vat of boiling oil. Have you ever had chicharrones? After that, the corpse was stripped of anything valuable and thrown into a river. And by the morning, it was like he was never even there.

“But one day the Jarmans made a fatal mistake — their eyes grew bigger than their brains. For they tried to go after a particularly popular and wealthy man and got caught when people noticed his horse wandering around.” Curling their lip in… scorn? They continue. “Do you know why I named you after this hotel?”

I’m full of dead, fried rich people? “Why?”

They lightly tap one of their lenses. “Because John and Mary are such boring names.”

“You would have named me John?”

Their hands fly to their hips. “Well, with that attitude, little missy, I just might!”

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The two of them deemed my condition — both mental and physical — up to par to go out into the big, wide world.

Shiganshina is a hollowed-out shopping mall. Brightness radiates in from the paned ceiling and bounces off the white walls, keeping the palace bright and warm — a nice contrast to the cooler temperatures of dying winter.

The mystery hallway leads into a walkway that wraps around the internal perimeter of the building’s second story, the occasional bridge connecting opposite pathways above the first floor way below. Green and white still dominate the catwalk here with only the pattern switching from checkerboard to big white squares with tiny green diamonds at every corner. Anything else would be asking too much, I guess.

Hange’s gait is easy. Mirabel’s steps are more forward and practiced. A few people pass by, but for the most part, this place is barren. Not one individual is spared from Hange’s greetings.

“Abel!” Our procession halts as Hange locates their next victim. “You’re looking nice and groomed today. What is it, a new oil or something? How are you?” They hold out a hand in greeting.

Abel wears thick, strapped glasses over his short, blond hair. He rubs the side of his index finger along the nice and groomed scruff on his jaw. “Very well, thanks.”

“It’s a beautiful afternoon, isn’t it? The sun’s—”

“Very nice.”

“Ah.”

Abel gets right down to business. “So did you get the field notes from—”

Someone across the abyss falls with a yelp, dropping what sounds to be several dozen metal pipes. The tings echo and take too long to dissipate, but the two keep talking.

If I don’t find out what my name is, I’ll be Ostrich forever. I let my gaze wander. If anything, this place is well taken care of — it doesn’t smell terrible, the floor and walls are spotless, and the people seem alright. The person in charge of cleaning here is doing a great job — even the glass-paneled railings are crystal clear.

Most of the stores here are occupied by random pieces of junk, but a few have their large display windows blocked out in some way or another. The one closest to me is covered by a blanket depicting some sort of house.

Wait, not a blanket. Someone actually took the time to paint this window from the inside.

A cabin in a field backed by a rocky cliff, chopped logs littering the area before it. The chipped (and in some places, peeling) planks holding the structure together are of the same material as a wide picnic table near the scattered logs, adorned with the various foods of the forest. There isn’t anything particularly special about the subject — the grass rolls, the apples shine, and the windows hint at nothing. But it’s empty, as if the residents just left or disappeared or vanished. As if something very, very wrong is happening. There is a stranger looking out from the window. It moves.

Me. Me? It’s me. Oh, who is that?

“Ostrich?”

Hange bears a look of mild concern which is quickly wiped out by their usual grin. “I’ve got some business here with Abel, so you guys’ll have to continue on without me. Right, Abel?” He grunts. He’s probably the type to hide in a dark, moist corner in perpetual squat. “Try not to miss dear old Hange too much.”

Mirabel beckons me with her head. “We’ll do our best. Right?”

“Yeah.” You’re overthinking this, Ostrich. It’s just a nice glass painting. We say our goodbyes.

Constant motion and colour keep my concentration hostage on our trek. It’s fun to peek into the open windows to see piles of empty water jugs or folding chairs or construction equipment, or to read the vivid signs above them to see what could have been. A few people still litter the area, to whom Mirabel nods or says a small greeting to. It’s quiet.

“Almost there.”

I step a little longer to catch up to the woman as she points with her chin. She loves using her head.

“You see it?”

In a darker corner lives a store with Spencer’s graffitied on the half-drawn garage door that serves as its entrance. Brick makes up the walls. Its single, large display window hints at nothing, obscured by… clothes?

“We’re not going in there, are we?”

The place is silent. Mirabel raps her knuckles on the door before forcing it up with a metallic squeal. “Hello?” She continues inside. I trail behind.

Like the surrounding area, the interior is dim, with the far reaches of the narrow room fading to black. Though the store seems to have been emptied of its original merchandise (thankfully), it’s far from empty: soft contours of cloth line the floor, trinkets lay askew and scattered, and food wrappers glisten in small clumps. A wet dog smell permeates through every pore and crevice of my body — it’s either poorly ventilated or contains something that gives off enough scent to cancel out any fresh air.

A large platform against the back and right walls spans nearly the entire area, hanging a few feet below the ceiling. Blankets spew out from beneath makeshift curtains tied to the exposed pipes above, effectively screening it.

Lining the walls below the platform are wired bakers’ racks, piled with clothing and miscellanea.

It’s lived in.

“Amazing, hmm?” Aluminum screeches as Mirabel pushes and knocks over a few cans with her foot to make space for the blankets. “How quickly a dozen or so adolescents can tear through a clean room! We haven’t sent any cleaners lately in hopes they’ll do it themselves — ha! — but you can see how well that’s going. Even the dorms back in Trost are cleaner.”

Cleaners? Trost? “Adolescents?” Fearing attack, I don’t turn away from the shadowed jungle. “This is where they all live?”

“For now, yes. And it’s where you’ll be staying, as well.” Her footsteps grow a bit louder as she nears. “It seems everyone’s out right now.”

My breaths grow shorter on their own. Maybe because of the smell. “I’m staying here?”

“Are you coming along, Ostrich?” Looks like she didn’t hear.

“Actually, can I stay here?”

“Really?” She’s shocked. “Okay, well if you ever need help, ask anyone down in the kitchens. They’re all very nice, I assure you. I’ll be making my rounds, so I won’t be staying down there for long.”

I risk a glance and little wave at Mirabel’s silhouette, prompting her to join the black mass that is the wall. I’m not sure what to feel.

Luckily, I manage to find some sort of electric lamp. Click. A rough circle of light surrounds me, exemplifying the absolute filth of this place.

I’m staying here? As much as I try, I can’t squeeze an ounce of emotion out. It’s not that I don’t care, right? It’s just that I don’t know anything better than this. I don’t remember a better time. Why am I even here? I should have gone with Mirabel.

Of all the people I can be, I have to be a stupid one.

Maybe I should start cleaning.

A few ungainly steps later and I’m in the hallway. I try not to stare down the next person walking down the hall as they pass. “Excuse— excuse me.” I wave.

It’s a woman with choppy copper hair. She seems weirdly happy as she points toward the requested cleaning supplies before making her way off to wherever. I don’t step on a single green diamond on my way there.

JANITORIAL ROOM

Authorized Personnel Only

It has a square, wired window too high up for me to peek inside and a door handle — not knob — which needs to be messed with a little before opening. I step in and let the door whoosh and click shut behind me.

“Nobody taught you to knock, brat? What the hell do you want?”

Every organ in my body purges as the strange little man looks up from whatever he was doing. Somehow, my voice finds me. “Clean.”

He rests his elbows on the mini table before him, the resulting wobble nearly knocking over the spray bottle and various chemicals on top. Light from the door’s window frames his face perfectly, sliced up by the cable crisscrossing its inner surface. “Speak up, or don’t bother wasting my time.”

What’s with this guy? Inching my hand to the knob — not handle — behind me, I clear my thought process and focus on the space between his steel-sharp eyes. “I would like to clean, sir. The dorms, that is. I’m here for cleaning supplies. That’s all. Sir.” Please don’t bash my head in with a spray bottle.

“Hm.” He narrows his eyes. “New?”

New? Oh, he’s talking about me! “Yes. Sir.”

“Come here.”

What choice do I have?

He rises to his full, impressive height as I approach. I don’t need to see him to feel the force of his demands, just watch my toes. “I don’t want to see a single speck. All beds should be made, blankets should be tucked, no mop streaks, and so help me if there are any wall stains. Understood?”

“Yessir.” Please, somebody let me out of here.

His arm flourishes to the impressive collection of cleaning supplies on the wall. “Take what you need.”

“Thank you, sir.” If that arm even clipped me… I slink around his throne, somehow still feeling his stare when he’s turned the other way. Broom and dustpan, disposable gloves, a few garbage bags, cleaning spray—

“That won’t do.” Frozen in a squat, I listen helplessly as his startlingly heavy footsteps stop inches behind me. Plastic crinkles in the dark as the man snatches something near my ear. “You need thick gloves, that thin shit won’t do. And here.” Somewhere near the end of the room is a clatter and a thump. “Nobody worth their weight forgets the bucket. And—” another thump— “Scrub Daddy. Unless you want to scrub the grime with your teeth?”

Scrub Daddy? Nothing comes out when I open my mouth, so I force-clear my throat. “No, sir.” The bucket is shoved into my arms — I barely catch it in time — as he breezes past, taking up his throne once more. “Thank you, sir,” I say to the air.

“One last thing,” he juts as I clear his desk, making my cells disintegrate for a moment. A mystery object lands in the bucket.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Out.”

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I start by picking up every non-garbage item (as far as I can tell) and tossing them on the big shelf by the window, then bagging the actual garbage with the gloves. The broom takes care of the dust and dirt between the hardwood and under the collection of bakers’ racks — it puffs up thick, so I’m eternally grateful to the janitor for the last-minute bandana mask. At least, it’s what I think the white cloth is for. If it’s a loincloth or something I just might hurl myself to floor one. But why would he give me a loincloth?

Then comes the task of cleaning the platform. This entails lobbing up the lantern and praying it won’t break, the incredibly perilous trip up on a wobbly ladder which will probably tip or break or be the catalyst to the end of my short life, pushing out an absolute jungle of futons, sleeping bags, quilts, pillows, and other horrifying objects, and actually falling off but landing safely but shaken onto the teeming pile. I push it all out, onto a pre-cleaned portion of the hall.

Finding no water anywhere, I manage to flag down another passerby who directs me to some sort of pulley system that brings up tubfuls of water. It also seems to mutter and sing. Strange. I lug one in, fill the bucket, scrub the walls until I run out, and repeat. I do this again with the mop on the floor, making sure to get rid of any streaks.

My whole body burns but still comes the reassembly process. Using the mop handle, I beat the devils out of the pile in the hallway before lugging everything back up on a borrowed stepladder. Everything’s out of order — that’s someone else’s problem.

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At some point Hange checks in and drags me out to the now-dark mall. I didn’t even notice the room darkening as I worked. It was strangely therapeutic.

It’s different at night. The whole place would be in black if not for the periodic solar lights stuck to the walls, ceilings, and support beams, basking us in yellow and white.

“I don’t know how, but you did it!” Their glee is evident as we snake through the now-empty platform, hands clasped, feet pounding polished concrete. “Levi’ll love it. The cadets’ll love it! Hell, maybe we can even squeeze a ‘good job’ outta the Comm– never mind, that’s pushing it. Whatever! We’re almost there.”

“Professor, I left the supplies—”

“Shut! We’re here.”

“But—”

My arm wrenches to the side, followed by my body, as the leader shoulders through an emergency exit. My back burns. A film of darkness lays over my eyes, the plopping of our steps more prominent than ever. Another second and my legs will give out.

Hange pushes through another door, this one requiring a little more strength. Moonlight. The earth, sparse and grassy, far below. Something sharp biting through my slipper socks and cold breezing in through the leg holes of my dusty pyjama bottoms. Reflexively, I suck in a stabbing, frosty lungful of air that billows out in a big puff, steam engine style. The smoke clears to reveal two silhouettes against the cloudy sky.

“Surprise, you two!” The professor claps the painful divet between my shoulder blades. “Meet our newest installment. You might know this one already.” They drive me forward, my lazy steps doing little to deter the action.

The two are easy to tell apart — one is a smiling, freckled unit and the other is glum and fluorescent-eyed. I would go blind if I stared too long (he’d pluck my eyes out). Both have dark hair and grow more menacing with each reluctant step.

Bright-eyes speaks first. “Professor Hange!”

“Woah, Professor!” the tall one exclaims almost simultaneously. “Isn’t it a bit cold for just pyjamas?”

“She’s fine.” Their head pops into view. “You’re fine, right? Levi will kill me if someone gets sick.”

Pushing my cold legs together, I nod. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“No way,” Tall chuckles, already undoing his coat. “It’s too cold.” The zips of his waterproof cloth don’t drown out his voice as he shrugs it off. “You’ll be needing this more than me.” He finally sheds the garment, handing it over.

For me? “Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m actually very weather resistant. You might be surprised.” He beams with the heat of a weighted quilt on a winter morning. Maybe I don’t really need this coat.

But a sudden chill sobers me and it’s on in an instant.

“What’s up with this?” the smaller one asks, waving in my general direction.

Hange shrugs. “Started to remember. All good. Okay, I’m done here.” Hange half-stumbles back to their other foot that wedges the door open. “I’ll get back to business, then. See you, Ostrich.”

“See you,” I mutter.

And with a screech, they’re gone.

Tall doesn’t waste a moment. “So, it’s Ostrich! It’s nice to finally see you walking around.”

Starry-eyes lowers himself to sit criss-cross, opting to stare into space through the metal grate railing.

“Thanks, it’s… nice. Walking around and all.” What am I doing here.

With an amused breath, he tilts his head. “You don’t remember us, do you?”

Not meeting his eyes, I shake my head.

He brings forth his big hand. “I’m Marco. My friend over here is Eren.”

He’s smiling again. Our hands meet — his is rough around the edges and warm, even the dark band around his finger, and I release it a bit too quickly. “Hi, Marco. Eren.” Something about this meeting kills me.

“Alright, well, hey, sit down, Ostrich. You’re one of us, you know.” Marco plops down and taps a nearby cushion. “How are you feeling?”

I sit. It’s cold. “That’s a good question.”

“Yeah… I realize now it’s pretty dumb.” His freckles are all messed up as he scrunches up his nose.

My focus switches between the far-away ground and the plaid cushion I’m on. “Yeah.” Then snaps back to Marco’s face. “Wait, no. I’m not saying your question was dumb, I’m just— it’s—”

His short laugh cuts me off. “Relax. You don't need to be nervous.”

“Okay.” This mouth of mine. It’s a death trap.

Marco’s fingers pick at the spaces between the metal. “So, how are you liking Shiganshina so far?”

I rub the sleeves of the coat together. Zip, zip, zip. Why did he give this to me? “It’s nice. Hange is nice, the people are… nice. The view is nice from here.”

“You’re allowed to say bad stuff, too,” he pries half-jokingly.

“I don’t like the dorms.”

“Ah, there we go.” He stretches backwards. “Yeah. Nobody does, really, but it’s the only room with heat. It’s liveable.”

Eren snorts, his first real contribution to the conversation. “Stop lying to yourself. Everyone hates it.”

“Okay, yeah, everyone hates it.”

Is now a good time to say that I cleaned them? I don’t know how to do it without sounding arrogant. Is it arrogant? It’s quiet now, but for how much longer? I should just step up and say it. It would make them happy. No, it wouldn’t. Yes, it would.

“Anyways,” Marco breezes, “how many of the others have you met?”

“Others?” I respond dumbly.

“The other cadets. The other teenagers, if you will.”

Oh, the children. “I haven’t.”

“Then you’ll be meeting them all. Tonight!” He drums his fingertips on the metal. “Everyone’ll be back tonight, bar one guy. But I can introduce you to him myself.”

What. “How many people? I mean, if you don’t mind.” As if knowing can make tonight sound even less appealing.

“Uh, ten? There’s me, Jean, Connie, Sasha, Eren-Mika-Armin…” With every entry, he puts up a finger. “Reiner and Bert, Ymir, Christa, and Annie. That’s, what…” He looks at his fingers, lost.

Every name drags me down an inch or two. “Thirteen, including me.”

“Right. Wow, there’s a lot of people!” Marco puts his hands away and pauses, brownish eyes drilling into mine. “Hey, don’t be nervous. Everyone’s really nice, I promise. And we’ve all met you in the past.”

Again with that. It’s like everyone’s in on a secret inside joke that only I don’t know, except that inside joke is me.

But he’s so very easy to trust, even though we’re strangers. As long as he’s there with me, it can’t be too bad… I squish into his coat and try a smile. “Okay.” You cheesy fucking bastard. Woah, potty mouth.

He smiles too, and I don’t have to try anymore. “But I have to warn you, it can get a bit loud sometimes.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

Hands springing to life, he straightens to the point of tipping back. “You have no idea!”

Sensing Marco’s incoming story, my smile becomes toothy.

“Shut up!”

Like an anvil, Eren’s hushed yell pulverizes our talk. He points at something he’s looking at, prompting Marco to stand. I follow suit.

The balcony overlooks some sort of large garden with alternating lit and shadowed rows of ridged dirt, garden tools, and the rare green smudge that indicates growth. All is surrounded by a tall ring of trash composed of cars, construction fences, broken skids, metal railings, rocks, or anything, really, that can stand on its own and keep anyone or anything out. The pale dirt ends in grass and trees some way beyond the barrier.

“Another one.” Marco squats to jot some ink onto paper.

“Another what?” An invisible chill runs through the area, making the leaves rustle and shift the dappled pattern of light and shade they cast. Nothing’s there.

And then my shoulder and cheek are encased in warmth as Marco gets real close and aligns his line of vision with my own. “Right there.” I feel the voice more than I hear it. His pointing finger ends at a spot where dirt and grass meet. “See?”

Where’s he pointing? Marco’s close. Wait, where is he pointing? I’m about to ask again when a sudden movement ends my straying — a pale branch, creeping, wobbling forward from beneath the silvery blades.

Hand.

Twiglike fingers drag and push into the dirt, joints bending backwards. The attached arm contracts, presumably dragging forward a body. Despite its horrendously bony characteristic — even from this second- or third-floor view, I can easily make out the double-beamed support of the forearm — it keeps scraping forward. Closer. Every inch pulls the blood down to my feet.

“Third crawler tonight. Wonder what’s up with that.”

The person wears nothing. Something about the distance or lighting gives whatever skin isn’t torn up or filthied a washed-out hue.

“Maybe there’s a bear.”

The hand jerks forward again, disregarding rocks or twigs, shakily pulling the body into view. That is, the head and one side of the torso.

Where’s the rest? Why is nobody doing anything? Why can’t I? Doesn’t that thing need help? What does its skin feel like? How long? How long until it touches me?

“You wanna get the pager this time, Eren?”

“Yeah.”

Foliage and deep red blood decorate the loops and sacs that bulge and trail out of the chest cavity, the surrounding ribs prominent and hanging by whatever holds ribs together. The creature shudders, loosing a few organs with a sickening swell. It persists.

Click-click. Click. “Drunk bastard’s asleep!” The statement is followed by a series of loud bangs that rattle our cage and resonate in my teeth. “God-fucking-damn it. Hannes. Wake up. Hannes!”

“Don’t, Eren. He’s pretty much out of commission anyways.”

“No shit! Should I go down?”

“No rush.” With a final rattle, a clothed arm obscures my view.

“Hey.” A pale blur which turns out to be a waving hand belonging to Eren catches my focus. “Your ears. Plug them, or something.”

Marco’s elbow clears the railing. He holds a lengthy rifle with its butt against his shoulder and his cheek along its length, a single saucer-wide eye trained on the target.

I didn’t even notice he left my side.

He hisses — in or out, I couldn’t tell — before the air blasts into pure noise.

Sometime in the aftermath, my legs decide to sit me down. Marco (and, after a final glance into the forest, Eren) turns his attention towards me, his words completely lost to the high-pitched din but his actions clear as ever — reaching out as if to cuff my ears, shrinking back, looking sheepish. “Sorry,” he mouths. Once again, he points at the figure with something like pride. From this angle it’s apparent that its head is imploded; I prefer to stare at the shockingly good marksman with the sanest grin I can muster.

“Did you hear the part when I said ‘zombification?’ Like, as in zombies?”

No, this isn’t happening. I’m dreaming, that’s what. Of course.

Granted, this feels all to real. The human brain is a marvel of nature, isn’t it? Can’t wait to wake up.

The two engage in strained conversation of flurrying hand movements and exaggerated pronunciation, resulting in Marco waving goodbye and going inside. The remaining pair of us sit together in the high-pitched eee until it dissipates into the non-silence of nighttime.

“So.” Eren shuffles his feet closer to him, knees in his arms. “Can you hear now?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess it’s your first time seeing one.”

Seeing what? Say the word. “Yep.”

Skimming over the corpse, he wrings his hands. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

Eren worries his mouth as if sucking off some goo on his teeth, and suddenly blurts, “I hate it.”

Zombie. You’re imagining it, Ossie, tomorrow you’ll wake up in that room again and forget everything. “Hate what?”

“What do you think?” He waves at the mall. “This. And everything else. Those things. They ruined everything.” A telltale waver slips into his speech. “Everything we do is dictated by them. I hate it. I mean. Have we ever really had anything?”

Like a long-winded siren, the boy’s volume gradually increases. Sirens mean danger.

“Is it that bad?”

Something snaps quietly. “We’re living like fucking livestock here, don’t you realize that? I thought your head’s better now, so why can’t you see that it’s not supposed to be okay? Our life is confined to these walls—” here he whips out his hand at the aforementioned wall, the motion rippling through his torso— “and the whole world outside is lost! Lost! Everything! They took everything from me! From us! And you’re just gonna accept that?”

Is he always like this? A walking time bomb? My body weight shifts forward as if to spring on my feet. “Eren—”

“No.”

With the piling pressure his eyes grew from a smolder to a bonfire, ravenous in a forest of decay.

But in the same way, it’s almost childlike. Was it the same sense of anger? Frustration? Invisibility? Innocence? It’s probably not that deep. “Yes?”

“You don’t remember it, so you wouldn’t understand.” He doesn’t try to hide his distaste. “But they’re not… supposed to be here. It’s— we are. It’s our world. You get it? They took it from us. Took our plans, our dreams. Our families.” Stiff-fisted and tight-jawed, he continued. “I hate them. They need to be eliminated. You get it? I’m…”

He gathers himself.

“I’m gonna do it, Ostrich, myself or otherwise.” I slip into his eyes. “Every last one of them. I’m going to kill them all. Not sparing a single one… I’m gonna kill them all.”

And I fall. “What's stopping you?”

Those creatures with broken ribs and beautiful hair. Let him do as he pleases with them. It doesn't concern me. Soon I’ll wake up. I’ll wake up.

He oozes into a more comfortable expression as the door bursts open behind me. “Alright, so the Hannes problem is taken care of,” Marco announces. “You should come inside, Ostrich, there’s someone I want you to meet. Actually, Eren, you should go, too. I’ll keep watch for a while.”

Someone to meet?

Eren’s expression lapses into annoyance. “What happened to the two-person protocol?”

“It’ll be brief.”

“What’s it about again? Think you forgot to mention that part.”

“You’ll see when you get there, he’s waiting just outside the inner door.”

Back to Eren. “Whatever.” He leans to one side as he gets up. “Let’s go.”

The returnee holds open the door, flashing a small smile as I cross. Cheeky bastard.

I’m joking.

Eren holds open the second door behind him, flashing a small glance to make sure it doesn’t close on me. I mutter a quick thanks as we stand, seeing…

Nothing.

“There’s nobody here.” The boy sifts through his hair. “What the hell, Marco?”

The wall behind us booms thrice — I flinch — and yells, “Eren, is that you?”

At this, he brings up his other hand and drags them both down his face with a drawn-out groan. “What the hell, Marco?”

I nearly touch his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Wait, who’s that?” the wall — rather, the person inside — hollers. “Eren, you’re sounding pretty feminent today.”

“Connie, what the hell are you doing in there?”

“Woah! He’s back!” The wall cackles. “So, uh, I need help.”

Marco, you cheeky bastard.

With a sigh, Eren’s hands drop. “Ostrich, this is Connie. Consider yourself lucky you don’t remember his face.” His next words are forced through his teeth. “Connie. Introduce yourself.”

“Wait, it’s you, Ossie?” Something hard hits another hard thing. “Ow! Ossie, it’s me, Connie! Remember me? Handsome face, Greek physique? Connie?”

I smile at the flat surface. “Hi, Connie. Sorry, I don't remember you.”

“Aww.”

“Come out to introduce yourself,” Eren grunts, leaning against the wall.

“Well, that’s the problem, señor. I can’t.”

“What?”

“I’m stuck.”

“Just get out.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Cuz I’m stuck.”

If looks could kill, the plaster would have a smoking hole with the wall inhabitant’s crisp body in the middle; intervening at this point just might save Connie’s life.

“Uh, Er— uh. Let’s just get him out?”

With a deep breath, he nods.

What am I supposed to do now? Eren looks on expectantly. “Connie.” It’s so weird, saying that name out loud. I hold up my fist as if to knock, but decide against it. “Can you move?”

“Yeah, if I go sideways. There’s more space down this way though.” Footsteps and random bumps move in the opposite direction of the exit door.

Eren holds his impressive eyebrows derisively high.

“You just need to get out, right?” As long as we find his point of entry, he should be fine. Right? “Where did you come in?”

“I dunno. I got lost.” Without warning, he squawks and enters some sort of hyperventilated frenzy. “Sorry, spider web. But I think there’s wind coming from over here. Wind equals good, right?” His voice fades. “Wait, you guys are following me, right?”

⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹

We end up in front of the janitor’s office. My visible companion clicks his tongue.

“Before you ask, no, I’m not going in there.”

“Aw, come on!” Connie whines. “I can’t get out myself and it’s dark and smelly in here! There’s spiders and ghosts!”

Waving the air as if brushing Connie off, Eren leans in close. He smells like plywood. “Let’s just go. Nobody’ll miss him. We can tell Marco he got out on his own.”

It’s hard to tell if he’s joking.

“I can hear you!” Bang bang bang. “I can heaar you…” Bang bang bang bang bang. “Gemme out!”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I venture with a sprinkling of irony. Just in case he actually is joking.

“Let me out!”

“I mean.” He glances at the spot where the noise emanates. “It’s not like he’s gonna die.”

Is he serious?

He scans my face and scratches his jaw. “Fine, we’ll get him.”

That’s better. “But we can’t really do anything if the janitor’s still inside. Can you check if he’s in there?”

“Why me?” He shoots a dour look down his nose. “Never mind.” Pushing his back flush to the door, he inches sideways until the window is nearly in line with his ear, snatches a peek, and gives a thumbs-up.

“So we just have to go in there and pull Connie out… right?”

“Actually, it’ll be better if one of us stays out here to keep watch. Take this.” Pulling up the bottom of his sweatshirt, he digs into his pants pocket and pulls out a square solar-powered light. “I’ll knock if he appears. Good luck.”

“Thanks?”

And then the door to the janitor’s closet shuts behind me once more, darkness pressing and eating up the edges of my vision.

Thanks, Eren. After all I’ve done for you.

I need light — how did I turn this thing on? My fumbling fingers eventually reach a soft button and push, directing light straight through my head. Great. I point the light somewhere useful.

Rows of columns of cleaning gear, some still in their original packaging, hang from hooks extending from the white pegboard or rest on one of the numerous shelves. I didn’t see all this before — it’s like a torture chamber for dirt. A few feet from the entrance of the rectangular room is the folding table in which the janitor made his first appearance, now cleared of all equipment. “Hey, Connie? Where are you?”

“Right here.” Pointing the light upwards, I’m able to catch my first glimpse of the guy, in the gap between the top of the pegboard and the ceiling. “Hey, I can see my hand! I’m not a ghost!” He waves excitedly, hysterically even.

Until someone bashes their knuckles on the door. Not a second later the light clicks out.

“Ostrich! C’mere!”

“Where?” I trudge dumbly toward his voice, bumping into what feels and sounds like a mop bucket and breathing a curse. No way they didn’t hear that.

“Here!” Fingers patter on the particleboard. “Come on!”

Snippets of voice come from the entrance. No more stealth. I rush toward the opposite side of the room, tossing the light over before fumbling and grabbing Connie’s hand. It’s smooth.

“Hold on…” With astonishing force, he pulls me back.

“Woah—” I push my feet against the wall — please don’t break — hooking my other hand over. Connie grabs that too.

The door swings open as I make it over, flip for a churning fraction of a second, and land heavily on Connie’s body. He grunts on impact just as a flashlight flicks on.

“Hm,” says the janitor. Brightness sweeps over us on the concrete in small pegboard-sized circles. I can’t breathe; Connie scarcely takes a breath himself. Through a pinhole, his slow and crisp footsteps matches the image of his boots. He kicks the mop bucket to the side with a loud plastic grinding sound. We flinch.

“Mop bucket fell over. Damned thing.” He drops the light somewhere and settles the mop against the wall. “You can leave now.”

“Er. Yes, Captain.” Eren. The door eases shut.

“Captain” adjusts the light once more, straightens his throne, and sits down with a sigh.

Slowly, almost painfully so, I roll onto the cool, grainy ground.

Something taps my hand. Highlighted by a pockmark is Connie’s eye, hazel to the point of yellow, which swivels back away from the janitor’s room. We need to get out. As sparingly as possible, I nod, though I’m not sure if he sees it.

We stand in silent — but shared — agony, the kind that shakes your limbs and makes the floor seem hundreds of metres down. Connie takes my hand, forming a clammy layer in between, and leads us back the way he came. We slow and separate.

“I think we’re okay here,” he mutters, turning on the light in his other hand to reveal his massive grin and bald head. Thank god he remembered that. “Heh heh, that was a close one, huh?”

“Yeah, we nearly escaped death by bludgeoning.” I tremblingly slump against a wood support as he giggles. “That’s hilarious.”

His mood isn’t quelled. “Ohh, come on, have some humour.”

“We’re trapped, aren’t we?”

“You know.” His scalp glistens with a thousand tiny hairs as he lifts the light over himself. “Some ladies would kill for a moment alone with this handsome fellow.”

This guy serious? I’m not seeing that ‘Greek physique.’ “I’m sure.”

Gently, he lays down the torch, springs up, and digs into the pocket of his neon green and black zippered hoodie with a crinkle. “So grumpy, huh? Here.” A wrapped good is tossed into my lap as Connie falls on his ass. Inside is something squishy and dense. “It’s a Twinkie,” he explains at my probing. “I was looking for a place to hide them so Sasha can’t eat them. Don’t tell her I’m giving this to you, she’ll crucify me.” Having successfully pulled apart the top of the package, he bites the whole thing in half, pulling back to extract the sugary flesh.

“Are you sure?” The edge of the clear plastic is smooth and flimsy.

Crumbs spray from his mouth. “Just promise me you’ll stop being grumpy.”

Grumpy? I blink a few times. “Okay, I promise.” I slide to the ground too, smiling. “I’ll be nice.”

“Better be.”

My face drops. “Connie.”

He sniffs. “Relax, Ossie. Just enjoy your… freshly crushed Twinkie.” He tilts his head in fake arrogance.

“You know, Connie, if somebody didn’t get stuck in a wall, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.”

“I could have left you in the janitor’s office.”

The words come out before I can stop them. “I could have left you with Eren.”

He sticks out his tongue.

The crinkling dominates before I manage to tear open a corner of my package, opting to squeeze out the cake which oozes and cracks like a sad horse. I take the crumbly glop on my tongue.

“Pretty good, huh?” Connie sprays. “You wouldn’t even know it expired six months ago.”

The sweet in my mouth turns bitter. “Six months,” I utter without swallowing, a line of drool threatening to spill. Bacteria and fungi spread their tiny poisonous seeds, creating rot. “That’s… fine.”

“Hey, if you got a problem with it, I’ll gladly take it off you.” He holds out a hand expectantly.

Before he can react I squeeze the package some more. In a movement similar to his own, I scrape out the remaining pulp with my teeth and swallow.

Connie’s jaw goes slack as I chew, then shoots upward with a clack. “Okay, girlypop, okay! It’s all yours!” The statement is finished with a cackle.

“I said it’s fine, Connie,” I state, definitely spilling some this time. “A little mould won’t kill me now.”

“Yeah, if—” his eyes wander my face— “if the embarrassment doesn’t get you first!” His hysteria surges as he points. “You look so stupid right now! A lifetime’s worth of Twinkie!” He exhales more than he breathes in and soon resorts to gasping for air.

“Me?” I dart a sleeve over my mouth, though it’s already too late. “Look who’s talking!”

The filling in his mouth decorates his chin, legs, and floor. “I don’t take shade from a person named Ostrich. Gotta be the dumbest bird to be named after.”

“Well, I don’t take shade from a person named Connie.”

“Yeah? What’s wrong with my name?”

I pretend to see something interesting on the ceiling, pretend I’m not about to explode into a stupid grin. “I just think Connor is better.”

“Okay—” he conjures the most serious face he can muster— “you’ve officially made it to my enemies list. Prepare for living hell.”

“What’re you gonna do, shine the sun off your head like a flash bomb?” Now I cackle.

Okay, maybe that was a little bit mean.

“Hey! This—” he jerks his hands round his head, the motion affecting his entire hunched form— “is a choice! I shave my own head ‘cuz I want it that way!”

“Okay,” I choke. “Okay, you’re bald by choice.”

“Stop laughing!”

“Okay. I can’t. Okay.” Pinching my nose, I draw in a breath. Then sputter into laughter.

It wasn’t that funny, but I couldn’t help myself. Maybe I really am going mental.

“I’ll just wait till you’re done,” Connie grumbles, but even in the dark the ghost of a smile can be seen.

⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹

We start walking again a bit after — Connie’s afraid my laughing attracted ghosts.

“So, Ostrich. You’re starting to remember?”

“Mhm.”

“Do you remember me?”

“No.”

We walk for a bit more before he speaks again. “Tell me something about yourself.”

“You’re asking me, Shiganshina’s resident amnesiac?”

“Funny. You don’t need memories to have a personality, you know? You’re not a ghost.”

The air smells familiar. “You think so?”

“How about you caress my handsome face and we can both find out?”

I flick his forehead and go cold.

Did I just do that?

But he just claps his hand over the point of impact. “Ow! Always the head!”

“Just such a big target,” I nearly sputter. “You’re lucky I don’t call human resources on you or something.”

“Yeah, whatever. Come on, tell me. There’s gotta be something.”

“I really have nothing, Connie,” I say. “But aren’t you the one who knows me so well? Why don’t you tell me something about myself?”

His thinking cap is on. “Well, for starters, you can’t walk straight with a damn.”

“Strike four, Connie.”

“Four? You’re already counting the number of times I pissed you off.” He sniffs. “I knew you cared. I can’t wait till we’re all together again…” He giggles like a little girl.

“That laugh. I don’t like that sound.”

“Relax, Ossie. I’m gonna make it happen.” He thumps his chest. “From now on, I’m gonna focus on getting you out of here. Before bedtime.”

“Weren’t you the one begging for help earlier?”

“I’m a changed man, I’ve grown.”

It’s a little scary to get so chummy with him so quickly, even if we do supposedly know each other. Always is the small nagging organ in my body releasing its small nagging liquids, telling me to stop, that he hates me, that I’m completely embarrassing myself because this guy is fake or a ghost or clinically insane. Maybe he is. Maybe I’m embarrassing myself. Maybe I’m embarrassing him.

⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹

Has it been ten minutes? An hour? It’s like the inside of this wall bends space and time. Einstein would cry.

Light in hand, Connie slows to walk beside me. “Do you remember Covid?”

“Of course! I’d always keep the tracker tab open because of how paranoid I was. I…”

All I see is white. “Holy crap, did you just remember something?”

My hand can’t block out the light. “Put that down.”

“Think, Ostrich! Think!”

The memory is fleeting, only a wisp of the past unlucky enough to be snuffed up by me. “I’m trying!”

“Harder!”

“Please, Connie, put that away.”

“Oh.”

And with a snap, it vanishes.

“Did you remember it?”

Blinking doesn’t get rid of the dark blotches. “No.”

“Aw, man.” He hurries to catch up to me. “But you did just remember something, right?”

“I think so.”

“Oh.”

Shuff. Shuf. Shuff… If I’m not careful, I might blow a hole in these slipper socks.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

No response.

“Connie? It’s alright.”

He mumbles.

Seeing him dejected like this feels wrong. “Um, you haven’t told me something about yourself, Connie.”

“I’m just a guy, Ossie, and I made you lose your only memory.”

This boy. “Connie, it’s fine. Really. I have lots of time to remember things.”

He kicks the ground. “I know, but…”

“It’s just like you said.” Desperately, I try to remember. “It doesn’t matter if I can’t remember anything, because I’m still my own person. Right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Tell me something about yourself,” I repeat.

He rubs his hands against each other— “Well…” —and begins to pick up steam. “So, last week we raided this beauty shop, right? And J-boy said I was stupid for doing that, and I called him a horse face, so he threw a cream tube at me. I caught it like this, right—” his arms twist in a weird way as he reenacts the scene— “and it turned out to be a hand cream. I’ve been using it ever since, and frankly, I think he’s jealous.”

“Hand cream? Is that why your hands are so soft?”

“So you’ve noticed? Ha! I can’t wait to tell him. We gotta get back!” His pace picks up. “I’ll even let you try some, Ossie, because you’re such a good friend.”

I just met you, but I’m glad you’re happy again. “That means a lot to me.”

“Hold this.” He suddenly stops and shoves the light. “Back up, I’m gonna do something.”

“Something…?” I step away.

Connie squats, swings forth his hands, and leaps backwards.

I watch as he smashes his feet through the wall, slapping the cold, hard ground with his skull.

Blap.

“Connie?”

The light reflects innumerable dust motes and the eerily still victim of fatuity. Suddenly, the dark seems a little more alive. “Connie!” His head lolls when I cuff his shoulders. “Are you okay?” Blood trickles from his nostril. “Okay, dumb question.”

He still has a pulse — but for how long is a mystery.

Oh shit. This is real.

I haul him around so his head is near the hole and try shoving him out by pushing up on his ribcage. Warm and squishy… just like that zombie. My arms go a little numb as I take a quick look — first forward, then back. Dust.

I need to focus.

Scarce light pours in through the hole as I push — now his shoulders are out. Tiny shards of the wall crumble over his chest. Tiny, dark red shards.

Plaster bricks.

“Oh my god! Connie?” The ground vibrates — someone is running over from the other side.

By some miracle of god (or Connie’s hidden genius), we’re right where we’re supposed to be.

⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹

gosh this chapter was clunky. (it gets worse.) for the record it was rewritten at least 5 times in every pov and tense and i've since grown tired of it. do you trust your author when they tell you that the next chapters will be better? do you? (don't)

i hope you liked it and all. i know you cant expect shakespeare on ao3tumblr but i keep thinking 'gotta be perfect gotta be perfect!' please lmk if i did anything wrong or something can be improved on. i try to get better.

please take care of yourselves

final notes: mc gets better

⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹

masterlist 2 - little sproutling

#ofcwbo #pushable #jean kirschtein fanfiction #jean kirschtein x you #jean kirschtein x reader #aot fanfiction #zombie au #jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein fanfiction

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divinemare · 2 years

Text

𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

┊ ➶ rhys x oc

┊ part two

ੈ✩‧₊˚ tw: mentioned su!c¡d3 thoughts

part one

͙⁺˚*･༓☾

She didn’t remembered when she passed out during the journey, but eventually, the pain and blood loss from all the cuts became enough for her to faint. She woke up in a room, an actual bedroom. For some seconds, those where she had just woken up and forgot everything, she was fine, her head hurt a little bit, but she felt fine. Then, after the dreaming and sleepy state wore over, she remembered every last detail, and she began to finally panic.

Where was she? —surely, still in the Moonstone Palace, but where exactly?— What had happened to her —she had almost died, she had hoped she would, and then Rhysand came in and…— And where the fuck was Rhysand now, anyway?

She looked around the room, a beautiful, enormous room. The ceiling was open, showing the gorgeous starry night sky, but she noticed, then, that the room had a feminine air, rather than masculine.

Where was she?

“Oh good! You’re awake,” a voice, a female voice, made her jumped, startled, and put a hand on her chest. She found the movement to be actually painful.

When she stared at the now closed room door, she found a blond female, an outrageously beautiful blond female, standing near the bed with opened eyes, looking at her a little ashamed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to scare you,” she smiled sideways, and got closer, this time, more slowly, to the side of the bed.

Ariadne had a big urge to get away, move just a little bit further from the female at least. She was spectacular, that’s for sure, but…she was a Fae, a High Fae, living in the Moonstone Palace, with a gigantic room for her, which could only mean she was an important High Fae. Ariadne had all the reasons to be afraid and wary of her.

“I’m Mor. Morrigan, but Mor. You are?” She asked incredibly nicely.

Still, Ariadne couldn’t find herself to speak, to trust. She stared down, reminding that looking into their eyes was often taken as a disrespect, and swallowed hard to try to bring herself to obey the question.

“Ariadne,” she said with a shaky voice, still not staring up at the female.

“That’s a beautiful name, Ariadne,” her voice sounded nice, very nice, even soft, as if she was speaking like that intentionally so that Ariadne would trust her. But when she didn’t respond, or moved, or looked at her, Morrigan sighed, and sat down at the edge of the large bed. “You can look up at me, you know,” her voice didn’t sound harsh, but rather softly sad.

Ariadne did so. Slowly, she raised her head, and then her eyes, to those of the beautiful female, Morrigan smiled when they were looking at each other again, and then, Ariadne noticed a similarity between the blond and Rhysand, as if they shared the same seductive, yet dangerous smile.

“Uhm, can I…can I ask you something?”

“Of course! You can ask me anything,” Morrigan seemed surprised she even had to ask that question.

“Uhm, how long have I been here? And, why am I here?”

“You passed out while Rhys was carrying you around spilling blood everywhere, he was going to take you to the infirmary, but we met on the way and I insisted you were brought here, since you were getting so pale, I doubted that by the time a healer would agree to save a human’s life, there would be no life in you to save. I did the best I could with my magic, you’re going to be ok, you just gotta rest your leg for some time, and then you’ll be all back together. As for the other question, you’re in my room,” Mor smiled again, but Ariadne looked paler than before.

“I- how long has it been?” She couldn’t afford being away from work for so long, and what about Tara? They did so well because they worked together, without her, could she afford to get enough work done for food?

“It’s been only a day,” when Morrigan noticed her face contract, she knitted her eyebrows in a little confused frown. “Is something wrong?”

“I- I have to go back to work,” Ariadne tried to get out of the bed, but a piercing pain erupted from her leg and upwards when she did so.

“Wow, take it slow, I told you, you gotta rest, if you’re worried about your work, don’t be, Rhys took care of that.”

“No it’s…I have someone who really needs me,” Ariadne bite her lower lip, trying to come up with a way she could stand up without feeling her leg burning up.

“Oh, is it a family member?” Morrigan asked, innocently.

Ariadne’s heart rushed at the mention of her family, Mor couldn’t see this, of course, since she was giving her back to the female, but maybe she did saw her shoulders tensing and heard her unsteady heartbeat.

“No. I don’t have a family, they’re all dead,” what was the point in lying or sweeting up the truth? “It’s a friend, my only friend, and if I don’t go and help her out, she’s probably not going to finish in time to be able to eat.”

So she made her best attempt to stand up without moaning in pain, Morrigan stood up too, and tried to approach her to help her out.

“I’m ok, thank you, really, I…I don’t even know what to think, you were very kind but…I shouldn’t be here,” she tried to smile to the female, but for the expression in her face, the smile hadn’t been convincing at all.

So she just left, walking with a limp to the big oak doors, and, while getting away from the gorgeous female, and the very place she should have never been in, she couldn’t help but feel her chest tightening at the thought she wished Morrigan would have never intercepted them, she shuddered at the thought she had considered dead as the only peace she would never know.

༺ ♡ ༻

Tara had been mad, very, very mad at her.

When she got back to the slaves quarters, Tara had been non-stop complaining about how irresponsable, reckless, and stupidly she had acted, that she was going to get herself killed, and Ariadne didn’t had it in her to tell her that was exactly what she had been hoping would happen.

The next day, even tho the tiredness and pain kept her limping and exhausted, they made their way, Tara being a great help of support, to their working station. Autumn was starting to make its way to Prythian, so the weather constantly shifted from hot to cold, getting rid of the summer and ready for the winter.

When they worked tirelessly, the constant movement and rush of her body gave her enough warm to keep her from shivering so much, but now that she had to stay and work sitting, her body was not generating enough energy to keep her warm, and that was showing in every time her teeth chatter or she shuddered.

“What are you doing here?” The sudden, cold voice adverted her attention from her work. A shiver ran down her spine, and this time, it had nothing to do with the weather.

Ariadne looked up to the male standing above her, Tara was at the very other side of the room, sweeping dirt from the floor. Either if she noticed Rhysand’s arrival, she did not show, not raising her head off the floor.

“I-” What kind of question had that been? She couldn’t bring herself to think in coherent words to respond to that while she stared, bewildered, at the High Lord’s son with her mouth slightly open. “What?” She questioned, maybe she had understood him wrong.

“What are you doing here?” He asked again, a little annoyed he had to repeat himself.

“I’m…I’m working,” she said, a little too obvious.

“Yes, that’s what i’m still not understanding, why are you working?” He seemed annoyed at her, at her for working.

She thought, then, that she most certainly had probably suffered from some sort of brain damage after everything because she wasn’t understanding a thing going on right now.

“Because it’s…my job?”

“You’re injured, you can barely stand up by yourself.”

“I can stand by myself,” she definitely couldn’t, but she wasn’t telling him that.

“Yeah, right,” he rolled his eyes, and that, for some reason, made her mad.

“Why do you care, anyway. I’m sorry, but unless you’re planning in making a new law that frees slaves or at least gives us basic things like food without conditioning if we deserve it or not, then I have to go back to work,” she was being impertinent, and she knew that, but she couldn’t help but getting outrageously mad at the male that had more than everything in life and felt so entitled to hers. He was, in some sense of the law, but still, he had absolutely no right in playing moral when his own father, his court, his people were enslaving hers, herself, and then pretending her life could be as easy as his if she didn’t worked.

He noticed her impertinence, too, but didn’t seemed to be surprised or mad at it, which only confused her all the more.

“You know, my cousin told me something very interesting today when I went to see how you were doing and found out you had stubbornly left her room.”

So the gorgeous female of last night had been his cousin, definitely the family genetics ran thick, it seemed.

Ariadne raised one eyebrow, confused, waiting for him to continue to talk, she watched him put his hands on his pockets and stretched the long, black bat-like wings on his back, narrowing his eyes just a little while looking directly at her.

“She told me you had acted strange when she told you we had saved you. One would think you’ll be grateful for that, but, according to Mor, you weren’t looking so…fond of the idea,” Ariadne felt her heart stumble a beat, and she desperately hoped he wouldn’t have heard that, she stoped looking at him then, returning her head to the box of objects she had to be cleaning dirt off right now, pretending she was going back to work, when in reality she was trying to escape from his scrutinizing gaze. “But it looks like you’re not going to tell me the truth, are you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, it was just I was worried about my friend having to work alone, so I left early,” that wasn’t entirely a lie, not quite, at least.

“Yeah, right,” he sighed, and a moment of silence stretched between them. Ariadne looked up at him again, and saw him reaching into his pocket to get something out. She waited, eyebrows knitted slightly, until he took out a beautiful, gleaming black rock. It almost seemed to be made of night itself, and Ariadne couldn’t help but feel absolutely amazed by its beauty. “If you’re so determined to work, and so very sure you can walk without assistance, then get this to my sister, will you?”

Ariadne swallowed hard while staring between the rock and the male, she tried not to look indecisive, so she just contained a snort and lowered her head to her actual work again.

“Why ask me and not a servant? I’m supposed to do the palace work, servants take care of your needs, prince,” the title came out more harsh than she had intended, and when she looked up again to see his reaction, she noticed a small smirk, very subtle, playing in the sides of his mouth, as if he knew she was hiding something.

“Because you’re here right now, and I’m running very late so I have no time for either looking for someone else or doing it myself,” he made a small pause, his smirk growing bigger before speaking again. “Of course, if you tell me you can’t walk…”

“I’ll do it,” she shot up from the floor and immediately regretted it. She had to press her teeth together to avoid gritting and swallowed the pain that shot through her entire body. “My prince,” she finished her sentence the most respectful way she could manage. Still, Rhysand’s grin was still very much present in his face, letting her know she hadn’t done a great job in hiding her disdain, but she simply extended her hand for the gleaming rock, and he placed it on top.

“Very well, thank you, Ariadne,” the way he said her name made her shiver while she watched him disappear without another word.

So he knew her name now, of course he did, his cousin must have told him.

When he was out of sight, she let a breath out, her chest tightening, and her leg hurting. She looked down at the rock, then up at Tara, just to find out she was already looking at her, her expression hard. They held their stares for a couple of seconds, seconds were Ariadne’s shame was well painted in her face, before Tara signaled the door with her head and spoke in a low murmure.

“Go, before it all gets worse,” Tara knew, of course she knew, about the dangerous game Ariadne had gotten herself into.

Her face went red and she lowered her head, if Tara was mad at her, she had every right, she herself didn’t knew what had gotten into her, the reckless stupid bravery that had driven her to speak that way to the High Lord’s son, gotten involved with him in the first place —even tho, to be completely fair, he had been the one to gotten involved with her—, it all was getting too much out of hand, and she could only wish the Night Prince would eventually tired of her and leave her alone. Until that happened, she had to continue to play his game if she wanted to keep Tara out of trouble.

Ariadne didn’t took one last glance at her friend before she left to the princess’ rooms limping all the way up.

༺ ♡ ༻

She was panting by the time she finally got to Rhysand’s sister’s room, she needed a minute to recover her breath, so she leaned on the wall besides the big oak doors and closed her eyes for a second.

Damned Rhysand, damned the High Lord, damned the guards, damned the pain in her leg.

“Rhys? Is that you?” A voice, a female voice, made her open her eyes quickly and push away from the wall to nervously make her way to the now open door.

A beautiful female opened the doors, she was so similar to Rhys, yet, if he seemed to be made out of darkness and nightmares, she was made out of stars and dreams. She was beautiful, her tan skin glimmered on its own, her wings, tugged out just like Rhysand’s, caressed the floor, and her eyes were the same violet, mesmerizing color.

“Uhm, no, sorry,” when the female turned to look at her, she stared in confusion, so Ariadne was quick to explain her presence. “Rhysand sent me, he said he was running very late so he couldn’t come himself to bring you this,” she extended her palm, to give her the black glimmering rock, and those violet eyes, so similar to Rhysand’s, lighted up like stars.

“Mother above, he got it! Thank you for bringing it,” whatever that was, it seemed to be something she had been waiting a long time for. Ariadne smiled and nodded slightly, but before she could turn around and limp back to where she was supposed to be, the beautiful female stoped her. “Oh wait! You’re that girl, aren’t you? Mor told me about you.”

Ariadne furrowed her eyebrows a little bit, how was she supposed to answer that?

“Uhm, I guess I am?”

“Would you mind coming in for a bit? I need help with my dress but my servant got injured, so she didn’t come today.”

Ariadne considered it for a moment, she needed to go back and finish her work, but she couldn’t say no to the princess of the Night Court, so she simply nodded, and followed her into her room.

It was just as breath taking and big as Morrigan’s room had been.

“How is your leg?”

“It’s fine, I guess, getting better,” it was, just at a really slow pace.

“Good, Mor’s magic is strong, I’m sure you’ll be ok in no time. Your name is Ariadne, right?” She nodded while tightening up the laces of the dress behind with a little confirming noice.

“That’s a beautiful name, do you know what it means?”

She did knew, her father used to tell her all the time, whenever they would go to sleep and she would stare at the sky with hopeful eyes, the same ones she had inherited from him.

“It means ‘very sacred’ my father used to tell me all the time it was because there was nothing more sacred than dreams, and I had always been his most sacred one,” she smiled at the memory, melancholy shooting through her heart.

“That’s very beautiful,” the female turned around ones she was done with the laces of her dress. “I’m Rhiannon.”

“Of course I know that,” she smiled slightly, and raised her eyes to the females’ when she heard her soft, beautiful laugh.

“Yeah, I guess you do. Well, Sacred One, thank you very much for bringing me the night pearl, and for helping me with my dress.”

So that’s what it was, a night pearl, it had every sense, to be honest. It was a beautiful, rare jewel that could only be found in the Night Court grounds, she had only seen one of those from very, very afar, in the Lady of the Night Court’s ears the first and only time she saw the female.

“You’re welcome, Princess, I should go back to work, now,” Rhiannon smiled and nodded, getting distracted then by the beautiful night pearl in her hands, so Ariadne bowed, and made her way out of the room.

༺ ♡ ༻

Tara and her had finally finished working, barely just in time, and while Ariadne organized the cleaning supplies, Tara went to claim their rations of food. She hadn’t spoken to her when they were done, neither had she even looked at her when she was back from Rhiannon’s room.

“Are you done being stubborn?” The sudden voice made her jump in surprise and her heart to stumble a beat.

She put a hand on her chest, feeling her rapid heart beats, and turned around to look at the male that was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. His big wings making a shadow behind him.

“Are you done sneaking up on people?” She sighed, annoyed, and closed the drawer.

Rhysand smiled sideways, and pushed himself from the door frame to walk over to her. Ariadne braced herself to the drawer, looking at his violet eyes and trying not to recoil.

“I think I finally got it, you know?” His head moved just a tiny bit to one side ones he stoped his tracks in front of her, at enough distance she would feel scared by his presence but not uncomfortable.

“Finally got what?”

“Why you did what you did the other day, with those guards. Your attitude, the fact you snap at me every time you can, your insolence. You’re not scared of me, or maybe you are, no, you most definitely are, but that doesn’t stop you from raising your head at me and staring directly at me. You know I should be punishing you for this insolence of yours, and you most definitely knew what those guards were gonna do if you defied them, yet you did.”

“And yet you don’t punish me,” she raised an eyebrow at him, he had been right, she was utterly terrified of him, she was now, but she did not advert her eyes from his.

“No, no I don’t,” he didn’t took her staring as an insult, but rather something interesting, a challenge he was amused by.

“And will you?” She was partially afraid for the answer to that question. Partially hopeful, too.

“No, I won’t,” her eyebrows knitted in confusion, yet his expression didn’t changed at all.

“Then what is that what you finally got?” She asked, annoyed of the games he liked to play.

“You wanted it, that day, what those guards were supposed to do, what I’m supposed to do, you weren’t and aren’t afraid of death because you wanted death, isn’t that right, Ariadne?”

Her face fell pale and her mouth dried completely. Thinking it for herself was one thing, but hearing her thoughts coming out of Rhysand’s mouth…

“I-”

“Isn’t. That. Right. Ariadne?” He interrupted her, as if he had known she was just about to lie herself out of that situation.

He got one step near her, but stoped when he noticed she tried to get away from him. She looked down and shut her eyes close, taking a deep breath and realizing her words when she let it out.

“Yes! Maybe…maybe it is, but what about it?”

“But what about it?” Rhysand repeated her question, incredulously. “Those guards weren’t only going to kill you.”

“I know that,” her cheeks turn red at the memory, still not raising her head to look directly at him.

“Then you know also you can’t do something like that ever again,” she then raised her head, and an eyebrow at him.

“What? The pissing off guards or the insolence?” Rhysand smiled them, for her surprise.

“The pissing off guards, I kind of like the insolence.”

Ariadne opened her eyes in shock, and stoped looking at his grin and violet eyes.

“You should go now, before your food gets too cold.”

Ariadne only nodded, and used the drawer to help herself a little bit and pushed to start walking to the door. When she got there, she turned around to see if Rhysand was still standing behind her, only to find out he had completely banished, a cloud of mist being the only evidence he had been there.

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acotar oc #acomaf #acosf #acowar #rhysand #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #a court of mist and fury #ariadne x rhys #ariadne #legend of a mortal love #rhysand x oc #night court #mor acotar #morrigan #rhysand sister

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