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cielettosa · 3 months

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SEED OF DISCONTENT

Chapter 1: a burden unchosen

PAIRING: levi ackerman x fem!reader

RATING: explicit

FANDOM: shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan (canon verse, canon divergent)

SYNOPSIS:

The Ackerman clan needs to be expanded, and you are chosen to carry his child.

cw of the chapter: none

navigation

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Heavy air, thick enough to chew on. It sits on Levi lungs like a stale loaf of Dhalis' smug superiority.

Tick tock, tick tock. Clock mocks them all, counting down the precious minutes wasted in this shitty staring contest.

Polished table, a mirror reflecting the distorted faces of these pompous windbags. Zachary, the "General," a walking monument to paperwork erosion. His beard – a tragic map of battles fought with red tape, not Titans. His eyes, like a bloodhound sniffing out dissent, but too slow to catch the real monsters in this room.

Erwin Smith. The almighty, the strategic genius, the commander of the Survey Corps.

He sits there puffed up like a pigeon on a flagpole. Levi can practically hear his ribs creaking under the weight of his own titan sized ambitions and eyebrows. All bluster and dreams, that one.

He does not understand the grime under your fingernails, the blood that seeps into your soul after every mission. He talks about the "greater good," about humanity's "salvation."

Levi's fingers itch for the familiar weight of his blades. They would feel more comfortable here than this damn chair.

Erwin's icy blue eyes are probably doing calculus right now, strategizing the most soul crushing paperwork avalanche to unleash on Levi after this bureaucratic circus. Wonderful.

Just what Levi needs – another mountain of paper stacks to wade through, each one a monument to the utter cluelessness of these so called leaders.

Nile Dawk, perpetually looking like an offended toddler – ever the picture of simmering discontent. Tapping a rhythm on the table like a bored child, scowl permanently etched on his face. Military Police Brigade must be a real snooze fest if this qualifies as entertainment for him.

Dot Pixis. The Garrison commander with a smile sweeter than rotten fruit. Just the kind of saccharine charm that could probably disarm an abnormal Titan with a sugar high.

All sunshine and lollipops, that one. Probably thinks the biggest danger he faces is a paper cut.

And then there is Humanity's Strongest Soldier. Levi Ackerman. Years spent dodging death by Titan and defying gravity have turned his posture into a weapon itself.

His eyes, a stormy gray reflecting horrors most would not dare dream of, are a mask. A stoic facade forged in the fires of countless battles. Iron will, they call it. Yeah, well, sometimes even iron feels like it is about to snap under the weight of this never ending hell.

The air hangs thick, its intellectual density barely surpassing a sluggish potato. Dhalis slurs out his opening remarks, the weight of his words attempting, and failing, to mimic a momentous thunderclap.

"Esteemed Commanders and Captain," he declares, "we convene today on a matter of utmost importance." A dramatic pause follows, his pronouncement lingering in the air like an unwelcome houseguest. "The Ackerman bloodline."

The General utters the words with the gravitas one might reserve for announcing the cure for Titanism, a cure that would undoubtedly be more newsworthy than this current charade.

Here, in this room choked by the stench of bureaucratic ineptitude, the only true concern should be the ever present threat of humanity becoming Titan chum.

A tremor of unease ripples through the assembled commanders, a collective shiver down the spine of the room. Erwin, ever the opportunist, leans forward, transforming into the very image of rapt attention.

Nile, on the other hand, can not contain a scoff, a harsh sound that would likely send chills down the ever nervous Armin Arlert's spine.

His voice, dripping with disdain like a neglected mop, barks out, "The attack dogs utilized for combat by the Survey Corps and kept under their control - what bearing, if any, does this topic have on the current discourse?"

Dhalis counters Nile's scoff with a clipped retort, his tone as sharp as a drill sergeant addressing a trainee with the intellectual capacity of a sluggish spud. "With all due respect, Commander Dawk,," he emphasizes. "the Ackerman bloodline exhibits demonstrably abnormal combat capabilities. These capabilities demonstrably exceed even those of our most elite soldiers, if such a designation can be ascribed to the current standard."

Nile slams his fist down on the polished mahogany table, the resulting impact sending a tremor through the crystal glassware that evokes a startled flock of pigeons.

"The Ackermans are nothing more than volatile instruments of war! Their allegiances are fluid and dictated by whomever holds the reins of power! They are Smith's sword perpetually hanging over our heads, a festering danger to the very foundations of the Wall's Military!" He puffs out his chest, the very image of an outraged toddler whose favorite stuffed animal has been snatched away.

Predictably, the very mention of the Ackerman bloodline ignites a cacophony of idiocy within the room. Nile, bless his perpetually furrowed brow, predictably launches into a tirade about "the potential dangers," his voice laced with the kind of bluster one might expect from a petulant child.

Pixis drawls out a response, doing little to quell the simmering tension in the room. "While your concerns, Commander Dawk, are duly noted, perhaps a more measured approach is warranted.," he says, his voice dripping with a nonchalance that borders on mockery. "Captain Levi, appears content to fulfill his designated role. One might even argue he demonstrates a certain efficiency in battlefields And surely, their demonstrable utility in such endeavors cannot be entirely dismissed."

Dhalis clears his throat with a theatrical flourish, the universal signal for the assembled commanders to shut their yaps.

"Indeed, Commander Pixis," he concedes. "While I acknowledge Captain Levi's utility, Commander Pixis." He continues, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, as if he is about to drop a bombshell more explosive than a Titan spotting a juicy human morsel. "we must consider the entirety of the Ackerman bloodline. The private known as Mikasa Ackerman also warrants our attention in this discussion."

Nile growls, a bulldog with a stubborn bone lodged in its throat. "Private Mikasa Ackerman presents a potential complication," he spits out. "Her emotional attachment to the impulsive and reckless Private Eren Yeager, Humanity's Hope, could be a detriment to her objectivity. The military requires unwavering focus and strategic acumen, qualities potentially compromised by such sentimental entanglements."

Dhalis offers a curt nod, the gesture of a teacher indulging a slow student. "To be perfectly clear, Commander Dawk" he clarifies. "while Private Mikasa Ackerman's emotional attachments warrant observation, they are not the immediate cause for concern. Our primary focus must remain fixed upon Captain Levi, Humanity's Strongest Soldier. It is imperative that we establish, with absolute certainty, the nature of his allegiance. The military requires unwavering loyalty, a commitment that must be secured on a permanent basis"

They want to clip Levi's wings, transform him into a government sanctioned attack dog, a good little soldier following their every beck and call.

The irony is so thick, so suffocating, it could be slathered on burnt toast and passed off as a gourmet meal. Levi's loyalty, if they could even begin to understand it, lies solely with the singular objective of ending this bloody war.

And achieving that requires a hell of a lot more than empty promises and a patronizing pat on the head.

They dangle the Ackerman bloodline before him like a juicy carrot, all the while preparing to yank him in with a leash. Because, apparently, a goddamn Titan slaying machine, a man who has stared into the abyss and emerged unbroken, is a threat to their precious little power structure.

These self proclaimed leaders could not fight their way out of a paper bag, let alone navigate the treacherous political labyrinth they have constructed within these damned Walls.

The only true anomaly associated with the Ackerman bloodline is their complete and utter lack of tolerance for bureaucratic idiocy.

This s whole damn meeting is a pointless exercise in futility, a waste of valuable time that could be spent slicing Titans, not listening to them spout nonsense.

The only entertainment comes from watching these self important wind bags trip over their own inflated egos.

Maybe Levi should start a mental betting pool – Nile, with his perpetually constipated expression, or Pixis, with that oily salesman grin he can not seem to wipe off? Knowing their track record, it will be a nail biter of a finish.

Jaw clenches tighter, frustration a rising tide threatening to spill over. They have been droning on for an eternity, and not a single one of them has offered a decent cup of tea.

The lack of proper tea is a war crime in itself, and frankly, Levi is about to reach his breaking point.

Levi cuts through the tense air with his voice, a low monotone as sharp as a carving knife slicing through butter. "Loyalty," he declares, "is something that is earned, not something you bully into someone like a conscript force fed expired rations" His steely gaze sweeps across the room, taking each face in turn, a silent challenge. "If my lineage is such a delectable dish for your paranoid ruminations," he continues, leaning back slightly in his chair, "then by all means, let me demonstrate my value on the battlefield. It seems a far more productive use of time than this childish charade of bureaucratic musical chairs you've orchestrated here today."

A flicker of surprise, as fleeting as a gnat caught in a hurricane, crosses Dhalis' weathered face. Erwin, however, can not quite suppress a smirk playing on his lips.

The man understands Levi better than most, recognizes the unwavering dedication that burns within him like superheated Titan blood.

Pixis, the oily eel of a Garrison commander, leans back with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Perhaps, esteemed General," he drawls, his voice dripping with a false sincerity. "the Captain raises a salient observation. Indeed, why not allow him to take to the field? Let him spill his own crimson ichor in defense of humanity. In the crucible of combat, his loyalty can be forged anew, not through empty pronouncements, but through actions etched in the very blood he sheds for our collective survival."

Dhalis releases a sigh that ruffles the papers scattered across the table, the sound betraying the frustration simmering beneath his carefully constructed facade.

Dhalis reaches up to stroke his beard, an unhealthy habit that likely yanks out more hair than a pack of hungry Titans swarming a buffet. "Very well, Captain Levi," he concedes, his voice laced with a begrudging acceptance that strains to mask his underlying apprehension. "You have been granted this… opportunity to demonstrate your fealty. Consider this a reprieve, a chance to redeem the inherent suspicion that clings to your bloodline like a persistent miasma." he leans forward, his gaze hardening into steely glint, "But make no mistake, Captain" he adds, a cruel edge creeping into his voice, "the moment even the slightest tremor of disloyalty betrays your actions, the repercussions will be as swift and merciless as the blade you wield so effectively. And let me assure you swiftness will be a forgotten luxury in the face of your transgression. The full weight of the military will come crashing down upon you, a juggernaut of retribution that will leave you yearning for the sweet embrace of oblivion.

Levi meets his gaze head on, his expression an unreadable mask. "Understood, sir," he replies, his voice betraying none of the storm brewing within him.

"However," Dhalis continues, his voice taking on a sly tone, "as Commander Pixis eloquently articulated, mere pronouncements hold little sway in this esteemed chamber. Deeds, Captain Levi, deeds are what we demand. As alluded to in our prior deliberations, the undeniable admiration Private Eren Yeager, Humanity's Hope holds for you, Humanity's Strongest Soldier, is a matter of public record. His unyielding trust in your capabilities borders on the fanatical, would you not agree? The boy would not hesitate to follow you into the very maw of a Titan itself. Therefore, we require a… proof, shall we say? A public spectacle that unequivocally demonstrates that Humanity's Strongest Soldier is, without question, prepared to adhere to our directives, regardless of their perceived absurdity or apparent pointlessness. We require absolute, unwavering certainty that your allegiance remains firmly tethered to the military. Any hint of wavering, of a potential defection that could see you and Eren Yeager stray from the designated path, will not be tolerated. The consequences of such a betrayal would reverberate throughout humanity's fragile existence. Imagine the chaos, the erosion of trust that would follow in the wake of your disobedience. Think of the fragile hope you would shatter, the blood that would stain the ground due to your misplaced loyalties. No, Captain Levi, we cannot, will not, accept such a catastrophic scenario. Therefore, a public display of your obedience is paramount. We need the world, and more importantly, Eren Yeager himself, to witness your unwavering commitment to this cause. Only then can we move forward with a semblance of confidence, knowing that our strongest soldier stands firmly beside us, not against us."

Levi's voice cuts through the veiled threats, cold and sharp as a discarded blade. "How exactly do I prove this loyalty you are so desperate for?"

Dhalis leans forward, his belly straining against his uniform like a sausage casing about to burst. If Levi squinted real hard, maybe he could pretend it was sincerity wrinkling his brow.

"Ah, Captain," Dhalis Zachary drawls, a sickeningly theatrical tone creeping into his voice, "there in lies the crux of the matter, would you not concur? It would be a most unfortunate turn of events, a veritable tragedy of epic proportions, if…" Tragedy? More like a comedy act gone horribly wrong. "…something unforeseen… were to befall our invaluable asset…" Unfortunate for who, exactly? "…Humanity's Strongest Soldier, Levi Ackerman. The potential loss of such a potent genealogical lineage, the Ackerman bloodline, brimming with unparalleled combat prowess - an unconscionable waste, would you not agree? A crying shame that would echo through the annals of humanity's struggle for survival. Fear not, Captain, would never dream of placing you in an untenable situation. However, a strategically orchestrated public display of obedience, one that showcases your unwavering commitment to this very institution, would be most… reassuring. Think of it as a necessary formality, a safeguard against the unforeseen. After all, who amongst us can predict the capricious hand of fate? Imagine the public outcry, the despair that would grip humanity, if some… mishap… were to befall our most prized weapon in the fight against the Titan menace. Surely, Captain, a man of your esteemed stature would not want to be the cause of such widespread devastation, would you?" His gaze fixes on Levi, "The task I propose, Captain, is a mere formality, a carefully choreographed performance designed to quell any lingering anxieties. Think of it as an investment in the future, a testament to the enduring unity between yourself and the very military of the Walls. After all, the potential consequences of your… disobedience, shall we say, are a prospect that would leave us all trembling in the face of an uncertain future."

Unease flickers across Nile's face, a fly caught in a spiderweb. The man is a walking bad mood on a good day, but even he seems to recoil at the thought. Turning soldiers into government breeding stock? The very idea is enough to make a Titan reconsider its lunch options.

Nile growls, "Are you implying, General," he spits, disgusted "that we revisit that proposition tabled earlier, the one concocted in hushed tones between yourself, Commander Smith, Commander Pixis, and myself? The utterly repugnant notion of Captain Ackerman being transformed into some… government sanctioned stallion?" The word hangs in the air, vulgar and obscene, shattering any remaining pretense of decorum in the room. "The very notion is not only abhorrent but strategically unsound!"

Government sanctioned stud? Levi's blood runs cold, a primal fury clawing its way up his throat. The audacity of these men! Do they think Levi is some mindless beast to be bred in captivity? A weapon to be passed down through generations?

The General might acknowledge the validity of Nile's point, but government sanctioned stud? Even these pompous windbags have a limit on their tact, apparently.

Dhalis clears his throat, the sound like a clogged drain trying to cough up a hairball. "Commander Dawk, while your concerns regarding the… unorthodox proposition previously discussed are duly noted, perhaps a more nuanced approach might be warranted. We must consider the long game, do you not agree? Who can say what unforeseen threats lurk beyond the Walls, what monstrous adversaries may rise to challenge humanity's very existence? Therefore, would it not be prudent, some might even say a matter of humanity's security, to ensure the… continuation of the Ackerman bloodline? After all," he wheezes, strained like a man trying to swallow a rotten potato whole. "their demonstrably superior combat prowess is an asset too valuable to squander. Perhaps, a more… conventional arrangement could be facilitated. A suitable female candidate, carefully vetted for loyalty and robust health, could be identified. A union, orchestrated with the utmost discretion, could see the Ackerman lineage flourish, a safeguard against the potential horrors that the future may hold." He continues, the word dripping with self serving righteousness, "There is much to consider, do you not agree? But surely, the potential benefits outweigh any initial discomfort such a course of action might engender."

This attempt to sugarcoat their barbaric proposition with necessity is about as transparent as a window.

Erwin stays silent, a mask hiding any flicker of internal debate. Maybe he is strategizing, formulating an escape plan for this bureaucratic nightmare.

Who knows what goes on behind that calculating mind of his?

"Are you suggesting, that I become a government sanctioned sperm bank for the Walls?" Levi's voice cuts through the obfuscation, a blade slicing through their web of lies.

Dhalis, the oblivious buffoon, throws his head back and lets out a laugh that grates on Levi's nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. The amusement in his eyes is a stark contrast to the thundercloud that has formed above Nile's perpetually grumpy face.

Does this man find humor in reducing a soldier to nothing more than a stud?

Levi's urge to wipe that smug grin off his face with his bare fists is overwhelming.

"Now, now, Captain Levi," Dhalis wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes brought on by his amusement. "There is no need for such modesty! Consider this a paramount contribution to the very survival of humanity, your ultimate patriotic duty! Imagine the glorious possibilities! Why, with a little," He leans forward, his eyes gleaming with a manic glint that sends shivers down spines more accustomed to Titan chills. "Imagine the possibilities!" he crows. "… selective breeding, we could cultivate an entire goddamn army of Ackermans! An unstoppable legion, bred for war and impervious to Titan threats! Think of it, Captain Levi," he trails off, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we could engineer the ultimate weapon, humanity's salvation forged from your genes! Generations of Ackerman prodigies, each one a genetic marvel honed for combat! The very future of humanity rests upon your… cooperation, Captain." he continues, "Refusal to cooperate with this endeavor, however distasteful it may seem, could be misconstrued as… disloyalty. And disloyalty, Captain, as we have already established, has a very unpleasant cost. So Captain, what say you? Will you embrace your patriotic duty and become the progenitor of a Titan slaying army, or will you force us to consider… alternative solutions?"

Is he reading out some twisted fairytale? These are not puppies you can breed for good looks and tricks, these are lives, lives he has ready to gamble on like chips in a rigged game.

The sheer audacity of these self important buffoons leaves Levi momentarily speechless. An army of mindless Ackerman babies, bred like cattle to fight their battles?

The very notion is so ludicrous it borders on comical. Almost. Levi forces down the urge to laugh, instead opting for a slow, deliberate blink.

The icy glint in his eyes speaks volumes, a silent challenge that hangs heavy in the air.

Nile's question cuts through the idiocy like a blade through overcooked cabbage. "And who, pray tell, General, who would be the lucky lady tasked with… producing this Ackerman army of yours?" He drawls the words.

An army of Ackermans, bred like some twisted livestock? The image that flashes in Levi's mind is enough to make him clench his fists so hard his nails dig into his palms.

Who would be the sacrificial lamb in this grotesque breeding program?

Nile's question is seemingly ignored.

A flicker of interest crosses Erwin's face, a spark of intrigue igniting in his blue eyes. He strokes his chin thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on General Dhalis with a healthy dose of skepticism. "Intriguing," he finally concedes, his voice measured and devoid of emotion. "The potential for such a military force… an army specifically bred and trained to combat the Titan menace… it is a concept that warrants serious consideration. The Ackerman bloodline, with its demonstrably superior martial prowess, could indeed be the cornerstone of such a revolutionary endeavor." He leans back in his chair, his voice dropping to a low growl. "However," he continues, his gaze turning laser focused on Dhalis, "one must approach such a proposition with utmost caution. The ramifications of failure, of a genetic experiment gone awry, could be catastrophic. And frankly, General," he adds with a sardonic edge, "your sudden and fervent advocacy for Captain Ackerman's… reproductive contributions leaves much to be desired. I wonder what ulterior motives might lurk beneath the surface of your zealous enthusiasm." He fixes Dhalis with a stare that could crack stone. "Nevertheless," he concedes with a sigh, "the potential benefits are undeniable. Therefore, I am willing to entertain this proposition, on a trial basis. Captain Ackerman will be… monitored closely. The success or failure of this venture will hinge entirely upon his cooperation, and upon the viability of replicating the Ackerman lineage. Only time will tell," he concludes, his voice laced with a hint of grim determination, "if this gamble will reap the rewards we so desperately seek, or usher in a new era of unforeseen horrors."

Nile, bless his perpetually grumpy soul, erupts like a volcano spewing common sense. "Insane!" he bellows, a bulldog who has not only had his bone snatched, but stomped into oblivion by Dhalis' twisted amusement. "We can not trust these Ackermans!" He throws his hands up in exasperation. "Who knows what kind of pint sized killing machines they will churn out?

The image that explodes in my Levi's mind is terrifying – miniature versions of himself, miniature Levi's running amok, tearing through the streets with a bloodthirsty gleam in their tiny eyes.

"Indeed," Dhalis concedes, "there are intricate details that necessitate further refinement before we can proceed. However," he continues, his voice taking on a forceful tone, "the potential benefits for humanity's survival are undeniable. Captain Levi," he leans forward, his gaze turning into a predatory glint, "the choice before you is stark. Are you prepared to… contribute" – he emphasizes the word with a distasteful flourish – "to this endeavor, for the supposed good of humanity? Your compliance, of course, would be viewed most favorably." He pauses for a beat, allowing the weight of his words to settle. "However," he continues, his voice hardening into a dangerous growl, "should you choose the path of dissent, the consequences for your disloyalty will be swift and severe. We will not hesitate to leverage Private Mikasa Ackerman as a… necessary participant in this, ahem, breeding program. Furthermore," he adds with a cruel twist of his lips, "the currently planned operation to reclaim territory from the Titans, an operation you hold rather dear, Captain, if whispers are to be believed, would be indefinitely postponed. Let us be perfectly clear," he leans forward, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "this is not a negotiation. This is a decree. The future of humanity hangs in the balance, Captain. Do you truly wish to be the one who stands in its way? Does such an outcome, fraught with personal sacrifice and the potential to doom mankind, truly appeal to you?" He leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowed, waiting for Levi's response, the air thick with unspoken threats and a palpable sense of distrust.

Punishment or breeding program? He may as well be asking Levi to choose between getting devoured by a Titan or becoming one himself. The veiled threat about Mikasa, about the mission – a desperate attempt to yank on his leash, a leash he never agreed to wear.

Now Levi understands Erwin's … acquiescence to this farce. The mission dangled in front of him, a carrot to a desperate horse, all to get his grubby little hands on Grisha Yeager's basement and whatever secrets lie buried there.

The audacity of these self serving buffoons is breathtaking. Do they truly believe Humanity's Strongest Soldier can be reduced to a mindless beast to be controlled, a cog in their eugenics scheme? Levi meets Dhalis' gaze head on, his own eyes as cold and unforgiving as a Titan's stare. His posture remains rigid, a silent testament to his unwavering defiance.

Dhalis, sensing Levi;s resistance, does something unexpected. A barely perceptible smile, devoid of warmth or humor, tugs at the corner of his lips.

It is not a smile of camaraderie, but something far more unsettling - a predator sizing up its prey.

Let them stew in their own uncertainty. The real question is, when the time comes, will they be the ones holding the leash, or will Levi be the one snapping it in half?

"We acknowledge, Captain Levi," General Dhalis begins, his voice dripping with a false sincerity, "your unwavering dedication to the Survey Corps. Indeed, such loyalty is a beacon of hope in these perilous times. However," he continues, his tone subtly shifting, "loyalty, much like any well forged bond, demands reciprocity. Can we, in good conscience," he asks, his voice laden with veiled doubt, "extend our trust to a man with your… unconventional background? A past shrouded in the criminal underbelly, a stain on your otherwise exemplary record." He leans forward, his gaze turning into a predatory glint. "If you choose to defy this directive, Captain," he warns, his voice hardening with barely concealed menace, "we will be compelled to revisit those unsavory legal entanglements that dogged your past existence in the Underground. Those little indiscretions, conveniently swept under the rug upon your enlistment with the Survey Corps, will be resurrected with ruthless efficiency. The pact of silence, a tacit agreement reliant upon your continued obedience, will be null and void." He throws his hands out in a theatrical gesture. "Disobeying an order, Captain," he continues, his voice laced with a chilling finality, "is tantamount to disobeying the very military that has shielded you from the consequences of your past transgressions. The consequences, I assure you, would be swift and merciless. You will find yourself stripped of your rank, stripped of your freedom, and cast back into the very depths you so desperately clawed your way out of. The Underground beckons, Captain, its cold embrace a fitting punishment for disobedience." He leans back in his chair, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "The choice is yours, Captain. Will you honor the unspoken pact that binds you to this institution, or will you risk a return to the abyss?"

Nile Dawk, that perpetually grumpy bulldog of a Garrison commander, can not quite suppress a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"My past, has absolutely no bearing on my current abilities." Levi's face is a blank slate, an unreadable mask that would not crack under a Titan's roar. Let them stew in their ignorance. Levi's past, those scrapes and scuffles in the Underground, those were like pebbles on a dirt road compared to the mountains he hass climbed since joining the Survey Corps.

Who cares about a few youthful indiscretions, or for that matter, overthrowing a corrupt monarchy? Water under the bridge, ancient history best left buried.

Dhalis lets out a chuckle, a dry, humorless sound that sends shivers skittering down Hange's spine despite the summer heat radiating from Pixis' ever present belly.

"Ah, Captain Levi," General Dhalis purrs, leaning forward in his chair with a predatory glint in his eye. "It appears you harbor a fundamental misunderstanding," he continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that could curdle the blood of a seasoned Titan researcher. "Your past, Captain," he emphasizes each word with deliberate weight, "is far more… nuanced than you might believe. It is a tapestry woven with threads of rebellion, a penchant for violence that borders on the barbaric, and a rather lengthy, shall we say, apprenticeship in the notoriously brutal underbelly known as the Underground." He leans back, a hint of a cruel smile playing on his lips. "A most… colorful background, do you not agree? One that raises a multitude of questions regarding your suitability for the critical role we envision for you." His gaze narrows, scrutinizing Levi with an intensity that could bore holes through steel. "The question, Captain, is not whether you are loyal to the Survey Corps – your dedication is undeniable. The true question lies in the depths of your allegiance. Can we, in good conscience, entrust the future of humanity to a man whose past reeks of defiance and whose very existence is steeped in the savagery of the Underground? Loyalty, Captain, is a double edged sword. It demands not only obedience but also unwavering trust. And in your case, Captain," he concludes with a chilling finality, "that trust is a most precarious commodity." The air in the room hangs heavy with suspicion, a silent battle of wills waged between a man haunted by his past and a ruthless leader determined to exploit it.

A flicker of something - annoyance, perhaps, or maybe a tightly leashed fury - crosses Levi's features for a fleeting moment before he slap it back down under the mask.

These self important buffoons would not know a colorful picture if it bit them in their oiled ass.

"Those… youthful transgressions," General Dhalis continues, drawing out the silence with practiced ease, like a skilled interrogator milking a suspect for information. "By the benevolence of the military, these incidents have been relegated to the dustbin of history… for the time being. Consider them a dark stain on an otherwise pristine record, Captain, a lapse in judgment shrouded in the merciful cloak of the military's discretion." He leans back in his chair, a predator savoring the discomfort of its prey. "However," he continues, his voice taking on a dangerous edge, "let us not mince words, Captain. This amnesty, this act of extraordinary leniency, is a weapon. While it shields you from the harshest repercussions of your past, it also binds you to the military in a way most soldiers can only dream of. Your freedom, Captain," he emphasizes the word with a cruel twist of his lips, "is a conditional privilege, a gift bestowed with the expectation of unwavering loyalty." He fixes Levi with a cold stare.

This is about control.

They want to shackle Humanity's Strongest Soldier, a weapon of unparalleled skill honed in the fires of the Underground, to their will. Turn him into a loyal attack dog who only answers to their whistle.

The only thing they are overlooking is the fact that leashes can be chewed through, snapped, or used to strangle the very hand holding them.

'Well, General, you may think you have got me backed into a corner, but let me tell you something - corners have a nasty habit of disappearing when you know how to fight dirty. You do not even how much "former" criminal I can be.'

Levi's fists clench at his sides, the only outward sign of the tempest brewing within.

Years of meticulously crafting a life within the Survey Corps, the grudging respect he has earned through rivers of blood and mountains of Titan corpses, all teetering on the precipice of collapse at the whim of this power hungry peacock of a General.

Dhalis' self satisfied visage makes Levi want to wipe it off his face with the back of his hand, but the glint in his eyes, cold and calculating, warns against such impulsive actions.

Nile Dawk, that bulldog of a Military Police commander who perpetually looks like he is one bad nap away from spontaneous combustion, can not contain himself any longer.

A low, guttural chuckle erupts from him, the sound as pleasant as a Titan gnawing on a stubborn bone.

Dhalis leans back in his chair, the picture of smug satisfaction. The predatory glint in his eyes intensifies, and for a moment, Levi almost expects him to unsheathe a pair of claws from beneath his manicured fingernails.

"So, Captain Ackerman," he purrs, the word dripping with false sincerity, "are we in agreement? Do you continue to serve humanity, conveniently forgetting your little… indiscretions, under the banner of the Survey Corps, or do we take a stroll down memory lane and revisit those… misplaced documents?"

The seconds tick by, each one an agonizing hammer blow against the already suffocating atmosphere. Levi's jaw remains clenched, his face an impassive mask that would not crack even if a Titan decided to use it for target practice.

A battle rages behind Levi's icy gaze, a war between self preservation and the gnawing sense of being played like a cheap fiddle.

The weight of the decision presses down on him with the crushing force of a Titan's fist.

"You leave me with no options, General."

It is not an agreement, not truly. It is a surrender, a forced compliance in the face of an impossible situation.

"A wise decision, Captain Levi," General Dhalis purrs, his voice oozing with a cloying satisfaction that sends a shiver down spines in the room. "We had every confidence that reason would ultimately prevail." He directs a dismissive gesture towards Erwin Smith. "The details of this… accord," he continues, his voice laced with a subtle emphasis on the word, "will be meticulously overseen by Commander Erwin Smith, with myself, of course, maintaining a watchful eye on proceedings. He," he adds with a pointed look in Erwin's direction, "will ensure your… contribution to the perpetuation of humanity is both optimized and meticulously documented." The veiled threat hangs heavy in the air – cooperation will be rigorously monitored, any misstep scrutinized.

Contribution. Right. As if Levi has any say in the matter. More like ensure his continued usefulness as their personal Titan slaying attack dog.

The rhythmic tap tap tap of Levi's boots echoes through the sterile hallway, a chilling counterpoint to the silent scream building in his chest. This is not walking, it is a war march towards an enemy he can not quite punch.

Each step is a beat in the symphony of his simmering fury, punctuated only by the silence that hangs heavy in the air. This silence is a tangible entity, thick with the absurdity of the mission he has been strong armed into accepting.

Erwin's office door looms ahead, a stark slab of wood mocking Levi with its finality. The nameplate, "Erwin Smith, Commander, Survey Corps", bold and brassy, screams "authority" – the very thing they are trying to assert over Levi.

Levi takes deep breath, not to calm the inferno, but to fan it into a roaring blaze. This is not about calming down, it is about channeling the anger, using it as a weapon. Fist meets wood in a resounding boom, the impact echoing like a challenge through the hallway. The windows rattles, a surprised gasp from within the office the only response I crave.

A startled yell of "Come in!" pierces through the wood. Levi throws the door open with a flourish that would make a Titan flinch, entering Erwin's office in a whirlwind of barely contained rage. The room itself is a spartan reflection of its perpetually calculating occupant. Maps and battle plans dominate the walls, a grim tapestry chronicling humanity's losing struggle against the Titans. These plans, however, seem sterile and lifeless compared to the raw, simmering anger radiating off Levi.

Paperwork teeters like a drunken soldier on Erwin's desk, the only sign of life in this sterile office besides the furious scribbling of his quill. The quill looks like it wrestled an enthusiastic rodent for ink. Erwin glances up, that glint of amusement in his sapphire eyes like a taunting dare.

The door slams shut behind Levi, the sound a physical manifestation of the rage choking him. Each step towards the Commander's desk is a calculated move, a predator stalking its prey. Levi stops just a hair's breadth away, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, and lock eyes with him.

Levi's gaze is a thousand suns focused into a single, icy point, a silent scream before the real roar begins. The air itself seems to crackle under the pressure, a tangible tension that hangs heavy in the air like a storm about to break.

This "arrangement," this leash they have forced around Levi's neck – it twists with every beat of his heart, a constant reminder of the simmering fury boiling beneath the surface.

"Levi," Erwin greets, a hint of amusement flickering in the depths of his blue iris. "What brings you here in such a… dramatic state?"

"Let us talk about the little… surprise Dhalis dropped on me today," Levi demands, his voice laced with barely contained fury. The very notion of Dhalis' "surprise" leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Surprise? More like a thinly veiled threat masquerading as bureaucratic hell.

"Levi," Erwin begins, his voice even and steady, a stark contrast to the raw emotions swirling around the Captain. "About the Ackerman proposition," he inquires, his tone more curious than accusatory. "Yes, I was aware of it. In fact," he continues with a wry smile, "I spent the weeks leading up to this meeting locked in a rather tedious exchange of letters with Dhalis, arguing the finer points until I thought my head might explode."

Erwin lets out a sigh that sounds like the air escaping a punctured Titan tire. He leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to physically block out the sheer absurdity of the situation. The image paints a clear picture: Erwin, the brilliant strategist, forced to waste his time arguing with Dhalis, the buffoonish general, over a ludicrous proposition.

"Dhalis," Erwin mutters, the word dripping with contempt, "would clutch at any straw to keep the Survey Corps on a leash. Any leverage, no matter how ludicrous, seems fair game in his twisted little power grab."

"And that straw," Levi counters, his voice laced with enough bitterness to curdle milk, "happens to be my… reproductive system?"

The very concept is so absurd it takes Levi a moment to process it, and even then, the words come out sounding like he is choking on gravel. The image of him, humanity's strongest soldier reduced to glorified diaper duty, is enough to make him want to disinfect his brain with industrial grade disinfectant.

Erwin's sigh morphs into a long, weary groan that speaks volumes about the weight of his command. The man looks ten years older after his little meeting with Dhalis.

"Believe me, Levi," he says, his voice heavy with a sincerity that almost sounds genuine, "let me assure you, the last thing I want is to see you reduced to some stud for the military's benefit. And the thought of your hypothetical offspring being mere pawns in this twisted game? Frankly, it revolts me." he continues, leaning forward and locking eyes with Levi, "The Survey Corps, would never stand for such a blatant violation of your autonomy. We fight for humanity's freedom, not to become some twisted eugenics project. Besides" he adds, "the whole proposition is ridiculous on a practical level. Imagine the logistics involved! The paperwork alone would be a nightmare."

Levi's eyes narrow into slits, skepticism radiating off him like heat waves. "So why do you not shut this whole charade down, Commander Erwin?" he challenges. "Is that not your job, Commander? Making the tough calls, navigating the political labyrinth, and steering this damn ship through the storm? Or are you content to just shuffle paperwork while they dangle my balls over a fire?"

Erwin meets Levi's gaze head on, his blue eyes unwavering. "In an ideal world, Levi," he says, his voice firm, "of course I would put a stop to this nonsense. But the reality is far from ideal. Dhalis recognizes our potential, the potential of the Survey Corps, and he craves control. He wants to leash us, turn us into his own personal attack dogs."

Levi scoffs, a harsh rasp that echoes in the confines of the office. "Entrap our potential? You make it sound like some noble pursuit. They want a goddamn weapon, Erwin. An army of genetically modified super soldiers, all stamped with the convenient 'Ackerman' brand name."

The image that pops into his head again - miniature, murderous Levi Ackermans tearing through the streets - is both horrifying and oddly adorable.

Erwin shakes his head resolutely. "No, Levi. That is not what I want. And," he continues, his voice dropping, "I assure you, I will not allow them to use your children, or any potential offspring for that matter, as pawns in their twisted game."

A flicker of doubt dances in Levi's eyes, battling with the anger that still simmers beneath the surface. "What makes you think you have any say in the matter?" I ask, his voice laced with a challenge.

Erwin may be the Commander, but that does not mean he has complete control over Levi or his … superior reproductive capabilities.

"Levi," Erwin leans forward, his voice laced with a seriousness that brooks no argument, "let me get one thing perfectly clear. You, Levi Ackerman, are an indispensable asset to the Survey Corps. Perhaps our most indispensable, if I am being honest. Your skills, your unwavering dedication to purging the Titans from this world – these are qualities that cannot be easily replicated. We need you on the front lines, your blades flashing like a storm as you cut a bloody swathe through those grotesque monstrosities. The thought of you being relegated to some… government sanctioned breeding program," he lets out a snort of derision, "is frankly ludicrous." He fixes Levi with a steady gaze. "However," he continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we need a concession, Levi. Dhalis, that pompous windbag, requires a certain… optics play to secure approval for the operation we have been discussing. The idea of a potential Ackerman bloodline legacy, a new generation of Titan-slaying prodigies – it is a narrative they find palatable. So, yes," he acknowledges with a sigh, "fathering children may be a technical requirement to appease the bean counters. But there is the thing, Levi," he places a hand on the Captain's shoulder, his voice firm but friendly, "those children, your children, will not become pawns in this game. Their future is their own. The Survey Corps will ensure their safety and well being, but any choices they make, any paths they choose to walk, will be theirs alone. This is a necessary deception, Levi, a strategic maneuver to secure the resources we desperately need to achieve our true objective: to eradicate the Titans once and for all. We need you on the battlefield, Levi, and I assure you, I will fight tooth and nail to ensure your freedom and that of your future progeny. We are in this together, Captain. Now, let us go carve a bloody path through those Titan hordes and show the world what humanity is truly capable of." Erwin leans back in his chair, a determined glint in his eyes.

Levi's gaze drifts to the map plastered on the wall, a tangled web of humanity's despair. Walls that confines them, Titans that devour them – it is a suffocating cage. The weight of the situation, the impossible choices Erwin faces, presses down on Levi like a physical force.

Erwin may not be the enemy here, but he is certainly not the one calling all the shots.

"Alright, Levi," Erwin begins, a sardonic smile playing on his lips, "let's dissect this whole charade, shall we? Dhalis, bless his ambitious heart, has undoubtedly already identified a woman deemed genetically and physically suitable receptacles for your, ahem, Ackerman seed." He pauses for a moment, a twinkle of amusement dancing in his eyes. "But fear not," he continues, his voice laced with a dash of humor, "I have every confidence that this… candidate will not resemble… farm equipment." Erwin throws his head back and lets out a short, humorless laugh, the absurdity of the situation finally sinking in. "The good General may have a rather… agricultural approach to this whole thing," he adds with a wink, "but rest assured, Levi, I will not subject you to such a crass charade."

Levi raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Just keep the wide eyed, hero worshipping brats fresh out of the womb away from me," he retorts. The mere thought of babysitting some hormonal, hero worshipping brat is enough to make him yearn for the sweet embrace of a Titan's maw (Hange would find that amusing, to say the least). At least a Titan would not judge his social skills (or lack thereof).

Erwin throws his head back and lets out a genuine laugh, a full bodied sound that fills the office with an unexpected warmth. "The entire concept of this breeding program is absurd! Ludicrous, even," Erwin exclaims, his voice laced with a frustration that Levi clearly shares. "It is more ludicrous than the idea of a Titan trying to waltz in a tutu."

The mental image that springs to mind - a lumbering, naked Titan clumsily pirouetting in a ballet skirt - is enough to almost make Levi gag.

Levi raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement flickering in Levi's icy gaze despite the tense situation. "Ludicrous?" He echoes. "Erwin, we are talking about manipulating human genetics here. This is not some barnyard breeding experiment gone wrong. These buffoons are talking about creating a super soldier factory, and they want me as the star breeding stallion."

"Exactly my point, Levi, think of the logistical nightmare! Compatibility testing, mountains of paperwork, not to mention the potential for some truly… nightmarish sexually transmitted… anomalies." He shudders dramatically, the image clearly repugnant to him. "The whole thing is a bureaucratic minefield waiting to explode in Dhalis's face."

A grimace curls Levi's lip. Erwin's words conjure a mental image of some grotesque, Titan sized sexually transmitted diseases that will make even the most hardened Wall cultist reconsider their life choices.

"Now that is a horror story I would not want to read," he says.

"Indeed," Erwin agrees, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "Let me introduce you to the candidate selected."

"Now, to the specifics of this… arrangement," Erwin continues, his voice adopting a dryly official tone. "Dhalis has selected a candidate, a young woman named Letta Reader. She is, as of this year, twenty four years of age. Her background includes a stint with the Interior Military Police's Anti Personnel Control Squad." He pauses for a moment, consulting a document in his hand. "However," he adds, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "recent events have cast a shadow over Ms. Reader's otherwise exemplary record. Apparently, she expressed… misplaced loyalty towards a certain Kenny Ackerman, an individual whose activities have been deemed detrimental to public safety." Erwin sighs, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "This lapse in judgment has resulted in her incarceration. The General proposes a… unique solution. If Ms. Reader agrees to participate in this endeavor, to contribute to the continuation of the Ackerman bloodline, as it were, her release from custody can be facilitated, with the full endorsement of the Survey Corps."

He leans forward, his gaze fixed on Levi. "It is important to note, Captain," he continues, "that Ms. Reader hails from Trost District, a region well within Wall Rose. She chose to dedicate herself to serving humanity by joining the military, and her record, prior to this unfortunate entanglement, was indeed unblemished. Furthermore," he adds, a hint of intrigue flickering in his eyes, "her ingenuity extends beyond the battlefield. Ms. Reader is credited with the design of the Anti-Personnel Vertical Maneuvering Gear, a significant contribution to the Military Police's arsenal." He steeples his fingers, his expression thoughtful. "Letta Reader, Captain, is a complex individual. A woman of unquestionable talent, but one whose judgment has been demonstrably flawed." Erwin sits back in his chair, leaving the weight of this unexpected information to settle upon Levi. The fate of a woman, the potential future of the Ackerman bloodline, all hinged on Levi's next move.

Kenny. The name explodes in Levi's head, a grenade lobbed into the fragile peace. Supporting Kenny Ackerman? Stupid girl. They are using you as a leverage, dangling you freedom in front of you. Carry Levi's child, support the Survey Corps, and maybe, just maybe, you walk free. Erwin continues, his voice monotone as he reads from the file, a litany of facts that blur together in Levi's anger. Trost born, military history, even designed the new ODM gear.

Levi's face remains an impassive mask, but a flicker of fury dances in his icy blue eyes. He keeps his voice low, controlled, but the anger is palpable. "What makes you think I'd even consider breeding with a criminal branded by Kenny's actions? This entire thing reeks of Dhalis' amusement, does it not?"

Erwin lets out a sigh, a weary sound that speaks volumes. "Amusement? For Dhalis, it is more than that. You know how twisted his mind is."

Levi clenches his fists, his jaw set tight. "Kenny is s still alive," he mutters, more to himself than to Erwin. "Out there somewhere…"

Erwin steeples his fingers and leans forward, consulting the document in his hand. "Now, Levi," he begins, his voice adopting a more neutral tone, "it appears there is more to Ms. Reader's profile. According to her records, she graduated with distinction from the 95th Cadet Corps, achieving the esteemed honor of ranking top of her class. Her instructors noted a tendency towards introversion and a reserved demeanor, with a social circle on the smaller side." He pauses for a moment, a hint of curiosity flickering in his gaze. "They further describe her as a staunch adherent to regulations, a 'by the book' individual who takes her duties with utmost seriousness. However," he continues, "these observations are counterbalanced by exceptional physical prowess. Her trainers consistently lauded her remarkable speed and fast reflexes. While raw strength may not be her most pronounced attribute," he acknowledges, "she possesses great level of stamina, allowing her to sustain peak performance during extended engagements. Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of Ms. Reader's profile," he continues, his voice dropping to a murmur, "is a certain… philosophical detachment. Her instructors noted a distinct apathy towards life and a somewhat unsettling acceptance of the ever present threat of death. This, coupled with her relentless pursuit of objectives, keen observational skills, and unwavering focus, are also nited." He takes a deep breath, his gaze meeting Levi's with unwavering intensity. "However," he adds, his voice hardening slightly, "the report also mentions a certain… inflated sense of self worth. While not overtly arrogant, Ms. Reader appears to possess a healthy dose of pride, perhaps even bordering on egotism. This, Captain, is a trait that may require careful management." A wry smile tugs at the corner of Erwin's lips as he continues, his voice regaining its formal tone. "The report concludes with a rather… unexpected observation. While Ms. Reader presents a demure and innocent facade, it appears her instructors harbored suspicions of a more… unconventional private life. Apparently, rumors circulated amongst her peers regarding a surprising number of casual sexual encounters. These suspicions, however, remain unsubstantiated." He leans back in his chair, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

Levi lets out a frustrated groan, his arm rising to shield his eyes as he leans back in the chair. "That last bit of information was entirely unnecessary," he mutters, the irritation evident in his voice. The woman's sexual history is the least of his concerns. The idea of being reduced to a mere breeding stallion, especially with a woman seemingly chosen for her 'reproductive capabilities', is enough to make him clench his fists in silent fury.

Erwin flips open a file, revealing a stark portrait. Charcoal against faded paper, it captures a woman Levi does recognize. Her features are fine, delicate even, but her eyes hold a story the sketch can not quite tell.

Short, dark hair frames a face devoid of the hero worship he expected. No doe eyed wonder, no simpering smile. Instead, a quiet resignation stares back at him, a flicker of something that looks suspiciously like… despair.

Levi studies the portrait. This woman is not what he pictured. None of this is. No wide eyed cadets, no government sanctioned brood mares.

Just this quiet woman, a portrait of quiet indifference that edges dangerously close to… despair.

"This is her?" He finally manages, hua voice low and even.

"Indeed, Captain," Erwin replies. "Meet Letta Reader."

More like meet your… procreation partner, courtesy of Dhalis' twisted machinations.

Levi's gaze remains fixed on the portrait, dissecting her features line by line. Soft cheeks contrasted by a defined jawline, a hint of defiance beneath the resignation. There is an undeniable beauty there, a quiet strength that seems at odds with the defeat in her eyes.

The thought of being strong armed into this… procreative charade with her leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. A branded criminal, no less. Especially when the whole charade seems orchestrated by the ever manipulative Dhalis. This feels like a cage, another way to leash him and control the strongest soldier humanity has.

But a different kind of cage. This one does not feel like bars and locks, but like obligations and expectations.

A different kind of burden, but a burden nonetheless.

Maybe Dhalis is not the only one playing games here. Erwin, with his secrets and desperation – is he the warden of this particular cage, or another prisoner himself?

"You'll be meeting with this… (F/N) (L/N) tomorrow," Erwin announces, flipping the file shut. "Dhalis will be there, of course, along with Pixis, Dawk, and myself. I'll also inform Hange, if you have no objections."

Levi scoffs, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "A meeting? This whole charade just keeps getting more bizarre with each passing minute. Are we expected to discuss baby names and nursery decor in front of a room full of overstuffed, lecherous swine?"

"The meeting is crucial," Erwin explains, a hint of exasperation tinging his voice. "You and (F/N) will have the opportunity to discuss boundaries, parental rights, and expectations. There will also be a contract to sign, outlining the terms of this… arrangement."

Clearly, the fate of humanity hinges on Levi's ability to… procreate according to a government sanctioned contract.

Contract. The word hangs heavy in the air, a physical manifestation of the absurdity of the situation. Being issued an official order to impregnate a woman feels like a new low, even for the Survey Corps.

The whole notion is barbaric, a far cry from the strategic brilliance and deadly maneuvers Levi is accustomed to employing.

Levi's whole life, his entire being, has been poured into this damn Survey Corps.

Even after Farlan and Isabel, even after that gaping wound in his soul, he kept pushing forward.

Grief, a relentless tide, he channeled it all into this fight, this desperate struggle for humanity's survival. Erwin, the embodiment of that fight, became his guiding star.

Backing down now, kowtowing to these bureaucratic leeches, would be the ultimate betrayal. A slap in the face to every fallen comrade who entrusted Levi with their sacrifice, their shredded dreams woven into the fabric of this cause.

This… breeding program. A sickening joke, a perversion of everything he stands for. But the alternative? Letting Erwin down, letting the ghosts of his squad haunt the halls with their unfulfilled futures – that is a path he refuses to walk.

This is just another indignity, another hurdle to clear, another grotesque Titan to slay. Fine.

This is about more than him. This is about honoring the fallen, their sacrifices a flickering torch he holds aloft in this suffocating world. They died believing in a dream, a dream he refuses to let die with them. So he will clench my teeth, swallow his disgust, and play this hand they have dealt him.

#anime #levi ackerman #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #angst #manga #enemies to lovers #slow burn #aot #snk #fanfic #fanfiction #writers on tumblr #cielettosa #cielettosa fics

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cielettosa · 3 months

Text

SEED OF DISCONTENT

Chapter 2: clipped wings

PAIRING: levi ackerman x fem!reader

RATING: explicit

FANDOM: shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan (canon verse, canon divergent)

SYNOPSIS:

The Ackerman clan needs to be expanded, and you are chosen to carry his child.

CW: invasive medical procedure, mentions of miscarriage

navigation

previous chapter - next chapter

The sterile white walls of the infirmary mocks you with their clinical cleanliness. Disinfectant stings your nose, a sickly sweet perfume that clashes horribly with the metallic tang of fear clinging to your throat.

You grip the scratchy sheet bunched around you, knuckles turning white as your knuckles used to when disassembling a very stubborn bolt action rifle.

Twenty three years you have walked this life, and the most invasive procedure you have ever endured was scrubbing the grime off a well used barrel.

Now, here you are, splayed like a gutted fish on this damn examination table, exposed and violated in a way that makes you fantasize about Titans ripping you limb from limb – at least then, the indignity would be over quickly.

"Alright, Ms. Reader," a voice grates out, shattering the silence that feels heavy enough to suffocate.

You glance sideways to see Dr. Miller, a man whose perpetually furrowed brow seems sculpted onto his skull.

Even his name is an insult – Miller, the name of a dime a dozen grunt, not the esteemed doctor entrusted with… well, with whatever barbaric procedure they have planned for you today.

He gestures towards the doorway with a jerky movement. "Commander in Chief Zachary is here to observe."

Ah, yes. Observe. As if you are some exotic lab rat being prepped for dissection.

You crane your neck, wincing at the way the scratchy sheet abrades your skin, to see Dhalis Zachary – the man who apparently holds the fate of humanity in his manicured hands – materialize beside the doctor.

The man tasked with saving the world would not dare get a speck of dust on his precious uniform while overseeing the violation of a perfectly good (former) soldier.

Commander in Chief Zachary, bless his heart, takes a seat in the plush armchair across the room, looking about as comfortable as a fish out of water.

His gaze, however, remains glued to you with an intensity that rivals a hungry Titan eyeing a juicy morsel.

You almost laugh – the irony of it all. You, a woman who has spent years training for military, and have provided security and services to the (fake) king (though they probably will not care to admit it), reduced to nothing more than a vessel, a brood mare for their precious Ackerman project.

"At ease," he says, his voice as crisp and polished as his uniform.

At ease? You want ease?

You want ease, try spending years trying to balance in Omni directional mobility gear, learn to use rifles, design new, modifications for military gears, knowing each perfectly balanced blade could mean the difference between life and death for some terrified soldier facing a ten meter monstrosity.

This, this sterile room, this forced vulnerability – this is anything but ease.

You force a smile, a thin, humorless thing that probably resembles a grimace more than anything.

"As easy as one can be," you rasp, your voice unused to conversation. "After all, it is not every day you get the esteemed Commander in Chief of Three Regiments Dhalis Zachary to witness your… well, let me just say my internal workings."

The doctor shoots you a withering look, but Commander Zachary, to your surprise, cracks a ghost of a smile. A flicker of something – amusement? Recognition? – sparks in his eyes for a fleeting moment before he schools his features back into their usual stoicism.

"Indeed," he replies, his voice barely a murmur. "Let us just say your 'internal workings' hold the key to humanity's future, Ms. Reader."

The key? You scoff internally. More like the glorified wrench they are about to shove into the gears of that future.

You clench your jaw, the metallic tang of fear intensifying.

They can shove their grand plans and glorious futures.

You are Letta Reader, the one who designed the Anti Personnel omni directional mobility gear, they have reduced you to this – a pawn in their twisted game.

Let's just hope this little "procedure" does not dull your edge permanently. Humanity might just regret it when the next Titan comes knocking.

You lock eyes with them both, daring them to look away. A spark ignites in your chest, a defiant ember flickering amidst the suffocating dread.

It earns a reaction – a smirk from Dr. Miller that creases his perpetually furrowed brow and a glint of steely appraisal in Zachary's gaze.

You, a convicted criminal, sculptor of death – your creations has silenced countless screams, both human and Titan. Now, here you are, reduced to a pawn in their twisted game of genetic chess.

"Let us get this over with," you rasp, your voice sandpaper rough from disuse. The words tumble out with a bite, a desperate attempt to reclaim a sliver of control.

Dr. Miller sighs, the sound a defeated whoosh that ruffles his already unkempt hair. "As you wish, Ms. Reader," he mutters, shoulders slumping like a defeated soldier. "Blood tests first."

Blood tests. Compatibility with the Ackerman bloodline, they say. A lineage shrouded in secrecy, whispered about in hushed tones, rumored to possess superhuman strength and an uncanny fighting prowess.

You, a mere mortal, are about to be entangled with something far beyond your comprehension.

A morbid fascination battles with the rising tide of unease in your gut. You watch with detached curiosity as Dr. Miller approaches, his touch surprisingly gentle considering his gruff demeanor.

He flexes your exposed right arm, searching for a suitable vein, his calloused thumb momentarily stopping your lifeblood with a firm press.

A sharp, medicinal sting assaults your senses as he unwraps a tourniquet. It is a thin elastic band, more suited for catching a rogue strand of hair than constricting a limb.

He wraps it around your upper arm, two fingers above the chosen vein, and the pressure makes your pulse throb a frantic tattoo against your skin.

Then comes the cotton swab, soaked in a cool, stinging alcohol solution. It wipes across the chosen spot, leaving a cool, sterile patch amidst the growing map of goosebumps crawling across your skin.

Dr. Miller releases the pressure slightly, just enough for a trickle of blood to return to the vein. He raises a syringe aloft, the glass glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. The plunger is pulled back, creating a vacuum within the barrel.

It is a familiar sight – a tool you have used countless times to clean the delicate mechanisms of your weapons, ensuring their deadly precision.

Now, the instrument is aimed at you, a cold reminder of your vulnerability.

With practiced efficiency, honed by countless similar procedures, Dr. Miller inserts the needle into your vein.

A prick, a sharp jab of pain, and the world seems to narrow down to that single point of contact. You clench your jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a flinch or a whimper.

The metallic tang of fear floods your mouth, a constant reminder of the indignity you are forced to endure.

He pushes the plunger down slowly, drawing crimson life into the syringe. The red liquid creeps up the chamber, its color a stark contrast to the sterile white walls.

He withdraws the needle with a practiced flick, a fresh cotton swab immediately pressed against the puncture site. The metallic clink of the vial being deposited on the tray echoes in the tense silence.

He repeats the process two more times, each vial a silent trophy filled with your essence. The metallic clink becomes a mocking rhythm, a reminder of your objectification.

Finally, Dr. Miller applies a band aid, his touch a fleeting reprieve from the constant violation.

You glance down at the three vials of blood, a sense of detachment settling over you. This crimson liquid, the very essence of your being, will now play a part in a scheme you have no control over.

Dr. Miller's flat question hangs heavy in the sterile air. "Have you ever been pregnant?"

You scoff. "Once," you murmur, the memory a bitter pill lodged uncomfortably in your throat. It is not exactly a stroll through a rose garden, this "pregnancy" of yours.

More like a forced march through a minefield, blindfolded and with a detonator strapped to your chest.

Zachary leans forward, his gaze as sharp as a freshly sharpened blade. "Miscarriage?" he probes, his voice devoid of sympathy. You meet his gaze unflinchingly.

"Yes," you reply curtly, offering no further details.

There is no point in elaborating. They will not understand the intricacies of the job, the cold calculations, the detached efficiency required.

They will not understand the irony of a soldier and a weapon designer being forced to carry a weapon of a different kind.

Dr. Miller raises an eyebrow, a gesture that seems almost comical in his perpetually furrowed browed expression.

"And how did you feel about losing the child?" The question catches you off guard, a sucker punch to your carefully constructed emotional wall.

The memory floods back – the nausea, the fatigue, the constant, gnawing unease. It was not a life you nurtured, not something you embraced. It was a necessary evil to complete the contract.

But then, the miscarriage. A physical ordeal you had not anticipated, a sharp, searing pain that ripped through your body, mirroring the emotional emptiness you felt.

It was over quickly, thankfully, but the memory lingers – a stark reminder of your own mortality, a vulnerability you rarely acknowledge.

You pause, the silence stretching between you like a taut bowstring. "It was not planned," you finally say, your voice a monotone that barely conceals the storm of emotions churning beneath the surface. "Collateral damage, you could say."

"Collateral damage?" Zachary echoes, a flicker of something – curiosity? Disbelief? – sparking in his eyes. "Explain."

There is a challenge in his voice, a dare you can not resist. A smile tugs at the corner of your lips. Let them squirm in their pristine chairs, let them get a taste of the grime that exists beyond the sterile walls of their ivory tower.

"The target," you begin, your voice taking on a measured cadence, "was a high ranking official, a man whose influence was like a cancer spreading through the government. Discreet assassination was impossible. So, the plan was… unorthodox." You pause, letting the anticipation build in the oppressive silence.

"I was… persuaded," you continue, "to become… friendly with the target. To gain his trust, his affection, whatever it took. And a well timed pregnancy," you add with a bitter chuckle, "was the ultimate act of… commitment." You see a muscle twitch in Zachary's jaw, a flicker of something akin to disgust crossing his features.

Good.

"The miscarriage," you continue, relishing the discomfort in the room, "was… unfortunate. But ultimately, a blessing in disguise. It provided a convenient excuse, an out from the… arrangement."

You see Dr. Miller flinch at the word, as if you have uttered a profanity.

Let him. Let them all squirm.

"So, Commander Zachary," you finish, meeting his gaze head on, "when you ask about my feelings on losing the child, the answer is… complicated. Relief, yes. Regret, perhaps a sliver. But mostly, indifference. It was a job, and like any other job, it had its… complications."

You lean back against the scratchy sheet, a sense of satisfaction washing over you.

You have exposed a chink in their armor, forced them to confront the brutal reality of the world beyond their sterile walls. And for a brief moment, at least, you have held the power.

Dr. Miller's gaze finally meets yours. It is a cold, reptilian stare that dissects you like a butcher eyeing a side of prime beef.

It lingers a beat too long, making you feel like a lab rat under scrutiny. He finally breaks eye contact, turning away with a sigh that could deflate a blimp.

You almost expect him to mutter something about "hopeless cases" under his breath.

He disappears behind a towering metal cabinet, the sterile clinking of instruments echoing in the tense silence.

A moment later, he reappears, a set of gleaming metal instruments glinting ominously in his hand.

They look more like torture tools than medical equipment, and the way Dr. Miller holds them – with a practiced ease that sends a jolt of apprehension through you – do not exactly inspire confidence.

He stands beside the bed, his expression a stormy landscape of conflicting emotions. You can not decipher it, but you know one thing for sure – it does not bode well for you.

Then, with a brusqueness that could snap a twig, he reaches for the sheet you cling to, the flimsy fabric a pathetic shield against the sterile indignity of this whole situation.

You flinch, a primal reaction to the unexpected touch. The sheet tugs against your already raw skin, a fresh wave of discomfort adding to the storm brewing inside you.

He pauses, the metallic instruments glinting like malevolent eyes in his hand. His gaze flickers to your face for a fleeting moment, a silent question hanging in the air.

"This is necessary," he finally says, his voice clipped and devoid of any warmth. "For the sake of the child."

The words land like lead weights in your stomach.

Necessary?

For the sake of the child?

Since when did your comfort, your dignity, become secondary to the well being of a potential fetus forced upon you?

You clench your fists, digging your nails into your calloused palms until crescent moons of white form beneath the grime.

This whole situation is a violation, a grotesque parody of nature, and Dr. Miller's words feel like salt being rubbed into a fresh wound.

With a practiced efficiency honed by years of dissecting weapons and tinkering with intricate mechanisms, Dr. Miller pulls the sheet down, leaving you exposed and vulnerable on the examination table.

You have not felt this raw, this exposed, since the beatings in prison – a constant reminder that even the most skilled soldier, weapon artisan and assassin can be broken.

You clench your jaw, willing yourself to disappear, to melt into the sterile white walls and become one with the cold, impersonal environment.

Dr. Miller's gaze sweeps over your bare body, a clinical assessment that makes you feel like a piece of meat on a butcher's block.

His eyes linger for a moment on the angry red welts marring your skin – a testament to the brutality you have endured – before flicking back up to meet yours. His expression remains unreadable, a mask that conceals whatever thoughts churn within him.

Dr. Miller's gaze descends, a clinical scan that lingers for a moment too long on the valley between your exposed breasts.

You clench your jaw, willing your body to turn to stone, an unyielding statue impervious to his clinical examination.

Then, his gloved hand reaches out, a slow, deliberate movement that sends a jolt of electricity straight through your core.

Impersonal, clinical – that is the mantra you repeat in your head, a desperate attempt to deflect the unwelcome heat that pools in your stomach.

His touch is a feather light graze, cupping your right breast with a detached professionalism that somehow manages to feel intimate in the sterile silence of the room.

You squeeze your eyes shut, the rhythmic thud of your heart a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of the sterile silence.

He palpates with practiced precision, his fingers moving with a methodical efficiency that grates on your nerves. Every inch is scrutinized, prodded with a gentle yet firm pressure that feels more like an interrogation than a medical examination.

He is searching for imperfections, weaknesses – anything that might derail their grand plan of turning you into a glorified incubator.

The indignity of it all burns a hot coal in your gut.

The humiliation intensifies as he repeats the process on the left side. The metal instruments he then employs are cold and sterile against your skin, a further reminder of your violation.

Each prod and poke sends a tremor through you, a cocktail of shame and a strange, unsettling awareness that you can not quite define.

You force yourself to breathe, shallow gasps that barely fill your lungs.

Focus, you tell yourself. Focus on anything but the feel of his hands roaming your body, a stark contrast to the rough calluses that usually grip the smooth metal of your tools.

You clench your jaw, a silent vow not to give them the satisfaction of a whimper, a flicker of weakness. This is a battle, and while you are stripped of your weapons, your pride remains, a sharp, unyielding edge that you refuse to have dulled.

The examination stretches on, each second an excruciating eternity. You fight back the urge to scream, to lash out and reclaim some semblance of control.

But you know better. Here, in this sterile prison, they hold all the cards. You are just a pawn in their twisted game, a pawn they intend to manipulate, exploit, and ultimately use.

Finally, mercifully, Dr. Miller steps back. His gloved hands disappear into the folds of his white coat, a stark contrast to the flush blooming on your exposed skin. "Everything seems normal," he mutters, his voice barely audible.

Relief washes over you, a tidal wave that leaves you momentarily breathless. It is a hollow victory, a reprieve more than a triumph. The humiliation lingers, a bitter aftertaste that coats your tongue.

You force your eyes open, blinking away the tears that sting your vision. The physical examination may be over, but the psychological violation has just begun.

They have seen your body, prodded and assessed it like a piece of machinery.

Dr. Miller reaches for your arm, his face etched with a seriousness that seems more like a poorly practiced mask. It does not quite conceal the underlying apprehension that flickers in his eyes.

His touch, surprisingly gentle for a man whose face resembles a perpetually furrowed landscape, is muffled by the fresh latex gloves he has donned.

He guides your leg with a nudge that is supposed to be subtle but comes across as patronizing. "Spread your legs wider, please," he instructs, his voice dropping to a low, neutral monotone.

Shame burns in your cheeks, a fiery counterpoint to the harsh bright lights overhead. It threatens to consume you, this violation of your most private space.

You clench your jaw, a silent vow not to give them the satisfaction of seeing you crumble. Your body complies, a slow, agonizing spread that makes you feel like a dissected insect pinned to a display board.

The vulnerability of the position grates on your nerves – exposed, defenseless, like a target waiting to be hit.

Dr. Miller waits patiently, or at least that is what he wants you to believe. You can practically see the stopwatch ticking in his mind, counting down the precious seconds he has to spend in this uncomfortable situation.

His gaze flickers to your face for a fleeting moment, a spark of something – unease? Discomfort? – flickering in his eyes before he quickly averts them, dropping his gaze down to his instruments.

He selects a cold, gleaming speculum. The metal surface catches the harsh light like a cruel mirror reflecting your exposed state.

It gleams with an accusatory stare, mocking your helplessness. With a practiced efficiency born of countless examinations on countless women who likely were not forced to endure this indignity under the threat of the world's fate, he maneuvers the speculum towards you.

The metallic chill against your skin sends a jolt through you, a stark reminder of the intrusion about to occur. It is more than just physical – it is a violation of your very being.

You squeeze your eyes shut, a silent protest against the indignity.

The breath catches in your throat, a strangled gasp trapped in the prison of your clenched jaw. You want to scream, to lash out, to reclaim some semblance of control. But you know better.

You force yourself to take a shallow breath, the air rasping in your lungs. You may not be able to control the situation, but you can control your reaction.

Let them poke and prod. Let them analyze and scrutinize. You have stared death in the face countless times, crafted tools to defy its inevitable embrace. This is just another challenge, another obstacle to overcome.

They may have your body spread eagle on this scratchy examination table, but they will never break your spirit.

Dr. Miller hesitates, the pause barely a blip in the oppressive silence, but it is enough to make you wonder if even he is questioning the sheer absurdity of this situation.

Then, with a sigh that could rival the wind whistling through a broken window, he inserts the instrument.

A gasp rips from your throat, a sound that echoes in the sterile room like a gunshot.

The speculum pries open a part of you that has always been a closely guarded secret, a territory familiar only to a select few – and none of them were burly doctors with permanently furrowed brows.

The feeling is an unwelcome combination of foreign and invasive, like an enthusiastic Titan has decided to take a peek inside your most private chambers. You are pretty aware that the comparison is disgusting, but if anyone asked you to describe the sensation, that is the one that fits perfectly because it is disgusting.

The metallic scrape against metal grates on your nerves, a sound that would not be out of place accompanying the torture of some unfortunate soul in a particularly low budget horror flick.

A low hum escapes his lips as he examines the interior walls, his brow furrowing in what you can only hope is genuine confusion.

Maybe, just maybe, he is stumbled upon something unexpected down there – a hidden compartment filled with miniature grenades or a self destruct mechanism triggered by excessive prodding.

Every probing touch, every whispered technical term that sounds suspiciously like plumbing jargon, feels like a violation of the highest order.

You clench your jaw so hard your teeth might actually shatter, forcing yourself to remain still. Giving him the satisfaction of a whimper or a flinch would be akin to surrendering your weapon before a life and death fight – a sign of weakness you refuse to display.

Minutes crawl by, each one an eternity measured in the excruciating silence punctuated only by the rhythmic thud of your own terrified heart.

Finally, Dr. Miller lets out a sigh that could rival the exhale of an extremely disgruntled Titan. Relief washes over him, palpable enough to practically condense in the air.

He withdraws the speculum slowly, the pressure easing with each inch.

The coolness fades, replaced by a dull ache that throbs in protest, a constant reminder of the intrusion you have just endured.

He disposes of the speculum with a metallic clink that seems to echo through the room.

Then, turning his attention to his gloved hands, he wipes them down with a theatrical flourish, the crinkling of the paper loud enough to be mistaken for applause.

"Seems everything is normal down there too," he mutters finally, his voice as devoid of inflection as the sterile walls themselves.

Normal? You want to laugh, a harsh, humorless bark that would shatter the sterile silence.

Normal for a woman about to be turned into a incubator for a government experiment?

Normal for someone who is traded the thrill of crafting weapons that could cleave a human in two for the indignity of having her most private parts prodded and examined like a malfunctioning machine?

There is nothing normal about this situation, and Dr. Miller, with his detached demeanor and bureaucratic pronouncements, is about as normal as a three headed deer waltzing through the streets.

The internal examination is over, leaving you feeling like a disassembled weapon haphazardly thrown back together, missing a few crucial screws and leaking a suspicious amount of… well, everything.

Dr. Miller, bless his detached heart, busies himself cleaning his instruments, the metallic clinking echoing in the tense silence like a morbid symphony.

You watch him with a sardonic glint in your eye, the silence punctuated only by the rhythmic clang and the occasional muttered curse word (hopefully directed at the malfunctioning speculum, not your… delicate state).

Just as you begin to entertain the fleeting notion that this ordeal might actually be over, a fresh wave of dread washes over you like a rogue tsunami.

Dr. Miller reaches for a new set of sterile swabs, the crinkled plastic packaging a telltale sign of further indignities to come.

You clench your fists, the rough fabric of the sheet digging into your palms.

You know exactly what is coming – another round of poking, prodding, and sample collecting, all in the name of "compatibility."

"Alright," Dr. Miller announces, his voice clipped and devoid of any warmth, "We need to collect some additional samples."

Additional samples? You want to scream, to hurl obscenities at the sterile white walls, to remind them that you are a human being, not a Petri dish waiting to be cultured.

But logic, that pesky intruder, rears its ugly head. Screaming will not get you anywhere, and throwing a tantrum would only solidify their image of you as an uncooperative breeding mare.

He must sense your apprehension, because he adds, with a tone that could be mistaken for apologetic (but you are not buying it for a second), "It is a routine part of the procedure to ensure compatibility."

Compatibility. Right. Because clearly, the fate of humanity rests on your ability to swap spit with a glorified lab rat in a fancy uniform.

You nod tightly, a single, jerky movement that speaks volumes about your inner turmoil. Can you trust his words? Does it even matter? Here, in this sterile prison, trust is a luxury you can not afford.

Shame burns like a hot coal in your throat, a stark contrast to the cold sweat prickling your skin.

Dr. Miller holds up a small, cotton tipped swab – the instrument of your further violation. "First," he announces, his voice devoid of any drama, "a saliva sample."

He leans in, his breath surprisingly stale for a man who probably gargles mouthwash on the hourly. You clench your jaw for a moment, a silent rebellion against this further intrusion.

But logic, that persistent voice in your head, wins over defiance. Compliance now, rebellion later. You open your mouth slightly, the smallest concession you can muster, allowing him to insert the swab and gently scrape the inside of your cheek.

The feeling is surprisingly intimate, the foreign object brushing against your tongue, sending a shiver down your spine.

You close your eyes, willing yourself to become a ghost in the sterile room, invisible to his probing gaze.

He twirls the swab a few times, the motion slow and deliberate, before carefully extracting it from your mouth. The used swab is deposited into a labeled vial, the plastic snapping shut with a definitive click – another notch on their scientific belt, another piece of you catalogued and filed away.

The next sample. The dreaded one. You recognize it by the way Dr. Miller's gaze lingers on you a beat too long, a hesitant flicker of something akin to… sympathy? In his perpetually furrowed brow? Do not make you laugh.

"It will only take a second," he mumbles, his voice softer than you have heard him speak all damn day. "Try to relax."

Relax? In this sterile cattle prod of a room, with your dignity scattered like spent bullet casings on the floor?

The word feels like a slap in the face. But you nod curtly, the defeat a bitter pill lodged in your throat.

The cold touch of a gloved finger pries your legs open further, the sensation a stark contrast to the rough callouses that usually grip the smooth metal of your tools.

A dreaded scene catches your eye – the dreaded swab, held in his hand like a tiny, mocking trophy. Shame burns in your gut, a white hot fire that threatens to consume you.

This is the ultimate violation, the final frontier they need to conquer. They have poked and prodded, scanned and scrutinized, and now they want the key to the vault, the blueprint to the weapon they intend to forge.

You clench your fists, digging your nails into your palms, the pain a welcome distraction from the humiliation.

The probing is mercifully brief, a fleeting violation compared to the mental torment you have endured.

Dr. Miller removes the swab with a soft rustle, the sound almost inaudible in the tense silence. He deposits it in the vial with a metallic clink, a punctuation mark to your ordeal.

Relief washes over you, a tidal wave that leaves you breathless. It is a hollow victory, a reprieve more than a triumph. But for now, at least, you have held your ground. You have endured their examination, their violation, and emerged (somewhat) unbroken.

He steps back, his expression a carefully constructed mask that reveals nothing. "There you go," he finally mutters, his voice devoid of any triumph. No celebration, no fanfare – just a sterile statement of fact.

Across the room, Zachary, your supposed savior (gag), remains a stoic statue. His face is a mask that could rival the emotionless sterility of this damn room.

The only hint of anything remotely human is the barely perceptible twitch in his jaw, a microscopic tremor that speaks volumes about the tension he is trying so desperately to hide.

You, on the other hand, are anything but stoic. You remain sprawled on the bed, a human pretzel contorted into a position that would make even the most flexible weapon malfunction.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, a futile attempt to block out the sterile white ceiling and the searing images burned into your memory.

Every prod, every humiliating scrape – a fresh scar etched onto the landscape of your pride.

Your body trembles, not from the cold, but from the aftermath of the ordeal. It is a primal reaction, a caged animal finally released but still reeling from the bars that once held it captive.

They leave the room, the click of the door a punctuation mark to the violation you have just endured.

The silence that descends is almost worse – a heavy, suffocating blanket that amplifies the pounding of your heart and the choked sobs that finally escape your throat.

Tears sting your eyes, blurring the sterile white of the ceiling into a watery mess. This sterile prison, this cattle prod of a medical examination – this is not supposed to be your life.

You scoff, a humorless sound that echoes in the empty room. You, a weapon artisan whose touch could turn a hunk of scrap metal into a thing of lethal beauty, are reduced to this – a specimen under a microscope, a pawn in their twisted game of genetic roulette.

Fury, hot and potent, surges through you, momentarily eclipsing the despair. They may have violated your body, prodded and poked at your most private parts, but they have not broken your spirit. No, not by a long shot. This may be their game, their sterile little experiment, but you refuse to be a passive participant.

Three days. Seventy two excruciatingly silent hours have crawled by since the medical examinations, each one a slow, agonizing torture worse than any interrogation you have ever endured.

The sterile horror of it all clings to you like a cheap perfume on a desperate social climber – inescapable, suffocating, and leaving a lingering headache in its wake.

You, the self proclaimed queen of solitude, the monster who could happily spend weeks alone with nothing but a good blueprint and a malfunctioning weapon for company, are starting to understand the concept of "cabin fever.

The once blissful quiet of your cell now feels like a sensory deprivation chamber on fast forward.

The rhythmic dripping from the leaky faucet down the hall, a sound you previously tuned out with the practiced ease of a seasoned sniper ignoring the whine of distant bullets, now echoes through the sterile emptiness like a maddening metronome counting down the seconds to your inevitable mental breakdown.

The stark white walls, once a source of comfort in their unadorned simplicity, now seem to mock you with their clinical coldness. They are like blank canvases, each imperfection a glaring reminder of the perfect life you have been ripped away from.

No more meticulously organized toolboxes, gleaming with the promise of creation and destruction. No more meticulously folded clothes, each crease a testament to your control. No more swords, to practice with your comrades... No more...

Here, everything is tossed haphazardly, a crumpled metaphor for your lost autonomy.

But the real torment, the constant itch you can not quite scratch, resides within your own violated body. The memory of those gloved hands, the cold, metallic instruments, the intrusion into your most private spaces sends a fresh wave of anger and shame crashing over you like a rogue wave.

You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms, the only outlet for the silent scream trapped in your throat.

The biggest betrayal, though, cuts deeper than any physical violation. It is the sudden, sickening awareness of your own vulnerability.

You, the lone wolf, the creature who thrived on self reliance, have been stripped bare, reduced to a vessel in their twisted experiment.

They have poked and prodded, analyzed and assessed, and all they see is a damn breeding machine.

The cell, once your sanctuary, a haven from the idiocy of the human herd, now feels like a gilded cage.

The bars are not metal this time, but humiliation, a cage built from the violation of your body and the desecration of your privacy.

The urge to scrub your skin raw, to somehow cleanse yourself of their touch, is overwhelming.

But even that small act of defiance is denied you. The single, institutional bar of soap they grudgingly provide feels like an insult – a far cry from the luxurious bath products you once indulged in, a daily ritual as essential as oiling your favorite weapon.

Another betrayal. You, the woman who could identify the brand of hand soap used in a government interrogation room based on the faintest lavender aroma, is forced to exist in a state of near filth.

The coarse prison linens, once tolerable in their utilitarian simplicity, now feel like sandpaper against your skin. You wince, remembering the meticulous way you used to fold your clothes back in your old life, each item arranged with military precision. Here, the clothes are tossed on a metal bunk, a crumpled testament to your lost control.

But the worst part, the insidious rot that is slowly eating away at your sanity, is the mind numbing boredom.

Solitary confinement, once a welcome respite from the cacophony of human interaction, now feels like a sensory deprivation chamber designed by a particularly sadistic psychologist.

The lack of good literature, a cornerstone of your existence, is a constant ache. The prison library offers a paltry selection of dog eared paperbacks, the stories predictable and devoid of the intellectual stimulation you crave.

Where are the complex philosophical treatises? The gritty war memoirs you devoured in a single sitting?

And the erotic stories? A distant memory, a guilty pleasure you now yearn for with a desperation that surprises even you. The human touch, once something you actively avoided, now seems a distant dream, a phantom limb aching in its absence.

You sink down onto the hard cot, the metallic clang echoing in the silence. The once welcomed solitude now feels like a suffocating shroud, a constant reminder of your predicament.

A single tear traces a path down your cheek, a silent testament to the despair that has taken root within you. But beneath the despair, a flicker of defiance ignites.

The harsh clang of your cell door being yanked open shatters the silence like a brick through a cathedral window.

Two goons in guard uniforms, shadows obscuring their Neanderthal features, fill the doorway. They reek of stale sweat and something vaguely institutional – cafeteria mystery meat, maybe?

You would put it past this glorified cattle prod of a facility.

"Up," barks one of them, his voice like nails scraping concrete.

You rise slowly, stretching your deliberately stiff muscles.

They expect a reaction, a flinch, a whimper for your mommy.

But you have learned the hard way that showing weakness here is like offering a particularly juicy steak to a pack of starving wolves. You will not last a minute.

One of them ambles over, all predatory grace of a drunken hippo. He snatches a blindfold the size of a flour sack and, with the finesse of a toddler trying on a tutu, yanks your head back. The world dissolves into a suffocating darkness.

"Hold still," he growls, his voice hot and Neanderthal esque against your ear. The other one circles behind you, his meaty hands working with practiced efficiency that speaks of countless similar cattle proddings.

Metal clicks against metal as handcuffs are slapped on your wrists, binding them tighter than a politician's promise.

The rough hands then migrate south, yanking your legs apart with a jerk that would make a contortionist wince.

Thick ropes appear from out of nowhere, the scratchy fibers binding your ankles together like a poorly wrapped birthday present.

You clench your jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a whimper or a flinch.

They want a reaction?

They will get the cold shoulder, and maybe a particularly venomous glare if they ever decide to unblindfold you.

They manhandle you out of the cell, their movements all elbows and knees, their bodies brushing against yours in a way that feels about as subtle as a sledgehammer.

Not a word escapes their Neanderthal lips, the silence thick with unspoken threats and the faint scent of stale deodorant (or is that fear?).

You navigate the sterile hallway with the grace of a drunken giraffe, relying on their grunts and occasional shoves for guidance.

Finally, they stop and shove you roughly through something, their hands digging into your bound arms like overzealous secret agents.

They guide you towards something, their movements forceful, their grip tight enough to leave bruises that would make a badge of honor back in your workshop.

With the practiced ease of seasoned guards (or maybe just bouncers), they secure you to the chair.

Ropes bite into your flesh as they bind your wrists to the armrests, pulling your arms taut and uncomfortable.

Another rope circles your chest, pinning you to the back of the chair and restricting your movement like a particularly enthusiastic python.

Throughout the ordeal, you remain silent, a statue carved from defiance amidst the storm. They search for a reaction, a flicker of fear in your blindfolded eyes.

But you give them

nothing.

You have learned the art of becoming a wall, an unyielding barrier against their cruelty.

They finish their little rope rodeo, the ropes digging into your flesh like a particularly enthusiastic critic. One of the guards leans in close, his breath hot and stale against your ear – a bouquet of cafeteria mystery meat and stale sweat, truly a sensory delight. "Do not think this will be easy," he says, his voice laced with a sadistic pleasure that would make a horror story villain blush.

You offer no reply. Silence is your weapon, your only defense in this hostile environment. They may bind your body, but they cannot break your spirit.

The rough scrape of boots fades into a distant silence, thick enough to choke on. Each tick of the unseen clock stretches into an eternity as you strain your ears, the only remaining sense that offers a glimpse into the world beyond the suffocating darkness of the blindfold.

Minutes bleed into what feels like hours, and you contemplate the existential dread of becoming best friends with a particularly enthusiastic spider when a new set of footsteps finally breaks the silence.

This is not the lumbering gait of your previous escorts, all elbows and knees and the grace of a drunken hippo.

These steps are lighter, quicker, a rhythmic thud that speaks of purpose, efficiency, and possibly a shared appreciation for decent footwear.

You count at least five sets, their weight distributed unevenly, some heavier, some lighter, they collectively sounds like a dysfunctional bowling team on their way to a disastrous match.

The sound circles the room before coming to a stop somewhere directly in front of you. Then, a touch.

Gentle, cool fingertips brush against your cheek, a stark contrast to the rough hands that manhandled you earlier.

It sends a jolt through you, not of fear, but of surprise. This touch is different, devoid of aggression, laced with a hint of… curiosity?

Almost hesitant, like a child reaching out to a potentially dangerous butterfly.

The blindfold is carefully removed, peeling away the darkness to reveal the harsh fluorescent reality of the room.

You blink rapidly, adjusting your eyes to the unforgiving light. A woman stands before you, adorned in the uniform of the Survey Corps – a pair of stylized wings a mocking reminder of the freedom you have lost.

Her face, framed by a mess of dark brown hair, holds a fascinating mix of amusement and seriousness. Her eyes, bright and intelligent, sparkle with a hint of unsettling mania that sends a shiver down your spine.

This must be Hange Zoe, the infamous Section Commander they whisper about in the prison yard. The one with a reputation for being a genius… and slightly unhinged.

Before you can fully process the sight of her, Hange speaks. Her voice is surprisingly gentle, a soothing balm compared to the harsh barks you've been subjected to.

"Do not worry," she murmurs, her words conspiratorial, meant for your ears only. "We will nog hurt you… much."

She winks, a fleeting gesture that seems utterly at odds with the weight of the situation.

It is like watching a playful puppy frolicking in a warzone.

Hange steps back, taking a seat at a nearby table. You now see the table clearly, a simple wooden surface scarred with countless meetings and tense negotiations.

The realization dawns on you – you are no longer in the sterile cell, but in a room designed for… interrogation?

Or perhaps a particularly sadistic game of poker, considering the company.

You glance down at yourself, noting with a detached amusement that you are still restrained in the chair, your body a marionette waiting for its strings to be pulled.

Across from you sits Dhalis Zachary, his face a stoic mask as always. To your left sits Nile Dawk, the Commander of the Military Police.

On your right, a single chair sits occupied by the man himself – Levi Ackerman. He seems shorter than you expected, but his posture radiates an aura of quiet power that makes the chair seem two sizes too small. His face is a mask of indifference, but a flicker of something – annoyance, perhaps? – crosses his features as his gaze meets yours.

He looks like a man would rather be cleaning his precious blades than babysitting a captured (former) soldier with a criminal history.

Flanking Levi is Hange Zoe, her manic grin a stark contrast to the serious expressions of the others. On the other side of the table, opposite Nile Dawk, sits Erwin Smith. The very sight of him fills you with a surge of cold fury.

There he sits, the Commander of the Survey Corps, the architect of your capture and the orchestrator of this entire charade.

His face is calm, composed, almost bored, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within you. He is, after all, the one responsible for your current predicament, the one who ripped you from your life and turned you into a pawn in his twisted game.

"Erwin Smith," you hiss, your voice a low, controlled one, laced with a dangerous amount of venom. "What is the meaning of this charade?"

Erwin clears his throat, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the tense silence. "Now, Ms. Reader," he begins, his voice clipped and dripping with misplaced authority, "the tests have revealed an interesting development." He pauses for dramatic effect, his gaze sweeping across the room like a spotlight searching for an audience.

Nile Dawk snorts, a harsh sound that cuts through the pretense like a rusty knife. "Interesting?" he barks, his gruff voice devoid of any amusement. "More like damned inconvenient!"

Erwin ignores him, his steely gaze boring into yours. "You see," he continues, his voice low and measured like a predator sizing up its prey, "you and Captain Levi Ackerman here..." he trails off, gesturing towards Levi who sits rigid in his chair, expression as unreadable as a poorly lit cave. "...possess a rare genetic compatibility."

The air in the room thickens, the unspoken implications hanging heavy like the stench of stale sweat and desperation.

You clench your jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. Let them squirm in their expensive chairs, wondering what goes on behind the steely glint in your eyes.

"What does that mean?" you finally manage, your voice tight with a barely contained fury that threatens to boil over.

Erwin leans forward, a predatory glint flickering in his eyes. "It means," he explains, his voice low and measured like a serpent offering a poisoned apple, "that you are one of the most viable and genetically compatible women to carry a child for the Survey Corps."

"Also the Ackerman clan, and also the future of humanity." Dhalis Zachary adds.

Your breath hitches. Carry a child? For them? The anger that has simmered beneath the surface explodes into a white hot inferno.

"Carry a child? Like some damn brood mare?" you roar, your voice shaking with barely contained rage.

The veins in your neck throb in protest, and for a moment, you imagine yourself ripping the table in half just to see the looks on their faces.

Dhalis Zachary, however, seems unfazed by your outburst. He leans back in his chair, a predatory smile playing on his lips that wouldn't look out of place on a particularly lecherous weasel.

His gaze roams over your body with an unwanted familiarity, lingering on the swell of your breasts and the curve of your hips in a way that makes your skin crawl.

"Now, now, Letta," he coos, his voice dripping with a sickening sweetness that makes you want to vomit. "Do not be so modest. Think of it as a chance to contribute to humanity's survival... in a very intimate way."

His words hang heavy in the air, laced with a lewd undertone that makes you want to scrub your skin raw with bleach and then some.

Levi shoots him a withering glare that could curdle lava, but Dhalis remains unfazed, his smile widening into a leer that belongs on a back alley deviant.

Hange sighs dramatically, slumping back in her chair like a deflated balloon. "Are you sure about this?" she mutters, her voice laced with exasperation. "This is a person, not a breeding sow!"

Erwin's gaze hardens. "Calm down, Hange. She has a choice, of course." He turns back to you, his voice taking on a softer tone that sounds about as genuine as a politician's smile. "If you agree to carry Captain Levi Ackerman's child, Letta Reader, you will be granted a full pardon for your crimes. You will be free to return to your previous life, no questions asked."

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest, a fragile flame that flickers and dies as quickly as it ignited.

Be Levi Ackerman's incubator? The very thought fills you with a strange, unsettling fear. You steal a glance at him, his face a stoic mask that speaks volumes. He does not want this any more than you do, that much is clear.

Dhalis leans forward again, his voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine for all the wrong reasons. "Letta," he whispers, always using your first name, his eyes gleaming with a depraved hunger that would make a ghoul blush. "Think of the possibilities. Imagine the strength a child of yours and Captain Ackerman's could possess. A warrior born from a rebellious spirit and humanity's strongest soldier... the possibilities are truly... arousing."

His words are a grotesque caricature of seduction, a perversion of intimacy that makes your stomach churn. Levi Ackerman finally speaks, his voice so low yet powerful that sends a tremor through the room. "Shut your damn mouth, Zachary. Nobody asked for your perverted input."

"Alright, I will do it!" you snap, cutting through their bickering like a knife through week old stew.

Let them celebrate their 'victory' while you savor the silent satisfaction of watching Erwin's triumph falter for a split second at the sight of his missing limb – a delightful reminder of his own mortality, courtesy of some well placed titan.

The air crackles with the unspoken tension of your reluctant agreement. Erwin's smile returns, this time stretched wide and unconvincing, like a toddler who is just been told he can not have another lollipop.

"Excellent," he declares with all the forced enthusiasm of a car salesman hawking a lemon. "Now, let us discuss the legalities of this… arrangement."

He gestures towards a stack of documents on the table, his voice taking on a more businesslike tone that clashes horribly with the absurdity of the situation.

"Since this situation is, well, unprecedented," he continues, dragging out the words like molasses, "we need to iron out a few details regarding parental rights."

You clench your jaw, a flicker of defiance sparking in your eyes. This may be their game, but you will not be a mindless pawn.

"Custody," you state firmly, your voice surprisingly steady considering the urge to launch yourself across the table and throttle Erwin with the nearest piece of parchment. "I will have the custody of the child."

This is the first time Levi addresses you...

Levi scoffs, a sharp, derisive sound that cuts through the air like a well aimed blade. "Like hell it will," he sneers. "I would not trust you to raise a fucking goldfish, let alone a child."

His voice is laced with undisguised contempt that makes you want to wipe that smug look off his face with your bare fists.

A cold anger flares within you, momentarily eclipsing the despair that has settled in your gut.

"And what makes you think you would be any better?" you retort, your voice rising a notch despite your best efforts to remain calm. "You have not exactly shown any paternal instinct throughout the whole meeting."

Nile slams his fist on the table again, but Erwin holds up a hand, silencing him with a sharp look that would not be out of place on a particularly irritated drill sergeant.

"Perhaps," Erwin begins, his voice smooth and conciliatory like honey laced with arsenic, "a co parenting arrangement would be best. Both of you can have an equal say in the child's upbringing."

The idea of co parenting with Levi makes you want to roll your eyes so hard they disappear into your skull.

You can barely tolerate being in the same room with the grumpy excuse for a human, let alone navigate the trials and tribulations of raising a child together.

But the alternative – him having sole custody and subjecting your offspring to his brand of stoic indifference – is even less appealing.

You nod curtly, a silent acceptance of Erwin's suggestion. Levi, however, remains unconvinced. He steeples his fingers in front of him, his gaze fixed on Erwin with an intensity that could bore holes through concrete.

"Fine," he mutters finally, the word dripping with concession, "co parenting. But I want certain things in writing."

"Of course, Levi," Erwin says, "Please outline your terms."

Levi's expression hardens further, his scowl deepening into a masterpiece of grumpy disapproval.

"First," he states, his voice leaving no room for argument, a dictator laying down the law to a particularly troublesome colony, "all medical expenses related to the pregnancy and childbirth will be covered by me. I will not have some… government hack butchering you on my dime. You will survive the experience, and frankly, the paperwork for a malpractice suit would be a bigger pain in the ass than dealing with you right now."

The blatant distrust in his words stings like a particularly well placed paper cut, but you force yourself to remain still.

This is a small price to pay for a modicum of control, a sliver of autonomy in this twisted game of forced motherhood.

Erwin jots down the point, his brow furrowing slightly at Levi's bluntness, the man clearly more accustomed to flowery speeches than blunt pronouncements.

Levi continues, his voice as cold and emotionless as a winter. "Second, childcare. I will provide for the best possible care available. No cutting corners on nannies, no questionable daycares run by chain smoking grandmas with questionable hygiene standards."

He throws a pointed glance in your direction, the implication clear as day – he does not trust you to make sound decisions regarding the child's well being, which, considering the circumstances, is a fair point.

You grit your teeth, forcing yourself not to react.

This is not the time for a witty retort, no matter how tempting it might be to remind him that his idea of 'good childcare' probably involves drill sergeants and obstacle courses.

Erwin adds this point to the list as well, a flicker of sympathy, genuine or otherwise, crossing his features as he observes your silent struggle.

Finally, Levi leans back in his chair, his gaze locking with yours with an intensity that could melt steel. "Most importantly," he states, his voice low and intense, "I will be involved in every aspect of this child's life. I will not be some weekend dad who shows up for birthday parties and complains about the noise. This is my child too, and I will have a say in their upbringing."

There is a steely determination in his eyes that brooks no argument. You understand his position, even if you despise his methods.

He may despise you with the burning passion of a thousand suns, but there's an undeniable protectiveness in his gaze, a flicker of something that might resemble… concern? Perhaps?

You nod curtly, a silent acceptance of his final term. This agreement may not be ideal, but it offers a semblance of control within this bizarre situation.

Co parenting with Levi will be a challenge akin to wrangling a particularly grumpy titan with nothing but a rusty spork, but perhaps, just perhaps, it could work.

After all, you both share a common goal – the well being of the hypothetical child you will be forced to conceive.

Dhalis leans back in his chair, a predatory glint in his eyes that makes you want to reach across the table and gouge them out with your bare thumbs.

He steeples his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips like a particularly unwelcome house guest refusing to leave. "Now, onto the nitty gritty," he purrs, his voice dripping with a sickening level of amusement that would make a sewer rat blush. "Since time is of the essence, we propose two insemination attempts per day."

Two attempts? Every day? The air itself seems to curdle at the bluntness of his statement.

It feels barbaric, a violation of your body disguised as a medical procedure performed by glorified prodding monkeys. But you know you have no real choice in this twisted game of procreation roulette.

A silent plea flickers in your eyes, directed at Erwin, but his face remains as impassive as a freshly carved headstone. He seems content to let Dhalis take the lead in this grotesque negotiation, happy to play puppet master while you and Levi become his unwilling marionettes in a perverse play.

You force yourself to nod, a single, jerky movement that speaks volumes of your simmering rage and barely contained disgust.

This is not about procreation, it is about control, about reducing you to a mere vessel, a human incubator for their grand experiment. The very thought makes your skin crawl.

The next point of discussion is even more fraught with tension. Levi, who has been brooding in silence like a grumpy gargoyle come to life, finally speaks up.

His voice is low, devoid of any warmth or humor, like nails scraping down a chalkboard. "Boundaries," he states curtly, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that could bore holes through steel. "We need to establish some ground rules."

You meet his gaze unflinchingly. There is no point in sugarcoating this, no use in pretending there will be hearts and flowers along the way.

"Fine," you reply, your voice flat and emotionless, a stark contrast to the churning chaos within you.

There is no point in arguing about pleasantries or pretending this will be anything resembling a normal relationship.

This is a transaction, a forced sex that neither of you truly desires.

Dhalis throws his head back and lets out a loud, boisterous laugh that grates on your nerves like a rusty cheese grater scraping against bone.

"Boundaries? In the middle of fucking? Come now, Levi, loosen up a bit!" he exclaims, his voice dripping with a vulgarity that would make a drunken sailor blush. "This is not some romantic rendezvous, it is for the good of humanity! Besides," he continues, his eyes gleaming with a disturbing glint, "who knows, you might even enjoy it. It could be… stimulating."

The sheer audacity of the man makes you want to retort with a witty remark so scathing it would leave him speechless, but you hold your tongue.

Engaging with him on this level would only sink you deeper into the swamp of his depravity.

Instead, you turn your gaze towards Erwin, a flicker of hope igniting in your chest.

Surely, even he can not be shameless enough to endorse such a ludicrous suggestion.

Erwin shoots Dhalis a withering look. It effectively silences the man, though the suggestive smirk still lingers on his face like a particularly unwelcome house guest who refuses to take a hint.

Erwin clears his throat, the sound scratchy and awkward, like a rusty hinge protesting its existence. "Perhaps," he suggests, gesturing towards the door with all the grace of a drunken toddler attempting to stack building blocks, "they could discuss this privately? Spare us all the unnecessary… imagery."

Nile scoffs, the sound erupting from him like a particularly disgruntled bullfrog. "Do not be ridiculous, Erwin," he barks. "This concerns the success of the operation! Transparency is the key!" His voice booms through the room, a stark contrast to the tense silence that has settled between you and Levi, thick enough to choke a titan.

You clench your jaw so hard you swear you hear your dentist wince in sympathy, refusing to give Dhalis or Nile the satisfaction of seeing your discomfort.

Levi, however, seems to reach a similar conclusion, his face a mask of stoic indifference that would make a statue look expressive.

He stands abruptly from his chair, the movement stiff and controlled, like a predator preparing to pounce.

"Fine," he mutters, He gestures towards the door with a curt flick of his hand, an unspoken invitation that speaks volumes. "Let us get this over with."

You rise from your chair as well, your movements stiff and mechanical, like a marionette with its strings yanked by an invisible hand.

Together, you walk towards the door, leaving behind the roomful of voyeurs who seem strangely invested in the mechanics of your forced procreation.

The sterile hallway stretches before you, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within you. Levi walks ahead, his footsteps echoing in the silence like a grim countdown.

You follow a few paces behind, a tense distance mirroring the emotional chasm that separates you.

The lights overhead hum with an oppressive energy, casting long, distorted shadows that dance on the sterile white walls.

The air itself feels heavy, thick with unspoken animosity and the weight of your predicament. You steal a glance at Levi, your eyes narrowed.

He does not even acknowledge you, his gaze fixed stoically ahead, his jaw clenched tight.

The man looks about as thrilled about this prospect as you are, which is to say, not at all.

In fact, if his expression were any grumpier, it would sprout moss.

You contemplate making a snarky remark, just to break the suffocating silence, but decide against it.

There is no point in expending the energy. Besides, you can practically taste his disapproval, and frankly, you do not need him to verbalize it.

He reaches the end of the hallway and stops abruptly. He does not turn around, but you can feel his icy gaze burning into your back like a death stare delivered by a particularly judgmental penguin.

Finally, he speaks, "Boundaries," he repeats, the word dripping with undisguised disgust, like a gourmet chef forced to cook with week old rotten vegetables.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze when he finally turns around.

His face is a mask of stoic indifference, like a particularly grumpy statue come to life. "Look," you say, your voice surprisingly steady considering the urge to deck him right across that smug face, "neither of us wanted this. But we are stuck in this situation, so let us make it as… efficient as possible. Think of it as a necessary evil, like a root canal performed by a drunken dentist."

Levi raises an eyebrow, a flicker of something akin to amusement crossing his features for a fleeting moment, like a brief flash of sunlight breaking through a storm cloud. "Efficient? This is hardly the word I would use to describe rutting with a criminal." The words are a barb, a reminder of the contempt he holds for you, a verbal jab delivered with all the precision of a veteran gloomy pretty boy.

You grit your teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. Engaging in a war of words with him is about as productive as trying to herd cats while wearing roller skates – a spectacular recipe for disaster.

"Fine," you reply tightly, forcing a sardonic smile. "Just tell me what your definition of 'efficient' entails, Captain Grumpy."

He stares at you for a long moment, his face an unreadable mask that could rival the Sphinx for sheer inscrutability. Then, he sighs, a sharp exhale that speaks volumes about his frustration. "Minimal contact," he finally mutters, the words clipped and curt, like orders barked on a battlefield. "Get it over with as quickly as possible. In and out, that is all."

His words are blunt, devoid of any tenderness, but they are strangely… practical.

You nod curtly, a silent agreement forming between the two of you, a reluctant truce in this bizarre war of forced procreation. "There will be no foreplay, no emotional connection," he continues, his voice leaving no room for argument, "just the bare minimum required for the procedure. Think of it as a business transaction, a necessary exchange of bodily fluids to fulfill our… obligations."

"And," he adds, his voice dropping to a low, "do not expect me to be gentle." The implication is clear – this will not be a picnic in the park, more like a prodding session with a very sadistic veterinarian.

You meet his gaze unflinchingly. "Believe me," you reply coolly, your voice laced with a steely defiance that surprises even you, "gentleness is the last thing I expect from you. If anything, a little roughhousing might be a welcome distraction from the absurdity of this entire situation." There is a spark of defiance in your voice, a flicker of something that surprises even you.

"You could have rejected the proposition but you did not," Levi suddenly says. "Do not you dare pretend this is okay!"

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to turn and meet his glare head on. "Look, Captain Ackerman," you say, your voice laced with a steely calm that surprises even you, "neither of us wanted this little vacation to Conception Island. We are both pawns in their twisted game of baby bingo. But unlike you, Captain Morality, I am not going to waste my breath whining about ethics. This is my ticket out of here, a chance to claw my way back to a semblance of normalcy. You can play your righteous soldier act all you want, but frankly, it is getting old faster than last week's bread."

Levi scoffs, a harsh, humorless sound that grates on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard. "Freedom? You call this freedom? You are nothing but a incubator, a baby making machine for the government!" He throws his hands up in exasperation, his posture rigid with disapproval. "This is not some noble sacrifice, Reader, it is a violation of your body, your rights! Do you not get it?"

The anger in his voice is palpable, a stark contrast to your own detached indifference. You almost feel a flicker of pity for him, burdened by his misplaced sense of honor in a world that thrives on pragmatism.

"Listen closely, Captain Ackerman," you counter, your voice dropping, "I may be a criminal in their eyes, but at least I am not afraid to take control of the situation. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a mere attack dog, following orders without question."

A muscle twitches in Levi's jaw, a sign of his barely contained fury. He steps closer, invading your personal space, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss.

"You call yourself a human? Willing to sell your body, your future, for a shot at freedom? You are pathetic." The word hangs in the air, a cruel insult dripping with contempt.

You stare back at him, completely unfazed. "Pathetic?" you echo, your voice laced with a dangerous edge that could cut diamonds. "At least I am not a self righteous hypocrite, preaching morality while following orders like a mindless dog."

You hold his gaze for a beat longer, relishing the flicker of surprise that crosses his features, a tiny crack in his facade of stoic disapproval.

Levi opens his mouth to retort, but you cut him off with a sharp gesture. "We are done here, Captain Levi," you say, your voice cold and final. "We both know what needs to be done. Let us just get this over with, like ripping off a stubborn bandage."

The sooner this gets done, the sooner you can be on your way back to a life that is not dictated by government officials and brooding soldiers.

This is not about morality, you tell yourself.

Morality went out the window the day they branded you a criminal and locked you in this fucking cage.

This is about survival, about playing the hand you have been dealt and coming out on top, even if the top looks suspiciously like a damp prison cell with a slightly better view.

And in this twisted game of procreation roulette, you are playing to win. Even if the prize comes at a heavy price, like a lifetime supply of government issued baby food and endless lullabies sung by a tone deaf beyblade.

The sterile hallway stretches out before you like a never ending white void, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps trapped in a fluorescent cage.

The air itself feels thick with unspoken tension, a pressure that could make a lesser person crack. Levi throws you one last scathing glare that could curdle lukewarm milk on a hot day, his lips moving in a silent tirade you can only imagine is filled with colorful insults and dire pronouncements about the downfall of humanity (all because you dared to choose a sliver of freedom over a lifetime of titan fodder duty).

He storms off in the direction of the conference room with the grace of a particularly grumpy badger, leaving you alone in the oppressive silence.

You take a deep breath, the weight of the situation pressing down on you like a rogue titan misplaced in a tea party.

This whole conversation, the heated exchange with Levi, has done little to shake your resolve.

Freedom, however illusory, is within your grasp, a ticket out of this bureaucratic nightmare and back to a semblance of normalcy (assuming "normal" includes dodging rogue titans and scavenging for scraps).

You will not let him – or your own doubts – derail you. This may not be the life you envisioned, but it is a hell of a lot better than the alternative – which, judging by the perpetually grumpy expression on Levi's face, involves a lifetime of cleaning up humanity's messes.

Minutes tick by, each one an eternity in the sterile silence. Finally, the door to the conference room swings open with a groan, and the group emerges, blinking into the harsh fluorescent light.

Erwin is at the forefront, a smile plastered on his face that does not quite reach his eyes. It looks more like a grimace plastered over a grimace, like he just swallowed a sour lemon while simultaneously stubbing his toe on a rogue pebble.

Nile Dawk follows, his face a stoic mask that reveals none of his thoughts, but there is a flicker of something in his eyes that could be interpreted as… annoyance? Maybe?

Hange trails behind them, a mischievous glint in her eyes that promises future experiments involving questionable concoctions and dubious safety protocols.

Levi brings up the rear, his face an unreadable mask, his gaze fixed firmly ahead, like a soldier marching towards a particularly unpleasant battle (which, considering the circumstances, is not entirely inaccurate).

Nile Dawk clears his throat, the sound echoing awkwardly in the hallway. "Alright, convict 6913 Letta Reader" he booms, his voice a stark contrast to the surrounding silence. "The agreement has been finalized. Captain Levi Ackerman has already signed off. Just a formality now."

He thrusts a stack of papers towards you, his gruff demeanor doing little to disguise the undercurrent of unease in his eyes. Maybe even he has a sliver of conscience buried somewhere beneath that gruff exterior.

You take the documents, your gaze scanning the legalese quickly. It is all there, the terms of your agreement, the obligations, the limitations of your freedom (which, let's be honest, were about as existent as a happy ending in this world).

You clench your jaw, the injustice of it all burning in your throat. This piece of paper is a contract, a binding agreement that ties you to a life you never chose, but it is also a ticket, a one way trip to a future that might not be ideal, but is undeniably better than rotting away in this concrete cage.

With a sigh that speaks volumes, you pick up a pen and sign the papers, your signature a final, irrevocable step towards this bizarre future.

The ink dries on the page, sealing your fate.

Hange steps forward, a playful smile plastered on her face that could rival a circus clown on a particularly sugary high.

"Here," she chirps, holding out two brightly colored candies that look like they could double as miniature concussion grenades. "For courage. You are going to need it. Especially if Levi decides to take 'minimal contact' a little too literally." Her voice is surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the bureaucratic hell you have just slogged through.

You stare at the proffered candy with a raised eyebrow. Courage, huh? More like a desperate attempt to sugarcoat a situation that is about as sweet as a week old titan carcass.

But beggars can not be choosers, especially when said beggars are facing a future filled with forced insemination and the dubious pleasure of Levi Ackerman's company (or lack thereof).

With a sigh, you take the candies, the artificial colors staining your fingers a sickly shade of pink and orange. "Thank you, Section Commander Hange," you murmur, a flicker of something akin to gratitude warming your heart.

It is a small gesture, but in this world of power plays and political maneuvering, even a single candy feels like a rebellious act.

Erwin, ever the master of the forced smile, throws you a curt nod, his expression as comforting as a bowl of lukewarm gruel. "We will be in touch, Ms. Reader," he says, his voice dripping with a forced cheer that would not fool a particularly dim witted titan. "The doctors will brief you on the next steps shortly. Expect… extensive testing."

Right, because that is what you really need right now – a detailed medical lecture on the inner workings of forced procreation. You nod your head in acknowledgment, more to shut him up than anything else.

Levi remains silent, his back turned towards you like a particularly grumpy statue come to life.

He does not even grace you with a single glare, a dismissal that speaks volumes. Honestly, his disapproval is as refreshing as a cool breeze on a scorching summer day.

His approval, his disapproval, matters little in the grand scheme of things.

Suddenly, a slimy hand clamps onto your shoulder with the enthusiasm of an enthusiastic barnacle.

You whirl around, your heart leaping into your throat like a startled frog, to find Dhalis leering at you with the predatory grace of a weasel eyeing a particularly plump pigeon.

His eyes gleam with a disturbing hunger, "Well, well," he purrs, his breath reeking vaguely of last week's cafeteria mystery meat, "the breeding stock is all signed up. Ready for your… examination, shall we say?"

The man's words slither across your skin like a particularly unwelcome insect. You try to pry his hand off your shoulder, but his grip tightens painfully, like a particularly enthusiastic barnacle fused to your shoulder blade.

"Please do not be shy, Letta," he croons, his voice laced with a sickening sweetness that could curdle milk at fifty paces. "This is just the beginning of a beautiful… partnership. Think of it as your patriotic duty… with a few… extra benefits."

He winks at you, a gesture that solidifies your suspicion that the man has not seen the inside of a shower stall in a good long while.

The combined effect makes a wave of nausea roll through your stomach that threatens to erupt in a spectacular display of projectile vomiting.

Before you can even formulate a witty retort that would make him question his life choices, two burly guards materialize at Dhalis's side like particularly unwelcome sleep paralysis demons.

Their faces are as emotionless as a brick wall, their grip on your arms like iron clamps. Struggling against them is about as effective as trying to herd cats while wearing roller skates – a guaranteed recipe for disaster.

They manhandle you down the hallway, their rough hands leaving angry red marks on your skin.

You steal a glance back at Erwin and Hange, hoping for some shred of support, some sign of understanding in their eyes.

Their expressions, however, are as unreadable as a Rorschach inkblot test – a frustrating mix of what could be pity, amusement, or maybe just boredom.

But it is Dhalis's parting words that send a shiver down your spine, a cold dread settling in your gut like a particularly unwelcome dinner guest. "Enjoy your new home, Letta," he calls out, his voice dripping with a sickening delight that would make a corpse blush. "We will be seeing you soon… for the insemination. Consider it a… welcome gift."

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