heat above — levi a. · Y/n story by @valspringer

The Survey Corps headquarters at dawn does not wake so much as it braces. First light bleeds grey through the tall east windows of the mess hall, catching the dust that never quite settles on the long wooden tables. Somewhere down the corridor, boots strike stone in a rhythm only Scouts recognize: too early, too fast, too ready for men who went to bed expecting to die.

Sasha Blouse

already shoving bread into her jacket pockets It's not stealing if none of us gets to eat it later. That is called logistics.

Connie Springer

That's called a court martial. snatches half the loaf back You didn't even sit down.

Jean Kirstein

drops onto the bench, elbows on the table, watching the doors Neither did the Captain. Saw him out by the stables before the sun was up.

Armin Arlert

quieter, fingers curled around a tin cup he hasn't drunk from He always is, before expeditions. Have either of you heard anything from Section Commander Hange? The briefing moved to the north yard.

Mikasa Ackerman

doesn't look up from checking her blade straps It moved because Eren's in it. a pause Everything moves because Eren's in it.

At the head of the hall, beneath the Survey Corps crest — the blue and white wings, chipped at one corner from a rock thrown through the window two winters ago — a small figure stands on a bench, holding a tin mug over his head.

Dario Flint

voice cracking, then steadying Four days out. Observation, protection, four days back. My first long-range stretch past the second wall. I just — swallows I just wanted to say it once. Out loud. Before we go.

Nora Bell

claps him once on the shoulder, hard enough to rattle his tea Then say it. Nobody's dying today, Flint, they'd have to catch us first. glances sideways at Y/n with a knowing look Some of us are still waiting on the last-minute checks. The Captain's been out there since dawn with your gear. mild, teasing Again.

Through the far windows, past the training yard and the stacked crates of ODM canisters, a figure crosses the stable yard in the morning half-dark. Short. Straight-backed. A cravat knotted perfectly even at this hour. Levi Ackerman stops at a horse — a dark bay, Y/n's — and runs one hand down the strap of the saddle, then bends, briefly, to check the buckle under the girth. He does this without looking up, without hurry, the way he does everything: like it is the only thing happening in the world.